Work Text:
But you should know, that I died slow
Running through the halls of your haunted home
And the toughest part is that we both know
What happened to you
Why you’re out on your own
Merry Christmas, please don’t call
- Bleachers
*****
It’s Steve’s first Christmas alone.
When he’d been younger, the holiday had always been a big affair – decorations hung pristinely around the house, store gift-wrapped presents under the tree, dinners with extended family and his father’s work colleagues, suits and ties and false pleasantries and his hand gripped a little too tight during handshakes – “We’ll see you at the office in a few years, Steven” and “When will you have a girl with you at one of these, Steven?” – and he’d hated it.
But at least he hadn’t been on his own.
It’s his own fault, he supposes. He’d known what would happen if he told his parents the truth, if he told them about his boyfriend. About Eddie.
But knowing and hoping were two different things, and he hadn’t been able to swallow the truth any longer.
So when his father had phoned a few days ago from Munich or Madrid or wherever the fuck to check in on him and the house and if it was ready for their trip back (he’d been far more interested in the house, Steve had noticed), Steve had told him. Had told him about Eddie when his father had asked if he was still sniffing around that Wheeler girl.
The silence down the line had been answer enough.
He’d been replaying it in his mind ever since, that silence. Picturing his father’s face turning pale, then bright red perhaps, as he clutched the phone in a large hand and squeezed hard enough to crack the receiver in two.
But as Steve had waited for a response with trembling hands, he’d gotten nothing but a dial tone as Richard Harrington hung up the phone.
The next day, Steve had gotten a call from his father’s assistant. Beth had tried to sound sympathetic, Steve thinks, but the message from his father was all too clear – their trip home for Christmas had been cancelled, and Steve was to pack his belongings and move out of the house within two weeks.
It’s Christmas Eve, now, and no one else has any idea about Steve’s dilemma.
Because he hadn’t told anyone.
Robin was away with family for the holiday, Dustin’s aunty and cousins were staying with them, and everyone was busy.
Eddie was under the impression Steve’s parents were still coming home today, and Steve hadn’t had the heart to tell him otherwise because he hadn’t wanted to upset him, didn’t want people pitying him on Christmas Day. Eddie and Wayne always spent the holiday together – Wayne would cook, Eddie’d pick up a six pack and they’d exchange gifts in front of a chaotically-decorated tree that looked older than Wayne, and they’d watch bad Christmas movies till late at night.
Eddie had told Steve all of this, and to Steve it sounded fucking perfect.
So he wouldn’t interrupt it. Wouldn’t insert himself into their family day, disrupt their traditions.
No, he’d just spend the day at home instead. Field calls from Eddie and Robin, tell them he was fine, that he couldn’t talk for long because he had to get the potatoes out of the oven before they burned, tell them his mom was yelling for him, gotta go, Merry Christmas!
And maybe, maybe after, he’d tell them.
He’d have to, he supposes – he had to look for somewhere new to live, after all.
Perhaps it all would’ve gone to plan, had the doorbell not rung at 4pm on Christmas Eve.
Steve frowns, looking towards the front door from his spot on the couch in front of the TV. He hadn’t even really been watching it, but the background noise in the otherwise empty house was nice.
His socked feet pad along the floorboards as he makes his way to the door.
Eddie’s there.
Wrapped up against the cold, in a hoody of Steve’s with a jacket over the top and the beanie Steve had brought him at the start of winter tugged over his curls.
“Hi!” Eddie grins, adjusts a wrapped gift under his arm. “Sorry, I know your parents are coming soon, I thought I’d just come over quickly before they get here? I wanted to see you.”
Steve blinks a few times, then ushers Eddie inside and out of the cold.
“I thought you were with Gareth and the guys this afternoon?” Steve asks.
“I can see them some other time.” Eddie flaps a hand dismissively. “I missed you. I thought…” Eddie looks around, taking in the clean, empty kitchen. “I thought you were cooking all day today, getting stuff ready?”
Steve rubs the back of his neck. “Ah, yeah, I’m gonna start on it later.”
Slowly, Eddie nods, but Steve catches the flicker of doubt on his face.
“Your parents arrive around dinner time, right?”
“Yeah. Their flight should have landed, so they’ll probably be on the road now.” Steve’s voice is unnaturally tight, he can’t help it.
Because they’re not coming, maybe he’ll never see them for Christmas again, maybe they’ll never fucking speak to him ever again. And sure, they weren’t the best parents and they’d caused him a lot of grief throughout the years but they’re the only ones he’s got and now…
Now he’s pretty sure he’s lost them, too.
But he swallows thickly, forces a smile for Eddie.
Eddie, who looks at him softly, who sets the gift he’d brought down on the bench and reaches for Steve’s hand.
“Steve…is everything ok?”
Steve shrugs, runs his thumb over the back of Eddie’s hand. “Sure it is.”
Eddie tilts his head. “Sweetheart…” He reaches out, brushes a thumb over Steve’s cheek.
Steve’s crying. He hadn’t realized when it had started, but he sniffs, pulls away from Eddie to stubbornly scrub a hand across his eyes.
“Sorry…I don’t know why, um…” he trails off, turning away.
Eddie’s arms wrap around his middle, squeezing him from behind. “What happened?” he murmurs. “Is it…something with your parents?”
And damn, if Eddie doesn’t know him better than anyone.
“They’re not coming,” Steve whispers, not able to say it any louder, because maybe if he just whispers it then it’s not real yet.
Eddie presses his lips to the back of Steve’s neck, hums quietly. “Why not?”
“Because I…” Steve squeezes his eyes shut, lets his head tip forward, sags a bit in Eddie’s grip. “I told dad. About…me. About us.”
Eddie goes still behind him. “What did he say?”
“Nothing, he just…hung up. And then his assistant rang the next day and said they’d cancelled their trip home and that I had to move out.”
Gently, Eddie takes him by the shoulders and turns him around to face him. He cups Steve’s cheeks, brushes limp bangs back from his forehead. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Didn’t want to ruin your Christmas,” Steve mumbles, not meeting Eddie’s eye.
“Ruin it?” Eddie repeats, baffled. “Steve, hey, look at me. You’re not ruining anything, ok? None of this is your fault, your dad’s an asshole.”
“But -”
“No,” Eddie interrupts. “So here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna pack you a bag, and you’re coming with me, ok? You can come and have Christmas with me and Wayne, and then we can sort out what you’re gonna do after that. Whether you want to look for a new place, or move in with me for a while.”
Steve shakes his head. “You and Wayne always spend Christmas together, just the two of you. I don’t want to interrupt.”
Eddie rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling a little. “You kidding? I’m pretty sure Wayne likes you even more than me.”
Steve scoffs. “No chance.”
“Fine, but you’re like…his other favourite person. Trust me, he’ll be fucking excited to have someone to watch the game with, because I was just gonna read and complain through it. Come on, lets go pack your stuff.”
It’s Steve’s house, but it’s Eddie that takes him by the hand, that leads him up the stairs and down that stupidly long hallway and into Steve’s room. Surrounded by plaid wallpaper and basketball trophies, they throw some clothes into a duffel, and Steve grabs several gifts from under the tree on their way out of the house, Eddie collecting Steve’s unopened one from the bench.
Wayne welcomes them with a smile, and if he’s at all surprised to see Steve tagging along with Eddie he doesn’t show it – just announces there’s beers in the fridge and the game’s on in a few hours if Steve wants to watch it with him.
Later, Steve’s on the couch with Eddie’s head in his lap, Wayne sitting in the armchair next to them and nursing a beer while the game plays on TV. It’s pleasantly warm in the cramped lounge, and Steve’s stomach is full of takeaway pizza because Wayne had pointed out they’d be doing enough cooking tomorrow.
It’s the opposite to his Christmas Eves of old – there’s no timetable, no itinerary of formalities and tension thinly-veiled under false pleasantries and store-brought Christmas cake. No; Christmas Eve at the Munson residence is relaxed and slow-paced, and running his fingers idly through Eddie’s hair Steve feels like he can actually breathe.
For a long moment, as the fire crackles beside them, illuminating the three stockings hanging up nearby (Wayne had hung another for Steve), Steve thinks of his mother.
He wonders where she is, what she’s doing right now. If she’s thinking of him, too.
As if on cue, the phone rings.
Wayne stands, joints clicking as he stretches and ambles over to pick it up.
There’s a pause, and then Wayne’s saying Steve’s name, holding out the phone for him.
“I can tell ‘em not to call, if you like,” Wayne mumbles with his hand over the receiver, but Steve shakes his head, takes it anyway.
“Hello?”
“Steven?”
It’s his mom, her voice shaky, unsure.
He swallows, doesn’t say anything, but she continues anyway.
“No one answered the house phone, so I…I looked through the phone book, found the only Munson listed in the area and I thought…well, I just wanted to speak to you. Your father…he told me. About Eddie.”
“Uh huh.” Is all Steve manages.
Eddie’s looking over at him from the couch, brows drawn in concern. The glow from the fire illuminates his pale face.
He’s beautiful, Steve thinks.
His mom’s still speaking.
“…so I thought, I could get in touch with Pastor Jim, you remember Jim? You saw him all the time at church as a boy, and you always liked him.”
Steve remembers a sallow man, ancient even back then so surely he’s on death’s door these days. He recalls boring scriptures that made little sense to him, clammy hands and milky eyes and the sharp slaps from his father when he’d been unable to sit still on the hard wooden pews.
He’d never liked anything about church, and especially not Pastor Jim.
“…maybe he can…help you, set you back on the right path and away from…this.”
For a moment, Steve closes his eyes. Sighing, he opens them again.
“You know there’s nothing…wrong with me, right?” Steve says, as calmly as he can. “I have a boyfriend who’s one of the best things to ever happen to me. Maybe you could just…try and be happy about that?”
There’s silence for a moment, his mom clearly trying to gather her words.
“Steven, it’s a sin,” she whispers finally. “It’s…disgusting. You know that, and you’ve heard what your father says about…men like you.”
“Men like me, huh?” Steve huffs out a laugh. Eddie pads over to him, settles a hand on the small of his back. “I’m your son.”
“Well, that remains to be seen, and depends on whether you continue this…behavior.” His mother’s voice has changed, turned cold and haughty.
Steve clenches his jaw. “Tell dad I’ll be out of the house soon.”
He moves to hang up the phone, but his mom talks again, this time desperate, her voice small.
“For god’s sake, it’s Christmas, Steven! Can’t you just…stop this nonsense, talk to Pastor Jim, and maybe we can sort something out -”
“No,” Steve snaps. “There’s nothing to sort out, because I’m happier now with Eddie than I’ve ever been.” He almost hangs up the phone, then tugs it back to his ear again to say, “Merry fucking Christmas, mom.”
He slams the phone down with an audible clunk, hopes he hasn’t just broken the damn thing.
For a moment, he waits, hands trembling, to see if his mom will call back. If she’ll apologize, maybe – if the reality of losing touch with her only son might outweigh her bigotry.
But the phone remains silent, and Steve sags a little against Eddie, lets himself be led slowly back to the couch.
“Leave it off the hook if you like,” Wayne says, gesturing to the phone.
Steve shakes his head. “She won’t call again.”
Later, when the clock strikes midnight and Eddie’s dozing off in Steve’s lap, Wayne reaches across to gently clink his bottle against Steve’s.
“Merry Christmas, son,” Wayne murmurs. “You stay here just as long as you like.”
“Thanks, Wayne,” Steve replies softly.
Despite being well on his way to asleep, Eddie wriggles a little, pressing himself closer to Steve, and whispers, “Merry Christmas Stevie.”
Steve holds him tighter, lets warmth settle over him.
“Merry Christmas, Eds.”