#Steven can't drive for shit but he can navigate

[aniju-aura]

Its the Draw Your Three Comfort Characters meme. They're going to Dennys to go eat sad food because it be like that sometimes...

[sparkle-fiend]

An exploration of Steve’s home life, and relationship with his parents.

*****

People always feel sorry for Steve, when they hear how often his parents are away. "They leave you all alone in that big house? How long has it been since you saw them?" They always say the same things - express the same concerns, the way they have ever since he was in middle school.

Steve never knows how to respond. The truth is - he's happier when his parents are gone.

When the house is empty, he can breathe. He can move through the space and fill it with his own presence; he can talk as loud as he wants, listen to music - even sing if he wants to. He doesn't have to make himself small or quiet.

When his parents are home, Steve feels tense all the time, on edge, like walking over eggshells. Carefully watching every word, minding every detail of his appearance and behavior. It's never enough, of course. His father always finds some fault.

They’re going into the fourth week in a row that his parents have been home (a record this year) when he sees his mother rubbing her temple, wincing with a headache as she observes the contents of the pantry.

Steve says, "Hey, why don't I make dinner tonight?"

He's been learning how to cook, making dinner for Eddie and the kids on D&D nights, and he thinks he's actually gotten to be pretty good at it. His mother is delighted at the offer, and Steve feels a warm little thrill of pride – until his father walks into the kitchen. It’s all downhill from there.

"That's not how you dice tomatoes Steven; the pieces are all completely uneven."

"Did you even add any salt to this?"

"The pasta is overcooked. I can't eat this - it's practically mush."

"How did you manage to screw up such a simple dish? It's basically spaghetti; a child could make it."

Each word is a chisel, chipping away at him. By the end of dinner Steve is trembling, trying to keep any emotion off his face.

The real kicker is when they start clearing the table, and his father spills a glass of wine all over his white button-down shirt.

"Goddamnit!" he roars, jumping back with enough force to send his chair clattering to the ground.

"Shit!" He slams a fist down onto the table in frustration, with enough force to rattle all the remaining dishes. Steve can't help it - he flinches hard, feels his heart begin to race.

His father has always had a temper, always been prone to flying off the handle at the smallest things. He's never violent toward Steve or his mother, but sometimes the rage feels like a physical force all the same.

It's been so much worse since Starcourt. His father's tantrums send Steve back to that cold metal room, head aching as an angry Russian shouts in his face, demanding Steve tell them what he knows.

Steve retreats to the kitchen, chest heaving as he gulps for air. He starts cleaning up with numb focus, waiting for his father to leave the dining room before returning to help his mother pick up the glass.

After that, he waits in his room. When the house goes silent, he slips out the window and sneaks to his car, keeping the headlights off until he reaches the main road.

When he was younger, he would drive all night just to stay out of the house. He'd been up and down every back road in Hawkins until he could probably navigate them blind; sometimes he would even hit the highway out of town, racing for hours across empty corn fields, swallowed by the sweep of the night sky.

He has somewhere he can go now. He cuts the headlights again as he pulls up to the little brick house on the edge of town - purchased with a hefty government payout to keep the Munson's quiet about the real fate of the old trailer.

Steve slips around back and pulls himself up onto the roof of the porch, crab walking carefully until he reaches Eddie's window. There's a sliver of light visible under the lowered shade - if there hadn't been, he would have returned to his car.

Instead, he taps lightly at the glass until the shade flies up and Eddie yanks the window open. "Jesus Christ, what are you doing? You know you can come in the front door like a normal person, right?"

"I saw Wayne's truck in the driveway. I didn't want to wake him up."

"He wouldn't care - I try to tell you that every time. Get in here."

He pulls Steve through the window, gripping him by the elbow so he doesn't fall when his feet get tangled in a pile of clothes on the floor.

They sit together on the edge of Eddie's bed, and despite the warmth of another person pressed against his shoulder; Steve can't seem to stop shaking.

"Steve," Eddie whispers, brows furrowed in growing concern, "what's wrong?"

Steve shrugs. At this angle, he can see the two of them in the mirror over Eddie's dresser. There's Eddie, looking comfortable and soft in sweatpants and a tank top, rings all discarded in the dish by his bed. And there's Steve, looking worn thin, hair limp and eyes bruised from exhaustion.

"My parents are still home. Sometimes it's hard to sleep - I don't want to scare them if I have any nightmares."

That was true enough, even if it wasn't the whole story. He can tell by the way Eddie's reflection scowls that the other boy isn't buying it.

They've danced around it before. He knows that Eddie and Wayne are both suspicious of his relationship with his parents; hell, he's pretty sure Joyce and Hopper are too. It makes him feel stupid.

His father has never touched him, not once. Steve is just overdramatic, making a big deal out of nothing when others have had it so much worse. Eddie certainly did, before he started living with Wayne. Steve's not going to whine to him about how his dad says stuff that hurts his feelings sometimes.

"Well you know you're always welcome to stay here. Wayne could sleep through an air raid siren - you won't bother us."

Steve nods, and accepts the sweatpants and t-shirt Eddie digs out of the drawer for him. When he comes back from the little bathroom down the hall, Eddie has the blankets folded down and the overhead light turned off.

Steve climbs into bed silently, and Eddie follows. Neither one of them acknowledges the fact that there's a pullout sofa in the living room downstairs - a much nicer one than Wayne used to sleep on at the old trailer.

Eddie rolls onto his side, facing Steve, and lifts an arm in invitation.

They've been dancing around this too - the unspoken thing between them.

Steve shuffles forward until he's close enough for Eddie to drape the offered arm over his shoulders, and then he allows himself to be pulled closer still. He presses his face into Eddie's chest and just breathes.

This is home. The scent of cigarette smoke and weed mixed with Old Spice, the tickle of Eddie's curls over his forehead. Here, he doesn't have to be alone to be himself.

As the tension in his muscles starts to ease, unwinding like a spring, the tears take him by surprise. Eddie must feel them wetting the fabric of his tank top, because he holds on tighter. "I've got you, okay?" he mutters into Steve's hair. "I'm not letting go."

In the morning, Steve will try to sneak out before Wayne gets up. Wayne will meet him at the door with a cup of coffee, and drag him into the kitchen for breakfast, and when Eddie gets up, they'll share weighted looks over Steve's head while he eats his eggs and pretends not to notice.

Wayne will mention, not for the first time, that it's actually a three-bedroom house - "Just furniture, is all it needs. We'd be more than happy to have you stay."

Eddie will chime in, "Wayne's been wanting you to move in since he tried those leftovers you brought over."

They'll laugh, like that's all there is to it.

Maybe this time, Steve will finally say yes.