Steddie Hands, Steddie Heart

Chapter 15 - The Tea Party

Author's Note: sorry for the hiatus :'),, Despite the silly chapter title this chapter gets pretty dark so please mind the TWs.

TWs: Graphic mentions of child abuse (physical and emotional), homophobia

Steve pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders as Eddie placed a steaming cup of tea on the table in front of him. Making eye contact with the metalhead in front of him felt like a herculean task. Not being able to sleep over at someone's house without having an outburst like the one he just had was embarrassing. What the hell was wrong with him? He was a fully grown adult having nightmares like he was ten. What a loser.

"Stop that."

Steve looked up to see Eddie staring deeply into his cup of tea. "Stop what?"

"You're beating yourself up. I can tell."

"What? How could you possibly tell what I'm thinking?" Steve asked.

"Your brow is all scrunched up. And you have that 'kicked puppy' look," Eddie replied, finally taking his gaze from his tea to meet Steve's. He looked tired.

"Sorry. I'm kind of a lot to deal with right now," Steve said with a sad, breathy chuckle.

Eddie seemed to ignore his apology completely. "I think we need to talk about your Dad," he said.

Steve took in a sharp breath. Maybe he could try playing dumb. If he acted like he didn't know what Eddie was getting at, maybe he'd leave him be.

"What about him?" he tried to deflect.

"Steve, I'm not an idiot."

It was Steve's turn to stare into his mug, lips pursed to suppress any quivering. He already felt guilty for letting Eddie see him this way. He didn't want Eddie to think of him as someone fragile and weak.

Eddie continued, "When you woke up from your nightmare you..."

Eddie swallowed a lump in his throat. This situation was bringing up all kinds of memories for him. He was in a much better place now to deal with those feelings but it still made him emotional. It still hurt. But this wasn't about him. This was about Steve. And that made him even more emotional.

"You begged me not to let him hurt you." Eddie wondered if he sounded as small as he felt. "Is that what he did? He- he hurt you?"

Fear flickered across Steve's face for a brief moment.

"No. I- He- he would never. My dad wouldn't. He-...he's a good man," Steve spat out, the words feeling bitter on his tongue.

Eddie gave Steve a knowing look. "Steve..."

Steve grasped his mug, trembling hands circling the ceramic and creating tremors in the steeped liquid.

"I'm not going to force you to talk about it but-"

"He hit me," Steve interrupted, voice small and breathy. "A lot. All the time."

Steve watched as Eddie's face morphed into something else. Horror? Pity? Possibly something else entirely. Whatever it was, Eddie didn't speak, just stared.

"It wasn't that bad though! Really, he only did it when I deserved it and-"

"I'm going to stop you right there, Steve," Eddie cut him off and Steve could've sworn he saw Eddie's eyes shine with unshed tears. "No child deserves to be beaten. Ever. You did not do anything to deserve being abused by your shitty excuse of a father."

Steve blinked back the tears that threatened to make their way down his cheeks.

"I wasn't abused, Eddie. I was a problem child I-"

"Steve, would you ever hit a kid?"

"What? No, of course not."

Eddie's eyes were now unmistakably shiny with tears, his face set into an expression of compassion and patience. He reached forward and took the mug that was close to dropping from Steve's hands and set it back on the table gently.

"How then, Stevie, are you any different?" Eddie said.

Steve pictured his younger self in front of him, a small boy behind where Eddie was sitting. He pictured four year old Steve, limbs still chubby with baby fat, being slapped across the face with the back of his father's hand for asking to play with a doll instead of a monster truck. Weathered knuckles broke skin and the young boy cried out in pain, clutching his bloody cheek. Steve flinched as the boy received another slap.

Steve saw himself at age six, being dragged by his hair for getting a B on a math test because "Harringtons are never second place." Age eight, having to stay home from school for a week because his father had thrown him down the stairs and broken two of his ribs, leaving on a business trip the next week without allowing Steve a hospital visit. Age eleven being beaten near to death for making friends with a "Damn filthy queer."

"Steve?" Eddie's voice broke through the murkiness of Steve's brain and Steve hardly glanced at him before feeling warm tears slide down his cheeks.

Eddie got up from where he sat across from Steve and enveloped Steve into a comforting hug.

And Steve broke.

Steve let out a violent sob before nuzzling into Eddies neck trying to escape the fucked up world in the dark curls of this man who endowed Steve with so much unconditional kindness that Steve didn't know what to do with it all. This time he wasn't crying in a fit of panic as he usually was. He was crying in remorse for the torment his younger self had to go through, in anger at the fact that he was allowed to go so long without understanding how little he deserved to be beaten within an inch of his life by the very people with the responsibility to care for him.

He cried and he talked. He told Eddie everything between gasps for air. He told Eddie about the cold harsh stares his father gave him and the apathetic way his mother would ignore the sounds of his cries. The way he was forced to repress every part of himself that even remotely expressed any sense of individuality. How the only times his father ever grinned in his direction were with a sadistic gaze after having punched or slapped or kicked him hard enough to leave a particularly nasty bruise.

Steve talked, and talked, and talked, and Eddie listened. By the time Eddie's uncle re-entered the living space, Steve had tired himself out and laid in Eddie's arms, sleeping peacefully. They had since moved to the couch, which was a more comfortable arrangement for the both of them. Eddie had one hand playing with Steve's hair and the other holding a now cold cup of tea, which he was sipping lazily.

Wayne took Steve's nearly untouched mug and motioned for Eddie to hand over his as well.

Eddie complied, mumbling a quick but grateful "Thanks, Wayne."

"No problem, Ed. Doesn't seem like moving 'im right now is the smartest idea."

Eddie nodded absentmindedly, still stroking at Steve's soft locks of chestnut brown hair.

Wayne put the dishes in the sink before letting out a quiet sigh.

"Look, kiddo. I don't know what he's been through but I can guess. I ain't never seen anybody wake up in such a panic who hasn't either gone to war or gone through some seriously traumatizing crap," Wayne started.

Eddie remembers Wayne calming him down from night terrors after having moved in, letting him cry into his chest in an act of kindness that Eddie's father had never provided. Wayne must remember it too.

"But whatever he's gone through, you know he's more than welcome to stay whenever he needs to. I mean that."

Eddie looked down at Steve, mulling over his uncle's words and in that moment. He couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude that he was able to provide to Steve the comfort that his uncle was able to give to him when he was just a scared, anxious little kid. After all the hell Steve had been through and was still struggling with, Eddie was glad if he could be a small source of hope in Steve's life.

"Thanks, Wayne," Eddie replied, blinking fast.

"Anytime, kid."