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ghosttotheparty · 1 year

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a mess of holy things 8 also on ao3 // prev. // next cw: mentions/brief descriptions of childhood neglect & physical punishment

There are sheets of paper littered around Steve’s entire room. Across his desk, filling his trash can, spread over his bed, each page filled with scribbled notes, his handwriting worse and worse as the words make their way to the last lines. The pen is smudged on most of the pages, the side of his hand stained with ink.

He’s been studying for hours today, and yesterday, and the day before, writing and rewriting rough draft after rough draft for his essays, revising and revising and revising, and he’s bored out of his mind.

There are three textbooks on his desks, all of them open to different topics, marked with pencil and more smudged pen ink.

His head hurts. His hands are sore from writing, from gripping his pencils and pens so tightly. He finds himself nibbling on the cross around his neck, the chain draping from his mouth, his teeth bumping over the ridges of Jesus’s body. He thinks maybe he shouldn’t be biting it, being a family heirloom, being something holy, but his fingertips haven’t bled in a while. He hasn’t tasted any blood.

He’s got the curtains open today, letting the morning sunlight in.

The phone rings as he’s letting his head fall back, stretching his neck and closing his eyes to rest them, fingers still gripping his own tightly. He startles at the sound, and he drops his pen, reaching for the phone.

“Hello, this is Steve.”

“Hey, Stevie.”

“Hi,” Steve says, voice softening. “How’re you?”

“Uh, I’m good,” Eddie says, but he sounds unsure. Hesitant. “Uhm…”

“What’s wrong?” Steve says, lifting his head, eyes watching the tree outside his window.

“Nothing, just…” Eddie pauses, clearing his throat. “Uhm. I have to— to tell you something.”

Steve blinks.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “What is it?”

“I…” Eddie is quiet for a moment. “I’d— I’d rather tell you, uhm, in person.”

“Okay,” Steve says again. “Should I— Do you want me to go to your place?”

He’s quiet again.

“…You know that cafe near mine? With the teacup sign outside?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you meet me there?”

“Yeah, ‘course.”

“Okay,” Eddie says softly, almost whispering.

“…Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says with a light laugh. “I’m okay, I just… I’ll tell you when you get here.”

“Okay,” Steve says, furrowing his brows a little bit. “I’m gonna go catch the next bus.”

“Okay.”

There’s traffic on the way into town, and Steve watches the cars all pull to a stop from where he’s sitting at the back of the bus, chewing his thumbnail. His knee bounces up and down anxiously, and he does his best to ignore the way his stomach is twisting, flipping over with nerves.

Eddie sounded so off on the phone. Off in a way Steve’s never heard him before. His voice was short, almost breathy with every Uhm… and too-long pause. It sounded like he was keeping his voice steady, like it wanted to shake and waver and he wouldn’t let it.

It’s drizzling when Steve finally gets off the bus, thanking the driver quickly, and he squints even though the sun isn’t that bright anymore. He avoids stepping in the puddles on the sidewalk as he makes his way to the cafe, swerving around pedestrians that are walking too slowly.

His jacket is spotted with rain when he finally gets to the cafe, and his hand gets wet when he pushes his hair back, out of his face. It’s warm in the cafe, and the stark difference hits him the second he steps inside, exhaling with relief. He takes off his jacket as he scans the cafe, spotting Eddie on the other side of it, sitting by himself at a small table, holding a mug, looking at it. His hair is down, falling over his shoulders, over the soft knit of his black sweater.

“Hi,” Steve says as he sets his jacket over the back of the other chair. Eddie looks up at him, smiling a little bit, but it’s tight, strained, forced. “What’s going on?”

“Uh.” Eddie takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he watches Steve sit. Steve moves closer to the table, leaning over it to look at Eddie intently. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Steve says again, raising his eyebrows, smiling hesitantly. “You okay?”

“I’m okay, I just…”

He fidgets with the handle of his mug, flicking his thumbnail over it, making a quiet tapping sound that sounds kind of like the rain hitting the roof. He swallows, looking away, his cheeks rosy.

“Eddie,” Steve says softly, his stomach twisting. “What’s wrong?”

Eddie lets out a weak, humorless scoff, dropping his head and then shaking it.

“Sorry,” he says to his lap, holding his mug tightly.

“You don’t have to be,” Steve says gently, twisting his fingers together to stop himself from reaching out and taking Eddie’s hands. “Just… You’re worrying me, I…”

“You don’t…” Eddie shakes his head. “You don’t have to be worried, it’s just, uhm… Okay.” He takes another heavy breath, sliding his tongue over his lips as he looks away again. “Uhm. I didn’t… I didn’t want to say anything, but it’s… It’s getting too hard to just ignore, I guess.”

“Did I do something?” Steve asks, his throat tightening as nausea threatens his stomach.

“No,” Eddie says quickly, shaking his head. “No, you— you didn’t do anything, Steve, I…”

Steve.

Not Stevie. Not sweetheart.

Steve feels like he might cry.

“What is it?” he asks weakly.

“I, uhm…” Eddie lifts a hand and rubs his cheek. Looks away. Looks back at him. “I have feelings. For you.”

Steve blinks.

“Like…” Eddie pauses, looking at him, stammering for a moment. “Like— Romantic feelings.”

“Oh,” Steve says softly. Eddie looks away again, his cheeks red, and he rubs his own forehead before he pushes his hair back behind his shoulder.

“I— I know it’s just me, so I can just—”

“You like me?” Steve says weakly, and he knows he sounds like a child, like his friends in high school sounded when they gossiped about their classmates.

Eddie is quiet, looking at him, and his eyes look glassy. He swallows, nodding a little.

“Yeah,” he says breathlessly.

“...Why?”

Eddie stares for a moment, and then he scoffs, smiling softly, his eyes shining brightly at Steve even though he still looks so… helpless.

“You have no idea how amazing you are,” he says quietly.

Steve’s cheeks flush with warmth, and he blinks again.

“You…” Eddie pauses, shifting in his seat, looking away, down at his coffee. “You’re brilliant. And you’re funny, and you’re creative, and you’re so… so fucking nice. Like…” He exhales, looking up at Steve again. “You’re, like, the kindest person I’ve ever met. Even though your parents are shitheads, and they— they raised you to be like them, you’ve only ever been kind to me, and I…” His voice shakes a little bit, and he cuts himself off, looking away and blinking his eyes repeatedly.

Steve’s throat tightens.

“I miss you when you’re not around,” Eddie continues after a moment, looking down again, his voice soft. “I… I like your voice. I like listening to you talk, even if you’re just complaining about your classes. And I like how you sit on the sofa like you’re trying to hide from something, like you— you make yourself as small as you can and it’s fucking adorable, and I like how you bite your pens when you think really hard, and how you scrunch your nose up when you laugh, and…”

He exhales sharply, blinking at Steve, and he looks like he’s going to cry again.

“And you’re so beautiful, Steve,” he whispers.

Steve’s eyes sting.

No one’s ever called him beautiful before. It’s never even seemed possible. But Eddie is looking at him like he’s the sun or something, like it hurts to look at him.

“You’re gorgeous,” Eddie says softly, weakly. “You’ve got these eyes that could— could make flowers bloom, and your smile’s like the fuckin’ sun, and you…” He exhales shakily, eyes flicking back and forth between Steve’s. His voice trembles when he speaks again. “You understand me. In ways that no one else ever has.”

Steve’s lip quivers.

Eddie looks away. Clears his throat.

“Sorry.” He takes another breath. “Uhm. I know it’s just me. So. If you wanna just… pretend I never said anything, that’s… I understand. Or if you… If you just don’t wanna see me, that’s— that’s fine.”

Steve opens his mouth to speak, to say something, but nothing comes out.

“Okay, uhm.” Eddie looks away, rubbing his nose and sniffling, twisting his mouth. “I’m gonna go.”

Steve’s vision blurs as he watches him stand, and Eddie’s name is stuck in his throat, but it can’t make its way out. His hands are shaking just the slightest bit, still clutching at each other under the table, and he has no idea what he feels right now, what name belongs to the feeling that’s tangled in his chest, in his stomach, but he wants to let it out.

But he can’t.

He doesn’t know how.

He watches Eddie go, silent.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there.

Staring at the table, Eddie’s words on repeat in his head.

I have feelings. For you. Like… Romantic feelings.

Steve’s never thought of himself as someone worthy of romantic feelings.

He heard rumors a few times that there were girls that liked him, but it’s never mattered. They never told him, never asked him out or anything. Not that he would have gone out with them if they had. He was raised with the belief that marriage is the only option, that everything is saved for the one.

He picks absently at one of his nails, his eyes trained on the mug Eddie left on the table. It’s almost empty.

He hadn’t meant to ask why. He knows it’s a stupid question.

He’d meant to ask how Eddie knows he likes Steve.

Which also might be a stupid question.

He doesn’t know.

But his friends never really went into detail about how they knew they had crushes. They only ever went into detail about their crushes, about their hair, their waists, their lipgloss. It was always She’s so hot. And other things Steve just pretended he didn’t hear.

And that was all he thought romance was.

His parents have never been in love. He knows that.

He’s never seen romance in movies or on television, he’s never read about it in books.

He remembers one of his friends in junior year gushing about his girlfriend, leaning back against the bleacher behind him with his eyes closed. Guys, I think I’m in love with her.

They’d all laughed. Teased him. Poked at his face and ruffled his hair.

But Steve couldn’t stop thinking about how blissful he’d seemed, and it was so wildly different from his idea of what romance was (which was what his parents had, which…) that Steve daydreamed about it. Liking someone so much it made him smile just thinking about it.

He still thought it was still… Well. Physical.

But…

I have feelings. For you. Like… Romantic feelings.

Steve’s never heard anything talk about him the way Eddie talked about him. He’s never been called beautiful, or gorgeous, or creative, or brilliant, or funny, or amazing.

And Eddie said it all so sweetly.

Like it was all real. About Steve.

And Steve believed him.

The taste of blood blossoms on Steve's tongue, and he blinks. His eyes focus, and he pulls his hand away from his mouth, huffing as he watches blood rise to the surface of his skin around his fingernail. There’s a napkin on the table next to the mug, and he reaches for it, wraps it around his finger tightly, squeezes. Watches the blood seep through the paper.

His heart hurts.

It’s never felt like this before.

His whole chest aches, like there’s an absence, like something is missing.

His fingers find the cross around his neck, twisting it and twirling it, blinking tears back as his eyes burn.

You have no idea how amazing you are.

Steve’s stomach twists, and he leans over, lets his forehead press to the cold wood of the table in front of him. His shoulders shake as he suppresses a sob, hides it from the rest of the cafe, from the eyes around him.

He doesn’t think Eddie has any idea how amazing he is.

How smart, and gentle, and sweet he is. How kind. How safe.

Steve’s hands are trembling as he grips the end of his sweater tightly. He wishes, instinctively, habitually, that he was wearing one of Eddie’s hoodies, and the thought drags through him, pulls at his muscles until they all ache.

And he misses him.

He misses him in a way he never thought was possible. He misses him so much it hurts. And he’s stuck here. Sitting at a table by himself because he can’t have Eddie’s arms around him, which is all he really wants. Eddie to hold him. To comb his hair back the way he does, to call him sweetheart.

Steve presses a hand over his chest, rubbing over his heart so hard the sweater he’s wearing slides over, scratching and folding.

His parents would kill him.

He’s thought that countless times in his life. Every time he’s missed a prayer, every time he’s skipped grace. Every time he’s gotten a bad grade, forgotten an assignment or a chore, every time his awful friends have said something blasphemous or sinful.

They’ve never killed him.

They’ve locked him in the cupboard under the stairs, in the dark. He had to start bending over in it when he was twelve, when his limbs started stretching overnight. He’s always hated it there. But they insisted it gave him space to think, with nothing to look at, nothing to touch, nothing to do. He’d curl up into a ball, the broomstick and mop handles pressing into his back, head ducked, eyes closed, to pretend the dark was just his eyelids and shadows, to pretend it wasn’t surrounding him completely.

They’ve confiscated his things, his favorite shirts, his comfortable shoes. They’ve sent him to bed without dinner, to school without breakfast. They’ve kicked him out for the night. He didn’t have a key for the front door until he got older, and when it was locked he was left on the front porch, shivering until the sun came up again.

They’ve smacked the backs of his hands with switches, with rulers, until his knuckles were bruised purple and blue. They’ve dragged him by his ear and by his hair where they want him.

For misbehaving. For forgetting.

But for this, Steve doesn’t even know what they’d do. If they’d lock him in the broom closet for a full day, if they’d withhold all three meals. If they would beat sense into him, if they’d force him to his knees in prayer until it hurts to straighten his legs. If they would cry. If they would be angry. If they would call him names. If they would kick him out for good instead of for the night.

He feels sick.

So he stands, his chair scraping back over the floor loudly, and he goes outside, pulling his jacket on. The air is cold, rushing over him as he opens the door and steps out, and his eyes burn, tears finally falling down his cheeks, leaving cold tracks in their path.

He sits on a bench facing the street. There’s melting snow on the curb, grey with soot and dirt, and the road is wet from rain. It’s still raining, but it’s so light Steve barely notices it, wiping tears away from his skin as mist is dropped on him from the sky.

He likes Eddie.

He supposes it should have been obvious sooner, but he would have had no way of knowing. Of realizing.

He wishes knowing could make something settle inside him. He wishes it could calm the storm inside his chest, that it could soothe him the way Eddie’s hands do, but it doesn’t.

He also wishes knowing Eddie likes him back, that it’s reciprocated, could make him feel better. It doesn’t.

Because what is he supposed to do?

He wants to go to Eddie. To hug him until nothing hurts anymore.

He tastes blood again. He almost lets out a weak whine, like a child, and he presses his finger to the side of his leg, watching blood stain the denim of his jeans. He raises his shoulder to wipe his cheek on his jacket. The zipper scrapes his face a little bit.

His parents used to talk about queers.

They didn’t talk about it often, but enough for Steve to know where they stand in regards to it. They taught Steve about it when he was old enough to know what sex was, when he was old enough for them to tell him his body will change, that it will tempt him, that he must not give in. They talked for far too long that night, describing God’s loving design, telling Steve that intimacy is for a married man and wife. That he mustn’t give into covetous desires.

Steve still remembers the verses they gave him that day, the ones they had him highlight in his bible in orange.

1 Peter 2:11 Beloved, I urge you as sojourners and exiles to abstain from the passions of the flesh, which wage war against your soul.

Matthew 15:19-20 For out of the heart come evil thoughts, murder, adultery, sexual immorality, theft, false witness, slander. These are what defile a person.

Ephesians 5:3 But among you there must not be even a hint of sexual immorality, or of any kind of impurity, or of greed, because these are improper for God’s holy people.

And of course:

Leviticus 18:22 You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination.

Though Steve supposes that, in a way, he’s already disobeyed that particular verse. He’s laid in Eddie’s arms, let Eddie hold him tenderly the way he’s supposed to hold his wife. He’s twisted their fingers together, traced the art on his skin, played with his hair. Gazed at him. Whispered to him.

Longed for him.

Steve’s skin feels like it’s on backwards. Like it’s inside out.

The rain starts coming down harder, and the world turns a blurry shade of gray. Raindrops get caught in his hair and in his eyelashes, and as people hurry past him, rushing to canopies and doorways to escape the clouds, none of them can tell that he’s crying.

He doesn’t know how he finds himself here.

Soaked in rain, starting to shiver, under God’s eye.

This church is bigger than the one his parents attend; there are rows of pews, more options for where to sit, more stones lining the floor that click quietly against the bottoms of his shoes with every step he takes. The sounds echo in the church, and it sounds for a moment like he’s completely alone, surrounded by stone walls and glass saints.

But there are a few others here, kneeling, praying, whispering to God. Steve’s eyes linger on a woman wearing a pale blue veil over her hair, kneeling at a pew with a rosary clasped between her hands. As Steve passes by her, he hears her voice, so soft he almost mistakes it for the rain hitting the roof.

He slides into an empty pew. Looks forward to the altar. There are candles flickering, sending golden light across the front of the church, making it all gleam even though it’s dark and cold and gray outside, and Steve’s eyes raise to find Jesus above it all, arms outstretched, pinned to an ornate cross. His hair is a little bit curly. It makes Steve think of Eddie.

Jesus blurs in Steve’s vision as his eyes fill with tears again, and for a moment, he feels filthy. Like he needs to leave his flesh and bones out in the rain, like he needs to bath in holy water. Like that will fix him.

He slides off the pew, falls to his knees, just like when he placed his head on Eddie’s lap and felt himself melt into the floor. But he doesn’t feel fingers running through his hair, and he doesn’t hear a quiet voice murmur sweetheart to him.

He hears the rain outside, pouring from the sky, and he hears the soles of someone’s shoes clicking against the floor. He hears someone whispering a prayer. He hears the kneeler beneath him creak under his weight.

He bows his head, rests his clasped hands on the pew in front of him. Squeezes his eyes shut when they start to sting even more, ducking his head as though to hide.

And he talks to God.

He prays silently, facing the floor, letting his tears fall to the old embroidered cushion beneath his knees. He doesn’t see the tears seep between the seams, bleeding into the threads to stay.

He remembers what it used to be like when he prayed. His head would empty except for the words he whispered to God, and in those brief moments, he wouldn’t have to worry about anything except the next word. He just spoke, and let himself drift, let himself find the peace in it, in knowing someone was listening even if he couldn’t see Him. He used to pray in the cupboard under the stairs a lot; there wasn’t anything else to do except cry, and he got tired of that, so he would find himself talking to God, telling him how tired he was of the dark, how scared he was in the enclosed space. And God listened until his parents finally opened the door again.

It was easier to pray then. Easier to find the words. Easier to feel a response.

Steve doesn’t feel anything now.

He doesn’t even really know what his prayer is for, really. He supposes he’s asking for guidance, for instruction, for something, but his prayers turn to pleas, and then he’s just begging under his breath, tears streaming down his cheeks. Please, please, please, please, please….

God doesn’t answer.

When he finally stops crying, he lets his forehead rest on his clasped hands. His hair is still wet, cold on his fingers, and the chill of his wet jacket is finally starting to reach him, but he can’t stand the idea of going back to his dorm room. Somehow that seems even more lonely than sitting here.

He sits heavily in the pew, looking back up at Jesus, and he kind of wants to hold a grudge now. How dare He hang there, within earshot? How dare He not say anything?

Steve wipes his face with his hand, sniffling. He feels like such a child. Crying in church.

“Hello.”

Steve startles, blinking and looking up.

He kind of wants to cower when his eyes meet the priest, when they find the white tab in his collar, but the priest is smiling kindly, softly.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks, nodding to the space beside Steve in the pew, and Steve hesitates before shaking his head silently. The priest smiles and sits next to him. He’s quiet, looking ahead like he’s admiring the crucifix.

Steve looks at him. He’s an older man, around Steve’s father’s age, but the years show on his face instead of the way he carries himself. He doesn’t seem as tired as Richard does, or as angry, and Steve wonders what the difference between them is; they both have God, but only one seems to reap the benefits.

“What’s bothering you?” the priest asks after a few quiet moments.

And Steve can’t just say it.

That he has a crush on his best friend, on his only friend, that he has a crush on a man.

So he’s quiet instead, looking at his own hands. He’s bleeding again. He hides it with the sleeve of his jacket. Somehow it feels sinful to bleed in church. His blood isn’t holy like Jesus’s.

The priest waits for him. Unprompting and patient.

Steve’s voice is rough when he finally speaks.

“...I don’t find peace in prayer anymore.”

The priest hums, nodding, and Steve glances at him. He feels like he’s going to be in trouble, like he’s going to be pushed into the cupboard under the stairs until he can pray properly. But he doesn’t sound angry when he speaks again.

“Where do you find peace?”

Steve’s throat tightens.

He’s so tired. Exhausted.

He rolls the question over in his mind, searching and searching and searching for the place that would make his heartbeat slow, that would make his mind quiet, and his eyes burn as he sees the letters on Eddie’s fingers, as he sees the leaves and blossoms wrapped around his arm, as he sees the bat resting over his throat. Steve closes his eyes, stifling a weak sob, remembering the way he knelt by Eddie’s bed, the way it didn’t actually bother him that he couldn’t finish that prayer.

“Home,” he says finally, his voice soft and weak, and the priest looks at him. He looks sort of sad, sympathetic. Kind.

Steve’s father has never looked at him like this.

“Why don’t you go there?” he asks gently, almost whispering.

Steve looks away. Stained glass isn’t as beautiful when it’s dark out.

“Shouldn’t you be… telling me to pray harder, or something?” he says dryly. “Telling me to go to God?”

The priest laughs lightly.

“Maybe,” he says, shrugging in a way that seems almost childish. “But…” He sobers, hesitates. Looks at Steve again like he’s considering something. “You deserve peace,” he says softly. “Even if it’s not with God.”

Steve blinks.

The priest seems to notice it, the blankness, and he keeps talking, looking back up at the crucifix, his voice too casual for what he’s telling Steve, for what he’s making him feel.

“It’s okay to find peace elsewhere. And if you decide to try again, to come back…” He looks at Steve, but his face blurs. “God will still be here. He isn’t going anywhere.”

Steve’s hands are shaking, and he tightens his fingers around each other, squeezing so tightly it hurts his knuckles. He looks up at the priest after a few moments.

“Go home,” the priest says softly.

Steve nods.

The priest gives him another kind smile, and then he leaves him alone. Steve hears his shoes click on the floor as he walks away, back down the center aisle. Steve inhales deeply, slowly, closing his eyes for a moment.

Steve’s jacket is soaked. His hair is dripping, and he’s cold, and he’s shaking, and the rose on the door is blurring in his vision as he knocks.

Please.

He tastes blood as he waits, biting the skin next to his nail. The stairwell is so quiet he can hear his own breathing, uneven and choppy and on the verge of panicked.

Please. Please.

He chokes on his own breath. His hands are trembling so hard his finger pulls away from his teeth.

The door swings open.

Steve’s chin quivers, and he drops his hand.

Eddie’s hair is tied back in a ponytail, loose curls falling around his face and his neck, and the collar of his shirt is stretched out, draping loosely over his collarbones. His eyes are shining, his cheeks and nose rosy, and Steve can tell he’s been crying. He wonders if Eddie can tell that he’s been crying, too.

“Hi,” Eddie breathes.

Steve’s whole body aches. It feels like it’s been months, years, since he’s seen Eddie, even though he saw him just this morning.

Eddie’s hands are bare, ringless, still holding the door open. Steve can’t tear his eyes away from him, and he’s never felt more desperate in his life, even though he doesn’t know what it is that he’s dying for.

The quiet stretches on. Steve’s eyes flick back and forth between Eddie’s like he’s trying to use telepathy, like just looking at Eddie can make him know.

Until Steve finds his voice.

“It’s not just you.”

Eddie blinks.

“…What?”

“You said— You said you know it’s just you, but it— it’s not.” Steve’s voice wavers, and he blinks tears back. “Me too.”

And Steve can see the words sink in. Eddie’s expression shifts, relaxes. His eyes widen. His lips part.

“…Oh.”

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