#this is a warning to me and my mom | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thefreakandthehair · 9 months

Text

(don't bother) calling me when you're sober | rating: m | wc: 1.5k

content warnings: future fic, parental alcoholism ("falling off the wagon"), past parental neglect, minor character death (i've committed wayne crimes i'm so sorry but it's not shown, just mentioned), emotional hurt/comfort, ends on a happy, hopeful note despite the tags

“My dad called.”

Eddie walks into the room, pinched eyebrows and flared nostrils lit up by the multicolored Christmas lights they string on the tree every year, one hand balled into a fist. The reaction wouldn’t surprise Steve so much if this happened years ago, when Al Munson was still living in the bottom of a bottle of Jack, but now?

It’s been eighteen years since he’d gotten sober, nineteen years since his last stint at Hawkins County, and fifteen years since making a genuine attempt to right the wrongs of Eddie’s childhood and build a relationship with his son.

Fifteen years after Eddie let him in, let him try, let him earn Eddie’s trust.

Fifteen years is a long time and to see Eddie so vitriolic in the doorway of their apartment’s living room— hands shaking, body shaking— Steve knows something must’ve gone wrong.

“What happened?” Steve asks, standing from the couch and meeting Eddie where he stands, holding the hand not curled tightly around itself.

“He’s drunk. He called, and he was drunk.”

Steve’s chest pulls tight, his heart racing. What does someone say to that? What can someone say to assuage that kind of deep anger, pain, and betrayal? His thoughts are scattered as they try to make sense of what Eddie just said, and he’s even more grateful now that Ronnie wanted a sleepover with Aunt Robin tonight.

“Eddie, fuck. I’m so— ” Before he can finish his thought, Eddie leans back against the doorframe, ripping his hand out of Steve’s and tangling his fingers in his hair, tugging.

“How could he? How fucking could he?!” Eddie bellows, eyes squeezed shut. “He knew! He knew that if he ever did this again, I’d be done. For good. For forever. And he did it anyways! After eighteen fucking years!”

His eyes fly open and Steve stands still and nods him on. There are just no words to fix this, and trying for the sake of filling the silence has never served him well.

“He did it anyway! Two days before fucking Christmas, a week before the anniversary of—” He chokes and cuts himself off.

He knows what Eddie was going to say. A week before the anniversary of Wayne’s death. It’s been on his mind, too, of course. On his mind and in their conversations over breakfast with eccentric mugs of coffee, over the tangled lights that Wayne could always figure out. The year hasn’t been the kindest to them, particularly Eddie, and Steve wants to protect Eddie as much as he can from whatever he can.

But he can’t shield him from this. Al Munson skips to the top of his shitlist.

“That son of a bitch!” Eddie rams his fist sideways against the door jam, leaving a sharp, red mark along his pinky. “He promised, and I believed him. Why the fuck did I believe him, Steve?”

Steve takes a step closer and grabs both of Eddie’s hands, carefully soothing the angry mark. “It’s been almost twenty years, babe. Trusting him with so much time invested makes sense. Hell, I did, too.”

“I’m— I’m in my 30s, hurt and angry about the same shit I was hurt and angry about as a fucking kid. All the nights I slept in the backseat of the car because he blew his money at the bar, all the car accidents and court appearances and jail time, all the mornings I missed school because he didn’t know what fucking day it was,” Eddie rants, stopping to take a breath before picking back up, Steve’s own heart cracking and raging the more he speaks.

“And every time he’d get sober, he’d always promise. He’d promise it would be the last time, and it never was. Not once could he choose his fucking son and I didn’t understand it then, but now that we have Ronnie, I understand it even less. If I was sick enough to walk away from her, I’d walk my happy ass to the nearest fucking rehab. I get that it’s a disease, I get it, I get it, I get it. But I can’t— I can’t do it again. Not this time. Eighteen years just down the fucking drain because of his company’s holiday party? How can I ever believe him again? Or trust him again?”

Eddie’s voice grows raspier, breath shallow and quick, eyes watery. “Every time this happened when I was a kid, I always had Wayne. He’s the only person who really got it, y’know? The only one who lived it with me and now, I don’t even have him. My dad’s drunk, slurring his way through who fucking knows what on the phone, and no one else can fully understand the magnitude of what that feels like for me.”

He squeezes his eyes shut again and drops forward toward Steve, forehead on his shoulder and arms loosely hung around Steve’s waist. Steve still doesn’t have words that bandage this up, but he knows how to show his husband love in other ways. Ways that, over the years, have become a language all their own. Steve pulls him in tight, one hand near his waist, the other cradling the back of his head. Fingers slide carefully beneath the hem of Eddie’s tee-shirt and rub little, repetitive circles into the small of Eddie’s back while he cards his other hand through Eddie’s hair, scratching his scalp and holding him to his chest to feel the rhythm of Steve’s own heartbeat until his breath returns to a steady pace.

It’s only then that Steve speaks.

“I don’t know what to say, Ed. It’s fucked up, and if you want to me like, hit him with my car, you know I’m game.” Steve feels Eddie laugh— just a few puffs of air through his nose but it’s a laugh all the same. “But I’m here, and we’re gonna figure it out, okay? Whatever you decide to do, we’ll do it together.”

Eddie nods and lets himself be led to the couch, Steve tucking Eddie into his side and pulling the afghan up over them.

“I never want to be what Al was to me to our daughter,” Eddie whispers, not looking away from the tree.

“Well, you’re ahead of the game, because she’s already older than you were when he started hitting the bottle hard. And I know there’s the genetic piece to it that everyone talks about, but nurture counts for a lot of who we become, too. Shit, I owe Joyce Byers a huge thank you for being more of a parent to me than my own were because she’s probably the reason I didn’t turn out like Dick Harrington. Ronnie’s never going to have an Al Munson in her life, because you weren’t raised by Al Munson. That’s not whose legacy you’re passing down. You’re passing down love, not pain.” Steve presses a soft kiss to Eddie’s temple and feels his whole body sag into him.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Eddie’s voice is quiet now, a far cry from his earlier venomous edge.

Silence nestles onto the couch with them, a comfortable addition, as they watch the basketball game Steve had on before Eddie told him about the phone call. Watch is a loose description, actually. They're more just looking at a moving, flashing screen.

“My hand really hurts, by the way,” Eddie announces, holding up the hand he’d used to punch the doorjam. “That was fucking dumb.”

“Maybe a little bit, but I get it,” Steve untucks a hand from beneath the blanket and outstretches his palm. “Lemme see?”

Eddie plops his hand into Steve’s and Steve takes a look, mentally working down the check list he’s memorized from his decade plus of EMT work. No obvious breaks, nothing looks crooked, Eddie’s able to move each finger and flex his hand without severe pain.

“If anything, it’s just gonna be bruised tomorrow. But I’ll fix it,” Steve grins and lifts Eddie’s fist to his lips, carefully kissing each knuckle and paying a little extra attention to the pinky that delivered most of the blow.

“I’m so in love with you, Steve.” Eddie rests his temple on Steve’s shoulder. “You know that, right?”

“I know,” Steve agrees, chest fluttering despite the circumstances. “And I’m in love with you, too. You know that, right?”

Eddie snuggles in and wraps Steve up, full koala, as though he’s trying to get as close as possible without actually cracking Steve open and climbing inside of him.

“Definitely.”

The next morning, Aunt Robin brings Ronnie home and together, they decorate the gingerbread cookies that only vaguely look like people but are good enough to pass for a seven year old. Halfway through, Eddie’s cell phone rings and the caller I.D. reads Al. Steve watches, worried that Eddie’s going to answer in the middle of their decorating. That he’ll forget Ronnie’s having the time of her life, and that in his righteous indignation, Eddie will leave the table to go fight and argue.

There’s so much to be said, and Steve wouldn’t blame him, but he breathes a sigh of relief when Eddie simply declines the call and sets about pouring more edible glitter onto his design with a smile down at their daughter.