Chapter Text
Steve’s parents love him. Or at least that’s what they tell him.
When they manage to make their way home, the void that the Harrington’s call home is filled with a new kind of emptiness; empty promises. Promises of a loving and caring home rather than a cold, dark cell. I love you's hurt more than they comfort, because it doesn’t come from a place of love, but of obligation. A parent is supposed to tell their child they love them, and a child is supposed to respond. But it's better than not hearing it at all, right?
A home is meant to be filled with sounds. Sounds of laughter that seem to make a home feel warm. The sound of rustling fabric as a mother embraces her child. But not all sounds in a home signify a home.
The footprints of his parents that he can distinguish from one another because he has to mentally prepare for which parent he will talk to. The laughter of his parents, who seem to be pretending that their son does not exist. The sound of a conversation ending just as he approaches the room his parents occupy.
Possibly the most painful is the voices of his parents, but they’re off. This isn’t the voice that a parent whispers comforts and praise in, rather, it's closer to the voice of someone answering the phone to an unknown caller. It's distant, cold, and reveals nothing to the listener. It’s coated in sickly sweetness while also containing a cold dismissiveness.
While being around his parents hurts, it's not their fault; it’s something wrong with him. He was always the last one to catch onto things, even things about himself. He was the last one to realize that Nancy doesn’t love him. The last one to realize that King Steve is an asshole. The last one to realize that he killed Barb.
There was only one time he was the first to notice something, and that’s only because no one else could hear it. Only he could hear the three deep clock chimes.
At first, he rationalizes. His family has a grandfather clock in the living room. It hasn’t worked in years, but maybe it managed to start.
There was no one around when he heard the clock chimes. He can’t scrutinize others to see if they have any reaction to the sound. He can’t even ask if the chimes are real or not. But then again, how real are Vecna’s chimes anyway. He doesn’t even know if he’s going crazy or been cursed by a creature from another dimension. This also means that no one is there to see him become rigid in the middle of the big, empty, house.
***
He’s 5, and he’s failed again at riding a bike. He was given the slick silver bicycle, but he was never taught how to ride. His father claims that it's the same as his old tricycle, and he can figure it out on his own. His mother says she will be watching from the porch, where she sits with a glass of wine. But there was no one there to hold the bike up, so he could learn to pedal. There was also no one there when he went down the hill in his neighbourhood. He could barely pedal and steer, let alone know how to stop.
When he falls, shockingly, his mother is there. His scraped knees and palms are not kissed, however. Nor are his tears wiped away.
“You’re fine. Get up. You’re okay.” His mother repeats like a mantra, not moving to help him up.
“You will always be fine. We won’t have it any different. We can’t have anyone knowing how much you need them, how much you leech off them. You can’t let them know how dependent you are, or they'll see how pathetic you are, and they'll all leave. Why do you think we leave you so often, Steven?” His mother continues.
This isn’t how it went. Sure, he had thought those words when his mother urged him to be fine, but she loves him, right? She’s trying her best to love her failure of a son. A son who can’t even ride a bike.
He looks up with watering eyes, urging himself to not let any more tears fall. After all, he is fine.
***
He’s 10 and his babysitter has retired. He’s trained for this moment, the moment when he no longer requires supervision, as his parents had claimed. He’s been taught how to use the stove and the oven, a skill he learned from a cooking class his parents enrolled him in.
But he wasn’t taught how to handle the burn when he tumbles from his tippy toes and strikes his wrist on the stove top. When he looks down at his wrist, an angry red line has formed and is forming small bubbles. He grabs the sticky note off the fridge door and runs to the phone mounted on the wall. With shaky hands, he dials the number of the hotel his parents are meant to be at. No one answers.
He slides down the wall and sits there, not sure what to do. He’s supposed to be independent, but he just went and tried to call his parents. Maybe it’s a good thing they didn’t pick up. If they had, they would know how he had failed at the simple task of being left alone.
He wants his mother to kiss it better. He wants his father to reassure him that he tried his best. But more than that, he wants to prove that he can survive on his own. He is ten. He doesn't need to go crying to his parents. He’s fine.
The phone rings. This isn’t how it goes.
His parents never called back, and he never attempted to reach them again. He’s supposed to sit here on the floor until nightfall, when he picks himself up and goes to bed unfed.
Instead, on his trembling legs, he reaches for the phone once more. He picks up on the last ring and gives a shaky hello.
“Crying for your parents already, son? Can’t even handle one night alone. Big empty house, no parents, isn’t that what they say.” His father’s voice rings out, but he’s not yelling. Of course not, he’s using his phone voice. Somehow, this is worse than yelling.
“We’ve given you everything, a house, money to pay for food, what more could you possibly want from us. So many people have it worse than you, Steven. So many without food or without parents at all. We don’t even hit you. Look how fragile you are.” His father hangs up before he can even get a word in.
***
Like a rubber band being released, Steve snaps back into his body before becoming limp on the floor of his kitchen. He’s near the phone on the wall, and he worries that it will ring again. He worries about hearing his father's harsh words spoken as though he was leaving a voicemail rather than berating his son.
He should move. Go get a record and play it as loud as it allows. Go get some Advil for his growing headache. Go tell someone that he’s found his way into Vecna’s clutches. Go anywhere that isn’t this big empty house.
But he doesn’t. He’s fine. He doesn’t need to depend on anyone else. He can handle this.