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Thunder rumbles in the distance as Wayne parks his car beside the Beemer and grabs the greasy paper bag from the passenger seat. He shucks off his work boots next to the two pairs of shoes sitting on the porch and absentmindedly wipes at the rivulet of sweat that keeps trickling out from under his hat and down his neck. The air is warm and wet, and thick enough to be cut with a knife. Hopefully tonight will finally bring the rain that the weather forecast has been promising for days.
The boys are on the sofa, both in shorts and sweat-sticky shirts and with the rusty fan blowing right in their faces. If he didn't know any better, Wayne would say they haven't moved an inch since he left for his shift, except the movie running on the old VCR is a different one, and the bottle with Eddie’s meds is sitting on the sofa table.
Steve turns his head to greet him when he hears the key in the door - a bit awkward as he’s trying not to wake Eddie, who has fallen asleep with his head on his shoulder.
“Hi,” he whispers over the drone of the television set.
“Hullo,” Wayne says, throwing his keys into the bowl by the door and setting the paper bag down on the kitchen counter before making his way over. “How did therapy go?”
Steve shrugs, the barest lift and fall of his shoulders that makes Eddie’s head loll and draws a disgruntled snore from him.
“Okay, I guess. He really wants to make progress, and I think he’s getting there, but … I dunno, today was hard for him. It’s something to do with the weather, I think. I mean, it’s hard to move in the heat, even when you’re not injured, and some of my own scars also act up when it’s like this, so I can only imagine …”
He trails off, suddenly unable to hold Wayne’s gaze. His eyes flick back to the tv instead, but they’re strangely glassy, not really taking in what is happening on the screen. The words he doesn’t say hang heavily in the air between them.
Because Eddie is almost all scars these days, and Steve still blames himself. For not having prevented it. For not getting to him sooner. For not making it to the hospital faster. Much like the physical scars, it’s something that’ll probably never go away, not entirely.
“There’s gonna be good days and bad days,” Wayne says. “What’s matters is that he’s here, and that you are here with him. You know how important that is to him, right?”
“I know.” Steve scrubs a hand over his eyes under the guise of wiping the sweat off his brow. “It’s just that- … Oh, hey there. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Eddie yawns, long and drawn-out, and leans in to place a sloppy kiss at the corner of Steve’s mouth. The boy goes very still, heat-induced flush deepening by about three shades.
“‘s okay, I told you I wanted to stay up and wait for …” and that’s when his eyes flick over Steve’s shoulder. “... Wayne. Hi there, Wayne. How long have you been standing there, Wayne?”
“Ah, well,” he grunts. “Not long enough to see things I didn’t already know.”
Eddie grins and blushes, while Steve makes a valiant attempt to melt through the sofa cushions and right into the floor. “Brought sloppy Joes and some fries from the diner if you boys are hungry.”
Eddie makes a face. It tugs on the scar covering most of his neck and a sizable portion of his jaw.
“Aw, thanks. I’d love something warm and sloppy-”
“Oh my God,” Steve hisses. “Don’t say it like that!”
“-but I chugged a double dose of these little babies on the table earlier, and they always mess with my delicate tummy. You gentlemen enjoy your dinner without me, I think I’m about ready to retire.”
He reaches for his crutches, which are leaning on the armrest, but something in his hip pops, and he winces. Steve is out of his seat and wrapping an arm around him before Wayne can even move.
“C’mon, let me help.”
“My knight in shining armor,” Eddie gushes. “What would I do without you?”
Steve’s blush, impossibly, deepens.
While the boys hobble their way over to the bedroom, Wayne switches off the television set and makes his way over to the kitchenette to get two plates from the cabinet.
He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, he really doesn’t. Just because he has long figured out what is going on between the two of them, he doesn’t need to see or know every little detail of it. But the place is tiny and the walls are thin, and they left the door open, so he can’t help but hear it.
The squeak of the bed springs. Eddie’s pained little groan. The soft rustle of fabric as Steve helps him take off his shirt and get settled. Hushed words exchanged in the half-dark of the room.
“Okay?”
“Yeah, thanks. Gee, I really am a handful, am I?”
“Stop it. It’s no bother and you know it. You got everything you need?”
“I- … Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
“Okay. And if not, I’m right outside, understand? I don’t need a repeat of that one time you tried to go for milk and cookies at three in the morning and ended up pulling your stitches. If you need anything, you can call me. The bats didn’t get your tongue.”
“That’s about the only part of me they didn’t get,” Eddie grumbles, but there’s a smile in his voice. “Okay, I promise. Night, Stevie.”
“Night, Teddy.”
Wayne, halfway between the kitchen counter and the porch door, grinds to a stop. Two fries topple over the edge of the plates in his hand and land on the carpet. Outside, rain starts to patter against the roof. When he finally manages to turn his head, he is just in time to see Steve stand from his crouched position by the bed. Just in time to see the look on Eddie’s face.
“You want me to take one of these?”
Wayne blinks. It feels like kicking his way back to the surface of a muddy lake, back up through fifteen years of grief and regret. When he resurfaces, Steve is standing next to him, eyeing the plates.
Lightning flashes outside.
“Nah,” Wayne says. “I got it. You could get two beers from the fridge, though.”
“I, um- … Okay? Coming right up.”
Steve's smile stays, but his brow wrinkles with just the barest hint of concern. Not for the first time, Wayne thinks that the boy is a great deal smarter than a lot of people give him credit for. He knows something about the situation has shifted, even though he can't put a finger on what it is.
The rain is coming down in fat drops when he steps out onto the porch, but the wind hasn't picked up yet, so the old sofa is still dry. Wayne sets the first plate down on the armrest that is closest to the door and settles down at the far end himself. When Steve joins him a few seconds later, he accepts the beer with a grunted thanks and gestures for him to take a seat.
For a minute or two, they both sit and watch how the dark circles on the gravel spread and bleed together.
“Looks like it’s finally gonna cool down a bit,” Wayne remarks when Steve doesn’t say anything, just keeps twisting his can between his hands without opening it.
Steve huffs.
“Yeah. About fucking time, too ” he says, and Wayne grins into his beer. He still remembers how stiffly polite the boy was only a few weeks ago. Always on edge, always afraid to overstep and say the wrong thing. It's good to see him not monitoring his every word.
Speaking of which …
“That name. The one you just called him …”
It's maybe a little direct, going by the way Steve flinches and almost drops his beer, but Wayne has never seen the point in beating around the bush.
“I didn't mean anything by it,” the boy blurts. “I mean … He calls me Stevie all the time and I- I wanted to have something like that for him. Something-”
He trails off, mouth half open around a word, face bright red and twisted with terror at what he almost said.
“Something tender?” Wayne guesses. “Something that’s only for the two of you?”
Steve groans and hides his face in one hand. It does fuck all to hide his blush, which has reached the roots of his hair and the hollow of his throat by now.
“It’s not because I think he’s soft or fragile or girlish or any of that stuff,” he promises. “It just … I really like the idea of it. Of having something that only I get to call him.”
The rain is growing thicker now, and the wind is picking up. It carries little droplets of moisture under the porch roof, cold and wet against their skin. Wayne hums around another sip of beer while he thinks about his next words.
“You’re not the first, y’know,” is what he finally settles on. Steve’s shoulders tense. His hand lowers so that he can peek at Wayne from behind his fingers. “There used to be someone else, long ago. Called him her little Teddy Bear all the time.”
It’s a little bit funny, the range of emotions the poor boy’s face circles through, all in a matter of seconds. Surprise. Jealousy. Confusion. Hesitant realization, followed by dumbstruck horror.
“Oh shit,” Steve breathes. “You don’t mean …”
Wayne nods. The grief rears its head again, just like every time he talks about her, even after all this time. Grief and helpless rage at the injustice of it all. At the unfairness of a world that always takes the best people, always in the ugliest of ways, always way before their time.
“His dad absolutely loathed it. Said she was mollycoddling him with her namby-pamby bullshit, that she was turning him into a- … well, weakling and crybaby were two of the nicer words he used. She never let it stop her, though. It was their special thing, and after she was gone … Well, I never brought it up. Didn’t feel right.”
“Shit,” Steve says again. “Mr Munson … Sir, I'm so sorry, I had no idea. If I had known- … Damn, he never told me.”
“Son,” Wayne says. Steve, who had just opened his mouth for a fresh round of apologies, snaps it shut again. “I thought we were past the Sirs. It’s Wayne. And as far as Ed is concerned … I think he’s more than okay with it.”
Steve gawks at him. “So … you’re not mad?”
“Why should I be mad?” Wayne asks. “It’s none of my business what you boys call each other or what you do when you’re alone. Word to the wise, though, the walls in this place are practically made of cardboard. You may wanna keep that in mind, once he’s a little further along that road of recovery.”
The look on Steve’s face morphs into one of abject terror, and Wayne is quick to turn to his untouched plate and pop a fry into his mouth to hide his grin.
“These could use salt,” he decrees. Steve shoots to his feet as if electrocuted, but Wayne gestures for him to sit back down. “Nah, you stay put, I’ll get it.”
*
He doesn’t flick on the lights, blindly grabbing the salt shaker in the half-dark of the kitchen before heading outside again. The rain against the roof has turned into a comforting metallic murmur. Behind the half-open crack of Eddie’s door, a tousled mop of sweaty curls is sticking out of the sheets. The thin blanket is rising and falling in slow, rhythmic motions.
“C’mon now,” Wayne grumbles. “I know you’re not asleep.”
One dark eye opens, slightly foggy from the meds but otherwise wide awake.
“Damn, how can you always tell?”
“Kid,” Wayne sighs. “Ever since you were a baby, you’ve wiggled around like an octopus when you’re asleep. If you’re that still, it means you’re either faking or dead.”
The rest of Eddie’s face emerges from under the blanket, revealing an enormous pout. For a few moments, they stare at each other in silence.
“You heard us, I take it?”
Eddie shrugs easily. “Well, you said it yourself. Walls like cardboard.”
Lightning flickers, and for a millisecond, the trailer is basked in harsh light and sharp shadows. Eddie waits out the thunder that follows before he speaks again.
“You’re an old blabbermouth, you know that? I would’ve told him eventually.”
“Well, you gotta get it from somewhere, I suppose,” Wayne grumbles. His gaze travels down to his own hand, which is fidgeting with the saltshaker, then back to Eddie’s face. “Sorry. It wasn’t my story to tell.”
“‘s alright,” Eddie yawns. “I have a thousand other stories to tell him. Been thinking of taking him to Tennessee when I’m better. I think it would do us both good to get outta here for a while, and I’d like to show him where I’m from. Drive by the old house. Take him to visit her grave, maybe.”
Wayne nods slowly, thinking that the weird hurry to recover is making a lot more sense now.
“He’s special, huh?”
Eddie’s body may be all scars, these days, but his eyes are brighter and happier than he has seen them in a long while.
“You have no idea. I just … I hope he feels the same.”
Wayne thinks back to just a few weeks ago. Steve perched on the hard plastic chair in Eddie’s hospital room, dead-tired and only half healed himself, but refusing to leave. Thinks of the two of them on the sofa just now, bodies leaning into each other in spite of the heat. Thinks of a name he thought he’d never hear again falling from Steve’s lips, and the look on Eddie’s face as it did.
“I have a feeling he does, kid. Now go to sleep, I’ll keep him company.”
“Okay,” Eddie murmurs, exhaustion creeping into his voice as he tugs the covers around himself. “But no more blabbing.”
“Promise,” Wayne says, and opens the porch door. “Maybe I’ll find those old baby photos to show him.”
An indignant wail follows him outside, and Steve startles in alarm, but Wayne just grins and gestures for him to keep quiet. The rain is still falling and the air is growing cooler by the second, as they settle back down with their food.
He has a feeling that tomorrow will be a better day.