for @holmesdepot's tommy boy <3
↯ .ᐟ the house feels larger in the quiet. it's already too big for steve & his father 〚 who already is gone half the time 〛 ... but something amplifies it when he's by himself. 𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒏𝒐𝒘. a half-hour prior and he was giving a statement to the police as he sat in the back of the ambulance, them retreating after some time in recognition that he simply was not in the right state of mind to respond. whether it was his shock, the adrenaline bleeding out into immense pain, or whatever ... he'd been administered drugs to alleviate but nothing to help with the loneliness that hit him the moment the kids & their parents took them away, pulling them into an embrace that was marked by a sigh of relief. 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 '𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞'. the silence from the telephone didn't give away much – even if he had, steve doesn't expect a call.
silence presses in. the tick of the clock in the hallway drones on. the refrigerator hums a quiet, electric reminder that he's the only one there to hear it. steve sits on the couch, elbows propped on his knees, staring at the moving images on the television. they hurt his eyes, but he needs the distraction. news footage loops over and over between talking heads reporters and the fire at the mall, its carcass sitting in smoke. his knuckles are split open in oozing, ugly seams. purple and yellow watercolors mark his ribs, lining up toward his collarbone, 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠.
he'd declined an offer to be taken to the hospital for his wounds, figuring there were others with worse injuries to doctor. he regrets that now, realizing that at least a hospital would harbor someone who cared for his well-being. gauze cloaks clumsily over his abdomen, where the worst of the pain surges. he'd done the dressing himself, peeling already from the shaky hands he couldn't steady as he wrapped. & his face – a shadow of swelling builds along his jaw that keeps him from biting down properly. his left eye has a puff to it, vision blurring like someone's smeared grease across its lens. when he moves too fast, the room shifts around him. when he thinks too much, sharpness hits his temple but hides before he can try to grab it.
he doesn't remember drifting off – he knows he shouldn't sleep now, not with an 𝐨𝐛𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧. but a doorbell detonates through the empty house, causing him to stir with a disoriented pull of blankness, confusion where time should exist. HE'S ALONE. the noise persists, ringing in his ears. his head spins as he notices he should probably get it. then pounding. frantic & uneven. ribs cry in protest as he straightens on the couch, fingers pulling at the fabric. a sudden surge of adrenaline causes the room to distort, muffled sounds hit his ears. 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏. ❛ jesus, hold on-– ❜ he mutters to no one ( another mention that he's oh-so-alone ) & notices the roughness of his voice, raw from disuse. he pushes himself to his feet, every step toward the banging and ringing made with carefulness. he hates it. hates how his body feels like it doesn't belong to himself. how weak he must look, even if there's no one to observe it.
for a split second, the pounding pulls him into a flash of bright light, clearing to locked doors. a concrete hallway. voices speaking in russian, blurred movement. a hand in his hair. the cracking of bone. 𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐳𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫, 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐳𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫. takes a breath in, letting it out with a wince at the fire in his ribs. studies the perfectly-painted door in his perfectly-arranged house, for his perfectly-perfect mess of a family. he's in his house. not ... – the memory fades, fizzling out. he unlocks the door. pulls it open with a casualty that doesn't match his appearance. and when vision clears, he sees tommy hagan on the other side. he looks rough. hair disheveled, breathing hard 〚 wide-eyed in a way that reminds steve of the time they'd accidentally hit a ball through tommy's neighbor's windshield when they used to play in his old friend's backyard 〛 steve blinks at the bright porch light, sore eyes adjusting into a long stare.
because ... 𝒘𝒉𝒚 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒘? not now. not after everything. after billy. after steve became something else, something tommy hadn't signed up for. he just stands there, bruised. eyes hollow. looking at the boy who knew him before he knew how to lie about who he really was. ❛ ... it's two in the morning, hagan. ❜
