Night Vale ▷ Steve Harrington

xviii. free pass

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He ended up walking the bike more than riding it. More than once, Scout was forced to stop and bend over, head pounding and side throbbing to wait out the wave of pain and nausea that flowed over every so often. The cold wasn’t any help either, only making him even more miserable — if even possible. 

It’s always said to live in the moment, that the past is always gone, and each day is something new; a stepping stone into a future of which he could dream even under the circumstances. But he’d done that, and the only thing that came as a result was a friendship; one near and dear to his heart —  perhaps too near, and that was why it would never work. Was it best that this was how things turned out? If only he hadn’t acted so rash, and there might have been a chance — something else, something bigger might not have been meant to be, but right now… Scout would have simply been content with what they had had. Anything but the look on the Harrington boy’s face when it had happened. 

By the time he finally begins to recognize the street he’s on, the sun is just starting to rise, washing him over with much needed warmth as he makes the last few treks home. The metal of the bike is frozen to the touch, much like how his own body feels right now, despite pulling his sweatshirt over his face as far as it would go. His teeth stopped chattering ages ago, but he wasn’t sure if that was because of the sun or something else. 

Like last time, Scout finds the door unlocked — both something to be grateful for, and afraid. His dad is home, which means the blissful collapse on his bed he’s been dreaming about the whole walk will have to wait. 

The air that greets him when he steps in the house is not a happy one indeed. The bike not-so-safely deposited in the corner, Scout is really just hoping to sneak past wherever his father may be lurking now to ambush him, but no such hope. The only bright side is the warm gust of hot air that blasts his face, heating the whole house. And if the sound of the space heater propped up in it’s usual spot in the living room isn’t any indication, then the scoff that follows most certainly is. The air in his home is not just unfriendly. It mirrors the feeling in the bathroom — like he’s done something horribly wrong, and he knows exactly what it is. 

“Glad you finally decided to come home.” 

Even though he’s expecting it, Scout jumps. The man hadn’t even spoken that loudly, but whatever bitterness he’s hoping to convey with his words seeps into his voice instead, and the blond can’t help but dart his head up to find exactly where it is. His father sat before him, gulping from a mug — coffee, he wants to say? — that could easily double as a bowl if the guy were in the mood. He doesn’t look up, only continues to stare at the television. 

The only thing? It’s blank. 

Clark doesn’t seem to mind, though, because he doesn’t bother to lift his eyes to actually see his son standing there before him, shivering on two feet that might as well be frostbitten. The screen is pure black, devoid of all sound and color like squid’s ink encases the device; doesn’t allow anything in or out. And yet his father still sits there, his eyes unmoved, as though the thing really is on the he’s the only one who can see it. At any moment, Scout’s practically expecting him to burst out in laughter at some kind of reality show, but thankfully, this doesn’t happen. 

For a second he has the audacity to think he will be able to sneak away like he originally planned, given that his father seems to be so oddly preoccupied. How foolish of him to hope so. 

Figuring his best chance to get away is to apologize, Scout swallows his feelings for the time being and mumbles what is expected of him. “Yeah… I’m really sorry, Dad. There was this party, and… I guess I lost track of time. Sorry.”