SOMETIME THAT NIGHT, A SWEEPING LAYER OF FOG HAD ROLLED INTO HAWKINS AND SMOOTHED ITSELF OVER TOWN. Even now, four hours past, Scout had trouble seeing past the mist. Of course, his inability to see further than several feet in front of him could have easily been because of the tears still welling in his eyes or whatever aftereffects of alcohol he wasn’t all that familiar with, but he allowed Letitia to help him up and guide him out of the house as slowly as both of them could manage, especially since the brown-skinned girl herself wasn’t much better.
It was strange, though. He’d never seen her drink before, and yet here she was, holding her alcohol far better than he ever would have expected like she did it all the time.
“Jesus, you’re heavier than you look,” she grunted as they eased their way down the stairs. His legs felt like jello, as did the rest of his body after the good cry he’d had back upstairs in the bathroom, and didn’t seem like they wanted to support anything past standing up — a suspicion only confirmed as the two tried to make their way through the house, and something Letitia’s muttering under her breath supported, too.
To his surprise, there were still a few lone party stragglers lingering around the house. One couple in particular was still going strong on the landing and nearly seemed bent on going down then and there — probably why the friends groaned and continued their descent rather than stopping for a break like their wordless agreement. As for the ground floor, it may have been virtually empty — you never knew — but the mess its guests had made was certainly indicative of what had happened; from red plastic cups lay slewn over every available surface — and especially the not-so-available ones, which is just as disgusting — to several empty pizza boxes dumped unceremoniously on the floor. A few were in the kitchen, Scout noticed as they made their way past to the front door — which seemed helpful at first glance, but could only have been deemed as something of an accident, what with the whole other layer of chaos going on there. He’s glad he’s not the one who has to clean up this mess.
But the person who does? He’s nowhere to be found. Steve Harrington seemed to have a knack for slipping away and hiding, because for all the time it took for them to finally get to the damn front door, Scout hadn’t spotted a single indication of him; nowhere. Not even a word upstairs, which was odd, because he was pretty sure he’d heard the running footsteps take off somewhere in that direction. If he was still up there, well… The Harrington boy must have some pretty good experience making himself scarce, not wanting to be found.
“Stop it,” Letitia said suddenly, and he had to turn to hear to see what she meant. Her eyes, tired as they may be, were stern, and they bore into him as though she knew exactly what he was thinking. “I know what you’re thinking; it’s a good thing he’s not here, okay? Wherever he is, he’s probably cowering because he reacted so badly. I’ve seen how you two have looked at each other — and Steve would be stupid not to see that too. Okay?”
“I don't want to see him,” he grumbled, but even he could tell how bad of a lie it was. “He — he probably doesn’t ever wanna see me again, Tisha. What’s it matter how I feel?”
“It matters a lot, actually? I thought you two were gonna, you know. Figure out all this Night Vale business together. Partners in crime type shit, right? You can’t do that if one of you is hungover and sulking and the other’s cowering and drunk.”
“You think he’d get drunk ‘cause of… what happened?”
Letitia didn’t answer; she didn’t need to. Her sigh was all that Scout needed, though part of him took a bit of consolation in the obvious gloom it carried. Perhaps if this was what was needed to bring the two of them back together… Well. It would have been something if he could have both of them; a best friend and a best… something. He wasn’t even sure what it could’ve been. But now that he knew, knew for sure that it was never going to happen — there was someone else who cared about him the way he did them. And that someone was right by his side.
Still. She had a point. And so Scout shakes his head in an attempt to rid thoughts of wanting to see Steve, and works with Letitia in a joint effort to wrench open the front door, proving much harder than it needs to be when they finally do get the damn thing wide open and discover the multitude of crushed bottles and beer cans jammed in the frame. They pause for a moment, surveying the mess.
Once again, Letitia voiced what he was thinking. “It’s gonna take forever to clean all this up.”
“Yeah.” Scout gulped, then continued. “I kinda feel bad.”
Something stirred at his shoulder, and he felt Letitia turn her head to stare at him. He purposefully averted his gaze, instead focusing on the satisfying crunch of glass that emitted when he grinded his shoe on the concrete. Probably shouldn’t do that, he thought. Makes it harder to clean up. He stopped, then started again after a second thought. “Seriously?” She raised a questioning eyebrow at him. “You feel bad? Scout, he's the one who wanted to throw this party. You’re not part of the flattering population that decided to trash the place while drunk —"
“Right,” the blond interceded darkly. “I just tried to make out with the guy who hosted it, I forgot.”
For some reason, Scout felt an instant surge of resentment rise up in his gut at that. Even though he quickly tried to squash it down, it’s not hard to tell that the damage has been done.
“Right,” Letitia repeated, her tone somehow not as dark as his had been. “Okay, well. Sorry to break this off, but looks like this is your stop.”
Forlornly, Scout follows her gaze to where it’s landed on his bike lying discarded on the snow-laden grass of the front lawn. Before he can even fathom just how painful it’ll be to ride the stupid thing all the way back home — his side, somehow, still hasn’t healed, and the last time he checked, was still working on an impressive bruise — Letitia bent down (nearly taking Scout down with her, like she forgot she’s supporting a good amount of his body weight) and grabbed the handlebars, shaking it as much as she could with one hand to get some of the snow off it. With one hand, she cleans it up pretty well, actually. Even brushes off what’s left of the pile on the seat, too. The feeling in his gut began to fade as he watched.
“How’m I even gonna get home?” Scout complained, his voice verging near a whine. Even if he was going to ride home, it would take a ridiculous amount of time just trying to maneuver through what easily could be a foot of snow. Not to mention how cold his hands were trembling, even though they’ve literally just stepped outside. And walk home? Forget it.
“Same way I’m going to,” Letitia replied. Somewhere in their walk outside she’s managed to grab a coat, one he doesn’t recognize. While he’s busy staring between the bike and her, the brown-skinned girl is preoccupied with making sure she’s warm, tugging it tighter around her body before reaching a hand up to her neck to make sure her hair hasn’t gotten stuck in the process.
Like some kind of compensation — since his hoodie isn’t much protection, and it’s like four in the morning — Scout dug his hands into his own pockets, but his gaze won’t leave his friend. “W-wait, did you -- did you just steal that? From inside?”
“Are you crazy? Anyone who came to this party would have killed to get something like this; got it right after your little secret spilled. My mom picked it out, thought it would make me feel better.”
He honestly had no idea what to say to that except, “Did it?”
Perhaps it’s a trick of the darkness, what little light is beginning to show, or something else altogether, but Scout could have sworn she shook her head. A blink of the eye and the evidence is gone, though, because the next thing he knew, she’s wished him luck and turned to head in the opposite direction, already a meter away before he could comprehend what he may or may not have even seen in the first place. By the time it comes for her to turn on the next street, the only thing he can see quite clearly is the scarf wound around her neck, the rest of his best friend disappearing like the Cheshire cat.
○ ○ ○
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.”
Like he’s awaiting this, Clark stretches his legs out in front of him, one over the other, boots scrunching and staining the rug with stray stands of grass and melting snow. His dad never really did get the hang of the whole “no shoes in the house” concept. Or maybe he did, and he simply didn’t care. That option isn’t much of a surprise either.
But what is a surprise is how prim and proper Clark is. Freshly shaven and even smelling of cologne, his father wears an expression of an unreadable kind of calm — weird, and a bit scary too when you factor in the displeasure and the fact that his son is just now coming home at sunrise. Odd, because Scout’s body turns to ice when he takes an almost practiced sip from the mug, and doesn’t raise his head until he has something else to say.
He always has something to say.
“I was just about to go into work,” he begins, and — the blond has to hold back a scoff, although it feels like it would come out more as a cough, despite his warming body temperature -- balances the mug precariously on his lap, like it won’t be a big deal if it spills all over the carpet. “And you’re not here. Your room’s empty, and you haven’t been here for hours. Then I wait for you, and here you are, stumbling in at six in the morning like you do it all the time, and all you have to say is you lost track of time?”
“Well what else d’you want me to say?” Scout snaps, and he immediately feels the brunt of his words. They are impulsive, unfiltered, and it is exactly what had happened in the bathroom; this time with words, instead of actions. “I-I really don’t have anything else for you, okay, Dad? I’ve had… a shitty night, and I shouldn’t’ve gone out in the first place, and I’m sorry, so can I please just go to my room?”
The blond is already half-way turned around in hopes it will help his case by the time he bothers to pause. Under the muted lights of the living room and the baby rays of sunlight just beginning to make their way through the blinds, his father’s figure has a slight silhouette, outlined in the frame of his casually sprawled body. Perhaps it’s better this way. At least now, it’s nearly impossible to see that the windows are dirty and the wallpaper is caked in dust and ripped streaks. He can imagine that the hole in the roof from two winters ago isn’t straining more than ever, or the Super Glue that binds the broken pieces of the end table’s leg. In the dark, everything is at is, neatly lined up as if they all still have order, only broken in bits and pieces in his memory.
Scout shifts in anticipation of what will come next as a result of his outspokenness. What he doesn’t expect, though, is for his father to look at him the way he does, taking him in from head to toe like he’s a medical student witnessing the cadaver he’s about to cut open. Inevitably, his eyes hit the floor, missing the concerned expression on Clark’s face, which demonstrates itself in dark brows furrowing and the abrupt paternal gesture that comes next.
“Here,” his dad says suddenly, and the sound of him unmistakably patting the couch cushion behind him alerts him with a whirlwind of dread. A talk like the one they’re no doubt heading toward is one Scout tries to avoid at all costs — not because it’s not just awkward as his dad, but hearing him try to understand and relate is cringey and out of touch; especially since he’s not really all that involved to begin with. Clark’s memory doesn’t even seem to grasp what instrument his son plays half the time, and he thinks having a heart-to-heart conversation will change that? Please.
As he sits down — as if he has a choice — Scout hears the faint clunk that sounds a lot like something being put down. Beside him, Clark picks up a blanket lying at his feet and drapes it over his son, making sure it covers his shoulders before bringing his hands back to himself, like he can sense how uncomfortable the gesture is, even if it’s done with good intention. And even though it’s not much — just a wool, ratted thing that’s suspiciously cleaner than he remembers it to be — Scout begins to feel a bit warmer, though his fingers and toes still have trouble bending at the joints, and his ears give the feeling they’re about to fall off any second. His chest blooms somewhat; exudes a cozy feeling despite what’s going on. But as much as he wants to realize, Scout remains on guard, clenching the edges of the blanket inward and hiding just how tight a grip his hands manage to grip the fabric.
Then like the silence is killing him, there’s a sigh, followed by Clark very hesitantly asking, “What’s… what’s wrong?”
This gets Scout to raise his head. It’s surprisingly quicker than he would have thought, and considers for a moment answering honestly or coming up with some quick believable answer that will earn him a chance to go to his room. But to his surprise, Scout chooses honesty — except, of course, with the truth just a tiny bit different to satisfy his father’s bigotry. “I, uh… I kissed someone. At the party. Someone who, uh…. They didn’t want to be kissed.”
Whatever answer Clark had been expecting, it’s certainly nothing like the one he hears now. His double take is painfully obvious, and the blond pretends not to notice. “Wait, you really did?” when Scout nods, his father runs a hand over his smooth jaw, like he’s deciding whether to take the parental path or something that involves him asking for details as though he’s itching for gossip. “So, um… Who was this girl?”
There it is. “It doesn’t matter.” Scout shrugged, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. “I kissed — I kissed her, and she, um… She doesn’t like me, so. End of story.”
Clark breathes a heavy puff through his nose, except this time it doesn’t feel like disappointment or irritation or anything like it was before. In fact, it feels more like sympathy more than anything, like he’s been through the same thing. A distant part of him wonders how could that be, since he’s pretty sure his dad’s been single since his high school sweetheart left him and there’ve been no stories of previous girlfriends before that. But he decides to worry about another mystery for another time, coming back to the way he stirs on the couch, like he wants to put his arm around his son in comfort but doesn’t know how it will be received. Scout is glad when he evidently decides against it — he’s pretty sure his side will crack open if he quickly flinches one more time.
“I’m sorry,” his dad offers. It’s awkward and hesitantly delivered, but it’s something. As if he’s thinking the same thing, Clark rubs the back of his neck — a nervous tick — and tries to change the subject. “I’m sure you’ll find someone else. You’ve still got some time left in high school. Maybe you just haven’t met her yet.”
His face bares the most neutral of expressions, laden with an obvious misery as he flatly replies, “I guess.”
Clark merely nods. It’s clear he doesn’t know what to say; how to reply or comfort or give advice to this person that is the reason for the sudden departure of his wife all those years ago. Perhaps he still hasn’t gotten over it. But however much pain he felt when it’d happened has already started seeping into his son, this invisible aching that hangs in the air whenever the two of them are in the room. There are times when the tension snaps — much like how Scout did before — and there are others when they allow it to release without any casualties, as though both are in mutual understanding of what the settlement entails in the future.
“So you drank?” The man asks next, trying to piece together an idea of what happened like a perplexing puzzle.
This time, it’s Scout who only manages to answer with a nod. He feels the sides of his mouth tug down in a deeper frown. The drinking had come before, of course — to go so far as to say the cause of the kiss itself, even. But he doesn’t need to know that.
“I’m so — ”
“It’s okay.”
It’s the blond’s turn to do a double take. He searches his dad’s eyes for any sign of a joke, but finds nothing of the sort. “I-it is?”
“This time,” his father elaborates, raising a finger. The man’s face is solemn, but a hint of — what looks like empathy? “It’s your one get out of jail free card, got it?”
Scout blinks. “Wow. Um, yeah. Yeah, got it.” His voice cracks more than he likes, and so he gulps before he continues in an effort to hide it. “Um… Thank you, Dad. Seriously.”
Clark waves a hand like it’s no big deal, but the teenager means it. He hadn’t expected things to end at all like this; something more along the lines of yelling and and a grounding — certainly not like this. “Just… go and brush your teeth, alright? And take a shower later or something -- you smell disgusting. Be glad it’s break, too.”
As he rises from his seat with the same saddened expression, the blanket still around his shoulders, the blond hears his father comment off-handedly, “Huh. You look like the spitting image of me when I was your age.”
Scout bites down on the inside of his cheek too hard and suddenly tastes blood. He smiles. "Thanks for the compliment, Dad.”