Chapter Text
The thing about Steven is that he was lonely.
No matter how many books he bought to fill up his apartment, or how many conversations he had with his mother and his goldfish, he was lonely.
He tried to keep himself busy. Luckily he had something he was passionate about, but not even his love for mythology could distract him from the new hunger he had developed.
It started on the one day he woke up on time for work - he had actually woken up early, and was able to catch a fairly empty bus where he could sit instead of being trapped amongst a group of grumpy commuters. He brought a book to pass the time while on the bus, but he got through about five pages before he noticed the couple that had just gotten on the bus and sat across from him. Both of them were a few years younger than Steven, and from the way they ended every other sentence with a pet name Steven guessed that they were still in the honeymoon stage of their relationship. But what caught Steven’s attention and sent him down a spiral was seeing how touchy the girl was. Her boyfriend had been complaining about some work related thing, about faulty codes and programs and other things Steven would never understand. The entire time, the girl kept her hands on her boyfriend, as if his skin contained a magnet that prevented her from pulling away. She placed her hand on top of his, rubbing her thumb across the expanse of his skin. Then her hand traveled up to his face, stroking his cheek soothingly. Her other hand settled on his shoulder, her fingers playing a game of connect-the-dots with the spots that littered his skin.
Steven had only been staring at the couple for about seven seconds before he felt the wetness on his face. The display of affection in front of him triggered fat tears to roll down his face. The couple across from him reminded him that in his 38 years of life, he not once had been desired by someone else. He could not remember the last time he had been touched in a friendly, let alone romantic way. The only way he experienced the touch of another being was when he was flung throughout the bus as it raced to the next stop, causing him to bump against the person next to him – who nine times out of ten would turn around and stare at him in disdain– or when he accidentally touch a customer’s hand as he went to give them their change.
Steven would not admit this to anyone - he wouldn't even write in his journal - but he was growing selfish. He had loved and received nothing in return, so he what he truly yearned for was to be loved, to finally received the affection he had been starved of for decades. He wanted someone to accept the fact that he would probably never sleep normally. He wanted someone to compliment his appearance. Someone who would show him off to their friends and family, who took pride in being with Steven. Someone who would rush home because they knew Steven would be waiting for them, and the thought of spending time apart from him was agony. Steven wanted to be lusted after. He wanted to be kissed until his lips were bruised, to have his body be the subject of adoration.
When the bus finally reached his stop, Steven stood up so fast most of the passengers turned around to stare at him. He did not want to be seen crying – he already got weird stares as it was. The bus stop was only a few feet from the museum, but even then he still made it inside in record time. He raced towards the bathroom, ignoring J.B.’s greeting and going without reminding him that his name was not, and had never been, Scotty.
When Steven finally made it to the single-occupancy restroom, he dragged his feet towards the mirror and stared at himself. He looked even shittier than usual. His purple eye bags were as prominent as ever, even though he slept for four consecutive hours last night – the most he had slept that month. The accident on the bus followed by him aggressively trying to rub the tears away had left his eyes bloodshot, and no amount of cold water worked to bring his eyes to a work-appropriate state. In front of the mirror, Steven dissected his face. He looked at his big nose, his dry and cracked lips, the deep wrinkles on his forehead and under his eyes. How could he expect someone to desire him enough to touch him when he looked like that?
He cursed himself from waking up early, for getting on an earlier bus. If he had followed his usual routine he would have been late to work, but he would have avoided the couple on the bus. He wouldn’t have had to lock himself in the bathroom for twenty minutes, thinking about how much he despised himself as he tried to look somewhat presentable to avoid Donna reprimanding him as soon as he stepped into her line of sight. Steven tried to distract himself by thinking about work. He remembered the new shipment of Anubis keychains he would have to sticker, the stack of books on Egyptology he would have to display. But no matter how much he tried, how much he forced himself about thinking of the trivial things at work, one thought was always at the forefront of his mind:
He needed to be wanted, to be touched. After so many years of feeling like at worst a pest to those around him and at best a phantom invisible to most, he wanted to be chosen by someone, to feel like he mattered.
Steven looked down at his watch and winced. It didn't matter that he had gotten to the museum early. His shift had started three minutes ago, and he was still in the bathroom. With a sigh, he turned away from the mirror to open the door, not looking forward to what Donna would say once she saw him.