Greg put his head between his hands and took a deep breath.
And another.
And another.
In the other room he could hear the gems arguing with each other and Jasper but he couldn't bring himself to listen or to care.
What had he done?
From the moment he'd opened his mouth to speak back in the van he'd known every word was coming out wrong. He'd known he should stop, shut up, be quiet, and let Steven say everything he needed to, no matter how painful it was to be told his parents were someone's ideal.
But he hadn't. He'd tried to make things better, tried to let Steven see how not everything was bad, but had only hurt his boy. Had only made himself seem out of touch and like he was minimizing Steven's pain.
Steven's pain.
Greg had tried so hard to be better than his parents and for the longest time, when he'd seen Steven's face bright with joy and happiness, had thought he'd succeeded. He'd been able to comfort himself even at night when Steven would wake up screaming after coming home from space that it wasn't his fault, that he'd been doing everything he could.
He'd given Steven every freedom but in a way, he'd trapped him too.
He'd tried so hard.
And now Steven was gone.
Steven was god-knows-where, terrified, angry, suffering, and it was more than a little Greg's fault.
He let the tears fall, let them roll down his face as he clung to his hair, as if that would bring his boy back.
He hadn't wanted Steven to grow up like he had, stifled and afraid and choking until he'd wanted to die most days. He had wanted Steven to have the freedom to be whoever he wanted and if it weren't for the damn war, on his best days Greg thought he might have succeeded.
But on his worst days he knew that he had stumbled more than he should have, that he and the gems had messed up long before the war arrived on their doorstep and amplified everything up to a thousand.
Greg had just wanted Steven to be happy.
He had just wanted Steven to be free, free to be himself, whoever that was, instead of climbing out of windows at midnight to escape parents he was never enough for, a bedroom that was always locked, a life laid in front of him that he'd never wanted. He wanted Steven to never have to be that teenaged boy standing in front of a mirror with a military haircut and deep bags under his eyes and the thrumming of self-hate and a soul too big for his school uniform but instead Steven was a teenaged boy standing in front of a galaxial emperor, deep bags under his eyes and panic and trauma and a role and a crown too heavy for his head, the fate of an entire universe on his shoulders. Greg had the legacy of the DeMayo's to fight; Steven had the legacy of dictators, of diamonds to dismantle.
He'd wanted to give Steven someone to relate to in that care, let him know that he could understand on some small level but instead he'd made Steven feel like he didn't understand, not at all, had driven him into the woods where he broke down in the worst of ways and now they were here.
Steven, gone.
The gems, fighting.
And him, sitting here with his head in his hands and crying like always.
He'd tried so hard to make Steven feel normal, to treat him like that little boy who played for him that ukelele on the beach but instead he'd only made him feel more alien than before.
He had to do better.
He had to do better.
They would find Steven, he vowed to himself, and they would make things right.
An apology, at least, would be a place to start.