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spideyhexx · 10 hours ago

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poor wayfaring stranger

a seven year slip inspired fic with modern billy bonney x fem!reader

When your new New York City apartment brings you back in time, you meet a down on his luck musician who takes you for his muse, as you take him for a miracle. For the next few weeks, the burden of longing and the delicate thing that is time clashes in front of your eyes, leaving way to newfound love and resolute endings.

cw; contains upsetting themes & brief nsfw wc; 12.5k

a/n; this fic has been in the works since february...so I am very excited you guys get to read it now :) I hope you enjoy! Also go read The Seven Year Slip if you haven't.

i. the big rock candy mountain - July 13th, 2023 (July 13th 2025)

On July 13th, 2025, you move into the apartment of your dreams.

And the first time he was brought to you it felt like a romance. A meet-cute without the meet being cute. Rather startling. Mind-bending. Nonetheless, something out of a romance novel. You had tossed your keys to the tray that would sit on your foyer table, only for the keys to collide onto a blank table, nothing there. No dish tray. None of the eccentric candles you bought from a shop down the street. All that sat on the entry table was a vase, red in color but transparent, full of some type of yellow flower that you could not discern.

Initially, you brushed it off. Maybe you moved things in your tiresome state last night. Maybe your friend who was also over last night gifted the flowers before they left the apartment this morning.

You shook your shoulders and walked further into your new apartment. Before you were able to process how much was actually different, something, no, someone walked out from the hallway, clad in only a towel.

He shrieked. You shrieked.

His chest was broad. A few droplets of water were still dripping down his shoulders, and his hair, a darker brown since it’s wet, but the curls at his neck stuck to his skin as though they were hugging him. The towel was low enough on his waist, you could see the hair at his navel go below the waistline, but that was the least of your concern. Of course.

You threw something at him. It was a shoe. But not your shoe. It was some ruddy boot that collided right at his nether regions and he recoiled, grasping at his crotch, shouting that he would not hurt you.

After an initial shock, you grabbed your phone from your purse, only to find the service completely out. The man, still in his own pain, pleaded with you, his voice so smooth and honey-filled, “I’m Billy, I…I live here and listen if somethin’ is wrong, I can get you help, I promise, miss, just let me go change and then-”

“You live here? I live here,” you cut him off and the next few seconds were spent staring at each other. The mutual confusion tethered by a line that then, you didn’t know was so strong.

The two of you went back and forth. Arguing over who owned the apartment. With no answers coming to fruition, you had given up. You turned on your heel, intent on leaving the apartment and grabbing your neighbor, old Betty to sort this out because she would know you lived here.

But as you walked towards the foyer, your eyes caught on the calendar hung up near an old-looking record player that had a Johnny Cash album atop it that was definitely not yours. It still read June 2nd as the date. But the year was wrong. Only two years prior, but it was enough to give you pause. Because this Billy had filled out June with miscellaneous plans and he’s only crossed out the 1st. And when you lifted the page to the next month and the next, they were all blank. You reasoned maybe he was lazy with his calendar, but then again, why was his calendar here?

How silly of you to forget the old tales Betty told you when you accepted her offer for coffee just a few days ago. Who could blame you? A magical apartment was as far-fetched as a decently priced apartment in Manhattan. You tried not to believe it but this…Billy kept calling out for you. You must've stood frozen looking at the calendar longer than you thought.

You grilled him with questions after that. About the year. About anything in the world that was happening right now to his knowledge. He might have thought you were crazy, but if he did, he didn’t let it show. His patience was astounding, answering what you asked of him with little thought. It wasn’t until he showed you the date on his phone that it felt more real than you ever thought it could. You really took a look around after that. While you can see your apartment in this one, it was not yours.

Billy, still in a towel, stood awkwardly when you crumbled onto the couch. His hand gripped the edge of the towel, like he was afraid it would fall down. “Miss? Can I at least get your name? Make you some tea? And also I can change. That seems more kind.”

The tone of his voice dipped with his last sentence to something quieter, almost comical, that it had you chuckling. The tension once in his shoulders eased at the noise. You told him your name and he scurried off to your bedroom, or his bedroom, to change.

Billy made the two of you lavender chamomile tea and set the cups on the coffee table to cool. He settled in the armchair, his eyes hesitant and stuck on you. The clothes he changed into consisted of a worn-out crew neck and sweats, his hair a little less wet. You told yourself you would not tell him of the magic apartment story. This stranger would definitely deem you insane, so while he was changing, you concocted a lie to tell him. But as he stared at you with his wet blue eyes and his creased brow, you couldn’t find it in yourself to lie to him. It felt like you could never lie to him. It felt way too strong. Way too strong to feel that way over a stranger you knew so little of.

When you told him the story Betty had told you, he listened to every word, nodding every couple of sentences and sipping his tea. Billy set his cup down when you finished and you watched the corner of his lips tug up and then back to a neutral line.

“Y’know, Betty asked me for coffee when I moved here and told me the exact same story.”

A weight was lifted. Billy recited his meeting with Betty and the two of you sat in solemn shock with one another. “When do you think you’ll go?” He had asked, sipping his tea that was likely too chilled to drink.

It was difficult to answer his question. You would have to leave the apartment, then reenter, but your bones had you stuck to the couch. The idea of leaving after discovering this, something so wild and unearthed, more exciting than whatever waited for you back in your true home, was something that felt like a weight in your chest.

As though he could read your mind, Billy sent a warm smile, one you would grow to relax at, “if you need to stay just this night, by all means…it’s your apartment too. Well. In two years it will be.”

With nothing left to do but hound each other on information about your lives, you told Billy what you did for work, a swanky corporate job that isn't your passion, but you've worked hard to get it. You told him you have lived in the city for a year prior, and found the apartment through a listing. He listened with his eyes never leaving you. To some, this may feel intimidating or claustrophobic and you tried to tell yourself it was just that, to have such an intense gaze locked into every syllable leaving your mouth. But it wasn’t. It was downright delightful to have his attention. He was happy to hear of your new promotion at work like you were a longtime friend.

“I hope you’ll enjoy livin’ here. I sure have. I figured I’d only stay here a year too, so I guess that’s what the future holds,” is how Billy started his story. “My parents moved us around all the time as kids. I liked it. So much that I traveled as soon as I had enough money to do so. Or, actually I didn’t have the money,” he chuckled, a sweet sound that reverberated in your nerves and made you laugh too.

“That was part of the adventure though. Scrapin’ by just enough and comin’ up with money doing odd jobs. Most of which was singin’ in the worst bars you’ve ever seen.”

That’s how you learned he was a musician. It made you snort and he rolled his eyes, leaning his head back on the armchair, as though he was preparing for you to throw all your preconceived notions at him.

“Let me guess. Country artist?”

He smiled, “I’d say so. Country. Folk. But, I don’t think about that all the time I just…write. I write what comes out of me and what’s needed of me, even if I don’t know it,” he said with a shrug. When you mumbled ‘pretentious,’ jokingly, he laughed even louder and to your surprise, he agreed. His eyes turned lighter, and then he jumped up from his chair, ignoring your questions about where he was going.

Billy returned to the living room with an acoustic guitar. It was a dark brown color, the painted flowers on the body of it were a little sloppy, but worn. An old guitar, most definitely.

“Oh no,” you started as he settled back in his chair, “please don’t tell me you’re going to serenade me.”

He clicked his tongue, rested the instrument in his lap, and turned at one of the tuning pegs, his fingers strumming lightly on the strings. “No, I’m not, but strangers speak to me, so don’t get surprised if I do.”

It’s like he expected for you to laugh. You did.

“But again, no, this is not a serenadin’ song. It’s uh, I mean I don’t have to play at all if you think it’s silly but-”

“No, no, go ahead,” you encouraged, because the rush of red to his cheeks felt new. If you were to be stuck here for the night, you might as well learn even more about the man who lived here. It would do you no good to act as a foe if you were to end up visiting often. And a part deep inside of you was deadly curious to hear what this man sounded like when he sang.

The notes Billy played started a little jaunty and his voice, a little rasped at first, turned into smooth liquid gold when he sang.

“And the sun shines every day, on the birds and the bees and the cigarette trees. The lemonade springs where the bluebird sings, in the big rock candy mountain…”

Although the song repeated the same melody like a true folk ballad, you found yourself enthralled, hanging onto every word that left his lips. He owned the words that spilled from him, like they were made just for him. His fingers were so effortless on the strings of his guitar. You did not need to look at the worn instrument to know they were well-acquainted.

“I’m a-goin’ to stay where you sleep all day, where they hung the jerk, that invented work, in the big rock candy mountain…”

As he finished, he strummed idly for a few moments. He was lost in it. You could see him return to time right there in his eyes when they looked back at you. Sheepish, Billy patted the body of his guitar and smiled.

“What’s that song about?” You found yourself asking and the question spurred an even wider grin on his face.

“I wrote it when I was travelin’ by train in Colorado. No destination in mind, no home at the end of it, just enough to get me to…Illinois, I think it was. The train goes right along the Colorado river. It’s…beautiful. Peaceful,” he said, his eyes flickering down to your legs when you leaned your forearms to them, like you were lured in by his story, “The song, it’s sort of about an idyllic place for a traveler with no home. What you’d want it to be. All sugary and beautiful and nature-focused…not real, of course. But a dream.”

“How’d you end up here? In New York?”

Billy took his time thinking before he responded with, “I had friends here already. They said, ‘Billy, why don’t you get your cowboy-ass to the city to try and make more music? It has all the world’s inspiration right at your fingertips.’”

You laughed, “It does have bouts of inspiration, but you seem more inspired by…well, nature than a city,” you guessed and he nodded, his fingers still tapping on his guitar.

“I am but I was goin’ through a bit of a block. Thought maybe a change of scenery is what I needed, so I took the chance.”

As the time settled into late night, Billy urged you to take the bed. You would’ve argued with but his lips did this pout thing that you thought at first was purposeful, but you’d soon come to realize it never was.

The goodnights exchanged were awkward at best. Sensing this, Billy made it worse by tipping an imaginary hat at the top of his head and he said, “till ‘morrow, ma’am.”

The laughter that followed was mostly yours. Billy just watched you, amused and sank into the couch for the night. If you could go back, you would tell yourself to watch that amused expression for a mere few seconds longer. To really soak it in.

ii. ring of fire - July 14th, 2025

When morning came, you were welcomed with no sign of Billy. He might have been in the bathroom, but you took his absence as your chance to see if the apartment would return you home. You left, then re-entered.

Like you hoped, you were back home. The bent-weird candles on your foyer and the few boxes still leftover from unpacking, the pizza box atop your counter from when your friend visited. Back to normal.

Still, there was an air of nothingness in your new home. As you went about your morning routine, you found yourself expecting to hear Billy’s laugh, or his footsteps, which were unusually quiet for a man as big as him.

You tried to convince yourself it was all some realistic dream, and that maybe a day at work will shake the thoughts from your head. But you thought back to his voice and his sweet melancholic tone. That’s why when you got back home that evening, you connected your phone to your speaker and blared a playlist of Johnny Cash’s greatest hits, something that would be a remembrance of the man yesterday.

You were stirring your pot of soup, humming along to Ring of Fire and imagining the song in Billy’s voice. He didn’t tell you which of Cash’s songs he liked the most, but this one felt right for him. If you glanced over at the living room, you could almost see his silhouette there, leaned over his guitar and strumming the song. The song made you ponder if that’s really what love felt like when it was wild. Untamed. You couldn’t say you’ve ever felt a love that strong. It felt fantastical like Billy’s song to compare. A part inside of you hoped to never have a love that was so out of control that it burns. The pain of that sounded too horrid. Instead, your thoughts wandered to what Billy’s day was like today.

If he made the same tea and showered right after dinner like he must’ve when you visited him. If he was real. But he had to be. The ounce of doubt seeded in your mind felt overruled by the warm tea he made you and the way his eyes bore into you.

There was a pause in your movements. If Billy was in the past, only two years ago, that meant he was somewhere out there in your present. It struck you hard like a strong chord, and you scrambled for your phone to try and look him up, only to remember you only knew his first name. Billy, Billy, Billy. You couldn't recall what his full name was, if it was actually just Billy. Or Bill. Or William. He never told you.

There was a passing thought of asking your neighbor about the previous owner of your apartment, but you found that too desperate. Steeling yourself, you continued on with dinner, and decided there and then to push aside this Billy person. If the apartment brings you back, it will. But for now, you had a life to live.

iii. leaving on a jet plane - July 20th 2023

After a particularly long day at work, you were excited to get back home. To wash off the day and climb into your bed to go to sleep early. Though when you opened the door, the smell of something you couldn't place filled your senses. New flowers were in the vase at the entry table and your heart skipped a beat.

“Who’s that? Oh!” Billy popped into your view and smiled, “another visit to little ol’ me, I’m charmed,” he said with one of his imaginary hat tips.

Despite your exhaustion, a laugh left you and you put your bag on the entry table like it was your own, “It really chooses the most interesting times. I was beginning to think this was all a dream.”

“No, ma’am, it is not. And don’t even try to understand it,” he said, eyes never leaving you as you walked further into the apartment.

“What’s that smell?”

“Eucalyptus,” he rolled his eyes in a playful manner and gestured to the diffuser, “my friend’s wife got me that. She said it would make the place smell less-”

“Country boy?”

He scoffed, then considered it. You picked up on his thinking face very quickly. His brow furrows and his eyes narrow ever so slightly, like the answer is somewhere in the air, invisible to everyone’s eyes but his own.

He finally replied, “Alright, maybe. Do you think it smells bad?”

“The eucalyptus or your country boy musk?”

Billy’s brow softens and there’s that sweet fucking smile, “the eucalyptus.”

“No, it doesn’t,” you told him and he visibly relaxed, heading over to the kitchen where a sandwich sat on a paper plate.

Not much has changed since you last visited his apartment. The only thing you can pick out is that he’s replaced the Cash album with a Carly Simon one.

“This is weird, right?” You didn’t need to ask it, but voicing it out loud made it feel more real. Billy, mouth full of sandwich, gave a nod. He put a hand over his mouth, minding his manners as he chewed his food and waited till he swallowed to say, “Beyond weird, but I try to just take things as they are.”

“Lot easier said than done,” you said, leaning your arms to the kitchen island and rubbing a hand against your face.

Billy continued to eat in silence, but you knew he was watching you. Trying to figure you out, maybe. But you let him. Normally, being this tired would make you want to shun any person that attempts to even breathe near you, but Billy had this undeniable presence that you couldn’t quite place just yet. Whatever it was, it took away any sour feelings you might have had in a regular circumstance, but you chalked it up to the fact this was far from a regular circumstance.

“Oh, shit. Are you hungry? I can make you something,” he said, putting his mostly eaten sandwich down on the plate and already walking over to his fridge before you could answer him.

“You don’t have to, I don’t want to-”

“Bother me?” He turned to shoot you a grin that relaxed your shoulders. He waved a hand at you, then turned back to his fridge, “you look like you need sustenance.”

“I do,” you conceded and watched him assemble a near identical sandwich to the one he was eating, but he paused between every ingredient to make sure you wanted it too.

He slid the plate over, his face contorting into what you’d deem a sheepish look, “I don’t have plates yet, so ‘m sorry about the paper plate.”

“Please don’t apologize for that.”

His nervous look did not loosen from your response, but you ignored it, and bit into the sandwich, sending him a thumbs up that makes him continue his sandwich.

“Rough day?”

You nodded. You spared him specific details, but went into how much work is stressing you out, on top of the move in to your, his apartment. “Corporate jobs are just soul-sucking,” you had said, “and I know maybe it’s my fault for going into an industry where that would be my every-day, but I feel like it doesn’t have to be that way.”

He shook his head, “I don’t think it has to. Maybe it’ll suck for a bit but with time it will get better?”

You scoffed, but without any true malice behind it, “That’s what everyone tells me. I’ll have a little bit of hope, I suppose.”

“Hope is a powerful thing.”

In trade, Billy told you about how he landed a bar-tending job at some dingy bar a couple blocks away that would let him play his songs every Thursday night for fifteen minutes. “I don’t get compensated for the singin’ but at least I’ll get to perform. The place is decent enough and I can pick up a lot of shifts.”

“It’s a good start,” you told him, and you meant it, then you perked up, “what’s the bar called?”

“Old Grass,” he said, resting his chin in his hand as he mimicked your position on the opposite side of the kitchen island, “not the prettiest of names but it’ll do.”

“You should write a song about grass, then.”

Billy’s smile stretched across his face smoothly, and he put his face in his hand for a few seconds to steel himself. You bit on your lip to keep yourself from smiling back at him.

When he looked back at you, he shook his head, “You’re right, I would write about grass.”

Snorting, you stacked your paper plate onto his empty one and replied, “do you have any new songs? Or ones you’re thinking about playing?”

He considered it, then nodded, “wanna hear?”

It wasn’t a question in your mind. And when he settled with his guitar in the same armchair as your last visit to his apartment, your heart swelled in way you could not comprehend. His voice felt sadder. A heaviness curling around the notes that left his mouth.

“So kiss me and smile for me, tell me that you’ll wait for me, hold me like you’ll never let me go…”

The guitar picked up in the chorus and then he quieted back down, his voice dipping into something softer. The transition from more passionate singing to a smaller, almost intimate voice had your eyes tearing before you could register it.

“I’m a-leaving on a jet plane, I don’t know when I’ll be back again. Oh babe, I hate to go…”

Billy’s eyes closed as he neared the end of the song, like the weight of it all pressed on him.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back again.”

As he finished, he did the same thing as last time, where he extended the strumming past his singing to let the feel of the song simmer. Both within himself and within his audience, you.

“Wow,” you whispered, and he snapped his eyes open, nodding and clearing his throat.

“Is that…is that about someone?”

You almost hated the way you sounded accusatory, because in no way did you care if this man you only barely knew had a past lover that affected him this much besides feeling empathy for a potential situation. But internally, you still grimaced at how that could have come off jealous.

Billy nodded, “My parents, actually. But it’s…,” he trailed off and the weight that loomed over him when he was playing the song lingered. The song and the look on his face was enough to tell you it was something heavy, so you did the only thing you thought you could do, and offered a soft smile and a tentative, but comforting touch to his arm.

“It was beautiful. I’m sure that would sound beautiful on a mic too.”

Billy’s eyes were locked in on your hand, but he hummed in response, muttering a thank you. When he looked back to you, you moved your hand off of him and he parted his mouth to say something before closing it.

You raised your brow at him.

Billy took a deep breath, then said, “do you believe in fate?”

The question caught you off guard. You considered it, then shrugged, “I believe in…coincidence? But I think what I believe in is a little weird at the moment considering,” you gestured to the apartment and he heaved a laugh.

“Yeah, Yeah, ‘f course. This is weird, which is why it made me wonder if it was fate. If this was meant to mean somethin’. But I wanted to say, whether it is or not…’m glad to have met you.”

His words made the tears come back. God, you were exhausted. How could a person who you’ve only met twice now carry such big sentiments? And mean them? You did not have to ask Billy if he meant what he said, you can feel it in every part of you and every part of you is silently reciprocating it back. “Does that mean we can share all of our secrets?”

He laughed, leaning back on the couch. “Yes, darlin’, we can share all of our secrets.”

You hummed and tapped on your lips, pretending to think of something to share but the thought had already been on the tip of your tongue, "I'm worried the job I took is in fact a bad decision, and not worth my time and energy despite it being the thing I've worked up to."

He narrowed his eyes at you, gave a slow nod of his head, "I don't think I have what it takes to be a famous musician."

The two of you regarded one another for a few silent moments, and Billy let out a dramatic sigh, leaning his head back on the couch. You watched his throat as he swallowed, and the way his hand rubbed the left side of his jaw.

"What would you do, then? If you could do a job that makes you happy, and not care about the money?"

His question caused a similar dramatic sigh to leave you, and he bumped his knee into yours. For support, maybe, but it sent tingles through all your nerves. "I'd like to be my own boss, but of what, I don't even know. I like…writing, but I don't know what I'd write. It's been so long since I've gotten myself to sit down and make something."

And you can't remember the last time you admitted you used to write. Nothing too grand, nothing too long, but you had three or four notebooks full of miscellaneous writings that you abandoned once college got too much.

"You've never mentioned writing," Billy interrupted your thinking as he sat back up, turned slightly towards you. His knee was still against yours, and you were sure if he moved it away, you might be desperate enough to ask him to put it back.

"No, I have not."

If Billy sensed the wall being put up, he doesn't mention it. All he did was rest his hand on your knee, making all of those nerves jolt to the point you wondered if he could feel it, and he said, "Well, I'd say it's always worth giving yourself even a little bit of something. Especially if it makes you happy."

"Your optimism is truly astounding, Billy," you muttered, and you don't mean to come off sarcastic, but remembering the times you had gotten to write has thrown you off.

His brow is raised and you pushed at his arm, "what? Every time we've spoken thus far, you have all this…crazy hope and optimism."

"Did you not hear my secret before?"

"Oh, I heard it, but then you speak like a motivation speaker to me, so I think there is some part in here," you poked at his chest, "that doesn't even believe that secret."

He followed the movement of your hand, even after you had settled it back in your lap after poking him. "I've just seen where cynicism is the ruin of people. So I like to remind people. Like you," he poked your arm, "that there is always time for a little bit of happiness."

"In unlikely circumstances," you said under your breath.

"And my secret was true. I think I'll get to play at bars most of my life, but nothin' too big."

A weight of something fills your chest at the bittersweet look on Billy's face. On one hand, he seemed the type to dislike the attention a mass following a popular musician might have, but on the other, he's made it clear he loved to share his music. You wanted that for him.

"I hope a lot of people get to hear your songs, Billy."

His lips went up in a side smile and he leaned back once more, his shoulder right up against yours, "since you don't know my name from the future, I must not be anything big just yet."

"Or it's because I do not tune into country music."

He scoffed, but his smile would not dim no matter how hard he tried to act like he was annoyed, "I told you it's not just straight country."

"What if you settled for it cause it got you on the radio?"

Billy put both of his hands over his face, "oh, sweetheart, then I've already become what I'd hate."

iv. clay pigeons - August 23 2023

The third time the apartment takes you to Billy, it’s the end of August for him, while it had only been a couple days for you. The way time works within this apartment still confuses the shit out of you, but you don’t find yourself questioning that. You find yourself questioning what album he has displayed by his record player. What songs he’s been writing after being in New York City for two-ish months now. How working at the bar has been. You walked past the bar just the other day, but you couldn’t bring yourself to go inside. What if he’s in there? Were you ready to face him?

You practically giggled when you spotted his sleepy face shift from a look of tiredness to excitement over seeing you.

“Oh, it’s been some time darlin’, I thought I wasn’t gonna see you again,” he said, his voice a tad hoarse as he came over and hugged you. Not a lick of hesitation and hugged you. You found yourself hugging him back, soaking in the warmth of him and slight smell of his shampoo. It was basic, some pine scent, but it was his.

“It’s only been a few days for me.”

Billy leaned back and took a good look at you with nothing but kindness in his eyes, “‘M not gonna pretend to understand that, but c’mon.”

Before you could respond, his hand wrapped around your arm and tugged you toward his kitchen. He let go once you got to the island and he set about making some coffee, as though this was an everyday occurrence. That you, who has only visited three times now, are a longtime friend.

As he waited for the coffee to brew, he filled some of the dishwasher while humming a tune. At first it felt like you were intruding on his moment because he barely glanced at you, but then you wondered if he was just comfortable. Happy enough with your presence that he could go about his chores without a care in the world, not trying to impress you and therefore making things awkward.

“How’ve you been?” Your voice was uneasy but you cleared your throat and he took two clean mugs from the cabinet and put them on the counter.

“Good, I think. Bartendin’ is okay. Not awful, but I can’t be doin’ that my whole life. I wanna be…,” he trailed off when the beep of the coffee machine sounded off and you finished the thought for him, “something more?”

He nodded, pouring the coffee, “as cheesy as it sounds, yeah. I just want to do somethin’. Not be so idle.”

You have felt very idle, you thought to yourself. Besides the sporadic visits to this man in the past over the last couple of days, everything else in life felt still. Was it the corporate job or the lack of…lack of what? A social life? Love?

“Good there?”

You realized you were zoning out and threw on a smile, “yeah…just, I think I get what you mean. About not wanting to be idle. I don’t want that either.”

Billy grinned and handed over your coffee mug, his hip leaned against the counter, “I always say the trick to that is go to new places. Force yourself to. New people…new things to do…”

“The look on your face makes me think you’re about to break out into song.”

He laughed and hid his mouth behind his mug, “Never without warnin’, darlin’. I’ll always give ya a warnin’.”

Billy reached out to nudge your shoulder with his knuckles and you leaned to it instead of leaning away. If he noticed or disliked it, he didn’t mention it.

“Did I tell you about when I left home?”

You shook your head, “a little bit but not the specifics.”

“I had two bags, my guitar and then enough money for maybe a month? Went to the bus station and bought a one-way ticket to "I don't even remember where, just far,” he started, taking a break to sip his coffee, “I wanted to feel somethin’ again and I did. As soon as I sat in that shitty bus seat, it was like everythin’ was new. I was experiencin’ the sky again for the first time. The sky, the clouds, the grass, people, all of it.”

When he spoke, you were lulled into his story like you usually were. How can he weave something together so nicely?

“I wonder if I was in that situation, if I’d feel the same. I feel like I don’t dwell on those things as much as you seem to.”

“Maybe not. But you always can,” he said, his teeth bit into his cheek, “I make it sound nice. What did you dwell on? When you wrote?"

You noted the hesitance in his voice, that he was unsure if he should be asking. "Feelings. Not anything I was seeing physically, but feelings. Trying to make sense of them. Sometimes, it felt like I couldn't speak them out loud, or with others. So the only way I was able to understand them was through writing."

He held your gaze and you sipped your coffee. You were the first to break it, looking to the large windows where he hadn’t put curtains up. The sun was shining directly into the living room. You’re sure if you were there, you would feel the warm rays and that settled you.

When you glanced back at Billy to tell him the coffee was good, he was still gazing at you. A flush fell on his cheek and he cleared his throat, “do you know how to play guitar?”

“No,” you whispered, though it wasn’t an intentional one. His eyes, the invisible string strung between the two of you felt tangible in that moment. It was downright frightening. It took you a couple of seconds to process that he was walking into the living room, and you forced yourself to follow.

You were right about the sun, the way it hit your skin instantly warmed you and you looked at Billy, the lighter brown strands in his hair more noticeable in the sun. He ushered you to sit on the couch and he grabbed his worn guitar, setting it in your lap as he sat next to you.

“I don’t want to mess anything up.”

“You won’t,” he reassured, gently taking your hand in his and positioning your fingers on the fret, “so here’s this chord”

Billy taught you only three, and his voice felt like a gentle breeze. So quiet, but just for you. When he tried to have you play the chords one after the other, you fumbled, but he only smiled and had you start again.

“Sing a song with a friend, change the shape that I’m in,” he sang under his breath when you got the chord progression down, slowly, but doable. Billy continued to hum as you played it again, but when you slipped up, it was because you had to look at him. His eyes were focused on your hand, but his head bobbed to a tune in his head.

He quieted once you stopped playing and met your eyes, made that thinking face that you were beginning to grow fonder of. “Do you think if I give you somethin’, you’ll have it when you go?”

Startled and wondering what he’d give to you, you shrugged, “only one way to find out. Billy jumped to his feet and you carefully set his guitar back on the stand. With him gone for a moment, you looked at his record player. Johnny Cash again.

Billy came back, waving a cassette in the air, “I don’t know if you have somethin’ you could put this in, but it has that song I was teaching you and the rock candy one I sang for you? And the plane one.”

An outpouring of emotion flowed over you. You couldn’t think. It was silly, you told yourself afterwards, but those words somehow meant the world and you hated that you couldn’t see why. You hugged him. Mumbled that you’d get something to play it on so you could listen.

Billy’s arms wrapped tighter to you. Hesitantly, his head rested on yours and he whispered, “are you okay, darlin’?”

What you would give to have him call you that all the time. “Yeah.” A lie.

“But…Billy…what’s your full name?”

v. this must be the place - December 1 2023 (July 20th 2025)

The tape came back with you completely in one piece and played through the cassette player, his voice a little crackly but real. You stared at his name scribbled on the back of it. William H. Bonney. You stared it for quite some time. He also wrote down his phone number, but every time you type it into your phone, a current runs through you, unlike any other anxiety you've felt before. In due time, you'll message him, you tell yourself.

Two days pass until you see Billy again but you never looked him up. Fear pooled in your stomach over finding him in the present and although that was your ultimate goal. During a lull at work, something came over you. Your handwriting is sloppy, and the pen you use is almost out of ink but you string words along the ripped off note-pad paper, your face feeling hot after.

Despite the construct of time constricting us, your presence followed me to the present. Someday, my present will be your present.

When you walked into the apartment and knew it was Billy’s, you wanted to crumble to the floor. He’s here.

He was singing. Loudly. “Home! Is where I want to be but I guess I’m already there.”

You edged down the hallway foyer into the open apartment to see Billy in a flannel that has seen better days, folding his laundry on the couch. His smile etched into something joyous at the sight of you and he sang, “You got light in your eyes.”

A laugh left you and you put down your bag, “You’re supposed to warn me that you’re going to sing!”

“My apologies. ‘M singin,’” he said, giving a mock bow as you came closer. He was off again, “And you’re standing here beside me, I love the passage of time.”

“Home! Is where I want to be, but I guess I’m already there,” he continued, and snatched at your waist before you could see him make the move. Billy spun you around until all you could do was laugh and your cheeks hurt from smiling.

“I come home, she lifted up her wings, I guess that this must be the place.” His voice took on an exaggerated tone and there was no way for you to stop laughing.

When he put you down, he grabbed your hands to dance, albeit clumsily. On purpose. You could not recall the last time you danced, but none of the usual stiffness that would enclose your limbs was felt. You twirled and swayed and moved with him like it was the most natural thing you could do. Dancing to his hums and his chuckles that slipped out, any thoughts of normal life drifted out and were replaced by him.

“Hey, sing into my mouth,” he sang between his hums, pulling you right up against his chest, and your eyes fell to his lips, “out of all those kinds of people, you got a face with a view.”

Your face warmed and he tilted his head, slipping his hands up your arms to your elbows. “I missed you,” he said, “look outside.”

You did. Snow was on the tops of buildings and the sides of the city streets. With wider eyes, you looked back to him, “when is it?”

“December,” he mumbled, one of his hands ghosted on your cheek before it settled there. It’s been three, almost four months for him when it’s only been two days for you. A slight edge of guilt found it’s way into your head at how desperate you were to see him again when he’s been waiting, wondering for months. How could these few small meetings mean so much? It felt utterly stupid.

“Billy, I’m-”

“That song was kinda about you,” he cut you off, then winced out of embarrassment, “hope that was okay to write about you.”

Words caught in your throat. You could say thank you or oh my god about me, or anything else, but you said, “Did it feel good? To write that song, I mean.”

Billy paused to think, though you were inclined to believe he didn’t have to. His thumb brushed over your cheek, “Better than you’d think,” he said, “I want you to hear everythin’ I write,” his voice dipped into a quieter tone, his other hand rested to your back.

“What did you mean by the…the wings and-”

“You let me see you,” he interrupted, holding to your face with a firmer grip, “or I l like making people into animals sometimes in my song and to me, you’re a bird. You’re…you fly away but not because you want to. And you still come back to this spot because it’s home.”

A deep breath left you. “Are you ever not poetic and annoyingly cheesy?”

He suppressed a grin, his thumb still rubbing to your cheek, “Don’t know. I don’t know what the hell ‘m doing, darlin’.”

"Neither do I," you whispered back, almost shaking his hands off your head when you shudder, "Billy, it's been so short for me but-"

"I know, that's why I feel…mad. Like I must be insane for lookin' forward to seein' you so much and writin' about you like it'll make you come back." He reluctantly let go of your face, to give you room in case you needed it, but you felt awful without his warm hands on you.

"That's the thing, I am feeling so much and it makes no fucking sense," you said, your voice cracking. Your hands felt tingly and you adopted his mannerism of staring, because you could not take your eyes off of him. "Also, I wrote. Like two sentences, but-"

"I'm so proud of you," he whispered, and you swore you could see his eyes shined brighter. His mouth parted to say something, then he shook his head, "did you find me?"

You felt yourself unable to say something so you responded with a gesture of your head. Billy nodded, "That's okay."

He tentatively took a few steps back closer to you, the heat of his body was already enticing you back.

"This…," he gestured between you two, "whatever it is, I like it. I don't need anythin' more from you than to hear you talk about your shitty job and your distaste for country music."

You laughed, and any words that could come from you felt unobtainable. When has anything ever been this exciting in your life? You did not believe in fate or love at first sight, but there was a current under Billy and you, and that current is what you pulled you back closer to him, grabbing his strong jaw and kissing him right on the mouth.

He's stunned for a moment. The heat of his body surrounded you and the slight roughness of his lips, then as he moved to kiss back, you came to your senses and broke it off.

"Fuck, I should have asked, I'm-"

Billy cut you off with a deeper kiss, and his arm wound it's way around your waist, almost lifting you up to him. His mouth felt starved, desperate to feel your lips, your tongue, your everything. You couldn't let go of him, the heavy material of his flannel was in your hands and you pulled him down to you.

He laughed, his mouth trailing sloppy kisses down your jaw and your neck, "this okay?"

"Yes," you responded so quickly, it made you both giggle like you've never done anything like this before. And partially, you haven't. It felt beyond comprehension that you've known him for such a short time, yet everything always felt right. As though someone slotted the piece inside of you to the correct position, perfectly aligned with Billy's piece inside of him.

His hands moved under your thighs, lifting you up to him. Your mouth kissed the scratchy scruff at his chin, his jaw, relishing the heavy breaths that left his body as he carried you to the bedroom.

In the way his voice felt like an utter stream of passion, Billy's body moved the same exact way. Languid, and almost lazy, he took you like you're his own instrument. He learned the right way to play you too easily, and despite your lack of musicianship, you played the instrument that is William Bonney quite well in return. You felt every part of him, never daring to let go of him. When he'd try to push his face into your neck, you were pulling him back up by his hair so you could keep looking at his face.

His rhythm made your heart beat faster. His teeth bit your lower lip, sucked at your lip. His hands pushed your hips up to meet him, your bodies in perfect harmony together, sounds reverberating the room that was his and will be yours. The sweat on your body mingled with his, and Billy's finish only came after he made sure you were well-satiated. He was the most beautiful you've ever seen, eyes dazed, and his voice mellifluously sounding against your mouth in a pretty sound you wanted to pocket and keep forever.

Billy's knuckles rubbed up and down your sternum afterwards, his scratchy jaw on your shoulder, where he left barely there kisses, until you both fell asleep.

You knew it was daytime when you woke up, and yet you longed for it to stay perpetually in the night. You had to go back, but leaving his his warm arms felt like a sin.

"It's okay," he spoke in that raspy tone, his arms tightened around your waist, pulling you deeper into his chest.

"How'd you know I was thinking about that?"

"You got very tense."

"What would we do? If we could leave together," you whispered to him and he took his time to think, so much that you thought he fell back asleep.

"I'd ask you on a proper date. Spend all my money on an expensive restaurant."

It made you laugh, and you nuzzled your face into him, breathing in the scent of him, "I don't need that."

"Maybe not. But I'd like to do that. Then one day if you'd let me, I'd take you on a road trip. Get you seein' all the places you're missin' out."

"Like if you went on tour," you mumbled, imagining the fantasy of that life, "I'd watch you from backstage at every show. And when you're not performing, we'd explore everywhere we can."

With a few kisses trailed on his chest, Billy's arousal was nudging against your hip, and he rolled you over onto your back.

vi. flightless bird - July 23rd 2025

Everyone remembers the moment they receive the worst news of their life.

Were you sitting? Standing? Were you on the phone with someone, or were they standing right in front of you with pity in their eyes? Did you see a message flash across your screen and feel your vision go blurry?

After the last visit to Billy, you are more determined than ever to find him. You aren't sure the apartment will bring you back again at all. You never were, and you're done risking it. The hope in your chest has died every time you came home to your home.

You texted the phone number last night, but it went undelivered. Of course, he had a new phone number, you thought. The next step was looking him up, and that was on the docket, but first, you decided to go to the Old Grass bar Billy said he was working at. You're not sure if he still works there, but he assured you while cozy in his bed last night, that even if he didn't, his friend would surely still be there, and could direct you to Billy.

It's just after dinnertime, the time you knew Billy would have a shift, but no part of you expects to see him in the bar. He made it clear he wanted to move on to another job as soon as he could, so surely he can't still be here. The outside of the Old Grass makes it look more like a washed out convenience store than a bar, but stepping inside, the atmosphere feels so utterly Billy that it tugs at your heart.

Right away, you notice the small stage tucked into the corner, just a raised wooden platform. An older gentleman sporting a bright white cowboy hat is strumming his guitar in a slow tune, his voice gravelly. You can imagine Billy in his place, how his soft tone would carry through the small, yet lived-in bar.

The tables look less than comfortable, and the bar has seen better days, but the walls have all sorts of Wild West paraphernalia. Art of horses and cowboys in the middle of gunfights. Rusty-looking horseshoes nailed up and down in lines. Cowboy hats hung higher up out of reach. You wonder which things in particular would attract Billy's attention while he worked here, or if he downright hated the cheesiness of it. But you could imagine it; Billy flustering over the fact he liked cheesy Wild West gimmicks despite his insistence against it. You saw the cowboy hat hung up in his room, and chose not to mention it for his pride. A giddy feeling settles in your stomach, but you bite your cheek to avoid smiling like an idiot.

There are not many patrons. There are two lone people at the bar, and three separate groups, all small, in their own areas.

The bartender working is just finishing up a drink order as you make your way to the counter, your heart pounding out of your chest.

The man locks eyes with you, and sends a quick half smile, "welcome, can I get you something?"

The words almost don't come out of your mouth but you rest your hands on the counter, and steel yourself, "uh, actually I was here to ask about someone? Do you know if a Jesse Evans works here?"

The man grins again, and nods, "that's me, what do I owe the pleasure?"

There was something unfurling in your heart at the fact you were talking to someone who is connected to Billy. All this time, it's been just you and him, but now it feels even more tangible than ever, one leap of faith leading to another and another.

You clear your throat, "I'm uh, a friend of Billy? Billy Bonney? He's your friend, right? He gave me a number, but it didn't go through so…," you trail off as you notice Jesse's smile dip and his brow furrow as he studies you.

When he says your name in a questioning tone, you nod, "Yeah…yeah that's me, I wasn't sure if he talked about me, but I'm being weird, do you-"

"Hang on," he says, and he throws down the washcloth he's holding.

"I'm real sorry if I'm bothering you. And if Billy wants nothing to do with me that's okay too, really, but-"

Jesse rounds the bar, pushing the little door to step around. When he's in front of you, you feel yourself prepare to hear Billy's met someone else, or he's gone off to live elsewhere. He always sounded like he'd get back out of the city. Go somewhere warmer maybe. But that's not at all what Jesse says.

It's a complete blur. Jesse puts a hesitant hand on your arm, and the words that come from his mouth don't quite make sense to you. He says it like it's truth but it can't be. Billy is still connected to you, there is still that undeniable tug at the strings of your heart, screaming about the man you've fallen for in some vortex of time.

It plays over and over, muddled and then not, so distant and close. You don't notice you've sunk to the floor until you feel Jesse there with you, his arm careful, but moving around you.

A little over a week ago, Jesse had said.

"What day?" You mumble, and taste salt. Are you crying? You are. You feel your cheeks and they're wet, but your hands are too numb to feel anything else.

"What day?" You ask again, when you hear no response from Jesse.

"How about we take some deep breaths first and then-"

You squeeze your eyes shut in an attempt to remember Billy's eyes. Your voice grows louder, no part of you cares about the fact you're making a scene, it doesn't cross your mind, "What day?"

Jesse sighs, "July 13th."

vii. never going back again - April 4th, 2024 (July 23rd, 2025)

There's no telling how you get back to your apartment. You don't remember crossing the street, or unlocking the front door. Or climbing the stairs to your floor, fishing they apartment key from your pocket.

You barged into the foyer, and smelled that unmistakable eucalyptus scent. Your feet barreled you on until you crashed into Billy's chest, his arms around you in an instant.

"Darlin' what's wrong?" You heard him say, but sobs wracked through you uncontrollably, your grip like a vice on his t-shirt.

"Okay, okay, let's…," Billy guided you to the couch, his hand pushed the back of your head to his chest as you cried. "You're here, sweetheart, so everythin' is okay."

His words only spurred you on. Everything felt shattered, far from okay. He's real here, he was holding onto you like he was the one panicking.

You mushed your ear to his chest, thump, thump, thump. Billy's heart was racing. Billy's breath was your forehead. Billy's hand was rubbing your back.

But Billy is dead.

"Honey, you can talk to me, you know you can? I missed you so much, I don't like seein' you like this," he spoke in such quick succession, you almost missed all his words.

You blinked back more of the tears and shook your head, "I need to tell you something," you stuttered out, head lifting.

Billy did that thing he does, of course. He held your gaze, his hand cupped your face, and smudged his thumb under your eye on your cheek to swipe away the tears.

One moment, he looked worried as all hell and tense. The next, as he studied your eyes, your broken eyes, his shoulders relaxed.

Billy brought his forehead to yours, "I don't know want to know, darlin'."

"Billy, please, just-"

"It's okay. Hey." He grabbed your face with both hands, "You're here."

You wrenched away from him, and stood up, barely noticing the shakiness in your legs, "No, you can't do this this time, you-"

"No." His voice was far firmer than you've ever heard it. You couldn't bare to look at him, so you kept your back to him.

"Darlin', promise me. You won't tell me. Promise."

How could he do such a thing to you? The look in his eye before could have meant he knew just by your state what you might have told him, but what if he doesn't? And you still have this horrid thing that's spreading in your mind and plaguing every happy thought you've had for the last week. "I promise," you whispered, unsure if he could hear.

You felt his fingers touch your elbow, then the heat of his chest against your back as Billy hugged you from behind. His nose nudged your ear, and you let yourself revel in it far more than ever before, "Billy…"

"Come 'round and see me again, please. It's April for me. Still over a year till you move in. Promise that you'll come?"

"You're asking too much of me," you told him, and immediately regretted it. You felt the way his arms loosened around you, before he reinvigorated himself and held you tighter.

"Okay. Thank you for comin' back at all, then."

You caught a slight break in his voice, and it willed you to turn around. Your hands moved up to rest behind his neck, and you lifted up to press a soft kiss to his lips.

viii. we'll meet again - July 24th, 2025

To your surprise, a loud buzzing comes from your apartment's intercom midday the day you come back from Billy's.

Eyes tired from all the crying, and your body completely exhausted, you press on the button, "who is it?"

"Jesse, Jesse Evans, Billy's friend. I just want to talk if you can. If not, I can give you my number when you're ready."

Your shoulders slump, and you blink back the near tears formulating. You buzz him in on impulse while scrambling for your phone, shakily typing in Billy's full name.

You see words accident and tragedy before the rest blurs, and you have to open the door to your apartment on the verge of another spiral.

"I'm sorry for what happened in the bar," you mutter, but Jesse is already shaking his head, setting down a bag on your coffee table. You watch him look around, and it reminds you yet again, that this was once Billy's home. And every part of him is gone.

"No need to apologize. I was actually planning on reaching out to you, but I guess you found me first."

You gesture for him to sit, and you clasp your hands in your lap to keep them from shaking. July 13th echoes in your head. You moved in that day. There was never a chance.

"Does that mean Billy did tell you about me?"

"Yes and no. He would mention a girl and be all…secretive about it, but eventually we, me and his other friends, got it out of him. He didn't say your name, but when we were going through his belongings, we found uh something with a name and assumed it had to be the girl."

Jesse takes a strained breath, and although he's closer to a stranger to you, his feeling of loss is almost too strong for you to handle.

"It's real, then?" The stupid question leaves your mouth before you could think it through, "shit, that sounds awful, I'm sorry."

"No, don't apologize, please," he waves you off, he's had to do that a lot, "but, yes it's real. Ah…," Jesse scratches at the corner of his jaw and clears his throat as he leans his forearms against his legs, "he was driving."

"He never mentioned having a car," you spoke more to yourself than to Jesse, who merely shakes his head again.

"He got one a little after he moved. He had a few things he left at my place from the move so he came to pick them up and drive them back. From what I can understand, it wasn't his fault or anything. Maniac was driving and he probably never saw it coming based on the report."

Your eyes squeeze shut, and you force yourself to take in a deep breath, but it's hard. A tight constriction is worming it's way around you, "he never saw it coming."

"No," Jesse mumbles, his voice sounding thicker. You find yourself reaching a hand out to him and he takes it, "he was so happy, y'know? He was happy about the move. He bought himself a new guitar too. And he mentioned his girl would come to see him too."

A pained noise leaves your mouth, and Jesse squeezes your hand, "I'm sorry we didn't find you sooner. He never told us your name."

"It's okay."

It was not okay at all, but you're thankful enough for Jesse being here. All of these words being shared feel at once completely fake, and then painstakingly real. You could have saved yourself the heartbreak if you had just looked up his name earlier. But would it really have saved you? From the very moment you met Billy, despite the confusion of time and this magical apartment, you knew you were intrinsically meant to meet him. Through the past, or through something else.

"We had the funeral, but we're having another memorial for him in a few days. He had these piles of tapes with songs some of us never heard. We thought we'd play 'em and eat good food. It's what he'd like," Jesse says, and you force yourself to open your eyes.

"We'd like you to come, if you're able. I think he'd like that too."

You nod, because you know if you speak, you'll only start to sob more and you're just so tired. You want to leave the apartment and run back in and see Billy, still breathing, still here.

Jesse takes his hand out of yours to grab the bag he came with, "the box in here had your name on it. I didn't open it."

You take the box, a simple gray metal one, with a piece of tape over the top, your name scribbled in Billy's handwriting on it.

When Jesse leaves, you sink to the floor in front of your couch, and bring the box into your lap. You trace your name, then unlock the latch. There's a yellow-colored envelope, also with your name, that you set aside for now, then you take out a cassette tape. Billy labeled it, 'for you only.'

You bite your tongue so hard, you're sure that you are drawing blood. It pains you to even set it down, but you have to as the tears flow yet again.

The tears are barely resolved before you're pushing yourself up to find the cassette player, your fingers shaky as you replace the first tape he gave you with the last.

As you click play, his voice surrounds you.

"Hey, darlin'. I have a couple songs you didn't get to hear, but I wrote them for you. I hope you're doin' well. I hope you're writin' too. And maybe it's silly because of our circumstances, or just a product of it, but, I love you."

There's a pause before the first song starts playing, but you can't process the first notes of guitar through the ringing in your ears. He loves you. Loved you. Billy loved you.

"We'll meet again. Don't know where, don't know when, But I know we'll meet again some sunny day."

Billy's voice finds its home in your ears, a hopeful tone, that rattles you to your very core. Nothing feels hopeful, but you could almost pretend it can be.

"So, honey, keep on smiling through. Just like you always do."

And as the first song continues, you hear the crack in his voice. He knew, you think. He had to after how he acted when you last saw him, but this, this hurt more than ever. Every thread of him is unwinding inside of you as you keep yourself strong enough to hold him all in.

ix. fate - June 1st 2025 (July 25th 2025)

It's close to midnight, and you have tried walking in and out of your apartment more than five times to go back to Billy.

On what you decided would be the last attempt, you blink tiredly as you notice the roses on the foyer that you definitely did not have.

Your pace quickened into the open living room to find Billy sprawled out on his couch. The TV was playing, and he was asleep, his feet almost going over the end of the couch. You look over to his calendar, and stifle a gasp. It's too close. Way too close. He hasn't seen you in over a year.

In a moment of anger at everything in the world, you kicked at the wall, promptly hurting your feet, but you couldn't find it in yourself to care.

Billy's raspy voice says your name, and you spun back to face him.

You give yourself a moment to take him in. The moonlight came in from his still curtain-less windows, and his mussed hair stuck up in different places, his sleepy eyes widened when he saw it is in fact you.

"Oh, fuck," he mumbled, scrambling up from the couch, he all but crashed you into a hug.

You wrapped your arms around his middle and squeezed him as tight as you could, admittedly not as tight as he was holding you. You felt his nose in your hair, breathing you in. His hands touched your back, then your arms, and lastly your face, as though to check that you were real, but you felt like you should be doing the same.

"I fucked up," he said, framing your face in his hands, "I looked you up. I didn't do anything else, but I looked you up and work fucking five minutes from here. Five. You're right here."

His pained voice tugs at every muscle. His eyes look bluer when they're teary, and you close your hands around his wrists, "Billy, are you sure you don't want me to-"

"No, I'm sure about that, I haven't changed my mind. What happens, will happen, baby, I can't...we can't mess with that, but what's killin' me, honey, is that you were right there," he shook his head, his thumbs swiping across your cheeks. You let him, wanting his touch to embed into your skin so that you'd never forget it.

"I hate this," you breathed out, a humorless laugh coming after, "I need to tell you something else though."

He waited for you to gather yourself. You're not sure how long you stood there, your finger rubbing against his wrist, pressing on where you felt the pulse. But when you find your words, they spill out, "I love you, Billy. And I think you're a wonderful musician because you care about people. And real feelings. And there are people who love your music, even if they don't get to reach a larger audience, you have…you have people who will always appreciate what you make. I feel honored to have gotten to hear your voice. You did make it, Billy, you did."

Billy brought his mouth yours in an all-consuming kiss. "I love you," left his mouth between the fervent kisses, "I'd love you in any time."

He pulled you in for another hug, and kissed the top of your ear, as you willed yourself not to cry more. You knew this very well may be the last time you see him, meaning you'd never get this again, and it felt like torture. But you were here.

"Did you meet my friends then?"

You considered if it was break his promise to answer, and decided it wouldn't if you're vague, "I met Jesse. He's nice."

"Nice. He's an ass most of the time, he's charming you," he murmured at your ear, dipping his head to the side to kiss your cheek.

It felt nice to smile, but it didn't last long.

Billy smoothed his hand down your back, "You'll stay for the night?"

He made you tea, and you asked him to talk about his day. He told you he found his new apartment in New Jersey. How he's got his last shift at the Old Grass next week, then he'll be working at a music shop in the city instead.

"It's not the best, but I'll get to teach guitar lessons, and that's always a fun time," he told you with a wistful smile. Every time he spoke of the future, you paid too close attention to him. To see if he truly did know what was coming. His smile was not reaching his eyes as he talked, unless he genuinely made you laugh or smile, which was hard.

"Will you write more?" He asked as he trailed his knuckles up and down your arm, his eyes sleepy, but forcing himself awake.

"I will," you promised, and you meant it. If you can do one thing for yourself, with Billy's memory and impact, was write to make up for all the time lost in your world.

"Good," he smiled, and you felt your heart grow lighter when it reached his eyes, "I would imagine, you got me writin' about grass-"

You snort.

"And then you are writin' about that little giddy feelin' you get in your chest when we kiss."

"Ah, very arrogant of you," you shook your head at him and he shrugged, "it's true though."

"You'd write about grass, but you'd somehow make it the most beautiful and poetic metaphor," you countered, to throw the conversation off of what you'd write. The pressure behind your eyes increased at the thought of writing about him, but you knew you would.

"Metaphor about grass," he thought out loud, leaning his head down and kissing your shoulder, "there are so many blades of grass, but I chose the right one to pick?"

"There you go." You kissed the top of his head, and Billy's fingers intertwined with yours.

For most of the night, all you can do is let Billy talk, and you absorb it like you're starving. You could tell he's fighting off his sleepiness, and you found yourself trying to do the same, wanting to have every last minute you could have with him.

You didn't know for sure if this would be the last time you saw him, the last time the apartment took you back to him, but you treated it as such. Every time your heart beat too fast remembering what's to come in the present, you settled in on the weight of Billy's hand over your stomach, or the way his slow soft kisses turned into something more feverish and needy.

And when he fell asleep, you were tempted to wake him, but found you could not. You studied the way his long eyelashes flutters against his cheeks, the slight part of his mouth as he breathed deeply and calm. You pressed your mouth to his head once more, giving him a slow and long kiss, "I love you, William Bonney."

You lie awake, until you extricated yourself from him, and forced your feet to walk out the door.

x. the day the music died - July 27th, 2025

Billy's friend Charlie and his wife live in a nicer apartment building in Manhattan, that had a rooftop patio area. There, is where they hold the memorial.

It's a small group. You count around six people, plus yourself. They welcome you with open arms and sad eyes, but the atmosphere is not as depressing as you had expected it to be.

Instead, you get to hear stories of Billy, and share laughs about his random impulsiveness, or his charming humor, and his musical way of living.

They ask you for a memory, and you omit the details of the magical apartment, but relay the mostly truthful story of throwing his boot at him when he scared you.

When Jesse starts to cue up the first of many tapes Billy left, you find a spot further back, and pull out the yellow envelope from Billy. The first song starts, and you take a second to feel his voice.

"And I knew if I had my chance, that I could make those people dance, and maybe they'd be happy for a while."

You can't help but smile at his lyrics, and carefully, you open the envelope, and pull out the note that's folded.

I'm not sure what is gonna happen, though I have some idea. I won't write it out to spare you the feelings of seeing it straight from me, but I want you to know there's so much more than this. I don't know what I believe in, but I believe in time.

I believe in the way time brought you to me, and brought me to you, and I hope it will mean as much to you as it did to me, for the rest of your life.

Get on the fucking road, honey. Write awful things, write beautiful things. Meet lovely people, meet awful people. Fall in love again and tell your kids about the magical apartment. No matter what you do in your life, all I want is to know you will be living, and that you will be happy. Because at the end of everything, I'll be loving you and waiting to see you again.

I hope the songs I left you stay with you, because like you told me, I made it in your eyes, so I hope, I really hope, these will stay with you. There's twenty of them. Sorry.

I love you. I love you. I love you. And thank you. I had the best time.

With all my love, Billy.

p.s. stay friends with my friends. I think you'll need them.

His singing voice comes through, reminding itself of its home in your ears, in the very crevice of your being, and you close your eyes, soaking it all in as much as you can, "Do you recall what was revealed, the day the music died?"

#he is loverboy :(#thank you millie I was dreading writing it cause I knew it would be sad 😭#but <33333 thank you :)

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