#WE MISSED THE CHANCE TO CALL OUR FUCKING SHIP FRIZZY

[tubby1230]

Mistletoes and Mayhem

I drew this last year but it wasn't Christmas time, so I waited. This is fanart for non-other than @changethecircumstances fanfic Mistletoe and Mayhem. I absolutely love their works for the Frenchie/Izzy ship as they basically captained the whole thing. The story was never finished but what few chapter were out I loved. I have read ever OFMD work they have made and even though I am not in any of the fandoms they writ effort currently, I like to support from behind. If you are looking for a good ship with Izzy (and my personal favorite), I definitely recommend their works.

I honestly kind of hate this and since have learned so much about art that I may redraw it as I have been rereading some of their fics again (currently on in order to get to the heart sometimes you have to cut through for like the 4th time). Maybe, maybe not but as winter break is soon, I should have some free time.

Anyways, go look at their blog and read their work, you won't regret it!

[passivenovember]

Tetherball : Harringrove April Day One

Also on ao3

--

Steve put his seatbelt on that first day, when Billy stepped out of his chariot across school grounds, taking inventory of things as they were. Life as Steve knew it.

Nancy in the seat next to him.

First period chemistry, English, Geology, lunch. Steve took note of the periwinkle tones in the sky, the rumble of the cafeteria on pizza day, the smell of the library and the way the books turned on you if there were late fees to be settled.

Everything fell into bullet points across worn pavement.

Then versus now. Before and after.

Steve said goodbye to planet Earth that day, whether he knew it or not. Whether he found it favorable. The rumble of an engine beneath his feet changed Steve's perception, and the weight of two blue medallions grew and grew until Steve had learned the facts.

William Hargrove went by Billy. And he had tumbled in from California, presumably naked on a sea shell, where Billy’s stepsister doused hatred like a flame in the ocean under skies full of seagulls and cotton candy wisps.

He wore elevens in converse and a large Hawkins Phys Ed t-shirt that popped seams across his biceps but went soft and wavy in the middle.

Not like it mattered, though.

William went by Billy and he called skins as soon as coach blew the whistle. His t-shirt never made another appearance after that.

--

That's all Steve needed to know, right? The basics. California and step sisters, William instead of Billy, and the sound of rubber on polished oak.

But that's the funny thing about revelations.

Facts are different when colored by opinions, and Steve felt them dropping like coins from the hole in his pocket. As he got to know Billy the bullet points that had taken over Steve's mind rippled and glimmered in the light of first period. Changing.

He observed.

Wondered.

Obsessed.

Developing thoughts about who Billy was and, eventually, the person he pretended to be. Steve wasn't interested in the line Billy drew around the two halves of a whole. Any of the masks he wore in the cafeteria around princesses and prom queens versus the man Steve saw in second period English, who was.

Soft spoken and thoughtful. Every pastel shade in the sky versus brash and heated sunsets over barley.

Flame and sea, like a burning ship at war.

Steve wasn't interested but he learned anyway. Took notes, eyes tracking the brush of Billy's thumb on his bottom lip, brows pinching in concentration as he deciphered the root of a poem in ten seconds flat. The curl of his lips when we took his paper from Mr. Terrine. How he always had an extra pencil for anyone who needed it.

Before long Steve aced his exam in AP Hargrove and failed where everyone else said it mattered.

Got himself a tutor.

Blue eyes to pin him in place, pink lips to seal the passage between worlds. Steve wasn't interested in spending his afternoons under a tetherball, smacking brightly colored plastic out of his face as Billy read to him from a textbook while his sister. Max (step sister, Billy's voice supplied), kicked some girls ass on on the skateboard during softball practice.

"Should we try it once more?" Billy's patient. Steve wasn't expecting that.

He smacks the ball away again. "I've learned a lot about you, but I wasn't expecting this."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Y'know." From across the playground Max teaches her girl how to kick flip. Steve doesn't think that's right. He shrugs anyway. "Smarts. Like, AP biology, Valedictorian, Brain stew smart."

They've been studying together for weeks.

Four weeks. Seems like more with the slide of Billy's shoulder against Steve's arm, blonde ringlets dodging the tetherball as it swings overhead. Billy's fingers brush the open faced textbook, mouth serious but eyes soft. Sparkly, like a discarded bag of glitter.

"Maybe you should pay more attention to the prose."

"Maybe I can do both at the same time." Steve fiddles with the edge of the notebook, nodding as Billy grins. "Alright, goldilocks, tell your silly little story."

He does.

The green eyed boy in the powder blue shirt standing next to you in the supermarket recoils as if hit,

repeatedly,

by a lot of men, as if he has a history of it.

Steve leans back against the rusty iron pole, feeling the weight of the tetherball on one side of his head, and. The brush of golden curls on the other. He closes his eyes, feeling a voice more than hearing it.

That is not your problem. You have your own body to deal with.

The lamp by the bed is broken--

"Are you following?" Billy asks. He moves, knees drawn up so the book is balanced close to the curve of his chin. Close to the split in the universe. "We're getting into muddy waters here--"

"'S not that muddy."

"Sure it is." Billy's cheeks flush, pink paint across the bridge of his nose. He moves against Steve's arm, elbow knocking into ribs. "Tell me what you think is happening."

Steve thinks about it.

Knocks Billy's arm away gently, closing his eyes. "Read some more and then we'll talk."

Billy does.

The lamp by the bed is broken. You are feeling things he is no longer in touch with a nd everyone is speaking softly, as if not to wake one another.

The wind knocks the heads of the flowers together. Steam rises from every cup at every table at once.

Things happen all the time.

Things happen at every minute that have nothing to do with us.

Billy stops reading and Steve peeks at him through an eye half-lidded, curious. "Is that the end of the story?"

"Poem."

"Huh." Steve straightens, moving his legs this way and that. "Felt like a story."

Billy mirrors him exactly, closing the textbook and grabbing his pencil. "That's interesting."

And the way he says it. While flipping through his pea-green fivestar spiral, makes it feel wrong. Stupid.

Steve smacks distantly at the sky. "No it's not."

"Sure it is. Siken's poems are very lyrical. They paint images, vivid images, and sometimes I can imagine myself doing what the lines convey."

Steve grins. "You can imagine yourself in bed with another man?"

Steve isn't interested in the answer but he's interested in the feeling, the glint of emotion behind a wall of powdery blue. It doesn't seep through the cracks, though, it's contained. If Steve wants to find the center, he'll have to dig.

Billy doesn't miss a beat. "If that's what you think the poem's talking about, sure."

"Of course that's what it's talking about."

"How so?"

Steve laughs at that, rubbing against Billy's side. "You sound like a scholar."

"Is that so wrong?"

"No." Steve says thoughtfully. "'S cute."

Billy doesn't crack. Not in the way Steve's used to. No fingers in his hair, spinning spools of gold as he peeks at Steve through thick lashes. Instead he makes a note of it, whatever it is they're saying. Scribbling Steve's interpretation on one side of the blank page, dividing the two halves with a thick black line.

Billy intends to find the truth. "The protagonist is in love with the man at the supermarket? Is that what you're saying."

"I guess."

Billy rolls his eyes. "Your intent has to be clear. Poetry is all about interpretation; if you don't attempt to bridge the divide--"

"All right, Einstein." Steve plays along. "Sure."

Billy's eyes flash victorious as he clicks the pen trigger. "What makes you say that?"

"The way he's obsessed with him."

"The way the narrator is obsessed?" Billy leans forward, intent. "With the man in the grocery store?"

"What makes you deny it?" Steve wonders, folding his legs beneath him so they're crisscross applesauce.

Billy leans back against the pole, casual and easy. "I'm not the one failing English."

"No, but you are the poet." Steve counters. "Dude, I know you have an interpretation. I know you have thoughts, so. Just tell me."

Billy turns to face the playground.

Max skates circles around her girl, smiling in the way Billy does when he's got Steve pinned on the court. Like a predator. Pushing and pulling back just enough to leave the girl chasing after her, enough to catch herself before Max has a chance to get her claws out.

It's incredible, Steve thinks, how much Billy is just like his sister.

"I think he's using him."

Steve cocks his head, curious.

"The man with the blue shirt." Billy opens the textbook and reads the part about the lamp again, peeking up at Steve through frizzy curls. "The narrator says we are feeling things the man is no longer in touch with."

Steve leans forward. "Like love?"

Billy thinks about it. "No."

"Connection, then."

"If they're sleeping together it's more than just sex." Billy counters, "More than just carnality."

Which.

Steve frowns. "People fuck all the time without connecting."

"Really?"

"Yeah." Steve thinks about rattling down his list. The girls, the guys, the one night stands and bullshit post-game hook ups.

Billy fiddles with the edges of his notebook almost. Shyly. "People have sex because they're in love."

Steve snorts. "There's a million reasons to fuck outside of love."

Billy's eyes flash hard with.

Something. He bares his teeth. "Yeah? Like what?"

"I dunno. Breakup sex, makeup sex, sorry for burning a hole in your prom dress sex--"

"Gross."

"Point is." Steve looks at Billy. Studies him, the freckles across his upper lip, the scruff along his jawline. "Sex and emotion don't have to exist within each other."

Billy stares back at him, eyes wide and distant. Closed off.

He writes something on Steve's half of the notebook. "I disagree."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Billy tosses his pen to the ground. "Our narrator says the man in the blue shirt has a history of being hit by other men."

"So?" Steve has trouble following at the best of times, and this.

The way Billy is worrying the skin on his fingers, nails catching and tearing in places they don't belong, feels important.

Billy shrugs. "Why would he sleep with a man without knowing his heart?"

"Maybe he just wants to feel something."

"Or maybe he wants to connect." Billy turns to look out across the playground once more, fingers tugging at the edge of his notebook. "Maybe he's existing in this bubble, like. This silent world with a tiny room where everyone is speaking softly out of respect. Maybe he chooses the wrong person because it's better than feeling half alive."

Steve knows they aren't talking about the poem anymore.

He tugs the notebook from Billy's hands, flipping through a million and one handwritten theories and observations. Billy lets him. Lets Steve look through his life and into his mind before handing the spiral back and asking, "Have you ever picked the wrong person?"

Billy doesn't say anything and then; "Yes."

"How come?"

"Everybody's wrong if you squint hard enough."

Steve nods, looping his arms around his knees. "And I'm assuming you didn't sleep with any of them."

He doesn't expect Billy to answer. It's not like they owe each other anything, honesty or otherwise. Billy leans back against the pole once more. From where their bodies are pressed together Billy feels feverish. Incendiary.

Billy clears his throat. "Or the opposite."

Which catches Steve off guard.

Billy watches him for a moment, eyes dark and serious. "I don't think the narrator sleeps with the man in the blue shirt. Maybe he intends to. Take the guy home, make a couple drinks, blaze trails into something previously unknown to him or maybe just. A feeling he hasn't felt in a while. But intimacy isn't always about sex."

Steve snorts. "I can't think of anything more intimate than being inside another person."

"But you are inside them, just. Not in the way you expected."

Steve glares out over the playground. The sun will be setting soon, blacktops and brown fields painted in shades of red and orange. The whole world will catch on fire but Steve feels the beginning, coals glowing bright red under the line of his ribcage when he turns to find blue eyes on him.

Dousing the fire, or maybe.

Raising the stakes. His eyes flit across Billy's forehead, brushing over his lips and coming to rest on his eyelashes. Feathery and soft, like the arms of a teddy bear. Steve licks his lips, going up in flame when Billy's eyes track the movement.

"I lied." Steve says.

Billy doesn't look away. "I'm not sure what you--"

"The first time a boy ever kissed me." Steve says. "When a boy kissed me because he wanted to, that was more intimate than anything I'd ever felt before."

Billy's gaze falls impossibly lower, tracing the swell of Steve's lips. "How did it feel?"

And he says it like.

He couldn't possibly know.

And Steve says, "Like my heart was taking root," like.

Let me show you.

Billy takes a deep breath. "I don't think I've ever felt like that."

"Never?"

"Not once."

From across the playground Max's answering laugh makes Billy's skin turn gold. Caramel, ice cream topped with sugar. Steve feels his body inching closer, mouth opening as if to taste love on the air.