#fuc k it tagging argyle bc i have SO many headcanon and idea about his family for the billy haters to come at me about it

[sketchy-scribs-n-doods]

Bee and Argie, Billy and Argyle

Arturo Guillermo Franco Valdes.

Arturo Guillermo, and a friend that calls him Guille, Artie, Argie.

A red faced Billy that pronounces Guillermo as ‘Gah-ee-ler-moh’ before learning that ‘ll’ makes a ‘yuh’ sound in Spanish.

Artie calling him Bee-yee, and later Bee, as a joke because of it.

Billy tosses out nicknames like the affection he’s never been sure how to express. But he loves the way his friend's name rolls off his tongue, the syllables strange and clunky and a challenge that Billy readily takes up. Soon, it falls full and melodic from his lips, prettier than any song he's ever heard on the old radio his mom left him with.

Mi amigo, Arturo.

Argie tells him not to sweat it, but Billy doesn’t understand why nobody else seems to want to make the effort. Like it’s too difficult, or like Argie isn’t worth the effort. Most of the other Mexican kids at school already know how to pronounce the names that give their white teachers pause, but outside of that demographic there’s a pathetic lack of effort that incites Billy sometimes. 

“Don’t sweat it, bro. Not everyone can roll their Rs as good as you.”

“What, like it’s hard? Fuckin’ idiots.”

(Years later, when they find each other again, Billy will know why his old friend Argie goes by Argyle, because Argyle will nudge him with a serene little smile of his and say, “Long time no see, Bee. Your ol’ pal Artie Gyle-ermo missed you, amigo.”)

Once, early in their friendship, Billy asks Argie why he has so many damn names. Why does he need like half a dozen of them? And Argie says,

“Well, I dunno. I think it makes me pretty damn special, though. How many ‘Arturo Guillermo Franco Valdes’ do you know?”

“Just you, obviously. But that doesn’t mean much, I don’t know any other ‘William Hargrove’s either.”

“Maybe not. But it’s prolly a lot easier for some random Hargrove to be named Billy than for someone to line up a buncha random names to smash together and create a Franco Valdes named Arturo Guillermo.”

“That ‘random Hargrove’ is me, jackass!”

“Exactly!”

“At least my name’s not a fuckin’ mouthful!”

“Oh, so I’m a mouthful, am I?”

“Fuck you!”

A few months later, well into Billy's friendship with Argyle, the kid invites him over to his place to check out his new bike or something, Billy doesn't remember.

What he does remember is meeting Argyle's dad and paternal grandma, Nana Hermelinda.

It's getting colder, for California at least, and Nana insists on making the kids chocolate abuelita while Argyle's dad is at work. A much richer hot chocolate than Billy is used to, the smell is spicy sweet and warm in the air as it foams up in the pot Nana is using, instead of the mild chemical sweetness of the mugs Billy puts in the microwave when he can sneak a packet of Swiss Miss in the winter. Her worn, wrinkled hands make quick work of it, expertly spinning between them a wooden stick with rotating round bits at the end that goes into the frothy mix. Nana calls it a molinillo when she sees him looking at it, and rather than freeze up over being caught staring, as he normally would, Billy instead finds himself trying to pronounce the new word for the remaining five minutes the chocolate takes to finish. The air feels almost soft around him, pleasantly warm and sweet like cinnamon as Nana lets the mixture cool while she searches for mugs in the cabinet above them. When she offers him his own, a brown mug with a rounded bottom and pretty dotted flower designs on its shiny finish, Billy is shy and hesitant to take it. But the warmth as he wraps his chilly fingers around it is welcoming and its smells so good. The first sip is cautious, slow like he's still unsure about whether he's allowed something so warm and comforting.

It's incredible.

Billy's pretty blue eyes light up like Argyle has never seen before. He can feel his heart thump awkwardly in his chest as those baby blues shine bright in the soft yellow light of the kitchen.

Then Billy lowers the mug, and a little mustache of foamed milk and chocolate lines his upper lip. Argyle quickly forgets the brief stutter of his heartbeat and cackles at the sight.

Billy is too busy having a religious experience over his mug of hot chocolate to bother with telling him to shut up like he normally would, but he doesn't truly mind- he likes the sound of Argie's loud bouncing laughter.

Nana looks fondly at them over her own mug, sitting comfortably on a stool by the kitchen counter as Billy politely thanks her for the drink with what little clumsy Spanish he's learned from Argyle so far. She coos at him, putting down her mug as she answers in a kind, lilting Spanish that Argyle will later tell him roughly means, "Of course, love. Come here whenever you like. I will make you a mug anytime, son." Billy inhales the warm steam wafting up from the mug he holds tight as Nana places a gentle hand on his cheek and calls him mijo.

Years later, Billy still remembers it as one of the last times he'd felt so held and cared for.