#she would get up close look rigjt in my eyes when she meant something

[whereisthedamndaddymanual]

I kinda (insert something here later) when you try to get overly metaphorical

[bronskiibeat]

“ i don’t wanna talk to you rigjt now “ “let go of my hand “ but let them make up pls they’ve been through enough 🥺

Hey Anon, thanks for the request! This went a bit left of centre, completely ignored the angst part lol. But I got carried away, and I had to get this out of my system, I’ve been obsessed with this idea for ages!

Accompanying moodboard here Read on AO3 here --- It had been a weird fucking month. Ha, it had been a weird fucking year. Billy remembered almost nothing of being King of the Flayed, as Steve had taken to calling him. From anyone else that would be a gigantic kick in the teeth, but it was different with Steve. Steve who had been the only one to be able to drag any Billy out during that dark time. Steve who hadn’t given up on getting him back. That Steve. The Steve sleeping quietly with him now, in the warm glow of a lamp only achieved by the wee hours of the morning.

It had all been about to hit the fan, Billy’s body, controlled by something entirely outside of himself, was moments away from using him to kill the weird girl.  But Billy had been snapped back to his senses, freezing with the girl dangling from where he had her held against the wall by her neck.

 The girl with the red hair was there too, a giant radio in her hand as she glanced her panic towards at Billy, who had frozen still. The crying panic of the girl in his grasp, the shouts of his sister, that was who she was, the dull roar from the main floor upstairs, none of this registered to Billy, only the sound of the kid with no teeth rattling through the box in Max’s hand, Max that was here name.

 “Come in, this is a code red. Steve is still down there. We could not find him. Code red, Steve is missing!”

Billy’s eyes lock with Max’s, he sees her panic, her tears. He needs to get to Steve, his Steve that’s who he is. He drops the girl to her feet, far more gently than how he imagined she’d gotten up there, picking her up in his arms to take her back to the main food court, where all of Steve’s friends were. To the man with the shirt, Chief Hopper, that was his name. He marched straight towards him, ignoring the gun pointed to him, knowing he wouldn’t shoot with the girl in his arms, El, that was her name.

 He passed her to the Chief, staring at him, waiting to see if he would speak. He didn’t, so Billy forced his voice box to produce something. It was harder than he imagined, all that came out was “Steve.” Hopper seemed to know more about what that meant to Billy than he’d ever let on, nodding his head and lowering his gun, nodding his head aside as if giving permission, sending Billy off at a sprint. He knew where he was going, but he didn’t know how, he just knew. He stopped only to rip a radio from the ex-girlfriend’s brother’s hands, Mike, that was his name.

 Getting to Steve wasn’t something still in Billy’s brain at all, he had no memory between leaving the mall and picking Steve up off the floor of a bloodied cell, furnished only with a chair Steve appeared to have fallen off hours ago. Days later he’d been filled in on just how many Russian’s he’d killed in that blank spot, with bare hands and picked up weapons, and it made him throw up, physically sick by what he’d done. Steve had told him that was because he was a human. 

All he remembered was picking Steve up, the warmth of memory, of love pushing his own consciousness further into his own brain. The rest of the day had all been painfully vivid in his memory, always playing in repeat in his mind, like it was now. The alarm clock told him it was 3:34AM, and Billy believed it, only 3:34 felt like this. Soft and warm and terrifying all together. “I love you, Billy. Oh thank fuck. Billy, I love you so much, jesus-” Steve had murmured as Billy had manhandled him off the floor. Billy had carried him half the way back to the elevator, back upstairs to safety, to danger, the monster. Him, me, I’m the monster, I’m upstairs and downstairs.

Steve hadn’t shut up all the way, loving adoration, somewhat drunk sounding mumblings made thinking incredibly hard for Billy, who was still fighting to have full control of his brain. He set him down against the wall, holding his chin to look him in the face.

 “Steve. I don’t wanna talk to you right now.” The corners of Steve’s mouth pulled down almost childishly, Billy recognised that from a distance in his brain as sadness. “Until it’s out of me, I can’t, okay?” A nod satisfied him and he picked Steve up again, a voice stopped him, made him straighten up to work out where it was coming from. 

The man’s voice, the one who’s hair had slipped off his head and was hanging onto his chin, Billy didn’t know him, but the radio had his voice inside now. 

“Come in Hargrove, you need to switch the machine off, close the gate, can you take instruction?” It was shouted, panicked, Billy could see him which was confusing, he wasn’t here, but he could see Murray upstairs, he screwed his eyes shut to try and get this version of him under control. 

Steve laughed from where Billy had slung him over his shoulder. “Is that Crazy Murray? Murraaay!”

 Billy again had a strange gap in his memory, he remembers Murray’s voice, but not what he said, he has no idea how he knew which room to go to, which keys to turn, buttons to press. But he remembers again vividly turning those keys, eyes locked to Steve’s, Steve who was the only thing keeping him in control of himself, stopping him being taken over again by that thing. 

When they turned the keys, Billy hit the deck. He dropped like a sack of spuds, as if his strings had been cut, the puppet master bored. Then there were tears, so many tears.

 He remembers that well, he remembers that with a different horror to everything else, a horror that he couldn’t stop weeping, that Steve was barely conscious but holding his hand, head resting on his chest, whispering to him.

 He remembers it all, but he remembers Steve the most. The weight currently on his chest is the same weight, it’s Steve, holding tight, never letting go. 

Billy’s chest feels tight too, it always does after an action replay, the doctor calls it a ‘flashback’, but he’s not sure that’s appropriate, it’s not a flash it’s a play by play account of the game of life they engaged in that night, painfully detailed.

 It’s panic, he identified, he’s panicking. Gently, trying not to wake his Steve he tried to get up, walk it off, but a hand reaches for his own, a groan and then a small voice gain his attention. “Hey.” Billy smiles, in a million years that could never not make him smile, his Steve looking up at him. “Hi Pretty Boy.” Steve squeezed Billy’s hand, knowing something is wrong, he’s not been woken at 3 whatever AM for the fun of it, he kissed the spot of Billy’s chest where his head is resting. “Doing okay?” He whispered, curious eyes turning to meet his own.

 “Let go of my hand.” Billy replies, trying to extricate it from under whoever it was it was under. Steve frowns but unlocks his fingers gently, uncertainty replaced with satisfaction as Billy shifts to lie more fully under him. He needs to feel him, his Steve, all over, the only person who would ever have this much of a claim on him again. The positive possession of his boyfriend scrubbing over the terrifying possession of the month prior. “Love you too.” He murmured, wrapping his arms tightly around his Indiana Boy.