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guqin-and-flute · 4 years ago

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Holding Me Holding You [Ch. 4]

[Chapter 1][Chapter 2] [Chapter 3]

[Ao3 Link]

[This chapter drops sharply deeper into angst, so there are some trigger warnings under the cut. If you’re worried about any of them, the Ao3 link end notes have summaries to check if you wanna read or skip! 👌 Next chapter will still hurt, but won’t be quite as dark as this one and from then on, it gets lighter.]

[TW: PTSD nightmares, mild unreality, anxiety attack, brief mention of child death, nongraphic description of dead body, general canon typical violence and gore (lots of imaginary blood), mild descriptions of violence, brief mention of suicide, canonical self harm, canonical alcohol abuse, burns, non-graphic description of injuries, Xichen’s worsening mental state, mild emetophobia warning]

The stimulant slowly brightens his mind to a sort of sharpness that borders on unreality. It feels as if his neck is strung with little filaments of wire, pinging with a tension that radiates through his jaw, up into his skull and down his shoulders, even to his hips. But words come easier and the lists of duties can be lined up like neat little stones. It’s alright. It’s necessary.

A-Fu is more animated than yesterday--sometimes he swivels about with keen eyes, sometimes he dozes, only occasionally he whines. At one point, he even proclaims, “S’eepy. Nigh’ nigh’,” and, for all intents and purposes, seems to drop directly into sleep. Mostly, he simply watches everything go by and clings any time Xichen unwraps him. People seem to find him funny. One of the liaisons from Caiyi Town they briefly meet with smiles and leans down to ask A-Fu if he is a little leech who won’t let go. A-Fu just chews on his fingers and stares at him.

Throughout the afternoon, Xichen continues to feed him snacks--little carrots, berries, shreds of buns. The boy holds a few back up to Xichen’s mouth expectantly, sharing again. Xichen smiles and accepts, the tang of the berries bursting over his tongue, bright and startling.

There is even a moment between meetings, just one moment where he sets A-fu down and sits on the steps of a forest path to put his head in his hands just so it would stop spinning. And A-Fu, from where he is latched onto Xichen’s sleeve peering up at him, says, “Sad? So sad?”

“No. No, I’m alright. Tired.”

A-Fu only cocks his head. “Aww, so sad?”

At this endearingly imperfect mimicry of sympathy, Xichen raises his head and smiles down at him, ignoring how that simple movement of his neck has sent white hot pain singing down his spine. “I’m fine. Just busy.”

At this, A-Fu pats (smacks) his palm directly to the right of Xichen’s nose repeatedly, narrowly missing his eye. He announces something utterly incomprehensible with great confidence; it almost sounds like a rhyme, but the vowels are so warped by his young age and half the consonants are missing. Whatever he’s saying seems to satisfy him because he segues directly into being distracted by Xichen’s headband, his other hand trying to hook into Xichen’s mouth for leverage. It’s enough that he chuckles, briefly, before gathering him back up to stand again. In any case, it’s nice to have something that he can physically hold and influence in this moment.

Xichen continues in the flow of the day, feeling like a blind cave fish in a current as everything closes over his head. The air is clammy and chill, bringing the scents of the woods and distant storms. He makes sure to keep wiping the little pebbles of mist off of A-Fu’s face and keeps him shielded when he can. He organizes for more medicine to be brought. He speaks with the doctor caring for Wangji and the sick child. He speaks with his Uncle, with those who are injured and dying. He speaks to the recovering elders his brother had fought, lets their betrayal and rage and disbelief wash over him as he bows deeply and apologizes on Wangji’s behalf and nods and nods.

He lets A-Fu wander around the Hanshi’s main room as he responds to urgent missives from Clans Nie, Jiang, Jin, Yao, Ouyang, and more. Da-ge, as Clan Leader, not as his partner. His heart.

The smooth of his hand over the paper feels almost raw against the prickliness Xichen’s skin has become. He yearns for softer things to send his loves, but now is not the time and he doesn’t have room in between thoughts.

It’s not a question when he takes A-Fu back to the Hanshi to sleep again. He hasn’t the strength to wrestle against his obvious stubborn attachment. Xichen’s skin is crawling like something is underneath it and he is simply unwilling to tempt fate. Let the boy have what he wants. Let him be happy. If it was Xichen who made him so...well, at least that’s something. He will deal with it tomorrow. There is always tomorrow.

Now that it’s dark and the stimulant has since worn off, his sleepless nights are crowding in like unwanted visitors and words and intentions are growing somewhat...vague. He doesn’t know exactly what placations are falling from his mouth like wet autumn leaves--distant encouragement, compliments for his good behavior, mindless crooning. At one point, he can feel himself humming but cannot place when he has decided to do so. It’s dimly concerning, but A-Fu doesn’t seem alarmed by him, simply tired. He curls up right in Xichen’s arms and falls asleep almost immediately after they both fall into bed. Xichen is not far behind, sinking, sinking….

The lull in his pocket of the battle allows him to catch his breath, filling his mouth and lungs with the prickling acid of resentful energy and death. It’s burning like meat. He smells it. Tastes it. It’s as sour as his fear. Shouyue is blood slick in his hand. Sticky. A fresh peal of crazed, despairing laughter blooms above the thunder of screams and clashes. Viscera has turned the ground to slippery mud. He is shaking.

He is turning to search out his brother, fear choking. Finds him leaving. He’s leaving him, flying away, blood raining from his back, spattering down onto the upturned faces below and when Xichen takes a step after him, it’s into the middle of a crowd of corpses. They are Lan and Wen, faces twisted to inhumanity--they are clawing at him, swiping, screaming, savaged and broken. His blood is fire, seething in his chest and gut, running over his skin and everything is wet with it and he--

A scream slices the snarls and Xichen is whipping around, bile flooding up because it’s A-Fu, standing, alone, wailing helplessly in the middle of this slaughter.

No. Not alone.

There is a white form in front of him, hunched over and, all at once, Xichen knows that A-Fu is watching his mother die.

The boy--

He can’t.

My boy--

He shouldn’t, shouldn't have to see--

Xichen is fighting, each step bringing him no closer. He is heavier and heavier until the malicious weight of his own bones drags him down to his knees, incandescent with terror. The swords of the corpses slide home. He is pierced. Pinned to the ground. He is a wild thing, struggling and clawing to get to A-Fu, to shield him from this sight--and the figure is looking up and he sees with a shock of spine numbing horror that she is not Lan Liu.

She is Xichen’s mother, blood bubbling in her breath, weeping, hurting, dying, intestines spilling wetly out, pink and red and black, and he can’t get to them, he’s trying, help, oh gods please no, he can’t move, skewered and heavy and useless, and blood is still somehow raining down, every drop burrowing into his skin as A-Fu just screams and screams and screams, reaching out to Xichen, begging, “P’ease! P’ease!”

Wei Wuxian is rising behind the boy like a shadow unfurling, face an unfamiliar white mask, burning eyes black and empty empty empty. His hands are long, blood rusted knives, rising, curling and Lan Xichen is far past dignity, is sobbing and pleading and screaming please no don't please stop please please please don't hurt him please--

Xichen bolts upright in the dark with his thundering heart shuddering him, an alien moan leaking from his lips. The ghosts of screams. He’s soaked in sweat and terror, shaking in the metal of the cold night air. Breath sawing in and out, he twists, searching.

There. A-Fu is beside him, barely visible in the gloom, sprawled face down on the bed, near the wall, still. He must not have thrashed or called out too loudly. Good. Xichen swallows. He can taste the edge of a sword in his mouth and he swallows again.

It’s still there. It’s in his nose.

Xichen tries to calm his heart rate, to pull in breath slower. Puts a shaking hand on the back of A-Fu’s head and--

He’s cold as a stone.

The world falls sideways through him. Every limb turns to water, every nerve ending ice as he rips back the covers and there’s blood, blood everywhere, devouring the bed, squishing and pooling, black in the darkness and he turns the boy over. It’s A-Zhan, grey and slack, eyes glassy, head lolling. “No, no, no--” Xichen clutches his brother’s face, tries to lift him, but everywhere he touches, he leaves palm prints of blood--the walls, his clothes, his stiff flesh, the pillows--

True consciousness jerks him to life on the floor, knelt on throbbing knees, Liebing in his hand. Some broken sound crawls from his lips like a dying animal and he lets the flute clatter to the floor as he gasps. Stomach clenching, head swimming. A-Fu, is he--is he--

Even as he crawls back onto the bed, something in him is thrashing, is pleading, don’t turn him over, check that he’s breathing and that’s all, don’t make it real, don’t touch him and he can’t, he can’t not. He pulls away the blankets (white) and turns him, putting shaking hands on his face (clean, they are clean) and he is damp and warm in his arms, smelling of sleep sweat and soap. He blinks muzzily up at Xichen, making a vague sound of annoyance before yawning.

Alive. He’s alive. He’s fine.

He sits, shuddering, wrapped around the slightly squirming boy as he fights to breathe. His entire head is throbbing. The terror is not leaving. It’s growing. In the deep of the night, silent and oppressive, he has no idea what time it is or how long he slept, but he needs to see Wangji safe, he needs to go now .

Some part of him is aware that this is not in the least bit logical, knows that he should meditate, should calm himself to coherency and let the boy sleep, but Wangji bleeding, his A-Zhan long dead and cold and the screaming is still so present that he’s certain he will see it with every turn of his head. It’s here, it’s now, and he has to make sure that it isn’t.

With hands trembling so hard he can barely shove Liebing into his sash, he throws himself into an over robe and his boots. He bundles A-Fu in a hasty blanket wrap for warmth and staggers out. The cold wet of the night smacks his face, searing into his nose with the edge of imminent rain. Xichen knows he looks a sight, striding quickly across the walkways in the middle of the night, forehead bare and hair loose, panting and clutching a mass of blankets but he can’t bring himself to care. He can see Wangji’s quarters. He’s almost there. A-Fu is struggling free from his fabric bindings, fighting to look around. “Why?” He asks, plaintively. “Why?”

Xichen can’t answer.

There is no moon and no stars, everything on the mountain deep and muted, save the shimmering dots of lanterns here and there. There is one that drips its dim light down the walls and door to Wangji’s house, to pool on the front porch. The door.

The door is open.

Xichen can’t feel his face. In fact, when he bursts in and finds only an empty, blood stained bed and the lone, sick child still sleeping, he can’t feel much of anything at all. There is a distant bell shrilling somewhere far away.

He’s gone. Wangji is gone.

The room smells sharp and astringent. Familiar, but he is too far away to place it.

Is he dead. Has he killed himself. Will he find his broken body--

Xichen thunks to his knees gracelessly, sets A-Fu’s bundle beside the sick boy. Hears himself say, “Stay here. I’m coming back, I’ll be back, I promise I’m coming back.”

A-Fu is panicking. He’s fighting free of the folds of the blanket, eyes white rimmed. He’s reaching for him, but Xichen fumbles out a talisman, locks the door so it cannot be opened from the inside. “I’m coming back. I’m coming back.”

A light floods through his fingers--another talisman, piercing--and the white stone path blooms with small splatters of scarlet in its brilliance. Blood. Wangji.

His sprinting steps make no sound on the stones. Or perhaps he’s not hearing anything, because when cold begins to patter down on his head, to slither down to his scalp with icy fingers, he hears nothing but the ringing of that far away bell. The blood is scattered. Weaving, wandering down, twisting down the path of the mountain.

It’s being washed away by the steady, slick rain.

He desperately searches instead for any thread of energy, of familiar qi he might sense as the world slowly fills to black and silver needles around him. He finds some, distant, sleeping, not who he was looking for--

A crash, muted and close, and everything floods back in--the hiss of the rain, the rasp of his speeding breath, the hush of treetops in the gathering shower. It had come from the storage building across the clearing. He could have flown for how fast he is suddenly there, seeing the swipe of bloody fingerprints against the gaping screen of the door. The razor clarity of this nightmare unreality tilts him and he is now inside the dry quiet of the building, his clammy clothes and hair cling to him, dripping. Shadows sprawl and jag crazily from his swinging hand light, glints of tidy treasures and weapons wink back from the darkness. “Wangji.” The voice is hoarse and shaking.

A clatter, a flash of white.

Around a line of shelves, Xichen finds him.

He’s alive. (Xichen could collapse with relief, locks his knees against it.)

Wangji is knelt in the debris of cast aside bamboo rods, half draped over a box he is rummaging through, face expressionless, eyes burning. He, too, has no headband, his hair unbound, robe nowhere to be seen. The ruddy bandages on his bare torso sag away from his cracked and gaping wounds. Blood is seeping down his back, staining the waist of his white pants crimson, dribbling onto the floor. The rest of his skin is chalky white, save the blood rusted on his hands. And he seems not to feel a thing.

“Wangji, ” Xichen whispers again as he goes to him, abandoning the glowing talisman on the floor behind him.

When he puts a hand to his brother’s shoulder, Wangji’s head swings around to peer at him with a gaze unfocused and bleary. He smells overwhelmingly of blood and alcohol and sways into his touch. The astringent smell from his house.

Drunk. Very drunk.

Xichen’s heart is still thrashing in the cage of his throat and his stomach is roiling with leftover terror and dawning uncertainty, but he pulls Wangji to him, wrapping his arms around his head to spare his back, burying his face in his hair. Awake. Alive.

Wangji struggles in his grip and then shoves him back, sprawling himself against a barrel before going back to the box as Xichen catches himself on a shelf. “Flute,” he mutters, thickly.

“What?”

“Flute. ”

At a loss, Xichen pulls Liebing from his sash and mutely holds it out to him. For a moment, Wangji takes it in one bloodstained hand and stares blankly. Then, he throws it aside, making it bounce off the wall with a hollow ��tok’. “ No .”

The light from the talisman is crooked and too low, lighting them eerily from beneath, drawing out the hollows of Wangji’s eyes and rendering his gaunt face cadaverous as he turns back to the box yet again. Xichen catches his wrist, holds him fast when he resists. “Wangji, please. Let me help you. What do you need?”

“Flute.”

“What flute?”

“Dizi.” His brother’s tone is not...flat. It’s practically monotone, but slurred. Lost. “The dizi . ”

‘The’....Oh. Xichen gathers a ragged breath, his temples, his sinuses, his tightened spine throbbing in time with his heart and he captures Wangji’s other wrist, gently. How to explain the idea of ‘never’…. “Wangji, Chenqing...is gone. It went over with Wei-gongzi . We looked but we couldn’t find him.”

He freezes at this name, his blink slow as he stares up into Xichen’s face. His eyes are wide and uncomprehending, shining opaquely in the light.

“Wangji...A-Zhan, I’m--”

“Wei Ying,” his brother says, as if clarifying, as if insisting, and Xichen knows that he knows Wei Wuxian is dead, he was there, but….

“Yes. Wei Ying is gone.” His throat is burning, tightening as Wangji falls silent once more, face vacant and sightless, staring into the murk. The only sounds are their uneven breathing, the shush of rain across the roof, and dripping--from Xichen’s soaked clothes and Wangji’s blood.

All at once, Wangji surges to his feet--he almost collapses back down, but Xichen is there, catching him around the chest. Then, his brother sways, staggering down the row of shelves into the darkness with a white knuckled grip on them, not seeming to absorb anything he was seeing. Xichen could only follow him, helplessly. “Let’s go back, A-Zhan. Let’s go home. You’re hurt. I can carry you, you can have my robe--here,” he fumbles the sash to his over robe open with half-numb fingers and slips out of it, holding it out.

Wangji has halted, braced before a shelf with long, black rods, head bowed. Xichen is about to coax him to lift his arms for the robe when his brother’s hand darts out, fast as a snake. Snatches up one of the rods, deftly twists it around and thrusts it against his chest, over his heart. A wordless shout shocks free of Xichen--but it’s too late.

An ember glow. A hiss and sizzling. The stench of burning flesh.

He yanks it from Wangji and throw it, clattering behind him. He clutches his brother’s arms, staring at him in mute disbelief, shaking. Wangji sways, but his face stays lax and desolate, even as tears seep down his cheeks, even as he looks down at the raw, blackened curls of skin he has branded onto himself. The Wen emblem.

Why why why why--

All of Xichen’s skin is crawling, is buzzing, and he feels like he’s shuddering apart. So he wraps his robe around Wangji and crushes him to his chest. Too hard, too low on his shoulders, but he can’t stop and Wangji doesn’t respond, just hangs limply in his arms. His brother. His little brother.

He smells of burnt meat.

Xichen has failed again. And again and again. Keeps failing. Can’t keep him safe. It will never be over. It will never be enough.

Help. I can’t--

Xichen swallows, hard and rasps, “Wangji--”

“A-Yuan.”

Each new turn shoves him down a mountain, tumbling, groundless. He doesn’t understand. Wangji pulls back, head lolling, and Xichen lets him. He peers at him with intent on his bloodless face, hazy eyes still shining with silent tears. “A-Yuan.”

Xichen is still, searching. Then, weakly, “The...boy?”

“Mine,” Wangji insists.

“‘Yours….’”

Wangji’s hands curl into the lapels of Xichen’s under robe. Smearing his own blood there. “For me.” He’s pleading, Xichen realizes. Desperate. “Mine.”

For him. He’s asking Xichen to let him keep the boy. To do it for him. Anything. To keep you here--anything. “Yes.”

Wangji gives him a wordless shake from his grip on his robe.

“Yes.” Xichen repeats, “I promise.”

It seems to be what he wants because one of Wangji’s hands reaches up to touch his own bare forehead, where his headband usually sits, absence normally betrayed by a paler strip of skin. All of him was pale, now, a ghost of white and black in the gloom, a smear of red on his forehead, left by his finger. “A Lan.” Wangji’s tears are still coming, but so is something deeper--Xichen can see it in the press of the lines by his nose, the tightening of his mouth.

“A Lan,” Xichen agrees automatically. Whatever he wants. Whatever he needs. Whatever Xichen can give. He is shivering from the cold, clammy draping of his clothes and the shock of everything. Fear. Helplessness. Anything. The smell of charred skin is astonishingly overpowering. His brother’s.

He wants to throw up.

Wangji hasn’t blinked. “My son.”

That stutters the breath in Xichen’s chest, but he nods. “Yes, A-Zhan.”

Whatever has been coming up through Wangji is here, dredged from whatever depths by his drunken vulnerability because the usually strict edges of him sag, the habitual distance in his expression ravaged. He looks so young. He looks so shattered. He hasn’t looked away. His hands fist themselves back into Xichen’s robes, this time for support, and in a low, cracked whisper, he says, “He’s gone.”

The entire tract of Xichen’s breathing, from nose to lungs to heart is searing and he nods and nods. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

“We killed him.”

The ache of missing Mingjue and A-Yao, multiplied by the eternity of death. The knowledge of what he had meant to Wangji, the brightness he had lent him, the cheer and understanding. The first person besides Xichen to approach Wangji and see him as a man instead of a distant and revered Twin Jade of Lan. A friend. The one he had seen Wangji choose just that much too late. Slipping through bloodied fingers. The one he loved.

The one that had killed so many of their Clanspeople. Had tried to kill them. The one Wangji had left Xichen fighting for his life for.

...burning eyes black and empty empty empty….

There was no right road, no clear path. No matter what, it was wrong. To mourn. To resent. To rejoice. It was all wrong.

“I’m…” he chokes.

Again, Wangji shoves him away and they both stagger back into the shelves. A few things skitter and clatter to the floor. Xichen feels hollowed out. All at once so enormously exhausted--too empty for any more fear or anger or sorrow. Blame. Wangji’s breathing is harsh and wet and he is crying as he had as a child. Contained. Silent. Shaking.

Xichen reaches out. Slowly slips beside him. Loops an arm around his shoulder and turns him into his chest. Wangji stays, shuddering. Xichen holds him. “It’s alright, A-Zhan,” he whispers raggedly into his hair. It still smells of smoke and blood and old sweat. Burning. “You’re going to be alright.”

#YAAAY PARALLELS #I'm gonna go make some text post memes to make up for this angst good lord #Someone hug this man BACK #my fic #3zun raises Jingyi au #3zun raise jingyi au content #my stuff

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sh1tbird-shantytown · 4 years ago

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You’re Dead, Hargrove

on ao3 also

Steve had cried when Billy had fallen. Had sobbed as he stood helplessly by Robin’s side while one minute Billy had been caressed by El’s hand and the next he was seemingly dead on the ground. Steve had collapsed to his knees and Robin had almost stumbled to join him. He’d gone back to his vacant home again eventually. He’d finally accepted it and he’d gotten a job. Tried to forget about everything for a while even if he knew he’d never forget it. The monsters, the screams, Billy’s lifeless crystal pools before Max herself closed her own brothers eyes. Then, a month later, he’d gotten a call with the yell of Max’s voice.

“He’s alive!” she yelled into his ear. And then in a whisper with a rage he couldn’t quite describe, “He’s fucking alive!”

“Who?” Steve asked, only a little confused. He had a hunch.

“Billy! He’s alive!” Steve froze up, shoulders locked and eyes unblinking. “He’s in the hospital. Has been. Apparently he was just transferred back. They called the house and asked for Neil but he wasn’t here. So they told me instead. I may have yelled at them a little. But he’s at the hospital and no one else would probably take me right now. So, can you come get me?”

Steve took a moment to catch up and Max seemingly allowed it, “I— yeah, yeah. I’ll be there in a few,” he agreed. She thanked him and hung up her end of the line.

He stood there clutching the plastic yellow kitchen telephone for a moment though. He’d hoped. He had laid awake for hours and hours with the dwindling hope that there was any chance. He knew Max had too, had called him a few nights when the house got too quiet. And the room across from hers held too many shadows.

They’d never had a funeral. Neil Hargrove didn’t want to waste money on a casket. He’d taken that as a sign. Because funerals were a send away to the deceased right? Without one there was a bit of a halt in flow. Now, it was a lot of Neil Hargrove not wanting to waste money and the fact that the government supposedly didn’t want to give back the body. But still, Steve kept going with the coals of Billy’s survival. He was so relieved now that his limbs lost function with the way excitement rumbled in his bones.

On his way to the Hargrove-Mayfield residence he thought to himself more. He knew that Billy would be different. After that? Steve wasn’t that naive to not think of these things. But he wanted to get along with Billy. He wasn’t going to miss this second chance. They’d both messed it up the last time. But maybe they’d be able to start something of a friendship. Call it a guess that Billy might not have many of those.

Max brought a bright blue backpack with her when she tossed herself in the passenger seat, “Hey! So,” she buckled when he simply pointed at it over her shoulder and put the gear in reverse. “So,” she started again, “I kinda haven’t told anyone else. But I will once I see how he is,” she spoke unsurely of herself. He smiled kindly and she relaxed into the seat a little.

“That’s a good idea, Mad Max,” he nodded as he tried to keep his jittery hands straight on the steering wheel. “We should make sure he’s better prepared for visitors. I think just us going in for now is fine. We shouldn’t bombard him.”

“Right,” she agreed, “That’s what I was thinking.” He glanced over and saw the biggest smile he thought he’d ever seen on her. He removed one shaky hand and put a fist out midair. She stared a moment and then pressed her own wobbling fist against his own. They shared a bubbly laugh while they could.

...

Well, the room wasn’t warm. Neither was Billy by the looks of the goosebumps on his arms. But his face was pink and healthier than the last time they’d seen him. Max stood ahead of him in the doorway. All three of them had a sort of staring match.

Until Steve spoke, that is, “Hey, Billy,” it came out as more of a whisper as he waved at the man choppily. But Billy looked at him tearily and smiled.

“Hey, Harrington,” he looked back at his sister, “Maxine. It’s good to see ya.” His voice sounded dry and a little cracked in a few places. Like aged porcelain. He looked a bit like it too. He had thin scars that sprouted all over his skin. White and pink pale wisps that peaked out of the thin white T-shirt. There were black and blue threads that held some of the longer cuts. His hair was buzzed but it had grown to about an inch sized fuzz around his skull.

Max rushed forward and halted right beside his bedside, “Can I hug you? Please?” her knees bent a little at the final request. Billy’s eyes were wide and reflective as he nodded. She threw her arms open but moved slowly. They clung to each other and ‘I’m sorry’s’ were tossed back and forth relentlessly. Repeated over and over again by both of them. They stayed huddled on the edge of the bed so Steve allowed himself in with silent steps. He hovered in the middle space of the doorway and the end of Billy’s hospital bed as he stared out the window respectively letting them have their reunion.

“So, Harrington,” he heard suddenly, “What’s been up since I left?” Steve looked at the two again. Max sat in the empty and partially dusty chair closest to Billy’s bedside. Her hair brightened in the sunlight that peaked through the mostly opened blinds. Billy had a pleased smile when Steve looked at him. And then he noticed the little dots contrasted against Billy’s paled skin.

“I never realized you had freckles,” Steve answered instead. Then he jolted a little at the realization that he’d said it out loud. “I mean, cause, you know, they look...nice,” he stuttered. “They’re a good look.”

Billy smirked at his dumbfounded fumbling, “Thanks, Harrington.” His own pink ears didn’t go unnoticed.

Steve sighed in relief silently and nodded, “Steve. You can call me Steve.”

Billy tilted his head much like an innocent bird, “Alright, Steve,” he said casually. “Missed you too,” he added after a blank moment.

Steve eyebrows came together in his confusion, “Really?”

Billy grinned a little dopily, “Yeah.”

The room grew warmer.

...

Steve hadn’t expected the drastic change. Sure, Billy still made his sarcastic comments and jokes. But, they were produced with a foreign sort of care. Steve found himself a little dumbfounded a couple times when Billy called him nicknames with no joking aim to his voice.

“What’s this, Princess?” he asked when Steve handed over a folded brown paper bag. Something began to boil in Steve’s tummy and chest.

“A puzzle,” he answered, “300 pieces,” he smiled widely. Billy raised one eyebrow and opened the bag noisily. He pulled out the box and admired the picture. It was something out of a calendar, the lineup of top model muscle cars. Silvers and golds and blues and reds and greens. “I just thought it looked cool,” Steve shrugged. He truly, definitely, absolutely hadn’t noticed the Camaro right dab in the middle. Nope.

Billy chuckled and set it in his lap, “Well thanks,” he smiled toothily. “Welcome back, have a seat,” he gestured to the seat that Max had sat in the last time they had visited.

Steve nodded and did as requested, “Max had homework to do so she told me to come visit alone. Hope that’s okay,” he gripped the arms of the chair and slid it so he could face Billy better.

Something fell from Billy’s expression, eyes turned down in disappointment, “You didn’t have to come if you didn’t want to. I’d prefer you to actually want to be here instead, actually.” Blatant honesty was another thing Billy had taken up, or maybe he just enhanced it with all the help from the therapist that came in on Wednesday’s.

Steve crossed his legs and kept his hands around the arm rests with furrowed brows, “What are you talking about? I was already coming, she just couldn’t make it this time around. I want to be here, Bill. Kinda want to retry the whole friend thing if you don’t mind actually,” he looked off to Billy’s shoulder.

Billy looked surprised at that, “Wait,” he lifted his arms a little, “You want to be friends with me?” he asked.

Steve looked back at him and smiled, “Well yeah,” he tuned, “I think we could both use a buddy.” He flapped his ebows out a little as if to nudge him goofily.

Billy’s lips twisted, “I will not be referred to as a ‘buddy’ thank you very much,” he grumbled.

Steve only laughed as he wrapped an arm wound himself comfortably and leaned back, “Yeah, yeah.”

Billy opened his mouth and then closed it again before looking at Steve and opening it again, “I had my third session with Dr. Eros today.” The therapist.

Steve looked on interestedly, “How’d it go?”

Billy relaxed more in himself, “we talked about you actually.”

Something fluttered in his abdomen nervously, “Me?”

Billy nodded, “He said,” Billy looked down and then back up again, “And I agreed, that I should apologize for how I treated you.” He seemed to be struggling for words so Steve silently let him find his footing. “You just wanted to finish high school and I just assumed you were a sucky person because of all the bullshit Tommy Hagan cranked out.”

“You know, I already forgive you,” Steve assured. Although, Billy didn’t look any bit assured at all.

“No, Steve,” he sat up and swiveled around to his feet dangled off and he could look directly at him, “You don’t need to say that. I was bad. I was,” he grew teary, “I pushed everyone good away. Anyone that was nice to me and that was horrible. So, for me, if you really do forgive me. Help remind me that I can’t push you away. You can’t forgive me that easily. That’s not how it works.”

“Seems to me that you’ve ingrained that into your own head just fine by now,” Steve smiled forlornly.

Billy pressed his lips together, “Please, I need something earned.” Steve watched as Billy slowly got up to his feet and traveled over to the chair beside him.

“Alright, Bill, whatever you wish.”

Billy nodded determinedly, brows creased, “Thank you.”

“Now let’s get to that puzzle,” he untangled himself and leaned forward. “I suck at them so hopefully you’ll be a bit better.” Billy snorted quietly and Steve found himself gazing and stupefied by the surprisingly adorable sound. Steve took the box to distract himself by opening it.

“My reflexes and muscle endurance is still shit,” Billy watched Steve’s hands. “But I’ll try, Pretty Boy.” He called Steve that the most.

They worked on the puzzle for three hours. They got distracted multiple times and had to stop when a nurse wandered in occasionally to check vitals and blood pressure or give Billy his food. They had finished and cheered half heartedly to celebrate when Billy laid back in his mattress with a long sigh. A content one.

“Man, you know what I could really use?” he asked with his eyes closed and his long eyelashes shadowing his cheeks.

“What’s that?” Steve stretched his back and shoulders.

Billy stayed still, “A smoothie.”

Steve lowered his arms and stared at Billy’s, for once, peaceful face, “Really?”

Billy nodded, “Hell yeah. I love them, I do miss the Orange Julius’ they had in Cali.”

Steve shook his head, “There’s one in just the next county over,” he disagreed, “Oh, and there’s a smoothie bar that just opened actually,” he added offhandedly. He didn’t mention the one in the mall.

Billy chuckled in a sarcastic manner, “Some people don’t like it when you’re trying to be happy, Steve.”

Steve leaned forward again to focus, “What do you mean by that?”

Billy simply opened one eye and said, “You gonna go get me a smoothie or what? Maybe it’ll be easier to down than the flavorless burgers they have here.”

Steve shook his head, “I doubt that.” But he gave Billy a considerate hug goodbye anyway.

...

Steve had only been gone forty minutes. But apparently that was enough time for Neil Hargrove to finally hear about his son’s arrangement in the hospital. Why Max had insisted that he didn’t know was beyond Steve’s knowledge. But he also knew that Max was smart and most likely had her good reasons. So when he heard from the nurse that he had arrived and was in the room with Billy, he ran. Ignoring her requests to slow down and not bringing the smoothies into the room. The door hit the wall when it opened and he had to act fast to keep the smoothies from tipping over and onto the floor.

He hadn’t even had time to look up when he heard, “Oh!” and a harsh laugh. “That's why you kept looking at the door instead of at me? Thought someone was coming to save you from this?” The man sounded dangerous but Steve almost laughed when he looked up. The handlebar mustache and rectangular face. He wasn’t surprised. The man looked like the type and Steve had his own expertise when it came to reading people. Billy’s glassy and unemotional eyes were what really made the difference though. Billy had started to portray his emotions, now they were all blocked off. It was scary.

“Shut up and get away from him.” Steve hadn’t even realized he said it. But he did feel the adrenaline rush that came with the disastrous rage that surfaced. Neil’s face morphed from cruel amusement to fury in just one second. Billy’s transformed to horror. Steve felt his stomach twist but he gathered enough of a hold to offer a shaky smile to the familiar blue eyes.

“Steve—“

“You have some nerve to speak to me that way,” Neil spoke quietly. Steve wavered for only a moment. He had faced worse monsters than the senior Hargrove. Hell, he’d faced one Hargrove already. Of course, he still wished he had his bat or Max in this round too.

“I have more reason than nerve,” Steve spouted back and relaxed his shoulders forcefully.

Neil looked out the door and when Steve blinked he was faced with a smiling man, “Why don’t we speak outside, boy?”

“No— Da— Sir,” Billy shifted in his spot but Steve had already turned on his heel after setting the drink tray down on an empty seat. Neil Hargrove’s footsteps followed him all the way outside and even to his car. When he heard the tempo of them speed up he ran again. Opened his trunk and took out the bat.

“What the fuck is that?” the man roared. Steve disregarded him and gripped the hilt just like he did when he was preparing himself for a demodog. The parking lot wasn’t very empty but there was space and no one out to witness firsthand what was about to happen.

Steve taunted the bat and held it low, “You come near me?” He nodded to the blood rusted nailed bat, “You get hit.” Neil looked frightened before he shifted to unbothered. There was a glint in his eyes. Something broken between scared and doubtful.

“You don’t have the guts, kid,” he spoke. Steve already assumed that Neil wouldn’t be one to back down from a fight; too egotistical.

“Oh yeah?” Steve waved the bat back and forth like a golfer before taking a swing. He made easy eye contact with the tense man, “Try me.” Neil took a step back and straightened his posture. Steve was still taller.

“What do you want?” he asked. “Want me to stop bullying my pathetic son, eh?” he perceived unconcern.

“Almost spot on,” Steve smiled wickedly and tightened his hold as his anger and annoyance grew uncontainable, “I want you to fuck off.” He stepped closer when Neil opened his mouth, “I have connections in this town. And I have ways to take you out in just a measly hour at any given notice. So, you leave him alone or you leave this town. Because if I see a hair out of place on him by your hand?” They were nose to nose and the tip of the closest nails were poking Neil’s chest stingingly. “You’re dead, Hargrove.” He pushed the man back with a force that made him hiss in pain when the nails dug in. Steve smiled unkindly and backed away slowly until Neil took the hint.

Max arrived with Susan not too long after Steve had returned to Billy. He’d calmed Billy down as much as possible and then shoved a lukewarm blueberry and vanilla smoothie into his palm to cease the questions.

Steve stayed silent through any inquisitives for most of his visit.

...

“Max said Neil left town,” Billy opened with when Steve walked through the doorway.

“Ran off where?” Steve asked without looking. He removed his backpack and sat in the accustomed chair as he unzipped it.

Billy sounded on edge and relieved all at once, “No one knows, but he left two hundred in cash and his car is gone along with a forth of the house.”

Steve snorted, “Figures.” Billy grunted in what Steve supposed was agreement.

“Did you have anything to do with this?” Billy went on as he took the paper diner cup filled with milkshake.

“Yeah, I sneak your weekly smoothies and milkshakes in all by myself. You’re welcome,” Steve deflected.

“Steve.” He sighed and looked at Billy. Billy looked determined and unbridled and Steve was done with side stepping.

“I threatened him with my bat,” he said and fiddled with the straw in his own treat.

“Why?” Billy asked curiously, not exactly what Steve had expected as the response. Maybe more of a, ‘why the hell are you interfering, Harrington?’ sort of thing.

“Uh,” he squinted as he pondered how to answer. “Well, he’s an asshole, he hurt you, and I hate him. So I think that’s enough of a reason,” he nodded to himself and took a sip of vanilla ice cream. Billy hesitated and then did the same but didn’t take his eyes away from Steve’s.

“Are you two having, like, a full conversation like this?” Max barged in unapologetically. “‘Cause you’re not saying anything and it’s creepy

Billy spoke before Steve could, “I got him to answer.”

Max sat by his feet on the end of the bed and swung her legs, “Care to restate?”

Billy rolled his eyes fondly as Steve watched them with his jaw lowered, “It was the bat.”

Max smirked, “I knew it. What did you say to him to shake him up so bad?” Steve settled himself with the knowledge that he'd managed to remove another monster from Hawkins as he formed an appropriate response. That he technically did the right thing, and he didn’t actually end up hurting anyone.

“That’s just for him and I to know I think,” he deflected quietly. “And he’s gone now, so all that matters is getting Billy back on his feet.”

Billy’s eyes grew dewy but he smiled freely, “Okay,” his voice cracked with emotion. Max scowled but didn’t push it. Instead, she took off her bag and picked out a comic that Steve didn’t recognize.

“Here,” she shoved it into Billy’s hand, “It’s a new one Dustin gave me.” When a tear fell and Billy brushed it away, no one mentioned it. At least not right away. When Max went to get a drink downstairs Steve scooted closer.

“You know you’re not alone, right?” he looked down and grasped Billy's hand with both of his own. “You have me and Max. We’ll be here every day, Bill,” Steve swore. “No, need to waste your tears over that asshole.”

“I just never thought it would happen,” his cheeks were wet. “I mean, I don’t have either of my parents left.”

Steve’s eyebrows scrunched, “And you don’t need them.”

“But I do, Steve!” Billy’s hand shook even between Steve’s own. “What am I supposed to do? My mother’s somewhere off in Washington state and my father is a piece of shit that won’t even try to change.”

Steve leaned in and spoke quietly, “Both of them don’t deserve you. You’re so strong, Billy. You went up against an interdimensional monster and won. You’ve grown and you’re working on yourself, allowing yourself into therapy and getting actual help.” Billy’s lips quivered and more tears fell. “You’re so much better than them, Bill, better than them put together. So much better.” Billy pawed away the wires and Steve was halfway on the bed as he held him.

His shoulder was drenched by the time Max returned. But Billy had a new light to his demeanor. And that was way more important.

...

Max stopped Steve before they exited the doors to the parking lot, “We should tell the others.”

Steve stared at her, a little boggled, “Uh, okay. We can do that, yeah,” he nodded.

“Tonight,” she looked up at him stonily. She acted like her brother more than most would think since they weren’t biologically related. Unbudging.

“Max,” he looked at his watch, “It’s six, they’ll all be having dinner with their families.”

She laughed a little, not in an amused way either, “At least they get that luxury even if we don’t.”

“Max—“ he began warningly.

“You don’t have to hide it, Steve,” she put her hands on her hips, “We know that your parents are practically nonexistent. They’re never around in the first place and Joyce had to drive you home from the hospital after Starcourt. And you were here for most of the week.” He sighed tiredly. He couldn’t disagree with her, no one ever disagreed with Max and won easily.

“Don’t get too worked up over it, Mad Max,” he patted her shoulder fraternally. She looked unimpressed in return. “How about we get some KFC and you, me, and your mom can have our own little dinner.”

She smiled and he felt something release itself from the back of his mind, “Let’s go then!”

…

He may have gone a little overboard, there was lots of fried chicken and lots of mashed potatoes in his and Max’s possession as they walked into the house. Susan was reading on the small sofa as muted baseball illuminated the television box.

“Steve bought dinner, Mama!” Max greeted loudly as she kicked off her shoes and joined her mother.

Steve laughed to himself, “Hope you don’t mind, Ma’am,” he set a bag of food beside Max’s on the table. Susan had gotten a lot more independent in just a few days. Had gone out for dinner with Claudia Henderson, made very good friends with her. Had a job in a boutique in town and everything. Max started spending more time with her now too.

“Oh, it’s just fine,” she waved his nerves off and opened a bag, “Thank you, and take a seat, Hun.” He did just that and Max went to get plates and silverware from the kitchen. Susan looked at him as she opened the containers, “How is he?” she asked earnestly.

“He’s doing even better since you last visited,” he responded as he eyed the condensation bubbles on a lid move, “Much better actually. His motor skills are improving and he’s laughing more. We went outside the other day and watched the birds. The fresh air improved his mood a ton,” Steve smiled at the memory.

“That’s wonderful,” Susan smiled as she listened to him. “I’m glad he’s got a friend like you.”

Steve’s cheeks darkened a little, “He’s a nice friend to have.”

Susan nodded a bit distractedly and then she sat up straighter, “Oh! I’ve started re-doing his bedroom. I patched up the walls,” they both winced at that, “Repainted. All the works,” her smile was hesitant. Like she had a podium to prove too.

“Can I see it?” Steve pointed to the hallway without looking away from her.

She stood up, delighted, “Yes, yes,” she led him down and to a partially chipped door. She opened it and let the door swing by itself with a push. The walls were a pale blue and Billy’s bed stood lowly against the wall with white blankets and pillows. There weren’t any posters or personal belongings. Susan seemed to notice his own observations. “I only kept Neil,” she spoke his name with disgust, “From turning it into his own at home office by suggesting a guest room. I used this to cope guess,” she admitted shamefully.

Steve shrugged and looked at the bed again, sunken lower in the middle edge, “Better than I did. I didn’t leave my bed for weeks,” he looked back at her.

She smiled sadly and patted his shoulder, “Let’s get back. Max has most likely stopped waiting for us by now. I have a hunch it took so long just so I could finally speak to you about him. She’s not very good with words,” she whispered to him with a small smile.” They stopped at the end of the hallway to see Max scooping potato into her mouth unmannerly. “Billy never was either,” she finished.

...

Billy was staring at his lap the next time Steve entered. His eyes were wide and moist, there wasn’t anything surprised in them though. The man looked like his worst fear had just come true.

Steve set down his bag and shuffled close, “What’s wrong?” Billy held up a postcard displaying ‘Hawkins’ in green, cursive writing.

“It’s from my father, he’s back,” Billy didn’t even look up as he held the card to Steve’s chest. He took it from Billy’s trembling hand and read the back. Billy recited for him though, “‘Your boyfriend can’t keep me away.’” Steve stared at Billy and dropped his hand with the card clenched in his fist. “Charming right?” Billy’s eyes were hollow, somehow more broken looking than any of the times they’d talked. And they had exchanged many stories, Steve had lost count of the amount of times Billy had cried. This was something old.

“I’ll find him again,” Steve promised, “This time I won’t let him off so easy.” He kept the hostility he felt away from Billy’s eyes. Didn’t want Billy to have to worry so much about it.

“There’s only one place you can find these types of postcards, Hawkins is usually printed in red. Must be symbolic.” Steve stood up, ready to head out the door as he developed a plan. But he stopped. Billy was looking at him, eyes wide and moist again. The sunlight shun and Billy looked like that of an angel. Steve leaned down and wrapped him up in his arms. “I’ll get him out of here, Bill. I promise this time.” It was the first time Billy pulled him in back. So Steve stayed a moment, not rushing anything even though his mind was half with Billy and half running downstairs to the pay phone.

When Billy was the one to let go, Steve stepped back. “Good luck,” he heard just as he reached the doorway.

He turned around and smiled, preserving, “Thanks!” Like he wasn’t going to go and quite possibly kill Billy’s father. Maybe just severely maim. But Billy’s lips lifted at the corners and his eyes looked more structured, so Steve left with a prominent smile.

He went downstairs to the pay phone and took it off the hook to place in the crook of his neck as he pulled quarters out of his pockets. He dialed. It rang and rang and then there was a connection.

“Hello?” he heard.

Steve took a breath and then dived, “It’s Steve. And I need you to listen to what I have to say. Clear your schedule for the day.”

He sighed, “What is it now?”

“I’m hunting down Hargrove and I need your assistance.”

“Steve, you know he’s in the hosp—“

“Not that one.”

It was quiet for a long time, “You at the hospital?”

“Yep.”

“Have any clue where the bastard is?”

“Yep.” He looked down at the postcard still in his hand, “Meet me at the Roadwood in Marion.”

“I’ll be there, kid,” Hopper cut the line. And Steve went to the car.

...

The desk lady looked very uninterested in Steve as he walked up to the counter, “I’m here to see Neil Hargrove,” he smiled casually and leaned a little against the counter. “Is he here?”

The lady’s gum popped and she leaned forward, searching out a paper with her pencil, “Room 5,” she stated and leaned back again.

Steve’s smile tightened, “Thanks,” he nodded and left back out the door. Stopped by his car to get the weapon. And when he got to the door he knocked and then stood out of the way of the little peephole. The door opened a moment later revealing Hargrove’s pinched and confused, ugly, face. “I thought I told you to leave.”

Neil looked over a bit bewildered and then he scowled, “And then I realized that it’d be idiotic to listen to some teenager.”

Steve continued to look unimpressed, “I’m twenty.”

“Same thing.”

Steve took his bat out from behind his back, “I suggest you get in the room and wait for my friend to get here. Then we’ll deal with you.”

Neil hesitated and Steve rose the bat up threateningly before the man bolted into the room. Forgetting to shut the door. Steve followed him in after spotting Hopper’s truck and waving a signal to him. Inside, Neil had gathered the bedsheets like he was going to capture some sort of animal.

“Now,” Steve began like the good conversationalist he was, “Either you leave today or I deal with you personally.”

Hopper appeared behind him in the doorway, “The walls are soundproof,” he closed the door. “Too many noise complaints, brought business down,” he was beside Steve with a roll of duct tape around his wrist and a crowbar in his hand, “Installed much better stuff.”

Neil backed up to the opposite wall, “This is illegal.”

“And you abuse your son,” Hopper snapped, “So make your decision because our job is to protect this town. And you’re one of the things we get rid of. And that’s either the county border or the ground. Figure that shit out on your own. I don’t play nice with people like you.”

Steve smirked humorlessly, “I warned you,” he mused.

Neil glanced at his suitcase and held his hands up, eyes shifty, “I’ll leave, I’ll leave!” Steve looked at Hopper and was met with the same expression, doubt. And it was further rooted when they both spotted the small pistol badly hidden under a wrinkled shirt.

Steve leveled his bat out and stepped forward, “No you’re not.” He rushed Neil, whacked his leg and got the bat stuck before it ripped out due to the bulky man falling to the ground. He gave a yelp of agony and blood dripped into the carpet slowly. He started crawling to his suitcase but Steve brought the bat down on his back. Neil kept going between the moments Steve checked on Hopper who was standing and watching, crowbar at the ready if needed. When Steve looked back at Neil again he was reaching for the gun. Neil had just gotten it in his grasp when he rose the bat in the air and slammed it down on his head.

Steve stepped back again and sighed, “Now you’re really dead, Hargrove.”

Hopper took him. Backed the truck up and covered him with a tarp. Steve didn’t ask where. Didn’t need to know.

But, just so you know, they never did see Neil Hargrove again.

...

Billy didn’t ask either, not exactly. Steve just walked back in, hair wet from a shower and completely different clothes. He watched him sit down, eyes wide and Steve nodded while he scratched under his jaw through a yawn. But that was it, no great breakout. No yelling, no thanking, nothing about it.

“So,” Steve propped his elbow on top of the arm of the chair and then his chin in his hand, “Any plans for when you get out?”

Billy shrugged and his face was less solemn, “I’m not sure, I’ll probably move out of town. Everyone here thinks I’m dead anyway.”

Steve’s eyes widened, “Uh—“ he grasped the arm and leaned forward, “Max wanted to tell the Party. Did she tell you that? I barely stopped her last night.”

Billy didn’t show anything towards recognition, “She what?”

Steve sat back in the chair again, shoulders sagged tiredly, “We were thinking of letting the others know you’re alive.”

Billy brought a hand up slowly and pinched the bridge of his nose, “Steve.”

“I know,” he put his hands up and bit his tongue as tears surfaced. He was really going to miss Billy Hargrove, wasn’t he? “You’ll probably want to go all the way to,” Steve waved a hand around thoughtfully, “Like, France or something. At least there are no monsters there.”

Billy’s eyes were a little lost and far away, “I can’t speak french.”

Steve looked up quick and then laughed, running a hand through his hair, “New York?”

Billy shrugged, “Probably not...” Billy hiccuped through a shaky breath, “How about you?”

“I’m not smart enough to do any of that,” Steve picked at a loose thread. “I was considering Colorado. Maybe get a degree in teaching art? My aunt always said I had a bit of a talent when it came to a canvas.” He shrugged to himself and looked up to Billy. Fond, glittery eyed Hargrove.

“That’s great,” he whispered and pulled the thin hospital blanket up to his chest. “I’m tired, do you mind shutting the blinds?”

Steve got up and traveled around the room blocking off all the light, “I’ll stay a little longer, ‘kay?”

Billy stared at him for a very long moment, half laying down with his blanket clutched. Steve stayed still with his hands around the stick to close the blinds and looked right back. And then Billy cried.

Steve rushed forward, “Hey, hey, hey,” he sat on the side of the bed and eased Billy against him. “It’s okay,” he rubbed Billy’s back as he sobbed. Each raspy intake of breath like a nail in Steve’s chest. “It’s alright, Billy. You’re going to be okay.”

“I don’t have anywhere to go.”

Steve pressed his head against Billy’s, “Susan will take you in. She’s been working on your old bedroom.” He didn’t mention how it was originally Susan’s grief distraction project for a guest room.

“Really?” Billy said through harsh breaths. Steve nodded against his shoulder. “Sorry,” Billy mumbled into his shoulder, “Guess I just,” he paused and went a little limper, “I guess I just didn’t like hearing that you would be so far away in the,” he put his hands up in some mock, grand gesture, “Foreseeable future we’ve thought up.”

Steve sat back a little so he could see some of Billy and take hold of his hand, “I promised I wouldn’t leave you alone, didn’t I?”

“Huh?” Billy’s arms tightened around him and little and Steve melted like chocolate left in the sun.

“We could leave town together,” Steve offered instead, “We could get an apartment or something in some other small town or a city somewhere.” Billy’s breathing slowly eased back to soft hiccups of intakes as Steve rocked them side to side. Billy let him, let him help in the ways he knew how.

Steve felt a kiss to his cheek, “Colorado sounds nice.” And even if it seemed far away and near inconsiderable, they allowed themselves to hope. To dream something up. Together.

#steve harrington #Billy Hargrove #harringrove #max mayfield #neil hargrove #susan hargrove #tw: nongraphic descriptions of violence #and mentioned death #jim hopper

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