#xfluffy

[withoneheadlight]

Towards the limits of maps

~~

Hopper offers him a job, afterwards.

“It’s not much, but It’ll help you get by, pay the bills, ‘till you find something better”

It’s at the station. No less. Consists basically of tidying up the office and replacing the tank from the water machine and keeping the bathrooms clean and generally “Getting some heavy lifting out of our dear Flo’s shoulders” and. The old Billy Hargrove. The one that used to swagger his way around and was all charm and purposeful winks and still hadn’t been permanently scarred from the inside out would’ve gag at the mere thought of it. Accepting a job from the Chief of Police. The Hawkins, Indiana , Chief of Police. But this Billy has trouble keeping his spine from crumbling down on his best days and feels stupidly, shamefully thankful for the way Jim Hopper knows without asking. Understands, without Billy having to say a word so,

He takes the job.

Vacuums the cars. Mops the floors. Buys yellow-bright rubber gloves so he doesn’t actually gag as he scrubs off the toilets. Does his best to get that weight off Flo’s shoulders and Flo―

Flo.

Smiles at him radiant . A warm “ Good morning, dear!” every day ( every , single, day). Asks him how he likes coffee once and then remembers . Insists on still brewing it herself because “I’m kind of an egoist, you see. Love to see people’s faces when I bring it to them. It’s like liquid happiness. Makes people beam . Probably because it’s, you know, technically a drug but― ’guess everybody needs their some” grinning and nudging at Billy’s ribs with a strength that makes him wince like she’s seventeen instead of sixty “But I also kinda like to water it a bit and forget to warm it up if they get me real pissed”.

Flo.

Teaches Billy how to use the squeegee so washing the windows takes him two hours instead like, two days. Makes him type whatever notes have to be typed because “It’s a good skill, boy. And you’ve to start thinking about your future”. Makes him laugh until he goes breathless and has to brace his ribs from the shock of laughter but also from the timid, feather-like feeling of actual, genuine happiness and from yeah, some little more elbowing that kind of makes his chest bloom with warmth. Flo asks him how his day’s going. If he’s feeling well. Brings the back of her hand to his forehead if his eyes look “A little too bright, sugar. Think you should go home early today”. Calls him―calls him sugar. Like Billy’s sweet . Worth having around. Worth “Making my wrinkles even deeper, hon. I swear” Has this effect on Billy, makes him want to take care of her. To be nice . Polite. Better . Earn that sugar she keeps on putting on his coffee and right after his name.

Flo.

Smiles at  him sad and wish you could have it, kid. The day she notices. Two months into the job. Steve Harrington showing up for the fourth time that week. Something about a ‘Plan’, about being ready ‘Just in case’ and a wholla lot more of somethings neither him or Hopper share with him because Billy’s too fragile or maybe too potentially dangerous or maybe just― too blurred into his periphery. Steve Harrington. With his movie-star hair and his movie-star stance and his flashy-white smile and his flashy-white nikes Billy shouldn’t like this much. Leaning on the reception counter to flirt with Flo, tease Billy about how much more cute he looks with his now longer hair. Making it feel like he’s also flirting. With him. Pretending to check him out with a slow, deliberate up-and-down-and-down-and-up stare. Making Billy both want to punch him straight into the nose and let his eyes wander, wander, wonder. Up the unbuttoned collar of his preppy-in-pink lapels-raised polo. Up the trail of dark fuzz coming out and those dots ascending in twos. Trace their route with the tips of his fingers. Two on the hollow of Steve’s throat. Two over the beat of his pulse. Two on the apple of his cheek and then just― fall. Pads on his lower lip and tugging. A wordless question. ‘Can I? Can I? Open your mouth with my mouth. Find out what lies beyond the limit of maps?’.

But Steve. He’s a daydream. An illusion. Will never become real, for someone like him. So he keeps on doing the job. One day at a time. One foot after the other. And the money pays for staying out of Neil’s. Pays for having Max and her flock of nerds over on Saturday nights and those dead hours of Sundays. Pays for having something resembling a life enough for Billy to keep on going. Think about that future Flo keeps insisting on from time to time. Pays for some peace of mind.

Pays for the possibility that, after all, Billy is gonna survive all of this.

So winter passes, and then spring , over this supposedly “Just for a few weeks” ―job and now Billy’s attending the calls, some days, kinda playing the secretary, kinda “ Not much ‘till I retire, kid . So you might as well learn how it’s done. In case you’d consider to―you know. Take it”. Feeling good, and maybe, perhaps. Happy. Feeling like life’s not a burden anymore, at least, when Flo feeds him homemade donuts and drags him into a shopping rampage to get a few things so she can help him to “Make that apartment you live in look more like a home and less like an abandoned mausoleum” and it does , in the end, look more like a home, like ‘A Billy Hargrove lives here’ instead of a ‘Here lies a Billy Hargrove’ and Flo says “I told you” , success making her bold enough to make him buy some new clothes, buy him some more, assault the black hole of Billy’s wardrobe and dig out his old leather jacket, saying “ You look gorgeous, sugar. You should wear this again” making  Billy get a little too emotional, a little too trying not to drop his feelings so they don’t go scattering all over the place, when he asks her,

“How could I― repay you. For all of this”

Truly meaning all, meaning me, when he says this. But all Flo does is snort, shake her head, pat his cheek and tell him,

“Billy, sugar. You repay me every day”

But then her face lights up, all old-lady mischief behind impossibly big glasses. She looks down at the jacket, up at Billy, and then,

“But I’ve heard it’s been a while since you went on a date”

So Billy snickers, ceremoniously puts his old dangling earring on. Invites Flo to popcorn and to that Cobra movie with Stallone. Laughs his ass off for the whole theater to hear from the second row, where he and Flo had to sit because “Can you believe it, sweetie? I can barely see the screen from here but he’s gonna arrest those men wearing his goddam sunglasses”.

It’s only after all the credits have rolled off, the room nearly empty, that Billy spots him. Walking down the steps from the top row, side by side with Robin Buckley. Smile growing and growing and blooming something wild as their eyes lock. Movie-star pretty and as unreachable as if he shared their same sky. And he’s― saying something. To Billy. Something including a “Hey” and a “Glad to see you too, Flo” and then a “Really?” when Flo explains to him that no, she didn’t trip , that’s not the reason why’s she leaning on Billy’s arm “But thank you for caring, hun” . Then she’s explaining the real reason. At length. Going on and on and on about how “This sweetheart here. He’s so caring. Keeps on spoiling me to no end” while Billy feels blood rushing to his face and thinks that they must be there all the time, waiting for when the light is right, just like now: that golden crown and that royal smile. And the seats of The Hawk are red and velvet and the projector’s still running behind him, bathing his body in a sunshine glow and Billy might be feeling a bit dazed, a bit shot through the heart.

It was love at first sight, then. Now. Every single time.

That’s why he’s not fully functioning, not fully at the reigns of himself when Steve glances back at him. Grins. Says.

“Gosh, Hargrove. Makes me wish you’d treat me that well”

And. You see. Billy’s been in Flo-mode for months on end. And Flo-mode means getting the calls with a “Helloooooo!”. Adding dear or hun or sugar at the end of every phrase. Bringing Hooper his coffee and stir his half a spoon of sugar for him with a smile so big his six-am temper goes crashing into it. Hiding Powell’s nicotine menthols and putting the blame on Callahan while trying not to choke-chuckle as they bicker about it all day. Means joking about the daily crossword in the newspaper during lunch breaks. Means being around someone with whom billy can be light.

Means that, against all odds, the paper-thin skin of his scars might hold up, after all. Keep him alive inside. Means Billy’s become sweeter, indeed. Taken down his guard.

Means that, when Steve Harrington tilts his head to the side, all honey-coated eyes and waiting, Billy trips on what’s left of his swagger and falls hard on his knees and mumbles.

“I would. If you’d let me. I’d treat you like nobody else has”

And Steve. It’s minuscule. A work of art. The way those eyes widen just so. The way breath catches on his windpipe. The way that, apparently, it was this what it took, all along, Billy in front of him without his army. Not a conquer but,

A surrender.

His whole heart for the King of Hearts.

And then, Robin Buckley cackles.

Steve breathes out, says “Oh” and then “Wow” and the here and now seems to shake out of its stillness with him. And the damage must be serious because Flo��s hand is tightening around his forearm and she’s got that voice on, the one she uses when Randolph Ferguson calls drunk-as-a-skunk every Sunday morning at seven a.m “You should go to bed and sleep it off, honey” . Conciliatory. But what she’s sayings is “We maybe should get going, sweetheart” tugging slightly at him while Buckley’s laughter sets into a maniac grin even if she’s― not looking at him, but at Steve, drawling something in between her teeth, something with a ‘Told’ and a ‘You’ , but Flo’s very politely tugging harder, waving them away, damaging control at its best, because she knows , and she knows , that billy doesn’t need more breaking, so they’re almost at the door, running away, not unscathed but, almost when Steve,

Calls,

Calls him.

“Billy!” and he hasn’t moved an inch but he sounds out of breath, rasps a “Hey” and at first, Billy thought all he wanted was something shiny. A King. A Crown. A conquer. But then Steve Harrington looked at him with those eyes and Billy knew all he really wanted was to know how love looked written all over them.

So he turns. Sets his jaw. Squares himself to take the blow.

“Yeah?”

How he would look. Close enough to be reflected on them.

“Tomorrow. When you―. Want me to pick you up, when you get out?”

And Buckley’s eyes jump into Billy’s, now. Teeth biting at her grin through the inside of her cheeks. And Flo’s sighing her relief right by his ear. And they’re holding. These scars. They’re holding but also― he can feel it now, where skin used to be worn-out leather and now’s paper-thin, the way Steve might be, too. Wanting. Longing.

To let Billy part his lips with his.

And Billy’s― Static. Thunderstruck. But Flo says,

“At five. Sharp” and her fingers dig deeper on Billy’s forearm but now they’re not tugging away “I’ll make sure of it”

And then Steve smiles and it’s lovelovelove , at every fucking sight. Dimples deep and those two dots right by his check, one last step and then―

“It’s a date” he nods, and he’s what Princes Charming grows into, and Billy wants to ask him once and then remember , make him coffee every morning just so he can see that smile “Can’t wait to see if you meant those words”

(And he does. 

Black. One spoon of sugar. Takes it to their bed. Two years later. Wakes him up with a kiss, makes him smile, falls in love a little more.

In a few hours, they’ll be eating homemade donuts and making toasts at Flo’s retirement party. Billy’s planned on taking her on a date, afterwards.

“Hop’s offered me the job” he says, getting back under the covers and–

That smile .

 “And are you ― gonna take it?”

One of Billy’s favorite things, is that Steve can’t really contain it.

“ Well, I still mean what I said so. I guess I have to”

And then there’s lovelovelove , when Steve brings him to where the limits of maps are waiting, lovelovelove , where Billy’s reflected into his eyes)

[withoneheadlight]

no. look. you're right. he does. and, billy notices. so one day he takes steve's hand, guides it to the stick, right under his, and then he drives like that, their hands intertwined, the gear reverberating through the transmission and right into their palms as billy drives the camaro in abrupt shifts, making it roar and whine, pushing the gear into its limits. and by the time he finally stops the car, the cabin overflowing with heat and the dizzying smell of gasoline, steve is hard as a rock and so turned on he can barely put one word after the other, but, he manages to get out the most relevant ones: "backseat. now, hargrove. it's my turn to ride you"

(also! one of billy's biggest turn ons? steve driving his car, his long, beautiful fingers sliding over the steering wheel with so much care, smoothly working the shift, the camaro purring under his touch and— let's say they can barely drive anywhere without visiting the backseat xD)

(also! it becomes their stupidly romantic little thing too. steve wrapping his hand over the stick the moment he gets into the car, billy's finding its place around it. and viceversa)

:D

i dare you to tell me steve doesn’t get weirdly turned on when billy drives stick. when billy does it while steve is in the car with him, he tries so hard not to mount him.

[zoralux]

Real talk: working in an office has ruined my ability to casually message people on here. Everything turns into a work email.

“Hi, xfluffy-bunzx! Per the askbox meme you sent the other day…”

[withoneheadlight]

ok but billy and steve both getting summer jobs at the local aquarium yeah i know there isn't one let’s act like there is and steve works at the gift shop and billy’s working with the dolphins as some kind of caretaker’s assistant, making sure things around and inside their tank are nice and clean, making them company, feeding them and— the dolphins are the cutest thing, to be honest. there are three of them: flipper (originality what’s that?) and happy and james and they know all these tricks and they love attention so it’s just normal that ‘i used to be hard and cold-blooded but now i spend 8/6 with the equivalent of three little kids and i’ve melted quicker than a popsicle left out in the sun’—billy hargrove ends up having the time of his life and feeling like he’s not working at all while he swims with the dolphins and lets them carry him around and plays with them and jokes with them and talks to them and—

aside from that, working in a little town aquarium is kind of lonely, more so at the gift-shop, so steve goes visiting every day. talks with billy and pets the dolphins and claps and laughs and ‘whuhuuu!’s delighted at their tricks even when they splash him soaked and maybe, just maybe ‘i used to be the big bad wolf but now i spend all my days giving kisses to dolphins' —billy hargrove might find it endearing when steve’s eyes crease at the sides, seeking for billy’s like for some kind of connection and uhhh, that’s really dangerous territory but billy spends all his summer wandering into it anyway, having lunch with steve, throwing him into the tank when he can't seem to decide whether or not he dares to swim with the dolphins, getting blinded at how pretty he looks, wet and with all that hair turned into a wild mess after drying up in the sun and, wrapped in billy's towel and then dressed in billy's emergency clothes all day.

so, one day he’s talking with his the dolphins, absently cleaning the tank with a net, trying to make them understand that “no, there’s no way i’m gonna tell him how i feel” and “no, flipper, he doesn’t want me back you’re wrong” and ‘oh, that's so easy to say when it's not you who’s gonna have to deal with the consequences aka he hating me” and “yeah, i am in love with him that’s why i don't wanna go and risk losing him, you giant tuna!” and

that’s when steve suddenly shows up, brows furrowing and asking:

“who are you in love with?”

and that’s when, all three dolphins rise up on their wiggling tails, move their left fins in unison,

squeak and,

point to steve.

and billy

nononono

covers his face with his hands and wishes they had a shark tank to go and be devoured in but then steve’s hands are trying to pry apart his and billy can see he’s smiling that fucking heartbreaker smile he has in between his fingers and he’s asking something, not to billy but,

to the dolphins. he's asking:

“do you ladies think i’m in love with billy too?”

and the little shits nod nod nod and they’re clearly so much more clever than humans because billy still hasn’t gotten it when steve says, palms closing firmly around his wrists and tugging,

“hey, i can’t kiss you if you're hiding”

and there’s nothing of that ‘hard, cold-blooded, big bad’ —billy hargrove left, no really, so he let's steve spread apart his hands and then

wow, just. WOW.

the dolphins start clapping.

[withoneheadlight]

| a house (is a home) | tinyplaylist | 

~

It’s a tiny, tiny house on the lowest side of town. Not, in fact, too far from Cherry Lane, where Billy used to live, back then, back to the day when everything started.

The morning they're given the keys, they stare at it for more than twenty-five minutes straight before they manage to break out of their rapture and get their fucking dumbstruck asses to move.

(There’s a lot of work to do.)

(They can’t wait to do it.)

"We bought that" Steve (falters, marvels) states, chest widening up as his breath catches, his body instinctively holding the emotion down (it’s too much. Too much. He’s gonna have to let it go slowly, or it’ll end up exploding out of him). It’s the same kind of shaky, tentative thing he’ll recognize later on Billy’s face. Will kiss from his lips. Tap-tap-tap along the fast rhythm on his chest with his fingertips,

This, he thinks. This. This is the moment right before everything changes.

Billy hugs him from behind, chin upon his shoulder, arms firmly crossed around that instant Steve’s holding in.

It’s windy, in that soft, caressing way early summer breeze always is, and his long curls are rebelling out of his ponytail, ticking at Steve’s cheek.

He feels as if he could dare to reach the sun, right now.

Feels like he could make it.

"Well, babe, we can officially say it. You've downgraded" Billy drawls, wrapping him tighter, sounding like there's something he's no saying, a vacant space full of ‘I wish I could give you more. More than this’, too thick for Steve not to hear, anyway. But the sun’s shining high, makes everything look a bit dream-like, a bit too good to be true, a bit impossible. And when Steve turns to rub his cheek against Billy’s lips, he smells so much like home it’s almost dizzying, and maybe the house should look like Not enough but, it looks likeThere’s nothing better.

There’s nothing I’ve ever wished more for.

The windows of the living room gleam in that same flickering way light does on the surface of water and Steve remembers the worn-out color of the wooden floor, remembers the voice of the real estate agent singsonging about how "It gets so sunny in the mornings. Believe me. You won’t ever want to move out to a different place"

“I know. Oh, God, I know” he sighs. Overdramatic. Runs his hands over Billy’s forearms. Circles his wrists. Holds on tight. Sometimes things get heavy in Billy’s head, but Steve’s getting better at making them lighter, one day at a time “After all the money and care my family spent on my education. And look at me, now. What a lost cause”

It works a bit like magic. Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it, being able to do this. Because Billy huffs a warm and breathy laugh on the back of his ear, against the secret skin in there, and Steve feels his lips curve into the exact shape he was aiming for. And it’s that smile, the reason why this house feels like everything he could’ve ever desired.

"Oh, I overheard Mrs. Price talking to Mrs. Harris the other day. She said, and I’m quoting, ‘That pretty, sweet boy. Always so polite. So well dressed in those lovely, lovely striped polos. All top brands. And look at him now, wallowing around with one of those metalhead losers. The lowest in our society” he makes up, high-pitched and histrionic, making Steve snort, bark raspy laugh “Those rich boys” Billy keeps saying, biting a wet, slow kiss over the pulse of his neck, purring at the way the skin drags out of his teeth "It's like they can't wait to get their hands dirty" and cool touch of the breeze over his now damp skin leaves Steve shaking.

(No. Not only the breeze)

“Mmmm. Guess I should repent, but you’re making it sound so, so tempting, baby”

Billy mouths at the tip of his earlobe, kisses the tiniest, softest kiss inside the shell of his ear. He’s a bit of a torturer, and Steve kinda loves him that way.

"Well” he shrugs off a deep, resigned sigh “Gotta make up for the lack of space somehow"

“You always make up for everything”

And Steve can’t see it, but he can feel it, the way he worked a little bit more of magic right there too, because,

“Wow, Harrington. Always the fucking romantic” Billy says, his laugh drawing Goosebumps all along the back of Steve’s neck “Let’s get inside so you can kill me with an overdose, uh?”

Billy doesn't even stop touching him. Just. Slides his hand along his. Twists. Turns. Hooks their fingertips. Walks backwards and towards the house. Draws him after him.

He's a bit of a magician too, you see.

Knows Steve doesn’t want to let go of him. Not ever again. Knows that, wherever he goes, Steve will follow.

Will follow him home.

~

next

[withoneheadlight]

after finding his way back bringing hell with him. after all of them fighting the good fight against the monsters and winning billy kind of— ‘inherits’ hopper's cabin.

(“it’s yours, kid. for as long as you need it. for as long as you have to stay”).

that's where he hid, the almost two years and a half he spent on the upside-down. and that’s the right word, isn’t it?, because he can't go away, like he once dreamed, because somebody has to. stay. and billy, he feels like he’s the inevitable option, the one that’s been scarred the most for what’s gonna forever lurk on the other side, awaiting for a new opportunity to come back so

most of the kids leave and joyce leaves and hopper leaves taking jane with him and, even max leaves, eventually (finally. away from this. away from him) to try and live their lives without fear in their hearts and the handle of an axe always at hand’s reach, resting against the side of the bed but

steve

he stays, too,

re-opens that old dinner at the end of randolph lane with that girl-friend of his ("c'mon, hargrove. as if she’d ever let you forget what her name is") comes visiting billy way more often than, if billy's reading him right (and billy learned his lessons. got good at reading people. he is right), he himself expected.

but he does and,

hangs out with billy on the porch some afternoons. crickets chirping. sun setting. beers in hand. rolls his eyes at the jokes billy makes. makes jokes billy rolls his eyes at. helps billy repair the boiler, even if he keeps on complaining all the time. bites a wayward, sideways smile, back leaned against the creaky door of the chicken run as billy feeds his chickens

"but look at you, hargrove. who would have thought you'd become such a hick? with your chickens and your wood-cutting thing and now that beard”

“got a problem with the chickens?”

his eyes on the wicked kind of bright as he purses his lips and

“mmm no. with the chickens? no.”

and days go by and go by and go by, like handfuls of sand slipping through his fingers but, steve keeps on coming visiting way more often than they both expected and they play cards and ‘clue’ and baseball until the weather turns too harsh and their winter clothes too restrictive and

"you know? you― look unexpectedly good in that"

says steve the morning of the first snow, reaching out to rearrange the neck of billy's heavy winter jacket, the one he kind of inherited with the cabin too, the one that's soft shearling on the inside and dark-red plaid on the outside and isn't as big for him as it used to be, anymore

“sure? not to hick-y?” billy snorts, hands warming up from the cup of coffee steve brought for him, heart warming-up a little too when he shrugs and

“definitely hick-y but. it suits you. and that stupid beard too”

and it gets lonely, sometimes, in the middle of the woods. gets cold and dark and scary. but steve comes visiting almost every day, now. eats the shitty food billy makes or brings some from the restaurant or even cooks it himself right then and there because

“people who’ve been to hell and back shouldn't live on boxed spaghetti, hargrove. besides, i like doing it”

“mmmm. the infamous king of hawkins. who would have thought” billy echoes, spreading cream cheese on a slice of toasted bread for the appetizers. just because he can, because steve always glares at him but it’s always there too, that blinding smile he has, along with the raw honesty laying heavy on his eyelids,

“well, i’m not specially good at it but― i’m not bad either. and for me that's. more than enough” he says, words carrying the weight of a first-time-spoken secret. because, apparently, billy has become important enough, close enough, for him to grant him that privilege but also the one of steve lowering his gaze, lowering his voice, lowering his guard, adding “and i’m tired of trying to be enough for anybody else”

and, apparently, billy has become bold enough to admit out loud that

“well, pretty boy. for me, you’re pretty much amazing”

and he can see it, the unexpectedness of it, lighting steve’s smile even brighter, making his own heart even warmer, but it’s an unexpected kind of life, this one he’s living, full of ‘who would have thought’s

full of steve’s own unexpectedness,

and billy should feel alone. five years hiding in the woods. half down. half up. and before that, a whole lifetime of hiding in the open. felt alone for so long but. steve lingers, now the days get shorter and nights turn colder and having no reason to stay around becomes even more unreasonable. but then one of them finds one that seems reasonable enough like

 "they're passing die hard in channel four in about half an hour so. 'am gonna get the fireplace running and, you can make popcorn?"

"die hard” steve snorts “you're such a testosteronic cliché, hargrove”

"and you spend way too much time with robin"

"uh, so it’s robin now?"

and it's die hard one day and conan the other and then steve snoring all the way through the terminator (“really, steven?”). and there’s barely anything else to do, december snow falling into january, curling around itself to hibernate its way through february’s cold. so it kind of becomes and every-four-days-or-less kind of thing, then every-two-days-or-less kind of thing and it’s always steve making the popcorn and billy lighting up the fireplace and

"god. i love that fucking smell" sitting on the carpet right by where billy’s fanning the embers back into flames, taking a deep, satisfied-sounding breath.

"uh?"

"the warmth and the pine and just―" pauses. looks at billy with those dark, reflective eyes he has. flames coming back to life inside his pupils. words sounding like they’re emptying all the air inside his lungs "it smells like i imagine a home would"

and billy’s caught. like a moth. he’s been caught since the very beginning.

"didn’t you have a fireplace? back at your parents’?”

steve looks at him as if he’s thinking of something, holding on something. and there’s this line they still don’t cross. it separates the ‘too personal’ the ‘too intimate’ from whatever they’ve been doing. but today billy just blinks and finds himself on the other side of it.

“hey. a penny for your thoughts”

and steve breathes out this tiny-tiny smile like ‘you always come get me, uh?’ like he can feel it too, that step they’re both taking forward.

"yeah but―” steve says “didn’t smell like yours" four simple, nearly whispered words that feed the flames inside of billy, blow the ambers into that something they’ve been nourishing inside for so long.

so it’s jokes and coffee and food and games and movies and popcorn and the warmth coming from the fireplace. it’s billy not ever feeling alone anymore and steve snuggling closer to him under the blanket one wednesday night on what the news have labeled as ‘the coldest winter of the decade’ and saying

“bet it smells good too, that hick beard of yours” and not giving billy enough time to react, to say anything, to think before he’s burying his face into the crook of his neck, breathing in, in, sighing hot and soft and ticklish against that tender spot of skin and “god, i knew it”

and isn’t even that unexpected, billy thinks, the feeling that makes him trail his lips down steve’s cheek to find his, lick steve’s mouth open, eat up what’s left of that sigh. it feels too brief, compared with the time it’s been brewing inside of him, and when it ends, steve looks at him with those soul-searching, open-hearted brown eyes, 

“you just―” he breathes in, breathes out. and he’s a flammable feeling, pumping in the direction of billy's heart “kissed me”

he’s a terrifying feeling. the only reason anything’s been making sense. the only reason this house smells like a home to billy. the only one that’s ever come back. the only one that’s ever truly stayed. 

and billy had to go and risk everything by falling in love.

“yeah, pretty boy” pauses. breathes. thinks: there’s no hiding anymore “so— a penny for your thoughts?” 

and that tiny-tiny smile, it blooms, the same way steve’s been blooming out of billy’s barren soul,

“i’m thinking, hargrove, that i can’t wait to get my hands inside that hick jacket of yours”

[withoneheadlight]

i saw your additions on the tswift post abt billy being a dolly fan which is so accurate and true. i always hc that billy’s mom was actually born in the south and moved to cali to be an actress or singer or something but then met neil and well you know. but billy grew up listening to dolly bc that would have been the time she was getting popular. i also agree that billy would definitely be inspired by her aesthetic and just her general messaging to be yourself and fuck everyone else 😄

Heyyy! 💖💖💖💖💖

Ohhhhh, yes!!! That’s such an amazing headcanon! And it’s so easy to imagine Billy’s mom singing Dolly’s songs to him when he was little. Softly at night, while caressing his hair in bed, soothing him into sleep. Dancing together in the kitchen, his mom taking him by the hands and spinning him around. The casserole slowly cooking on the stove and they both red-faced and giggling on those easy days when work kept Neil away from home so there was still some space left they could fill in with happiness.

And, I imagine his mother wouldn’t dress like Dolly but maybe she would kind of— wish, she could? Tease her hair a little bigger, wear her heels a little higher. Raise the hem of her skirt an inch (or two). Red lips and a fake beauty mark up the side of her lips but. She didn’t dare. Not anymore. Only twenty-five and staring at Dolly on the TV screen with her eyes full of ‘might have been’s saying ‘See that, baby? That’s what mom wanted to be’ and.

That’s how Billy imagines her, now. Shredding a tiny part of her old skin every day since she left and becoming the kind of star you can’t stop looking at ‘till has blinded you and he kind of— he doesn’t even realize, at first, what he’s doing. But he starts to style his curls a little tighter and left the buttons of his shirts unmade. Where her mother couldn’t, he starts to repaint himself into the image of a rebellion. Everything so he wouldn’t be reflected on his father's. Dangling earrings, miles of leather, cheeky jeans, bad intentions and— He doesn’t like girls, not really, but he likes looking at them and knowing, how much effort it took them too, to look that cheap. Likes to look at them knowing, that it’s not just him, that they all are diamonds on a rhinestone world. That they cut like nothing else, with the beauty of their sharp edges.

And that’s basically the reason why he paints his lips in the shape of his own heart and kisses it into Steve Harrington’s lips hard enough to stain them.

The last of Tina’s parties. Graduates saying their last goodbyes while ‘If you ain’t got love’ was playing. Steve gave him a once-over and a smirk and called him ‘Doll’. Put two fingers on his chest and said it “Just one closed button left, doll. Feels tempting” so Billy dragged him to the darkness of the backyard and left his lips so thoroughly kissed they looked lipstick-red when they parted for breath, Steve’s fingers still tangled on his hairspray-curls and saying “I knew that’s how you’d kiss me” looking at Billy with that something in his eyes, like Billy had just sliced his chest open. Like he really, really liked what he was seeing and,

He did. Steve. Really liked him. Fell in love with the flashy and trashy the too much and the too little and with everything, everything Billy had been hiding underneath. Made Billy feel at peace with the things about himself (about her) Neil never allowed. Made him shred a lifetime of war.

Let Billy be himself on purpose and then, loved him like that.

~

Ok I got CARRIED AWAY but I’ve been dying to talk about this since s3 aired and saw. This:

Look at those crunchy curls and those filled-in brows and c’mon he’s so wearing copper eyeshadow akdhauhduahduad. He’s so flayed and frayed but, with style. And he does have that southern vibe and looks like, so country and so, carefully put together while TRASHY AF, and I just love how cheap he is and I’m so sure that when Dolly talked about “‘This woman that used to walk the streets had all this makeup and hair, high heel shoes. I thought she was so beautiful. And everybody used to say, ‘Oh, she ain’t nothin’ but trash.’ And I used to say, ‘Well that’s what I’m gonna be when I grow up—trash!’ And that’s kinda how I look. But I like to think I’m a little more than that’” Billy was somewhere nodding and also, that Steve was nodding too, to that last part.

Thank you so much for asking me this 💞💞💞💞💞😘😘😘😘😘 and yay! I'm so happy somebody else sees it 💎💎💎

[withoneheadlight]

Steve’s second favorite part of their house is the backyard.

They’ve got a big-ish plastic pool they now set up at the beginning of every summer. For the kids. For their dog getting chlorine-induced diarrhea from time to time. For Billy to just float away and soak, fancy homemade cocktail on hand, mean, silver-mirrored aviators reflecting the sun, his whole skin covered in oil and ready to fry. For Billy to grab Steve and drag him inside roaring "Oh, you mean like this?" when he calls him “One, two, three, Splash!” For Billy to look happy and accomplished while ruining Steve’s hair, making up for it right afterwards. “It would be nice to, you know, being able to walk near the pool without fearing for your fucking mermaid complex to surge from the depths and drag me down” For Billy to grin that dangerous grin of his, look like he’s enjoying every single minute of this tiny, tiny life they’ve build around them and “But, baby. You look so hot when your wet. You gotta understand. I can’t help it”

They’ve placed little bulbs all around. Repainted the wood fence. Brought Dustin’s mom’s old furniture. And Steve has planted zucchini and strawberries and tomatoes and something that’s theoretically spinach bur doesn’t look like spinach like, at all. It took a lot of try and error and a million calls to his mom and like, a whole lot of faith but, somewhere along the way the little shits stopped dying and now somehow the keep on fucking blooming and living and growing and all that jazz and— sometimes, Billy looks at them and does that smiling so hard the goddamn the sun stops burning thing he does now, mixes fondness and mockery with alchemistic precision when he says,

“You know, Harrington? You’re also the gardener of my heart. A sexy one. The kind I’d get my knees dirty for in the shed”

“Except we don’t have a shed”

“Yeeeah, but we can built one”

“Just so you can suck my dick”

Billy nods, “Just so I can suck your dick—” Billy winks real slow. Fingerguns. Fires Steve with a dirty look and the tsk of his tongue against flashy white teeth “In a shed”

And every new line he says it’s the worst he’s ever said.

But, somehow, they all keep on working.

“Guess we’ll hafta build a shed, then”

“Mmm. That’s my man. Now” he leans back with a low, lewd rumble, arms around the plastic rim, curls dripping wet, his whole body stretching, sun sparkling over the water, warm-looking and crystal clear, lapping hungry at his skin. He never wears trunks when they’re all alone and he knows Steve knows it “ Why don’t cha come ‘round here so I can drag you down. I don’t throw up my lungs into this thing every goddamn summer to not have you inside”

Steve smirks. Sometimes. The backyard is his favorite part of the house.

(But the thing is: every part's his favorite part. When it’s got Billy Hargrove in it)

~

part one: the house

[withoneheadlight]

| a house (is a home) | (i). the keys | tinyplaylist |

~

The house consists on:

Two bedrooms. One bathroom. A sort of trapezoidal kitchen with a door connecting to the backyard. A living room that stinks of the slow decay of the ancient, seventies-style wallpaper. An attic so dark that, according to Billy “We could make good money if we rent it to, you know, somebody that’s into heavily atmospheric spectral-themed sexual torture" (They’ve never really seen what’s up there. House already bought and everything).

There's a lot of work to do.

So they do it.

Thrift some things. Re-use some others. Spend a crazy, crazy amount of money on the mattress (‘Cause,’ Billy winked  ‘that’s what we’ll gonna use the most’). They repaint the walls. Scrap off the seventies paper (“But our living room looks like a pulp strip-club, babe. And I love it! / “I said. Off, Billy. Off”). Put on the gigantic combo of ‘Decorative vase plus plant plus stand’ Crystal buys them as a housewarming gift to add a “Slight touch of class” right at the entryway.

Even if it is,

“Hideous, love. So. Frikin’― hideous. And it has herons in it. Again. Herons. We’re been chased by herons. Our entire relationship. He-rons”

“Ok. They are. Hideous. But baby they also mean she’s trying”

“Well, she can not try. It’s ok for me. Less herons”

“Except it’s not” And Billy. He still has that deadly glare. Eyes narrowed. Chin raised-up. It doesn’t work anymore (or not in a, threatening way, at least) but Oh, Steve loves that he’s still trying “And c’mon. You can't tell me they don't you bring back good memories, huh?”

It's a question, but it might not be, and it wouldn't matter. He wonders how many of them they keep, between the two. How many memories together: beginnings and hellos and ‘Why don’t you stay a little longer’s at Steve’s front door. Ends and goodbyes and ‘I'll be back so fast you won't even have the time to start missing me’s. Kisses and touches and whispers and love love love. Making it way before they realized that was the name for what they were doing.

Those fucking voyeuristic herons watching it all.

 And Billy. Steve’s right because―he moves in close. Crowds Steve against the door (“Not letting anybody get in here, pretty boy. And I won’t let you go either. Not ‘till you let me kiss you again”). Breathes merging. Chests touching. Pined into each other’s eyes. A déjà-vu of a feeling. Just like that first time:  Billy’s knuckles tracing down the shape of Steve’s temple, the fall of his cheekbone, tender, as he runs them along his lips, side to side and 

‘Like this’ he remembers thinking ‘They hurt even worse’

“That’s low blow, Harrington” Billy whispers, eyes dropping to his mouth “You know they do”

 ‘If I let you kiss me’ he remembers thinking ‘I’m gonna love like an open wound’

“Then maybe we should keep them” he grins and Billy grunts, in defeat, laughter trembling out of Steve’s body as he does “You know. Make some good memories in front of these ones”

“You’re such a sweet talker, Harrington. You’re manipulating the love of your life.  Should feel ashamed of yourself”

Steve shakes his head. His heart is racing, is always racing, beating towards Billy Hargrove at the fucking speed of light.

“Nah. It’s one of the best things I got from my mom. I’m kinda proud of it”

And Billy leans in. Bites a kiss off his neck. Makes him shiver.

“Then keep on sweet-talking to me, uh? Make it worth remembering”

And Steve. Flips them around. Presses against Billy, reshapes himself against the curves of his body.

“When I’m done with you, baby, you’re never gonna want to get rid of those herons”

Billy cackles,  takes his face between his hands, whispers the words on the shape of kisses.

“Mmm. Good start, King Steve. You already got my knees shaking”

And so it begins. Piece by piece. Little by little. To become something more. To take  the shape of a now. The shape of a future. Of  a 'Here we keep what we’ve built together. What we are together. you and me. Here we keep our love'.

Not just a house but,

A home.

~

next

[withoneheadlight]

| a house (is a home) | (i). the keys | (ii). memories&herons | (iii). old dogs&inheritances | tinyplaylist |

~

They have a business now, Robin and Steve.

He’d been back in Hawkins for less than two months, crashing on Robin’s apartment, when she shook his freaking-out ass around into semi-conscientiousness at four in the goddamn morning.

“Could you please stop screaming? I’ve just had the greatest, most― life-changing. Idea”

“Let your best friend live a long, non-terrified life instead of giving him a stroke while he's sleeping?”

“Dingus. This is serious”

“As so it’s not-dying”

She rolled her eyes and then jumped into rambling, right then and there, about how they were going to ball-n’-chain their sorry, broke souls to a mortgage and open a family restaurant.

And well, yeah, not worth dying over but. Yeah.

Pretty life-changing, turns out.

So now the old, forgettable family dinner on Randolph Lane where Steve used to go for a milkshake with “Every single one of my High School girlfriends. Seriously Robin. Nobody wants to come back here, it’s like a museum” is “Oh, and that’s exactly how we’re gonna keep it” an ode to the eighties (And, in Robin’s own words “And a very tasteful one”), with its painted flaming tracks on the floor, its handmade replica of the Inferno (courtesy of Hopper and Joyce and Will’s and ―slightly reluctantly― El’s newfound family-bounding passion for miniaturism). With its fake weapons and horror masks and thrifted posters and a hundred other pieces of memorabilia. Cher’s voice rasping around the notes of “If I could turn back time” on the jukebox at least twice on any given day. The not-so-kids-anymore relaxing on one of the booths at the front, laughing and joking and reassuring Steve about how this was—yeah. Yeah. (even if he won’t ever, ever recognize to Robin) the greatest fucking idea.

It’s been five years (And one-hundred miles out. One-hundred miles back) when Billy steps inside the dinner fifteen minutes before closing hours one late September afternoon. Sun so low on the horizon half-hidden behind the line of sparse buildings that it’s almost grazing the night. And it’s not the first time they’ve seen each other since Steve came back. They’ve already said their awkward ‘Hello’s, their (heartbreaking) ‘I'll see you around’ s.

But today, that weary sun’s slicing reality into pieces with its golden light, and Billy's wearing a soft-blue, worn denim jacket, pendant sitting on his chest, curls long, long, long and ringed by fire. And Steve feels as if, when it comes to Billy Hargrove, he’s no different than one of those stones they'd tried to kill time with, at the beginning of that summer, bouncing them across the quarry’s water. No matter how long it takes, every time, or how far the stone will make it. It’ll eventually fall, seeking the kiss of the surface, as if it knows It’ll sink back, at the end. Will return. As if it’s been aware, right from the very beginning. Of the inevitability. Of its belonging.

Because Billy looks like that almost-night of their first kiss, in the middle of that summer. That almost-night when he said "I want you, Steve Harrington. No matter where you go, I’ll always want you" so close to the end. That almost-night when Steve got in his car, leaves already falling. Stuffed it a whole ton heavier (Bright red vinyl suitcase. Green plastic bags squashed at its sides. The weight of what he was about to do trying to catch his eye through the rearview mirror). Drove it to the end of the woods. To the other side of the welcoming sign. Headed out of Hawkins. Out of Indiana. Out. Out. Just to find the Camaro parked on the side. Billy waiting for him. Fists buried into the pockets of that denim jacket. Cigarette consuming itself into a fresh burn between those lips Steve wouldn’t be kissing into healing in the morning.

He parked the BMW right behind. Must have felt like a sing. But back then, it didn’t.

“Billy? What are you―?”

(It wasn’t until after. Hundreds of miles away. Hundreds of miles following the yellow highway lines in the wrong direction. That he realized―)

“What, King of Hawkins? You really thought I was gonna let you leave without one last kiss goodbye?”

(―I should’ve run to you. Run to you.

But instead I ran away from everything else, and I lost you.)

Billy heaved off the Camaro. Walked up to Steve until he could feel the warmth coming off his skin as rebellion against the cold nightfall “I don’t want you to forget about me” Warmer. Warmer than any sun “About us”

Steve huffed out a laugh. A ragged, pained laugh. Sometimes the body doesn’t know, they say. What to do. How to react. So he laughed. And it hurt. Not just a feeling but a ton worth of them, in that laugh. I don’t want to go. But I have to. I want you to come with me. But I know I can’t ask.

Even If we hadn’t ever kissed, I wouldn’t have been able to forget you, Billy Hargrove.

(Even when I got away, I kept on chasing you. Got lost running around in circles trying to find you)

When the laugh faded, Billy was smiling, and Steve knew it was a reflection. Crooked and painful: he didn’t know, back then, Steve was afraid one last kiss would make him sink. Rolling stones getting him stranded.

(Steve didn’t know, back then, how stranded he already was)

“Didn’t want to make it harder”

Billy― took him by the waist. Tugged him in and. Steve’s breath caught.

“Don’t know about you, pretty boy but. For me, there’s no way for this to make harder” Billy’s nose bumped against his, their lips brushing, a permanent burn splitting Steve’s life in two, all the kisses he was leaving behind, the last day of summer fading behind the dark treeline “And I’m gonna kiss you now, so it is worth it”

And then Billy smiled at him. No with hurt, but for real. Bright eyes and cold-red lips and he was right. One last kiss. Was worth it. Couldn’t ever make it harder than already was.

Billy was already an open wound. And Steve could never close it.

(‘Cause. It happened there, in the middle of the road. In the middle of running away or staying. Steve knew. Bleed it out as they kissed. I’ve fallen and fallen and fallen. I’ve fallen in love with you.

But he was leaving. Leaving it all on the other side of that sign)

“I’m gonna be a good friend, and remind you to play it cool, Steven” Robin tiptoes to his ear. Whispers “So, play it cool. You’re staring”

“Wh― What?”

“You’re drooling, Dingus. Stop. Looking at him”

Billy nods him a hello. Goes. To him. Tina and Caleb barely spare him a glance. The few late-afternoon regulars too absorbed into stretching the last few sips of their pre-night-shift coffees or finishing their Outtatime specials to pay any attention to them. And spoons click and stools drag and nobody seems to realize Steve’s both here and five years back, Billy’s presence eating up all the space of the Dinner. And his curls smelled of sunscreen, the overheated leather seats of the Camaro, the fallen leaves of eucalyptus, as they laid together on the shore of the quarry at night. The water as sleepless as they were. Turbulent. Restless with life.

“Steve?”

“Hey. Hey. Hi!― I”

It’s not easy but, Steve moves. Rushes into the back room. Breathes in shallow. Broken gulps. Lungs full. Won’t let him get any air. Crammed with goodbye kisses before welcoming signs.

It’s the sun, he thinks, it’s the fucking sun. Carrying him back. Overlaying the past upon the here and now but that’s a lie. That’s a lie: a long time ago, Steve Harrington made a home for Billy Hargrove on the inside of his heart. And it's still there. Vacant. Unoccupied. Billy Hargrove-shaped. Waiting. Longing. Hoping for him to come back.

(I wanna run to you. Run to you)

(Wanna run back)

“Steve. Are you alright?”

Robin's hand caresses his back. Steve feels it stiff under a touch so tender. He’s so close to breaking in half.

“Steve?”

“Fuck. Robin. Fuck”

His voice’s shaking. His whole body’s shaking from the inside out.

“Maybe–” she starts, pauses. She’s so careful. Steve closes his eyes “Why don’t you go back and talk to him. This– acting like you don’t want to is. Is not gonna go right”

Is not. Is not even the worst he’s felt. Five years. He’s had time to regret but.

It's a risk, and he doesn’t want to. Play with Billy’s heart. Break it again. Or know, maybe. That it wouldn’t. That’s Steve’s no longer there. It's shaped like home for himself anymore. Close and sold and forgotten. That Billy’s moved. On and Away. Steve’s so afraid. Of never getting him back. Of being this selfish. He needs. Needs―

He says it out loud.

“I can’t do that to him” needs Robing to tell him it’s ok. Or not ok or “Again. Can’t do it again” just that’s― ok. If he can’t help it. Want it. Been the egoistic asshole who took and took and took, even though he already knew he was leaving, knew it was bound to end right from the start.

Needs to know because―

The light’s the same. The color of Billy’s eyes the exact shade of clear-blue the sky wore throughout all that summer’s days. Lashes falling dark and heavy as those nights. And Steve wants to take the hand their story’s offering. Step with him into this late-afternoon light. Better sorry than safe. He’s got a home in his chest nobody else fits into, anyway. Spent a whole summer trying to carve himself inside of Billy with lips and greedy hands. Would do it again.

Needs Robin to tell him what’s right.

“Maybe he wants you to”

Needs Billy to know he wouldn't run away, this time.

“How would he want that?”

Needs and needs and needs and―

Robing shrugs. Her cherry-red lips crinkle out, corners round, they hold a smile. There’s love in there and Steve clings to it as in the midst of the tempest. And. He’s such a fucking asshole. Already got so many things back, but,

“I just. Got the feeling he does. You know, Dingus, you might’ve not been around but, I have and I” she brings her hand up. Cards it through his hair “Don’t think there’s any version of this story where he wouldn’t” and her voice is firm and her touch is soft and Steve’s been seeking for absolution since the day he came back “Ok, there. Magic’s on. I’ll close this. Now run”

And it’s selfish. And wrong. A he shouldn't but. Steve’s mortally wounded. He’s got a Billy Hargrove-shaped hole instead of a heart. Has been going around in circles for so long, trying to find his way back. And Robin’s looking at him like she knows. Like she understands.

Like she believes he’s gonna stay, this time. So.

He runs.

He runs.

~

next

[withoneheadlight]

| a house (is a home) | (i). the keys | (ii). memories&herons | tinyplaylist |

~

With the house they inherit:

Piles and piles and piles of yellowing newspapers from May of the fifty-four to July of the sixty-six. An old, damp-stained Spanish guitar Billy tortures Steve with for a whole, whole week. And actually cool rattan garden set. An acceptably new lawnmower that refuses to start up.

A pipe system that, when using the hot water, always sounds like there’s a ghost trapped inside, howling all around it.

It drives Billy stir crazy but, doesn’t bother Steve that much.

("I don't care for supernatural creatures as long as they don't have fangs"

"Oh, babe, that’s only because you still haven't seen Poltergeist”)

The ugliest, “Ugliest couch, Steve, really” any of them has seen in their entire lives. A Brownish-green. Mushy. Deformed. Gigantic thing the kids bitch about all the time, calling it ‘The Swamp Thing’ (but then proceed to lament even louder than the pipe-ghost when they finally decide to get rid of it)

An old, sad, perpetually yawning dog that won't leave their porch (As if he’d loved somebody here once. As if he’s waiting), and for which they end up making a place inside the house as if it were theirs (“Which is not, Harrington”) because, Steve knows, there are a few things Billy believes and even preaches about himself that are, in fact, all wrong. As if he got them stitched over the real ones so long ago he can no longer tell them apart from the original pattern.

Like,

"If you like the dog, we can keep it. He's not moving, anyways"

"I don't like dogs" He growls, petting the dog, scratching his chest right where the animal clearly most likes it, letting him methodically lick on the back of his hand.

And those things― it's Steve's job to find them, now. Cut the thread that binds them. Reach out for the realness lying underneath the lie.

"Are you sure about that?"

Billy glances up at him, frowns, tilts his head as if he doesn't get why Steve’s smirking.

"Yeeeah. Pretty sure" Snorts. Shrugs. The dog's paw drums rhythmically on the ground.

"Yeeeah” Steve mimics, brow rising “Then tell me, baby, why do you keep on feeding him?"

It takes more than a week and more than a few beers and their dog happily napping curled up at his feet on their freshly mowed backyard for Billy to say:

"It's because that's how I felt" eyes set on the orangey, melting sun, taking a big gulp of air before going on “When you went away. Those years. I–“ swallows like this is, right here, right now, on the sighing sleepiness of this summer evening, the first time he’s tried to find the words for something that’s been inhabiting inside of him only as a raw, wordless feeling for so long.

(Too long)

And Steve feels it like the blade of a knife, cold at the tip of his tongue, the urging to say ‘I shouldn’t have’ and ‘I regret It’ and ‘I’m sorry’. But Billy told him, that night they parted ways, hands cupping his face. Told him “There’s nothing to be sorry about, pretty boy. You do what you gotta do. And who knows, maybe one day I’ll have another lucky strike” So he doesn’t. Buries the words down inside. They’re not what Billy needs, now.

What he needs is,

Steve to stay quiet. Steve to wait. Needs,

“You left and then–” Say it, Steve thinks, C’mon, say it. Eyes set on the way his breath gets trapped on its way out of Billy’s chest, like it takes such a fight, letting these all out “this fucking town was all I got left. And we had touched in so many places we had― kissed in so many places. Everywhere I looked and. People say. You’ve to forget about it. Let life go on but. But that’s not what I wanted. I wanted to feel all those moments, to be– close to them. Inhabit them and I. Was―”

Billy cuts himself off. Breathes out a “Fuck”. Glances at Steve. A quick, elusive thing, as if he’s scared of himself, of having said too much, being too much, and Steve realizes it’s just one more of those patches, one that he’ll have to unstitch slowly, stretch the original fabric carefully out. Reveal another part of the original masterpiece. So he reaches for Billy’s cheek, traces it down to his chin. The lightest of caresses. Brings Billy’s eyes back to his.

It’s an overwhelming amount of love, the one he feels for Billy Hargrove, there’s no way for Steve to pour it all in between the lines on his fingerprints, but he tries, just in case, he keeps on trying.

“Yeah?” he asks. Soft. Low. Because this Billy right here is like a distant comet orbiting around the sun. A once, maybe twice in a lifetime thing. More. Many more, hopefully. If Steve does his job right. So he waits, as the night settles around them, as it pulses, like a beating, like the inside of a heart.

Billy breathes in, his chest shaking as he lets the air blow out of him.

“The only difference between that dog and I, Steve, is that. You came back” and it’s still there at the tip of his tongue, maybe will forever be, that sorry, but Billy doesn’t need it and not everything Steve feels is regret, because he did what he needed to do and all that happened took him here. And he knows the ending of this story. He believes in it. He’s― No. They. They’re. Fighting so hard for it. This story that happens in a freshly mowed backyard connected by a scratchy door to a weirdly trapezoidal kitchen. That happens in Billy’s lips, parting, growing into a smile. This story ends with,

“Is that I had another fucking lucky strike”

Ends. And then again. Begins.

And Steve wishes he could take all this love out, get it embroidered all over his body for Billy to read, to touch, to see.

But the only way is to keep on getting it out in small, uncompleted fragments. Stitch himself into Billy. Re-pattern them both into a bigger, better piece.

So he waits a little more, until Billy has wiped away the wetness of his eyes, until Billy has taken a long sip of his fifth beer, until Billy has lightened another cigarette.

Until Billy has taken his time.

And then asks.

“How do you want to call him?”

Billy looks at him -eyes round, brow raised- in bewilderment, like that’s the most obnoxious thing somebody has ever asked him.

“Dog?”

And Steve laughs. And Laughs and laughs and laughs. And wonders. Wonders. Will forever wonder.

How Billy’s still thinking he’s the lucky one.

~

next

[withoneheadlight]

There’s an Ikea magnetic notebook stuck to the fridge. In there, they make grocery lists, write the place and hour of appointments, leave good morning notes, leave things that Max categorizes as “Are you two living in a High School Alternative universe or something?”, like ‘Billy x _ _ _ _ _” , like ‘Hey, pretty boy! Would ya come to prom with me? (Put on that blue suit I like. I‘ll be wearing a condom)’ like “Up to play skins vs skins tonight, Hargrove?”

When Robin comes visiting, she draws tiny dick-doodles all over it.

Billy loves them.

He doesn’t tell her that. He says:

“Those pieces of art you left for me the other day. So― fat, and slippery and that pre-cum! So, so drippy. S h i n y”. Billy’s tone is the sweetest of sweets. Hand on his heart. Voice monochord “They were so beautiful, princess”

“I poured my soul into every-single-one of their velvety heads. It’s–” she sighs. All drama-drama “A bouquet of dicks. For a dick. But no. No darling. You don’t have to thank me. Even if the pleasure isn’t mine”

It’s been ten minutes since Steve microwaved the popcorn for their movie. He’s absently chewing on it now, slumped against the counter, witnessing in awe their detached, deadpan-toned conversation.

“This felt way less―eh-” he spins his hand around up on the air, trying to catch the words he’s looking for, but the moment it’s too indescribable, so he comes down with nothing “something, when your two couldn’t stand each other’s guts”

“Unsettling?” Billy offers.

“Disturbing? Robin tries.

Steve shakes his head.

“No. Nope. I don’t think there’s a word for it”

“You sure?” Billy bites at his lip. Thinks. Visibly. Twenty seconds of furrowed brows and tilted head and then he’s clicking his tongue, wrapping his arm around Robin’s shoulder and tugging her in.

“What about adorable” he winks with a mystery solved! kind of smile and Robin snorts out a laugh and Steve almost chokes around a mouthful of popcorn.

“Hum. Like a bouquet of dicks, you mean?”

“For a dick, Dingus, don’t you forget it” Robin retorts, and her hand is grabbing Billy’s side in return and yeah, yeah. Maybe that’s the word, after all. Or at least gets close.

Unexpectedly. Adorable.

(―like family. Decides Steve later while they bicker over the creepy french movie Robin brought, the three of them huddled together under a blanket on their ugly, swampy couch. 

Family is the one)

[withoneheadlight]

| a house (is a home) | (i). the keys | (ii). memories&herons | (iii). old dogs&inheritances | (iv). memorabilia | tinyplaylist |

~

The kitchen’s Steve’s favorite part of the house.

It has this odd shape. Trapezoid. “Fuck, Stevie, so goddamn weird”. Doesn’t make sense in a, on the other hand, perfectly rectangular house (or, well, it does but, they’ll only find out about that later). The cabinets are ceiling-high. The tiles of the wall white and cracked under the repeating pattern of light mint-green-stemmed, yellow-petaled lilies. The whole backdoor is painted on that same shade Billy calls Ripe banana dreams, both so terribly old-fashioned and fiercely cute none of them says a word about repainting it. There’s a wooden piece, built into the farthest end of the counter. It looks disgustingly juicy and mercilessly stabbed when they move in, but Billy insists on keeping it, and sanding, and treating, and varnishing it. Manages to get it back up on shape because “Better than anyone, darling you should know what a little touch of class can make”. And for more than two weeks straight the only goal of his life is to learn to cut vegetables at high speed because “I have to live up to this level of professionalism. Impress our most un-impressionable guests”

(And, to Steve’s surprise –and probably hers– when she finally deigns to pay them a visit, his mom is, in fact, pretty much impressed.)

He learns how to make good casserole. Tries his luck with Mexican and Italian. Fails miserably with Japanese. Will never-ever admit it but, he loves it when flour ends up staining every single surface, making the biggest mess around himself when he bakes. Steve knows why it is. It’s a shared feeling. Floats up till it reaches the ceiling and bounces back down to them, heavy with the warm smell of cooking pie and cinnamon. Tastes docile and tamed like “Maybe not so much vanilla next time. Whaddaya think, babe?.” Tastes savage and daring, like the overwhelming tang of freshly squeezed lemon lingering on Billy’s tongue, when he crowds Steve against the fridge and kisses him, nibbles a shuddering laugh out of him “How the fuck are you able to even think about putting your mouth near that thing, Hargrove?. That was––ugh. That was disgusting”, “Well you know me, whatever it takes to make you squirm” leaving Steve with absolutely no option but lick the sugary dough stain over his cheek to “Cover up that foul flavor” and maybe because he wants to make Billy squirm a little too. 

It’s a heart-warming, welcoming feeling. Like the vivid smells of green tomatoes and parsley and mustard sauce. Like the taste of love on Billy’s lips. The way he loses his breath when Steve kisses the sugary flavor into Billy’s mouth with his:

This place smells like home, tastes like home. Like finally, finally. Home.

It’s Billy’s favorite place, too. But Steve doesn’t think it’s just because of that. But also because maybe,

maybe.

He has also noticed that–

There’s this particular, particular moment. It happens around seven on autumns, right when the day starts to fade. It happens between six and six past twenty-eight on winters, and holds the sleepy cheeks of the newborn tulips on Steve’s garden till they fall asleep on springs, sun already sinking behind the horizon by the time both hands of the clock meet over the spiral of the eight, pointing towards infinity. And then grows bigger and bigger and bigger from there, flooding into summer: the golden sunlight seeping through the wide, double-paned window facing the backyard in an oblique angle, making the yellow flowers of the tiles look like they’re re-blooming in gold. 

It’s the moment the day turns into a fire. 

It’s their favorite moment in time. And in this particular, particular day of July, it happens at ten past nine.

Billy is making Spaghetti Carbonara. The kitchen is damp with the rich smells coming out of the boiling water. Mushrooms and oregano, black pepper and lime. A song is cooing at them from the radio, the beat of the drums a boneless memory of that one echoing around the quarry on faraway almost-night on a faraway July. Water rippling under the quiet sigh of the breeze. Trees cutting the liquid rays in asymmetric halves. 

Billy takes off the apron. Turns the stove down.

Reaches out to Steve, fingers wavering come, come, come.

To me. Come to me. “C’mon, Harrington. Do I scare you or what?“

He has this way of looking at Steve that makes the space between them narrow, narrow: the whole unknown world. And aseptic, non-lived-in flat in downtown Florida. This tiny, tiny town. A mysteriously-shaped kitchen––

“¿Can I have this dance?” 

Steve walks to him, takes his hand. 

––Their bodies, pressed flush. 

Inside his chest, Steve’s heart is running. 

(“Can I at least have this dance, before we say goodbye?”

Mazzy Star was playing. The corner of Billy’s eye felt wet where his skin brushed against the corner of Steve’s mouth. They danced till the daylight faded, till there were teardrops falling from the night sky.

“Billy, I don’t have to––” 

“Don’t, pretty boy. Don’t say it. I’ll make you stay if you do. And I can’t do that”)

They made lovelovelove on the back of Billy’s car.)

In this light, they fell in love, they fell apart. Ran away. Ran back. 

Steve nudges at Billy’s chest, makes him move backward till he’s far enough to tug, draw him in between their tangled arms, hands intertwined. Steve curls himself around Billy’s back, noses at the warmth trapped between his curls. He smells like BillyandSteve, like this home, like past, like future. Like us.

Steve whispers in his ear. Three words. Billy’s neck curves towards him. An instinct. Tickled by their warmth. Steve kisses the curve of his ear. Tugs the collar of his shirt aside, bites where shoulder meets neck and up, up.

“Easy, Prom King” Billy teases, grins at him tender and wild. Knows when to use the one that gets Steve every time “Or you’re gonna make me think we’ll become picture-perfect from this magical moment onwards. A bunch of kids. White fences. You know, the whole shebang” 

(Billy crashed the Camaro into a tree in the winter of two thousand and fourteen. Had left the house in a frenzy. Something happened Max wouldn’t talk about. But she was scared, so she had called,

“Find him. Please.. Make sure he’s alright”

When Steve found him, Billy was in the middle of the Brookville road, feet stumbling on the twin yellow lines, following them nowhere. So weary, so impossibly small like this: head hanging, arms wrapped around himself. A crooked shape, carrying the weight of the shadows the tall pine trees cast on his back.  

So unlike him. 

Steve stopped the car at his side, engine oozing steam, shaking in the icy mid-May air “Billy” he said. Low. Careful. Careful. Billy’s eyes looked wet in the moon-silver night, pupils blown, deceivingly calm, “What are you doing? This is dangerous” And Billy’s spine had bent even lower, forearms finding rest on the window frame. Leveling with Steve. Looking wasted, looking tired, but still, he flashed a grin at him, teeth-shark white, never going down if he wasn’t going down swinging. And Steve–– hadn’t known at the moment, but the blood staining his cheek, the screaming-purple mark around his eye.

Those weren’t from the crash.

 “I was sleepwalking, Harrington” he said, voice dry, laugh harsh. Shrugged “Waiting for a lucky strike”)

“What does it make you think that’s not what I’m aiming for?”

(When he took Billy to his house Max was already there. Had sneaked out. “Neil will kill you if he finds out,” Billy said and she nodded, white knuckles peaking red with how hard she was gripping the handler of her bike, and Steve hadn’t seen her cry before, not ever, but her eyes were swollen and wet and,

“Are you––”

“I’m alright, kiddo. You know me. I’m always alright”

And the lie sat heavy, between them. Two lies, covering the truth. Poorly stitched. But Max had called Steve for help, so that’s what he did. Help. Sent her back home. Took care of Billy’s face. Billy’s hands. Nodded at those same lies, let them do their work while taking care of wounds he didn’t know, back then, couldn't have been for a crash. Made him spend the night. 

Billy still hadn't woken up when Steve left the next day, leaving food and a note on the nightstand ‘I’ll be back soon. Stay’. 

Retraced Billy’s steps down the yellow lines splitting the forest in half. To find it.

The Camaro wasn’t done yet. Howled like a wounded beast under Steve’s touch, but stayed together all the way to Donny’s garage. And Steve paid for the repairs. Covered it all up. Max has said “His dad can’t know, Steve. Can’t know. If he finds out he will--” and steve was starting to put two and two together. To realize some billy was, maybe, running away from something. Someone. When he crashed his car.

Woke Billy up when the hands of the clock met over the spiraling infinity of the eight. Seventeen hours straight of sleep and still looking like he could use a lifetime. Told him “The car will be ready in two or three days. ‘Til then, you stay'' covered his mouth with his hand. Didn't let him complain “And If whatever happened last night happens again, you take it and you run. Back here. And you stay again, ok?”

Two weeks later, Billy showed up at his door. Lit him a cigarette. Offered to teach him how to fight.

“I cannot give you back your money, but I know you don’t need that”

Made him laugh.

They spent almost the whole summer together, after that. Some days. Most nights.

Wasting time. Fighting. Joking. Driving.

Falling.

No ‘what ifs’. No promises. Just,

“Leave the light on if you can’t sleep, pretty boy. If I manage to sneak out of the Old fuck, I’ll pick you up. Promise I won’t stop kissing you until dawn. Gotta make up for what you paid for that ca, uh?”

Because Steve was gonna leave. Wasn’t gonna throw a single glance behind his back.

That was the plan.

And he did. He did. But––)

He spins Billy out. Tugs him back. When their chests bump, his laugh bursts, bubbles up. Weightless. Happy. Because all that matters to him, to them, it’s between these four irregular walls now.

And God this, this, is Steve’s favorite part. 

(–ended up coming back running, hoping the love would re-stitch itself as he followed the road’s yellow lines. 

Hoping Billy was the one letting his light on this time.)

Because the sun’s gonna keep on shining. They can keep on dancing in here, in their weird trapezoidal kitchen (in their house, in their home), for as long as they want. Hearts touching. Lips brushing. Bodies swaying, spinning, cutting through the golden light. 

~