#Harringrove For Turkey

[ihni]

Harringrove for Turkey-commission for the wonderful @callieb, who reminded me of this comic (where Billy is soft with Steve and Steve only), and wanted a version where he is also soft for Max, but in a more sneaky way where she may or may not notice ...

[opaldraws]

Steve needs to warm Billy up 👀

harringrove for turkey commission for @grey-sides ! thank you for donating!! 💗

[passivenovember]

wait until you taste me

--

Max says the dumbest shit in the world. 

Billy forces himself, tooth and nail, to give the grace he never got to touch with his own two hands. She’s a teenager. She’s dumb and her nature is rose-colored. Heart-shaped fillers slipped covertly in that delicate space behind a splash of blue.

Her head is filled with hot air. Good intentions. Speckled with delusions that are charming when she’s not so reckless, and.

Billy doesn’t want to smash her hopes on ground in front of her.

Life will, eventually. 

Life always does, but. Billy figures he could try and be the storm wall that protects her garden of wonder.

He gets over that real quick when she can’t do the same in return.

When she bats her eyelashes and says, “I’m glad you and Steve are friends, now,” at Sunday dinner the week before Spring Break.

In front of everyone.

Billy thinks her head is the size of the Hindenburg. She’s full of helium and she’s flying too close to the sun.

Neil tucks a wad of flavorless peas into his mouth. “Who’s Steve?” He asks.

And immediately, Billy’s walls shoot like salt pillars from the ground. 

He weighs his options. What would happen if he got up from this table and ran? If he tucked Steve Harrington and his name and his reputation and his memory into a plastic bag and disappeared.

Billy’s got delusions of his own. 

He’s full of quilted daydreams, stitched from every moment Steve has ever looked, smiled, laughed at one of Billy’s jokes. The thread is golden, the color of every late-night promise  to drive Billy across county lines. 

Billy’s delusions are plushy-soft comfort he’s not ready to bring out of the closet.

So he takes a sip of water. “Steve,” Billy says. “He’s. Steve Harrington.”

Neil leans forward. “Harrington?”

“Yes sir,” Billy wills his voice not to crack. 

He’s reluctant to spoil this part of his exile. To call the hounds in, bloodthirsty, to trample and tear the thing he’s clutching like a spot of gold to his chest. He digs his heel into Max’s foot under the table and wishes he wasn’t in his Saturday lounge-around clothes. He yearns for his boots, to break a bone. Eye for an eye, to somehow cancel the marrow that’ll splinter in his face when Neil finds out the truth.

“Good family,” Neil says. Every syllable lands like crystalized hail. They clink and roll and clatter all around the dining room. “Might be a good influence.”

“He is good,” Max says happily. She kicks back. It stings. “Billy and him–”

“He and Billy,” Susan chimes, and Billy thinks how ironic that Susan would choose now to become a real person when she’s usually set dressing. 

Reanimation, just to fire a canon and contribute to the sinking of Billy’s battleship. 

Billy dabs his mouth with a wadded-up paper towel. “May I be excused?”

Neil’s eyes snap to, and for a single, terrifying moment, Billy thinks he remembers. Carlos. The Pier. California. He wasn’t too drunk, he wasn’t irate, he remembers–

But Neil. He nods, brows knitted with faux worry. “Everything alright, son?”

He only lives up to Billy’s expectation of him when it’s deserved. When Billy’s done something besides breathe, one inhale after the next. 

“Just tired,” Billy says. Wonders what would happen if he ran.

–

Max says the dumbest shit in the world. 

She’s a chick. She’s a girl with an attitude the size of Missouri and a tongue that can pierce the skin, and that’s where their similarities end, careening over the mouth of a cliff into nothingness.

Billy learns early on that if he wants any peace at all he’d better tune her out just short of plugging his ears with cotton and bloody fingertips and dynamite, so when the wailing reaches a fever pitch he can blow his head off and float far away from here. 

Sometimes, though, Max’s scowl will clear and it’s like the Oracle is speaking through her.

You know, this garbage disposal noise you call music actually rocks. Or, I’ve been thinking about piercing one of my ears. It looks cool on you, I guess. And, when Billy needs to hear it most, your dad’s such an asshole. 

She’s a wrecking-ball with no awareness of her swing.

And when she speaks, it’s not the same as I understand. 

It’s not, I look at Neil, I see the way he wishes you were dead and I get it, now. Why you’ve always got a lit match in your palm, ready to burn the world to the ground. 

When Billy least expects it, Max’s words are daybreak. Filled with light so blinding Billy's a bug under a microscope, slowly catching fire. 

Two days before spring, Max slams out of her bedroom while Billy’s working on his bench press.

He hardly notices.

He’s floating, a little. Like a balloon. He’s listening to the new Tears for Fears album because Steve’s obsessed with it, and he’s pretty when he’s excited, and Billy’s a sucker for the plush, wide-lipped smiles that drip like gold from Steve’s face. “They’re good, Bills. They’re like if Halloween and Valentine's day had a baby.”

Billy’s stuck in a ground-hog day memory of the way Steve’s hair flopped into his eyes when he promised, “They’re like us.”

And. 

Billy’s not paying attention. He’s at least twenty shoulder-presses in, he’s smiling, he doesn’t really notice when Max’s heavy, sock-feet steps don’t carry on through the living room, and that’s his first mistake.

Before Billy knows what’s happening, Max looms over him.

He feels, like the distant brush of a spiderweb on his back, Max glaring. Searching his face. 

But Billy’s a ship lost in a sea of brown eyes.

He almost can’t find it within himself to be pissed that he can smell the peanut butter on her breath, almost, but then Max says, “You know Steve wants to kiss you, right?” 

And Billy sits up so fast that he almost knocks himself out on the barbell. 

“Woah, you’re bleeding,” Max steadies him, brows pinched with concern. “Are you–”

“You can’t say shit like that.” 

“I’m just pointing out the obvious.” 

Immediately, something warm starts to trickle over the right side of his face. “Shit,” He says, at the same time Max howls, “Oh, god, you’re bleeding–”

“What the fuck did you think would happen?” Billy tries not to move his head too much. He grips the edge of the bench until the leather splits like canyons until he’s sure the pads of his fingers will separate, too. 

“I’m sorry,” Max babbles, “I didn’t mean to–”

The house is silent. 

Beyond the throbbing in his skull and past the strangled, nervous way Max is breathing while she waits for him to strangle her to death, there’s nothing. 

All of Hawkins might as well be gone. Deleted from the page like a bad line of poetry. Billy wonders what would happen if the drapes parted from the window. Would anything stare back at him? Streets and mailboxes and cloud-covered skies. Would the black cosmos would press hard against the glass, would their refuge of plaster and slate would crumble under the weight of the universe–

“They’re not home,” Max says. Every space monster to his roost.

Billy nods, wincing at the pain that fries and curdles behind his right eyebrow. 

Max steadies him. “Shit, do you need some ice?”

“Don’t need ice, I need a rag,” Billy says, “And a beer.”

“You don’t need a beer.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m serious,” Max tells him, arms crossed. “If you have a concussion the last thing you want to do is get drunk–”

“I’m not gonna get drunk off one beer, shitstain.”

“Billy.”

“Max,” Billy snarls, working to push his voice fifteen octaves higher until they sound exactly the same. 

Max lopes furiously down the hall, returning a second later with crisp, beaded PBR in one hand and a wet rag in the other. Billy dabs his brow with the scratchy fabric, knowing Neil will reem him later for getting blood all over Susan’s good cloth. 

Billy can’t think about that, now. 

He reaches for the PBR and Max tugs it out of reach.

“Max–”

“I’m just. In biology, we’ve been reading about fetal alcohol syndrome.”

Billy feels like he got pushed in front of a train and whacked his temple on a railroad spike. “I’m not a fetus.”

“No, but our bodies are still developing,” Max says, like Billy’s an idiot. He’s thick and dumb and ridiculous for not paying attention in eighth-grade science class and knowing that the legal drinking age is twenty-one for a reason.

Billy doesn’t give a damn about that. “You made me split my brow, dipshit.”

“That’s not really my fault,” Max bargains. “I was just saying that Steve–”

Billy yanks the beer from Max’s hands. “Shut up,” He insists, nails burrowing under the pop-top, but just as Billy’s about to crack the seal and give himself over to the only thing in the world that would soothe his agony, Max is on him. 

“I’m worried about your brain,” She says, just short of tackling him off the bench, and.

Well.

She hollers. When she’s keeping secrets. When she’s trying to get her way. And Billy squints his eyes, ready to reiterate she has nothing to worry her stupid redhead over and it’s not really her place to worry about him, anyhow–

“You might have a concussion.”

“And you might have a death wish.”

“What’s it taste like, anyway,” Max wonders. “If it’s so good. It looks like root beer.”

“It tastes like piss.”

“Why do you drink it so mu–” When Billy glares, sharper than a new glade, Max bristles like a porcupine, “Look, I’m sorry I scared you–”

“You didn’t scare me,” Billy snaps. Spiders scare him, locked jaws and missed curfews and slashed tires scare him. Not little red-headed stepsisters who can’t mind their fucking business. 

Billy wants to throw the PBR at her.

Steve scares him. Steve–

Billy presses the can to his eyebrow, instead, hissing through his teeth at the feeling. 

Max’s shoulders drop, “Thanks for not drinking it,” She mutters, and it’s so sincere, so steeped in the sisterly worry Neil’s always preaching about, that Billy can’t swallow the question that bubbles up his throat like strawberry perfume. 

He has to know, “Why do you think Steve wants–”

“Whenever he watches you talk he always gets that look on his face.”

“What face?”

Max’s sneakers sing on the hardwood, dragging like nails against the chalkboard in Billy’s mind that’s been scrubbed clean and scribbled with Steve’s name, over and over and over again. “The blank one. You know, like when boys are about to kiss you and every thought flies out of their head like–” 

“How do you know what that face looks like,” Billy demands, stomach turning over on itself when her freckles burn away in shades of red. 

“Lucas–”

“God, that’s sick.”

“Don’t be an asshole. Just because Steve’s a loser and you’re a raging dickhole with a face only a mother could love–”

Billy winces, his molars grinding. It has nothing to do with the pain. Nothing to do with split brows and annoying sisters. “You’re one to talk, I can’t even look at you without wanting to Ralph.”

Max rolls her eyes. Deflates. “Sorry,” She says, soft and small, and.

She’s eyeing the PBR. Neil would kill Billy if he ever found out, but.

Billy cracks the beer and hands it to her. “Get lost before my head stops swimming.”

–

Steve’s fridge has the warmest light Billy’s ever seen, but maybe Billy’s just high. 

The glow cuts him from marble. He’s the work of artists long dead, the picture of beauty. Billy sways against the kitchen sink, feeling very much like he could fall asleep to the soft harmony of ketchup bottles and pickle jars making a grab for the fairytale prince.

It’s Friday. Just before spring break. They’re staring down a two-week barrel of nothing but lazy mornings and hazy midnights and each other. 

Miles and miles of nothing but this.

Billy’s excited. He could live forever in this moment, and the thought bubbles laughter out of him, surprised and happy. 

Steve looks at him, startled out of thought. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.”

Steve smirks, and. His nose is perfect in the refrigerator light. Billy never noticed before. He re-shelves a jar of olives, the fancy cheese-stuffed kind, and tugs a hand through his hair. “What are you even hungry for?” 

“Whatever you want,” Billy chews on his thumbnail, stomach churning. 

“Nothing sounds good. I don’t think I’ve got food in here, anyway.”

Billy watches him open a bag of sliced cheese. Is so warm and content he could fall asleep next to the bread box. “What do you call that?”

“Not food.”

“It’s food.”

“It’s ingredients, that’s not the same thing,” Steve pulls a slice from the bag, folding it a million times until it splits evenly down the middle. 

“It’s food, Harrington, it’s a whole meal,” Billy smiles in spite of himself when Steve nibbles on one half and holds the other, grinning, out in front of him. “No, I’m not–”

“Don’t even try it, Hargrove, I know you get the munchies when you’re stoned,” Steve wiggles the cheese at him, eyes big and brown and as expectant as they are beautiful, so.

Billy pops the cheese slice and eats it without tasting anything. 

Steve watches him, unblinking, “Well, what do you think?”

“It’s cheese.”

“Yeah, but you’re not full, right? Because there’s only more of that if we stay here.”

“Where else would we go?” Billy frowns, not getting it. The cheese is better than the single-packaged shit Susan gets from Melvalds. It’s smoky, and aged, and Billy could polish the whole bag if he wasn’t worried about the cheese farts. 

Steve fiddles with the corner of the bag, avoiding Billy’s eyes, “We could go out–”

“Close the fridge. You’re letting all the cool air out and now our dinner is gonna spoil.”

“Our dinner is not a bag of cheese,” Steve grumbles, but he hip-checks the door, collapsing onto his elbows in front of the paper towel dispenser. He tugs at his hair until it looks like it hurts, until his sprouting laugh lines disappear, and Billy hates it.

He wants them back.

He swims through the fog, trying to think of something funny to make Steve smile, but Harrington’s already pushing away from the counter, frown deep-set. “Why don’t you ever wanna eat anything when you’re here?” He demands.

And Billy can’t say that it’s the fault of his kid sister. That her insane, paranoid ramblings about love and blank expressions have gotten under his skin, and now everything Steve does feels like the start of something else.

Billy can’t admit that he wants it to be something else, so. “I eat popcorn sometimes.”

“I’m not talking about snacks, I mean real food,” Steve says. He studies Billy’s face, “Do you get your energy through photosynthesis or something?”

Billy laughs, loud and sudden. “No, I just–”

“I could cook for you.” Billy almost brains it on the spotlessly tiled floor because Steve’s eyes get bigger, somehow. Sparkling with earnestness. Steve shuffles, hands on his hips. “I want to cook for you,” He says, like it means something else entirely.

And whatever it is. Billy can’t handle that. 

He bristles, says, “I don’t feel comfortable eating anything that costs more than the house Max and I live in,” Hoping it’ll sink the lifeline Steve’s trying to throw him.

“It’s just organic shopping,” Steve shoots back.

Which. “Huh?”

“It’s got like, less sugar. And preservatives, or something,” Steve shrugs, tongue darting pink and swift across his cupid’s bow. “My mom does the shopping when she’s home.”

Billy frowns. “Well, I’m not eating half of your mom’s paycheck. What will you eat?”

“You know, making dinner for you means I’ll get some, too,” Steve says. A smile tugs lazily at the corners of his perfect, clever mouth, and Billy is swallowed by anticipation. 

There’s nothing he loves more in the entire world, probably, than seeing the subtle birth of each smile. The way Steve paints them on as if he were writing secret letters addressed to Billy, slipping them between the folds of conversation so Billy is surprised whenever they unfurl and bloom like tulips in the springtime. 

Steve’s eyes hunt over his face, “You’re sure you’re not a plant? A sunflower?” Steve asks. He scoots close, fingers reaching to tilt Billy’s head toward the kitchen light, “Look like one to me,” He says, and.

Out of nowhere, his face goes carefully blank. His eyes land somewhere and stick, like the spindly legs of a fly to trapping paper.

Steve is watching Billy’s mouth.

He’s leaning forward, he’s–

Somewhere, in the back of Billy’s mind, Maxine bangs on a door labeled No Admittance, hollering about the way boys look when they want to kiss you.

It scares Billy, how much he wants it.

How much it would kill him if it never happens. 

“I’m not a fucking plant,” Billy says, shrugging away. He stares wildly around the kitchen, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. “This kitchen is disgusting.”

Steve watches him, quietly amused as Billy pretends to find something on the counter to scrub. 

Billy works a damp paper towel over every inch of the counter, putting an island between them so Steve doesn’t have the chance to swoop close. Get his hands on Billy’s face. 

Those fingertips would send sparks flying.

Billy would char and burn and bubble over, so.

Steve watches him for a quiet moment and Billy avoids his eyes, terrified of what he’ll find when he has to stop scrubbing the counter. “What are you doing?”

Eventually, the marble will come away on the paper towel. “Cleaning,” Billy says. “If we’re going to eat a bag of cheese in here, it’s gotta be spotless.”

“Wanna go to Benny’s?” Steve asks.

Billy stares at him, then, stomach growling on command. 

Steve’s answering smile is brighter than the harvest sun. Billy could sprout into fields of marigolds, he could be picked and kept forever in a vase on the fireplace mantle. “I don’t want you to feel like you’ve gotta clean up after me,” Steve tells him.

Guilt, sharp and swift, pangs in Billy’s stomach. He wants to insist that it’s no bother. That he’s used to cleaning up after Max and sweeping away the delicate bits of himself that clatter to the ground. And even if there were fruit punch stains all over the marble, the remnants of Steve living everyday in this house, Billy wouldn’t mind cleaning up after him.

Billy wouldn’t mind taking care of him.

Steve shuffles around the island, smile sheepish and cute. “C’mon, we can have pancakes.”

“I want chicken strips.”

“Alright.”

“And a double chocolate rootbeer float with ranch–”

“For your ice cream?” Steve teases, “That’s disgusting.”

“For my fries, asshole,” Billy shoves him playfully, “Do you want to feed me dinner or not?”

Steve rocks away and lands closer, cheeks red like strawberry ice cream, “I want to do a lot of things for you,” He admits quietly, and.

That face is back again. 

Billy wants to pull away, but he’s caught. Steve catches him, hook and line, says, “Billy–”

And Steve kisses like he’s never done it before, but has always wanted to try. Like he’s been waiting his whole life and every one before that for Billy. For this moment. High spring nights and empty stomachs and yearning, soft as fresh soil.

His fingers thread into the curls at the base of Billy’s skull.

Their knees bump together, Billy grabbing onto Steve’s shoulders to stop from falling back against the trash can.

The kiss opens up.

Gets sloppy and good and Billy could live here forever. His lips could swell and melt into Steve’s and it would be perfect.

Steve pulls away, but he stays close. Their lips brush on every desperate breath. “Sorry my kitchen is disusting,” He says.

Billy can’t think straight. “I’ll clean it for you.”

“Let’s stay in,” Steve says. He kisses Billy’s jaw and both eyelids, licking slowing into his mouth.

Billy throws the paper towel in the garbage can.

For the first time in his life, he’s full.

--

For an anonymous donor! I hope you enjoyed this drabble :)

[grey-sides]

my heart, a locket for you

Here is the Harringrove for Turkey fill for @chrisbitchtree! I hope you love it and thank you so, so much for donating!!

~2.6K words, explicit

Billy tells him when he’s in the bath. Steve has some candles lit, the lights turned off with a glass of wine in one hand and the radio playing in the background.

It’s funny that he doesn’t even care that Billy is walking in on him naked. They’ve kept each other alive through hazings, near alcohol poisoning, and heartbreak. Billy’s seen him naked before and at his very worst. Sitting in a bubble bath is nothing.

“I’m thinking of moving back to California,” Billy admits, shrugging. He’s wearing a clean t-shirt, one that fits him well enough to highlight his biceps and triceps and all the ’ceps that Steve wants to touch.

Steve takes a swallow of wine, does his best not to choke on it. Billy wants to move back to California. He’s probably always wanted to move back to California. And now that they’re graduated, there’s no reason for him not to.

“Back to where you’re from?” Steve asks and hopes his voice isn’t too strangled. He’s supposed to be relaxing, but Billy is dropping bombs on him.

Billy shrugs, grabs the bottle of wine and takes a drink. “Probably. Maybe. Still gotta find a place, but I figured I would let you know, you know? Give you time to get used to the idea of not having to see my ugly mug every morning.”

Steve has gotten painfully, irrevocably used to seeing Billy’s face every morning. But now he’s going to have to not see it. It makes his chest ache. He fills the hole with another swallow of wine.

“Well, good then. Means I’ll be able to have over more girls.”

Billy snorts, drinks more wine and leaves Steve to his bath. He flickers the lights a couple of times before he actually leaves and Steve laughs. They have time, Billy hasn’t enough found a place to move yet.

They moved in together for college, during their freshmen year. They had both moved across the country to go to Temple University, which Steve hadn’t expected but once he realized living with Billy wasn’t too bad- he hadn’t minded.

Billy was typically clean, or at least good at keeping his mess on his side of the room. He liked to wear just his boxers and a tank top around the dorm room, but Steve never minded. They worked well together, living in the same dorm room.

So they just stuck with it. Through their first cramped dorm room to a weird suite with two weird roomates, to their first off-campus place that they hosted parties in every weekend.

And when the holidays came around, Billy would drive home with him. One night to visit Max, middle ground at her mother’s, away from his father. And then he would charm Steve’s parents. Mostly his mother, but it was good.

It’s still good. It’s a nicer apartment than their first off-campus one, it’s for real adults with full-time jobs which they both have. Two shiny degrees tacked to the wall in the living room, opposite the television.

Steve doesn’t want to leave this apartment. Or, well, it’s not the apartment, really. It’s Billy. Billy will leave, go back to California and become one with the surf and sand again.

If Steve was a good roommate and not in love with Billy, he would offer to go with him. Spend a week looking at apartments, asking Billy to show him around. Giving him freedom and space and help.

But he’s selfish, he always has been. He wants Billy to stay as long as possible, have to ask the post office to order him some special newspapers from California so he can look at listings.

He wants to savor their nightly dinners, shared at the shitty dining room table Billy cobbled together in an elective. He wants to grab Billy a beer from the bridge and press it to the back of his neck until he smacks him every night. He wants to see if they both can fit into the easy chair Steve’s dad bought Billy to prove that he could.

“Dinner!” Steve shouts, scooping pasta into bowls. He has the salad bowl set on the table already with ranch dressing for him and Italian for Billy. There’s water there too, it looks domestic, friendly, like maybe they’re a family.

Billy waltzes out in his cut off shorts with his hair in a bandanna. It’s out of control these days, long and untamed. He used to bitch about finding a hairdresser, so Steve trims the ends for him.

“Hmmm you made pesto?” Billy asks, stretching so he can scratch his stomach. He crosses behind Steve while Steve carries bowls to the table and heads for the kitchen sink. Domestic.

Steve nods and wipes his hands off with his dishtowel, looking at the spread on the table. “Yeah, I used pine nuts this time because you said you like them,” he replies. He nods once and goes to wash his hands too.

Billy takes his usual seat, chair against the wall so he can see the door. It’s just something Steve’s gotten used to, living with him. He likes to see doors, any place someone can enter from. Steve knows it’s from his dad, but he doesn’t begrudge him for it. Billy’s allowed to have fears from that man.

“Thanks, are there any nuts left over?”

“Half a bag,” Steve hums. He picks up his fork and twirls pasta around it. “Stuck them in your cabinet by the fridge.”

Billy grins. “You’re the best.”

Steve flips him off as his heart warms in his chest. They dig in to eat and for awhile, it’s just the sound of their forks scraping the bowls, chewing and slurping.

“Harrington,” Billy says, eventually, looking intently at him.

“Hm?” Steve pokes his head up, looks at Billy with wide eyes. Billy doesn’t say a word, he just leans over and drags his napkin down Steve’s cheek. Steve blushes to the roots of his hair and looks down hurriedly when Billy pulls his hand away.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

“Anytime, but you gotta get better at not getting shit all over your face, since I won’t be here forever,” Billy teases him.

It’s enough reminder to make Steve’s heart sink. Billy hasn’t really made any moves yet, he hems and haws about how hard it is to find a place without being there. But he hasn’t tried to find flights or listings, as far as Steve can tell.

“Yeah, would you get on that?” Steve chuckles, light, teasing. He doesn’t want Billy to leave. He can’t imagine asking him to stay.

Billy rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything. The silence leaves Steve enough space to wonder if maybe Billy doesn’t want to go either. Or…or if he wants Steve to go with.

~~

Later, weeks or months or seasons, it’s hard to tell sometimes, Billy bothers Steve in his room. He hovers in the doorway and watches Steve, waits until Steve grabs a pillow to throw at him because he’s being silent and creepy.

“Asshole,” Billy mutters, catching the pillow. He throws it right back and Steve catches it with his face.

Steve sets the pillow down and fixes his glasses. He runs his fingers through his hair and raises his brows. He has a magazine open in his lap, reading an article about a movie he wants to go see.

“What?” Steve asks, pushing the magazine to the side.

Billy shrugs, licks his lips. “About California…”

Steve waits for him to continue, but it’s clear Billy doesn’t have any other thoughts. Or he doesn’t know what else to say. “What about it?”

“I’m really gonna go, you know?”

Steve nods slowly, shifts over on his bed because Billy insists on taking the right side. “I know, you said you would.”

Billy takes a deep breath, blows it out slowly. “You ever think about moving?”

Steve shrugs, wraps his arms around his pillow and hugs it to his chest. It’s late, the hour of honesty and loneliness.

“I moved from Hawkins, didn’t I?”

Billy lays back on his bed, looks up at the ceiling. His hair is damp, curled wildly around his face on the pillow. “Yeah. Guess we did.”

Steve could kiss him, wants to kiss him. He wants to lean over him and kiss him senseless until Billy is breathless and begging. Until Steve can leave his mark all over him so that no matter where Billy goes, he will never forget Steve Harrington.

“Why do you want to go back to California?” he asks instead.

Billy shrugs. “Always said I was going to.”

“Do you not like it here?”

“Summers suck, man, they’re so fucking humid.”

Steve hums, rolls onto his side to watch Billy. “But we get snow. And cheesesteaks.”

“Ohhh cheesesteaks,” Billy grumbles, humming. “With provolone, no whiz.”

“No whiz, never,” Steve whispers.

Steve licks his lips, there’s something here, in the space between them. Sitting on the sheets and waiting to be picked up and examined.

“And I’m here,” Steve adds. His voice is low, maybe he could say he coughed if Billy calls him on it.

“You’re here,” Billy agrees softly. He closes his eyes, his eyelashes touch his cheeks, the freckles dusted there. Steve wants to commit them to memory on the tips of his fingers.

“Don’t leave,” Steve mumbles. He swallows hard and reaches out, curling his fingers into Billy’s soft band t-shirt. “Don’t go back to California, not without me.”

Billy’s lower lip trembles and his eyes screw shut tighter. He looks like he wants to burst into tears. Steve knows the feeling.

“Don’t-”

“Don’t what? Don’t tell you the truth? I want you here with me. Don’t go somewhere and not let me follow.”

Billy grabs his wrist, squeezes it and turns to look at him with shiny eyes. “I have to leave or I won’t stop loving you.”

“Fucking-!” Steve throws his pillow to the ground and surges up to kiss Billy. Idiots, both of them.

He untangles his hand from his shirt and cradles his cheek in one hand. It’s so warm to the touch because Billy contains the sun and he probably needs to go back to California to get it recharged, but they can go together. Later.

Billy makes a soft sound and one of his hands fits against Steve’s lower back. He forces Steve to straddle his waist, kissing back like they need to share air.

Steve leans himself into Billy’s embrace, spending just a moment marveling at how well they fit together. Of course they do, they’ve always fit together, it’s part of why living together has worked out so well.

He groans quietly when Billy tugs on his lower lip and slides his hand up to tangle in his hair. Steve tugs on the ends of it, huffing a bit as he rocks his hips down.

“Stay,” he whispers. “If we do this, you have to stay. You have to wait until we can find a place together.”

Billy nods, pulls back to look at Steve with bright eyes. “I’m gonna stay. Haven’t found a place anyway.”

Steve knows it’s the truth because Billy’s been dragging this out as much as Steve has been carefully not touching it to keep him here. He dives back in and slides his left hand down Billy’s body.

Billy groans next and starts to wiggle so he can get his shirt off. Steve has to put his mouth in the center of Billy’s chest and looks up at him through his lashes. He tugs his own shirt over his head too, dropping both of them onto the floor.

He’s suddenly glad that Billy likes the right side because then he won’t have to sleep in the wet spot. Or they can go sleep in Billy’s bed which has no wet spots. Choices, choices, Steve stops thinking about their choices.

They get undressed, still familiar, but breathing hard. It’s not from playing basketball in the summer or doing laps at the Y in the winter. It’s because they’re kissing and touching, hands sliding over skin, grabbing fistfuls.

Steve leans over Billy enough to smack around his bedside table. Condom, lube, he always has them, easy, accessible, sitting right out in the open because he’s twenty-fucking-three.

“Shit, you ever done this before?” Billy laughs.

“Fuck no,” Steve giggles in return. “Hands?”

“Hands, but I’m gonna learn how to do it for you,” Billy decides. He tosses the condom away but keeps the lube close.

Steve kisses his stomach and picks up the lube to wrap his hand around it. Maybe he can warm it, he wants to warm it for Billy like he’s never wanted to warm lube for anyone before.

Billy pulls him up for another kiss, one hand on his cheek, the other fitting around both their dicks. It’s dry, his hand is calloused from weights, but Steve moans anyway.

There’s nothing like being touched by someone he loves, he can’t help it. He huffs a couple of times and bites down on Billy’s lip.

Steve pulls back to get lube between them, too much, at least for now, but it’s fine. They’re gross, they’re boys, he loves Billy so much it’s not funny. He rolls his hips up and Billy moans next, friction.

“Shit do that again,” Billy begs. He has his hand curled around them both, so Steve can do the hip work.

He starts a slow roll, finding a rhythm that works for both of them. And he kisses Billy, his lips are going to be sore tomorrow from Billy’s facial hair, but he doesn’t care. He’s so focused on how their skin drags together, the rasp of his chest hair against Billy’s chest.

Steve’s toes curl and he really pushes himself into Billy’s hand, listens to make sure it’s good for Billy too. He wants this moment to last forever. He’s imprinting himself into Billy’s heartbeats if he wasn’t there already.

“Fuck,” Billy breathes. His hips rock up too, uncontrollable while he chases that release. Steve watches him, mouth hanging open. They can do this again later or tomorrow or any day from now until forever.

“Come on, show me how good you look when you come,” Steve coaxes. He wraps his hand around them too, has to take a deep breath to keep from shooting off, he wants to see Billy come first.

Billy grunts and focuses, looking down between them. Steve keeps rocking his hips, so focused on that pretty face, the furrow of his brows, the way his lips are sucked between his teeth.

When Billy comes, his face opens up, he drops his head back and almost laughs into his moan. Steve is totally transfixed, paused halfway in a thrust. He has to kiss Billy’s jaw and feels the wet splash of spunk between them.

Steve moans and slides through Billy’s come breathlessly. He comes a moment later, squeezing down hard on himself as he thinks of Billy’s blue eyes, searching for the heavens he’s found within himself.

Steve flops beside him. His chest is heaving, his hand and stomach are sticky, but his heart is soaring. He’s smiling, he looks at Billy and smiles even wider.

“I love you,” he whispers.

Billy turns to smile at him too, leans in for a soft, sweet kiss. He’s tender to the touch, when Steve splays his sticky hand on his chest.

“I love you too,” Billy mumbles when they pull apart. “Come with me to California.”

And Steve doesn’t know what else the future holds or if he’s even going to like California. But he wants to keep this life with Billy. So he just smiles and says, “Okay.”

[bottombillyapologist]

Harringrove for Turkey drabble for @ihni , the prompt that hit my inspiration nerve was "workout-ish, or a silly injury + care and cuddles after".

Enjoy!

“You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

It was the first thing Steve had said since Billy had curled up on top of their duvet cover and refused to move. He’d been sitting on the edge of the bed after Billy fled the living room of their apartment. 

Billy knew it had been stupid of him to try, he hadn’t had the same strength in his shoulders since Starcourt. Despite all physical therapy, his left side was permanently weaker than the right. That and a bit of numbness had put him off most heavy lifting. But he still wanted to try. He missed the endorphin rush of a heavy workout, and while he’d been cleared for lighter impact things like swimming and yoga, it still wasn’t the same.

He ran across the idea of calisthenics in one of the books he’d been gifted post-therapy. While some of the concepts weren’t in the cards for him, there were a few that seemed just a few steps past the strength building yoga he had already been doing. 

The look on Steve’s face when he’d shown him the book was telling. Thinly veiled worry, a slight purse to his lips that screamed disapproval. He knew Steve wasn’t going to tell him not to try, but the look made him bristle. He’d snapped the book shut and set it aside for the night. 

It was naive to still hope he could one day get back to where he had been before his injuries. In his heart of hearts, Billy knew that. But it did nothing to dispel the feeling that he was weak for not being able to overcome it. That he couldn't fight his own body for a sense of freedom. He couldn’t move without pain. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t lift. And he didn’t want to accept that this might be as far into recovery as he would ever get.

So Billy had gone behind Steve’s back. It’s not like he needed permission, but every step of his treatment and recovery had been run through Steve. He probably knew Billy’s limits better than his own at this point, and it felt wrong not to tell him. 

Steve was puttering around in the kitchen while Billy went through his regular night exercise routine. He stretched out, did what he could with the hand weights Steve kept under the TV, and only then did he try one of the more advanced exercises. It wasn’t even technically calisthenics. Just a more advanced version of a yoga pose he’d practiced plenty of times. 

He laid out on his yoga mat and pushed up onto his elbows, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder as he got his feet under him. It was kind of like doing a plank, but walking his feet forward until he was up in almost a vertical position, then slowly raising his legs. If he could do it, it would help strengthen his core and get him used to having more weight on his shoulders. Maybe one day he’d be able to do a real handstand again. 

Of course, he got stuck trying to muster the core strength to get off the ground. His back already ached from getting into the position, and he could feel his left shoulder dipping towards the ground. It was frustrating. And in a moment of stupidity, he’d kicked off the ground and tried to force it. 

Predictably, he lost his balance. He managed to flip all the way over, twisting to avoid going straight into the coffee table, but he caught the edge of it on his hip. 

Steve heard the crash. Of course he had, and came running. 

Which led them up to now. 

Billy was embarrassed. He didn’t know how not to be. He hadn’t looked at how bad it was, but he could feel a bruise blooming on his hip. His shoulder was throbbing, and the pain was radiating down his arm through shot nerves and making the whole thing feel like it was on fire. 

He just couldn’t get over how stupid it was of him to try in the first place. He should’ve known by now there was no point in trying to push himself further than he could take. This was a huge step back. He wouldn’t even be able to do his usual routine until this healed. Which could take a week, or it could never be the same again.

Steve was hovering at a distance. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, but waiting for permission from Billy to move closer.

“I should’ve known I wasn’t strong enough to do it. It was stupid to try.”

Steve paused for a beat, and Billy waited for a reprimand. For Steve to tell him, yeah, he shouldn’t have tried because now he’s undone a significant amount of progress.

“Billy, do you know how many times I’ve hit my head in the stairwell since we moved in?” Steve reached out to put a hand on his knee as Billy processed the question. There was a poorly placed overhang in the stairs to their apartment, and while Billy remembered to duck, Steve often didn’t. The first time he’d hit his head was when they were moving. He’d dropped a box of books down the stairs.

“I haven’t even bothered to count, but it’s a lot. No matter how many times I go down those stairs, I forget it’s there. Everyone does shit and hurts themselves accidentally. And there are so many things that are hard for you to do, or that you can’t do, that messing up is part of the process. I love that you try things even when you’re unsure. But baby, you know that means sometimes you find out the hard way it’s not something you can do. It doesn’t make you stupid.”

Billy swallowed down the lump in his throat. No matter how many times he heard the “progress isn’t linear” lecture, it didn’t seem to stick. He focused on Steve’s hand, now stroking up and down his calf, and took a few deep breaths.

It didn’t matter that he couldn’t do it. He wasn’t stupid for trying. Sometimes the only way to find out is the hard way, and it doesn’t make him stupid.

Billy huffed, uncurling from the position he’d taken on top the covers. 

“Ok…”

The smile Steve gave him was fond, and it made him feel silly for believing Steve would think he was stupid in the first place.

“Ok. Can I check you over now?”

Billy nodded. He appreciated that Steve didn’t make a face as he studied the bruising on his side, but moving his shoulder was another story. Billy gasped as he tried to straighten his arm, and Steve winced in sympathy before grabbing his wrist to stop him from moving it further. He gently palpated the joint of Billy’s shoulder, seeming satisfied with whatever he’d found.

“Alright, nothing’s broken but your shoulder seems strained pretty badly. I’m gonna grab an ice pack and some ibuprofen, do you want anything else?”

Billy shook his head, but regardless, Steve came back with a warm cup of his favorite tea and a sling for his arm for later. It took some situating, but once Billy took the ibuprofen in addition to his regular meds, they managed to get positioned with an ice pack balanced on Billy’s hip and another on his shoulder. His head was resting on Steve’s chest, and gentle fingers worked through his hair as listened to Steve’s heartbeat. 

At the end of the day, no matter how many times he screwed up his recovery, they were alive. They had their own apartment. Nothing was going to take Steve away from him any time soon, and that was enough. 

The ache in his body had settled to a dull throb, and the medication he’d been given to help his anxiety made him sleepy. Billy grunted and shifted a bit in Steve’s arms. Steve shushed him, pushing loose curls out of his face. 

“Go to sleep, bud. I’ll have meds ready in the morning.” 

Billy smiled a little at that. He’d probably feel like he’d been hit by a bus when he woke up. But Steve would be there with whatever he asked for, even if it was something ridiculous.

Overall, he had it pretty good.

[neonponders]

To @kittyphoenix12-xx​  for Harringrove for Turkey!! Thank you so much for donated and a big thank you for your endless patience!! 💗

~ read on ao3 ~

• • •

Steve Harrington smelled. That was Billy’s current problem.

Because Harrington smelled good. Like the gold and amber warmth in sunlight that has soaked into a slept-in, pine-green blanket sort of way.

Billy didn’t like thinking of smells in terms of colors, but here he sat. Smelling colors while being stuck on Steve Harrington because their last names were right next to each other. Hawkins was so small that even outside of school, Billy felt like he was playing bumper cars.

And he could always find Steve. That proved to be a boon and a curse at this very moment, because Billy swung wide between feeling deliciously warm and satiated on Steve’s lap, and absolutely furious and indignant at being on four legs instead of two.

“Ow! Jesus shit, I should’ve known you were a cat,” Steve griped after a claw sliced his palm open. The smell of salty blood was gratifying, at least. Billy yowled deep in his chest as Steve picked him up like a heavy towel, dumping him onto the passenger seat. “I’ll apologize to you later. For now, try not to piss on the upholstery.”

How in gods name a party in bum fuck Hawkins had turned into Billy riding in Steve Harrington’s car…more specifically, how a piss in the woods had turned into Billy writhing in the most itchy, burning, bone-piercing ache, and then staring up at Steve…who seemed weirdly larger than Billy remembered.

Steve wasn’t larger.

Billy had turned into a cat.

And his excursion to the woods had been too successful, because he would very much like to give Steve’s car exactly what it deserves.

“Are you still Billy in there? Because you’re not speaking English right now, dude,” Steve said as he drove through the winding suburban roads. Billy stood on his passenger seat with his front paws on the window ledge. He was vaguely aware that his voice—his fucking meow—was deeper than a standard cat’s whine, but he was too overwhelmed to give a shit.

Night vision was nothing like movies made it out to be. Instead of really being able to see through shadows, his eyes snatched onto every moving detail. Hawkins had a lot more rabbits than Billy had previously noticed. And deer. Why the hell were deer strolling around backyard pools and flowerbeds?

Sound moved differently around his ears than it did for a human head. But on top of it all was Steve. All of his car. Every variation of scent that one human teenager could saturate within the interior of his stupid BMW. Behind it all, Billy could distinguish what must have been the aromas left behind by the original driver, Harrington Senior, but Steve had long since moved into this vehicle.

Billy could smell the days he landed in the car after basketball practice. The mornings he drove after a fresh shower. He could smell the moist soil on Steve’s shoes now and the salty freshness of new sweat and outdoor air on his skin—

“Jesus Christ,” Steve groaned. “I always knew you got mouthy when you were full of yourself but this is something else. Someone’s going to think I cat-napped you.”

Billy cast a silent glare at him, willing Steve’s brain to blow a fuse as Billy fumed, Worse, you gave me paws, asshole!

Almost like he had heard this, Steve sighed, “I assume you didn’t know you were able to turn into a cat, huh? We’re here.”

Billy’s smaller body sagged with the car turning into a driveway and rocking with the brakes. In record speed and agility, Billy sleuthed out of the war when Steve stepped out on his side—

“Wait a second, Billy! ” Steve shouted, and to Billy’s acute annoyance, he paused. Steve took advantage of the moment and stretched his arms out before they fell to slap against this thighs. “Where are you gonna go? I know you don’t think much of it, but Hawkins is dangerous at night. Can you at least let me take you inside and explain?”

Billy hissed, ears pinned back against his skull. In the back of his mind, he felt his earring weighing down the thin pinna of his ear. You’re not carrying me like a fucking pet.

Steve huffed tiredly. “I know you understand me. At least let me help you get back on two legs.”

Billy growled again, but even he could hear the annoyed tolerance in his yowl. Relief infused Steve’s features when he realized Billy’s slow footfalls were in the direction of the house. He pressed his thumb against his house key as he teased, “I won’t make you eat cat food—Hey!”

Billy swiped at the back of his ankle, catalyzing Steve’s pace toward the front door. Despite being a witch, Steve used his key to unlock the house and toed his shoes off on the welcome mat. Billy didn’t have clothes to remove. They were bunched up under Steve’s elbow—after Billy had zapped into a smaller body and Steve used the clothes like a burrito to wrestle Billy into the BMW.

Billy’s ears swiveled toward the sound of Steve rubbing his hands together. For a long moment, Billy processed how Steve’s fidgeting meant nervous, alongside Billy’s own desire to claw his way up Steve’s body so he wasn’t standing below knee level anymore. Considering this would result in Steve carrying him, Billy grumbled a low growl and started walking down the length of the foyer towards what he presumed would be a living room—

“Here, we’re gonna need to burn something.” Billy froze, Steve’s jogged steps making the floor tremble on his way to the sliding glass door. As soon as he looked back at Billy, he realized this and winced. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

Billy yowled on his way past Harrington’s stupidly large feet. Steve followed him out but left the door open. The backyard was…too much. The landscaping was all fragrant herbs and then there was the pool. Thankfully the saltwater was not as pungent as a chlorine pool, but Billy found himself retreating back to the carpet just inside the door. From there, he observed Steve ripping leaves off of one plant, and then flowers form another.

When he noticed Billy sitting inside, he barked, “What? Get out here.”

Billy pawed at his nose. He and Steve stared at each other until Billy chirped at him and touched his nose again. Steve’s large eyes drifted down to the herbs in his hand, before he pivoted to look at all the criminals in his smelly yard. “Oh. Okay.”

He came inside and, to Billy’s relief, shut the door. Like he was wadding up a ball of paper, Steve crushed the leaves and flowers in his hands before sprinkling them over the carpet. To Billy’s surprise and fondness, he recognized the flowers.

No wonder Harrington’s never with the weed kids behind the bleachers. He grows his own stash.

Billy filed this away for later, under the caveat of how, if this went well enough, he might hit Steve up for some of this later. Preferably free, at the expense of Steve’s guilt for getting him in this situation in the first place.

Billy’s mind infused with the familiar sour fragrance, as well as the neutral bitterness of green things. His ear twitched, making him vaguely aware of Steve going to the kitchen. Not having a pair of eyes on him helped him relax after what felt like a long night. It had only been perhaps half an hour, but Billy lowered himself over the carpet all the same, sniffing at the leaves and petals, wondering distantly what kind of spell Steve could do. Didn’t witches need cauldrons or something? Steve had just dumped everything on the floor…

The kitchen began to smell like spaghetti sauce. The telltale oven door sounds before garlic bread infused the air. Billy let his back legs flop to the side as he blinked slowly, one side of his skull drifting on sour kush, and the other tickling with the promise of spaghetti and bread…

Perhaps the pain brought his mind into clarity. Or simple hunger. Either way, Billy distinctly thought, Why the shit is Harrington cooking dinner instead of helping me? the same time he found Steve watching him over the island counter.

What’s more, Steve grinned like a teenager after experiencing his first tequila sunrise. “That was easier than I thought.”

Out of some whim of annoyance, Billy stood up—

All the way up.

Blood rushed to his head and he teetered, heavy, human feet loud and clumsy underneath him. All of a sudden, Steve’s hands were around his ribs, holding him up like a child. In other circumstances, Billy would have knocked his hands off and shoved him to the ground, but he had never faced this kind of nausea before. It was like all of his limbs had gone numb and his blood was too slow getting back to his fingertips and toes.

“Come here, sit down. I’ll get you a soda. You’ll feel better in a few minutes. I hope.”

“You’re a ray of sunshine,” Billy groaned. He couldn’t say that Steve was wrong, since with every step toward the couch, he did feel more clarity. Clear enough to notice Steve jerking the throw blanket down to spare the couch from Billy’s naked ass. “I’ll try not to be insulted by that.”

“You can wrap up in it, asshole,” Steve remarked on his way to the fridge. When he came back, he poured the ginger ale into a glass. Billy huffed at the gallantry, causing Steve to warn, “Don’t make me prefer you as a cat. Do you want food or not?”

“Oh, I’d love some. Do I get a placemat too?”

“No, but I can get you a bib,” Steve smiled.

“The faster you feed me, the less likely I am to beat your ass…unless you’ve got other tricks up your sleeve that you’ve been holding out on me.”

Something behind Steve’s eyes lit up, visibly processing that as a compliment. Billy frowned a little, since his track record over Steve was still one to zero.

Instead of answering, Steve worked on getting two heaping piles of pasta to the coffee table, with half a baguette, each, slathered with garlic butter. Billy nursed his soda, taking one, wrapped up forkful at a time. His stomach had just shrunken to the size of a cat’s, after all. And now that he thought about it…

“After drinking at the party, why haven’t I thrown up yet? My stomach has just accordion shifted between sizes.”

Steve’s eyes went wide as he worked on chewing through the lump of food in his cheek. “Wishful thinking? Please don’t barf.”

Billy’s lashes fell to half-mast. “So you don’t know anything about turning into a cat even though you forced this on me?”

“I didn’t force anything! You can turn into a cat on your own.”

“I’ve never run on four paws, Harrington,” he argued tiredly. Billy resigned himself to beat his ass tomorrow. For now, he just wanted this meal and a heavy night’s sleep.

Steve sighed and set his pasta on the table. “I take it your dad and stepmom don’t go for moonlit runs in the woods?”

Billy grimaced at him. “The hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about how you don’t know anything about this. Which means your mom is a big freaking help—”

“Don’t talk about my mom,” Billy said quietly. Like one monotone warning.

Steve took it. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

Billy pursed his lips into an impertinent line as his nostrils flared with his inhalation. “If I can turn into a cat, why haven’t I? Plenty of nights behind me to have discovered that party trick.”

The air crunched with Steve’s bite into his bread. His cheek refilled as he shoved the bite to the side and enunciated, “Well, you’re not a werewolf. If no one prompted you to change, I guess, why would you?”

“Then what were you doing in the woods, Steve?” Billy accused. “You were awfully available to scoop me up as soon as I went down.”

Steve countered, “What were you doing so close to me?”

“Taking a piss. Regular woodland activities. Last I checked, Hawkins was way too Christian to have Wiccans.”

Steve shook his head. “What are those?”

“It’s like witch religion. California’s full of them. They own half the incense stores that front for weed sales.”

Steve’s brows lifted, absorbing that with a chirped, “Huh.”

Billy’s eyes widened. “Explain, already! Don’t make me leave you bloody on the floor again.”

“Christ, okay,” Steve cursed under his breath. He rubbed his hands over his face and took a deep breath. “I’m a witch but an atheist one, I guess. All the practice but none of the…pagan stuff. We don’t needs god mojo but we still need energy for spells. The party was like a power plant.”

Billy plunged his fork back into his food, feeling like this was even enough footing for his stomach accept nourishment. Even if Steve sounded like a crackpot. “What sort of spells? Trying to get Wheeler to take you back?”

“No, we’ve been over for months.”

“New girlfriend?”

“I’m too busy getting rejected from colleges and job applying to have one right now.”

“So, what, then? A spell for good fortune? What does a rich boy like you need help with?”

Steve exhaled heavily again. His large hands rubbed over his knees, making Billy glad his heightened ears and nose were gone. “Witches don’t need Satan or gods…but familiars are real.”

“What is that? Familiar what?”

“An animal familiar,” Steve reiterated, and the light bulb went on above Billy’s head.

“You cast a spell to get a dog?”

“I cast a spell to invite a willing animal to keep me company. That’s the whole shtick about witchcraft: consent. I can’t just go into a pet store and buy one. I can put out an invitation, but that’s about it. And then you showed up.”

“I’m not a damn animal, Harrington,” Billy growled.

“I know, but unfortunately for both of us, you’re the one who answered the invitation.”

“I didn’t answer shit, but you’d be damn lucky to have me.”

A laugh sputtered out of Steve. And then of all the questions to ask, “Do you even like me? Outside of all the bullshit you throw at me, do you actually have an interest me? If you can answer honestly, I’ll make you a stronger drink.”

Billy frowned at him, staring hard enough that Steve squirmed, “What? What? ”

“Who was the one who lied to my face?”

Steve cleared his throat, having the grace to look ashamed. “Me.”

“Who was the one trying to make you suck less at basketball?”

“Your coaching needs a lot of work. I can’t tell the difference between harassment and advice from you.”

“Tommy was right there, giving you shit about Wheeler and Byers. You were an easy target, but who tried to remind you that girls don’t matter?”

Steve’s face scrunched up until he licked his lips with a popping sound. “I can’t tell the difference between a guy who hates women and a guy who’s just gay. Especially when you’re both—is that what I’m supposed to get from that?”

“I didn’t say shit about being gay,” Billy fumed. “That’s like me assuming you wanted something disgusting from those animals.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being gay,” Steve recoiled. “Relax, jesus. I mean, I don’t know a lot about it, but realizing you were the one in the woods wasn’t the worst news I’d ever gotten.”

Something diffused in the air between them. Like a coiling wire had finally relaxed and unwound. Billy’s eyes narrowed at him as he processed that. “What exactly is a familiar supposed to do?”

Steve shrugged. “Nothing, really. Just keep me company. Maybe act as a lookout and an alarm bell while I’m distracted with spells.”

“And you’d…want me to keep you company.”

For the first time tonight…not the first time in a while, though, Billy noticed how tired Steve looked. His posture was bad, and he looked like he hadn’t had any wind in his sails for a long while. Frankly, he looked lonely. Billy knew what that looked like. Every time he saw it in the mirror, he smiled at whoever stared at him the most and got them in his bed.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. I guess I would. If you could get your head out of your ass long enough.”

“No, I’m gay, we can’t do that.”

“That’s impressive. You should put that flexibility to better use.”

Billy couldn’t help the smile warming his features. “Like what?”

“Like practicing being a cat. It’s as much a part of you as running or swimming. I’d love to hear you purr.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Or mine,” Steve huffed, and Billy grinned.

“Yeah, or that. What did you use to make me change back?”

Steve had to get another bite down before he answered, “Weed and catnip. I was trying to make you relax long enough for your body to do the rest.”

Billy shook his head. “You’re lucky I’m sore like a car wreck.”

“That’s why you should practice,” Steve chimed encouragingly.

“I’m not going to sit on your lap so you can pet my fur. Get over yourself.”

Steve shrugged, unbothered. “That’s a shame. You smell nice as a cat.”

Billy froze, and whatever grimace he wore made Steve clear a laugh out of his throat and say, “I didn’t know cats smell good. Like a clean, salty breeze. It suits you better than those awful colognes you use.”

“You know what? I’m not sore enough to hit you.”

They had a long night ahead of them. And against all odds, many nights to come.

[discodeviant]

Harringrove For Turkey commission for @robthegoodfellow!! Scene from their fic Sideways--thank you!!! 💖💖💖

If you'd like an HFT piece from me, check my post here!

[robthegoodfellow]

Billy Hargrove’s Extensive Knife Collection

Rated G - 1.5k (or read on AO3)

commissioned by @ihni​ for harringroveforturkey! based on a discussion of our Swedish Billy headcanons 💛

(tw for brief reference to Steve being mistaken for a sexual predator because of his shady-seeming presence at the Byers)

...🔪🔪🔪 ...

The thing was—Billy Hargrove just seemed like the type to have one or more knives on him at any given moment. Like, he gave off this general sense of imminent violence, this erratic rage simmering away under the skin. Even before Hargrove beat his head into the Byers’ floor, Steve had known the guy was pretty much always a breath from destruction. It wafted off of him like the woodsy cologne that Steve had smelled and distantly pondered moments before he stopped smelling anything for a while, on account of the bastard punching him in the nose a hundred times.

So yeah, when Steve saw him during their lunch period, a couple weeks after the thrashing, the dregs of autumn warmth barely clinging to the air—a couple weeks after Hargrove had snagged him in the hallway, thrown him against a locker and seethed I find you near my sister again and I’ll gut ya quicker n’ you can blink—a couple weeks after Steve realized he was maybe into volatile dudes and that said volatile dude thought Steve was into little girls, what the fuck—like he was saying, a couple weeks after all that, when he saw Hargrove emerging from behind the gym building, from the direction of the running track, folding a knife and slipping it into the pocket of his leather jacket, he felt compelled to investigate.

Given that Steve hadn’t yet figured out how to assure someone you weren’t a creepy predator without sounding like a total creepy predator, he waited until Hargrove was out of sight, then crossed the parking lot and peered around the corner, ventured as far as the bleachers, even—but saw no signs of a recent stabbing. No student or teacher or animal bleeding out on the ground.

So he shrugged and went back inside.

But then, over the next few days, he realized he’d never once seen Hargrove in the cafeteria since that blond curly mullet had first darkened Steve’s door. Not once. And because Steve apparently hadn’t had enough combustible encounters of late, he went looking.

The bell was about to go when he got to the bleachers—and no Hargrove. Steve had half a mind to skip next period; it was history and he hated history—so fucking boring, and he hadn’t done the homework—so when he circled to the back of the metal stands and saw something pale on the ground underneath, he happily let it draw his feet nearer.

It was… a horse. A small, roughly carved wooden horse, about the height and length of his palm. Not like, a detailed horse, just the vague shape of a narrow face, a curving neck, a stout torso, and four straight simple legs. No hooves, no tail. But still, undeniably a horse.

He thought it was kinda neat, so he took it home with him, put it on his bedside table next to the alarm clock.

The following week, when he scouted the bleachers again—driven from the lunchroom because Nancy and Jonathan had been making goo-goo eyes at each other and it was still a bit fresh, that particular wound—around the same place he’d spotted the last carving, he found a wooden… bear? Or maybe a fat dog, but the rounded ears and butt were reading more “bear.”

He took that one home with him, too. Had the silly passing thought that it was nice for the horse to have company. A friend.

It was the third time patrolling that he confirmed what some small incredulous part of him had been theorizing all along. Steve skipped lunch entirely, went the long way around to approach the bleachers from behind, stopped at a distance nonetheless.

Because there, leaning against the announcer’s booth, high up in the stands, hunched over his lap, one leg hanging loose between the slats of the seats, was Billy Hargrove.

Steve would know that mullet anywhere.

Smoke drifted above him, dissipating lazy. Occasionally the hanging leg swung a bit, sort of childlike, which was—a fucking trip. Steve stayed where he was, just watching awhile, then, not knowing what he’d do or say if Hargrove spied him spying, and not wanting to disturb his peace at any rate, he turned and walked back the long way again.

So he could just—think.

When he snuck over to the bleachers before driving home the next afternoon, curiosity getting the better of him, he learned what Hargrove had been whittling that time.

It was unfinished. Maybe he’d grown frustrated, because it was more ambitious than his previous figures: the beginnings of a bearded face, its features only just manifesting from the fine-grained block.

Nearby, half-hidden on the dirt ground, was another surprise. He would’ve missed it if it hadn’t gleamed, catching the sun precisely at the right moment, because its handle was the exact shade of the surrounding moldering maple leaves—this deep reddish brown.

A knife.

But not really the kind of knife he’d imagine in Hargrove’s possession—and not the folding pocketknife he’d glimpsed before. No, this was—an antique? Sharp blade about three inches long, and the handle this weird oblong shape, the letters WGF burned into the wood toward the base.

And maybe he should’ve left it there—because Hargrove would notice it was gone, was bound to come looking where he last had it—but Steve was selfish. A bit of a jerk.

So he pocketed both. Didn’t add them to his bedside collection, though.

No, they were still in his pocket the following day, a Friday, as he strode, heart hammering, to the bleachers, ears ringing like the lunch bell forgot to shut up.

Hargrove was already there, pacing under the stands, cursing under his breath, the dirt bare from frantic swipes.

Steve cleared his throat—and holy fuck that was a switchblade, that was a switchblade Hargrove had whipped out in one fluid movement as he whirled, the steel flashing free.

“Please don’t gut me for real!” It was choked, high and hysterical, hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry—I just—” Fumbling, he reached into his coat, drew out the knife.

The moment Hargrove saw it, he darted, quick as a cat, and snatched it from limp fingers.

“I—uh, found it,” Steve finished, lamely.

Hargrove didn’t look at him, busy sliding the knife into a worn leather sheath he’d produced from somewhere in his jacket. He tucked both it and the folded switchblade back out of sight, and Steve faintly wondered just how many knives Hargrove carried on his person.

“You waiting for thanks or something?” Hargrove asked, his tone very much indicating that thanks would not be forthcoming.

“What—what is it? The knife?” Steve asked, because he did, after all, have a death wish. “It’s… important?”

Maybe he should just let Hargrove stab him, Steve thought, mentally face-palming. Put him out of his misery.

Hargrove glared at him a long moment, then—to Steve’s everlasting shock—he answered. “A sloyd knife. My morfar’s—grandpa’s.”

“Oh,” Steve said, heartened, trying to work up the nerve to—just do it. Haltingly, he drew the bearded figure from his pocket. “For—um, carving stuff?”

Hargrove stared at the misshapen block of wood, unreadable, but Steve firmly reminded himself he’d faced down monsters from a hell dimension, and soldiered on.

“Is it him? Your… morfar?” Did his best to repeat the sounds, awkward.

Hargrove blinked, still didn’t respond.

Steve waved his extended arm a bit, encouraging. “You should finish it.”

Finally, fucking finally, Hargrove reached out, took it.

Sensing he was fast overstaying his welcome, Steve backstepped, nodding sharply, and turned toward the parking lot—then jerked around again.

“I’m not a perv,” he blurted. Because there wasn’t any graceful way to say it, he’d realized, flushing hot in the cool air.

Hargrove cracked a smile, a small little thing, and Steve stupidly traced it with his eyes, riveted. “I know.” He scuffed the dirt with a dusty boot. “She said you were—babysitting.”

“Yes,” Steve agreed, silently thanking Max with his entire being. “I was. Doing that.”

And to ensure he didn’t humiliate himself further, Steve spun, marched to the school entrance without looking back.

He spent the next week avoiding Hargrove, not wanting to seem like the stalker he was in case the guy had put two and two together on the lack of discarded carvings among the leaves.

After last bell, students pouring across the parking lot en route to weekend plans, Steve trudged alone to his car, which would convey him to an empty house. His key was in the door before he saw it, perched on the windshield wiper.

A rugged face above slouching shoulders, slender waves gouged in his moustache and beard that suited the curly hair peeking beneath one of those old-fashioned caps with the short brim.

He looked up, unconsciously seeking the spot Hargrove always parked, and saw him leaning against the Camaro, staring back.

Steve smiled.

…🔪🔪🔪 …

Edited to add, in case anyone’s curious:

All about Dala horses

Carved bear looked like this

All about Sloyd/Slöjd knives

[catharrington]

Little King Trashmouth (and his raccoon friends) by Glitter_Bug.

The porch light may be dim, but it's easy enough to see that both of the trash cans have been pushed over, their lids rolling away and their bags spilling everywhere. One of which is rustling and shaking and...moving. Because there’s definitely something there.

Steve reaches behind him, pushing Billy back towards the house. It's like trying to push a damn brick wall.

So Steve steps forward instead. And then he sees it.

"Oh!”

A striped, fluffy tail is poking out of one of the ripped trash bags. It looks a lot like Mr. Richardson's grouchy tabby cat from over the road, so Steve gives the fluffy butt a gentle nudge with his big toe.

“Hey, go on. Get. Shoo."

The creature attached to the tail does not budge. Steve nudges again, a bit harder, and the cat disappears even further into the bag.

Steve kneels down, grimacing as some trash water soaks into the knees of his jeans, trying to coax the cat out with a gentle stroke, and then a bit more of a tug when it doesn't work.

He wonders if it's stuck, got its head lodged in a can of tuna or something, so he reaches in even further, managing to grab the kitty by the scruff of its neck and pull it gently backwards, grinning in triumph when the animal allows itself to be manhandled with a surprising lack of fuss.

Steve stands up, his arm outstretched in front of him, holding a fat, fluffy...critter by the scruff of his neck.

It's not Mr Richardson's tabby. It's not even a cat.

It's a damn raccoon.

He turns to show Billy, waiting for the sneer of disgust or a huff of annoyance. And instead, Steve watches as Billy melts. Instantly.

"Oh. My. God!" he gasps, and Steve blinks as Billy’s voice leaps up a few octaves, his hands flying up to his face.

"Oh oh oh! He’s so cute. Steve, look! Look at his squishy face and oh my god, oh my god his little hands! Oh he's a baby!"

(Thank you so much @ihni for your donation to harringrove for Turkey! The request was for a moodboard for one of the lovely fics from @cherrydreamer aka glitter_bug. And we all love little king trashmouth so so much, I picked that one!!! Thanks to both of you for bribing such joy and warmth into the community and for donating 🖤🖤🖤)

[prettyboybillyhargrove]

Harringrove for Turkey

*masterpost for HFT*

Hi, y’all! Last week my country had the biggest earthquakes we have ever seen and 10 different cities were affected. This disaster has many victims, from babies to disabled people to animals. I'm not asking for anything personal for me I want to help my people in these hard times. I know Harringrove fandom has helped so many people for years, and I was in some of them too. Now it's my turn to help my people. I’m participating in Harringrove for Turkey. That means I’ll be writing fanfiction in exchange for donations to an organization that supports Turkish earthquake victims. 

HERE ARE THE PLACES YOU CAN DONATE!

Disaster Tents Donations

AHBAP

Search and Rescue Association

Follow these steps if you’re interested!

-Reblog this post and/or the master post both here so that we can get as much traction as possible as quickly as we can.

- Send me an ask/message to let me know what you'd like me to write for you and how much you'd like to donate. I'm active both here and on Discord. 

- Wait until I reply to your ask, then you need to make your donation to one of the orgs listed above.

- Donate!! Remember PLEASE to screencap your receipt – you need to send me this to show you’ve donated. Don’t forget to block out any private contact details!

- Once I’ve seen your receipt, I’ll start to work on your project.

What I have to offer: Fanfiction for donations!

What I Like to Write: You can definitely ask for new episodes to my already existing fanfictions, or AUs HCs you see me posting here. Maybe some omega billy/mpreg billy, fluffy harringrove family stuff. I can write anything you like. But I'd love it if you give me the whole idea in your head so I can work on it quickly. 

What I don't like to Write: Nothing dub-con/non-con, no major/minor character deaths or angsty things. I really can’t do it rn.

Accepting prompts?: YES please, it helps me very much actually. I’m not very creative at the moment hence the whole disaster.

Additional Info: Please specify if you want smut or no smut and if you have any squicks or preferences. Also, I hope you understand that I can’t deliver them right away but I’ll try my best to do it quickly. And definitely don’t worry about not getting your commission I’ll write them all I promise. 

Suggested Donation Amount:  $1 per 100 words of a fic.

[ihni]

Harringrove for Turkey-commission for @robthegoodfellow. A scene from "Sideways", chapter 2 (which cracks me up! XD)

[opaldraws]

my first commission for harringrove for turkey! this piece is for @chrisbitchtree ! thank you for donating! 💖

[passivenovember]

don’t leave me waiting with all this love

--

A two-bedroom apartment falls out of the sky and into their laps because with the pooled weight of their hush money, they can afford it.

Steve’s lived in a castle since the day his parents brought him home, swaddled in blue fleece from Hawkins General, and Billy’s never had a room that felt like his own, and a two-bedroom apartment is a one-way mirror. It’s a shroud, it’s protection. A spiny defense to hide behind when their landlord raises an eyebrow and asks if they’ve got a girlfriend. 

Not two girlfriends. A. 

One.

Split between them, or something. As if the landlord knows they’re conjoined, down to their roots.

Steve tracks the way Billy’s shoulders pull tight, how his smile is a bit too sharp, his laugh so thunderous that their landlord doesn’t wonder why they have six months' rent upfront. Steve knows it’s a pacifier stuck between Mr. Morrison’s front teeth so he won’t ask any more questions.

They move their furniture that night, huffing up three flights of stairs in the July heat. 

Steve yaps about ordering a pizza. He floats the idea of renting a video and they christen their apartment, their shiny new life, with letters addressed to the burning past. The worst is over. Billy’s lips and tongue and sweat-slick skin roll over Steve like fresh dirt, baptizing him.

Steve comes apart imagining home.

He sees blue eyes. Blonde curls tied back as the kitchen fills with the robust, lingering smells of Tuscany and his Nonna’s house in Indiana. Billy thrusts harder, faster, and in this dream world, their home smells like them. Sun-warmed blankets that never get washed, bathroom mirrors spackled with hair spray. In every luminous version of the future, Billy’s laugh runs through the very core of the Earth, rattling the tracks of the last train Steve will ever wave goodbye to, and it’s Graceland.

It’s bliss, until Billy offers to sleep on the couch.

He says it’s because he doesn’t have a mattress.

Steve hangs off the door jam in his fruit of the looms, “You can sleep with me,” He says, thinking he shouldn’t have to say that. His stomach shouldn’t clench with worry that for the first time in two years, Billy might so no.

It’s warmer in the living room right now than Hawkins ever was.  

Billy’s hair sticks to his neck. He wipes at it, and Steve opens his mouth to insist he’s not above begging. Billy came inside him. Billy’s teeth sunk into his neck as if Steve were made of ripe fruit, and this is their house. This is their home. The second bedroom is just collateral. 

I want to be with you, Steve imagines telling him, I want you next to me, inside of me.

“I’ll be alright,” Billy says, as if hearing every unspoken word. He turns away, he. Stares out the window with the same cold, empty expression he sometimes got when the night was closing in Hawkins. Steve thought they had washed their hands of that, and yet when Billy realizes Steve’s frozen to the floor, he grins. “I promise,” he says. 

It’s empty, too. Horrible.

Steve goes. 

Sleeping alone is like trying to make love on a burlap sack full of bowling balls. Steve tosses and turns and swears the door was shut when he went to sleep without a blanket.

Still, he wakes before dawn wrapped in the ugly knit Max threw at Billy’s head when he told her they were leaving.

–

“He’s probably an evil clone.”

“He’s not an evil clone.”

“Are you sure? He hit his head pretty hard on the tile. Banged his everything else against the fist of a space monster–”

“You’re not actually helping.”

“I’m just presenting the facts. He’s probably a government spy,” On the other end of the line, Robin’s slurping on something. Really taking her time with filing every single one of Steve’s nerves down to the cartilage. 

Steve shivers. It’s the middle of the day in September, and he’s shrouded in darkness. “Bills couldn’t be a government spy.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Steve says, twirling the phone cord around one hand, “Because he still wants to shower together. He still likes Hershey's chocolate and little marshmallows in his peppermint tea. He’s afraid of the dark.”

“All of that’s just shit the clone learned from Billy’s personal file.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Billy doesn’t have a personal file.”

“Don’t be thick, we all fought monsters so we all have a personal file in the event that we decide to air Big Brother’s dirty laundry,” Robin tells him. “I don’t give a shit what you say, if he’s not fucking you anymore it tracks.”

“You’re an idiot, Buckley. ”

“Why, because I don’t believe that thing is really Bills?” 

“You’re an idiot if you think even a robot version of Billy would stop fucking me.”

“God, that’s so gross. You’re so gross–”

“So you admit that I’m right?”

“No,” Robin Snaps, “Evil clones are not the strangest thing that’s happened to us. Not by a long shot.”

“--Robin–”

“And if you’re suggesting that the government isn’t homophobic, you should read more.”

“Robin.”

“I’m serious. The feds planted crack-cocaine in disco balls because that’s where all the gay–”

Steve scrubs a hand across his forehead. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Okay, fine,” Robin groans, finally stopping to take a breath, “Billy’s not an evil clone and all that hush money wasn’t just a ploy to get you out there. Alone. So they could finish the job.”

Steve wants to laugh. 

He aches to roll his eyes and call Buckley a bonehead before hanging up the phone and getting back to the three loads of laundry sitting on his-and-not-Billy’s bed, but. “What do you think the deal is?” Steve frowns, “Evil robots–”

“--Clones–”

“--Notwithstanding?” Steve asks, ignoring her. He perches the phone against his shoulder so that his hands are free to sort through the lights and darks. 

There are a lot of lights here. Apparently, this Billy wears beige. And sea-foam. And that lovely shade of periwinkle from Billy’s senior picture that makes his freckles look like a million spattered treasure troves. Steve hates it. He loves the color and hates the change. Hates the meaning. 

He’s so stupid for thinking this move would spell silver linings. 

He’d never imagined in a million years that it would change Billy to the core, even though it used to be all he hoped for. That Bilyl would fall asleep and stay that way for a hundred years, and when he finally woke up again all the hurt inside him would gone. 

But now. Steve’s wishy-washy. He’s a big fat washing machine man.

Robin hums, sucking at the dregs of ice in her piggly-wiggly cup. “Honestly, I think he’s happy.”

Steve drops Billy’s underwear as if it’s caught fire. “You don’t think he was happy before?”

“In Hawkins? I think he was trapped and miserable,” Robin says, “I think he was happier when he got you. You’ve always been his window into the outside world but now he’s got a doorway, you know? Being home again.”

Steve gets that. 

No one’s meant to be anyone’s everything, and.

Steve could accept it, were it not for the other stuff. The huge shift in dynamic even though Billy’s the same as always, at the root of him. Laughing at Steve and wagging his tongue and fucking Steve nasty all over the apartment. 

Avoiding the bed, though.

Shying away from any real intimacy, and all the domesticity that comes with waking up next to someone every day.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Steve grumbles, feeling like the last three years never happened. They’ve gone back in time, landing on the doormat of their relationship when Billy was still consumed with fear.

“Have you tried talking to him about it?”

“A few times,” Steve admits, “Mostly he just kisses my cheek and tells me he’ll be fine in the living room.”

“That is weird,” Robin says thoughtfully. “Listen. Don’t freak out, but. Right before my parents thought they were gonna get divorced–”

“Don’t.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Doesn’t matter, I don’t want to hear anything about divorce or separation–”

“You guys aren’t even married.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Steve insists, bile cracking like an egg behind his breastbone, “If you’re going to sit there and talk about endings, I don’t wanna fucking hear it.”

“Alright.”

“We’re not your parents. This isn’t the first big sign of a falling out–”

“--Okay, Harrington, I believe you–”

“--Billy loves me,” Steve snaps, “Billy loves me so much.”

But the more he says it, the more it sounds like a swan song. Steve admitting, over and over and over again, that he would rather die than see the credits roll. That he’ll break his fingers before he lets go of Billy again.

“Don’t cry, Steve.”

“I’m not.”

“My parents never got divorced,” Robin tells him gently, like that’ll slap a bandaid on it, “Billy’s always slow on the take-up. He’s probably still adjusting to the move. His whole life has been one big change after another, you know? And all that shit with the Mind Flayer–”

“It’s just,” Steve tries, chin wobbling dangerously, “The first night we moved here and he said he didn’t want to come to bed I couldn’t remember the last time I slept somewhere without him. I know I have before, I just. Couldn’t remember. I still can’t,” Steve wipes his nose on Billy’s favorite pair of boxers, feeling dramatic and comical and lame. “Maybe I should call it quits. Give him an out–”

“No,” Robin snaps, so harshly that Steve’s tears crawl back inside his skull to hide. “Steve, if you break up with him–”

“God, I’m gonna split my skin. I’m crazy.”

“You’re not,” Robin assures him firmly, “It’s completely valid to wonder what brought on such a big change but it’s not what you think it is, and if you try to give him an out he’ll think it’s because you don’t love him. You know that.”

Steve nods, groaning when more tears slip out from behind his eyelashes. 

“Billy’s as batshit crazy about you as you are about him, the feeling’s mutual,” Robin says. “Besides, he probably wants to come to bed but They haven’t programmed it into his memory board yet and he can’t recall the purpose of a mattress–”

“I’m gonna kill you with a brick.”

“Hey, there he is,” Robin chirps. Steve imagines her flying high above the trees and then swooping low, angry pigeon style, to bomb his head with the truth. “It’s going to be alright, Dingus.”

“I know it is.”

“You don’t sound very convincing.”

“I’ll be okay,” Steve snaps, clutching Billy’s dirty underwear to his chest like some disgusting, demented teddy bear.

He hopes, down to the pads of his bare feet, that Robin’s right about this. That things will turn out okay. Because if they don’t and this spells the end of the best thing that ever happened, Steve will sink into darkness and he won’t be able to find his way out again.

Call him dramatic. It’s just the truth.

–

Darkness leaks out of him, through snags and tears he wasn’t even aware of. The only plus is that once the crescendo happens and Billy’s strapped down, swallowing mouthfuls of the rot he’d been dribbling for years, he lives. He can imagine a world where all the shadows are cast out. 

Maybe the ichor doesn’t seep out through harsh words, anymore, because there’s nothing left.

He’s empty. Wrung dry.

There’s all sorts of shit that comes along with that: hurt, pain, and guilt rotting inside him, growing teeth until they feed on each other. Billy’s nothing. He’s a non-issue.

Owens says it’s not productive to think of himself that way.

“What would your sister say if she heard you talking like that,” The Doctor says. In Billy’s memory of him, Owens always smokes black and mild cigars in a white jacket. “What would Steve say?” The Doctor asks, and it becomes like a chant, the evil cheerleaders in Billy’s mind playing both sides of the field.

Gloom, following him like a shadow.

What would Max think if she saw the way your eyes light up at the possibility of crashing your car into the gulch. What would Max growl at you under her breath if she heard the half-drunk promises you make to your teddy bear that the age-old dream of skipping town to find your mom would be an adventure? What would Steve think, crying big fat crocodile tears, if he heard you scream into the sky that you’re a devouring worm who’s going to eat and eat and eat through everyone’s love until they, too, are shining emptiness?

Owens always circles back to that. “You’re not a black hole, Billy,” He says, with so much feeling it almost seems like he believes it, “Your sister loves you. She’s happy you made it back to her. Steve loves–”

“I know,” Billy says. Doesn’t understand it. Never understands it–

“Do you?” The Doctor asks, cloaked in a milky haze so Billy can never tell if he’s leeching joy from Billy’s scarce reserves.

When Billy tells the doctor that he’s moving to California and Steve’s coming, too, Owens says it’s good. It’s something to celebrate. “You’re not a black hole. You’re a room waiting to be filled with dayglow,” The Doctor tells him, lighting his customary cigar, “California Dreamin’, right?”

Their sessions never make it past the thirty-minute hand.

–

On Wednesday, the phone rings. “Robin said that Steve said that you said–”

“This isn’t high school,” Billy relaxes into child’s pose and watches a bead of sweat fall, lazy as dew-drop rain, into the yawning hands of the carpet. “Might be a bit of a shocker, since that’s where you’re at in life but if you’re gonna do this telephone, he said she said bullshit–”

“Telephone?” Max interrupts. 

“Yeah, you know. The game where you whisper into the ear of the person beside you, and they whisper into the next person’s ear, and then that fucker whispers–”

“God, you’re so old.”

Billy’s sweat is absorbed and digested into the putting green of the spare bedroom’s floor. He hikes himself into downward dog, willing his arms to stop shaking in their sinuous hold. “Just tell me what Robin said.” 

“Not Robin,” Max clarifies, chewing on something crunchy, “Well, Robin told me, but really she heard from Steve that you said you aren’t in love with him anymore.”

Billy’s arms give out. 

And really, gun to his head, it’s probably because there’s no future, no alternative timeline, no possibility in all the infinite choices and lifetimes Billy sometimes imagines when he gets too high, that he would ever stop loving Steve Harrington. 

But, he’s also in recovery.

His hands don’t work quite as well as they used to and his stamina, in all things but especially in the demented world of his teenage sister, is for shit.

His forehead stings, “Ow, godammit–”

“What happened,” Max barks.

“It’s fine, just,” Billy rubs between his eyebrows, “Just give me a minute.”

“It’s not true, right?” Max demands because she can’t follow instructions. Because since the very beginning, even before Billy knew what to call this thing with Steve, she was rooting for them. Stapling pompoms to her hands to muster happiness when Billy said I’m going home and Steve’s coming with me.

For Max, anything involving Billy is better if Steve’s beside him.

It’s sweet.

It’s a thorn in Billy’s ribs, too, a dagger-tip poisoned with worry that when Steve realizes he’s too good for the life they’ve built together, it’ll break her heart just as much as it’ll shatter Billy’s.

Max isn’t crunching on the other end of the line, anymore. “You still love him,” She says, “Obviously, you still–”

“Why would Steve say something like that?”

“I don’t know,” Max says, in exactly the sort of stretched, wavering voice she has when she does know. When it’s her doomsday tale, come to fruition.

“Tell me what you know,” Billy demands.

“I already told you, dipshit, I don’t know anything. I only know what Robin heard from Steve who heard from–”

“Yeah, I got that part,” Billy tucks his feet under him, muscles sore and loose. His tendons trip over each other, clenching painfully to hold the rising tide of worry threatening to seep from his bones. “I don’t understand. Is he pissed that I threw out the boxed pudding last week?”

“You threw out all the boxed pudding,” Max repeats, and Billy imagines coppery horror dawning bright across her freckles.

“Owens said I need to cleanse my body, just like I need to cleanse my mind.”

“Yeah, that was a bad move,” Max reports glumly.

There’s not much Steve gets up in arms about. He’s as deep and as calm as a river, he’s moss-covered boulders and wisteria growing through cracks in the rubble of ancient buildings. He doesn’t simmer and boil over like Billy does, but Steve’s serious about dessert.

He’s got a sweet tooth the size of Mississippi that’s only gotten worse since Billy escaped death. They’ve got their ways of coping.

“He’s probably gonna kill you in your sleep,” Max tells him.

“Yeah, probably.”

“You’d deserve it,”

“I’d deserve it,” Billy tells her. For the pudding and for so many other nameless, faceless things that lurk in the past. Billy picks at the fiber of the carpet, “Still doesn’t seem right, though.”

“You think he’s worried about something else?” Max chuckles, “Wait, don’t answer that. It’s you he fell in love with, there’s always something to be pissed about.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I’m just saying, you do things all the time without thinking about it.”

Billy resists the urge to cross his arms and pout. “Like what?”

“You want me to name them?”

“Yeah,” Billy spits, losing the war, “I want you to name them so I can be better. For everyone, but. For Steve. And you.”

Max groans. Long and low and Billy’s grateful, somewhere past his resolutions, that some things and especially some little sisters, never change. Billy tries not to smile, “Look, tease me all you want, okay? Owens says–”

“Owens is a quack.”

“He’s not a quack,” Billy insists, and now his hands are shaking.

It’s a drop of a dime, these days.

It’s out of his control.

“I know, he’s a partial quack. He’s got quack-like tendencies.” Max works to make her voice kinder. Softer. It means the world that she would try.

It means even more that she doesn’t baby him. 

Billy sits back against the wall in the guest room, tucking his knees up to his chin. He rifles through the last few months, unpacking every moment he’s shared in this apartment with Steve. They’ve cooked dinner together every night. They grocery shop and split the chores on Sundays, and Steve reads out loud to him from any book Billy picks up from the library, and.

“I thought everything was good,” Billy mutters, “I thought it was perfect. Steve is, and. I thought I could be.”

“You’re an idiot if you think anyone’s perfect.”

“I could try, Max. For him.”

“Look, is this about your survivors guilt, PTSD whatever?” Max demands. Billy hates the way he can’t hide from her. “We’ve already done the twelve-step apology bullshit, Billy. Everyone forgave you.”

He didn’t deserve it. 

Billy bites down so hard on his cheek that he tastes blood. He shakes his head and can’t admit that he never deserved a second chance. Not happiness, not love, and not steve.

Billy clears his throat, “Not everyone.”

“Well, everyone who counts,” Max says quietly. “Bills. You need to forgive yourself.”

It stings, like the reopening of a wound. 

Salt and rubbing alcohol burning in his nose when he breathes just like the Doctor taught him. Inhale joy, exhale pain. Inhale mercy, exhale–

“You have to forgive yourself,” Max tries again. Her voice wavers a little around the edges, fuzzy like it gets right before she starts to cry.

Billy hates himself, but. He hates that even more. 

For so long he wanted to believe that he was on the road to keeping his head above water. That soon enough he’d be able to think of the dark ages and not give into its way of life. 

Billy had thought that things were different.

In California, under sunny-bright skies, he’s a man made new.

Billy’s done everything right. He changed the way he eats. He does yoga. He sleeps on the mat on the floor to attone for the sin that still stain his hands like blood, he holds Steve far enough away that he’ll be safe but so Billy, selfish as he is, can still warm himself by the glowing light–

Billy sits up so fast that his head starts to swim. “I will,” He tells her.

“You mean it?”

“I’ll try,” Billy says. 

It’s all he can do.

–

Friday night, Steve comes home from work and falls into bed with his shoes still on. 

He’s asleep before his head hits the pillow. Billy hovers in the doorway for ten minutes to watch him sleep. Steve will wake up with a sore neck. His skin will ring itself red, indented with the seams of his pants.

Billy wants to enter the room. Feels like a sinner pacing the carpet outside confessional. 

He’s seasick and guilty about that. It’s a line of thought that leads nowhere, it careens madly off the edge of a cliff. 

Billy chews his nails and tells himself everything’s fine. 

He can cross the threshold without invitation. He can make sure his lover is comfortable. 

He can do this.

Just like this morning. Just like yesterday.

Billy gnaws at his thumb. Steve’s always more comfortable with his shoes off, soft and pliant with one sock clinging stubbornly to his foot. He can’t decide if it’s worth it to wake Steve or if getting the shoes off while he’s knocked out cold is even possible.

And once the shoes are gone, there’s the matter of Steve’s pants. Tight and scratchy denim and covered in drying finger paints and Billy knows even if he can manage to get Steve undressed, Steve will whine about the paint tugging on his leg hair, and then he’ll want to shower, and.

Well, Billy never could deny him.

–

The change in Steve’s breathing is like the first wave of a thunderstorm arching into the slow, lethal way the shadows in their room change shape and grow teeth. 

“Billy?” Steve calls, thick and groggy, edging toward panic, “Bills, where–”

“I’m on the couch,” Billy says. 

The whole house adjusts around the weight of Steve’s body. He runs down the hallway, appearing startled and out of breath, hair wild and cheeks lined.

“Jesus. I rolled over, and.” Steve runs a hand through his hair and Billy almost melts into the couch when those eyes slip like cool water over him, ringed with relief at the sight of him, tired and whole in their living room. “Nice to see you’re migrating closer to our bedroom.”

Our. 

Billy shifts, freezing cold without a blanket.

Steve watches him for a long, quiet moment. “You scared the shit out of me,” Steve grumbles, padding toward the coffee table with his sneakers still on. Billy makes room between his legs without a second thought and Steve curls like a cat between them, burrowing his face into Billy’s stomach. 

He sucks a mouthful of Billy’s stomach between his teeth, letting it fall doughy again before he presses a soft, firm kiss right above the worst of Billy’s scars.

Billy tangles his fingers into Steve’s hair, scratching and tugging at his scalp until Steve’s shoulders drop, until he’s breathing like he’s worried each inhale might be his last.

Billy wants to promise he’d give his own last breath to keep Steve alive. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. You smell good,” Steve says, his tongue dragging lewdly over Billy’s happy trail.

Billy doesn’t deserve this. “I haven’t showered yet today.”

“Doesn’t matter, taste like vanilla bean,” Steve chews on him a little more, and Billy an feel every inch of his smile. “There is no more ‘yet,’ fyi. Today’s almost over.”

“Do you want me to clean myself up?”

“No,” Steve flails around, rolling and tucking his knees until Billy’s got a clear landing to his mouth, to the folded, unhappy lines of Steve’s forehead.

“You sure?”

“I like the way you smell,” Steve grumbles, carding his fingers through Billy’s leg hair. “It’s like aromatherapy for my trauma.”

“You’re a dork.”

“I was having a nightmare.”

Billy falters. He doesn’t know what to say, so he kisses Steve’s forehead, over and over again until the skin smooths itself out. Knows that even after all these years, Steve‘s gotta be smothered back to Earth when he wakes up screaming. 

“Wanna talk about it?” Billy asks, tracing a thumb over the perfect swell of Steve’s mouth. 

Steve kisses his finger. “You were gone,” He says softly, eyes unfocused and far away. “I pulled you out of a frozen lake and took all my clothes off so you could be dressed in something warm again, and I blinked. When I opened my eyes you weren’t there. You were gone.”

Billy should’ve been there. Next to Steve, in their bed. If he had swallowed his fear and just been there–

“You know I’m still in love with you,” Billy blurts suddenly. He holds tighter to Steve’s chest, fingers digging into the muscle around each one of his ribs. “No matter what you told Robin I did or what Max said you said Robin told–”

He may as well douse the fire. He may as well throw a blanket over passion, and a bucket of cool water on the night. 

Steve frowns at him. He searches Billy’s face and he says, “I was worried,” like the knife is finally being pulled form his stomach. 

Billy hates himself. “You never have to worry about me.” He swears, like a white-knight. A King.

Steve’s forehead wrinkles again. “You don’t touch me anymore.”

He wants to.

Billy aches, constantly, to the very atoms that make up the marrow of his bones, to touch him.

“I can’t. Because,” Billy tries. “Because I don’t deserve–”

“You’re wrong,”  Steve says harshly. 

Billy flinches. His throat closes up and Steve can tell, lurching into action so Billy doesn’t suffocate to death.

“Hey,” Steve says, sitting and twisting until his forehead tacks itself to Billy’s, “Breathe, c’mon.”

Steve demonstrates how to do it.

He patient. He’s beautiful.

“There you go, big guy.”

Bill holds onto the wrists that frame his face. Comes back to Earth, again, back home. Where he belongs. 

He feels Steve’s pulse through every inch of his body, thumping Billy’s blood when he can’t do it himself. He looks into those eyes, honey-pools that followed him into the dark. “I’m trying to do better.”

“You are better.”

“I’m trying to be perfect,” Billy says, “For you. Before I start this new life in our house, I want to be–”

Steve kisses the rest of it out of him. 

Everything, gentle licks and nips until all that’s left is fresh ground. 

“You’re done apologizing,” Steve says bluntly. He tucks a piece of hair behind Billy’s ear, eyes gentle on Billy’s face. “I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you had to.”

“I needed it.”

“I know. But it’s not necessary anymore.”

“I’m sorry I made you think I didn’t want you anymore. I was worried that if I didn’t take this pilgrimage, something bad would happen and I’d hurt you.”

Steve kisses him. “You won’t.”

“I couldn’t take the chance before.”

“Let’s take it now,” Steve says. He sits back on his haunches, voice strong and true and bursting like dawn through the night. “The whole point of a fresh start is that we don’t have to crawl on our knees anymore, Billy. We get to be happy, now. We get to be together.”

Billy searches for the words he always thought were better left unsaid. 

He quiets the shadows that whisper there’s no going back. If he opens himself up to this, for real and forever, he sacrifices control. 

But if Steve’s the one he’s kneeling to–

“Can we go to bed?” Billy asks, small and uncertain. 

He braces himself for the sneer, for the unkind word, for reality to come crashing like a furious wave. 

Instead, Steve smiles. 

When he takes Billy’s hand, a door is opened. And light pours through.

--

for the lovely @chrisbitchtree for Harringrove for Turkey!

I hope you like it and I’m sorry it took forever and ever.

all my love,

Jaz

[grey-sides]

Harringrove for Turkey Total

Hello folks!! As promised, I have tallied up the total donations raised for Turkey from the campaign and drum roll please

We raised $295!

Thank you to everyone who donated and everyone who participated in creating! Works are still coming out, so please continue following the tag so you may see them!

As I stated before, if for any reason, your commissioner is unable to finish your work, please reach out. I will, of course, require some proof and all that. But I will do my best to fulfill any outstanding commissions or find someone else willing to help out.

Thank you, again, this fandom really is the best.

[thediktatortot]

Also!! Don't forget to look up the tag #HarringroveForTurkey There's tons of wonderful fan creators making art and fic for donations to Turkey's relief work and if you have the money to spare then please let them know you donated!

[neonponders]

For @chrisbitchtree​ !! 💋🍦

Thank you so much for donating to Harringrove for Turkey AND thank you so much for your patience, omg lol

Read on ao3 here ~

• • •

“When should we tell them?”

“We don’t,” Heather answered. The hard candy of her lollipop clattered against her teeth as she moved it from one cheek to the other with her tongue.

Robin blinked softly, following it before she remembered what they were talking about. “Steve’s my friend. I’m not leaving him to the whims of Billy Hargrove.”

“You’re nicer than me,” Heather disregarded.

“I thought you and Billy were friends.”

Heather looked at her over the rims of her sunglasses. “Where are you going with this?”

Robin looked back at the boringly empty Scoops Ahoy parlor. Slow days were a blessing and a curse. “You’re just in it for the show. I was too, back when I thought Steve was a total lady killer.”

Heather snorted. “I knew Steve was a sweetie way before you did. Don’t worry. Once the ruffled alpha feathers finally relax, they’ll see each other for what they are.”

“Disgustingly horny for each other?”

“Two alphas wanting to bone each other’s brains out isn’t disgusting…so long as they keep it out of my work hours. I don’t care where they get nasty, just stay the hell away from the pool. Draining and cleaning is a nightmare.”

Robin smirked and offered, “If it takes less than a month, I’ll trade jobs with you for a day.”

Heather looked at her, silently processing the offer. “You really think it’ll take them that long to be in each other’s pants?”

“Steve’s sweet but Hargrove only has so many strikes until he’s out of Harrington’s good graces.”

“Yeah but…hormones? The nose knows?”

Robin snorted. “I’ve seen first hand that Steve is predictably clueless and weirdly smart when I least expect it.”

Heather sighed an agreeing sound. “Billy surprises me too. He turns up his jean hems and irons them down.”

“You’re surprised he’s a diva? With that car?” Robin teased. “Have you seen his hair?”

Heather countered, “For a guy who’s trying to have all the peacock feathers of a war-prized veteran, he’s…soft.”

“I’m gonna need you to elaborate on that.”

So Heather did: “Usually it’s the girls who are supposed to teach the kids’ swimming lessons. Don’t get me started on that—”

“Regardless of second gender?”

“It’s old world bullshit,” Heather fumed and continued, “but it’s Billy. Billy’s the best one with the kids.”

Robin adjusted her position in the seat. It was going to be a real bummer whenever someone came in wanting ice cream, but for now, she enjoyed her extended break. “Steve’s the same. I never would have assumed he even liked kids, but the only people who ever visit him are next semester’s freshmen.”

Heather perked up. “The ones Billy’s sister is friends with?”

“Max,” Robin informed. “They’re all fine, I guess. In an…obnoxious freshman way. Max is the most tolerable of the bunch.”

“And she spends more time here than at the pool…” Heather contemplated aloud.

Robin felt inclined to correct, “She spends more time in the theater. Steve lets them into the R-rated films through the staff hallways.”

Heather dropped the stick of her lollipop into an ice cream cup and concluded, “A late night mall date sounds like just the thing.”

Robin stood up and disposed of the cup in the trash bin as she refuted, “I’m not friends with Billy’s sister, and the idea of recruiting a kid so her brother can screw my coworker gives me a bad taste.”

“Okay, prudish,” Heather scoffed. “What to you suggest?”

Robin smirked as she rotated to lean back against the glass, refrigerated case. “I’m so glad you asked.”

• • •

Steve sighed heavily, blunt fingertips scratching his neck as he mentally willed customers to keep walking past Scoops Ahoy. For some reason, all of Hawkins had him on their radar, and where was Robin to witness his ability to draw people into the store?

Steve needed to get laid. Between the internal itch of his body and him fidgeting near his glands, his throat was slowly becoming a red beacon. A dark blue, stupid sailor costume was not doing him favors in concealing it. And it was just his luck that he had to work solo on such a busy day—

“Wow. Do you want a cream for that rash?”

He frowned at none other, than Robin approaching the counter. Dressed in casual clothes, she pointed her stoic glare at him, but he’d developed a skill at reading her.

“You hate this place way too much to be here on your day off. What gives?”

She leaned on the counter with all the familiarity of someone used to being on the other side of it. “Word on the street is that Billy Hargrove is in the parking lot.”

Steve stared at her, visibly processing that until countered, “Robin. That’s not a rumor. You just saw him on the street on your way in here.”

“Whatever. Are you gonna make a move, or what?”

“Oh? A move?” His brows flew up towards the white sailor’s cap on his head. “Like the other move you suggested where I use the community pool’s gymnasium?”

“I didn’t know you could get ring worm from the gym,” Robin defended.

“No, I wouldn’t expect a band geek to know that.”

“You don’t need to go for my throat. At least it got you and Billy talking.”

“Yeah, because it was so thrilling for our first somewhat polite conversation to be him teasing me about the rancid gym. And he was right.”

Robin pursed her lips to the side and recalled one of Heather’s tactics. “Well he gave you nail polish for that, didn’t he?”

Steve’s eyes narrowed on her. “Buckley. I always knew band geeks can’t keep secrets—”

“The hell does that mean?” she recoiled.

“It means someone told him I needed to suffocate some ringworm on my skin!” Steve paused as his eyes darted over her. Steve might’ve been oblivious to her preferences until she spilled about Tammy Thompson, but damn it, that had been the key to a lock that was Steve figuring her out forevermore.

“Heather. You and Heather—!”

“They work together!” she shushed. “I had the best resource to help you with your dead end crush—”

“I am never a dead end,” he huffed. “Tammy Muppet Thompson is a dead end.”

“Okay,” she drawled in a hiss.

“Nothing stays at band camp! You squealed to Heather!”

“Why would I have supported your crush on Hargrove if I didn’t know you had a chance?”

That brought Steve up short. “You know he likes me?”

Robin’s dark blue eyes went wide. “Where did that get lost? Was it how he salivates around you so much that his tongue wags? That he brings you ice pops from the pool despite you working in an ice cream parlor? He behaves like it’s Florida or California, walking in here wearing only his swim shorts!”

“It’s hotter than hell outside, half the town is shirtless. Maybe if you’d told Heather to tell Billy that my favorite flavor isn’t cherry, I would’ve been impressed.”

“We’re always out of maraschinos because you eat them,” Robin countered. “What’s your favorite flavor?”

A deeper voice answered, “Caramel apple.”

Steve’s red neck blossomed up through his cheeks as Robin froze. Steve recovered faster, “You did say he was outside.”

“I thought we had time,” she bit out. “He takes so long to go anywhere, letting people look at him.”

“Are you two a package deal? Because I’ll need to read the fine print,” Billy remarked as he approached and placed two wrapped ice lollies on the counter.

Robin glanced at the green apple flavor boasting caramel sauce inside before she asked, “How long have you been here?”

“Long enough for all your customers and half the GAP to hear about you meddling in my sex life, thanks. Heather’s shifts for the rest of the month depend on how fast you can run.”

Instead of leaving, Robin smirked at him. “How about I take the rest of this shift, and you take the dingus to the pharmacy.”

Billy’s features flattened as he looked Steve over, not having considered him to be ill. He found the source quickly enough, sharp blue eyes riveted to his throat while Steve otherwise handed Robin his Ahoy sailor’s cap. However, she grasped it and frisbee-tossed it through the back room window.

“Screw company policy.”

“Oh-ho, look at you,” Steve sassed, shimmying his way around the counter.

They had to pass each other as she took over his shift, and her features pinched into a grimace. “You smell like a BLT. With pickles on the side.”

“My favorite,” Billy crooned, almost too quiet to hear.

A wave of heat swept over Steve, causing Robin’s eyes to roll while Billy’s nostrils widened. “God, get out of here before someone thinks we have salted caramel as a topping. You’re disgusting.”

“Maybe if you spent your time with Heather gossiping less and getting laid more, you’d sing a sweeter tone,” Steve finished, ice lollies in hand as he waved Billy through the staff door to the back room.

Billy’s composure lasted about as long as it took them to walk through another door to the hallways networking the back of the mall, and for the two of them to glance at each other. Billy’s hand slid over Steve’s lumbar, feeling his fellow alpha jump a little as the heat of his hand seeped through the sailor uniform. “Outside, pretty boy. You might lose your job if your scent lingers like that.”

“Why do you talk like that?” Steve blurted, shoving open the door to the outside. Hawkins was hotter than ever, and the lollies dripped condensation through his grip.

“Like what?” Billy countered, in the same husky tone as he let Steve back him up against the conveniently parked, maroon BMW. A good thing, indeed, that he’d worn a shirt today; the hot metal made him reach for one of the ice pops in Steve’s hand.

“Like you’re growling but shy.”

Billy pulled the wrapping apart to expose the green pop with murky innards promising caramel sauce. Instead of answering directly, he knocked his leg against Steve’s. The natural humidity on their skin made them stick, just for an instant, deliciously together. Billy liked the friction of their leg hair together. “And why’s it taken you this long to stand up to me?”

“I’ve always stood up to you. I just didn’t realize you liked being courted like this—that’s insane.”

Billy had bitten right through the corner of the green lolly that was threatening to melt into slush any second. His head tipped backward, a fast gesture to spare his teeth from the cold chunk in his mouth. “It’s ninety-eight degrees, Harrington, and we haven’t even reached today’s high yet.”

“You’re telling me,” Steve said as he raised the other lolly to the back of his neck. Billy’s tongue moved around his mouth, eyes resting way too long on Steve’s crimson neck. The poor guy was clearly in the cusp of a rut in the thick of July. It was a damn shame, for Billy’s cool fingertips found the edge of an inflamed gland and Steve vocally sighed at the tickling relief.

“You might actually need an ointment for this.”

Steve huffed and shoved the lolly—now ice pack—underneath the hair on his neck. “I get sweat rashes in the summer. This hair comes with a price that my glands pay.”

“Uh huh,” Billy purred, watching Steve’s mouth connect with the top of his ice cream and how his cheeks hollowed while he sucked the caramel out. A thread of sauce followed Steve up before he licked his lips—

Billy chased after it, licking sugar off of Steve’s lips between their kiss before Steve pushed his sweet tongue into Billy’s mouth. Billy’s fingertips found Steve’s chin and cheekbone, holding him in place while he switched sides. Their noses bumped together and Billy smiled against Steve’s overeager pursuit of his mouth. Getting teeth instead of lips made Steve complain, “Do I really smell like a BLT?”

Those doe eyes looked huge across the distance of their breath. Billy shamelessly gripped the red knot of the Scoops Ahoy ascot and pulled Steve’s uniform off his skin so Billy could press his nose against a collarbone. In his other hand, green apple juice dripped over his hand.

“Not yet, at least. You busy this weekend?”

The artificial highlights in Steve’s hair beamed in the summer sun as a dopey smile lifted his tired face. “I sure hope so. You mean with you, right?”

Billy nodded his head toward the car behind him. “We’ll take my car, before the heat takes you out.”

“What’s wrong my car?”

“I can’t drive home smelling you.”

Billy watching Steve’s throat move as he swallowed. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”