#Steve takes him out to a movie and grimaces when he orders a fuckin pickle and is like

[suspiciouslackofclowns]

“Don’t you ever get tired of the taste?”

The sharp crunch fills the air again, and Steve shivers from it like the sound is coming from inside of him, deep in his bones.

“Don’t you ever get tired of having the palate of a toddler?” Billy asks through a full mouth.

He’s spread out on the too-small sofa, ankles crossed where they’re perched on the armrest. It’s fairly warm out today, which means that he’s wearing a scandalous amount of clothes, and Steve would be delighting in that fact right now were it not for the pungent scent of vinegar.

The brunet simply crosses his arms. Glances over his shoulder towards the kitchen, and hardens a glare at no one at all.

“Do we seriously need to keep all of them? We don’t even have room in the fridge.”

“Aw, Stevie, if you really hate it that much…” Billy coos. Then, crunch. “Open a fuckin’ window.”

The howling laughter that leaves him has Steve biting back on a smile, as much as he hates to admit. He’s half tempted to open a window, but he instead chooses to round the couch and tap Billy’s ankle until he lifts his legs up.

The blond obliges him. Permits Steve to sit so he can splay his legs over his lap.

“Guess I might as well get used to it.”

Billy grins. Cozies further into the couch like a cat settling down to take a nap before he sighs comfortably.

“For a second there I thought you were gonna grab a trash bag and go bananas.”

“No, baby, I’d never throw away your gifts,” Steve reassures. He slouches in his seat and takes to fiddling with the seam of Billy’s tiny shorts. “You just have to promise me to brush your teeth before you come to bed tonight or I might puke.”

There’s a little snicker that makes Steve’s smile widen as he flattens his palm against his lover’s thigh.

For a while, things were hard. Really hard.

Billy couldn’t stomach solid foods, could hardly breathe on his own on a good day. And Steve sat by him the whole way through it. Sat by his bed in the hospital and had faith when Billy didn’t that he would get better.

It was on a particularly bad day, a day where the nurses had tried to incorporate something soft into one of his meals — mashed potatoes. Mashed potatoes that didn’t go down well, or rather, didn’t stay down. All Steve remembers of that day was Billy crying, eyes red and puffy, nose running as he coughed and heaved, whining about how am I ever gonna eat pickles again if I can’t even eat this.

And Steve had pet his hair and helped him sip some room temperature water, even though he was a little confused.

As far as he knew, Billy didn’t even like pickles. Or, at the very least, didn’t care all that much for them. Not enough to tolerate them on a burger, and certainly not enough to cry about not being able to eat them.

Still, here they are, nearly a year later. With about seven full-sized jars of pickles on their counter, all with ribbons and balloons and get well soon cards fastened to them in some shape or form. Some from family. Most from friends. A few from strangers.

Steve recalls reading a card that was signed by all the guys down at the fire station, regarding Billy as a hero in their ranks.

If only they knew.

“Might get sick of pickles,” Billy sighs.

He holds a spear in his hand, eyeing it like he isn’t sure if he should because it’ll be his fifth in a row, and his stomach is still tragically sensitive. This jar in particular is from Max. Has a red ribbon tied around the rim of the jar and dozens of dollar store skateboard stickers plastered all over it.

That seems enough to justify the next crunch that fills the air.

Steve pats his lover’s thigh and shakes his head when the juice drips on the front of his shirt, thankful that he’s getting better.

Even if it means being surrounded by pickles.

“Guess there’s only one way to find out.”