#poisonstevaverse

[shieldofiron]

La Hiedra Venenosa

The soil remembers what Billy forgets.

In fact the last thing that he remembers is the cement slamming into his face once more, his dads finger in his hair and Max screaming.

Then the dirt, the aching packed lung feeling and digging his way out. A new way of breathing, breath that stretched up to big sur and down past pathetic human boarders. He’d been buried in a forgotten little sliver of land off of a closed off road. The land was forgotten, but it never forgot, not anything.

His dad never laid a hand on him after that. Not after Billy came back to the house covered in grave dirt and a vine of California Dogwood grew through the floorboards, through Neil’s boot.

The people at the ER didn’t know what to make of that.

No, Billy’s dad never laid a hand on him again, freak though he was. He settled for words at a distance, but Billy wasn’t listening any more.

The soil remembered. It spoke to him, though that word didn’t feel quite right for how it happened. How he would go wandering late at night, his mind filled with blood watering the ground. The soil remembered and it taught Billy.

His friends weren’t quite sure what to make of him anymore either, and when Neil announced that they were moving, only one of them said he would miss Billy.

“La hiedra venenosa,” Argyle frowned, “Who will become luchadores with me when you’re gone?”

“You can do it by yourself, Argo,” Billy laughed.

“But who will have your plant power,” Argyle smacked the back of his own fist, “Miss you brother. Don’t fall in love and never come back, okay?”

Billy made the promise not knowing, making Argyle laugh by recreating Neil’s face when Billy had grown a redwood through the house, busting its retail value and leaving the area to the land, because who would cut down what appeared to be a thousand year old redwood.

Funny how it grew right through the garage of a regular suburban house. Right through the concrete.

His dad wanted him to give up and be normal again but Billy wasn’t interested in that. The dirt remembered, taught Billy not to forget. He wouldn’t reveal all his tricks to these Indiana hicks right away though. Not before he could be sure his new friends wouldn’t fly off the handle.

Billy didn’t know what Indiana would be like, but he never expected the plants to weep over a hidden weed, tunnels that ripped through their roots and a rot that wasn’t of this earth.

The first night he’d tried to drown it out, drinking until he could hardly see. But he sobered too quickly when he saw him. Prettiest face Billy ever saw.

That’s him, the dirt said, That’s her.

Billy almost didn’t believe their story until the face floated up. Baseball bats and hesitating at a car. The rot going dormant, no longer sheltering itself in the trees. The girl, the dark haired skinny one who had ventured through the rot and come back out. They were missing the haunted looking boy, but the plants screamed out for Billy to go to them, so he did.

Tommy Hagan’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard, but Billy was swimming through images of the woods, glowing tree bark and the pretty boy’s face bloodied and bruised.

Don’t fall in love, Argyle had said. But it was too late, not when he saw that face. The girl turned to leave and the pretty boy followed. Billy was helpless to do more than follow too, honeysuckle knotting into the carpet with every step he took. His boots always had dirt on them, and the soil never forgot. He caught the pretty boy on the edge of tears, fleeing down the upstairs hallway.

Billy’s arm shot out, and he blocked him.

“Harrington, right?” Billy lifted his chin, noting how the boy’s dark eyes slid down Billy’s chest, “I’m Billy. Billy Hargrove.”

“Not now,” The pretty boy scowled, “I gotta-“

“Tell me about these tunnels with underworld monsters,” Billy said.

“What? What… what are you talking about?”

“Monsters, heads like flowers, but there ain’t anything natural about them. At least nothing native to earth.”

The pretty boy gaped, “How do you know about that?”

“Friends of mine.”

“What friends?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“I think you’d be surprised,” The pretty boy crossed his arms.

Billy reached out, fingers circling one of Harrington’s wrists. He wasn’t thin, not like the girl. His hands were big too, masculine and lightly dusted with hair.

Harrington jerked back, nearly falling into the wall when he looked down and a honeysuckle vine circled his wrist like a bracelet. Lonicera hispidula, California Honeysuckle, more precisely.

Harrington’s eyes were wide, his big soft Bambi lashes fluttering.

Billy was too drunk to think of the risks of Harrington flying off the handle. Somehow, instinctively he trusted the dirt, the way it felt about Harrington. Billy didn’t have to be there last year for the memory to stick. Harrington would take out the rot.

“Amazing,” Harrington breathed, touching the honeysuckle with long pretty fingers, before he glanced up. “The monsters are back? In… tunnels?”

Billy smiled, “Yes.”

“Then… fuck, I guess there’s some people to introduce you to.”

Funny how things worked out. When the Pretty Boy took his hand, Billy let the vine grow up and along, locking them together.

“You’re fucking weird,” Harrington said, but he didn’t tug away either. His dark sad eyes just fluttered, sticking on Billy’s chest again.

Billy licked his lips, smiling, “Normal’s overrated.”

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Thanks to @adelacreations for lending me the Poison Ivy Steve-verse for a little what if. Can you tell I was listening to Pet Semetary too much this morning and I'm longing for Halloween Season? Also on AO3 here.