#song's a lil unsafe and fic's rated T

[keroujack]

ask me if i do this every day

Steve’s not surprised. Not really. It’s 10 PM on a cool March Thursday. He’s locked in his room writing a paper he should have finished three weeks ago instead of waiting until the night before to do it. But he’s an idiot and he always waits until the night before. Suffers immensely because of it.

So no, he’s not really surprised when his phone lights up with a text from Billy, who had finished the paper days ago and wanted to see a movie, rolled his eyes when Steve told him why he couldn’t at his locker earlier that afternoon.

He’s not surprised either that the text doesn’t say anything, it’s just a link to a playlist on Spotify. It’s called “i’m sick of steve harrington listening to shitty music” and the icon is a truly awful picture of Steve that Billy had taken at the diner a few weeks ago. His hair’s flying in about 400 different directions and he’s got no less than 17 French fries shoved in his mouth.

Which, you know, Billy had dared him to do.

“Bet you can’t fit 15 at once.”

“Watch me, dickhead,” Steve had said, pulled the plate of fries they’d been sharing closer to his side of the booth. “And you’re paying for my food if I can.”

“You’re on.”

15 kept his wallet full, two extra proved a point.

It’s a bad picture. Steve laughs anyway.

For the most part, the playlist is pretty typical. Predictable. A lot of loud shit, the kind that makes Steve’s ears hurt a little bit, though, not exactly in a bad way. There’s also a lot of indie nonsense Steve doesn’t entirely recognize, thinks maybe he’s heard the songs once or twice when Billy’s had control over the aux, but not so many times that he knows what the songs or the bands are called. 

There’s only one song that’s any different. One. Sticks out like a sore thumb. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i_gxp28AgLA)

Steve’s pretty quick to look and see who it is. Laughs when he does. Gets halfway to texting Billy, “the weeknd is mainstream asshole”, because Billy says it all the time.

“You’re too mainstream, Harrington. Way too mainstream, I mean, Christ. Don’t you ever listen to anything that’s not Top 100?”

And Steve can hear it. Can hear the exasperation, the annoyance. The way Billy goes a little huffy when he thinks he’s right, when he thinks Steve is being ridiculous. 

His thumbs hover over the letters, over send, ready to be right and rag on Billy for the rest of the night, but then the lyrics start. And he stops.

Because suddenly the song’s got his full attention and he’s listening now.

Like. Really listening.   

And the whole thing-the music, the beat, the words-well, it paints a picture. A vivid picture. One that sends a warm flush up his neck, makes his eyes go a little wide, his mouth a little dry.

It’s dirty. The song. And it’s not that Billy doesn’t listen to songs that are dirty. Steve knows he does. Has balked more than once at the lyrics Billy hums under his breath, low and lazy and way too downright obscene for something like lounging next to Steve’s pool on a calm Sunday morning.

It’s more that Steve’s not expecting a song like this at, now, 11 PM on a Thursday on a playlist made for him by his best friend.

What makes it worse is that it’s easy, almost too easy, the way Steve can see it. See him.

Billy.

Often.

The short mess of blond curls that fall across his forehead after practice every day. The bright blue eyes that cut across a classroom where the teacher no longer allows them to sit next to one another. The sharp curl of his lips around a white-hot smile when he thinks Steve’s said something funny.

The broad line of his shoulders, bare, hard, like the muscles that stretch across his chest, his arms, his back. Stretches endlessly for miles and miles and sometimes Steve wonders, quietly, and only to himself, what it would be like to trace along them all with the tip of his finger.

Often.

The image evolves before he can help it.

He can see Billy’s lips, but now they’re pressed to smooth skin, dark stubble rough against it, rougher against the moan that comes from above him, long, high, breathy. The fan of his eyelashes is thick against his cheeks, eyes closed, focused, devoted. The hand in his hair is slender, thin, twists, tightens as he presses slow kisses down a soft, delicate stomach, lower, lower, lower.

Often.

Steve closes his eyes, tries to wipe the thought away with it, wants to wipe the slate clean. But Billy’s still there. Steve still sees him. Sees his head between a pair of pale thighs, kissing the inside of one, the inside of the other, dragging his lips, trailing his tongue. Working up the long, warm line of tense muscle, inching, closer, closer, closer.

Do it how I want it.

By the time the song’s over, Steve’s laptop has gone black, paper long forgotten. His breathing’s gone heavy, pulse quick, jeans way too tight.

He pushes at his eyes with the heels of his hands because what the fuck-what the fuck?

Since when do those thoughts wear Billy’s face?

The next song, back to loud and abrasive, does a good job of wiping the music from his mind, but the image sticks. Makes it hard to focus. Hard to write about The Iliad and the inherent tragedy of a fate you can’t avoid.

He wants to text Billy, wants to beg him for a copy of his paper-like he always does-so that he can rewrite Billy’s thoughts to sound like his own. Wants nothing more than to be done with this already and go to sleep. 

But he can’t. He really can’t.

Can’t even bring himself to answer when it’s Billy that texts him first. Just a simple, “wyd im bored” but it’s still got Steve’s hands shaking. He damn near puts the phone through the wall when he throws it onto his bed before he can respond.

Before he can say something stupid.

For all the distraction finishing his paper is able to provide, fitful, restless sleep brings the images back. Makes sweat drip at his temple, makes his hands curl into the sheets.

Gives him a reason to spend fifteen extra minutes in the shower before he goes downstairs for breakfast. 

Steve still feels like he’s flushed, like he’s exposed when Billy’s shoulder knocks into the locker next to his that morning. Backpack slung easy over one shoulder, Henley done low, collar spread wide over his chest.

“So?” he asks, rests his temple against the cool metal as he watches Steve struggle to shove a textbook in his bag. “Did you like it?”

“Like what?”

“Like what,” Billy repeats, a bit of a scoff, a laugh mixed in with the words. “The playlist, dumbass. What’d you think?”

Often.

Steve can feel the word sitting on his tongue.

“Loud,” he says instead, smiles when Billy narrows his eyes. “It wasn’t bad, but you still listen to too much of that metal garbage.”

“Oh get the fuck out of my face with that ‘metal garbage’ nonsense,” Billy spits, without venom.

Steve takes that as his chance to lean in close. “What was that? Sorry, you’ll have to say it again. My ears are still bleeding.”

Billy reaches out, flicks his ear at that. Steve smacks his hand away, closes his locker with a slam, a laugh that comes as naturally breathing.

They walk to class. The day goes on.

Steve can’t stop thinking about that song.

Often.

He can hear it.

Hears the echoes in the curl of Billy’s hand around the strap of his backpack. In the twist of his fingers when he leans down to tie his shoe. The sweat that glides along the plane of his back at practice. The strip of skin on his stomach that peeks out when he leans back in his desk and stretches.

It’s everywhere.

Often.

Three days of this and Steve feels like he’s beginning to lose his mind. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday pass in a blur of daydreams, a haze of images he shouldn’t still be ale to see this clearly.

Shouldn’t be so easy for the daydreams to shift, to evolve.

For the body beneath Billy’s to no longer belong to some nameless, pretty face. For it to belong to Steve. For it to be him Billy’s looking up at. His stomach Billy’s kissing down. His thighs Billy’s there between. 

Mornings wake him with a gasp, with ragged breaths and goose bumps that ripple up and down his arms, his spine. A flush that spreads along his neck like wildfire and a throb between his legs so strong that he can’t help but slip a hand below his waistband. 

Do it how I want it.

His heart climbs up into his throat on Thursday night. Billy’s sitting in the passenger seat, phone pillowed in his lap, aux cord firmly attached because, “I can’t deal with your mainstream shit today, pretty boy. Not a fuckin’ chance.”

They’re on their way to the diner for milkshakes after practice, both beyond starving and craving something a little sweet after two and a half hours of basketball and getting screamed at.

Often. 

Steve’s heart climbs into his throat and his stomach drops because, just like that, the song is on. The song is on and it’s started and Billy’s tapping his finger in time with it against the window. Steve feels the words wrap around him, hardly has time to even process how he’s going to exist in the same space as Billy for the next four minutes when he realizes Billy is humming.

He’s goddamn humming and Steve swears he can see Billy looking at him out of the corner of his eye. Feels his cheeks go a little pink, feels his hands tighten around the steering wheel with a grip that hurts.

They’re the longest four minutes of Steve’s natural born life.

He convinces himself that it’ll get better after that. That food and company and conversation will be more than an adequate amount of distractions, but he’s wrong. It’s almost like the diner makes it worse.

They’re sitting across from each other in a small, familiar booth along the windows. The place is fairly crowded, which isn’t weird considering the dinnertime rush here is known for that. Their legs are too long beneath the table and Billy’s knees nudge at his when they settle in, warm, snug. Sets Steve’s skin on fire. 

There’s already a shared plate of fries between them when the waitress comes back with their milkshakes. Chocolate for Steve. Strawberry for Billy.

When Billy’s lips wrap around the straw, Steve’s breath catches and suddenly he realizes he should have said no when Billy asked if he wanted to get food. He should have said no. This was a mistake.

Because now he’s trapped here, in this booth. With Billy’s knees knocking into his and his pretty pink lips around a straw and his cheeks hollowed in the exact same way Steve can see every time he closes his eyes. Hollow around him.

It’s too real now. Too real and too much. Way too much. 

He tries his best to hide his face in his glass. Tries to focus on his shake and hide the fact that he’s not breathing. Not looking as he listens to Billy talk between sips. Nods. Doesn’t really trust his voice at a time like this. When his heart’s racking behind his ribs like they’d only just finished sprints and his mind is cloudy like he’d walked through a wall of smoke.

He’s still not sure he’s breathing by the time they’re back in the car. Steve has to drive Billy back to pick up his car from the school and without the noise of the crowded diner to fill pauses, the silence becomes more noticeable. Thicker. Tenser. 

Especially because Billy doesn’t take the aux again. He doesn’t even turn on the radio. Just sits and drums on the window, jiggles his knee.

Steve is wound so tight he’s afraid he’s going to explode.

The silence doesn’t end when they get to the school, isn’t cut off by the loud slam of the passenger side door.

No. Billy doesn’t move to get out at all. In fact, he does the opposite, turns away from the door, turns towards Steve. Faces him. Steve keeps his body square to the wheel.

The sharp breath Billy lets out is harsh in his ears. “So are you gonna tell me what the fuck’s got you so weird or am I gonna have to ask?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Steve swallows hard when the words make Billy laugh. Doesn’t really understand why.

“Steve,” Billy says, and that’s when Steve knows he’s fucked. Well and truly fucked. “What’s the problem?”

And Billy knows something is wrong. Always knows it. Has known it since Steve got pushed off the swings by Tyler Boyd in the fourth grade. Billy had only been in school a week, had only just moved from California, but Steve had scrapes all over his legs, was fighting back tears when he said, “It doesn’t hurt that bad.” Had hardly even gotten the words out before Billy tackled Tyler Boyd and pinned him to the blacktop. He wasn’t allowed back outside for recess for two weeks, but Steve started sitting next to him at lunch and that was about as good as a blood pact in their young, adolescent minds.

Stuck together forever.

It’s then that Steve looks at him, realizes Billy is so much closer than his peripheral vision had led him to believe. He’s got one elbow on the center console, his other arm out long, hand on the dashboard, angled completely in Steve’s direction.

Steve still hasn’t said anything, can’t with Billy’s eyes on him like this. With Billy so close. The car so quiet.

Billy’s laugh is softer this time, comes when Steve worries his bottom lip between his teeth, feels the pinch that’s caught between his brows.

“What?” Billy asks, the word even softer than the laugh. Small. Encouraging.

Steve can’t help the way his eyes fall to greet it.

“You’re not allowed to hate me.” 

It’s the first thing he’s said in a while and it’s low, totally miss-able. But Billy never misses anything. Flinches a little when Steve says it.

“Hate you?” he asks, something like disbelief pulling at his tone. “Why would I-”

Steve leans over and presses his lips to Billy’s before he can finish the question, forgets the words in favor of a tiny hmmph of a noise somewhere in the back of his throat.

Which gives way to total silence.

And Steve’s going to pull away. It’s been at least ten seconds and Billy hasn’t moved and Steve’s going to pull away. Going to get out of the car, dig a large hole, fall into it, and die. 

But that thought only last as long as it takes Billy’s hand to find his jaw. It grounds him, holds him, keeps him there like Billy knows exactly what he’s thinking. It’s Billy that moves first, tips his head a little, brushes his lips over Steve’s and smoothes his thumb along his cheekbone.

Steve falls into it like they’ve been doing this forever, lets his hand go to the side of Billy’s neck, follows as Billy guides him. Moves with him. Breathes with him.

He tastes like strawberry when he opens his mouth and Steve can’t quite believe he ever thought milkshakes were a bad idea.

Steve’s pretty sure the soft smack that separates their lips, only barely, is going to be burned into his memory until the day he dies. That. The fan of Billy’s eyelashes, still flush with his cheeks, and the bow of his lips, still parted just slightly.

Billy’s slow to open his eyes, only gets them about halfway there when push comes to shove. Just like when he’s waking up. When they accidentally fall asleep on the couch during a movie and suddenly his breath catches. When he keeps his eyes half lidded and lets consciousness creep in like hunger.

Billy’s looking at his lips when he says, “Yeah?” Breathless. Maybe a little beautiful.

“Yeah,” Steve whispers, doesn’t want to say it. Doesn’t want the words to take this away.

But they don’t. He says it and Billy doesn’t move, hardly bats an eyelash.

Is actually kind of smiling.

Steve can’t help but kiss him again, laughs when Billy whispers, “Backseat’s probably a lot better for this,” against his lips. Lets Billy drag him into the back and feels that heat spread low when Billy climbs into his lap and ducks his head to pick up where they left off. Like they’ve been doing this forever.

Steve wants this to be forever. Wants Billy to be forever.

Always.

Often.