chrisbitchtree - Tumblr blog

chrisbitchtree · 13 days

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Dear Younger Me

My piece for the @harringrove-relay-race!!!

I'm now passing the baton on to @oopsiedaisiesbaby! I can’t wait to see what you’ve written!

4k - M

***

When Billy’s therapist had first assigned him the project, to write letters to his younger self detailing the twists and turns his life would take, and how he’d somehow managed to navigate them and get to a place where he could truly call himself happy, he’d laughed, because frankly, it sounded like a waste of time.

He knew he was happy and successful, so what good would it do to tell the long gone, scared, angry seventeen year old version of himself about it? But the more he wrote, filling page after page with his messy scrawl, the more he felt that he could let go of all the hurt and pain of his youth. It felt good. So good, in fact, that he’d allowed himself to be talked into giving Steve the letters to read.

Now though, as he stands on Steve’s front porch, he feels a really strong urge to run. It’s too late though, he’s already rung the doorbell, and he can hear Steve’s approaching footsteps. There’s no way he’d get back into his car and out of sight before Steve opens the door. He takes a deep breath, holding the stack of letters in front of himself.

“Hey Billy,” Steve greeted him, a grin spreading over his face, looking unfairly sexy, shirtless on this hot summer night. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from you at 10pm on a Tuesday?”

“Uhhhh,” Billy replies, almost chickening out and saying he was in the neighbourhood and in the mood for some company and a beer, knowing Steve won’t ask questions, good guy that he is, but he knows that its important for Steve to read the letters, for Billy to let him in, if he ever wants to be more than friends with the man. Steve’s made it clear that he wants Billy, so the ball is firmly in Billy’s court. So, he takes another deep breath and hands the envelopes to Steve. “I want you to read these. Or my therapist does. But I do too. Just read them, okay, pretty boy?” With that, he walks away before Steve can answer.

***

At first, Steve’s confused when his doorbell rings at 10pm, and then he’s excited when he finds Billy on his front porch. They usually hang out pretty steadily, grabbing beers after work, having BBQs with Max and Lucas, watching endless movies, and hiking in the woods on the edge of town, but lately, every time Steve asks Billy to do anything, he claims that he’s busy working on a project, but won’t tell Steve any details about it. He’s starting to worry that Billy’s trying to freeze him out.

His excitement turns back to confusion when Billy hands him a stack of envelopes, telling him to read what’s inside of them, but he does as he’s told, grabbing the beer that he’d cracked open just before the doorbell had rung and taking it out to the backyard, turning on the patio lights so he can read.

He pulls a small stack of papers from the first envelope, unfolding them to find a letter.

“Dear younger me,

I know you’re upset right now. It’s not easy leaving your friends, your school, the ocean, the only home you’ve ever known behind to move to the middle of butt fuck nowhere. I won’t lie, it’s going to suck at first. Neil’s been with Susan long enough that he isn’t putting a show on in front of her anymore. He’s going to yell and threaten you and get in your face.

Starting at a new school is going to be terrifying, and it’s good to put on a brave face, to not show fear, but try to remember that it’s ok to admit that everything isn’t ok sometimes. Even if it’s just to yourself, curled up in your bed late at night. Let the tears fall, I promise you’ll feel better afterwards.

It won’t be long until you meet Steve Harrington, the king of Hawkins High. You’re going to be such a dick to him, and he’s going to spend a long time hating you for it. You’re going to spend a long time hating yourself for it. You’ll eventually work your way to friendship, but you’ll save a lot of time if you don’t spend your entire senior year of high school treating him like he’s dirt on the bottom of your shoes.

Because you can’t manage to get your head out of your ass, Steve’s going to push, rightfully so, and you’re going to pull, until the tension’s going to come to a head at Harrington’s graduation party. The night’s going to start with the two of you throwing barbs back and forth and end with you on your knees in the Harrington’s pool house, Steve’s cock between your lips. You’re barely even going to stay long enough for him to finish cumming, to scared to see what’ll happen in the aftermath, but you really should. Tell him how you feel about him, tell him that the way you treated him all year was an act, a way to protect your heart, and his response just might surprise you. You never know.”

Steve has to stop reading for a minute, his face flushing as he thinks back to his graduation night, how good Billy had looked on his knees, looking up at Steve as his tongue swirled around the head of his cock. He remembers how strong the urge to run his hands through Billy’s hair had been, but it had seemed too intimate an action, so he’d resisted, as hard as it had been. He’d wanted to reciprocate, but Billy had fled the scene before Steve could even catch his breath, not to be seen again for three years, until Neil and Susan Hargrove had died. He picks the letter back up, curious to see how it will end, and what will be in the next one.

“You’re going to blame yourself for a lot of what comes after. You’re going to tell yourself that if you’d stayed, if you hadn’t hightailed it back to California while the ink on your diploma was still drying, if you’d stayed, even just for Max, and nothing else, or if you’d finally stood up to Neil for once, things would have turned out differently. Please try as hard as you can to be kind to yourself. I promise you didn’t cause this, that nothing you could have done would have stopped Neil from being an asshole.

Love,

Billy”

“Dear younger me,

You just found out that Dad and Susan died, and you’re going to have a lot of mixed emotions about that. Relief that Neil can’t hurt you, can’t hurt anyone anymore, grief, as you mourn the dad you never got to have, regret, that you weren’t there to take the keys out of Neil’s hands that night when he drank too much and decided that Susan was cheating on him instead of going out to a girl’s night at the bar, sadness, for Max, who, at only seventeen, has no parents left, only has you to take care of her, when you can barely take care of yourself on the best of days.

It's going to be tough, I’m not going to lie. You and Max are going to fight about anything and everything. She’s going to blame you for this, and it’s going to take a long time for her to apologize, and it’s going to hurt, even though you blame yourself too.

You have to stay strong, though. Strong for yourself, and for Max. You need to put down the bottle and find a good job so you can take care of Max and yourself. It’ll be hard to even make yourself get out of bed most days, but you have to grin and bear it. I promise it’ll eventually get easier, even if it doesn’t seem like it right now. It’ll all be worth it when you see her walk across the stage with her diploma.

Love,

Billy”

As soon as he’s one reading the second letter, Steve folds it up and slips it back into its envelope and takes out the third letter, eager to see where this is going, to find out why he’s being asked to read them. He takes a sip of his beer and settles in for the long haul.

“When Max is twenty one, she’s going to call you and tell you that she’s dropping out of college to work at the garage with you and help you work towards your goal of buying it from Mr. Dennis when he retires, and you’re going to feel like a failure, like all your hard work, all the hours you put in at the shop to help pay for her education are going to waste. You’re going to fight long and hard about whether she’s fucking up her life, and you’re going to say a lot of things that you regret, but you need to remember that she’s an adult now, and she’s smart, and she knows what’s right for herself.

You won’t want to admit it, even to yourself, but you know you’re going to be happy to have her back where you can keep an eye on her, instead of way out in Boston. There’ll be growing pains at first, as you both get used to living together again, but it’ll be nice to have someone else around the house again.

And be nice to Lucas when Max has him over. He’s a good guy when he’s not being a smartass, and trust me, you’re going to need him later. Show him a little respect, and you’ll save yourself a lot of embarrassment later.

Love,

Billy”

“Dear younger me,

Two years after you finally take over ownership of the shop, just as you’re really starting to feel like the place is yours, Max is going to beg you to let her renovate the attached luncheonette and run a small diner and bakeshop out of it.

You’re going to resist for so long, finding a million reasons why she shouldn’t do it. The kitchen requires too much work, there won’t be enough customers for it to be profitable, she should be doing something better with her life than planting her roots so firmly in Hawkins. You worked hard so she can get out, and you don’t want to enable her sticking around.

Trust me, it’s going to be easier if you just give in. She may be stubborn, but she’s right, the place is going to be a huge success, and you’re going to wonder why you didn’t let her have at it sooner. That is, until two weeks after the diner opens, on the night of the launch party, Max is going to get drunk and take your motorcycle out and crash it.

She’s going to survive, but just barely. It’s going to be a very long road to recovery, and that’s where the thing I mentioned earlier about being nice to Lucas will come in. He’s the only one that’s going to be there for you in the early days, when you’re trying to keep two business afloat and be at the hospital with Max. He’s going to take a year off from school to work in the diner and the garage when you need to be with Max and be with Max when you need to be at the diner and garage. You’re going to be each other’s rocks when it gets to be too much, and you’re going to be embarrassed about how you treated him before if you don’t stop treating him like shit right now. I know I’ve already said this a lot, but trust me.

Love,

Billy”

“Dear younger me,

I know that more than anything, you’ll want to make sure that Max’s diner stays open, that it’s there for her when she gets better, but you’re too stubborn to ask for help, and too busy to have it open enough hours in a day to turn a profit, so you’ll think about throwing in the towel and just focusing on the garage.

Tired and frustrated, you’ll head to Chicago one evening to blow off some steam at a bar. You’ll think to yourself that you’ll just go for a few drinks, and maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll find someone to take to whatever shitty hotel you can find a room in for the night, but instead, what you find in there, or rather who you find in there, is going to change everything for you.

Standing near the bar nursing a bottle of beer is Steve Harrington, looking every bit as pretty as he did back in high school. You’re going to try to turn around and run like the coward that you are, but Steve’s going to spot you before you can head out. Caught, you’re going to let him buy you a beer and sit and catch up.

He’s going to tell you how he feels lost after dropping out of law school, a failure in his father’s eyes, how scary it is to not feel that much more mature at twenty five than he did at eighteen. You’re going to tell him about your dad and Susan, and Max’s accident, how it feels like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders, with no one there except Lucas to occasionally lighten the load.

He tells you that drinks are on him for the night, and he orders another round, and another and another, until you’re both shitfaced and stumbling towards his nearby apartment. On the way, you tell him that unless you get some money fast, you’re going to have to sell the diner, and then you forget you said anything as he asks if he can kiss you in the elevator.

You’re going to have a moment of panic, as Steve presses you up against the door of his apartment and runs his lips all over your throat, about whether this is the right thing to do or not. You think that it might be best to turn around and forget this ever happened.

Don’t. Stay, have fun with the hottest guy you could ever hope to be with, and create enough jerk off material to last you the rest of your life. Ever the gentleman, he’ll ask if he can take you to bed. You’ll both lose your breath laughing as he tries to carry you there and fails miserably, and you’ll smile to yourself every time you think about that moment.

Once you get to his room, you’re going to have to fight the urge to do all the work. You keep telling yourself that Steve deserves to be worshiped, but he’s going to insist that you sit back and enjoy it, and you should listen to someone else for once.

He’s going to do things you didn’t even know someone could do with their mouth, leaving your moaning, hands twisting in the bedsheets, and your eyes will roll back in your head as he fucks you six ways to Sunday. Afterwards, he’ll clean you both up and hold you in his arms while he snores softly in your ear, and you’ll think about how nice it is to be taken care of, that you could get used to it.

By morning, you’ll have talked yourself out of it. You don’t deserve this, you don’t have time for this, it’s too much, you’re not enough, and you’ll sneak out before Steve wakes, feeling like an idiot as you walk back to your car with your hair all stuck up in the back, knowing that everyone giving you side eye as they walk down the sidewalk with a coffee and a briefcase knows what you were up to last night.

You’ll be embarrassed, but relieved that you got out of Steve’s place without having to have an awkward morning after conversation. You’ll open up the shop for the day and put all your energy into working on the cars and running into the diner to check on Lucas and the lone waitress in between appointments, but no matter how hard you try, you’re not going to be able to take your mind off Steve, how he looked the night before, looking down at you with his big brown doe eyes as he asked you if it felt good. Part of you is going to wish you hadn’t left his place, but you know it’s for the best.

The days will keep marching on, until a couple weeks after you have your run-in with Steve, when you’ll get a call from the bank. You prepare yourself for the worst, sure that they’re calling you to tell you that it’s time to give up the diner, but no, they have a potential investor, and they want to meet with the two of you.

You show up at the bank feeling ridiculous in your one pair of khakis and your best button up, and of course, the first person you see when you enter the bank is Steve Fucking Harrington, grinning wide at you as he chats up a teller. You want to turn around, but you can’t, because this idiot is your only way to keep the diner alive.

When you ask him why, why he would do this for you, when you’ve just been an asshole to him. He says it’s not for you, it’s for Max, and for Steve himself, because his dad apparently has no problem writing a huge cheque to invest in the diner if it means that Steve won’t be sitting idle any longer.

You’re not going to be sure how involved Steve plans on actually being involved in the day to day running of the diner, but you definitely don’t expect him to show up two days later, apron and baseball cap on, ready to work his first shift. He’s going to suck, dropping plates, burning food, forgetting to dress burgers before they go out to hungry customers.”

Steve has to laugh at how right Billy is. He was just about the worst waiter and cook to have ever worked in a restaurant. He had no clue what he was doing, and there were many days where he was surprised that Billy didn’t kick him out, no matter how badly he needed the help, and there were a lot of other days where Steve was ready to throw in the towel, but he’d kept with it, determined not to give up on this like he had on law school, and he liked knowing he was lightening Billy’s load, even if it only got him groans of frustration and sighs of despair in return. Over time, he thankfully got better at both tasks, finding that he was actually a pretty good cook. He picks the letter back up, eager to get through the rest of the shortening stack.

“I promise the shitty times will end though. Soon, you won’t be able to imagine the place without Harrington there, telling bad jokes and bringing you coffee when your eyes start to droop in the evening, after you’ve had a long day at the shop and the diner, and then still need to go check in on Max.

Eventually, Max will be released from the hospital, and you’ll be happier than ever to have Steve around, to help Lucas moderate arguments between you and Max, while you get comfortable giving Max small freedoms, and she comes to understand why you’re so scared to let her out of your sight.

When Lucas finally has to go back to school, Mrs. Sinclair will try to step in and pick up shifts at the diner, and at first, you’re going to push back. You don’t want to take any more time and energy from that poor family, and you’re sure she has better things to do than do Max’s bidding as Max sits on a chair behind the counter telling her what to do.

Steve talks you into letting her stay, though. You need the help, and she’s willing to give it, and it’s another lesson in accepting that people care about you and Max and letting them help you. Between Mrs. Sinclair, Steve, you, and Max, as she starts to get stronger, along with Erica Sinclair waiting tables after school and on weekends, replacing your waitress who decided to go back to school, the diner actually starts to turn a profit, based on great food and fast, friendly service. When Lucas comes home for Christmas, he jokes that he can’t recognize the diner with more than a couple customers in it. For the first time, you’re going to feel like everything will be ok.

I promise you, things only keep getting better from here.

Love,

Billy”

“Dear younger me,

Now that you have your professional life somewhat under control, of course, you’re going to turn your attention to your personal life for the first time in a long time. I can tell you it won’t be easy to take that first step and finally accept that you need therapy. Nobody wants to admit that they need help, so it’s going to be a long battle of talking yourself in and out of it, but I can also tell you that once you commit to going regularly, and putting in the work to help yourself, things are going to be so much better.

You’re going to rush into things with Steve, but it’s important that you take time for yourself, to figure your shit out first. If Steve want this as bad as he’s been saying he does, then he’ll respect that you’re not ready yet, and wait until you are.”

Steve takes another sip of his drink, shaking his head at his own behaviour. To say he badly wants a relationship with Billy is the understatement of the century, and he’s far from quiet about it, confessing almost daily to Billy that he’s crazy about him, wants to date the heck out of him, hold his hand when they watch movies, make him dinner, tell anyone that’ll listen that Billy is his.

But for all of his enthusiastic rambling, he’s more than willing to wait until Billy’s ready. He doesn’t want to rush things, because he wants Billy to want it as much as he does, wants his heart to truly be in it. He doesn’t want Billy to date him just because it’s what Steve wants.

Over the past year, Steve’s come to learn that Billy’s not only literally the hottest guy Steve’s ever seen, he’s also selfless, caring, hilarious, hardworking, and secretly sweet, and Steve needs him like he needs air, so yeah, he’ll wait. He continues to read.

“My best advice for when thinking about Steve gets to be too much. Take a deep calming breath, a cold shower, or if that doesn’t work, think about seeing the ancient librarian at the public library naked. That should be more than enough to cool you down.

Love,

Billy”

Steve picks up the last letter, and slipping it out of its envelope, he unfolds it, noticing that it’s a lot shorter than the rest.

“Dear future me,

I know you’re panicking right now, sitting on your couch, biting your nails and nursing a beer, while you wait for Steve to read through the letters that you handed him tonight. You want him to know that you’re ready now, as ready as you’ll ever be to let him in, let yourself be loved and love him in return, and you can only hope that he feels the same way as he did this afternoon when he told you that he can’t wait to wife you up, whatever that means. Try to calm down. It’ll be ok.

So, hey Steve, if you’ve gotten this far, I’m ready. Bring your jammies, and we can have a sleepover. I promise not to run in the morning, and if you wake up early enough to make me cum a second time before breakfast, I’ll make you pancakes before we head into work.

Love,

Billy”

Steve slips on a pair of sandals and grabs his keys, running so fast for his car that he doesn’t realize until he’s halfway down the driveway that he’s not wearing a shirt. It doesn’t matter though. He’s gotta see about a boy.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #billy x steve #harringrove fic #chrisbitchtree writes #harringrove relay race

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chrisbitchtree · 14 days

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Harringrove Relay Race -- passing the torch to @raven-cl ! Run babe RUN!

blooming forth, it's every color in the moments it has left.

Turns out, shit hits the fan in the dark.

Steve’s known that. It’s still a surprise when Billy takes Max and hits the ground hot with his feet aching after a long shift at the pool, even though his sandals are covered in blood. His. Neil's.

Doesn't actually matter, because when Steve wakes up to a phone call so late in the night he thinks someone's gotta be dead or dying, or they need to get sucked off like they need air and water and Steve's gotten himself penciled in as the number-one, go-to asshat for both types of situations--

Point is, the phone goddamn rings. Sounds like pennies being thrown against the walls of Steve’s two-bedroom apartment. And it's the middle of the night. All that matters is that when Steve rolls over and yanks the receiver from its cradle, all, "Someone better be dying–”

Billy's trying his best not to cry. "I hit him," Billy says, an earthquake that shakes the foundation of the city. That gets Steve wide-eyed and fearful and awake. "Fuck, Steve, I hit him--"

“What?” Steve sits ramrod in bed, covers a limp and useless pool around him. "Are you alright?"

"I'm. There's, like. Blood," Billy says, "I guess."

"You guess?"

"I'm okay. Nothing’s broken," Billy pulls away from the phone to say something to someone. To Max, Steve would bet money on it. And then he says, "I have blood on my feet. And. Max has blood in her hair so it looks black, almost, and. Shit, Steve, I hit him--"

"Where are you?”

"--It might be Neil's blood," Billy tells him. Like Steve's lost in the weeds, here. Like he needs a compass pointing him toward the huge, terrible obvious truth. "I--"

"Fuck who's blood it is," Steve tells him, already upright struggling into a pair of week-old jeans. He tries not to focus on that, swallows against the urge to be harsh with himself, because he was knocked out two minutes ago, dreaming of the pretty pink pucker of Billy's cunt when the phone rang. "That's not important. Where are you," Steve asks, cock still hard because he's human, getting tangled in the phone cord, "You said. Is Max--"

"She's okay. We're at a gas station about twenty miles outside of town."

Steve's hard-on dies. "Twenty miles outside of town?"

"Yeah."

"What are you talking about?" Steve doesn't put a shirt on. He throws a jacket over his chest. Billy's jacket. Doesn't even zip the thing. "Never mind. I'm coming to get you."

"The car works, you don't need to get out of bed."

"I'm dressed, I'm out of bed," Steve says, teasing, "Stay put. Are you, like. East or west, twenty miles out of town?"

"Steve," Billy says, and it casts an unflattering spotlight on everything.

Steve ducks to hide from it, searching under his bed for a pair of shoes. "Okay, yeah. Stupid fucking question to ask, but I was asleep--"

"We have to go," Billy tells him.

"Okay," Steve says quickly. Doesn't like the tone of Billy's voice. "Let's go, blue. Where are we going?"

“Max and I–”

“--And you and me,” Steve finishes for him.

“Steve,” Billy says. “You know Max and I can't stay here."

Steve shoves his bare feet into a pair of shoes. Rain boots. "So, you're just gonna leave? Without saying goodbye? There’s no other option, here?”

"This isn't about you."

"Fine," Steve says, stalking over to his dresser mirror. The phone cord tugs on him, not nearly long enough, and he fights the urge to rip it out of the wall. Doesn’t. 'Cause. He'd lose Billy.

Steve fiddles with it, anyway, trying to keep calm. “How’re you gonna get there?”

“We’ll drive.”

“Okay, and what happens when you get to where you’re going?”

“Wow, aren’t you the bearer of bad fuckin’ news–”

“--Billy, you don't have money.”

“So?”

“So, I have money,” Steve concludes, “A shit load of it.”

"Fuck you, I have a shitload of money."

"No, you don't."

"Yeah huh, I've been saving up."

Steve snorts, grasping at straws because. It’s true. The exact opposite of everything Steve’s been hoping would never happen, the same thing as a knife slicing through his heart. Billy’s been saving. Steve knows he’s been saving because Steve pays for every date because Steve’s a dead fuckin’ end and has nothing to goddamn lose by treating his boy right. He’s not going anywhere from here, but Billy–

"You're not leaving,” Steve says.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“Fine, then,” Steve backtracks expertly, a perk of what he learned dating girls for nineteen years before this. “You can’t go without saying goodbye.”

“Sap.”

“Let me kiss you, man. I fuckin’. I love--"

"--Steve--"

"--No, it's alright. I gotta say this, 'cause. Every fucking thing in my life is about you, right?"

Billy groans. When he speaks again, his voice is muffled by the wall of whatever payphone booth he's standing in. "You're so annoying."

"So are you. I'm being honest," Steve says. He ducks, a little, peering at his reflection from across the room so he can run a hand through his hair, at least, 'cause.

He's still got a crush on Billy, after all this time. Sue him.

"You're, like," Steve says intelligently, choking to death. "You're everything. You chopped everything up with just bein' yourself and slid into its place and I fuckin' care about you more than. Everything. And if you're going to run away to California--"

"--Who said I was--"

"--Twenty miles west outside of Hawkins?" Steve points out.

Billy doesn't say anything.

Through the static of the phone line, Steve imagines him cast in the grimy street glow of payphone booth glass, tempered but breaking. Twenty miles away but already gone.

Makes Steve crazy. Makes him want to hold on tighter, hard enough to break his own fingers. "I just," He starts, turning from the mirror, "I always thought, or. Maybe I've been thinking lately that if you're going to California, I'd be there to help."

To see you off. To hold your hand. To beg you to make room enough in your suitcase for me to come along–

"Oh yeah? You've been thinking that always?" Billy teases, and. It's gotta be a good thing. That even though he has blood on his feet, he's feeling okay enough to crack-wise.

"Please," Steve says. Tells him. Begs. Has nothing left to do but make it through this phone call even though he's about to shake loose from his own skin.

Steve is very cool these days.

Billy pulls away from the phone and says something, to Max, in a soft, pillow-top rumble that does shit, like. To Steve's belly. His heart. The very rotten, love-sick matter of who he is. Who Billy has turned him into.

Steve bites his tongue hard enough to taste blood, swallowing every single please please please that shifts like the fabric of a sourdough starter in the back of his throat. Steve paces. Taps his foot. Digs his nails into the palm of his free hand while Billy and Max argue in hushed voices for what feels like hours and years.

Finally, Billy says, "Okay, fuckin'. What happens if Neil hears that we haven't left town?"

Steve has to focus so his knees don't give out, full of relief. "That won’t happen. No one pays attention to me. This is an apartment complex."

"Yeah, but what if he drives by and sees the car?"

"I'll kill him," Steve says. Simple, because it is.

Billy snorts. It almost, almost, sounds like a laugh. "'Kay, well. Say he doesn't go looking for the Camaro. What if he calls Hawkins High to try and find out about Max?”

“He won’t.”

“You’re fuckin’ stupid for saying that,” Billy snaps, “Neil doesn’t give a shit about me but her? He won’t let her–”

“--I won’t let him–”

“Shut up; just. What if he shows up during fifth period and--"

"--We're both over eighteen. We’re old as shit, old enough to drink, almost, We'll. I dunno. We’ll change her emergency contact first thing tomorrow so they'll call me at the video store when he breaks into the building," Steve says, "And then I can take my fifteen-minute break to drive over there and kill him."

Billy does laugh that time. Sounds like it hurts. He pulls away from the phone to repeat Steve's evil plan to Max, who starts laughing, too, and Steve would do anything for them. He would be anything for them.

"Come over," Steve says, coiling the phone line around his hand, "Just until we can figure something else out. We can park your car ‘round back by the slop sinks. No one ever goes over there, we can hide you."

"Steve--"

"I can't watch you walk away from me, Billy," Steve says, and. His voice. Fuckin’. Cracks. Like glass and barren earth. A fist to the back of his own head, still. Desperately, pathetically in love with Billy even after all this time. Still drowning in the intensity of it. Sue him.

"Fuck, this is so fucking dumb," Billy says, aching. But he tells Max to sit in the car.

Steve considers it a win.

He decides not to waste the get-up.

Twenty miles'll go by in a heartbeat, and Billy has a tendency to sugarcoat shit when it comes to the marks Neil Hargrove leaves behind. Tends to get jumpy, ready to go pedal-to-the-metal.

Steve prepares for the worst. Makes three cups of coffee, to fight the dregs of the worst, and then dumps them into the sink when he remembers that Max is sixteen years old and it's a Wednesday. Thursday, now.

Whatever.

He makes tea, instead, and sits in the shitty lawn chair on his porch, sipping a mug of the very same chamomile bullshit that Robin keeps buying him.

Steve tries to cobble together a plan in under 30 minutes.

He imagines Billy, shaking and scared and covered in blood, on the canvas chair next to him. Asking how. How are you going to do this? How are you going to prove yourself a safe house for me and my kid sister?

Steve tries not to swallow his tongue, choking to death on the absolute weight of such a responsibility. He focuses on not dying. Hones in on how pissed Robin would be to discover such a close call, and how she would remind him to list the facts.

Truth is, a two-bedroom apartment is more than enough room, Steve tells her. Tells Billy, who looks easier to convince than the one who's on his way in from the edge of town. Everything will be alright. He'll fix up the couch for Max until he can get down to Red Oak Furniture after work tomorrow for a bed frame. He'll need to dip into his savings, but a sixteen year old girl needs her own space, she needs a bed.

Tears slide down Billy's cheeks and Robin disappears. When Billy cries he has a way of wounding everything around him.

His eyes say we need groceries. Steve needs to shop for groceries. Max won't eat a vegetable, but she's still growing, Harrington, and Steve doesn't make enough dough to afford fresh ingredients every week, just when he's putting on his a-game to get into Billy's pants, but.

He's always trying to get into Billy's pants.

Everything boils down to money. Steve needs a new job.

He sips Robin's shitty fuckin' chamomile and tries to focus on the immediate, too piss-poor to list the facts. He'll make tea when they arrive. Dinner, if they're hungry. The couch made up. The tea, drank, and tomorrow when the blood is gone from Billy's feet and his tears have dried, Steve'll call his father and beg for an assistant gig at the office downtown. He's got mouths to feed, now, he's got--

Billy's Camaro swings into view.

Steve jumps to his feet, rain boots squeaking, and holds his breath when the car disappears around the corner, parking where Steve said it would be safe.

"We're only staying for the night," Billy tells him, instead of hello, voice hard as marble the second Steve is close enough to really hear it.

Max throws the passenger door open.

Her backpack is stuffed. Soft. “What the fuck are you wearing?” Max demands.

Steve shifts under the intensity of her stare, embarrassed. “Billy said. I was gonna come and–”

“--You look stupid,” Max tells him helpfully.

Before Steve can move or breathe or think, Max storms past him in a fury of wild red hair and red, wet cheeks. "Thanks," Steve says, but the door slams shut before she hears him.

The entire apartment complex shakes. Hawkins, too, and the world, beyond that. Steve can't take his eyes off it, for a second. For a lifetime. It's a black hole, eating and eating and eating--

"Sorry about that," Billy says. When Steve looks at him, Billy's still half-hanging out of the car. One foot on the ground. Leaning against the gaping wound of the driver's seat with his arm on the lip of the door, like. Steve's going to take Max and tell Billy to fuck off forever.

His head is bald.

The cut is uneven, vicious. Almost like--

"Hey, pretty thing," Steve says. Everything's yellow from the Camaro's headlights, everything lies shattered in the grass around them. "Don't worry about it, she's upset."

Billy nods, the rest of him terrible and still.

Steve aches. He moves closer. "Baby. Do you want to come inside?"

"I didn't get to pack a bag," Billy says, like it matters, somehow.

It doesn't. "I have clothes you can wear," Steve tells him, padding closer, hands splayed as if approaching some sweet, terrified, rabid animal. “You know that you can have whatever you want, right? With me?”

Billy nods again, still unmoving. Still unseeing. "We're just staying until sunrise," Billy tells him, trained on the soft, fleshy landing of Steve's throat as it swings into view. "Just until it's light enough."

Billy's ear bleeds. Or. It did, at one point. Like someone came at him with a butcher's knife, swinging blindly but only getting his hair.

Steve has trouble remembering that the world isn’t burning around them

"It's just,” Billy tries, “It's not safe to drive when it's dark like this, y'know?"

"I know," Steve says. Billy's chest heaves like he's being chased, so. Steve nods. "Max is lucky to have someone like you. Someone who knows what they're doing."

"Right. So fucking lucky," Billy shakes his head, snorting bitterly. "Doesn't matter. Couple hours and we're gone, Harrington. I swear."

Steve reaches the car door, fiddling with its handle. Touching Billy without. Touching him. Testing the waters. "I'm not worried about it."

"You've probably never had to run from your fuckin’ house in the middle of the night," Billy tells him, finally looking at Steve but not. Seeing him. "This is the third time for me. First for Max."

Steve notices a black eye. A split lip.

Billy's still the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "I've never had to run," Steve tells him, because it's easiest to get the hard shit out of the way, first.

He wants to know about the other two times.

He wants to ask about California. If things were the same with his father there. If Billy's really going as soon as it's light out. If the blood in Max’s hair is her own, and how Billy would feel about Steve pressing his thumbs into Neil's eye sockets before the sun rises and Billy has the chance to run away.

Maybe. The proven death of this monster will change things.

Steve inches closer, instead, past the lip of the car door. He slips into Billy's space, grateful when Billy lets Steve touch his chest, checking for injuries.

"I could always go home, before," Billy says, eyes unfocused over Steve's shoulder when fingers prod at his ribcage, "But. I never had Max. I always had to go home to make sure she was gonna be okay without me, and then I'd be too scared to leave her behind so I’d just stay put until–"

"Does it hurt when I press down like this?"

Billy shakes his head, "Steve. She's sixteen--"

"What about here? Does this hurt?"

"She wouldn't stay," Billy looks at him, then, tracking whatever emotion breaks like a wave between them, "Neil started, and. It got bad, Steve. And she wouldn't fuckin' stay put like I told her to, and now. We have no place to--"

"--Is she hurt?"

"She's homeless," Billy says. Steve exhales through his nose, trying to keep up. "We're homeless. I made her homeless," Billy tells him, with rising panic.

Steve takes his hand. "Let's get you cleaned up."

"We don't have anywhere to live, Steve."

"Billy, look at me," Steve grabs his face gingerly, staring into his beautiful, shattered, empty eyes. "You live here with me, baby. We're here together and I'm not going to let anything happen to you, right? Yes?"

Billy blinks at him, coming back to himself. He nods. "Just until tomorrow, right? Until I can--"

“Sure, whatever,” Steve says, playing along if that's what will get him into the house.

The shower's running.

Billy won't let go of Steve's hand so they shuffle through the cramped living room together on plan b, stuck like paper dolls. Max has made up the couch, and already has the T.V. on, so Steve leads Billy to the bedroom, depositing him gingerly onto the unmade mattress.

“Sit still,” Steve tells him.

“I know,” Billy says, far away even as he strangles the blood from Steve’s wrist. “Max was right, you look like a dork.”

“I was asleep when you called,” Steve says thinly. “I thought you were running away.”

“I was.”

“Ah, truth comes out,” Steve ducks to retrieve a battered first aid kit from under the nightstand, because. This isn't the first time Billy's shown up in the middle of the night but it’s the worst shape Steve’s seen.

Steve swallows that, too, and struggles to get the fuckin' thing open with only one hand. He can't feel the other, Billy's holding on so tight, but Steve's not complaining.

He holds on just as tight. Just as hard. Wonders what counts as running off, in Billy's mind. If there are certain boxes Neil has to check to push Billy to that point, the 'running away and never coming back,' point, and Steve can't sift through his rampant emotions quick enough to discover what it means that all those times Billy stumbled through the dark and Steve found him, bruised and bleeding all over Mrs. Harrington’s imported Oak flooring, that wasn't the worst of it.

“You don’t need stitches,” Steve says.

“You’re a good nurse,” Billy says, wincing at the forward burn of isopropyl against his ear lobe, “You’re hot. Anyone ever tell you that, Harrington.”

Steve grins, “Once or twice, maybe.”

“Real dime,” Billy says, working to meld their pulses together until they’re one.

Steve swallows a lump in his throat, everything he feels for this boy rushing to sit like water in his lungs. “Almost done,” Steve says. Wondering how someone could hurt this boy, this spot of gold. This vial of sunlight.

Billy winks at him, even though it’s starting to swell shut. “Thanks, doc,” He says.

“Don’t mention it,” Steve tells him, instead of run.

Instead you should’ve been a thousand miles away, by now.

Instead of drag me along.

It's ten minutes after Billy disappears into the bathroom before Steve ventures out with his first aid kit clutched in the hand Billy wouldn't let go of.

His fingers are still numb.

Max sees him and the aid box and immediately snorts at, incredulous. "I'm fine, Harrington, you can put your Barbie band-aids away."

Landmine. "Sure.”

“And your rain boots. You look–”

“Stupid, I know,” Steve shuffles, put on edge by the soft click of the T.V. remote in Max’s hand. “I just. Billy said that you had blood in your hair, and I just wanted to--"

"--It was Billy's," Max tells him, eyes trained carefully on the flickering screen in front of her.

Steve knows Max well enough now to get that she needs to be comforted, probably. She's still a kid, she's sixteen, but he also knows that the truth needs to be coaxed out of her, dripping like saliva past her rows and rows of sharp, vicious teeth. Just like Bill--

"Stop fidgeting like that. You look fucking stupid," Max tells him.

Like Steve said. A piranha. A sixteen-year-old hammerhead shark. The shower's still going so Steve frowns, tucking his first aid kit onto the coffee table. "It’s not just the rain boots?”

“No,” Max says, “It’s the whole outfit. And your big, dumb, worried eyes.”

“I’m sorry. I give a shit about you, and he said you were running away because he hit--"

"Yeah, I know what he said, and he didn't hit him. Not hard enough to do anything," Max snorts, again, mean. "Jesus Christ, he's so dramatic."

Steve nods, and the movement pulls her in. Brings her claws out.

"You’re dramatic, too. You were made for each other.”

“Okay.”

“Dumb and soft and earnest,” Max shakes her head, disappointed in them both. “Billy isn't dad. He thinks it's his fault. It isn't."

She says, like. Steve's going to lose his fuckin' mind and argue. "I know."

"He always thinks everything's his fault, but it's not. That's the Drama Bitch in him. He's a prima donna grade-a loser asshole but he's a good guy and he's my brother--"

"--Max, maybe we should--"

"I'm not moving back to California without any money," Max tells him, eyes on fire. "I'm not. I have a life here, I won’t starve to death here, so you can run in there and tell your stupid boyfriend that I'm not going until–"

"Right. Yeah, I," Steve swallows against the lump in his throat, "Max, you've gotta know that I'm not trying to make you leave."

Max snorts.

"I'm serious," Steve tells her, shuffling forward, "Why the fuck would I want that?”

“Won’t have to pay for all your dates, anymore,” Max tells him, and.

Steve. Didn’t know she knew about that. Didn’t know they were close enough to talk about boys, but he guesses. That’s probably a stupid thing to believe when Max ran away to be with her brother.

She sneers at him, "You're such a loser,” She says, disgusted by his presence.

Lights Steve on fire. "Why?”

"Because,” Max takes a deep, steadying breath, her grip so vice-like on the remote that Steve worries it will shatter. “Because you’re gonna let us stay here.”

“I thought you weren’t on board for California,” Steve demands, embarrassed that he’s angry at a sixteen year old girl for running away from home.

“God, you think you’re the only one who’s holding on to someone?” Max chuckles but it’s not a laugh. It’s mean and raw and bleeding.

Steve nods, reeling, drowning, sinking, flying, swimming, sailing--

"I'm hungry," Max says, and turns back to the T.V.

Steve loves Billy so he makes him something to eat, something heavy and full of starch to sop up all the bad shit inside of him. It works, for the time.

Max has three bowls, even though potatoes count as a vegetable.

They cram together afterward, three sardines on the couch clear of blood. Patched. They watch some stupid fucking cartoon thing until Max falls asleep and Billy can hardly keep his eyes open.

Steve tugs him close, says, "Let's go to bed, honey," And Billy comes, too tired to be irritating and awful. ‘S almost too bad.

When they fold onto the mattress Billy slots into all of Steve's empty spaces, a perfect fit of expanding ribs and tickling eyelashes. Steve pets over the knobs of Billy's spine. He focuses on the warm landing of Billy's forehead where it holds steady against his jaw, burning because of blood and split skin.

Steve tacks lips to Billy’s shorn skull, his forehead, his left ear, and tries to imagine death dropping his scythe on Neil Hargrove's cranium somewhere across this sleepy town. Wonders when everything became an eye for an eye.

"We'll be out of your hair tomorrow," Billy's lashes flutter against Steve's pulse, body tense and coiled and waiting.

Steve pets over his ribcage, says, "Don't be stupid," because. Might as well call it what it is. Billy tries to pull back, to tuck away, but Steve holds on tighter. Stubborn. "Why do you want to run from me so bad?"

"Not you," Billy says. Cramped and muffled against Steve's collarbone, "Hawkins."

"It'll miss you. So will Max," Steve says, petting over Billy's thigh, now, relishing the rough drag of boxer briefs against his fingertips, "Said she's not leaving."

"When?"

"Told me while you were cleaning up."

"What a surprise," Billy reports flatly, "Who gives a shit. She doesn't have a choice."

"Tell her that.”

"She's going. No matter what I’ve gotta do.”

“What if she fights you on it?”

“Then one of us will have blood on our feet, again."

Steve hums, fiddling with the hem of Billy's boxer briefs. Slipping his fingers under the lip. "You try and put her in that car and it won’t even be a fight. You'll be dead before sunset."

Billy snorts, rocking both of them. “She’s scrappy but I’ve got fifty pounds on her.”

“Sure, just muscle and good intentions.” Steve’s fingers tangle in the thatch of hair at Billy’s pelvis. It’s soft and curly, little blonde ringlets that smell like rain water.

Billy sighs, tilting back when Steve inches upupup his shaft. "Stop trying to get in my pants, Harrington."

"You have something I want," Steve tells him. It's easy to find Billy's cockhead, blooming with springtime mist. Steve smooths it with his thumb. He grins at the noise Billy makes, ducks to nibble at that cut jawbone. “You won’t be able to sleep if you don’t relax.”

"Shit," Billy says intelligently.

"Want you inside me. Want your fingers."

"Fuck you, I'm grieving,” Billy grumbles, but he cranes his neck. Makes room between his legs.

"I could take your mind off it for a little while,” Steve says. He untangles himself, shucking the covers and laying on his stomach next to Billy’s thighs. He smells like the earth, fresh and moist. Steve tugs at his boxers, mouth-watering when Billy’s cock nods and the popcorn ceiling.

“Steve,” Billy protests, choking on a moan when Steve swallows him down, teeth knotted in the feather down at Billy’s pelvis. "Baby, Max is in the next room."

Steve comes up for air, kissing the freckle at Billy’s tip. "She's asleep."

"You're such a whore,” Billy glares sharply, “Is this how it's gonna be every goddamn night?"

And.

Suddenly Steve's heart swells, pushing against the cavern of his ribcage. He must smile, must press love and lightning into Billy's forehead when Steve clamors to his knees and pets over the bruise there, so happy the bed's about to blast out from under them.

"Stop making that stupid face," Billy snorts, dabbing the saliva on Steve’s chin, "Lookin' at me like I'm gonna--"

"I love you," Steve says.

Billy shifts, his cheeks blooming pink, “Just sayin’ that because my cock is out.”

“Maybe,” Steve teases. Can't help it; every goddamn thing about himself. He's stupid, and happy, and so, so heartbroken. He licks at Billy’s cockhead, heart thumping elation through his limbs. "You're really gonna stay with me?"

Billy shrugs, fiddling with the stretched-out neckline of Steve's t-shirt. "I don't know where else we could go."

"California."

"Max said she's not going, right?" Billy mumbles, "And. You've made it pretty clear that you wouldn't either."

“I never said that.”

“Don’t have to say it, it’s in your voice?”

Billy’s talking in circles, feeding his insecurities because that’s what he does when he’s on the verge of something else.

“Oh yeah? What’s in my actions?” Steve slips down the mattress again and sucks Billy to the root, bobbing his head and opening his throat in earnest, licking and swallowing until Billy soft little noises splat against the walls like wads of bubblegum.

Billy groans, knotting his fingers in Steve’s hair.

His roots sing. “I’d go anywhere you asked me to,” Steve points out before Billy can speak. Sounds. Like swallowing rocks is his favorite thing. “The problem is you never ask me to.”

Billy shrugs.

“Ask me.”

“Steve–”

Steve pulls himself out of Billy’s hold and sucks him down again, swallowing. Only comes up for air when Billy starts writhing beneath him. “Say it.”

“I–”

“Say, ‘Steve, come home with me to California, I’ll teach you how to surf, we can live on the ocean–’”

“Costs a fuckin’ fortune to live on the waterline,” Billy stutters, mouth falling open with a groan when Steve spits on his cock. Works up a rhythm with the palm of his hand just so he can watch the way Billy’s stomach tugs at the waistband of Steve’s lended boxers.

He’s only a little worried that Max might hear them.

Not enough to stop, not when Billy’s throat opens bit by bit, little wrecked noises barely reaching Steve across the valley of air between them. Through the shutter of the blinds, Billy’s skin glows. Stardust and bushels of flowering lilac in the shape of fingers and fists, sprouting and withering along his neck and cheek and jawline, breathing and dying over and over and over again.

Billy cranes to watch him, lips raw and red and open, tongue lulling.

Steve cracks and splinters at the sight, at his wits end, at the height of all he’s ever felt–

“What?” Billy asks, chest heaving.

Steve climbs on top of him, swallowing the shock that flutters from between Billy’s lips. His cock presses into Steve’s ass, slick head trapped by Steve’s layer of encasing, rough cotton. It fits perfectly, just like the rest of him, like they were made for this. Each other. Finding solace and rhythm in the tattered edges of the night.

Steve sucks on Billy’s tongue, deepening the kiss. His thighs shake, his hips roll down, startling the air from Steve’s lungs. Or Billy’s. Both.

“Baby,” He says. Or Billy does, “Baby, I–”

Steve pulls back enough to see the tears clinging stubbornly to Billy’s lashes, drops of stardust stranded in bright blue skies. He wipes them away with his thumb, pressing their lips together in a chaste, sweet kiss.

Chokes on a thousand things. What he could’ve said, on all those other nights. What he isn’t saying now. What he’ll have to stumble over tomorrow so that things can get started on a solid foundation–

It all, just. Dies.

Steve rolls his hips, “I love you,” He says, breaking like waves where Billy’s skin is the shore. “Let me make love to you.”

Because it’s all that matters.

Uncertainty flashes, bright as lightning, across Billy’s face, and then it’s gone. “Okay,” He says, “Alright.”

–

“I lied,” Steve tells him, to distract from the places they’re stuck together, the swatches where they’re bruised and cut and bleeding, “I tried to run away, once. When I was seven.”

Billy hums, his cheek warm and sticky over Steve’s rib cage. “Did you hear what I said?” Steve asks, chuckling, “Not gonna fall asleep, are you?”

“Thought you wanted me to relax.”

“I do.”

“Well, I am,” Billy tells him, “Your pussy’s magic–”

“Don’t say pussy when I’m talking about running away from home, that’s gross.” Steve yelps, wiggling when Billy’s teeth close around his nipple and tug. “Ow, shithead, this is important–”

“What, mommy and daddy didn’t get you the yacht you asked for for christmas so you ran away from home for twenty minutes?” Billy snaps, but there’s no heat. No fire.

“Not exactly,” Steve shrugs, rustling Billy’s head back onto his chest. “My grandma had come to stay with us for a while. She was sick. Dying, actually, but I was too young to notice. She never looked sick, she was constant. Still cooked dinner for us. Still holy-rolled until I cleaned my room. She took care of me.”

Billy’s arm tightens around Steve’s waist. Subtle and constant, too.

“When she finally passed on, I just. Didn’t want to be with my parents anymore,” Steve swallows, nearly strangling himself on the lump in his throat, “Look. They never hurt me, Billy, not like–”

“--We don’t have to talk about this–”

“--I know I could never understand, but. When my grandma stayed with us I felt love. I wasn’t alone, anymore, she was my family. And after she was gone I couldn’t go back to the way shit had been before she came to us, you know? I couldn’t be alone in that empty fucking house anymore, I had to leave.”

“But you didn’t?” Bill asks.

Steve holds him tighter. “I didn’t.”

Billy twists, chin poking Steve in the ribs but it doesn’t matter, when their eyes meet. Steve pets over his forehead, his eyelashes, savoring the plush of his cupid's bow. Vibrant and alive. Free.

“Beautiful,” Steve says. A fact. A name, “I understand why you have to go.”

“I’m sorry,” Billy leans into Steve’s touch, seeking his warmth. “We all need to run away, sometimes.”

“I could come with you.”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” Billy says. He starts crying, soft as summer rain. Maybe he already was. Steve rubs at his cheeks, trying to catch them before they fall. “You’ve become the thing I run to, but–”

“--You don’t have to ask. It’s not some fuckin’ sacrifice, if you leave there’s nothing left. I don’t want to go home if you’re not there.” Steve says, and then waits, patiently re-counting the 297 freckles he knows form a village on Billy’s nose.

Billy thinks it over. Finally, he frowns. “So in this situation I’m like your grandma?”

Steve blinks, a laugh startled out of him, “What?”

“You said,” BIlly grumbles, brow furrowing, “You said that when she–”

“--I don’t want to fuck my grandma, that’s–”

“--God, you’re so annoying,” Billy rolls onto his back, jostling the mattress until all their blankets slither, ending tucked around him so Steve will freeze to death.

It’s so achingly usual. So soft.

“Baby,” Steve props himself on one below, chuckling when Billy rolls onto his side. Away. Steve pokes Billy’s shoulder, rocking him, “Hey, you goddamn brat, I was just—”

“--I didn’t mean that you want to fuck your grandma, you psycho, I meant. Like. You said that when she wasn’t home you couldn’t go back.”

Steve’s hand rests on the blanket between them. He feels like a naked, sparking bunch of wire. Thinks maybe he said too much, or didn’t say enough, and now Billy’s imagining himself as a stout Italian woman in a clementine shrug.

“She would’ve liked you,” Steve says finally. Billy peeks over his shoulder, scowling. Steve giggles at him, “It’s true!”

“She wouldn’t be disgusted that I’m a cocksucker?”

“No. She was a muff eater, when she was in her twenties,” Steve says casually, laughing when Billy spins and sits bolt upright next to him.

“Are you serious?”

“As the heart attack that killed my papa, who she never really loved,” Steve rights himself, shuffling until their legs are nestled together, until he can kiss and suck on Billy’s pulse.

“Stop that,” Billy says thinly.

“No.”

“You can’t just say that your dead lesbian grandma would like me.”

Steve licks at Billy’s earlobe, tasting blood and isopropyl, and the hiss of metal shears. “Why not?”

“Because,” Billy sighs, fingernails digging into Steve’s right and left kneecaps, “Because then I’ll want to stay with you forever.”

Steve pulls back, confused, “You don’t want to stay with me forever now?”

“You’re an idiot–”

“--Who loves you.”

“Such a dumbass–”

“--Who’s gonna work two extra jobs to get you and your sister to California,” Steve says. Hands topping Billy’s like stubborn barley thistle. Rooting him in place. “I’m gonna do it and you don’t even have to ask.”

Billy shakes his head.

Steve holds on tighter. “I’m serious. I’m gonna give you the world, even if it means we stay here for a while, until we can save up the money. Until it’s not dark out anymore, right?”

A hundred emotions struggle on Billy’s face, each one fighting for dominance. Finally, “Until daybreak?”

Steve nods. “Daylight.”

#AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH #so good!!!!!#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #billy x steve #fic rec #harringrove relay race #passivenovember

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