hargrove-mayfields - Tumblr blog

hargrove-mayfields · 25 days

Text

For ST Rarepair Roulette 💕 @st-rarepair-roulette

Word Count: ~5,000

Ships: Billy Hargrove x Chrissy Cunningham and Heather Holloway x Jason Carver.

Warnings: Implied/referenced child abuse, lots of arguing and misunderstandings, very mild references to sexual content.

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“No. Nope. I don’t believe that for one second.”

Gossip. That’s all it is. Heather and Chrissy laying on the former’s bed, legs up against the wall, long hair dangling over the opposite edge of the bed, exchanging silly gossip.

Never the mean kind, Chrissy won’t allow that, it’s mostly their respective crushes and fascinations from school they talk about.

Or specifically, lately how much Heather doesn’t like Chrissy’s taste in boys. Or anybody, for that matter. In her heart of hearts, she knows Heather is just protective.

Still, Chrissy tosses a little stuffed fuzzball of an animal at her friend for that comment, “Hetty! Rude!”

“Look I’m sorry, I just can’t believe that Hargrove has like, actual feelings. I don’t trust him.” Heather elaborates, through her laughter.

See, she’d say the same every time, they both know that. What matters is whether Chrissy is bold enough to go through with it. She never has been so far. It’s one thing to have a crush, but to have someone openly pining back, that’s something more rare.

An opportunity Chrissy wouldn’t like to lose just to please her best friend.

She’ll try to win her over, “One date won’t be bad.”

But Heather will make excuse after excuse, “Every girl says that before the worst night of her life.”

Chrissy rolls onto her front, sighing so heavily the weight of Heather’s mattress lifts up, like she’s turned to the most stressed little helium balloon and floated away. Maybe she did, off into her imagination, taking her common sense with her.

Maybe she’ll entertain Heather’s concerns, but only if they’re productive, “Well how did you know Jason was being genuine?”

Heather's boyfriend. Track and basketball star, high class social asshole. Chrissys has never been a fan, to be entirely honest. Her earliest memories of Jason Carver were of him shoving over smaller kids in their church group and treating every recess game as pro-level sports. She still doesn’t see what Heather finds so charming about him.

She hopes maybe he’d changed, assumes he’d have had to to win over a critical heart like the one guarded in Heather’s chest.

Oh but Heather gives no such benefit of the doubt to anybody else, “I /don’t/ know it. But /my/ boyfriend doesn’t run over innocent children in his free time.. or whatever the hell it is Billy Hargrove gets up to.”

Chrissy has to laugh at that, it's so absurd, “Oh- He does not! Billy’s /nice./”

“Prove it.” Heather challenges, popping a gum bubble between her teeth to assert her seriousness.

“Hetty.” Chrissy warns, uninterested in playing that game.

Her friend isn’t having it. Heather rolls her brown eyes with so much force she literally rolls over on the bed, sprawling out over top of Chrissy like a beloved golden retriever with no respect for sharing space. It’s always been comfortable with her, coexisting without regard to self consciousness and mothers opinions and Godly image. Probably why she lets Heather get away with being a little catty sometimes.

Like now, as she claims, “Oh come on. Make it a game, have some fun, but show me he’s genuine. Or else I’m kicking his ass.”

“Fine.” Chrissy wants to be stern, but she cracks a little smile, her real, bright one, “If I'm supposed to threaten to kick Jason’s butt, I don’t think I’d be able to.”

Heather hums in thought before presenting a solution, “I’ll do the ‘defending of our honor’ if you help me test Jay back.”

“Pinky promise you’ll be nicer to Billy once we get proof?”

“That’s /if/ we get proof, but you have my word.”

The deal is sealed. They lock pinky fingers, one soft pink nailed and one a flaming red shade. In the ten years they’d been friends since Heather joined their class in 1st grade, not a single pinky promise between them has been broken. It just isn’t done.

Admittedly, that’s a lot of pressure. Talking about cute boys doesn’t feel as fun anymore.

Chrissy’s fluttery feelings start to set in, fidgeting with her hands to hope to drive them off. If she had her bracelets on, she’d shake them and enjoy the way they ring from the hard plastics and metals banging together, but it’s late, she’s in her pjs without jewelry. She picks her nails instead.

Redirecting, Heather hands her a stuffed Winnie the Pooh, and asks a question she knows will catch her off guard, “Soooo. What are you gonna do?”

“Hetty, I haven’t had time to think!” Chrissy complains, squishing poor Pooh between her hands, choosing to abuse the stuffed toy with her anxiety instead of her own skin.

“Oh come on. What do boys care about? Cars, sex, and sports. Pick one and he’ll show his true colors.” Heather says it likes it’s all just so easy, and she already knows it all.

Chrissy isn’t as sure. She considers her options,

“Um, sports sounds the least dangerous.. maybe?”

“Until he tackles your little ass.” Heather points out.

There’s a moment where they both sort of stop moving. They both know what Heather is about to do, but Chrissy's defenses are useless to stop it. She scrunches her body up as tiny as can be, but Heather has pounced, poking her sides gently where she knows her friend is ticklish.

Chrissy used to get all self conscious when Heather would do things like that. Not just touching her skin, so close to where she feels her strongest insecurities, but even jokes, little digs that had nothing to do with Chrissy’s appearance would get her down.

They have Billy to thank for the change. Dating or not, William Hargrove isn’t one to hide his affections. Everyone knows he’s had a thing for Chrissy for a while. It’s deciphering whether he’s chasing tail, or chasing the sweet girl he’d shown enough interest in to replenish her view of herself, hung around and flirted and laughed with so freely it healed a part of her broken heart.

She thinks maybe repaying him a little would increase the chances of getting the ball rolling, and getting Heather’s trust. “What if I cheer special for him during one of his games?”

“Uh, no!” Heather shakes her head, rolled curls bouncing in their pillow curlers back and forth, ”That just makes /you/ public about it. And he can spin that if he’s being an ass for real.”

“But I don’t think-“ Chrissy starts to argue, brow knotted.

Heather holds one of her hands, showing she is doing this because she cares, even if she’s being a little harsh, “Honey, I know I’m a cynical bitch, but I don’t want to see you hurt. Save yourself the embarrassment.”

“I don’t- Heather, it’s not embarrassing to be in love!”

A gasp, slow realization dawning. “You’re right. Oh my god, Chrissy you’re so right!!”

Heather kicks her legs with glee, fuzzy slippers going flying. Right out of a movie, she squeals with delight, infecting Chrissy too with her sudden joy.

Chrissy giggles, going along with it, “I am?”

“Uh, yes! It’s perfect!” Heather scoots closer until they’re shoulder to shoulder, looking up at the ceiling together. She talks with her hands, like she’s painting the picture for her. “Don’t /cheer/ his name. /Wear/ it.”

Only, Chrissy doesn’t think she gets it, “...How?”

“His varsity jacket! If a boy gives you his varsity jacket, it’s serious business. They protect those damn things like a firstborn daughter. If you can get Billy to give you his jacket, you might as well be hitched!” Heather explains, a ball of enthusiasm.

Chrissy knows her longing heart starts racing, probably obvious to Heather too this close together, ��You actually think that would work?”

Heather flips up so she’s sitting, burning some of her energy in her dramatic motions, “Duh! You show up to a game repping his varsity, baby, that deal is sealed. I’m talking a proposal at the end-zone. A wedding between quarters. I’m talkin’ baby-making under the bleachers-“

Chrissy, face as hot pink as her pj tank top, interrupts all that, “Okay! Okay. That’s… I get it.”

“Do I make you blush, fair lady?” Heather drawls, in an impression of a boy, eyebrow arched, chest puffed out, lips curled, her voiced dropped ridiculously deep-

Chrissy covers her face, trying desperately not to laugh at the ridiculous attempt, “Heatherrr!!”

Heather clutches her chest like she’s wounded, taking on a sort of accent almost from how badly she’s doing her impression, “Ah! My apologies, maiden. How ungentlemanly of me.”

“Nobody talks like that! /Billy/ doesn’t talk like that!!” Chrissy argues, though she giggles at the unseriousness of it all. So it took a while, but Heather always does know how to make her feel better.

They drop the boy talk for a while, choosing to sneak downstairs and grab some snacks at two in the morning once Heather’s parents were definitely asleep, coming back up with a strange homemade trail mix. Dark chocolate chips, raisins, pretzels, almonds and strawberries. Certainly nothing outside of Chrissy’s comfort zone, careful not to push the limits of her recovery, though it’ll probably give them both a stomachache in a few hours regardless.

Leaned against some bean bag chairs right under the open window, enjoying the birdsong and cricket chirps, they share their homemade creation, and better, more smiles and lighthearted stories. Like they used to, before highschool drama and all.

Nearing 4, Heather turns to her, uncharacteristically dead serious, and declares, “I hope he makes you this happy.”

The realness inspires Chrissy to do the prying now, switching roles, hoping her friend will open up to her in kind, “Does Jason make you happy?”

“/Jason/ does. Our parents practically arranging for us to be married from the time we were newborns, hm not so much.” Heather sighs, drawing her knees in. She doesn’t quite shut down, it’s more for comfort, self assurance, which Chrissy understands. She gives her space to collect her thoughts.

“He’s my guy best friend. And I love him. In more than the best friend way. It’d be stupid not to end up together. But god there’s so much pressure!”

“I think you should do the jacket thing too.” Chrissy offers carefully, “I’m doing it to prove /my/ date isn’t a one-hit creep. You can do it just to remind yourself why you love your boy. And that he loves you. ‘Cause I know he does, Heather. But I know you’re afraid he doesn’t.”

Heather has tears in her eyes and a sad smile when she looks at Chrissy, “What is with you quiet girls and secretly being psychics?”

Oh how Chrissy wished she truly were a psychic.

At the beginning, she wasn’t nervous at all. Her and Heather bullshitted all the time, it wasn’t anything serious. But they’re all four on a date, wandering downtown around the various second hand stores, a typical stop for one couple, and the complete opposite for the others.

Seemed as good a time as any to go through with their silly plan, it wasn’t like it would hurt anything. Except she’d tried all kinds of things to get Billy to give her his jacket, and so far, none of them worked even a little! Not browsing through a selection of jackets at the stores, not shivering dramatically, not clinging to his side either.

Chrissy felt a chip in her little heart every time, feeling like maybe Heather was right. All over a jacket. She’d have her heart broken for a little bit of wool and leather.

With her boyfriend's name on it. Her boyfriend who actually holds her hand, and tells her she’s pretty, and doesn’t creep his hands under his skirt constantly.

She doesn’t know if she could get over losing that.

Her gait down the strip is admittedly less spirited, lingering behind Heather and Jay, but Billy never leaves her behind. He engages her in conversation too, hair blowing all over the place around his face, “How the fuck do you go outside in this shit?”

Chrissy looks at him, wearing an amused little smile, “Like, ever?”

“Yeah /ever/, Princess.” Billy sarcastically, but lightheartedly bumps her shoulder lightly with his arm, “Jesus, I should take you to California. Gonna miss winters without tiny fucking knives falling from the sky.”

Heather doesn’t lose track of that comment for a minute. Excited for Chrissy, she tries to plant the seed for their plan,

“What’s the matter, Billy? You too cold?”

“Hell no. But I’m not a chick the size of a baby deer.” Billy remarks, taking the bait perfectly well, rubbing Chrissy’s arms and feeling how cold she is, “Shit, you’re fucking frozen, Chris. Here.”

And without even thinking he peels off his varsity jacket and starts to hand it over.

Used to the cold, and despite her excitement wanting to make sure Billy doesn’t get uncomfortable, Chrissy protests, “No, no, no. Keep it. I can’t let your California sunshine freeze over.”

Billy disregards that, slinging it over her shoulders anyways, “Yeah, well I’m not letting all the fuckin’ little pixies that fly around your head freeze to death either.”

Jason scoffs at him, turning around to walk backwards with the group, teasing, “Dude, what does that even mean?”

Without even looking Heather flicks his ear, getting his attention back, “Just because you don’t understand romance doesn’t mean nobody can.”

He looks at her like a kicked puppy, but Jason is nothing if not stubborn, “Pixies? Sunshine? What happened to- beautiful and charming and butterflies in the stomach?”

“I don’t know, Jason. Maybe you should fall in love again and find out.”

“Who would I fall in love with? Nobody can beat you, Holloway.”

Heather rolls her eyes, flicking her hair like an agitated horse would it’s tail, “Ah, see you almost got a couple points there. Almost. You’re in the negatives though for using my last name.”

He tries to recover it suavely, “I could call you Carver instead?”

But that isn’t Heather's way. She counters intensely, “No. I’m not being a child bride, thank you very much. Besides, who says I’m taking your name? Maybe I could call you Holloway.”

“The.. I- Okay.” Jason just sputters, turning pink up to his ears.

Behind them, still lingering a good ways back, Chrissy hums, warm and cozy in her boyfriend’s jacket, “What are they even arguing about?”

Billy laughs about that, shrugs his shoulders, “Hell if I know. They lost me a long time ago.”

“It’s funny. Heather didn’t think you were good for me, but she fights with Jason all the time.” Chrissy informs him.

Billy stops dead in his tracks. Gently uses his hold on Chrissy's hand to spin her around to face him as he fell behind,

“Hold on. Take a step back. Heather thinks /what/ about me?”

Chrissy’s nerves spike so quickly she gets a little dizzy, “Please don't take it personally. I want my two favorite people to like each other. Please.”

Her beau steadies her, instead of freaking out, “No problem. I just find it.. fuckin’ weird.”

“It’s because of the way you drive. And smoke. And act. She thinks it’s bad for me.” Chrissy blurts, knowing it’s unkind but needing him to believe that she had no part in it.

He doesn’t seem too phased by having Heather’s disapproval, apparently learning faster than most people do, “Big fucking deal. At least you know I love you, right?”

“Mhm.” Chrissy nods her assurance, standing on her tiptoes to kiss Billy’s cheek and seal the promise.

“Right. Tell her she’s the one making Jason cry his damn eyes out the second he gets tipsy on a sip of anything stronger than a fuckin’ soda pop. I’m tellin’ you, Holloway has ripped out his heart and shoved it up his own pansy ass.” Billy sounds bitter, but not overly mean.

It’s something he’s thought about before. Good to know the gossip street goes both ways.

It’s why Chrissy doesn’t feel too bad telling Billy now, “She doesn’t mean to. I think she’s scared.”

“Sacred of Carver?…. He hurt her?” His voice drops, as angry and mean as Heather warned her about.

They don’t talk much about serious things, serious isn’t their kind of fun, but Chrissy knows about Billy’s life at home. About the type of man Billy could’ve been destined to be.

She rushes to make sure he doesn’t turn on his own friend for thinking Jason was the same way, “Oh no! No, not at all. Never. It’s her mom and her daddy. They sort of forced her to date Jason. She wasn’t ready. I think she’s ready now and doesn’t want to admit it. ‘Cause that would be like taking their orders.”

“Fuckin’ parents.” Billy eventually grumbles, not knowing what else to say.

It seems to be a common theme in their group. A bonding experience for all four of them, whether or not they’re open about it.

Chrissy doesn’t really feel like talking about that stuff anymore, sort of just mumbling, “Yeah.”

Because Billy is perfect, and none of the things Heather says at all, and the actual bullies in their lives makes her want to just hide. Billy notices the drop in her mood, and silently slings an arm around her waist, pulling her into his side as they walk. Keeping her close. Safe.

Maybe someday things will work out beyond Hawkins. They have to. Winning the jacket was a silly, small victory, but it was a step.

Now Chrissy just wants, more than anything, her friends to be happy.

She holds onto Billy’s hand a little tighter.

The next time Heather and Jason get together, it’s for a study date at the end of that week. With Heather being a year above, the only class they have in common is the Biology two class Heather failed last year. There’s coloring sheets of bones and cells to be completed, so it’s not like they need each other’s help, but sitting on Heather’s bed coloring with colored pencils didn’t seem like a bad deal either way.

At some point, surrounded by all the color, Heather realizes something,

“Honey. We’re going shopping this weekend.”

Jason barely looks up from his work, focused on being neat close to the lines, “For?”

“Clothes. You’ve worn three white polos this week. I’m bringing some color into your life.” Heather pokes him with the flat end of the white pencil for emphasis.

Jason blinks, caught off his guard, “I wear green sometimes.”

“School colors don’t count. Yellow either.”

“I think I have, maybe, /one/ blue shirt.”

Heather digs in the pile for a turquoise-ish pencil, “Blue! Blue’s.. good! That’s definitely on God’s rainbow. Maybe a nice pair of blue jeans too, for once-“

That’s where Jason cuts it off. Because that’s where Heather went from playfully sharp to flat-out insulting, “Heather, please.”

She stays on the defensive, “I’m just saying. There’s nothing wrong with branching out from your choir boy uniform. That’s all.”

Sometimes it’s like she thinks if she pokes a bruise enough, it’ll make her seem like she’s strong enough to cause them. Like she’s all in charge and nothing can stop her.

Jason doesn’t want to stop her, he just wants her basic respect, “So what do you suggest?”

Not even sarcastic, just genuinely enthusiastic to share, Heather starts, “Pastels! Your hair is way too strawberry to be a dark dresser. Unless you go with emeralds, no more tacky green. Ooh, or even if you grow it out some! You know, actually-“

Jason runs his fingers over his neatly parted hair, protecting it, not hiding the concerned squeak to his voice, “No thank you, I happen to like my hair short.”

“Again, baby. Boring.” Heather just rolls her eyes, once again. Sometimes it’s like that’s all she knows how to do.

It stings.

“Look, if nothing I do is ever going to be good enough-“

Heather doesn't entertain that in the least. She slaps her hand over his homework page, making him look at her, “It’s not /you/. You know that it’s not you.”

No, he didn’t know that. Jason looks at her, confused, “What?”

“Just because you dress yourself, and you drive your stupid little station wagon around parading your image, doesn’t mean there’s not that voice in the back of your head. Maybe… maybe a tight fist too. Telling you what to do. You’re afraid.” Heather talks with her hands, just enough that Jason can see through it.

That she’s being showy to hide something.

Doesn’t mean he’s not been rendered self conscious and bare-souled all the same. He doesn’t like that, even after months with Heather not feeling safe showing her all his tender parts like that, “I don’t want to hear this from you.”

“Oh, so a girl can’t have opinions, huh? I should just spread my legs now and let something else do all the talking?” Heather heats the argument.

Jason just lets his head fall back, frustrated, “I don’t- You /know/ I don’t want that.”

“Oh please do enlighten me then, your graciousness.” Heather forces what Jason is thinking out of him.

So he lets it go, without regard to her feelings, even though he hadn’t wanted to, “Look, I’m not stupid. I know your parents are a problem, Heather. Everyone that’s read the paper knows Tom Holloway isn’t a kind man. You try to hide it, but you can’t keep it from me. And you can’t- just take it all out on me!”

“I wasn’t-“ Heather tries to backpedal.

He still doesn’t let her, “You were! You always have! Nobody has the key to the lock on your heart, but I’ve been trying anyways. And you just shut. me. down!”

“Jason…”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry we didn’t meet for real until high school. I’m sorry I can’t save you because I’ve got my own.. shit to deal with. But, and forgive me for using His name in vain, Jesus fucking Christ Heather!”

“Jason..” Heather repeats, clearly more misty eyed than before, and opens her arms. A hug is letting him in physically, letting him get close even when the words aren’t easy.

Mostly, she hadn’t realized Jason could read her as easily as she could read him.

He takes the vulnerability to mean it’s safe to say, “I love you.”

“I know.” Is Heather’s response. It’s not easy to say it back, not when she chokes on it every time she tries to say it to her ‘problems,’ let alone a highschool boyfriend she was never supposed to fall for, not in her own heart.

It’s enough. Jason keeps holding her, lips against her shoulder, “I’m sorry.”

Heather repeats herself, “I know.”

Nothing else felt right to say. Because she /was/ sorry too, but saying it second would feel ingenuine. At least, she’d read it that way.

She closes her eyes and feels exhausted. It’s not supposed to be this hard. Their school years are drawing to a close, and yet she can’t even admit her own parents treat her like shit.

Maybe a silent tear drop or two drips off the end of her nose behind Jason’s back. If he noticed, he didn’t say a word.

After a while, Heather needs to do something, sitting and thinking and regretting not doing anything to help, “Can we call Chrissy and Billy and go get some ice cream or something?”

“Sure. I think I owe that to you for keeping myself so.. alone.” Jason admits, bashful but genuine.

And isn’t that just the thing. Heather gives him a tiny smile back, “Ditto, baby.”

Ice cream ran into the evening, all of them itching for an excuse to stay out. Chrissy was the last to finish her bowl of two raspberry scoops with sprinkles, half of it melted into sludge by the last spoonful, and even that’s not a distraction enough.

It’s early spring, which means, as the group informed Billy, that the Hawkins drive-in theater was opening back up. Nobody even needed to discuss it to know that’s what they wanted to do. There were a variety of chick-flicks and even more horror sequels in the box office, which meant the two week delay at the drive-in would make for some good choices at least. Most Hawkins residents would take their trucks out there, not some prissy little station wagon, but it would do.

At least, it should, but Billy started getting impatient with cruising along under the speed limit out to the wooded hill where the drive-in is, “Can’t this piece of shit go faster?”

Heather turned around slightly to face and scold him, “Well, we coulda brought yours if you hadn’t decided to buy the extra tiny, no room for fun model.”

Billy just snorted humorlessly, “We could fit if there was any actual fun going on. Leaving room for the Lord or whatever is what fucks it up.”

For that comment, knowing their company, Chrissy pushed Billy’s arm gently. Still, she didn’t seem to disagree too harshly, since she smiled through when he kissed her next.

Heather seemed irritated, though that tends to be her default honestly, as she huffed, “Not everyone’s a sleaze like you, Hargrove. Get used to it.”

Billy hadn’t even justified it with a response, just waved her off and used the same arm to swing it over the seat behind Chrissy. She was wearing his jacket again, hadn’t taken it off all week, curled into his side and wearing his name. In that bubbly way she does, she was also wiggling her hands about, not nervous, but happy.

Content.

Heather and Jason still had a ways to go to reach contentment.

The pair stay in the car for the movie, their counterparts in a blanket on the grass instead. Cali boy is out there freezing his ass off, but he’d said anything would be better than being trapped with relationship drama.

Heather and Jason try to ignore him.

They fail.

Jason turns to her not even a full twenty minutes after that comment starts working it’s way under his skin, “Heather?”

“Hm?” She hums to show she’s listening, but doesn’t look his way.

That’s not enough for what needs to be said, so he repeats, “Heather.”

“Yeah, that’s me. You need something?”

“I wanted- I just…. I’m sorry.”

Her pretty features screw up in confusion, “For what?”

“For not being good enough.” Jason informs, like it was the most clear thing, “You’d be happier with a guy like Billy. Maybe you could call up Steve-“

“No, fuck you if you think I could ever leave you.” She spits.

And then she grabs Jason by the collar of his polo and kisses him.

It’s nothing chaste, nothing at all like their usual peck of the lips. This is roaming tongues and hands.

Heather reigns herself in when she feels Jason’s hands, holding her hips up under the back of her shirt, shaking.

“I’m not gonna make you do anything. Sex isn’t my endgame.”

He sort of freezes, like it hadn’t occurred to him that Heather wouldn’t mind helping him in his devotion to modesty, “So what is?”

“An apartment. Maybe get a cat. I want to share a space with you long before we do marriage shit.” Heather explains lightly, smile on her face.

Jason relaxes his shoulders, “Make it a dog and we’ll see. Dogs are better.”

“Oh, ha-ha. Make it one of each and I’ll forgive you for that comment.”

Heather kisses him again, without any heat or intensity this time, just gentle, soft affection. She even lets him touch her hair, despite usually slapping his hands away for that. It helps that she’d brushed it out to be restyled before bed tonight, but still, she would have let him even if her curls were laying perfect.

When they pull away, Heather lays her head on Jason’s shoulder. Instead of watching Cat’s Eye on the screen, her gaze falls to their friends huddled up outside, and she muses, “How much you wanna bet Chrissy and Billy run away into the sunset?”

“I hope they do. Hawkins is Hell on earth.” Jason asserts, clearly serious because he usually wouldn’t even mention a place like that.

Heather sighs slightly, “Literally. The kidnappings, the murders. I can’t take much more of it.”

Confident, Jason says, “I’m sure they’d make room for us then. If we wanted to go with them.”

That has Heather sitting up straighter, surprised, “You would live in California?”

Sunny skies, living free- it didn’t seem very much his pace. The order and the mundanity of Midwestern life seemed better for Jason.

He just shrugs for now, “Who knows? We’ll see when we get there.”

“And you’re okay with that?” Heather wonders aloud, as she knows it, finding that Jason prefers to have his entire life planned out.

He only sounds a little tense as he tries to sound brave and strong, “Getting there.”

The tension between them had to have been coming from there. She wanted nothing more than to rebel and escape, while he, even when he was feeling crushed by the weight of parental disapproval, was nothing short of desperate to be back in their graces.

If Heather could be more open to discussion when that made her uncomfortable, and Jason less complicit to begin with, the pair would probably be on the right path again.

She lays her head on him again, and this time, Jason takes his arm out of one sleeve of his varsity jacket, slinging it around her like a blanket. Her heart absolutely soars. The promise to Chrissy was fulfilled, she and her honey were working out just fine now, after she’d gotten Billy’s jacket.

That’s gotta be a sign that things will work out for Heather too.

“Hey, Jason?”

“Hm?”

She feels compelled to finally confess, “I love you.”

It’s Jason this time who, after a soft little kiss to her forehead, says, “I know.”

#strr2024 #billy hargrove #chrissy cunningham #calicheer #billy x chrissy #heather holloway #jason carver #choirguard #heathson #jason x heather #my writing #ej writer #st rarepairs

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hargrove-mayfields · 4 months

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Christmas was supposed to be a time for family, that’s what Steve has always been taught anyways, but, seeing as his parents don’t really understand what it’s like having gone through what he and his friends have, they aren’t much of a family these days.

Steve was never of the Christly faith, he was Jewish actually, but the family chose to celebrate Christmas for its messages and the staples of the season. Things like the wood burning stove crackling with warmth and watching snow coat the evergreens in the backyard. Baking and relaxing and peace on earth and such.

The festivities of both of his holidays weren’t quite dampened as much as his faith was the moment a six foot faceless monster dropped out of the ceiling with intent to kill him. Though last Christmas went pretty shit anyways, for the first time in years spending that time of year with someone he genuinely cared about, only to realize in retrospect it hadn’t been a mutual love and cheeriness.

Steve isn’t sure about getting into the festive spirit this year, whatever that even means to him anymore.

He doesn’t decorate as much as he used to; something about having all those lights in his house, the way they used to wrap around the banister and frame the huge wreath above the mantelpiece, it just makes him paranoid now. No sense of wonder filled nostalgia and warmth in his chest, instead just waiting for the moment they start to flash and signal something coming after him. A festive beacon signaling his location across dimensions, that’s a big ‘no’ from him.

He realizes about four days before Christmas that his apathy had bled into the rest of his traditions too, altogether forgetting to bake the cookies he’d inevitably eat all by himself anyways, or to write cards to family members who probably only trashed the envelope without opening it. Steve can’t stop himself from this depressing spiral either, every last idea of mirrored baubles and other delights shot down in a heartbeat with a negative one twice as strong.

Hell, he even forgot to fish out an old bayberry candle from the attic, which is enough on its own to make him worry a little. His Ima always told him if there was one tradition he could never give up, it was the candle, and every year he’d light that thing and watch it like a hawk to make sure it burned down to the base starting on Christmas Eve morning. It’s bad luck to not. The whole family will be cursed by every god imaginable.

There’s a little flier in his mailbox for Christmas Eve service. Even if his faith has been tested, he can say for certain he’ll never be Christian. His faith and his identity are linked in some ways too tested and true to just move on.

Still. He considers going. Christmas Eve service won’t be enough to undo the damning of his soul for forgetting the candle, and it won’t change his mind on the religion thing either.

It’ll get him out of the house, though. Maybe allow him to see some old faces. Connect with real humans again. There’ll be coffee and cookies anyways, and one of his favorite parts of Christmas has always been the baked goods.

Blame it on all that’s happened in the last year, but Steve decides to go, if not just because he’d failed at achieving literally everything else he had on his to-do list for the season. He’d at least rather feel like he was being judged by old church bitties than feel the crushing weight of having nothing at home for himself.

He’s already late when he does show up at the church, as in -the old people have stopped bullshitting and the service had actually started- late. Actually, he’d been there for a half hour before then at least, but sat outside in his car until he mustered the courage to go inside and face what he’s quickly realizing was a bad decision.

Steve is forced to sit at the very back of the church since, even if he won’t be listening, he doesn’t want to interrupt everybody else. Not a bad deal for someone who guilt-tripped his own sorry self into coming in the first place, but the problem he has with the situation is the company.

He thought this would be helping. It isn’t.

See, most of the church is full of families, people grouped together in their little circles and rubbing it in just how lonely Steve is this year.

In the last few rows there are a couple of other loners like him, but even those are mostly full of people who look generally friendly with each other at least. Steve doesn’t have the luxury.

Billy Hargrove’s taking up almost a whole pew for himself, slouched down with his legs all spread, like he doesn’t want to be seen. Knowing Hargrove the way Steve thinks he does, he assumes that’s exactly the case. That the asshole got dragged along by his nice family to church, to celebrate the community he made it a point to terrorize since day one of being in Hawkins.

Steve’s God isn’t quite the same as the one from this church, but whoever is up there, if anybody, he curses them for creating such a dick as Billy and sending him down to bother Steve.

Maybe he’s projecting a little, but all the same, the only seat left where he’s not going to be interrupting something is right next to Hargrove.

If he had any pride left he’d turn and walk out the door, but he’s only here because he’s already at rock bottom. Might as well spend the holiday with someone who’s probably going to kick his ass again for being a bother.

But Hargrove doesn’t even look at him when he sits next to him, his head is tipped back against the seat and there are sunglasses perched on his nose, despite it being dark out already and one a dreary winter day when there was no sun to begin with. The only indication that he even noticed Steve’s presence is that he moved his leg away so he and Steve aren’t making contact.

Steve’s not going to act like he suddenly likes the guy, but he can tell something is up with him. He asks, pretty bluntly, “What’s a guy like you doing passed out drunk in a church, Hargrove?”

Billy’s face shifts slowly into a half-assed smirk, looking mostly like he’s in pain from forcing the expression, “Why, you want in on it?”

“Honestly, it wouldn’t suck as much if I had a drink first.” Steve shrugs, trying against every instinct in his body to be civil with Billy. It’s not like the other boy is much of a threat the way he’s slumped down and broken looking anyways. Steve feels almost bad for passing judgements.

Until Billy calls him on his hypocrisy, hardly even looking in his direction, “You came in here alone. You wanna be here, Harrington. Don’t act like you’re like me.”

Arguing back with those assumptions, Steve insists, mostly because of the nerve of Billy to assume his situation insults him, “Well I don’t see your family around.”

“‘Cause they're too embarrassed to be seen with me after I beat your sorry ass. Ruined a reputation that didn’t even exist yet. They're up at the front, putting on their happy family routine to make up for it.” Billy relays.

The tone of his explanation would imply that it’s nothing to him, just a mild inconvenience no larger than their own dispute, but his demeanor reads otherwise. And suddenly makes a lot more sense to Steve.

Steve’s definitely chastened, reluctant as his heart tells him to be in trusting Billy, “Oh. Couldn’t you have just.. stayed home then?”

“No way. And get up to more trouble while the rest of my family has to pull the weight of our publicity. Yeah right.” Finally Billy sits up a little straighter, if only to mumble, mostly to himself more than for Steve to hear, “That’d only get my ass beat worse, even if I didn’t do shit.”

And really, as much as Steve is never prepared for what spiteful bullshit is about to come tumbling out of Hargrove’s mouth, this is especially surprising. Like, the kind of unexpected that leaves him speechless and just staring for a moment.

He settles on blurting out, “You.. didn’t have to tell me all that.”

Maybe bitter, or maybe perfectly unbothered in that annoyingly trademark Billy Hargrove way, he meets Steve’s disaster of an attempt at coherency with a simple, “You didn’t have to accuse me of being a drunk either. But the more you run your mouth, the more I feel perfectly justified in giving you that concussion.”

“Never heard of a joke, have you?” Steve tries again, thinking he can be on a bully’s level now, but clearly that wasn’t the vibe Billy was actually going for.

Billy scoffs, glaring with suspiciously wet eyes under those tinted glasses at Steve, “Right. ‘Cause it’s so hilarious, getting to see the new King of the bullshit high school hierarchy at an all time low. You’ve got lots to laugh at Harrington.”

“But I’m not. You think I don’t got my own shit to deal with? Like I just wander into a church I don’t even worship at, an hour late and without my best on, just for fun?”

Knocking himself down a few pegs succeeds in getting Billy to warm back up to him, inviting a new interest in his expression, “So what’s your sin then, Harrington? What’s got you crawling out here and stooping to the peasant level?”

For more reasons than just their location, Steve answers honestly, if not somewhat dramatic, “Incurable loneliness. Being an idiot. Never being good enough. Forgetting to light my goddamned bayberry candle.”

“That bad, huh?” Billy fake winces, the edge bleeding back out of his demeanor. It reminds Steve of the Billy he’d first met that night. Before he’d lied and things went to hell.

Speaking of, Billy abruptly comes out with what they’ve both been thinking, “Look. Do you even believe in all this.. this savior bullshit?”

Steve shrugs, swallowing the fear of denouncing tradition in favor of impressing Hargrove, “Nope. And if we’re being really honest, I only came here because there’d be food.”

“Exactly. Our problems ain’t gonna be fixed by the big man in the red suit or whatever. You and me Harrington, we gotta take this shit into our own hands.” Billy rambles, and for a second it looks like he’s about to put his hands on Steve’s shoulders, before he changes position at the last minute and rests his arm over the back of the pew instead.

Why does Steve kind of wish he had touched him? He brushes it off. They’re playing mind games right now, talking about shit without talking about it. He’s gotta focus or he’ll fall behind.

“And just how are we going to do that?” Steve hums, some part of him wondering at this point if he is just amusing a drunken Billy.

But the other boy surprises him once more, challenging how convinced Steve is in his perceptions of him, “Step one, let’s just get outta here.”

Steve’s mouth feels dry and his stomach feels in knots.

“Uh, Hargrove. Didn’t you like, just say you had to be here though?”

“That was ten minutes ago. I’m a new man now, unrestrained by the confines of a paternal dictatorship keeping me bound to this holy house of worship.”

That doesn’t make it any more obvious to Steve what his intention is, if anything just making him more confused. Feeling like a jackass about it, he asks for clarification, a problem that has every bit to do with himself and his expectations, and not so much with Hargrove’s, “What?”

“I said fucking stick it to Neil Hargrove and to God. And let’s go already before we get struck down or something.” Billy stands then, the preacher thankfully deep enough into whatever speech was going on that only a few churchgoers turned to glare at the interruption.

Steve realizes he doesn’t have much choice, or desire, to do anything but follow Billy.

They almost wordlessly end up at Steve’s car, Billy himself having been driven with the rest of his family and having no other way to get home.

It’s still tense between them, this spur of the moment Christmas truce not doing much to ease Steve’s worries. Things feel even more awkward than they need to be, at least to Steve.

Billy, on the other hand, makes himself right comfortable in Steve’s car, like they’d been best friends all along and this was a perfectly normal thing for the two of them to be doing.

Somehow it simultaneously made Steve really want to get closer to him,so he could understand the way his head works to make him so sporadic in a way Steve himself had never been good at being.

Part way through the drive, Billy had cranked the heat in the car all the way up, a sign he’s not taking his first white Christmas that well. His salt-stained boots are kicked up on his dashboard, and the sunglasses he wore for no apparent reason were finally removed to be looped onto the collar of his jacket.

He wasn’t lying about the beating. Behind the shades wasn’t a drunken, out of focus gaze. No.

A bruise the size of almost the entirety of his left cheekbone stretches and warps into his swollen brow, where a cut near his eyelid forces it half-shut.

“You’re not nervous are you?” Steve needs the reassurance.

They could both get in trouble from the man they both know landed that bruise on Billy’s cheek. Getting caught wasn’t a question, they would know he wasn’t at the church anymore, it was just a matter of what excuse Billy could come up with that wouldn’t get him in more trouble.

“Me? Never.” Billy just shrugs him off, though again adds something under his breath, sort of like a filter for the truths he finds painful to speak, “Just hurry up and take me as far away from here as possible. I hate this stupid hell hole and I don’t want Neil’s ass dragging me back in there.”

And it’s not like Steve is going to disagree, he’s admittedly had his problems with being lonely, and he’s got his own reasons for why Hargrove might just be the best company he could make right about now.

Still, because it’s their thing, he gives him a hard time all the same.

“We were enemies when I walked into that church. Why should I do anything for you?”

“‘Cause we’re both two out of place fuck ups in the very back of the house of God. And we both know you’re too soft to hold a grudge anyways. Since I decided to forgive you, the way I see it, we might as well have never met ‘til tonight. Perfect meeting, perfect reason to help out.” Billy explains it, again like he’s fixing himself to be a real genius, but Steve’s skeptical of how easygoing he is.

Those shaking hands don’t go unnoticed from him. Or the scratchy, high pitched lilt that trails after each word Billy speaks.

Steve is more than willing to move past the fight at this point, but there’s something that may or may not even have anything to even do with Hargrove himself, that stops him from just letting them be close like that. Something that Steve has kept a secret his whole life.

Something like a boy crush.

It’s not even Billy’s fault that he pushes back against this friendship, preventative measures for the future. Steve talks dismissively. “Nah, I don’t know man. I think you’d prefer it if my first impression of you wasn’t formed right now.”

Billy doesn’t even look at him, “Fucking rude, Harrington.”

“Dude, you reek like booze and old cologne. You’ve got that nasty bruise on your face and I can tell from the way you’re acting there’s more. You’re a disaster all around.” And maybe Steve was a little harsh, but he's almost offended by the way everything Billy stands for directly goes against the image of him he’d built in his head.

The kid he’s talking to now is nowhere near the same douche that he thought for sure was going to kill him. Not to say he’s a sweetheart, but Steve doesn’t even know why he thought Billy was such hot shit.

Probably something about fantasy. Attraction versus adrenaline and all that.

Billy himself isn’t in the least bit offended though, and Steve can tell that’s only because he’s reading him and his attempt at playing Billy’s game like a book.

There’s a smirk that just barely plays at the corner of his mouth, at least the side without any injuries, the dead giveaway of his clarity, “Well then. What was your first first impression of me like? What makes it so special?”

“I don’t know man. You looked intimidating I guess. Glared at everyone in that parking lot like you already owned the place. And you were a thousand times more put together. Before you were just pretending to be all rough, a hoser by definition, but now you’re really a mess.” Steve is rambling again, trying his damndest to not say the part out loud where him and Carol Perkins had been gossiping about how Hargrove’s ass looked in those jeans.

His genuine first impression a hell of a lot more confusing and even worse to admire to a bully than the way he sums it up.

“Damn. And here my first impression of you was that you were a prissy little thing just like Wheeler sitting right next to you in your fancy rich boy car. Here I thought you saw yourself as better than me.” The tone of Billy’s voice sounds almost impressed, actually looking over to Steve in the driver's seat.

His face is so analytical, so smugly uncalled for. Like pure satisfaction, because he cracked the goddamn code, “But no, I get it now. Pretty boy had himself a crush. Still does too.”

Steve almost slams on his brakes.

“Hold on. I never said anything like that.” He denies it outright, because it is true. There’s a swell of panic in his chest at the thought that he’s too obvious. Over who else might know.

Billy clarifies a little more, “But you don’t need your damn words to see it. This overly critical, hiding your feelings shtick. Probably learned that from your girl. Tearing me apart like your first thought wasn’t how fucking hot I am in three layers of acid wash.”

“Christ, where the hell did you even get an idea like that?” Steve acts bigger than he feels, at least he’s good at that, always has been.

“Lighten up. You think any old meathead’s gonna notice something like this that easy?” Billy waits for an answer but Steve can’t speak. The other rolls his eyes and continues, “I see through that shit ‘cause I’ve done it all too. Open your fucking eyes.”

Call him neurotic, but Steve is still skeptical, “No way. You’re talking about shit that doesn’t happen, Hargrove. It just doesnt! Whatever *this* is, it doesn’t have anything to do with me, alright?”

“You didn’t even ask my impression of you. I could tell you, about.. about the way I fell for every little freckle and dumb eyelash on your dopey face? I could fucking tell you but we’d probably still be here well into the new year if I did.”

Steve grips the wheel tighter, “No, Billy.. I mean it. If you’re pulling something on me... just save it for someone who wants to hear it.”

“I’m not though. Honest to God.” Billy tilts his head back against his seat and laughs at himself, the seriousness of the situation escaping him. He’s also fucking nervous, which Steve can see.

It makes him regard the next thing Billy says with at least a little more trust. All he wants is to have somebody like that. Billy smiles when he sees those walls coming down,

“Well, I guess two queers running away from Church on Christmas Eve probably shouldn’t swear on the big man like that, but you get what I’m sayin’, Harrington.”

Whether this was a bullying or a love confession, Steve wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, and it’s fucking confusing. He crinkles up with nose and eyebrows in an obvious puzzling expression, “I.. guess I do?”

“Aw, don’t go getting’ shy on me now, Harrington.” Billy snickers, finally shifting that piercing gaze away from Steve to the window beside him, asking in an unceremonious change of subject, “Where’re you taking me anyways?”

“Since you’re laying it on so damn thick all of the sudden, I figured I’d just take you back to my place.” Steve all but grumbles sarcastically, stressed from this conversation, from it being Christmas, from everything else going wrong in his life.

Billy at least can sense that, allowing the subject change to carry them in an almost casual conversation. Almost, if not for the overly flirtatious tone he takes on, “Sure. You got a present waitin’ there for me this Christmas?”

Steve’s face flushes and he can’t handle the heat. He shuts it down with a shrug of his shoulders, “Dude, I don’t even have a tree up at home. Best I can promise is what you were probably already hopin’ you’d get.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Wrapping paper that important to you? I can figure something out.”

Billy shakes his head; it’s his turn now to look at Steve like he’s lost his mind, “No. I was just fucking with you about a present. I meant about the tree.”

“Yeah, I didn’t decorate at all. But.. what’s that even matter?” Steve glances over at him, seeing the hurt behind that baffled expression and knowing instantly there’s something more there, another mystery about Billy Hargrove that will remain unsolved, because he turns the attention off of himself as quickly as that expression fades behind a new one of determination.

“Not gonna lie Harrington, I was totally down to blow you and just pretend the serious parts of this conversation never happened and never speak to each other again. I kinda thought that was the path we were going down here. But now that I know how deep this goes, and I’m invested in this shit way too much.”

“What does that even mean, Billy?”

“Means we’re skipping all the sex bullshit and we’re gonna light your goddamn candle. And do every other thing on your list of failures this year. You know, since you’re totally head over heels in love with me, it’s my job to give you your Merry Christmas.” Billy explains it like he’s got it all planned out perfectly. Like he’s some kind of genius.

Steve rolls his eyes, mostly because it hides how easily flustered he is by Billy’s proclamations, “Oh come on. It’s not like that..”

“What? You’re having a hard time this year, for obvious fucking reason- did I mention I already hate your parents?”

“Billy.” Steve warns, not ready to sidetrack another topic to talk about something that will only make him depressed. It’s not as easy for him to hate his parents as it is for him to hate Billy’s.

Billy nods in unspoken understanding and goes back to his point, “All I’m saying is, the point of havin’ someone like me around, is to make shit better. Right?”

“I don’t know man, since I seem to remember the last time I tried to help you first, you told me you weren’t a charity case and to never bother you again..”

Steve never forgot that attempt, even after everything that went down between them. It was just one time, in the showers after their way too high contact game of basketball. The angry red belt scars on Billy’s back caught his attention and he’d brought it up, only to be shut down.

There was always a sick, guilty feeling in his stomach about never trying again after that.

“If you’d just quit bein’ so stubborn, we got lots of shit to get done tonight. No time for self-deprivation.” Billy remarks casually though, unbothered by Steve’s worries. He even adds with an over exaggerated wink, “Maybe I’ll throw in that present I promised you once you start cheering up.”

~~~

The Harrington house does end up shining brightly that night.

Just as Billy promised, they stayed up all night doing everything they wanted to, no imposed rules or familial traditions involved, no triggers of past Christmases that neither were quite ready to share yet on display.

They don’t bother fishing out the huge eight foot synthetic tree Mrs. Harrington insisted on having to show off, the monstrous thing just there to collect dust in the basement now. They find a smaller one instead, an old fiber-optic tree Steve used to keep up in his room as a kid, his way of sneaking a nightlight past Mr. Harrington’s strict rules for his boy.

The tree is proudly displayed on a side table pushed over to the front window, and decorated with only homemade ornaments. Billy “accidentally” dropped a few of the fancy collector ornaments that used to force Steve’s own childhood creations off.

His mother was obsessed with making everything look straight out of a catalog, but the simple and childish decor was enough for Billy and Steve, without the additional twenty strings of lights in every corner of the house, or the poinsettias and crystal nativities adorning every available surface in the house. That was all a headache.

They light the bayberry candle too, putting it on a fancy dish at the center of the coffee table, not in the fancy sconces he’d have to scrape wax out of later. Billy pretends about a thousand times he’s going to blow it out just to fuck with Steve, earning him equally as many lectures on the bad luck and death and pestilence he’s bringing upon them.

Really that’s the dynamic they have the whole night; Steve flutters around his house an absolute nervous wreck, Billy just tailing after him to remind him that whatever they want to do.

It’s actually fun this once, behaving in a way not for appearances or hollow celebrations. Billy understands making Christmas special, personal. He’s someone who gets maybe one present per year and can’t afford any decorations but generations old glassware and yard sale blow molds.

Steve admittedly wasn’t really expecting to solve so many of his troubles in one go, especially not with help from Billy, who he thought was supposed to hate him after everything. But Billy just makes it so easy to like him, once Steve got the handle on understanding him.

He even got to see that gentle side of him open up. When Steve tangled himself up in tinsel and started to panic, and Billy had to remind him everything would be fine, he got to see it up close. The delicate concern in Billy’s eyes. The softness in his voice.

Okay, and maybe they shared one or two kisses under conveniently placed mistletoes Billy claims to not know the origin of.

He wasn’t all sunshine though, instead of just telling Steve that a Christmas angel or the hard to display window wreaths didn’t need a place in their festivities, he’d taken to literally smacking whatever was troubling Steve out of his hands and making him go do something else while it was put away.

In the end they still don’t do a lot of the things Steve normally would, most things really, but he realizes at some point, after baking a batch of cookies at about three in the morning, both of them wearing his Ima’s glittery aprons, that this isn’t about all that anyways.

What he and Billy started, this Christmas Eve, was a new tradition, one which didn’t rely on expectations, or keeping up with everything everyone ever asked him to do.

All of this was about doing something new, something they hadn’t up to this point been able to call their own for countless unhappy reasons they pledged not to talk about until at least the day after Christmas. Neither saw any need to dampen the cheer they did find this special holiday, all on their own.

Once everything’s sort of wound down, Steve’s head is all fuzzy with a buzz from the cheap alcohol Billy had convinced him to put into the generic gallon of eggnog he had about to expire in his fridge. Billy has a blushing face and a finally relaxed posture.

The both of them are sitting under their tiny tree for reasons neither can remember. Somewhere down the line, they started holding hands.

Steve asks, mostly as a lighthearted comment he doesn’t really expect an answer to, “So, I guess you’re gonna come over for Christmas every year now, huh?”

Billy looks to him and scrunches his nose up, emphasized by the way his face is pink, his smile turns bright and lopsided, the way it looks when he really means it, “Are you kidding me, Stevie? I’m coming over here every goddamn day if I can.”

#harringrove #billy x steve #billy hargrove #jewish steve harrington #tw religion #tw alcohol #christmas fic

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