Hopper took Billy in after Neil was arrested.
It was a nightmare, getting a call from El, who was trying so hard to be calm, and all Hopper could hear in the background was Max screaming, crying, telling someone to “please wake up, please!”
Walking into the Hargrove house to see El holding Max, them both huddled next to a crumpled body on the floor, bloody and barely breathing.
Hopper didn’t know Billy that well, but he knew what he was seeing. He crouched down and rolled Billy over, asked El what the hell happened, and when the only response he got was Max whispering “Neil,” he knew.
He called an ambulance, got Billy to the hospital, and promptly waited for Neil Hargrove to get back from wherever the fuck he went after almost beating his son to death.
That was three years ago. Billy had been 16, scared, angry, wild. After he was released from the hospital Hopper had offered, mostly because Jane had that look in her eyes that said she knew more than she said, and surprisingly the teen boy had said yes.
So he moved in, his trashy band posters in his new tiny bedroom, more ashtrays added to the ones Hopper already had, and now Hopper had to not only deal with El wanting sleepovers and new clothes and trips to the mall, but also Billy blaring his music and rolling home at 3 am.
It wasn’t an easy transition, but they made it work. Billy would flinch every time Hopper so much as moved in his direction, would scream and shout at him, would knock over shit just to get a reaction, but he never did.
Then, one day, kind of similar to when the first autumn wind blows in, things had seemed to have changed.
El and Max were best friends. Billy didn’t mind driving them places. He stopped flinching when Hopper looked at him. Started talking more. Started bringing his own friends over.
Hopper had to reinstate the 3-inch rule whenever Steve Harrington came into the picture.
Three years, and he became part of Hopper’s little family, which by then had grown to include Joyce and her boys, and also, since Billy had taken a shining to him, Steve, who didn’t have much for parents, either.
Three years, and then Billy was 19 and leaving, back to California, to the sun and waves that he always talked about. Steve was already in the car, waiting, and Billy stood in front of Hopper, leaning his weight from foot to foot.
“Thanks,” he had said, blushing and looking down at his feet. He didn’t hug, still, and that was fine, Hopper knew.
He didn’t know if he would ever hear from the boy again, hoped he would, but the bittersweet tears sprang to his eyes as he watched the Camaro zoom away, because Billy was gone.
Two weeks later, Hopper was making breakfast with Joyce for the kids, when the phone rang. He groaned, already thinking of the bullshit work had for him now, and picked it up.
“Hey, Dad… we made it.”
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there's this thing where people get really focused on gaining the approval of the right people. i'm talking specifically in fandom. like if only this blog would follow me back. if only this person liked me. and i think that's normal and okay, but when it gets to the point of "we'll i've never done anything to them so why do they not like me, i've never tried to initiate a friendship but why aren't they initiating one with me what am i doing wrong why do they hate me" it gets sorta uncomfortable for everyone involved. even if it's anxiety and paranoia speaking, it's not exactly fair. to that person or to yourself.
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is romantic love something you believe in/crave?
i think being raised on romcoms and love stories ended up making me feel so inadequate in my 20s because of lack of romance in my life
and at this point I don’t even know if it’s something I want or something society tells me I should want
most of the time I'm content with being alone and never have fallen in love. I have enough love in my life - my family, my friends, my cats and all the things I'm passionate about - to not feel emptiness from lack of romantic love. when I imagine my ideal future I don't see myself in a relationship, in fact just thinking about a romantic relationship makes me anxious, but that anxiety is mostly about all the issues I have.
sometimes though, I can't help but think why can't I be "normal". I listen to I know it's over by the smiths and when morrissey says "love is natural and real but not for such as you and I, my love" I think yeah. yeah. what if I'm missing out on something wonderful and I don't even know it because I have so many problems with myself that I can't even think about opening up like that to another person without feeling like throwing up. what if being alone is not a choice I'm consciously making but just the result of all the mental illnesses I have that keep me from doing normal things without feeling like I'm dying.
so yeah, I don't know. I believe in romantic love, but since I was just a teenager I already was convinced it was not for me.
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