#maybe learning how to fish and making up a fancy dinner for his bf of course

[cherrydreamer]

April Prompts Combo! #2 Rainstorm and #8 Window

Ok so I am rocking up late late late with this April Prompt so I combined #2 Rainstorm and #8 Window into a double ficlet! (and yes I’m STILL late, I know I know!)  Billy's been living in Hopper's old trailer for just over a month now. And he knows he should be grateful for it. And he is, he is. 

Pathetically grateful, really, for the place and the way the kids all banded together and sorted the place out. For him. Got it all patched back up, cleaned and tidied and mostly ship-shape.

Cosy, even, especially after Mrs Byers came by to pick them up and handed Billy a whole damn laundry hamper filled with crocheted blankets and a stack of plump cushions and a pair of slightly frayed yellow curtains that, when he hung them at the kitchen window, gave the whole place a soft, sunshiney air. 

And, at the time, Billy had really appreciated just how far away from town he is now. He likes the fact that he's kind of hidden away, out of sight out of mind. He really likes the view of the lake and the noise it makes, the wind on the water sounding almost like the waves on the beaches back home. 

But sometimes, like tonight, he really fucking wishes he wasn't so alone.

Because there's been a storm threatening to rage since the mid afternoon, and Billy's been on edge the whole time just waiting. Been sitting tensed on the couch, hands balled into fists, feeling the crackle of static in the air, damn near smelling the electricity, and he's known it was coming, he knew it, but knowing did nothing to help prepare him for the first flash of lightning or the crack of thunder, and all of a sudden he's thrown right back to that night in the mall, the one with lights flickering and fireworks exploding and fear and pain and I don't know what's happening but I know I'm going to die and I'm so scared and I’m so sorry.

So Billy had hurled himself away from the windows on that first flash, shoved himself into a little gap between the fridge and the wall and he's still there now hours later, huddled with his head between his knees and his hands screwed up against his ears but he can still hear it. 

Them. The screams. The cries. The begging.  The voice in his head.  Max's voice over and over again. Her sobs.  The way she called for him. Over and over. "Billy! Billy!"

"Billy!"

Billy's head jolts up at that, 

It's a voice. A real one. Not a scream of panic in his head, or his own cry of fear or desperation. Just a voice. Familiar. Comforting. A little frantic but without a single trace of anger, "C'mon, dude, lemme in!"

There's more banging. And it doesn't fit the pattern, doesn't fit the roll of thunder or the thumping of his heart or the bang of those fireworks that sound so so real. 

Someone's outside knocking on his door. Steve. Steve is outside knocking on his door.  Billy can't. Can't move. Can't talk. Can't believe it. Just…can't. It's in his head. All in his head. Has to be.

"Billy!" The handle of the door rattles, the chain of the bolt clanking against the wood, and something about the need in Steve's tone is enough to shake Billy out of his panic.

Because Steve's here. And it's not entirely unprecedented, Steve being here. Steve was there from the start, coming in at the tail end of the kids' DIY attempts and fumbling his way through fixing up some of the bigger jobs they'd attempted, and he's been there afterwards too, dropping round occasionally with items that he claimed his Mom was throwing out, but which just so happened to be the very things that Billy needed, a set of gleaming pots and pans after Billy found a whole mouse family nesting in his; a bedside lamp with a chintzy floral shade after Billy accidentally sent his old one flying across the room in the throes of a particularly violent nightmare; and, most recently, a chunky boombox with a whole box full of tapes, some so new that they still had the cellophane on but a couple that were clearly older. Well-played and well-loved, and the ones that Billy found himself coming back to them over and over.  

He wishes he'd thought to stick one on before. Maybe he could've drowned out the storm with ELO or Queen or something. 

The lightning flashes again, illuminating the room through the thin, yellow gingham and Billy wants to hide again, wants to press himself against the wall and hide from it all.   But Steve's here. Steve's out there, in the worst of it. Steve came and he's here and all Billy needs to do is open the door, just open that fucking door that he locked tight and shut with a set of extra deadbolts. He just needs to open it up and let Steve in.

He can do that. For Steve, he can do that. So he does. 

He forces himself to uncurl, standing on trembling legs and he holds it together long enough to walk the few steps to the door and wrench it open. And Steve's there. Not a figment. Not an illusion. The real Steve Harrington, his crest of hair falling wetly in his face, his brightly coloured windbreaker absolutely soaked through, his shoes squeaking on the slippery steps. 

But he's smiling. And it's a full bright sunshine kind, big enough that Billy forgets about the storm outside and the fear churning in his gut and he even manages to smile back, a little watery, as he opens the door and asks, 

"What the hell you even doing out here, Harrington?"

"I…I was just passing by," Steve tries, but there's a sheepish look on his face like he knows it's not gonna fly. No one's ever 'just passing by' this place, that's the whole point. So Billy fixes him with as stern a look as he can muster with his snotty face and red-rimmed eyes, and Steve's expression turns serious as he says, "El." 

It's enough of an explanation. Since whatever the hell happened between him and Max's psychic little best friend, the two of them have had some kind of connection. He's not surprised that she sensed his freakout from wherever she was. Part of him is relieved that someone was looking out for him. That's he's not as isolated out here as he thought.  Most of him, though? Most of him is burning with shame. He can picture it now, El seeing him at his most broken and relaying it all to Steve, then Steve grumbling and grousing as he peels himself out of his bed and trudges into the torrential rain to come play babysitter while Billy cries like a pussy in the corner over a little bit of thunder.

It's enough to have him damn near slamming the door right in Steve's face.

"I'm fine-" Billy starts, but then there's another flash and, within a split second of it, a crack of thunder so loud that it seems to rattle the walls of the trailer. and whatever embarrassment Billy was feeling, that nauseating swirl of humiliation and the desire to stay strong in front of Steve, it all fades in the face of his fear as his stomach drops, and his knees give way and he falls to the floor, arms wrapping around his head, trying desperately to muffle the pathetic keening noise he knows he's letting out. 

There's a moment where there's nothing but his whimpers in the quiet of the trailer, and then Billy hears the sound of footsteps moving away.  And he doesn't blame Steve for leaving, he'll he's glad that he did.  He is.  OK, so it hurts and he wishes like hell he could've been better, could've been less fucked up so maybe Steve would've stuck around a little longer. But he's glad. Because this is the best way. Out of sight, out of mind. He doesn't need Steve fussing over him.  So Billy squeezes his eyes shut. Swallows down past the ache in his throat and the gnawing emptiness in his heart. Because this is better. 

But then there's a sound. A click and a whirr and then the trailer fills with a familiar song, already part way through playing, 

I get a strange magic, Oh, what a strange magic

Just as Billy tunes in enough to recognise it, there's a warm, reassuring weight all around him, something soft being draped over his shoulders and Billy reaches out for it instinctively, grabbing at the thick, crocheted blanket and wrapping it around his shoulders.  When he looks up, Steve is still there, kneeling in front of him with one hand raised, palm up, in an invitation.

"You wanna watch?"

"Huh?" Billy's tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and his brain is still lost in the sheer fact that Steve is here. Still here. He stayed. 

"The storm," Steve clarifies, "I know…you, you, you don't…it's not…it's a lot like-" Steve waves a hand in the air, grasping for gestures when the words fail him and then waving over towards the window, "But it actually looks kinda cool, especially out over the lake."  

Billy shakes his head, a tiny movement, but Steve keeps his hand out anyway.

"It might help," he suggests, "Might make you see, I dunno, see what it is. That's it's not…not what you're thinking. What you're seeing in there." He taps on Billy's forehead with a gentle finger, then puts his hand back out, patiently waiting. "Promise you, man, it's gnarly." He grins after the last word, all dorky and pleased with himself, and Billy can't help but snort out a laugh at the awful surfer boy impression Steve had been attempting.

He's trying. Billy realises suddenly, He's trying to help. 

So he keeps one hand firmly on the blanket around his shoulders, fingers clutching through the open knit, but he places the other in Steve's, not missing the way Steve's smile turns soft the moment their fingers make contact. 

"OK." It's all Billy can manage. 

It's enough. It's all Steve needs to haul him up and tug him over to the window, flinging open the yellow gingham and getting them both next to the glass just in time to catch the next flash.  And it's still a lot. Still has Billy's heart in his throat and his stomach twisting, but he doesn't move away. Doesn't want to.  Because Steve's right. It is cool, the way the whole landscape is illuminated, just for that second and how the light dances in jagged flashes across the sky, reflected in the glassy waters below. How it's so big. So powerful. So immense.  Kinda beautiful. 

He says as much to Steve. And Steve nods. Smiles again, that soft smile. Warm and fond and all directed at Billy. And Billy's heart flips even further into his throat. Because his hand is still clasped in Steve's and when the thunder rumbles loudly, just moments later, Steve's thumb starts stroking gentle, soothing circles around Billy's knuckles, over and over until the sound fades, and even when it all stops, when it's silent again, Steve keeps hold of Billy's hand, their fingers entwined all tight like he really doesn't want to let go.

So Billy doesn't let go either. 

There's another flash. But this time all that Billy sees of it is the light flitting over Steve's face, making his eyes shine and his skin seem to glow, just for a moment. Because Steve's not watching the storm either. He's staring right at Billy.  And Billy feels it again, that thrum of electricity in the air. But it's not so scary now. Not when he thinks Steve is feeling it too. 

#harringrove #softness #as always #lil bit of domesticity #some h/c #and a splash of ELO #as they deserve #i rewatched S1 recently and I NEED Billy in Hopper's trailer #having his breakfast coffee overlooking the lake #making friends with all the ducks or whatever seabirds they have #maybe learning how to fish and making up a fancy dinner for his bf of course