Work Text:
Claudia Henderson stood in the living room of the empty apartment -- Billy’s new place.
She’d been told what the rest of the town had read from the headline of the Hawkins Post: LOCAL HERO BILLY HARGROVE, ONCE PRESUMED DEAD, RETURNS AFTER FOUR MONTH RECUPERATION AT GOVERNMENT HOSPITAL and the article went on to detail how he’d saved eleven teenagers and two adults from the Starcourt Mall explosion.
For Billy, coming out of the hospital to a town that thought he was once dead and now a hero was just weird. He’d been groomed to nod and say thank you as graciously as he could when people wanted to shake his hand. To go along with what Doc Owens told him he should say.
So everyone in the town, including the kids’ parents -- including Claudia Henderson -- treated him like a hero. She looked over the empty room, hands on her hips, assessing the light green carpeting. Billy hovered behind her, self-conscious and unsure of what to do with his hands. What to do with his body in this new space. He touched the vertical blinds and light poked through as they shifted -- the sunlight making them glow soft white.The living room opened directly to a small kitchen adorned with dark brown cabinets and a lemon yellow countertop, faded olive green stove and matching refrigerator.
“Not the prettiest,” Claudia turned and said to Billy. “We can make it work, though.”
He smiled and gave a little nod, then followed her down the shortest hallway he’d ever seen. They looked left to see a bathroom that had a pocket door -- one of those doors that slid along a track in the ceiling and retracted into the wall. He remembered playing with one at his friend Alan’s house back in San Diego, transfixed by how he could pull it out from the wall by a little latch and push it in to make it disappear.
On the bathroom wall were tiles in light yellow, while a mix of rectangle and square tiles in various shades of pink lined the floor. Claudia walked in and inspected the shower. “Dated, but it’s clean at least. I know he caulked this tub and replaced the shower head.”
She started moving forward so Billy turned and entered the last room, the bedroom, with Claudia right behind him. In the small square room, sunlight poured in from two uncovered windows onto the same light green carpet. One window faced the veterinarian’s office next door, and the other faced an open backyard, a large yard dusted with snow sprawling back and back and back. “We’ll make you curtains, honey, don’t worry,” she smiled and patted his cheek once.
He approached the closet and tugged open the bi-fold doors to find it empty with a shelf lining the top.
“Sonofabitch that fourth step is loose, my goddamn toe!” Billy heard Henderson shout from the hallway. Claudia hissed, Dusty, language! as Henderson stumbled into the bedroom lugging a box marked Closet in Max’s neat printing. “I hereby present you with your first box at your first apartment, milord,” Henderson smiled wide. He bowed his head and held the box aloft.
The gesture was sweet, grand, and the nerdiest fucking thing Billy had seen in his life. Six months ago, before the mindflayer, he would’ve mocked this kid. But he wasn’t that person anymore. Not really. Not after he’d been torn apart and patched back together -- Billy searched and had no sense of venomous insults.
It took Henderson time to come around to Billy, too -- he’d honed his distant hover and side-eyed glare before he finally approached after weeks into Billy’s recovery to argue with him about -- well. Billy didn’t even remember now. Maybe it was the Tolkien argument, maybe it was the one about zombies, but it didn’t particularly matter.
Billy plucked the box from Henderson’s hands and muttered, “Thanks, kid.”
Claudia stepped forward. “It’s not much. But it’s the least we could do. Dr. Barron hasn’t rented it in months, so he’s happy to have someone here.”
“It’s great,” Billy said. He thought she looked soft and warm in her blue JCPenney blouse and matching earrings, the secretary to the doctor who had an office downstairs. “It’s just me here, so. It’s perfect.”
She smiled and pressed the apartment keys to his palm, then turned to join the fray of voices downstairs bickering over who was going to carry up what item before Harrington barked over all of them and gave directions.
Billy put the box on the floor and started placing the items neatly on the closet shelf -- books, cassettes, records -- and thought there was no better feeling than seeing something empty and blank and creating or building something new from it. A notebook. A car frame. A blank cassette. This closet.
This new life.
~*~
Mr. Sinclair and Harrington lugged the last piece of furniture into the bedroom -- an old dresser from the Wheelers’ house -- and set it down with a huff.
Mr. Sinclair approached Billy as he tugged off his work gloves. “Everything going okay with Jack at the donut shop?”
Harrington walked out of the bedroom -- Billy’s eyes flicked up to look at him over Mr. Sinclair’s shoulder as he exited, and Harrington shot him a quick smile and wave. Billy smiled back and snapped his eyes back to Mr. Sinclair.
“Not bad. I don’t mind the early mornings. Coffee’s great, and I like the work. And I like doing stuff with my hands, yknow. It’s, I don’t know. Calming, I guess. Jack’s a bit of an asshole, though.”
Mr. Sinclair huffed a laugh. “Yeah, Jack’s my older brother and if that’s not the very definition of asshole, then I don’t know what is.”
“So true,” Max said from where she was hanging curtains over Billy’s windows.
Billy shared a laugh with Mr. Sinclair. He continued, “Seems like Jack’s turned a corner though. Maybe got a little softer in his old age. When I knew you were getting out of that hospital and would need a job, he’s the first one I thought to call. Hawkins cops are always gonna need donuts, so no shortage of work.”
“I heard that!” Powell bellowed from the living room.
Mr. Sinclair shook his head, smiling.
Billy said, “Jack’s good at showing me what to do and staying outta my hair and he pays me, so. I ain’t gonna complain. And listen -- thanks for helping me get this job. Couldn’t have moved out of that house without it. Like, a month there was long enough. And um.” He looked down at Mr. Sinclair’s hands. “I’ve been wanting to tell you that I’m sorry for how I treated Lucas last year.”
Mr. Sinclair placed his hand on Billy’s shoulder, and his voice grew low. “You saved my son and daughter’s lives. You saved all of those kids. We all owe you a debt of gratitude now. It’s a real shame that your daddy was a victim of that mall explosion, but we all know that that man was garbage. So I understand why moving back into that house with his ghost in the walls wasn’t gonna work for you. You deserve to move on. If you need anything, anything at all, you call me. You are a son to all of us now. Understand?”
Billy’s throat worked and he tried to shut it down, but he knew it would be futile trying to choke back tears -- it never seemed to work anymore these days anyway. They spilled down his cheeks. “Yes sir,” he said.
Mr. Sinclair squeezed his shoulder. “Good. We’re good now.”
Billy scrubbed the tears from his face. “Yeah. We’re good.”
~*~
Billy appreciated the silence of early mornings at Jack’s Donut House -- getting there before the sun and starting the dough while the coffee brewed. In the still and silence he could shake off the residual fear and sadness that crept up on him every night, center himself, and focus his energy at this task -- and he enjoyed the feeling of dough under his fingers. It felt healing, somehow.
Fueled by several cups of coffee after the pre-work rush, Billy loaded the next batch of dough into the donut hopper. Flo had stopped by earlier to pick up a dozen for the police station, then slid a bag across the counter filled with hand-knit dishcloths -- a phenomenon that happened to him at least a couple times a week, when people would drop off random household items and say, for your place.
His apartment was gradually turning into the ugliest, most hodge-podge assortment of stuff, but the type of ugly that made him feel affection in his heart -- people had given him these items and not said anything, just for your place and walked away. Ten different emotions would spin like a kaleidoscope in his mind when it happened, and he blurted out some form of thank you that was never smooth or gracious or seemed sincere to his ears, but everyone accepted his thanks just the same.
It was nearing eight in the morning when the bell jingled above the door. He glanced over to see Max walking in, her bright red hair pouring out from under a big hat. “Cold as shit out there, ugh,” she said as she sat at the counter and tugged out a napkin from the dispenser. “I wish we didn’t have school today.”
“Yeah, well. It’s December in fuckin Indiana. What’d you expect, shitbird?” Billy loaded the freshly-fried batch onto a tray and tossed them in a cinnamon sugar coating. He picked off two and slid them on a plate over to Max.
“Whatever. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” she took a bite and glanced over at him. “How was last night for you?”
“Fine.” He shrugged a shoulder as he transferred the donuts to a clean tray. “I mean. Until it wasn’t fine.”
She stopped eating. “Nightmares again?”
“Yeah.” He pushed the tray into the case and leaned over across the counter to talk to her.
“Yes, no, or pass?” She said quietly, looking up at his face.
He took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
“What was it this time?” She ate the rest of her donut as Billy talked.
“The one with El. Same as always. We were in Hopper’s cabin and I was sunken, yknow? Just like watching it all happen through some sort of long periscope. Watching myself threaten her and she looked terrified. I -- wanted to tell her I’m sorry but it felt like I was at the bottom of the ocean trying to yell it at her.”
Max reached across the table and placed her hand on his. “She knows, Billy. You’ve told her, like, a million times. And that wasn’t you, anyway.”
“Yeah, well. Can you tell that to my subconscious then cause it hasn’t gotten the fuckin hint yet.” He calmed his breathing and was proud that only a few tears escaped his eyes this time. Maybe because he’d had this dream two dozen times before.
She squeezed his hand. “You sure you don’t wanna come back? Mom says you’re still welcome.”
Billy shook his head. “Nah. Can’t do it. Not because of you or her, but. It’s, you know.”
Max sighed. “Yeah. The house. I get it. And I don’t blame you -- you were in that hospital for four months and you gotta do what’s right for you. But I miss you, asshole. And I’m staying over this weekend.”
Billy smiled and touched his forehead to hers. “Susan say it’s okay?”
“Yep,” she said, popping the P.
“And who says I’m gonna let ya?”
“Try and stop me. I need someone to French braid my hair and no one can do it like you can.”
“Don’t go spreadin that shit around, Maxine.”
“I mean, what harm could it do? You’ve already ruined your rep as a dick, Billy. Sorry to tell you.”
The bell jingled again and Billy pulled back from Max. “Shit, I gotta go. Gonna be late for Mr. Clarke’s class,” she said, and jammed the second donut into her mouth. “Seeya after school.”
Harrington said hi and goodbye to Max as she whooshed past and stomped the snow from his boots on the mat, stepped into the shop, tugging the hat from his head. His brown hair stuck up everywhere. Family Video was only right across the parking lot from the donut shop, and Harrington liked to come in sometimes before his shift.
And on his breaks.
And his lunch.
And sometimes Billy might wander into the video store after his shift and linger, standing behind a shelf, but his eyes were never fixed on the videos in front of him. Always at the front counter.
This thing with Harrington was -- New. Dynamic. Billy remembered solving problems in math and using delta, the mathematical symbol for change, and somehow felt a connection to this symbol, now that his life was change, constant, flowing. Billy “Delta” Hargrove, born again from Starcourt Mall.
The change came after everything. Four months under Doc Owen’s care, Doc Owens -- Sam now, you can call me Sam. I drained black goop from your body and gave you a blood transfusion, so I’d say we’re on a first name basis -- with his team of doctors and therapists who helped Billy recover from broken ribs, a huge abdominal gash, multiple puncture wounds, a ruptured spleen and losing half his pancreas, night terrors -- the list went on. Doc Owens was his beacon light in that sea of darkness.
And coming out of that place to find Harrington lingering around him at work and around his apartment when he dropped stuff off here, thought you might need a hairdryer then staying for hours -- well. That presence felt like the soft glow of a field of fireflies. Warm and reassuring in the dark -- transforming the scary, dark corners into a fairytale. His presence flipped dark claws into a soft promise.
“Hey,” Billy said. He felt goofy -- his face felt goofy. His hands felt dumb.
“Hi,” Harrington said, and sat in the spot Max had vacated, wildly running his fingers through his hair in what looked like an attempt to flip it over to the side.
“What can I get for you?”
“Uhm, coffee and a donut?”
Billy poured a large styrofoam cup of coffee -- Harrington liked to take it to the store with him after he left the shop. He placed a cinnamon sugar from the fresh batch on a plate and set it in front of Harrington. “How long’s your shift today?”
“Seven hours.” Harrington bit into the donut and sipped his coffee.
Billy’s mind went back to what Max had just said. “Mr. Clarke -- I thought he taught at the middle school?”
“Mm,” Harrington said around a mouthful of donut. “The high school’s physical science teacher retired so they moved him up.”
“Must be good for the kids. He stops in here a couple times a week before school, likes to bullshit a little. Seems alright.” Billy thought about Mr. Clarke’s visits and the items he left for Billy: VCR player, a box of books, and a coffee table. “I had Mr. Bright back in San Diego and that guy was a fucking dick. Couldn’t move without him breathing down your neck.”
“I had Mrs. Haldiman. I … well. I didn’t learn a thing in her class. I think the only reason I passed was because she was old and like ready to give up.”
Billy could feel Harrington’s eyes on him -- could tell they were focusing on his face. On his torso. “Hey, uhm. Got any plans tonight? Thought maybe we could hang out. You could grab a movie and I’ll cook.”
Harrington finished the rest of his donut and scooped up his coffee. “Yeah. I gotta run home first but, how bout six?”
“Sure. Sounds good. I’ll see you later, then.” Billy leaned against the counter and watched Harrington tug on his hat and before trotting across the lot to Family Video, turning once to wave.
“Fuck,” Billy muttered as he shoved the dishes into the washer. He flipped open his wallet and pulled out a list of phone numbers, found the fourth one on the list. He picked up the phone and dialed.
“Hey. Mrs. Wheeler? Any chance you can come by my place at like, four? I need a recipe for something more complicated than Hamburger Helper.”
~*~
Ted Wheeler showed up with his wife and Mike at Billy’s place. Before Mrs. Wheeler helped Billy in the kitchen, Mr. Wheeler was intent on taking Billy to First National of Hawkins.
Dour, white-bread Ted Wheeler helped Billy open a checking account, then sat down with Billy at his kitchen table and explained to him, line by line, how to balance a checkbook.
“I thought you could use this, too,” Mr. Wheeler said, and slid a book across to him that had the words Household Budget embossed in gold on the front cover. “This planner will help you allocate your money.”
Billy opened to the first page.
“It’s pretty easy here.” He gestured to the blank tables on the page. “You just write down your income, list your fixed and variable expenses, and when you subtract your expenses from your income it should be a positive number. If it’s positive, you’re already on base. Now if that number is big enough and you can deposit a little bit of money into your savings account out of every paycheck for a rainy day, then that’s a home run. If you can do both of those things and have enough money for entertainment, well son. You’ve just hit a grand slam.”
Billy looked at Mr. Wheeler and made a point to snap his mouth shut and relax his furrowed brows. He honestly had no idea how to react. He glanced over at Mike, who leaned against the kitchen wall with his face all twisted up and arms crossed.
Billy nodded. “Thanks, Mr. Wheeler.” He reached out his hand.
Mr. Wheeler took Billy’s hand and shook it. “My pleasure. Anything to help a brave local hero such as yourself.”
Mike rolled his eyes, pushed off the wall, and stomped into the living room.
“Okay Ted, that’s good, now I need to borrow him for a minute.” Mrs. Wheeler floated in and she ushered her husband into the living room. “Why don’t you pick up Holly and take her and Mike home, and come back for me in an hour? We need to get started in the kitchen.”
Mr. Wheeler and Mike bundled up, and he leaned over to kiss Mrs. Wheeler’s cheek once before he bustled out the door and down the steps.
“I have something for you, too,” Mrs. Wheeler said, and pulled out a wood box from her bag with the word Recipes engraved across the front. Billy flipped open the lid to find cards labeled with recipes and names. From the kitchen of: Karen Wheeler. Joyce Byers. Claudia Henderson. Sharon Sinclair. Florence Thompson.
Mrs. Wheeler touched his forearm. “You’re having company tonight. Is this someone you’re wanting to -- impress?”
Billy felt a flush run up his neck. “Yeah. It is.”
She smiled and pulled the box back toward herself. “I have just the thing for you to do, then. When’s your date going to be here?”
The word date rolled around in his mind, and he debated if he should correct her. If he wanted to correct her. “Six. At six o'clock.”
“Good. We have time.” She plucked a card from the box -- Lasagna -- and started pulling the groceries from the fridge that she’d brought over from Bradley Big Buy. “Know how to brown meat?”
Billy had done it enough times to make dinner for Max when Susan and Neil were working late. “Of course.”
“You start on that, and I’ll pull together the rest.” She handed him a package of ground beef and rooted around for a bowl and measuring cups.
A few minutes ticked by and Billy started breaking up the meat in the skillet with the spatula, Mrs. Wheeler just chatting amicably beside him as she worked at mixing ingredients in a bowl, and that’s when it happened.
He froze.
In front of his eyes, everything went black. He then saw himself back in the supply closet of Hawkins Pool. Mrs. Wheeler stood behind him, giving her explanation for standing him up, and he’d whipped around to smash her head against the shelf.
In front of him now, in his own kitchen, his hands started shaking and he felt like he couldn’t inhale. His breath came in short, shallow pants.
“Billy?” He heard Mrs. Wheeler say. He couldn’t see her -- his vision was blurred and out of focus. “Billy are you okay? Billy!”
He felt Mrs. Wheeler’s hands on his face. He could see the outline of her head, a black shape against the light behind her. “Sweetie, are you alright? What happened?”
His eyes darted over where her face should be, panicked, and she stood in front of him so she had to be fine, right, she was fine but he still saw her crumpled to the ground in his mind’s eye. “I --” he started. His lungs felt too tight. “I -- you.”
He heard her move the skillet over and switch off the heat, then she pulled him down, down against her shoulder as she cradled the back of his head. He melted into her and the floodgates opened -- he wept, giant shuddering sobs as he managed to say, “I hurt you. I hurt you. At the pool, I slammed you into the shelf.”
His knees buckled and she went to the floor with him, both of them kneeling as she didn’t let go of the embrace.
“Billy, breathe. In through your nose. That’s it, good. Deep breath. Hold it in. And let it go out of your mouth, slowly. Breathe.”
He did as she said and exhaled, his breath shaking. Tears streamed down his cheeks, soaking the fabric of her sweater, and shame twisted in his gut. She didn’t know he was possessed, that he was resisting the mindflayer’s urge to bring her to the warehouse. I must look crazy to her, he thought, and it made him sob again.
“Listen to me. Can you hear me?” She held his face between her hands again and pulled back to meet his gaze. “I”m fine. I’m here and I’m safe. You didn’t. Hurt. Me. Not at all. Look. See?”
He looked at her face and tried so hard to let go of the image in his head.
“Billy, whatever you just saw didn’t happen. I came to explain to you, and you -- you were so sick, honey, you looked like you had the flu. You must’ve been seeing things. You told me to stay away from you, and that was fair. But you never hurt me. Look at my face.”
He looked down at the shape of her face.
“Nod if you can see my face right now.”
He nodded and dialed in his focus -- now he could see her eyes. Her eyebrows. Several moments ticked by and gradually his breathing returned to normal. The image slid from his mind, and all he saw was the woman in front of him, smiling up at him a little tearfully. She swiped tears from his cheek with her thumb.
“There you are,” she said. “Hang on for just a second, okay?”
He took a deep breath. “Okay.”
She stood at the faucet and let the water run for a second and the next thing he knew, she was pressing one of Flo’s dishcloths soaked in cold water against his eyes. The cool pressure made his eyes feel less puffy -- soothed the heat of panic and fear.
“Better?” She asked softly.
“Yeah,” he said. And now he was starting to believe it. Jack Sinclair’s handshake, Mr. Sinclair’s hand on his shoulder, Nancy Wheeler tossing him his car keys and saying, got your Camaro all fixed up for you, Harrington’s daily drop-ins, Max over almost every day after school doing homework at his table, Mrs. Wheeler pressing a cool cloth to his eyes -- every moment that passed seemed to ameliorate the four months of darkness. He started to feel human again.
He felt like he would be able to reply to Mrs. Wheeler and actually mean the words that left his mouth. “Yeah. Feelin better now.”
She smiled. “Good.” She moved the skillet back to the burner and clicked it on. “Time to get ready for this date of yours.”
~*~
Harrington knocked right when Billy was pulling the lasagna out of the oven. “Door’s open! Get in here, Harrington!” Billy shouted as he set the baking dish on the cooling rack Mrs. Wheeler had given him.
“Wow,” Harrington said as he set down a six-pack of beer on the table. “Uhm. If I’d have known you were making this, I would’ve brought, like. I dunno. Wine, or something.”
Billy plucked off the oven mitts. “Well, pretty boy, I’m nothin if not classy.” He popped a beer can loose from the ring, tipped it sideways, used a knife to jam a hole in it, and shotgunned the contents.
“Mmm. A man after my heart,” Harrington said. He picked up a can and tipped it, then winked at Billy, but when he jammed the knife in the can, beer sprayed everywhere. Billy guessed that Harrington only got to drink about a quarter of it while the rest sprayed in puddles all over the kitchen floor.
Harrington grabbed a kitchen towel from the back of the chair and got down to his knees. “Fuck, sorry about that.”
Billy grabbed one from the countertop and helped mop up the spill. “That’s one for the You Suck column.”
Harrington sat back and covered his mouth. “Oh no. Oh, no nonono. She talked you?” He tugged on his lower lip and his eyebrows furrowed. And he blushed. “Jesus. I told her to lay off of you. This is a nightmare. Robin should never be allowed to talk to you because I-.”
Billy raised an eyebrow.
“She can just be, like, nosy sometimes.”
“Robin’s cool. I like her attitude.” Go for it. Please. For all of our sanity -- just do it., she’d whispered to Billy the other day after her eyes flicked from where Billy was standing over to where he was looking -- at Steve was reshelving New Releases. “And judging from this,” Billy gestured to the kitchen floor. “I think I can see why you’re striking out, man.”
Harrington ran a hand over the back of his hair. “I haven’t really -- I don’t care that much about it anymore, I guess. The board, I mean.”
Billy stood and started slicing the lasagna. “Yeah? Why’s that?”
“I think it just doesn’t mean as much to me. Like, I’ve kind of given up measuring my life like that. I dunno. I couldn’t get into college, like, not even Tech. I’m working at Family Video and freaking Keith is my manager. I haven’t been going on any dates…”
Billy handed him a plate with a piece of lasagna and they sat at the table. “You’re not making your case sound any better here, Harrington.”
“I know but. It’s just weird. All of this is weird because--” He trailed off and took a bite of his food. His eyes lingered on his plate as he said softly, “because this is the happiest I’ve ever been.”
Billy dug into his food. “You seem happy, too, pretty boy. You seem content. And you look good.”
“Thanks,” Harrington said, turning 18 shades of pink. “You look good too. You make going to Hell and back look like a cakewalk.”
“It’s all that new blood they pumped into me.” Billy smiled around his fork and took a bite. “But Doc Owens told me to take it slow, y’know? With working out and stuff. My chest still hurts from that hit I took, so he told me no weights for a few months yet. No heavy lifting. My ribs still hurt sometimes. It’s a fuckin bitch.”
“Yeah, lifting sounds like a terrible idea,” Harrington said as he took a drink of beer.
“It is. I know it’s a bad idea but I’m feeling.” Shame twisted up in Billy’s gut, and he toyed at his lasagna with his fork. “I don’t feel as. I don’t know. Confident.” His muscle mass was not as bulky as it used to be -- his abs and biceps just a shadow of what they once were. He had a soft little belly now. And then there were the scars. Dark pink floral patterns of scars all wound over his back, sides, and abdomen.
Suddenly the thought of shirtless summer weather struck dread in his heart. For now, long-sleeved henleys and sweatshirts provided the perfect way for him to hide. It was literally the only time he’d been thankful for winter.
“Hey,” Harrington said from across the table. He paused until Billy looked up to his eyes. His tone grew delicate and serious. “I’m not fucking around, okay? You. Look. Good.”
And the way that Harrington looked at him -- brown eyes soft, his gaze lingering on Billy’s face. On his eyes. Well, maybe he meant it.
“Yeah?” Billy asked. He felt his face heating. “You think so?”
Harrington took the last bite of his lasagna. “Definitely.”
~*~
Harrington had picked up Commando from Family Video, and Billy popped it in the player. They turned off the lights, bodies only lit by the flickering light of the film, and even with all the action, it still felt romantic nestled on the couch, closer than they needed to be, Harrington’s knee pressed to Billy’s. Their pinky fingers touching on the couch cushion. The film was a nice touch though since Billy loved action movies, and Arnold Schwartzenegger had some great one-liners, but then.
Then there was a scene in a mall. Billy’s palms started sweating, and his heart felt like it was beating in his throat. He took a deep breath in through his nose and held it.
Harrington looked over and hit stop on the remote. “Hey, Billy. You okay?”
Tears fell down Billy’s cheeks and he exhaled heavily through his mouth. He was terrified to close his eyes, even to blink. Terrified that there he’d find a looming monster with gnarled, bent legs and body of lumpy human innards. He thought about the scream that ripped from his throat when he went to meet his death -- just to give the kids a fighting chance. For Max. For El, who’d summoned Billy from the bottom of his mind with just a few words. He thought about his fists raised, hands surrounded and trapped by a fanged tentacle.
And then Harrington gently took Billy’s right hand. Ran his fingers over it. His fingers trailed over the back of Billy’s hand, then his wrist, then his palm. The sensation snapped Billy’s mind away from the mall -- interrupted memories of stabbing punches he took to the torso and Billy focused on Harrington’s plush lips. On the locks of hair touching the collar of his sweater in the back.
“You’re still scared, Billy,” Harrington said. “But you don’t have to be. Not right now.” Slowly he reached out and touched Billy’s hair -- ran his fingers through it once. Twice. The cassette clicked off having been paused too long, and Harrington was bathed in the blue light from the screen. “I’m here.” He brought Billy’s hand up to his mouth and pressed a kiss to Billy’s knuckles -- kissed the dark pink scars on the back of Billy’s hand. “It’s not gonna hurt you. Okay? Nothing can hurt you now.”
Billy’s eyes fell back to Harrington’s lips and then Harrington leaned over and placed a soft kiss on Billy’s lips.
The cassette popped out from the player and the light from the TV blinked from blue to white static as Harrington changed the angle and kissed Billy again, came back over and over, lips moving against Billy’s and Billy reached over to Harrington’s hip, fingers dug into the denim there. Harrington’s tongue licked over Billy’s lip, slid in and touched Billy’s tongue, licking over it briefly before he pulled it back. Billy cupped his hand around the back of Harrington’s neck, pulling him in, sliding his fingers through those thick brown locks as they kissed to the sound of the TV’s white noise.
Harrington pulled back wetly from Billy’s lips. “I’m not goin anywhere, baby. And you have a small army of people who would stand in front of you if it came to it. You won’t be hurt, Billy. Not again.”
“That’s a bold promise for a place as weird as this,” Billy said.
Harrington laced their fingers together. “They’d have to get through me first, and I don’t wanna brag or anything, but I’ve won one fight against this Russian guy.”
“Ooo. One fight. You’re a true Rocky Balboa there, pretty boy. Real tough guy.”
Harrington kissed the back of his hand. “Mm. For you? I’d beat up two Russian guys.”
Billy leaned over and stole a kiss from Harrington’s lips. “My hero.”
“As long as they don’t drug me, then we’re fine.”
Harrington stopped talking then and spend long, quiet minutes exploring different ways to kiss Billy -- little short pecks, long press of his lips, a deep tongue kiss, followed by a quick and sweet press of his lips to Billy’s nose.
It took some time, but they got around to finishing the movie. The hour grew late and Billy lay back against Harrington’s chest while they watched the rest of Commando.
When it ended, Harrington nosed along Billy’s neck, peppering it with kisses. Billy said the words he’d been biting back for the last forty-five minutes. He looked at their fingers tangled together on his chest and blurted it all out. “Hey, uhm. Wanna stay with me here tonight?”
Billy immediately felt Harrington’s heartbeat start hammering at his back. Billy scrambled for words. “I don’t -- I don’t mean it like let’s fuck. I mean that would be great, I really want to do that too, but y’know. Not tonight? I just wanna. I just want you to like. Be with me. Sleep with me. In my bed.”
“Okay,” Harrington said. He used his other hand to thread through Billy’s hair. “Yeah. I’ll stay with you.”
They took the few steps back into Billy’s bedroom, and Harrington stood next to the bed and slid out of his jeans and sweater. Billy pulled off his jeans but left the henley on because, well, He just wasn’t ready for Harrington to see him like that yet.
Harrington pulled Billy’s back against his chest, the only sound in the room the quiet whoosh of the furnace kicking on. His eyes drifted closed. He felt the gentle pressure of Harrington’s hand on Billy’s forearm.
“G’night.” Harrington said, his breath ticking the back of Billy’s neck. He tugged Billy a little closer and squeezed.
“Night,” Billy said -- feeling comfortable in this embrace. For the first time in a long while, he felt, deep down, safe.
Some time later Billy woke up with a sharp inhale, sitting bolt upright in bed. The image of himself laying Heather down on concrete as she struggled and writhed was still fresh in his mind’s eye.
“Hey,” Harrington said behind him. He pulled Billy close, pressed his lips to Billy’s temple, his arms squeezing tight. “Shh, baby. It’s fine,” he said quietly. He threw his leg over top of Billy’s, and that pressure. Billy felt like he was being pulled back down into himself -- reined into his own body. “You’re safe. Okay?”
“Okay,” Billy said. The beating of his heart slowed, and his muscles untensed.
“It’s fine. You’re safe,” Steve repeated. Through the split in the curtains, Billy could see fresh snow falling outside, large white flakes making the outdoors all new and fresh again. “You’ll be fine, sweetheart. You’re okay.”
“Okay,” Billy said and felt his eyelids slide shut again. “Steve.”
~*~
Late mornings on Saturdays were always busy for Billy. Before eight he managed to get everything together for the morning rush, making sure he had enough donuts on the shelves and boxes pre-assembled, ready for those who wanted to a dozen go and seats wiped down for the handful of elderly regulars who liked to sit around and exchange gossip over cups of coffee.
Of course that’s when Henderson came bounding in the door with Sinclair and Max. Billy saw them shifting around impatiently behind the two people waiting in line, some sort of quietly intense argument happening between them as they moved their way up to the register.
“What can I get for you guys?” Billy asked.
Sinclair spoke up. “We need a half dozen chocolate frosted and a half dozen cinnamon sugar.”
Billy grabbed a sheet of waxed paper and started loading up a box. “Where’s Wheeler?”
“Mike’s visiting El this weekend,” Henderson spoke up. “And we wanted to know if we could, uh.”
“If we could study at your house,” Sinclair butted in. “We have a big test on Monday in history so we thought maybe we could use your place since no one’s home and it’s quiet.”
Billy cocked an eyebrow at them. Only Susan would be at home at Max’s, and Mrs. Henderson had a Saturday shift with Dr. Barron today so no one was home there, either. “What are you little shits planning?”
All of them looked affronted. “How dare you impugn my character,” Henderson said.
“Pulling out the SAT vocab on me, Henderson?” Billy said as he pushed the box across the counter.
Max rolled her eyes. “Like I’d need your place to come up with evil plots. I can do that just fine at home, asshole.”
Billy sighed. “Fine. But whatever mess you make you better clean it up, and keep your hands off of my food.”
“I got the spare key on me, so we’ll just let ourselves in,” Max said.
“Yeah, well. Be outta there by four. Steve’s coming over later, so I need you guys to be gone.”
Henderson’s head snapped up. His eyes narrowed. “Steve, huh.” He picked up the box and tucked it under his arm. “Well we’ll definitely make sure we’re packed up and cleared out by then. Because -- Steve.”
Billy waved them out, closed his eyes and puffed a breath. Not once over the last twelve and a half months had Billy ever uttered the word Steve in front of anyone. Billy found it odd still, even in his own head. Steve sounded foreign on his tongue. Strange and intimate -- like speaking a kiss out loud.
Saying Steve in front of the kids. Billy scrubbed a hand over his face. Might just as well have said boyfriend.
“Excuse me, Billy, can I get a refill please?” old lady Johnson asked with a sweet, dentured smile.
“Yeah sure, thing Dolores.” He filled her cup with a pointed lean and wink.
“Oh, you devil.” she said and giggled to Mrs. Caffrey next to her.
As ten in the morning rolled closer, Billy didn’t have time to think about it any more since he found himself occupied by the bustle of a Saturday in winter and the masses seeking warm donuts to comfort themselves. By the time the day was done, he’d cleaned, locked up, and stretched his sore muscles, and only then did he remember that he was going home to three kids who probably abandoned their flashcards to play Atari.
He didn’t totally hate the thought -- but also still had Henderson’s narrowed eyes in his mind, and of course Steve would be coming over and Billy had this whole routine of getting ready that consisted of showering, shaving, using multiple hair products, blow drying his hair with the diffuser, and applying cologne -- none of which did he want these kids to witness.
When he bounded up the stairs and into his door, though -- he wasn’t prepared for what he found. Any minor annoyance he’d felt evaporated. In front of his living room window stood a small pine Christmas tree, wound with gold garland and dripping with silver tinsel. Little blue and red bulbs dangled all around it, little multi-colored lights glowed from the branches, and a red tree skirt lined the bottom. A row of multi-colored lights were strung up along the mantle, and a red stocking with his name written in neat cursive with silver glitter was hung there.
There was a small pile of presents under the tree, along with a Santa Bear.
Henderson stood up from the kitchen table with his head ducked. Sinclair and Max stood hand in hand behind him, smiling softly at each other. Henderson said in a low voice, “Christmas is in two weeks. And Max noticed that you didn’t have any decorations, so. We thought we would, I don’t know. Help you out.”
Billy stepped forward and looked at the tree, glittering with decorations, and the smell of fresh pine filled his nose. He crouched and glanced at the gifts there, all addressed to him. From: Claudia. From: Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair. From: Lucas. From: Dustin. From: Erica. The Santa Bear was labeled From: El on its tag.
Warmth unfurled in his chest and tears slid down is cheeks. He tried to duck his head, tried to wipe them away, but then Max crouched in front of him on the floor and placed her arms around his neck. He felt an arm around his back, looked to the right, and Sinclair was there, hugging them both. Then a curly head was on his left shoulder and Billy found himself squeezed by Henderson.
Moments passed by and Billy closed his eyes and allowed himself this. To feel their warmth -- their embrace
Allowed himself to be loved.
~*~
That night with Steve was filled with pizza and beers and no shortage of boredom, and because of that combination, Steve somehow talked Billy into baking cookies.
Billy tried his best to avoid it -- I spend all day making dough, pretty boy, ugh fuck really -- but once Steve got that bag of Nestle’s Toll House in his hand, it seemed like he was on a mission and that was that, end of story, Steve got his way. Billy found his kitchen counter covered in bowls, eggshells, measuring cups, and a dusting of flour.
Steve closed the oven door after setting the tray of cookie dough balls on the rack and twisted the dial on the stove’s timer.
“I still can’t believe you talked me into this,” Billy said as he started moving all the dirty dishes into the sink.
“But you did it anyway. I’m starting to think that maybe you’re sweet on me, Billy Hargrove,” Steve said, and reached over to turn off the faucet, leaning into Billy’s space a bit. “Leave those. I”ll get them in the morning before I go to work.”
Billy crowded Steve back against the countertop, placing his hands on the counter on either side of Steve, and he stopped just short of meeting Steve’s lips. “Bit presumptuous of you to say morning, isn’t it?”
“Well. I spent the last five nights in a row in your bed with you. Didn’t really think it’d be such a big shocker that I’d like to spend a sixth?” Steve asked as he kissed down Billy’s neck. “Seriously, though, if you’re tired of me or want some space, I can head back home. Just say the word, sweetheart.”
“Nope,” Billy said. He wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist. “I think I’ll keep you.”
Steve worked his way up to Billy’s lips. “Guess I’m yours, then.”
Billy leaned in and kissed Steve deeply, licking his lower lip and when he touched his tongue to Steve’s, Steve made this sound, high and whiny, and slotted his thigh between Billy’s. They hadn’t gotten around to this yet -- to getting each other off. Most of Billy’s nights were complicated, and although Steve’s presence made them easier, he still felt tense before they went to bed. Still felt self-conscious and held prisoner by the trauma of these past months.
But that was far from his mind as Steve’s tongue played against Billy’s -- as his hands rested above the curve of Billy’s ass. The smell of freshly baked cookies filled the air as they kissed, and Billy found himself hard and wanting and rocked his hips against Steve’s and felt the hard length of Steve’s cock against his hip. He reached down between their bodies and cupped Steve -- held his hand there, just feeling the line of it straining against the denim.
“Fuck, Billy,” Steve muttered against Billy’s cheek.
Billy dragged his fingers up Steve’s denim-covered cock slowly and then reached for the button of Steve’s jeans, dipping his fingers below his waistband for a moment and feeling the course hair against the backs of his fingers. “Baby,” Billy said.
The stove’s timer, harsh and loud behind him, made Billy jump out of his skin. Out of sheer instinct he yanked his fingers back and stepped back.
Steve stepped into Billy’s space to press a kiss to his lips and said, “This isn’t over.” He tugged on the oven mitts (a gift from Dolores Johnson), pulled out the cookie sheet, and set it on the cooling rack.
~*~
Steve tasted like cookies -- tasted a little like vanilla and a little like beer too and a lot like milk chocolate. He smelled like some cologne that was woody and earthy and expensive as fuck. They hadn’t even bothered turning on the TV but instead to stuffed themselves with cookies while they talked about the Christmas decorations and Billy’s job and Steve’s job and what they wanted to do now -- this big, scary question mark that neither had answers to just yet, and the only thing that they could figure out was that Billy wanted to have the kids over on Christmas Eve for a party.
But Billy couldn’t resist Steve’s lips, so pink and lush and inviting -- and a smear of melted chocolate chip across Steve’s lower lip was all Billy could take, and he was licking his way into Steve’s mouth, tasting chocolate and breathing hard and hot against Steve’s cheek.
“I want-” Billy started to say against Steve’s mouth. “I want.” He kissed, open-mouth, along Steve’s jaw.
“What do you want, baby?” Steve asked, his hand squeezing Billy’s thigh and sliding up, roaming as Steve exhaled heavily.
“I want you.”
Steve pressed a kiss to Billy’s mouth, diving in with his tongue once, a fucking tease, before pulling it back out. “Easy. I’m yours.”
Be honest, Doc Owens had told him a few months ago. You can only be completely truthful with a limited number of people about the trauma you faced, so it’s important that you cultivate those relationships and be honest with them.
Billy inhaled and exhaled slowly and pushed words past his lips that had held him back -- kept him shackled when he wanted to push it further with Steve. “I want to. I want to feel safe again.”
Steve sat back. “I’m not gonna let one fucking thing happen to you, sweetheart.”
“I know, but,” Billy said, lacing his fingers through Steve’s. “I…” He swallowed thickly and blinked back tears. “I wanna be safe from my own mind.”
Steve pulled their fingers up to his lips and kissed the back of Billy’s hand. “I’ll help you through it. Whatever happens, Billy -- the nightmares, the flashbacks. I’ll be here for you.”
Billy pushed Steve back against the couch and straddled his lap. He gripped Steve’s shoulder and touched his fingers to Steve’s jaw, trailing them down his neck and back into his hair. “I wanna believe you, pretty boy.”
Steve grabbed Billy’s wrist and pressed his hand to his heart, beating hard and steady under Billy’s palm. “Let me show you.”
Steve wrapped his hands under Billy’s ass and stood up. Billy quickly locked his legs around Steve’s waist and this shit hadn’t happened since he was little -- he hadn’t been picked up since his mom lifted him up when he was tiny and sleepy and fell asleep against her side instead of his own bed.
“What the fuck,” Billy said, a little panicked. He clung to Steve’s neck as Steve took the first few steps from the couch, but Steve’s hands were firm under him even if Billy’s brain was telling him that he was too big -- too heavy.
“I gotcha,” Steve said and walked them back to Billy’s bedroom, and it really wasn’t that far of a trip, but Steve handled Billy easily down the hall. He laid Billy back on the bed -- climbed between his knees and leaned down to kiss his lips.
Steve’s fingers touched the hem of Billy’s grey henley and he froze in the middle of a kiss. “I want to see you,” Steve said. “But I’m not gonna do anything you don’t want.” He nuzzled Billy’s neck and his breath fanned hot over Billy’s collarbone.
“It’s-” Billy started, but then he felt the hot, hard length of Steve’s cock pressing against his hip. He hummed and rocked up against it, eager for some friction. “It’s not pretty, though. I’ve got scars. A shitton of ‘em. And they’re fucking -- ugly.”
Steve’s hand still hovered at the hem of Billy’s shirt, and his lips kissed the skin of Billy’s neck, open-mouthed. He rolled his hips against Billy’s. “You’re fucking beautiful, Billy.” Steve rocked against him, cock hard and insistent, and Billy inhaled sharply and rolled his hips back up, seeing more.
Billy propped himself up on his elbows and tugged Steve down to his lips, kissed him hot and filthy, his tongue on Steve’s, bringing out that high whine from the back of Steve’s throat. He pulled back. “Go ahead,” Billy said and placed his hand on top of Steve’s, which had now fisted the bottom of Billy’s henley. Billy dragged Steve’s fist up a bit, showing a bit of his belly.
“Okay,” Steve breathed, and he started to slide down between Billy’s legs, his pupils blown wide, a pink flush high on his cheeks. His hair stuck up everywhere and Billy thought Steve had never looked so fucking good, looking up at him like that from between Billy’s legs. He wondered how long he could keep Steve around like this, how many days or weeks or months Steve would look wrecked between Billy’s thighs.
Steve looked down and placed his hands under Billy’s shirt flat on his sides. The hem of Billy’s shirt lifted as Steve ran his hands up and up and up, revealing the first sets of wide scars, dark pink gnarled skin formed in distorted-looking circular patterns. They varied in size, the larger ones a darker pink, the smaller ones now covered in delicate silvery skin. Steve stopped lifting and pressed his lips to a scar as he worked his way up, kissing each scar as he saw them. A little “Mmm,” came from his mouth as he touched his tongue to one of them.
He paused when he got to the centerpiece, as Billy came to think of it -- the massive, dark pink circle in his lower-middle of chest about four inches wide. “Billy,” he breathed, and kissed the skin there. “You’re perfect.” His hand slid between them and made quick work of the button and zipper of Billy’s jeans, tugged them down a little, enough so he could lick his palm, slide a hand under Billy’s briefs and wrap his fist around Billy’s cock.
Steve started stroking Billy’s cock and kissed the scar again, and Billy thrust his hips, fucking himself into Steve’s hand and Steve looked stunning, just like he did at Billy’s bedside for four months while Billy was in the hospital, awkward and telling the stupidest jokes, reading letters that El had sent along. Just like he did the first time Billy stepped out of his Camaro and saw him over a year ago. Just like he did in the afternoon sun slanting through the high windows of the gym, sweaty and smiling. Just like he did the first time he set foot in the donut shop, head ducked, stumbling over his words and fidgeting with his hat.
“God, yeah, Steve, Billy panted as he felt the tension building and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer. “Gonna come,” he huffed, and then Steve ducked his head and licked Billy’s scar.
“Jesus, fuck,” Billy said as he came, spilling over Steve’s fingers. Steve licked the scar again and then kissed it, softly, two more times before he pulled his hand out from Billy’s briefs and slid up Billy’s body to kiss his lips.
Steve used his other hand to push aside some of the curls from Billy’s forehead. “Billy Hargrove,” he said, looking down Billy’s abdomen. “You’re beautiful. And this right here?” He leaned down to kiss the center scar again. “This is why you’re still here. To me? This is the sexiest fucking thing about you.” His lips ghosted over the skin again.
The kisses didn’t hurt Billy -- they didn’t feel particularly bad or good, really. But because they were coming from Steve, because every press of Steve’s lips infused it with adoration and love, Billy now felt proud.
He thought about World History when Mr. Arcadia talked about how ancient societies used palimpsests, parchments where the writing was washed away and the parchment reused, new text written on top, but the old words were still there if you studied it with proper care and tools, and that’s what his body felt like now -- the text written in new scars on top of old ones and Steve was there to show Billy how to interpret them.
Turns out Billy was reading them all wrong.
They shifted around eventually and tugged off the rest of their clothing, and Billy was bound and determined to show Steve how talented he was with his mouth. It’d been a while, but he knelt on the bed between Steve’s knees and he found the right angle, pressed his forehead to the soft curve of Steve’s belly, and when his nose touched the hair at the base of Steve’s cock, Steve swore loud enough that Billy was certain he must’ve woken the animals at the vet’s office next door.
He bobbed his head, savoring the weight of Steve’s cock on his tongue and the stretch of his jaw, and worked Steve until Steve came apart and spilled down his throat, over his tongue, and Billy swallowed with Steve’s hand lightly gripping his hair saying, baby, fuck, you’re so good.
They dozed for an hour and woke up and felt gross covered in dried sweat and jizz. In the shower they washed up and kissed and that’s when Steve sank to his knees slowly, kissing the scars along Billy’s back as he knelt. Billy leaned forward against the tiles, his eyes falling closed when Steve licked over his hole and licked up inside of him until Billy was moaning and his cock hardened again and touched the tiles.
Billy told Steve to get the fucking lube top left drawer. When Steve fucked Billy up against the shower wall, he kissed the skin of Billy’s ear, praised him, told him, “baby you’re so beautiful, so fucking gorgeous,” with one hand on Billy’s hip and one touching the centerpiece scar under Billy’s heart.
That night they finished the rest of the cookies cuddled up under a blanket on Billy’s couch and watched Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back into the wee hours. The snow drifted down in the black of night outside as Steve told Billy, “See, baby. Everyone thought Han was dead too and it turns out he was just fine.”
Which led to an argument over which one of them was Han and which was Leia, and eventually, they agreed that they were both Han. They finally crawled into bed as the sun peeked through the curtains that Claudia had made for him. Billy had the next day off, and he was thankful for rest, thankful for Steve Harrington’s hand on his heart, tracing his scar.
Thankful for this new life as he fell asleep, shirtless, in Steve’s arms.
~*~
On Christmas Eve, Billy regretted his life choices.
There were six teenagers plus Steve in his tiny place. Billy sat jammed next to Steve on the couch with Max and Sinclair while the other kids played Trivial Pursuit. Henderson, Byers, and Wheeler bickered loudly about whether Wheeler deserved the blue pie for Geography because he didn’t say Thailand correctly.
“You said it with a TH sound like. THE. Like THEN,” Henderson said. “It’s a hard TEE, dipshit, like Tom and like, the river Thames, same goddamn thing.”
“It doesn’t matter. I said it wrong but it’s the same spelling so how does this even count against me?” Wheeler raised his voice.
“IT’S NOT THE SAME THING!” Byers shouted, and wow, Billy had never heard Byers shout before, but there it was.
“You know what, FINE. Have it your way!” Wheeler shouted back. “It’s YOUR. TURN, River Thames.”
Billy rubbed his temples. “Ugh, fuck. They’re louder than that KISS concert I went to last spring in Chicago. Louder than ten KISS concerts.”
“I’ll get you an aspirin, baby,” Steve said and leaned over to kiss his cheek as he pushed up from the couch.
The moment that he was gone, though, the couch dipped next to him. He turned, ready to snap at Henderson who’d bugged him relentlessly to join their riveting Trivial Pursuit game, convinced that Billy might be his only real competition.
But it was El.
“Hi Billy,” she said, smiling sweetly up at him. She’d been watching the game quietly and apparently the Thailand argument was just too much for her. She wore a santa hat, and her brown hair was down past her shoulders now.
Billy couldn’t help but smile back.
“Hey El.” He threw an arm around her shoulder and tugged her to his side for a little hug. “How’s life in Columbus?”
“Good. I’m happy,” she said. “I miss Hopper, and Mike, and all of you guys, but I like it there.”
“Are the kids there cool or are they assholes?”
“They’re cool. Joyce will yell at anyone who picks on me, so they learned fast to stay back.”
Billy leaned closer to her and asked quietly, “Still nothing? No powers yet?”
Her face fell a little and she shook her head no. A couple of tears slid down her face.
“Hey. It’s okay.” He reached around her shoulders again and gave her a squeeze. “Powers or not. You’re still the reason I’m here. Why any of us are here. Anway your true power is having a good heart. The best thing about you is your ability to help others. I mean you reached past a literal monster in my mind to get to me. And that’s pretty fuckin heavy metal, kiddo.”
She laughed and wiped her tears, that looked up at him with a smile. “Heavy metal.”
“Yeah. Metal for sure,” he said.
Steve walked up with a couple of aspirins and a glass of water.
“Thanks,” Billy said, popping the pills in his mouth and taking a gulp of water. He winked up at Steve, who reached down to squeeze his shoulder, then stormed into the kitchen and yell, “You guys need to keep it down or you’re gonna wake every dog, cat, and bird at that vet’s office next door and do you really want it on your head that they had a poor Christmas because three kids wouldn’t stop yelling?”
Billy looked at the whole scene and felt his face go soft.
“You love him,” El whispered next to him, her face by his shoulder as she leaned over.
“Yeah,” Billy said. “Yeah I think I do.”
~*~
Billy put on the coffee on in the morning and looked out the window to see the snow -- it glittered in the morning sun, fresh and white and beautiful. Steve padded into the kitchen, hair sticking up, light stubble on his jaw. He looked rumpled in his t-shirt and briefs and navy blue robe.
He loved Steve. Loved him like this, how he looked in the morning, how he looked when he was pissed, how he looked when he was happy or horny or bored.
“Merry Christmas, baby,” Steve said and gave Billy a kiss.
“Merry Christmas,” Billy said, and tugged Steve in for another kiss, wrapping his arms around Steve. Holding him close. “Hey do you wanna. I don’t know. This is fuckin crazy. Wanna move in here? With me?”
Steve blinked his eyes. “What? Say that again. I haven’t had any coffee yet and it sounded like you said move in with you.”
“Yeah. I mean. We don’t know what we’re doing so, like, fuck it. Might as well figure it out together. You’re here almost every night anyway and…”
Steve rubbed circles on Billy’s back. “Mmhmm?”
“And Doc Owens told me before he released me that when I found something good, when something made me happy, I should hang onto it. I rolled my eyes at him and tried to tell him to fuck off but he got that tone he gets and was like, Billy. Drop the bullshit. Okay? Being vulnerable is what saved you from an interdimensional creature. Imagine how that could work for you if you were just open and honest and dropped your bullshit attitude in your daily life.”
“Sounds like a smart guy,” Steve said. “So. You’re saying you want to hang onto me then?”
“Mm. Yep,” Billy said, and gave Steve a kiss. “You make my nights better.” He felt tears slide down his face. He sniffled and continued. “You make me feel better about myself.” His throat constricted and he fought past it, choked back sobs to talk. “We’re good together. And I love you.”
“Billy,” Steve said softly, swiping his thumbs through Billy’s tears and pressing a few quick kisses to Billy’s lips. “I love you too. Of course I do. And yeah, fuck it. I’ll pack a few bags and move in here.”
“Yeah?” Billy smiled through his tears.
“Yeah. Let’s do it.”
“Okay,” Billy said and he squeezed Steve tight. He felt like his heart was bursting -- felt like it was hammering happily above his centerpiece scar. “But like, no posters of fuckin Thompson Twins or any shit like that.”
“Aw, babe.” Steve pouted. And then he started rocking Billy back and forth a little bit and started singing softly, “Hold me now. Ohhh, warm my heart. Stay with me.”
He sounded good and he was looking right in Billy’s eyes while he sung to him and yeah maybe that did make Billy feel a little fucking soft with Steve serenading him in the middle of the kitchen on Christmas morning. “Okay. Fuck it. One Thompson Twins poster. But leave that ugly wallpaper at home.”
“I wouldn’t dream of covering this up,” Steve said and gestured to the 70s orange and yellow geometric patterns on the wall. “It’s perfect.”
Billy gave Steve a long kiss, couldn’t wait for this to happen, to have Steve in his place and in his life -- to have Steve come home to him every night and build this together.
This new thing.
Another blank canvas in Billy’s life.
They started by having coffee and frech toast and exchanging gifts -- Steve opened Billy’s gift, a pair of tickets to see Duran Duran in Chicago in February (something Billy managed to score through Mr. Sinclair, who had clients that hooked him up), and a new sweater, something soft and light brown that reminded Billy of Steve -- and something that Steve could wear in public, a secret token of their relationship, without arousing suspicion.
Billy peeled back his wrapping paper to find a little box, which held a pendant for Billy’s necklace -- a silver arrow. Billy touched it and Steve said, “for protection. And to show you’re moving forward.” Billy unhooked the clasp on his necklace and added it immediately.
They exchanged stockings filled to the brim with each other’s favorite junk food and snacked, napping on the couch as It’s a Wonderful Life played on TV.
Billy found himself falling asleep to the words, Merry Christmas, you wonderful old Building and Loan! and felt grateful.
He felt grateful for blank canvases and palimpsests and looking at life like George Bailey, seeing old things through new eyes. For El, and Max, and the rest of the kids and their parents and Flo’s dishcloths.
For his centerpiece scar. For his life.