Tommy's basement smells like overcooked pasta, and the fact that it only has two tiny ass windows near the ceiling doesn't help. The fact that it only has two tiny ass windows also makes Billy think this is probably the least ideal place to smoke weed in Tommy's parents house. The smell isn't going to leave easily.
It's not his problem.
Tommy's basement smells like overcooked pasta, but that isn't the worst part. The place was obviously an unfinished basement, and it really shows. It being an unfinished basement made it a fucking square hole in the ground surrounded by drywall sheets. The whole thing was making Billy sort of claustrophobic, the ceilings were maybe seven fucking feet high. But, that being said, free weed is free weed, no matter the setting.
"That Nina chick won't leave me the hell alone," Billy grunts, leaning further back into the gaudy second-hand yellow couch, it creaking under his weight.
"Tina, man. Her name's Tina, dude," Tommy says, eyes lidded and full of mirth. He's so fucking high. His hair is sticking up in multiple directions, makes it look like he just got out of bed, but Tommy doesn't seem to notice. Tommy doesn't seem to notice a lot of things.
"So when are you gonna let her suck your dick?" Tommy asks, like he actually wants to know, and he has that toothy grin smacked on his face, the one Billy isn't too fond of. As if he'd want Tina's, because that's her name, Tina, recently dentist-cleaned teeth anywhere near his dick. A mouth's a mouth, sure. But Tina spews so much bullshit daily that it won't be worth it in the long run.
Jesus, Tommy doesn't seem to notice a lot of anything, actually.
For that, Billy's grateful.
"Bet she'd bite it off," Billy snaps, feeling unwarrantedly annoyed at Tommy, he needs to be high right now. He snatches the joint from Tommy's fingers. Tommy rolls his eyes, sticking a freckled hand in his hair again, managing to make it look somehow worse. He doesn't say anything, and it makes Billy wonder if Tommy isn't too fond of Actually-Named-Tina, either. Or maybe—
"She bite yours or what?" It comes out sounding rude as hell, like it should, because Billy's the one saying it. He inhales the smoke, feeling it deep in his lungs, blinks. Tommy's just looking at him, but he's smiling. A big, toothy one, causing his eyes to crinkle harshly.
"She never bit me, but, yeah." Tommy laughs, leaning forward to grab a can of beer from the coffee table. He flicks the tab across the room, "She wasn't that good at it, she might have chronic dry-mouth or something, jeez. Nothin' compared to Kathy."
Tommy pauses.
"Don't tell Carol I said that." Tommy must have a motormouth or something because he keeps on going. "Did Kathy ever ..?" Tommy gestures downwards.
Billy shrugs, fights against rolling his eyes. Is this really what normal teenage boys talk about? It’s not like Billy had friends back in Cali, the new kid effect here is killer. He takes a few more puffs before handing the joint back to Tommy, who gulps his beer before putting it in his mouth. He inhales slowly, then coughs abruptly, eyes bugging out, like he remembered something.
After what sounds like almost hacking up a fucking lung, Tommy smiles, big teeth on display. It reminds Billy of a predator, some sort of big cat he saw at the Santa Barbara Zoo a few years prior. It doesn't look that intimidating, not on the surface, but it has that undercurrent of 'rich boy suave' that shows he can ruin your life in one swift move if he so wanted to.
"You know who sucked my dick better than Nina?" Tommy pauses. "No— Tina. Now you've got me doing it, man." Tommy giggles and takes a smoother hit, relaxed, practiced. Now more a calculating fox than feral zoo cat. He blinks slowly.
Billy makes a noncommittal noise, leaning forward off the couch to retrieve a beer from the pack. He flicks the tab across the room like Tommy did, and fights not to roll his eyes again, because he couldn't care less about another random chick's dick sucking ability. He doesn't care about Kathy or Jennifer or Sheryl. But Tommy's smiling like this chick gave him the best head of his life. Billy sips at his beer. Tommy speaks.
"Steve Harrington."
He chokes. Tries harder than anything not to do a spit-take like he's in a fucking cartoon, but ends up with beer dribbling down his chin anyways. Tommy's smirking, but he's not taking it back. He's not taking it back.
"Wh-" Billy's voice cracks and his throat gives out. His fingers are tingling and he almost drops the fucking beer can.
"You can't tell anyone," Tommy says, trying to make himself sound serious despite being fucking blazed, and shit, holy shit, holy fucking shit. "You tell anyone, Billy, and I'll kick your ass."
Billy nods, and there's still beer on his chin. It's sticky and gross but Steve Harrington sucked Tommy's dick.
"Besides, second best blowjob of my life."
When did Billy's life become one continuous punishment? Jesus, he never thought he'd ever be jealous of Tommy H, never in a million years. Just like how he never thought Harrington would suck a dick. When did he get so shit at predicting?
Tommy pauses, "Don't tell Carol I said that."
"Harrington's into guys?" His voice sounds absolutely wrecked. His entire world view is wrecked. What the fuck?
Tommy shrugs. "I guess. He was totally into Nancy though, and when she dumped him and he got all sad? He was into her."
Jesus, can everyone stop talking about Nancy fucking Wh—
"He was hammered. It was, uh, shit, I think it was Kenny's eighteenth birthday party—"
Billy honestly didn't give a shit about the setting.
"—and Carol and I had some fight, I forget what it was about, but I was kinda fucked up about it. It was— shit, man. It was the night he set the keg record, before you beat it. Anyways, he was totally hammered and he didn't like me being down or raining on his parade or whatever so he was like lemme make you feel better or something. Got on his knees in Kenny's garage."
Steve Harrington on his knees.
Billy could almost see it.
Tommy smiles to himself, inhales on the joint, and he's giggling, he's so far gone. "When it was done, yeah? He tried to fucking kiss me, man. I had to shove him back onto the concrete because I wouldn't kiss Steve anyways, but especially not when he had a mouthful of spunk."
Shit, Billy would kiss him, even if he did have a mouthful of spunk. He'd lick it right out of Harrington's mouth. And Billy always knew Tommy was a fucking halfwit. Christ, he'd had Steve fucking Harrington practically begging to kiss him and what? He said no? Was he dropped as a baby? How many times? It practically made his blood boil. It was fucking blasphemous. Who cares about jizz when Steve Harrington's kissing you?
"And there was this other time," Tommy says, sinking deeper into the couch, and Billy leans forward, because Christ, this is turning out to be the most interesting night of his life. "After Byers kicked his ass? I think that was when he first started his fucking pussy act." Tommy rubs a hand down his face and looks at him, and Billy nods, so he continues.
"Right, so we go to the Flair—" Tommy stifles a laugh. "Fair Mart and I get him a coke for the swelling, yeah?" Tommy sips at his beer, Billy nods. "And he goes off on Carol! So I'm like no way in hell is he gonna pull that shit when he just lost a fight to that creep." Billy nods again, praying to some God above that Tommy will get on with it already.
"Right. So I tell him that, you know? Get all up on him, shove him against the side of his car."
Billy's suddenly thinking about shoving Harrington against his fancy little BMW, getting close enough that their knees touch, feeling Harrington's breath on his cheeks, fuck. How Harrington would feel bracketed in his arms, how Harrington was one measly inch taller than him, how Billy would have to really push against Harrington, lean him back a bit, so they'd be even in height. Harrington's long legs, how they'd feel pressed up against his own, how—
"And then he gets this look."
And then he gets this look.
Billy wonders how ridiculous he looks, facing Tommy while leaning against the side of the beat up yellow couch, eyes wide as all hell, one step away from begging. Because Tommy said Harrington had a look, a fucking look, and shit, Billy will do fucking anything to see that look. Because Harrington's eyes are fucking huge and deep and he feels like a total girl for even thinking it, but, he could drown in Harrington's eyes. He'll blame it on the weed later.
"And I'm like whispering shit at him," Tommy smiles so big and puts on a voice, "like or what, or what." Billy wants to whisper shit to Harrington. "And, I might be wrong," Tommy pauses, takes another sip of his beer. "But, uh." He laughs again, this time with nerves. He sets the can down, and Billy's never seen Tommy nervous. Tommy's nervous like whatever he's about to say is big shit, real shit, too real for how crossed he is. Tommy snatches the joint back from Billy's fingers, and Billy's this close to slapping the information out of him. Because Billy feels like he's on one of those stupid award shows Susan likes to watch, with the suspense, the host taking his sweet time to announce the winner.
Tommy awkwardly laughs again, inhales deeply against the joint, and Billy wants to shake him until his brain rattles and the words fall out. Tommy plucks the joint from his mouth, hands it off to Billy. He opens his mouth.
"I'm pretty sure he had a goddamn chub."
It's like a shock races down Billy's spine, and he's suddenly gifted the ability to hear his pulse in his goddamn ears. He almost drops the fucking joint, because Steve Harrington got a fucking erection because Tommy fucking H, a guy, was pushing him up against his car. That, that shit is steps ahead, leagues ahead of drunkenly sucking a dick. That shit is less excusable, it's fucking incriminating. Steve fucking Harrington, popping boners over guys. It's like a dream he'd had once, actually.
"Like, I could feel it," Tommy continues, doing a half wince half giggle as he coveres his face with his freckled hand, as if being able to feel Steve Harrington's boner against your thigh would be anything less than a religious experience. Billy would do absolutely fucking anything to feel the outline of Steve's dick against him. He wishes he were joking. Tommy's so fucking ungrateful. It's unreal.
"Then, obviously, I let him go, because his dick is fucking hard," Tommy explains. "And I know he knows I felt it because as soon as I let go, he's in his car and driving away like some bitch."
The fact that Tommy let him go? The way Tommy let Harrington run away with that goddamn fifth limb between his legs? It was almost sacrilegious. If Harrington— shit, if he were Tommy, he's not sure he'd ever have let Harrington go. He's fucking positive.
"And then," Tommy laughs again, different this time, more cruel. He picks up his beer and shakes his head, blinks twice. "He doesn't talk to me ever again. Just drops me to the curb like trash, y'know? And ain't that some shit? We've been friends our whole lives, and suddenly he dates this Nancy prude and now he's too good for me? It's total bull." Tommy guzzles the beer. "Bullshit."
"Bullshit," Billy echoes, placing the joint between his lips with shaky fingers, he needs to relax. His body's vibrating. What the fuck.
"He thinks he's better than me, but he's not!" Tommy shakes the remaining drops from his beer can into his mouth, then hurls it at the drywall. He leans back into the couch and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. He groans. The idiot's totally cross faded.
"And Carol—" Tommy makes a low pitched noise, lowering his hands to play with the hem of his shirt. "It was supposed to be the three of us, you know? But he just—" Tommy makes the noise again, louder, and if Billy didn't know any better he'd call it a pained groan. Tommy kicks his socked feet onto the coffee table, knocking the mostly empty cardboard beer pack onto the carpet.
"We did what he wanted, you know? He wanted to be a fucking douchebag, so we were fucking douchebags. Then all of a sudden he's some golden boy, and he drops us like fucking nothing?!" Tommy yells. "It's bullshit!"
"Bullshit," Billy echoes.
"Steve Harrington's bullshit!" Tommy shouts, and before Billy can repeat 'bullshit' for the third time like a fucking robot, Tommy continues. "I can't— I can't be nice!"
Tommy's really preaching to the fucking choir with that one.
"And he makes it look so fucking easy!" He yells, and shit, are his eyes watery or is it just the redness from the high? "Like everyone can spend their free time driving around middle schoolers! That's weird! I can't do that shit! And he expects everyone to fucking evolve with him! I can't evolve!"
"Like a horseshoe crab," Billy adds helpfully, vaguely remembering a special about them on the discovery channel. Tommy's eyes are just red. Probably.
"Like a fucking horseshoe crab," Tommy reaffirms, tucking his chin into his chest. His eyes sort of dim a little, and Billy figures out his eyes aren't just red before Tommy opens his mouth.
"Do you think I'll always be like this? Like a horseshoe crab?" Tommy asks quietly, idly tapping his freckled fingers against his stomach. His eyes are glossy, focused on wiggling his socked toes where they rest on the coffee table, and Billy fights back a groan.
"Yeah, probably," Billy says plainly, and Tommy huffs from beside him, leaning forward to grab one of the remaining beers he knocked to the floor.
"I don't know," Tommy whispers, contemplative, before falling back into the couch. "Maybe I should've kissed him."
"Yeah," Billy grumbles, plucking the joint out of his mouth, and later he'll blame what he says on the weed. "You should've."
Tommy flicks the tab of the new beer across the room again, and maybe it's a thing of his or something. "Yeah?" He asks, like Billy has to convince him or some shit. You shouldn't need convincing to kiss Steve Harrington.
"Yeah. I would've," Billy says, feeling unwarrantedly annoyed, twirling the remains of the joint between his fingers. And he's so high, but before he can even remember he's not supposed to say that shit, Tommy claps a hand on his shoulder.
"Too bad he's a bitch now, right?" He laughs sadly, taking a messy sip from the can. And isn't that some bullshit, any Steve Harrington is a Steve Harrington, in Billy's opinion.
"I still would," Billy says, and it's a challenge, the way he squints at Tommy. He feels sick, like he might actually projectile vomit all over the shitty drywall of Tommy's basement, all because of those three fucking words. Tommy squints back, but he looks more confused and dejected than anything, which Billy should've expected, they're both high as fuck and Tommy's got that whole self introspection thing going on. The unease in his stomach lessens a little.
But maybe Billy wanted a fight, an excuse to pound Tommy into the fucking concrete of the stupid seven foot high unfinished basement. God, he's fucked up. Maybe this was the worst time to try out common courtesy.
"Yeah," Tommy says, and his hand falls down from where he clapped Billy's arm to loosely grip his wrist. "Yeah, I still would, too."
He lifts his socked feet up off the coffee table to tangle across Billy's, and pulls himself closer, his beer sloshing in the can. He tucks himself into Billy's side.
"Jesus, get the hell off—"
"Cool it, dickweed." Tommy sighs, sipping from the aluminum can again before setting it down on the yellow couch cushion. It's an accident waiting to happen, but it's not his couch, not his problem.
Billy wants to shove the guy to the unfinished floor, all concrete and dirt, but he's never had someone lean on him for emotional support before. It's a new experience. He doesn't like it much, there's too much room for error on his part, but he can relate to needing the comfort of another person.
"Look at us," Tommy mumbles, plucking the roach from Billy's hand and inhaling in an attempt to get anything out of it, "Steve Harrington's lackeys."
"Fuck Steve Harrington." Billy rests his head against the back of the couch, letting the high run through him.
Tommy giggles like a fucking toddler against his shoulder. "I'm tryin' to."
"Wish I could," Billy says.
"Yeah," Tommy mumbles, sounding wistful or some shit. It's gross, pathetic. They're pathetic.
"We're never bringing this up again, right?" Billy asks, to be safe, self preservation, and Tommy laughs lightly into his shoulder, grips his wrist a little tighter.
"Fucking 'course not, you bring it up to me and I'll still kick your ass."
billy hargrove wrestling on the ground with steve harrington over something inconsequential and then once steve gives up and gets pinned billy just. looks down at him and realizes how much he wants to kiss him. so he leans down and plants one on him and steve grabs a fistful of billy’s stupid mullet and they make out on the dusty gravel for like two hours
like it feels like “some people can have complex feelings about or even love their abusers” is tough for a lot of people to grasp because they’d rather have some kind of easy karmic retribution toward a character at the hands of their victims. which i sympathize with. but sometimes they just wouldn’t do that, you know?
baratheonpilled
titsay
