harringrove, baby!

i'm just here to give Billy Hargrove a happy life and i WILL fight to the death about it ♥ ; A03: petersfeather - Main: pointeful

[okaybutlikeimagine]

Don’t Give Yourself Away

Pt. 2 of the Low Life series that I started forever and a day ago! It’s just the enemies section of the enemies-to-lovers plot, bear with me here

TW: alcohol, underage drinking, driving under the influence, mentions of violence, violent thoughts, Billy just wanting to punch things basically

Read it on A03 here! :D

~~~*~~~

Fuck Steve Harrington.

That’s the consensus that Billy’s brain has come to as he sits in the overcrowded, gratingly loud cafeteria of Hawkins High. It’s been half a day here and that’s the only thing ringing through his ears  as he picks at the hunk of ground up meat this school tries to pass off as “food”.

“I mean, who the fuck does he think he is anyway?”

That’s Tommy, grunting over a mouthful of applesauce, his girlfriend sitting next to him and twisting up her mouth in some kind of disgusted agreement. Or maybe it’s more so irritation at the very bitter topic of interest. Billy can only grunt wordlessly back at him.

Tommy’s been rattling off for the last ten minutes about how Steve “betrayed” them, Carol’s listening with vague disinterest, and Billy’s thinking of ways to crawl out of his skin. All it took was one long look at Steve Harrington this morning in the parking lot to tell him he was in some serious trouble. And when that wide eyed girl got out of the same car… Billy felt the bitter fire of jealousy lick at every corner within him. And lord did he hate it.

He hates even more how he can’t even convince himself in some kind of soothing reprieve that she’s just a friend or a sister because he saw them. In the hallway when he was walking from one dreary class to another. Billy heard the guy giggle as she hit his chest and reprimanded him for his “stupid” sunglasses. As he smiled the brightest thing Billy had ever seen and said something that sounded like “I missed you”. Said something like “Tell me about it” when she pointed out that it had only been an hour. He purred it out as he cradled the side of her neck and pulled her in for a kiss; pulled her closer, smiling like she was everything and he couldn’t be close enough. Right there in the middle of the hallway for everyone to see. For all the hope and potential to seep out of Billy’s body and pool onto the ground.

“Leaving us to be with those… freaks.”

The boy in question is about 2 tables over, talking with that girl and some lanky dude with a shaggy haircut who looks like he can’t hold himself upright. Billy thinks it’s the punk he bumped into earlier in the hallway as he stormed away from whatever show Steve Harrington thought he was putting on with that girl. The same kid who Tommy and Carol were picking on earlier as they entered the cafeteria- sending rude jeers and snickers his way about being “cursed” and “creepy”.

Tommy and Carol are jackasses. It doesn’t take a whole lot of time for Billy to put that together- they’re loud and inconsiderate, walking and acting like they have something to prove with everything they do. They look down their noses at everyone they can, despite Carol only being 5 foot and Tommy being not even a foot taller. They take up so little space but walk like they can make demands of the world. Small fish in even smaller ponds. Billy knows and hates the type.

But Steve Harrington… He’s 2 tables over and he’s laughing something loud and bright and handing the lanky dude some of his food in some kind gesture and he’s got his arm around that girl and he kisses her temple where her hair meets soft skin and- and Tommy is right. Who the hell does this boy think he is and why the hell does he think he gets to be that way so unabashedly? Where does he get off, shining so brightly that Billy can’t even hope to get near?

“Clearly he made a big mistake.” Carol mutters, paying adamant attention to her tray and looking pissed to high hell with the conversation at hand.

Ripping his eyes away from the laughing and joyful Steve Harrington does more harm than good, because it means Billy has to look at a sulking Carol and Tommy. Billy hates more than anything that these people are the best people for him to stick to. He’s not here to make life-long friends- he’s only got a couple of years until he can get the fuck out and back to California. He’s not clinging to any hope for happiness here, he just wants people who are popular enough to make life easy and tolerable enough to keep him sane. A year or two and that’s it, he’s out and can scrub all of this clean from his memory. And hell, maybe sharing a common enemy will give him something to do in the meantime.

Billy’s not even fully sure what Steve did to these two to have them bitching so much. Tommy’s been rambling uselessly and Carol seems about as sick of it as Billy is, regardless of her seeming to agree. Everyone else around them is paying no mind anymore.

 This shit must happen often…

The only information he’s gathered is that Steve was their friend and they had some violent falling out and now Steve walks around with the prissy girl and the punk-ass boy. It’s been a long 10 minutes already.

 Just two years...

“Not King Steve anymore.” Tommy bites out and that gets Billy listening.

“King Steve?” He scoffs at the title. “Are you serious? Who the hell called him that?”

“Everyone.” A girl chimes in- Billy doesn’t know her name. He stopped inputting information past a certain point.

“Why?” He asks over his orange juice carton.

Everyone at the table looks at him like he’s grown a second head.

“Because he’s hot.” Carol supplies like it shouldn’t need to be said. Billy holds himself back from comment.

“He’s never had an awkward day in his life.” Tommy says, sounding just as bitter as before. “He acts better than everyone and we all just… agreed.”

At that, Tommy turns in on himself. There’s guilt on his face.

“He practically ruled the school.” Another girl adds, doing a fuck all job of reading the room as she swoons over her words.

And with all that, they’ve answered Tommy’s question.

 He knows exactly who he is. He’s the King, because they told him so.

Billy sends another look his way, to the boy that seems to have everything he could possibly need. The boy smiling and laughing. Somehow Billy doesn’t think this fallen “king” made that big of a mistake. This boy looks like he needs nothing more in his life than these two “losers” and a place to be with them… and Billy feels bitterness in himself growing ever faster.

“Yeah, well not anymore.” Billy growls darkly.

The energy shifts at the table- all the dejected faces of these people who have lost their effervescent leader turn hopeful onto Billy. He couldn’t have guessed to overthrow the “king” of Hawkins High on his very first afternoon, but he can’t say he fully dreads it.

 People doing what I say? Could be nice. It’s good to have people on my side… and it’s only two years.

“Yeah, not anymore.” Tommy nods in agreement, grinning through something sour still. Billy can’t say he really gives a shit about whatever this dude is going through.

“Anyone else to avoid?” Billy asks dismissively.

“Underclassmen mostly.” One girl complains. “God they are so annoying.”

“Some of them are worth a good screw though.”

The girl smacks the guy who just perked up. “You’re so disgusting.”

“I’m right.”

“Stop screwing freshmen! Just because you can’t get anyone else to touch your dick-”

Billy tunes out their bickering.

“I heard Julie’s a pretty good screw, too.” Tommy says lasciviously, clearly feeling more normal again. Carol doesn’t seem to be having it, though.

“I don’t trust Julie as far as I can throw her.”

“Oh yeah? I’ve heard some pretty good things-”

“She talks too much.” Carol crosses her arms indignantly. “It’s the people who talk the most that have done the least. Plus her mother is the town gossip, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it? She never shuts her trap.”

Billy hates a gossip. He makes a face that Carol must register, because she’s giving him a look like she’s been proven right.

“Yeah, exactly. So unless you want a single kiss and everyone to know about your dick that she’s never even seen before, you’ll stay away.”

“Jealous?”

Carol turns to Tommy with a gasp. “You’ve never even touched Julie Warner, so don’t you start.”

Tommy’s grin is feral and Carol looks about ready to deck him, but she just scoots in closer to him and continues to pick at her tray of food.

The brisk fall air coming in from the open window feels like an insult. Billy looks outside and wishes it smelled of salt rather than pine. Wishes the trees weren’t so fluffy but rather slim and impossibly tall. Wishes the world wasn’t quite so gray and brown and hopeless. Wishes, wishes, wishes…

He shoves his hands in his pockets for some protection and feels out the crumpled neon invite he dismissively shoved away before.

“What about... Tina?” He asks with general disinterest, reading from the paper in his hand. They shrug.

“Tina’s cool.” Carol admits. “Her mom is out of town on some business thing so the house is gonna be empty for the party.”

“Doesn’t really matter what Tina’s like though.” Tommy says, scraping the bottom of the applesauce container with his spoon like it’s his dying meal. “A party’s a party, right?”

Billy figures he can agree.

“You’re going, yeah?”

All eyes turn to Billy again, expectant. Suddenly, the weight of whatever “leadership” role he’s taken on has hit him. Maybe he should have just skulked in the corner and kept away from anyone’s attention. Maybe all those “freaks” they pick on had the right idea of lurking in the shadows and keeping your head down.

Then again, no. Talk is dangerous, and… Mr. Chief Hopper said it himself: “Not a lot to do around here but talk.” If they’re gonna talk, he’d rather control the conversation.

 Two years…

“Is there anything else to do in this piece of shit town?” He asks by way of an answer, with a sort of disgust he can’t wipe from his words.

They all laugh with mirthless agreement. Clearly, Billy was right. A boring old town full of cow shit and corn stalks- nothing to be proud of or excited about here. He’s surrounded by people itching to get out, just like him… except Billy’s not going to be like them. He’d bet his soul that at least half of these kids are gonna become burnouts trapped in the general area; like wriggling and desperate flies in a small town spiderweb.

“So, Billy…” The girl next to him purrs, scooting in and getting far too close for comfort. “Tell us more about California.”

Billy absentmindedly squirms out of her grip and silently begs for strength.

~~*~~

“I’m very sorry Billy,” Coach Walters or Wallens or goddamn Walrus says, not sounding very sorry at all. “But the roster was already decided over a week ago.”

They stop in front of his office, the man fumbling with a set of keys. Billy’s glaring down at them with furrowed and angered brows, feeling himself snarling at the clanging metal.

He looks up when the Coach does, his expression failing slightly at the almost sympathetic look on the coach’s face.

“I’m sorry. You’re just too late.”

“I can’t be too late.” Billy insists, voice straining a bit. He’s not going to say he’s been following the coach around desperately ever since school got out 20 minutes ago, asking and pushing and borderline pleading to try out for the basketball team… because no one’s here to see it anyway so he doesn’t have to admit to shit.

“You are.” The coach sighs, reaching out to grab the equipment from Billy’s hands. He offered to carry it, thinking it’d give him an edge of favor. Now Billy holds it back like it’s a hostage.

“You can make an exception for me.” Billy says assuredly. Coach Walrus shakes his head, bushy eyebrows low and deep frown unable to be hidden, even behind his abundant whiskery beard and mustache.

“I’ve given two exceptions already to other guys.”

“That’s not my problem!” Billy bites, holding back a wince when the coach frowns harder at him.

There’s a pause, a staring match that holds all of Billy’s hope for a decent time here in this wretched place. There’s nothing to do around here but wander the streets, and the temperature is dropping far too rapidly for that to be comfortable much longer. He doesn’t want to be huddling in the cold outdoors this fall, or god forbid by the time winter sneaks around. And there’s no way in hell that Billy is spending more time at home than he needs to. Billy’s got a few things going for him, but he could count those few things on one hand, and he’s not going to sit here and let one of those things be ripped away by being a week late when that isn’t even his fault.

He stares. He refuses to back down. He refuses to hand over the equipment.

“It is if you wanna make the team.” The coach says lowly. Threatens, if Billy had to guess… but there might be hope in that statement, and it keeps Billy from throwing the sports equipment down on the ground at his feet.

The coach stalks into his office. Billy follows.

“I was on my team back at home.” He tries quickly, heart pulling uncomfortably at the thought of it. He can’t think about things he misses, or he’ll get stuck.

“Alright, that doesn’t mean much.”

“We were in the best division in the state. We won championships.” Billy’s selling his former team way up. No one has to know, and certainly not this man. He only hopes he doesn’t look into it too hard.

The coach takes pause, eyeing Billy as he fiddles uselessly with paperwork on his desk.

“That says nothing about you as a player.”

Billy’s going to pull his hair out. He clutches the bag of dodge balls in his hand with a death grip.

“I can show you how I am as a player.” Billy grits out, vague recognition of threads breaking from under his grip. “If you just let me try out.”

The coach raises his eyebrow.

“You can put that equipment over in that corner.”

Billy looks down at the fraying bag and his popped out veins. He takes a few steps to toss the assaulted bag in the aforementioned corner.

“I just don’t have that kind of time right now, Billy-”

“Well I can vouch for myself.”

“I can’t just have kids vouching for themselves and getting onto our Varsity.”

“I was the best player on my team!”

Some would say that’s debatable, but-

“You were the captain?” the coach asks with a skeptical look. The words “best” and “captain” don’t have any correlation in Billy’s mind, but he nods his head anyway.

“Yes, I was.”

A lie. But it’s not like captain even matters, especially when the real captain was the son of the coach and mediocre at best.

“And do you have someone who can vouch for that?”

Billy reels. He hears a gruff, distant voice in his head.

 ... name and number… someone I can call… your best interest in mind...

He desperately wishes things could just be easy. He wishes it wasn’t such a witch-hunt to find someone who cares.

“You can call my coach.” Billy says, trying not to sound as lame as he feels. He’s fully aware his coach retired last year, it’s some new guy now that Billy didn’t bother to meet before the move. He knows if this man calls, he’s not going to get much by way of an answer. He’s hoping it’ll work in his favor- he seems so busy with fuck knows what that maybe he’ll just get sick enough of this to let it slide.

The exasperated sigh that leaves Coach Walrus seems like the nail in the coffin, Billy’s just not sure which coffin yet-

“Coach?” calls a voice, smooth and distant. “Coach Wallace?”

Another groan fills the room as the coach pushes past with an apologetic face to get back into the gym. Billy follows, feeling more flustered than he’d like. They’re not done here, they can’t be-

“Sorry Steve.” Coach Wallace laments.

 Steve.

The boy in question is standing in the door, mid-afternoon sun backlighting him with a glow that makes Billy want to hurt someone. Maybe him. Maybe there’s something to be said of Billy wanting to destroy every pretty thing he sees.

Steve looks at him with confused curiosity in his eyes. Billy can’t help but puff his chest out at the evaluation- maybe Steve even rakes his eyes up and down Billy.

But Steve looks away quickly. Billy tries not to deflate.

“Are you still coming by for dinner?” Steve asks, looking at the coach. Billy scoffs. Steve glares.

“Oh, yes, sorry Steve. I hope I’m not keeping your parents waiting-”

“Nah, if I know my mom she’s still mixing drinks and… making hors d'oeuvres or something.”

 The fuck is an “or derve”?

The coach and Steve laugh. Steve’s laugh is too damn pretty. Billy thinks about ways he can wrap his hands around a laugh.

“I just came by to ask if you still need help getting to my house.”

“Oh yes, if you could. I’ve been there so many times, you’d think I’d have the trip down by now.”

“Eh, it’s a little out of the way.” Steve shrugs, popping out his hip, hands in his pockets. His nonchalance is liable to drive Billy to murder. “I just uh… I’ve got somewhere to be tonight and I’ve kind of gotta… get ready for that. But no rush-”

“Ohhh… a nice date tonight?”

 Get ready, huh?

Steve rubs the back of his neck, smile sheepish. He’s just so polite.

“Eh it’s… it’ll be something.”

“Alright well then let’s-”

Billy clears his throat as loudly as possible.

“Oh! Sorry Billy uh... “ The coach heaves another sigh, like Billy couldn’t be any more of a burden. Billy fucking hates that sound. “Look. I’ve made a lot of exceptions already, but you seem committed to wanting to be on this team and lord knows we could use the commitment here. So… I’m taking your word for it just this once. Practice is right here every weekday right after school except for Mondays, alright?”

“Got it.”

“If I decide at practice that you’re not up to snuff, don’t throw a fit with me.”

“That won’t happen.”

Billy doesn’t specify which one he means. The coach seems to notice.

“I mean it.”

The coach points a thick, red finger in Billy’s face, his own very serious. And with that, he’s turning back towards Steve and leaving the gym. Steve is still standing there, backlit by the sun, leaning against the door and only shifting to let the coach leave first.

He peels his eyes away from Billy, looking impossibly and offensively disinterested.

And fuck Steve Harrington.

That’s the consensus that Billy’s brain has come to as he climbs into his bed that night, the nippy chill of the late October Indiana air seeping in through his drafty windows. It hasn’t even been 24 hours to come to this; it seems as though everything in this town can be ruined in a matter of 24 hours or less.

He’s fitful as he sleeps, as always. And as always, his sleep is mostly blank images and stressful feelings. However, every now and then, in between the anxious dark, he sees a sort of prettiness he wishes he could get his hands on and wring out- violently.

~~~~*~~~~

In his 16 years of public schooling, there’s one important lesson Billy has learned: being popular isn’t as important as being intimidating.

He could be the most friendless, insignificant sap on campus- in fact, Billy’s starting to think he would have preferred that option -but being feared is the only status of any worth. Being feared means no one talking shit about him. Being feared means everyone bending over backwards to get on his good side. Being feared means no trying to shove him around or trying to pick a fight because they know he’ll dish it out just as good as he can take it.

Back at home, Billy got into fights outside of school. Plenty of them. Enough to have all the students know he wasn’t one to be messed with. More than a few bruised faces and black eyes told everyone to never dare accuse him of empty threats. But here, in Bumfuck, Indiana with only the cows and their shit for company, no one knows a single thing about him. He’s just the latest newcomer who happened to ride in on a glittery California wave.

He figures this blank slate has given him a few options: hope someone starts a shitty rumor about him, start that rumor himself, or get in a fight.

He’d rather anything but that last one. No part of him wants to expel more energy than is absolutely necessary in this place. Everything’s easier when you let others do the work for you.

And for as angry as he’s been these last couple of days, he’s tired most of all. Tired from new homes and new time zones and new schools and new roads and new people and the same old expectations he’s always had to deal with… he’s just tired. There’s too much figuring out to be done. For as boring as this shitty town is, nothing’s normal here. He doesn’t want to have to do so much to exist comfortably. And he certainly doesn’t want to have to waste the energy on beating someone’s face in if he doesn’t need to.

He wants all of the benefits with none of the work. If he can get through this by staying low and having everyone assume more of him than he’s willing to give, things will be good.

He just has to get through it. And getting through it tends to be the hardest part.

He hears talk. Lots of it. None of it is quite what he wants yet. It’s only been a day, but every second counts when it comes to reputation, especially when that reputation is riding on a rumor. By the end of next week the momentum will die down and he knows he can’t wait that long. So he listens intently to the talk around him- mentions of “rockstars” and “roads paved gold” and “is that a scar?” and that’s what catches Billy’s ear the most. There’s hope filling in him that maybe he’ll get exactly what he wants.

“He doesn’t deserve an exception. He just moved here.”

The voice is coming around the corner from where Billy is shoving useless books into his locker. It almost sounds familiar, but in a way that grates at Billy’s ears.

“I don’t know, man.” A far less familiar voice responds.

“He’s cocky.” It’s spat out with disgust. The boys can’t see Billy if he can’t see them, but he knows the words are about him. He can feel it tugging in him. “Why does he think he gets special treatment?”

“You get special treatment, too.”

“What? No I don’t.” The familiar voice is a petulant little whine now.

“The coach visits your house all the time.” And that’s what seals it.

This guy is talking to Harrington.

“... okay but that’s different though.”

That’s Steve Harrington. With his self-entitled confidence and his irritated whine. He’s not getting what he wants and he’s pissed about it. Or maybe it’s more than that. Billy is clutching his last book with white knuckles, wondering why his being on the team means anything to this rich little prick.

“You weren’t even here for tryouts, were you?” It’s the other guy. Billy’s seeing red. “You were still on vacation, but Coach let you on the team anyway.”

He can hear Harrington stutter, grasping for straws on how to defend himself.

“Yeah but... But that’s just different c’mon man, you know that. Coach knows me, he doesn’t know this… asshole.”

“He might be good for the team.”

“Who cares? He’s a pain in my ass.”

Billy doesn’t realize how hard he slams his locker until he rounds the corner and sees wide eyes and open mouths. He realizes he doesn’t care far quicker, though. His fists are clenched hard, knuckles cracking. People are whispering. He can’t hear their words. He’s staring down this stupid boy with his pretty face and wants so badly to see it ruined. Wants so badly to take one of the many things this self-centered prick gets to have as his own. Wants to ruin what he has- wants to rid him of even half of that privilege.

Harrington’s face is shocked, but it washes away into dismissiveness. He raises his nose up.

“He’s just a worthless poser. He doesn’t belong on the team.”

Billy seethes.

But Harrington doesn’t see it, because he’s turned around and walked away. The other guy is still standing there, gaping, before he walks away too, but Billy barely realizes. He’s got laser focused vision on Harrington. Billy’s fists flex.

He wants to do something. He wants to hurt him. He wants to chase him down the hall and get his hands into him. Feel his flesh under him. Feel him writhe under him.

He wants him gasping for air and pleading.

His chest fills with bile just at the thought… the thought of wanting…

Billy turns and walks the other way.

He doesn’t know why he does it. He still sees Harrington’s face in his mind, dismissive and uninterested, and then it all morphs into just shapes… and there’s more energy coursing through him now than there has been since he first stepped foot on the soft and muddy Indiana soil- and it’s poisonous. It’s the sort of energy that wrecks through his body, making his limbs shake and his heart race until he’s finally got his hands on something. It’s the sort of energy that makes him feel sick when he thinks back on it afterwards… that makes him feel like a familiar monster. The sort of thoughts that make his heart race with anxiety alongside the adrenaline. There’s just a scary kind of freedom in roughing someone up- he’s big and he’s strong enough. He’s worked hard for it. There’s control in taking it into his own hands. It feels like all he can do sometimes. All he needs is to get a good grab. He can get anything within reach. He just needs a reason.

“Hey, Hollywood… what’s with the red face? Can’t handle a little Indiana sun-”

There’s a reason.

He doesn’t register anything until he’s in the front office, being sternly spoken to by the vice principal. He gathers from the conversation that he gave the guy a bruised stomach and he “should be lucky it only got that far” because “from what I’ve heard, you’ve got a new coach. And he doesn’t take kindly to this kind of behavior.”

Billy doesn’t even think about it until later that night, when he’s getting ready for Tina’s stupid party and hears those afternoon words repeat through his mind. Words questioning his worth, questioning his character, threatening to take away something he just barely got… all because he got angry. All because he couldn’t handle himself. All because he’s a mirror. He’s just a reflection of all the worst things he sees...

No, it happened because of Harrington. Because of Harrington most of all. Yeah. Because Harrington couldn’t keep his stupid mouth shut or his shitty opinions to himself. Because Harrington has a face too pretty for his own good.

 Fuck Steve Harrington.

~~~*~~~

Billy likes it loud.

Everything. Everything loud.  Loud music, loud sex, and certainly loud parties. Loud parties bring a comfort that quiet ones could never hope to grasp. Billy can’t be around this many people without his body vibrating from constant energy. Without his eardrums shaking from the wailing music.

There’s no thoughts to be had while inverted and chugging watery beer out of a dirty, spit soaked keg. He gets a high off of the overstimulation, his body rushing itself over with adrenaline. Then he kicks his foot, and the guys at his ankles let him down, and his ears are buzzy enough to drown out the cheering he can see is taking place in his honor. His heart is thumping heavily. The cheers get louder as his blood settles back into its regular flow. He can feel large hands patting and pawing his shoulders and back.

He cheers along with them, vibrating with the words he’s saying even though they’re gibberish to his ears. There’s no need to be coherent as he shouts, wandering back into the house and cutting through the crowd of people as he puffs his cigarette. He feels a hand- must be Tommy’s -lingering on his back and shoulder. Hit him there. Stay there. Lingering lingering. He’s too out of his mind, too out of place to care too much.

Being drunk makes it easier to stay at this lame party. Most of it is blurry to him, what with his stuttering movement and the way his eyes have started to water after being upside down for so long. He’s fixated on streamers hanging from the ceiling, figuring they must actually be toilet paper now that he’s got his hands on them, pulling them absent-mindedly from the ceiling like a cat with yarn. He’s dizzy with everything, suddenly aching for something for his mouth to do, thinking of going for his cigarette again or even tonguing at the paper when-

 Fuck.

He keeps a good grip on the toilet paper, hardly realizing that he’s bringing it with him as his focus is completely honed in on a figure leaning up against the nearest wall. He pushes past writhing bodies, vaguely hearing the music as it shouts over all of them. There’s only one person Billy cares about right now- maybe only one person he’s cared about all week.

He doesn’t have words and doesn’t feel he needs them. Tommy’s scratchy voice says all he needs him to.

“We’ve got ourselves a new Keg King, Harrington.”

Billy stares Steve Harrington down with fervor, but he can only see himself in the reflection of Harrinton’s glasses. He’s blurry even to himself, and it leaves him angry.

“Yeah, that’s right!” Is the voice of another guy Billy never bothered to remember the name of. “Yeah, eat it, Harrington!”

Harrington takes his glasses off then, face looking every bit as serious as Billy feels. They just stare as time vibrates around them. Or maybe it’s just Billy. Billy still has no words in his throat, and especially not with Steve’s eyes on his. Billy thinks, briefly and loosely, about how he still wishes he had something to do with his mouth right now.

And then it’s just as always- as if Billy couldn’t be more boring if he tried -because Steve looks away with disinterest. He shifts his focus over to Tommy and his lips curl into something that straddles the line of a smile and a sneer.

“Harrington, huh? Whatever happened to Stevie?” He asks it in a way that makes Billy’s blood run hot in a way that isn’t just anger. It gets Tommy shifting nervously. Harrington’s smirk just grows wider.

His eyes flick back over to Billy for a quick second, before leaning in and speaking seriously to Tommy: “You can tell your new King I hope he enjoys all my sloppy seconds.”

Tommy’s face burns a bright red but Billy can’t see that because he can’t look away from Steve. He’s a whirlwind of everything violent and intoxicated and overwhelmed and far too strong. He sneers, ready to lunge but his body won’t let him. His feet are planted.

“Happy Halloween!” Harrington chirps, looking far too happy and far too satisfied and far too bright in his all-black outfit as he walks away. And Billy wants to lunge at him. Wants to spit out all of his hatred. Wants to blame his whole life on this one guy as he saunters away.

But Tommy stalks away with a dark mutter. And then there’s a crowd sweeping Billy up and leading him back over to the dance floor.

And it’s times like these Billy is glad it’s loud, because he doesn’t need to speak to anyone. But it’s times like these where Billy hates it loud, too, because loud means people. Lots of people. People touching him and writhing against him and sweating on him. His stomach starts to churn with the way everyone is undulating around him.

He shoves his way towards the window, seeing most people have migrated either inside or out back, now that the keg seems to be empty. There’s a few stragglers still coming in fashionably late, lots of cars parked outside, but there’s a small patch of dried grass over to the side that’s completely vacant. It looks like a haven right about now. He pushes through the crowd until they part like the red sea for him, giving him the chance to stumble outside and lay out on the grass.

When he gets there and flops himself down, he laments how rough and scratchy it feels. He silently cusses out Tina and her folks, figuring there’s no way it can be drier here than it is back where he’s from, down near the border where they're in a drought most of the year and the heat dries up the plants. Figures they must just be cheap. Can’t even take care of their own lawn.

And Billy wonders who he’s kidding. His old man is the same damn way.

He lays back, head feeling woozy from leaving the heat of all those bodies and heading straight into the crisp fall air. While the grass is harsh and offensive against him, he’s still grateful for the stability now pressed against his back. For a second, quick and warm, he feels fully safe.

And if there’s anything to be said for Hawkins- for all of Indiana and the piece of shit Billy still firmly believes it to be -it’s the night sky. It’s every star above Billy that’s winking back at him crystal clear. It’s the hundreds of them… hell maybe thousands of them that are in view right now on the crunchy grass next to Tina’s house.

San Diego was vastly different. Even in the small towns bordering it, the stars could never be this abundant and bright. Only when Billy and his friends dared each other to paddle out into the ocean on their surfboards late at night could they see anywhere near this many stars. Only on the farthest and most secluded corners of the beaches, or the very tip of the more vacant piers.

There’s some comfort and some pain when Billy thinks about how these are the same stars that can be found in San Diego. Roughly. Right? It’s certainly the same Fall moon. It’s a different breeze hitting him right now, chilling him down to his bones and making him wish he was on that surfboard. Wishing he and his friends were talking about something stupid and childish. Wishing the harsh ground beneath him was rocking like a rolling wave.

Billy’s always hated wishes. Despised them. He never gets anything he wishes for. They’re not worth the breath.

Still somehow his brain never quite gets the memo.

He’s dizzy with booze and people and wishes. He’s staring at the stars, watching them twinkle, wondering how the real search out here in the boondocks is for a plane in the sky rather than a celestial body, and he wishes for things. He wishes for pretty things. Wishes for things he can get his hands on. Wishes for ease. Wishes for salty breezes. Wishes for seagulls. Wishes for seashells. Wishes for and wishes for and wishes for-

He hears the door open and slam- heavier now than it has been as people wander into the party late. He sits up quickly, immediately feeling that keg he chugged earlier and that joint he hit before getting here and those beers he had in the car ride over and-

Someone is trudging down the walkway, smacking bushes angrily as they go. Billy watches with unfocused eyes, noticing first the dark outfit and then the coiffed hair.

“Harrington!” Billy shouts after him, heart pumping quickly, watching as the boy doesn’t slow even for a second. He heaves himself off the ground, head feeling heavy, wondering if his eyes are deceiving him or not. “Harrington, you…”

The boy’s steps falter. He shifts his attention, just a little, in Billy’s direction and there he is. That pretty face. Billy hates the way Harrington shifts his attention away so quickly, just like always. As if Billy couldn’t be any more worthless if he tried. As if Harrington himself is the one deciding factor of something like that.

So Billy starts to walk after him, his own steps lazy versus Harrington’s urgent pace.

“How’s it feel? Huh?” Billy’s mouth feels like mush, so he yells louder to compensate. “Being such a loser? Losing everything you had?”

He watches as the moon illuminates the bit of Harrington’s pale neck exposed to the air. He wants his nails in this boy’s skin. He wants to dig into him and under him in every way. He wants a lot of things he can’t stand to put into words.

Harrington still isn’t looking. His stride still isn’t breaking. Billy is pissed, tries to walk a little faster, tries to yell a little louder.

“Must really suck doesn’t it, champ? Hm? Knowing you don’t mean anything to anyone anymore.”

If Billy isn’t mistaken, Harrington starts to walk faster. It feels kind of good and kind of sick to see him react. So he keeps yelling after him.

“Knowing you’re nothing to them now, eh hot shot?”

Harrington’s steps get heavier. Billy feels a cackle rising up through his throat.

“Knowing you lost it all-”

“God, no one gives a shit about you!” Comes a voice that startles Billy, knowing it’s not his own, but rather Harrington’s. He’s damn near screeching as he spins around quickly. His face is bright red, even in the dim light of the night, and his expression is folded into rage. “Not a single shit!”

Billy nearly falls as he stumbles back, suddenly being faced with a shift in momentum. He cements his feet to the grass as best he can, staring down Harrington and his dark eyes. His mouth falls open in his shock.

“They?” Harrington continues, gesturing wildly to the house behind them. “Aren’t worth anything. They’re gonna forget you in a month, tops. And then what do you have? Huh?”

Billy blinks, bewildered and suddenly boiling, Because how dare he… how dare he-

“Who cares what you have to say! You mean nothing! Just get the fuck away from me.”

And then Steve turns back around, stomping down the street, probably to find his car. And Billy watches after him, stumbles backwards a bit, clenches his fists tightly. The words stick to the cold air like a tongue to a frozen pole, rushing around Billy’s head in heavy, dark promises. In harsh and brittle words of truth.

 No one gives a shit…

His knuckles crack again with how hard he’s clenching them, and he moves to go after him with his fists- but he fumbles. His head is spinning with harsh truths now too. Everything feels wrong and sour. He tries to chase after him, go get his hands on him, to make him pay- but he just stumbles forward like he’s a deer with newfound legs.

And Billy wishes. Billy wishes with all his might to get his hands on something tangible and breakable and fragile.

He can’t help it… he watches Steve pull away and down the road, driving faster than Billy’s heart is beating. Billy feels wreckage inside of him.

He turns back to the party to shove his way through the crowd, to grab another drink, and to get the hell out of here.

[okaybutlikeimagine]

A Father’s Day Triptych; P2

(Wrote a very late part 2 to A Father’s Day Triptych! this time following Jonathan’s past)

(as always, on AO3 here)

TW: past/referenced child abuse, emotional hurt/comfort, child neglect

Father’s day in the Byers household was dreary and exhausting.

It was probably always that way. Jonathan sometimes imagines there could have been a few pleasant years in there when he was a baby- back when he was far too young to remember anything and Will wasn’t even a thought in anyone’s minds. He only wishes he could have fully experienced them, if they ever existed to begin with. The only memories that he’s logged away are ones of stress and struggle. Ones that are loud and grating. Ones that are colored gray and black.

The first one he even remembers was the year Will was born, and how upset he felt at all the yelling still going on, even with the new baby in the house. He spent most of the day in his room, cradling Will while he heard his parents going at each other’s throats through the thin walls. Jonathan decided then to always do his best to make it okay for Will, at the very least. He’s spent every waking day in an attempt to make things okay for Will.

It was always near Father’s Day that Jonathan really understood the poor excuse for a father he had. He remembers the year in elementary school where they spent their last few days before summer break with craft paper and markers, set to draw up fun cards in honor of their fathers. He heard every story about fishing trips and “bring your kid to work” days and major league baseball games. Kids would boast about large barbecues and days in the sun. It became a one-up-manship contest at one point. Jonathan just sat and wore out his blue crayon.

And maybe it was that year that he believed those things could actually be true. That kids weren’t just lying to make themselves look cool- that they actually had fathers who cared… maybe even listened once in a while. It was kind of like the opposite of being told Santa Claus isn’t real, but perhaps a bit more heart-wrenching. It was like being told Santa Claus is real, and he’s every bit as magical as they say he is, but he’ll never come visit you.

Jonathan biked home from school that day and almost convinced himself that it could be real for him, by some sort of miracle. That Lonnie wasn’t really horrible all of the time, maybe Jonathan was just doing something wrong. He filled himself up with fanciful ideas of becoming a better son so he, too, could deserve one of those “good fathers”. He almost had a whole plan set… and he was about halfway home when his head was full of all the times Lonnie had muttered “useless” at him for stupid things- like how he flinched at the sound of guns. Dropped the tool box multiple times. Couldn’t even catch a football.

And Lonnie was always cruel and insufferable, but it got exponentially worse on days where he felt owed something. Father’s day, his birthday, hell sometimes even just random days off. He’d kick up his feet on the coffee table and loudly demand to be served. Joyce would spend all day delivering food, beer, newspapers, magazines… Lonnie would demand it all with an expectant smirk on his face that’d turn sour when he didn’t get what he wanted. He pouted like a child- more often than Will ever did. And when Joyce got too tired, Jonathan quickly took up the task, even if it was at Joyce’s behest. He was only a child, it was all he could do to help her.

He’d face the disgusting smirk himself, as much as it made him queasy to look at. He was always a scrawny kid, so he’d try not to recoil at the way Lonnie clapped him on the shoulder with a bit too much force. It was like the man was trying to assert dominance. Or like he was trying to break Jonathan beneath his hands while crowing about how it was “for his own good”. If Jonathan reacted too much, Lonnie would just grip tighter. Sometimes he’d whip Jonathan into a headlock, deeming it “tough love” as he’d grab at Jonathan’s hair and pull. Always pushed Jonathan in a means to provoke him- wrestle and rough him up a bit and cackle as he did it. He’d try to get him to fight back. “Toughen him up” and teach him “valuable lessons”.

Jonathan just did his best to keep it away from Will. Whenever he could, if he ever saw Lonnie veer in Will’s direction with that gruff chuckle and that glint in his eye, Jonathan would push between them in an instant.

When Lonnie was finally out of the picture things got… stilted around Father’s day. Awkward. Fumbling. Joyce tried her hardest to make the day feel as normal as possible. Jonathan was used to it, but it was still hard for Will. He was still in elementary school. One year they did something in class to help celebrate. Jonathan remembered the way it felt to be so… isolated. He watched Will come home and slink off to his room, tears welling up in his eyes. He held Will tight that night and chastised him for ever blaming himself as the reason for what happened. Jonathan found himself still cursing Lonnie just as much as he did while the bastard was still in their home.

It never got less awkward. Every Father’s Day since then felt odd. It was never like something was missing… more like something was suddenly intruding on them all. And Jonathan only gave himself a few moments to despair the sinking feeling before putting on a brave face to soothe an anxious Will and Joyce.

…

Father’s day in the Byers-Hopper household was awkward…but somehow in a very caring and sweet way.

Jonathan had known Hop for a long time before they started to share a roof. He briefly remembers being a toddler and meeting Hop a couple times on the street. The odd, confusing pride he felt in being called a “handsome young boy” and Joyce smiling tightly and their exchanges being short. Remembers a few years after that when Jim rolled back into town on a wave of rumors about death and tragedy- when whispers followed him like ghosts. There was a fine line everyone seemed to toe back then… between their respect of him as Chief and their disgust of him as a drug addict and a drunkard.

Jonathan always thought of small moments when he thought of Hop… moments like when they crossed paths at the Hawkins 4th of July parade and Hop handed him a lollipop. Or the time they caught sight of Hop at the fair and the Chief had given Will a Sheriff’s badge sticker to wear on his shirt and deemed him the newest deputy and made Will giggle like crazy. Even back when he always seemed sad, he was sweet- so suddenly having him around didn’t feel as gross or stifling as he once thought it might. The only sourness Jonathan ever felt was that anyone outside would ever think, even for a second, that Joyce hadn’t done a good enough job on her own. Just her and her two boys. That she and Jonathan didn’t give it their damnedest- that they needed someone around to help because they couldn’t hold it together. It wasn’t like that. Joyce was a good mother- the best mother.

Still, he did appreciate the extra helping hand. Well… make that a few pairs of helping hands.

The once Lone Wolf Jim Hopper didn’t come on his own anymore- no, now he was a package deal. An exhausted cop, a girl with superpowers, and a boy with burdens. It was a strange accommodation to suddenly make, but hell, even they weren’t unwanted.

Will seemed almost impossibly happy to have someone his age around all the time. Jonathan knew how cool Will thought El was, but Will couldn’t ever seem to believe when El returned the same feelings to him. She listened to every detail about his D&D character, she watched in fascination as he drew, she cheered him on when he played video games. She told stories to Will about the time he went missing- how all the rest of the party ever did was tell her how wonderful he was. She treated him like a hero, too. The two of them became an excitable dynamic duo to be reckoned with.

And Billy made Jonathan… tentative, at first. Though as the days went by, Jonathan was suddenly hard pressed to remember when they ever interacted at all before living together. As soon as they got to talking, Jonathan realized how oddly similar they were, and suddenly a gratefulness began to overcome him. There was someone around to help buy weed, and someone to smoke it with. Billy seemed to know a lot more about different strains than Jonathan, something Billy attributed to being from California, so he showed Jonathan which strains to steer clear of so Jonathan wouldn’t ache to crawl out of his own skin. It was also nice to talk with someone about music who got it… who craved it as much as he did, even if Billy’s taste was atrocious. Billy would say the same about Jonathan.

Billy was gentle and kind with Will. El was cheerful and sweet with Jonathan. And Joyce… Joyce hadn’t looked that calm- that happy in -far too long. So regardless of anything else, it was all worth it. But what surprised Jonathan the most was how he found himself gauging Hop. Constantly.

The Chief Jim Hopper himself, who swung El around like a monkey sometimes. Who was more gentle with Billy than Jonathan could ever make sense of. Who treated Will to ice cream and candy maybe a little more often than he should have. Who gave Joyce soft kisses on the top of her head. Who smiled a hell of a lot more than Jonathan had ever seen him before. Who looked comfortable in his own skin again. Who looked confident in himself again.

Jonathan was happy for him. But that still didn’t make anything feel anywhere close to normal about having a… “father” in the house. There hadn’t been a “dad” around to celebrate in such a long time. Father’s day meant nothing to them anymore in the Byers household. Maybe they’d order some of their favorite take out that night but that was about all. So when June came around and El appeared in Jonathan’s doorway, he assumed it could be anything.

He wasn’t expecting her to yell “Father’s day!” at him in excitement.

Billy had appeared next, behind El, explaining how they usually do something for Hop. Looked at Jonathan with an expectant gaze, asked if he was going to come along. And something pulled within Jonathan at that moment- something deep and sick, like jealousy. Or maybe betrayal. Like a bitterness he didn’t know was locked away inside of him.

He joined anyway and sat in the passenger’s seat of Billy’s Camaro, El and Will in the back, while El and Billy talked about what they were looking to get for Hop from the store. What they had learned about him. What they had gotten him in the past. Jonathan pushed down the images of them celebrating Hop happily.

He hung back in their group of four. He watched Will start to get excited with El. He caught Billy’s attention somehow, on accident, and just couldn’t keep the words in his damn mouth. They stumbled out in a worried mumble: “This is weird.”

Billy was confused. Jonathan stuttered, feeling out of place again and wrong, too, for saying anything at all. Tried to keep his big feet and big mouth from stepping on any already battered toes. He couldn’t take his eyes off of all the Father’s Day decorations and cakes and balloons and cards and the way they were eating him from the inside out.

He wasn’t eloquent in the slightest. He stuttered over how he and Will hadn’t had a father in a very long time. Not one to celebrate. The whole time he spoke he was keenly aware of Billy and the reason he was now living with Hop in the first place.

Jonathan held his breath as the air between him and Billy went dead and wavered in the awkward silence, before Billy spoke up in a tone Jonathan couldn’t make sense of.

“It is weird.”

Jonathan was shocked. “Yeah?”

“It keeps being weird.” Billy nodded. He was solemn. He was staring, unseeingly, in front of him as they walked. “Not bad. Weird though.”

Once again, Jonathan was grateful.

Father’s Day was the very next day. Jonathan was content to let it just be a Billy and El thing, but it wasn’t- Joyce joined in readily. Will didn’t seem uncomfortable at all. They all four presented Hop with burgers and pie and attention all while Jonathan stood in the back and felt like an asshole for it. He turned down the offer of a slice of pie. He ignored the records and the card games and the laughter. He felt like a ghoul slinking away to the dark corners of his room.

He liked Hop… he knew he did. He had talked to Billy about him before Joyce and Hop decided to make things official, when it was clear that they were going to become one big weird family. He had asked what Billy thought of Hop, as if he didn’t know the man at all. As if Jim Hopper was a stranger to him. Billy had stuttered and stumbled and used the words “a good dad” and tore right through Jonathan’s heart.

Jonathan laid on his bed, unsure if the staticky feelings in his joints were bitterness or exhaustion or even just… early onset arthritis? He debated putting a tape into his stereo. His limbs had no strength within them. He sighed and thought of the past and wished it didn’t have a grip on him.

A knock came at the door. Jim Hopper walked in.

And Jonathan stared as Hopper spat a flurry of niceties his way, trying his damnedest to say… something. Jonathan wasn’t too sure what exactly. He blinked as Hop spoke circles around himself. Before-

Hop heaved a big sigh.

“Listen to me.” Hop heaved out as if Jonathan had even said a word since Hop walked in. “You and your brother… you kids are a couple of… the best kids ever. I don’t think kids get better than you two. Really you’re… you’re such good kids and you deserve… you deserve.”

Jonathan waited in the silence and thought about being called a “kid” while Hop began to try again.

“I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t be saying this to you but… your old man… he was an asshole.”

And Jonathan huffed out a chuckle- couldn’t keep it inside him. Hop barely seemed to notice.

“A real prick. I never liked that guy, and I just don’t know how you two grew up to be- no, I do. It was your mother. Your father just didn’t know what he had. He never noticed anything good even when it was two inches in front of him.”

Jonathan stared at Hop. Watched how Hop messed nervously with his hair and his collar and the buttons on his shirt.

“He always was a screw up but he screwed up big time when he screwed up here with you two. With you three. He lost something real good here. And maybe I’m the asshole for being glad for it because…”

Jonathan didn’t know where this was going… but he was figuring it out quickly. Hop pressed on.

“I’m glad to be here. Thank y-”

Hop faltered. Jonathan watched. Jonathan had no voice left in him anymore. Hop continued.

“This day is weird. I know it. Trust me. And you don’t have to… you don’t have to… anything. You don’t have to anything!”

Jonathan laughed at how weird of a statement that was. Hop forced himself to continue on.

“I just… don’t know what I’m trying to say. But I’m not… taking it for granted… that I’m here.”

Jonathan blinked. Hop fidgeted.

“I just hope you know that.” Hop said and looked like he was 2 seconds from fleeing and Jonathan watched and couldn’t make sense of any of the swirling feelings in his stomach as he felt his voice bubble up.

“Billy was right.” is what he said. It was Hop’s turn to look speechlessly at him. Jonathan felt his heart pull. Felt everything in him confused and fighting… and something small in him felt like a bit of relief. “You’re a good dad.”

And Hop’s face lit up like a Christmas tree, with an unmistakable wetness shining in his eyes as the star on top, and Jonathan felt stupid for thinking about Santa Claus in June.

…

Father’s day in the Byers-”not quite Wheeler yet but soon” household is stilted and virtually non-existent.

Jonathan has been living in his own place for years now and he still feels like he can’t fill it up all on his own. He thought he’d be beyond ready to finally get out, but once the time came he realized how heavy his feet were. He’s got all his belongings, most of his music (the stuff he didn’t leave behind for Will), a table, a couch, a bed… and still the place feels blousy around him as he walks around it. He’ll be glad to have Nancy as permanent company soon. In a few months, when she’s finally set to move in. Now that they’ve finally both convinced each other that being together is far more worth it than being alone.

And living on his own has made Jonathan feel growing pains he thought he’d long since forgotten. Even though he’s alone, those small, random holidays don’t cease. It’d be so much easier to ignore them than to notice how hollow he feels when they pass. But, whether it be unfortunately or quite the opposite, he can’t ignore Father’s days anymore- even as they roll by in a lazy blur. That first one out of the house almost slipped past him completely, but he forced himself to call home. Call Hop, with butterflies winging at his heart. He wished him well and sent his thanks in roundabout ways that still felt cottony in his mouth. Hop fumbled over his own emotions, too, so all was well.

Then he heard that Billy and Steve decided to adopt.

He spent that whole afternoon sitting on his couch, zoning out to the television, thinking about that and what it means. When he made his monthly call to the Harrington/Hargrove residence, he asked them what it’s like. He tried to make it casual, like he was only just vaguely interested. Billy sounded tired. Suddenly there was screaming in the background. Jonathan got handed off to Steve because apparently Billy is the one that has to handle it. Again, he asked what it’s like… and this time, Jonathan could hear it. Steve Harrington and the loverboy that he is had honey in his tone. As the screaming quieted down, Steve surprisingly used the simplest words to explain what it’s like to feel the entire Earth’s joy and love in your heart.

Jonathan still felt dizzy with it after he sent his goodbyes and ended the call.

So June is here and Father’s Day rolls by quickly, as always, except this year he’s getting company. Not Nancy yet, but Billy. He’s got some work trip out near where Jonathan is at and he’s agreed to come visit.

On Father’s Day itself, Jonathan calls Hop. They do the song and dance around feelings and how much everything has meant to them. Hop says “Thank you, son.” and Jonathan has to hold his breath at that before he bursts with everything inside of him.

It’s a few days later when Billy comes by, barging into Jonathan’s apartment as soon as he gets to the door with a case of beers and a bag, asking if he can crash. Jonathan rolls his eyes as he watches Billy stake claim on the entirety of his couch. Jonathan grabs the tin of weed he left laying around for the two of them and then shoves at Billy until he moves over enough for the both of them to sit down. He hisses as Billy lays his arm around the backrest of the couch and tugs harshly at his hair, just like he always used to do around the house back home. Growing up, Jonathan never once thought about what it’d be like having an older brother. It’s crazy to think that he knows now, even if they’re only about half a year apart. It’s warmer and perhaps a bit more painful than he’d have anticipated.

They lay around and chat, the TV humming with whatever movie Billy mindlessly changed it to and the stereo in the corner tuned to a station Billy didn’t spit at. He’s always needed a good few different distractions at a time. Jonathan rolled the joint they’re sharing, not particularly fond of the way it burns his chest but knowing Billy prefers it most times. It’s nice to be with him again. He fills out a space in a way that’s all consuming, and makes Jonathan feel a little less like a pinball.

And maybe the two of them don’t really do “sentimental”, but Jonathan still feels obligated to say something since Father’s Day just passed. He feels it in his chest, clawing away at him. Plus, he’s got a bit more on his mind this time around…

He tries to make it casual. They do their usual arguing over Nirvana and Radiohead and Pantera and Jonathan quickly slips in a “congratulations”.

“Huh?” Billy grunts around the joint in his mouth. His voice has only gotten gruffer as they’ve gotten older.

“Happy Father’s day-” Jonathan tries again before getting cut off.

“You’re late to the game, champ.”

Jonathan rolls his eyes, grabbing the joint quickly when Billy offers it up.

“Alright, then I take it back.”

“Good.” Billy’s still got a grin like a shark, but it’s softened a bit with the years added to his face. Billy stretches out long like a bored cat on his seat on the couch. “I expect two next year, though.”

“You’re an asshole.” Jonathan chuckles and yet groans simultaneously- a sound he’s mastered with Billy’s presence in his life.

“And you’re wrong about Pantera, listen to me-”

Jonathan lets it all slide. They continue to just talk, catch up on life, continue jokes they’ve had running since they were teenagers. Jonathan brings out more weed because he originally thought Billy was going to have to drive back to a hotel tonight. Billy burns through a couple of beers and laughs at the way Jonathan still winces at the taste- can barely finish half a can. Billy says “was gonna ask you if there’s something fun to do around the city but I think I’d rather stay in. Can’t believe the kid has made me boring-” over their Chinese take-out that they’ve ordered because “I’ve been craving this shit for months. The little tyke refuses to touch the stuff and we’re sick of making separate chicken nuggets for him.”

And Jonathan thinks he’s going to snap in half.

He can’t handle himself. He’s falling into too many thoughts that are eating away at everything inside of him and he can’t put words to any of them but he has to try now that Billy is here. Now that Billy keeps bringing him up, can’t seem to get the kid off of his mind either. Can’t help but mumble about how appreciative he is to watch a gory movie again because “we’ve gotta be mindful of the little buster, so we don’t scar him for life or something” and Jonathan is filled to the brim with everything he wants to say.

“So…” He starts, lamely. Billy looks over to him, chow mein hanging from his mouth still, eyes expectant and suddenly Jonathan loses every word he’s ever known. “Uh… babies?”

Billy slurps up the chow mein noodle.

“Uh… yeah?” Billy says, just as lamely, confusion painting his face. “What about them?”

Jonathan somehow didn’t think he’d be able to get this far. “What’s it… like?”

Billy stares. He blinks. Then he barks out a loud, booming laugh- and Jonathan might be dramatic, but he could swear it shakes his apartment.

“What are you talking about, Jonny?” Billy looks at him like he’s got at least three heads on his shoulders and if Jonathan wasn’t so sure he’d lose in a heartbeat, he might try to wrestle Billy off the couch.

“Your kid! Your… and… babies... and-”

“Is it the weed?” Billy asks, about a step away from sounding genuinely concerned. “Am I witnessing the day Jonathan Byers actually can’t handle his weed?”

“You’re never going to stop being a pain, are you?” Jonathan grunts, reaching for his cider that he opted for after giving up on the beer Billy brought.

Billy laughs at him, like he always does, but it’s never as poisonous as it seems. “And you’re never gonna stop being embarrassing! Now, what are you saying to me? Are you getting baby fever or something?”

There’s a pause and… yeah, maybe Jonathan never thought of it like that but… maybe? He looks at Billy with wide eyes, very sure that his face is betraying him by showcasing just how scared he is to be having this conversation.

Billy’s eyes widen too, with realization and understanding. “Oh my god, you totally are.”

Jonathan wants more than anything to be able to deny it, but there’s no way to. He suddenly feels like maybe hiding his face is better.

“It’s not… like that-” He tries and fails, face suddenly burning and Billy is laughing that loud, obnoxious laugh again as he knocks into Jonathan’s shoulder and sends bits of food flying out of his container. “I just…”

“Just what? You been cooing over babies in the street, buddy?” Billy is cooing at him, talking to him like he’s a kid and Jonathan truly is going to find some way to injure him.

“Shut up, I’m just asking… what’s it like?”

“What, having a baby?”

“Yeah.” Jonathan wants to busy himself with food like Billy is, but suddenly he feels he can’t stomach it.

“Wouldn’t know, dude.”

“What’s that mean?” Jonathan asks, about ready to shake Billy senseless. “You’ve got a kid-”

“Yeah, and he was a toddler already when we got him. I don’t know about babies.” Billy emphasizes, giving a little shrug along with it as he shovels more food into his mouth. Jonathan had forgotten about that part… he supposes that’s right. “What are you asking me for, anyway? Aren’t you the one that’s been an older brother like… forever?”

Jonathan huffs at that.

“You’re an older brother too, y’know.”

“Yeah, I got Max when she was like, seven!” Billy clarifies loudly. He sounds incredulous, with a look to match as he turns to Jonathan. “And El when she was, what, 12? Will when he was like 13 then you when you were fucking seventeen, I don’t know what the hell you think I know about babies.”

Jonathan takes a big swig from his cider, head aching from having to have this conversation. He should have just kept this to himself… he just…

“I was just asking. I’m just… and Will isn’t my-” He’s not sure how to say it. How to get the words out to where they make sense. “He’s not… I’m not...”

They live and die inside of him.

Billy is still looking at him, but far too intently now. Jonathan can feel his gaze on the side of his face.

“I mean, he kind of is, right?” Billy starts, voice suddenly too soft for Jonathan to be able to think straight. He says it like he knew what Jonathan was thinking about- knew what Jonathan couldn’t say. Jonathan hates when that happens. “Weren’t you… always kind of like… the dad? In all that?”

And Jonathan thinks he might just break, hearing that. Sometimes he forgets how much Billy knows. He’s not sure what he’s meant to say to that. He can’t say he never thought about it that way when he was 12 and cooking meals for all 3 of them. When he tried one summer to get a job out of town- biked himself all the way out of Hawkins to the first place he could lie to about being old enough to work. Because his mom didn’t want him to yet so he couldn’t stay in town where everyone either knew him or knew his mother. All those years he changed diapers and bottle fed Will and taught him his ABC’s or read to him before bed.

 Is that what fatherhood is?

Jonathan doesn’t like to count those years, because if he does then he just gets sad. He doesn’t like to count those as parenting because then he’s forced to realize how much of his childhood was lost on him. Lost to that. He doesn’t like to think of it that way, he loves Will more than anything in his life and he’d do it again in a heartbeat, but…

“Honestly,” Billy sounds so quiet still. Jonathan is amazed at how quiet Billy can get. “I thought you’d never want kids after all that.”

Jonathan thought so too. He wasn’t ready to feel this way.

They sit in silence for a while. Jonathan tries to speak again but Billy cuts him off by shoving a container of food at him and just grunting out a commanding “Eat.”

Jonathan takes it. Stabs his fork through the container without really eating. Billy groans at him.

“God, quit playing with your food? You’re worse than my kid.”

Jonathan’s heart feels like it wants to tug out of him. He concedes to eat, and they do so with virtual silence between them- only the white noise of the TV and the radio and the street underneath them as their background.

Jonathan gets more than halfway through his takeout container before he tries again.

“Why?” He asks, like it means anything. Billy just raises an eyebrow at him. “Why did you decide to have kids?”

Billy pauses- seems to take the time to really think. “... because we wanted to up the difficulty in our life?” is what he ends up saying and Jonathan can’t hold in his scoff. “I don’t know.” Billy finishes with uncertainty and a bit of a laugh.

“I just… can’t think of any reason for me to be a father that doesn’t feel so fucking selfish.” Jonathan forces it out of himself, already feeling self-important just for mentioning it.

He just hasn’t been able to make sense of it. He’s been wrestling with it for too long now- this sudden want in him to have kids.

He spent most of his life dedicated to a kid. He’s almost grown a hatred for being in charge, which is why he loves how sure Nancy seems to be of everything. She can take the reins, and he feels a sense of calm at not always having to drive the helm. But… maybe baby fever is the right word? He sees lots of kids on the street here with their parents. Kids smiling and laughing. He passes by a school on his walk to work and watches them get dropped off. The joy in their faces. He remembers being a kid. Remembers what it was like, to feel all those pains of growing up. Figuring out the world, for all the good and bad that lies within it. He remembers feeling pain, and seeing it in Will’s face, too.

He remembers how hard it was to be a kid in his situation. When he heard Billy and Steve were adopting, he thought about what those two were doing for that kid. What they meant to that kid. He thought about Hop…

“Not that you two are selfish!” Jonathan remedies quickly, realizing exactly what he just said. “You’re literally the exact opposite of selfish. You’re helping that boy… way more than I think you even realize.”

He almost envies it sometimes. For as exhausting as it was to do all he did, he almost misses helping out around the house. Helping his mother and helping Will. Sometimes, being here and all alone, he realizes how little he’s really doing. He misses being helpful… but then he wonders if perhaps he just misses feeling useful. He wants to do right by somebody, but does he just want to feel good? He doesn’t want to use another human life just to reassure himself. And he’d loathe to bring a child into this world just to test out if it’s some grand calling and then find himself feeling burdened. He doesn’t want to put a kid in the position of feeling like a burden.

He thinks about how they’ve adopted. How many kids there are out there who weren’t fortunate enough to have someone willing or able to care for them.

“I dunno, should I do that too?” He wonders out loud, mind stuck on adoption. “I don’t think I care if they look like me. Should I care if they look like me?”

Billy shrugs, brows a little furrowed. “I don’t think so, but aren’t normal people supposed to get like… revved up for that sort of thing?”

“Weird word choice there, pal.” Jonathan scrunches his nose up.

“You know what I mean.”

Jonathan guesses he does. He thinks of Nancy, because truthfully he’s not alone in this. He thinks of the way Nancy has always vehemently rebelled against what everyone expects of her. She always said she doesn’t want the nuclear family her parents forced upon themselves. He knows the struggles she’s had with all of that. And she would hold Jonathan sometimes too, on days where his anxiety would peak, and tell him that he didn’t have to put so much on his shoulders. He didn’t have to worry about the weight of everyone’s lives like that.

But maybe he wants to worry about something? Maybe he misses it, maybe he wants to help, maybe-

“Do you think it’d be easier to get Nancy to agree to that?” He’s still wondering aloud, still thinking of adoption. “It’d probably piss off her parents, and I bet she’d be happy about that… and should I think about my own mom? Does she want grandkids-”

“Joyce is just happy when she hears you’ve left the house.”

“Ha ha.” Jonathan deadpans as Billy chuckles. “I just… I don’t care if they come from me. I think I just want to help a little kid who was like me. Help someone feel understood-”

“Oh yeah, real selfish.” Billy scoffs, crunching on his fortune cookie, the paper inside discarded on the table along with the wrapper.

Jonathan sputters. “I’m serious! Is it- am I being-?”

“C’mon, Jonny boy.” Billy levels with him, looking about ready to slap Jonathan out of it if given even half the chance to. “You don’t know selfish. You’ve never known selfish a day in your life.”

And maybe that breaks Jonathan’s heart, too. He can’t think about that either.

“Well…” Jonathan tries, one final time, to get anything out of this other than an aching stomach. “What is it like for you?”

Billy blinks harshly at him. Jonathan presses on.

“I know this is hard for you, too.” Jonathan explains, trying to be understanding. “You’re like me, Billy. We both know that.”

And Jonathan hopes that Billy has aged enough to the point that he won’t run from this. That he won’t get too scared that he bolts away, excusing himself for something he doesn’t need just to evade feelings, like Jonathan always wants to do, too. They really are far too much alike-

“It’s… weird, man. It’s weird. It doesn’t stop… being weird.”

Jonathan remembers being teenagers. Remembers confiding in Billy. Remembers the chill of the grocery store. He tries to keep his chuckles quiet and to himself as Billy continues.

“Honestly, I don’t even feel like a dad yet.”

“What are you talking about? You are a dad-”

“Yeah, but people see our kid and he doesn’t look like us and they… people are idiots about it. Plus sometimes it feels like we didn’t even raise him. Or like we’re just playing house.”

Jonathan watches Billy rise and fall inside his own mind. He wonders if he should try to console him.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m messing him up every time I open my mouth.”

Jonathan remembers feeling like that with Will. The first time he ever made Will cry. Back when he was going through his awkward teenage phase and he had to push all his own emotions down to be a good role model. It hurt. It was far too difficult.

“I’m sure you’re not.” Jonathan tries to console, scooching just a millimeter closer to Billy. “I’m sure the worst you’re doing is exposing him to shitty music.”

That makes Billy laugh, but it also earns Jonathan a rough shove and a promise of “I’ll end, you, Jonny.”

“I dunno, all of it is hard.” Billy continues on with a sigh. He’s rubbing his palms together, and then anxiously picking at his jeans like he always did growing up. “He’s like a little puzzle we haven’t figured out yet. But I never question if it was worth it or not. And when he smiles, and I’m the reason… I don’t think there’s anything better than that.”

And Jonathan gets a front row seat to watch the smile that melts onto Billy’s face- like all is right with the world suddenly. Like there’s nothing that could ever taint what he’s feeling right at this moment. Jonathan thinks about how casually Billy mentions his son, even at what seems to be the most random times, and how much it plays with his heart.

Jonathan sees Billy relax in a way he’s not sure he’s ever seen before, and he thinks maybe he’s ready to figure out for himself exactly what a father is.

[okaybutlikeimagine]

(very vague ST4 spoilers sorry i fucked up my tags)

finished the season finally and came to tumblr to see what everyone is saying and omg I fully just..... erased all of Max’s bullshit speech from my mind bc it was such complete and utter lunacy. literally what was that. can we talk about that. I think I need a support group for that. what the fuck

how stupid and out of character can you get, duff bros you idiots, literally what was that what was any of that

[okaybutlikeimagine]

actually i don’t give a fuck about anyone else but Max Mayfield and i can’t believe i ever thought I did

[okaybutlikeimagine]

Picture this: Eddie and Steve trudging through the Upside Down, walking quite a few paces behind the girls. Eddie circling back around to the subject of music in a nervous attempt to keep things light-hearted because they’re walking through almost-literal-Hell right now and this isn’t doing much good to soothe his anxiety. With every word Steve says- from his confused questioning of heavy rock artists to his confirmation of loving Toto -Eddie looks a little more horrified.

“You’ve gotta listen to people with some stage presence-”

“Who cares about stage presence over the radio?”

“It’s a whole different angry loud beast! Has no one tried to show you the ways of the performance artist?”

Steve’s eyes get distant at that, thinking of another mullet-headed man. Eddie doesn’t quite notice.

“You can even call it glam-rock if you want! I’m sure you like that, Mr. The Hair. It’s all about the theater. Like... Alice Cooper!”

“What… she hot?” Steve asks, suddenly snapping back into it.

“It’s a dude. And he rocks. He sings this song called I Love the Dead and on stage he gets his head chopped off and then the executioner picks up the severed head and makes out-”

“Ew, god that’s gross dude, don’t talk about that-”

“It’s sick and twisted and awesome. It’s all- hold on hold on.”

Eddie gets his hands in position then, posing over a non-existent guitar around his chest as he pretends to play it, more so wailing than singing the words in time with his fake accompaniment.

“I love the dead~”

Steve makes a grossed out face at that.

“I love the dead~”

And in the background, the real guitar starts to fade into the soundtrack, vocals sparking up behind Eddie’s acapella performance.

“I love the dead~” Eddie sings again, getting closer to Steve- to sing it into his ear this time- while Steve shoves at him and tells him to knock it off. That’s when they bump into the girls ahead of them, Steve cussing quietly and asking them what they think they’re doing.

The song is building steadily behind them, a guitar riff wailing as the two boys shift their focus to where the two girls are gawking. Their jaws drop, Eddie being the first to speak:

“Isn’t that?”

“It can’t be-” Nancy whispers.

“Holy shit.” Robin croaks.

And Steve takes a few steps forward, pushing past the girls to stare with wide, shocked eyes at: “Billy?”

And then there stands Billy, backlit for a quick second by a shock of lightning, looking a little worse for wear with his blood-stained shirt, face hardened and hand wrapped tightly around a gnarly looking crowbar, the song in the background now loudly singing I love the dead as he stares the rest of the teens down.... before he cracks an amused but snarling sort of grin.

“Miss me?”

[okaybutlikeimagine]

okay but it’s the increasingly horrified look on Eddie’s face when he realized Steve didn’t know Ozzy or Black Sabbath that really got me

[okaybutlikeimagine]

the only worthwhile thing Jason did for me all of ST4 was finally get them to use Psycho Killer by Talking Heads

[okaybutlikeimagine]

Billy and Eddie would have lengthy conversations/debates on the best hair care routine for their textured hair and they'd simultaneously yell at Steve to shut up the second he tried to interject with his opinion

[okaybutlikeimagine]

anyway I finished Stranger Things 4 and all I’m saying is Billy taking one of those oars and smacking the shit out of those demobats with his (albeit very old) baseball skills and being pissed that they came in handy would have been.... very good.

[okaybutlikeimagine]

(For @ihni ~ you did this ♥) The phone rings. Billy answers.

“Hey dude, do you wanna see something?”

It’s Tommy. Billy doesn’t know what to say, but he never knows what to make of any question Tommy asks. Tommy once asked Billy what his favorite flavor of Jell-O was and then, before even getting his answer, asked if Billy would eat a live beetle for 50 bucks. And he always accompanies his shit with the widest grin Billy has ever seen. It’s the smile of a child- unabashed, unconcerned… a little nauseating. Billy wouldn’t be surprised if Tommy has sported it his whole life.

Billy snorts.

“I dunno, see what?”

It could be anything- some wild porn mag he snagged, drugs he copped, that new roller coaster at the nearest amusement park. Maybe he got a puppy.

“My wedding.”

Billy doesn’t expect anything of Tommy anymore, but still he doesn’t expect that.

“What?”

“Yeah.” Tommy says likes it’s nothing- as if he didn’t even ask Billy a question at all. “I dunno, Carol and I are gonna do it and she said we needed a uh… uhm… what’s it, babe?”

“A witness.” Comes what must be Carol’s voice, small and faint in the background.

“Yeah! A witness.” Tommy emphasizes with his teeth and his jaw- Billy can hear it in the s’s. “Do you wanna witness something?”

Billy blinks.

He waits for it. The inevitable gotcha that must follow something like this. He waits for Tommy to be sensible or normal even for a second.

But he’s not waiting forever for that.

“You’re a dumbass, dude.” Billy says, but he says it with a laugh. “That’s not how you’re asking me to your damn wedding.”

“What, so that’s a no?” Tommy asks like he already knows Billy would never say no to him.

Billy pauses. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to feel about this. He’s not sure what that rolling feeling in his gut could be called.

“... where?” is what he asks.

“Indianapolis Courthouse.” Tommy responds and that grin is back, Billy can hear it. “I mean, I’ve got a cousin who does that… officializing stuff, but Carol wants it-”

“Yeah-” Carol’s voice grows louder. “The same cousin who sold us weed when we were 13.”

“So?” Tommy asks.

“So I’m still pretty sure it was oregano.”

There’s a pause. Billy doesn’t know if he missed this or not, since they graduated a few months ago.

“Well it was the best tasting weed I’ve ever had.”

“You’re an idiot.” Carol insists. There’s the sound of light tousling on the other side, before the sound of a kiss or two.

“When?” Billy interjects. There’s a curious bubble in his throat.

“I dunno, whenever you’re free.” Only Tommy would say “whenever” about his own wedding. “We’re trying to move next month.”

“Move?” Billy’s not sure why that feels like such a blow. It’s not like him and Tommy and Carol are spending weekends together, but… still. There’s something odd in hearing they’ll be gone. Something pulls deep inside of him at the idea.

He didn’t become friends with them because he liked them or anything, he did it because he felt it would be more convenient for him if he did. His assumption proved to be true. But still, they were what he knew when he first came to Hawkins. All he knew, really. He poked and prodded at others, tried to find his way around his new, horrid, farmtown life. And at the end of the day, Tommy and Carol became the only things that made sense. He spent every day with them, every lunch with them, went to parties with them. They were assholes. They were loud. They were obnoxious. But they were still his.

Billy feels a fear of change moving like liquid inside of him.

“Uh huh. Carol’s got family out in Virginia or something? We’re gonna try to move out there… be closer to the ocean, y’know?”

Tommy doesn’t understand people. Billy figures that must be it- that must be why he just says big shit like this as if it doesn’t matter at all. As if he’s not saying words that are making Billy question where he is in his own life. Billy could strangle him right now. He knows where he lives.

“You like the ocean, right?” Tommy asks in his typical fashion, as if he’s asking if Billy likes ice cream, or wants a side of fries with his burger.

“It was a different ocean, dumbass.” Billy gripes, voice strained. He’s breathless. He hates Tommy’s stupid, face splittng grin that he can hear lilting his voice. He’d give anything to see it, right this second, and revel in the familiarity in it. He’d give anything for familiarity. “And it was a better one, too.”

“It’s all just salty water, idiot.”

“And my salty water was prettier-”

“So you’re coming to watch us get hitched.”

It’s not a question, but it leaves Billy in wait. His head is fully submerged and swimming just from thinking of Tommy and Carol and the way they seem to be aching to tie the knot. Billy has hated them plenty of times throughout the last year, and he hates them the most right this second, as he sits in his empty and drafty room and wonders what the hell he’s doing here. What the hell he’s done this whole time.

He hates them. That’s why he can’t stop picturing their stupid faces.

“Well if I don’t go, who’s gonna be there to witness you?” Billy ends up saying, and it’s snarky. And he can practically hear the wetness on the other end of Tommy’s lips spreading over his teeth impossibly wider. The way he’s probably licking his teeth in excitement, like he always does. Some little tic of his.

“No one I’d care about.” Tommy responds, and it’s not just the words but how quickly he says them- and how nonchalantly, how plainly, how assuredly -that makes all of the air leave Billy’s lungs. He’s lightheaded.

He nearly whines. Tommy can hear it, he’s sure, because the dumbass snickers.

“I’m gonna strangle you.” Billy says with a voice that’s breathless. It only makes Tommy snicker harder.

“One of these days you might actually mean that.” Tommy sounds so disinterested it’s got Billy boiling. He could knock his lights out, if he wanted to. “So when are you free?”

Billy loathes to admit that he’s always free.

“This weekend?” He ventures, wondering if courthouses are even open for marriages on the weekends. “Friday… or Thursday? I gotta get you drunk the night before.”

“Hungover wedding?” Tommy asks, voice suddenly quiet, definitely careful of Carol. “Sounds like a trip… but I dunno-”

“You turned pussy since graduation?” Billy accuses, and gets a little noise of offense in response.

“Have not, dickhead. But Carol-”

“If we’re doing this we have to do something right.” They’re already not doing the wedding right. Or maybe they are. Maybe they’re two of the few who have the right idea.

Billy’s never been to a bachelor party. He was in a wedding once, as a ring bearer, but he was so young that the memories are too blurry. He just remembers itching in his bowtie and how his cousin a couple of years older than him kept snapping his suspenders.

He’s not sure how this works. He’s not sure what’s right and wrong or how he’s meant to go about any of this. Still, he feels there’s an obligation that he’s just signed himself up for. There’s a way to go about this stuff. There are things that are supposed to happen, things to expect, things to do.

It possesses Billy like a fire in his gut. He hasn’t been picked for something in a long time. He’s going to make sure they do something, even one thing, that they’re meant to. Even if that one thing is just blacking out.

“It’ll be your last night as a free man.” Billy says, and the words sound stupid in his mouth. Cottony and bitter. He’s heard it from just about everyone in Hawkins at this point: Tommy and Carol have been dating since middle school. They never stopped. On again off again was never the name of their game. They fought every week and they stayed together because that was who they were. It was like they didn’t know anyone else, and never cared to.

Still, there’s obligation.

“You just wanna get drunk.” Tommy scoffs. “I’m not bringing the booze.”

“I’ll find something.” He tells himself it's an obligation. It’s Tommy’s marriage, Billy has to offer. He feels dizzy with it. “Does Carol have someone to hang out with? Get her drunk too?”

“Her sister maybe.” Tommy says, sounding somehow both thoughtful and dismissive. “Meet up Thursday?”

“Thursday. Her sister can’t witness you guys?”

“You flaking out on us now, or what?”

“No.”

“Need a ride there?”

The idea of third-wheeling again gets Billy’s blood running cold.

“Nah, I’ll be fine.”

He’s never been out to Indianapolis. He’ll have to grab a map somewhere-

“Sweet, see you then around 4 or something?”

Tommy has made shit up as he goes along his whole life- at least, that’s what Billy figures. He’s either good at it, or just stupidly lucky, because things seem so rarely seem to go wrong for him. At the very least, he so rarely seems to care about outcomes.

“Sure.”

“Meet at the closest diner to the courthouse?”

That could be anything at all. Billy’s going to rip his own hair out.

“Whatever.” is how he responds in his agreement, and Tommy makes a sound that tells he’s sated.

“Thank you, Billy.” That’s Carol’s voice, sounding genuinely grateful.

The phone clicks. Billy runs a hand through his hair.

~*~

The drive is far too long to spend alone with just his thoughts, but Billy does it. For some reason, he does it. He doesn’t turn around, and he only considers doing so once.

There are three diners near the courthouse, all too close to tell which is “closest”. Billy looks and feels like a creep as he walks past them slowly and stares inside. He wonders why he’s even doing any of this. He finds Tommy in the third one, of course, sitting next to Carol as he shoves french fries in his mouth. When they catch eyes, Tommy waves and his face brightens as it lifts. He must gasp as well, because in half a second more he’s curling in on himself and hacking up his french fry. Carol just watches with a face that’s merely sprinkled with concern.

By the time Billy gets inside, she’s hitting Tommy’s back and shoving water into his hand. Everyone is staring. Billy just might leave right now.

He slides into the booth.

“Hey champ.” Tommy greets with a raw throat.

“Hey babe.” Carol greets casually, only glancing at Billy for a second as she tilts the glass to get Tommy to drink more water. Billy never knew what to make of Carol calling him things like that: babe, hot stuff, hunk. Tommy has never made a row of it. Carol would eye Billy up and lick her lips and call him “hunk” and Tommy would stand there with his arm happily around her shoulder. As if it were nothing.

“Don’t die before you get hitched.” Billy says in lieu of greeting. Carol makes an unamused sound.

“I’ll kill him if he does.”

They sit and eat and Billy thinks about every lunch hour he spent with them back at school. He watches as Tommy gives over his soggy fries to him without a question. He remembers those first few weeks where Tommy would reach for things almost unseeingly, and where Billy batted him away and berated him for trying to steal his food. It took a while for Billy to realize it was a weird sort of conditioning- Steve used to hand his unwanted food around and Tommy would be the benefactor. Billy never took Steve’s place in that regard, so… Tommy did. Gives away soggy fries and onions and pickles and anything that turns his own stomach. Billy accepts them without saying anything.

They get a motel room. Carol’s sister whisks her away for the night. Billy grabs the booze from his car and they carry it up the steps to their musky bedroom. No one pays them any mind.

“This tastes like piss.” Tommy gripes.

“Better than water. Just chug it fast, wimp.”

They go through the case. Then Billy brings out the big guns he stowed away- a nice bottle of clear liquor. Tommy complains how his stomach burns, something he only does when he’s really gone. A minute later and he’ll say how it feels nice. He’s wishy washy like that.

“I think there was a guy doing a drug deal outside.” Tommy says to the ceiling from where he’s strewn across the bed.

“We shoulda tried to grab something.” Billy replies. Tommy pulls a face.

“Carol’ll kill me if I die tonight, memember?” He’s slurring already, and yet he sounds more concerned than he does when he’s sober.

The conversation is riddled with awkward lulls. It’s strange to be back. Billy feels younger with Tommy- like a child who may never get out of the hum-drum farm town that he grew up in. Like he’s someone else, someone new, someone he dislikes even more when he’s with him. Like he can feel Tommy using him as a screen for his own projections, even though he’s got a wide grin on his face more often than not.

“When are you gonna bag one of those girls you’re screwing.” Tommy asks as if he’s some overly crude grandmother.

Billy isn’t screwing any girls. He hasn’t screwed a girl in many years. Tommy doesn’t need to know that, so a noncommittal shrug is what he gets.

“I think this marriage shit is gonna be fun.” Tommy says it casually and the words sound like gibberish to Billy’s ears. Billy couldn’t name a marriage he’s seen that turned out to be successful. Not a single one. He looks at Tommy as Tommy lays on the ground and picks the dirty carpet apart with his fingernails and he sees a kid. He studies his face.

“I think you’re a moron.” Billy says seriously around the lip of the bottle before he takes a swig. Tommy rolls his head to look at him, face earnest and unbothered. He gets so needy when he’s drunk. Billy finds himself getting louder and tenser when he drinks so he usually smokes alongside it, to ease out the tension. But Tommy- he gets looser. More eager. Unless he feels threatened, a drunk Tommy is not unlike a lazy puppy. “This is stupid.”

“Jackass.” The word slides out of Tommy’s mouth with ease and no heat and Billy can’t even defend himself against it. “You’re here though.”

He says that as a statement of fact. He says it as it is, a single sentence that contradicts everything Billy could ever say right now. He can gripe and groan and condemn whatever action Tommy and Carol have planned, but it’s all moot just due to the fact that he’s in this motel with him, laying on the carpet with him.

Billy’s not sure what Tommy can see on his face at that moment, but he knows what he sees on Tommy’s. He looks Tommy in the eyes, blurrily through the fog of the alcohol, and sees years of memories cross through them. He sees years of regrets and sadness. Billy watches Tommy’s face darken, just briefly, and thinks about how there’s no way he was Tommy’s first choice. Maybe not even his second or third. Billy knows that he was meant to be someone else, and that one look confirms it.

He’s here though.

He wasn’t friends with them because he wanted to be, he did it out of obligation. He needed to latch onto someone to survive the farmtown Hell of Hawkins. Of Indiana in general. They were just his step up. Funny how an obligation back then led to another one a year or so later.

They talk about high school. Their words slur and it lessens the blow of the memories. They drink them away in rivers of liquor. Billy can feel what Tommy always talks about, and for the first time in a long time he finds the burn in his stomach uncomfortable but also soothing. Billy feels good about being requested.

It’s the early hours of the morning before they’re finally passing out to some corny action movie on TV that seems to be more about women and their cleavage.

“Good night?” Billy asks like he cares.

“Yeah,” Tommy slurs his response, and then: “You’re the best, man.”

Tommy’s asleep in a flash while the words still rattle inside Billy’s head. He lays there staring at the cracked ceiling, lit by the yellow light of the lamp on the side table, and thinks about faces and voices that are becoming less and less familiar to him. Looks at Tommy and thinks about how he was meant to be someone else, too.

His mind is cruel to him as it wanders to friends from San Diego- people he considered closest to him that are gone from him now. People he used to think would stay by his side forever. People he thought would be sentimental towards him for years to come, would ask him for touching favors like this, would want him by their side. He never admitted it out loud, and it hurts all the same to admit it to himself quietly in a dank motel room so many miles removed. He thought he’d keep them forever.

But drunk minds are just as gentle as they are cruel, because his woozy state has erased their names from his memory, at least for tonight. So he can get some sleep.

(on AO3)

[okaybutlikeimagine]

Last year had a LOT of ups and downs and I kinda lost my way in terms of creating, so thank you thank you thank you to everyone who helped mod and run the @harringroveholidayexchange bc it really helped me rekindle my love for creating for this wonderful fandom! I had such a wonderful time writing this fic for the super cool and talented @paperbodiesamongthestars ! It’s based on my favorite Christmas song, Christmas Wrapping by the Waitresses, which is basically just a bunch of yearning missed connections all year long. I hope you’ve all had a wonderful holiday season and that this new year treats you kindly!! 💕💞💖💗 you can read A Year in the Making on A03 right here!

[okaybutlikeimagine]

A Father’s Day Triptych

TW: past/referenced child abuse, emotional hurt/comfort, child neglect

(you can find it on AO3 here ♥)

Father’s day in the Hargrove household was always pulled taut with expectations of kindness and submission hanging over Billy’s head.

They didn’t always used to be that way. When he was a kid, Father’s days felt like a reprieve rather than a burden. Billy and his mom would prepare special things- a nice card that would make him laugh, those new fishing poles he’d been eyeing in the big sporting store a town over, a pretty cake with fresh fruit on top from the grocer down the way. His mother went all out. She’d get Billy all excited for it too. The strenuous relationships were softened for a day where they did everything they could to make him happy.

They really did… everything they could just to make him happy. Sometimes Billy still wonders why it had to take so much.

Around Father’s day, his mother would use all her spending money to make his father smile. It usually worked. And for that day, it was so good. It could hardly get better. Grilling and watching stupid baseball games Billy never cared about but would pretend to be interested in, just for him. Fake smiles almost became real. Hot dogs and hamburgers and watermelon always tasted better on those days when his father would put his arm around Billy amicably- when he would laugh at the card and compliment how Billy’s penmanship was getting better every year.

The year that she left was the worst.

The year that she left Billy stopped getting an allowance. He had no money to soften the edges of his father with fresh cakes and fancy presents. He panicked. He stole a stupid fishing keychain from a store and made a card from his school notebook paper. He presented them with shaking hands to his father who seemed glued to the couch, eyes bloodshot, surrounded by beer cans, baseball game so loud Billy’s ears felt sore.

He got a grunt and a lazy eye roll in response. A slurred groan of “your writing is sloppy”. A quieter admission of regret.

He got resentment. Billy was 9 and he knew it was resentment towards his very existence. He slid away to his room. There was no dinner to eat that night as his father passed out on the couch with the TV still on far too loud.

When Susan and Max came into the picture, Billy miraculously found a reason to be happy for it. Suddenly there was pressure taken off of him. He let Max know it too, as Susan encouraged them to go out and “at least get him a card”. They’d lazily look through all the forcibly funny and generic pieces of paper. Max was nervous that first year.

“It’s whatever.” Billy had grunted, looking through ugly green cards with stupid phrases on them. “She’s gonna bang him tonight, he won’t care about a dumb card.”

“Ew.” Max had whined, covering her ears and pouting. Billy couldn’t find it in himself to care.

It was never fun. Billy felt like he was on a leash all day long, obligated to do everything he could for his father just to keep him civil. Susan made a steak, the kids handed over the card, his father remarked how his penmanship was the mark of someone lazy and sloppy (no matter how hard Billy would try to make it as neat as he possibly could), and the day would end. And he could stop thinking about how this man still had a hand in his life.

…

Father’s day in the Hopper household was always bumbling and awkward.

By the time that first one came around, Billy was just beginning to feel less like a burden to the house and more like an addition. He’d found comfort in the space they all shared. They had a sort of routine set between all of them. There was still no second bed for Billy, so he still felt like he was imposing when Hop slept on the couch, but it was a sort of pull out couch by that point and Hop insisted and Billy decided not to pay it too much mind.

And that first Father’s day was just… awkward. Billy had completely forgotten the date- summer had just started for him and days were rolling by in hot and languid and lazy moments of feeling out every new situation. He had just started getting really serious with Steve. Not just touching for the sake of getting off but really starting to need and want each other in ways that scared him. In ways that made him want to keep things how they were- ways that made him scared to change a thing. It was a new and alien feeling for him.

El had inadvertently learned about Father’s day from Mike when he briefly groaned about dinner plans his family had. Billy found that out from El on their drive to the store to pick something up for Hop. She had to convince Billy it was a thing they should do, because Hopper was their father. He did fatherly things for them. He took them in and gave them a roof and food and asked how their days were and wished them goodnight and good morning, however groggily. He made stupid jokes that made them moan and he danced horribly to the old records he kept on their dusty shelf and he was horrible with laundry and he whistled as he did dishes.

He introduced Billy proudly in the grocery store once. It was the weekend after Billy had a really good basketball game that Hop had decided to attend. Hop bragged about it to some friend of his. Billy flushed red and elbowed him and tried his best to escape.

He thought about it every single day.

Billy and El bought a large cheesy balloon, ingredients to make a nice lasagna dinner, and a green and white cake from the bakery. The balloon was more for El. The lasagna was a little burnt. Hop was too nice to say he’d have preferred pie to cake, but he ate it anyway as they sat around the TV and watched whatever program was on. Billy only remembered as he fell slowly into sleep that night. He jolted awake quickly, remembering a sort of far off conversation months ago where Hop had proclaimed confidently that pie was the superior dessert of anything else- yes, even Eggo's with whipped cream and sprinkles. How he admitted cake was never his favorite.

Billy felt shame overcome him as he remembered, pushing himself out of bed and turning to the sofa with the immediate want to apologize for it. He wasn’t sure what came over him.

But instead of sending pleading apologies into the darkness, he just looked towards the sofa with a heavily beating heart and let his eyes adjust. And he thought about all that man had done for the two of them. Thought about how he took in these two stray kids. Thought about how he knew Hop was getting flack for it, because Billy heard the whispers and the snickers and the sneers about Hop running a dog pound. Thought about how he gave up his probably comfier trailer for the rundown cabin, gave up the main bedroom for the dusty spare bed, gave up the dusty spare bed for the couch, gave up parts of his sanity probably…

Billy didn’t wanna apologize anymore. He just whispered a thanks, even though it was hard to push up through his throat and would fall onto sleeping ears.

The Father’s days after that first one got better. They got Joyce, and along with her 2 boys that had their own rocky past with fathers and celebrations of them. Just four kids who feared and resented father figures. It ended up being better than Billy could imagine. It was never quite as awkward as that first Father’s day, but never quite comfortable either. That being said, it was never a bad day. The bar was low, but that didn’t matter. Billy found appreciation for the general ease all the same.

…

Father’s day in the Hargrove-Harrington-”whatever we’re together now and that’s what’s most important” household is filled with guilt and feelings of imposter syndrome.

They don’t celebrate it the first two or so years after they’ve adopted their first child. He’s just a toddler, he doesn’t quite understand yet what it is. And they… they’re still struggling with what it means to be fathers. They’re confident in their rights but they’re not immune to the judgmental voices, always eyeing them oddly when they’re out together with their boy or asking after the mother when they’re out separately. Always looking a little judgmental or harsh when they have to explain why the kid doesn’t look like them- whoever is with him at the time. Or getting looks of pity when the people clearly begin to assume it’s because they couldn’t get pregnant with whatever wife must be at home.

It’s hard to hear. It makes them question everything. If their boy doesn’t know what he’s missing, then there’s no need to explain.

Billy calls Hopper and feels his heart lurch when Hop and Joyce wish him and Steve a happy father’s day. They do it with joy and certainty. As if it belongs to them, too. Billy hangs up the phone and lays in bed for at least half an hour. Steve can’t get through to him.

It’s an odd feeling. A rough feeling. When they adopt their second child, a girl of 9 years old, they know they’re going to have to confront it. Their son begins school that year too. They find out about the day from their friends and television ads and store windows. The children are timid with them- they were adopted as supposed “problem children” from rough homes and tumultuous pasts. Billy and Steve don’t expect anything of them but they’re still not sure how to explain that. They figure ignoring is easier than explaining. Maybe it’ll make it go away.

It doesn’t work well.

And Billy… Billy’s just struggling being a dad. He couldn’t explain the job if he tried. He helps make lunches, he gives timeouts, he buys and subsequently sneaks himself some silly little snack foods when he’s hungry and busy and doesn’t have time to do more than rip open a pouch. He deals with tantrums over vegetables and he wipes mouths with napkins and he sings lullabies in the wrong key and he reads bedtime stories until he himself dozes off in the tiny bed with a small head on his chest and drool pooling onto his shirt.

He’s trying. He gets frustrated at stores. He gets a little hot headed, a little loud. His heart breaks when they cry. He’s straddling the line between being a pushover and a hard-ass. He lays awake at night, staring at the ceiling, dreading ever becoming like Neil. He asks Steve, in the stillness of the night when the darkness acts as the weight of every horrible outcome imaginable, if he’ll follow Neil’s wretched footsteps.

“You’ll never be like him, Billy.”

“How do you know? What if it’s inside me already.”

“It’s not.”

“Maybe it is… maybe I won’t be able to help it.”

He stresses and he struggles and he wants to rip his hair out.

But that first father’s day comes around with their new daughter and newly knowledgeable son. And the two children blunder around the kitchen while their two dads are asleep. And then they wake the two parents up, both teary eyed and breathing heavy, faces full of apology and sorrow, asking for help to clean up the mess.

And Billy and Steve find the kitchen a single step back from full on disaster. There’s juice all over the counter and dripping onto the floor, the cereal box is all soggy from it, the toaster is smoking, a plate is broken on the ground, the fridge is still open. Their daughter pulls on Billy’s pajama pants and holds out her finger that’s bleeding. He gets out of her that she somehow managed to cut it on the butter knife she was using to cut up some fruit.

Steve gets busy cleaning things up. He asks their son to help do smaller things like close the fridge and grab some towels.

Billy takes his daughter’s small soft hand into his large, rough one and plants a kiss on it. It sends something like pure love surging through his heart. He guides her to the bathroom to put a bandaid on it and asks if she’s okay.

“Mmhm.” She nods and his heart softens. She sniffles. “M’sorry. We wanted… wanted to make breakfast and w-wanted to do something nice.”

She sounds like the weight of the world is on her small shoulders. Billy sees himself at 9 years old, doing his damnedest to get anything close to a damn smile out of his father while he sat unresponsive and unamused on the couch.

His heart yearns. It breaks and it pulls and it screams and it shouts. He pulls her in close and hugs her tight and tries to find the right words. Tries to tell her it’s made his entire year. It’s made him feel validated and happy and worth it, like all of that stress is worth it just to know that these two children got up early as hell on a Sunday morning just to surprise their fathers. Just to surprise the two of them. Just to say they thought of them, wanted to give them something, wanted to make them feel special.

“It was nice.” Is all he can croak out through his froggy throat.

“It’s a mess.” She sobs, but he just grips her arms tighter.

“It was wonderful.” He says and he’s crying too. He can’t get the tears to stop. He’s kneeling on the bathroom ground, the two of them crying to each other.

And Billy swears he’ll never get good at the father thing. He has talks with Hop about it, when he’s feeling vulnerable and Hopper’s able to get it out of him. By this point they’ve adopted another child- an older boy, a teenager. He’s rough and he’s jaded. He listens to loud, angry music. He kind of picks on the other two kids, even though he’d jump in front of a bus for either one of them. Hop asks how he likes it.

“He’s a lot like you were, y’know.” Hop tells Billy, who still doesn’t really see it.

Steve doesn’t have as much of a problem with the boy as Billy does. Billy and him just never seem to see eye to eye.

“It’s because you’re the same people.” Hop insists. Steve agrees. Joyce affirms with pity. “You clash.”

They clash hard. They get into yelling matches. Billy never puts a hand on him, but the arguments aren’t exactly great. Billy cries to Steve at night, fear shaking him down to his core, still able to see and hear himself yelling at that boy who fights tooth and nail back with him.

“You’re not a bad person, Billy.”

“Why do I do that shit?” He asks, knowing full well no one but him could ever really know.

It’s not like it’s anything too vitriolic. It’s not like it’s anything really poisonous.

It’s over the fact that he stays out too late at night, and Billy gets worried. It’s the fact that Billy found cigarettes in his room and he knows the bad effects of cigarettes. It’s the fact that he pushed his little brother one day and made him scrape his knee and he needed to learn some boundaries. It’s the fact that he lied about his grades when Billy felt they gave him no reason to do such a thing.

It’s fatherly things. That’s what Hop assures him as Billy cries on the phone with him.

“It’s things I would have done with you.”

Billy never ever knows what to make of that. What to make of what he’d be like now if Hop was his father from the start. If Hop was there from the beginning. If Neil hadn’t made him a monster in his own image.

Billy does his best to get through to him. Get through to his son now because he’s his son now.

Billy feels like the worst, most undeserving father.

As the kids have gotten older, they learned better ways to celebrate father’s day. They learn breakfast in bed isn’t really what the two of them would prefer- a nice lunch and getting to spend some time with them sounds better. A homemade card always goes on the mantle or the fridge with the rest of the collection. A few hugs because those are like treasured gifts in this house with kids who have a history of boundary and trust issues with parental figures.

The older son catches Billy alone in the kitchen.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” Billy replies awkwardly back. The silence is jarring.

“I uh… uhm.” He’s struggling. Billy wants to do something more than just stand here, but he’s not sure what. He doesn’t want to push anything too far. He wants to be good at this.

The boy puts a small, wrapped box on the counter with an envelope underneath and slides it over.

“Happy Father's day.” He mumbles, suddenly fidgeting.

Billy stares at them.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

There’s another pause, heavy with all the weight and worry in Billy’s heart. He reaches for the box, rips the paper open easily, lifts up the lid.

“It’s uh… it’s just a couple tapes of some of those… bands you like. And talk about. All the time.” The boy snickers, but it catches in his throat. He’s so nervous. “My friend’s family was getting rid of a bunch of their tapes and I know you’ve got your old tape player still so… uh… yeah.”

It’s a mixed bag of absolute classics. Some tapes he used to have, others he’s always wanted. Zeppelin, Ted Nugent, Def Leppard, Billy Idol, AC/DC, Alice Cooper… his heart skips. He lost a lot of his tapes after all the sudden moves he’s had to make. His eyes start to well.

“I… I don’t know what to say.” Billy pushes out on a whisper.

“Are they any good?”

“They’re… they’re awesome, kid.”

“There’s a card too y’know.” The boy adds, still shuffling nervously.

Billy slips it out from under the box, pulling his finger underneath the flap to open it.

It’s… it’s ridiculous. It’s one of the cheesiest cards Billy’s ever seen. He thinks back to all the stupid, jokey cards he used to pick out with his mother. The joke inside actually makes him laugh, loud and bright.

There’s words written underneath, quite a few scribbled out and then-

Sorry for all the trouble. I think I just don’t like knowing you’re right sometimes… but thank you for everything.

The words are nearly chicken scratch- wobbly letters clearly written with a nervous and shaky hand. The boy is damn near bouncing now, damn near trying to crawl out of his skin with nerves.

It’s the best, prettiest, most wonderful chicken scratch handwriting Billy has ever seen. He can barely see it now through his misty eyes.

“Your… handwriting is really nice.”

The boy scoffs loudly.

“Uh, thanks?” He sounds like he doesn’t believe it. Still, Billy could swear he sees the boy preen, just a little.

“Thank you.” Billy says, fighting back tears, trying like hell to hold himself together. “I’m sorry, too. I don’t… I don’t have to yell at you so much. At all. I’m sorry about it.”

The boy is just staring at him, eyes a little wide and a little shocked. Billy feels his heart lurch. He just wants to be fucking good at this.

“I’m gonna do better.” Billy asserts through a not-so-wobbly-anymore voice

The boy gives a small smile that grows a bit wider. If Billy isn’t absolutely crazy yet, he’d say that the boy’s eyes are getting a bit misty too.

“So are those tapes actually good?” The boy asks, clearing his throat and trying to seem casual. Billy sees more and more of himself in him.

“Hell yeah… do you think I’d have bad taste?”

His son cackles just a bit, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, alright then. Whatever you say.”

There’s a pause. Billy takes the card and tucks it back into the envelope to save for himself- to put in a special place in his and Steve’s room. He then busies himself with shuffling through his tapes before his son says-

“We can… listen to some of them. If you want.”

Billy’s eyes shine with excitement and appreciation.

Listening to the tapes together is wonderful. They rib each other about what songs are better, what voices do and don’t sound the same, what the lyrics are like. They learn more about each other and maybe Billy is finally forced to admit that they’re a lot more alike than he realized.

And Billy starts to feel that maybe… maybe he can finally define what a father really means to him. And father’s days start to feel a bit more like they belong to him, too.

[metalheadcowboy]

I feel like Tommy would be a really good Disney cast member, like Peter Pan or sumn,,,,, ya feel?

[okaybutlikeimagine]

Are you KIDDING meeee??? YES!!! Tommy with his stupidly big, sunshine-y grin?? Hands on his hips and stance out wide, smiling down at little kids and feeling joy in his heart as they talk about flying?? Tommy with his arms wide out, encouraging kids to do the same, and mimicking flying with them???? Tommy CROWING like Peter crows, finally being *expected* to be loud and larger than life when usually he's shamed for it???

Tommy also enjoying the days that he has to wear the animal costumes, even though everyone else hates it, bc he's really good at making his movements large and animated?

Tommy never getting over how good it feels to have people actually genuinely SMILE when they see him haha what

[biillys]

and in your soul they poked a million holes but you never let them show come on, it’s time to go

devotchka; how it ends

(inspired by @okaybutlikeimagine’s forever’s not so long fic)

[okaybutlikeimagine]

Forever’s Not So Long

(hi, major apologies but I actually wrote something canon compliant and it hurt lol. also preface: this is not me advocating for or demeaning religion or Catholicism. my family is Catholic but I don’t call myself religious. I just listened to DeVotchKa and cried over Billy)

TW: mentions of Catholicism, questioning religion, implied/referenced domestic abuse, implied/referenced child abuse, major character death

(it’s also on AO3 if you’d rather read it there)

---

Billy never understood it: going to church every Sunday when he had cartoons and corn flakes and PJs at home. He never understood having to wear his fanciest, itchiest shirt, especially because only the one would do so his mother had to wash it and iron it every week- even though she burned herself on the iron a handful of times through all her distractions. He never understood wanting to go somewhere where they told you what to do. It was all they ever did there, and there were few things he hated more than being told what to do. Stand and sit and stand and kneel and sit and stand and sing and speak speak speak. There were too many words he didn’t understand. There were too many people talking at once. There was too much and yet not enough going on to the point that he felt under stimulated and overwhelmed and desperate to crawl out of his skin and that incredibly itchy shirt.

There was no sense to be found in his grandmother either, and the way she clutched at her bible on her way to church. They used to drive her every Sunday, but then they moved further away and trips to church got less and less frequent until they stopped altogether. Still, she walked herself to church every week, some weeks every day. Billy only knew because his mother complained and worried herself sick over it. His grandmother insisted she wanted to. She had to.

“Just because you lost your devotion doesn’t mean I’ll lose mine.”

It took a couple years for Billy to understand the words.

And still it was nonsensical. So many questions of why sped through his head.

Billy would spend some weekends at his grandmother’s house and on those weekends, she’d drag Billy to church with her small wrinkled hand on his limp and sore arm. It didn’t matter how old he got- he was 9 and insisting his parents had let him stay home before and still she made him walk with her there. Stand and sit and stand and kneel and sing and speak and speak and speak.

“It’s good for you.” She insisted. Billy thought wistfully of TV and his grandmother’s pet cat that would lay next to him on the couch.

And on those Sundays, as Billy stood bathed in the bright light of the morning sun slipping through the colorful windows, somewhere in the middle of all those serious people, in his itchiest shirt that had wrinkles in it because his mother had been too sad to work the iron lately... his grandmother wept. Every time. Wept silently, tears spilling down her cheeks in rivulets of quiet emotion Billy couldn’t understand for the life of him. Eyes shining brightly, drowning in something indistinguishable, speaking the same words as everyone with a hushed voice like a promise to the world or herself or maybe someone Billy couldn’t see.

Billy never understood. More than that- he never forgave. He couldn’t help but turn angry eyes onto the building around them and the man at the front and the book gripped tightly in her hands. Too many factors in his grandmother’s anguish over something he couldn’t even understand.

But some moments etched themselves in Billy’s mind, and brought themselves to light on quieter days, in quieter moments of reflection and wondering. Moments when she would grasp his face… when she held out her shaking hands and stilled them on his cheeks, wet with tears because he was just a toddler and he watched a cat die in the street and he couldn’t understand. When she looked deep into his eyes and mumbled something that sounded like one of those promises and shed a tear for him and pulled him close. When she brought him over to light a candle to whisper a promise. When she gripped his shoulder and guided him to the kitchen to get a treat. When she prayed over her ice cream and over his too… maybe it made sense.

The time she introduced him to friends at church that smiled bright and friendly smiles and said “what a good kid”. The time she guided him through the church in the early morning when they got there before the service and she explained every picture and every story. The time she made him that fish pot pie that warmed him up from the inside out, because Easter was quickly coming and she explained why they couldn’t eat meat as they sat in front of the window and listened to the rain.

All the times she gripped her beaded cross over his bedside when he would fall ill, and closed her eyes tightly and rocked back and forth with it when one of the sicknesses got more serious. When he recovered just fine, and she laid a necklace with a woman on it over his neck and onto his chest- that same woman he saw everywhere in the church, the Mother. And then she looked at him with teary eyes and a watery smile as she allowed him to run off to play.

Maybe… maybe then, it made sense. In fractured moments of love and cherish, he could understand somewhere inside of him. Sometimes the devotion he saw in her eyes and felt in her actions made his heart feel right in ways words couldn’t describe. And those times, he could almost understand, as her passionate belief licked his wounds.

And he tried to hold onto that. Damn did he try to hold onto it- he’ll tell that to anyone. But it angered him still. Kind and beautiful moments never overshadowed the pain. It drove him wild with confusion and sadness and maybe something close to fear if he thought about it. At times he saw her as a woman possessed- obsessed and clinging to words and wishes and pleas of humanity. She clung to her book instead of taking her medicine. She yelled at his mother as she cried to her, begging her to listen. She walked and walked and walked even when she could barely keep herself up. She accepted rides only when she was begged to.

She gave her book to Billy’s mother one morning, after she had finally convinced them all to join her at church again. She handed it over with shaking hands and healthy eyes- healthier than Billy had seen them in a long time. Bright and clear. A smile that was a comfort. A look that was so serene.

She died suddenly the next day. His mother got a call from the neighbor who had gone over to check on her and ask if she wanted some baked goods. His mother wept the rest of the day and tried desperately to hide her tears behind smiles in front of Billy.

And Billy feared the book. Then he hated it. Then… he craved it.

A classmate mentioned the death of her own mother in class. She walked like she was in shock still. There was sadness in her movements. Billy learned the word “mourning”. He felt the despair encapsulate his heart as if he was mourning too- could imagine the pain and the sorrow and feared ever losing his mother. He remembered when his grandmother helped him understand death, so he wandered to his parent’s room and over to the book. He snuck in and stole it away and read what he could- the start of the world and the good deeds and the stories his grandmother once told him in the church.

He read about sacrifice.

Seven feet…

He read about hope.

You told her…. The wave was seven feet.

He read about humanity, and compassion, and understanding.

You ran to her… On the beach.

And he wanted that with him.

Yelling matches began. Infrequent until they weren’t. Crashing and shattering began. Quiet until it wasn’t- until it made its way nearer and nearer to his room. Until words became wails of despair and agony to “stay away from him”. When Billy began to clutch the book in shaking hands, began to rock back and forth, began to mumble words to himself he still wasn’t sure he understood.

Until he started taking sacrifice seriously. When his mind decided things were literal.

Stop it! Don’t hurt her!

Because she sacrificed. He heard so much. He figured sacrifice happens in lots of ways, in many forms. And he could sacrifice, too- get between it as well as his small body would allow. For the good in the world, and he saw a lot of good in the world, and she was the brightest.

So he could sacrifice.

But then she stopped. The book didn’t prepare him for when she would give up.

He wrestled with it for years.

How long? How long?! I miss you…

He thought sacrifice was a thing that always happened for the good. She told him he was all the good in the world- he was the sun and the moon and the stars and the Earth. He was every fantastical being. He was the light in her days.

But then she was gone- in a sudden and dizzying whirl of memories and pain, she became intangible. He watched, tired and dizzy from sleep, in the late late hours of the night as a cab raced her away from their home and into the darkness. It was an attempt to sneak away. Not even one last hug.

She left without her son, and Billy couldn’t fight the thoughts that in her flight, he became her last sacrifice.

I don’t understand… why not? Please Mom, don’t do this…

And he fought with himself more than anyone. In less than a month he was dodging jeers and anger and resentment and pain. He found himself mourning. He clung to the book while his ears rang from the yelling. He clutched it with red and shaking hands, clawing into the cover with desperation. He held it to his chest and begged for it to help him. He laid in bed and listened closely for the sound of the liquor bottles being slammed onto counters and he held the book. He mumbled the words he knew. He wondered if his grandmother could hear him up in the better place- if she was disappointed that he got the words wrong or just proud of him for trying.

Phone calls were frequent until they weren’t. Bruises weren’t frequent until they were. Billy clutched at his chain and the pendant and let hot tears hit his arms for the only Mother he had left.

And then the anger rose again. He quickly realized how he never forgave, and never should. How he couldn’t. Tears to books weren’t worth it- they only wrinkled the pages and blurred the words.

Sacrifice wasn’t worth it. Not when it involved leaving him in hell anyway.

Loud music drowned it out. He could make his ears ring all on his own.

Fights numbed it. He could bruise his body up on his terms, or bruise another body just the same.

Pushing away feelings fixed it. It can’t hurt to be someone’s sacrifice if you don’t care about them.

There were seagulls.

And he didn’t care.

He shoved the book in the back of his closet. He berated himself for ever thinking the words were real. He kicked himself for believing words and pleas were safeguards against anything physical. He sat and wondered to himself angrily, angry as all of Hell and every wretched being inside it, how he could remember his grandmother’s empty tears and think it was sane. Think it was reasonable. How he could experience her death and think it was understandable.

Fuck feelings and wanting and pleading. He didn’t care.

Not then.

But now...

She wore a hat… with a blue ribbon.

Now now now...

A long dress… with a blue and red flower.

Days have been gray for years. He also left his sun. He didn’t pack it with him.

She left him then she left him and then he left her too. Left it all behind.

Y-yellow sandals… covered in sand.

But he never found a way to leave behind the memories. Even when they fade in pulses, they don’t leave him. In the dark of night, he sees them. In the light of day, he sees them. In the sunshine and the shadows.

He sees them now.

She was pretty.

He sees her and her smile. Feels her and her warmth. His body has been so cold for so long… has been freezing for days but maybe also for years. He’s been cold for so long. But the chill of the ocean that he remembers like he turned 9 only yesterday… he remembers that differently. He remembers that’s different.

Her laugh is a song and her eyes hold prayers. The sand is so soft beneath his feet. The seagulls are calling him home.

He feels tears and he sees them too… on another face, bloodied and saddened and desperate as the flames of Hell themselves. Desperate, perhaps more like the clouds of a more promising place, beckoning him to something better.

Maybe desperate like the Earth. Like the trees and the leaves and the grass. Desperate like a human.

She was really pretty.

Yes… yes she was.

She was the sun… she was the sun and the moon and the stars and the Earth. She was every fantastical being. She was the light in his days.

And just because light fades, doesn’t mean it can’t come back. The book has told him. Told him light can return. Told him light is there if you only search for it. Told him sacrifice is for light.

Oh god that book… Where is it....

He’s been in the darkness for days. Weeks months years. There’s been so little light. But there was one… one that came into his mind when he was wallowing and forgetting himself. A girl, who held her hand out and looked at him like a human. Made him feel human for the first time in a long while. Let him shed a tear before the monster took over him. Let him show her all the fears of his life.

And that light is here now, talking him out of himself… now now now-

And you… you were happy.

Yes.

Sacrifice is for others. Sacrifice is for those who depend on you.

Sacrifice is for the light brushing his cheek. For the child in his heart still, begging in pleas he’s borrowed from his grandmother.

He stands on shaking legs, with the light of the sun in his heart and with hot tears filling his eyes, and he wishes with all of him that he had that book. His fingers twitch at the memory of feeling it in his hands. His heart lurches at all the memories- memories of women who held him close and begged to some invisible force that his life be easy.

He remembers, briefly and vaguely, the pleas of his grandmother. That he be happy and healthy and safe. That life be easier for him than any of them because he deserved it. She begged and pleaded all the time. She hoped and she wished.

His body aches standing here, staring down the monster that mirrors the evil that’s taken over his body and made it its own. And still, he’s within himself again. He sees it as clearly as he can with tears and with headaches and with every last memory and every last strike of pain.

There’s fear coursing through him… but that’s what comes with sacrifice. He knows that better than anyone, he thinks. He allows himself that last, tiny bit of selfishness.

Sacrifice isn’t easy. It’s pain and it’s fear- it’s the worry that maybe it won’t work. Maybe it won’t be worth it. Maybe the pain searing his hands at holding every evil thing back is only giving mere seconds of grace before the world ends anyway, putting all his actions in vain.

But this monster is him too. It’s the thing consuming him. With every strike it takes to his body, it’s attacking itself, and he knows this. Even mere seconds of grace can be worth it… maybe sacrifice isn’t always about success, just for the chance of hope. Isn’t that right? Just for a chance...

It’s violent… does sacrifice always have to be so violent?

His body falls… does sacrifice always have to end with someone fallen?

There are shrieks, distant and muffled…

Light fades and enters and fades, pressure appears on his arms and his name is being spoken. His mind briefly registers the face, the face of a girl he’s sacrificed himself for enough times he couldn’t count. A girl he’s stood in front of, metaphorically, to block any pain from reaching her. A girl he’s inflicted pain on, despite.

“I’m sorry.” is all he can force out, even through the desperation licking at him to say more. Say it all. Say everything.

In his last breath, the pain fades until all he can feel is the stickiness of the pendant on his sweaty and broken chest- the Mother pressed to him.

And he thinks of his grandmother. Thinks and wonders, with the wispy, fleeting thoughts going dark and black… thoughts of a place of hope and how his grandmother must be there- waiting with her clear eyes and kind smile and shaking hands to help him through it. To grab his arm and show him around. Just like she always did.

He wonders if he should thank her for the book.

[okaybutlikeimagine]

there are many songs that make me think of Billy’s death and How It Ends by Devotchka is one of them

[finalfantasy37]

losing it @ hotcock

[okaybutlikeimagine]

i’m SURE someone has said this already, but red is Steve pre-bi-awakening and blue is Robin and Robin cracks up at this nonsense. eventually, when Steve realizes he has a big ol’ massive crush on Billy and they start dating, Robin has to tell Billy about this whole encounter. Billy promptly starts calling Steve “hotcock”. Just so casually too, like:

Billy: g’morning hotcock.

Steve: babe stooooopppp

Billy: you can’t call me babe, that’s a straight guy word