Just an idea that wouldn’t git, so I wrote it. Maybe it’ll leave me alone?
Steve’s eye caught on the new guy tending bar at Harvey’s, and he nearly broke his nose dropping the pint glass into his face. Billy Hargrove wasn’t the very last person he’d expected to run into trying to get another round, he thought—Hitler might might have been more surprising, or Ronald Reagan—but he stared all the same, until Billy looked up and grinned.
“Seen a ghost, Harrington?” he asked, and Steve felt like an idiot for wanting to nod—he knew Max’s brother had made it out of Starcourt Mall, and into intensive care, and then weeks of physical therapy—they’d all taken turns as moral support, helping her pick out awful presents.
Steve swallowed. “Max said you left. ‘Cause your dad’s an asshole.”
“Don’t forget monsters,” Billy grunted, pouring shots with a spin of his wrist, and sliding them across the counter to someone and her gang of friends. “Dunno why you all didn’t get the hell out of—”
“Why come back?!” Steve asked, not because he minded Hawkins, but because of the thick scars across Billy’s shirtless chest. He tried to remember what they’d talked about, the last time he’d taken Max, Lucas, and Dustin to sit around Billy’s bed, the day before he left.
Billy glanced at Steve’s face, then lowered his eyes to the glass he was drying. “Max needs a roommate while she gets her degree, so I’m back.”
“Oh,” Steve nodded, spinning his empty beer glass against the counter. Billy’d laughed, startling both of them, when Steve had helped him get to the bathroom, and he’d nearly fallen. He’d been heavy—and warm, from his blankets, Steve remembered—and Steve had grabbed him with both arms, asking whether he was okay. Billy had started laughing into his shoulder, muttering “shit, shit, sorry, shit,” the whole way down the hall, and left the next morning. “You didn’t say anything,” Steve told his glass, and wished he hadn’t, because it sounded childish once it was out of his mouth.
Billy paused in his plucking of mint leaves to look up. “...what did you—”
“Nothing,” Steve cut him off, looking at the boy who’d shoved him around, hit him with a plate, and nearly died trying to save Eleven. “Nothing.” He stood up to pull his coat back on, and Billy half-fell across the counter, knocking over the ketchup and pepper shaker to grab Steve’s glass.
“On the house,” he said, running to the taps, and Steve opened his mouth to tell him what he’d been drinking, then let him fill it with Bud Lite. “On the house,” Billy repeated, running back to smack it down in front of Steve, so the suds lapped over the edge. “Sorry,” he panted, grabbing it back and wiping the glass. “Here.”
“...okay,” Steve bit his lip, but sat back down, and whover was next to him slammed a fist on the counter, yelling. Billy got them drinks while Steve contemplated his free beer.
He was a third through it by the time Billy stopped in front of him again. “...so,” he said, and Steve snorted.
“You got something to say?” he volleyed back, and Billy laughed, shaking his head.
“Guess I’ll see you around,” he said, flashing a smile.
Steve tipped his head back and drained the glass, and a shot glass slid out of Billy’s hand and clattered to the floor. Steve stood on the side bars of the stool to lean over the bar, watching Billy scramble around with an arm under the cupboards. “...maybe you should learn to bartend,” he suggested, and Billy flipped him off.
“Order a real drink, Harrington—”
“Have to be up early,” Steve told him, grinning down. “Bet you get to sleep in.”
“You wanna know?” Billy pushed himself up, his back and shoulders flexing, and Steve swallowed. Billy brushed off his jeans. “I’m off in two hours,” he said. “If you…”
“What?” Steve asked, feeling strangled.
“If you want to catch up,” Billy said, shrugging, and Steve blinked.
“Um, you’ve been—Max probably told you everything.”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Billy shrugged, backing away, and Steve smacked his hands on the counter.
“No, wait, yeah, let’s—let’s catch up!” he said, too loud, and Billy laughed.
That night he sucked Steve off in the parking lot, against his station wagon, and Steve garbled “Holy shit,” and “What the hell” and “You’re so good at this” into a stream of gibberish, sinking to land on his butt on the gravel.
“...some kinda catching up,” Steve panted, his knees on either side of Billy’s.
“Mmn,” Billy leaned in, heavy against Steve’s chest, kissing up the side of his neck.
“Your place or mine?” Steve whispered, and Billy stilled, then laughed.
“Can’t get enough of me?” he asked, and Steve snorted.
The next morning, Steve got dressed, brushed his teeth, and then crawled back over the covers, kissing Billy’s shoulder and the side of his head as he laughed, curling deeper into the blankets. “You haveta work today?” Steve whispered, and Billy rolled to blink up at him.
“Mmpf?” Billy asked, squinting up. “...why?”
“I’ll be done in an hour or two,” Steve told him, letting his thumb rasp against Billy’s stubble. “Want me to bring back some food?”
Billy stared up at him for a second, then nodded. “If you want to come back here.”
“Do you have to work?” Steve asked again. “I can make myself scarce.”
“Nah, I can go again,” Billy propped himself up on his elbows. “Kick me awake later.”
“Yeah, sure,” Steve rolled his eyes, and leaned in for a kiss Billy dodged.
“Morning breath, asshole,” Billy whispered. “Hey.”
“Mmn?” Steve asked, standing on one leg to tie his shoes.
“Wait, dickbird, tell me you love me, if we’re gonna play house.”
Steve leaned on the bed again to shove his blanketed bulk, but leaned in to smack a kiss on Billy’s head. “See you later, babe, love you, g’bye,” he said dryly, and Billy rolled away, groaning into his pillow.
When he showed up later, Billy was sitting on the arm of the couch, peeling the label off a beer bottle at eleven am. “Didn’t know whether to lube up or set out the candles and tablecloth,” he said, laughing, and Steve walked around for another kiss.
“Honey, I’m home,” he told Billy, who pressed up against him, wrapping a leg around Steve’s butt. “Daydrinking without me?”
“Welcome back,” Billy whispered, grabbing Steve around the shoulders and falling back onto the couch, so they landed in a pile of limbs. “Thought maybe you stood me up.”
“In sickness and in health, right,” Steve said against the skin of Billy’s throat, and Billy grabbed him tighter.
“You’re so goddamn weird,” Billy laughed. “How long you gonna play house with the town fag?”
“What?” Steve stopped mid kiss, breathing against the buzz of Billy’s voice in his throat.
“No, nevermind,” Billy snorted. “I’ll get it when you stop returning my calls, right.”
Steve pushed himself up, doing a pushup to stare down at Billy Hargrove’s grinning face. “What? You—”
“Ssh,” Billy pulled him down again, and in the ensuing kisses, Steve forgot what he’d wanted to say.
Every so often Billy’d ask again—“How long’re we gonna play house, Harrington?” and Steve would stop to ask what that even meant, and Billy would distract him again, and demand flowers, chocolates, or a welcome-home kiss.
He didn’t even seem to know what to do with flowers, Steve realized—he just stood staring at them, until Steve rescued them back, cut off the ends, and filled the blender with water as the closest thing to a vase. For Valentine’s Day, he brought over the biggest, pinkest, sparkliest heart-shaped box he could find, and licked melted chocolate off Billy’s abs, thighs, and eventually, everywhere else. The next day, he replaced the sheets.
When Steve sped over from work and walked in on lit candles, covered dishes, and Billy pulling garlic bread out of the oven, Billy said, “Five month anniversary, right?”
Steve tried to remember what day it even was, kicking his shoes off, and Billy laughed, backing away.
“Just playing,” he said quickly. “Just playing house.”
“I like playing house,” Steve told him, sliding in his socks across the linoleum to kiss Billy’s neck where he was bent, frowning into the tinfoil. “Need to talk to you about that.”
“...thought you might,” Billy said, stopping his inspection to clench his fists against the edge of the counter. “What?”
“Kinda silly, us both having houses,” Steve said, the way he’d practiced in the mirror. He slid a hand under Billy’s shirt, stroking his thumb over Billy’s taut muscles. He felt a scar, and grabbed Billy’s hips to turn him, suddenly needing to get his face under Billy’s shirt and kiss his skin.
“What—what are you saying,” Billy asked hoarsely.
“Don’t like it when you’re not there at night,” Steve told him, looking up from where he knelt on the floor. “I roll over and there’s this cold space where you aren’t.”
“Holy shit,” Billy said, and he started laughing, but his eyes went all red and shiny, so Steve didn’t mind.
“I have a garage,” Steve said persuasively, and Billy snorted, coughing.
“That’s your offer? A garage.”
“You could wash your Camaro and the rain wouldn’t ruin the wax,” Steve tried. “And there’s no stairs. I know you hate hauling groceries up here.”
Billy just kept snickering, leaning back against the counter, and Steve bit his lip.
“Or if you like it better here,” he surrendered, and Billy laughed harder, sinking down to the floor. Steve wasn’t that attached to his house, he thought. “I would do all the dishes,” he offered, and Billy tilted to lean against him, burying his face in Steve’s neck.
“You’re bargaining with me,” he whispered, and Steve shrugged, beginning to wish he hadn’t said anything.
“You can just tell me where to shove it,” Steve forced a laugh, and it came out sharp. “We can eat.”
“I get to sleep in your bed, though, right,” Billy whispered, sniffling. “Not the garage.”
“What the hell,” Steve whispered back. “Don’t make me bite you.”
“Go ahead,” Billy laughed. “I’m yours.”
“You’re a pain in the ass,” Steve told him, yanking them both to their feet, so he could slap the keys he’d made into Billy’s hand. “You want to, right?”
Billy nodded, standing there in the kitchen, holding the keys out and staring down through them. “I—I want to. I want to. Are—are you sure you…”
“What?!” Steve asked, assessing the bread—it looked fine—and sliding it onto the prepared plate.
“This—this is what you want?!” Billy asked, probably waving at himself like an asshole, and Steve kept his eyes on the precarious stack of bread, spinning to kick Billy lightly in the shin.
“Stop sounding like you’re the discount version of something,” Steve told him, sticking his tongue between his teeth as he bore the bread out to the table. “Yeah, I want to fucking play house, come play house with me. Forever.”
“That sounds kind of ominous,” Billy said, his voice shaky.
“Gonna play the hell out of this house,” Steve muttered, and Billy started laughing again, leaning against his shoulder.
“Feed me bread,” he commanded, and Steve shoved him, but pulled him back again after grabbing a slice. “Honey. Babe. Lover,” Billy whispered, and Steve shoved the bread in his mouth, feeling his face heat.
“Hurry up and eat, sweetums,” he whispered back, and Billy choked, coughing.
The first morning Steve awoke to sharing a house with Billy Hargrove, he was gone from the bed, and Steve stomped petulantly down to find him naked, in an apron, making breakfast.
