One month. Billy and Steve have been living together for one month.
In that time they’ve discovered a lot about each other, things they never expected. Things like Steve hanging his jackets and sweaters in rainbow order in the closet, or Billy placing the cups in diagonal lines in the cabinet.
Only one thing had caused a disagreement, and that was about furniture covers. Billy’s ocd wanted them to avoid touching “sofa stank ass,” but Steve’s autism hated the texture of sitting on fabric on top of fabric.
Their solution was two separate chairs instead of one couch. Close enough to hold hands constantly, but separate enough to enforce their individual boundaries. Sure, it means cuddles are limited to their bed, but Billy’s on bedrest with full body aches and bouts of fibro fog usually once a week, so it works.
However, by far the most exciting tidbit they’d discovered was that they share a special interest. Games.
Video games, board games, sports- they’ve both explored the history, researched the best strategies, and played thousands upon thousands of games. DND had brought them together through mutual friendship with Eddie, while Super Mario kept their relationship on its toes.
Tonight, their choice was a little unconventional for them, a big dusty box fished from the very back of the closet. An inherited, smoke stained edition of Scrabble. If either of them and their dyslexia had realized that making a goal to play every game in the house would mean playing a spelling game, they might not have made that promise.
But, Steve already was dead set on doing it, and his dedication was not to be messed with. They were going to play that game, no matter how long it took.
Currently almost two hours and half a bag of letter chips in, it’s Steve’s turn again.
“Uhhh, I’ll spell… sunset! S-U-N.. S-E-T.”
Every chip is placed carefully, and they both double check it with the help of their Scrabble approved dictionary. At first, he’d placed them in the wrong spot, connected to a D instead of the S on the end that he meant to use, but they fixed it quickly instead of dwelling on the mistake. Billy knows Steve might cry of embarrassment if they keep the focus on his mistake for too long.
But now it’s time for Billy to have yet another go, as Steve reminds him in case he forgot again, “Your turn, Bubs! Got anything good?”
“Honestly? I have no ideas. These letters suck.” Billy grumbles, pushing the small tray that holds the letter chips away.
“You can look it up.” Steve suggests, the only way they ever agreed to go along with this game being shortcuts and technical cheats.
But Billy shakes his head, in deep concentration, “No. No, I wanna do it on my own.”
Steve gives an encouraging smile, “Take your time. I’m watching the TV over your shoulder.”
Something about the way Billy snorts says he doesn’t see that as encouragement, but instead sounds hurt, “I’m that boring, huh?”
Regretting the way he’d put it so bluntly, Steve makes sure to promise kindly, “Nope! I just like the game shows!”
It’s true too. He likes learning new words in a way that doesn’t make his brain feel like it’s on fire. And watching other people fail and struggle, even the best of the best, makes him feel a lot better about playing mostly two or three lettered words in this here game of Scrabble.
Billy’s shoulders relax with ease, satisfied that Steve isn’t annoyed with him. He does, however, quip sarcastically, “We’re so old.”
“Thirty isn’t old.” Steve hums, actually happy to be growing older instead of being trapped in the misery of his teens forever.
Growing up meant growing out of his intense self-deprecation, after leaving behind all the pain and the tragedy he’d gone through. Now in California, playing board games with the love of his life, nothing else matters.
Billy clarifies his meaning, showing to Steve that he feels the same way, and was just using an expression, “I’m not talking about literally, baby. And stop rounding up, I’m only 26.”
It’s lighthearted and they both smile, but something keeps nagging in Steve’s head. One of those old fears of his rising up despite his insistence that they don’t bother him anymore.
“We can do young people stuff.” He offers, sounding kind of upset though he doesn’t mean to let it show, “I mean, I just thought this was fun...”
Even though they’ve got a game set up, Billy leans over the small table on his elbows, and holds Steve’s hands, “Stevie. It’s great. I love these slow days with you. They make me happier than anything. I was just kidding.”
Instant relief floods Steve’s nervously twisted stomach, but just in case he asks, “You’re sure? ‘Cause we can do something else.”
It’s his fault they’re doing this. He said it would be okay. Fun even. He said they can do anything they want.
“I want to keep playing.” Billy promises, and then a real pleased look crosses his face, “I just thought of a word even.”
“What is it?” Steve brightens up immediately, leaning forward in interest.
Billy uses an ‘O’ chip already on the board to spell- “Love.”
Picking up from the look on Billy’s face, it’s not a coincidence that he’s taken to flirting through a board game. Steve blushes like they haven’t already been together for eight years. These slow times between them can be relaxing, but they’re usually days where they check in on their romance too. Rekindling the passion over a goddamn spelling game, that should, by all means, have caused Steve to panic ages ago.
It’s sweet, and it only gets better.
An adjacent ‘S’ in line with Billy’s ‘O’ and an ‘M’ further down the board makes it so Steve can spell the biggest word he’s ever played in this game, “Oh! I can use that to spell Soulmate!!”
“You got that right. I’m yours, and you’re mine.” Billy says all suavely. Steve’s literally giggling and kicking his feet, only to be shown once again through the next move just how much of a romantic Billy is.
“Matter of fact, I can use that new M to spell- Marry.”
For a moment, Steve just stares.
He’s not sure if it’s genuine or just a strategy, until Billy produces a tiny box from his pocket. It’s wooden, looks hand carved. Inside is a ring with a small ruby in a heart shape attached to a band, one he recognizes as being Billy’s mothers.
“Billy-“ He chokes. The words he’d been doing so good at freeze up. He’s used his brain so much today and now it’s failing him?
Billy is patient though, leaving the box propped open on the table so he doesn’t have to hold it and lock his wrist up, “Stevie.”
Steve swallows down his nerves as best he can, and starts to ask, “Are you..?”
“I am.” Billy finishes for him, so Steve doesn’t get too frustrated. It’s then that he starts to look nervous too. He chews his lip, a stim Steve recognizes as being an anxious one. Like he’s done something wrong by asking for something so big, “Do you want to?”
But this, this couldn’t be more perfect. A proposal through their shared special interest, a lifelong passion channeled into their love. Of course Steve wants that too. Really, he’s wanted it ever since they were teenagers, but now that they’re in their twenties, they’re finally ready for that dream to become a reality.
“Yes! Of course I’ll marry you!”
~~~~~~
For todays disability organization spotlight, let’s talk about the National Fibromyalgia Association.
The NFA is a site which provides health information and resources about Fibromyalgia, a condition that is under researched and often disregarded by medical professionals as not even existing.
The information on their site ranges from self care guides, science explaining chronic pain, COVID precautions for our disorder, medication and treatment suggestions, and emotional assistance for fibromyalgia patients, among other things.
Run by doctors and fibromyalgia patients alike, the websites main goal is to spread awareness and make research accessible for everyone. When I finally received my diagnosis, I spent a lot of time here learning about little things I could do for myself to manage my symptoms. Now I use mobility aids and am in physical therapy, and my symptoms are much more managed than before.
Because fibromyalgia is such a disregarded disability, so are our foundations. The NFA is currently asking for donations, either direct monetary donations or through buying their merchandise in the online shop.
If you would like to learn more about this organization or access their information guides, you can click here to visit the site.
Ships: Billy Hargrove x Chrissy Cunningham and Heather Holloway x Jason Carver.
Warnings: Implied/referenced child abuse, lots of arguing and misunderstandings, very mild references to sexual content.
~~~~~~
“No. Nope. I don’t believe that for one second.”
Gossip. That’s all it is. Heather and Chrissy laying on the former’s bed, legs up against the wall, long hair dangling over the opposite edge of the bed, exchanging silly gossip.
Never the mean kind, Chrissy won’t allow that, it’s mostly their respective crushes and fascinations from school they talk about.
Or specifically, lately how much Heather doesn’t like Chrissy’s taste in boys. Or anybody, for that matter. In her heart of hearts, she knows Heather is just protective.
Still, Chrissy tosses a little stuffed fuzzball of an animal at her friend for that comment, “Hetty! Rude!”
“Look I’m sorry, I just can’t believe that Hargrove has like, actual feelings. I don’t trust him.” Heather elaborates, through her laughter.
See, she’d say the same every time, they both know that. What matters is whether Chrissy is bold enough to go through with it. She never has been so far. It’s one thing to have a crush, but to have someone openly pining back, that’s something more rare.
An opportunity Chrissy wouldn’t like to lose just to please her best friend.
She’ll try to win her over, “One date won’t be bad.”
But Heather will make excuse after excuse, “Every girl says that before the worst night of her life.”
Chrissy rolls onto her front, sighing so heavily the weight of Heather’s mattress lifts up, like she’s turned to the most stressed little helium balloon and floated away. Maybe she did, off into her imagination, taking her common sense with her.
Maybe she’ll entertain Heather’s concerns, but only if they’re productive, “Well how did you know Jason was being genuine?”
Heather's boyfriend. Track and basketball star, high class social asshole. Chrissys has never been a fan, to be entirely honest. Her earliest memories of Jason Carver were of him shoving over smaller kids in their church group and treating every recess game as pro-level sports. She still doesn’t see what Heather finds so charming about him.
She hopes maybe he’d changed, assumes he’d have had to to win over a critical heart like the one guarded in Heather’s chest.
Oh but Heather gives no such benefit of the doubt to anybody else, “I /don’t/ know it. But /my/ boyfriend doesn’t run over innocent children in his free time.. or whatever the hell it is Billy Hargrove gets up to.”
Chrissy has to laugh at that, it's so absurd, “Oh- He does not! Billy’s /nice./”
“Prove it.” Heather challenges, popping a gum bubble between her teeth to assert her seriousness.
“Hetty.” Chrissy warns, uninterested in playing that game.
Her friend isn’t having it. Heather rolls her brown eyes with so much force she literally rolls over on the bed, sprawling out over top of Chrissy like a beloved golden retriever with no respect for sharing space. It’s always been comfortable with her, coexisting without regard to self consciousness and mothers opinions and Godly image. Probably why she lets Heather get away with being a little catty sometimes.
Like now, as she claims, “Oh come on. Make it a game, have some fun, but show me he’s genuine. Or else I’m kicking his ass.”
“Fine.” Chrissy wants to be stern, but she cracks a little smile, her real, bright one, “If I'm supposed to threaten to kick Jason’s butt, I don’t think I’d be able to.”
Heather hums in thought before presenting a solution, “I’ll do the ‘defending of our honor’ if you help me test Jay back.”
“Pinky promise you’ll be nicer to Billy once we get proof?”
“That’s /if/ we get proof, but you have my word.”
The deal is sealed. They lock pinky fingers, one soft pink nailed and one a flaming red shade. In the ten years they’d been friends since Heather joined their class in 1st grade, not a single pinky promise between them has been broken. It just isn’t done.
Admittedly, that’s a lot of pressure. Talking about cute boys doesn’t feel as fun anymore.
Chrissy’s fluttery feelings start to set in, fidgeting with her hands to hope to drive them off. If she had her bracelets on, she’d shake them and enjoy the way they ring from the hard plastics and metals banging together, but it’s late, she’s in her pjs without jewelry. She picks her nails instead.
Redirecting, Heather hands her a stuffed Winnie the Pooh, and asks a question she knows will catch her off guard, “Soooo. What are you gonna do?”
“Hetty, I haven’t had time to think!” Chrissy complains, squishing poor Pooh between her hands, choosing to abuse the stuffed toy with her anxiety instead of her own skin.
“Oh come on. What do boys care about? Cars, sex, and sports. Pick one and he’ll show his true colors.” Heather says it likes it’s all just so easy, and she already knows it all.
Chrissy isn’t as sure. She considers her options,
“Um, sports sounds the least dangerous.. maybe?”
“Until he tackles your little ass.” Heather points out.
There’s a moment where they both sort of stop moving. They both know what Heather is about to do, but Chrissy's defenses are useless to stop it. She scrunches her body up as tiny as can be, but Heather has pounced, poking her sides gently where she knows her friend is ticklish.
Chrissy used to get all self conscious when Heather would do things like that. Not just touching her skin, so close to where she feels her strongest insecurities, but even jokes, little digs that had nothing to do with Chrissy’s appearance would get her down.
They have Billy to thank for the change. Dating or not, William Hargrove isn’t one to hide his affections. Everyone knows he’s had a thing for Chrissy for a while. It’s deciphering whether he’s chasing tail, or chasing the sweet girl he’d shown enough interest in to replenish her view of herself, hung around and flirted and laughed with so freely it healed a part of her broken heart.
She thinks maybe repaying him a little would increase the chances of getting the ball rolling, and getting Heather’s trust. “What if I cheer special for him during one of his games?”
“Uh, no!” Heather shakes her head, rolled curls bouncing in their pillow curlers back and forth, ”That just makes /you/ public about it. And he can spin that if he’s being an ass for real.”
“But I don’t think-“ Chrissy starts to argue, brow knotted.
Heather holds one of her hands, showing she is doing this because she cares, even if she’s being a little harsh, “Honey, I know I’m a cynical bitch, but I don’t want to see you hurt. Save yourself the embarrassment.”
“I don’t- Heather, it’s not embarrassing to be in love!”
A gasp, slow realization dawning. “You’re right. Oh my god, Chrissy you’re so right!!”
Heather kicks her legs with glee, fuzzy slippers going flying. Right out of a movie, she squeals with delight, infecting Chrissy too with her sudden joy.
Chrissy giggles, going along with it, “I am?”
“Uh, yes! It’s perfect!” Heather scoots closer until they’re shoulder to shoulder, looking up at the ceiling together. She talks with her hands, like she’s painting the picture for her. “Don’t /cheer/ his name. /Wear/ it.”
Only, Chrissy doesn’t think she gets it, “...How?”
“His varsity jacket! If a boy gives you his varsity jacket, it’s serious business. They protect those damn things like a firstborn daughter. If you can get Billy to give you his jacket, you might as well be hitched!” Heather explains, a ball of enthusiasm.
Chrissy knows her longing heart starts racing, probably obvious to Heather too this close together, “You actually think that would work?”
Heather flips up so she’s sitting, burning some of her energy in her dramatic motions, “Duh! You show up to a game repping his varsity, baby, that deal is sealed. I’m talking a proposal at the end-zone. A wedding between quarters. I’m talkin’ baby-making under the bleachers-“
Chrissy, face as hot pink as her pj tank top, interrupts all that, “Okay! Okay. That’s… I get it.”
“Do I make you blush, fair lady?” Heather drawls, in an impression of a boy, eyebrow arched, chest puffed out, lips curled, her voiced dropped ridiculously deep-
Chrissy covers her face, trying desperately not to laugh at the ridiculous attempt, “Heatherrr!!”
Heather clutches her chest like she’s wounded, taking on a sort of accent almost from how badly she’s doing her impression, “Ah! My apologies, maiden. How ungentlemanly of me.”
“Nobody talks like that! /Billy/ doesn’t talk like that!!” Chrissy argues, though she giggles at the unseriousness of it all. So it took a while, but Heather always does know how to make her feel better.
They drop the boy talk for a while, choosing to sneak downstairs and grab some snacks at two in the morning once Heather’s parents were definitely asleep, coming back up with a strange homemade trail mix. Dark chocolate chips, raisins, pretzels, almonds and strawberries. Certainly nothing outside of Chrissy’s comfort zone, careful not to push the limits of her recovery, though it’ll probably give them both a stomachache in a few hours regardless.
Leaned against some bean bag chairs right under the open window, enjoying the birdsong and cricket chirps, they share their homemade creation, and better, more smiles and lighthearted stories. Like they used to, before highschool drama and all.
Nearing 4, Heather turns to her, uncharacteristically dead serious, and declares, “I hope he makes you this happy.”
The realness inspires Chrissy to do the prying now, switching roles, hoping her friend will open up to her in kind, “Does Jason make you happy?”
“/Jason/ does. Our parents practically arranging for us to be married from the time we were newborns, hm not so much.” Heather sighs, drawing her knees in. She doesn’t quite shut down, it’s more for comfort, self assurance, which Chrissy understands. She gives her space to collect her thoughts.
“He’s my guy best friend. And I love him. In more than the best friend way. It’d be stupid not to end up together. But god there’s so much pressure!”
“I think you should do the jacket thing too.” Chrissy offers carefully, “I’m doing it to prove /my/ date isn’t a one-hit creep. You can do it just to remind yourself why you love your boy. And that he loves you. ‘Cause I know he does, Heather. But I know you’re afraid he doesn’t.”
Heather has tears in her eyes and a sad smile when she looks at Chrissy, “What is with you quiet girls and secretly being psychics?”
Oh how Chrissy wished she truly were a psychic.
At the beginning, she wasn’t nervous at all. Her and Heather bullshitted all the time, it wasn’t anything serious. But they’re all four on a date, wandering downtown around the various second hand stores, a typical stop for one couple, and the complete opposite for the others.
Seemed as good a time as any to go through with their silly plan, it wasn’t like it would hurt anything. Except she’d tried all kinds of things to get Billy to give her his jacket, and so far, none of them worked even a little! Not browsing through a selection of jackets at the stores, not shivering dramatically, not clinging to his side either.
Chrissy felt a chip in her little heart every time, feeling like maybe Heather was right. All over a jacket. She’d have her heart broken for a little bit of wool and leather.
With her boyfriend's name on it. Her boyfriend who actually holds her hand, and tells her she’s pretty, and doesn’t creep his hands under his skirt constantly.
She doesn’t know if she could get over losing that.
Her gait down the strip is admittedly less spirited, lingering behind Heather and Jay, but Billy never leaves her behind. He engages her in conversation too, hair blowing all over the place around his face, “How the fuck do you go outside in this shit?”
Chrissy looks at him, wearing an amused little smile, “Like, ever?”
“Yeah /ever/, Princess.” Billy sarcastically, but lightheartedly bumps her shoulder lightly with his arm, “Jesus, I should take you to California. Gonna miss winters without tiny fucking knives falling from the sky.”
Heather doesn’t lose track of that comment for a minute. Excited for Chrissy, she tries to plant the seed for their plan,
“What’s the matter, Billy? You too cold?”
“Hell no. But I’m not a chick the size of a baby deer.” Billy remarks, taking the bait perfectly well, rubbing Chrissy’s arms and feeling how cold she is, “Shit, you’re fucking frozen, Chris. Here.”
And without even thinking he peels off his varsity jacket and starts to hand it over.
Used to the cold, and despite her excitement wanting to make sure Billy doesn’t get uncomfortable, Chrissy protests, “No, no, no. Keep it. I can’t let your California sunshine freeze over.”
Billy disregards that, slinging it over her shoulders anyways, “Yeah, well I’m not letting all the fuckin’ little pixies that fly around your head freeze to death either.”
Jason scoffs at him, turning around to walk backwards with the group, teasing, “Dude, what does that even mean?”
Without even looking Heather flicks his ear, getting his attention back, “Just because you don’t understand romance doesn’t mean nobody can.”
He looks at her like a kicked puppy, but Jason is nothing if not stubborn, “Pixies? Sunshine? What happened to- beautiful and charming and butterflies in the stomach?”
“I don’t know, Jason. Maybe you should fall in love again and find out.”
“Who would I fall in love with? Nobody can beat you, Holloway.”
Heather rolls her eyes, flicking her hair like an agitated horse would it’s tail, “Ah, see you almost got a couple points there. Almost. You’re in the negatives though for using my last name.”
He tries to recover it suavely, “I could call you Carver instead?”
But that isn’t Heather's way. She counters intensely, “No. I’m not being a child bride, thank you very much. Besides, who says I’m taking your name? Maybe I could call you Holloway.”
“The.. I- Okay.” Jason just sputters, turning pink up to his ears.
Behind them, still lingering a good ways back, Chrissy hums, warm and cozy in her boyfriend’s jacket, “What are they even arguing about?”
Billy laughs about that, shrugs his shoulders, “Hell if I know. They lost me a long time ago.”
“It’s funny. Heather didn’t think you were good for me, but she fights with Jason all the time.” Chrissy informs him.
Billy stops dead in his tracks. Gently uses his hold on Chrissy's hand to spin her around to face him as he fell behind,
“Hold on. Take a step back. Heather thinks /what/ about me?”
Chrissy’s nerves spike so quickly she gets a little dizzy, “Please don't take it personally. I want my two favorite people to like each other. Please.”
Her beau steadies her, instead of freaking out, “No problem. I just find it.. fuckin’ weird.”
“It’s because of the way you drive. And smoke. And act. She thinks it’s bad for me.” Chrissy blurts, knowing it’s unkind but needing him to believe that she had no part in it.
He doesn’t seem too phased by having Heather’s disapproval, apparently learning faster than most people do, “Big fucking deal. At least you know I love you, right?”
“Mhm.” Chrissy nods her assurance, standing on her tiptoes to kiss Billy’s cheek and seal the promise.
“Right. Tell her she’s the one making Jason cry his damn eyes out the second he gets tipsy on a sip of anything stronger than a fuckin’ soda pop. I’m tellin’ you, Holloway has ripped out his heart and shoved it up his own pansy ass.” Billy sounds bitter, but not overly mean.
It’s something he’s thought about before. Good to know the gossip street goes both ways.
It’s why Chrissy doesn’t feel too bad telling Billy now, “She doesn’t mean to. I think she’s scared.”
“Sacred of Carver?…. He hurt her?” His voice drops, as angry and mean as Heather warned her about.
They don’t talk much about serious things, serious isn’t their kind of fun, but Chrissy knows about Billy’s life at home. About the type of man Billy could’ve been destined to be.
She rushes to make sure he doesn’t turn on his own friend for thinking Jason was the same way, “Oh no! No, not at all. Never. It’s her mom and her daddy. They sort of forced her to date Jason. She wasn’t ready. I think she’s ready now and doesn’t want to admit it. ‘Cause that would be like taking their orders.”
“Fuckin’ parents.” Billy eventually grumbles, not knowing what else to say.
It seems to be a common theme in their group. A bonding experience for all four of them, whether or not they’re open about it.
Chrissy doesn’t really feel like talking about that stuff anymore, sort of just mumbling, “Yeah.”
Because Billy is perfect, and none of the things Heather says at all, and the actual bullies in their lives makes her want to just hide. Billy notices the drop in her mood, and silently slings an arm around her waist, pulling her into his side as they walk. Keeping her close. Safe.
Maybe someday things will work out beyond Hawkins. They have to. Winning the jacket was a silly, small victory, but it was a step.
Now Chrissy just wants, more than anything, her friends to be happy.
She holds onto Billy’s hand a little tighter.
The next time Heather and Jason get together, it’s for a study date at the end of that week. With Heather being a year above, the only class they have in common is the Biology two class Heather failed last year. There’s coloring sheets of bones and cells to be completed, so it’s not like they need each other’s help, but sitting on Heather’s bed coloring with colored pencils didn’t seem like a bad deal either way.
At some point, surrounded by all the color, Heather realizes something,
“Honey. We’re going shopping this weekend.”
Jason barely looks up from his work, focused on being neat close to the lines, “For?”
“Clothes. You’ve worn three white polos this week. I’m bringing some color into your life.” Heather pokes him with the flat end of the white pencil for emphasis.
Jason blinks, caught off his guard, “I wear green sometimes.”
“School colors don’t count. Yellow either.”
“I think I have, maybe, /one/ blue shirt.”
Heather digs in the pile for a turquoise-ish pencil, “Blue! Blue’s.. good! That’s definitely on God’s rainbow. Maybe a nice pair of blue jeans too, for once-“
That’s where Jason cuts it off. Because that’s where Heather went from playfully sharp to flat-out insulting, “Heather, please.”
She stays on the defensive, “I’m just saying. There’s nothing wrong with branching out from your choir boy uniform. That’s all.”
Sometimes it’s like she thinks if she pokes a bruise enough, it’ll make her seem like she’s strong enough to cause them. Like she’s all in charge and nothing can stop her.
Jason doesn’t want to stop her, he just wants her basic respect, “So what do you suggest?”
Not even sarcastic, just genuinely enthusiastic to share, Heather starts, “Pastels! Your hair is way too strawberry to be a dark dresser. Unless you go with emeralds, no more tacky green. Ooh, or even if you grow it out some! You know, actually-“
Jason runs his fingers over his neatly parted hair, protecting it, not hiding the concerned squeak to his voice, “No thank you, I happen to like my hair short.”
“Again, baby. Boring.” Heather just rolls her eyes, once again. Sometimes it’s like that’s all she knows how to do.
It stings.
“Look, if nothing I do is ever going to be good enough-“
Heather doesn't entertain that in the least. She slaps her hand over his homework page, making him look at her, “It’s not /you/. You know that it’s not you.”
No, he didn’t know that. Jason looks at her, confused, “What?”
“Just because you dress yourself, and you drive your stupid little station wagon around parading your image, doesn’t mean there’s not that voice in the back of your head. Maybe… maybe a tight fist too. Telling you what to do. You’re afraid.” Heather talks with her hands, just enough that Jason can see through it.
That she’s being showy to hide something.
Doesn’t mean he’s not been rendered self conscious and bare-souled all the same. He doesn’t like that, even after months with Heather not feeling safe showing her all his tender parts like that, “I don’t want to hear this from you.”
“Oh, so a girl can’t have opinions, huh? I should just spread my legs now and let something else do all the talking?” Heather heats the argument.
Jason just lets his head fall back, frustrated, “I don’t- You /know/ I don’t want that.”
“Oh please do enlighten me then, your graciousness.” Heather forces what Jason is thinking out of him.
So he lets it go, without regard to her feelings, even though he hadn’t wanted to, “Look, I’m not stupid. I know your parents are a problem, Heather. Everyone that’s read the paper knows Tom Holloway isn’t a kind man. You try to hide it, but you can’t keep it from me. And you can’t- just take it all out on me!”
“I wasn’t-“ Heather tries to backpedal.
He still doesn’t let her, “You were! You always have! Nobody has the key to the lock on your heart, but I’ve been trying anyways. And you just shut. me. down!”
“Jason…”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry we didn’t meet for real until high school. I’m sorry I can’t save you because I’ve got my own.. shit to deal with. But, and forgive me for using His name in vain, Jesus fucking Christ Heather!”
“Jason..” Heather repeats, clearly more misty eyed than before, and opens her arms. A hug is letting him in physically, letting him get close even when the words aren’t easy.
Mostly, she hadn’t realized Jason could read her as easily as she could read him.
He takes the vulnerability to mean it’s safe to say, “I love you.”
“I know.” Is Heather’s response. It’s not easy to say it back, not when she chokes on it every time she tries to say it to her ‘problems,’ let alone a highschool boyfriend she was never supposed to fall for, not in her own heart.
It’s enough. Jason keeps holding her, lips against her shoulder, “I’m sorry.”
Heather repeats herself, “I know.”
Nothing else felt right to say. Because she /was/ sorry too, but saying it second would feel ingenuine. At least, she’d read it that way.
She closes her eyes and feels exhausted. It’s not supposed to be this hard. Their school years are drawing to a close, and yet she can’t even admit her own parents treat her like shit.
Maybe a silent tear drop or two drips off the end of her nose behind Jason’s back. If he noticed, he didn’t say a word.
After a while, Heather needs to do something, sitting and thinking and regretting not doing anything to help, “Can we call Chrissy and Billy and go get some ice cream or something?”
“Sure. I think I owe that to you for keeping myself so.. alone.” Jason admits, bashful but genuine.
And isn’t that just the thing. Heather gives him a tiny smile back, “Ditto, baby.”
Ice cream ran into the evening, all of them itching for an excuse to stay out. Chrissy was the last to finish her bowl of two raspberry scoops with sprinkles, half of it melted into sludge by the last spoonful, and even that’s not a distraction enough.
It’s early spring, which means, as the group informed Billy, that the Hawkins drive-in theater was opening back up. Nobody even needed to discuss it to know that’s what they wanted to do. There were a variety of chick-flicks and even more horror sequels in the box office, which meant the two week delay at the drive-in would make for some good choices at least. Most Hawkins residents would take their trucks out there, not some prissy little station wagon, but it would do.
At least, it should, but Billy started getting impatient with cruising along under the speed limit out to the wooded hill where the drive-in is, “Can’t this piece of shit go faster?”
Heather turned around slightly to face and scold him, “Well, we coulda brought yours if you hadn’t decided to buy the extra tiny, no room for fun model.”
Billy just snorted humorlessly, “We could fit if there was any actual fun going on. Leaving room for the Lord or whatever is what fucks it up.”
For that comment, knowing their company, Chrissy pushed Billy’s arm gently. Still, she didn’t seem to disagree too harshly, since she smiled through when he kissed her next.
Heather seemed irritated, though that tends to be her default honestly, as she huffed, “Not everyone’s a sleaze like you, Hargrove. Get used to it.”
Billy hadn’t even justified it with a response, just waved her off and used the same arm to swing it over the seat behind Chrissy. She was wearing his jacket again, hadn’t taken it off all week, curled into his side and wearing his name. In that bubbly way she does, she was also wiggling her hands about, not nervous, but happy.
Content.
Heather and Jason still had a ways to go to reach contentment.
The pair stay in the car for the movie, their counterparts in a blanket on the grass instead. Cali boy is out there freezing his ass off, but he’d said anything would be better than being trapped with relationship drama.
Heather and Jason try to ignore him.
They fail.
Jason turns to her not even a full twenty minutes after that comment starts working it’s way under his skin, “Heather?”
“Hm?” She hums to show she’s listening, but doesn’t look his way.
That’s not enough for what needs to be said, so he repeats, “Heather.”
“Yeah, that’s me. You need something?”
“I wanted- I just…. I’m sorry.”
Her pretty features screw up in confusion, “For what?”
“For not being good enough.” Jason informs, like it was the most clear thing, “You’d be happier with a guy like Billy. Maybe you could call up Steve-“
“No, fuck you if you think I could ever leave you.” She spits.
And then she grabs Jason by the collar of his polo and kisses him.
It’s nothing chaste, nothing at all like their usual peck of the lips. This is roaming tongues and hands.
Heather reigns herself in when she feels Jason’s hands, holding her hips up under the back of her shirt, shaking.
“I’m not gonna make you do anything. Sex isn’t my endgame.”
He sort of freezes, like it hadn’t occurred to him that Heather wouldn’t mind helping him in his devotion to modesty, “So what is?”
“An apartment. Maybe get a cat. I want to share a space with you long before we do marriage shit.” Heather explains lightly, smile on her face.
Jason relaxes his shoulders, “Make it a dog and we’ll see. Dogs are better.”
“Oh, ha-ha. Make it one of each and I’ll forgive you for that comment.”
Heather kisses him again, without any heat or intensity this time, just gentle, soft affection. She even lets him touch her hair, despite usually slapping his hands away for that. It helps that she’d brushed it out to be restyled before bed tonight, but still, she would have let him even if her curls were laying perfect.
When they pull away, Heather lays her head on Jason’s shoulder. Instead of watching Cat’s Eye on the screen, her gaze falls to their friends huddled up outside, and she muses, “How much you wanna bet Chrissy and Billy run away into the sunset?”
“I hope they do. Hawkins is Hell on earth.” Jason asserts, clearly serious because he usually wouldn’t even mention a place like that.
Heather sighs slightly, “Literally. The kidnappings, the murders. I can’t take much more of it.”
Confident, Jason says, “I’m sure they’d make room for us then. If we wanted to go with them.”
That has Heather sitting up straighter, surprised, “You would live in California?”
Sunny skies, living free- it didn’t seem very much his pace. The order and the mundanity of Midwestern life seemed better for Jason.
He just shrugs for now, “Who knows? We’ll see when we get there.”
“And you’re okay with that?” Heather wonders aloud, as she knows it, finding that Jason prefers to have his entire life planned out.
He only sounds a little tense as he tries to sound brave and strong, “Getting there.”
The tension between them had to have been coming from there. She wanted nothing more than to rebel and escape, while he, even when he was feeling crushed by the weight of parental disapproval, was nothing short of desperate to be back in their graces.
If Heather could be more open to discussion when that made her uncomfortable, and Jason less complicit to begin with, the pair would probably be on the right path again.
She lays her head on him again, and this time, Jason takes his arm out of one sleeve of his varsity jacket, slinging it around her like a blanket. Her heart absolutely soars. The promise to Chrissy was fulfilled, she and her honey were working out just fine now, after she’d gotten Billy’s jacket.
That’s gotta be a sign that things will work out for Heather too.
“Hey, Jason?”
“Hm?”
She feels compelled to finally confess, “I love you.”
It’s Jason this time who, after a soft little kiss to her forehead, says, “I know.”
My prompt: Harringrove- Dancing to music at their wedding
-•-•-•-
In 1996, Billy and Steve get married.
They didn’t want to wait an unknown amount of time just for a legal certificate that wouldn’t mean much anyways, so they each picked a ring from one another’s jewelry boxes, bought some thrifted suit jackets, and set the date.
Mrs. Byers was more than happy to lend her back yard to the event, as long as her kids agreed to help her with the load of work setting up and decorating would create. They got help from their friends, and through the grapevine that led to Carol, a now professional interior designer, getting her hands on the theme and decorations. Control, drama, whatever, it’s all in Carol's wheelhouse, but Billy’s just grateful she involved Steve in choosing the theme.
Steve had had a stroke and lost 90% of his eyesight in the aftermath of the Starcourt attacks. In the years since it’s never returned, the old nurse's promises of magic recovery all hollow attempts at making him feel better, so it meant a lot when Carol went out of her way to get tactile decorations for Steve to enjoy in his own right.
Massive fake flowers, braille signs and table settings, even the cake is textured with sugar pearls and rolled chocolate to give Steve something to touch, a way to build his own image of his special day. The cake came courtesy of Jonathan and Tommy, a more than unlikely duo who came together for their friends, and because of their mutual artistic interests.
Nobody expected Tommy to become a baker of all things, but damn if he doesn’t make the best tres leches cake any of them had ever tried. Though to be fair, the majority of their Midwestern friend group couldn’t say they had tried one before. Argyle and Billy had bragging rights on culinary experiences growing up in a more culturally diverse region.
Jonathan on the other hand had become a painter, and done the decorations for Tommy’s cake. After all the monster encounters, flashing lights and loud sounds weren’t really his thing. Photography just wasn’t his passion anymore. Art was still a big interest of his though, and it was actually Heather who introduced painting, since she took lessons as a little kid.
Heather, who is the stand-in bridezilla. Both Billy and Steve are calm about their wedding, caring more about what it means to each other than the actual event. That isn’t that case for miss Heather Ernestine Holloway-Buckley. She wants everything to be perfect. Absolutely. Everything.
From the tablecloths being the same color as Billy’s white and gold suit jacket, to the flower petals scattered in the neatly trimmed grass matching the crown of flowers in Steve’s hair. She demands everyone get matching dresses or suits depending on their preference, so the pictures will turn out perfect. In Jonathan’s place, El takes the photos, taught by her older brother about the craft and determined to capture as many memories as possible.
The rest of the smaller details are kept secret from the boys. Things like who will officiate, the food, how the backyard will be set up, and the music are all a total surprise to keep things exciting.
With everything in place, all they need is to be there. To say their vows and dedicate the rest of their lives to the one they consider their soulmate.
But Steve is terrified. Having nightmares every night leading up to the wedding because he’s scared his blindness is going to ruin something. Even Robin, who has been with him every step of the way, has been warning him numerous times to be careful on that night.
The wedding will be by daylight, made even brighter by small candles on the tables, and fairy lights strung in the trees, but that only means Steve can see basic, blurry silhouettes. If he trips, or runs into something, or someone, on his wedding day, he’ll never live down the embarrassment.
There’s only one day left until the ceremony when he brings it up to Billy, trying to be subtle about it and failing hugely.
At the breakfast table, over pre-game chocolate chip pancakes as Billy called them, Steve asks him, “Are you nervous?”
Even at this stage, Billy gets grumpy in the mornings. He cooked breakfast, sure, but he might as well still be asleep until noon. Usually, thanks to his pain meds, he might take a few half hour power naps up until then. Still, his answer and its gravelly delivery are playful and unserious, “Nah. I’m just eager for the honeymoon stage.”
Only, Steve’s nerves are so wound up, he can’t find it charming like usual. A simple, quiet, “Oh.” is his only response.
Right away, he can tell from the shift in his partner's energy that Billy knows what that means. Some part of Steve is glad he can’t look into Billy’s face and see the pain in his features, from knowing Steve isn’t perfectly alright.
That’s something Steve forgets sometimes, that just because he can’t see someone, doesn’t mean they can’t see him. Every emotion he feels is expressed freely in the look on his face, revealing the anxiety, and the bubbling uncertainty that makes this so hard.
Billy encourages him to talk about it, “Come on, Stevie. Spill. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?”
Something tells Steve to lie. Maybe it’s the pressure of the wedding being just a little over twenty four hours away at this point. Probably that. His entire life he grew up thinking there was nothing more important than marriage, and now that he has the chance, he’s terrified of things going poorly. So he assures Billy, “Nothing! I get to marry you! What could be wrong?”
“Darling. I see those gears turning. You’re thinking something.” Billy sees through it. Of course he does or he wouldn’t have ever broken down Steve’s mask personality enough to one day become his husband. Billy must worry that he hasn’t done exactly that, because he asks, softer and more quivery than his other words, “Getting cold feet?”
“No! Oh, god Billy no. Never ever.” Steve promises passionately, reaching over to the spot where Billy is for his hand, the responsibility of actually placing their hands together and sharing touch placed onto Billy. Squeezing it gently so he knows he feels him, Steve tries to explain his feelings, “I just. I feel wiggly.”
“Can you tell me what wiggly means?” Billy asks, always asking questions to make sure he understands Steve’s needs enough to help. It’s no mystery why he loves him so much.
That said, it takes a moment of thinking for Steve to put it into words, “Like everything’s shaky and bad. And I’m scared and nervous. And kinda shy. But the bad kind of shy.”
“All that about the wedding?” Billy’s definitely worried about him. Scared that maybe marriage, even if it’s not technically official, is possibly too much pressure for him.
Steve eases that quiet nagging with his response, and takes the blame too, “More like about messing up the wedding.”
Trying to soothe what little tension there has become, Billy softly comforts Steve, “Honey, you’re not going to mess up. There’s no right way to get married.”
“But not everyone who gets married is blind.” Steve mumbles, and Billy realizes it’s that kind of wiggly.
Ever since losing his sight, Steve’s been a bit more quiet. It’s not like he changed, but Billy had a suspicion there was something brewing under the surface. Now that it’s been confirmed that Steves worries come from that, and since fear of the changes disability brought to their lives is something Billy is familiar with himself, he thinks he knows how to help.
“I'm in a wheelchair maybe four days a week, and the others I’m in bed. That’s not exactly typical either.” Is his choice of words.
It seems to work for a moment, since Steve relaxes a bit, but then his mind starts going again and he fishes up a new fear to bring to Billy.
“But you have special braces and stuff if you want to stand up for pictures and dancing.. I can’t just put in a new pair of eyes.” He sounds almost sad.
Billy wants to make sure he knows he doesn’t have to feel that way.
He asks, “Is that what you’re worried about? Dancing?”
Steve shrugs, still physically expressive as a habit despite his inability to see those mannerisms, and says quietly, “A little.”
Billy seems to think that’s a fixable issue, even offering up a quick solution, “Chrissy did cheer for her whole life and she’s married to a paraplegic. She can totally help us with a dance.”
“She’s also very pregnant. I don’t wanna bother-“ Steve denies right away, but Billy’s already wheeling over to the phone before he can really stop him.
“Too bad. I’m already calling her.” Billy’s tone of voice just sounds like he’s smiling mischievously, which has Steve rolling his eyes without meaning anything by it, especially when Billy greets their friend by saying, “Hey, Chris! Got a second, toots?”
•-•-•-•-•
Before Steve knows it, it’s the next day, and the time for practice is over.
Instead of a wedding march, the soft strum of an electric guitar signals Steve to come down the aisle, which is really just a bolt of soft fabric rolled out over the grass and weighed down by dollar tree candles.
He’s not sure who’s playing, but it’s sweet, the soft version of a Cinderella song Billy and Steve both love. It brings a smile to his face, but doesn’t cancel out the clammy feeling he gets when he realizes it’s time to step forward and actually walk down the aisle.
It’s only the officiant at the other end, Billy still inside getting ready for his entrance after Steve’s, so he’s not sure why he’s so scared. With Dustin and Claudia on either side of him, and a hand on the harness his guide dog wears, he should feel stable and supported.
But every step forward makes that intensity of the butterflies in his stomach only grow stronger.
Until something cuts through, the voice of the officiant;
“And here we have Groom number one. Led by the one and only, Miss Peanut Butter Cup the Beagle. She’s feisty, she’ll bite your ass, and she loves to cuddle. Sounds like a great honeymoon.”
Talking like an infomercial, or some kind of weird radio announcer, Murray fucking Bauman is the man who will marry Steve to the love of his life. At least half of his fears dissolve on the spot. This isn’t some all serious, super tense event like his biological parents would have planned for him.
This is a celebration, and all of his friends and family are going to stumble their way through it, so why shouldn’t he?
Him and his Henderson entourage keep walking to the makeshift altar, and Murray keeps talking, “Oh yeah. And the rest. You all know him, you all love him, it’s Dustin! Here to impart his uninvited wisdom unto the newlyweds. And what’s this? A Jewish mom who will adopt any roughian street kid she sees? That’s right folks, it’s Claudia Henderson, and with her she has- her newest adoptee!”
“Stefan Harrington! And today is his big day. Everybody give him a hand. He can’t see your stupid cheeseburger smiles. Give him the entrance you’d give the president if he walked past.” Murray laughs at himself in the midst of the lengthy introduction, “Actually, no. Please don’t do that. Just clap for him.”
All of this makes Steve giggle his way down the aisle, largely forgetting about his fears of ruining the ceremony. After all, with Murray in charge, there are no rules to abide by.
When he makes it to his spot, and Dustin and Claudia step away, Steve has a one-on-one with Murray, “How you doing, kid?”
Recognizing there’s no time to dive into the nuances, Steve says simply, “I’m okay.”
“Just okay? This is the real deal! You gotta be pumped!” Murray encourages him, which makes Steve remember that there’s something holding him back.
“I’m too wiggly.” He sounds defensive.
Murray on the other hand just sounds happy, and eternally positive, as he suggests, “Shake out those wiggles. C’mon, I’ll do it with you.”
Together the two of them shake and flap and wiggle, a moment that never would’ve happened without the support Steve has gotten from his family. There was a time when, although he wasn’t very good at masking, he’d have been too ashamed to openly stim in front of an entire wedding party of the most important people in his life. Now though, by the end of this, he’s giggling and smiling and having the time of his life.
Checking in again, Murray asks him, “That better?”
“A little.” Steve shrugs, struggling to assign any qualities to the big big feelings he has. Feelings are so hard right now.
He’s getting married.
“C’mon, what can I do to make it best?” Murray keeps trying, something of another parent to Steve. Even making another joke, “I mean, I can start taking my clothes off, but I don’t think Joyce would be too happy.”
A little bit haunted by that mental image, but mostly amused, Steve shakes his head, and gives his best response, “Just, can you read slowly? And not tease me so much during the real thing?”
Instantly Murray agrees lightheartedly, “A deals a deal. Smack me in the head if I screw it up, alright. This is the only time I’ll ever tell you that because I am perfect otherwise.”
It’s the guitar melody rising up that cuts off their conversation, and suddenly Steve’s heart rate is picking up again. This is really happening.
Murray puts it not so gracefully, “Oops. I’ll stop running my mouth now. Looks like your other half is coming.”
Since Steve can’t see what’s happening, Murray goes back into his narration mode, which Steve appreciates a lot.
“Coming up next folks is our half off sale. That’s right, now you can get two for the price of one. Just add a wedding band- Sold separately.” Murray jokes, earning a little scoff from Joyce, which makes Steve laugh softly.
He’s grateful for the dry, cheesy sense of humor Murray has, otherwise he might be totally panicking right now.
“What’s this? We have a flower girl, people. Leading the way is miss Chrissy with her lovely paper flower petals. Behind her, to match her developing appreciation for all things butch, Heather does not have flowers. Oh no. She has seashells. Imported from the fine beaches of the dollar store they were purchased at.”
It’s probably rude, but Steve loves the mental image it gives him. He can imagine Heather in her suit, and Chrissy in her flowy dress, decorating the aisle with delicate little pieces of Billy and Steve’s love. The best part is he can hear them laughing at the jokes about themselves, so he can imagine the smiles on their faces.
His favorite part is the next introduction, the one that refers to his culture most, “Last but not least, Jane brought some sea glass, since there will be no stomping of any glass until our two grooms get some functioning body parts. Since that will never happen, join me in telling the Jewish ancestors to suck it and deal. But not groom number two. He’s too catholic.”
The trio of groomsmaids stand off to the side, their shoes crunching on the grass, and Steve knows what that means. It means Billy is coming.
“Speaking of, and without further ado- escorted by his creepy little sibling Max, here he is. Come on down William.”
The walk is slow, with Billy using his limb braces and forearm crutches instead of his wheelchair for this special moment. Steve can be patient. He’s wanted this to happen since his third date with Billy, when he brought training treats for Peanut Butter Cup and a sensory necklace for Steve. What’s a few more minutes?
The pacing does however warrant more Murray monologuing, which is something of a treat anyways.
“Ooh, not too shabby for a man with no usable limbs. Speaking of, why exactly did we just turn the aisle into a safety hazard? Oh well. At least if he falls on his ass, he’ll look good doing it.”
The comment must remind him to give a description of Billy for his sightless groom to be, “A diamond earring, tons of mascara, way too much hairspray in that fluffy perm- I’m starting to feel underdressed.”
And then he’s there. Steve can feel his energy, the radiant, sunshiney happiness Billy always produces. Since there are no rules, he decides to reach out his palms, the sign that means he wants to hold Billy’s hands. The weight and warmth of the touch when Billy obliges adds more butterflies to Steve’s chest.
He’s smiling like an idiot, and if he had to guess, he’d say Billy probably is too.
After a few moments, they’re interrupted by Murray clearing his throat, “That’s it? No hello?”
Steve can practically hear the eye roll Billy gives as he speaks, “Hi Murray. Don’t forget this is my wedding.”
“Ohhh. And here I thought this was a bat mitzvah. Don’t panic, but I think I grabbed the wrong book.” Murray pretend-whispers, letting the imaginary tension build before he pats them both on the back, and assures, “Kidding. Sure I was the worst choice for this, I don’t know shit about romance and never will, but I can do my job.”
The guitar music ends, and the residual chattering and laughing stops too. It’s time. Steve’s hands are shaking. Billy squeezes them once reassuringly.
“Once upon a time, William Reuben Hargrove met Stefan Mihai Carson Harrington; They fought, they fucked, blah blah blah, they caught feelings- and a monster possession- Oh, whatever. Point is, they’re getting married now! Two souls united and all that jazz. So are you ready to say ‘I do?’” Murray rushes through a fake service, earning groans from much of the audience.
And from Steve, who whines, “Murrayyy!”
“Fine, fine. But you're gonna pay me after this, right? I’m a licensed therapist now. My services aren’t free anymore.” Murray snarks, totally playful and unserious.
He’s not the only one who can do sarcasm, since the entire wedding party starts to boo. Steve is pretty sure he hears Carol, his strongest advocate since they were kids, shout the loudest to, “Get on with it!”
•-•-•-•-•-•
An hour later, they were married. Mister and mister Hargrove.
In the style of a picnic of sorts, everyone had brought food to share. From Claudia’s mac n cheese, to Heather and Robins take on a vegan sushi, their newest cooking experiment, to Sue Sinclairs potato salad that she sent with Lucas even though she couldn’t be there herself- there was a little something for everyone. Steve personally loved the Zeytoon Parvardeh that Joyce had made from an old family recipe. Billy preferred the ceviche Argyle brought, so he’d fed Steve all his olives, a nice romantic moment that had Steve blushing.
By now the actual party aspect of the day has begun, after the cake had been cut and the wine poured. Joyce limited the amount of alcohol allowed to be served to two bottles, one white and one red, to respect the boundaries of those like Billy recovering among them. Tommy and Robin probably have drunk the majority of that portion, and the two of them are tipsy, pestering Eddie over at his makeshift music booth.
While all the noise and everything started picking up, Steve had settled into a little corner by himself to stay calm. He hears someone approaching by the sound of footsteps, and turns his head their way, to make sure he can hear them properly.
Turns out it’s Joyce, who enthusiastically says, “Congratulations, sweetie!”
Steve thanks her, and reaches for her hand, to make a connection that will make communication easier, “Thank you, Mrs. Byers.”
Joyce rubs his knuckles, her tone soft and kind, “I hope Murray didn’t ruin your ceremony. Would you believe me if I said that was the toned down version of his original plan?”
Steve brushes it off in stride, “Somehow, yes, but we loved it, Mrs B. Billy hasn’t laughed like that in a while.”
“I’m glad. This was your day. All about you!” Joyce enthuses, sounding a little relieved to hear her friend hadn’t messed anything up, “I bet you feel so happy!”
Steve just nods, and flaps his free hand, the words escaping him but the physicality of happiness easy to express.
“Can I hug you, sweetie?” Joyce asks, delighted by Steve’s own happiness.
Now, Steve isn’t the most hug friendly person, but today, a nice tight embrace from Joyce Byers sounds like a much needed break. A respite and a safe place.
He tells her, “Yes please.”
And so she wraps her arms around him and squeezes the life out of him, gushing, “Oooh, I’m so so proud of you! You’ve come so far!”
All Steve can say is a bashful, “Thank you, Mrs. B.”
The hug lasts maybe a few minutes, of Steve taking deep breaths of perfume and cuddling soft brown hair, just savoring the whole thing and the therapeutic effect it has on him.
But all too soon, his worst fear is reality- It’s time for his first dance with Billy.
Eddie announces it, since he’s something of the coordinator now, “Looks like it’s time for a sloooow dance. Where are my two grooms?”
Joyce sounds thrilled on the other hand, “Are you ready, dear?”
Steve physically winces, “Actually…”
“Don’t worry, sweetie. You’ll do just fine. Just breathe.” Joyce puts her hand on his back and helps him catch his breath for a second, before offering sympathetically, “He’s waiting for you, sweetie. Do you want me to walk you to him?”
Nervously, Steve nods. Earlier today, he married the love of his life. That was the easy part. Dancing in front of literally everyone he’s ever cared about is not easy.
Joyce is kind enough to walk him to Billy, leaving Peanut Butter Cup asleep under Steve’s chair. Letting him do it himself would’ve probably ended in him knocking Billy over, since his braces are all that’s holding him up. Instead he gets to settle into Billy’s embrace, with Joyce’s help to sturdy them both.
His head rested on Billy’s shoulder, and Billy’s arms around his waist, toes together, they started to get into the music.
Their dance song is fitting, a song Billy had learned marching in the streets for the rights of the disabled like them. On Being Special by Sue Napolitano. A beautiful poem all about family and love.
It sets a rhythm good for swaying, and soft little shuffles. Getting lost in it, Steve closes his eyes, blocking out what little light gets through, and lets his husband guide him. Billy knows the song by heart, and, pressing his lips to give a gentle kiss to Steve’s forehead, he mumbles the lyrics against his skin.
Even though there’s a lot of their friends there, in that moment it’s just them. Center stage, dancing on scrap lauan in Mrs. Byers’ backyard to the gentle crackling and crooning of a beat up old stereo, since Eddie and the band didn’t think they could do it justice.
Not even the thunking and clacking of Billy’s hardware is enough to take anyone out of the moment. This is them. Their reality.
Their disabled love story.
Steve is thankful he had Murray and Joyce and Chrissy and Billy to ease him through the nerves that led to this very moment. He did it. He had his first dance, with the love of his life, on his wedding day. Steve is maybe crying happy tears by the time it’s over, but he can hear from the general sniffles that a few other people are too.
When the song ends, there’s a beat of silence where nobody really knows what to do next. Steve can tell just from the energy shift that they’re wondering if they should help the newlyweds off the dance floor. But Steve doesn’t want to let go yet, and since they don’t move, that must be a cue for some folks to join them in dancing.
Or, that’s what Tommy interprets it to mean, because he’s stomping over towards them and shouting, “Let’s fucking goooo!!”
Steve guesses he dragged Carol along too, because she’s shriek-laughing his name, “Tomàs!!”
Their boldness inspires other couples to join in. Jonathan and Argyle, Chrissy and Eddie and their little two year old, Heather and Robin, even Hopper and Joyce, after a little coercion to get the grumpy old cop off his ass to have some fun too. The kids all come up together, leaving just a few stragglers, one being Murray. His dance partner of choice happens to be miss Peanut Butter Cup, bribed with a few blueberries he’d grabbed from the snack table.
They’re all together, and they’re all happy. So fucking happy.
•-•-•
A few songs in, Billy taps on Steve’s cheek, after giving him a small little kiss, to alert him to a conversation.
He asks softly, “Sweetheart, Patrick is dancing all by himself. Haven’t talked to him in a good while either. D’you think I could-“
But Steve doesn’t even make him finish that justification. He’s overdue for a break, and loves their friends just as much as Billy, so he’d actually prefer it if he did go to Patrick for a bit.
He tells his husband, “You don’t have to ask, babe. Go see your friend.”
“You’re sure?” Billy checks in again.
Steve nods, and gives him another small kiss to seal the deal, “I need a rest anyways. Big feelings.”
It’s still hesitantly that Billy pulls away, and only after a tight embrace, but he lets Steve go get his dog off of Murray and take his seat back in the corner. On his way away, he hears Billy call playfully, “Hey, McKinney! Get your ass over here!”
•-•-•-•-•
Out of nowhere, Steve hears the tapping of little feet running right towards him.
He’s already deduced who it is, based on the fact that there’s only one little tyke here, but the bubbly excited voice that falls to him gives it away even more, “Teevee!!”
Little Jackson is an outgoing boy, his enthusiasm curbed by nothing. Except maybe bumble bees, since he’s afraid of those, but there’s no buzzing demons around, so he’s all giggles as he pulls on Steve’s jacket sleeve.
On instinct, Steve picks him up, and blows a raspberry on the toddlers chubby little cheek, “Jackie!! There’s my favorite little groomsman!”
Jackson kicks his legs as Steve tips him onto his back, tickling his tummy and laughing along with him. Chrissy tells him he’s not as open with other people, but Steve has always been good with kids, so maybe it’s true.
Something about their pure hearts reminds him of who he’s always wanted to be. Their wonder and their fascination with everything just lifts his heart up. And at the moment, gives him the courage to get back on his feet and have some more fun.
Together with little Jackson, he twirls and spins, earning an endless stream of giggles from his friends’ baby boy.
“Wheee, you like to dance, huh?” Steve asks him, and immediately gets a very enthusiastic response.
“Yah!!!” Jackson even claps his little hands, a stim he’s clearly picked up from Eddie. Their little one is autistic and has adhd just like his dad, which probably also has to do with why he loves Steve so much.
And also why he has an abrupt energy crash and falls asleep without warning, his curly head laying on Steve’s shoulder, drooling down his back. They got their pictures already, so he doesn’t mind the mess. He just quietly takes Jackson back to a seat and cradles him softly, listening to the ongoing party and reveling in that bliss.
At some point, Billy snuck up on him, announcing his presence with a soft pet name, “Sweetheart.”
“Yes, my love?” Steve hums, turning his head in the general direction of Billy.
He’s not expecting what Billy is about to say.
“What’s the next step after marriage?”
Because of how random it seems, Steve has to think about what he’s asking, taking a moment before he remembers the old rhyme from childhood, “Uh-uh. No baby carriages yet, bubs. Give it at least a week.”
Billy is persistent, if only playfully, suggesting, “There’s always the honeymoon.”
Patting little Jackson’s back, Steve just responds vaguely, “We’ll see.”
All of it is lighthearted teasing, and a little bit of their classic pigtail pulling. They’ll talk about their future seriously when they’re ready.
That’s something Steve loves the most about Billy. He always considers him first, not societal conventions or outrageous expectations. Just Steve, and what he wants or feels comfortable with. Soulmates, he’d decided.
After all, internalized ableism be damned, what could be better than marrying his soulmate?
~~~~~~~~
Hi all! If you’ve read this far, please don’t click off!
As both mod and contributor to this event, Ive been inspired to use my fics to boost charities that aid the disabled community!
For this day, I’ve chosen the Friends of Disabled Adults and Children.
This is a charity that has a mission of “[assisting] individuals with disabilities… [by providing] free or low-cost wheelchairs and other home medical equipment.” This includes cars, tubs, power chairs, stairlifts, and more.
While founded as a religious organization, they serve all disabled community members with no limitations, and have a board of 35 members that work together to provide the best care.
They accept online donations, mail-in checks, purchases from their thrift store, or donations of gently used mobility equipment.
Friends of Disabled Adults and Children is based in Tucker, Georgia and can provide assistance to disabled individuals within a 25 mile radius of their facility. On their website, you can find statewide partners of FODAC for more resources.
Here is a link to their site: https://fodac.org
Friends of Disabled Adults and Children – Keeping People With Disabilities Moving!
|| GQ Australia Actor of the Year 2022 | The Face of Stella McCartney Winter Collection 2022 ||
Billy Hargrove is a model. He’s been the talk of every major tabloid since he was a teenager, 16 years old in the big leagues. He’s also been incredibly open about how the industry exploited that youth, while staying protective of some other things.
Now he’s trying to shield his little sister from the same thing, but Max is headstrong, and artistic. After being forced by her mother to conform to whatever standards of dressing were considered presentable and modest and decent for a girl her age, the minute she turns 18 she joins her now 22 year old brother on a modeling contract.
So Billy hires her a manager. A familiar face. Someone he knows is good with keeping kids out of hot shit, or at least claims to be.
Steve Harrington, who now goes by Steven H professionally. A figure desperate to be taken seriously in the industry gladly agrees to help out the famous sibling duo. Until he remembers that Billy Hargrove knows how to get under his skin a little too much.
For Max, they play family, but the second the cameras turn away from them it’s back to being at each other’s throats. Billy’s on Steve’s level now. He’s earned wealth, popularity. Freedom. He’ll let Harrington deal with the shitbird, while he takes advantage of those things and parties.
But maybe Billy gets a little too adventurous. Maybe he starts to mirror his dad in his binge drinking. A party’s only a party as long as somebody’s having fun, and Billy’s just scared. Of losing himself. Of becoming what his father was to him, but to Max this time.
He pours himself into his work as an outlet, taking every last gig he can until one of his abusers- one of the women who would’ve done anything to have him on their cover, or their centerfold, back when he was too young- books him for a shoot. It’s the right thing to do, going there. Be responsible. Do your work.
Steve locks him in the car and doesn’t let him go into the studio that day. All of the sudden this isn’t just about protecting Max anymore. Billy needs someone looking out for him to, and Steve’s there now.
The only person who ever saw past the superficial beauty and still decided to stay. To protect. To fall in love.
Warnings: unregulated obsessive compulsive disorder, derealization, panic attacks, accidental self-injury, intrusive thoughts, depression, mentions of character death (not real), ableism, and past child abuse.
————
One. Two. Steve’s squishy. Three.
Tap. Tap. Two fingers. Tap.
Billy’s stuck in a pattern, a compulsion. If he stops Steve won’t get home safe. He’ll lose sight of his phone, and Steve will try to call him and get worried when he doesn’t answer, so he’ll speed home and run off the road and-
One. Two. Steve’s squishy. Three.
Cell phone. Keys. Three and a half. Glasses case.
Billy’s arm is tired and he’s pretty sure he’s dehydrated from the way his head is pounding, but there’s only a few minutes until Steve gets home and then he’ll stop.
Stop. Stop sign. Yellow light. Green, go, too fast, gone. It’s time for Steve to be home but he’s still not home and Billy’s scared. He must’ve done something wrong. Forget the tapping. Are the candles lit? The doormat tilted just a little to the left? Did he remember to button Steve’s shirt from bottom top instead of top to bottom?
The worry overwhelms him like he’s never felt it before. Really he feels it every time Steve goes away, even if just for a few minutes. His heart couldn’t withstand anything happening to his best friend and lover. Real grief sets in his chest and it hasn’t even happened yet.
He bites his nails.
Until they’re raw.
Until his hands are bleeding, or were they already from the blisters on his fingertips?
Is he breathing?
God his chest hurts.
Billy’s brain doesn’t turn itself back on until he feels Steve’s arms around him, and hears his voice in his ear.
“.....I’m here.. Can you hear me?.. Baby please…”
Billy doesn’t respond yet, he only leans back into the safe embrace. Still, he doesn’t quite feel relief yet. If anything, his heart only grows heavier. A few shaky breaths brace him to speak.
“Stevie. I didn’t mean to kill you. I love you. I'm so sorry..” His voice cracks like he’s using all the force he has, because he needs Steve to know how he feels.
Because to him, this doesn’t feel real. Not the connection to Steve’s embrace, nor the floor underneath him. (When did he sit down? Did he fall? He can’t remember…)
Steve’s voice cuts through the haze like it’s projecting on a speaker, distant and warbled, “Billy, listen. You’re having a panic attack.”
It doesn’t help to comfort Billy this deep into his panic, “No. I- I- You gotta listen to me. Baby, I.. killed you. And I’m sorry. I wanted to protect you, I swear.”
“It’s okay. How about this, can you do something else for me?” Steve sounds worried. And sad.
Billy nods as a way to silently agree to do whatever Steve needs him to. His mind reasons, in this state, that if they can’t be together physically anymore, he’ll make sure Steve isn’t mad at him when he disappears.
His head hurts.
“Tell me five things you see right now.” Steve requests of him.
It takes a lot of concentration for Billy to be able to see anything at all. His eyes dart around looking for the right things, indecisive and overwhelmed by how much is in this room. It feels cluttered. Unsafe. Unfamiliar.
He brings his thoughts back to his Steve.
“The carpet. It’s brown. A-And the curtains. They’re letting too much sun in. The beams. Th-The house could catch on fire-” Billy’s breath catches in his throat just as Steve hugs him tighter, a quiet way of asking him to keep going that Billy is going to do his best to follow.
“Um, I think I see the cracks in the wall. The ones that look like spiderwebs. And the couch. I’m sorry I didn’t fold the blanket. I can do it now. Wait, sorry. Um.. I see our picture. The date one. It reminds me of when you’re here. I miss you a lot. I’m sorry.”
“Hey, hey. I’m here. I’m with you Billy.” Steve promises before Billy can get too upset, and once again tries to encourage him, “Can you keep going? Four things you hear?”
Billy’s throat feels dry from talking, but he refuses to give up.
“Right. Birds singing on the tree. In the tree. In the backyard. In the grass. I can probably hear the wind too. Maybe I left a window open somewhere, that’s not safe, is it? But I gotta- I have to finish this for Steve.” Billy takes a deep, if not shaky, breath, a few of them actually, before finishing quickly, a slow progression into security, “Phone buzzing and the clock ticking. Ticking.”
Until the clock triggers something worse. Billy has to count one through twelve for each hour at each tick of the clock until the next good number, which is the eight right now. The minute hand is their savior in ending this cycle several minutes later, since the hour is only five in the evening.
Despite the obvious setback, his Steve doesn’t give up on him. He just gently prompts more progress to make up for it. “Good. How about three things you feel?”
A good bit of time passes while Billy’s brain tries to distract him by listening to the clock ticks again, only he fights it. He powers through and tunes into his sense of touch instead, “Flannel. My shirt is made of soft flannel. It has snap buttons too. So they’re metal and cold. I feel cold. But also warm. I think I feel you. Your arms around me.”
“Exactly. That’s my love, okay? That’s my love with you.” Steve doesn’t sound scared anymore, so Billy must be doing a good job. He feels prepared already for Steve’s next question, and even predicts it in his own head first, “What else, do you smell two things?”
“Not burning. Nothings on fire, I promise. Just the candles. The white and black ones. To protect you. They smell like cologne. And I think the grass. Because the window is open.” Billy knows he’s explaining too much, but it makes him feel better. Now that he feels more safe, talking to Steve just feels nice in general.
One final thing to concentrate on to bring him back to himself from those spiraling depths of his disorder, “And just one thing you taste.”
That’s harder, because it’s been a while since he’s eaten anything. Shit today was really bad, all he’s had since the bagel he ate when he woke up was a stick of gum. He didn’t realize how bad this had gotten before it pushed over the boiling point.
“Mint. Just mint.”
With the concern for Billy’s safety addressed, and only after making sure he’s okay enough, Steve leaves him to get other things to take care of him. While he’s gone, so things don’t go bad again, Billy lays on his back and just breathes. In the nose, out through his mouth, sighing like it will let go of all the aching with his breath.
Maybe he dozed off, or just didn't think about anything at all for a moment, but it startled him when Steve came back, carrying a light blanket and a big reusable water bottle. That final, somewhat harsh pull back to reality sent him spinning through gravity, blinking the blur away as he processes Steve next to him, lifting his head to help him drink.
“Steve?” Billy rasps, hearing in his own voice that he’d been crying, though he hadn’t realized.
Steve responds gently, while laying Billy’s head back down on a balled up jacket that he also hadn’t noticed being placed there, and putting a wet rag on his forehead, “My love.”
“Did I mess up again?” Billy’s almost afraid to ask. His entire life Billy was called crazy. Punished for not being able to prevent these things from happening sometimes. At least they happen less now that he’s happy. Happy with Steve, who won’t get mad.
But the guilt he feels doesn’t discriminate between past and present, or depression, or anything else.
Steve has a big heart. He’s always got lots of love to give Billy, and reassurance. Maybe that’s part of the guilt, is that Steve helps him when he’s got his own worries and sensory issues to take care of.
He accepts Steve’s explanation regardless, the words, “No. You did your best. You just got upset. And actually, I think I have an idea how we can help it next time,” bringing him immense comfort.
~~~
He shouldn’t take the credit, it was Chrissy’s idea actually.
She has a guide dog that helps with her depleting vision, and more so with her PTSD. Something about the weight of her fuzzy friend laying on her chest, even as small as Chrissy seems compared to her big oaf of a poodle named Cuppy Cake, brings her back every time.
She suggested that Billy try getting a companion while she, Cuppy Cake, and Steve had gone running errands together just a few days before Billy’s big attack.
Now more than ever it’s clear something needs to be changed though, and they all figure a service dog might help.
If that doesn’t work out, adopting a furry friend might help cheer him up anyways.
The few days since the incident have been gloomy, with Billy’s hands in bandages and his eyes brimmed with tears everytime he looks at them. He barely smiles, or moves from his safe spot on the corner of the couch. It breaks Steve’s heart.
He throws out the idea on a random Saturday when Billy is zoned out over his cereal bowl, counting the pieces into clumps and only eating even numbers of them. A subtle obsession that Steve keeps a close eye on before it gets too dangerous again.
That’s why he interrupts, because Billy’s been trying to eat this bowl for hours, and it’s getting too soggy, and soggy cereal makes Billy’s palette feel gross, and that’s just going to cause a sensory overload.
“I wanna get a dog.”
Billy doesn’t look like he takes it seriously, even making a joke, “Miss Churro not good enough for you anymore?”
Steve’s ima’s elderly chihuahua. Yeah, he loves visiting her at his old house, but that stinky old pup isn’t exactly what Steve had in mind.
He clarifies, “I don’t think Churro would be a good service dog though.”
“Oh.” The answer is so simple, Steve almost thinks Billy didn’t hear what he said. But then Billy’s lip wobbles and there’s more tears in his eyes.
He curls up his hinds and rubs the tears away, over and over until his face is bright red, and Steve decides to step in and hold his hands in his own so he can keep them down on the table top instead, “What’s wrong, blue?”
A sob sneaks out of Billy’s throat. He’s probably overwhelmed and can’t speak, maybe even upset. Change isn’t good for Billy’s routines.
Instantly, Steve tries to fix it, feeling a hint of regret for bringing it up, “We don’t have to get one. It was just an idea, baby. I promise I won’t make you.”
But then Billy shakes his head, and Steve is confused. He doesn’t know what that means.
“No you don’t want a dog?” Steve gently squeezes Billy’s left hand to assign it that meaning that he spoke, to let Billy use his hands to communicate instead of his words. The right hand option means, “Or you do and you don’t want me to change my mind?”
Still crying, but a little softer, the tears are contextualized as happy ones, because Billy squeezes Steve’s right hand back. He likes the idea.
~~~~
His name is Scorp. The 60 pound pit bull is about knee tall on Billy, and can tackle him down in seconds.
Well, it’s more like affectionately pulling on his clothes until he sits down, and then Scorp pushes him over for deep pressure therapy. But still. He’s a big boy.
He’s Billy’s big boy.
His service dog.
The reason he can finally leave the house for the first time in, well, twenty-two years without feeling like something bad will happen. And if he still has those intrusive thoughts, he knows he has his buddy to help in ways Steve can’t always provide.
He loves Steve, and he loves Scorp. Like a little family of their own.
Steve is a substitute teacher in the education program for disabled children. Helping kids who don’t always get the assistance they need has always been his dream, at least ever since he was the one struggling to pass his classes because of the total lack of accommodations for autistic kids like himself in outdated Hawkins classrooms. Lucky for him, his husband by elopement Billy has the same dream, just for slightly different reasons that are more aligned with kids with behavioral issues being helped through their big emotions and talked to like human beings, so the two of them get to work at a school together in their new California town! (Also, if you peep closely at the edits, Steve is blind in one eye, and Billy is using a hearing aid because he’s hard of hearing!)
It’s Thanksgiving. Hawkins is still split in half, but hey, gotta stop and celebrate the little things, right?
Argyle isn’t feeling it. He misses his tia’s cooking. Joyce is a nice lady and all, but her turkey-
Wait, he’s supposed to be mad at her. He is mad at her, at all of them. He’s pissed actually.
But really, he’s devastated.
Even if the turkey wasn’t dry as a bone, he wouldn’t be eating it. He doesn’t have the stomach for it. The grief inside him takes up too much room.
Mrs. Byers catches on, after the first round of everyone else’s food is all cleared out and there’s some of little Byers’ little friends pawing for more. She asks him, “Argyle, honey. What’s wrong?”
Argyle isn’t the type to start shit, but if she’s going to ask, he wouldn’t mind airing it out.
“Talked to little red this morning.. Why didn’t nobody tell me my best friend was dead?”
They look confused. Mrs. Byers puts one of her always warm hands on top of his, and tries to force on a smile, “Argyle, nothing like that happened. We’re all still-“
He’s got to cut her off or he might feel something for her motherly concern. Not now. Not after what he’s been through for these people, “Nope. I went to the cemetery with red. Had to.. had to carry her on her wheels up to him. ‘Cause the path is too covered in grass. I sat at his grave for hours, man. Don’t tell me that didn’t happen.”
Still just faces of confusion. Funny how they treat him like he makes no sense. Someone dies for these people and they can’t even think of his name?
“Maybe you just need to relax..” He’s especially hurt when Jonathan tries to shut him down like that. That’s what broke him really. Makes him get a little louder, and a lot closer to spilling tears like salt water.
“Nah, I haven’t smoked for days, man. That’s what me and him used to do. I can’t just- I can’t..!”
Argyle has to stop there. He’s shaking so bad all the empty plates and glasses on the extra-long table are rattling. A bowl of mashed potatoes threatens to spill all over the leaf-patterned tablecloth. It all sounds like a chorus of souls as anguished as his. Reminding him of the root of his rage.
“Look, if I ever see that Neil Hargrove again, man, I will totally break my vow of peace. That.. shithead ruined everything.” A few faces of realization hit. Yeah. That’s what he’s talking about. And he needs them all to know how serious it was, “Billy had a car. He had big money saved up. We found his madre. Shit was gonna be okay… And then they left. 2,000 long miles away to their deaths.”
Little Jane reaches across the table to him, but Argyle can’t accept her hand. It’s not her fault and he doesn’t want her comfort. It’s not anybody's fault. How could they know he knew Billy?
But.. how could they leave him out too? When they told all their stories about what happened.. they never mentioned his name. He was just someone’s brother. And then he saw Max for the first time in her wheelchair, and he just knew it was bad news.
“My best friend is a goner and I never even got a chance to tell him that I love him. Life is majorly fucked.”
The wall decorations, the napkins, even Joyce’s sweater all say ‘Be Thankful.’ Argyle loses it. There’s big, heavy tears on his face now. He’s got nothing to be thankful for. He’s got nobody without Billy.
He looks around, at the dozen or so people in the room, and he feels by himself.
A sob wracks his chest, “I’m all alone, you know. Even here, I’m just all alone.”
~~~
Nobody had said another word to him when he got up and left the Byers rental. They all knew where he was going: the cemetery gate was left open for holiday mourners.
Climbing the hill is easier now that Max told him the way. Easier because he doesn’t have to keep his cool either this time. It’s just him and the rock in the place of his childhood best friend turned soulmate.
“Hey, hey mister blue sky.”
The ground is wet with freshly fallen and then melted snow, but Argyle doesn’t think twice before he’s sitting criss-cross-applesauce right in front of that grave. He reaches out and brushes off a stray wet leaf from Billy’s stone, and he sighs.
“I have had one hell of a day, man. You wouldn’t believe this shit.”
“Wish I could tell you about it for real.” Billy always listened to him so deeply. That kid would’ve sat there and listened to a fucking Shakespeare recited solely by Argyle. All he ever wanted was a friend. Argyle too. They were a match made in the closest thing to heaven the California shores had to offer, the boardwalk.
“I wish you could tell me everything that happened to you too. Never got to hear it straight from you.”
The wind rustles the leaves. It’s a sound Argyle will probably never get used to. Nothing like the Cali waves. For a minute he thinks about that being Billy communicating with him, but the Billy he knew would never leave his spirit in a place like this. He’s gotta be somewhere far, far from here. Argyle prays for that to be true everyday.
“Maybe you like the quiet. Maybe you wouldn’t want to tell me, I don’t know.”
It’s pretty damn freezing out. Joyce told him about some weird Midwestern wives tale, that if you sat out in the snow too long, you’d catch a cold and live forever. He just wants to be wherever all the noise isn’t.
“Sounds peaceful.”
Hours could pass just like this. Maybe he’d freeze and they’d find him here. What would they say?
They don’t know about Billy and Argyle. About holding hands under the water after dark.
They don’t know about the ice cream on their noses, and the cherry between Billy’s smiling pink lips on their first date.
They don’t know about the shy kisses. The gentle touches. The fear of falling in love.
But they were just kids. How could he know that’s would be all he ever had to hold on to, for the rest of his time?
“You know what I’m thinkin’?- I got it all figured out now, blue sky- I think you’re happy.”
He’d like to hope so. The sky is pretty blue today, despite the weather.
“You don’t gotta answer to anybody. You’re just on your own. Like me. Only that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Shit, he’s crying again. Billy would be so mad to see him beat down like this. He was supposed to be the bright one, to dry up the tears with rainbow colored sleeves. Nothing could’ve broken him as bad as this.
“You just weren’t free up here.”
Surviving almost feels worthless now. Argyle needs Billy like the tide needs the moon. Bound together, never changing. Never moving on. Working in perfect synchronization.
Always loving.
“Hey. Wherever you are.. I’m thankful that you’re surfing your own wave now.”
The sun’s going down now. Instead of warm blues and pinks and yellows, it’s all gray. How quickly things change. All dreary. Argyle’s kidding himself if he thinks that’s something to be thankful for.
Whatever makes him feel better, because it’s going to be a long, long time before he has Billy in his arms again.
“I love you, blue sky. Thanks for being my guy… I’ll catch you later.”
