I'm Sorry and
I Love You
July 4th, 1985
"I'm sorry," Billy whispered, his words muffled as blood leaked around the words. Max kneeled beside him, either oblivious or uncaring of the blood and monster goo that slowly seeped into her shorts. Billy opened his mouth to say something– anything, but the words wouldn't come. None that mattered anyways.
'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Sorry…' the words wouldn't escape, and wasn't that ironic? He finally wanted to apologize– to make up for everything he'd done and said, and yet…and yet it was meaningless. What was the point of saying anything? His vision was going blurry around the edges, like he'd looked too long at the sun, and Max was a halo of orange at the center.
It reminded him of a cool night in December. Another time where the look of concern was replaced with one of contempt. Instead of a bat ready and waiting to meet its mark, her hands were filled with blood.
His blood.
Billy was dying.
He wished he could've said something to Max. To Steve.
He wished he could've said I'm sorry and I love you. He didn't know which one deserved the apology and the admission.
I love you, Steve. I'm sorry, Max.
Both…probably.
I love you, Max. I'm sorry, Steve.
Definitely.
July 4th, 1986
They'd spent the afternoon napping. Steve hadn't planned for it to happen, nor had he suggested the idea. But the summer heat, and noon-high sun had swamped them with exhaustion. Billy had been up since the first rays of sunshine, his night terrors a constant shadow in the dark bags under his eyes.
Steve had woken up to a slight pressure against his forehead, dry lips receding enough to say a quiet, "go back to sleep, Stevie."
He hadn't.
Instead, Steve stumbled to his feet and coaxed Billy into taking a walk down the road. The morning mist hadn't yet dispersed by the time they hit Mrs. Rodney's house and had to turn back, her little schnauzer already up and waiting for the poor mail boy to toss the morning's newspaper.
They'd made it back to the house before the sun had fully reached its peak, the morning not yet hot, but the promise of humidity could be felt in the air. Billy already had his hair up, the stray strands curling even more where they laid against his tanned skin.
"M'gonna clean the pool," Billy had said, before proceeding to do just that. Steve had felt compelled to say something- he'd seen Billy doing that yesterday, and the day before that. He knew you didn't have to do it every day, but then he remembered. Billy needed those simple tasks, something for his brain to focus on instead of the scars that shined like lightning bolts across his arms and danced up his chest.
He needed normalcy, a routine.
Steve could give him that. He didn't want a repeat of the nights where Billy tossed and turned, his anxiety ridden brain too amped up for a restful sleep. He didn't want the days after Billy's recovery in the hospital, the confusion and fear. The shock of being alive.
He especially didn't want the apologies. Neither had Max, she'd practically lost her mind the fifth time Billy had said I'm sorry and I love you. Steve had to hold her back from accusing him of being a monster in disguise. Again.
When Billy turned to him and said it. Well, Steve had just about keeled over. He hadn't expected the apology for something that'd happened months ago, and he definitely hadn't been prepared for Billy's heartfelt, I love you.
He'd had to step back from the situation and take some time. Robin had called him a pussy. Steve hadn't disagreed.
In the end, Steve had realized a few things about himself. And came to the conclusion that Billy did it for him. A lot.
And so, when it was going on two hours of Billy cleaning the spotless pool, Steve had enough. With a glass of lemonade in each hand, Steve coecred Billy into taking a break. They started off side by side, shoulder to hip on one of the many lawn chairs Steve's parents owned. It hadn't lasted long.
They found themselves tangled together as their ice melted and mellowed out the tartness of the lemonade. The skin of their chests stuck together by a thin layer of heat sweat.
That had been three hours ago. Now Steve lay on his back with Billy between his thighs. His hand rubbing soothing strokes up and down Billy's spine. Billy's own hands were wedged underneath Steve's knees, keeping them slightly off the cushion.
"Hey, Billy?" Steve gave a gentle nudge with his knee. He waited a moment for a reply, but none came. He gave another bump, and this time Billy released a small noise. Somewhere between a purr and a growl. Steve wanted to kiss him.
The sound of fireworks could be heard in the distance, a soft poppoppop. Steve hoped the faire wouldn't wake him, but he didn't have to worry, Billy was out. His body limp, allowing Steve to just look.
He could see the freckles that only the summer days could bring out. His back muscles rippling with every deep breath he took. His lashes fanned out, casting a dark shadow across his cheekbones. And through it all, interspersed between hard earned muscles and wheat-blonde hair, Steve could see scars. The scars. Upside down scars. And they were beautiful.
Steve ran a single finger up the largest one. The one that had nearly taken this away. Billy shivered as Steve's fingertip hit a particularly sensitive spot.
It was the fourth of July. A year since Starcourt Mall. Steve still couldn't believe how far they'd come and how close they'd been to never having this. They didn't celebrate the fourth, not like others, not anymore. Instead, they spent the day like any other. And Steve loved it. He loved Billy.
Steve let out a sigh, a warm feeling settling low in his belly. "Hey Billy," he whispered, scraping his nails through the hairs at the nape of his neck. Billy gave a short hum, his eyes still closed and his body lax. "Happy fourth of July." He waited a second before leaning back and saying to the sky, "I love you."
Billy's grip tightened and Steve felt him press a sticky kiss to his thigh, "love you too, pretty boy."
It was probably the best fourth of July Steve could remember.