@teveharrington
Billy's got one of his books permanently residing at Steve's house. In Steve's bedroom. Sitting on the nightstand on Billy's side of the bed. Because Steve's parents are never home, and the house is empty. Cold. Devoid of love. And Steve asks Billy to stay, because Steve chose him. Which is something, like really something. Nobody chooses him. People want him, use him up. That's a given. That's what Billy comes to expect. Or comes to think he deserves. And then Steve comes in and rearranges his brain, his heart, and all his insides. Now Billy's thinking about nothing else except Steve, Steve, Steve, and the fact that this has been happening long enough that they have their sides of the bed now. And Billy has one of his books permanently residing at Steve's house.
Most days, he's got to keep himself from crying about it. Most days, Billy's scrunching his nose up when he gets too goddamn sappy about it. Until Steve kisses his forehead, then the bridge of his nose, and oh, it's happening again, it's kinda mind blowing, it's kinda scary, it's all he ever wanted,
Which is where he is now, sprawled out on Steve's bed. Back pressed into rumpled sheets. Mousy blonde curls fan out on the pillow, kinda wayward and beautiful. Billy's in nothing but black shorts and the gold pendant that sticks to his warm skin. Billy's warm; he's always been warm. It's like the California sun exists inside him somehow, burning, burning, burning and asking to be seen. Steve runs cold. Cold in a lonely way, like his parent's house. It does something to Billy. Makes him press his lips together in a frown, tension gathering along his jaw until he feels a solar flare from the inside. Strong. Protective. Pissed at the house that made Steve feel like this. But Billy just extends his arm, invites Steve in. And Steve answers, until he's curled up on top of his body. Billy never needed sheets to cover him. Just Steve. And now they're both warm, so warm,
And safe. Billy's breathing easier these days. And he feels Steve's head there on his chest, the weight of him. Relaxed. Like he's sinking into him. Fucking bliss. And Billy's gotta keep himself from crying about it, again. So he buries one hand in Steve's hair, fingers stroking pretty brown waves that give off floral notes from Farah Fawcett's hairspray. He reaches for his book on the nightstand with the other hand. Settles in, starts to read. It's not until Steve stirs that Billy hums, low. Deep in his chest.
"Movin' in your sleep, baby?" Blue eyes peer over the top of Travels with Charley until they land on Steve. Billy blinks, all pretty long lashes and a heavy-lidded gaze. He pulls his hand out of Steve's hair, traces his fingers down along his skin until he wraps him up. Pulls him close, getting them both to the place they want to be: closer, closer to each other. Like it's never close enough. And then, "Here, listen to this..."
"The Pacific is my home ocean; I knew it first, grew up on its shore, collected marine animals along the coast. I know its moods, its color, its nature. It was very far inland that I caught the first smell of the Pacific. When one has been long at sea, the smell of land reaches far out to greet one. And the same is true when one has been long inland. I believe I smelled the sea rocks and the kelp and the excitement of churning sea water, the sharpness of iodine and the odor of washed and ground calcareous shells. Such a far-off and remembered odor comes subtly so that one does not consciously smell it, but rather an electric excitement is released- a kind of boisterous joy. I found myself plunging over the roads of Washington, as dedicated to the seas as any migrating lemming..."
Billy takes his time with the last few sentences, draws them out. Like there's more to them than the surface meaning. There's electric excitement released, all right. A kind of boisterous joy. And the ocean is still in his soul, but there's something else, another scent, and it's drawing him toward Steve.
