Road Trip
Maybe call this your royalty/road trip prompt, @awickedplacethisis, it’s much shorter! Harringrove April prompt day 14, Road Trip
Once upon a time, in Westfield Indiana—not far from Indianapolis—there was a very, very large mansion, almost a castle, where there lived a family named Harrington.
There were servants inside the mansion, and servants outside the mansion; caddies to attend the golf course, and six crews of gardeners: two for around the reflecting pools, the rest for the grounds, and a tree surgeon on retainer. There were specialists for the indoor tennis courts, and the outdoor tennis courts, the outdoor swimming pool, and the indoor swimming pool.
And over the garage there lived a chauffeur by the name of Hargrove, imported from England years ago—together with a Rolls Royce—and a son, named William, or Billy.
It was a different world, for Billy Hargrove, watching the Harringtons through the bushes, or getting out of his father’s car—little Stevie Harrington wore suits, and rode horses, and sometimes, when his parents were on holiday, little Stevie Harrington would invite Billy to play.
Steve was a general, in these games, or sometimes the president, and Billy was, as ever, whatever was required, whether that was a dragon, or a magic steed, or a princess. When Steve’s parents came back from wherever they were, Billy saw him only from the garage windows, again.
The Harrington parties were otherworldly, for Billy, watching from the apartment over the garage. Billy folded his arms over the railing, watching the orchestra, and the fireworks—and sometimes Steve would climb his tree afterwards, with stories.
“I brought you something,” he would say, leaning to sit a folded linen napkin on Billy’s windowsill, containing three chocolates, or sometimes, “—they’re too busy to give me a kiss goodnight, Billy, so I came to you.”
He fell out of the tree, once, and Billy yelled, and then Steve was forbidden from climbing trees, and forbidden from waking the staff in the dead of night. He tried to climb it, still, with his cast, until Billy hid with the window closed. Steve called softly, and then more softly still, as Billy plugged his ears under the window, until finally he went away.
Steve ignored him, after that, until Billy made a paper airplane, stood on the edge of his railing out of sight of the car pulling in, and threw it when their fathers looked away. Steve saw it fly into the hedge, snatched it, and stuck it in his jacket, but he didn’t look over. Billy didn’t hear anything until Steve ran into the garage two days later, looking around wild-eyed, and waved to him, then hauled him into the hedge around the side.
His cast looked grubby—probably from climbing trees—and the hand not in a cast clutched tightly at Billy’s wrist. “Why wouldn’t you open the window,” he muttered, huffily.
“You might fall again!” Billy whisper-yelled back at him, but it was too good to see Steve to stay mad at him, so he hugged him as hard as he could, cast and all.
“I’d rather fall than not see you,” Steve said, and Billy swallowed, squeezing him tighter.
“I—I’ll sneak out. We could meet in your garden,” Billy said, meaning the grounds, and Steve shook his head.
“They’ll send you away. They caught my mother’s maid by the pool, at night, and they sent her away.” He thought. “I’ll write you letters,” he said, pulling away to stare into Billy’s eyes, and squeeze Billy’s hands, even though they were covered in oil. “I’ll leave them under the driver’s seat. You’ll have to be fast.”
“I’ll find them,” Billy told him, nodding, and that whole summer he found pictures of their games, and stories, and once, a picture of Billy himself, and Steve, holding hands.
That was before Steve was sent away to school. He was different, after—they were both older, but his eyes didn’t look for Billy, and he invited different people to the pool, his friends in their tailored suits, with no oil stains. Friends who would not be sent away.
Steve would come around while Billy was fixing cars, though, and brush his hand around Billy’s waist as he bent over an engine, or slide the trolley out to pull Billy from under the Rolls Royce as Billy changed the oil, and feed him sweet and unusual fruit. Billy stared up at Steve Harrington’s smile as he tried mango for the first time, licking it from Harrington’s fingers as he laughed, and then star fruit, and papaya.
Billy still watched the parties—Steve’s parents’ parties—from a tree, swinging his legs as Steve laughed, and flirted, and occasionally came over and leaned back against the tree, holding a glass of champagne up where Billy could reach down and take it.
Once, when Steve’s dance partner wandered over, he kissed her, whispering and laughing. Billy clenched his fingers against the tree’s branches for long minutes until they’d wandered away, and then he swung down. He went to bed early that night. His pillow was nearly enough to block out the music, and even the fireworks, until he heard the sound of a knock at his window.
He opened it on Steve in his suit, and Steve crawled in, right inside Billy’s room, with his creaky old floors, stained curtains, and the picture Steve had drawn of them holding hands, before he’d been sent away to school.
Steve stepped forward and kissed him the way he hadn’t done since they were children. Billy stared at him, half sure he was asleep, shivering a little with the open window in only his wifebeater and shorts. Steve’s hands were warm around his biceps.
“Wish I could dance with you,” he whispered, then brushed a kiss against Billy’s mouth again, and Billy inhaled in a quick jerk of his lungs. Steve leaned in again, and the floor creaked, and Billy pushed him back towards the window.
“Ssshhh,” he whispered, his fingers sinking into the silk of Steve’s cuffs, and the warm folds where his shirt was tucked into his trousers, under his jacket. “Sshhh…” he muttered again, letting Steve tilt his head, and kiss him softly, his mouth a little open so Billy couldn’t help chasing the warmth.
“You really want me to go?” Steve asked, laughing against his lips, and Billy snorted softly.
“Of course I don’t,” he whispered back.
The next dance, Steve came and leaned against the tree, held up some champagne, and said, “Meet me at the indoor tennis court.”
“...I’ll get fired,” Billy whispered, laughing, and Steve was quiet for a long moment.
“...I’ll understand if you don’t come,” he said softly, tipping back the champagne, “—but I’ll wait until the orchestra stops.”
Billy thought about what his father would do, already, if he was caught in the tree—what Steve’s mother would do if the chauffeur-in-training startled party guests, wandering around in work clothes—but he set his jaw. When everyone gathered around to hear Steve’s father speak on the podium in front of the fountains, Billy snuck off along the hedge—inside the hedge, within view of the house, his heart pounding—and then lingered outside of the tennis courts.
Steve arrived a few minutes later with a whole bottle of champagne, and slid his fingers through Billy’s, tugging him inside. “Why didn’t you go inside?” he asked, bending to sit the bottle down, and then sliding his hands around Billy’s waist.
“...I don’t know,” Billy laughed, who’d only ever been allowed near the courts to clean, or pick up balls. “Want to show me around?”
“This is where I play tennis, to keep me occupied, when I’m missing you,” Steve told him. “This is the wall that makes it so I can’t see your house…” he whispered, and Billy laughed, and slid his arms around Steve’s neck, holding him close. After a few minutes of just...molding against each other, sighing with relief, Steve’s head jerked up, his smile widening in the soft reflected light from the party. “Here,” he whispered, “—this is the song I had to dance with somebody else, when you were right there, in the tree.”
Billy laughed again, shaking his head in disbelief. Steve grabbed his hand, lifting it like a dance, and slid the other around his waist, kicking at Billy’s feet to get them to move. “I don’t know how,” Billy told him, squinting down at his feet, and Steve kissed him again, missing his mouth, laughing, and leaning to try again.
“I’ll show you,” he whispered, counting. After a while Billy realized Steve leading meant he wouldn’t get to spin him around, so he spun Steve anyway, and Steve staggered, yanking him along.
“...he’ll notice you’re gone,” Steve said, finally, as they lay next to each other, panting in their backs, passing the champagne back and forth for swigs. “I’ve kept you too late.”
“I stayed,” Billy told him, leaning over for another soft kiss, and then another, because Steve Harrington was his, at least for a few hours.
The next day, Steve came out while Billy was washing the cars, and leaned against the wall in his tailored suit. He had a weird-looking fruit—dark red, and not very...plump looking, and he carved at it with a penknife as Billy worked. The purple juice stained his fingers.
“You know the story of Hades and Persephone,” Steve said, idly, and Billy thought about it, wiping sweat off his face.
“...he stole her, didn’t he?” Billy asked. It had sounded scary, as a child, reading from the huge illustrated book in the Harrington’s massive echoing library, but he thought, now, maybe he understood. “So they could be together. And her parents rained destruction on them.”
Steve grimaced. “...this is a pomegranate.”
“Oh,” Billy said, intrigued. He rinsed his hands and head off, pushing his hair back to see Steve open-mouthed.
“Come here,” Steve whispered, and Billy came over, and they risked just one kiss, in the middle of the garage, with their fathers both away at work. Billy could barely make himself let go, but he backed away, after, and leaned against a car. “...I thought I’d bring you some seeds,” Steve said, softly. “So you’ll stay with me.”
Billy dug his fingers into his own crossed arms, laughing. “Sure,” but then, when Steve held out the six tiny, bright, faceted seeds, he swallowed. “...six doesn’t seem like enough, now I see how many there are. Give me half.”
Steve grinned, glancing up at him with a wry smile. “That’s fair,” he said, nodding, and they counted them out on two plates. Steve held the odd one up to Billy’s mouth, and he leaned in and ate it, his tongue brushing Steve’s fingers. He helped Steve wash the juice off, after, sliding their fingers together.
When Steve began to work at his father’s company, Billy became his chauffeur. He waited for Steve Harrington every morning, and every evening, and Steve sat in the back, watching him in the rearview mirror.
When Steve bought a car, he took Billy along, and on the way home, he asked him to pull off of the road, into a field. The stars were bright, and his kisses were warm, and Billy helped him lay out a blanket.
Billy wondered, as he fumbled with their belts, clumsy with kissing, whether it would ever happen again.
It didn’t.
Steve wanted ice cream, occasionally, or dinner, and asked Billy to join him, but he worked very early and very late. He still sometimes pressed a quick kiss to Billy’s lips—if no one was looking, if he wasn’t running late—but there were no lingering touches, except one time.
The girl Steve had kissed under Billy’s tree was the daughter of another CEO, and their engagement was announced on the local radio. Steve stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched, and then told Billy to use the back elevator, and come up to his office, right away. When Billy got there, Steve locked the doors, and pulled Billy along to the bed behind the kitchenette. He didn’t say anything, he just slid his hands up under Billy’s shirt, and followed them with his mouth, kissing softly up Billy’s stomach to his chest, and then across his collarbones, as Billy wriggled out of his clothes.
They didn’t unlock the door all day, no matter whose voice came through.
Three weeks later, when Billy climbed in the car and suggested Steve’s favorite cafe, and then the office, Steve said no. He sat looking out the window, his eyes far away.
Billy waited silently, full of dread. “...Mr. Harrington?” he asked, finally, and then, because his voice gave out, he cleared his throat. “...do you have...something to tell me?”
“No,” Steve said, smiling—sadly, Billy thought, and he clenched his hands on the wheel. “...I think I just want to drive. South.”
“...yeah, okay,” Billy said automatically, and then, as was ingrained, “—sir.” Steve snorted a laugh.
As they passed through Carmel and then Indianapolis, Steve slowly relaxed, finally asking Billy to stop for breakfast when he was already an hour late for work. It wasn’t Billy’s place to ask, and he hardly wanted to remind Steve they were not where they were supposed to be, but something must have come across in his eyes as he chewed his bacon and watched Steve, because Steve’s smile went tense again.
“It’s all handled,” he said, sipping his coffee. “I think we can take a little road trip, don’t you?”
“For how long?” Billy asked, his fork freezing in midair, imagining just—spending time with Steve, walking, maybe. Going to a movie theater, he thought, huffing a laugh. He wondered whether Steve Harrington had ever been in a movie theater.
“I’m not sure,” Steve said, glancing up at him with an impenetrable expression, and Billy’s heart hurt, a little, because Steve Harrington had never been a difficult person to read.
After breakfast, Steve slid into the seat next to him, instead of the back, and rested his hand on Billy’s as he shifted gears. Billy could hardly keep his eyes off it.
“How long is this road trip,” he asked, keeping his voice even, and Steve laughed, grimacing.
“Depends on you,” he said.
I ate half of the pomegranate, Billy wanted to say.
Steve directed Billy into the garage next to a tall, narrow blue house with a long, wide porch and white trim, and Billy’s heart started to pound. “...is anyone else staying here?” he asked, cautiously, as Steve unlocked the door, and he shook his head, watching Billy’s face. They wandered into a fine living room, Billy thought, though sparsely furnished. As they wandered through the kitchen and upstairs, Billy pushed open a door on a room with a small, plain bed, and his things. His shoes, his trunk, no longer in the little apartment he shared with his dad.
No longer overlooking Harrington House.
“My friend Buckley has a house near here,” Steve said. “She told me this one was coming up for sale,” he said slowly, glancing at Billy. “...I could afford it.”
Billy was...happy, he thought, probably. “You’re...leaving me here?” he asked, his eyes stinging, and fixed on the plain little room. “You—you’ll visit. Sometimes.”
“I’m—no,” Steve said sharply, grabbing his arm, and Billy yanked away to sit on the squeaky mattress.
“You want me gone before the marriage, then,” he whispered. “I get...a few days? A day,” he bargained, glancing up at Steve, and setting his jaw. He wanted to swear at Steve, for—for being everything he wanted, he guessed. And everything he couldn’t have.
“No, no, I’ve broken off the engagement,” Steve said, grabbing Billy’s hands, “—and I’ve quit. I have a new job, Billy.”
“What,” Billy asked him, hoarsely.
“I’m disowned,” Steve said, laughing, his voice unsteady. “I’ve convinced my father I’m too difficult to reason with. I’m out of the will. I will live here. I bought the house with my money, from Mother.”
“Here,” Billy breathed, staring around again, and then at Steve’s face.
“I hoped you would like it here,” Steve told him. “I wanted to show you, so you could—road trip here. Come down on weekends, maybe—”
“You packed my things,” Billy reminded him. “Is this a little road trip, or—”
“This could be home,” Steve told him, smiling tensely. “Come see our room.”
“...our room,” Billy laughed, disbelievingly, as Steve drew him down the hall, and into a wide, high-ceilinged room with a massive bed.
“Our room,” Steve repeated, smiling against Billy’s lips, as Billy took shaky, bewildered breaths. “Who would question a single gentleman having a gentleman?”
The other Harringrove April prompts I’ve done
