Discover Top Posts Tagged with #xfluffy

Towards the limits of maps

Hopper offers him a job, afterwards.

“It’s not much, but It’ll help you get by, pay the bills, ‘till you find something better”

It’s at the station. No less. Consists basically of tidying up the office and replacing the tank from the water machine and keeping the bathrooms clean and generally “Getting some heavy lifting out of our dear Flo’s shoulders” and. The old Billy Hargrove. The one that used to swagger his way around and was all charm and purposeful winks and still hadn’t been permanently scarred from the inside out would’ve gag at the mere thought of it. Accepting a job from the Chief of Police. The Hawkins, Indiana , Chief of Police. But this Billy has trouble keeping his spine from crumbling down on his best days and feels stupidly, shamefully thankful for the way Jim Hopper knows without asking. Understands, without Billy having to say a word so,

He takes the job.

#harringrove #i only have like #two speeds #filt*y #and #sickeningly sweet #that's all #this happened about half? an hour into my S1 rewatch #dunno what it is don't ask me #sorry timeline for having to deal with me #i luv u #billy hargrove #steve harrington #billy x steve #steve x billy #xharringrove #xfluffy #billy+flo

ok but billy and steve both getting summer jobs at the local aquarium yeah i know there isn't one let’s act like there is and steve works at the gift shop and billy’s working with the dolphins as some kind of caretaker’s assistant, making sure things around and inside their tank are nice and clean, making them company, feeding them and— the dolphins are the cutest thing, to be honest. there are three of them: flipper (originality what’s that?) and happy and james and they know all these tricks and they love attention so it’s just normal that ‘i used to be hard and cold-blooded but now i spend 8/6 with the equivalent of three little kids and i’ve melted quicker than a popsicle left out in the sun’—billy hargrove ends up having the time of his life and feeling like he’s not working at all while he swims with the dolphins and lets them carry him around and plays with them and jokes with them and talks to them and—

aside from that, working in a little town aquarium is kind of lonely, more so at the gift-shop, so steve goes visiting every day. talks with billy and pets the dolphins and claps and laughs and ‘whuhuuu!’s delighted at their tricks even when they splash him soaked and maybe, just maybe ‘i used to be the big bad wolf but now i spend all my days giving kisses to dolphins' —billy hargrove might find it endearing when steve’s eyes crease at the sides, seeking for billy’s like for some kind of connection and uhhh, that’s really dangerous territory but billy spends all his summer wandering into it anyway, having lunch with steve, throwing him into the tank when he can't seem to decide whether or not he dares to swim with the dolphins, getting blinded at how pretty he looks, wet and with all that hair turned into a wild mess after drying up in the sun and, wrapped in billy's towel and then dressed in billy's emergency clothes all day.

so, one day he’s talking with his the dolphins, absently cleaning the tank with a net, trying to make them understand that “no, there’s no way i’m gonna tell him how i feel” and “no, flipper, he doesn’t want me back you’re wrong” and ‘oh, that's so easy to say when it's not you who’s gonna have to deal with the consequences aka he hating me” and “yeah, i am in love with him that’s why i don't wanna go and risk losing him, you giant tuna!” and

that’s when steve suddenly shows up, brows furrowing and asking:

“who are you in love with?”

and that’s when, all three dolphins rise up on their wiggling tails, move their left fins in unison,

squeak and,

point to steve.

and billy

nononono

covers his face with his hands and wishes they had a shark tank to go and be devoured in but then steve’s hands are trying to pry apart his and billy can see he’s smiling that fucking heartbreaker smile he has in between his fingers and he’s asking something, not to billy but,

to the dolphins. he's asking:

“do you ladies think i’m in love with billy too?”

and the little shits nod nod nod and they’re clearly so much more clever than humans because billy still hasn’t gotten it when steve says, palms closing firmly around his wrists and tugging,

“hey, i can’t kiss you if you're hiding”

and there’s nothing of that ‘hard, cold-blooded, big bad’ —billy hargrove left, no really, so he let's steve spread apart his hands and then

wow, just. WOW.

the dolphins start clapping.

#harringrove #i was watching a whales documentary and then a dolphin showed up and this happened #aka make everything harringrove take 1million #Steve Harrington #billy hargrove #billy x steve #steve x billy #xharringrove #xfluffy

| a house (is a home) | tinyplaylist |

It’s a tiny, tiny house on the lowest side of town. Not, in fact, too far from Cherry Lane, where Billy used to live, back then, back to the day when everything started.

The morning they're given the keys, they stare at it for more than twenty-five minutes straight before they manage to break out of their rapture and get their fucking dumbstruck asses to move.

(There’s a lot of work to do.)

(They can’t wait to do it.)

"We bought that" Steve (falters, marvels) states, chest widening up as his breath catches, his body instinctively holding the emotion down (it’s too much. Too much. He’s gonna have to let it go slowly, or it’ll end up exploding out of him). It’s the same kind of shaky, tentative thing he’ll recognize later on Billy’s face. Will kiss from his lips. Tap-tap-tap along the fast rhythm on his chest with his fingertips,

This, he thinks. This. This is the moment right before everything changes.

Billy hugs him from behind, chin upon his shoulder, arms firmly crossed around that instant Steve’s holding in.

It’s windy, in that soft, caressing way early summer breeze always is, and his long curls are rebelling out of his ponytail, ticking at Steve’s cheek.

He feels as if he could dare to reach the sun, right now.

Feels like he could make it.

"Well, babe, we can officially say it. You've downgraded" Billy drawls, wrapping him tighter, sounding like there's something he's no saying, a vacant space full of ‘I wish I could give you more. More than this’, too thick for Steve not to hear, anyway. But the sun’s shining high, makes everything look a bit dream-like, a bit too good to be true, a bit impossible. And when Steve turns to rub his cheek against Billy’s lips, he smells so much like home it’s almost dizzying, and maybe the house should look like Not enough but, it looks likeThere’s nothing better.

There’s nothing I’ve ever wished more for.

The windows of the living room gleam in that same flickering way light does on the surface of water and Steve remembers the worn-out color of the wooden floor, remembers the voice of the real estate agent singsonging about how "It gets so sunny in the mornings. Believe me. You won’t ever want to move out to a different place"

“I know. Oh, God, I know” he sighs. Overdramatic. Runs his hands over Billy’s forearms. Circles his wrists. Holds on tight. Sometimes things get heavy in Billy’s head, but Steve’s getting better at making them lighter, one day at a time “After all the money and care my family spent on my education. And look at me, now. What a lost cause”

It works a bit like magic. Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it, being able to do this. Because Billy huffs a warm and breathy laugh on the back of his ear, against the secret skin in there, and Steve feels his lips curve into the exact shape he was aiming for. And it’s that smile, the reason why this house feels like everything he could’ve ever desired.

"Oh, I overheard Mrs. Price talking to Mrs. Harris the other day. She said, and I’m quoting, ‘That pretty, sweet boy. Always so polite. So well dressed in those lovely, lovely striped polos. All top brands. And look at him now, wallowing around with one of those metalhead losers. The lowest in our society” he makes up, high-pitched and histrionic, making Steve snort, bark raspy laugh “Those rich boys” Billy keeps saying, biting a wet, slow kiss over the pulse of his neck, purring at the way the skin drags out of his teeth "It's like they can't wait to get their hands dirty" and cool touch of the breeze over his now damp skin leaves Steve shaking.

(No. Not only the breeze)

“Mmmm. Guess I should repent, but you’re making it sound so, so tempting, baby”

Billy mouths at the tip of his earlobe, kisses the tiniest, softest kiss inside the shell of his ear. He’s a bit of a torturer, and Steve kinda loves him that way.

"Well” he shrugs off a deep, resigned sigh “Gotta make up for the lack of space somehow"

“You always make up for everything”

And Steve can’t see it, but he can feel it, the way he worked a little bit more of magic right there too, because,

“Wow, Harrington. Always the fucking romantic” Billy says, his laugh drawing Goosebumps all along the back of Steve’s neck “Let’s get inside so you can kill me with an overdose, uh?”

Billy doesn't even stop touching him. Just. Slides his hand along his. Twists. Turns. Hooks their fingertips. Walks backwards and towards the house. Draws him after him.

He's a bit of a magician too, you see.

Knows Steve doesn’t want to let go of him. Not ever again. Knows that, wherever he goes, Steve will follow.

Will follow him home.

#harringrove #a brand new day on #the harrington-hargrove household #this is like #a 5 part thing?#the blog is about a week away from turning one yo #and i'm finishing some of the fist things i tried to write in eng while i get all sappy about it #not to get all dramatic but I LOVE THIS FANDOM #billy x steve #steve x billy #the house #a house (is a home)#xharringrove #xfluffy

after finding his way back bringing hell with him. after all of them fighting the good fight against the monsters and winning billy kind of— ‘inherits’ hopper's cabin.

(“it’s yours, kid. for as long as you need it. for as long as you have to stay”).

that's where he hid, the almost two years and a half he spent on the upside-down. and that’s the right word, isn’t it?, because he can't go away, like he once dreamed, because somebody has to. stay. and billy, he feels like he’s the inevitable option, the one that’s been scarred the most for what’s gonna forever lurk on the other side, awaiting for a new opportunity to come back so

most of the kids leave and joyce leaves and hopper leaves taking jane with him and, even max leaves, eventually (finally. away from this. away from him) to try and live their lives without fear in their hearts and the handle of an axe always at hand’s reach, resting against the side of the bed but

steve

he stays, too,

re-opens that old dinner at the end of randolph lane with that girl-friend of his ("c'mon, hargrove. as if she’d ever let you forget what her name is") comes visiting billy way more often than, if billy's reading him right (and billy learned his lessons. got good at reading people. he is right), he himself expected.

but he does and,

hangs out with billy on the porch some afternoons. crickets chirping. sun setting. beers in hand. rolls his eyes at the jokes billy makes. makes jokes billy rolls his eyes at. helps billy repair the boiler, even if he keeps on complaining all the time. bites a wayward, sideways smile, back leaned against the creaky door of the chicken run as billy feeds his chickens

"but look at you, hargrove. who would have thought you'd become such a hick? with your chickens and your wood-cutting thing and now that beard”

“got a problem with the chickens?”

his eyes on the wicked kind of bright as he purses his lips and

“mmm no. with the chickens? no.”

and days go by and go by and go by, like handfuls of sand slipping through his fingers but, steve keeps on coming visiting way more often than they both expected and they play cards and ‘clue’ and baseball until the weather turns too harsh and their winter clothes too restrictive and

"you know? you― look unexpectedly good in that"

says steve the morning of the first snow, reaching out to rearrange the neck of billy's heavy winter jacket, the one he kind of inherited with the cabin too, the one that's soft shearling on the inside and dark-red plaid on the outside and isn't as big for him as it used to be, anymore

“sure? not to hick-y?” billy snorts, hands warming up from the cup of coffee steve brought for him, heart warming-up a little too when he shrugs and

“definitely hick-y but. it suits you. and that stupid beard too”

and it gets lonely, sometimes, in the middle of the woods. gets cold and dark and scary. but steve comes visiting almost every day, now. eats the shitty food billy makes or brings some from the restaurant or even cooks it himself right then and there because

“people who’ve been to hell and back shouldn't live on boxed spaghetti, hargrove. besides, i like doing it”

“mmmm. the infamous king of hawkins. who would have thought” billy echoes, spreading cream cheese on a slice of toasted bread for the appetizers. just because he can, because steve always glares at him but it’s always there too, that blinding smile he has, along with the raw honesty laying heavy on his eyelids,

“well, i’m not specially good at it but― i’m not bad either. and for me that's. more than enough” he says, words carrying the weight of a first-time-spoken secret. because, apparently, billy has become important enough, close enough, for him to grant him that privilege but also the one of steve lowering his gaze, lowering his voice, lowering his guard, adding “and i’m tired of trying to be enough for anybody else”

and, apparently, billy has become bold enough to admit out loud that

“well, pretty boy. for me, you’re pretty much amazing”

and he can see it, the unexpectedness of it, lighting steve’s smile even brighter, making his own heart even warmer, but it’s an unexpected kind of life, this one he’s living, full of ‘who would have thought’s

full of steve’s own unexpectedness,

and billy should feel alone. five years hiding in the woods. half down. half up. and before that, a whole lifetime of hiding in the open. felt alone for so long but. steve lingers, now the days get shorter and nights turn colder and having no reason to stay around becomes even more unreasonable. but then one of them finds one that seems reasonable enough like

"they're passing die hard in channel four in about half an hour so. 'am gonna get the fireplace running and, you can make popcorn?"

"die hard” steve snorts “you're such a testosteronic cliché, hargrove”

"and you spend way too much time with robin"

"uh, so it’s robin now?"

and it's die hard one day and conan the other and then steve snoring all the way through the terminator (“really, steven?”). and there’s barely anything else to do, december snow falling into january, curling around itself to hibernate its way through february’s cold. so it kind of becomes and every-four-days-or-less kind of thing, then every-two-days-or-less kind of thing and it’s always steve making the popcorn and billy lighting up the fireplace and

"god. i love that fucking smell" sitting on the carpet right by where billy’s fanning the embers back into flames, taking a deep, satisfied-sounding breath.

"uh?"

"the warmth and the pine and just―" pauses. looks at billy with those dark, reflective eyes he has. flames coming back to life inside his pupils. words sounding like they’re emptying all the air inside his lungs "it smells like i imagine a home would"

and billy’s caught. like a moth. he’s been caught since the very beginning.

"didn’t you have a fireplace? back at your parents’?”

steve looks at him as if he’s thinking of something, holding on something. and there’s this line they still don’t cross. it separates the ‘too personal’ the ‘too intimate’ from whatever they’ve been doing. but today billy just blinks and finds himself on the other side of it.

“hey. a penny for your thoughts”

and steve breathes out this tiny-tiny smile like ‘you always come get me, uh?’ like he can feel it too, that step they’re both taking forward.

"yeah but―” steve says “didn’t smell like yours" four simple, nearly whispered words that feed the flames inside of billy, blow the ambers into that something they’ve been nourishing inside for so long.

so it’s jokes and coffee and food and games and movies and popcorn and the warmth coming from the fireplace. it’s billy not ever feeling alone anymore and steve snuggling closer to him under the blanket one wednesday night on what the news have labeled as ‘the coldest winter of the decade’ and saying

“bet it smells good too, that hick beard of yours” and not giving billy enough time to react, to say anything, to think before he’s burying his face into the crook of his neck, breathing in, in, sighing hot and soft and ticklish against that tender spot of skin and “god, i knew it”

and isn’t even that unexpected, billy thinks, the feeling that makes him trail his lips down steve’s cheek to find his, lick steve’s mouth open, eat up what’s left of that sigh. it feels too brief, compared with the time it’s been brewing inside of him, and when it ends, steve looks at him with those soul-searching, open-hearted brown eyes,

“you just―” he breathes in, breathes out. and he’s a flammable feeling, pumping in the direction of billy's heart “kissed me”

he’s a terrifying feeling. the only reason anything’s been making sense. the only reason this house smells like a home to billy. the only one that’s ever come back. the only one that’s ever truly stayed.

and billy had to go and risk everything by falling in love.

“yeah, pretty boy” pauses. breathes. thinks: there’s no hiding anymore “so— a penny for your thoughts?”

and that tiny-tiny smile, it blooms, the same way steve’s been blooming out of billy’s barren soul,

“i’m thinking, hargrove, that i can’t wait to get my hands inside that hick jacket of yours”

#harringrove #this is actually my own fireplace #I'm mastering the art of not freezing #or. well. trying #xharringrove #xfluffy

i saw your additions on the tswift post abt billy being a dolly fan which is so accurate and true. i always hc that billy’s mom was actually born in the south and moved to cali to be an actress or singer or something but then met neil and well you know. but billy grew up listening to dolly bc that would have been the time she was getting popular. i also agree that billy would definitely be inspired by her aesthetic and just her general messaging to be yourself and fuck everyone else 😄

Heyyy! 💖💖💖💖💖

Ohhhhh, yes!!! That’s such an amazing headcanon! And it’s so easy to imagine Billy’s mom singing Dolly’s songs to him when he was little. Softly at night, while caressing his hair in bed, soothing him into sleep. Dancing together in the kitchen, his mom taking him by the hands and spinning him around. The casserole slowly cooking on the stove and they both red-faced and giggling on those easy days when work kept Neil away from home so there was still some space left they could fill in with happiness.

And, I imagine his mother wouldn’t dress like Dolly but maybe she would kind of— wish, she could? Tease her hair a little bigger, wear her heels a little higher. Raise the hem of her skirt an inch (or two). Red lips and a fake beauty mark up the side of her lips but. She didn’t dare. Not anymore. Only twenty-five and staring at Dolly on the TV screen with her eyes full of ‘might have been’s saying ‘See that, baby? That’s what mom wanted to be’ and.

That’s how Billy imagines her, now. Shredding a tiny part of her old skin every day since she left and becoming the kind of star you can’t stop looking at ‘till has blinded you and he kind of— he doesn’t even realize, at first, what he’s doing. But he starts to style his curls a little tighter and left the buttons of his shirts unmade. Where her mother couldn’t, he starts to repaint himself into the image of a rebellion. Everything so he wouldn’t be reflected on his father's. Dangling earrings, miles of leather, cheeky jeans, bad intentions and— He doesn’t like girls, not really, but he likes looking at them and knowing, how much effort it took them too, to look that cheap. Likes to look at them knowing, that it’s not just him, that they all are diamonds on a rhinestone world. That they cut like nothing else, with the beauty of their sharp edges.

And that’s basically the reason why he paints his lips in the shape of his own heart and kisses it into Steve Harrington’s lips hard enough to stain them.

The last of Tina’s parties. Graduates saying their last goodbyes while ‘If you ain’t got love’ was playing. Steve gave him a once-over and a smirk and called him ‘Doll’. Put two fingers on his chest and said it “Just one closed button left, doll. Feels tempting” so Billy dragged him to the darkness of the backyard and left his lips so thoroughly kissed they looked lipstick-red when they parted for breath, Steve’s fingers still tangled on his hairspray-curls and saying “I knew that’s how you’d kiss me” looking at Billy with that something in his eyes, like Billy had just sliced his chest open. Like he really, really liked what he was seeing and,

He did. Steve. Really liked him. Fell in love with the flashy and trashy the too much and the too little and with everything, everything Billy had been hiding underneath. Made Billy feel at peace with the things about himself (about her) Neil never allowed. Made him shred a lifetime of war.

Let Billy be himself on purpose and then, loved him like that.

Ok I got CARRIED AWAY but I’ve been dying to talk about this since s3 aired and saw. This:

Look at those crunchy curls and those filled-in brows and c’mon he’s so wearing copper eyeshadow akdhauhduahduad. He’s so flayed and frayed but, with style. And he does have that southern vibe and looks like, so country and so, carefully put together while TRASHY AF, and I just love how cheap he is and I’m so sure that when Dolly talked about “‘This woman that used to walk the streets had all this makeup and hair, high heel shoes. I thought she was so beautiful. And everybody used to say, ‘Oh, she ain’t nothin’ but trash.’ And I used to say, ‘Well that’s what I’m gonna be when I grow up—trash!’ And that’s kinda how I look. But I like to think I’m a little more than that’” Billy was somewhere nodding and also, that Steve was nodding too, to that last part.

Thank you so much for asking me this 💞💞💞💞💞😘😘😘😘😘 and yay! I'm so happy somebody else sees it 💎💎💎

#Yup!#also! same as i pictured 80s billy being a dolly fan i picture modern billy as the wildest kesha fan xD.#coveing his chest with glitter at every party and kissing steve until they're both sparkling #and i always keep that in mind while i write him #💗💗💗💗#thank you again #harringrove #xaskfic #xfluffy

Steve’s second favorite part of their house is the backyard.

They’ve got a big-ish plastic pool they now set up at the beginning of every summer. For the kids. For their dog getting chlorine-induced diarrhea from time to time. For Billy to just float away and soak, fancy homemade cocktail on hand, mean, silver-mirrored aviators reflecting the sun, his whole skin covered in oil and ready to fry. For Billy to grab Steve and drag him inside roaring "Oh, you mean like this?" when he calls him “One, two, three, Splash!” For Billy to look happy and accomplished while ruining Steve’s hair, making up for it right afterwards. “It would be nice to, you know, being able to walk near the pool without fearing for your fucking mermaid complex to surge from the depths and drag me down” For Billy to grin that dangerous grin of his, look like he’s enjoying every single minute of this tiny, tiny life they’ve build around them and “But, baby. You look so hot when your wet. You gotta understand. I can’t help it”

They’ve placed little bulbs all around. Repainted the wood fence. Brought Dustin’s mom’s old furniture. And Steve has planted zucchini and strawberries and tomatoes and something that’s theoretically spinach bur doesn’t look like spinach like, at all. It took a lot of try and error and a million calls to his mom and like, a whole lot of faith but, somewhere along the way the little shits stopped dying and now somehow the keep on fucking blooming and living and growing and all that jazz and— sometimes, Billy looks at them and does that smiling so hard the goddamn the sun stops burning thing he does now, mixes fondness and mockery with alchemistic precision when he says,

“You know, Harrington? You’re also the gardener of my heart. A sexy one. The kind I’d get my knees dirty for in the shed”

“Except we don’t have a shed”

“Yeeeah, but we can built one”

“Just so you can suck my dick”

Billy nods, “Just so I can suck your dick—” Billy winks real slow. Fingerguns. Fires Steve with a dirty look and the tsk of his tongue against flashy white teeth “In a shed”

And every new line he says it’s the worst he’s ever said.

But, somehow, they all keep on working.

“Guess we’ll hafta build a shed, then”

“Mmm. That’s my man. Now” he leans back with a low, lewd rumble, arms around the plastic rim, curls dripping wet, his whole body stretching, sun sparkling over the water, warm-looking and crystal clear, lapping hungry at his skin. He never wears trunks when they’re all alone and he knows Steve knows it “ Why don’t cha come ‘round here so I can drag you down. I don’t throw up my lungs into this thing every goddamn summer to not have you inside”

Steve smirks. Sometimes. The backyard is his favorite part of the house.

(But the thing is: every part's his favorite part. When it’s got Billy Hargrove in it)

part one: the house

#harringrove #the house #idekidec #a house (is a home)#xharringrove #xfluffy #xpronight

| a house (is a home) | (i). the keys | tinyplaylist |

The house consists on:

Two bedrooms. One bathroom. A sort of trapezoidal kitchen with a door connecting to the backyard. A living room that stinks of the slow decay of the ancient, seventies-style wallpaper. An attic so dark that, according to Billy “We could make good money if we rent it to, you know, somebody that’s into heavily atmospheric spectral-themed sexual torture" (They’ve never really seen what’s up there. House already bought and everything).

There's a lot of work to do.

So they do it.

Thrift some things. Re-use some others. Spend a crazy, crazy amount of money on the mattress (‘Cause,’ Billy winked ‘that’s what we’ll gonna use the most’). They repaint the walls. Scrap off the seventies paper (“But our living room looks like a pulp strip-club, babe. And I love it! / “I said. Off, Billy. Off”). Put on the gigantic combo of ‘Decorative vase plus plant plus stand’ Crystal buys them as a housewarming gift to add a “Slight touch of class” right at the entryway.

Even if it is,

“Hideous, love. So. Frikin’― hideous. And it has herons in it. Again. Herons. We’re been chased by herons. Our entire relationship. He-rons”

“Ok. They are. Hideous. But baby they also mean she’s trying”

“Well, she can not try. It’s ok for me. Less herons”

“Except it’s not” And Billy. He still has that deadly glare. Eyes narrowed. Chin raised-up. It doesn’t work anymore (or not in a, threatening way, at least) but Oh, Steve loves that he’s still trying “And c’mon. You can't tell me they don't you bring back good memories, huh?”

It's a question, but it might not be, and it wouldn't matter. He wonders how many of them they keep, between the two. How many memories together: beginnings and hellos and ‘Why don’t you stay a little longer’s at Steve’s front door. Ends and goodbyes and ‘I'll be back so fast you won't even have the time to start missing me’s. Kisses and touches and whispers and love love love. Making it way before they realized that was the name for what they were doing.

Those fucking voyeuristic herons watching it all.

And Billy. Steve’s right because―he moves in close. Crowds Steve against the door (“Not letting anybody get in here, pretty boy. And I won’t let you go either. Not ‘till you let me kiss you again”). Breathes merging. Chests touching. Pined into each other’s eyes. A déjà-vu of a feeling. Just like that first time: Billy’s knuckles tracing down the shape of Steve’s temple, the fall of his cheekbone, tender, as he runs them along his lips, side to side and

‘Like this’ he remembers thinking ‘They hurt even worse’

“That’s low blow, Harrington” Billy whispers, eyes dropping to his mouth “You know they do”

‘If I let you kiss me’ he remembers thinking ‘I’m gonna love like an open wound’

“Then maybe we should keep them” he grins and Billy grunts, in defeat, laughter trembling out of Steve’s body as he does “You know. Make some good memories in front of these ones”

“You’re such a sweet talker, Harrington. You’re manipulating the love of your life. Should feel ashamed of yourself”

Steve shakes his head. His heart is racing, is always racing, beating towards Billy Hargrove at the fucking speed of light.

“Nah. It’s one of the best things I got from my mom. I’m kinda proud of it”

And Billy leans in. Bites a kiss off his neck. Makes him shiver.

“Then keep on sweet-talking to me, uh? Make it worth remembering”

And Steve. Flips them around. Presses against Billy, reshapes himself against the curves of his body.

“When I’m done with you, baby, you’re never gonna want to get rid of those herons”

Billy cackles, takes his face between his hands, whispers the words on the shape of kisses.

“Mmm. Good start, King Steve. You already got my knees shaking”

And so it begins. Piece by piece. Little by little. To become something more. To take the shape of a now. The shape of a future. Of a 'Here we keep what we’ve built together. What we are together. you and me. Here we keep our love'.

Not just a house but,

A home.

#harringrove #remodelation times #at #the harrington-hargrove household #I'm not even that sure they're herons but #i LOVE herons #the house #a house (is a home)#xharringrove #xfluffy

They have a business now, Robin and Steve.

He’d been back in Hawkins for less than two months, crashing on Robin’s apartment, when she shook his freaking-out ass around into semi-conscientiousness at four in the goddamn morning.

“Could you please stop screaming? I’ve just had the greatest, most― life-changing. Idea”

“Let your best friend live a long, non-terrified life instead of giving him a stroke while he's sleeping?”

“Dingus. This is serious”

“As so it’s not-dying”

She rolled her eyes and then jumped into rambling, right then and there, about how they were going to ball-n’-chain their sorry, broke souls to a mortgage and open a family restaurant.

And well, yeah, not worth dying over but. Yeah.

Pretty life-changing, turns out.

So now the old, forgettable family dinner on Randolph Lane where Steve used to go for a milkshake with “Every single one of my High School girlfriends. Seriously Robin. Nobody wants to come back here, it’s like a museum” is “Oh, and that’s exactly how we’re gonna keep it” an ode to the eighties (And, in Robin’s own words “And a very tasteful one”), with its painted flaming tracks on the floor, its handmade replica of the Inferno (courtesy of Hopper and Joyce and Will’s and ―slightly reluctantly― El’s newfound family-bounding passion for miniaturism). With its fake weapons and horror masks and thrifted posters and a hundred other pieces of memorabilia. Cher’s voice rasping around the notes of “If I could turn back time” on the jukebox at least twice on any given day. The not-so-kids-anymore relaxing on one of the booths at the front, laughing and joking and reassuring Steve about how this was—yeah. Yeah. (even if he won’t ever, ever recognize to Robin) the greatest fucking idea.

It’s been five years (And one-hundred miles out. One-hundred miles back) when Billy steps inside the dinner fifteen minutes before closing hours one late September afternoon. Sun so low on the horizon half-hidden behind the line of sparse buildings that it’s almost grazing the night. And it’s not the first time they’ve seen each other since Steve came back. They’ve already said their awkward ‘Hello’s, their (heartbreaking) ‘I'll see you around’ s.

But today, that weary sun’s slicing reality into pieces with its golden light, and Billy's wearing a soft-blue, worn denim jacket, pendant sitting on his chest, curls long, long, long and ringed by fire. And Steve feels as if, when it comes to Billy Hargrove, he’s no different than one of those stones they'd tried to kill time with, at the beginning of that summer, bouncing them across the quarry’s water. No matter how long it takes, every time, or how far the stone will make it. It’ll eventually fall, seeking the kiss of the surface, as if it knows It’ll sink back, at the end. Will return. As if it’s been aware, right from the very beginning. Of the inevitability. Of its belonging.

Because Billy looks like that almost-night of their first kiss, in the middle of that summer. That almost-night when he said "I want you, Steve Harrington. No matter where you go, I’ll always want you" so close to the end. That almost-night when Steve got in his car, leaves already falling. Stuffed it a whole ton heavier (Bright red vinyl suitcase. Green plastic bags squashed at its sides. The weight of what he was about to do trying to catch his eye through the rearview mirror). Drove it to the end of the woods. To the other side of the welcoming sign. Headed out of Hawkins. Out of Indiana. Out. Out. Just to find the Camaro parked on the side. Billy waiting for him. Fists buried into the pockets of that denim jacket. Cigarette consuming itself into a fresh burn between those lips Steve wouldn’t be kissing into healing in the morning.

He parked the BMW right behind. Must have felt like a sing. But back then, it didn’t.

“Billy? What are you―?”

(It wasn’t until after. Hundreds of miles away. Hundreds of miles following the yellow highway lines in the wrong direction. That he realized―)

“What, King of Hawkins? You really thought I was gonna let you leave without one last kiss goodbye?”

(―I should’ve run to you. Run to you.

But instead I ran away from everything else, and I lost you.)

Billy heaved off the Camaro. Walked up to Steve until he could feel the warmth coming off his skin as rebellion against the cold nightfall “I don’t want you to forget about me” Warmer. Warmer than any sun “About us”

Steve huffed out a laugh. A ragged, pained laugh. Sometimes the body doesn’t know, they say. What to do. How to react. So he laughed. And it hurt. Not just a feeling but a ton worth of them, in that laugh. I don’t want to go. But I have to. I want you to come with me. But I know I can’t ask.

Even If we hadn’t ever kissed, I wouldn’t have been able to forget you, Billy Hargrove.

(Even when I got away, I kept on chasing you. Got lost running around in circles trying to find you)

When the laugh faded, Billy was smiling, and Steve knew it was a reflection. Crooked and painful: he didn’t know, back then, Steve was afraid one last kiss would make him sink. Rolling stones getting him stranded.

(Steve didn’t know, back then, how stranded he already was)

“Didn’t want to make it harder”

Billy― took him by the waist. Tugged him in and. Steve’s breath caught.

“Don’t know about you, pretty boy but. For me, there’s no way for this to make harder” Billy’s nose bumped against his, their lips brushing, a permanent burn splitting Steve’s life in two, all the kisses he was leaving behind, the last day of summer fading behind the dark treeline “And I’m gonna kiss you now, so it is worth it”

And then Billy smiled at him. No with hurt, but for real. Bright eyes and cold-red lips and he was right. One last kiss. Was worth it. Couldn’t ever make it harder than already was.

Billy was already an open wound. And Steve could never close it.

(‘Cause. It happened there, in the middle of the road. In the middle of running away or staying. Steve knew. Bleed it out as they kissed. I’ve fallen and fallen and fallen. I’ve fallen in love with you.

But he was leaving. Leaving it all on the other side of that sign)

“I’m gonna be a good friend, and remind you to play it cool, Steven” Robin tiptoes to his ear. Whispers “So, play it cool. You’re staring”

“Wh― What?”

“You’re drooling, Dingus. Stop. Looking at him”

Billy nods him a hello. Goes. To him. Tina and Caleb barely spare him a glance. The few late-afternoon regulars too absorbed into stretching the last few sips of their pre-night-shift coffees or finishing their Outtatime specials to pay any attention to them. And spoons click and stools drag and nobody seems to realize Steve’s both here and five years back, Billy’s presence eating up all the space of the Dinner. And his curls smelled of sunscreen, the overheated leather seats of the Camaro, the fallen leaves of eucalyptus, as they laid together on the shore of the quarry at night. The water as sleepless as they were. Turbulent. Restless with life.

“Steve?”

“Hey. Hey. Hi!― I”

It’s not easy but, Steve moves. Rushes into the back room. Breathes in shallow. Broken gulps. Lungs full. Won’t let him get any air. Crammed with goodbye kisses before welcoming signs.

It’s the sun, he thinks, it’s the fucking sun. Carrying him back. Overlaying the past upon the here and now but that’s a lie. That’s a lie: a long time ago, Steve Harrington made a home for Billy Hargrove on the inside of his heart. And it's still there. Vacant. Unoccupied. Billy Hargrove-shaped. Waiting. Longing. Hoping for him to come back.

(I wanna run to you. Run to you)

(Wanna run back)

“Steve. Are you alright?”

Robin's hand caresses his back. Steve feels it stiff under a touch so tender. He’s so close to breaking in half.

“Steve?”

“Fuck. Robin. Fuck”

His voice’s shaking. His whole body’s shaking from the inside out.

“Maybe–” she starts, pauses. She’s so careful. Steve closes his eyes “Why don’t you go back and talk to him. This– acting like you don’t want to is. Is not gonna go right”

Is not. Is not even the worst he’s felt. Five years. He’s had time to regret but.

It's a risk, and he doesn’t want to. Play with Billy’s heart. Break it again. Or know, maybe. That it wouldn’t. That’s Steve’s no longer there. It's shaped like home for himself anymore. Close and sold and forgotten. That Billy’s moved. On and Away. Steve’s so afraid. Of never getting him back. Of being this selfish. He needs. Needs―

He says it out loud.

“I can’t do that to him” needs Robing to tell him it’s ok. Or not ok or “Again. Can’t do it again” just that’s― ok. If he can’t help it. Want it. Been the egoistic asshole who took and took and took, even though he already knew he was leaving, knew it was bound to end right from the start.

Needs to know because―

The light’s the same. The color of Billy’s eyes the exact shade of clear-blue the sky wore throughout all that summer’s days. Lashes falling dark and heavy as those nights. And Steve wants to take the hand their story’s offering. Step with him into this late-afternoon light. Better sorry than safe. He’s got a home in his chest nobody else fits into, anyway. Spent a whole summer trying to carve himself inside of Billy with lips and greedy hands. Would do it again.

Needs Robin to tell him what’s right.

“Maybe he wants you to”

Needs Billy to know he wouldn't run away, this time.

“How would he want that?”

Needs and needs and needs and―

Robing shrugs. Her cherry-red lips crinkle out, corners round, they hold a smile. There’s love in there and Steve clings to it as in the midst of the tempest. And. He’s such a fucking asshole. Already got so many things back, but,

“I just. Got the feeling he does. You know, Dingus, you might’ve not been around but, I have and I” she brings her hand up. Cards it through his hair “Don’t think there’s any version of this story where he wouldn’t” and her voice is firm and her touch is soft and Steve’s been seeking for absolution since the day he came back “Ok, there. Magic’s on. I’ll close this. Now run”

And it’s selfish. And wrong. A he shouldn't but. Steve’s mortally wounded. He’s got a Billy Hargrove-shaped hole instead of a heart. Has been going around in circles for so long, trying to find his way back. And Robin’s looking at him like she knows. Like she understands.

Like she believes he’s gonna stay, this time. So.

He runs.

#harringrove #the house #a house (is a home)#xharringrove #xfluffy