Chapter Text
Before the apology, but after the thing with the bat, Billy and Harrington had accidentally had a conversation.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” Harrington had said, crouched close to the team. “We’re gonna run an isolation play.” Around them, there had been so much sound. Billy could not believe how fucking much Hawkins, Indiana loved their basketball team.
The crowd was screaming, students, parents--even his dad and Max were there. Max was sitting with Susan and not her friends, which Billy noticed, even if he was only just starting to care about shit like that.
Harrington continued: “If we can get Hargrove some space, he’s gonna make that shot.”
Billy hadn’t needed to look at the scoreboard to know this was make or fucking break, but he did anyway. The pressure made him jittery. He thought of his dad in the crowd, serious, stern. He liked to watch Billy play basketball, which Billy had never really understood. In California he’d been really good at it. He’d been wondering, that night, if his luck would hold in Hawkins. He’d been thinking probably it wouldn’t. “I don’t fucking know, Harrington,” he’d hissed into their huddle.
Everyone at the team had turned to look at Billy with wide eyes. Since Harrington had shown up with bruises after that night at the Byers’s house, Billy hadn’t said so much as a single word directly to his face. Only Harrington seemed unbothered by the sudden breaking of the silence between them. He’d looked at Billy with big brown eyes, a hint of energy crackling under his skin. He’d had sweat at his temple, but no bruising, that was long since faded. Billy, always bruised somewhere, had been fascinated by how fucking nice Harrington’s face was.
Harrington had met Billy’s eyes across the huddle, “I just told you what we’re doing, Hargrove,” he’d said. “That’s the play. That’s the game. That’s how we win.”
Billy had shaken his head. “If I don’t make the fucking shot--”
“You’re going to make the shot,” Harrington cut him off. Everyone else, in that second, had faded away. It was just him and Harrington in that huddle, no cheering crowd, no dad, no teammates. “We’re going to get you alone,” Harrington says, “Real simple. You’re going to do your thing, and then we’re going to win this game.”
“Harrington--”
“Billy,” Harrington had said. “You’ve got this. I trust you.”
In that second, in the quiet, controlled confidence of Harrington’s voice, Billy had heard an echo of King Steve. Not just the pretty boy at the parties, but the one who called the shots during the game. Billy had nodded, once. “All right,” he’d said.
Back on the court, Billy had heard the crowd, the screams, his own breathing. He’d heard the squeak of shoes on the court. He’d heard Harrington call the play. His voice had rattled somewhere in Billy’s fingertips when they found the ball. Again, everything else had fallen away. Time had slowed around him and Billy had known exactly what to do. Step, step, step. His feet, his dribbling, both moving in familiar, constant rhythms. He knew--relished--the silence when the ball had left his fingers. Swish.
He’d made the shot. Of course he’d fucking made the shot.
Hawkins had won. Billy remembers a lot about that night: the crowd absolutely losing their shit, Max clapping on the side and then looking horrified at herself, his dad, after the game saying Nice shot, son in a way that made Billy wish for something that would never fucking exist between them, Susan’s quiet excitement.
He mostly remembers, though, being swarmed and cheered. Hands slapping his shoulders and ass, whatever they could reach, his teammates laughing. He mostly remembers the chaos, and then looking up, and meeting Harrington’s gaze across the crowd, his wide, stupid smile, his calm eyes. Harrington had grinned at him and Billy had thought, motherfucker. Had probably known, even if he wasn’t ready to admit it, where the whole thing was going. I trust you, Harrington had said, and Billy had known what the highway looks like after a car crash, had known about the splat at the end of a long fall.
Had jumped anyway.
He had gotten into Harrington’s car that night, no gun to his head. If he’s honest about it, he’d really just fucking wanted to.
His fault. He’s so fucking stupid. And now he’s gone and admitted that he cares.
The thing about nearly drowning--and it’s happened to him a few times because Billy might not have always been this angry, but he’s always been reckless--is that in all the tumult of the water tossing him around, there’d always been this moment of calm acceptance. Like, this is it. Here it is. It’s fine.
This feels a little bit like that, rolling over in bed and looking at the window in his room and thinking about how much he might like Harrington to climb back through it.
Once he’s told himself that truth, it’s like he can’t fucking ignore it. Billy lies in bed that Friday night, stares at the ceiling, and wonders what it means that Harrington had put Tommy against the wall for Billy only hours ago. Harrington seems a little cracked, but except for that one, desperate night at the Byers’s, Billy’s never really seen him be violent like that.
But Billy can see the look on his face, can remember what it’d felt like when Harrington had followed him out of the gym after practice, a barrier, however flimsy, against the rest of the world. Billy’s never thought he wanted a barrier, never thought he’d needed one, but something about Harrington makes him honest. If he’s honest, he’d known weeks ago that he might need Harrington.
Billy rolls over onto his side and checks the clock. He’s been awake for hours. It’s going on well past three in the morning. He kicks his blankets off. Pulls them back on. Sits up and chugs a glass of water. Nothing works. He feels restless way deep down in his bones, like he needs something, but he isn’t sure what.
That’s a lie. He knows exactly what he fucking needs. Fuck.
Billy climbs out of bed and pulls on a pair of jeans. He tugs on his boots. He pulls on a t-shirt and over that Harrington’s sweater. He turns the light on in his room and stares at himself in the mirror. His hair is a disaster, but it’s not like people would be looking at his hair, not with the week old, black and blue and yellowing bruises on his face, not with the new one, courtesy of Tommy, blooming dark just under his eye.
He looks like he’s been in a car crash, actually. The realization makes him laugh even though it isn’t funny.
See, in California, Billy had fallen in love with another boy. His dad had found out. They’d been on the beach, the two of them, waves crashing. They’d been on a blanket Billy’d stolen from Susan’s linen closet. Billy remembers pressing his lips against skin that tasted like salt and was hot from the sun. His dad and Susan were supposed to be away. He’d left Max alone, thought she was old enough to keep her mouth shut, thought he could get away with sneaking out.
Nothing had happened on that beach except the looming shadow of his dad over them, the quiet command that Billy go up to the house. Billy had waited in his room, the door closed, staring at the wall. He’d known that something was coming, but it had been nearly twenty three hours before his dad had shoved open the bedroom door. He’d sent Max and Susan away, to get supplies for the move.
Quieter, that way. Less people around to listen.
Looking in the mirror, Billy remembers Dad--it wasn’t--I wasn’t-- and his dad’s voice, hard, Max told me you’d gone down to the beach. I never expected any son of mine would--.
Billy remembers yelling at his dad, that it wasn’t fair, that he was old enough to make his own decisions. He remembers the first hit, a backhand that made his ears ring and Billy stumble. He doesn’t remember much else. The taste of salt on skin still hot from the sun. The feeling of a smile pressed against his throat. He thinks Susan might have driven him to the hospital. He remembers cold, stale lights. He doesn’t remember if Max was around at all. There were bandages, and concerns about internal bleeding, and questions and questions and questions.
Then there was the move: all of Billy’s shit thrown into three boxes in the back of the Camaro, California disappearing in the rearview mirror.
Billy had thought that he’d have a fucking handle on that part of himself in Hawkins, even if he had to be mean, even if he had to be angry. But then Steve Harrington had gone and fucked it all up for him, had been kind, had pulled over on the side of the road on a rainy day in January, and before that had said I trust you. Had called him Billy.
Billy shuts the light off in his room and wonders if everyone feels this certain when they’re walking on a tightrope, knowing they probably won’t make it to the other side. Certain not that they’re gonna make it, but that they’re fucking going to enjoy the fall.
Billy thinks about the way the highway looks after a car crash.
He knocks on Max’s door.
It’s a long few seconds, him huddled near the wood, praying his dad doesn’t hear him, hoping no one else is awake, before the door gets pulled open and a sleepy Max is blinking at him. Her hair is an absolute mess. Billy thinks they might be in a place where he can make fun of her for it later.
“Billy?” she says, but she’s quick on her feet. She’s not stupid. She steps back from the door and tugs Billy into the room by his sleeve. She shuts it, quick and quiet, and then turns on the light.
“Does Harrington have a walkie talkie?” he asks her.
“What?” Max says, then, “Yeah. Dustin got him one for Christmas.”
Billy doesn’t know how to ask his next question out loud. He opens his mouth and looks at her and she says, “Is that Steve’s sweater?” and he just nods. He just nods and Max doesn’t make him say anything else. She walks across the room and grabs her walkie talkie out from underneath her bed, puts it to her mouth. “Steve?” Max says. “Steve wake up.”
There’s a long, silent crackle of nothing. Max tries again, “Steve?” and she’s looking at Billy. He can’t really read the expression on her face.
Then: “Oh my fucking god, Steve, you never sleep. Wake the fuck up so I can go back to sleep.” Dustin. Billy down looks at his shoes.
There’s another crackling silence. Max opens her mouth, says, “Steve, wake up,” and then Harrington’s voice comes over the radio, sleepy and slow. “Why are none of you shitheads asleep?” he asks. Then, more alert, Billy can hear actual concern: “Is everything ok?”
Max looks at Billy and Billy looks back at her. He feels a little helpless. She rolls her eyes. “Billy needs to talk to you,” she says.
“Is he all right?” Harrington asks.
“Why do we care?” That’s Dustin again.
“Max,” Harrington says, voice sharp, “Is Billy all right?”
Max looks at Billy and then holds the walkie down at her side. “Are you all right?” she asks.
Billy isn’t fucking sure. He drums his fingers on his thighs and tries to figure it out. After a second, he holds his hand out and Max passes the walkie talkie to him, points to the button he needs to press. “Meet me at that place,” Billy says.
There’s a silence at the other end of the walkie that makes Billy want to crawl under his bed and stay there forever. The connection crackles.
“All right,” Harrington says. “Twenty-five minutes.”
“Steve!” that’s Dustin, all horrified indignation. Billy ignores him.
Billy nods, realizes Harrington can’t see him, says, “Ok,” and hands the radio back to Max. Dustin says something, but Billy isn’t listening to whatever it is. He doesn’t really catch Max’s reply, either, just the annoyed expression on her face when she talks.
She cuts a glance at him, looks like she wants to say something. “Uh,” she says, eloquently.
“Thanks, Maxine,” Billy answers.
He must have walked out of her room and shut her door behind him. He must have grabbed his keys and snuck out the front of the house, locking the door behind him. He must have turned on his car and driven through a sleeping, silent Hawkins, but he doesn’t really remember doing any of it. From the second Harrington said twenty-five minutes, Billy’s had trouble registering any of the little fucking details.
When he pulls up, Harrington’s already there. The court is dark, which makes sense, Billy guesses. Abandoned parks are probably not the best fucking meeting place for going on four in the morning, but Billy can’t fucking think in Hawkins, in his house, with the presence of his dad and all the rest of the bullshit. He can think out here. Looking at Harrington, who’s left his headlights on to break the darkness, Billy feels the most clarity he’s felt in two weeks, since he stood in the kitchen and his dad had stared at him over a cup of coffee and he thought he’d been making the right choice, the only choice.
Billy thinks of waves crashing against the shore, of the ocean pulling him under, thinks that when the tide goes out it comes back in, pulls up next to Harrington and gets out of his car. He leaves his headlights on, too.
Harrington is leaning against the BMW, kind of hunched, his arms crossed in front of his chest. He looks on edge. Even in the glaring, false bright of their headlights, Billy can see how tired he is, can see that energy crackling below the surface. Mostly, though, Billy can see that Harrington looks pretty fucking defeated, can see that he looks a little scared.
“Dustin thinks you’re going to murder me,” Harrington says. He’s not really looking at Billy, more in his general direction. Billy wonders if Harrington’s afraid of him and feels like he’s been punched in the throat.
“I’m not,” Billy answers and his voice is hoarse and soft all at once. If Harrington looks scared, Billy sounds it.
“He says that’s what a murderer would say.”
Billy doesn’t understand why they’re talking about Dustin.
Harrington sighs, heavy, lifts a hand to card it through his hair. Billy’s staring at him, can’t stop himself. “What do you want, Hargrove?” Harrington asks him, and Billy hears Hargrove like a death sentence. “Y’know, man, I don’t really the dark. So let’s get this fucking over with.” Harrington’s voice is so hard it could cut glass, Billy thinks. “You’re gonna hit me back, right? A little revenge for Tommy? Going to tell me you already said to stay away?”
Harrington’s arms are crossed back in front of his chest. “You want to tell me, what, that this is bullshit? That’s all it was, right? Bullshit? Like you don’t want the same fucking things?” he laughs, but it’s hollow. He crosses his arms and uncrosses them, runs a hand through his hair, tries to slouch back against the car. Nothing Harrington’s doing makes him look less afraid, more in control. His movements are jerky, his shoulders are hunched. He still won’t fucking look at Billy. “I don’t regret it. If that’s what you’re looking for. Tommy had it coming, Billy, you should have seen yourself--he just--you were--” Harrington stops, swallows hard, slams his fist against the door of his car and takes a slow breath.
Billy’s never really had the crackling energy of that anger directed at him before, not since that night when Billy’d broken Harrington’s face. Back then it had seemed like fire, like fury, like a challenge Billy accepted on instinct. Tonight it sounds defensive, resigned.
Harrington swallows again. Then he keeps going. “It doesn’t matter, I guess. So let’s get it over with. You call me a faggot or whatever and then you hit me in the face and then we both go home. Maybe you hit me in the mouth and then on Monday I’ll have a nice fucking bruise and a split fucking lip and you’ll be on good terms with Tommy, again, right? So get it over with. Whatever you fucking came out here to do. Just get it done because I want to go home.”
There’s a bitterness in Harrington’s voice that’s almost tangible, and Billy thinks that he did that. Billy did that to Harrington. This time it isn’t the fault of whatever shit Harrington’s been through. Billy put the bags under Harrington’s eyes and revved up that energy and made Harrington feel fucking small and cast aside. Not three weeks ago, Billy had been the reason Harrington was sleeping at night. Now he’s dragged him out to the middle of fucking nowhere, to some desolate, abandoned place. There are middle schoolers who think that Billy is going to murder Harrington.
Harrington might not be thinking murder, but Billy can tell from the hunch in his shoulders, the way he won’t make eye contact, that Harrington thinks Billy came out here to fuck him up.
He’d come anyway. That’s the worst fucking part.
Out here, on this court, there is silence. This is a place outside time, that’s what Billy thinks. It’s why he comes here when everything else is too loud. It’s why he comes here to be alone. It isn’t a place he’d ever wanted to share, because Billy has almost nothing that is just his, but again and again and again he finds Harrington out here, finds himself glad they’re out here together.
Billy thinks all that and stares at him and doesn’t say anything at all.
“God dammit, Billy!” Harrington yells. “Just get it over with!” His voice cracks on the last word, and now Harrington is looking at him and Billy wishes that he weren’t. He doesn’t want to see that much hurt on Harrington’s face. He’s never fucking wanted that.
“I’m sorry,” Billy says, so suddenly that he almost chokes on the words.
Harrington’s arms drop to his sides. “What,” he says, voice blank.
“You’re right,” Billy says. He feels so tired. His chest aches and his face aches and he thinks it’s probably not just from the fucking bruises. What is he doing out here? Billy doesn’t fucking know what he’s doing. But then, that’s not right. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s jumping. Splat.
He says, “I do want the same fucking things. And I’m sorry.”
Billy remembers the taste of salt on someone else’s skin, the sound of waves crashing against the shore, the sun hot across his shoulder blades. He remembers thinking that he was going to get burned, thinking that it didn’t matter because he was young and stupid and in love and everyone in California got burned when they were young and stupid.
Looking at Harrington now, in the headlights of their cars, Billy’s thinking that he’s still young and stupid. He’s still gonna get burned. He’s still fucking in love. Only there’s no salt water, no waves crashing against the shore, just him, washing back up against Harrington’s feet, drawn in again and again and again.
“Is Tommy in the back of your car?” Harrington asks, bitter, voice low. Billy sees his jaw set as Harrington turns his head away. “I can’t do this,” Harrington says. “If it’s a fucking joke, just tell me. I can’t do this. Is this a joke?”
Billy wonders what he’d done that Harrington can’t just fucking trust him, then he remembers. Jesus. He’s so fucking stupid, just--just for different reasons than he’d thought he was, before.
“When we left California,” Billy says, because if he just says no Tommy’s not here, this isn’t a joke he wouldn’t blame Harrington for not believing him, so he doesn’t answer the question, directly. He tells Harrington a story he’d tell to no one else. “When we left--I had just been discharged from the hospital.”
Harrington’s head snaps toward him and his eyes land on Billy, a heavy fucking weight. Billy swallows hard. “My dad--” Billy pauses. “He’s never fucking liked me, right? But he caught me--he caught me--” Billy can’t say it, can’t put salt on sun warmed skin out there in this air between them, not even in this desolate place. If it lives in his head that’s one thing, but he’s too fucking chicken shit to say it out loud. It hurts too fucking much.
Harrington’s staring at him. Billy closes his eyes, can’t handle the sight. “Anyway,” he says, embarrassed by the thickness in his voice, the waver. “It wasn’t pretty, after he caught us. And then you’re in Hawkins, picking me up in the rain, coming to my house, touching me--” something is pulling taut in Billy’s stomach, something in Billy is so brittle that he’s going to shatter right fucking now, “And I--,” his eyes are still closed. He thinks that he will never be able to open them again. “I fucking want, Harrington, and I can’t--I can’t--”
Billy stops, drags in a shaking breath, presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.
Harrington clears his throat. “Ok,” Harrington says, and Billy waits for him to say I’m leaving, but instead he says, “I just want to warn you--that--that I’m going to touch you.”
Billy exhales slowly, doesn’t flinch when Harrington’s fingers close around his wrists and pull his hands away from his eyes. Billy blinks and Harrington is close enough that even in this shitty lighting he can see every single eyelash. “Say it again,” Harrington says, soft.
“I don’t--”
“That you want the same things.”
Billy swallows hard and nods his head. “I want the same things,” he says, more whisper than statement. Harrington’s holding both of Billy’s hands.
Harrington leans in, close enough now that Billy can feel breath on his face. Every inch of Billy’s skin is on fire except where Harrington’s touching him. Billy’s burning, crumbling. Harrington presses their lips together and Billy thinks it should feel like combustion, but instead it feels like the slow pull of the tide. Billy is helpless against it.
Billy is on fire, but here Harrington is, putting it out.
Billy gasps into that first press of Harrington’s mouth to his, lips parting, and Harrington lets go of Billy’s hands to put one to his hip, the other to his cheek. He’s careful of the bruising, careful of all the places Billy still aches when he presses Billy up against the Camaro and slides his tongue past the part in Billy’s lips to drag it over Billy’s own.
Harrington still kisses him slowly, the soft slide of their mouths is measured, patient. Billy feels like he’s falling, but he’s not thinking about the splat, he’s thinking about the way it feels when Harrington pulls back, bites down on Billy’s lower lip, soothes over it with his tongue.
Billy is breathing hard when Harrington breaks the kiss. Billy’s hands are at Harrington’s hips and he wonders how they got there. He pushes Harrington’s shirt up to rub his thumbs against bare skin.
He’s said he was sorry and that kiss felt like forgiveness, but there’s more to this than just coming together. Billy wants to stay here forever, but he can’t. That’s not how shit works.
“This doesn’t fix everything with my life,” Billy says. “You need to know that.”
Harrington interrupts him with another kiss and Billy loses the plot a little. Loses the thread when Harrington tilts his head and licks into Billy’s mouth like he belongs there, like he’s trying to eliminate any inch between them. When Harrington pulls away again Billy doesn’t let him go far,
“People can’t fucking know,” he says, kisses Harrington’s bottom lip. “If my dad finds out--” Billy stops, turns his head away in one jerky movement, can’t look at Harrington, can’t finish the sentence or the thought. Harrington’s lips are on his jaw, then lower, kissing over Billy’s throat.
“He won’t find out.” Harrington sounds so fucking sure. Billy wishes he were as brave as all these people in his life seem to be. Billy still can’t look at him. Harrington grips Billy’s jaw, turns his face back toward him. “Listen to me,” Harrington says, “He won’t find out. Nothing is going to happen, all right?”
Billy wants to believe him. He thinks about what it feels like during a car crash. He wants to believe him anyway.
“Besides,” Harrington adds, brushing his lips against Billy’s. “It’s April.”
He’s--right. Billy just isn’t sure he understands the relevance. “It is April,” he agrees, a little confused. It must show, because a smile spreads out over Harrington’s face.
“There’s only a few months left in school,” Harrington says. “I’m doing a gap year,” he adds, when Billy still doesn’t respond. “We can just leave.”
Billy wants to say that it’s presumptuous for Harrington to assume Billy’s just going to run away with him in a few months, but if he’s being honest with himself, it’s not fucking presumptuous at all. “Where?” he asks.
“I don’t know yet,” Harrington says. “A few months, though. That’s it. Then we leave and you never fucking have to come back if you don’t want to.”
Billy will never want to come back, but he thinks of Max and guesses he’ll probably have a reason to. “Ok,” Billy says.
“I can’t believe you didn’t know what it’s April meant,” Harrington murmurs. It’s dark all around them, except for the headlights. It feels peaceful, almost, not frightening. Billy brushes his fingers across Harrington’s stomach just to listen to his breathing catch. Harrington’s still touching him, still has Billy with his back pressed against the Camaro. There’s almost no space between them at all. Billy slides his hands around, presses his thumbs into the dimples in the small of Harrington’s back, easy dips to find against all that warm skin. It pushes their hips flush. “I mean,” Harrington continues, breath stuttering a little on the exhale, “What kind of person doesn’t realize how close to the end of the school year we are?”
“Fuck you,” Billy says, but he’s smiling.
“Is that an offer?” Harrington asks.
“Yes,” Billy murmurs, pressing a kiss against Harrington’s jaw. Harrington’s breath hitches again on a quiet moan as Billy slides his hand between them and palms him through his jeans.
He nudges Harrington back to get space, to get both hands between them, to undo Harrington’s jeans and push them down enough that Billy can pull Harrington’s dick out and wrap a hand around him. He strokes once, slowly, and Harrington’s head falls forward onto Billy’s shoulder.
“Billy,” Harrington hisses, but it loses some of the bite as Billy shifts his grip and Harrington moans, pressing his face into Billy’s neck. “Jesus, Billy,” Harrington breathes. “We’re in a park--”
“Do you want me to stop?” Billy asks, lips against Harrington’s hair.
“No, definitely not,” Harrington answers. Billy tightens his fingers and Harrington shudders against him, a full body thing, presses a hot, open mouthed kiss against Billy’s throat as he pushes closer. “Fuck,” Harrington says, lifting his head to look at Billy. His eyes are dark and his cheeks are flushed, his lips parted. Billy turns his head to catch Harrington in a kiss.
“Fuck, Billy, hold on, Jesus,” Harrington says, and the sounds he’s making, the stutter in his breath are so fucking hot that Billy’s maybe going to come in his pants.
Or, definitely, because then Harrington’s undoing his jeans and sliding his hand under the waistband of them and wrapping his hand around Billy. Billy pushes into his hand, a little helpless, can’t stop the sound he makes, can’t believe this is happening.
Billy kisses Harrington, then, tries to turn it urgent, desperate, all teeth and tongue but even fucking into Billy’s hand around his dick, Harrington keeps the kiss deep, gentle, like he means it. Billy feels like he’s coming apart, is panting for it. This time, when Billy comes with Harrington’s name on his lips, he saying it into Harrington’s mouth.
After, when they’ve both cleaned themselves up with a few old t-shirts from Harrington’s trunk-- “Is that the fucking bat?” Billy asks, eyes wide, and Harrington looks kind of shifty--they’re sprawled out on the hood of the Camaro, backs against the windshield. Billy’s got his arm around Harrington like he had that time at his house, and Harrington’s kind of curled into Billy’s side, yawning. “When’s the last time you slept?” Billy asks, his lips against Harrington’s temple.
“It’s been a while,” Harrington admits. “Why? You want to take me home and tuck me in?”
Billy does. Can’t. He closes his eyes and squeezes Harrington’s shoulders.
“You could, you know,” Harrington adds. “Take me home. Stay there.” He splays his fingers across the top of Billy’s chest, Billy can feel them, warm, pressing into his collarbone.
“I can’t do that,” Billy says, voice quiet. “Just move out like that. I can’t do that.”
Harrington shifts, tilts his head up, and kisses Billy in the way that is almost too much to bear. Gentle. Billy melts, a puddle, a wave cresting on the shore, but not breaking. “Ok,” Harrington says, “I get that.”
Even if he doesn’t, Billy appreciates the sentiment.
He could fall asleep out here, like this. The April air is too cold for it, but Harrington is warm at his side. He can’t, though. Another thing he can’t do. At least not yet. “I gotta go,” Billy says, finally. “Before my dad gets up.”
Harrington nods, sits up, stretches a little before he rolls off the hood of the Camaro. He’s not coordinated about it at all, half stumbles, and Billy can’t help but laugh at him, which makes Harrington smile back at him.
“Night,” Billy says.
“Night,” Harrington answers, presses one last kiss to Billy’s lips. “I’ll see you at the arcade today, when we drop the kids off? We can come here after. Play a little ball, maybe.”
Billy kisses Harrington again, pulling him close enough to eliminate any space between them, and he thinks about the way a highway looks after a car crash, about salt on skin and the cold, stale light of hospitals.
This isn’t that, though. This doesn’t feel like the kind of falling Billy’s used to.
“It’s a date,” Billy murmurs against Harrington’s lips, feels Harrington smile into the kiss.
~
Driving home, Billy thinks that nothing gets easy after this. It’s a hard thought and it drills in against the edges of his brain. Nothing gets easy after this.
Billy pictures what his dad would say if he knew about Harrington and he doesn’t really need to go over the details to know it would be bad. He parks outside the house, sneaks back in the front door, leaves his keys in the little ceramic dish Susan likes. He hovers awkwardly right after he puts them there, back pressed against the wood of the door, just in case his dad is up early.
He isn’t. Billy finds it in himself to exhale and goes back into his room. He’s mostly thought Max and her radio are kind of weird, the way she whispers into it before she falls asleep. When he slips back under his sheets, though, pulls the blankets over his body, he thinks that he might like one. Just so he can talk to Harrington whenever he fucking wants.
It’s still dark outside, but the sun will come up soon. Billy curls around himself in bed, makes himself small, and falls asleep.
~
Billy’s morning starts with a pounding on his door. He nearly falls out of bed he startles so bad. The pounding doesn’t stop, but no one barges in either. Billy scrubs at his face, hisses when he hits a bruise wrong, and tugs on a t-shirt. Then he opens the door.
Max is standing there, her arms crossed over her chest. “Finally!” she says, pushing past him and flopping to sit, criss-cross, on his bed.
Bill stares at her. Max stares back. “Oh my god,” she says. “It’s like, 9am. Your car was outside when I woke up. I need to know what happ--”
Billy’s across the room in an instant, a hand over her mouth, his eyes wide. Max rolls her eyes at him and licks his palm, but Billy keeps his hand where it is. Is she trying to get him fucking killed? Or caught? Again?
She shoves at his wrist. He hesitates, but lets go. “Jesus,” she says. “Come on, Billy. They aren’t home. I’m not stupid.”
“Sorry,” he says, standing there awkwardly. He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do. Does he sit down next to her? They’ve never really done the sibling thing to this extent.
“Here’s how this is gonna go,” Max says. She sounds so much like him. “You’re going to make me breakfast. Pancakes, I think, and then you’re going to tell me what happened because Steve isn’t answering anyone on the radio and Dustin thinks you killed him, but I don’t think so.”
Max gets up then and walks out of the room. Billy stares after her. A second later her head pops back around the door. “Billy,” she says, “Pancakes. Now?”
Billy follows her. He isn’t sure what else he’s supposed to do.
~
April turns into May and Hawkins explodes into this beautiful, bright green that doesn’t remind Billy of California at all, but it’s still pretty. It’s a Wednesday night and the Harrington parents are out of town, so Billy is sitting on their couch, staring down at his science homework. The kids are at the arcade until 8, when Billy and Steve will be expected to pick them up. Billy’s trying on calling Harrington different names. Some of them work, some of them don’t.
There’s different levels to the names. In Billy’s head, now, it’s almost always Steve. Steve who looks at him and smiles across a classroom or across that old, abandoned park. Steve who reaches for his hand and squeezes, who anchors Billy when he can’t seem to anchor himself. Sometimes, when they’re fucking, and Billy’s looking up and feeling full in a thousand different ways, he says babe and that usually comes with please and it always makes Harrington blush.
In front of people, with the occasional and notable exception of Max, it’s always Harrington. Billy wields that name like armor, like it will protect him from being known. He thinks it bothers Harrington, a little, but he knows that he also understands.
“Hey,” Harrington says, and Billy feels him scoot up behind him. Billy leans back on instinct, against his chest, and settles between his legs. He tips his head back so that his temple rests against Harrington’s cheek.
He wraps his arms around Billy’s waist and Billy closes his eyes. “How much time do we have?” Billy asks.
“Like twenty minutes,” Harrington says. Billy rests his hands on top of Harrington’s, drums his fingers against skin.
“Wish it were longer,” Billy says. He feels tired, but in a good way. He knows Harrington feels tired in a less good way, but hadn’t been successful in convincing him they they should just take a nap.
Harrington hums thoughtfully. “Why don’t you and Max stay over?”
“It’s a school night,” Billy says, like Harrington is stupid, which maybe he is. “I can’t have a fucking sleepover.”
Sometimes, when Steve pushes at the flimsy boundaries that Billy’s set up like armor, like how he says Harrington, heat prickles all over Billy’s skin, little flashes of anger, of fear. Harrington tightens his grip around Billy’s waist when Billy starts to pull away. “Hear me out,” Harrington says. He presses a kiss to Billy’s temple, again, so fucking gentle, and Billy’s a sucker for it. He rolls the tension out of his shoulders, knocks Harrington in the chin a little on purpose, and waits.
“Tell your dad that Max got an offer to sleep at Jane’s and wants to know if she can and that if she can you want to go study at a girl’s house. Say Nancy, even, if you want.”
Jane is the code name for Hopper’s daughter. Or her real name? Billy is still not one hundred percent sure. He also shouldn’t say yes to this plan, because it’s stupid and it’s dangerous, but his dad likes Nancy--who he’s met a few times when she picks up Max. She’s smart and beautiful and acts very meek--though Billy knows now that she isn’t--and she comes from a Nice Family. And, maybe mostly importantly, Harrington doesn’t just look tired, he feels it. Billy closes his eyes and thinks, splat. He smiles and says, “Sure.”
So it’s a school night and there’s going to be sleepovers and Max is ecstatic. His dad agrees, a little reluctantly, but Billy hears Susan say something about having the house to themselves in the background. Billy can think of few fucking things worse than being alone in the house with his dad, but he can also think of few fucking things stupider than getting married to him. It works out, either way. When Billy hangs up the phone, Harrington reveals phase two of his plan. Max will actually be sleeping at Hopper’s with El, who is also, apparently, ecstatic.
It’s a lot of moving pieces, but Billy thinks they’re worth it once the two of them are finally back at Harrington’s house with no interruptions. Harrington is standing in the kitchen, peering into the refrigerator for snack options, and Billy’s leaning against the counter staring at him. It’s starting to get late and Billy isn’t actually hungry.
“Steve,” he says. “Let’s go to bed.”
“Hold on, I just want to find--”
“Steve,” Billy says again. “Stop stalling. Come the fuck on. We ate a ton.”
Harrington looks at him, then, and the light of the refrigerator makes him look washed out, highlights how tired he looks, how pale. “Listen,” Harrington starts. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”
Billy wants to beat his head against the wall. “What are you talking about?”
“Maybe you should go--home,” Harrington says, looks like he regrets it the second it’s out of his mouth. “No, shit, sorry, that’s not--” he stops, shuts the refrigerator door. It doesn’t get any darker in the house. He has practically every light on.
Billy doesn’t understand what’s going on, feels hot prickles over his skin. He drums his fingers on the countertop. “I’m confused,” he says, “I should go home, or I shouldn’t?” Harrington is on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t say it. Billy is learning to attack less. Or he’s trying, anyway.
“It’s just--” Harrington stops and scrubs a hand through his hair. “We’ve slept together.”
“Yep.”
“No, we’ve slept together, but we haven’t--slept together.”
Harrington is making very little fucking sense.
“Naps!” Harrington half shouts it, waving his arms around, a little frantic. Billy jumps. “You’ve never stayed the night. We take naps.”
“Right,” Billy says, slowly. “That’s why you came up with this plan.”
“I had a plan,” Harrington says slowly. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Fuck.”
Billy walks across the kitchen, catches Harrington by the waist. “Look at me a second,” he says. “Come on. What the fuck is going on?” Billy stays close and reaches up, tries to pry Harrington’s hands away from his face.
It takes some tugging, but eventually Harrington drops his hands to his sides. “I have nightmares,” he says, miserably. “At night. I have really bad nightmares and you’ve never seen one and this was a bad idea.”
Billy nearly laughs, but he doesn’t, because Harrington looks sad and serious. “Is that why you never sleep?”
“I sleep,” Harrington says, defensive. Billy just looks at him. “Ok. I sleep sometimes. Yeah, they’re why I don’t sleep.”
Is that why there’s still a bat in the back of your car?Billy doesn’t ask. “So let’s go to bed.”
“There’s a guest room--if you want--if you don’t--”
“Steve,” Billy says, catches Harrington’s jaw in his hand, “We’re going to bed now.”
Harrington walks up the stairs like a condemned man. He tugs off his shirt, his jeans, slides under the blankets and blinks up at Billy miserably. The whole thing is pretty fucking dramatic. Billy rolls his eyes at him and then strips out of his shirt and jeans and climbs into bed next to Harrington.
This part is always a little awkward.
Billy’s instinctive reaction is to roll to his side, to curl up into himself and become small, to take up no space at all in the bed. That’s how he always sleeps, at home, after sex with anyone else, when he passes out on someone else’s couch. You make yourself small when you’re vulnerable. You don’t draw attention.
Only with Harrington, Billy doesn’t really want to do that. He just doesn’t always know how to tell him. One of the best parts about Harrington, Billy’s learning, is that sometimes he just understands what Billy wants, even if Billy isn’t really sure how to say it.
Billy rolls to his side and curls up, and Harrington’s hand lands on his ribcage, warm, familiar. It doesn’t make Billy jump. When Harrington touches him, he almost always expects it.
Harrington runs his fingers down Billy’s side, over his hip. His hand slides over Billy’s stomach, then back up his chest. It stills somewhere over Billy’s heart, Harrington’s hand splayed flat against his skin. Billy feels like his heart is beating in Harrington’s palm. After a moment, Harrington pushes.
It’s a slow unfurling, Billy’s shift from curled tight to something Harrington can curl up against. It’s the hand on his chest that coaxes Billy back onto his back. He holds his breath, like he might shatter the moment and Harrington lifts himself up enough to graze his lips over Billy’s throat, to bite and suck a little at his pulse point. Billy feels himself soften under Harrington’s attention.
When Harrington finally kisses him, Billy’s loose and sleepy. He slides a hand through Harrington’s hair. “You definitely need to sleep,” Billy says. The light in the bedroom is still on. He nudges Harrington back enough so that he can reach over to turn it off.
Harrington’s hand shoots out and catches around Billy’s wrist. Billy flinches. For a second they stare at each other, frozen, Billy’s arm outstretched, Harrington’s fingers tight around his wrist.
They’re both scared, Billy thinks, just of different things, of different things they don’t really understand. He swallows a little, speaks first. “Want me to leave it on?”
Harrington lets go of his wrist, “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to--”
“It’s all right,” Billy says. “Seriously. Want me to leave it on?”
“No I--” Harrington swallows. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Billy waits a minute, gives Harrington time to change his mind before he shuts the light off, but Harrington doesn’t say anything, just hovers there kind of awkward, propped up on one elbow. Billy shrugs and turns the light off.
The room plunges into darkness. Harrington lies back down, tucks himself against Billy’s side. Billy throws an arm around him. They have fucked so many times, now, and they have taken so many goddamn naps, but Billy thinks that Harrington was right to be a little freaked out. They’ve never slept together, like this, with the promise of so many hours. It’s so fucking intimate. Billy feels prickles of white-hot nerves across his chest, takes a slow breath, pulls Harrington a little closer. “Night,” he says, for lack of anything else to say.
Harrington feels tense against him, a little rigid. Billy stays awake until that tension drains out of him, until his breathing evens out. Only when Harrington’s asleep, drooling a bit on Billy’s shoulder, does Billy close his eyes and fall asleep, too.
~
Billy wakes up because Harrington is making sounds.
He blinks one eye open, then the other, much faster, reaches for the light. Harrington is shaking, moving too much. He lands one very solid kick to Billy’s thigh and Billy flicks the light on. He goes absolutely still for a second. There are tear tracks on Harrington’s face.
I have nightmares, Harrington had said. Billy had turned the light off anyway.
He isn’t sure if you’re supposed to touch. Billy wouldn’t want that, someone reaching out and grabbing him when he’s shaking like Harrington is, when he’s pleading for something, calling out words that Billy doesn’t really understand. Billy wouldn’t want that at all, but he’s not Harrington, who touches on instinct, who wants to curl closer always, who holds Billy’s hand even when they’re watching movies with the kids and Dustin makes grossed out faces at them every thirty seconds.
Billy reaches out, presses his fingers against Harrington’s shoulder. He’s hot to the touch. Billy imagines he can feel the blood rushing through Harrington’s veins. Billy lays his palm flat against Harrington’s skin and squeezes, jostles him a little. “Hey,” he says, keeps his voice quiet. “Hey, wake up. Steve. Steve, wake up.”
Harrington startles awake then, eyes wide. He sits up so fast he almost knocks Billy off the bed with the force of it. Harrington pulls his knees to his chest, presses his forehead against them. “Fuck,” he says. “Fucking fuck.” He’s still shaking.
Billy reaches out again, rests his hand between Harrington’s shoulder blades and Harrington hisses. Billy yanks his hand back, “Sor--”
“It’s just cold,” Harrington says. “Your hand. It’s cold.” A pause. “Can you fucking just touch me again, Jesus, Billy,” and then he hiccups on something that’s half a sob, and Billy gets both arms around him and pulls Harrington as close as he can get him.
“I’ve got you,” he says, because he doesn’t know what the fuck else he’s supposed to say.
“I told you,” Harrington says. “Guest room. Should’ve slept in the guest room.”
Billy shakes his head, tries to press closer. “And miss this?” he asks, because Billy doesn’t know how to tell Harrington that it’s hard for him to unfurl even when it’s with him, and he doesn’t know how to ask Harrington to stay a little longer on days they both need to go home, and he doesn’t know how to tell Harrington that he fucking loves him, but he does know how to put his arms around Harrington and latch on when Harrington needs it.
Eventually, Harrington stops shaking and untangles himself from Billy’s grip. Billy kisses him, then, uses the pads of his thumbs to brush tear tracks off Harrington’s cheeks and feels a little bit stupid because he doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to do.
“If it makes you feel better,” Billy says, once they’re lying back down and Harrington’s got a leg thrown over Billy, his nose pressing against Billy’s throat. “You slept really soundly right up until you kicked me. Let’s definitely do this again sometime.”
Harrington groans.
~
On a Thursday night in May, Billy is reminded that shit can feel good and still go sideways. He’s driving to Harrington’s house when he gets pulled over. It’s a sick fucking joke, he’s thinking when he sees the lights behind him. He’s almost there. He can fucking see the house.
Billy thinks about putting his foot down on the gas and speeding away, about skidding to a stop and running up the hill, about locking the door behind him and laughing into Harrington’s shoulder while the police knock and knock and knock, but can’t get inside.
Billy doesn’t do any of that. He doesn’t actually remember how he got in the car.
He remembers the kitchen wall against his back. He remembers blinking blood out of his eye. He remembers getting punched in the face hard enough to send him reeling. He doesn’t remember getting up, or getting his keys, or getting in the car. He doesn’t remember getting away, or what he’d done to make his dad so fucking angry this time. Something small, probably. It doesn’t take much. In the last few months, and Billy’s really been trying to divorce his father’s perception of him from the way that he perceives himself. Harrington’s good about it helping him, but it’s Max who makes Billy feel like maybe there’s some good in him. Tonight he just feels like shit.
Billy’d barely made it this far. He’s driving one handed, his other arm curled around his ribs, kind of hunched over. The hand on the steering wheel is black and blue and swollen from being stepped on, but Billy doesn’t think it’s broken. He knows what broken fingers feel like.
He rolls his window down as the cop walks up. He gets a flashlight in his face for his trouble.
“Jesus,” Hopper says.
Billy, who is a mouthy little shit, but rarely with cops, but who tonight doesn’t have the goddamn energy to care, flashes a red-tinged grin, does his best to point at himself with his thumb and says, “Nah. Billy.”
“Original,” Hopper answers, rolling his eyes. “What the hell happened to your face?”
Billy turns his head and stares straight ahead, jaw tight. He’s not fucking answering that question.
Hopper adjusts his hat. “Do you know why I pulled you over, Billy?”
“It’s Jesus,” Billy says, quick and stupid. Hopper takes a quick step closer to the car, leans into the window, and Billy can’t help his flinch, the hot embarrassment that mingles with anger and curls like a fist around his spine.
“Easy,” Hopper says. “We’re just talking. You were weaving all over the road. Are you drunk?” Billy keeps staring straight ahead. Tries to drum his fingers on the steering wheel, which hurts. He sucks in a sharp breath at the pain. Hopper moves his flashlight from Billy’s face to his fucked up hand to the arm he’s got curled around his ribcage. “Right,” Hopper says in response to Billy’s silence.
Billy grits his teeth. “Am I under arrest?”
“No,” Hopper sighs. “But someone probably should be. You sure you don’t want to tell me what happened?”
Billy doesn’t answer.
“Are you going to Steve’s?”
Billy nods, once, tight, quick. He can feel his eyes watering and he isn’t really sure why. It’s just the thought of taking his aching hand and throwing his car into drive and then walking up to Harrington’s house seems suddenly so fucking overwhelming. Maybe Hopper will go away and Billy can put his head down on the steering wheel and just sleep for a while. If Hopper hadn’t fucking stopped him he would’ve made it, he thinks. He would be in Harrington’s bed.
Billy feels hot all over, and he’s hurt, and he’s angry, and he’s a little scared and he doesn’t know why, so his eyes water. Hopper moves the flashlight off his face when Billy peels his arm away from his ribs to rub at the corners of his eyes. “Yeah,” Billy says after a long pause, after trying to get his thoughts together. “I’m going to Harrington’s.”
His best bet, now, is that Hopper leaves. Then he can lie down for a little while.
“Jesus,” Hopper says again. Then he walks away.
Relief floods Billy. He sags back against the seat, curls his arm back around himself, and thinks of how good it’s going to feel to just close his eyes. It would feel better if he were in a bed, any bed--except his own with his dad looming outside--but preferably Harrington’s bed. Billy lets himself imagine soft sheets and warm skin pressed against his own.
“Yeah,” he hears Hopper saying. “You better get down here.”
Billy’s eyes shoot open. He doesn’t know how Hopper would do it, but maybe he radioed someone at the station--maybe he’s calling his dad--fuck, shit, fuck. Billy knows better than to mouth off to cops. Maybe Hopper’s getting fucking reinforcements. Maybe he thinks he’s doing Billy a favor, and some deputy is going to roll up with his dad so he can drive his fucked up, piece of shit son home.
Billy would press the heels of his hands into his eyes if it wouldn’t hurt more than it would help. He knows that his fingers are shaking.
Hopper doesn’t come back near him and so Billy sits there in silence, waiting for whatever’s coming and thinking that he should’ve known better than to get comfortable.
Hopper’s voice again: “You know what happened to him?” Billy keeps his eyes shut. He hadn’t heard a car pull up, but Hopper’s talking to someone, and it’s not like Billy was really listening for it. “You can take him home, yeah,” Hopper’s saying. Billy can hear the sigh in his voice. “Just--keep an eye on him.”
When Billy was nine years old, he’d run away from home. His dad had locked him in his room for nearly a week. Billy wonders if he’s big enough now that he could break out, if it came down to that.
Footsteps approach the car and Billy wipes at his eyes again, quickly, because boys don’t cry and he is, a little. He swallows hard and opens his eyes and--
“Jesus,” Harrington says.
“Billy,” Billy answers, but his voice cracks and ruins the joke.
“Hilarious,” Harrington says anyway. He pulls open the door of the Camaro and presses a hand to Billy’s cheek. “Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck.” Harrington leans in close and presses their foreheads together and Billy feels himself lose it a little, feels his eyes well as Harrington’s hand come up to cup his cheek as Billy’s breath stutters out of him. “It’s all right,” Harrington’s saying. “You’re all right. I got you.”
Billy presses his face into Harrington’s shoulder and it’s awkward because Harrington’s leaning into the car Billy’s still sitting in, but it’s warm and familiar and he smells like home and he gets an arm around Billy’s shoulders and just holds him there for a bit, on the side of the road in Hawkins, Indiana with a police chief watching.
“Ok,” Harrington says, when Billy lifts his face up. “Can you walk?”
“Fuck you,” Billy says, shoves Harrington back a little bit. He stands just fine. He just leans on the car, a bit, and on Harrington, also, more than a bit.
“Maybe later,” Harrington says quietly, a smile at the edges of his mouth. Then, “I got him, Hop. I’ll get the car later. Thanks for--thanks for the radio.”
“Stay off police channels,” Hopper says with another heavy say and then he gets in his truck and drives away.
Billy sags against the Camaro. “No chance we could sleep in my car, right?”
“My bed is better,” Harrington promises him. He gives Billy a second, though, stands right in front of him, his body warm against the nighttime chill. Billy doesn’t think the car would be bad, if Harrington would stay with him. “C’mon,” Harrington whispers eventually. “It’s cold.”
The walk from the Camaro to Harrington’s bedroom is long and makes Billy feel like he’s a thousand years old. Once he’s stripped out of his clothes, though, and is curled up small in the bed with Harrington’s arm thrown over him and Harrington pressed up behind him, Billy has to agree. The bed is way fucking better.
~
Billy’s in love with him. He’s trying to figure out how to say it. It’s hard to imagine getting burned, even as he sits in the sun, white t-shirt sticking to his skin from the early June heat. Billy’s watching Harrington try to explain to Dustin why it’ll be cooler if he plays basketball in high school.
Dustin, who is skeptical of Billy even nearly three months later, had almost fainted in shock twenty minutes ago when Billy had finally shown all of the kids the park.
“This is so cool,” Dustin had said, eyes wide.
“Yeah,” Max had answered, at Billy’s side. “Totally tubular.”
Lucas had elbowed her in the side, then, and Billy felt like he was missing out on a joke, but Max had turned a bright, beaming smile on Billy for half a second before she’d followed after Dustin, who was saying something about the wildlife or maybe the wild flowers, Billy hadn’t been sure.
Now, Harrington throws his hands up in the air. “I give up!” he shouts, walking away from Dustin, who is holding the basketball a solid foot away from his body as thought it might bite him.
Billy thinks that’s pretty fucking rich, coming from a kid who had taken a trash-monster into his home without a second thought and gotten his mom’s cat eaten.
Billy has been looped in. He’s pretty sure Max had started lobbying for it, but that it was Eleven who’d made the final call. He looks for her curly hair as Harrington starts the walk back over to the car. She’s sitting with Max, their heads close together, while Lucas tosses blades of grass into their hair and tries to get them to include him in the conversation.
Eleven looks up when Billy’s eyes settle on her. She smiles at him and he feels known, but it isn’t as scary when Harrington finally gets there, sits on the hood next to him and drapes an arm around Billy’s shoulders. It’s intimate, even though it’s casual. It had taken some getting used to.
At first, Billy had been adamantly against this sort of public affection, but the kids are kind of Harrington’s family. Billy’s never really had one of those, but he’s pretty sure you don’t hide the biggest shit in your life from them. Especially after they tell you that monsters exist.
Honestly, when this shit really started, Billy had just wanted to get his dick sucked. He’s still not sure how he ended up here, in the only place in Hawkins that feels like his own, with the only person in Hawkins who can really call him theirs.
Across the park, Max screams when Lucas drops a clump of dirt on her head. She gets up and kicks his shin and Lucas howls and Billy grins. All right, he thinks, grudgingly one of two people to whom he might belong. Maybe.
Harrington presses his nose against Billy’s cheek. “New York,” he says.
“Ugh, colder than here,” Billy answers. Harrington’s been listing random states at him for weeks, trying to figure out where Billy wants to move. Graduation is coming. At some point, they’re going to get in a car and drive away. Billy has imagined driving away from Hawkins since he fucking got here. He’d never really imagined not doing it alone.
Harrington huffs a laugh and digs his chin into Billy’s shoulder. “California,” he says.
Billy goes rigid for a second, then shakes his head. “Been there,” he says. “Done that.” Harrington’s fingers press against the nape of his neck. Billy lets his shoulders drop.
“New Mexico,” Harrington tries, lifts his head to brush his lips over Billy’s ear. Billy shivers.
“Maybe.”
Harrington ducks his head and Billy can feel his smile pressing into the curve of his throat. “We have a winner, ladies and gentlemen,” Harrington says.
New Mexico. Billy rolls the idea around in his head, thinks about the way it would feel for the country to stretch out in front of them them, to put miles between himself and Hawkins.
“Steve,” he says suddenly, voice a little urgent.
Harrington sits up, keeps his arm around Billy and looks at him with such intent, honest interest that Billy feels warm all over. “Yeah?” he says.
Billy thinks of all the times they’ve slept together and slept together. He thinks of nightmares, of the places Harrington has seen him bruised. Billy thinks of the times he’s let Harrington see him fucking cry, of the way that Harrington has shouldered some of the weight Billy’s been carrying since he was fucking eight years old. He thinks of how willing he is to shoulder as much of the shit Harrington’s carrying as Harrington’ll let him.
“I love you,” Billy says, and he feels breathless and scared all at once, but Harrington just smiles at him and brushes their lips together. Billy feel that smile as they kiss.
“I love you too,” Harrington says. “I’m so fucking glad we finally decided on someplace. You are the pickiest person I’ve ever met,” and then he kisses Billy again, slow and sweet and like he means it, and Dustin, halfway across the park, screeches like he’s being stabbed in the stomach.
Billy flips him off.
Harrington kisses him and it feels like waves lapping at the shore, like being pulled in with the tide, like they will always come back to this--even if for a little while they have to leave it.