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Billy leans against the bar and thinks about a time when the bars he went to used to be sticky. He orders an old fashioned and a bud light and thinks about when the bars he went into used to card him. He thinks, too, about when he used to go to bars because he was angry and cracking open and sometimes drinking too much was the easiest way to spill.
“Good to see you, Billy,” the bartender says, and Billy slides cash across the bar that isn’t sticky and nods his head. He doesn’t grin or say you too, man, because maybe some things don’t change. This place sure as hell hasn’t, not in the six weeks since Billy last walked in. It’s still just this side of too nice for him to feel totally comfortable drinking bud light and he’s still just this side of too stubborn to ask what they have on tap.
It’s quiet, still. Everyone must be working late. Billy had been prepared to duck through crowds of people when he got here, but there’s almost no one, just a few people milling around aimlessly, most with only one drink. Billy, though, he’s got two drinks as he cuts through the place, toward the back corner, the one farthest from the windows and honestly, a little too close to the bathrooms.
Steve’s there. Billy had known he would be. He looks up before Billy can say hello and for a moment, all Billy can see is big brown eyes and a smile that’s softer than he deserves. Steve’s doodling, a near empty old fashioned on the table next to him. Billy slides him the glass and then sits down slowly. He notices in an absent way that Steve’s doodling in the sketchpad Robin got for him. He wonders if that means the one Billy got him last year is full or if it means something else.
“Been a while,” Steve says. It’s a fact and there’s nothing in his tone, but Billy’s skin still prickles with shame and he looks away, his jaw tightening. He’s always been defensive when he’s supposed to be sorry, but Steve says, “Thanks for the drink,” and then sticks his fingers in the drink to fish out the cherry, which he pops into his mouth.
“That’s gross,” Billy says, which he always says.
“It’s the best part,” Steve answers, which he always answers.
They’re sticking to the script this afternoon, apparently. Billy drums his fingers on the table and watches Steve’s gaze snap to them. Billy remembers a time when his dad would yell at him for that, maybe slam something on his hand if no one was looking. Steve keeps watching and Billy keeps drumming and then he’s remembering a time when Steve might reach across the table and rest his hand, his fingers always too cold, on top of Billy’s to still them. He’s remembering a time when he would turn his hand over and hold onto Steve right back.
They fall into a comfortable silence. Billy drinks from his bud light bottle and ignores the fact that someone here is probably pinning him for the trash he is. Steve drinks his old fashioned and ignores the fact that someone is probably judging him for spending time with trash like Billy Hargrove. Billy’s fingers drum again and he thinks, see, something really don’t change.
Steve breaks the silence first. “It’s been six weeks this time,” he says. “I thought you might be gone for good.”
That makes Billy look away. He’s not sure what he was expecting. Steve’s always gentle with him, but he’s never a liar, and so Billy knows he’s telling the truth. He knows, too, that he’s scared to admit he might also be gone for good someday, and they both know it.
“How many times can we really do this?” Steve asks when Billy doesn’t say anything.
So they’re not following the script, then.
“How many times will you let me?” Billy asks. It’s the only thing he’s said to Steve aside from that’s gross. It’s not a challenge, although once it might have been. It’s embarrassing, Billy thinks, how raw the question is, how much he’s genuinely asking it.
It’s the first time he’s seen Steve look frustrated when they do this. It’s small--subtle. Billy’s looking for it, which is the only reason he sees it. He knows every expression that Steve Harrington can make--every single one. He knows pleasure, and pain, and anger, and fear, and love. He knows love the most, and that’s there, too, in the way Steve sits back a little, the way the corner of his mouth shifts up, then down.
“That’s a stupid question,” Steve says.
“Then give it a stupid answer, Harrington,” Billy bites out, because now he’s defensive, and raw, and he made Steve angry, and that means that Billy’s thinking, too, this time, maybe he is going to be gone for good. Steve raises an eyebrow at him, which Billy supposes he deserves.
“Where have you been?” Steve asks, which isn’t a stupid answer, and is also infuriating. He’s not rising to the fucking bait and Billy wants him to. He feels childish for it and takes a sip from his beer to slow his answer down.
“Where do you think I’ve been?” Billy asks, and okay, he’s not just feeling childish. He’s being childish.
“You’re talking to me like you’re not the one who walked out,” Steve says, and Billy doesn’t answer him, just looks at him, and so Steve sighs and says, “I think you were at Dustin’s because he’s been avoiding me and Max always calls me when you’re there.”
“So you can come pick me up.”
“Yeah, sometimes, Billy, that is why she tells me where you are.”
“Fuck you,” Billy says. “I don’t know why I’m here.”
Steve leans forward, stares at him for a second, he makes a tsking sound that reminds Billy of Joyce, “You’re here because you love me,” he says, “And because I love you. And you’re a bad fucking liar because you know that’s why you’re here. There’s a thousand bars in this neighborhood alone, but you came to my favorite, and you got my drink, and you want to know if I’m going to do this bullshit with you all over again.”
He’s never called it bullshit before, this back and forth they do sometimes, how Billy runs away and comes crawling back. Billy’s choosing to hope Steve’s talking about that part and not, y’know, their relationship.
I love you, Steve had said, so casually and confidently. Billy remembers a time when Steve had asked do you love me? Like he really was unsure. At the time, Billy had thought that was stupid. Obviously he loves Steve. That was before this whole thing started, the running away, the crawling back. That was back when they were stupid kids who were just glad to get out of Hawkins alive.
Steve used to be so sure he was stupid, but Billy’s pretty sure that he’s the stupid one in this relationship. He’s also the only one still acting like a kid. Steve isn’t giving him an ultimatum, Billy can tell, but he’s being honest. He’s talking like an adult about what Billy keeps doing.
You want to know if I’m going to do this bullshit with you all over again. “I thought it was a stupid question,” Billy says. His beer is empty. He sets the bottle down and starts drumming his fingers against the table again.
Steve makes another frustrated sound and sits back. “It is a stupid question,” he says, “Because you know I’m going to give in.”
“Is that what this is?” Billy asks, motioning between them, “Giving up? Giving in? That’s what I am to you?”
“You’re trying to pick a fight,” Steve says, “And that’s fucking annoying. You don’t need to pick a fight. You already left, Billy. You don’t need to pick a fight, you can just leave again.”
Steve’s right and they both know it. Billy looks down at the table he’s sitting across from Steve at and he picks at a chipped spot in the dark, stained wood of it and doesn’t say anything for a few seconds.
“What do you want, Billy?” Steve asks after another few seconds of silence.
“I want to come home,” Billy admits, and when he looks up, Steve’s gone soft again.
He closes the notebook and pushes the chair back, standing up. “C’mon, then,” Steve says. “Let’s go home.”
Billy isn’t sure he’d meant right this fucking second, but sometimes when Steve is directive like that Billy’s hopeless to fight against it. He stands up, and they walk out onto the street. Steve calls a thank you to the bartender, who waves back and tells them to have a good night. Steve returns the sentiment and Billy is silent and sullen, walks down the street, says nothing at all, even when Steve’s hand presses against the small of his back like he’s showing Billy the way.
They stop inside a bodega to grab pasta to cook for dinner. They stop together, but Steve orchestrates the whole thing and Billy’s just along for the ride. He blinks and they’re on their street, he blinks and they’re up the stairs, he blinks and they’re in their kitchen and Steve’s adding salt to boiling water and dumping the pasta into it while Billy sits on the counter nearby, silent, swinging his legs.
They eat dinner without talking. Billy does the dishes without talking. They climb into bed without talking and Steve turns the lights off without talking and then it’s just the two of them in bed together, the sounds of the city below them, for the first time in six weeks.
“You changed the sheets,” Billy says finally. He’s lying on his back looking at the ceiling and when he turns his head to look at Steve, he sees him lying the same way.
“Yeah,” Steve says. “It’s been six weeks, Billy. People do that.”
Billy supposes he’s right, but it’s strange to think about that. He’d stormed out of here six weeks ago, his voice cracking, the door slamming shut, and Steve’s been moving around this apartment ever since then, the whole time, doing ordinary ass things like changing the sheets. Something about that makes Billy’s heart break, just a little, but he’s not sure he’d know how to explain why.
He swallows. “I’m sorry,” Billy says, his voice raw all of the sudden. He’s thinking about looking back at the ceiling when Steve finally rolls onto his side, facing Billy, looking at him in the dark that’s not really dark because they’re apartment is on a busy street, and there’s so much light in the city.
Billy will never forget how relieved Steve looked the first time he realized that as long as they live here, in this apartment on this street, the night will never be totally dark ever again. Now Billy is the one who is relieved because it means he can see it, the moment Steve turns to look at him, curled up toward him like they haven’t been fighting, like they haven’t not spoken.
Well. Maybe Billy’s the only one who’s been fighting.
“I know you are, Billy,” Steve says. “And you know I forgive you. And you know I’ll do this a thousand more times, forever, if that’s what you need, but I need you to know that every time it gets a little longer, every fucking breath I spend wondering if this is really the last time--it--” he stops, his voice wavering, and Billy’s eyes shut for a second because he can’t look at Steve when he’s made him sad like that. There’s an ache in Steve’s voice and Billy put it there. There’s an ache in Steve Harrington and it’s because Billy’s never quite been whole that it’s there.
“I’m sorry,” Billy says, and his eyes are still closed, so he’s really only aware that Steve is moving closer because he can hear the shift and shuffle of the sheets as Steve moves across them. Steve’s there, then. His face tucks into Billy’s throat and Billy can feel his breath against his collarbone.
He could explain why he left. He could talk about how the baby announcement had left him reeling. He could talk about how everyone is growing up and he’s afraid, sometimes, that he’s still just that scared, fucked up kid who put his fist into Steve Harrington’s face so many times that there’s still a scar, even now, all these years later.
Sometimes the reminders that everyone around them keeps moving forward and moving into the best things--sometimes those reminders make Billy remember a time when his foundation was crumbling. Sometimes those reminders make Billy afraid that his foundation is still crumbling. He could explain all that, but Steve’s breath is soft on his throat, and Billy knows with the same kind of certainty he knows that Steve will stick his fingers into the drink and dig out the cherry that Steve understands why Billy runs, sometimes.
He hopes that Steve knows, too, why he always comes crawling back.
Steve lifts himself up, finally. He shifts close, and their mouths meet, and it’s a kiss six weeks in the making and it tastes like cheap beer and expensive whisky and cigarettes and cold night air, and their bodies move together, their clothes fall away, their skin meeting and their hearts beating exactly how Billy knows they always will, and he’s breathless, and Steve is all over him, is everywhere, in his lungs and his soul and between his legs and perfect, so fucking perfect.
After, still breathless, still tangled, Billy says, “I do love you, you know,” and Steve says something like I know and Billy says, “I can stop running away,” after a few more seconds, and Steve doesn’t say I know, and Billy swallows hard, corrects himself, says, “I mean, I would let you stop me running away. If you wanted to try. I would--” he stops. “I want to stay, Steve. I always want to stay.”
There’s silence, for long enough that Billy’s thinking about crawling out the fucking window, when Steve says, “I know,” says, “Don’t go,” and holds onto him like he knows Billy’s thinking about running, and Billy is thinking about running, so he forces himself to think, instead, about Steve’s fingers on his skin, and about all the ways that things have changed, and all the ways they still haven’t and--
And maybe most importantly, Billy, lying tangled in bed with Steve, thinks about all the ways things still could change, if he wants them to.
And god, he does want them to change. He wants to change. He wants to feel sure he’s not that kid with the anger and the fists and the bad fucking attitude. He’s different now, years older, and Steve Harrington loves him back. He knows that. That can be the first truth, the first step, the biggest anchor.
Billy remembers a time when he thought he might just float away, and now he has an anchor, and he’s going to try and remember that. That’s what he’s thinking about when Steve finally falls asleep. He’s thinking about anchors, about change, and--when Steve’s hand smacks him in the face when he rolls over and Billy has to adjust to accommodate all the ways Steve always moves in his sleep--he’s thinking about the shit that doesn’t change, too.
Change and no change. Both can be good things, maybe.
At least, that’s what Billy’s hoping, when he finally falls asleep, too.