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Billy drove.
He thumped his fingers of the steering wheel, honked his horn at some slow-ass soccer mom going 35 in a 40. For fucks sake. He needed to get home, now.
It hadn’t been a good idea to keep secrets. That’s what he told them, and he was right, but Billy was new, untrustworthy, and most importantly outnumbered, even though five of the votes were middle schoolers, who shouldn’t even have a say in the first place.
Nancy Wheeler had been the deciding vote. Her hair was pulled back and she looked at Billy with lips tightened like she knew better than him, piecing together an argument about how she had grown up with Steve and dated him and read his college essays, like any of that mattered at all, now. Billy called bullshit, but the group had already decided.
Don’t tell Steve.
Of course, when they had that little discussion, they hadn't expected that a local news station would catch on to the whole situation and run fucking wild with it a month later. Airing pictures of the body that the kids had found, some unfortunate truck driver covered in long, angry teeth marks.
Billy flew into the parking lot, forcing him to slam on the brakes, hard, when he pulled into his spot, his head knocking against the seat. He got out, half-stalked, half-sprinted up to his door.
Steve had already been stretched to the end of his rope, not sleeping, eating like shit, stitched together only by coffee and the fact that Billy kept after him until he relented to talking about things, or going to bed, at least.
Billy opened the door.
Steve leaned on the kitchen table like a crutch, his free hand wrapped around a bottle of red wine, which he was pouring freely into a glass, filling it up to the top while it splashed over the side. Billy swallowed. It was wine they had been saving, that Steve had been saving, because he was sweet and cheesy like that, an expensive bottle that Steve had stolen from his dad on an easier evening, late December, when they watched the snow fall from their tangled-up sheets and talked about which anniversary they should open it for.
“Get out.”
Steve’s voice was cold, deadened of all the breeziness that tangled into it on better days. He was half-drunk already, the slur barely noticeable in his words.
Billy noticed.
“Baby, I-“
Steve looked up, his brown eyes blackened from the dim lights overhead. “I said piss off, Hargrove.”
Billy took the hit, was prepared for it, even though it sent him back a step, dredging up memories of high school basketball courts and his fists landed into Harrington’s face.
“I didn’t wanna keep secrets from you.” Billy tried, keeping his voice level, because he had to, because he wasn’t sure what it would do if he lost control of it. He walked slowly in Steve’s direction.
“Don’t worry,” Steve stopped pouring, slamming the bottle onto the table so hard that Billy flinched internally, was sure it would break, “The fucking six o’clock news filled me in.”
“We thought it would be better-“
“I don’t want your goddamn excuses, Billy.” Steve took a step back, tightening a fist around the stem of his wine glass. “I expected this from Nancy and Jonathan, but seriously, Billy, does any of this,” Steve motioned to himself, wine sloshing out of his glass, “look like it’s better.”
“Look, I’m sorry-“
Steve shook his head, a strand of hair falling across his forehead. “Thought you didn’t do apologies.”
Billy stepped closer again, carefully, aiming for the wine glass, wondered what it would take for Steve to give it up. “Steve, I do for-” Billy reached out his hands, Steve recoiling slightly in response. “Would you just stop for a second-“
Steve half smiled, a chewed-out, steel-wire grin that could wilt roses. He huffed what would be a laugh, except nothing was funny, and looked briefly between Billy and the wine glass before downing the entire thing.
Billy tried to stop him, too slowly, his fingertips buzzing with electricity where they made contact with Steve’s arms before being roughly shaken off.
“Get out, Hargrove.” Steve set the empty glass back on the table.
“No.”
“Fine.” Steve took a step in Billy’s direction, pushing past him towards the door. “Then I’ll go.”
A stool caught the toe of Steve’s shoe and he stumbled, cursed, caught himself, landed with his hand on the door handle.
Billy moved after him, his hand landing firmly on Steve’s, holding him back. “You're drunk.”
It was too much, a step over the edge. Steve’s reaction was of an animal contained, a hard turn with a shove, all wrists and elbows thudding wildly into Billy’s chest. “Get off me.”
It didn’t hurt. Not really.
That didn’t stop Billy from stumbling backwards, steadying himself on the stool behind him.
His vision tunneled.
Billy's head surged, his mind blanking over with urge to fight back. He felt his lips stretching across his teeth, mean, and his hands balled into fists.
He hadn't forgotten this feeling, because how could he? Just didn't expect his boyfriend to be the one to break the summer-like daze he had been under, with the cold crack of violence seeming like a long-ago memory. Billy's eyes glazed over.
Steve froze at the door, mouth open, because he knew that look, had seen it before.
He flinched as Billy stepped forward. His hand dropped the door handle.
Billy grabbed him.
His hands wrapped soft and slow around Steve's shoulders, carefully, because Steve was scared and Billy could feel the tension in his muscles, even with the lazy drag of alcohol. Steve was strung-out, exhausted, existing on a razor-thin edge.
Billy held him there until he felt Steve lean against him, Steve's head tucking into the collar of Billy's jacket. Steve’s breaths came out in small, shaking puffs. He sniffed. "They're back, Billy."
Billy turned, pressing his face into Steve's hair, closing his eyes. "I know."