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Billy is cold, the type of cold that has your fingers tingling and nose running. So cold your breath turns into a small cloud, resembles smoke from a cigarette, and it would be smoke from a cigarette but Billy has smoked all of them in the past two hours he’s been at the quarry.
He needed to get out, he needed to be out of that damn house. Neil was drunk, yelling and banging on his door, Billy didn’t even know what he was yelling about, he thinks maybe his Dad just likes making noise, likes being the loudest person in the room, needs everyone to hear him. Billy can relate to that.
But he was, yelling, and banging, and drunk, and Billy needed to get out, he needed to leave, so, he snuck out the window. Only grabbing a hoodie to cover his bare torso, a hoodie that matches his grey sweatpants, and his car keys.
Now he’s at the quarry at midnight, sitting on the hood of the Camero, his feet covered in a pair of Steve’s socks he found in the back seat. They have snowmen wearing sunglasses on them. And he’s smoked all his cigarettes over the past two hours and there’s no more in his car, because he gave his spare pack to Steve, because Steve had none and he wanted to be a good boyfriend, and now he has no cigarettes.
He lays back on the hood of the car, staring up at the night sky, it’s going to snow, Billy’s learnt that when the air gets crisp and his nose burns and the air in his chest feels dry that a blanket of white is soon to fall. And he’s right when a small flake lands against his golden skin, covering a freckle on his nose, and another falls on his lashes and he closes his eyes and feels the bite of the ice melting against his always warm skin, and then there’s a sudden light glowing through his lids and he rolls his head and squints his eyes open and sees headlights approaching him.
He knows who it is, has memorised how the wheels crunch against the gravel, how the lights are a tad yellow, and how one headlight is a little duller than the other.
The car turns off and Billy can hear the bats screeching again, “You like freezing to death, Hargrove?” Steve says after the car door closes.
Billy takes in his appearance, he’s wearing plaid pyjamas pants and a long sleeve shirt with a hoodie and denim jacket over the top, that Billy is fairly certain is his. He’s holding a black wool coat as he walks over.
“Could be one of the better ways to die,” Billy replies.
Steve stops in front of him, holding the wool coat and staring down with pinched brows and gnawing at his bottom lip, and Billy wonders if they’re still swollen and sore from his own lips abusing them earlier that day. Wonders if Steve can still taste him, taste the metallic of the blood that seeped through the bite marks on his pout.
He throws the coat at Billy and his hands come down and pull at his plaid pants and Billy’s eyes are still adjusting from the headlights that he’s memorised, the ones with the yellow tinge and the one dull light, it’s the one on the right and Billy keeps telling Steve to fix it. Tells him that it’s winter now, and it’s getting darker faster and he needs all the light he can get, and Steve says he will fix it and he hasn’t yet and that makes Billy mad because it’s getting darker faster and it’s winter and what if Steve can’t see and he crashes and Billy can’t even think about that, can’t think about anything happening to Steve, and fuck,
“Told you to get your headlight fixed, Harrington.” He snaps, leaving the coat sitting on top of his thighs and rolling his head back to stare at the sky again.
“Max radioed me.” Steve states. He shuffles forward and leans his thighs against the cold metal of the car.
“About getting your headlights fixed?”
Steve sighs and Billy can see from the bottom of his eye that he runs his hands through his already unruly hair.
Steve tugs at his socked toe, “Put the coat on,” he says softly, “Please.”
Billy lifts his head up slightly to look at Steve watching him intently. His hand scratches over Steve’s coat, feeling the soft, warm, wool. He can smell Steve’s cologne on it, the earthy sandalwood he’s become so familiar with. The smell floats through his nostrils and instantly calms the live energy circulating through him, he wonders if, for the rest of his life, the smell of sandalwood could sedate the fire licking up his gut and burning at his throat.
He sits up and grabs at the coat, flipping it around and slipping his arms through the long sleeves. He won’t admit it, but he feels instantly warmer. Steve slowly slides up on the hood next to Billy, he leaves a few inches between them, like he’s unsure if he’s allowed to be this close like he’s unsure if Billy’s fire will flare up and burn him too.
And it’s funny, because, less than 24 hours ago Steve was as close to Billy as a human being could get. He had Billy on his back, spread over his blue sheets, the ones that match his walls and curtains and Billy’s eyes. And he was buried deep inside the boy, pushing in slow and lazily like they had all the time in the world. Licking up the sweat on Billy’s neck, swallowing the spit in his mouth, breathing in the air from his lungs, trying to get as close to Billy as he could. Filling him up to the brim, stuffing him full of everything Steve could give him, holding himself there between Billy’s legs until their breath evened out and their sweat cooled on their glowing skin.
Billy wraps his arms around himself and pulls his legs up to sit cross-legged. He stares out over the abyss of the quarry, it looks never-ending, he wonders if he jumps straight into the black if he would just disappear.
Steve musters some courage and bumps shoulders with Billy, “Are you hurt?” he asks.
“He didn’t touch me.”
“That’s not- I mean, that’s good, but you can still be hurt, B. From the things he said.”
Billy shrugs and brings his legs up to his chest, stretching his arms to wrap around them instead. Steve thinks he’s trying to making himself look the way he feels, tiny. The way his father made him feel. It’s weird, seeing Billy in times like these. The contrasting difference from the Billy everyone knows, to the Billy that can make Steve snort chocolate milk from his nose, and to the Billy who reads aloud to him when Steve wakes from a nightmare - uses his soothing voice to calm Steve’s racing heart and his calloused hands to brush over his scalp and bring him back to earth.
“He just said the usual shit. No big deal, Harrington.” Steve doesn’t respond, feels like Billy isn’t quite finished. “I don’t know, he was drunk and louder than usual. I don’t know, fuck, he just wanted to make noise. I wasn’t in the mood to hear it tonight.”
Billy looks over his shoulder at Steve, sees those honey eyes staring at him, his brow pinched again. Steve grabs at Billy, pulling him into his side, his left hand cupping at his waist and his right toying with the sleeve of the coat.
“Why didn’t you come to me?” Steve questions, “You know you can always come to me.”
“It’s Christmas Eve. Your parents are at home.”
“My parents are both wasted on eggnog. And I’m pretty sure my Dad passed out in his office at like 8pm.” Steve reaches his right arm around and clasps his hands together, “Plus it’s the holidays, they won’t care if I have a buddy sleeping over.”
“If you ever call me your buddy again, I’m breaking up with you.”
Steve lets out a breathy laugh before pressing his lips to Billy’s temple, “I’m serious though, Blue. You gotta come to me when shit like this happens. Okay?” He presses a small kiss to his skin.
Billy’s heart leaps at the word Blue. Loves when Steve calls him that.
He gives a short nod and turns his face to hide against Steve’s throat.
They stay like that for a while, Billy wrapped in Steve’s coat, and his feet wrapped in Steve’s socks, and Steve’s arms wrapped around him tight.
And he isn’t cold anymore, his fingers aren’t tingling, and he’s with the boy who he can pick from the way his car sounds driving on gravel, the boy who smells like sandalwood, whose voice rings like heaven in his ears. Steve, the guy he met almost two years ago, dragged to this backwards town in the middle of nowhere. Steve Harrington, the man he thinks might just be the love of his life.
Billy’s breath halts at that thought and he squeezes his eyes shut as words form in his throat and dance along his tongue, they weasel their way from behind his teeth and slip from his lips in a husky confession,
“I’m in love with you,” Billy whispers into his neck, and that, that’s different. That’s not the same as saying, I love you, it’s more. It’s Billy telling Steve that he loves all the parts of him, that he craves them, that he loves him in spite of them, and Steve feels his heart stop. And, and, Nancy saying the words, I love you, never felt this way, never felt this world stopping and breathtaking, and,
“You’re in love with me?”
Billy takes in a breath, breathing in the sandalwood and the pure scent of Steve and he nuzzles against the skin slowly, “M’not gonna say it again, Stevie.” He mumbles.
“You’re in love with me.” He states this time. “That’s-that’s, really good .”
Billy pulls away from Steve and looks at him with raised brows, “it’s good ?” He responds like that was a bad thing for Steve to say.
Steve stumbles on his words and grabs at Billy, “I- wait, it’s, it is good because I’m in love with you. So that would have been like, totally awkward if you weren’t in love with me.”
And Billy, he laughs, loud and deep and it echos through the quarry, and Steve joins him. His eyes crinkle and his laughter mixes in with Billy’s, rips into his vacant chest and paints over the emptiness.
And Billy isn’t cold anymore.