Work Text:
It isn't a slow growing feeling so much as it is an all at once realization. Something inevitable and righteous that was always going to be whether Ted noticed it or not.
He thinks maybe the timing could have been better, because he wants to take the time to rejoice in it all, but he can't. He's in the middle of his dad's most recent rant about how Ted's hair and his clothes and his band all make him seem "like a fairy" and how hanging around with Bill all the time only makes it worse and Ted only gets confused about that for a moment before he realizes what it means and realizes that it's true.
"Maybe I'm the fool for thinking you'd turn out better than this," Ted's dad is saying, even though Ted's not really listening anymore at all, too preoccupied with his own thoughts. "For someone so determined to always take the easy way out, you sure know how to make life more difficult for me."
Ted wonders if the knowing should make him feel sick or worried or guilty, because doesn't it just make him a pervert for real? The way his dad is always accusing? It doesn't though. It feels light, something thrilling electric joyful in his chest, and it doesn't feel anything like perversion. He thinks maybe there's been some confusion, somehow, because the way people always talk about things like this isn't anything like how it feels for real. Someone must have been mistaken, misunderstood when they said that two men can't love each other, because with a feeling like this, Ted could teach them what love feels like for real any time.
But Ted's not an idiot - despite what a bunch of people say about him. He might be softly thrilled and warmed by the realization lit up in his chest, but he knows that his dad uses the words he does because he doesn't have any kind of good things to say, and Ted knows that he's never been enough incentive to get his dad to change his mind about anything.
So, he wraps that gentle feeling up inside of himself carefully and hides it away instead. Stands tall under the weight of his father's current bout of derision and rides it all out, resolves to pull that feeling out again later, somewhere safer, to look at it properly, let it catch the light the way it should be able to. But not here, not yet.
(Ted's not an idiot. Misunderstandings or not, Ted knows that this isn't going to blow over well, knows it won't be well received. He's heard it from his dad and heard it in school and heard it on the news. Saw Ryan White on TV and didn't think too much about it then, but he knows how it goes now that he figures he has to consider it for himself. It hurts, he thinks, but not enough to wish the feeling wasn't there; just enough to wish that the rest of the world could be different instead.)
It comes back up again later, the next morning when Bill has heard about Captain Logan's newest gripes. "That's some real bogus shit," Bill's saying, coming over from where he had been drawing Wyld Stallyns logos to crash down next to where Ted is sitting on the edge of the stage they'd built together earlier in that summer. "Your dad kind of sucks, dude."
Ted feels that same soft joy in his chest, and it overwhelms all his senses like a quiet fire, and it hurts a little but he kind of loves it. His body doesn't quite know what to do with all of the feeling inside of it, and the only thing Ted can think to do is lean over, press his weight against Bill's side and thrill in the touch and the closeness until Bill shoves him off with a laugh.
The sound makes Ted smile like instinct, grinning up at the ceiling warmly even as some ache in his gut acknowledges that Bill would never push a babe off of him like that.
It aches and Ted can't hide from it, but he figures that's alright. You don't love people for what they give you or what you'd get from them, you love them despite all that, 'cause isn't that the whole point?
(Ted could teach his dad something about love, alright, but the man didn't listen to mom and he wouldn't listen to Ted either. Ted knows a lot about loving someone who won't ever love you back the same, after all, and he hadn't learned it first from Bill.)
Ted figures that's alright, mostly. Bill probably wouldn't sling out a hand to help pull a babe to her feet the way he does for Ted, probably wouldn't be scheming to save money or to convince one of their dad's to pay for instruments for their band, wouldn't read out loud for her to help her study. Whether it's the same kind of love or not, Bill does that kind of stuff for Ted only, and that's more than enough all on its own.
Ted's never been a good liar, but it's easy to lie when no one's asking the right questions, and realizations aside nothing has really changed. He figures as long as he just doesn't say it in words then he'll be safe. People always say that they can understand what people aren't saying too, but Ted has never spoken that language, and no one else has ever spoken his body language that way either (except for Bill, but if he hasn't noticed yet then he probably never will, and Ted's alright with that).
He doesn't pretend but doesn't say its name either, and only takes out the feeling to imagine in the moments when he's alone and no one else can see or hear. He thinks about potential, about them only more. Dreams about the safety and acceptance to curl up close, to hide his face in the warmth of Bill's shoulder, to wake up with the weight of their limbs tangled together, to be safe enough to hold hands in the mall the way other couples can.
A lot of people hold them like one person anyway, BillandTed instead of just one of them on their own, and Ted loves that without saying it too. Loves what they have and all he's gotten even if someone else will get all of the things Ted wants but can't ever have. He thinks he'd be okay with that as long as Bill was happy with it all too.
There's a kind of loneliness in it, but Ted doesn't really mind. Some people go their whole lives lonely in every kind of way. As long as Bill's around even some of the time then Ted is hardly lonely at all. How lucky is that just on its own?
Maybe he wishes there was more music about it though, he thinks idly as he listens to music on Bill's Walkman that he'd borrowed for the night. Music he could listen to without having to edit in his head to make it fit him right. That kind of loneliness is broader, sort of. A little harder to look at head on. Something not even Bill can really help with. Maybe once Wyld Stallyns really kicks off he can make some of it himself, though - that might be good enough.
(And maybe if it isn't, then maybe it would be enough for someone else. Another person who's going through the music store top to bottom trying to find something that fits them too. That might be enough to patch the gap in its own way. Sort of.)
Overall, there's not a lot to think about. Something soft and warm Ted could never speak out loud kept alive in his chest. Something empty and aching cracked open in the back of his head that doesn't have words.
Ted doesn't need either of them to be spoken. Instead there is Bill, and his bodacious presence in Ted's life, and there's music and shitty guitars and even worse playing, and that's all he'll ever really need.
(But maybe not all he's ever wanted.)
"Don't you ever get tired of hanging out with just Bill all the time?" Deacon asks, face pulled into something skeptical as he watches Ted take off his sneakers after being out all day.
"No way!" Ted replies with a grin, no pause for thought. Ted's never really had anyone outside of Bill and he doesn't think he really needs anyone else either. No one gets him like Bill does, and Ted doesn't get anyone else like he gets Bill. People always act like that's not a big deal, but it means everything to Ted, who spent all those years before he met Bill confused and scared by other people in equal turns.
Deacon makes a face like he doesn't understand, or maybe like he doesn't believe him. "Well, I would," he replies. "I like my friends fine, but sometimes it's just annoying to talk with them all the time."
Ted just shrugs. He doesn't need Deacon to understand it; no one really needs to get it but him.
Ted thinks he's doing alright with it all, as a whole, so he's caught a little off guard when the group of guys he's passing in the shopping plaza a few weeks later turn the whole thing into more of an ordeal than it really should have been.
People like Ted, mostly, or he guesses that if they don't then they usually save it all for behind his back these days. Things were worse in elementary school, he thinks, but not so much anymore.
Being tripped as he tries to pass by is simultaneously old news and something unexpected, because of that. The shock of the word "faggot" spat by a voice not belonging to his father is a bit harder to deal with, because people weren't supposed to know about that, and maybe that's why Ted can't seem to catch himself right in time.
His face bounces off the edge of the sidewalk, sharp pain radiating through his skull on impact, and if the hot burst of fluid over his lips wasn't signal enough, then Ted would know he was bleeding just for the alarmed way the other guys bail instead of sticking around to tease him more.
"Aw man," Ted mumbles thickly to himself, screwing up his face at the taste of blood in his mouth as he presses his fingers carefully around his nose and mouth, trying to figure out where the worst of the damage might be. (Ted used to skateboard once, up until he'd forgotten the board somewhere in a haze of excited distraction and remembered it later just to find it stolen. Clumsiness has always been second nature to him too, so falling on his head isn't new even if the cause kind of is). Nothing feels too bad, teeth all intact and nothing grating under the skin; his whole head aches but not in a super bad way, so Ted is content enough with that to just try and ignore the whole thing.
He tries to find a place to wash the blood off, but most of the stores around here don't let people use their restrooms, and one of the only places that does has a server who takes one look at Ted and forces him back out, holding out a napkin to him with pinched fingers while telling him to "get that mess out of here." Though, they are serving food, so maybe that's fair.
(For a hot angry moment, Ted thinks of blood banks and the men who aren't allowed to donate there, but then puts it all aside and doesn't think about it.)
Ted figures he might as well just go home then. It's not like he'd really been doing anything here in particular, just looking for an excuse to get out of his house while Bill was with his dad at their temple. If he's lucky, Captain Logan might be gone somewhere else by now anyway.
Luck or not, Ted never does quite make it home. His feet carry him past Bill's house, since most of Ted's routes around town do, just in time for Bill to stumble out of his dad's car and shout in outrage at the sight of Ted's face.
(He never actually managed to find a mirror or something, he realizes, and judging by the napkin he's still got crumpled up in his hand, there's a pretty big mess of it all.)
"Dude! What happened?" Bill cries, running over to Ted's side as his dad's newest girlfriend says something about getting a first aid kit.
Ted grins as he approaches, pulling through the bites of pain in his face because it's always nice to see Bill, and it's kind of nice to be checked up on in a way that doesn't involve yelling. It occurs to him a little late that all the blood might make it a scarier sight than it should be, but the expression sticks on his face anyway because he doesn't really ever use any other expression with Bill.
"Got tripped up," he informs him, letting Bill move the hand holding the napkin out of the way to let him get a better look at the injuries all the blood is coming from.
"Aw, Ted, you always were so clumsy," Bill's dad's girlfriend says, jogging up to hand Ted a bag of frozen vegetables and letting Bill take the first aid box from her. Ted is surprised that she knows him, and then his face lights up all over again when he realizes that he knows her back, but before he gets a chance to tell this to her or Bill, he catches sight of the look on Bill's face.
The alarm and concern has faded a bit, replaced with a sharper looking anger, because he hadn't misunderstood what Ted said like Missy had.
Ted looks away a bit and doesn't correct Missy - he doesn't want her to feel embarrassed about getting it wrong, which Ted knows can be most non-triumphant. He gives her a bright shrug instead, "Yeah, kinda," he admits, because she isn't wrong generally, really. "Thanks for the superb cold, though," he adds, pressing it blindly to the center of his face and waving at her cheerfully as Bill starts to lead him off, not really bothering to turn his head right or to keep the packaging from blocking out his vision because Bill can see well enough for the both of them.
"Who was it?" Bill asks once they make it to the little bathroom next to his room, maneuvering Ted to sit on the edge of the tub, since Bill won't be able to reach right if Ted keeps standing. Ted lets him take the vegetables away from the injuries, keeps his hands in his lap and toys with the bloody napkin to give him something to do so that he can sit still while Bill looks him over.
"I dunno," Ted admits, a little curiously. He guesses maybe someone from school, but who really knows for sure. He has a hard time recognizing people when they're not in the places he knows them from. It could have been anyone, really; everyone knows Bill and Ted sort of. "They ran off when I hit my face on the curb."
The corner of Bill's mouth curls into a snarl. Ted wants to touch it, and then averts his gaze very carefully instead, looking down at the napkin and smothering a wince with ease when Bill starts to drag a warm washcloth over Ted's face to clean up all the blood.
(Some of it clings to Bill's fingers, watered down red and brown staining his pale skin. Ted almost likes the sight of it there but can't figure out why.)
"Fucking heinous of them," Bill says, and Ted shrugs easily again. The concrete hadn't hurt as much as the other thing, really, and Ted's sort of used to that in its own way too. Ted hardly minds the scrapes at all really. Scars are kind of fun once they settle in anyway - the ones you can see at least. "Was that all they did?"
Ted almost wishes he hadn't asked. It's not lying if no one asks, after all, and some part of Ted is almost embarrassed. Worried about what Bill will think even though Bill gets the same shit sometimes too, and the insult is an old friend out of the mouth of Captain Logan (and some of his officers) anyway.
"Called me a fag," he says quietly, trying to make it come out with the same ease as the admittance of the fall, but not quite making it. Bill won't ask why, Ted knows, but suddenly he's almost scared that he could. That he might, and the easy secret Ted keeps mostly happily would fall into the light and ruin a lot more than Ted ever likes to think about.
Bill's hand stills against Ted's face at the words, the points of contact warm like brands along the edges of Ted's raw skin. He nudges into them curiously, half wanting the full indulgence of Bill's whole hand on his face and half just curious to know what made him falter. Despite his own nerves, he looks up into Bill's eyes and tries to get his face to ask what's wrong the way other people can sometimes.
Bill doesn't really answer though, just goes back to cleaning the grit out of Ted's scrapes, and Ted doesn't mind the quiet enough to break it. Watching silently as Bill bandages Ted's nose and chin, eyes not meeting Ted's as he chews on his lip like he does when he gets nervous.
"Your nose isn't broken at least," Bill tells him at last, and Ted smiles easy again. It hadn't quite occurred to him to worry, but it's a relief all the same.
"Excellent," he drawls, half-expecting Bill to join in like he usually might, but Bill is still looking most uncharacteristically serious, and Ted isn't sure how to go about fixing it.
He's still looking for something magic to say when he feels Bill's thumb brush over his bottom lip, smoothing over the split in the tissue gentle enough to not quite hurt, but the sensation still pulls all of the air straight out of Ted's lungs. Breathless and staring dumbly up into Bill's tired serious eyes as Bill pulls his hand away just to lean forward to pull Ted into a hug instead.
Ted thinks briefly of the still-wet stains on the front of his shirt, of the mirror pattern probably getting pressed into Bill's collar, but he leans into it anyway, dropping the crumpled napkin and wrapping his own arms around Bill in return, keeping his hands fisted to make sure his blood doesn't stain Bill more than it already has.
(He's not sick, he knows. He isn't, but the fact that some people say he is still makes him feel kind of nervous behind his lungs anyway.)
"Wish people wouldn't hurt us like that, dude," Bill mumbles into the skin beneath Ted's ear, and Ted tries not to shiver at the sensation while Bill's hands ball up into fists around handfuls of the back of Ted's shirt.
There’s a bit of confusion at that, because Bill wasn’t there when Ted got tripped, and if people have been tripping Bill too then Ted hasn’t heard about it, which doesn’t seem likely. But Bill hadn’t said that when Ted told him he’d gotten tripped, he only said it when Ted told him what the other boys had called him.
Ted buries his face into the crook of Bill’s neck, pressing his forehead there to keep the scrapes on his face from smarting, and wonders why there’s tears in his eyes all of a sudden. It hadn’t hurt all too much when it happened, but Bill’s quiet admission makes it all throb something fierce, that aching lonely in the back of Ted’s head cracking open in all the ways he usually tries not to let it.
“Yeah,” he agrees wetly, blinking a bunch to keep the tears from dripping onto Bill’s sleeve.
They stay like that for a while, way longer than usual, but Ted doesn’t mind it all. He wants to wrap this memory up and never let it go, even with all the pieces of it that still hurt. The weight of Bill against his chest, nearly in his lap, feels heavy and warm and real and comforting against the ache in his throat. He wouldn’t trade it for anything.
When Bill finally pulls back, Ted almost wants to drag him back in, but he makes his arms let go. Lets them fall from around Bill’s shoulders and settle somewhere around his hips instead.
He doesn’t know what to do now, the quiet still thick around them, and Bill’s further back than he was but still so close, his heavy-lidded eyes tracing over the splits in Ted’s brown skin slowly. Ted barely would have to lean forward at all to kiss him, and to his own surprise, that’s exactly what he does.
As soon as their lips meet, Ted’s chest locks in panic, because that’s not what he was supposed to do. Even with Bill’s admission of us, Ted was supposed to keep this to himself, hide it in secret and make sure Bill and everyone else never learned it was all right there in plain sight. Ted might have just ruined everything without meaning to, and the terror of that hurts worse than any of the words strangers use ever could.
But Bill doesn’t recoil, doesn’t push Ted away at all, he leans into it too, tilting his head to let their mouths meet easier, and they fit, and everything feels like it settles into place all at once. The split in Ted’s lip burns just as fiercely at as the sun in Ted’s chest does, but Ted doesn’t dare pull away. It hurts, and it’s everything Ted has ever wanted, even stained a bit with an aching hurt like it is.
But that’s just love too, Ted supposes. Raw hurt and shared grief just as much as it is light joy and quiet softness. Lots of people don’t get that, but Ted does.
Ted’s not sure which one of them pulls back first, but Bill’s hands are on Ted’s face and Ted’s got his fingers curled around Bill’s belt loops, their faces still pressed close together. Breathing in each other’s air, and Ted looks up at Bill and can’t stop the smile from spreading across his face, laughing in delight when Bill smiles back. Their eyes are still a little wet but it’s still the most excellent thing in the world.
Ted wouldn’t trade it for anything.