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Steve couldn’t help but feel his heart sink as he looked down at the Christmas card in his hand. The token inscription inside was as close to clinical as it was possible to be.
Dear Steven,
Merry Christmas!
Lots of love, Mom
Not even a ‘Happy New Year’.
The void of any sentiment was not entirely unexpected. Being treated as an afterthought, an obligation had lost its sting after twenty years of his life spent opening gifts under the tree that he had no interest in, had barely expressed any desire for, getting increasingly age-inappropriate as his parents delegated Christmas shopping to a secretary that was only likely to stay around for as long as it took for his father to sleep with her. When, aged ten, he was given the latest top-of-the-line teddy bear even though he’d stopped sleeping with his teddy two years ago, when he was given a remote control helicopter at fifteen, and when, aged seventeen, his ‘parents’ had gone in the complete opposite direction and got him a bottle of whiskey, which had been incredibly awkward as it became painfully apparent that his parents had not been a part of either the decision making process, the checking process, or the wrapping process. They shot unsubtle daggers at each other as the three Harringtons all saw the bottle of whiskey for the first time together. The argument he wasn’t supposed to hear during the two-day flying visit that afternoon really could have been much quieter as Steve took the bottle of expensive whiskey and emptied it out into the bathroom sink over hissed insults being spat in the dining room below.
No, the lack of sentiment wasn’t the problem with the Christmas card. He didn’t exactly expect sentimentality from his parents at this point. If he ever did get anything beyond a token message, he would probably be so alarmed he’d break his cardinal rule and call them up to ask who had died.
No, that wasn’t the problem. But the card left a bad taste in his mouth for three reasons.
Reason Number One: Steven.
His parents knew he went by Steve. He had gone to great lengths to instil that in their minds. Years of passive-aggressively refusing to respond to Steven from the age of twelve, of correcting them, often in front of as many people as possible, of starting endless fights with his dad over the damn name had led them to finally, finally get into the habit of at least calling him Stevie, if only to avoid the public spectacle of Steve starting a ridiculous fight in front of some of the more important people in his father’s life. To see that little black name, Steven, written in his mom’s delicate handwriting, felt incredibly pointed.
Reason Number Two: Steven. Just Steven.
That, too, was pointed. Less oblique than the name choice itself, but a refusal to concede that there was anyone else in his life. They had met the significant other in Steve’s life, once, and it had gone disastrously, but his mother, at least, usually gave a high-and-mighty air of politeness. The lack of acknowledgement in the address was subtle, but it had layers upon layers of aggression beneath it. The fact that his mother had done anything that wasn’t the epitome of politeness, of addressing Steve’s partner at all, was the most hostile his mother would ever overtly be.
Reason Number Three: The signature.
For all the pointedness of the address, it was this that stung the most. Not for what was there, what was there was the expected tone of token politeness and affection from his mother. But rather, it was what wasn’t there.
His father’s signature.
Christmas cards in the Harrington Household were run like a military operation. His mother had a carefully curated list upon which she kept careful notes about who to send the cards to, based upon a database of who had sent cards to them, (and anyone who hadn’t sent a card for two years in a row was ruthlessly culled from the list,) who to address it to, (yet another reason why the omission of Steve’s partner carried so much weight,) and their respective addresses. She would write them, often with some vague sentiment on the inside cover to the more ‘important’ recipients about how they ‘simply must catch up in the New Year sometime, we shall have you over for dinner,’ (a sentiment that would only manifest itself in the summer when his mother, in an annual fit of guilt, would remember that she had suggested this to no fewer than forty people and would throw a lavish garden party where she would invite them all over and spend five minutes with each of them and appease her guilt for another three hundred and sixty five days.) She would then hand the stack of cards over to Steve’s father, who would set aside an hour scrawling his name on cards with such efficiency he wouldn’t even stop to look at the names. He signed them all.
Which meant that his refusal to sign Steve’s card was deliberate.
Steve would have been less surprised if his dad had just written a swirly, semi-legible ‘George’ next to his mother’s name. It might even have hurt less. Because then at least, Steve would know that his mother had slipped it into the pile of a hundred other names and he could pretend that it was a perfectly honest mistake, his father just hadn’t read the name like he never did. But no, this… this complete void of white next to the tidy ‘Mom’ was deliberate enough that his father knew exactly who this card was for, had broken the flow of signing his name on everything that passed under his nose to toss the card, unsigned, to go through his mother’s cursory checks as she sealed each envelope, before standing his ground through the inevitable row that would follow where his mother would have insisted he sign the card, and to win the argument that followed.
If Steve had felt more kindly disposed towards his mother, he might have acknowledged that perhaps the solitary name at the top of the card might have been a ploy to encourage his father to sign it. It was going to Steve. Steven. Just Steven.
But no, his mother had ultimately conceded. Had sent the loaded bomb of passive aggression to the shitty third floor apartment sans his father’s signature in any form, a brutal reminder that his mother did in fact know where he lived, and that the lack of any visit since the blazing row ten months ago over Steve announcing that he was moving in with his partner – a row which had resulted in Steve losing his job as an intern in his dad’s company, getting cut off financially as well as becoming estranged from both parents beyond becoming another name only on the Christmas card list – was entirely deliberate.
Honestly, it would have been better if they hadn’t bothered sending a card at all.
He closed the card, putting the hateful object down on the table as he buried his face in his hands, taking a deep breath before looking over at the kitchen, wondering if nine thirty in the morning was too early to start drinking.
It was Christmas Day, he reasoned.
He walked over to the shelf comprised of bottles of alcohol ranging in quality from flavoured paint thinner and vinegar to one price bracket above terrible, pulling down a bottle of bourbon and pouring a generous measure into a glass as he heard the bedroom door creak open.
Billy emerged a second later, wearing his definition of pyjamas, which ultimately boiled down to an old pair of striped boxers, only worn because of the possibility of the neighbours in the next apartment block over seeing through the window. His hair was messy, the blonde curls sticking out at all angles as he blearily looked at Steve, a soft, slightly dopey smile on his face as Steve tried to force his own.
“Hey,” Billy murmured through a yawn. “Merry Christmas!”
Steve’s forced smile probably would have looked slightly more convincing if he’d managed to look Billy in the eyes. Billy’s bleary smile dropped as he finally saw the bourbon in Steve’s hand, a soft frown forming a crease between his eyebrows.
“Drinking already?” Billy tried to hitch the smile back into place. “Got to say, I like this as a Christmas tradition, but what’s up?”
“My mom sent me a Christmas card,” Steve muttered darkly as Billy grabbed a glass from the cupboard.
“Oh,” Billy sounded pleasantly surprised as he frowned, pouring himself his own measure. “That’s nice.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Billy finally looked up at the low growl at the back of Steve’s throat, frowning at Steve. When offered no explanation in the time taken for him to take a sip, he finally pressed the issue.
“Sorry if I’m being slow, it’s early in the morning after all, but… why isn’t it nice?”
Steve fixed Billy with a dark look.
“My mom sent me a Christmas card,” Steve repeated. “Just my mom, and just to me.”
Understanding finally smoothed out Billy’s expression as he finally closed his eyes.
“Right,” Billy nodded, finally spotting the offending article on the table. “Right, I’m with you.”
Billy flipped open the card as Steve settled at the other seat at the table, glaring out the window.
“Oh wow,” Billy muttered. “Steven!”
Steve gave an irritated huff. “Yeah, the passive aggressive bitch…”
Billy lifted his eyes up to Steve, eyebrows raised in surprise at the vehemence only seen after Steve had driven away from the house in Hawkins, words from his parents ringing in his ears.
“It’s one thing for you to be fooling around with this boy, but to move in with him? Do you seriously expect us to let you throw away your life, your future, and for what? So you can take it up the ass like the slut you are?”
“If we’d known where this unnatural obsession would lead, we would have stepped in a long time ago!”
“I do not understand where we went wrong with you, I really don’t!”
“Fine! Go! But don’t you dare come crawling back to us until you get rid of that man-whore! As long as you continue to carry on with him, you are no longer a part of this family!”
Ten months later, the words still stung.
Billy shut the card with a casual flip as Steve closed his eyes and threw what was left in his glass into his mouth, relishing the bitter taste that burned at the back of his throat. He grabbed the card and tossed it into the trashcan, letting the lid bang shut as he glared at it.
Billy watched him with an unreadable expression as he continued to glower at the lid of the trashcan that hid the masterpiece of passive aggression from sight, before deciding to walk over to the mantlepiece that housed a tiny, plastic Christmas tree. Two presents sat under it, both small enough to fit on the mantlepiece. Billy plucked one of the presents from under it and handed it to Steve, who blinked as the spell finally broke.
“What’s this?” Steve asked.
“Your Christmas present, dumbass,” Billy rolled his eyes as Steve stepped away from the trashcan and followed Billy over to the sofa.
“Bill, I thought we said-”
“Steve, the present you got me is over there under the tree too, so shut up,” Billy huffed. “Also, I’ll have you know I didn’t spend a dime on it.”
Steve fixed Billy with a soft, mildly disapproving look, the effect completely undone by the smile that he couldn’t hide crooking the corner of his lips. He peeled back the wrapping paper to reveal a small black leather box. Steve frowned at it, feeling a heavy sense of weighted anticipation as he prised open the lid, and froze.
Sat on a velvet cushion sat Billy’s St Christopher pendant.
Steve’s mouth completely forgot how to work, his whole jaw hanging slack as he gazed down at the small gold chain. The pendant was the last thing Billy had left of his mom, his mom who had vanished into the night and hadn’t spoken to Billy beyond a phone call from a payphone the following day… She had given the pendant to Billy for his ninth birthday. It was Billy’s most treasured possession, a necklace he barely took off when he was sleeping.
And he was giving it to Steve.
The necklace wasn’t the gift. Steve knew that – he knew exactly what the St Christopher pendant in the box meant to Billy. Steve knew that Billy knew that the necklace would never truly feel like Steve’s. But Steve also knew in a heartbeat that there was no way he could – or would – reject it.
“…It’s not really that big a deal,” Billy was saying – had he been speaking all this time? “Max found me the box, I think she cannibalised it from something Susan gave her – I wasn’t even going to bother wrapping it, but she insisted-”
“Billy,” Steve breathed, cutting him off, his mouth finally remembering how to work as he looked up at him, his eyes shining with disbelief.
Billy’s ramblings died on his lips as he met Steve’s eyes, a strange smile crooking his lips.
“This… this is your mom’s…” Steve stammered.
Billy finally broke eye contact, his smile widening as he shrugged, looking down. “Yeah, well… It’s not like I’m really giving it up, am I?” he muttered softly. “I’m just putting it around your neck in the morning rather than mine. It’s still staying in the… in the family…”
The word felt awkward as it hung between them, finally putting a voice to just what the real gift was.
“I mean…” Billy muttered, still not quite meeting Steve’s eyes. “If – if that’s what you want…”
Steve’s hands were trembling as he stared at Billy, who for all the world looked like he wanted to jump out the window.
“Billy,” Steve breathed again.
Finally, finally, Billy met his eyes. Billy’s face went from painfully uncomfortable to surprised at the enormous smile that Steve had no desire to contain spreading across his face.
“You – uh… you like it?” Billy’s own smile started to spread across his face, a nervous laugh giving a slightly hysterical edge to the question.
Steve gave his own laugh, a watery chuckle as he felt emotional tears spring into his eyes. “I love it, Bill,” he said. “Do you – do you want to-”
He offered out the box, letting Billy take the necklace out as he turned around. Billy’s hands couldn’t stop shaking as the nervous laugh finally eased the awkward energy that came with Billy expressing anything even remotely serious. He carefully threaded the chain around Steve’s neck, fastening it at the back of Steve’s neck.
“Do you want to – I don’t know – see how it looks on-”
“I don’t care how it looks,” Steve breathed as he turned around and pulled Billy into his arms. “I love you, Bill. I love you so much.”
Billy opened his mouth, perhaps to express a similar sentiment, but was cut off by Steve’s lips crashing against his. He leaned into the embrace, into the kiss, into Steve as he wrapped his arms around his shoulders. The Christmas card was forgotten, the box was forgotten, even the necklace was forgotten as they held each other.
“I can’t wait to do this every morning,” Billy murmured against Steve’s lips as they broke apart for the barest moment.
“Neither can I,” Steve murmured back. He pulled his head back long enough to stare into the bright blue depths, to take in Billy’s unabashed smile, the smile that even Steve only saw occasionally.
“Billy Hargrove,” Steve grinned, tears pricking his eyes. “You are the best family I ever could have asked for.”