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Historians will call them anything but.
Billy watches Harrington with his hair done well and his Adam’s apple tucking itself neatly beneath the skin, watches as the sting from the cigarette in his throat is not enough to heal the very obvious report on his own that it is simply not enough. Not enough satisfaction, and he wonders if Neil were to know about his thoughts, how disgusted the world would be. Perhaps Max would be kinder to him, but he resists the urge to let any hope escape the ragged landing of his tongue, mind muffled with thoughts too dangerous to further explore. “You treating me like a delicate date or what?” he lets out, the last few words drastically lower as he attempts to shake off the roughness in his voice, and Harrington drops the joint from his lips as it dangles loosely on his fingers, knuckles ripened from an unknown fight, bruised pink and yellow. Billy ignores the way his heart fumbles to get a grip on itself, too flustered with worrying emotions he does not usually associate himself with, greed a sudden involvement in his life his own partial motives barely stand biased to himself anymore.
“What, want me to be sweet, Hargrove? Didn’t take you for the expensive type,” Steve teases back with equality in his tone, body pushing off the wall as he presses his hand hard against Billy’s chest, and Billy feels the heat reach to the surface of his cheeks to blush, embarrassment as he trips over his feet into the wall behind him, back landing with a thud. A few fingers find its way into his hair, a careless tug by his ear, smoke filtering over his eyes as the cigarette dies out. Billy licks his lips, eyes shifting to stare over Steve’s shoulder, his own hand lifting to pat where a few ashes had crept to the denim of his jacket. A few words pass the border of his lips, murmurs he barely recalls processing in his head, but it passes enough as dirty talk for Steve to push him against the wall, arm pinning him steadily on the chest, and his lips are smiling against the open mouth of his own parted pair.
His teeth are strong as the rest of his body follows, hips pressing into where his own bone is just felt beneath his jeans, the grip of his hands on his waist and his jaw staining marks that even the strongest of ointments would pray to remove. Billy feels the way Steve tilts his head against him, gentle compared to every other somatic movement he has displayed so far, and further presses the soft fabric of his tongue against the gap of his lips. He wishes he could resist, but the gap widens with a fast swipe of Steve’s fingers over his hip bone, and he can taste the cheap flavour of the smoke prior to the encounter, cheap compared to the expensive rolls Billy would hog from the allowance he can get for himself. It tastes weak in every sense, an affectionate display of attempting to seem appropriate, and Billy finds the sickening sink of his stomach as he realises the feeling is the same as the thoughts soaking his brain.
He flips them over, his own hand reaching to press his thumb strongly on Steve’s inner thigh, melting as it felt the soft flesh over, his fingers following to rotate his stance so that his back was pressed against the failing bricks. All of his self-restraint poured itself away, tipping empty as tobacco dropped from the flick of Steve’s wrist as his cigarette falls from between his fingers, his head tilting upwards as Billy’s mouth lands open and raw against the exposed arrangement of his neck. Billy can feel his teeth scrape at a vein, softly nipping at the skin next to it, breath hot and sweaty as it breaks against the temptation of a bite, Steve’s hands straying to reach at Billy’s back. He pulls away enough so that he can lift Steve’s shirt, soft and breakable beneath his calloused fingers, folding to expose the pale sleeve of his stomach. But Billy’s eyes are still watching Steve’s expressions, morphing beneath his gaze, and he sees as his eyes open to watch him in return. There is a cheap lipstick stain still embodied into the open collar of his shirt, the faint trace of a romance lingering where the marks ends in a shamble of lines half-smudged from slips of soap.
He can tell that he knows.
“Look,” Harrington says, as if he knows Billy well, and Billy can feel his feet crumble from where he stands and the high running off of him, confidence blowing away like a brief breeze, “I know we’re in it for a good fuck. Got rules and all, but Billy,” and he stops for a moment, panting as Billy leans forward into him, pressing his weight onto the sensitive area of his collarbone, tongue holding him down, fingers grounding his hips to stop from jerking upwards. “Billy, fucking hell, you know how much I fucking want to be more. Please, please, please,” Harrington says, and he begs for once in his life for something far too expensive to buy, his hands back in Billy’s hair as they tug once again, shuffling in the soft curls as if they are met with peace for their life. Billy figures he has, grabbing Steve’s other hand, and his teeth grazes the delicate skin of his knuckles where the blemishes are still dried with blood as their supplement. “Please.”
His breath is still warm and expensive against Steve’s cuts, and he feels him shiver slightly, his hips failing to move despite Billy holding him down with only one hand. But it keeps him stilled, as if he is waiting, and the words that are still soaking Billy’s sanity like a sponge finally empty, pouring onto his tongue to find syllables to say. “‘Kay, yeah, boyfriends, right?” He says finally, shifting his eyes to watch Steve’s face, and it settles smoothly into a place not creased and perfectly content. There is a cheap smile, and Billy resists the urge to push him over and kiss it away with bruises to last the rest of the season.
“Secret boyfriends,” Harrington offers, as if it sounds better, and Billy lets the scoff thrill his throat as he presses himself against him, nose awkwardly chafing against the bare surface of Harrington’s jaw. “Definitely.” He brings his lips back to cover his, Steve melting into the hold he has on him, muscles deflating into a nothingness paling to compare to the strength Billy uses on him, fingers moving downwards until all they can see are stars.
There is a stupid conversation replaying in his head, of Steve talking about the belts and whatnots about how the darkness of the sky allows the sentiments of the galaxy shine through.
From where the light burns away from their naked bodies in the dark, Billy cannot believe what he thinks about stupid science and stupid school anymore. He, for once, is thankful that the Earth spins on its axis to give them enough hours of secrecy. Everything all makes sense, as if the universe has passed him a ball and he could finally get it in the hoop. A loud cheer buzzes in his ear, Billy letting his thoughts astray as Steve’s name drops from his lips, so empty and bare. He feels nude, despite the fact his shirt is ripped and his jeans unzipped, Steve too unfit for a public display.
Billy wants to display him, and he roughly pulls at the remaining parts of Steve’s inner shirt, the singlet falling apart at the last attachment by the thin string it hangs on. “Careful,” Harrington chuckles, his laugh cheap and genuine. Billy hates cheap, but he finds it appealing on Steve, as if he wears the title fit with a pride. “Sure, sure, King Steve.”
It rests like a mock as he finds the loose part of Steve’s pants, pulling it down so that it just rests where his underwear starts to show, hand dropping to his side to gather their belongings close enough to his body. “Get in, King Steve,” he says, pulling him closer as they fall limp into the passenger seat of his car.
“Yeah, yeah, Hargrove.”
But history hates lovers.