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When Harrington opens his door, disgruntled and a little confused, his first words aren’t “Hey what the fuck” or “go away.” Instead, his brow wrinkles adorably as he says, “Billy? What are you doing here?” So Billy’s already doing better than he’d hoped.
As for what he’s doing knocking on Harrington’s door at four in the afternoon on their third day of summer break, he thought that was obvious.
“Well, it’s hot as fucking balls out,” Billy starts, and Harrington winces in sympathy. “Tommy said you got a pool, so I thought I might use it to cool off or, you know, drown myself.”
This time, Harrington’s grimace doesn’t look sympathetic so much as involuntary and unpleasant, but he shrugs it off like he didn’t want Billy to see, so Billy keeps his mouth shut.
“Right,” Harrington says slowly, “because we’re friends now, or something?”
Billy gets Harrington’s skepticism, he does. Not even a year ago, he’d smashed a plate over the guy’s head, for Christ’s sake. But the thing is, aren’t they friends? Or at least, Harrington’s the closest thing Billy’s got to a friend. Their animosity in basketball practice doesn’t usually get physical these days, and they eat lunch at the same table sometimes. Hell, Harrington’s bummed cigarettes off Billy under the bleachers, when Billy has a study hall and he knows Harrington’s supposed to be in sixth period US History. If that isn’t friendship, Billy doesn’t know what is.
“Yeah, ‘cause we’re friends,” he says, all charming smile and soulful gaze. Harrington rolls his eyes, but steps back to let Billy inside the house. Billy very carefully does not shiver as their hands brush in passing.
Of course, the Harringtons have AC because they’re stupid rich. It’s not turned up very high, though, because the house isn’t exactly at a temperature that Billy would call comfortable. He indicates the thermostat and raises an eyebrow. Harrington shrugs.
“I don’t know, I guess I feel bad about using it too much. Don’t want to strain the power grid,” he says. Of course Harrington’s got a fucking complex about that shit. Whatever. Billy’ll let him roast alive in his own house if that’s what he wants.
“Suit yourself,” he says, clapping his hands. “Now where’s this pool that I came all this way for?”
“‘Thanks for inviting me in, Steve,’” Harrington mutters under his breath as he starts walking through the house, Billy trailing a few steps behind. “‘You’re such a gracious host.’ ‘You’re welcome, Billy. It’s a pleasure to have your company.’”
“A pleasure, huh?” Billy asks, unassuming except for the exaggerated way he leers at Harrington, who simply rolls his eyes again. He points to the back of the living room, where a sliding glass door opens onto a spacious backyard. Off to the left, Billy can just see the edge of what looks like concrete. “Harrington, you’re my hero,” he says, and he’s not even joking that much. He pushes past Harrington, making a beeline for the pool as soon as he gets outside. His shirt’s already tossed on one of the lawn chairs, jeans soon to follow, when Harrington pipes up behind him.
“Where’s your swimsuit?” he asks. When Billy turns to look at him, he’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.
“Come on, King Steve,” he says, eyebrow raised just a tad suggestively. “Never done a little skinny dipping?”
Harrington’s face flushes bright pink at that, poor, innocent little thing. For half a second Billy thinks he’s gonna fight him, insist that Billy is not in fact allowed to swim nude in his backyard, but all he says is, “If you piss in my pool, I’m making you run home naked.”
Billy throws his head back and laughs before sliding out of his pants and boxers and diving gracefully into the pool. When he resurfaces, shaking the water out of his eyes, he finds Harrington looking stoically in the opposite direction. “No need to protect my modesty, Stevie. Nothin’ you haven’t seen in the locker room.”
Harrington glances back at him and smiles, but it looks tight. He’s kind of pale, too, not just corn-fed Indiana white boy pale but not as rosy as he should be considering how hot it is out here. And Billy had thought, maybe hoped, that Harrington’d come swim with him, but he hasn’t even taken a step toward the pool.
“You look a little warm, Harrington,” Billy calls to get his attention. His best method of getting Harrington to do anything is still goading him into it, so he allows a bit of a challenge to seep into his tone when he says, “You should come in. Water’s nice.”
But Harrington just gives him the same tight smile and steps fully outside, closing the sliding door behind him. “I think I’m good here, thanks,” he responds, settling on the lawn.
Billy keeps an eye on him as he drifts about the pool. Harrington seems fucking wired, fingers tapping on his leg, knee bouncing against the grass. And it’s like he can’t look at Billy too often, but can’t stand to not look at him for long either. He’s not trying to sneak a peek while Billy’s attention is elsewhere; he knows what that looks like, knows what it feels like. Harrington would be avoiding his eyes, casting about for something, anything else to look at, blushing red all the way to his chest probably. But Harrington doesn’t balk from Billy’s gaze, and when he isn’t looking his eyes are fixed on something in the distance, not flitting around. Even though his behavior is controlled, there’s something frantic about the actions, like Harrington’s just waiting for an excuse to vibrate out of his skin.
“You alright?” Billy asks, crossing his arms on the edge of the pool. Harrington startles at the sound of his voice, as though he forgot Billy was there despite his constant vigilance.
“What? Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, but Billy’s not convinced. There’s a waver to his voice, an edge that most people probably wouldn’t pick up on except Billy’s trained himself to notice little cues like that. It’s a self-defense mechanism most of the time. He doesn’t usually have to use it like this.
But if Harrington doesn’t want to talk, Billy can’t make him. “Whatever you say,” he drawls, slipping under the water after. It’s nice around his head, cool and soothing. He feels almost weightless, probably because his hair is drifting around him, supported by the water. With his eyes closed, he can almost imagine he’s back in California instead of Bumfuck Nowhere, Hickville. The illusion lasts as long as he can hold his breath.
When Billy breaks the surface, splashing and sucking in a lungful of Midwest summer air, Harrington flinches back like the water burned him. His face is white as a sheet. Billy doesn’t even know when he got so close to the pool.
“The hell is wrong with you?” he asks, and he tries not to sound angry, he really tries, because he’s not accusing Harrington, he genuinely wants to know. Doesn’t matter much, because Harrington throws himself backward anyway.
“Don’t—it’s nothing, just. You were down there for a long time,” he says. “I had to make sure you were okay.” This time, he doesn’t even sound like he convinced himself.
“Okay? In the seven foot deep pool in your backyard?” Billy asks, hoisting himself onto the concrete. He might not understand, but something about him swimming in that pool is agitating Harrington, and not in the fun way. Besides, he thinks he might want pants on for this conversation.
Harrington turns his back as soon as Billy emerges fully, but after a moment of fidgeting, he glances over his shoulder, almost like he can’t let Billy out of his sight. Or, Billy thinks as he tracks the movement of Harrington’s eyes, maybe it isn’t him.
Maybe it’s the pool.
As soon as he buttons his jeans, Billy pulls Harrington gently away from the water. They end up standing on the grass, Harrington’s back to the house so that he can check up on the pool every five seconds. He’s wringing his hands now, Billy notes with some concern.
“Hey, something’s going on with you,” he starts, hand on Harrington’s shoulder, trying to be open or comforting or whatever the fuck it is he’s supposed to be. He’s not good at this, never has been. “You can… talk to me,” he finishes lamely.
Harrington looks at Billy, really looks at him, for the first time since greeting him at the front door, and there’s something in Harrington’s big brown eyes that makes Billy’s blood run cold, something dark, something afraid.
Something haunted.
“No, I can’t,” he says with a sad little smile. At least he’s not denying it anymore. Billy wonders if Harrington’s aware of how much he’s leaning into the hand on his shoulder, thinks probably not.
“Hey, I won’t tell,” Billy says, holding up his free hand in a show of peace. “I’m great at keeping secrets.”
“I’m sure you are,” Harrington responds, the smile slipping off his face, “but I actually, legally can’t. I had to sign a shit ton of NDAs, and if anyone finds out I’ve told you anything, they’ll—”
“Know why we moved to this shithole town?” Billy’s mouth is moving faster than his brain. He didn’t consent to interrupting Harrington, definitely didn’t consent to bringing this up, but he did it for a reason. His heart thuds in his chest. Now that he’s started them down this path, he knows he’ll see it through to the end.
He’s a little terrified of that.
For Harrington’s part, he just looks confused. “No? I mean, if this is an attempt to prove that you can keep your mouth shut—”
“My old man,” and Billy feels his lip curl at the words, “caught me. Blowing my best friend. He said Cali was too open, too liberal or whatever, that it was making me queer, that he wouldn’t raise a faggot for a son. So he dragged us all out here, hoping the good old conservative Midwest would fix me. It didn’t, case you were wondering. Fix me.”
He manages to cut himself off there, manages to hold back the other half of the confession threatening to spill out, that he looks at Steve’s lips wrapped around a cigarette and wonders what they’d feel like against his own, that his eyes follow Steve all fucking day, that his attempts to rile and antagonize him at the beginning of the year were really just him screaming look at me, goddamn it, notice me!
When Billy finally gets out of his own head, it’s to see Steve blinking at him, mouth open in a little “o” of surprise. Billy’s never wanted to kiss him so bad.
“So, there,” he says instead. “You’ve got insurance. If I spill anything you tell me, you can take that story to the fuckin’ papers and ruin my life.” He’s trying so hard to come off casual, to bury the bone-deep fear that telling this secret elicits, but it’s not working. He knows it’s not working.
“I would never do that,” Steve says, painfully earnest, and suddenly he’s so much closer, filling Billy’s entire field of vision. “I need—I need you to understand that. No matter what you do, or what you’ve done, or anything else, I would never tell anyone. Okay? I’ll take that to my grave if you want me to. I swear on my life.”
Something about the way he says it, the intensity maybe, the depth of emotion, scares Billy more than the thought of being outed did. Steve is serious, he realizes. He’d die before selling Billy out to anyone.
Billy’s not sure he deserves that kind of loyalty.
“It better not come to that, pretty boy,” he says, because he can’t say what he wants to, can’t say thank you and I’ll die for you before you die for me and please, please hear what I didn’t tell you.
Steve nods, the self-sacrificing son of a bitch, and Billy feels relief flood his chest. At least this, this misplaced faith or pity or whatever the fuck it is won’t get Steve killed. He’ll make sure of it himself if he has to.
But then Steve kind of curls in on himself, wrapping his arms around his stomach, not looking Billy in the eye, and he’s just started thinking maybe he shared too much, maybe he’s fundamentally damaged their friendship, maybe he should go, when Steve blurts out, “I kissed Tommy.”
It’s Billy’s turn to blink in shock. “I’m sorry, what?”
Steve fidgets, staring down at his shoes. “When we were like, thirteen,” he starts, shifting from foot to foot. Billy wants to remind him to plant his feet, can’t decide if he wants to scream or whisper it, when Steve does. He settles down, feet anchored slightly apart, arms pulled up to cross over his chest, and stares defiantly at Billy’s face. “When we were thirteen, I kissed him. I never did it again, and he never told anyone, and I’ve—I’ve tried not to think about it, really, but I know. I’ve known since then.”
Billy runs a hand across his forehead. “I swear to God, if you’re fucking with me, or—or lying in some fucked up attempt to make me feel better—”
“Not lying,” Steve interrupts, laying a hand on Billy’s forearm, pulling it down. “This isn’t… the best place to be like this,” he says, and Billy snorts.
“Yeah, no shit.”
“So I wouldn’t lie about it. Not to you.”
For a moment, a sweet, dangerous moment, Billy lets himself feel special, like there’s a category set aside just for him in Steve’s mind. Like maybe he’s got a sliver of hope, a prayer of a chance with him. But he can’t let that train leave the station. He’ll lose his fucking mind if he does.
“Well,” he breathes, more to break the silence than anything else. “That’s a real bomb to drop on someone, Harrington.”
“Like you didn’t just do the same thing to me,” Steve fires back, and he’s close to laughing, and Billy feels a grin, a real one, tugging at the corner of his mouth, and everything’s almost okay for a single moment. Then a breeze blows through, disturbing the pool enough that water slaps against its side. The sound echoes like a gunshot through the backyard. Billy watches the blood drain out of Steve’s face so fast he worries he’s gonna pass out, hands flying to his waist of their own accord as Steve jerks his head around like he’s trying to give himself whiplash.
Billy’d almost forgotten about the goddamn pool.
He snatches his hands away before Steve turns back to him, that same destroyed, haunted look in his eyes. “I wasn’t lying about that either,” he says softly. “I really did have to sign a ridiculous amount of NDAs, and I can’t tell you everything.”
“Hey, it’s okay,” Billy says, trying for comforting again. It’s working better this time, he thinks. “You don’t have to tell me.” Knowing about whatever happened doesn’t seem as important now as it did five minutes ago.
“No, it’s—” Steve starts, then sniffs, swipes the heel of his hand against the corner of his eye. Billy suddenly feels out of his depth, like he’s bitten off more than he can chew and he doesn’t even know what exactly he’s bitten into yet. “Like, two years ago, a girl—she died. In my pool.”
Jesus fucking Christ. Billy wasn’t prepared for that. He couldn’t have been prepared for that. “Shit, Steve.” His joke about drowning himself earlier comes back to him like a slap in the face.
“Yeah,” Steve replies, laughing humorlessly. He scrubs at his eyes again, tears smearing high on his cheekbones so they don’t have the chance to fall.
“What was her name?” Billy asks gently. Steve looks taken aback, like it’s not something he’s used to hearing, like people don’t usually bother to ask.
“Barb,” he says, then takes a deep breath and it’s like the floodgates have opened. “And it’s like, I know it’s not gonna happen again, but—but what if it does? What if everyone who goes in that pool dies? What if… what if I could have done something? What if I could have stopped it?” He’s whispering by the end, eyes rolled up and blinking rapidly, trying to stop the tears before they have a chance to start.
Billy knows. He’s done that a hundred times.
Before he lets himself think it over, talk himself out of it, he pulls Steve close. His arms wrap around Steve’s shoulders, stiff with surprise, and he ignores the way Steve’s hands are trapped between their bodies. He’s still shirtless, but dry as a bone thanks to this God-forsaken heatwave. “I’m here,” he breathes, because he swam in that pool and came out just fine. “I’m here,” because he told Steve something he swore to himself he would never speak of again, and Steve told him something he really wasn’t supposed to, and neither of them ran away.
Slowly, the tension bleeds out of Steve’s shoulders. He moves his hands, tentatively circling his arms around Billy’s waist. Billy feels it as Steve buries his face into his shoulder, feels the moment he lets go and the tears start sliding hot and wet all over Billy’s skin, Steve’s blunt fingernails digging into his lower back. He tightens his grip in response, pressing his own face against Steve’s neck. They’re not okay, either one of them, but he thinks that maybe they can figure out how to be okay together.