Work Text:
They had been smoking that day when the jean jacket had been draped around his shoulders. He looked a bit surprised, knowing that it was Billy’s favorite. Before he could question anything, the blonde answered, "It looks better on you, Harrington."
Steve only smiled that day, but damn if he had only said more.
Now here he was, the previously hot water pelting his back as he tried not to think about it. The only words he would ever get to say is at Billy's tombstone. He'd never get to feel those calloused hands tracing the scars of his body again. He'd never get to stare into those Caribbean blue eyes again. He'd never get to hear that sleepy groan when Steve had to wake him up so he could get back home again. He'd never get to card his fingers throughnthe blonde curls or run his hands over the muscles in his back or-
Shit, he was panicking again wasn't he? His chest was hurting again..
Steve scrambled to grab the shampoo bottle in the corner. He didn't use it for anything but to smell so his mind could drift away to the better memories. To the times where Billy was still there, sneaking around at midnight for a quick smoke, or a movie or a night of passion followed by a morning of tenderness...
How stupid of him.
It was always too good to be true. Why would Steve ever get that? He's not worth the trouble. He never was. He was just the rich boy people used as a get away. A quickie. An escape. He wasn't worth much else to people. He was useless.
No. No, no, wait. Billy wouldn't want to hear that. No, Billy would get mad. Billy would tell him to pull his head out of his ass and look at the silver lining. Billy showed him a kind of love that you don't find often. Billy loved him. And he loved Billy.
But Billy isn't here, and Steve couldn't find the silver linings.
The silent reminder had him curling in on himself. He hadn't even bothered to get out of the shower. He'd probably get sick soon with how cold the water was. He should probably get out, but he couldn't find the strength. How pathetic...
If Billy was here he'd come in with a warm towel and a firm voice, telling him to get hell up and into his arms. Telling him to snap out of it and remember what was important. Reminding Steve that he was loved and needed.
'Billy isn't here, remember? Of course you do. It was your fault. You abandoned him when he needed you most. How worthless..."
That voice again..
But what could he do but listen? It was right. It was all his fault. If he hadn't gone and chased some stupid Russian code he'd still have Billy Hargrove.
But no.
He chased the fucking code.
He lost Billy Hargrove.
He was never getting Billy Fucking Hargrove back.
It was all his fault.
His fault...
Steve didn't remember throwing up, but he could still taste the bile. He didn't remember stumbling into his bedroom, but here he was, wrapped in the safety and comfort of Billy's favorite jean jacket sprayed in Billy's cologne. He didn't know what he was going to do now. He felt like a piece of himself had been torn out. Like an exposed wound, still tender to the touch.
......
How did he get in the graveyard?
He was dirty.
Did he sleep walk?
His skin was all scratched and bruised.
Did he run through the woods?
Oh.
Billy's grave.
The dirt was still fresh.
How ironic.
Steve sat on the grave. His pants were already dirty, what did he care? He stayed silent. In a way he hoped Billy would just pop out and ask what was wrong. Of course that was just a silly fantasy. That could never happen.
Billy was dead after all.
Remember Steve?
Remember that it's your fault?
Of course you do! How could you not?
Oh! Oh! Remember when Robin was worried about you? Or the kids? HAH! They probably think you're insane! They don't care about you! You're just another set of weights in their hands! You're worthless!
Worthless!
His chest hurts.
Worthless.
It hurts so bad..
Worthless..
Someone please take the pain away..
"Steve."
What?
"Steve, look up at me."
Why is that voice so familiar?
"Steve, baby, please, look up."
Steve looked up as the familiar voice said and was getting by a familiar worried face.
"Billy..?" His eyes widened enough to make dinner plates jealous. "But you're-"
"Dead. I know."
Billy's figure was surrounded by a soft light. Not bright enough to hurt the eyes, but enough to soothe a troubled mind. Or maybe it was just Billy's presence that did that. At least his chest didn't hurt anymore.
"Steve, you need to get to a hospital."
Steve shook his head violently. "No..No! I don't want to leave you again! I can't!"
"Steve, your heart can't take this.."
"I don't care! I don't want to go back if you're not there!" Great, he was crying again. "I need your stupid jokes, and your crooked smile, and your fucking voice..I need you back, Billy.. I can't.. I just.."
By now it was too late for Steve.
"Take my hand... let's go home, baby."
.......
Nearly all of Hawkins was at the funeral. It was raining while they tossed the dirt on top of Steve's coffin, right next William Hargrove.
Max would swear on everything she loved and held dear that she saw and heard two men running through the woods that day, laughing and smiling without a care in the world.
One looked like Billy Hargrove, with his tawny curls and carribean blue eyes.
The other looked like Steve Harrington, with his bright doe eyes and shining smile again.
Max smiled to herself. Steve was home again, and that's all that mattered.