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The divorce was finalized around Christmas, which is when Steve resolved to tell Robin. Not about him and Nance—she’d been the first one he called post-Talk—but about the whole… latent attraction to men… thing?
Obviously, she’d be understanding and supportive and all, but he hadn’t wanted to hash it out over the phone before he felt on firmer ground. Had actual answers for the inevitable questions.
Robin always flew in for the holidays, always attended the New Year’s party at his parents’ place, so he thought he’d have plenty of opportunity.
He hadn’t accounted for Robin having also hidden certain developments, such as upgrading her on-again off-again fuckbuddy to girlfriend status. Serious girlfriend status, seeing as how she brought her home to meet the family.
So it wasn’t until New Year’s Eve that he let the cat out of the bag—or rather, the cat clawed its way out of the bag, hissing and scratching, a minute to midnight, when Carol off-handedly offered up her husband for Steve to smooch when the clock ran out.
And Robin could tell she wasn’t joking—Carol was, in fact, leering.
“You—and Tommy?” she stage whispered, bug-eyed, as the TV led the surrounding guests in the countdown, from ten, nine, eight… “Since when? Since—what?”
“No,” Steve exclaimed, waving his hands. “Since never.”
“Since August.” Tommy clapped his shoulder, smarmy grin stretched wide. “Been helping Stevie here discover himself.”
“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”
“Go on,” Carol called, goading, and Steve rolled his eyes, let Tommy tug him down by the neck, and kissed his smirking lips. Carol cheered, clapping. “Start the year off right.”
“They’re swingers,” Steve tried to explain, undertone, to temper Robin’s mounting indignation as Tommy swanned over to Carol and lay one on her, too. “I just needed to… figure some stuff out.”
While Robin was still assembling a response, Serious Girlfriend Joan was eying Carol up and down.
“Which way does she swing?”
Snapped out of the shock, Robin huffed. “We are not having a threesome with Carol.”
Overhearing, arms looped lazy around Tommy, Carol arched her brow. “Who said you were invited?”
Joan snorted, Robin flushing red with vengeance, and the night devolved from there.
They woke up at the Hagans the following morning, the threesome entwined in the master bedroom, Steve spooning Tommy on the living room couch.
“You’re being careful?” Robin asked, slumped against Joan in the backseat, after milking him for details all the way to the airport.
“Yeah,” Steve replied. “So far it’s just been Tommy.”
“Careful with your heart, too?” she pushed. “You’re not the type to—”
“I know.” Steve flicked his hand, dismissive. “It’s fine. Tommy’s just… Tommy.”
~~~
And he was—the same old shit-stirrer, just as impulsive and rowdy, though the mean streak had mercifully mellowed. Tommy was Tommy: familiar and comfortable and more than happy to stand-in as test dummy for Steve’s fumbling first times with a guy.
They’d hooked up occasionally since Steve made the move back to Hawkins, transferring to the local office, where the mindless corporate culture was more muted. Nance had stayed in Indianapolis, working her way up the ranks at the newspaper. She’d kept the condo in the city, and Steve was renting an apartment in town.
“You sure you’re okay… living there?” Nance had asked, skeptical.
What with the place crawling with the ghosts of untold interdimensional horrors, she meant.
And sure, passing the turn-off for the mall or hearing a strange noise at night set off the odd chill down his spine, goosebumps prickling, heart thumping, but… he didn’t want to leave. Couldn’t explain it.
Billy’s number was tucked in his wallet, burning a hole in the leather. Steve hadn’t used it—didn’t want to abuse the privilege. In case you need to talk about this shit, Billy had said. Gay shit, he meant, and Steve hadn’t yet felt lost enough to justify dialing. To finish dialing.
He’d seen Hargrove around, though—at the grocery store, or behind the counter at Melvald’s, or leaving a meeting at the church Wednesday evenings, or jogging alongside a shaggy brown dog that turned out belonged to Max. And if their eyes locked, they’d exchange a wave, a nod, maybe trade brief small talk that Steve would pat himself on the back for, afterward, if he’d managed to seem normal and well-adjusted.
They’d even socialized a couple times, in group settings. Like at the cookout in Tommy’s backyard, a couple weeks after the Hagans had invited Steve onto the swingset—Tommy standing still with a teasing smile while Steve decided whether or not to kiss him for science—and Steve had happened to drift into Billy’s orbit again and again.
“How’s Max?” Steve had asked, when they had a moment of relative privacy by the coolers, Billy digging for a can of Coke, passing Steve a beer. “How’s her mom doing?”
“Hanging in there,” Billy said, and Steve wasn’t sure whether he meant Max, her mom, or both. “Chemo’s rough.”
Steve winced in sympathy. Billy hadn’t specified what was ailing her, when he mentioned it at the diner.
“Are you—living with them, still?”
“Crashing at Munson’s. He lives across the way.” Billy grimaced, rueful. “His uncle passed from the same thing couple years ago, so. He wanted to help.”
Feeling acutely useless, but just as earnest: “Anything I can do? To help?”
For the first me, Billy’s eyes swung his way and stayed, rather than flit restlessly around, and Steve fought not to look at his mouth because this wasn’t about that, this was about—
“I’ll let you know,” Billy said, and turned back to his can. Took a long gulp.
“Good,” Steve said, and did watch his throat bob. Figured, since they’d already broken the seal on soul-bearing and secrets, it was safe to ask. “Are you doing okay? With—everything?”
Billy smacked his lips, brows raised. “Dunno about everything. Pretty gutted about Princess Di.”
An effective redirection, since Steve was pretty gutted, too. This disproportionate ache whenever he thought of her gone from the world—though she’d hardly registered for him before beyond her stalwart status as some distant icon.
He found himself nodding, emphatic. “Like I can feel the absence in the air. And it feels wrong.”
Billy toasted to that, lifting his Coke, and the clink of can on beer bottle sent a thrill of warmth through the nerves.
So when he assured Robin he was being careful, Steve had meant it. He was hyper aware that his tendency to form attachments at the drop of a hat had struck again, probably the very moment Hargrove had walked into that diner to amend what hadn’t even needed fixing.
That was why he’d been scratching the itch with Tommy, not Billy. Because this attachment wasn’t something to blunder into and hope for the best, the way he usually did—for a couple reasons, first being that Steve was still finding his legs, fresh from a decade of married life that seemed an alternate universe now that it was behind him.
Second, and more importantly, in his mind, was that Billy was clearly finding his legs, too. This town had tried to kill him, once upon a time, and Billy had come close to finishing the job himself, sounded like—yet here he was, trying to do right by a family that had done him wrong, working hard to build something better, something good.
And Steve wouldn’t—he couldn’t mess with that. No matter what. Not until he was sure they were steady on their feet.
~~~
The first Monday of 1998, Steve drove out to Forest Hills with a bag of groceries, the way he’d been doing every Monday since around Thanksgiving, when it occurred to him that maybe he didn’t need to wait for Billy to let him know how he could help—Steve could just… help. Or try to.
He’d gone with ready-made meals that would keep in the freezer, some prepared food from the deli, a rotisserie chicken, that kind of thing. Minimal effort affairs. He’d been bracing for Billy to resist out of pride—partly why Steve had restricted himself to one bag—but to his surprise, Billy had accepted without fuss, with a simple thanks, passed the bag off to Max at the door.
Max’s mom was never feeling up for visitors, but sometimes the three of them, Max, Billy, and Steve, would chat for a bit at Munson’s when Steve came around. It was nice—and good for Max, he thought, to get away from caregiver duties.
That Monday, Steve had something extra in the bag. Oreos for Max, and sitting on top—
“What’s this?” Billy asked, catching sight of the ball of yarn in varying shades of blue.
“Ah, for Christmas, I guess,” Steve replied, trying to sound casual. “You said you liked to… crochet?”
Billy stared at the yarn for a solid beat. “Thanks,” he said, and Steve exhaled, relieved, waving him off when Billy added, “Sorry—I didn’t get you anything.”
“I mean, neither did I, really,” Steve reasoned. “An actual present would’ve been—like, a hat. Not the stuff to make the hat. And—” Steve regretted the words even as they tumbled from his mouth, already cringing. “I never got you back for giving me—your number. In case I needed it.”
Squinting, Billy tilted his chin. “Which… you haven’t.”
“I might!” Steve protested. “You never know.”
Billy shifted the bag on his hip. Said nothing. A lot of nothing.
“Anyway.” Steve cleared his throat. “Hope the holidays were—happy as possible.”
Billy nodded. “Yeah. You, too.” A flicker of mischief quirked his mouth. “Any New Year’s Resolutions?”
“A few.” His heart tripped, spilling nonsense. “If I tell you, they won’t come true.”
That got an actual smile, wry, fondly mocking. Fondly. “That’s not how it works.”
Grinning, lighter than air, Steve spun toward his car, hands shoved in his coat pockets, and threw back, “I guess we’ll find out.”
