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The thick heat of sleep engulfed you after an hour of trying, dreading work the next day. You had been unconscious for a mere 4 hours when you began to stir. Cold air slipped past what was exposed of your face and then vanished. Something loud sounded through the room. Of all the things that happened that could’ve woken someone up, what made you jolt your eyes open, and you thought this was pretty reasonable, was someone saying ‘shit’ very quietly.
You were very still at first, terrified, but you sat up and quickly reached for the drawer that held your knife at your bedside table. A lamp turned on across the room as you slid your hand around the hilt of the knife. You gasped and shot your eyes over at whoever had done it.
No way. You squinted at the bright light—no way you weren’t just dreaming. Your heart was still going nuts, and you were speechless. You dropped the knife, raising your arms in exasperation and then letting them fall back on the bed.
At your squint, he turned the lamp off, but you had seen him already, he wasn’t trying to hide. Billy, 7 feet across the room and approaching you as if you were a wild animal. You met him in school when you were both in 9th grade, and he was a goofy, good friend of yours until he kinda wasn’t. He slipped in and out of your life several times before moving away two years ago, and he had even called you over three times in his absence. You knew, unprying, vaguely what went on at home for him, he was barely in any of your classes in 11th grade, but you still heard about the fights he got into and the drugs he passed around.
When he would sneak up behind you on your walk home from school and pretend nothing had changed, you accepted it with open arms, taking what you could get and giving him what you thought he might not have been getting from anywhere else, normalcy. You were there when he showed up, and you never pushed him. You told him once that he could talk to you whenever he needed to. He disappeared for a few months after that, but eventually came knocking on your door in a monsoon, wet with just water, tender and quiet. He cried that night when the power went out, and his face was pink when you could see it again.
You wanted him quietly, trained not to be a burden, but especially for him. His eyes, His gentle hands when he needed you to move out of his way, and when you were dazed with your gaze away from him, turning you towards him. It was the most frustrating thing in your life at times.
When you first witnessed one of the fights with your own eyes, you were deeply disturbed. He knocked on your door days later like you hadn’t seen it happen, but you didn’t answer. He called your house late, asking ‘what did I do?’. He didn’t know you’d seen.
You didn’t hide your feelings about the situation, you remember saying something very short-handed, about how you’d seen the fight and it was fucked up, it was wrong and you felt conflicted. He was quiet, beginning to speak a few times but never finishing his words, he finally said he had to go after about a minute of weird silences and stuttering. He left you alone for a couple more months.
Christmas rolled around and he handed you a wrapped box as you dug in your locker. You opened it to find a couple of band t-shirts for groups he knew you liked. He was acting weird when you opened it, smoking a cigarette which you’d never seen him do, looking over his shoulder in the empty hallway you were in, as if making sure no one saw the interaction.
He asked if he could walk you home.
“Are you still getting into fights?” You asked.
He looked away. Subtly uncomfortable.
“I don’t want to be involved with someone who does what you do to people. I miss you, but you need to get your shit figured out and call me when you’re done.” You touched his face—disgusted, but so sad, almost fighting sympathy.
He had turned into this violent bully, and the good in him that he handed to you was heart-wrenching. You didn’t know how to help him and didn’t want to stand for what he was doing.
You didn’t speak with him until October of the next year, when he came around to tell you he was leaving and that he hadn’t started a fight since February. You asked him why. He said he didn’t know, hugged you, and left.
The phone calls felt like dreams. He was drunk the second time, and he called you baby. You still felt conflicted, totally in the dark about what kind of person he was when he wasn’t around you, wasn’t on his knees giving you all his attention, at your door, your locker, your class, your route home, and now, since he was gone, on the phone, a thick voice saying he wanted to see you.
‘Who are you?’ You whispered. You asked him how he was, and if he was doing better, he seemed to imply that he was doing more drugs, drinking more, and trying to avoid his dad. Withholding, but never lying. ‘How’s Max?’, you had asked.
’She’s good, she’s got friends here. Dad leaves her alone.’
You didn’t know what to say to that. ‘…I’m sorry, Bill.’
’Not your fault, baby.’
It audibly took your breath away. Ever since you picked up the phone and his voice came through, your emotional state was becoming more and more unstable. You panicked and told him you had a new apartment. He asked for the address and you gave it to him on the spot.
So here today, almost four in the morning, you hadn’t heard from him in months, hadn’t seen him in far longer, he looked so different, and you couldn’t be mad. You sighed and put a hand over your sternum, trying to calm down.
“Billy. What the hell.” You huffed, shutting the drawer on your bedside with your other hand.
“I know,” He laughed. The nerve, you thought.
“No, what the hell, why this hour, why my window, why are you in California?” You leaned towards him as he sat down on your bed with his outside jeans.
“I just got here. And you weren’t answering the door.” He smelled like tobacco, and he just dodged most of your questions. You looked at him, outraged and expectant.
“Well? What the fucks’ that supposed to mean? why are you in California?” you asked again.
He only smiled. He looked so happy. The smile turned into a grin, and all of a sudden, you were sidetracked and looking straight at it, trying not to smile along with him. “What?” You asked quietly. He closed his eyes, and his left hand slid over to the sheets on the other side of your legs. He was close now, and you could tell where the tobacco smell was coming from. “Why are you so happy?” He didn’t answer.
“Your jacket reeks-“ you started, and he began to take it off immediately. “Oh my god, if you’re just gonna be silent and strip, I’m going back to bed.” You lay back down on your back, yanking at the covers where he sat on them, and blinked very slowly and genuinely now that the adrenaline had slightly worn off. He laughed again, “Christ, you’re dramatic.”
He scooted up a little further and leaned over you. Your eyes went wide. At this, he paused and looked at you, presumably waiting for some sort of permission. From their previous wide stance, your eyelids lowered somewhat, and you nodded at him. What you hoped you were nodding for, you couldn't say. His free hand touched your face. He gazed down at you, still smiling. “I missed you.” He let himself fall into you.
Billy was hugging you. The warmth of him made the shock fade, and suddenly you were hugging him back, turning the hug over onto its side, and dragging him into the bed with you. Internally, your body and soul said ‘ditto’.
He was being vulnerable, and you raced to soak up every second of it until he was closed up again. You laughed then, face buried in his long hair. You almost fell asleep but he murmured your name. You opened your eyes silently, and he pulled away from you. You stared, scared it was over, but he still looked so peaceful, eyes half-lidded and staring right back.
After glancing at his lips multiple times for multiple seconds, you were leaning into him. He licked his lips quickly before you could kiss him, and he didn’t stop you, he met you halfway. Sweetness bloomed at light speed in your gut, his slick mouth was warm, and it wanted yours. He got up on one elbow and deepened the kiss, and you were already trying to catch your breath. He was using just the ghost of his tongue, and it startled you every time. You were about to freak out, it was too much. You sat up, breaking apart from him, hand over mouth.
“Oh my god.”
He sat up, patient and not saying anything. He slid back over your legs to sit on the edge of your bed again. “What?” He asked, his voice low.
The little lighting showed his pink complexion, and you groaned at how alive he was making you feel just by asking a question. His fucking arms were out since he ditched the jacket, and he didn’t smell like cigarettes anymore, but the white tank top was somehow way, way worse for focusing. You were staring, you knew, and there was his hand, lightly thumbing your also exposed arm. You looked him in the eyes, “What?” He whispered it this time.
Not 10 seconds passed before you were kissing him again, and he made a noise that made you want to scream and jump out of the window.
And breath was replacing the usual fan noise that buzzed through your room, desperate, quick breaths. One, during a pause, slowly out through your mouth like a straw.
“I swear to god-“ you said, hiccuping on an inhale. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” You pulled back again, shaking your head slowly, for too long, “I swear-“
“Nothin's wrong with you.” He was kissing you again, open-mouthed, hands all over the tops of your thighs, tentative towards both iliac crests. Tentative, hesitant. You’d seen him play ball, drive drunk, slam doors, strut, scream- no hesitation whatsoever. He leaves for a couple of years and comes back careful.
“-Bill-“ You kiss his chin, his cheek, behind his ear, his body with yours, hand in his hair, and he groans, no anger.
“You smell fuckin’ good-“ he grips you tighter slowly, it makes you go slack in the second hug of the morning. Breath- gone, lungs fuller than they’ve ever been, and then empty to the vacuum of his space. What the fuck was he doing back in California? If he weren’t so dead set on being mysterious, you would’ve probably been less stubborn about it all. But hey, if he’s not offering up info, why should you?
“Are you high?” You pulled back, looking him in the eyes. With little to no lights, you couldn’t tell if they were bloodshot, but you just wanted to see if there was a chance that 1. He would answer you at all, and 2. He would answer and you could tell if he was lying or not by looking at his face (not likely).
He was fucking gorgeous. He was just staring at you, all you could do was look at him looking at you like he wanted to eat you or ask you to marry him, who knew? Finally, he answered.
“I’ve been sober all week.” His hands were hanging off your elbows.
“And right now?” You asked, you didn’t know if he intended to dodge the question or not.
“Sober.”
You looked at each other some more.
You kissed him quick and pulled right back. He sighed. It was strange. The nightlight in the far corner of the room just barely lit up the right side of his face, and even though he said he was sober, he looked high on something. He said your name. He said it again.
“What?” You whispered, about to cry, for god's sake. So overwhelmed.
“How did I get here?”
“I don’t know, you won’t fuckin’ tell me.”
He let out a slow breath as he leaned into you, kissed your cheek, and dropped his head into the crook of your neck. “I had a dream about you.” He said.
You waited. He didn’t say anything. “That’s why you came to California?” you said, exasperated.
He laughed, the bed creaked under it. “Yes.”
“Billy, what the hell.” You were deeply confused and exhausted. The flight or flight at 3:45 AM was not something you even had the option to look forward to because, well, it was sudden, it was spontaneous, and apparently dream-inspired.
“You want me to leave?” He asked genuinely.
You smiled, free from his gaze for a moment. “I honestly wish you’d come sooner.” As the emotions of the night came to a peaceful peak, you may have started to cry, but stopped it before you started actually bawling. “I know you hate it-“ You had to swallow multiple times to get ahold of yourself, and he pulled away from your neck to face you. “I know you hate it when I say shit like this, but I wish you’d never left in the first place,” One breathy sob. You couldn’t help it.
“I’ll allow it.” His hands slid up to where your wrists sat on his shoulders, and pulled them down into his lap. With the tears in your eyes, what you could see of him blurred, burned into three, disappeared, and reappeared; you blinked it out. Eyes closed, face wet, hands warm.
“How did you get here?” You asked.
“My car.”
“It’s a 2,000-mile drive!”
“It took me a few days.”
“Oh my god.”
Out of left field, he said: “My dads’ dead.”
And you gasped quietly. “Wha- are you okay?”
He laughed, “Yeah, yeah, it was months ago. I uh- I was.” He kissed his teeth, “...I wasn’t okay. For a long time.”
Billy explained how he moved out when Neil died. He started a job in Indianapolis and met a 30-something couple who got him mixed up in drugs again, which was apparently around the last time he called you. The couple got caught dealing and went to prison. Billy got off scot-free with a bribe and spent months dealing with the aftermath of his father's death, whom he hated. On his 19th birthday, it rained warm, he spent it with his roommate and passed out on the couch, dead sober.
“This is where the dream comes in,” He glanced at you.
“It was you and me in school back before I left, you telling me to get my shit together and call you. I woke up just-“ he gestured to his body “drenched in sweat, and you were there, sitting on the floor in front of the couch, smiling at me, and then I actually woke up.”
“That’s the whole dream?” You raised your eyebrows suspiciously.
“The whole thing.” He laughed, “But anyways- I uh- I showered, and I packed, and I started driving. I even convinced my roommate to come, he’s at the hotel.”
“What?” You put your head in your hands, “Don’t you have work?”
“Yeah, Jeremy’s unemployed since his job moved downtown and my works renovating, so we had some free time, and I’ve got some shit to take care of down here…”
“…like what”
“Storage, family, looking for apartments, wanted to see you.” He took a deep breath. “I’m gonna move back down here in the fall.” His thumb absently stroked your hand where he held it. “Do you have a roommate?” He glanced around, looking like he was listening intently.
“Yeah, but she’s in Big Sur with her grandparents right now.” You said.
“Boyfriend?”
A pause, “Obviously not.”
“Well- seems like everything’s aligned just right for us.”
You looked at him, skeptical. “How so?”
“We could get loud. If you’d like.” He leaned in and kissed you 2 or three times, it made you dizzy.
“We haven’t even talked about this yet.” You said, the temptation from his words very clear in your voice, but he pulled back.
“Yeah…” he looked away in thought. “You always knew I liked you though.”
You laughed, “You’re kidding.” You had no clue.
“Okay, then you didn’t” He joined you in laughing briefly. “And I said ‘if you’d like’, if not- that’s cool with me.“
The thunder rumbled up gently through all of the walls, like an engine starting, and you sighed at the sound, at him, the heater he was.
“Have you showered recently?” You asked.
His brows drew together and then relaxed again, amused. “Yeah, at the hotel, about an hour ago.”
“Will you stay?”
He barely reacted then, just smiled, and kept staring lazily between your mouth and eyes, “Sleep here?”
“Yes. I wanna make out with you.”
He grinned. “Alright.”