Work Text:
There’s a wasp in Billy’s room. Maybe not a real one, maybe it’s just the buzz of something underneath his skin leaking out into the real world, but he can hear it anyway. It’s deafening, so loud he’s sure that Max can hear it in her room, or worse Neil and Susan down the hall. He holds his breath, hoping the sound goes away, hoping it doesn’t wake them and spoil his plans for the evening. Because tonight is important, almost everything that happens for the rest of his life rests on the next two hours.
He lays in bed, duvet pulled up to his chin to hide the fact that he’s fully dressed. Deep maroon shirt, unbuttoned of course, his tightest jeans, the little pieces of his armor he needs to bolster his faltering confidence. There’s no way to tell if his plans will come to fruition, and he’s long since given up on praying for a positive outcome. He’s the captain of his own ship, the master of his own destiny. But a few good luck charms can’t hurt.
The second hand on his watch ticks steadily, a grounding sound that eventually works to clear the hum of nerves. It’s 10pm, too soon to sneak out of the house. He forces himself to lie there at least another 15 minutes. If he can do that, he can be through his window and out of view of the house by 10:30. He’ll have to walk, his car makes too much noise to risk taking tonight. The only downside to muscle cars, he thinks, is they’re terrible for clandestine evening activities.
Tick. Tick. Tick. 13 minutes.
Tick. Tick. Tick. 9 minutes.
His skin is clammy, he can feel sweat gathering between his pecs from the heat of his duvet mixed with the rapid beat of his heart. Maybe if he gets up now, he can take a few minutes to wipe himself down with a bath towel, maybe apply some cologne. But no, the point of tonight is to be himself and not the caricature of a tough guy he presents when he’s not alone. He’s trying to be genuine and open; a scented dick isn’t going to convey the right message.
Tick. Tick. Tick. 4 minutes.
Tick. Tick. Tock. Time to go.
All at once he feels like he’s taken a shot of adrenaline. He hustles out from his bed, cognizant of sound even as he struggles to yank on his shoes and grab his denim jacket. This is the most dangerous part of his plan; he has to get out of the house with as little noise as humanely possible. Any noise that alerts Neil will mean disaster, he can’t afford to be careless and let the anticipation carry him away.
He pulls his duffle bag from under his bed, already packed with the things precious to him. A few records, photos of his mother, his favorite clothes and shoes, the jewelry he can’t live without, and every letter he’s ever received. He knows when Neil wakes up and finds him gone everything in this room will be trashed. It’ll be scorched earth, so even if he’d told Max the plan and asked her to save something it’ll be a lost cause. He’s not worried about his car; Neil won’t destroy something he can sell. Billy’s not worried about getting it back, either, he knows a guy with some cash to burn.
Billy sighs, hefting the bag onto his shoulder. It’s lighter than he cares to admit, the sum total of things precious to him barely fills half of his gym bag. He takes a minute and lets his eyes sweep the room he’s occupied for the last three years. The posters on the walls, his battered dresser, weights, his stereo and record player, all the things that make the space his. But it isn’t anymore, and if tonight goes well it never will be again.
He slips out the window, cautious and careful to make sure he lands in the softest part of Susan’s garden beds. He’d feel bad about the footprints he’s leaving between her azaleas, but needs must when the devil drives. And he’s trying to escape his own person devil tonight, so he’s gonna drive extra fast. He sneaks along the side of the cement path, moving at a snail’s pace until he makes it to the hedge that separates their house from the neighbor’s.
He turns to take a final look back at the white clapboard and dark windows. It looks so innocent and welcoming from here, a normal Indiana family home where the dad grills steaks and the mom chops vegetables, and no one is ever sent to bed hungry with the linger red of a slap stinging their cheek. The most painful lies, he thinks, hide behind the blandest exteriors.
His feet carry him along the sidewalk until he makes his way to the Circle K at the end of Cherry Tree Lane, and he immediately drops his eyes to watch the ground. It’s 11pm, and he’s not sure what he’ll do if the parking lot is empty. All the work he’s done in the last year, the apologies he’s made and the steps he’s taken to be a better person mean nothing if there’s not a car gently idling in front of the brightly lit building. If he looks up and there’s no one, it will take the brand-new bud of hope in his chest and crush it to pieces. He might as well go back to the house, because nothing Neil does to him will be worse than that feeling.
He crosses from the dark of the residential street into the warm of the gas station flood lights. Gathering all the bravery and bravado he has left, he lifts his head. The light is so bright, bright enough that he thinks his mad hope is causing him to hallucinate. Because there’s a car, a maroon BMW with license plate 3Ds46T2. The exact car he was hoping to see, the exact one he’s convinced himself would be parked in front of its house instead of here.
It's on, smoke gently wafting from the tail pipe. In the driver’s seat he can see the top of a head with wildly arranged hair. A head he knows is attached to the only person he’s ever been 100% honest with, the person who finally convinced him to leave his prison and seek freedom. The person who offered him a place to live, a chance to thrive, and a love Billy Hargrove thought he’d never deserve.
He staggers forward, drawn like a moth to the luminesce presence of the man he’ll worship for the rest of his life. The door opens, a body climbs out of the car and turns towards Billy. The face lights up, a smile spreading across it and blinding him all over again. The mouth opens, lips form his name, but Billy can’t hear anything over that damn wasp. In seconds he’s enveloped in loving arms, resting against solid rock. His pulse drops, the panic and fear evaporating in an instant.
“Steve”, he whispers. Or maybe he doesn’t, maybe it’s all in his head. Maybe he’ll never need to speak out loud again.