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You would think Art Baker was above gossip. He was unnervingly kind, went to church every fucking Sunday, and was quick to defend anyone that needed it.
He seemed a prime suspect to turn up his nose and say we shouldn't talk about people when they're not here, but his southern roots ran deep, and Art loved shit-talking.
Not that he'd ever call it that.
So, when Collie hears Art's long strides moving down the hallway with a purpose, he figures there's something new to tell.
It's 10 in the morning on a Saturday. Art recently got back from his opening shift at the donut place he works at, and Collie's betting something happened with the weird dude who owns it. Hank's making cinnamon apples, Pete is reading something at the kitchen table, and Ray is scrolling through a news article on his phone in the living room, apparently able to focus despite Harkness's blasting video essay.
Art, however, doesn't say anything when he reaches the kitchen, even though everybody turns to look at him.
Collie raises an eyebrow over his I ♥︎ Maine mug, a smart-alec gift from Ray, but Art only quirks his mouth like he's trying not to smile and digs through the fridge.
Billy opens his bedroom door and crosses into the living room without acknowledging any of them. Collie finds it embarrassingly endearing. It's Billy's turn to get groceries, though it seems a little sooner than eight weeks from his last turn. Someone may have been tampering with their Google calendar.
Billy's fully dressed, hair intentionally tousled. He catches Collie's eye, nods, and exits the house. Collie's heart flips.
They've been keeping it quiet, but Collie and Billy are together. Dating. Going steady. Whatever you want to call it. The only person who knows is Art, who once caught them kissing.
Billy spent the night in Collie's room last night, largely ignoring a movie on Collie's laptop in favor of sticking his tongue down Collie's throat. He fell asleep in Collie's bed, and Collie fell asleep with his head on Billy's chest, an entire fucking kaleidoscope of butterflies fluttering in his stomach.
Billy kissed Collie good morning at the asscrack of dawn, before escaping to his room to keep the ruse up a little longer. They'll tell people eventually, sure, but for now, Collie's enjoying having this to himself.
Art watches Billy leave as he pours his disgustingly sweet juice cocktail from the fridge into a glass full of ice, side-eyeing the door until he's sure Billy is gone.
"I ran into Stebbins in the hallway," He says, grinning and putting a straw in his glass. "Y'all know what I saw?"
"What?" Barkovitch says, leaning forward from his position cross-legged on top of the kitchen counter. He's eating unbuttered toast and drinking black coffee. Barkovitch is also a huge gossip fiend, but he always says he just likes to be in the know.
Collie takes a sip of his coffee and scowls at the watery, artificially-sweet flavor. "Who changed the coffee creamer?"
"Don't change the subject." Pete says, which means it was probably him. Collie gets up to dump the coffee out in the sink.
"Stebbins," Art says, taking a sip from his straw for dramatic effect, "Has a hickey."
Collie drops his whole cup in the sink. He takes back everything nice he's ever said about Art, Art's a bastard and Collie is going to kill him dead.
Hank, who up until now had been dicing apples smaller than previously thought possible, spins around with the knife still in his hand.
"What the fuck?"
"No fuckin' way!" Barkovitch says, leaning so far forward Collie's mildly afraid he's going to fall off the kitchen table.
"Who has a hickey?" Harkness says, popping into the kitchen. The video essay, a four-hour deep dive on some video game, continues to play in the background. Ray appears to be checking his own neck in his phone camera.
"Stebbins." Art says primly.
"Damn," Pete says, and whistles, "I didn't know Stebbins got around like that."
"Somebody wants his ass?" Barkovitch says.
Collie has to muffle laughter in his hand. "Clearly." He manages to get out.
"Who could it be?" Harkness says, and Collie can see the gears in his brain working overtime. He whips his ratty notebook from the pocket of his jean vest and flips to a clean page.
"Olson's taken, Pete's taken, Ray's taken," He rattles off, scribbling with his pen, "Art doesn't like men, Barkovitch…?"
"I don' want to talk about it." Barkovitch says, which from anyone else would be a huge red flag, but Barkovitch has a lot of shit to work through. Collie can begrudge him a sexuality crisis.
"I'll put down a maybe," Harkness says, which gets Pete laughing so hard he starts coughing, and Art has to pound him on the back.
"Barkovitch and Stebbins," He says through wheezing breathes, "You'd be a perfect couple."
"I think you'd ragebait each other to death," Ray says.
Harkness scratches out whatever he'd written down. "Okay, so I've got no's for Hank, Pete, Ray, Art, and Collie, and a maybe for Barkovitch. So all that leaves is me, I guess."
"We know you didn't do it," Pete says.
"What!" Harkness squawks more than says, "Stebbins and I could be madly in love! You don't know anything!"
"Why am I a no?" Collie asks, grinning.
"Gut feeling." Harkness says. The future of journalism is so fucked.
Everyone else seems to accept this answer at face value and they move on to offering other options.
"Jan?" Ray says. "Pete, who's the girl that hates your guts?"
"Do we know if Stebbins even likes girls?" Art says, the smug bastard, "Most of y'all don't."
"I'll put down maybe for both." Harkness says.
"Stebbins has a hickey." Pete says. "Crazy world we live in."
"Smith?" Hank suggests, "He's always reading those fuckin' porno magazines, maybe he's tryin' make up for somethin'."
"Tressler?" Pete says, "Pearson?"
"Rank!" Barkovitch offers loudly.
"I don't think Rank is Stebbins's type," Collie says, and then realizes how that sounds and tries to correct it, "He doesn't seem to like the uh—fucking—skinny guys?"
"Yeah, well, with the amount he goes to the fuckin' gym," Hank says, adding an entire stick of butter to the pan on the stove.
Harkness scribbles something else down in his notebook. "—So we're looking for someone muscular-ish—a man, most likely—who was near—or in, I guess—the house last night."
Collie does not offer that he is muscular, a man, and was in the house last night. He also does not offer that he probably has matching marks along his collar bone, under the hoodie he's wearing. He does not offer that this hoodie is Billy's. He's having too much goddamn fun.
"What about Wyman?" He offers, just to stir the pot, "Or Ewing?"
"Davidson?" Barkovitch continues. "Ooh! Those brothers who have those sick jackets—shit—what are their names?"
"Mike and Joe?" Art says, with a giddy smile, "Which one, though?"
"Either," Barkovitch says, through a mouthful of unbuttered toast, "Both."
"Both?" Ray says.
Pete says, "You think Stebbins has enough game to have a threesome?" He pauses. "With brothers?"
"Aren't some perverts into shit like that?" Barkovitch says.
"Billy's not a fucking pervert!" Collie says.
Pete's eyes snap to him, recognizing far too much in Collie's flushed face.
"Sorry, who?" He says, a grin spreading across his face. "Who ain't a pervert?"
"Stebbins?" Collie corrects weakly.
"Interestin'." Pete says.
"Very interestin'." Art echos.
Harkness nods vigorously and scribbles something else down in his notebook. Well. Shit.
Luckily, he's saved from any potential interrogation by none other than Billy himself, who strides into the house with several bags hanging off his arm.
"Jeez-us Stebbins," Hank says through a mouth of apple, "You run there or somethin'?"
"I move fast." Billy says, striding into the kitchen and unloading the bags. "Hannaford's not that big."
Collie can picture Billy speed-walking through the grocery store, going through self-checkout with mechanical precision. He made it there, through and back in twenty minutes.
Pete and Collie start unpacking the groceries—gum for Olson, chocolate chips, flour and cocoa powder for Art's occasional baking sprees, the greenest bananas Collie's ever seen, a pack of Dum-Dums to fuel Harkness's addiction, and then beef, potatoes, carrots, an onion and a carton of beef broth. Which. Hm.
"Are these the ingredients for—?" Collie says, inspecting the beef broth. He doesn't want to assume, but this is pretty fucking suspicious.
"Wahonpi." Billy finishes, and the way he says it makes it adorably clear he's practiced the pronunciation. "You said you wanted to make it."
Collie feels his cheeks heat up. He mentioned that at least a week ago, in an off-handed comment about missing his mom's cooking.
And Billy remembered.
"Damn," He says, "Got me feeling special."
"And that," Pete says authoritatively, using his hands to frame Collie's face, "Is infatuation, pure and simple."
"Yeah," Hank agrees, "He's down fuckin' bad."
Collie's cheeks get impossibly warmer.
Barkovitch, ever the upstanding member of society, starts singing and kicking his legs: "Stebbins and Collie sittin' in a tree," Ray joins in, and neither of them are anywhere close to on-key. "K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"
"What the fuck are they talking about?" Billy says, brows furrowed. He's speaking directly to Collie, despite everything happening around them. It's a pleasant feeling.
"You—uh," Collie says, tapping his own neck, "You got a little something."
The dots connect instantly. Billy slaps a hand over the side of his neck, cheeks and ears going bright pink. Collie notes his pupils are blown wide for just a second.
"Aw," Art says, "You embarrassed?"
"No need to be fuckin' embarrassed," Hank says with a shit-eating grin, leaning all the way over the kitchen counter to poke Ray. Ray groans and hands him a ten dollar bill.
"Y'all bet on this?" Billy seethes. Collie thinks it's hilarious.
"I'm up earlier than you fuckos think," Hank said, snapping the bill in Ray's face before tucking it in the pocket of his pajama pants.
"You all suck." Billy declares, turning tail and leaving the room.
"You suck!"—Barkovitch yells after him—"Dick!" He looks ridiculously pleased with himself.
"Fuck off!" Comes Billy's muffled shout.
"So how long has this little thing been goin' on?" Pete asks, grinning. Ray shuffles behind him and hooks his chin on Pete's shoulder, wrapping arms around his waist.
"Fuck off, McVries," Collie says, "At least we figured it out by our goddamn selves."
"I think y'all are real sweet," Art coos, swirling the ice in his glass.
"I can't believe I didn't realize earlier!" Harkness chirps, scribbling away in his notebook and flipping back and forth between pages. "It's so obvious now."
"Obvious?" Collie repeats.
"I think Stebbins has always had a soft spot for you." Ray says. "He's not braiding anyone else's hair, that's for fucking sure."
"Your hair isn't long enough to braid." Collie offers halfheartedly.
"If you say so." Ray says, kissing Pete on the cheek and turning to dig around in the fridge.
Collie suddenly needs to kiss Billy more than he needs to breathe.
Everyone's mostly gone back to their own thing—Barkovitch is scrolling through his phone, Hank is washing dishes, Pete and Ray are doing some weird fucking mating dance in front of the fridge—so Collie doesn't feel too bad up and vanishing, heading down the hallway to Billy's room.
He knocks on the door and Billy opens it almost immediately.
"What do you—" He starts flatly, before his face softens and the corners of his mouth tick up. "Hey."
"Hey yourself." Collie says as he enters the room, closing the door behind him. His eyes land on Billy's neck, and his face flushes.
"Sorry for—the—uhm," His damned mouth runs out of words, still reeling from seeing the mark. That he caused. Fuck. He gestures loosely to Billy's neck instead.
"Oh," Billy says, reaching up to rub at the mark like he can wipe it off, "I don't mind."
"Well, still," Collie starts, "Sorry those dipshits busted your balls for it. I should've asked before—"
Billy puts his hands on Collie's shoulders and kisses him, shutting Collie up efficiently. Billy kisses firmly, like he's got something to prove. Collie really fucking loves him.
"I don't mind it," He repeats, but Collie can tell he's not telling the whole truth.
"You like it," Collie realizes quietly, taking note of how the flush on Billy's cheeks travels down the back of his neck at Collie's words. He can't resist being just a little more annoying. "You like having a hickey, huh?"
Billy leans down to hide his burning face in Collie's neck, moving Collie's dark hair gently out of the way. "I hate you."
Collie tangles one hand in Billy's hair. "I love you too."
Billy sighs softly into the skin where Collie's neck and shoulder meets, and Collie smiles, enjoying the feeling of Billy so close to him, of Billy's hair between his fingers.
"C'mon, bunny," Collie says eventually, "We can lay down." They do that a lot, just laying quietly together. It's one of Collie's favorite activities.
Billy sighs and lifts his head. He nods quietly, face still flushed, before he apparently makes up his mind to do something else, pressing his hands flat to Collie's shoulders, pressing his lips to Collie's neck and sucking. Collie gasps, one hand going back to Billy's hair.
Billy pulls away with a soft pop, and he has an absolutely shit-eating grin on his face when he stands up at his full height.
"We match." He informs Collie.
And really, how is Collie supposed to react to that, other than yanking him into another kiss?