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"Red roses? This a bit cheesy, innit?" Billy hides his absolute adoration with a gentle jab. British humour and Homelander still don't see eye to eye.
"Red is the best fucking colour. I… Whatever. It's undeniable, actually." Homelander scoffs, taking the bait.
Billy thinks he is so beautiful, but highly strung. And so, he will learn to master the violin, he concludes.
Homelander knows how to rile up Billy in his own way, less verbal, more physical.
Dramatically, he gestures to his million dollar suit— red additions are dotted throughout, making the outfit memorable. Those are his favourite parts.
Noticing Billy is checking him out, as usual, he aims to put on a little show.
Flirtatiously, he cocks his leg up behind him; a playful flick of his heel to show off his footwear. Sturdy, high-gloss red leather boots, pristine, unmarked, creases nonexistent despite daily use. Hugs his calf muscles deliciously. Decorative plated eagles compliment the golden lines on the boot shaft— they glimmer in the sunlight, bloodstained or not.
Extending his arms outward, spaciously spreading out padded fingers, showing off the fine stitching: red gloves made from leather, the best quality, thick and authentic. Well worn yet clean, spotless; blood blends in seamlessly.
Running his fingers down the eagle-stamped material, a fine red framing of fabric trails over his chest. Highlighting the curves of his suit, the line continues downward, over the faux ab padding. It almost resembles a clean, even fresh cut of blood, exposing his inner self, scarred but tidy.
Finally, he adjusts a red collar framing his slender neck, a patterned barrier encapsulating dark secrets. Keeping them safe. A barrier only Billy has managed to dissemble— his rogue, chapped lips whisper promises of freedom against his soft, exposed skin.
Homelander is lost in it, lighting up, preening himself. Rhythmic head movements contouring his lips into a small lopsided smile. Energy in the room is high, and he flows into it, smooth as syrup; beginning to swirl.
The heels of his sturdy stompers grow quiet when they elevate. Now perching on his tiptoes, arms outstretched. Dramatically, he rises, hovering a handful of inches above the polished floor, soles now entirely abandoning dry land, elegantly raising up further, fully airborne.
Looks like a damn ballerina, Billy notes: steady, controlled limbs, fluid and graceful. It's endearing, annoyingly so— he's never been one to enjoy the ballet. Yet, his moody eyes are glued to the performance; grateful to have a front row seat.
Homelander twirls around, one leg lifts up; contorts mathematically, an equilateral triangle forming in his silhouette. Red and white cape outstretches, trailing behind him like a sheet billowing in the wind. He's a beautiful tornado ravaging through the air.
Billy swears he can hear the cunt sparkle, some magical anime girl shit, transforming into something spectacular— If he could look anymore so.
He loves seeing the light within Johnny. Radiating outwards, unabashedly, even if only for him.
"Aye, n what's the yellow ones for then? That a song n dance too?" Billy taunts, right corner of his lip hitching up, high in the sky, joining his lover— forming a sly smirk. Their love began a rivalry; a competition, a fight for hierarchy. It's a natural part of their bond. He needs to keep him on his toes.
Literally.
Billy's a brazen twat sometimes.
Homelander hisses, deflates, drops from his airborne position— boots thud heavily when he lands, the polished marble tiles crack under his heel despite the perceived, gentle landing.
This same contrast begrudgingly follows his every move.
Crossing his padded arms, embarrassment ensues, neither men are use to expressing healthy love or joy.
"Did you have to ruin the moment William? I thought lovers discussed shit like this, favourite colours and… whatever. Right?" Homelander sighs, thin lips pouting, petit hands — wrapped in thousands of dollars — resting on his waist.
Oh, he is adorable today. Billy is love stricken?
Was that a mating dance? It definitely worked—
Maybe it's the childish annoyance flooding his beautiful blue eyes with glistening tears, or the way his blonde locks are slightly tussled from his dramatics, or the blush Billy caused, by being Billy, peeping from under his perfected foundation.
Billy's eyebrows soften when Homelander speaks, his eyes fill up with adoration.
"Not gonna lie mate, was more of a one man show ya had goin' on. As usual, aye?" Billy teases, a firm hold on Homelander's vulnerabilities.
"Plus, I already knew yer favourite colour," He gloats, the best boyfriend in the city.
Billy consciously relaxes his shoulders, his grip on the bundle of flowers unfurling slightly — the very fancy, colourful big bouquet of roses he held beside him. Crackling craft paper prickles around the growing tension.
Homelander gifted him roses, a dozen of them. Checker pattern, consisting of two colours;
Red, yellow, red, yellow, red, yellow...
It is an unusual display, Billy wonders if he chose this placement himself, naive and youthful, experimenting with creative freedom.
Billy always prefers chaos, anyway.
Black, tattered boots, frugal in comparison, march along the marble, closing the gap between them, hoping to signify a truce, fearing Homelander might seriously get wounded. Strongest person in the world, but he walks on a mental tightrope.
"Now, what's with the yellow ones? This ain't a piss joke is it?" Billy chuckles lightly. He really can't help himself, filling blank spaces with awkward humour.
"Piss? A piss joke? Ha-Ha. You're fucking disgusting sometimes." Homelander scoffs, rolling his eyes, face contorting, features forming wonderful dramatic shapes, and it's so very human.
The gears in his brain audibly rattle, making Billy hold his breath, hoping the joke landed for his lover's uneasy mind. Eventually, the malfunction behind those blonde locks fixes itself, the machinery begins to run smoothly again, churning out a shy smile on his thin, pouting lips.
Billy sighs, relief flooding him, his British-style flirtation is tolerated. And welcomed. Sometimes.
Homelander definitely notices Billy's relief, blue eyes hone in on his muscular chest. Billy's heart thrums abnormally, a similar phenomenon Homelander encounters daily; people surrendering to his mask. Yet, Billy's drumbeat rhythm has never had a fearful tempo, not once. And it's so nauseatingly delicious — especially when all his life, people set his theme tune to wrongful melodies they wrote on his behalf, without his consult.
Super-senses confirm the aroma of Billy's attempted romance, it radiates from his pores; so strong, permeating Homelander's sensitive little nose, stomach typing itself in knots. Yummers.
Homelander is giddy at the prospect of finally giving a gift. Always wanted to, but he couldn't show weakness, couldn't let people know he had the desire to please others. That never ended well.
He’s a hopeless romantic, wants to believe the world exists for a deeper reason than he does.
"Do you really not know?" He ponders, looking at the petals "I… love the way our lasers dance together… red and yellow, perfect."
Homelander purrs, batting his eyelashes, pupils slowly illuminating red from excitement; the blue lakes of his eyes polluted with blood. He's wearing a timid smile no one else on earth but Billy Butcher has ever seen.
Billy's eyes are softening too. Homelander fixates on them; watching them light up, a familiar yellow glow begins pooling into the room— the glow from Billy's lasers naturally matching Homelander's own, his intensity, lover's feeding into each other on instinct.
"When I saw them— fuck, I was in the sky. On my way to some bullshit— I called Ashley, told her to get them. At least she's useful for something." He lets out a shaky sigh, lips trembling upwards.
"These colours they… s-stand out to me, now. Even so far up in the sky. Reminds me of the first time we tussled, our lasers meeting beautifully in the middle, h-how perfect it felt to match my equal. Even if I struggled to admit it. I was… besotted."
Their lasers shut off at the exact same time, making them both huff out in tension-breaking laugher.
Homelander's eyes finally meet Billy's directly, who is admittedly visibly lovestruck; pupils wider than normal, bushy eyebrows furrowed upwards, idly nodding along to his every word, like he can say no wrong. The man he once set out to kill, the man he'd kill for.
Butcher unfurls one of his iron fists from the prickly-stemmed flowers, gently taking one of Homelander's hands in his,
A small gasp slips past Homelander's lips, such a minor action bringing him such joy and warmth.
"I love em. Never received flowers before, me" Butcher's mouth parts into a genuine smile, a flash of white, a flag of truce, between his dark fluff.
"They are eerily similar the colour of our death rays, ain't they? Yer so sweet and poetic, luv." Billy coons, his lover full of surprises. "Look fab together, I agree."
Homelander mirrors his expression, sharp fangs shine under the luminous lights of the dressing room. He reciprocates the gentle squeeze in Billy's grip, as gentle as he can be.
Their hands do all the talking for a while. Billy softly presses his calloused thumb into the leather-covered palm, wishing he could feel his lovers bare skin against his. Take him away from all this. Feel the warmth of his blood cascading through his porcelain skin, and be reminded he is human. Even if his nails are manicured to perfection, skin smooth and fair, fingers slender and sleek. Made in a lab— otherworldly and Godlike.
This is his John.
Echoing heels approaching the door disperses their hands, two love birds startled by movement, fluttering away. Homelander slicks his hair back to appear unaffected; yet his face is ruddy, eyes full of outpouring adoration for his lover, unable to tear his dream of escape from those hazel forests.
Embarrassment, shame— all things that use to linger, don't anymore. Now it seems returning to his trodden makeshift reality is the biggest chore. A side dish. Billy is the starter, main and dessert.
Homelander wants to consume him in every way.
Flowers from Homelander. Billy hopes his lover knows they naturally wilt.
Billy sends him a promising wink before hoisting himself out the window, bouquet in his possessive hold.
Homelander's lips fall open with a slight tremble, skin aflame. Drool is forming in the pool of his mouth. Anything Billy does thrills him. His prince showing him the world— freeing the princess from the evil tower.
Movement in his peripheral vision close to a confirmation he was no longer alone. A blur of stimulation he wants to dismiss.
All he can think is: Wow. Billy Butcher is such a tease. A beautiful, strong, handsome tease.
Homelander is falling in love with him.