bury me anywhere (but hawkins, indiana) | harringrove

chapter thirteen: the reflection

JULY 1ST, 1985

BILLY | EARLY

Billy wakes from a restless and aching sleep, dreams flicking by too fast to take root, to a soft mumble– and a warm, unfamiliar bed.

Steve is half sitting up on his elbows beside him, blocking the faded light. He's turned towards Billy with the dim rising sun glow at his back; Billy doesn't even know if Steve's eyes are open, if he's awake, if either of them are awake– but then Steve reaches out blindly toward him.

Billy freezes as Steve's too-warm and slightly sweaty hand thumps over Billy's shoulder clumsily once. Then his cheek, more of a pat than anything. Steve gives Billy's head another pat, rumpling over his hair and temple and nearly poking his eye out- then just lays back down with an unintelligible mumble, twisting to burrow his head into his pillow like nothing happened, and falls back to sleep with a gusty sigh.

Billy hasn't dared move, holding his breath as Steve settles back down into sleep. Did he really sleep through all that? What the hell...

Billy doesn't say it out loud, though. If he makes too much noise, after all, he'll have to talk to him. Right now.

Billy eases carefully out of Steve's bed, steals some of Steve's clothes, whatever's closest. His head is swimming. All he wants is to get out of here, get somewhere alone and— something, Christ, anything, without anyone looking at him.

Billy doesn't bother digging up socks or underwear, barefoot because he doesn't see his sneakers anywhere nearby, yanking a pair of worn athletic sweats up over his hips- they're a little tight over the thighs, long in the ankle, but who cares? A yellow sweatshirt that was either dirty or just smelled like Steve went next.

He spots his keys on the desk, a practically audible buzz of pure relief spreading through him. Beelining to them, he picks his keyring up carefully, not a single clink to be heard, and cradles it in his hand white-tight like a lifeline.

With everything he needs to run in hand, he finally looks back at Steve, sprawled half in and half out the sheets. While Billy was getting dressed, he'd twisted toward the empty spot that Billy had been in. Billy chokes a little.

He spins on his heel to go, but he stops with a hand on the doorknob.

With a scowl and one eye on Steve, Billy rifles for a pen, picking up some old notecard from Steve's desk (who uses flashcards? Steve doesn't seem the type. Let alone the pastel—) but Billy brushes it off. He crosses out the neat handwriting, and then hesitates for a minute.

After what felt like a hundred false starts, he scratches out a quick note.

Later.

...Okay, that looked a little insane, all on its own.

He pauses, then just underlines it a couple times, hard. Adds his initial, and that's all he can manage. It'd just have to be enough that Steve won't go completely nuts and think he's gone– possessed or whatever, and hunt him down immediately, Billy just—

He needs a fucking minute.

Billy practically tiptoes back to the bed to tuck the index card on the empty pillow, where Steve'd see it right away.

This close, Billy has to swallow down the urge to just crawl back under the covers. And that is more than enough fuel to get him out the door.

Then, after nearly crashing down the stairs in the unlit hall when he misses a step, he finds his way out the side door and gets the hell out of dodge.