A Brief History of Falling for Billy Hargrove [harrington x hargrove]

5.

The first time Billy really opened up, even if only a tiny bit, was a on a late Saturday night when the pavement was still damp from yesterday's rain and the grass was too slick to fight on but Billy still insisted on meeting up. So Steve got up and drove all the way to the address Billy had made him memorize over the phone. It was 3 am and he was seriously doubting their sanity – his own for agreeing to this madness and Billy's for ever making the phone call.

He parked in front of an abandoned-looking factory. He spotted the Camaro and so he got out of his car and made his way toward the shiny vehicle that seemed to strangely fit into the whole scenery. Billy was leaning against the hood, chainsmoking, Steve guessed, considering the small-but-growing pile of buds that was growing at his feet.

"You okay?" Steve asked, quickening his pace at the sight of the seemingly distraught boy.

Billy rose his bowed head, letting the lights hit his face and Steve gasped, forgetting how to talk, how to breathe, how to function for a moment.

Billy's face was fucked up. His jaw was already red and blue and purple even though the bruises didn't seem old at all. His eye was swollen and his lips were split in several places. There was a steady trickle of blood flowing down his temple that continued to drip onto his shirt even though he tried desperately to wipe it off with his sleeve, hissing in pain every time the cloth came to contact with the wound. His chest was also blooming in the colors of a raging storm. Blue and purple, as if someone kicked him when he was already on the ground.

Billy met Steve's gaze, his eyes wet even though he was too proud to let the tears fall. And so Steve moved without thinking, his strides long and purposeful, until he was standing in front of the withered boy. He pulled Billy into a hug, not a soft and beautiful thing meant to comfort but hard and unshakable, meant to hold up from falling too hard to be picked up again. Billy seemed to be just one shove away from breaking and Steve just wouldn't fucking let that happen.

For a moment they stood there, Steve with his arms around Billy and Billy with his hanging limply by his sides. And Steve almost pulled away. Almost. But then Billy's hands twitched and then his arms were snaking their way around Steve's waist and he was clutching, clutching, clutching for dear life. His wounded face came to rest in the crook of Steve's neck, feeling the racing pulse against his cheek, the sign of being alive. And Steve was alive. He burned with life. And Billy wanted to steal a little bit of it for himself. He didn't care that the tears that were soaking through Steve's shirt made him look weak, he didn't care that this whole situation was so damn out of character for him, because he knew Steve wouldn't tell anyone. Billy allowed the little part of himself he only let out when he was with Steve (the true himself, the one behind the façade of pretend toughness) believe that Steve cared.

And Steve did. As they stood there, clutching at each other (carefully because, fuck, it hurt like a bitch) Steve took a little bit of Billy's burden onto himself. He did it happily and he would do it again because, if it made Billy breathe more easily, he would take the weight of the whole goddamn world onto his shoulders.

That night Billy stayed at Steve's house. He slept on the couch since he wouldn't take the bed, even though Steve offered (again and again and again). He showered for so long his fingers started to wrinkle and Steve didn't say a word about it (unlike his father who would have probably made him pay for the water bill). He watched the brownish water flow down the drain and then he sat on Steve's bed as he fixed him up to the best of his ability using a better half of the supplies provided by the first aid kit he took from his parents' bathroom (they wouldn't care, in fact they probably wouldn't even notice, and emergency was an emergency).

And then they talked, Steve sitting in the armchair and Billy lying on the couch, pressing a cold beer can to his eye that he, for once, felt no desire to drink. They talked about everything but Billy's wounds, because Billy obviously didn't want to and Steve wouldn't ask.

After Billy fell asleep, Steve stayed and wondered how he would piece back together this boy who was dangerously close to the edge of shattering.