11 days of Harringrove [harrington x hargrove]

6. Last of The Real Ones

Okay, okay, okay. Here you go. My writing has gotten really shit. The plot line is barely existent. It was supposed to be happy. It got angsty. But that's just my default setting it seems. I'm sorry for all of the above. (I'm going to edit it eventually but the sun is about to rise and it's a school night so, uh, sorry about grammar and spelling and stuff)

TW: Implications of self harm

Also, just a side note. This is a strange AU in which Steve and Billy are very much out of character. I just felt like writing this.

Lena signing off. 

Perhaps it could have been perceived as a problem, obsession even, but Billy saw it as more of a... fascination. And then again – who wasn't fascinated by Steve Harrington? He was one of those strangely captivating types, the kind that made it hard to tear your eyes from, that made it hard to see anything beyond the horizons of his silhouette. With Steve in the room, it was hard to breathe.

If he was being perfectly honest, Billy preferred Steve to oxygen. And as much as he hated it, he was not the only one. Steve was like the sun – scorching, burning, but oh so desirable. Billy tried not to think too hard about the pool of jealousy bubbling in the pit of his stomach. It was easier to feint indifference.

Steve set a can of cheap off-brand beer (the only kind they could afford) on Billy's desk, luring his attention away from his essay in all the ways he knew would work.

"You're overworking yourself," Steve said, hoisting himself up onto the windowsill. The window was wide open and the fall from the fifth floor was menacingly long, though Steve seemed to like the possibility of slipping into the hands of fate with nothing more than a wrong twist of muscles. How else would he find out if he could fly if not by falling first, was Steve's excuse every time Billy ached to pull him away from the edge. Billy could not understand Steve's fixation with tempting death. Maybe it was the poetic part of him that found beauty in pretty things dying. And boy, was Steve pretty.

Billy had never really delved too deep into the mystery of to whom he was attracted. He liked girls. Well, he didn't like girls. He liked women. But he enjoyed toying with them more than any kind of romance these affairs could ever conjure up. He would play as long as they let him and then find another one once the last grew tired of him. He didn't mind that. He had never considered himself much of a dating type. Call it commitment issues all you want. A sense of self-preservation sat better with him in the matter of usage of correct terms. Of course, then there was his strange leaning towards pretty boys with pretty ideas and pretty mouths to speak them. And Steve, well, Steve was Steve. And that was the problem, Billy supposed. He had always kept his distance from the likes of him because he knew damn well what would happen if he didn't. Now it was too late to go back.

Steve was wondering if he could fly. But Billy had already fallen and he had learned the hard way that the answer was no. Thousand times over. No, no, no. The impact was crushing. The awakening was disheartening. And the worst thing? He didn't mind the pain.

Billy sighed. "It's due Friday." Not that it would take all that much persuading to get him to give into a movie night.

"I'm going out tonight so you'll have all the peace to write your little heart away then," Steve smiled. "Now get your ass up and come help me pick something to wear."

Billy couldn't help the tightening in his throat or the jealousy coiling in his stomach. "Where you going?" he asked as lightly as his miserable acting skills allowed.