Billy makes himself a microwave dinner on his birthday. Eating alone, because Neil took Susan on a date to Indianapolis and Max is out somewhere with the Creepy Kids Club.
Swanson Fried Fucking Chicken Dinner. That's how Billy treats himself for turning 18. For somehow surviving until today, more or less by accident.
It tastes bland and nearly burns his tongue, but that doesn't matter. Billy has a bottle of cheap liquor waiting for him. The birthday present he got for himself to wash away the bitter taste of a failed childhood. He didn't even had to kiss the cashier for that, just show off a little skin and give her a wink. A giant win.
He's halfway through the bottle when the doorbell rings. Which he considers to just ignore and then it rings again and well, he's ready to punch whoever dares to disturb his celebration of misery.
He opens the door. Steve Harrington stands in front of him. Hair fluffier than ever like he had styled it - for what exactly?
Harrington isn't his friend, not let alone his boyfriend, no matter what stupid dreams Billy sometimes wakes up with. They're fucking around and its fun. Billy gets to bathe in the sun shining right through Harrington's bright eyes, reminding him of home, but that's it.
And he isn't supposed to come here. Or even call the house. Billy told him that if Harrington dials his number once and that its fucking over - he didn't point out that it's Neil who is going to set an end to their fooling around.
"Happy birthday!" Harrington holds out a box with a giant blue bow on top for him.
Billy stares at the wrapping paper with little fishes on them.
"I don't do that," he just says. His throat feels tight and he wonders if he's already blackout drunk.
"What?" Harrington shoots him a look like he doesn't believe him for a second and then just walks inside the house.
The whole thing, Billy wants to answer. Bows, birthdays, gifts, friendship?
But he can't say anything, because Harrington is inside. Right next to Billy, gently removing his hand from where it's clutching the door knob and closes the door. He's inside the house and somehow they're both still alive.
"Where is your room?" he says, an unreadable expression flickering across his face when he sees the half eaten TV dinner and the amber bottle on the table.
Billy simply stands there, staring at him. "You can't be here."
Harrington snorts. "Apparently I can, Billy." There's that bitchy tone in his voice he always gets when he's disagreeing with something.
When Billy shows him his room, because he can't say no to Harrington's stupid dimples and crooked smile, he's so ashamed.
The ashtray is overflowing, Shauna Grant's eyes seem to judge him and his room just seems so gray and bleak. Harrington doesn't seem to mind. Studies the dart board and the book on the nightstand and then turns around to grin at Billy.
"Open your gift!" Harrington pushes the box in Billy's hand.
Billy has opened a gift before. He thinks. Or at least, he has seen Max opening hers. He tries to tear the wrapping paper. One fish still loses a fin.
Concert tickets. For Mötley Crüe playing in Chicago. In November.
"I'm coming with you." Harrington sounds weirdly enthusiatistic. "If you want me to."
Which means that he wants to hang out with Billy after graduation. After he should go fuck off getting a business degree and marrying a girl that can give him six freaking kids.
It's too much. Not only the tickets, but that Harrington is wanting to continue ... whatever this is. Harrington wanting them to go to Chicago. On a whole trip. To go see one of Billy's favourite bands.
"You... hate Mötley Crüe."
"I like Live Wire."
Which is the first song Billy ever made Harrington sit through, after they shared a smoke, still dizzy from the orgasm. It makes Billy's chest hurt.
"Don't you like it?" Harrington's brown eyes get huge. Like when Billy really has to leave because Neil expects him to mow the lawn or some shit and Steve asks for another quickie.
But Harrington isn't asking for sex right now. Or is he?
"I do," Billy admits. He likes it too much. The gift, the warm feeling inside him, Steve. "Thanks?"
Well. He's got to pay him back somehow, doesn't he? His hands are on Steve's belt, but Steve just takes them, intertwining their fingers.
"It's a gift," Steve says, slowly.
"Your huge dick is a gift," Billy mumbles, ignoring the burn of his cheeks and trying not not stare at Steve's pink lips.
Steve winks at him.
"You'll get that later. Now I'm hungry," he says, pressing a kiss on Billy's lips. Casually. As if that's a thing they do. Kiss a little, cuddle, like they are something.
Billy warms him another microwave dinner. Which tastes awesome now, somehow. Like a Michelin prized meal. His heart is racing the whole time and he feels drunk and sober at once.
He watches Steve chewing, cheeks stuffed full and radiating warmth and happiness. Which seems like a gift, too. This is the best birthday...maybe in forever.
@harringroveweek
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