Steve hates Billy Hargrove.
Steve just hates the way Billy makes him feel, the way he makes him act.
And especially, the way Billy treats him.
The way he laughs at Steve, tells him he’s pathetic.
And Steve knows Billy doesn’t love him.
It’s really fucking obvious, the way Billy only fucks him when he’s drunk, the way he slaps Steve when he starts talkin’ too damn much. The way he spits on his face and calls him pillow biter.
And that’s not the problem.
The problem, is that Steve is madly, deeply, hopelessly in love with Billy.
Which is why he let’s Billy do this, treat him like he does.
The sex is never nice, but it’s always good, and at least, at least Billy is giving him something, anything.
Billy doesn’t like it when Steve talks before they fuck.
Steve doesn’t read too much into it.
Just lets those whiskey-soaked lips leave trails of kisses and bruises all over him, anywhere that isn’t his lips.
Steve had tried to kiss Billy once.
Got slapped and called a fairy for it.
You’re just a warm hole for me, Harrington. Knock that gay shit off.
So Steve lets himself be manhandled. Keeps himself soft and malleable.
He fingers himself every night, on the off chance that Billy will come over.
Billy never preps him. Thinks fingering another guy is gayer than just fucking him. Steve learned that the hard way. The painful way.
Billy likes taking him from behind.
Says it’s easier to imagine Steve’s a girl that way.
A girl with a fat ass and a sloppy cunt.
He pushes Steve’s face down into the pillow, tells him to be quiet, and takes and takes.
Its not playful. Its not two boys that didn’t know how to tell each other they love one another.
It was one boy, so starved for affection he took rough sex and mean names and kept telling himself this could be love.
And another boy, so beaten down, he only let himself indulge in what he really wanted if he was in control, if he made it clear fucking another boy didn’t make him gay, just an equal opportunist.
He once came over when Steve had the flu.
And Steve was hoping, praying that Billy would take care of him, ask if he needed anything.
But Billy looked disgusted, and said if you’re still sick tomorrow night, I’m gonna find a better hole. And left.
So Steve cried, and the next night he took enough medicine that he felt okay enough for Billy to rail him.
He cried again after Billy left, throwing up what little was in his stomach, spunk dripping down his thighs.
But every night, every single night, as he’s laying in a bed that smells like Billy, still feeling his phantom touches, he lets his mind wander.
Lets himself imagine strong arms around his body, soft lips pressing kisses and praise and I love you, Stevie into his skin.
Lets himself dream of something domestic, of a sunny little kitchen and a fat little cat. Of cooking breakfast for dinner and baking brownies at 2 am.
Because he knows it’s all pretend.
Knows that tomorrow he’ll be sore and empty.
Knows that tomorrow he’ll have new bruises and a broken heart.
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