#cherrylanechallenge

Halloween used to be a thing in their family.

Ever since Billy was a kid, it was always tacky group costumes and homemade decorations, special dinners and so, so much candy. It started with his mama, a lady who was never one for Easter or Christmas, much to her husband's dismay, and instead put all of her effort into all Hallow’s Eve.

But a couple years back, Billy got caught with just a little too much makeup on, couldn’t play it off as just for some dumb costume Max put him in, and that was it. That was just the final straw really. They’d been balancing on the edge of losing all holidays in the Hargrove house since the moment Billy’s ma walked out the door without a second glance, taking all the festivity with her.

Still, it’s not entirely gone. Neil still let’s them decorate the outside of the house, even though they’re barely unpacked yet stringing some orange lights and a few cobwebs on the porch, but that’s the end of their festivities.

Now, usually, that means no horror movies, no costumes, no  candy, and Max isn’t allowed to trick or treat either,

But since they’re in a cozy little neighborhood now, where nobody knows about Neil Hargrove’s temper. The old man’d be damned if he didn’t at least try to build a good reputation after he let it slip back home.

They don’t got the money for it, but he takes Max to buy a costume and a huge bag of candy for Susan to hand out anyways. Because that’s what he does. Pretends everything’s just fine at any literal cost, spends more money on their reputation than he does on the goddamn necessities.

He even lets her pick out a pumpkin to carve. (Outside, Maxine. Get that shit on my carpet and I’ll beat your skinny ass)

Now, that’s not him being nice and they all know it, but they’ll take those little moments of kindness when they can get them. So much so, Billy takes the opportunity to try and get something for himself.

And it backfires. Real bad.

The conversation goes something like, Billy trying to convince his dad that if Max is allowed to go out, he should be too, say, to that party he got an invite to in the good part of town.

But that only reminds Neil that there’s a bad part of town, and he’s letting his step-daughter, herself known for misbehaving whenever possible, out into it. He informs Billy rather bluntly that no, he can’t go to the party. He has to take Max trick-or-treating.

Fuck.

It’s one thing to have to watch after the little twerp, but this is a whole other level he’d never had to stoop to before. Not even when he was twelve and young enough to do this shit while they were pretending to be a family for the first time did he have to show her off in her stupid little costume.

That’s all it is anyhow, is showing off for the new neighborhood, so Billy tries to find a loophole, make a case for himself.

Again the conversation is short lived, goes something like, “Hey dad. You know this Tina chick is like, super rich and popular, and the fact that she invited me to this party is like, a major honor. It would be weird if I didn’t show up, and you know, I don’t wanna miss an opportunity like that, bein’ new here and all.”

“Good try. Trick-or-treat starts at 6:30.”

“Yessir.”

Drop dead legs

For all intents and purposes, Billy assumed he would die from this. He stood up from the ground of Star Court mall, his chest heaving and his eyes stinging from the salt water he’s been crying, ready to die. Ready to end it. Just fucking end it, already. For Christ’s sake.

The girl at his feet shivered and trembled and looked at him with an understanding he’s been looking at himself with for too long. That he’s not worth anything the way he is. He ain’t worth anything just the man he is, but he could be worth something. If he died for it.

So Billy Hargrove stood up to get knocked down.

His body was shivering and trembling in fear, but he wasn’t afraid. Of course, he was afraid. He was terrified. But in context of what he’s been though this really was just a drop in the bucket.

At least he had his body back, he mused to himself, as he lifted his hands to catch the gelatinous tentacle arm of the Mind Flayer out of mid-air.

At least this he was doing by his own will, for himself. Even if the last thing he was going to ever do was get fucking killed— at least it was his god damn choice.

But then, as more monstrous arms he couldn’t catch pierced at Billy’s sides and lifted him off the ground in a pose that sure felt a lot like a damn sacrifice, a black feather floated across the sky. Down from the ceiling. From the lights that crossed all along the vaulted Mall roof. It seemed to catch every single colored light; purples and teals, as if it’s glossy surface was wet. As if it was a loose feather floating by in a hurricane.

Billy shouldn’t take his eyes off the mind flayer. Off the enemy, but the feather was really pretty. And it was really distracting. And he might as well go out looking at that rather than the mass of melted people in front of him.

The mind flayer before him gave a huge roar. Seeming to curse all the humans around him for making this so difficult. For protecting their homes and bodies like really pesky folk. Billy wanted to laugh. He could only cry a little more. Maybe it sounded like a laugh.

But even after that roar, the final blow didn’t come. He could feel his blood come out the same wounds on his sides and cut open hands. But his head didn’t get bitten off. His heart didn’t get ripped out.

Billy’s eyes focused on the blur in front of him. The feather lost to the dark ground. And Billy finally noticed that he wasn’t alone anymore. In this fight, in this pumpkin pie slice of hell they cut into the lobby of Star Court mall.

There was someone standing between him and the monster. Between him and death. Someone with two enormous wings flared out from his back. They were bristling and moving and seem to hold an infinity number of those gorgeous feathers, and they too seemed to shine with all the colors and black all at the same time. They were glossy as if they were wet. And Billy felt his last little bit of strength go out in his knees.

The man with the wings was holding onto a skinnier tentacle, a sharper one. The one made specifically for the killing blow. Now, it was tangled up in this guy’s hands. And with one sickening twist and crack… it was broken off.

The mess of human flesh and upside down rot fell to the floor with a wet thunk. Old blood that had turned black after death spilt from its ripped apart insides.

Billy didn’t linger on that, didn’t want the last thing he ever sees to be that.

He looked up then at the man with the wings, the Angel in black descended down from the rainy night sky to save him. As if God was watching and had any say in the matter. As if that bearded bastard in a dress would really save a sinner like Billy Hargrove.

But yet, the man wasn’t an Angel. He was dressed like a sailor. He wore a pair of shorts that had ridden up his long, skinny legs in his action, and a shirt that once had a white ascot tied around the neck but now was mostly black, and they were both bright blue and stripped like some sort of low wage teenage summer job uniform. Like he wasn’t an Angel at all, but an ice cream slinger in turquoise polyester.

The man turned around to face Billy finally and his hair was long and brown like chocolate and flopped over his face as if that were melted chocolate too. His eyes were wide and his mouth was hanging open. He was pouting, like he always fucking seems to be whenever Billy’s around.

“Steve Harrington?” He laughed. In the face of death, in the face of his guardian Angel, he laughs.

Steve huffs back at him. Pleased at himself that Billy’s still alive. Pleased that he’s come down like an avenging demon to knock Billy down on his ass in a way that only seemed fitting.

His little puff of air send a strand of hair blowing off his sweaty forehead, it made Billy’s whole stomach seize up in a most annoying way. Like the best fuzzy part of being drunk. Or maybe he was loosing too much blood

“Damn, Harrington,” Billy groaned around the blood in his mouth.

Steve turned from the monster and cane towards Billy. His wings heavy as they drag behind him. “Yeah, okay. I’ve got wings. Don’t make a big deal about it, you hear me, Hargrove!”

Billy laughed at him. A sobering and sob like kinda laugh that left his whole body raw from it. He thinks it’s the first real laugh he’s got from moving to this god awful state of Indiana. And Jesus, he’s not even going to be dead to try and hide it.

A flutter of black, out of the corner of his left eye is what first catches his attention. His hand raises, signaling his party to stop in their tracks. There's some shuffling and a few annoyed huffs which he ignores in favor of taking careful steps towards what caught his eye in the first place.

All is still for a second and then- There. The dry sound of feathers brushing together.

Silently, he steps closer to the source of the sound. When he sees what it is, he relaxes minutely allowing himself another breath. It is but a crow, its left wing dragging over the dewy grass of the clearing. He sees no blood so he assumes it must be broken.

Another careful step takes him even closer to the scared bird, his fingers nearly brushing its feathers, so close-

"Steve, what's the hol- Is that a bird?"

Tommy and the rest of the hunting party burst into the clearing with too loud steps and raised voices, startling the bird into a frantic state once again. It squawks in its fear, broken wing fluttering pitifully as it tries to escape what it assumes to be a predator.

"I almost had it, Tommy!" He turns to his companion, features set into an angry scowl. He may only be seventeen but he was the Crown Prince and they should've listened to his orders! "Why did you break position?"

Instead of answering his question, Tommy walks past him as crouches right by the bird, poking it with a stick and laughing at its resulting squawk. "Can't believe you stopped a hunting party just to save a bird, Stevie. What are you? Snow White?"

Heat rises to the prince's cheeks and he smacks the stick out of Tommy's hands. "Leave it. It's already hurt enough without you making it worse."

Tommy quirks an eyebrow, teeth bared into a nasty smirk. He gives a mock bow that makes Steve's eyes narrow.

"As you wish, milord."

And then, making sure he's got Steve full attention, he gives the injured bird a sharp kick sending it smacking against a tree with a feeble squawk.

The bird struggles to upright itself, collapses, and tries again, before eventually just laying there. Unmoving if not for the minuscule shifts of its diaphragm. All Steve can do is watch, knowing full well that if he so much dares make a move to help it again, Tommy might outright try to crush it under the sole of his boot.

Under the raucous laughter of the soldiers, he follows the hunting party back to the deer trail they were following, the back of his neck red with poorly contained rage. All thoughts of injured crows and helpless birds are stored at the back of his brain where he no longer has to think about them again.

---

So that night, when he walks into his chambers half-drunk on too much ale and a hearty roast, the last thing he expects is to find a girl sitting on his desk chair. Her vermillion hair is cropped short and would help her pass for a man were it not for her curvaceous figure, so distinctly female even under the black robes she wears. On her head, a crooked hat sits adorned with what he thinks are feathers.

As he steps inside, she stands up and he notices her eyes appear yellow behind her spectacles.

"Who are you?" He tries to sound authoritative, like the prince he's supposed to be, but he's too drunk to manage anything more than slurred inquisitiveness.

"Don't you recognize me?" Her lips barely move as she speaks and yet her voice comes out as a shrill squawk, not too different from the frantic sounds of the crow in the forest. It makes him flinch, taking a step back. "Maybe this will help jog your memory."

Under his watchful gaze, he sees her shift into the same crow he saw that morning. His eyes follow the bird as it flies around the room once, before landing on the chair. A blink later, and the girl from before is sitting in the same spot.

No. Not a girl.

A witch.

Because of fucking course the crow had to be a witch. That was just his life.

"Look, I'm sorry for what Tommy did to you earlier today and I truly wished to help you but if I did-"

"But if you did, your companions might've killed me while you watched." She hums, inspecting her sharp nails with clear disinterest. "Those are but excuses and we both know it."

"They are not-!"

The witch clicks her tongue disapprovingly and he finds the words he meant to say dying on his tongue. Fear rises in him, and only then does he consider that the reason she's here and not with Tommy is that he's the one she's planning to hurt.

"It is an excuse, darling." She fixes him with a sharp glare. "You're Steve Harrington, Crown Prince of the kingdom of Hawkmond. They should respect you and yet your own foot soldiers treat you like you're below the sole of their feet."

A feeble protest rises in his throat but she only has but to look, before silence descends upon him again. The worst part? She is absolutely right.

"You're weak-willed. Spineless. A disaster in the making." She huffs, taking the few steps that separate them until they are standing almost nose to nose. "I shall not allow a person like that to ruin what this kingdom could become."

In her yellow eyes, he sees rage flash however briefly, and he wonders what sort of circumstances led a witch to care this much for the outcome of a whole kingdom. It is but a split-second judgment, yet it's all he manages.

For the next thing he knows, pain radiates from every single nerve ending in his body. He falls upon his knees, writhing in agony, and through his anguished screams, he swears he can hear the witch croon in a sticky-sweet voice.

Scion of swords and kings

A curse of feather and blood

Placed upon thee

For thine will is brittle as bone

This shape thou shall keep

Til’ the day thy soul’s to pass

Unless thy lesson is learned

And thee flies with thine own wings

By the next morning, every single person in the Capitol knows Crown Prince Steve Harrington has gone missing. None a single clue left behind to find him.

When Billy comes back he brings a Shadow with him.

Not that thing that lines the scorching pavement behind you, but the shapeless form that peels itself away from your body with just a little bit of your soul.

It follows him everywhere. It whispers in his ear.

You took them. You killed them. You enjoyed it. You made yourself into it. It was easy for the monster, too easy. Neil saw it in you, all those years ago, that's why he did what he did. He was the real hero, protecting everyone else from you.

On his bravest days, Billy ignores it. On those days, he can smile and he can laugh, he can bat his eyes and flash his smile at the nurses at his physical therapist's office, he can skim his fingers down the bare skin of Steve's mole-spotted back, he can make himself big enough and loud enough to drown out the things he doesn't want to hear. It's an old trick, from even before all this possessed bullshit, but it works.

Mostly.

When he's feeling weaker, Billy whispers back. He tries to argue, uses logic and recycled arguments from Steve and Max and Mrs Byers (it's not your fault, you're just kid, you didn't know) and curls himself up in Steve's wardrobe, where he's boxed in safe and sound, cushioned by the heavy downing of winter coats and old jeans. He sits in the dark and he mumbles his rebuttals.

It's useless, though. Once it knows it's got his attention, the Shadow doesn't waste anytime. It digs it's tendrils into his skin like fishhooks made of frost bitten steel, and it latches on hard.

The Shadow always wins, always. It somehow knows the truth every time, no matter what Billy hisses back at it, and it delights in holding Billy's face up to it, forcing him to watch the blackened, grotesque knot of things he doesn't want to know as it grows and grows in his head like a tumour.

He has just enough left of himself on those days, though, to beat it down, shove the Shadow into one of Steve's many empty shoeboxes and lever himself out of the closet when he hears Steve banging around down in the kitchen ready to leave for work. He acts likes nothing's happened, but Steve can always tell and on those days he presses his chest to Billy's, arms in a purposefully loose circle around his shoulders, and rubs his cheek over the frizzy top of Billy's head.

The knot doesn't dissolve immediately, but it goes away eventually if he has enough good days in between his bad ones, enough time to rebuild the shaky frame he puts up around him, all shiny, big, bold colours with nothing inside to prop it up. And usually, he has enough time.

But there's some days where there's more Shadow than Billy, more dark and whispered truth than there is of his puffed up, airy bravado of a golden man reborn. It leaves him crashing in on himself, quietly and motionlessly, like an earthquake at the centre of the world.

Those days when Billy's at his weakest, laying as noiseless and unmoving as a corpse, it's Steve who whispers to him and drowns out the relentless gnawing voice of the Shadow. How brave Billy is, how strong, how beautiful, how gentle. He goes through endless lists of things he loves about Billy, never saying the things Billy expects him to. Steve doesn't talk about the mall, or high school. Instead, he talks about Billy dancing along to the Madonna records he swears he only tolerates for Steve, about Billy dropping by on the days Robin's not working to have lunch together because he knows eating alone reminds Steve of his years without his parents, about Billy climbing onto the roof to get a ball down for the neighbour's kid, about Billy teaching Max to throw a punch and line her lips so her gloss doesn't smudge over her chin, about Billy telling California stories of endless beach and lit up boardwalks to Mrs Byers as they sit and fold washing together on the couch.

Day 1: Knife

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