#himbo reader

You didn’t even do anything but set him aside because you were late for practice, and never before has he been glad to be in an empty hallway. If that didn’t do it, then witnessing the absolute dumb fuckery that permeated your mind was enough to make Billy realize he may, in fact, have a thing for guys.

“But I’m not….am I?” Billy’s been staring at the hood of his car; his reflected image stared back at him, confused as he tried to work through his current turmoil. It was early Saturday morning, and he’d decided not to stay in the house any longer than he had to.

“Hey, Billy.”

He spins around to see you jog up to him - and he is very much appreciating the running clothes right now; he tries to reign back his ogling; thankfully, you don’t notice it.

Billy doesn't exactly have the greatest repertoire to refer back to on these new emotions, what with his mom being six feet underground and all; he’s certainly not going to his dad about this, either. So he chooses to suffer in ignorant bliss and silence.

Which is hard to do when you’re there. Barely five feet apart. Chin on his shoulder as you look over his notes for the stupid chemistry group project. “Do you mind?” he asks, lacing as much venom as he can.

“Oh, sorry,” he feels relieved you might move back, but you don’t. Instead, you plaster yourself to his back, arms holding your own notes - which he can see even better now, so thank you for that - and with both books side by side, you return to reading, muttering to yourself all the while, Billy feels seconds away from melting into the floor.

“I can’t believe I have to fuck him.”

“You do not have to fuck him, Billy; I am begging you —”

“I gotta fuck him,” Billy reiterated, ignoring whoever it was he’d been speaking to and all but running towards you. When you notice his approach, you wave him over, the hose in your hand dropping, as Billy tries very hard not to pay attention to how close your shirt is sticking to your skin.

“Why are you wet?” He knows why you’re wet; he watched you try and fill the bucket for the school fundraiser, stare down at it, and then get doused in water. You, of course, explain what happened, and he, of course, calls you a moron.

“Well, not all of us are pretty geniuses, Billy,” you retort, turning away to shrug off your shirt, utterly oblivious to how wide his eyes go. “You alright?” You ask him when you turn back, placing the back of your hand on his forehead, “Your face is all red; oh, god, you’re really warm. Should I get the nurse?”

“No —no, I’m fine.”

“You sure? You look like you might faint,” you worry, “I can carry you there if —”

Billy should get a medal for the amount of speed he puts into his getaway run. He’s out of sight long before you can respond, jumping into his car and driving off to anywhere else; he stops somewhere - feet swinging a little, then screaming into his hand, then back to a blushing mess.

End Note: