#it's... coming??

The Catholic church on the edge of town rang its bells thrice a day—six in the AM, noon, six in the PM—and that first round of distant, steady clanging roused Billy from fitful sleep, however briefly, every morning without fail. He was used to it, even before moving to Hawkins; the Lutherans liked to do the same at his childhood church in San Diego.

That morning, he would’ve drifted off again—closing shift later—if not for a couple distracting factors. Number one, he had to piss, and usually he’d just roll out and stumble back without a thought because Ed slept like the dead once he was down, except that, number two, cuddled along Eddie’s side, his arm looped limp around her back, was… Chrissy. Who’d shifted, eyes fluttering, the moment Billy sat up. 

Her enquiring hum was more a soft grunt.

“Sorry,” he whispered, barely audible over the hiss of the sheets as he slid free. “Gotta pee.”

Another hum, faintly acceding, like I’ll allow it, and Billy bit down on a bubble of mirth, spent his time before the porcelain throne and his foggy wander back to the bed a bit dumbfounded, awestruck in a way that made his chest tight, this balloon inside expanding past capacity.

It was Sunday. This time last week, he’d been bracing to lose something, not… find something. Gain something. 

He’d assumed pushing Chrissy and Eddie together would necessarily push Billy and Eddie apart. Billy would be the one giving, not… getting. 

Never in his wildest imagining had Billy anticipated last night. That, holding Eddie out to her, poised for release, Chrissy would grab onto them both. Together, but also—separately. 

And Billy never expected he’d so badly want to grab onto her in return.

Quiet as he could, he slipped between the sheets, sat propped against the headboard, and seeing them snuggled in the dark set off that same buoyant burst as before. Not just for Eddie. The pang of possessive fondness… it was for her, too. 

Possessive and protective. Chrissy had fallen apart, let him tend to the pieces, bundle her up safe, and it was almost desperate, irrational, how much he wanted to be there when she needed that, but also…

He swallowed, rubbing his chest like that would calm whatever was wrestling for purchase, and tried to parse the chaos, the known and familiar feelings from the rest.

Because the past week had stomped all over the sandy bottom of his psyche, stirred what he tried so hard to keep submerged until it was nothing but swirling murk. And when it got like that, the best thing to do was keep real still, wait for it to settle.

Slight movement beneath a pillow, and his gaze cut to the slender hand as it emerged to nudge his own, resting on the mattress by his hip. Chrissy gave no other sign of being awake, and maybe she wasn’t, maybe she was just stretching in her sleep… but when he turned his hand, lightly held her fingers, brushing his thumb over soft knuckles, she squeezed, a brief pulse, weak from lying lax so long.

It lanced through him, this urge to scoop her up and really squeeze, so tight and consuming that it smothered everything bad.

Clingy, he diagnosed. He, Billy Hargrove, was feeling fucking clingy.

.