#soulmarks

He didn’t particularly want to talk to Harrington – didn’t want to hear what the guy had to say, or how disappointed or angry he was, or all the ways in which Billy was wrong – but he could admit to himself that they probably should have a conversation at some point. And the sooner they got this over with, the sooner they could go back to pretending none of this had ever happened. They’d be able to go back to hating each other – or ignoring each other, or whatever Harrington preferred.

Besides, it wasn’t like Billy had anything better to do right now. He wasn’t wanted or expected back in the house on Cherry tonight. After the stern talking to that he’d gotten for coming home without Maxine – and the subsequent beating he’d earned for letting her catch a ride home with the Chief of Police – his dad had taken the keys to the Camaro. He hadn’t said that Billy couldn’t go out, though, which was why Billy – after dinner today, during which his dad had snapped at him no less than three times for something or other – found it safest to vacate the premises until further notice. He’d grabbed his wallet and his jacket and started walking, aimlessly at first. Thoughts whirling while simultaneously trying not to think of anything at all. When he’d reached downtown his side had started bothering him and he’d been close enough to the store to make it there before they closed. The next part of his plan had been to hang out at the diner on the edge of town for a while – they were open ‘til eleven – but then he’d run into Harrington. Harrington, who had looked at him as if he was dog shit he had just stepped in, and … Bill hadn’t been able to handle that, at that moment.

He’d been rattled enough by the encounter that he’d just taken his box of Tylenol and left, turning back towards Cherry without a second thought. Fuck the diner, fuck the store, fuck his dad, and fuck Harrington. He’d take his licks from his dad and then he’d hole up in his room and crawl under the covers and hope against hope that he’d wake up tomorrow realizing that this had all just been a bad dream.

But despite his resolve to avoid this particular situation, he was now sitting in Harrington’s car, next to Harrington himself – silently cursing all previous decisions that led him here, and steeling himself for what was to come.

He didn’t really pay attention to where they were going – it wasn’t like it mattered, anyway, because at this point he couldn’t even muster up a reasonable amount of concern that Harrington was taking him out into the woods to kill him – but he noticed when the car turned down a long driveway in front of a big house. Because of course Steve Harrington had a big house.

Fucking rich boy.

Harrington got out of the car and Billy reluctantly did the same so the guy could lock it. When Harrington made his way to the front door, holding a plastic bag from the store in one hand, Billy followed, but more slowly. His steps were heavy, like he was wading through mud up to his knees. He really didn’t want to be here.

Then again, he didn’t really want to be anywhere else either, right now. Might as well get this over with.

“Come on in,” Harrington said after opening the door and walking inside. Billy hesitantly followed him, but stopped just inside the door. The hall was big and spacious, with stairs leading to the second floor straight ahead, and open doorways both to the left and right. Harrington was already disappearing through the one to the left, talking while he went. “Do you want something to drink? Um, I’ve got sodas, lemonade …”

He sounded nervous. A vindictive part of Billy thought, Good.

Harrington had kicked off his shoes when he came inside, but Billy kept his on – along with his jacket and his ruined, half-buttoned shirt – as he took a couple of steps forward so he could stand in the doorway. The room in front of him was a kitchen, and Harrington was already at the fridge, looking through its contents. As if he was deliberately avoiding looking at Billy.

“Cut the shit,” Billy snapped. “You wanted to talk. So, talk.”

Taking a deep breath, Harrington turned to Billy. He looked tense, which. Welcome to the club.

“You sure you don’t want a drink first?”

It was an obvious attempt to stall, and in any other situation, Billy would have allowed it. As it was, Billy narrowed his eyes and said, with a hint of challenge, “Not unless you’ve got something way stronger in there”, and watched as Harrington closed the door to the fridge and ran his hand through his hair nervously.

“Okay, fine.” He motioned to the kitchen table. “Will you at least sit down?”

“I’ll stand.”

This time Harrington didn’t even speak, just glared at Billy like he was being difficult on purpose – which, okay – until he huffed and stomped over to the closest chair, demonstratively sitting down and crossing his arms over his chest. Petulantly, he hoped his shoes tracked dirt all over the floor, but he didn’t break eye contact with Harrington to check.

Harrington only held it for a second, though, before he let his gaze slide down and to the side – to Billy’s bicep, where his words were hidden under his layers. Where Steve knew his words were, because he’d bullied himself into Billy’s space and seen them, without permission.

Hot rage and humiliation bubbled up in Billy at the reminder. “So, are you gonna show me yours?” he bit out.

“What?”

“Your words,” Billy said, managing to keep his voice level through sheer will-power. He motioned with his chin to Harrington’s chest, where he’d seen the strips of tape on several occasions in the locker room before and after practice. “It’s only fair, right?”

Harrington hesitated, and that bitter voice in Billy’s head rejoiced. Good. See how fun it is to be put on display.

“Uh … okay,” Harrington said, and reached for the hem of his shirt. He was wearing a polo, so it wasn’t like he could just unbutton it, and for half a second, Billy panicked, thinking Harrington intended to get shirtless right here in his kitchen. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle that on top of everything else – it was difficult enough to ignore in the locker room. But luckily, Harrington just pulled up his shirt to his shoulder, and then slowly started peeling away the tape.

Billy’s heart was beating like a drum in his chest, and part of him regretted asking – knowing that seeing them wouldn’t do him any good – but another part of him was mesmerized and couldn’t look away. When Harrington finally pulled the last of the tape off, balling it up in a neat little ball and placing it on the kitchen counter, only the words remained – almost black contrasting starkly against pale skin:

You are brave, and strong, and the most beautiful person I have ever seen.

Billy worked his jaw and swallowed hard. He hadn’t remembered exactly what he’d said, back there – his blood had been rushing though his veins and he’d spoken without any kind of plan, his only thought being ‘nice, say something nice’ – but seeing them now, he felt his face flush. Hopefully, he could pass it off as anger.

He vaguely remembered grasping for the first complimentary things he could think of. Harrington had placed himself between a raging Billy and the kids, which made him brave. Harrington hadn’t exactly pulled his punch, and he’d been strong. And …

Well. Steve Harrington had caught Billy’s interest from day one, and despite what Tommy and the rest of them thought, it wasn’t because of his old reputation as king of the school. Rather, it’d been those big brown eyes, that mole-dotted skin, and the straight and distinctive nose that had drawn Billy’s attention to him … So yeah. It was hard to deny that Harrington was beautiful.

Billy just wished he hadn’t said that last one out loud. He couldn’t possibly have picked a gayer word.

He didn’t say anything now, though, just sharply turned his head away when he couldn’t stomach looking anymore, and watched in his periphery as Harrington pulled his shirt back down and sat in the chair opposite of Billy. Billy instinctively leaned back to create more space between them. If Harrington noticed, he didn’t say anything about it.

“So …” Harrington started, biting his lip. Billy said nothing. He wasn’t going to make it easy on the guy. He wasn’t the one who insisted they have this conversation. “How long have you had yours?”

Billy shrugged. “Since before I could read them.”

“Oh. Yeah. Uh, same.”

Not surprising. First Words usually manifested around the same time for both parties, and the two of them were around the same age.

“Before they formed, for me, the blob kinda looked like a whale. If I squinted.” Harrington spoke fast, as if he was anxious. “And when they formed into letters I remember standing in the mirror trying to read them, with my book about ABC, but they made no sense to me.” A nervous laugh. “Because … you know, they were mirrored. Since I was looking at them in the mirror.”

Billy shrugged, feeling off-balance at this awkward attempt at breaking the ice, and defaulted to sarcasm. “I didn’t have that problem. Mine were placed perfectly for me to read them before bed every night, and every time I needed a little pick-me-up.”

Harrington winced again – good – but then he seemed to catch himself and scowled instead. “I’m trying here, okay? I didn’t exactly mean for this to happen.”

“Sure.”

“I didn’t. I didn’t know it was gonna be you or that something like this would happen. If I’d known I would have –“

“You would have what?” Billy said, cutting him off. “Recited poetry at me?” He scoffed. “Give me a break. You hate me, Harrington, that’s no secret.”

“That’s not– I don’t!”

“Really?” Billy said, raising his arm and motioning to his bicep. “These say that you do.”

“That’s not–!” Harrington started, cutting himself off and taking a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second before putting both hands on the table and standing up. “You know what, I think my dad does have something stronger somewhere, actually.” He walked off, adding under his breath, “And I’ll fucking need it for this conversation.”

Billy wasn’t sure he was supposed to hear that last part. But he did, and he couldn’t agree more. He slumped down in the chair, despite the discomfort, and sighed, rubbing at his face with his hands. He didn’t even bother to sit up straight when Harrington returned, a little while later, holding a bottle with amber-colored liquid inside. He watched as Harrington brought out two glasses from a cupboard and then returned to the table, pouring liquor into them and scooting one over the table to Billy.

Before Billy could grab it, though, Harrington frowned and pulled the glass back as a second thought. “Wait … should you drink if you’re on pain medication?”

“Watch me not giving a fuck.” Billy leaned in and snatched the glass from him, glaring. “Besides, what do you care?”

Harrington sat back down without comment and took a gulp from his own glass, grimacing as it went down. Then he took a couple of deep breaths, as if trying to ground himself, before he said, “I wanted to say … I’m sorry.” Surprised, because he hadn’t expected this, Billy just stared at him. “I’m not apologizing for what I said, because I didn’t know what would happen, and you did act like an asshole …” That was more like Billy had expected, but then Harrington continued, “… but I’m sorry I touched you while I said it. And I’m sorry those were the words you ended up with.” And suddenly, Billy had to blink against the stinging in his eyes. He couldn’t remember anyone ever taking the first step and apologizing to him before. “And I’m also sorry …” Harrington continued, in a lower voice and in more of an embarrassed murmur, “… that I tried to stop you from leaving back then, and yelled ‘snickerdoodle’ at you. And then chased you down with my car tonight and ripped your shirt off on the side of the road.”

Laid out like that, it sounded insane – because yes, that was basically what he’d done, huh? Billy couldn’t help letting out a snort.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Not your best moment.”

Harrington braved a wry little smile. Somehow, seeing it gave Billy the boost to blurt out, “I’m sorry too. That I hit you, back then, I guess.” He wasn’t sorry, not really, but he felt like he should say something in return. “I was just … trying to leave.”

“No, that’s … that’s understandable.” Harrington grimaced. “I kinda hit you first, anyway. I just …” He glanced at Billy, a wrinkle between his eyebrows. ”Listen, it was an … eventful night, and you showed up at the worst time. You scared the kids.”

Rehashing the events of that night was the last thing Billy wanted to do right now, so he just shrugged. “Listen, I was just there to get Max. She’d snuck out without permission and my dad had sent me to find her. That’s all I was trying to do.” And okay, he hadn’t gone about it the best way, he could admit that, if only to himself.

Maybe something showed on his face, too, because Harrington’s eyes softened for a fraction of a second. Then:

“Your dad?” Harrington said, like something clicked into place in his head, and his eyes flickered down to Billy’s bruised side. Instinctively, Billy shifted his position in the chair so he could pull his jacket a little closer to his body. Fortunately, the movement seemed to distract Harrington’s attention away from Billy’s bruises. Unfortunately, Harrington’s eyes fell onto Billy’s arm once more.

“Do you think I could …” Harrington started, and then snapped his mouth shut with a clacking of teeth. He worked his jaw, and then tried again, carefully. “Will you … show them to me?”

“What,” Billy said. “My words?” A nod. “You’ve already seen them.” Less than half an hour ago, in fact – he was pretty sure Harrington hadn’t had time to forget already.

Harrington’s face flushed red. “Yeah, but … it was dark and …” He swallowed. “And you didn’t show me.” You didn’t choose to, was left unsaid. They both thought it, though, and that did something to Billy.

This time, he had a choice. He could say no. He knew that if he told Harrington to fuck off, and stood up and walked out of here, Harrington probably wouldn’t try to stop him. And for a second, he thought about doing it. Tried to muster up the same anger he’d felt when he walked in here, or at least enough of it so that he could manage a scathing remark … but he was scraping the bottom of the barrel of his anger already, finding it empty. It seemed that it had all seeped out of him – probably somewhere around Harrington’s apology.

He told himself, What does it matter? Harrington had already seen.

He couldn’t say yes, though. Not out loud. So instead, he took a big gulp of liquor from his glass for courage and just … shrugged out of his jacket, letting it hang over the back of the chair, and unbuttoned the precious few buttons that were left on his shirt. He didn’t remove it entirely – felt like he needed an extra layer of protection between himself and Harrington’s gaze, and made an effort to keep his bruises hidden – but tugged it down his arm.

Harrington followed his movement with intense focus, but didn’t move from his spot on the chair, for which Billy was more than grateful. He saw Harrington’s eyes flick to the words as soon as they were out in the open – watched as he tilted his head to be able to read them better – but resisted the urge to look at them, himself. It wasn’t like he had to. He’d known them by heart since he was a child, and had spent too much time staring at them already, over the years.

“What …?” Harrington started, after a while when he’d looked his fill. “What happened to it?”

“What do you mean?” Billy asked, voice raspier than he’d expected. But as soon as he’d spoken, he understood, and silently cursed the bright light from the lamp above the table.

Harrington specified anyway. “To the … ‘here’?”

“Oh. Um.” A shrug, in an attempt to appear casual. “Nothing.”

It was quite obvious what the round little marks were, and they were too deliberately placed to be an accident, but he didn’t want to get into it right now. He closed his eyes and prayed to anything that would listen that Harrington would let the obvious lie slide, and not ask more. And for once in his life it seemed like his prayers were answered, because Harrington just made a little sound, like “Oh.” A pause, and then, “I’m sorry.” As if he understood. It was overwhelming.

It was also another apology, and this time for something he didn’t even do.

Fuck. This would have been so much easier to deal with if Billy had still been angry. Anger had been his go-to to hide everything else behind; his loneliness, his fear and his grief, his continued disappointment. His goddamned crush. Now there was nothing to hide behind, and it made him feel raw.

Before he could think of something else to say, Harrington cleared his throat and spoke again, perhaps also feeling the need to switch tracks.

“Okay, so … how are we gonna do this?”

“What do you mean?”

“The whole … soulmate thing. What are we gonna do?”

Billy knew that they were soulmates, but he still looked up sharply when Harrington said it. It was the first time any of them had said it out loud. Just … put the word out there, between them, impossible to ignore.

Billy shrugged again in an attempt to try to appear casual and took a drink out of his glass to give his brain time to focus. “Ignore it, I guess. Pretend it didn’t happen.”

“But it did happen,” Harrington said, a small frown on his face.

“Yeah well, it’s not like any of us are happy about it,” Billy said. “And it’s definitely not like we can let anyone know about it.” He shuddered just thinking of what his dad would say if he found out that his soulmate was a guy.

“But –“

“Look, the point is, that this whole situation sucks and we both wish it hadn’t happened, alright? So we just … go about business as usual, pretending it didn’t happen. Tomorrow, we go back to our normal lives and we act normal and we don’t tell anyone, and we never talk about this again. Simple.” Oh, if only.

“’Simple’?”

Billy rubbed at the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “Yeah,” he said, knowing full well that he was lying – mostly to himself. “Simple.”

Harrington didn’t let him get away with it, though. “You know that nothing about this is simple, don’t you?”

Billy let out a hoarse laugh. “Yeah well. It sucks, but what else can we do?”

With the pills kicking in and the alcohol he’d ingested, the ache in his side was abating. So when Harrington bit his lip, looking like he wanted to say something, instead of getting annoyed, Billy just asked, “What?”

“I have a question.”

“Shoot.” Because why not?

“You say it sucks. And it does, I mean, I get that, but … My words don’t suck.”

Shit. “Harrington …”

“Why don’t my words suck?”

Billy had rather hoped he’d get through this conversation without going into that. He tried a nonchalant shrug, but Harrington wouldn’t have it.

“No,” Harrington said, a little more forceful. “I’m been thinking about it. You could have said anything. I’d already said your words so you knew I was your … You knew. And we were fighting. You could have said something … bad. Why didn’t you–“ He cut himself off, took a steadying breath. “I mean, why did you say … the things you said?”

It was a simple question, and Billy wished there was a simple answer to it. He knew he could explain away the brave and strong parts, but if Harrington asked about the beautiful, Billy was fucked. He was already surprised that things were going this well; he was sitting here and having a semi-civil conversation with Harrington – who was his soulmate – so the situation was already better than he’d expected when he got in Harrington’s car earlier. He did not want to ruin that by revealing the attraction he’d felt – and despite everything, was still feeling – towards Harrington. That would only make things worse.

But perhaps he could leave that out and go with parts of the truth?

“Because I grew up with shit words, okay? And it fucking sucked. And maybe –“ He cut himself off, just to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat before forcing himself to continue, “– maybe I didn’t want someone else to have to go through that, alright? Maybe I’m not that much of a dick.”

He looked away, anywhere but at Harrington. A part of him expected to hear Harrington’s huff of disbelief any second now; for him to call Billy a liar and an asshole and say that Billy couldn’t possibly have done something nice out of the goodness of his own heart because everyone knew he didn’t fucking have one. He gritted his teeth and waited, and kept telling himself he didn’t care if Harrington believed him or not.

But no huff of disbelief came. Instead, there was a soft intake of breath, and then:

“… thank you.”

The words were quiet, almost a whisper, and for a second Billy thought he must have imagined them because surely Harrington wouldn’t have –

“What?”

“I said thanks.” Billy looked up, and Harrington sat there with his shoulders drawn up to his ears, playing with the rim of his glass. “That was … big of you.” He gave a little smile that mostly resembled a grimace. “I don’t know if I would have … thought to do the same, if it’d been the other way around.”

Billy blinked, his mouth hanging open. When the words registered – positive words, aimed at Billy – he gave a little shake of his head and cleared his throat. “Well …” He didn’t know what to say to that. He’d been prepared for anger or doubt, not this, whatever it was. “I guess, if it’d been the other way around, I could have walked around with ‘snickerdoodle’ on my arm instead.”

As far as jokes went, it was pretty bad, but it drew a half-smile out of Harrington anyway and something eased in Billy’s chest, at the same time as his heart squeezed in longing. What he wouldn’t have given to have ‘snickerdoodle’ on his arm instead of the words that were currently there. It would have been life-changing.

“I’d actually prepared what to say, if someone ever touched me and said my words,” Harrington said, a little sheepishly. “Of course, that was all for a situation in which someone touched me first.”

“Yeah?” Billy said in an attempt to keep up the levity. “What was it?”

“I mean, it was different things, depending on if the gir– person had like, blue eyes or brown, or what color hair they had.”

“Was it poetry?” Billy asked, ignoring Harrington’s almost-slip, forcing a smile. “I bet it was poetry.”

Harrington didn’t confirm, but he looked down at the table in a way that was basically the same as a confirmation. Billy grinned, and said, “So what would mine have been, if–?” but then clamped his mouth shut before he could finish the sentence when he suddenly realized that he didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to know what could have been, what words he could have had if things had been different. “Never mind,” he bit out, draining the rest of his glass.

Maybe Harrington understood, because his face twisted into a mask of regret and he opened his mouth to, no doubt, apologize again. Billy spoke up before he could.

“I swear if your next words are ‘I’m sorry’ I’m gonna punch you in the face,” he said, nevertheless trying to make it clear that he didn’t really mean it. “And I’m not gonna be sorry about it.” Because he’d gotten enough apologies and thank yous for one night. Any more, and he might start thinking that someone had knocked him out and this was all a concussion-induced hallucination.

“Right,” Harrington said. “Uh, sorry.”

He caught his own words at the same time as Billy raised his eyebrows pointedly, and gave an embarrassed grin. “I mean I’m not sorry!”

“There you go.”

They sat in silence for a while, both playing with their empty glasses, and then Billy cleared his throat and busied himself with re-buttoning his shirt, and then stood up. “Alright, I should … get going.”

Harrington opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again to say, “Or you could … stay?”

That had Billy freeze in the middle of a motion. He turned his head to look incredulously at Harrington, whose eyes were big and round like he couldn’t believe what he’d just said. But even as Billy stared him down, instead of taking it back, he just straightened up and said, “Well, I mean, you live on the other side of town. I’d obviously offer to drive you but I’ve been drinking, so … And it’s late. And cold out.” He nodded to Billy’s half-buttoned shirt. “Also you’re in a shirt that won’t even close.”

A stirring of annoyance bubbled up in Billy at that, just for a moment – there and then gone again. “And whose fault is that?”

“Mine,” Harrington admitted, too easily. “And since it’s my fault, I don’t wanna …” A deep breath. “Listen, we have, like, two guest rooms upstairs. You can pick whichever you want. Wouldn’t be the first time I had friends stay the night.”

It made sense, the way he said it, with one crucial exception. “But we’re not friends.”

Harrington pulled his hand through his hair and looked up at the ceiling. “Yeah, and that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? I mean …” He trailed off, and for a second he looked so lost, like he didn’t know what he wanted to say. “Fuck, man, we’re soulmates.” His voice cracked on the word. Billy opened his mouth to speak, but Harrington spoke over him, “And I know that we said we’d ignore it, okay, I know. And we can, we will, I just … I grew up thinking that would mean something.” So had Billy, before he was disillusioned by reality. “And maybe it doesn’t have to be … that. Not all soulmates are the … the getting married, four kids kinda soulmates, you know? Some are …”

He seemed to be searching for a word, and Billy knew exactly the one he was looking for. His mouth was dry as he provided, “Platonic?”

It was true. Some people’s soulmates seemed to be the non-romantic kind. Those were definitely in the minority, though, and by the way Billy’s heart twinged in his chest, that wasn’t the case here. At least not for him. But maybe it would have to be.

“Yeah!” Harrington said, nodding. “Platonic. Obviously there’s no marriage or kids in our future,” and ouch, wasn’t that a stab straight at Billy’s gay crush, “but maybe we could at least … be friends?”

He sounded hopeful. Looked hopeful, even, blinking up at Billy with those big brown eyes.

“Friends?” Billy said, both a silent ask for clarification and in an attempt to get enough time to gather his whirling thoughts and will his heartbeat down. “You and me? After all this?”

“Yeah,” Harrington said, again. “I mean, why not?”

In Billy’s mind, there were a thousand reasons why not. It would be risky, and stupid, and he would no doubt end up getting hurt somehow – more hurt than he’d already been. Willingly spending more time around Harrington – a Harrington who would be trying to be his friend, no less – would surely only lead to heartbreak. Agreeing would be inviting trouble, and Billy had enough trouble to deal with on the daily.

But on the other hand he’d been afraid to meet with his soulmate for most of his life, and now that the moment had passed, he felt … lighter, somehow. Sure, it’d been awful and he doubted it’d work out in the end, but the worst part was already over. A part of him – a small, reckless, desperately hopeful part – was curious to see where this would go.

So maybe they could try to be friends? They were both into sports, they were both – or had been, in Harrington’s case – popular guys in school. It wouldn’t be so weird in the eyes of their peers, if they started hanging out. Wouldn’t be weird to his dad, either, since they played basketball together. As long as no one found out about the words – and no one would, he’d make sure of it – it could work. They could be friends.

He could tamper down on his attraction enough to make it work. And if it sounded too good to be true – and it did, he’d expected way worse – then he just had to remind himself that getting to spend time with his platonic soulmate while trying to squash any non-platonic feelings towards him for the rest of his days, would be just the kind of shit that fate would have in store for him.

Fun times ahead. It made sense, even.

But even if Billy didn’t take those things into consideration ... Harrington had apologized. And thanked him. And he’d been way nicer than Billy had expected. And now he’d extended an olive branch that Billy hadn’t expected and doubted that he deserved.

Friendship.

Of course, while Hargrove wasn’t there, Tommy was. And they might not hang in the same circles these days, but Steve still saw red when he saw him exit his car in the parking lot, because Tommy was suspect #1 when it came to who could and would have told Hargrove about Steve’s words. Without having previously planned on it, he cut Tommy off before he reached the doors of the school.

“Talked to Hargrove lately?” he said pointedly, rage simmering under his skin.

Tommy gave him a weird look. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no.”

“He’s not in school.”

Tommy reflexively looked over his shoulder to look at the spot where Hargrove usually parked his car. The space was empty. When Tommy turned back, Steve grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and got up close.

“What did you tell him?” Steve growled, only slightly mollified by Tommy wide eyes. “Did you tell him my words?”

“What?” The surprise on Tommy’s face looked real enough.

“My fucking words, Tommy? Did you tell him?”

“No!” Tommy said, wrenching away from him. He looked … hurt, almost. “I wouldn’t do that.”

It was true that it was considered rude to discuss people’s words if they chose to cover them up, but Steve had never expected Tommy to have morals. But he had to admit that looking at him now, Tommy looked sincere. And questioning.

Fuck. Steve should probably say something, to avoid the wrong kind of rumors spreading.

“We … ran into each other,” Steve ground out, “And he … hinted that someone had told him about them.”

“Okay,” Tommy said, still keeping his distance. “Well I didn’t say shit.” He straightened his collar. “Half the school know your words, you know, we all grew up here. It could have been anyone.”

That was true, and now Steve felt a little sheepish. He nodded stiffly. “I guess,” he said, as close to an apology as he was willing to give.

Tommy didn’t seem to expect anything else, either. He gave Steve one more wary look before walking around him, disappearing inside.

Steve sighed, and rubbed at his chest. The words under the tape burned.

~~~

The next day, Hargrove was back. Steve steeled himself for the inevitable confrontation, but it never happened. Hargrove ignored him completely. Even when they walked past each other in the hallway before lunch, and even though Steve was looking straight at him, Hargrove kept looking straight ahead. Like Steve was air, or even less.

It continued the whole day, and even at basketball practice. Normally, Hargrove would throw taunts and insults at him from the other end of the court, or push up against him grinning and panting while stealing the ball, but not now. Today he focused on any other player who wasn’t Steve, and didn’t interact with Steve once. It was jarring enough that the whole practice felt off. The team noticed, and the coach definitely noticed, by the way he barked out “Hargrove! A word” before he released the rest of them to the showers.

Not wanting to risk running into Hargrove again, Steve made sure he was the first one into the showers and also the first one out of the locker room. Unfortunately, in his rush to get out of there, he forgot his jacket, something he didn’t even notice until he’d made it all the way across the parking lot and reached for his pocket to get his car keys. Which of course weren’t there, because his keys were in his jacket pocket, and his jacket was still in the locker room. Fuck.

Swearing internally, he made his way back to the gym building and back inside, passing several of his teammates on his way.

The locker room was empty when he got back there. His jacket was luckily still on the hook where he’d left it, and relieved, he walked up to grab it. Just as he reached for it, he heard a shower turn on. He instinctively turned towards the noise, and from where he was standing he could see into the shower room. Someone was in there, someone with their back to him. Steve realized it was Hargrove after a beat, and tore his eyes away, but it was too late – he had already seen the bruises on Hargrove’s side and back, along his shoulder blades. It was unexpected, because Hargrove hadn’t played like he was in pain. Then again, Steve hadn’t been close enough this time around to have noticed if anything had been different. Not today.

Steve grabbed his jacket and made his way out of the locker room without making a sound, frowning to himself. At first, his thoughts went to their fight, but that didn’t make sense. Steve had only punched him once, and that had been in his face. Where did those marks come from?

Whatever. He didn’t care – especially about Hargrove. The guy was an asshole with a reputation for violence – he’d probably just found someone else to fight recently.

It wasn’t Steve’s problem.

~~~

That evening, Steve found himself restless. He didn’t know why, but the house felt simultaneously too big and too small. He put the TV on, only to turn it off again just a little while later. Started on some homework, but gave up on it after ten minutes. Opened the door to the refrigerator to find something for dinner, but grimaced at the contents and didn’t feel like eating anything that he found in there. He sighed. There was an itch under his skin that made him want to move, and eventually he grabbed his keys and his jacket and left. The store was open for another half hour and he was running low on a few things anyway. He might as well do some late night grocery shopping.

He drove to the store, and went inside. Meandered down the aisles, occasionally throwing things that caught his eye into his basket. The store was almost empty at this time, just before closing, so he certainly didn’t expect it when he walked around a corner and collided with another person; his basket driving into the person’s gut, eliciting a low oof.

“Oh, sorry!” Steve said, reflexively, and reached out a hand – but then the person he’d run into straightened up, and he pulled his hand back because of course. Of course it had to be Hargrove, the person Steve least wanted to see.  Steve’s face went from worried to unimpressed in a second, and he found himself blurting out, “What are you doing here?”

Hargrove had tensed up when he saw who he had bumped into, and at Steve’s words his face twisted into an ugly grimace.

“Oh, let me guess,” he spat, “No one wants me here either? Fuck you, Harrington.”

With that, he shouldered past Steve, pushing him into the shelf as he passed, and stalked towards the exit. He was clutching something in one hand – Steve couldn’t see what it was before he disappeared around another corner, and by then it was too late to call out a ‘Fuck you too’ to get the last word. A little bummed about that, Steve instead glanced down the aisle Hargrove had come from. On the shelf closest to him were bandages, Band-Aids, compresses and small first-aid kits. On the next shelf over were various bottles, pills and other pain relief items.

Steve thoughts went to the bruises he’d seen on Hargrove’s back today, and suddenly he felt a little bad despite himself. Maybe he could have been a little nicer, just now. It was a store, after all, and that was for everyone. Hargrove probably hadn’t been targeting him specifically – honestly it was Steve who had bumped into him anyway, and shoving his basket into the guy’s gut to boot. Hargrove hadn’t even cursed him out for it. In fact, he’d just said –

Steve stilled. Something moved in the back of his head.

Hargrove had said ‘Let me guess, no one wants me here either’. Which was a strange thing to say, when Steve thought about it. And it had been said so aggressively, like –

Like it had meant something to Hargrove. And the more Steve thought about it, on his way to the cashier to pay for his stuff, the more he thought that maybe it should mean something to him, too. Like he’d heard it before, but couldn’t place it.

There was an uneasy feeling in his stomach, coiling up like a snake, as he made his way out of the store and to his car. The parking lot was empty, save for his own car and a beat-up old Ford that must have belonged to the cashier.

No sign of the Camaro. Maybe Hargrove had already left. But no, there hadn’t been a Camaro there when Steve arrived, either. He would have noticed it, if there had been.

He got in the car, and put the groceries on the passenger seat next to him. He put the key in the ignition, but instead of starting the car he just sat there, looking across the darkened parking lot and towards the lit-up windows of the store, where the cashier was busy locking the door and turning the “open” sign to “closed”.

“No one wants me here either? Fuck you, Harrington,” Hargrove had said.

No one wants you here.

A flash of memory. Hargrove staring at him with big eyes, mouth open, at the Byers’ house. His sleeves rolled up; his shirt open. And Steve’s fingers on his chest, pushing him back.

No one wants you here. Had Steve said that while he was touching Billy? Was that why –?

No. He couldn’t have. Could he?

Fuck, please no.

Overcome with sudden dread, he started the car. But he didn’t drive back towards his house. Instead he turned in the other direction, towards the other side of town, where he knew the Hargrove-Mayfields lived.

He didn’t have to drive for long. He just turned a corner, and there he was; a lone figure, lit up by the headlights of Steve’s car, walking down the road and taking a couple of steps to the side without looking so the car could pass him. And Steve did pass, but then immediately turned the wheel and braked, stopping at an angle right in front of Hargrove, blocking his way. He was out of the car before he could think.

Hargrove stared at him, his face lit up red in the light of the Beemer’s brake lights. When Steve approached, he took a couple of steps back, holding up his hands – one of which was holding an already opened box of Tylenol. Steve was once again reminded of the bruises he’d seen, but it was a secondary thought, shadowed by the other thing. The thing he needed to know, needed an answer to right now.

And the easiest way for that to happen was to –

“Show me,” he said. No, demanded.

“The fuck?” Hargrove said and backed up another step. “No.” He walked out into the street to get past Steve and his car, but Steve’s arm shot out and grabbed him by the sleeve of his jacket.

“Show me.”

“Let go of me!” He ripped out of Steve’s grip but Steve grabbed him again, pulling him back in. They grappled for a few moments, with Hargrove attempting to get away, but Steve was driven by something half-determination, half-desperation. He had to know.

In the end, he managed to push Billy down on the trunk of the Beemer, slamming him down probably a little too hard, judging by the guy’s wince. Immediately, it was like all fight left him. He hit the back of his head back against the metal once, as if punishing himself, and then went slack in Steve’s grip. No longer fighting, but turning his head to the side, refusing to look at Steve.

Taking that as implicit permission, even though it was probably anything but, Steve started tugging Hargrove’s jacket off his shoulders. It was pretty easy, because it was already open, despite the chilly November air. And Hargrove wasn’t fighting him. Instead he seemed … resigned.

Once Steve got his jacket halfway down his arms, he started pulling on the guy’s shirt, too. Distantly, he realized that he was acting like a crazy person, and that this was way beyond anything that was socially acceptable – and probably counted as assault – but he couldn’t stop now. His hands were shaking so much that he had trouble unbuttoning the buttons on Hargrove’s shirt, so eventually he just ripped the rest of it open – Hargrove only made a slight noise in protest at it – and yanked it down his left arm along with the jacket.

Steve had seen the tape on Hargrove before, and knew where to find it. He reached for the edge of it … and finally hesitated.

It was not okay, to remove someone’s tape against their will. To look at someone’s words when they didn’t want you to. To hold someone down like this and strip them to get to it was … more than taboo. And more than likely illegal.

But Hargrove wasn’t struggling. Was just lying there, face turned away, swallowing hard and blinking quickly. And Steve had already gotten this far. He had to know if what he suspected was true. If Hargrove was really –

He reached for the edge of the tape with a hand that shook, and scratched at the edge of it until he could get a good grip. Held his breath, sent a prayer that he would see something nonsensical underneath (or hell, even ‘Snickerdoodle’).

Then he ripped the tape off in one go.

Hargrove’s skin under the tape was pale, so even in the low light of a November night the words were easily readable. And it was even worse than Steve had imagined.

Get the fuck out, no one wants you here.

Steve felt sick. Not like vaguely ill – no, like he was actually going to throw up, for real.

He pushed back on Hargrove’s shoulders to right himself and stumbled back, thoughts whirling in his head.

Fuck.

His first, slightly nonsensical thought was that it hadn’t been a prank after all. Hargrove was his fucking soulmate.

Double fuck.

Hargrove, who was a guy. The worst kind of guy! Not to mention a bully and an asshole and –

No.

Hargrove, who had those words on him. The hateful words that Steve had said to him back at the Byers’, with his fingers on his chest.

Hargrove, who had grabbed Steve by the wrist and still said the nicest words he could think of, probably, even right after finding out that Steve was his soulmate. Even after he’d gotten Steve’s shit words. Even after he’d grown up with Steve’s shit words.

Hargrove, who was maybe not as much of an asshole as Steve had thought he was.

… shit.

“I’m gonna be sick,” Steve murmured and took yet another couple of steps back, bending over and leaning his hands on his knees, swallowing hard against the urge to vomit right there, in front of Hargrove and whatever god had put them in this situation.

“Yeah well, I’m not exactly overjoyed about this either,” Hargrove murmured from where he left him, and Steve looked up at the bitterness in his voice. Hargrove had straightened up from where Steve had held him against the car, and he was now pulling up his shirt and jacket to cover the words on his skin – and more than anything, he looked tired.

While Steve was over here, busy freaking out over the fucking curveball that life had thrown him, Hargrove was just standing there, like this was just another day. Like these things happened to him all the time. And also, a little – something that the tension in his shoulders suggested – like he expected Steve to lash out at him.

Again.

Steve took a deep breath and spat in the gravel before straightening up. When he turned back to Hargrove, the guy had bent down to pick up the box of Tylenol that he’d dropped, and was now fiddling with the buttons on his shirt – some of which were missing, Steve realized with a jolt, suddenly ashamed of himself.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, rasping, without knowing quite what he was apologizing for. The shirt? His reaction just now? The words he’d said, and unknowingly put on Hargrove’s skin? Maybe all of it.

“Fuck you,” Hargrove said, but without heat, and gave up on the buttons. He shoved his pills into his jacket pocket and turned his back on Steve, obviously intent on just walking away.

Steve knew he couldn’t let that happen. “Wait, where are you going?”

“Why do you care?” Hargrove said over his shoulder. “No one wants me anywhere anyway, remember?”

Hearing it from Hargrove’s lips now that he had context made something painful rise up in Steve’s throat. “I didn’t … I didn’t mean it like that.”

A hoarse laugh. “Yeah you did.”

And wasn’t that the kicker? Steve had meant it, when he said it. But fuck, he never meant for this to happen. Didn’t know that Billy was his soulmate, or that his words – those particular words – would be the ones to start this whole thing.

At his silence – because what could he say? – Hargrove scoffed, like he’d been proven right, and started walking.

“Wait,” Steve found himself saying. “Just … wait, will you? This is kind of a big deal, don’t you think we should talk about this?”

At that, Hargrove stopped, but only to run a hand over his face. When he spoke, he sounded exhausted. “I think we’ve both said enough.”

His words were like a punch to the gut. Steve stood there and watched as Hargrove walked away in the darkness, and he couldn’t think of one single thing that would make this situation better.

Part of what he was feeling was shame – hot and intense and almost unbearable. But another part was heartbreak – because this wasn’t how he’d imagined meeting his soulmate. Hell, Hargrove was as far from Steve’s imagined soulmate as one could get. Wrong gender, wrong personality, wrong everything. Steve had imagined … well, it didn’t matter now what he had imagined, did it? Because that wasn’t what he got, and he felt the loss of it like a knife to the heart.

Almost his whole life, he’d been waiting for this moment. Looking forward to it, dreaming of it. To meet his person, who would like him and want to be around him. Who would choose him. His words were so good, so of course he’d expected … fireworks. Something magical.

Not a guy he barely tolerated, spitting the words in his face.

And … why had he done that? Steve was pretty sure by now that Hargrove hadn’t known his words beforehand – his reaction spoke of that. Which meant that he must have come up with those words right then, on the fly. Those perfect, complimenting words that Steve had always been so proud of – that had brought him so much confidence and comfort growing up.

You are brave, and strong, and the most beautiful person I have ever seen.

His throat closed around a lump when he thought of the contrasting words he’d seen on Hargrove’s skin, when it started to sink in what it meant.

Steve had lived with his words since … what felt like forever. Had grown up with them, always knowing what they said. He’d been proud of them, bragged about them, shown them to his friends. His parents had been proud of him for having them, too, and those words had given him a sense of purpose. A goal. Something to dream of, look forward to – because he knew that somewhere out there, there was a person who would think he was all those things.

With a sinking realization, he thought about how different his life would be if his words had said ‘Get the fuck out, no one wants you here’ instead. Hargrove couldn’t have been proud of his words. Wouldn’t have bragged about them, or shown them off to anyone. And they sure as hell didn’t inspire anticipation to meet the person who would say them to him.

To meet Steve. Who had said those words to him while touching him – carelessly, without thinking – and inadvertently decided the course of Hargrove’s life up until now.

He thought of how tired Hargrove had seemed, and how he’d just stopped fighting when Steve had him pinned, letting him strip him and rip away the tape.

Saliva filled Steve’s mouth at the memory and he spat again, but didn’t throw up. He didn’t have time for that.

It took no time at all to catch up with Hargrove in the car – he was on foot, after all. Maybe a part of him expected to be run over this time, because this time when he heard the car coming, he stopped walking and tensed up – but notably didn’t step to the side. Instead of mulling those implications over, Steve just drove up next to him, and stopped, right there in the middle of the road. Then he opened the door and stood up, leaning on the roof of the car.

“Hargrove,” he said, then, “Billy. Can we talk? Please.”

Hargrove wasn’t looking at him. Just kept staring straight ahead. But at least he’d stopped. “I don’t think there’s anything left to say.”

“There is,” Steve insisted. “What I said … they were the wrong words. I didn’t mean for this to … Please, just. Come home with me? Just for a while. We can talk. Decide what to do about it. Let me … try again.”

He winced as he said it, watching Hargrove grimace too, and immediately wished he could take the words back. There was no try again when it came to First Words. There were no do-overs. There were only the First Words, and they were forever. They both knew this.

There was no way Steve could ever undo what he had said, no more than Hargrove could un-speak his own words. None of them could change this.

Despite wanting to say more, he managed to hold his breath and not speak again while Hargrove made his decision. He told himself that whatever Hargrove decided, he’d respect it. (A small voice in his head huffed and told him that it was a little late to start respecting boundaries now, after having chased the guy down and forcibly stripped him on the side of the road.)

It was dark out now. The air was cold. Hargrove was just in his jacket and a shirt that wouldn’t close properly, because of Steve. He already had bruises on him, and horrible words that Steve had put there. They were still far from Old Cherry Road.

Steve tried again, one last time.

“Please?” Barely more than a whisper.

And Hargrove folded. Steve could see his shoulder slump, as if giving up. The guy hung his head and gave it a little shake, as if telling himself he was making a mistake.

~~~

Soulmates weren’t uncommon. Approximately two thirds of the population had them, and out of those, about half eventually managed to find their soulmate during their lifetime.

The people who had soulmates were easy to identify – they were born with irregular blots on their skin, somewhere on their bodies, in different shades of beige or brown or black. As they grew older, the blots formed into words; the First Words their soulmate would ever say to them while touching them.

Naturally, this meant that no one who hadn’t found their soulmate ever shook hands with strangers while saying pleasantries. You said your hellos and your nice to meet yous, and only after that, if both parties seemed to agree, you shook hands, and said something that was nice enough but that would hopefully set you apart from others. It could be your soulmate’s first impression of you, after all. And everybody knew that it was important to make a good first impression.

Billy’s ink blots formed into words when he was young, before he was old enough to read them. They were on his upper arm, right in his line of vision if he lay down on his side and splayed his arm out in front of him. As a kid, he used to fall asleep like that, tracing them with a finger and sometimes even kissing the marks goodnight, because his mother had told him all about soulmates and the words that would form and how they meant that he had someone out there who would love him, who would be his.

But when they started changing, slowly forming letters, his mother’s excitement died down. She stopped smiling, and stopped telling him stories about his soulmate, even when he begged her. Instead, she told him that not everyone who had a soulmate ended up with that person. That half of the people who had soulmates never found them, but were happy anyway; finding love and friendship and belonging with other people, no matter if they had words on their skin or not.

She also told him that she loved him very much and that he must never forget that, ever.

And then one day, when Billy was trying to play with the older kids in the neighborhood, one of them pushed him down on the ground and pointed at the words on his arm – only half-hidden by the sleeve of his T-shirt – and laughed at him. “Go away, no one wants to be friends with you. Not even your soulmate!”

He went home crying and asked his mother what it meant, and she finally admitted what his words said. Only, he was young, so she tried to soften the blow. “Go home,” she read, “You shouldn’t be here.”

Of course, Billy learned how to read shortly after that. And judging by how everyone reacted when they read his words, he wasn’t even surprised to learn that his mother had lied to him.

The words on his arm, written in dark brown that was almost black, read: ”Get the fuck out, no one wants you here.”

~~~

A soulmate is supposed to be your person. The one you are destined to be with, and who is destined to be with you. Meeting them is supposed to feel like coming home.

Billy learned early that he was the exception. His soulmate wouldn’t want to be with him, wouldn’t even want him around – and not only was it a truth for Billy to grow up with, it was also there for everyone else to see.

It made things … difficult for him. Things at home weren’t perfect. His father was an angry man and while his mother did what she could to protect her son, she couldn’t always, and she often got hurt doing it. Billy was a tense child. Tenser still, when his peers learned what his words said, and what it meant. Some of them teased him the way children do, pushing him around and calling him names. Others avoided him; some on instinct, and others because their parents told them to. Billy didn’t understand it until he got older, that they were afraid to let their children close to him because of what his words implied. Because if not even his soulmate wanted to be around him, why would anyone else?

~~~

And then his mother left. Left her abusive husband, left Billy, and didn’t come back – and Billy couldn’t help but think that it was partly because of his words. His soulmate didn’t want him, the people at school didn’t want him, and his father had made it abundantly clear on several occasions that he wasn’t exactly happy to be around him, either. So it made a certain kind of sense to Billy that his mother left him too. Even as he cried himself to sleep, missing her like a lost limb, he understood it. She didn’t want him. No one wanted him.

The grief turned to anger, which was easier to bear. He hid his hurt behind it, wrapped himself up in it, and pretended that it didn’t ache when people looked away when he met their eyes, or when they turned to walk on the other side of the road whenever they saw him coming.

The good thing was that the bullies stopped hurting him, physically, once he got angry enough – and strong enough – to fight back. It didn’t make much of a difference in the end, though, because he was still plenty hurt at home. But at least in school, he didn’t have to look over his shoulder when walking down the hallway. He just had to walk straight ahead with his head held high, and the crowd would part for him. He wore his words on display, didn’t care enough to cover them up with skin-colored tape like people his age had already started doing. It wouldn’t have mattered if he did. Everyone already knew.

(One night, with a pack of stolen cigarettes, he’d decided that he’d just get rid of the words entirely. So he pressed the lit end of the cigarette to the words, grimacing and hissing when his skin seared with the heat. He managed to do it four times, before he was crying and couldn’t make himself continue. The only word he’d managed to blur – not even fully erase – with red-hot marks was ‘here’.)

(The marks eventually healed into round, white scars on his skin. The text was still readable through them, but if one only glanced at them, now it kind of looked like they said ”Get the fuck out, no one wants you” – like, at all – and it was so poignant that Billy left them like that. He didn’t try to get rid of them again, after that.)

His father eventually remarried (a mousy woman without words on her skin), which brought an annoying little step-sister into Billy’s life. Her words – or word, singular – was a reddish-brown ‘Hello’ on her wrist; just about the blandest first word a soulmate could ever say to you. He laughed until he cried when he first saw it, but then she demanded to see his words, whatever they were, and the laughter died in his throat.

He started covering them up with tape, after that. But someone must have told her, because she kept her distance from then and on.

When Neil announced that they’d move halfway across the country, Billy raged against it. Not because he had much to miss in California, but because he wasn’t given a choice. He paid for that rage, of course, and in the end it was for nothing. A few weeks later he had to leave the sun and the ocean behind to travel to fucking Hawkins, Indiana.

He wasn’t dumb, though. He knew that this was a chance to start over. Mostly everyone covered up their words in high school anyway, as to not make it too easy to fake a connection. And no one in this town would know about his words, or what they meant. The fact that he was the new kid, had a nice car and came all the way from California immediately cemented him as one of the cool kids, and he quickly rose to the top of the high school food chain. But he’d grown up abrasive. Grown up scared, and grown up angry. He didn’t know of another way to be, and he was constantly afraid that someone would find out what his words said about him; that they would discover that whatever they seemed to like about him was fake, and that not even his soulmate wanted him.

So he kept his distance. Enjoyed the crowd at parties and at school, and let them admire him, but never really got close to anyone. Because he knew, deep down, that if someone got close enough to scratch the surface, they’d find out that there was nothing underneath. And then he’d be cast out here, too.

~~~

He might be in a new town, but he was still afraid, and still hurt, and still hiding all that under a layer of convenient anger. So when his step-sister snuck out on his watch and his dad smacked him around and sent him out to find her, he leaned on the anger like a crutch. Because it was what he knew.

When he got to that weird house on the edge of town and found King Steve – the object of a persistent and embarrassing crush that Billy had done everything he could to squash – with Maxine and a bunch of boys hiding behind him, he’d let the anger bloom. Pushed the guy down and stepped over him to barge into the house, fully intent on grabbing his step-sister by the arm and dragging her out of there.

And then Harrington – Steve fucking Harrington, with his perfect hair and his perfect skin and his perfect smile that was never aimed at Billy – had punched him in the face, and then pushed him away with two fingers on his chest and said those words. Billy’s words.

”Get the fuck out, no one wants you here.”

Billy had spent most of his life trying to avoid thinking of this moment. Because every time he tried, he could only imagine someone looking at him with disgust, or annoyance at the very least. Even still, the steely hatred in Harrington’s eyes took his breath away, as if he’d been sucker-punched.

He realized with a start that this was the moment. If Billy put his hands on Harrington’s skin and said something – anything – then Harrington would know. Would find out. Billy had seen the tape on Harrington’s chest in the showers, at basketball; on the left side, right over his heart. Whatever Billy decided to say would be the words etched on his skin under that tape.

He glanced down at Harrington’s chest for a second, as if he could see through his shirt and through the tape. See what was written there.

The ball was entirely in Billy’s court. He could decide how this went from here, and moreover – he could decide what words Harrington would have grown up with. The words that must have shaped him, the way Billy’s words had shaped him.  

The thought brought tears to his eyes, and he blinked rapidly to get rid of them. Thought of how his words had defined him from an early age. Thought of his mother leaving, his father hating him, his peers pushing him around or avoiding him. Thought of the look on Harrington’s face just now, determined and firm, standing like a shield between the brat pack and the perceived threat – Billy. The way he looked at Billy just now. Like he was a cobra, waiting to strike. Or simply dirt under his shoe.

Billy could get payback for all of it. Could grab Harrington by the throat and hiss out all the vitriol that had built up since he was a child and learned how to read the harsh words on his own skin. He could make sure that the words on Harrington’s skin would match his own; could ensure in this very moment that someone else would have grown up feeling as worthless and unloved as Billy had.

Or he could … not.

His hand shot out and he grabbed Harrington’s wrist, hard. Ignored the gasps from the kids standing behind him, ignored the way Harrington pulled at his grip. He looked into Harrington’s dark eyes and forced him to look back. Took a deep breath.

This was it.

“You are brave,” he said, voice wavering, “and strong, and the most beautiful person I have ever seen.”

Harrington’s eyes widened, and he stopped fighting against Billy’s grip. Went slack. Billy blinked again, against the way the world had suddenly gone blurry, and sniffled. Dropped Harrington’s hand as if it burned him. Took a step back, and spat, “You’re fucking welcome.”