and then billy pops out of nowhere, scaring the shit out of him. leaning his elbows on the edge of the window. letting his eyes roam, up and down steve. and he's grinning, one of those i'm-chewing-on-something-and-i-wish-it-was-you, grins of his. licking his lips and 'my, my, pretty boy. are you wearing it for me? my favorite color?' and steve snorts and rolls his eyes and says 'yeah, in another of those dreams of yours' and billy gets serious, his eyes a killer kind of blue, fixed and heavy. says 'in my dreams. you let me have this dance'. says it holding out his hand, for steve, and steve— can't help but bite, at the side of his lower lip, try to trap the smile sneaking out of him. 'cause c'mon, isn't that just smug. but he likes it. suddenly. violently. he likes it. even more so when billy bats those dark, dark lashes at him and, when steve lets it go, billy's eyes cut down to that lip, as if, in another dream, he would just lean in, and catch it. so steve says, 'well. guess tonight's the perfect night to make a dream come true' reaching for the handle.

and so they slow-dance. wrapped in the blue-silver glow coming down from the high windows. wrapped in time after time and that way it has of making you feel like something, something is gonna happen.

(and maybe, just maybe, billy tries his luck at getting another dream come true that night)

they're both so revved up—they're flammable. and billy says something mean and insinuating and steve's like "only in your dreams, hargrove" but billy can't stop, no brakes and already salivating the crash, tongue out because it already feels like it and "c'mon, stevie boy. you can't tell me you don't want to get a taste" and then somehow it's the stairs and bitten off kisses on the hallway and somebody's door closing behind them and both taking off their clothes and steve

"but this means nothing" and

billy's expression changes. twist. breaks. falls.

something bleeds out of that expression and

"i'm sorry, pretty boy. that i can't do"

reaching out. tracing a long, lingering caress up from steve's clavicle and all the way down into the center of his chest, fingertips pressing-in there, drawing a dejàvu, and then

sliding his shirt back on. walking away. closing that door behind him and

leaving steve behind with an open wound where those fingers still burn. with a raging mind and a raging heart and—

"fuck. oh—fuck. nonononono why the fuck did i. fuck"

'hargrove'

'harrington'

hard glances. slow movements. both take their prize into the shopping kart: a silent duel at dawn under the fluorescents.

'you don't say a word. i won't say a word'

steve nods.

'my lips are sealed'

and none of them does. both act like it didn't happen. that’s, ‘till it does happens again three weeks later and steve doesn’t have the self-restrain to not mutter under his breath ‘that’sthereasonyourcurlslooklikethey'redying’ and billy glares at him ‘oh you think you’d do it better?’ and steve snorts and ‘alrigh. your place. in ten’ and the rest is, well— history.

“’morning, tiger”

and billy is sure, is positive there’s no way this whole situation could get worse but. one day the motorcycle breaks down and steve takes it to billy to repair and, when he goes to pick it up, smiles that incredible smile at him and

“would it be too much, if i ask you to teach me how to take care of her?

and oh. oh. it does get worst after that (billy’s crush. billy’s gigantic, lifelong, stupid crush)