"Are you ready to talk about it?" Steve had been on Billy's ass ever since that morning. It was about noon now, and Billy was in hell.
"No, I'm not ready to talk about it," he responded, mocking Steve's tone so hard that he almost feared emotional damage. Defeat crossed Steve's face. The pair went back to picking at old take-out in silence. Billy sighed loudly and pulled a smoke out of his shirt pocket. He gestured towards Steve, asking if he wanted one, but he shook his head. Silently, Billy lit up and breathed out towards the ceiling. It was quiet. Billy shut his eyes.
"He was so big," Steve whispered, so quiet that the other boy almost didn't hear him. But he did.
"Alright," Billy began, rising angrily to his feet. "Is this what you want, Harrington? Do you want me to talk? To share my fucking feelings?"
"Billy—"
"No. No, now you've got me going." He paced around the tiny studio apartment, debating on what he was going to do. Steve watched in terror. "You want me to..." he gestured wildly, "to talk about it? Talk about what happened with good old Dougie? Huh? Would that make you happy, Princess?" Steve winced at his petty nickname. Billy huffed harshly on his cigarette, heat flaring throughout his body.
"Look, I just meant that you might feel better if you talked about it," Steve tried. "Like..." he trailed off, his voice falling down to a whisper, "like maybe you wouldn't hit anything if you talked about it." That one got him.
"Oh, so Princess doesn't want me to hit anything?" he yelled, his voice reverberating intensely. "Huh? You don't want me to mess up that pretty little face of yours?"
"B, I know you aren't going to hit me." For a moment, just hearing that, seeing the unabashed assurance on Steve's face, it caused the anger to leave him. Billy paused in his tracks, looking over at his roommate, who was now on his feet, daring to close the distance between them. Steve didn't touch him—they both knew that Billy would go catatonic if he did—but the look in in Steve's eyes was what really got to Billy. Genuine concern and love.
"Fuck's sake," he sighed. "The bastard offered me a job. Promised to pay me really well. He also called me 'Baby,' which," Billy paused to take a drag, shaking his head and licking his teeth as he thought about the large man, "that dog ain't gonna hunt."
"Are you gonna take the job?" Steve assumed his "mom position": hands on hips, eyebrows slightly raised, hair flopping lightly into his eyes, and typically with something draped over his shoulder. (Dustin jokingly labelled it this a few years back, and it became such a big thing that Steve's family began egging him about it.) Billy chuckled.
"Of course I'm going to take it." He furthered the distance between him, puffing his cigarette as he drew closer to the walls. "We're both working two fucking jobs just to sit on the fucking pull-out mattress and eat shitty Chinese food." Both of them shared a knowing silence. Billy propped himself against the door frame, taking another, painfully long drag.
"Does that mean you're gonna quit at the club?"
"No. Although," he laughed, flicking the butt, smirking in spite of himself, "maybe I should."
"You do seem to enjoy it there," Steve tried, yet again daring to close the gap. "Your other job, then?"
"Fuck no." He looked back to Steve. "You like getting those free oil changes, right? Can't get those if I'm not working at the shop."
"I do have to flirt with that one guy in order to get them, though." Steve chuckled. "What's that guy's name?"
"Gene."
"Gene. Yes. Yuck." Steve shook his head. The pair shared calm laughter. Yet again, Steve closed the gap. "Look, I'm not..." he sighed, "I don't want to force you to do anything."
"You're not...? I don't know why you'd think that you were."
"No, I know, I know that you could totally just, like, drop everything and, I don't know—" Steve froze, suddenly becoming very aware of what he was saying, "I just feel like...well, I don't want to..."
"Steve." Billy was the one who finally closed the gap, placing a firm hand on Steve's shoulder. "You're not burdening me in any way, if that's what you're trying to say." Steve's head fell and Billy knew he'd struck the nail on the head. "If I genuinely didn't want this job, I wouldn't take it. To be honest, I think it might be kinda fun." Billy smirked, thinking about how much fun private dancing could be. And then he thought about Doug. And how big Doug's coat was. And how rich Doug must be. And how much they needed a big, fluffy check.
"Are you gonna keep living here?" Steve said it so quietly it sounded like a prayer. Like he was praying that they could stay together.
"Duh." Steve finally looked back up, the pair sharing warm, oddly intimate eye contact. Billy's hand slid down to Steve's bicep, giving it a tight squeeze, as if to say I'm not going anywhere without you. They shared an equally intimate smile, and Billy patted Steve's arm. "Don't you have work soon?"
"Oh shit, what time is it?" Steve looked down at his watch. "Fuck! Duty calls."
"Better answer, then." Steve sprinted into the bathroom, and, within a surprisingly short window of time, Steve exited the bathroom in full mall-cop uniform. With another, vice versa arm pat, Steve sprinted out the door.
Alone at last. Billy sunk harshly into the deck chair that sat next to the door. "That's your smoking chair," Steve had said jokingly. Billy smiled at the memory. He pulled another smoke out, lighting it in the same, swift motion. Smoke filtered into his lungs as he breathed heavily. Alone at last. Alone.
Billy started thinking about Doug again. He was so...big. He'd seen big people before, but Doug felt like something else altogether. Like that fucking big slug in those movies the kids watched...what was it called? Didn't matter. Doug didn't matter. Did he? Doug was probably the thing that would ensure his and Steve's meals for the next few months, something that he couldn't promise, even with their four combined paychecks. Billy buried his face in his hands.
Tears pricked at his eyes. Why was he crying? He didn't cry. Emotions were for pussies, and Billy wasn't a pussy. He got pussy. God, that was fucking dumb. What was he thinking?
He stood up. Shook his head again. Tried to clear himself out. He might have shaken himself too hard. Why was he crying? He didn't cry. He felt more like screaming than crying. He wanted to hit something.
And so he did.