Dumpster Fire

CHAPTER 4

This is fun. Steve let the group carry him across the living room

It felt like floating. His body moving weightlessly, directionless. Well. Eyes slid to Hargrove, who was putting up much more of a fight. Almost directionless. Gaze moved to the guest bedroom-

He snorted. Fuckin' Estelle's house is bitchin. Who else had a house with a fucking guest room on the first floor?

Steve laughed as the door swung open and he was pushed inside, immediately losing his footing and tumbling to his ass; cause for more laughter. Gasping for air as he righted himself, taking in the poor door that Billy was facing, raging at. Steve didn't care to make out the individual words, but the anger was disproportionate. I wouldn't let him out either.

He knew that much. Stood. Took a few disembodied steps to Billy. Put a hand on his shoulder. Smiled; tried to smile. He was pretty sure he smiled but his face was exceptionally numb.

"Dude." He swayed into the sturdier man. Pointed into his chest. Bit back the urge to add more fingers to the warm skin under his touch. "Chill."

Billy's eyes widened as Steve moved to the bed, hand dragging down the rolled up sleeve heavily. "Chill out? That's your sage advice, Harrington?"

Steve shrugged, falling back on the bed, enjoying the way the world was rocking around him. After a moment he looked back up, struggling to see Hargrove still standing there in the dark.

"Uhg." Steve groaned, exasperated and struggling to sit. "C'mere." He pat the bed beside him. Laughed at the look of horror on Billy's face. "It's just seven minutes."

"Just-" Even in the dark Steve could see his face grow red. "You know what they expect us to do, right?"

Steve shrugged again. "We don't gotta do anything."

Billy froze, stopped breathing even. "We... don't." Like it was a revelation. Slowly crossing the room to sit beside Steve. "I don't have to beat you to a bloody pulp then?"

The teasing tone lost to his actions. Settling in on the bed, mattress dipping just enough to make Steve feel like falling over. Far enough away that they weren't touching. Close enough to be assaulted by his scent, his presence. Him.

Steve suddenly wanted to throw up. Mistake.

He moved to get up when Billy pulled out a cigarette. Like a fucking magician.

"Where do you stash them all?" The question was far more awed than Steve felt.

Trademark grin with too much tooth and Steve felt his stomach turn to white noise. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

It wasn't a whimper that came out of Steve in response, and clearing his throat covered up the non-whimper pretty quickly. It was a horrifying revelation that he would like to know. Steve leaned forward, head dropping, groaned, feeling Billy stiffen as he exhaled.

"You gunna be sick?"

Steve wished he was. "Nah."

"Hmm." An inhale, that particular crisp smouldering of cigarette burning up.

Steve was staring at lips wrapped around the white wrapper, stopping just short of the gold bands. The removal, wet mark left behind. The lick of tongue over teeth before he exhaled. The way his chest moved, his ribs collapsed slow with the action, his necklace fluttered in the dark.

"Baseball."

And Steve was lost.

"Y'know." Billy made the motion of swinging a bat, lit cigarette carefully held between pointer and middle fingers. The brightest light in the room. "Instead of basketball. The All American Sport." He leaned back.