Steve's got heavy, thick curtains. The kind that blocks out all the sun, until whenever Steve wants, the room kept dim even well past dawn. Billy's always liked them, but he likes them, even more, this morning, keeping Steve lax and soft in sleep.
His internal clock has always been a sharp one. Something he learned to do– waking up with the day, rising with the sun– when he was younger before it became a point of contention with his old man. Now, it feels hardwired, waking up at 7 AM and then laying in bed with nothing to do.
Here, at least, he has Steve tucked under the heavy drape of his arm. Here, he has Steve pressed close and held fast, Billy's fingers long since snuck under the cotton of the shirt Steve had thrown on last night after they'd all rinsed off lake water but before they'd fallen into bed. They'd been too tired to talk– all of them– and Steve had happily let Eddie pull him between his own sheets without a word. Hadn't complained a peep, not even when Billy began gradually wrapping himself around and into Steve.
Like he was afraid he might disappear. Like he was worried he'd run off or something, back to Nancy Wheeler, in the middle of the night.
On the far side of the bed, Eddie is flopped over on his belly, cheek smooshed against a pillow, snoring lightly. He's got the fingers of one of his hands tangled loosely with Steve's. Billy can feel one of his feet, hooked over Billy's calf where his legs are tangled up with Steve's under the sheets.
The degree of comfort that Billy feels with both of them right there is unparalleled.
In the early morning light, Billy lets himself revel at the moment, in the way the two of them look while they're asleep. So soft, so relaxed.
Steve's skin is so goddamn warm underneath Billy's palm. He can't help but touch, letting his fingers curl through the hair on Steve's chest, over the bit of sweat that lingers there because of the closeness of their bodies and the way that Steve runs hot when he sleeps.
Lazy, indulgent, Billy presses a kiss to the back of Steve's neck, over the bumpy terrain of Steve's spine. He lets himself be gentle. And unhurried. Just enjoying the quiet moment he has all to himself. Untouched by anyone's gaze.
He stays like that for a while, nose tucked behind Steve's ear, breathing slowly. Letting himself savor it, the bone-deep calm of it, thumb dragging idly back and forth over one of the scars near Steve's belly.
It isn't too much longer until Steve is stirring. Waking slowly– a gradual stretch and curl of his toes, body pressing back into Billy with a great, sleepy sigh– before letting out a disgruntled little grunt and turning his head to press his face against his pillow.
"Time?" Steve mumbles, voice half lost in cotton.
"No idea." Billy's voice is a low rumble, full of sleep and slowness. Even to his own ears, it sounds softer than usual. It kind of feels it, too.
He can taste the remnants of alcohol and smoke lingering in his mouth—the bitter aftertaste of a whole day spent at the beach and then coming home and collapsing hard.
His fingers splay over the plane of Steve's abdomen. Tracing the lines of it, the scars, and combing through the hair of Steve's happy trail. Idle, but gentle.
"You can go back to sleep," Billy murmurs with a press of his lips to Steve's neck. "'S still early."
Steve grunts again. Lays there like that, so quiet and still and soft, for so long that Billy thinks he might've dozed back off.
But then he feels Steve's fingers curl loosely around his forearm, giving a tired squeeze.
"Morning," he mumbles, barely awake at all.
YOU ARE READING
If I Stare Too Long
ФанфикшнThis is one of my favorite AO3 stories. This story is amazing and I am giving all the credit to the writers of the story. Brawls (Brawlite) and ToAStranger After the end of the world, Billy Hargrove is a mess. But at least he has company.
