April Showers
With today's post of the last story today, my April prompts challenge is officially complete 🎉🎉🎉
You can find the individual stories on here, all tagged Harringrove April and April Prompts, or you can find the whole collection here on AO3, under the name April Showers!
If you’re curious, you can find the whole prompt list here
11 notes
·
View notes
Harringrove future events
I made one for Steddie events and it seems only fair to do one for Harringrove!
Harringrove Story Challenge
@harringrovestorychallenge is looking for more writers! From the 16th of January to 31st of March each writer will write a different chapter for the same long story!
Harringrove Big Bang
@bigbangharringrove season is almost here! We are going to star posting from the 1st of February!
Harringrove Love Fest
@harringrovelovefest is going to keep us company from the 8th to the 14th of February and here are the prompts!
Harringrove Relay Race
on the 12th of April @harringrove-relay-race is going to fill our dashboards with a lot of incredible Harringrove contents!
Harringrove Holiday Exchange
Holidays are already gone but you can keep giving love to all the wonderful fics written for the @harringroveholidayexchange on the AO3 Collection
Feel free to reblog and add any other event you might know of!
61 notes
·
View notes
My 2023 in fics
Tagged by @billyharringson, thank you, this was a lot of fun!
January:
Hot and Cold (or How To Serve Revenge) - a fic I wrote in January (but posted in February, schhhh). Got challenged by @callieb to write hurt/no comfort, and I have it on good authority that I succeeded ... (it has spawned no less than two fix-its and one more continuation by other people so far, which I am awfully pleased about actually)
February:
Again and again and again and again, a time loop fic that I love, and would like to read like 80K about. ... yes, read. I don't have time to write more on it now. But I had so much fun writing this, and it is one of my favorite kinds of fics; a short one with potential.
March:
March was busy. There was Billy's Birthday Bonanza, and also I wrote for the Billy Hargrove Bingo. I posted a lot of fics then, most of them short. So I'm gonna link two, because I can (and no one told me any rules for this tagging game); Boys, Beards and Best Friends, because it was so much fun writing Billy and Heather being BFFs and also the boys being set up, and then Over the edge, which is one of my favorites, because it was so goddamn fun to write! (Murder mystery prank going wrong, muahahaaa! Don't worry though, no one dies for real.)
April:
A piece of meaning on your skin, a little fic I wrote for the Harringrove Flip Reverse It event, about the boys choosing tattoos for each other as a part of a bet. I still think it's cute.
May:
I like Flo, okay, and like to incorporate her into fics. In Patience, I wrote about her first impressions of Billy, for the Billy Hargrove Bingo.
June-July:
Posted in June, finished posting in July (but written on and off over the course of several years previous ...), Taking Notes is my longest fanfic yet at about 93K. And, listen, I love it. It's a body swap fic, where the boys swap bodies. And then again. And again. Etc. I am so proud of this one, actually.
August:
Posted Pal, which is 17K of Billy befriending a stray demodog. I 100% believe Billy would like animals better than most humans, and this fic is basically him being a bit dumb but also a good friend to Pal, the demodog. And then them going into protective mode for each other. I am soft for this one, still.
September:
I'm picking a short one that I first posted on tumblr and then onto AO3; Seagulls. It's ... well, it's sad in a way, in that it takes place when Billy's dying at the mall, but it's also comforting in a way, because he gets to leave all that bullshit behind and is greeted by his mom again.
October:
Picking Just another night at Motel 6 on Cornwallis, because Billy deserves to get to tell Karen no, and Karen deserves to be shamed for what she did (yes, in this fic she showed up). It was immensely satisfying to write.
November:
I didn't get much posted in November (because NaNo), but I did get chapter 3 of Finding Billy posted (it's a finished fic now, though, don't worry). It's a whumpy fic I had to write after a couple of chats with friends, about Billy being held with the Lab people after the whole Starcourt thing, and then Steve and Max and Hop finding out and getting him out of there. Poor boy's been through a lot in this one - but things are getting better, promise!
December:
Started posting Home is where the knitted mittens are, which is my latest fic. No ships, no romance. Just Billy finding out he's a werewolf and having to deal with that in Hawkins, Indiana, without much of a safety net. Listen, I'm weak for werewolf Billy, okay? And I made up some werewolf lore in this one which is a mix of all the things I like. (It was literally a reason for me to get to write something "nesting"-adjacent, without having to go into A/B/O-territory.) Definitely written mostly for myself, and I love it dearly. (Featuring werewolf!Scott Clarke too, because why not right??)
Huh, I never thought I'd had enough to fill a whole year's worth, but look at that! I'm proud of myself for this :)
Tagging @callieb (yes, individual chapters work!), @weird-an and @mikajupiterjonesingtimcurryfeet if you guys wanna do it as well :) (And YOU, reading this, if you wanna do it! Consider yourself tagged if you're reading this and think it looks fun - because it IS)
31 notes
·
View notes
March prompt and I'm thrilled!
This month thing will go a little different as March is
Billy's Birthday!!
So we will skip random generated prompt and go all in for celebrating his Day!
I'm waiting for a year to properly celebrate his birthday so go wild! Get him sweet presents or hot dates or silly songs or mini thongs!
Mandatory:
Prompt: BIRTHDAY!!!!
Word count: 403
You can check your word count here https://wordcounter.net/
Optional:
Song: 18 and life if you want to go sad or Make love like a man
Character: Jim Hopper/Eddie Munson/Max Mayfield (can't choose just celebrate Billy's Birthday!)
Harringrove should be the center of the fic, romantic or not, smut or not, let be creative and let them explode!
Please be sure to rating your works properly, put all the trigger warnings you consider important and tag @harringrovemicrofic and use the monthly tag (harringrovemicroficmarch). Once we share your work you can enter your fic in our AO3 collection :)
Last but not least, this blog is CET based so the challenge will run from March 15 at 6.00 pm CET to April 15 6.00 pm CET (I'm sorry I'm not able to find a time converter, I'll add it as soon as I find one, please send me suggestions if you know one!)
For question or suggestions, our DM are opened, or you can write to @lorifragolina.
20 notes
·
View notes
Welcome to Harringrove Flip Reverse It!
Are you the sort of person who likes to be nifty with your fan creations? Do you enjoy subverting prompts? Does the thought of a challenge fill you with glee!
This is the event for you!
Harringrove Flip Reverse It is an event that takes place during the last week of March (27th March - 2nd April). It's very easy (and fun) to play!
Every day during that week, you'll be given five prompts: fluff, angst, nsfw, sfw and trope subversion. Sounds simple? Well, it is... but there's a catch!
For each prompt you decide to fill, you'll be expected to Flip Reverse It! In other words, you must make your fluff prompts angsty, and your angst prompts fluffy. Your nsfw prompts should be safe for work, and as for your sfw prompts... enough said ;)
The trope subversion prompts will give you a very common, possibly even overused prompt... and it's your job to subvert it, in any way you want. Interpret the prompt any way you like, except the traditional one.
You can do as many or as few prompts as you like, no sign-up required! Submit your prompt fill to have it reblogged here.
For more details on the prompt categories, read on...
Fluff: Take the traditional tooth-rotting fluff… and make it angsty! We’re talking days at the beach that end in disaster, hot chocolate with marshmallows that turn out to be poisoned, sweet little moments that break our goddamn hearts.
Angst: It looks like it should hurt, but it doesn’t! These prompts may seem dark and whumpy, but they should fill the heart with joy and delight, no angst allowed!
NSFW: These prompts may look filthy, but in fact they could be read by the most innocent of angels with nary a blush!
SFW: By contrast… somehow these gentle ideas have become sullied by porn, and there’s no turning back!
Trope Subversion: These tropes may be overused, but it’s your job to interpret them in a non-traditional way. Maybe they share a bed, but not with each other! Maybe their first kiss was with someone else! It can be anything EXCEPT the usual way of interpreting the prompt.
Interested in taking part? Reblog this post, check out all the nitty gritty details and then get working on some prompts!
222 notes
·
View notes
Frequently Asked Questions
What is Harringrove Summer Bingo?
Harringrove Summer Bingo is a low-pressure, fun fandom challenge with the goal of creating summer themed fanworks for Harringrove ship.
You can fill just one prompt from your card or all of them - it's up to you! As long as your fanwork meets the minimum requirements, you're good!
So how does this bingo thing work exactly?
Sign-up by 19 May, 2024 (sign-ups open on 1 April)
Get a bingo card with nine prompt squares (sent between 20-29 May to all who signed up)
Create a fanwork that fills a prompt in the card and post it between 1 June - 31 August (must be new!!!)
Each time you post a prompt fill, submit it to the organiser as instructed and get your bingo card stamped
When bingo is closed on 31 Aug 2024 create a masterpost of all your bingo fills
Everyone who filled at least one prompt by 31 Aug 2024 will get a virtual badge to brag with about participating /pf (note: our badges have nothing to do with tumblr badge system)
Can I join if I'm not on tumblr?
Yes you can!
However, since we need to collect the fan works somewhere and you're not on tumblr, you must have and AO3 account and an email address to sign up with.
We have a collection for the event on AO3 where you can then post your fan work.
If your fan work is something else than a written fic, it still can be added to AO3! We're happy to help with setting that up.
Also, if you don't have an AO3 account, we can send you an invitation for one.
Ummm, so what is a Bingo event specifically?
Bingo is a type of fandom challenge in which participants are given 3x3 bingo card with 8+1 prompts (one is always a free space that can be filled with anything).
The participants then create fanworks based on the prompts and post them during the bingo event is running - thus creating more awesome fanworks for the theme and ship!
Once the bingo is over, all participants who filled at least one prompt square will receive a bing badge they can use on social media to brag about participating! /pf
How close to the prompt does each fill have to be?
As close as you want! All the fill has to do is to include the prompt somehow.
As long as the fan work prominently features Harringrove, has summer included somehow, and it fits a prompt in your card, it works!
What are the type of fan works you allow?
We allow all types of creative fan works:
Fan fiction
Fan art
Fan videos
Podfics
Moodboards
Playlists
Rec lists
The rating, genre, and type of fanwork you produce are decided by you as long as the work is tagged accordingly.
Can I use a WIP for the bingo?
If you have a WIP that fits a prompt and is collecting dust in your drafts, feel free to use it.
If it's already published or parts of it are, then no.
This bingo's goal is to create new content for the fandom, so all works must to be new and unpublished.
What are the minimum requirements for fan works?
This is a low-pressure event where we hope everyone will have fun and let their creativity bloom. You can fill just one prompt from your card or all of them - it's up to you!
As long as your fanwork meets the following minimum requirements, you're all good!
Fan fic - Minimum of 500 words
Art - Minimum 300 x 300 pixels in digital form (no matter if the original is digital or traditional art)
Fan videos - 1 minute
Pod fic - Minimum listening time 7 minutes
Moodboards: 4 images
Playlist - Minimum 10 songs + cover art
Rec lists - 3 completed fan works + explanation why you're recommending these works specifically. Free free to gush your heart out!
How do I submit a fill?
You'll find guidelines for fill (=prompt) submission here >>
What is a masterpost?
You should make a masterpost with links to all of the fanworks you created for this bingo. It works as an easy link list to all of your fills.
You'll find guidelines for creating a masterpost here >>
What size will the bingo cards be?
Bingo cards are 3x3 squares with 8 prompts and 1 free space you can fill with your own prompt.
I finished my card and want a new one! How?
Fill out the New Card Form and request a new card.
You can request as many new cards as you want as long as your previous card is already fully filled and stamped!
What badges can I get?
Depending on how many squares you fill you get different kinds of badges. Everyone who filled at least 1 prompt will receive a badge!
Bingo: Fill a row or column
Blackout: Fill all squares
One Square: Complete one square
Four Corners: Complete a square in each corner
Diagonal: Fill three squares diagonally through the center
Well done: You filled at least six prompts from your card by the end of the bingo round
Our badges are images you can post on your social media. They have nothing to do with tumblr badge system.
What if I want to go for all the badges?
Just go ahead!
Do you allow Cross-Posting between events?
Cross-posting is allowed as long as
The fill is still formatted correctly as outlined in the Posting Guidelines (coming soon) and
You have gotten the explicit permission of the other event mods to use it for both events.
Do you have a Discord server?
There's a mutual discord server with our siblings events @metalsandwichbingo @harringrovewinterbingo! The server is open to those who sign-up for the bingos.
Invitation to the server is sent with the sign-up confirmation email.
Do you allow third-party sharing of information (incl. AI model training) in your blogs?
No, we don't allow it in any of our blogs.
Who organizes this bingo event?
Harringrove Summer Bingo, Metalsandwich Bingo and Harringrove Winter bingo are all organized by @harringrovebingos.
Head mod is Suo @suometar who's fandom old, has been participating on all kinds of bingos and bigbangs for a few years now, and irl has extensive experience on organising events.
| Rules | FAQ | Schedule | Ask us anything |
5 notes
·
View notes
Day 22 of chrisbitchtree's Harringrove April challenge! You can read my response to yesterday's prompt, here. Today's word was "red."
Red isn't Steve's color. He looks better in cool tones, blues, greens, and that grey jacket that fits him so well it makes Billy want to scream. Maybe red accents on his blues, like the new chucks he's wearing today, high around his ankles and double-knotted. But it's not really his color, not for a full outfit. Not when his face is bloody and bruised. Not the shade of his broken heart, bleeding all over Billy's hands.
Well, Billy doesn't know if he actually broke Steve Harrington's heart, maybe he's just giving himself a little too much credit. But he did try to hurt him, so he probably did at least hurt him. Except Steve keeps coming to visit him. Even when he was asleep and could only hear snippets of conversation.
Harrington is back, sitting in the far corner with a book. Billy never realized he likes to read. Hasn't noticed a whole lot about Steve, truthfully, outside of what he looks like, how he sounds when he's begging Billy for more. But apparently, the guy likes to read. Or he likes to pretend when he's sitting in Billy's hospital room, there but silent. Like he thinks Billy's eyesight works on motion or something.
Billy can talk now, but his throat is always sore and his voice is almost an octave deeper. The doctor says it will go back to normal, but between the bleach and the breathing tube, it's going to take time. A speech pathologist comes in every other day to go over words with him. He hasn't forgotten how to speak, he just doesn't want to very much anymore. Unfortunately, Steve can't read his mind, so he doesn't know that Billy needs to know why he's there. If Max is here, he kind of gets it, but Max isn't. It's just Steve with his book bag and his grey jacket and a book. Billy's pretty sure he hasn't turned a page in like ten minutes.
"Why are you here?" Billy asks, head pushed back into his pillows so his gaze is trained on the ceiling.
"What?" Steve asks and his book snaps shut, the heavy hardback making a sound in the quiet room. Billy doesn't have a roommate because they think he's too violent. They're not wrong, but he doesn't care about hurting strangers. He only wants to hurt people who can hurt him back.
“I said, why are you here?” Billy repeats, bordering on shouting now because the room is too quiet for them to be talking with Steve on the other side of it.
Steve drops his gaze to his book and trails his finger down the spine. He didn’t used to be this thoughtful, did he? He used to be more of an asshole, he used to be more like Billy. “Because I want to make sure you’re okay.”
Billy scowls at that. No one cares if he’s going to be okay. He’s pretty sure the government can’t wait to get him in their labs and the nerd herd Steve shuttles around probably just wants him dead. Except for Max maybe. But that’s…a sore subject and not one he’s willing to touch right now. “No you don’t,” he retorts. Maybe he’ll get a rise out of Steve and he’ll run out of the room with his stupid bookbag and Billy will never have to see him again.
Steve frowns, eyes dark under his eyebrows when he looks at Billy. “Yes, I do.” And it figures that they’re going to argue about this like children. “I- just because you decided to break things off without telling me doesn’t mean I don’t still care about you.”
Billy clenches his fist in the blankets. He wants to, he wants to drive his Camaro past Harrington’s house again, slam on the brakes and flip him off out the window. He wants to get up and throw the chair out the window. He wants to punch Harrington in the jaw and watch red bloom under his knuckles. He wants to, he wants to cry. And he wants Steve to climb on the bed with him and hold him.
Steve stands up and his new chucks squeak along the floor. He’s taller than Billy, but he tends to slouch so it can be hard to tell sometimes. He ambles up to the bed and curls his hands around the rail and leans down. There’s no one else in the room and the hallway is silent when Steve presses a soft, gentle, painful kiss on Billy’s cheek with his red, perfect lips.
“If you don’t want me to be here, then tell me and I’ll go,” he says, and his voice is so strong. Billy gets it, why the kids gravitate to him and stand behind him and clutch onto the tail of his grey jacket. Why Max trusts him implicitly. It’s why Billy wanted to be friends with him in the first place. Because Steve Harrington is strong and when you break down his walls, he still stands strong and Billy is a crumbling fortress. He’s a leaning tower of Jenga blocks and Steve is wiggling out his last support and he is going to fall to pieces in this bed. And it’s because Steve Harrington does not look good in red, not even when Billy puts it on his face.
Billy swallows hard and there’s so much to talk about. There’s an ocean between them or a rift in the ground. There’s a totaled Camaro and a dead monster and Billy’s moat of pain between them. There’s so much to talk about, but Billy’s throat hurts and his mind is hazy and he can’t even eat food on his own yet. And his hands shake and he doesn’t feel like he’s laughed since he beat Steve’s face in. “Stay,” he begs.
Steve leans down to meet Billy’s eyes. Steve’s eyes are red-rimmed, they seem to always be these days. And he looks worn down, tired, and far older than nineteen. His face is healing from the damage he sustained during the Starcourt disaster. His shirt is teal today and it should clash with his red chucks and blue jeans, but Billy doesn’t care.
“Please stay,” Billy repeats, and his voice cracks and he knows his eyes are turning red too.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Steve assures him, though he does step back. He picks up the chair he was reading on and he drags it closer to the bed. Billy’s pretty sure it’s been in this position before, but never when he’s been awake.
“Why are you here?” Billy asks again because he needs to know. Because he can’t read Steve’s mind either.
Steve leans forward and puts his hand on Billy’s arm and he looks at him for a long, long moment. “Because you need me to be here. Because no matter what you did or who you think you are, I see you and I know you can be better.”
“What if I can’t be?”
Steve’s red lips curve into a wry smile and he squeezes Billy’s arm, so hard his fingertips turn white and then rush into pink. “You can because I became better and I know you can too.” He nods once to himself and looks at Billy again. “I know you can’t trust yourself right now, but can you trust me?”
Billy nods slowly, shaky, tentative.
“Then trust me when I tell you, I know you can be better.” Steve blushes just a little like it’s more than he meant to say. Billy doesn’t think he’s ever seen a prettier shade of red. There’s still an ocean between them, all of the things they’ve never said. But Steve is sitting next to him and Billy is healing and he thinks. Maybe there is one shade of red he can put on Steve’s face that looks alright on him.
36 notes
·
View notes
My entry for Day 19 of the HarringroveApril challenge
Vines
Steve doesn’t sleep well anymore.
He hasn’t done a full eight hours since that first night at the Byers’, since he got dragged into this whole mess. He hasn’t done a full five hours since the tunnels, since Dustin dragged him in even further.
He’s pretty sure he hasn’t done a full two hours since Starcourt. He can’t. There’s no room for restful sleep in between the ringing in his ears when he lies on his side and the nightmares that come when he finally slips under.
So he’s already lying awake when the phone rings, eyes shooting open as soon as he hears it.
He’s out of bed by the second ring.
He’s in the kitchen, hand on the phone, by the third.
He takes a few deep breaths, gets himself calm.
Tells himself that It’s probably not monster-y. There’s protocol for those, for the ‘Red Alerts’ which come through the walkie, the one stashed by his bed, nestled next to the bat, both within arm’s reach.
Hand’s reach, really.
Ready.
So it has to be his parents. Something’s happened. Something bad. He knows it. Knows they’d never ring otherwise, not when it’s not his birthday or a holiday.
Steve’s mind whirls with the possibilities: his parents’ lawyers, ringing to inform him that the Harrington’s luxury cruise ship took a shortcut through the Bermuda triangle and that, sadly, Mr and Mrs Harrington have been poofed out of existence and, hey congratulations kid, you’re the sole heir to the Harrington empire.
His dad calling to tell him that he's gambled everything away, ‘bet it all on black and lost. Let that be a lesson, son’ and in twenty minutes there's going to be some beefy guys hammering at the door to pile everything in a van, Steve included- just another shiny trinket in amongst the vases and dusty bottles of expensive wine- and drive it all to Vegas.
His mom saying that she's done it. She's finally done it. She's caught his dad, legs wrapped around another young, blonde secretary, and she's finally followed through on those threats she made last time, she’s grabbed a kitchen knife and chopped off his-
Steve stops his train of thought there, crossing his legs together and wincing at the image he’s conjured.
The phone rings again, seemingly shriller than before, and Steve steels himself for whatever’s about to come. He takes a deep breath and picks up the receiver, “Hello?”
The lights flicker once, so quickly that Steve convinces himself that he imagined it, and then there’s a crackling, a kind of static-y hiss against his ear, and then a voice, “Hey, I need, uh, police?”
There’s something familiar about it, something twitching at the back of his mind, the tip of his tongue, but Steve can’t quite place it.
“Hello? Anyone there? Please?” it comes again, a hint of desperation that has Steve’s neck prickling, “I need- shit, I need help.”
And Steve feels a little bad for the guy but, for once, this isn’t his responsibility. He doesn’t need to help here, doesn’t need to throw himself headfirst into danger. He can let the professionals handle this one.
“Yeah. You’ve got the wrong number, this isn’t 911.” Steve hangs up without even saying goodbye, but his hand is barely off the receiver when it rings again and Steve can hear the same voice, a little more panicked this time, before he’s even got the phone to his ear.
“Hello? Hello? I need...I need help, please.”
“This isn’t 911” Steve says it more forcefully this time, slamming the receiver down only to have it practically vibrate back into his hand with another ring. He doesn’t even wait for the voice before he’s snapping, “I dunno how, man, but you managed to mess up pressing three numbers again. ”
“Hey!” the voice gets angrier and the shift in tone makes something flutter right at the back of Steve’s mind. A fleeting memory, a flare of pain across his face. He strains to catch it, to fix it in place, but it flickers away again as the voice becomes more desperate, “I keep pressing 911 and you're the fucker who keeps answering,”
Steve puzzles over that, over what he can mean, and the guy takes advantage of his silence to beg again, “ You gotta- you gotta help me.”
He sounds so distressed, so wrecked, that Steve can’t put the phone down on him again, can’t leave him like that, whoever he is. Some kid on a really bad trip, probably trying to order a pizza and hitting his number by mistake.
It’s nowhere near the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to him, and it’s not like he had anything else planned, so Steve resigns himself to a few minutes of listening to some drug-induced rambling until the guy tires himself out or one of his friends comes to get him. Hell, stick a warm beer in his hand and it's not that different from some of the nights he spent with Tommy. Good nights too.
Fun.
Steve slides down the wall and makes himself as comfortable as he can against the cold tiles.
“Ok, ok,” he soothes, “What, uh, what do you need?”
The guy sighs, a long, stuttery exhale that Steve swears he can feel down the phone line, and he sounds a little calmer when he asks, “What the hell happened to the town?”
“Huh?”
“The... the damn town. Hawkins. Was it a bomb? Was it, I dunno, fucking Russia or some shit?”
Steve freezes at that, a shudder running through him, his face flaring with more phantom pain and the flutter of memory becoming more insistent.
There's something about that voice.
But it can't be what Steve's thinking.
“Hey!” the guy on the phone shouts, “Talk to me!”
So Steve does, keeps his voice calm, “What bomb?”
“Jesus...fuck!” The guy snaps, “Fine then. Whatever it was. Whatever the hell happened. Why there’s no other fucker here. And why it’s all-” he stops, and Steve can hear him taking shaky breaths- “It’s all, it’s all dark and there’s ash just...floating. And the damn-” he cuts off again, voice cracking, “and the vines. The fucking...the vine things everywhere. Had to-” he breaks off and Steve can hear the shudders in his breath through the phoneline, “-had to burn one of the fuckers to get it off my leg and I...shit. It’s all radiation, right? The...the bomb fucked it all up. Like the dogs. With the...with the messed up faces? Please, you gotta get me out before it...before I-”
“Where are you? What can you see?” Steve interrupts, but the guy’s still rambling, still panicked,
"Is there some bunker? Somewhere safe? An air raid thing, is that where you are? Fuck, is there somewhere safe?"
Steve can hear the desperation in his voice, can hear that particular hoarseness that comes when you’re trying to keep yourself from crying.
"Where are you?" Steve asks again, louder.
The guy’s voice is shaky when he answers, “Loch Nora, the rich bit. But it’s just as fucked up here. Everything’s...wrong.”
Steve’s heart leaps into his mouth, he’s pressing the phone so hard against his ear that it’s hurting, and his hands tremble so much that he almost drops the handset. “Where? Where exactly are you?”
“Why does that…? I don't fucking know the number. It's the...it's the Harrington place, big house, near the forest, got a-"
Steve does drop the phone at that. It falls with a clack on the floor beside him as his eyes flick around the house, looking for any movement, anything unusual. There’s nothing, not that he can see, nothing creeping around in the shadows, nothing growling or prowling.
Nothing. Not. Yet.
He’s not breathing and then he's breathing too much.
Gasping.
Head swimming.
He wants to run upstairs and hide under his bed, wants to grab the bat, wants to stay here and not move until the sun comes up, wants to call Robin, wants to call Dustin, wants to call his mom, wants to hang up the phone and pretend it never happened, wants to know what to do.
He doesn't know what to do.
Instead, he presses his head into his knees and grabs at his hair.
Because it can’t be what he’s thinking. Can’t be what it sounds like. Who it sounds like. It’s a mistake, it’s got to be a mistake. The guy’s high, he’s confused, he’s just some kid with memories of Steve’s parties, he’s got Steve’s house running round his brain, it’s a bad trip, just a bad trip that happens to sound like every nightmare Steve’s been having for the last year, hell, maybe Steve’s hallucinating this whole thing, lack of sleep finally kicking in, maybe Steve’s asleep and this is a dream, maybe-
“Hey! Hey!” the guy is shouting again, Steve can hear the tinny voice echoing out beside his feet. He picks up the phone again to hear the guy almost pleading, “Don’t go, don’t… you gotta tell me what’s going on. You gotta help me before-”
"Are you... are you sure that's where you are?" Steve interrupts,
“Pretty fucking sure,”
“But that’s...my house...” Steve manages, weakly, "You're in my house?"
There’s a long pause down the line. Long enough that Steve starts to worry. And then the voice comes back. A whisper this time.
“Harrington?”
It clicks then. The memory. The flutter. It settles and fills his mind with technicolour images. The voice rings through his ears,
Harrington, right?
Don't sweat it, Harrington.
Am I dreaming, or is that you, Harrington?
And it can't be.
“Billy?”
Steve's certain it is. But. It can’t be.
Because. Billy. Billy’s dead.
Steve doesn’t know a lot, but he knows that. He saw it happen. Saw him die. Saw it and then re-lived it every night straight for a month afterwards- the Flayer, the blood, Billy's body, Max’s scream.
He went to the funeral and stood awkwardly next to Tommy as the coffin was lowered into the ground.
Max had cried, muffled sobs against Susan’s chest.
Because. Billy died. Billy is dead.
But he’s also on the other end of the phone line, talking to Steve.
Pleading with him.
“Harrington, Steve, shit, please don’t...please don’t hang up."
"Billy? Is that? Hargrove? But you-"
Steve doesn't know how to say it. Doesn't know the etiquette involved when telling someone that they should be dead. It definitely feels like the kind of thing you probably shouldn't draw attention to.
Like a stammer or some kind of disfigurement.
But maybe it's something Billy needs to know.
Like pointing out when someone has spinach in their teeth.
Because Steve's talking to a dead guy who doesn't seem to realise he's dead.
He's in his kitchen talking to a dead guy.
His kitchen.
Where he used to stand on tiptoe and lean against his mom's legs and she'd slip him tiny pieces of sliced apple whenever she made pie.
Where he can reach out and run his finger around the black smudge in the counter, the burn he made when he'd been learning to cook for himself. He'd almost scorched his hand, but instead he just seared a crescent into the wood.
His kitchen with the overflowing trash and the half finished glass of orange juice and the dead guy on the phone.
The dead guy who’s in his house.
“You’re in my house?”
Repetition. It’s all he can manage. All his brain is capable of right now. Four words to cling to.
He tries for another four. Billy is not dead. He's in Steve's house.
He needs Steve's help.
Now with a (mini) Part 2 (and plans for more!)
166 notes
·
View notes
Ice Machine.
Harringrove April, Day Fifteen : Sun.
--
Two years before Dawn is born on a rainy Tuesday in March, Billie Joe Sinclair makes contact on the hottest day of summer, like a burst of cosmic energy.
Humid, bright.
A fallen star somehow searing through the fabric of a fuzzy pink hospital blanket when the nurse admits they’re all out of blue.
Billy chokes on a glob of spit when the baby starts making noise. The kid’s so tiny, so cute, like a little old man--
“Stop crying now, dumbass.” Max says fondly. “Be cool.”
“I am cool.”
“Yeah, okay.” She readjusts the baby blanket, grinning. “You haven’t stopped whimpering since the first contraction, cool older brother.”
Billy hadn’t even realized--
He scrubs at his cheeks. “I was crying?”
“Was. Are. You were zero help.” She bounces the meatloaf sized bundle against her chest, drawing away when Billy somehow teleports closer to the edge of the bed.
Max raises her eyebrows. “You wanna hold him?”
Billy guesses, through.
A cloud of haze and fear, that.
“Yeah.” He holds out his hands. “Give him to me.”
“I’m sorry? Give him to me?”
“Yeah.”
“This fucking guy.” Max grumbles, shaking her head. “Give him to me,’ he says. I just got the kid.”
“Well, you’re hogging him.”
She stares blankly, for. As long as it takes for steam to start pouring out her ears. “Fourteen hours pushing a watermelon through a keyhole, and you wanna fucking--”
Billy gags, suddenly lightheaded for the six hundredth time in the last hour. Max ignores him. Catastrophically unsympathetic to the dude who attended all those birthing classes, letting Max hold his hand in public and shit, all in preparation for Lucas being out of town.
The things Billy saw in this delivery room.
He deserves some kind of award.
But Max isn’t done. “Do you have any idea what labor feels like? My ribs were seriously breaking, you fucking--”
“Actually, they seriously weren’t.” Billy pulls up a chair, knowing that despite a fourteen hour labor and five hour delivery, this is going to take a while. Maybe even longer. “Jesus, I thought motherhood was supposed to mellow chicks out, not turn them into a fuckin’ sailor’s dictionary.”
“If I wasn’t bead ridden I’d kick your ass, Harrington.” Max snarls, but.
It’s fond.
Aggressive, and hostile, and so fond. Their exact brand of love.
“Watch your mouth, Maxine.” Billy grins, pointing to the baby, like, “Kid’s already learned all the swear words he’ll need for the first, what, year of life?”
“You’re such a--”
“Let me hold him.” Billy says. Reasonable, clam. “If only to protect his innocence.”
Max shakes her head. “I’ve earned the right to hold my son for fucking ever if I want to.”
Billy gasps. “Not letting the baby meet his dad as the result of a personal vendetta against me? That’s real nice--”
“Oh, fuck off. Why don’t you go throw up again, tough guy?”
They continue on like that, poking at old bruises and creating new ones, not realizing when the door opens and nurse walks in with a shoddy brown clipboard.
She asks for a name.
At which Max, laughing now, stalls. Her pale, sweaty forehead wrinkles and she blinks. Squeezing her eyes shut and opening them again, as if waiting for the name to come to her.
“I don’t.” She says softly. “We never decided on one?”
Billy starts, leaning forward sharply. “You never decided?”
“No.”
“Well what the fuck--” The nurse makes a noise in the back of her throat and Billy holds out a hand. “Sorry, Heck. Were you doing this whole time?”
Max leans back against the pillow, frowning. “Who knows? Painting the nursery something gender neutral? Accepting unsolicited advice? Panicking.”
The baby starts fussing again and Max rocks him slower, humming under her breath as if posessed.
Every good mother in history rolled into one.
Billy’s sister is a mom now, and.
He realizes, for the first time, how tired she looks. Absolutely exhausted, like the last ten months have taken everything from her and she only just now got it back, with the cry of a newborn baby.
So he stands.
Wipes his hands on the ass of his jeans, like, “I got it.”
To which Max, nodding off now, snorts. “Oh, you got it?” She struggles off the pillow, wincing at something painful in her gut. “How do I know I can trust you?”
Billy would be lying if he said it doesn’t sting. “Ow.”
“No, I mean like. How do I know you aren’t going to name our baby something stupid? Like Metallica, or Camaro, or Steve--”
“Max, I would never, and you can quote me on this--” Billy leans forward, pushing the hair out of her face. “Name your baby Steve.”
She laughs.
He takes in the sight of Max and her baby. The two of them together. “Let me do this for you, kid.”
She stares into his face, eyebrows pinched together, for what feels like an eternity. “Okay,” She mutters. “I’m trusting you to pick something good.”
Billy follows the nurse out of the room. “I will.”
“Nothing too manly.”
“Alright.”
“And nothing too girly either.” She calls. “Something gender--”
The door slams shut and Billy.
Can’t think of a single name. The nurse stares at him expectantly, clearly irritated that it took this long for an answer, and demands, “Alright, gorgeous, what’s the kids name?”
Billy can count the times he’s thought about this on one finger.
All the names the can think of don’t sound right, so. He decides to stick with the basics. The tried and true.
“Can I name him after someone we already know?”
The nurse blinks. “Kid, you could name him Salami for all I care, I just want to take my lunch break.”
“Alright, okay. Gimmie a second.”
Billy scrubs a hand across his face. There’s only room for one Steve in his life. Just like there’s only room for one Max, one Lucas, but.
He. Himself.
That’s a horse of a different color.
“Billie.” He says. “With an i.e.”
The nurse squints at him. “Isn’t that your name?”
“Yeah. Uh. Add a Joe in there. Billie Joe Sinclair.”
Billy’s flying by the seat of his pants on this one.
The nurse catches him right away. “Isn’t that the name of that punk rocker?” And she says it, like. She’s got some sort of stake in this. Like naming your kid after someone who bleaches their hair is some cardinal sin.
Billy doesn’t have time for this. “My sister loves that band.”
“Yeah, but. Enough to name her first born son--”
“Alright, Salami it is.” He cocks an eyebrow, and a hip for good measure. “Salami Joe Sinclair, our mother will be thrilled--”
“Little Billie Joe does have a ring to it.”
“Joey for short.”
The nurse smiles at him. “Joey for short.”
--
Max takes it better than he thought she would. “It’s kinda cool.” She says, grinning. “Well. Slip of the tongue.”
“What?”
“B.J.” Max shrugs, like, “He’ll have one hell of a time with that in middle school.”
“Yeah. I’ll be there to protect him.”
Max calls him a sap and Billy leans back in the chair, fallin heavy with exhaustion just as the sun rises on a new day.
Dawn breaking, clear and bright.
When the baby starts fussing Max stares into his wrinkled, chubby face, like. “I’m not rewarding this behavior or encouraging it.” and the kid calms right down, just from the sound of her voice.
So his sister’s a mom.
Huh.
Billy thinks it suits her.
64 notes
·
View notes
Cigarettes and First Kisses
For The Harringrove April Challenge - Day one First Kiss - Which is technically over on Twitter but it seemed fun.
Cigarettes and First Kisses
Steve is in a dirty alley behind the little L shaped complex that holds Family Video and the mechanic shop among other small store fronts. Steve is just trying to escape the child crying inside the store, the break room walls too thin to avoid the shrill sheiks when he slips outside for his break. He is not expecting to find Billy in his greasy coveralls on his own break, smoking a cigarette.
They do not really talk much even when they attend the same party gatherings each toting around at least one kid but he knows Billy and Robin have struck up some sort of friendship. He was admittedly a little jealous at first afraid he was going to be left in the dust but Robin does not treat him any differently now that she is friends with Billy too. Steve still pouts sometimes when they are working together and Billy comes in, the two of them huddling close, heads bent together whispering making Steve feel excluded, especially when they go quiet anytime he dares get close.
“Can I get one?” Steve asks as the wind shifts, moving closer to the broken down milk crates Billy is settled on a few feet away from the dumpster. Trying not to think about how awkward and small it makes him feel to think about his friend and Billy talking about him, why else would they go quiet every time he draws near. The nicotine is enticing, in the way it always smells clinging to Billy’s skin, mixing with his cologne making Steve crave something more, something he should not, something distinctly different than nicotine on his lips.
Read the Rest on Ao3
78 notes
·
View notes
Harringrove future events 2
A little update on Harringrove Events
First of all: a new entry:
Harringrove microfic
From the 15th of February we are going to have a prompt with a strict word count thanks to @harringrovemicrofic. Are you ready for the challenge?
Event info
Harringrove Story Challenge
@harringrovestorychallenge is started! We are already at chapter 4!
Seven writers are writing each one a different chapter for the same long story!
Harringrove Big Bang
@bigbangharringrove is SO close! First day of posting is the 1st of February! Get ready for a lot of incredible fics and beautiful arts!
Harringrove Love Fest
@harringrovelovefest share the love from the 8th to the 14th of February! Here are the prompts!
Harringrove Relay Race
On the 12th of April @harringrove-relay-race is going to fill our dashboards with a lot of incredible Harringrove contents!
As always feel free to reblog and add any other event you might know of!
38 notes
·
View notes
Harringrove 3 challenge 15 April - 15 May
The prompt for the next Harringrove Microfic Challenge is
Green
Word count: 914
Optional suggestions
Song: Green tinted sixties mind by Mr. Big
Character: Jason Carver
Ao3 collection
Remember that now we are opened to art too!
Let's be creative and imagine whatever you want for our baby boys. It's the color of the letterman jacket? Or the plants they have in their first apartment? Someone is green with envy? Is really not so easy being green?
Be wild and make me proud!
Remember to tag @harringrovemicrofic and use the tag #harringrovemicrofic and #harringrovemicrofic3!
12 notes
·
View notes
24 or 32 for Harringrove?? Loved the first prompt you wrote. 😍 (maybe some Steve whump? I’m a sucker.)
ahh thank you!! idk how whump this is, but hopefully it’s enough. enjoy!
24. “You’re trembling.”
Billy had been in exactly two fights since December 13th.
December 13th, that frigid, snowy Thursday Steve kissed him in the locker room after practice. Pushed him up against the shower wall. Kissed him until the water ran cold. Turned his whole world upside down.
Since then, Billy had been trying harder to push down his anger. Control the feeling that bubbled white-hot in his chest. Ignore the ache that shook his fists.
Still, he had a weak spot. A dim, dull space on his heel where the river Styx had missed his skin. Left him vulnerable. Blind.
The first slip had been at the Scorpions concert. Chicago. Steve had slipped on a patch of ice in the parking lot, sent him crashing into some surly fuck with an eyebrow piercing and a battered leather jacket.
“Watch where you’re going, princess,” he spat, words a white cloud, hot, visible against the bleak January sky.
Billy’s fist hit his jaw before his brain could tell him not to. Hit his cheekbone with a crack that split his skin. Didn’t stop until Steve pulled him back, until he was out of breath and his fist was stained bright red.
Steve kissed his bloody knuckles that night. Tasted like copper when Billy pressed him into the warm leather of the Camaro’s backseat.
That was the first time.
The second was at the State Semifinals. February. Three minutes left. Up by two.
Billy had never seen Steve play like this, hadn’t ever seen him shoot this well. Couldn’t remember the last time he missed the basket. Point after point after point.
The problem was that he wasn’t the only one that noticed.
The kid guarding Steve apparently had, too. Took a cheap shot, a hard shove three full seconds after Steve had already passed the ball. The back of Steve’s head slammed against the gym floor when he hit the ground.
Billy’s vision went red.
He tackled the kid, pinned him to the floor, got in two good hits before Tommy grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him away.
The referee threw Billy out of the game and two and a half minutes later, they lost, but Steve was okay.
Billy made sure of that. Climbed in through his window later that night and laid with Steve’s head in the crook of his neck until the sun came up. Counted all of his breaths. Lost track at six hundred and started all over again.
Late April pushing May, Billy’s record was clean, cleaner than it had been in years. Words stopped feeling so much like sandpaper scraping at his skin, dirty looks so much like challenges.
Steve never had that problem. He was more likely to laugh, brush off an insult than engage in a fight.
Which is what made this afternoon so surprising.
Billy heard them before he saw them. He was walking out the gym doors with every intention of going to his car when he heard a noise in the secluded little alley between buildings. Heard the telltale grunt that came with a landed punch and the dull thud of a body being pushed against the bricks.
He expected to turn the corner and see two idiot freshmen smacking each other around for the hell of it.
He didn’t expect to see Steve pinned to the wall with Tommy’s hand balled in his shirt, the whole left side of Steve’s face covered with blood. Tommy didn’t look too great either, had a stream of thick red pouring from his nose, bent at an angle Billy knew meant it was broken.
Billy’s jacket fell from his hands as he approached them, landed in a soft puddle on the ground, just loud enough for Tommy to turn his head, let go of his grip in Steve’s shirt. He took off in the other direction before Billy could reach him, before he could go back at him like they all knew he wanted to.
Tommy disappeared around the corner and Billy was quick to turn his attention to Steve. The material of his shirt scratched loud at the brick behind his back as he slumped against it, closed his eyes, released a shaky breath he’d been holding for far too long.
“Hey,” Billy took a hard step towards him, brought his hands up to hold the back of his neck, keep him steady, upright. “Hey, look at me. Are you alright?”
“M’fine.” Steve mumbled, didn’t open his eyes. He swallowed hard, struggled with it. “Where did he go?”
“Where did he go? What are you-“ he trailed off, raked his eyes down Steve’s face, the blood staining his cheek, the deep split in the middle of his lip. He flinched when Steve reached out to hold onto the front of his shirt, when the shake of his hands tickled at the strong muscle on his stomach. “Fuck, Steve. You’re trembling.”
“I’m gonna kill him,” Steve said, ignoring him. “Next time I see him, I’m gonna kill him. I-”
“Hey, hey, slow down,” Billy said, threaded the tips of his fingers in his long hairs at the nape of his neck, dropped his voice down low, tried for soothing. “Relax, okay?” He used his fingertips to rub slow circles into tense muscle, felt some sort of satisfaction, relief in the way Steve’s breaths started to come a little easier, a little smoother. “Tell me what happened.”
“He’s got a big mouth, that’s what happened,” Steve deadpanned. “He just-he started saying shit. Wanted to rile me up.”
Billy curled a hand under his chin, ran the pad of his thumb along his cheek and stopped at the corner of his lips. “Why didn’t you walk away?” he asked.
Steve hesitated and Billy watched the line of his jaw as it clenched. Watched the flutter of his eyelashes as he finally opened his eyes. Ringed red and framed with blood. Gorgeous as ever.
“Because it was about you,” he whispered, sent goose bumps up Billy’s spine. “The shit he was saying. It was about you.”
The river had missed a spot on Steve, too.
Billy’s chest tightened with something he didn’t have a name for. Something warm. Made it too hard to look Steve in the eyes. He averted his own to save himself.
The cut above Steve’s eyebrow had stopped bleeding, crusted over dark burgundy. The one on his cheekbone was still going, barely, but it looked shallow enough, probably didn’t need any stitches.
Billy let his eyes dip low then, let his gaze fall to Steve’s lips, the split right down the middle of his lower one. His thumb moved slowly, trailed, ghosted across his lip until it hovered over the cut. Ran over it once, twice, felt the blood smear warm beneath the pad of his finger, knew it would leave a stain on his skin. Steve was plaint under his touch as he gave it a gentle pull, parting his lips just slightly.
Steve’s breath hitched when Billy leaned forward and kissed him, hitched again when Billy ran his tongue along his lower lip like he was trying to heal the wound himself, soothe it, wipe it away. Steve hooked his fingers in his belt loops and tugged, didn’t stop tugging until Billy stepped forward, until Billy’s chest was flush with his. Only then did he feel Steve relax, felt him lean his weight back a little heavier against the wall, felt the tension melt from his shoulders like Billy really was healing, soothing.
Billy didn’t move away when they parted with a soft smack.
His voice was rough when he spoke, low.
“I don’t care what that asshole said about me,” he said, had to keep his head tilted sideways to see into Steve’s half lidded eyes, needed him to know he was serious. “I only care about you.”
Steve’s nose brushed against his when he shook his head. “But he-”
“I only care about you.”
Fuck the river. They could protect each other.
409 notes
·
View notes
We have arrived at Day 6 of Harringrove April courtesy of chrisbitchtree's list! Today's prompt was "apple" and today's drabble contains quite a bit of swearing because I'm really in Billy's head. Yesterday's drabble, "spring" is here.
Billy fucking hates applesauce. It barely has any flavor and the texture is simply awful. It’s really just the icing on this whole, shitty cake he’s been served the past few months. The hospital does not care if he has preferences or likes and dislikes, they tell him what to eat and he has to eat or he’s getting the feeding tube back. Billy hates the feeding tube more than he hates applesauce.
Logically, in the back of his mind, he knows this is for his benefit. He can’t just eat any solid foods he wants, he has to be eased back into it. His liver is still on the mend, even with the donor piece he got. His stomach is overly sensitive and way too acidic according to the doctors. So it’s a lot of applesauce and rice, sometimes bread, and at least one daily protein shake. Bland, boring, midwest food that he has to choke down. He dreams of tacos on the beach and soft-serve sitting on the hood of his Camaro.
At least he can finally feed himself. For the first couple of weeks, he was allowed to attempt semi-solid foods, the CNA had to help feed him. His hands shook too much and trying to navigate the spoon to this mouth almost always proved too challenging for his brain. So the applesauce, on his own, demonstrates he’s on the mend. Even if he feels like a little fucking kid in his hospital bed.
It’s worse because Steve visits. Steve with his broken-up face, slowly healing on his own. With his big eyes and sitting just far enough away from the bed to be considered appropriate. Steve with his hair over-long and the way he fidgets when Billy has been too quiet for too long. Steve is never allowed in the room when Billy needs to eat. He doesn’t care that he’s healing, that’s one step too far. He’s fucking embarrassed is what he is.
Steve always leaves when Billy’s nurse comes in with his tray. He’ll wander through the halls and tell Billy if he’s seen anything new whenever he comes back. It’s always just minutes after the tray has left the room again. Eating usually makes Billy tired, the effort can be a little much. But he still manages to muster up a smirk at Steve when he comes back into the room, hands shoved deep into his pockets.
“Good lunch?” Steve asks like he asks every time.
“Applesauce again,” Billy replies, his voice still kind of raspy from all the screaming and bleach and shit. The doctor says it will get better, he just needs time and applesauce.
Steve smiles and kicks his chair back over to sit next to Billy’s bed. He leans forward with his elbows on his thighs, to talk to Billy. It’s probably bad for his back, but Billy isn’t going to say anything.
“My grandmother and I used to make applesauce when I was a kid,” Steve says. He usually doesn’t comment directly on Billy’s meals. “We would go apple picking at this orchard on the other side of town. And the house would smell like roasting apples for days.”
Billy watches him for a while. His eyelids feel heavy, but he catches the wry smile on Steve’s face. How the memory is a good one but tinged with something Billy doesn’t know yet. “I’ve never had homemade applesauce,” he says finally. “Bet it’s better than the shit they serve here.”
Steve looks up, smile widening into something easier, something real. “We’ll go apple picking when you’re strong enough then and we can make some together,” he offers. He probably means it too, Steve loves to do that kind of stuff. He has waxed poetic about all the dates he’s taken girls on, pleading in his eyes that he wants to do the same thing with Billy at some point.
Billy nods, closing his eyes for just a moment. “Sure, pretty boy, you’ll have to climb all the trees though.”
Steve reaches out to curl his fingers around Billy’s wrist. Never further down, not to hold hands. Just a grounding point, the most solid thing Billy is allowed to have these days. “I’ll climb to the top, to get the best apples.”
Billy opens his eyes, he’s still tired and when Steve leaves he’s probably going to sleep again. He’s been tired since they woke him up for his physical therapy in the morning. “Okay, it’s a date.”
His eyes slide shut again and his mouth still tastes like applesauce. He clears his throat and gestures a little in front of himself. “Can you get me some water?”
Steve doesn’t scramble, he moves quickly, confidently to grab Billy’s water. He’s gentle when he presses the straw to Billy’s lips, holding the cup steady so Billy can suck down his water. And he takes it away when Billy pulls back, setting it back on the table next to the bed. He’s gone for a moment, pausing to check and make sure no one is around before he leans over the bed to kiss Billy’s forehead.
“I should let you get some sleep,” Steve murmurs, he lets go of Billy’s wrist, but Billy catches him with the same hand.
“Stay, ‘m just gonna close my eyes for a bit,” Billy whispers, squinting his eyes open enough to catch Steve’s smile.
“I’ll stay,” Steve promises. He pulls back enough to stick his hand in his book bag, resting on the floor. He pulls out a book and waves it at Billy. “Want me to read to you?”
Billy smiles a little, letting his eyes slide shut again. “Please.”
Steve sits back down in his chair, flipping open his bookmark. He clears his throat, and begins, “In the moment when I truly understand my enemy, understand him well enough to defeat him, then in that very moment I also love him. I think it’s impossible to really understand somebody, what they want, what they believe, and not love them the way they love themselves. And then, in that very moment when I love them.... I destroy them.”
(The end quote is from Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card. I have not read the book and don't know where it is in the book, but I needed a popular eighties novel to reference and this quote seems to fit harringrove. So. There you have it!)
24 notes
·
View notes
Day 22: Yellow
John Harrington stood in the foyer of his house in Loch Nora, brow furrowed. It was the first time in his life that he had come home to find the house looking so...occupied. And sure, he and Irene hadn’t mentioned that they were coming back to Hawkins because it had been so last minute, but even so, Steve usually did a better job keeping it looking tidy. He was expected to do a better job.
John moved further into the house, noting new details. Steve’s sneakers were in the front hallway, alongside a pair of heavy boots, and every hook on the coat rack was filled. John saw two leather jackets that he was sure didn’t belong to Steve and a denim jacket covered in patches that he also didn’t recognize. The coffee table in the living room was covered in books and papers, and there was a stack of dirty plates in the sink. John set his bags down and glanced over at Irene, but she seemed as bemused as he was.
The basement door stood open, and they followed a heavy clank of metal on metal down the stairs. John stopped dead at the bottom, taking in the scene. All the furniture in the room was pushed up against the walls to create an open space in the center, where Steve was on his back on a weight bench. He was breathing heavily as he pressed up a bar with what seemed like a significant amount of weight on it. Another boy, blond and built like he knew exactly what he was doing with a set of weights, was spotting him. Steve finished a rep with clear effort and set the bar back on the rack. John glanced over at Irene, who had a little smile on her face. He frowned; she had always been too lenient with their son.
“Ugh,” Steve said, “I thought I would be able to do more reps.” The blond smirked down at him.
“You gotta be patient, pretty boy.” He flexed a bicep and turned to kiss it. “You don’t get results like these overnight.” Steve rolled his eyes and huffed a laugh.
“Steven?” John said, and the effect was immediate. Steve’s head whipped around and he started to quickly sit up. The other boy threw a protective hand between Steve’s forehead and the bar, preventing what probably would have been a painful collision. Steve didn’t take his gaze off of John as he ducked past the bar and sat up. The boy let his hand drop back to his side, but he took a step closer to Steve.
“Mom, Dad,” Steve said, standing up. “I didn’t know you were coming home.”
“Clearly,” John said, waving a hand at the stairs behind him. Steve flushed a little and his brows drew down. John opened his mouth to demand an explanation, but Irene’s hand was suddenly at his elbow, gently pulling him back toward the stairs. He glowered at her, but her eyes were on Steve and the other boy.
“We’ll need to unpack and freshen up,” she said calmly, glancing at her watch. “Dinner will be served at seven.” She looked back up. “I assume you boys will have no trouble being ready by then?” The two of them exchanged a quick, wordless glance that appeared to contain an entire conversation.
“No problem, Mom,” Steve said. “We can be ready.”
“Lovely,” Irene said with a smile, and then she steered John back upstairs. They picked up their bags in the foyer and John followed Irene to the second floor. He was thinking about the argument he was about to have with his wife about her intervention, but he stopped dead at the door to Steve’s room. His jaw dropped as he pushed the door open wider.
“Are you seeing this?” he demanded. Irene nodded slowly as she took in the room. The plaid wallpaper was gone. Instead, three of the walls were a cool grey color. The fourth wall, opposite Steve’s bed, was a bright, cheerful yellow. “Did you approve this?” John asked Irene, who had that small smile on her face again.
“I would have,” she said, “but he didn’t ask.” John shook his head. “Unbelievable.” Steve was behaving as though the house belonged to him. Whoever the other boy was, he was clearly a bad influence.
“What the hell was that, downstairs?” John demanded of Irene as soon as the door to the master suite closed behind them.
“Exactly what I looked like, I expect,” she said serenely, opening her suitcase and pulling out her toiletry bag.
“You know what I meant. I’m not sure why you intervened. He owes us an explanation,” John said.
“And he can provide one over dinner, if you absolutely insist,” she replied.
“And since when does Steve lift weights?” he demanded, irritated all over again that he had come home to a house that had changed, and a son who hadn’t yet apologized for it.
“Oh, I imagine those came with the boy,” Irene said with that same little smile, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
“You better believe that I will be talking to Steven about that situation. His friend seems far too at home in this house. It’s probably his fault everything is in disarray.”
“That’s a bit of an overstatement, don’t you think?” Irene asked absently. She was facing away from him, looking into the vanity mirror as she removed her makeup.
“No, I don’t,” he said stubbornly. “The boy painted his room without consulting us, and the basement is barely usable.”
“I don’t see why that matters. You only ever spend time in your office when we’re here.” There was a pause.
“It’s the principle of the thing,” John finally said.
“Hmm,” was all Irene said in response.
“I don’t see why you included that boy in our dinner plans. Steven should have sent him home as soon as we arrived.” Irene stopped what she was doing and turned to face her husband. Her expression was amused.
“Darling,” she said patiently, and John knew she was growing irritated with him. She hadn’t called him that sincerely in a very long time. “You’re a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them. There are three additional coats on the coat rack, and it’s sixty-eight degrees outside, so he didn't wear all of them over here today. Additionally, there isn’t a teenager in the world who brings every single one of his textbooks over for a study date, and most of those books were for classes that Steve isn’t even taking.” John frowned at that. He hadn’t noticed that because he didn’t know what classes Steve was taking. He was a little surprised that Irene did. She continued. “And that weight bench, as we both know, isn’t Steve’s. That boy is living here, and probably has been for a while.” She intentionally did not mention the thick Stephen King book and the pair of reading glasses John obviously hadn’t noticed on the second nightstand in Steve’s room. Horror had never been Steve’s preferred genre, and he didn’t wear glasses.
“Well, I’m putting a stop to it,” John announced. Irene stared at him for a long moment, eyes going a little hard, though her smile stayed in place.
“We’re here for three days,” she said. “How exactly are you planning to control what Steve does after we leave?”
“I’ll threaten to cut him off. That should communicate the seriousness of the situation.” Irene stared for a beat and then turned back around to continue removing her makeup.
“You’ll do no such thing,” she corrected calmly.
“I’ll do as I see fit,” he shot back. She nodded to herself and set down the cloth in her hand. Then she turned around again, standing up to face him.
“Have you forgotten who you’re dealing with?” she asked, voice low. She hadn’t bothered to raise her voice at him in years. “Because you seem to be under the mistaken impression that I’m one of the sycophants you insist on surrounding yourself with.” She took a step toward him. “Here’s what you’re actually going to do. You’re going to unpack and freshen up. You’re going to go do whatever it is you do in your office until it’s time for dinner, and then you’re going to come eat. You’re going to be polite to our son and his friend.” John raised his eyebrows at her.
“I don’t see any reason why I should allow you to dictate my behavior,” he said, his tone condescending. Her answering smile was sharp.
“You actually don’t know, do you?” she murmured, shaking her head. “Steve turned eighteen two months ago. I do hope your assistant remembered to send a gift.” She saw the significance of it land. John swallowed. “Just so that we’re on the same page,” she continued, “if you decide that it is a good idea to berate or threaten our son, who is an adult, or his friend, you will very quickly find yourself in the middle of some probably very contentious divorce proceedings.” John glared at her.
“You wouldn’t,” he said confidently. “Your reputation stands to suffer as much as mine does.”
“I don’t care,” she said bluntly. “It’s been years since I cared what anyone in Hawkins thinks of me. The only thing you had to hold over my head was custody, and now that our son is an adult, your leverage is gone.”
“You cannot—“ he started to say, but she took a step closer and cut him off.
“We have an arrangement," she said, "and it's working. I get the freedom to live as I please most of the time, and you get the image of a perfect family on the rare occasions that you need it. It would be a shame to disrupt it simply because you are incapable of keeping your disapproval to yourself for three days.” John fumed, but he also backed down. He knew defeat when he heard it. He stalked off to the closet to change without further comment, unreasonably annoyed by the way Irene hummed to herself while she sat back down to finish removing her makeup. It wasn’t until later that he realized she had been humming Handel’s “Hail the Conquering Hero.”
An hour later, Irene had freshened up and was on her way down to the kitchen to start dinner. She stopped when she heard Steve’s hushed voice coming from the living room.
“Billy, I’m serious!” Then Steve gasped as if he had just realized something and groaned. “Oh my god, they probably saw my room.” Billy huffed a laugh.
“They should be thanking us for that, baby. The plaid wallpaper was a crime.”
“You don’t understand. My dad is going to—“ Steve stopped. “Hey, B, no,” he said in a softer voice. “Not like that. He’s not…I’m sorry. Come here.” Irene turned around and made her way silently back up the stairs, wanting to give her son and the boy he was obviously dating the time they deserved to finish their conversation. Dinner could wait.
Irene smiled to herself as she thought about how delighted Annette would be to learn that Steve had a boyfriend. A boyfriend who was right about the plaid wallpaper—it had been John’s idea, after he saw it in a magazine somewhere. The yellow was a vast improvement. Maybe the bedroom in her apartment in Paris could use an accent wall, Irene mused. She couldn’t wait to get back there, as soon as their weekend of pretending to be a happily married couple was over.
Your reputation stands to suffer, John had said, and he wasn’t wrong. The people of Hawkins would absolutely frown on her lifestyle, her life in Paris with her beloved Annette. But it certainly looked like that revelation wasn’t going to bother her son at all, and if Steve didn’t mind, Irene truly couldn’t care less if other people did. She smiled to herself again. When John finally figured it out, he was going to be furious, and there wasn't going to be a damn thing he could do about it. She found that thought immensely satisfying.
130 notes
·
View notes