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Steve’s lying on the sofa. He was watching the basketball game on the TV, but left it on while he got high. Something to have in the background while he zones out. He’s killing time, waiting for Billy to come home from work at the auto repair shop. Steve still hadn’t figured out a clear career path, putting off all attempts at finding work until his dad threatens to pulled the plug on his trust fund.
He focuses back to the words on the screen, Devil Worship: Exposing Satan's Underground. It’s then that Steve slowly realises that the lights are off, that he didn’t get up to turn them on when the game had finished, and the sun had slowly set. He reaches behind himself to pull the knit blanket around his body, the one that Dustin’s mom had given Steve and Billy as a moving in present. His feet are exposed, the blanket not long enough to reach, so he brings his knees up to his chest and tucks his toes underneath the sofa cushion.
Dungeons and Dragons, it’s become popular with children anywhere from grammar school and up. Not so with a lot of adults who think it’s been connected with a number of suicides, and murders. Timothy Greiss, twenty one, shotgun suicide. The detective report noted, D&D became a reality for him. James Alan Kirby, fourteen years old, charged with killing his junior high school principle and wounding three other people…
He knows he shouldn’t be watching stuff like this, that it sets off his paranoia real bad. And the way he tends to worry about everything: unemployment, Billy, the kids. He knows the weed doesn’t exactly help, but. Billy had called it anxiety, worrying too much about a lot of different things. After Barb “disappeared”, Steve’s parents had just called it side effects from all those drugs you’re smoking. They weren’t wrong, exactly.
After Barb, he didn’t like being alone in the house. He kept the lights on, got some black sheets from the closet and hung those over his curtain rail to block out the light from the pool. He’d sit in his car, radio on, driving around aimlessly or out by the quarry, bat always sat in the passenger seat. I t had been easier since they moved to the city, there’s more people around. He can look out of their bedroom window at night and see other people’s apartments with the lights on, tiny figurines playing out their lives. Steve feels safer knowing that he’s never gonna been alone in the city.
On the other hand, more people, more crime.
In Bayou country in South West Louisiana, one persistent problem has been grave robbing. ‘They take out the bones, especially, uh, on the older type grave sites, because our understanding is that, uh, the right little finger has something to do with their culture and they make a necklace out of them and they wear a necklace out of the right knuckle…’
Steve's intrigued, in that controlled anxiety way. Like the way he used to obsessively seek out stories in the newspaper about disappearances in Indiana, unconsciously chewing his bottom lip raw as he read.
Suddenly, there’s a heavy hand on his shoulder. Steve jumps about a foot in the air, twisting onto his back. It’s Billy, his face illuminated by the light of the television set. There’s a spot of black oil smeared on his left cheek, he looks concerned, hand hovering mid air.
‘I didn’t hear you come in.’ Steve gasps.
Billys’ eyes look at the screen, eyebrows pinching together. ‘What are you watching?’
Steve swallows, looks back at the screen. ‘It’s about, uh, devil worshippers.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Billy smirks, walking over to turn on the floor lamp in the corner. ‘They show any footage from Iron Maiden gigs?’
Steve lets a long breath out, relieved that the living room looks like home again. That Billy made everything safe, as usual.
‘What’s Iron Maiden?’
Billy gets this pained expression on his face, shakes his head. He sits down, pulling Steve’s feet out from underneath the cushion to rest in Billy’s lap.
The next title card comes up on the screen, Dr. Michael Aquino, Temple of Satan. The guy being interviewed looks like something from the sci-fi comics Dustin reads.
‘Looks like Satan himself ordered that guy to get that haircut’ Billy murmurs, giving Steves ankle a squeeze.
Steve snorts, kicking his foot a little. Billy always knows how to lighten up a situation. It’s weird, he’s a pretty intense guy. He can command any room just in the way that he takes up so much physical and social space. But even when they’re alone, and Steve’s gone quiet, Billy can tune into Steve. Steve thinks it’s because he’s so easy to read, Steve doesn’t have a poker face.
Billy used to be the opposite, when he got in one of his moods, you never knew what was going to happen. He’s better now, the city’s mellowed him out. Steve guesses it’s because he’s not so caged in, when Billy wants to go out and get drunk, he can. He drags Steve along too. When one of Billys’ favourite bands go on tour, he can go get tickets.
He’d brought Steve along once, shoved an open beer into his hand, got one hand firmly planted into the middle of his back as he guided Steve into the crowd. No one paid attention to the way Billy had plastered himself to Steve’s back, making sure that no one got too rowdy near Steve, pushing back on people who were jumping around a little too close.
Steve had liked it, the way that Billy got all possessive and protective in a public space. Something so rare for them. He told him so, when they got home and Billy had backed him up against the hallway wall, pressing his mouth to Steve’s throat, his hands clutching at the Anthrax tshirt Billy had lent Steve. Billy had pulled away, hands still at Steves’ shoulders as Billy looked over him. So fuckin’ pretty in my shirt, all messed up, Billy had murmured, pulling at the wild strands of hair that had come loose during the gig. Sure, Billy had a thing about Steve in his clothes. Steve liked being in Billys’ clothes, he could pretend to be all small and dainty, even though he kinda is, next to Billy.
Billy squeezes his ankle again, soothing over it gently with the hot palm of his hand. ‘You coming to bed, pretty boy?’
Steve smiles, nodding, switches off the TV. The blanket’s still wrapped around him when he follows Billy into their bedroom.
-
The show is back on TV the following week. Steve watches it, he can’t help it. The last episode felt kinda stupid, but this episode is worse. It hadn’t even helped that he had remembered to turn on the lights this time.
The show makes a bad segue from devil worshippers to talking about this serial killer that rapes and kills men in “gay areas”. Like they’re even in the same fuckin’ ball park. Steve immediately switches it off. He feels sick, makes himself get up from the couch to go curl into bed.
That’s where Billy finds him, head under the covers and pillow a little damp. ‘Again?’ Billy asks as he pulls back the sheets. Steve looks up at him with tearful eyes and reaches out to pull Billy under the covers too, ‘You gotta stop watching that shit, Stevie.’ Billy murmurs, getting into into bed and pushing himself up and around Steve, putting a heavy arm around Steve’s middle. ‘It’s not good for you, you’re gonna have nightmares.’ He says against the shell of Steve’s ear.
Steve feels stupid, he knows that Billy’s only being concerned, in the way he’s obligated to be. Both as a friend and as someone who has to endure being woken up by Steve tossing and turning in the night.
Billy’s right, the nightmares start up again. It’s not so much the TV show, but the anxiety and overthinking about getting nightmares about the TV show. It’s stupid. Steve’s stupid. He doesn’t know how to explain it to Billy in the way that doesn’t sound totally crazy. He doesn’t wanna piss Billy off with stupid excuses, especially when he looks even more tired and grumpy each morning before work.
Steve doesn’t want to go to his doctor about it, doesn’t want to get addicted to sleeping pills like his mom. He’d rather Billy got home from work to find him paranoid and jumpy than all drowsy and slurred words.
A week later, Steve wakes up to a pile of clothes where Billy’s empty side of the bed usually is. Steve blinks, trying to get his eyes to focus on the note that’s laid on top of the pile.
‘Go out for a run, the weather’s supposed to be good’
It’s his old running shorts and a worn out tshirt. Steve hadn’t exactly been getting out as much as he did in Hawkins. Had blown Billy off every time he insisted that they go down to the court and shoot hoops. He still didn’t feel settled in California, he was still adjusting, alright?
Steve doesn’t know how much longer he can put off leaving the house. He knows that if Billy comes home and he’s wrapped up on that sofa again, Billy’s gonna go crazy. And Billy’s made it easy for him: put on the clothes, go outside and run, or pretend to run. It’s easy, it’s fine.
Maybe Steve had gotten a little agoraphobic, another word that Billy had mentioned when he said: Steve, you’re gonna get sick if you stay inside all day. He feels a strange nervousness inside him that he can’t quite place. He just tells himself to keep walking. It gets easier after about five minutes. Then he’s slid into a steady jog, breath slowly evening out. He’s made it about half an hour before he starts to walk back home, muscles a pleasant ache, the sweat on his forehead cooling in the evening breeze.
Billy’s there, lying on the sofa, smoking a cigarette. He’s got his headphones on, tinny sound bleeding out of the Walkman, but he opens his eyes when he hears the door close and shares a smile with Steve when he comes through the living room on the way to the shower.
It feels good, washing away sweat and the grime of the city. Steve really takes his time, lathering the shampoo and massaging his scalp with the special conditioner he keeps hidden at the back of the cupboard.
He gets out of the shower, dries off and pulls on Billy’s old Anthrax tshirt. Since the gig, Billy’s been putting it back in Steve’s closet, been giving it to Steve every time he gets out of the shower when he asks Billy, can you get me my pyjamas?
He feels the special kind of tired, loose and soft, like he’s earned it. Like when Steve and Billy had first moved in and they had carried the new mattress from the truck and up the millions of stairs to their apartment. Or when Billy went a few more rounds than usual, and Steve had been barely conscious by the end of it.
When he opens the door to their bedroom, the lights are dimmed, the room feels cool and crisp. Billy’s on the bed, looking up at Steve and sparing a brief smile at Steve’s tshirt.
‘What are you doing?’ Steve asks suspiciously, casting his gaze around the room. The bed looks different, looks a lot more comfortable since they first moved in.
‘I got you something.’ Billy kicks off his boots, pulling back the new cover. It looks soft and heavy. ‘C'mere.’
Steve pads over, putting a knee on the foot of the bed and slowly crawling over it. He gets a hand on the cover. It’s got pockets, filled with something like the pie weights Dustins mom had in her cupboard.
‘What is it?’ Steves asks, both of his hands now scrunching up the cover, feeling the tiny weights move under his palms. It’s soothing, feeling them roll when he moves the corner of the cover from one hand to the other.
‘The chick in the store called it a weighted blanket. It’s supposed to be good for sleep and stuff.’ Steve doesn’t look up when Billy speaks, he’s slowly tucking his legs underneath the blanket, blinking slowly.
‘Like, I guessed you’d like it. Since you sleep better when you’re like—’ Billy makes a gesture with his hands ‘tucked underneath me.’
Steve’s nodding, still not really focusing on what Billy’s saying. He’s laying down now, trying hard to wiggle underneath it. He’s got the blanket up to his navel.
Everything feels still. It’s all quiet pressure. It’s weird. It’s just one thing to focus on, the even and steady weight pushing down on his legs.
Billy pulls the blanket up to Steve’s chest, and Steve lets out a long, slow sigh as his eyes close.
‘How’d you feel?’ Billy murmurs, stroking Steve’s hair back from his face. Steve can hear the small smile on Billy’s face.
‘Safe.’ Steve surprises himself. ‘Like, when I wake up, and you’re asleep on top of me. Feels like you’re anchoring me, keeping me pressed down. Normally feel like I’m gonna float away, or something.’ He’s finding it difficult to talk in full sentences. Doesn’t even know if he’s making any sense right now. He’s so goddamn relaxed. 'You got this for me?' he asks.
Billy's playing with his fingers now, squeezing them gently. Steve didn't think he'd find that so soothing. 'Don't want you getting sick, you gotta come play basketball with me tomorrow.'
Steve attempts a smile ‘Thanks, Billy,’ he mumbles.
He here's a soft ‘Not a thing, sweetheart’ before he drifts.