Steve had never been his friend. A challenge to accept, maybe. A mountain to climb, sure. Never a friend. Steve hadn’t wanted Billy like that, or at all.
But Steve wasn’t Steve Harrington, Golden Son of Hawkins High, in Amsterdam or Ghent or Compiègne or a hotel room in Paris. He was just Steve, the one with a sick sense of humour and a hollow look in his eye, the one who swallowed little white capsules every morning from a bottle with lithium scratched off the label. He was just Steve, the guy who pushed Billy into bed every night, sucked his cock in a train bathroom and fucked him over the edge of a fountain in the middle of the day.
Look, I’ve never felt any pressure from you that I co-parent. But your idea that I take no responsibility for raising your child…it’s naive. It’s not that I think you’re not capable of raising a child on your own – of course you are – but short of us dissolving our partnership, I’m not capable of not being involved. N-Not as the child’s father, but as it’s…mother’s friend.
Billy Hargrove and his ‘I’m gay and not in the mood look.
Finished reading Christine Mangan’s Tangerine (great book with a frustrating ending)and Gillian Flynn’s Sharp Objects (better than Dark Places but nowhere near the masterclass that is Gone Girl). Now, in a funky, noir head space. I planned to binge-watch the Sharp Objects miniseries, but the first two episodes were so crazy boring that I dunno.
Writing-wise, I’m doing this weird thing where I have, like, eight of my random works-in-progress open at the same time, pulled from different fandoms, and I’m going through each and adding a random line here and there. At this pace, I should have a finished product by the year 2089.
Starvinbohemian 