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"Why the fuck did I wake up by myself, Harrington? You lookin' to get your ass kicked?"
Billy swings his leg over the windowsill, tugging the sleeves of his borrowed t-shirt further over his hands. He shuffles over to where Steve's sat, legs hanging off the edge of the flat roof.
Billy's in no way a romantic, but Steve looks like something from a candy rock/indie album art. He looks like his silhouette should be etched on to a vinyl cover.
"I couldn't sleep." Steve murmurs. His head is tipped back, neck craned, face staring up at the sky. "The moon was too bright."
"You could have just closed the curtains." Billy doesn't bother glancing up. He can see the silvery ring of Steve's eyes, the light catching over his skin, hooking on his jaw and cheekbones.
"I couldn't do that," Steve sounds almost breathless, weight leant back on his hands. "It didn't feel real. Look, the moon is so big! The stars- look up. You can see the stars twinkling."
Billy sighs, a smile forming on his lps as he slips into the bracket of Steve's arms, shuffling forward until his chest is pressed against Steve's back.
"Don't you feel like you could just reach out and touch one?" Steve settles his weight against Billy, head resting on his shoulder. Billy hums, running his cold hands up Steve's chest.
Billy's in no way a poet, but the smile in Steve's voice sounds like the soft edge of a cloud, or like the fuckin' sunshine the cold December morning is robbing from them.
"They're hundreds of miles away, and dead." Billy presses a kiss to the cool skin of Steve's temple. He doesn't know how long Steve's been sat out here, but the bed was cold when he woke up.
"I know that. If you're going to ruin this for me, you can go back to bed and leave me in peace." Steve's voice hasn't raised above a whisper. One of his hands settles on Billy's leg, cold fingers squeezing his knee through his sweatpants.
"Alright. I'll be quiet." Billy wraps his arms around Steve's waist, ass already freezing against the rooftop.
Steve grins, Billy can hear it in his voice when he says, "Why are you wearing a bedsheet?"
Billy huffs, tugging the sheet tighter around his shoulders to drape it over Steve.
" 'cause someone stole my jacket."
Steve chuckles, smoothing down the jean jacket over his chest before slipping his hand into Billy's.
"I thought I should wrap up. It's cold out here." Billy snorts. An understatement. Frost was forming on every surface, thick and thin branches of trees sparkling beneath the almost full moon.
Steve curls a little closer against his chest, cold fingers squeezing Billy's hand. He smells of sweat and that almost empty bottle of citrus conditioner.
"C'mon. Before you catch a cold." Billy goes to stand up but Steve clings to his hand, leaning back heavily.
"Just a little longer! Look, just look. The moon is beautiful. " There's a grin in his soft voice. Steve reaches round to catch Billy's face with his palm.
"Isn't it?"
His nose and cheeks are flushed a little red, lips cold when he kisses Billy. Cold lips and colder fingertips have Billy gasping, like some drowning man for air or something- but they kiss under the canopy of stars.
The sky is far brighter than Billy ever got to see back in Santa Monica. He wonders if one day he could take Steve and lay on the beaches, sun warmed sand under bare skin.
They barely pull away, breath curling in hot clouds between their lips. Steve smells like the cereal he ate for dinner, the chocolate milk he spilt over the both of them.
Billy kisses him again, cupping his chin.
"Look, is that a shooting star?" Billy says, never looking away from the fan of Steve's lashes. Steve twists in his grip to settle his head back on Billy's shoulder, looking up at the sky.
"Yeah! There. Make a wish, B." Steve points up above their heads, somewhere to the left. He breathes his wish against the creases of Billy's palm.
"Did ya make a wish? It might come true." Steve tells the night air, voice carried a way by the slight breeze. Billy hums, nosing behind his ear just to make him squirm a little.
Billy couldn't think of anything better to wish for than the cold shell of Steve's ear, the sharp elbow in his ribs, the boney fingers around his wrist.
Billy's in no way a romantic, but for Steve?
He's hopeless.