Finally I Get To Share My Piece I Did For The Wonderful @harringrovezine !

he was a metalhead, she did cheerleading

post-game

“Please, just— I want you to be safe— and happy…”

as suggested by @azrielgreen🐚🐚💕 Patre0n | Bsky

Harringrove for BLM piece for @yourneighborhoodace, illustration for their fic for @ihni “I’m Not Your Hero (It Doesn’t Mean I Wasn’t Brave)” . Thank you!

FIXED IT,,,,

the content we need from season 3

my shitty art blog —-> @reylinne

stranger things blog —-> @billyscamar0

more billy, starring THIGHS

I dare you.

This art grew a story...

Roadsides

Billy Hargrove has only three things left in this world.

The car he drives, the clothes on his back, and the boy he loves sitting by his side at this dingy roadside diner. 

It’s small, barely a trailer, which is good.

Smaller means less people.

“Once the waitress turns ‘round we bolt,” he whispers.

Continue reading ↴

Steve turns around, watches the waitress top up some coffee at another table.  

There are empty plates in front of them. Food they can’t afford. 

They ate as much as they could. Shoved what’s left inside some Tupperware when no one was looking.

Billy knows the pain of hunger. Steve does too. Know the inside of diner trashcans and that these places can afford to miss a meal or two. 

They sit near the exit. Shitty seats in winter. Cold winds whenever the door opens.

They’re cold too often these days.

It’s not a good life, stealing and conning. Not an honest life.

It’s the happiest Billy’s ever been.

“Go,” Billy whispers and Steve complies. He always does. 

They sneak their way out. Don’t start running until the bell rings and the waitress turns around.

They’ve done this before. Many times. Billy’s got his keys ready and Steve’s fast. No license plate to track ‘cause they removed that shit before. 

The Camaro is moving before Steve has the door closed.

“Thanks for the charity!” Billy yells. He laughs loudly, powered by the rapid beating of his heart and adrenaline running through his veins. 

He’s driving fast on unlit roads. 

Steve pulls the container from his backpack and gives it a good look. “Think this should last us a day.”

“Good job, baby.” He squeezes Steve’s thigh. Keeps his hand there as they drive.

He plays his music loud. It keeps him awake. He wants to get at least two hours between them and the diner before they rest for the night. 

Leaning against the window, Steve’s breath makes clouds on glass. 

He draws hearts on it. Always does. The window is littered with them. Stacked like bricks, like Steve is building houses out of love.

“Someday we’ll live there,” Steve will say at decaying roadside cabins. 

He dreams of futures while Billy dreams of their next meal. They keep each other safe and sane. 

Idealism and realism. One without the other makes the whole thing collapse.

Billy parks the car at an abandoned farm. Gets their toothbrushes from the trunk and squeezes toothpaste from a nearly empty tube. 

They don’t have many rituals, but this is one of them. 

“Bright night,” Billy remarks. Toothbrush in his mouth, he looks up at the night sky. Next to him, Steve does the same.

He never appreciated how bright stars shine in utter abandonment. Absence of city lights makes everything more vivid.

Some nights they can see the Milky Way stretch above them and they’ll look up, awestruck, with mint on their breath. 

Steve spits, looks up again and finds the North Star.

It’s the one thing he does consistently, every night.

They’re driving nowhere. When Billy asks where Steve would like to go, his answers are always the same. 

Away, west, towards the future. 

It means anywhere but Hawkins, as long as they’re together.

They lay in their car, huddled under a thick wool blanket that does little to quell the cold. 

The leather is hard and cold and the nights are freezing in Colorado. 

Shared heat is all that keeps them warm. Keeps them alive, because this kinda cold can kill.

Steve traces Billy’s face. Draw hearts there too. 

“I can barely feel the scar,” he remarks when he traces Billy’s eyebrow—a parting gift from his dad. 

“Better every day.” He pulls Steve closer. Buries his nose in his hair and breathes in deep. 

Steve dreams of futures and Billy dreams of stars. Dreams of total darkness and empty fields, where—utterly abandoned—they shine brightest.