PRETTY BOY

Excerpts from incomplete fanfiction based on characters from Stranger Things.

He tried.

Goddammit, he really did.

He missed California and the life he had there. All the friends. The ability to just walk to the pier whenever he wanted to. Being able to surf until the sun disappeared and his whole body was sore. Missed the freedom, how he could avoid Neil. Could just slip out and walk down to his friends’ houses and fuck off to the pier or crash on someone’s couch until Neil calmed down.

He had a whole situation there.

He lived next door to David and Reyna, who he saw every day. Down at the end of the street was Cambell, who everyone called Soup. Jenna lived two blocks over but always met them on their street.

Jenna was supposed to go places. Had been saving every penny she got with her part time job. Spent her time with them studying and working her ass off to make it into UCLA or some big shot school. They supported her. Wanted her to get out. Wanted one of them to, at least. The rest of them would play in the ocean while she laid out on the beach, reading and studying for exams that wouldn’t even come for another three months.

Soup was kind of the opposite. Took whatever life threw at him in stride. He would come and go, but always stayed as a facet of the group. He’d be there one minute and be gone another, but somehow he’d always find them again. Whether it would be a couple hours or a couple days, Soup and his dopey grin would be back to make them all laugh and lighten the mood when they all were walking home to whatever unhappiness resided at home.

David and Reyna were ten months apart, but you couldn’t tell unless they told you. They looked almost identical and acted like it too, so in sync that it was almost scary. David was grounding, though. Billy and Reyna bonded over impulsivity and being brash. The more bold they could be, the better. While Reyna and Billy ran the whole show and called the shots, David stayed towards the back, often with Jenna, and let it all go. Despite what it seemed, they all knew David was the true backbone of the group. Maybe because he was the oldest. Maybe because he was the one who got them all together. Or maybe it’s because he was the only one who knew how to calm down Billy when he got to his extremes. He was the one they all turned to.

Billy would go over to David’s house almost every night. Neil would start drinking and get upset about god knows what and Billy would slip out of his window and head over to David’s. They all had one floor houses, so it was easy to tap on the window of David’s bedroom and be let in. David was the only one who knew who the real Billy was. He saw all the crying, all the anger, and knew the small and frail person behind the show that he puts on. He would clean up Billy’s wounds, put ice on the bruises, and wipe away the tears without mention.

So, when David first pressed his lips to Billy’s after his dad called him that word for the millionth time, it only felt right. It felt like everything was leading to this moment, how his body curved into it like he was made for this. He melted into it, returning the kiss with his own and knew that this. This is what the stories were written about. This is what the girls would swoon about. This is what artists wax poetry about.

He had never found it before, no matter how hard he tried. No matter how many girls he searched for it in. But he found it in David.

David was his first love. David was his first true kiss. David was his first heartbreak.

It was only a matter of time before it all fell apart. Nothing good happens to Billy Hargrove. He was stupid to think that it was getting better, that the Mayfields were making things better. His dad had stopped drinking as much and he was being civil with Billy. But Billy got too comfortable. Didn’t pay enough attention to his surroundings. Didn’t see the head of bright red hair in his periphery until he heard her gasp.

But it was over. She had seen it.

Under the pier with the sea water lapping at their ankles, Billy had his last kiss with David. The one that damned them. It was quick and simple, something he sees people do all of the time. But he wasn’t just people, was he?

It was a small little thing. It was a Friday night and Billy asked to stay out late, since it was Jenna’s birthday.

“I don’t want you hooking up with some girl,” he had told him. Said something like, “Be smart son, don’t be stupid about it and get a girl pregnant.”

And Max.

Max had turned to Billy and said “But what about that boy?”

Billy didn’t need to look at Neil to see the twitch in his brow.

“Which boy?”

The tone in his voice still rings through his ears at night. How cold it was. Murderous. He’s never heard it before in his life.

“The one from the pier. I think he lives next door.”

Then Billy was scrambling after his father as Neil bolted to next door, ripping open their door and searching for David. Billy remembers as he screamed at Mrs. Rodriguez, demanding to know where her son was. Told her that he doesn’t want someone like that turning his son into that kind of person. Billy wanted to tear his hair out, burst his eardrums or something so he didn’t have to hear it anymore. He turned the house upside down looking for him, but to no avail.

David was at Jenna’s. He took Reyna over early so the girls could get ready together. Billy’s heart drops through his chest.

It doesn’t stop Neil from grabbing him, pulling him out and back to their house by his collar, demanding to know where he is. Billy doesn’t tell him of course. Feels something akin to euphoria when the first hit comes. It’s white hot against his cheekbone and his ear rings, but he wants to laugh. Wants to howl to the moon and shout “you’ll never get him!” He’s spitting blood by the end of it, barely able to stand. His arm burns and he’s pretty sure it’s broken. It feels like when he broke it skateboarding.

Eventually, he relents. He leaves Billy a shaking heap on the floor. Billy’s able to keep his eyes open for a bit longer, able to see the horrified look on Susan’s face, the one that mirror’s Maxine’s. He feels bad for them, for Susan. Pities her for marrying a monster when she wanted a hero. It takes Billy almost twenty minutes to stop crying and make it to his bed.

That’s the night that Neil turns Billy’s lock inside out. He’s keeping Billy in, making sure his disgrace of a son doesn’t ruin his reputation any further.

He knows now that she didn’t mean to say anything. Hell, he doesn’t even think that she is disgusted by it, at least not like his father is. But, he can’t help but hate her for it. For ruining it all. For telling Neil that she saw him. Him and David.

They move two weeks later and Billy never sees David again.

Billy helps them move into a small house in bumfuck Indiana with a broken arm. His face is still bruised, but it’s yellowed. It gets people talking, though. Gets the neighbors speculating about this moody, beat up kid. Billy lets the rumor mill fly.

Before he knows it, the story that has caught flame is that the new kid in Hawkins got expelled for beating up a teacher.

He can roll with that.

He makes sure that he wears his tank tops when he’s out, letting the spectators view his new tattoo. He had gotten it before they moved. It’s a stupid doodle David had done in one of his notebooks, but he had kept it. Wanted something to remember him by. Neil wasn’t pleased, but he knew he couldn’t have a go at Billy again. Not so soon.

Billy’s cast comes off the week before school starts. He’s glad about it, although he could have easily used it as a ploy. Gotten some attention, some cute girls’ numbers written in hearts. Billy knows how to make them swoon. He’s almost perfected it; he had nothing else to do this summer. He’s always been charming and charismatic, but he’s gonna have to lay it on thick if he wants to get by until he turns eighteen and can get the fuck out of dodge.

Billy’s already decided he hates Hawkins. The first day of school only reinforces that. Hawkins High is tiny, darkly lit with a hideous green color everywhere. Billy misses the pacific blue and tangerine orange he was so used to. Everyone looks the same. There’s no variety here, no personality. He missed Reyna’s purple hair and how Soup wore more eyeliner than all the girls he ever knew.

He smiled at the girls as they passed by, showed them his teeth and they giggled to each other. He knew that he turned their heads this morning when he had rolled up in his polished camaro, loud and brash. He let it be known that he was there, that he was here to take up space. Hawkins will make room for him, part like the red seas. He will not move for them. He scans the crowds from behind his sunglasses, a perfectly suave and blase appearance. They all soaked it up while he looked for a place to sink his teeth in, trying to find someone who he can use. Someone who will let him slide into place in the Hawkins totem pole. Someone who is dick enough that he won’t mind Billy not being buddy-buddy with him, but popular enough to give Billy some sort of standing.

The guy finds Billy before he finds him.

“You’re the new kid, huh?” he had asked, smiling wide.

“Yup.”

His name is Tommy. Carol is the name of the small redhead that eats Billy alive with her gaze, despite being tucked into Tommy’s side. He decided to take Billy under his wing, like it was his choice at all and not just what Billy was allowing. He listened as Tommy rattled on about who were the good teachers and who were the bad. They had a couple classes together, including gym. Oh how Billy was waiting for it. Needed to burn off the anxious energy that he was keeping at bay.

He meets up with Tommy outside of English, the class they have together before lunch. Carol sits on Tommy’s desk, chomping on her gum as Tommy talks Billy’s ear off. He doesn’t answer. Just makes non communicative noises. It’s all white noise to him. At least, until Tommy balls up a piece of paper and pelts it against the head of someone two rows in front of them. The guy wipes his head around, big brown eyes swirling with fury and.

Oh, fuck.

“Tommy, cut it out,” the dude almost growls. Billy just raises a brow with him. Watches as the guy notices Billy watching and schools his features, gives Billy an almost-smile and turns back around. Tommy’s laughing next to him, but Billy’s still watching the brunet over the top of his sunglasses.

“That’s Harrington,” Tommy supplies. Harrington. “Total fucking sissy. Thinks he’s all hot shit because his daddy is rich and he’s dancing Nancy fucking Wheeler. ”

“Stuck up bitch,” Carol interjects.

“He was cool until he started dating her. Then he turned up bitch.”

Billy hums at him, but this time, he’s actually listening.

Billy spends the next hour at the back of the classroom, not paying attention. It’s a syllabus day. It’s easy enough, especially since they covered this book last year in California. He’s already read it three times and he’s a great student. He’ll be fine. Instead, he watches Harrington. How he drums his pencil against his desk until the teacher yells at him. Then he starts bouncing his leg, switching between that and picking at his fingernails. He doodles for a bit as well, furrowing his brow as he focuses on whatever he’s creating. Billy can’t see it from here. Wishes he could. Harrington runs his hands through his hair when he sighs, pulling his thick brown hair through his fingertips. Listen, Billy’s got great hair. He takes great pride in his hair. But Harrington’s hair is effortlessly perfect, like the things you only find in magazines.

It makes Billy’s fingers itch.

The bell rings and Steve is out the door before Billy can try and get a peek of whatever Harrington was drawing. He follows behind Tommy, listens to him scoff as they watch Harrington rush over and scoop up a teensy brunette in his arms. She squeals and laughs as he pecks her on the lips and Billy has to look away.

Lunch isn’t better or worse in California. At least that is the same. There’s a couple girls that flock to Tommy and Carol’s table once they see Billy sit down at it. He pops fries in his mouth and leans out, letting the girls take him all in. One of the girls, Tina, even puts her hand on his arm, all coy and desperate. It disgusts Billy, if he’s being honest, but then he remembers David and swallows the lump in his throat. He throws a smile at her and entertains her for the rest of the half hour.

Billy almost cries when he finally gets to gym class. He’s so ready for the day to be done, so exhausted from looking at everything around him and having it be so unfamiliar. He misses his home. He misses his friends.

He’s sitting on the bench, tying up his laces, when another pair of shoes enter his line of sight. He looks up to find Harrington beaming down at him.

“Hi, I heard you were new. I’m Steve.”

The guy even puts his hand out to Billy, like anyone their age shakes hands.

Billy takes it though, standing up to find the guy only a couple inches taller than him. His eyes are wide and inviting, like Jenna’s were. His smile lights up his eyes and it’s. Comforting. His hand is big and sure in his palm and Billy grits his teeth.

“Billy. Nice to meet you.”

He pulls his hand away like the touch hurts and throws his clothing into his locker. Shuts it with more force than necessary. Keeps his head down until he gets out on the court.

The coach puts him on the same team as Harrington and Billy decides to stay as far away from him as he can. Decides that Steve Harrington is bad news. Billy has fallen for the brown eyes before and he can’t do it again.

Won’t do it again.

He gets home after picking up Max and hops into the shower. Turns it as cold as it can go and scrubs his skin so hard that it turns red and sore. He shakes his head to himself. Repeats the mantra he’s created for himself. Reminds himself that he only has a bit more. He can do this. He can keep himself in line.

He decides he’ll keep to himself. Don’t get attached. Don’t leave a mark. Don’t leave anything behind in Hawkins to miss when he gets the fuck out.

Generally, Billy keeps to himself. Finds it easier that way. He lets Tommy hang around him, scaring off interested people like his own personal guard dog. He handles the girls that watch him like he’s prey with ease. Gives them this unattainable, arrogant persona and they eat it up. If there’s a little truth to how disinterested he is in them, they don’t have to know.

Today isn’t a good day for Billy. He slept horribly, unable to adjust to how quiet Hawkins is. He’s used to sleeping with a cacophony of the sounds that Los Angeles made and here. Here there is nothing. Occasionally, he’ll hear a couple crickets, but as the seasons change, there’s less and less.

Tommy grates in his ear about something stupid and Billy doesn’t give a shit. Never does. He doesn’t know how Carol tolerates it. Wonders if she cheats on him. Assumes she does. He prattles on about Mrs. Click and how much of a bitch she is and about some snot nosed bitch in their class named after some bird when Billy hears a loud laugh from across the cafeteria. He finds himself turning towards it, scanning the crowds to find Steve Harrington with his head thrown back and hand on his chest while he loses it over whatever his precious girlfriend had said to him. There’s some creepy guy with them-- Hawkin’s version of an artsy stoner burnout he presumes-- who just watches them. Picks at his food while looking at Nancy. Mainly Nancy. But Billy doesn’t dwell on it, too busy being drawn in by how Steve smiles and pulls his girlfriend into him, how he looks at her with utter adoration and showers her with kisses so intimate that it makes Billy blush.

He kind of hates it. Hates how happy this Harrington guy is. How he seems so cool, unbothered by Tommy and everything else. He seems to only care about his girlfriend, only about his main source of happiness. Billy wishes he couldn’t care. Wishes he could have someone to hold close and laugh with until his abs hurt. He hates him for it, hates Steve. Envies him with something awful.

Billy leaves lunch early, much to Tommy’s protest. He’s not hungry anymore. Sits in his camaro and smokes a cigarette until the bell rings.

In gym class, the coach puts him on skins and Steve on shirts. Billy pours all of his frustration into his defense. He’s vicious with it, baiting plays and being overly aggressive for a class time game. Doesn’t stop him from taunting Steve, baring his teeth at him when he has the ball or shoving his chest up against his back, whispering god knows what in his ear to get him to falter.

“Heard you turned bitch?”

“I thought you were the best one here?”

“You should try out for the girl’s team next year. You might make JV.”

Steve didn’t react though and that riled Billy up beyond relief. It was a different kind of feeling though. Earlier he had been feeling red hot rage, like the heat of the sun blazing down on you. It’s suffocating and heavy. But this. This feels like the warmth that comes with too much booze in your system, where it starts low and spreads throughout until it consumes you. It drives Billy crazy, makes him crave something he can’t even identify. Wants to sink his teeth in and knows that only Steve Harrington can scratch this itch now. Wants to bite. Wants Steve to bite back. To howl. Do something.

He still gets nothing.

He’s spent the first month at Hawkins avoiding Steve like the plague. He kind of had to. He learned his lesson. Steve was nice to him from the start, almost cloying, but Billy ignored him, let Tommy make all the sneer remarks. He didn’t join in, but didn’t stop them either. Didn’t need a kind hearted boy to weave his way into his life.

But now, skin thrumming and heart pumping, he waits for Steve to try and talk to him like he had been trying to do at the beginning. Billy doesn’t recall when he stopped trying to be Billy’s friend. Billy hates it. Wants to have the attention now that it’s gone. He’s got a scent of blood and he wants more.

It’s probably why he shoulder checks Steve too hard and he tumbles to the ground. Coach should be blowing his whistle at him, but he likes Billy too much. Steve goes out with a groan. Billy can hear Tommy’s cackle from somewhere behind him, can hear him holler “get ‘em, killer!” but Billy doesn’t respond. He bends down, looming over Steve. Makes sure he looks into his eyes. Makes him look at his face for the first time in weeks.

Sticks out his hand and grabs it, strong and sure, just like the first time he shook his hand. Leans in close enough to smell Harrington’s sweat. Enough for his breath to moves Steve’s sweat matted hair on his forehead.

“You were moving your feet. Plant them next time. Draw a charge.”

Then, because he’s an asshole, he uses Steve’s whole body weight to throw him back down and stalks off to the showers.

On Thursday, Billy finds Tina leaning against his locker right before his english class. She plays with her hair with one hand and holds her binders and books in another.

“Hey, darling,” Billy drawls. Tina chuckles and leans into him. He leans against the lockers before her, kicks his one foot out and crosses it over the other. Sticks his hands in his pockets. Lifts his chin up and looks at her through his lashes. “What can I do for you?” Arches his brow, gets her blushing and looking away.

She clears her throat and stands straight. She opens one of her folders to pull out a bright orange flier.

“I’m having a party on Saturday. It’ll have a keg and everything. I’d love for you to be there.”

He looks it over. Looks up to where he sees Steve at Nancy’s locker. In her hand, she holds the same flier. She’s pointing at it, talking to her boyfriend about it and Billy shifts his shoulders.

“Free booze? Count me in.”

His grin is smarmy and makes his skin crawl, but the bells rings and she leaves with a trace of her fingertips against his jean jacket. He resists the urge to shudder.

He almost runs into Steve when he enters the classroom, but Steve shifts to the side-- ever the gentleman-- and lets Billy go in front of him without a word.

Neil isn’t happy about the prospects of Billy going to a Halloween party. But Billy’s good and Max asks if she can go trick or treating with her new friends and pointedly suggests that Billy could take her. It makes him squint at her. He can’t figure out if she’s trying to help or continue to make his life even worse. Neil scratches his chin and then tells Billy he can go out only if he takes Max out first. Billy gives her a nod. He decides she’s alright today.

Billy drops her off at the Byer’s house. He meets Joyce Byer just briefly, only for her to reassure that she’ll take Max home.

“My son, Jonathan is going to that party too,” she says, “Go have some fun and make new friends. I’ll bring Max home. Don’t worry.”

It’s kind and Billy doesn’t know what to do with it. He’s used to schmoozing with adults, always ready to get something out of it. He doesn’t know how to deal with someone doing something for him, free of charge. Billy suspects Max planned it. Makes him wonder if she regrets California, like she’s trying to make it up to him.

He parks a block away from Tina’s. He doesn’t know if he’ll be driving home, but he wants the option to leave if the party sucks. He can hear the booming of the music from outside and can see how there’s a pretty hefty crowd already. He’s about an hour late, but he’d rather choke on glass than show up to a Hawkins party early and have to deal with the awkwardness of small talk.

He immediately finds his way to the kitchen. Random girls and guys mainly from his gym class clap him on the shoulder and greet him as he passes through. He finds a bottle of tequila and pours it into a red solo cup. Downs it with a grimace. Shakes his head through it. Decides that Hawkins’ tequila is much worse than California’s. He grabs a beer after that and meanders. He ends up out back where Tommy attempts a keg stand. He’s already drunk and the two dudes holding his legs up aren’t doing a good job at keeping him stable. He comes down after fifteen seconds and hollers the moment he sets his eyes on Billy.

“Heyo, Killer!” He throws his arm around Billy’s shoulder, sweaty and beer sour. “You gonn’ do the keg?”

“Sure,” Billy says. He hasn’t done one in a while, but he knows the logic of it. Knows how to relax himself right, to not go too fast to avoid sputtering and to adapt to it. Knows he can utilize other skills of his for his aid.

He gets up with help from one of the guys from basketball, but once he’s up, he tells them off. Holds his own body up, which he knows is an impressive feat. He’s not wearing a shirt, only his jacket, and he knows that he looks good. Knows that the shouts and whistles aren’t just to egg him on.

He gets to thirty seven seconds when he lets himself drop down. He spits out the beer that was left in his mouth into the air, spraying it above them like rain. It feels cool against his chest as it runs down his front, but he doesn’t care. He’ll sweat it off later.

“Holy shit,” Tommy slurs, clapping a hand onto his chest as he loops his arm around him again, “You beat Harrington’s. That’s a new record.”

He gets everyone cheering his last name, gets them cheering about how he’s the new Hawkins Keg King. He should feel like he’s won something, but it falls flat.

“Where is he anyways?” Billy asks.

“Probably somewhere inside with Miss Priss,” Carol rolls her eyes. “I saw her earlier. Stevie’s always glued to her hip.”

“Lets go find him! Show him who kicked King Steve off the throne!” Tommy leads him into the house again, the music loud in his ears after the reprieve. Billy feels the alcohol start to warm him, starting in his toes and flowing upwards. Carol spies Nancy and Steve arguing by the punch bowl. Steve looks awful, unhappy and irritated, and Billy tries to deter Tommy. But Tommy is annoying and relentless. He drags Billy right up to Steve who finally breaks away from Nancy to take him in. He looks at the bare chest, brow furrowing for a moment, before meeting Billy’s eyes. Billy waggles his tongue and squares his shoulders like he’s trained himself to do. But Steve. He looks so tired. He whips off the sunglasses that he had perched on his nose.

From his side, Nancy says something. Throws up her arms, perturbed. Turns away to sink a solo cup into the punch until it’s brimming. Takes greedy gulps of it.

Steve notices then, turning to her “Woah, woah. Nance, come on. Slow down.”

“We’re being stupid teenagers for the night. Isn’t that the plan.” she gives him a look thats absolutely murderous and downs the rest of the cup. Leans in towards him to show it off, defiant. Throws the cup into the sink behind her and walks off to join the party.

Steve runs his fingers through his hair, breathing deep and low. Tommy laughs and Steve starts, like he forgot that they had approached.

“Tough night, Stevie?”

“Tommy, for once, can you just fucking not? It’s not funny anymore.”

“You used to be so fun, Steve. But oh well, I got a new best bud now.” He claps Billy’s shoulder. Steve looks into his eyes. Billy can’t read what he’s feeling. Not quite anger, not quite annoyance. Something almost pitiful. “He’s the new Keg King. King Steve has been overthrown!”

“Is that so?” Steve asks, slow.

“Appears so,” Billy replies and grins, saccharine.

“Well, there’s not much of a fight for it, so the crown is yours.” Steve’s eyes drop to the floor. He leans back against the counters and kicks the floor with his foot. It unsettles Billy. “I don’t want it anymore.”

And Billy just can’t have that.

He can blame the alcohol in him or maybe the chance to try and bite and see if Steve will bark, but. He can’t stop himself.

“A pretty boy like you is made for royalty. Are you sure you want to give it up that easily?”

Steve’s head shoots up. He stares into Billy’s eyes, like he’s trying to see through it all. It scares Billy, truly. Makes him sweat and wonder what all he sees.

“Pretty boy?” Steve scoffs, brow raising. “That’s a new one.”

“What, with those bambi eyes? Princess, you’re gorgeous.”

Steve laughs at that, hollow and low, but a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. Billy’s fine with Steve being annoyed with him. As long as he actually acknowledges Billy’s existence.

“You’re an ass, California.”

Billy beams. Wants to smile so wide. But he can’t do that. Won’t do that. So he claps Steve on the shoulder, lets his hand linger for a second, and then lightly slaps Steve’s cheek. Gets a stunned noise from the boy.

“C’mon, Tommy. Lets see if they got nicer booze hidden somewhere.”

He doesn’t see Steve for a while after that. Not until he hears a commotion and sees a pissed drunk Nancy Wheeler with a upended cup of punch on her chest and a Steve Harrington who looks like he wants the earth to swallow him whole. He chases Nancy off and Billy almost wants to stay and watch. Or sneak close to the bathroom they entered and hear the fight. But he doesn’t want to get involved. Must stay indifferent.

Still, when Nancy is escorted out, absolutely stumbling and stuttering, by someone who is not Steve, Billy can’t help but look for him.

The keg stands have stopped, but the keg still has some juice left in it. Steve sits next to it on a lawn chair. He downs the rest of his cup and then refills it straight from the keg. Drinks it in hefty sips.

It must have been some sort of conversation.

“What happened to your pet?” Billy asks, sauntering up to him.

“What happened to yours?” Billy barks out a laugh. Points at Steve with his own cup. Empty.

“Touche. He’s probably sucking face with Carol somewhere.” Billy visibly shudders. Part for effect, part honesty.

“That’s what they do. They’ve been that way since I could remember.”

Billy sits on a lawn chair by Steve, on the other side of the keg. He’s not next to him, but he’s not far. It’s. Enough.

“Y’know she was my first kiss,” Steve laughs to himself. “Shortly after that, she fell for his freckly ass. I think it started as a pity thing, I dunno. Now they’re gonna get married or some shit.”

“Terrifying,” Billy states. “I would hate to end up with a high school sweetheart.”

“It happens. If you find someone, then you just know. Like for them. I can’t ever seem them without each other. It doesn’t work. But it’s not always like that.” He swirls his cup before him. Takes three large sips and drains it. Leans forward to refill it. “Sometimes, you think you found the person who you’re gonna spend forever with. And it ends up just being all bullshit.”

Billy can feel the pain radiating off of him. Wants to ask him about it. Wants to know what happened in that bathroom. Wants to offer solace. A friend. Something. But he can’t. Especially to a guy like Harrington. It’s a steep hill that he’s got to navigate. He can’t slip. He made a promise to himself.

“To bullshit,” Billy says and raises his glass.

“To bullshit,” Steve echoes.

After that, something shifts: Steve starts to pay attention to him again. He looks to him, either nodding or giving him a small smirk when he passes him in the halls. He pushes back against Billy in gym class. Billy is dizzy with it, all of the sudden attention. Can’t manage the 180. Feels like when the waves catch him off guard and he’s tumbling in the water, trying to orient which way is up and which is down. Which way will let him breathe.

They’ve got fifteen minutes until gym ends when Wheeler shows up. She looks worse than she usually does, probably still hung over from the night before. Billy and Steve had a good thing going, were laughing and taunting, but Steve goes rigid the moment that he sees her. The moment that she yells his name, he locks up and Billy remembers their conversation from the night before. About the bullshit. He itches to reach out, to tell Steve that it will be okay, or to ignore her entirely. But he can’t. Doesn’t. So he steals the ball from him and Steve lets him.

He can’t help but watch Steve as he follows Nancy out of the gymnasium doors.

Coach calls after him, but shakes his head. Keeps the game going.

Billy itches under his skin. Grinds his teeth. Pushes into the other guys like he had the first day he arrived, back when he had to make a name for himself. Shoulder checks and slips between bodies. He’s vicious, a way often he doesn’t let himself be. He knows rage. He can smell it a mile away. He hates when it lingers on him.

He pushes Hagan a bit too hard and he skids on his ass.

“The fuck, Hargrove?” Tommy yells. “Who pissed in your cereal?”

Billy almost growls at him. Bark bark bite. The coach tells him to cool off. To grab Harrington. Billy mumbles under his breath, shakes his hair and heads to the doors. The cool air on his sweaty skin is almost a relief. The door is still in his hand, when he sees the couple.

Steve is upset. Billy can see it in the lines of his body. It’s not anger, at least not in the way that Billy knows. It’s sad. Like heartbreak. Like broken arms and cross country trips. Like the smell of the sea in the air and the salt on your lover’s lips.

He can’t hear whatever they’re saying. It’s heated, but hushed. He couldn’t hear it anyways, not with how he hears the California waves crashing in his ears.

He throws the door open with a “Harrington!”. It bangs against the brick wall. It startles Nancy away from where she was reaching out for Steve. Where Steve was curling away from her touch.

Steve barks out a “what”, all vicious and all teeth. His eyes land on Billy and he’s seething. Billy can read it in his eyes. Sees the fires swirling in those brown eyes, even from meters away. He closes his eyes and takes a breath.

“You expect me to whoop all of their asses? C’mon. You’re supposed to be captain.”

Steve says something to Nancy, too low for Billy to hear. He can see how poisonous it is when Nancy sags. Lets the breath leave her in a deep exhale. Steve’s body is wound tight, a live wire of rage. Billy knows how to deal with this. This is familiar territory. Still, he wonders if Steve is okay, knows this isn’t normal for the king.

“You alright, Princess?” Billy asks, adding a smirk and a lilt to it, just so Steve doesn’t think he really cares.

“Fuckin’ Peachy,” Steve grits out, shoving past Billy’s shoulder. Billy takes one last look at Wheeler, how she stands there with puppy dog eyes, acting like she didn’t know what went wrong. She doesn’t even know what she just lost.

Billy hollers, whoops. Claps his hands and cheers.

“C’mon ladies, lets finish this out.”

Usually Billy waits to shower or skips it all together, but today he’s feeling frisky. There is pure fire radiating off of Harrington and he wants to bask in it. So, he takes up the shower next to him. Watches him as he lathers up. He’s careful though: doesn’t let his sight wander too much. He squares his jaw and keeps it menacing. Hopes that maybe he can bait Steve, get a shiner to match the one that Neil gave him when they were in a different area code.

Steve doesn’t even look.

“Don’t sweat it, Harrington,” Billy tells him. “Today’s just not your day.”

“Yeah. Or your week,” Tommy says. Billy wants to throttle him. Glares at him through the shower steam. He grins at Steve like he’s got him right where he wants him. It makes Billy’s hands twitch. “You and the princess break up for one day and then she skips school and runs off with the freak’s brother.”

Steve stops at that. Looks at Tommy. Shows his cracks.

“Oh shit,” Tommy laughs. “You don’t know.” He laughs again. Hyena-like. All teeth and throat. “They’ve both been missing since yesterday. But that must just be a coincidence, right?”

Tommy cackles. Throws his head back and walks out of the showers with a spring in his step. Billy waits until he leaves, then leans in speaks low.

“Don’t worry about it, man. A pretty boy like you’s got nothing to worry about.” Fuck. What the fuck. Billy’s eyes widen when he realizes what he says. Watches Steve’s hand pause for just a second where they scrub at his hair. He swallows loud, almost audible over the shower stream. He feels sand in his palm, how it slips through his fingertips.

He slaps Steve’s shower handle, turning it off. Steve sputters.

“Plenty of bitches in the sea.” He saunters past, clapping a hand on his shoulder. The perfect image of brotherhood. “I’ll make sure to save you some.”

He flexes his hand. Feels the wet skin under it. Digs his hand into his palm. Drives home with the windows down, the music blaring, and the speedometer threatening red.

He knows better than to see Neil when he’s this strung up. It’s been a while since Billy could let loose. Needed a good fight. Needed a good fuck. Something to chase the high and take complete control of him. It’s been a whole month of keeping up a charade, a couple more of pretending that his father is a good man. Neil reminds him what’s what with a backhand when Billy accidentally slams his door.

Once Neil falls asleep, Billy sneaks out of his window. He puts the Camaro into neutral, lets it roll backwards down the driveway. Uses the momentum to turn it down the street. When he’s a house and half away, he starts her up. He rolls the windows down, keeps the radio off, and pretends the air whipping past is from the ocean. He turns onto the long path. The one that runs along the length of Parker's farm. If he closes his eyes, he can see, can see the California sea. Can almost taste the salt in the air. Counts to three and opens his eyes again, back in bumfuck, Indiana.

He only parks when he gets to the quarry. He has two guests with him: his pack of red camels and a six pack just for him. He lays on the hood of his car, alternating between sipping and smoking. He doesn’t even look up when he hears rustling in the trees, throws his arm over his eyes instead. The booze sits warm in his stomach and he smiles to himself around the filter of his cigarette. Breathes deep.

He finally looks up when he senses someone watching him. Peeks out from under his denim clad arm to see Steve Harrington standing before him, staring at him incredulously. Over his shoulder is a bat.

“On a Monday, Hargrove?” Steve laughs. He shakes his head. It’s an improvement from the way he looked after talking to Nancy.

“Says the dude who’s getting ready to play baseball in the dark.”

Steve chuckles. “Touche.”

Steve props the bat against Billy’s car and Billy’s able then to see the nails hammered into it. What the fuck. Shakes it off. Doesn’t want to know. Steve doesn’t even ask before he hops up onto Billy’s hood, sighing and leaning against the windshield. Billy’s hand twitches around his empty beer can. He crushes it. He takes another and chugs half of it. He lays back, mirroring Steve. But he’s stiff. Rigid. Can’t settle. Can’t get comfortable. Not with Steve.

Steve puts an arm behind his head. Stares up at the stars above them. Billy expects Steve to ask him what’s up, to ask him why he’s out at the quarry, drinking a six pack all alone at midnight. But he doesn’t. It unsettles Billy. He’s become so good at preparing for the next shot that he’s never prepared for a loose cannon.

He picks up an unopened beer and holds it out. Steve takes it.

They don’t say a word.

Billy doesn’t see Steve until English. He sits only a row in front of Billy this time, instead of his usual two. Billy’s able to see the big, fat, red “68” circled at the top of Steve’s essay. He chews the tip of his pencil.

He doesn’t care. He shouldn’t intervene.

“Would you look at that?” Billy’s gonna pummel Tommy’s face in. “Keep it up, Stevie, and you won’t be able to walk at graduation.”

Tommy cackles and slaps Billy’s arm, expecting a reaction out of him. Carol joins in with his hyena cackle. Steve’s shoulders hunch and Billy can see the pinch of his brow. He could hear the disappointed groan he made when Mrs. Click handed the assignment back.

Billy grinds his jaw. Cracks his neck. His hands itch. He stretches them out. Twice. Three times. He takes a deep breath and lets it be.

The bell rings, but nothing will stop Tommy once he’s caught a scent.

“Won’t matter though,” Tommy continues. “ Mommy and Daddy won’t be there anyways.”

“Enough,” Billy barks out through gritted teeth. Tommy falters. His eyes go wide and he flounders, unsure of his footing when the foundation shifts. Steve even looks up from where he was hanging his head, trying to hide from Tommy. Turns around in his seat and looks at Billy. Disbelief in his face and something else. Enthralled almost. He arches his brow at him and Billy breaths for the first time since the word left his lips.

He turns to Steve. Meets his eye. Lets his practiced grin settle into place. Beams at him, all carnivorous. Just like he’s started to be known for.

“Cut him some slack, Tommy. Pretty boy’s at a disadvantage here.” Steve’s eyes squint for just a second. He’s trying to figure out Billy, but good luck. Billy doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s doing here. “You know what they say: all beauty; no brains. Stevie here got the good hair and the bambi eyes. He doesn’t need the smarts.”

He slaps a hand on Steve’s shoulder. Keeps it there. Breaks Steve’s gaze to look at Tommy who looks at him, dumbfounded. Mouth open. Billy smirks at him.

“He’ll fare just fine. Unlike your freckly ass.”

Tommy throws his head back and howls. It breaks the moment. Billy yanks his hand from where it was still pressed against Steve’s green sweater.

“Careful there, Hargrove. Say another nice thing about Harrington and people might think you have a crush.”

Billy knows he’s joking. But it still chills him to his core. Makes him stop for a miniscule of a second. Billy turns to him then, leans in close. Keeps his smile wide, all oily and murderous.

“And they’ll say the same about you pulling his pigtails, Hagan.” He straightens himself. Grabs his books. Steve sits there, unmoving. Watching. Too many emotions warring over his face. Billy doesn’t have time to wait and figure out which one he settles on. He calls over his shoulder, unable to meet their eyes: “Locker room smack, Tommyboy!”

If his hands are shaking when he leaves the classroom and he suddenly feels cold, like when he’s about to puke, no one needs to know.

Billy asks out Alicia Anderson on the way to lunch.

She’s the first person to catch his eye. He orbits into her space, a vision of cool as he leans against lockers beside her. She bats her big brown eyes at him and twirls a strand of her brown hair around her finger. She smacks on her gum and Billy has to will himself not to grimace. She smells too sweet. She’s too bright, wearing gaudy pink and neon teal.

She leaves a print of her kiss on his cheek, hot pink and burning.

Billy makes a deal out of it. He doesn’t have to do much. Word spreads that Alicia was the first to get past Billy Hargrove’s tough demeanor before the final bell rings. Tommy wraps his arm around him and slaps his chest. Holler something about how Billy is the shit. Or something. Tommy waves to Carol, where she stands with a couple other girls. They all coo out Billy’s name and wave at him like he’s royalty as he passes by.

Because that’s the thing. The grass is always greener on the other side.

Billy manages to get to his locker, only stopped a handful of times by random girls he knows and has never seen before to try and get his attention. He throws his books in a little too forcefully. Winces when one of the corners of his textbook bends.

There goes his deposit.

He slams his locker and turns to the exit, only to see Steve Harrington standing at his own locker, only a couple away from his. The fact that him, Steve, and Tommy all shared H names meant there was a lot of overlap.

Billy hated it.

But Steve just looked at him, standing in front of his open locker. His one brow was raised in amusement, like he was enjoying watching Billy fend off the fiends.

A girl yanked on his arm, leaning into his space and reeking of bubblegum and something flowery, directing his attention away from Steve. A locker slam brought it right back. Steve still stood there, same as a moment ago, but his face schools into content. Like he finally made a decision. He lifts his chin and puts his hands in his pockets.

“Look who’s the pretty boy now, Hargrove.”

Steve turns and walks away and Billy’s grateful the boy can’t see the way he flushes red.

Billy doesn’t understand the monster that he’s unleashed until Monday.

He goes out on the date with Alicia on Friday. He dresses nice for Neil. Tells him all of the details so that his father approves. So that his father believes him. Even Max pipes in and says that she’s heard about it, that it’s the talk of the town. And goddammit, he still can’t fucking stand her, but he gives her a nod. And she nods back.

He unbuttons his shirt as soon as his Camaro peels away from his house on Cherry Lane. He picks up Alicia at her house. Goes up to the door and everything. Takes her to the Drive-In that everyone goes to, the one by Lover’s Lake. Then he takes her to the Diner. Makes a big show of chivalry and all that. He waves to Tommy and Carol from across the diner, sitting where he knows they always sit every Friday night. Carol waves at Alicia when she notices, beckons her to the girls bathroom to gossip. Tommy makes a lewd and an awfully unpleasant reenactment of a blow job with the air. The waitress behind the bar tutts at him.

Alicia returns with reapplied hot pink lipgloss and Billy just wants to leave.

He ends up making out with her in the backseat of his Camaro. He knows how to kiss. He can go through the motions of it all, even if it’s lackluster and unsatisfying. He kisses along her neck and she makes soft noises in his ear. He mirrors them, grunting and murmuring when he feels like he should. Like he would have if he was with someone more appealing.

He gets her off, slipping two fingers into her and doing exactly what he remembers Reyna and Jenna telling them all of those years go.

He’s not a total stranger to this process. While this is totally new terrain with a woman, he was able to experiment some with himself back in California. He had been preparing himself for a future situation, practicing for a fleeting dream that David would be his first.

He wanted it to be perfect.

He remembers about the curl of the fingers and figures out where to put his thumb and suddenly Alicia lights up and grabs at his shoulders. Loud gasps make their way through her and Billy remembers to follow it, following her noises with his own.

He wipes his fingers on the inside of her skirt when she’s spent. She surges to him and kisses him hard. It’s sloppy and loose and Billy breaks it away just in time, just before she reaches down to return the favor.

He lies and tells her that she was so hot that he got off on pleasuring her. He’d much rather have that detail fly around rather than the truth. That he wasn’t hard at all. She eats it right up, moaning into his mouth as she kisses him again. Billy reciprocates, even though he doesn’t want to. He coaxes her down until it’s closed-lip kisses. Something he can stomach. A compromise where he doesn’t have to taste the sweetness of her with each touch and he can close his eyes and pretend.

He drives her home and kisses her on the doorstep. He promises he’ll call even though they both know he won’t.

Monday comes around and the seed that he planted has blossomed. He gets slaps on his back as he passes by, varying congratulations for bagging Alicia Anderson. She’s attractive and high on the social totem pole, but he didn’t even consider that in the beginning. Was too busy searching for brown eyes in the crowds. Settled for hers.

The story spreads and Billy Hargrove becomes known as not only the Keg King, but also the Lady Killer. Billy’s pretty sure that one festered because of Tommy. Overheard him talking about Billy’s conquests in California.

“Heard he slept with Cyndi Lauper’s cousin.”

“He told me that he once got with two supermodels. Two!”

“He used to be a pool boy and there were always these hot, single moms. They’d invite him in for a refreshment and well. The rest is history.”

Billy knows that he never told Tommy anything about California, let alone anything that even resembled whatever story he was sprouting, but Billy let it be.

He opened his locker, only to have two notes fall out and onto his feet, both with numbers, names, and a kiss print on them.

“Look at you, Killer,” Steve says, watching him again. Billy tries to get a read on him, but Steve’s good. He schools his emotions well. “It took me years to get Hawkins to bow down. You got me beat.”

Billy chuckles. He leaves the notes on the ground and grabs his books. Closes his locker and saunters up to Steve.

“For a pretty boy like you, I find that hard to believe.” He grins at him, looking up through his lashes just a bit. Just to match the maybe two inches that Steve has on him. Steve smirks back, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. Not like Billy’s does. Not like he’s trained it to do.

Steve raises a brow at him, like he always does. It makes Billy squirm, how Steve always seems to just sit back and watch. It makes him feel transparent, vulnerable. Hopes that Steve can’t pick up his tricks that fast.

“Well, if you need any tips on the tricks of Hawkins from the former king, you know where to find me, darling.”

And.

Oh.

Oh.

Billy sputters. He can feel how warm his face goes. Steve smiles at him now, this time reaching his eyes. He closes his locker and walks off, leaving Billy standing there with the knowledge of what it’s like to hear the term “darling” come out of Steve Harrington’s mouth. He knows what it sounds like now, how it sounds directed at him, how it sounds exasperated. Almost fond.

Steve leaves him there with the endearment ringing around in his head and arousal coursing through his veins.

As much as Billy didn’t want it to happen, Steve showed up in his dreams often. He’d find himself waking up sweating, thinking about soft, pink lips and pale, dappled skin. At first he tried cold showers, but that stopped working after a while. He had a system now. Was prepared for these dreams. He woke early anyway to get everything ready for Neil, so he incorporated it into his shower. Whenever he woke, he was so wound tight that he didn’t need much. A couple strokes and he was gone, the bad plumbing masking any sounds that slipped from him.

No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he tried to think of tits and the soft curves of a woman’s body, he always got brought back to the wiry hair on a chest, the harsh lines of their body, how structural they were. He was always brought back to thick brown hair and “darling.”

It was a curse now, to know what it sounded like. And once he heard it once, he craved it. Desperately.

***

He doesn’t have to wait long. He doesn’t have to bait. Doesn’t have to run his tricks just to get a little bark with the bite.

Billy started it, really. Started it with “pretty boy” and “princess”. Let some truth slip out with the venom and here he was. Reaping what he sowed.

It started before the first bell. Billy had gotten to his locker before everyone else, as usual. There were more love notes in his locker, but he tossed them out just the same.

“More suitors today, Heartbreaker?” Steve coos from in front of his locker. There’s mirth in his eyes, easily readable today.

“God,” he says, slouching against the lockers next to Harrington. “It’s so annoying.”

“Most people would be flattered,” Steve points out. “You waiting to hear from someone special?”

Billy’s eyes widen at that. “No! I just. Don’t like all of the attention. I’m not used to it.”

It’s not a total lie. He kept to himself in California. He had his friends. He had David. He didn’t need anything else.

“Well, get used to it, gorgeous,” Steve says and then pushes at Billy’s face, forcing the dumbfounded boy to look the other way. Steve laughs, joyous and beautiful as he walks away. And Billy again is stuck burning red again, in the middle of the hallway.

He shoves his head down and heads to class.

Steve doesn’t pull anything in English. Just smiles at Billy when he sits in front of him again. Tommy doesn’t mess with Steve today. Instead he seems. Off. Almost like he’s. Pouting. He curls into Carol and she plays with his hair and Billy can breathe.

Carol is in the middle of informing Tommy and an uninterested Billy about the newest relationship drama at lunch when Steve joins.

“Mind if I sit here, Heartbreaker?” He startles Billy, speaking just over his shoulder, like he’s right in his ear. He can even feel the breath of his air when he speaks. He digs his fingers into his palm and represses a shudder. He gives him a weak “yeah, sure.” and Steve sits down happily. Carol looks at him like he’s complete trash and Tommy’s mouth is ajar in disbelief.

Billy can’t bother to care becaus he’s too busy trying not to burn bright at Steve Harrington calling him the stupidest of names. It’s not fair; people have been calling him heartbreaker and lady killer ever since his date with Alicia, but only Steve makes him flush hot.

He shovels fries into his mouth and sips at his soda instead of talking. Steve shifts beside him, sitting all relaxed, like he owns the table and Billy thinks that he might be getting a glimpse of what was. Of the person that existed before Wheeler’s heartbreak.

“Did you hear about Caroline sleeping with Warren?” Steve asks Carol and that’s that. She melts and launches into the conversation, talking fast while Steve easily follows along. Tommy still tries to be resilient. He only caves once Carol yells at him.

“C’mon, Toms. He’s your best goddamn friend. Get over it and tell him you love him again.”

“You were a bitch,” Tommy decides to say.

“Yeah,” Steve answers.

“That’s--That’s it? Just ‘yeah’?”

“I mean, yeah,” Steve replies, shrugging. “I was kind of a dick and like. Nothing I say is gonna change that.”

Billy turns to look at him with that. Furrows his brow. Didn’t expect something like that to come out of Steve Harrington. When he looks at Carol and Tommy, clearly they didn’t either.

Billy takes the pause to think. Takes it all in. Decides that there’s no way down this road that doesn’t revolve around Steve Harrington. He feels the itch under his fingertips. Friend or foe. It’s how he works.

So, he decides two things: First is that Steve is a friend, not a foe. The second is that two can play at this game.

“Look at you go, Bambi,” he drawls, leaning into Steve’s space and nudging him with his shoulder. “You actually managed to get them to shut up. Maybe there is a brain up in that pretty head of yours.”

Listen, he may have gone over top a bit right there, but Steve beams at him something wicked and throws his arm around Billy, pulling him in. Billy settles into his side, the perfect picture of casual friendship, and can’t find it in himself to be bothered.

***

The only story that has spread faster than Billy’s lady killer story is the one of Steve Harrington being back in line for Hawkins Royalty. Once it’s officially spread that he’s single, much to Nancy’s chagrin, the girls start lining up for Harrington as well. When the both get to their lockers after gym, hair stills dripping from the showers, four notes fall out of Steve’s locker. Only one falls out of Billy’s.

“Guess you’re not the only heartbreaker, sweetheart,” Steve says to him and walks off to the parking lot. Billy shoves his head in his locker, trying to hide the way that the red in his face bleeds down to his chest.

By the next day, rumors are flying around of a competition between the two, that they’re enemies or something and it sours Billy’s mood immediately. He throws open his locker, not caring about how it clangs against the other metal. He gets a warning from Mr. Johnson down the hall, but Billy ignores it. He closes his locker and finds his gaze gravitating towards Steve’s locker, searching out Steve as always. And, just like he suspected, there was Steve. Watching. Waiting. Observing.

He nods to himself and shuts his locker. He approaches Billy then, doesn’t even give the boy a moment to breathe before he throws his arm around him and pulls him in tight. Says loud enough to hear, “What’s the matter, darling? Something on your mind?”

Billy’s caught on. He knows it’s all for show. It still doesn’t stop his heart from stuttering and all the blood in his body rushing to his cheeks. Steve says it so sweet, so genuine, like he actually is concerned about how Billy’s doing.

“I’m alright,” he reassures him and that’s that. By the time he gets to their shared english class, Billy has learned that the story has changed, that Steve and him are best friends. He doesn’t know how to deal with that. Doesn’t know how to process being friends with anyone in Hawkins, let alone someone like Steve Harrington.

But Steve plops into the desk to the right of Billy, the one that Tommy usually takes. He kicks his feet up on top of the desk and lays out casually, tipping the chair back onto its hind legs. In his periphery, Billy can see how he watches him. Billy turns back to his book and hears Steve as he puts all four legs of the chair back on the ground and leans into Billy’s space. Can feel Steve’s breath against his cheek.

“Whatcha reading?”

Billy laughs. He doesn’t mean to be cruel or anything, but it’s incredulous.

“Pretty boy,” he says, leaning in close so he doesn’t have to be loud. Doesn’t want to embarrass Steve or something, “It’s the book for class. We have a quiz today.”

Steve throws his head back and laughs. “Well fuck me!”

Some girl with a brunette bob and too much eyeliner sitting two rows in front trolls her eyes and groans. She turns around in her seat to face them and snaps, “Can you have some human decency or something?”

“What, do I annoy you?” Steve smiles. Billy’s never seen this side of him. Almost vicious. Teasing. Ruthless.

He enjoys it.

Steve leans over to look past the brunette to wave at Tammy Thompson who’s trying desperately to make bedroom eyes at him. The brunette looks at Steve, then to Tammy, then groans again and shoves her face back into her notes.

Steve turns to look at Billy, an effortless version of the smile Billy took months to perfect shining on his face.

“Guess you were right: Beauty, but no brains.”

***

Billy’s not exactly sure, but along the journey of suddenly becoming Steve’s best friend, he also became his tutor.

“Listen, hot stuff,” Steve told him at lunch. “Coach pulled me aside and said my grades weren’t cutting it. If I wanna graduate and shit I gotta get them up. And I’ve seen your marks! You’re smart.”

Billy agreed to it. Because he’s an idiot. The blinding grin that Steve gives him is worth all of his troubles.

It shouldn’t be too bad, Billy thinks. He doesn’t believe that Steve is dumb. He just thinks that he needs a different style of teaching. He learned that in California; Soup had problems focusing and had to have a more hands on approach. Had to doodle during lectures. Had to color code his flashcards because he could only remember a fact if he recalled the color. Had the ability to remember the phone numbers, addresses, and license plates for all of his family and friends, but couldn’t remember when the Declaration of Independence was signed.

Billy was the idiot for agreeing to it all.

The first time at the Harrington’s was overwhelming, to say the least. It was giant, perfectly styled inside and cold. So cold that Steve offered Billy one of his sweatshirts because he saw the gooseflesh on his arms. Billy took it, slipping on a worn out sweatshirt that smelled like Steve and detergent. It took everything in him to not just stick his nose in the collar and take it all in.

“Alright, Killer,” Steve said, sitting down at the kitchen table. “I’m at your mercy.”

And if that wasn’t fuel for Billy’s morning sessions.

Billy was right. Steve isn’t stupid. He understands everything that Billy explains and has great questions when they start Macbeth. Steve doesn’t quite get iambic pentameter at first, but once Billy starts reading the play with the right rhythm, Steve is sucked in. His eyes are wide with a childlike glee after the first couple pages. He struggles with some of the meaning, but Billy has already gone through Macbeth before and admires it. He’s more than happy to explain.

“Will you just read it?” Steve asks. They’re halfway through what Billy had planned for the day.

“What?”

“Will you read it to me? Or whatever,” Steve mutters. “I’m dumb as bricks, but when you read it--I don’t know. Maybe it’s your silky voice or whatever but it makes sense.”

Billy’s hands sweat. “You think my voice is silky?”

“Shut up, Hargrove. I know all of the girls tell you how nice your voice is.”

So it becomes a thing. Or whatever. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, they meet and Billy reads to him. Steve tries, he really does. He asks questions a lot and interjects with his ideas.

“See, Pretty Boy?” Billy says to him after one of their sessions, while they’re sitting on the couch watching television. Steve’s nestled into the arm of the couch, while Billy splays out, letting his arms rest against the back. “The beauty’s got some brains.”

Steve chuckles at him. He pushes at Billy with his socked foot and then leaves it there, kicking up his other one to lay them in his lap. He crosses his legs at the ankles, his calves pressed against Billy’s thighs. Billy doesn’t mean to grab him. It’s a reflex at first, trying to catch Steve before he shoves him again, but then he settles and Billy is left with his hand loosely wrapped around Steve’s bony ankle, where the length of his sweatpants don’t quite make it. And Billy leaves it there, his gentle grip a sure weight against Steve’s skin, his heart beating out a rhythm against his rib cage. Steve makes a humming noise as he settles more into the pillows, a pleased smile on his lips.

***

Billy heard plenty of stories about King Steve. Heard whispers of stories and legends of the man. Mostly, he learned all that he knows from Tommy. It was always Steve this and Steve that, especially when he was drunk or stoned. Billy pitied him; he could see how in love he was, always finding a way to weave things back to Steve. It’s not like Billy didn’t encourage it. The moment he knew who Steve was, he started asking questions. They were sly little things, squeezing more details out of an easy Tommy. He learned about his trail of heartbreak that he only stopped once he got hooked on Wheeler. Tommy thinks it’s because she was the only one who didn’t immediately put out for him. Said that Steve always liked a challenge. Billy hummed at that.

“Man, the chicks were so upset when he got tied down,” Tommy told him one night, blowing smoke up into the air and passing the joint to Carol. “He hooked up with almost everyone in our grade class. And then some. All a chick needed for a good dicking was to flash her tits and smile wide and Stevie was all in.”

“Everyone?” Billy had asked, looking at Carol. She gave him a feline grin, chomping on her gum.

“Oh yeah,” she said. She leaned over to play with Tommy’s hair. “I wasn’t always with Tommy yaknow.”

“Ain’t that awkward?”

Tommy and Carol look at each other, a secret grin between them. “Nope,” they say in unison.

“Was it like all the girls say?” Billy doesn’t know why he asks. He doesn’t need to know. He waggles his tongue and leans in, pretending that it’s competitive. Ego checking.

“Fuck yeah,” Carol says all dreamily, “Harrington knows what he’s doing for sure. I’d be disappointed if he didn’t by now, considering all of the practice he’s gotten.”

“Carol says he’s hung,” Tommy tells him and Billy blinks at him. Doesn’t know why Tommy would tell him that, why Tommy would think it was important. But then again, he totally does. Catches on to why Tommy’s so fine with Harrington fucking his chick, why it’s happened multiple times. Billy’s pity for him turns into disdain.

He had only heard the stories. Had an idea in his head about the man that used to be.

Boy was he off.

He expected King Steve to pull similar tricks as him, to flaunt it all and use his testosterone to lure in easy catches. He’s used to pick-up lines that make girls blush; used making himself too large to ignore. All he’s ever done is be the Hollywood, California boy that any girl could dream off, the one that they would talk about when it was over. The heartbreaker, the ladykiller. Played into their fantasies and left them wanting more when he was the perfect gentleman, sweet and kind. Had them believing that they were the one that could turn him soft.

Monday morning, Billy walks into Hawkins High, shaking off the cold that was settling in for the season, and comes face to face with King Steve and realizes he was the total opposite.

He stops still, staring before him where Steve leans against the lockers, talking to Nina Jones. He’s leaning into her, his head pointed down and talking low, unlike Billy who usually speaks too loud; he’s got something to prove. His smile is soft and small, like it’s reserved just for her. While Billy usually leans with his arm up, his body all strewn out to show off what he’s worked so hard for, Steve’s hands are in his pockets, almost all drawn in.

Billy can’t help but be amazed. Billy laughs and shakes his head. The sly fucking dog.

Steve breaks his attention on her and looks around, his face lighting up when he catches Billy. He smiles at him, different than what he had just been doing. This time it’s arrogant, something that Billy would offer to him.

Hook line and sinker.

Steve’s got his catch of the day.

Billy salutes him and Steve returns his attention to Nina, reaching forward to gently touch her arm. Billy’s gotta say: he’s impressed. He knows that he can get girls easily, knows how to play into the stereotypes and become the dream man they need. Hell, he knows what he looks for in a man and goes off of what he would want. The golden rule. Fuck others the way you would want to be fucked.

Steve though. Steve goes all soft and kind, has the girls writing down his last name next to their in their diaries, little hearts drawn all around. These are the kind of girls that Billy could never get, the kind that he scared away. Steve just bats his lashes, using his big bambi eyes to get the girls simpering and then they’re putty in his hands.

Steve isn’t in English when the bell rings. Billy twitches. He drums his pencil against his desk. Five minutes after the bell, Steve rushes in, flustered and a mess. He sinks into his desk next to Billy, Tommy now keeping it open just for him.

Tommy wolf whistles low and slaps Steve on the arm. Carol leans in and says to them all, “Looks like King Steve is back.”

Steve leans back in his chair, stretching out all casual. He low fives Tommy and then turns to Billy, gives him a look that’s almost predatory. His face is flushed, his lips red and swollen. His hair is messed up, no longer as quaffed as it was a couple hours ago. When he turns, Billy sees a mark right above the collar of his shirt, red and vicious, staining the pale skin of his neck.

Oh.

Steve bites his lip, chin raised and brow arched, and waits for Billy’s approval.

Billy’s heart stutters and his breath catches. He chuckles in disbelief, shaking his head. Steve winks at him and Billy feels molten. Hangs his head and spends the rest of the class focusing on Mrs. Click and the way his nails feel where they dig into his palm and not on how Steve looks when he’s gotten his way, content and satiated, how he grins all loose and cocksure.

Billy snaps his pencil in half.

***

Billy always gets to the table in the cafeteria before the rest of them. Neil doesn’t give him lunch money, so he wakes early every morning to make Max and him their lunches.

He almost chokes on his bite of his turkey sandwich when two hands grasp his shoulders, sliding along digging thumbs between his blades, and almost massaging the muscles there.

“Hey there, Killer,” Steve says from behind him, leaning in close to his ear. Billy has to will himself not to flutter his eyes closed.

He shoves Steve’s hands off with a shift of his shoulder. “Scared the shit out of me,” Billy tells him. “I could have choked.”

Steve sits down next to him, his face still wearing the same smile he had in class. It makes Billy itch, makes him want to just stare at the upturn of his mouth. His lips are no longer swollen and red. Billy finds himself missing it.

“Awh, I’m sorry,” Steve coos. He rubs at Billy’s back in soothing motions. “I didn’t mean to make you jump, darling.”

Billy rolls his shoulders, muscles shifting under Steve’s hand. He expects Steve to remove his hand, but it stays. It’s a rotating motion, pressing circles into his back. Billy wants to lean into it.

“B’sides. I’m CPR certified. Was a lifeguard last summer. I’d never let you die on me, Sunshine.”

And that’s. That’s a lot to take in. He’s pretty sure that he goes completely still and that his face flushes as red as Steve’s lips after hooking up with Nina. But Steve doesn’t notice, too busy welcoming Tommy and Carol as they drop into their seats.

Billy has never been more glad for Tommy’s presence.

“So?” Carol asks.

“So what?”

“Stevie, c’mon,” she whines. “You used to tell me all the details. Don’t tell me that Ice Princess got into your head and now you, like, care about your conquests.”

Billy doesn’t pay attention; he can’t bear to. He doesn’t want to hear about the details of Steve fucking Nina between third and fourth period. Billy knows that it’s Steve’s free period-- senior privilege. He doesn’t want to know about what color underwear she was wearing or how she gripped at his hair and whined when he went down on her or how she left marks on his back when made her come on two of his fingers. Doesn’t want to know about what she did in return. He couldn’t even focus on the story if he wanted to, too consumed by the heat of Steve’s palm between his shoulder blades, how it stops occasionally as Steve tells his story, only to pick back up when Steve remembers what he’s doing.

Instead, his brain can’t get past CPR and lifeguard. Thinks of Steve in those red shorts that he always sees in movies, hair wet and slicked back. The whistle rests against his lip, his Raybans sitting low on his nose, just so he can peer over them. His skin is on show, dotted with the moles and birthmarks that Billy’s seen. Billy’s fingers dig into his sandwich when he thinks about Steve’s chest on display, the dark hair he’s seen in the showers in its full glory. Billy can’t ever look when they're in the locker room. He tries not to. Knows he can’t. But Billy imagines it, being able to lay out with his sunglasses on, pretending to be dozing in the summer sun while he takes in every detail of Steve’s body. Thinks of diving into the pool and cooling off, of Steve joining him, of Steve pressing his pouty lips to his when Billy suddenly can’t swim and--

Billy’s going to combust. He shovels his food into his mouth and munches loud so he’s unable to let any of the small noises he wants to make slip through. Eventually, the bell rings and Steve’s hand leaves. Billy walks to class feeling the ghost of a palm against his spine.

He’s short tempered during basketball, throwing the ball with too much force and shoulder checking harder than needed. His shoulders are pulled in, a rigid line of something akin to fury. He’s burning alive inside, one part exhaustion, two parts repression.

He’s the first to get off of the court, grabbing his towel and slapping it over his shoulder. He turns his shower cold and lets it cool down his skin and wash away the phantom pressure at his back. He doesn’t say anything to anyone. Keeps his head down and gets out as quickly as he can.

He’s turning the key in the driver’s side door to his Camaro when he feels a hand on his arm. Steve’s brow is pinched, a frown on his face.

“You alright, Hargrove?”

Billy blinks at him. Once. Twice. “Yeah. Just really tired. Didn’t get a good sleep.”

“Alright,” Steve nods. He stares at his feet and kicks at the gravel. Billy’s never been a good liar. Neil always saw through it, so could his friends back in Cali. It’s why Billy tries to keep to himself. There’s nothing to lie about if it never happens. “If you need anything, you know where to call, Killer.”

Billy watches Steve walk away. There’s a girl waiting at his car-- Sarah Something-- and Billy groans to himself. He looks to the sky and wishes that whoever is up there could smite him already. Just send down a lightning bolt and end it already. But nothing happens. Of course.

He feels worse when he gets home. He paces in his room, pressing the heel of his palms to his eyes until he sees stars. He tries to do homework, but his mind keeps flitting back to Steve’s grin in Click’s class or the press of his hand or how he bit into his lip while he recounted his escapades. A cold shower doesn’t help. He doesn’t touch himself, doesn’t want to give into it and admit that something is forming. He slams his door instead. Gets Neil’s shouting in his ear to drown out the treacherous thoughts. Gets backhanded for his sass. He sleeps with the swollen cheek pressed into the pillow, the weight of his head pressing into the pain and giving him something else to focus on.

The swelling goes down by the next morning, but there’s a small purple welt on his cheekbone the next morning from Neil’s ring. Billy pats makeup into it, blending it in as best as he can, using products from various girls he’s been with. He gets them off and then snoops in their purse, stealing what he can. A powder from Jane. A concealer from Amber. Another concealer from Annie when Amber’s was too light for his complexion. He’s good at covering it by now, but he wears his glasses all day just to be safe.

Steve doesn’t talk much that day. Billy listens to Tommy rattle on about whatever he’s interested in for the day and Steve does the same. He sits across from Billy at lunch, his arms crossed as he leans back in his chair. He stares at Billy. Just looking. Waits until Billy’s done with his lunch before he leans in.

“What’s with the glasses, Killer? Tryna hide those gorgeous eyes of yours?”

Billy blushes, of course, but he barks out a laugh to hide it.

“Have you heard of a hangover, Pretty Boy?” It’s a poor excuse, but everyone else has accepted it. It’s an almost universal sign, the sunglasses. There’s only three reasons for someone wearing glasses indoors: they’re probably blind, a total douchebag, or they’re hungover as shit. Billy lets people believe he’s straddling option two and three.

***

Billy heads over to Harrington’s house after dropping Maxine off at the arcade. He’s helping Steve with Calculus today-- Click’s class is not the only subject he needs help in-- and he’s explaining a problem for the second time when he looks up to find Steve just staring at him. He knows his mannerisms well enough by now. He doesn’t try to learn them. It just happens. He knows when Steve is bored, how his brows flatten out. He recognizes the difference between the confused furrow of his brow and the frustrated one. He can tell when Steve is at his limit, when his brain is full and unable to process anymore.

The stiff and unmoving Steve that sits before him at the table, arms crossed like he was at lunch, is something completely new to him. He knows well enough to know that Steve’s not listening, knows that Steve needs to be looking at something to pay attention to it. Saw when his attention flickered away about ten minutes ago. But he continued, hoping it would draw Steve back in, or he would tell Billy he needs a break like he usually does.

Steve looks at him, his brow pinching minutely as he takes in Billy’s face. It makes Billy flush, makes him look down and try to explain the problem again. Hopefully Steve will play along. But Billy can’t focus, can’t think of anything other than the face Steve was making. Because he knows that face. It’s the fact that Steve makes when he’s trying to figure something out, when he just needs a couple moments before it clicks together. Billy’s not wearing his sunglasses. He took them off when he got inside. He wasn’t thinking.

Fuck.

Billy stands, walking over to the fridge. Gets his face away from Steve.

“I’m taking a break. You want anything? I’m thirsty.”

He sticks his face in the fridge, letting the cool air calm him down. It’s nothing, he tells himself. But he knows that it’s a lie. He knows that while Steve might not be best at school, he’s not dumb. He knows people. He’s learned to know Billy in the same way he’s grown to know Steve.

Billy grabs a beer and pops it open. Takes a big gulp. When he closes the door, Steve’s right there, leaning against the wall. His arms are still crossed, almost petulant. But Billy’s the one hiding, the one being a child.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on, darling? Or am I going to have to ask?”

Billy takes another sip. He avoids Steve’s eyes. Knows they’re his weakness. He takes a breath, plasters on his practiced grin, and looks at Steve.

“Pretty Boy, you’re gonna have to be a lot more specific. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Steve glares at him. It makes him gulp. It’s the same look that he gives Tommy when he’s being a dick to Carol, the same look when someone says shit about Wheeler, the same look that Billy gives Steve when he calls himself dumb. He knows he’ll cave, so he looks away again. Focuses on his beer. He’s almost done with it already.

Steve clicks his tongue and Billy hears how he sighs, feels the breath against his cheek. He expects Steve to walk away, to sit down and pout for the rest of the night. He waits to hear the footsteps, to hear the creak of the chair. But it doesn’t come. The last thing Billy expects is Steve’s hand touching his face. It’s gentle, soft enough not to spook. It startles a gasp out of Billy and he freezes completely. Ever so carefully, Steve pushes Billy’s face to look at him. Billy doesn’t dare look into his eyes. Still looking at the tab of his beer, even though his whole body is facing Steve, pulled in by him. His hand is warm against his cheek, resting right below his bruise.

Billy fiddles with the tab of the can.

He doesn’t know if he’s ever been this close to him. Yeah, he’s gotten a bit closer than he needs to when he’s guarding him during basketball, but that’s not the same. He’s never had it like this, right now, where he can feel each exhale that Steve makes, can smell the fabric softener he uses and how he always smells like the woods. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

He doesn’t mean to lean into Steve’s hand, but it feels right. And when Steve’s thumb rubs over the tender spot on his cheekbone, he almost chokes on his air, his eyes opening to meet golden brown, sad and concerned. Steve does it again, brushes ever so softly over the skin, pausing to press down just a fraction. Billy sucks in through his teeth, jerking away from the touch, but Steve’s hand anchors him.

Billy is cornered. So, he does what he always does: he stares it straight on. He glares at Steve and lifts his chin, baring his throat. He waits for Steve to bite.

Instead, he’s yanked forward, and he goes willingly, crashing into Steve’s chest. He stills before he feels Steve’s arm loop around him, pulling him in close and keeping him from leaving.

“Hargrove...” he says.

But the thing is, Billy’s a fight dog. He’s been trained to sneer and bark. If you corner him, he’s going to bite.

Billy throws off Steve, knocking him back with his elbow. There are tears in his eyes; he feels how they burn, but he ignores them. Steve’s hands are up, placating and cautious. Trying to calm the wild dog. Trying to decide if it’s rabid. Trying to decide if he still has time to run before it bites.

He’s just trying to be nice, his mind reasons, but nice never comes free for Billy. Nice means that worse is coming, the eye before the storm. Nice brings broken wrists and redheaded sisters. Nice brings heartache and inside out locks. Nice gives him hope that leaves nothing but a hole in its place when it’s gone.

Nice stopped being nice when his mother kissed him goodbye one morning and never came back.

“The fuck, Harrington?”

He slams the door on the way out. Doesn’t care how it rings in his ears, how it drowns out the rumble of the Camaro. He makes it home before he can even process driving. He doesn’t respond to his father, or at least he doesn’t until Max balks at him. He responds then, getting a red-faced Neil in his face. He won’t hit him, though. Not today. Not after leaving a mark already. He sends Billy to bed without dinner, but Billy doesn’t mind. He’s not hungry.

He goes to sleep with the feel of Steve’s hand against his cheek and it hurts worse than Neil’s class ring.

***

He wears sunglasses again the next day. The bruise has already started to yellow and was much easier to cover up today, but he feels like he drank an entire cabinet the night before. His brain is full of static and he just wants to be left alone.

So, sunglasses.

Max doesn’t even say anything while he drives her to school. She watches him from the corner of her eye, but she stays quiet. Usually she complains about his driving or whines about something else, but she sits with her hands in her lap and looks out the window. Knows that Billy barks, but doesn’t want Billy to bite.

She does give him a “have a good day, Billy”, when she skates off to the middle school. He just scoffs and sinks into his seat. He’s still smoking a cigarette in the driver’s seat when the warning bell rings. By the time the second bell tolls, he’s just leaving his car. He gets a tardy, but no detention. He’s not one to be late. From the looks of sympathy that his teacher and peers give him, he looks rough enough to not question.

People stay out of his way. They usually do, but even the girls that would come to his locker and try and score a Friday date are not to be seen. He’s happy about it, doesn’t need anyone trying to talk to him right now.

He almost skips English. He can’t handle Harrington right now. He waits until the last moment, slipping in right as the bell sounds.

“Barely made it, Hargrove,” Click chides. Billy doesn’t acknowledge her. Keeps his head down. He doesn’t look at Steve when he passes by him to sit in his seat. He doesn’t respond to Tommy when he says hello. He lays back and closes his eyes and wills sleep to come.

Steve’s fingers drum against his desk. Taptaptaptaptap. Billy grits his teeth.

Billy forgoes lunch to sit in his car. He cranks the heat high and the radio higher, letting the loud rock beat out any thoughts before they can register.

The closer he gets to gym class, the bigger the knot in his stomach grows. He’ll be happy to have the outlet, to be able to sweat out his anger and frustration, but then it’s another hour of him avoiding Steve, despite how easily he’s drawn in by him. He’s got Tommy to deal with too. Hopes the fucker won’t put his fucking foot in his mouth like he usually does and leave it alone for once.

He doesn’t.

The moment they get into the locker room, he’s on Billy. Tommy throws his arm around Billy, pulling him in and jostling him.

“Awh, hungover again, Billy boy?” He even tries to mess with Billy’s hair but he grabs Tommy’s wrist before he can. Tommy just laughs it off though. He slaps Billy’s bare shoulder and leaves with a laugh. Billy makes sure to leave before Steve; he doesn’t want to get stuck alone with the guy again.

He knows that Steve’s watching him. He can feel his eyes, the red hot of it. It’s like the California sun on the days where you can just feel the sunburn baking into your skin. It makes Billy squirm.

Billy misses every shot he takes. The coach shakes his head at him and even other teammates are mumbling under their breath about him. He hates it. He stays as far as he can from Harrington, though. Decides to guard Tommy today.

“Surprised you’re not over with Harrington,” Tommy says. “You guys have been attached at the hip for weeks.” Billy snags the ball from him and does a lay up. It bounces off the rim.

“Did you guys have a lover’s quarrel or something?” Tommy asks when he’s back on him, whispering into his ear. “Did Stevie get sick of you rubbing your dick against his back?”

Billy makes the mistake of looking at Steve then. Sees the anger in his shoulders, how dead and dark his eyes seem as they stare back. Billy falters and Tommy steals the ball. He scores a point and cheers. He stalks over to Billy as he’s bent over and panting. He’s gloating and cocksure. It sets Billy’s veins aflame. Lucky for them, the coach blows the whistle and Billy beelines for the showers, planning to have his ice cold.

Tommy trails after him. Stands besides Billy’s locker when he’s changing.

“Damn, Hargrove. You’re really off your game. Mommy forgot to tuck you in last night?”

“C’mon, Tommy,” Steve interjects, walking towards them. “He’s not having a good day. Just leave him alone.”

“Awh,” Tommy sighs, “Would you look at that. The boyfriend’s coming to save the day!” He turns to Billy. Puts a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you guys keep the dick sucking for after school? “

“Hargrove, ignore him. He’s an ass when he’s jealous.”

“Jealous?” he laughs, throwing his head back. He turns to Billy. “You’re awfully quiet, Hargrove? Suddenly you need Harrington to fight all your battles, huh? Are you that much of a little bitch boy?” he leans in close. “You aren’t, are you? You just love taking it from behind don’t you.”

“Tommy, seriously. Fuck off.”

But Tommy won’t turn, even when Steve grabs at his shoulder, trying to ease him away. Gets in close and bites his lip to keep in a chuckle before he opens his dumb mouth.

“Bet your daddy really loves that--”

The crack of Tommy’s nose is sickening, the snap felt under the skin of Billy’s knuckles. Immediately, the locker room goes insane. The boys start shouting, some in panic and some egging it on. Tommy goes down quickly. He stumbles back into the lockers and Billy stands over him. His skin is thrumming and he urges, hungers for more. Wants to swing again and again until he only sees red.

The only thing that stops him is the hand on his arm. He turns to see Steve and breaks. Steve is looking at him like he’s afraid of him and Billy can’t have that, can’t help but see Max's face, how she looks at Neil when he’s done with Billy. Can’t help but see the pain and horror that was on David’s face, his last memory of him.

His fists unclench.

Steve’s face opens, just for a moment as he notices Billy’s hands. Then, his eyes widen as he looks just past him. Billy turns to look, just in time to get a fist to the face. It catches him off guard and Tommy tackles him to the ground.

Billy doesn’t remember much of it. It’s all blurred. He remembers the pain shooting through his skull, how the copper taste of his blood filled his mouth. He hears Steve shout his name and Tommy’s. He thinks he gets in a couple more hits, but he can’t really be sure. But then, the coaches are pulling them apart, Steve’s arm wrapped around Billy’s torso and pulling him away.

***

Billy gets suspended for a week and is late picking up Max. She’s cross-armed and huffing when Billy pulls up, but when she hops inside and see’s Billy’s face, her anger melts. The ride is the same as it was that morning: tense and quiet.

Neil is beyond unhappy to hear about the suspension. Billy hands him the slip that says it all and Neil’s face goes purple. He grabs his keys and leaves, the door banging shut behind him. Susan jumps at the noise and Billy finds himself wanting to apologize, to say sorry for his father, for her marrying a monster, for him being nothing close to a son for her. She’s a nice woman; she deserves better.

Billy stays up for his father. He knows it’s coming, knows the pattern well enough by now. Neil stumbles in at half past one and Billy’s fingers dig into his comforter. He wants to pull it up to his neck, to pull it over his head and hide under it like he’s a kid again, that if he can’t see anyone, they can’t see him. But Neil does. He rips away the blanket and spits in his face, hot and livid. Says things that dig at Billy’s heart like:

“You’re a fucking disgrace.”

“You’re why your mother left.”

“Who could ever love a faggot for a son.”

The words hurt more than the blows do. The bruises will fade and the bones will mend, but the words stay forever. They haunt Billy, swirling around in his head and sticking to the sides of his skull. They’re tattooed on him, forever there.

He can get straight A’s and be on his best behavior. Can marry a nice woman and carry on the Hargrove name. Can become a fucking saint for fucks sake. But he can’t ever atone for the way his fingers itch for the firm planes of a chest instead of soft curves, can he?

He will forever be sick in the head, just like Neil says. Diseased. A rabid dog. The kind that deserve a bullet to the head because they can’t settle, can’t merge with society. Have some sort of disease that they never asked for. And Billy’s he’s. He’s foaming at the mouth over bambi eyes, wiry chest hair, and long, slinky fingers and his brain is splitting in a million directions and if he asked nicely, he’s sure Neil would take him out to the shed out back and paint the walls red. Rid the world of the diseased.

Neil leaves eventually, when Billy’s body is curled up and throbbing. He’s suspended. No one is there to see the marks. Neil doesn’t have to worry about being light or leaving a trace. Anyone who sees him will have heard about his scuffle with Tommy. They’ll just assume it was him.

He doesn’t know how long he’s lying there. Doesn’t realize he’s been crying until red swims into his vision, warped and glassy. Then, Max is before him, words soft and low. He doesn’t hear what she’s saying; didn’t hear her approach; can’t hear over the woodpecker in his head. She pries one of his arms up and slips it over her shoulder.

She’s tentative with her touch, unsure what the collateral is. Billy doesn’t know either. Doesn’t want to look. Heard something about how looking at the damage makes it worse. So Billy doesn’t look, doesn’t talk about it, doesn’t ever acknowledge it at all. A child’s logic, really: if he doesn’t see it, it doesn’t exist. But he’s past the age of worrying about monsters under his bed. Doesn’t need to call daddy in to check for them. Knows now that he lives with them instead.

She gets him into his bed. He should marvel at it, how a small little thing like her could maneuver him, but his brain is screaming sleepsleepsleep and his eyes are heavy when he swallows the pills that Max shoves past his lips. Barely swallows a sip from the cup of water she leaves on his nightstand when his world turns dark.

***

Billy’s supposed to be Max’s ward. If she needs to get somewhere, he’s supposed to take her. If she’s upset, then Billy’s to blame. If something happens to her, it’s Billy’s fault. But Billy can’t take her to the arcade when his face looks like an oil spill on asphalt.

Steve Harrington picks her up. He learns this when Susan tells him. She can’t meet his eye when she brings him food in his bed. He knows that she only does it because Neil’s at work. She doesn’t apologize, doesn’t tell him about how he doesn’t deserve it or how she’s going to leave Neil because he’s a monster. Instead, she makes the monster that lives under Billy’s bed lunch and kisses him goodbye. She keeps her eyes down because then she can’t see the colors that marr Billy’s face. Red. Purple. Blue. Black.

He’s Neil’s canvas, but he’s not art. Stopped being worthy to look at the day his mother left and Neil turned to him and told him “it’s all your fucking fault”. And maybe if someone with basic intelligence looked into his brain they’d think: “Ah, so this is why you preen? This is why you work so hard, why you talk so loud, why you’d rather throw punches then have a decent conversation? You just want to be seen, don’t you? How pathetic!”

He doesn’t blame Susan. He doesn’t look in the mirror. Doesn’t want to see it either. Doesn’t want to see what’s become of him.

He hears when Maxine gets home. He smokes out of the window, practically sitting in the sill. He hears the slam of the Beemer’s door, hears her say goodbye to all of her friends. Hears her arguing with someone. Overhears her say,“You can’t come see him, he’s grounded. My dad won’t allow him to see people.”

“I just wanted to check on him,” Billy hears and his heart plummets and he goes cold the same way he does when his father walks through the door.

“I’ll tell him you asked about him, Steve.”

She doesn’t. Neil’s home and she knows better than to mention a boy in the same sentence as Billy.

He doesn’t know how to feel about it, how she’s covering for him in front of Neil. Doesn’t know why she helped him to his room last night. Doesn’t know why she’s protecting him. A flutter in his chest tells him that she cares, but he knows that she’s just terrified of him, has seen the blind rage he went into when she mentioned David.

She’s just learning her lessons, like Billy always has. Takes them in stride. Learns where to step so the floorboards don’t creak, knows what temperature to turn the shower so the pipes don’t sing, knows how to prepare Neil’s coffee right and then how to listen for the little, approving hum he makes when he takes the first sip.

You spend your whole life staying quiet, making as little noise as possible and end up suspended over a pit of uncertainty and fear, your fate decided on a little fucking hum from the man before you.

Max is just learning.

When Neil is well asleep, Billy is woken by the scrape of something against his floor. He wasn’t truly asleep; he can’t ever get sleep in this house, always waking at every noise, thinking it’s Neil’s door.

He stands with an effort, edging over to his door to grab the piece of paper shoved in through the crack. He knows the door is locked; he heard the latch when Neil went to sleep. Neil doesn’t lock him in a lot-- usually draws the line at keeping him caged in like the misbehaved dog he is-- but apparently the suspension was enough to cast him to the kennel.

He pulls the paper through and listens to the quick, but quiet thud of feet as Max runs back to her room. He takes a breath, roots himself in the pain that ricochets through his rib cage. He leans against the door, taking in shaky gasps of oxygen as he adjusts. He uses the little bit of light that seeps in past the door, the little sliver of it, to read the paper.

In a jagged handwriting that he knows too well, it reads:

“Just checking in to make sure Tommy didn’t knock the pretty out of your head.”

And that. That’s enough to get his breath stuttering, already so labored. Gets his cheeks warm and his abdomen hot. Makes enough blood surge to the different poles of his body that he grunts at the pain of it, at how his head swims.

Below the chicken scratch is a smaller note, one that he’s able to focus on after an inhale exhale inhale exhale.

“If you need me:

746-7482

12 Yorkshire Lane,

(that’s in Loch Nora darling)”

The paper crumples in his hand, his thumb digging into the paper hard enough to almost rip. Billy bites down on his lip, grunting as some emotion he hasn’t felt since David takes a hold of him, shaking him out and leaving him quaking, something akin to giddiness.

Steve Harrington might be an idiot, Billy decides. Only an idiot would give his address and phone number to a basket case, entwining nicknames that two men should not have for each other. He wonders if Max read the note; he knows he’d probably read it if he were her. He doesn’t know how to feel about that and doesn't allow himself to dwell on showing his whole hand to her.

Instead, he folds along the note carefully. He uses his nail to smooth down the crease, sectioning off the address and number from the note and the rest of the post-script. Then, he folds it the opposite way and repeats the action. He licks along the edge of the paper, just enough to make it soft. With surgeon-like care, he separates the center text from the rest, a jagged but straight line separating the pet names from the information he needs.

He takes the two remaining end pieces and sets them aflame with his lighter. They bow and hiss, turning black and stiff. It hurts to see Harrington’s words-- to have the physical proof that Billy’s not crazy, he actually says that stuff-- shrivel as the flame eats up the ink, but he can’t have the possibility of Neil finding that. He keeps the phone number and address, shoves it under his mattress inside the last pages of the couple of skin mags of too perky tits and hairless skin he keeps there just in case his father goes looking. He knows his father won’t look in them, won’t bother looking past the appearance of it all.

Harrington hangs under his mattress and it’s like the princess and the pea, a little knot of knowing underneath him. But in this story, he sleeps deep, sleeps better than he has in years.

***

He can’t call Harrington. He knows he can’t. Harrington might not know that, but Billy knows that. He knows Max knows too, can see it in the way her eyes keep flicking up to him as they eat breakfast. Neil is absorbed in his newspaper, humming at each sip of his coffee that Billy made for him.

Her attention is different than Susan’s. Susan’s looks are trepidatious, like she’s heard stories about how rabid he is and how she’s scared that she might catch it if she looks too long, that the black and blue will melt off of his face and slip into the syrup on her waffles. Max instead watches him until he looks at her, then she darts her eyes away. She doesn’t blush at being caught; she isn’t doing anything wrong. She wants him to know, each blink a morse code of I know, I read it.

He doesn’t need her to tell him that she read it, that she knows how it took the little bit of oxygen left in his lungs right out of him. She said it in the hunch of her shoulders when he had sat down at the table, finally allowed a public meal by Neil. She had said it in the rushed footsteps when she darted back to her room in the night. The scrape of the paper against the floorboards screamed louder than any uttered word could.

She doesn’t look away so Billy doesn’t catch on. She looks away so Neil doesn’t.

That night, when Neil and Susan leave for their weekly date night, Max sneaks into his room. He heard them leaving, heard the smack of their lips when Neil leans in to kiss his wife as they leave. It’s almost clinical to Billy. Every Friday, at the same time, they leave to go to the same restaurant. They switch it up every once in a while, but it doesn’t stray out of Neil’s small comfort zone. Neil kisses Susan on the doorstep, pretending that he’s still the gentleman that once wooed her, that it’s a first date all over again, and she goes along with it. Afterall, pretending you’re married to a gentleman is easier than admitting you’re married to a monster.

The latch clicks and light floods Billy’s room. Max’s silhouette is taller than he remembers. Maybe it’s because he’s lying down, or maybe it’s because she’s sprouting like a bean. He doesn’t really pay attention enough to know, but maybe he should. Afterall, she is his ward. He should be paying attention; he should be kind and loving, the way that a parent never was for him, the way that Max has started to be to him.

He shakes that out of his head.

She doesn’t say anything at first, just sits on the edge of his bed. She has something in her hand, takes her a moment before she sighs and brandishes it. Come and get it. A fleeting moment of compassion or camaraderie, Billy’s not sure. Billy takes it, recognizes it as her walkie-talkie. He hears it often, hears the crackly noise of her snot-nosed friends calling in to her. Knows that she has a private channel just for her and that Sinclair boy, the one that cost him a week of wincing when Neil saw Max and him standing a little too close once. Told him to keep an eye on him. So, Billy does. But that doesn’t mean he has to do anything when he hears her sneak around to his side of the house, far away from Neil’s bedroom, and switch to their channel so she can talk to him until the late hours.

She knows he can hear her. Maybe that’s why she passed him the paper. A secret for a secret. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. Russia and the United States. Mutually Assured Destruction.

M.A.D. Max, he thinks. Chuckles to himself.

“This is the dial to change the channel,” she points to a big dial on the left. She drags it, turning it clockwise. Aligns it with a number ten. “This is the channel for The Party.”

“The who?”

“My friends,” she says, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. She continues with the dial. “But this is the one that we use to talk to Steve.” She rotates it to a number one and Billy’s brain stalls.

“Wait,” he says, putting his hand over the front of the walkie to stop her. “Harrington? You talk to Steve?”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “Why do you think he’s been driving me around? He’s like a mom to us or whatever. It’s really annoying. Thinks he can tell us what to do or whatever just because he gives us rides.”

Billy doesn’t know what to do with that. Makes him laugh, thinking of Steve standing there with his hands on his hips like a displeased mother. He can picture it perfectly, actually. It settles warm in his stomach like hot cocoa on a winter day, like the burn that comes after a long pull of the nicer booze that Harrington had in his flask at that one party.

She hands the walkie over then, plopping it into his hand. The number one stares at him. Daunting.

“He’s been asking about you,” She says. “Shut him up for me, please?”

She says it like it’s a request, but he hears it, hears the unsaid. Reads the morse code in her blinks as she reads his face. Knows this is more for him, an apology that neither will utter.

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Winces at the expansion of an inhale hurts his sides.

“Okay,” he decides.

She doesn’t smile at him. It’s an almost thing, but it morphs into a greedy smirk that he’s seen enough times in the mirror to know she’s adopted it from him. It’s a mask; this he knows. He pretends to not see Max’s cards. Pretends she hasn’t seen his. They play the game all the same.

She punches his arm as light as she’s ever done, and leaves.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” she says. “I’ll knock like this when it’s me.” It’s a knock with a pause, followed by three sharp knocks. With that, she turns and latches the door behind her.

Darkness has always aided Billy. It let him fumble around with girls, let him get away with bullshitting his way through it all or the purr of a lie if she didn’t see anything, didn’t see how he didn’t get hard. Billy loves the comfort and security that dark brings. Prefers things black instead of white, how it doesn’t stain or show it’s true colors if there’s nothing left to marr. But now, as he’s shrouded in it, he itches for light.

Neil’s gone; he supposes he could turn on a lamp. But, at the same time, the dark is what urges him on, makes him raise the walkie to a breath’s space from his lips and press the button like Max showed him.

“Pretty Boy,” he drawls. He lets go of the button and almost punts the electronic across the room. He’s breathing hard, his rib cage ready to burst. He throws it into his pillow instead, bites on his knuckle and paces, despite his protesting body.

“You’re supposed to say ‘over’ when you’re done,” Harrington’s voice crackles through. “Over.”

Billy laughs into the empty air. It’s full of disbelief and glee, like he’s shocked to finally have this out, to have a vein of normalcy. It’s fleeting and limited, but he’s going to drink it in until there’s nothing left.

“Little red birdie told me that you’ve been asking about me. Tsk, tsk, Harrington. Don’t you know you’re supposed to wish misfortune upon your competition?” He smiles wide, despite it all. Despite him being alone. With an exhale he adds: “Over.”

“Competition, huh darling?” There’s mirth in Steve’s voice, like his comment made Steve laugh. Billy eats it up. Wants more: tongue panting, tail wagging. “Don’t think there’s much of that happening with you, gorgeous. How can one compete with those blue eyes?”

Billy heats at that, feels it go all the way down his spine.

“Over,” Steve adds and Billy can’t catch his breath. Can’t help but hear the teasing tone in his voice, how he seems to be enjoying this.

Billy laughs fully. Presses the button before he even realizes it. Lets his joy ring over the wavelengths and into Steve’s ears. “Listen here folks! King Steve, the wooer of all women, thinks that I’m more attractive.” He leans forward and flashes his teeth to no one. Drawls into the receiver. “Over.”

“Well of course I do,” Steve responds. “I have fucking eyes. I may not be the smartest King in Hawkins, but I’m not blind, sweetheart. Over.”

Billy needs a cigarette. Wants to throw himself out his window for wasting his last one earlier. Instead, he finds a pen and bends the clip off of the cap with his fussing. Bites at the end of it to keep his mouth busy. To keep him from saying something like:

“I thought I was the only one supposed to think that I’m hot shit, Pretty Boy.”

He breathes deep through his nose. Wills his rabbiting pulse to slow. “Over.”

“C’mon,” Steve almost groans and Jesus Christ, it’s a Cupid’s arrow to his groin, the way that Steve growls out into the receiver, just for Billy. “You have to see yourself in the mirror, babe.”

Babe. Holy shit. Billy’s wound up and sore muscles melt completely and he can’t help but let out the whimper at the sound of the other boy addressing him.

“You’re ripped as shit, Killer. You got everyone in Hawkins salivating over your abs, Killer. And your arms. Could probably bench me.”

Billy shouldn’t, but he reaches down, letting his hand skate over his abdomen before he grabs a hold of his dick, palming himself through his pants. He bites his lip and suppresses the groan that crawls out of his throat. Neil and Susan aren’t back yet. He doesn’t know when they’ll be back, but Max is still here and she doesn’t deserve to hear that. He’s used to being quiet, to biting his tongue and letting his half asleep body aid himself in his morning rushes to keep him silent. He will let out a single exhale of it all at the climax, but it gets hidden within the whine of the pipes, easily disguised as another noise or just the sigh of hot water on a sore muscle. He hasn’t done this in a while, letting himself feel freely, to rub at himself through the cloth of his sweatpants in the middle of his room.

The darkness helps, as it always does.

“Over,” Steve adds. An afterthought. He doesn’t know why they keep it up, but the breathiness he hears in Steve’s voice-- or at least what he imagines-- makes him want to continue.

It takes him a breath or two, a couple pumps squeezed in between them, before he answers.

“I think I could, Bambi. Easily.” He doesn’t bother to say the end line. Wants to see if Steve will catch on, or if he’ll jump the chase. Wants to know if he’s as excited as Billy is, if his skin thrums, if he’s as turned on as Billy is. Wants to know if this makes him hard at all.

At that thought Billy pushes a hand under his shirt. He skates over the over-sensitive skin of his sides, relishing in the repel of his sides, how they shy away from the touch. Revels in the bit of pain that shocks his core. It grounds him in the pleasure. Makes it feel more real. He sucks in a painful breath when his finger reaches his nipple, so strung tight that even a simple pass is enough to work a whimper out of him.

“Hm,” Steve murmurs from the other line. It’s a moment later than Billy suspected. He wonders if it's because he was waiting for Billy to say more, to be respectful of the “over”, but Billy also knows Steve. Knows he’s an assertive bitch when he wants to be, will remind Billy if he wants an end command over and over if he has to.

And Billy would let him.

“I think you could, babe.” The pet name makes him keen, forcing him to bite down on his lip to suppress a downright pitiful noise emerging from his throat.

“You think?” he mutters. It’s low. Promising. Isn’t even sure if his baritone makes it over the frequency.

“I know it, sweetheart,” Steve purrs. And Billy hears it. Hears the way his voice stoops low enough to match Billy’s. “You can come over if you don’t trust me.”

It’s an invitation. It’s more than that. He feels the lump underneath the mattress; the discomfort of the pea finally emerges. He can’t sit still, can’t find a proper position on his bed that feels comfortable. Can’t lay down and relax when a pretty boy’s taunt tickles at your mind and sends more blood to your dick, even when you think it couldn’t get more hard.

He counts to three. Refuses to touch himself until he thinks of an answer. Rehearses a no, an apology in his head. Mouths it, even.

“Sorry, no can do. I’m grounded, you know? I got suspended for punching in Tommy’s face. You saw it all didn’t you?”

“Alright,” he ends up saying. He has a death wish. A dog smelling out blood, following the trail to his own death. “When my dad goes to bed. I’ll come over. I got your address. We’ll see who’s right.”

He doesn’t mean to drawl on the last sentence. Doesn’t mean to use the voice he’s tailored for the ladies, but he hears Harrington laugh through the speaker. “I’ll keep the door open then, Killer.” He over emphasizes the last word, the last pet name and Billy can’t help himself. He was trying to restrain himself, but he grabs at himself now, yanking down his sweats to get his hand around himself. Pauses only when Steve growls out a “Over.”

Billy lets his head fall back against his pillow, lets his hand caress himself. Gathers spit in his mouth to lick his palm and give it some glide. Then, he jacks himself. It’s almost careless and way too quick than he’d like, but he doesn’t know when Neil is due back, doesn’t know how much time he spent on the walkie. It’s almost lewd, how fast he jerks himself, thumbing under the head at the place that makes him shift his hips each time. He lets his free hand roam, resumes his ministrations against his nipples, tweaking and pinching until they’re sensitive and raised. It only takes a couple minutes. It’s longer than his perfunctory sessions in the shower, but he’s so keyed up from Steve’s voice and the concept of anyone coming into his room at any time that he’s coming before he knows it. His balls tighten up and he’s spilling into his hand before he can even register that it’s encroaching. Steve’s mirthy laugh rings in his head and he can’t help but slump against his bed, can’t help but feel utterly satiated when he finally gives into what he’s been avoiding for weeks.

He slips out to the bathroom to wash his hands. He grabs the walkie from his room and approaches Maxine’s room. He knocks the same way she told him and she opens on the last knock. Her face is open and hopeful and it clenches his heart in a way he can’t describe.

“So?” she asks.

“So what?”

“Did you talk to Steve?”

“...Yes?” He knows he’s being difficult, but then again, she saw his hand earlier. He wants to regain some control. She gives him a face, rolls her eyes and huffs, like he’s being the most difficult person ever. Given, he kind of is.

“And?”

“He wants me to stop by so he can see I'm in one piece.”

She gives a delighted little noise at that and it’s the most girly thing he’s ever heard from her.

“And so are you?”

Then, wheels sound against the driveway. Blue eyes flash where they meet each other and Billy sprints to his room, where Max follows.

“See him. Tonight. I’ll cover where I can.”

She locks him in. He hears her scurry back to her room. Hears the springs of her bed where she jumps onto it right before the front door opens. He grabs the book that he was reading earlier in the night and flips open to a random page. It’s their required reading right now, but he’s read it in California, so he knows the story. He’s lucky for that, since Neil sometimes likes to surprise him with reading quizzes. Even if Billy gets them right, he still sometimes gets “reprimanded”-- that’s what Neil calls it. Luckily, Friday’s usually have Neil satiated. Susan is ready to put out to appease her vitriolic husband and he’d rather not sour that if he can help it.

Just on schedule, his door swings open with a bang, the split second noise of the latch alerting him of anything at all. He looks up slowly from his book, as if he was immersed instead of just reading the first line.

“How was dinner, sir,” he manages.

“It went well, as always,” Neil responds. He looks at Billy skeptically. He can hear Susan from down the hall as she talks to Max, how she gushes about the new fall special the restaurant has and how good it was. He doesn’t care to listen to the inflection, to figure out if she’s bullshitting or not. He keeps the staring contest going with his father for a couple moments until Neil breaks. He shifts to his wife-- his perfect wife-- and weaves a shoulder around her waist, pulling her in and cutting off her conversation with Max. Billy knows that if they were able to see each other, they’d share a look of camaraderie, something that reeks of “I hate this bastard”, but his room is too far down the hall. Makes him wonder if he’d be closer to Max if his dad didn’t intentionally set them apart, like he needed a physical divide between them to prevent the fostering of the emotional one.

***

Billy kept his window open since Neil didn’t notice, but he doesn’t leave until one a.m. He knows that Neil goes to bed by ten o’clock at the latest, knows that he goes to bed earlier on Fridays so he can bag his unfortunate wife, but he still stays in his room, fingers thrumming against his chest until the clock strikes one.

He slips out of his window with practiced ease. Outside the house, tucked into the hedge, are his keys. And-- Godammit, Maxine. He wants to hug her so bad. He puts the car in neutral and uses gravity to guide her out as he usually does. He doesn’t start her until he’s far enough not to wake Neil.

The last thing he needs is Neil waking and throwing open the latched door to find his son gone. He wouldn’t put it past Neil to put bars on his window; He’s surprised he hasn’t already.

He clutches the paper that he had nestled between his mattress and his bed frame in his hand, looking at it every other moment as if it will suddenly change the address he’s ingrained in his head. He doesn’t know Hawkins super well, but he knows Steve’s area. He’s good enough at directions to figure it out. Catalogues it. Knows it will take him fifteen minutes next time instead of twenty five. Knows he could make it in ten if he’s really feeling it.

He pulls in front of the Harrington house and can’t help but whistle. It’s large and pristine, the almost opposite of what his shit-end father can manage. He wants to knock at the door, to be as civil and polite as the house seems to yearn for, but Steve said he’d have it unlocked, so he twists the knob. It goes easily under his hand and he enters.

There’s a foyer. A fucking foyer. He’s only ever seen foyers in movies and that one house that hosted that one party in California where Reyna and her charm were able to sneak all of them in. It was some Hollywood producer and the foyer had him in awe then, had him gratuitous enough to try to suck the host’s dick-- and succeed, but whatever-- but, this was different. It was a small town, Indiana foyer. It was grand without having marble floors and ceilings. The light fixture was tasteful and expensive, something that Billy could appreciate. It still screamed “money!” but it wasn’t as bad as Hollywood was. Almost refreshing for his Californian palette.

Billy couldn’t help but take it all in as he went, looking at the family photos that lined the wall. They were uber proper, each photo poised to the point of painful, illustrating Steve as he aged through the years.

“God, I keep asking her to get rid of those,” Billy hears over his shoulder and whips around. Steve stands there, casual and good looking as ever in a simple green sweater that looks good against his pale skin. Dark jeans cling to his long legs.

“Hello, Pretty Boy,” Billy draws, spinning around.

That’s a mistake. He sees the way Steve’s smile crumples when he sees Billy’s face. His mouth opens ajar and not in the way Billy’s used to. It’s not the thoughtful pause or the distracted one that Billy knows so well. Instead, he’d rather say it’s appalled. Disgust. Shock. Whatever.

Billy’s hot under the collar and not in the way he was an hour ago and he wants to shrink into himself, wants to lay his fists into his skin until he reverberates into nothingness, wants to disappear.

Steve steps forward. He wasn’t far from Billy when he first noticed him, although the coldness of his face made him feel like there were miles between them. But when Steve crowds him in milliseconds, Billy has to realize how close Steve always is, how he’s always close to Billy, that he’s always in his proximity. Within two strides, Steve is reaching for his face, his hands as gentle as they had been almost two weeks ago when he had noticed the mark of his father’s ring. His hand lays ever so gently against Billy’s right cheek and he can’t help but lean into it.

They never talked about it. Never had the chance to. Billy made sure of it.

At this point, Billy was sure that he was ready to burst and bleed like a blistering tomato, ripe and perfect for the picking. Steve just had to ask. He knew how he looked. He never sneaked a peak at his face; he couldn’t bear it. But, he saw how Susan couldn’t meet his eye for three whole days, until the swelling of his eye went down enough and he could open it and see without problem. He saw how Max had looked at him, shock tainting every peek. He knew his past. He knew enough about himself and Neil to imagine how he looked. He didn’t need to see it to confirm it.

Steve’s hand against his cheek confirms it all.

“Billy,” He says and it's the first time Billy has ever heard his first name uttered by the brunet. It’s reverent, almost. Soothing and loaded with so much more than can be uttered in a single word.

His other hand comes up to mirror the one on Billy’s right cheek. He holds Billy in his touch, roots him. Makes him look into the brown eyes before him, the ones he had been avoiding. He sees concern, fear, and something akin to understanding swirl in those depths.

Steve takes a deep breath, makes a sigh that sounds pained and leans his head in to learn against Billy’s forehead. Billy watches Steve as he stares down, watches his eyelids as they flick from here and there, as his brain rackets up something to say.

When Steve finally meets Billy’s eyes, the fear is gone. Instead, blind anger, the kind that Billy has only seen in his own eyes, spins into his focus.

“This wasn’t all Tommy, wasn’t it?”

It’s a cool anger, Billy realizes. It’s the opposite of his father’s, where he goes molten and bubbles, burning all who get close. With Steve, his anger is cold, burning in a way that Billy has only heard or read about in books, how the freeze burns when it takes hold. He hasn’t experienced a true snow yet, but he’s heard about sticking a hand in the snow, how it gets so cold that it gets hot.

That’s how Harrington goes. It’s slow to come, slow to burn, but it comes out of nowhere if you’re not looking for the signs. Suddenly, the palms spread out against Billy’s cheeks turn into clenched fists and his jaw shifts and his eyes go dark.

It unsettles Billy. It’s attractive-- he won’t lie about that--, but Billy doesn’t know if he’ll ever be okay around anger, doesn’ t know if he’ll ever be okay without a flinch when it comes around. Doesn’t know how to feel about the whiplash of it when Steve abruptly turns from him, when he stalks away and into a different room.

It takes Billy a moment to follow him. When he enters the kitchen, he sees Steve throwing bags of something onto the counter next to towels. Two towels. He wraps the towels around the packages of frozen peas and cauliflower and turns towards Billy. He takes one of them and presses ever so slightly to his face, to the left side where it’s worse, the side where his eye swelled shut.

He can feel the way Steve breathes. It’s faster than it should be, all through his nose. Angry. Livid. It sets Billy on edge.

Steve backs away for a moment with the icepack, as if he saw the widening of Billy’s eyes. He rests the two ice packs on the counter and braces himself against it. It looks like it pains him, whatever is plaguing him. He takes a handful of deep breaths, counts to ten. Billy just stands there, dumbly waiting for the brunet at the edge of the island in the kitchen, waiting for the boy who he said he could bench, the one he was hoping to...he doesn’t even know anymore. Maybe he was wrong.

“Was it?” Steve asks again, tone harsher. His eyes flick up to Billy’s and knocks the oxygen out of his chest. They’re murderous. Ready to kill. But yet, they’re not the oily and malicious kind of way that his father gets. It makes him stiffen. Makes him grab the bags of whatever from Steve. Makes him lift up his shift and press the cool to his skin on his sides, to let it soothe the skin there, despite the choked down cry of alarm that erupts from Steve’s throat.

“Answer me, Billy.” He says Billy’s name again, akin to a prayer, and it’s his undoing. The knot in his throat unravels and he finds the words to speak, feels the burgeoning press of truth at the root of his tongue, the same cold sweat he finds right before he vomits up liquor and regret on the weekends. He swallows it down instead. Doesn’t know how to say it better than to shake his head, to say a simple yes to the most daunting question of his whole life.

The pained noise that comes from Steve is a dagger in his side. Billy closes his eyes and pretends that he’s not blinking away tears, like he isn’t confronting his worst fear at this moment, that he’s never let anyone close enough to even consider the source of his marks.

He keeps the packs against his tender sides. Keeps his eyes closed, even though he feels tears leave his lashes and streak down his cheek. He flinches when Steve’s hands return to their place, gentle and reassuring against his cheeks. He doesn’t open his eyes, only knows that they’re Steve’s by the gentle shushing that follows his flinch. He feels Steve’s forehead press against his and still keeps his eyes closed. Doesn’t know what will happen if he meets those bambi eyes.

“Can,” Steve starts. His voice catches and he clears his throat. “Can I please take care of you?”

Billy stills and Steve responds the same.

“Please, sweetheart,” And Billy melts in his hands, “I just want to tend to your wounds.”

***

They’re a couple days old, but it still feels nice to have butterfly bandages placed where his lip keeps splitting and where his eyebrow keeps leaking blood into his left eye. The bruises get ice, blanketed by towels to save his skin from damage, despite some of them already starting to get the mending-kind-of-sore to them.

Billy doesn’t even try to argue with Steve. Lets him manhandle him into a bathroom in a way that mirrors the clinical intimacy of Neil and Susan’s dates. It’s efficiency, not affection. But as each butterfly bandage is placed, it feels like a kiss and Billy can’t help but wish that he could let out the noises he needs to, how each gentle touch feels like a caress.

Instead, Billy settles his sights on his feet. He lets himself dissociate, as he often does when Neil comes into the picture. He doesn’t know how to be cared for, so he lets himself turn into a ragdoll and lets Steve do all of the work. He lifts his arm when he’s told to and helps Steve place bandages when he’s asked, but otherwise, he’s off in another world, unable to find a footing among the carpet flooring of the Harrington house.

“Hey,” he hears, almost underwater, almost dreamlike, “You still here with me, darling?”

That shifts Billy back into his body. He blinks up at Steve. Realizes his face is stiff with more bandages he thinks he’s ever put on his body. Steve smiles at him, soft and gentle; it’s almost mournful.

“Wasn’t I supposed to lift you, Pretty Boy?” It’s a good attempt, but the tone that he keeps bottled up for these kinds of comments falls flat and Steve’s smile sours. Billy’s heart plummets and he wants to scramble up and leave, take all of his broken parts and run, even if all of the gears still churn oddly against each other.

Steve’s hand, large and warm on his shoulder, holds him down. “I think you need some rest.”

Billy can’t help but agree. He’s fucking exhausted. Steve’s smile returns a bit when he seems to sag into his hand.

“I can’t stay,” Billy explains. He’s too tired to get rigid, to shrug off the kindness and run away. To bark and foam. He’s a wild mutt, but maybe he doesn’t have to be rabid. Maybe he doesn’t have to bark.

“How long can you stay?”

“I have to wake at 6.”

“Okay,” Steve thinks. “I’ll wake you and drive you back. I have a really nice mattress and you need to sleep.”

Billy laughs. He can’t help it. Steve chuckles at it too, laughing at how incredulous it is. Then he quiets, looking at Billy and taking him in with an unreadable face.

“Stay here, Billy.”

Goddammit. Billy’s become a slave to whatever Steve wants whenever he uses that. Can’t handle how his name sounds coming out of his mouth.

“Okay,” Billy agrees. “Only if you can wake me.”

He walks up to Steve then. Enters his space. He doesn’t dare touch. Will let Steve touch, but treats Steve like he’s the MoMA. Look but can’t touch.

“He won’t like it if I’m late,” Billy says. He never told Steve about Neil. He doesn’t know if Max did. But, the way that Steve sucks in his breath-- like it’s piercing and sharp, like he also has two fractured ribs like Billy-- makes him think that he knows, that he understands.

***

He gives Billy his room.

“It’s the best bed of the house, besides my parents’. But I feel weird giving you that one.”

Billy’s abandoned the two makeshift ice packs on Steve’s desk. He pulls his shirt over his head, revealing the black and purple sides that match a size 11 work boot. Steve sucks in a breath through his teeth and Billy literally cannot be assed. Steve gave him some of his mom’s nice pain pills so the hurt of each movement of his body is dulled. It’s there, for sure, but it’s not as sharp as it had been.

“You want a show, Pretty Boy?” Billy purrs, loose in the way he’d feel like when he’s had about six fingers of Papa Harrington’s finest. Steve wouldn’t let him tap into the liquor cabinet today, only because of the meds. What a mother. He understands Max’s disdain now. Perhaps tomorrow he could weedle some of the good stuff out of Harrington. Until then, he’s content with watching King Steve fluster a beautiful color, his red going well past his collar.

“I’ve seen you naked, sweetheart,” Steve says. The words are more rigid than usual. Huh.

“So you don’t want a private show?” At this Harrington laughs. Usually, this laughter has Billy’s blood singing, has his pulse thumping because “oh wow, he got Harrington to laugh?” but Steve isn’t laughing. His words and noises are curt and it’s cold against Billy’s skin as he follows Harrington up the stairs.

When he enters Steve’s room, silence permeates the air. He always imagined that seeing Steve’s room would be a product of passion, lust, and two young libidos. He never thought about seeing it in a casual view. Steve stands in the middle of it, almost annoyed as Billy takes it in. If Billy wasn’t more looped out, he’d say Steve looked defensive.

It was a hideous room, Billy will say that. Who in their right mind puts flannel wallpaper on all four walls of a bedroom? He can see that Steve tries to spice it up, how he has many picture frames of all of his friends, a lot of them much younger then him and Billy. He stops when he sees a photo with Maxine in the corner making a silly face that still is the most happy he’s ever seen her. He almost wants to ask Steve if he can keep it.

“Do you want me to turn on the shower?” Billy whips around to face Steve. He’s watching him weird, an unreadable expression on his face. Billy hates it. He feels like he’s intruding, even though he’s allowed to be here. But it seems simple: he’s allowed in Harrington’s room, but not his life.

Billy really thought they were getting somewhere.

“Sure. Show me how it works for fancy folk.” Billy grins at him, using the one he practices. It feels hollow, like when he uses it with the Hawkins girls. Nonetheless, Steve shows him. His long and slender hands operate the gears, left for hot, right for cold. Middle operates the shower shift. It’s easy to figure out; Billy just wanted more of Steve’s attention.

He showers quickly. It burns at his nose and his left eyebrow where it’s still tender. He doesn’t grit through it. Instead, he accepts it and scrubs his body despite the burn. He seethes at the sensation of soap in the two wounds but he’d rather have that than having them get infected.

When he exits the shower with with a towel strung low on his hips, he finds Harrington perched on the bed of his room. He looks deep in thought when Billy enters, taking a whole second to take in the sound of the door and the surge of steam to sense his arrival. He looks up, shocked, like forgot Billy was there at all. He stares at Billy for a long moment, mouth slightly ajar, and Billy knows the bruises along his sides are shocking, but he didn’t expect Harrington to stare.

Steve shakes his head and stands. He rushes over to his dresser and grabs what was on top of it.

“I think the shirt will work. I dunno. Your arms are a lot bigger than mine are.”

He then rushes to the door with a faint, pink tinge to his cheeks. “I’ll go make you something to eat.”

With that, Steve shuts the door with more force than needed. The sharp noise of it shakes Billy from where he’s standing. He dresses with little protest, easier than the days before. The shirt is a little tight, but Billy likes his shirts a little tight. The sweat pants hang low on his hips and he can’t hate the little sliver of skin that shows off the “v” of his hips that he’s worked so hard for. He bunches the ankles twice, unhappy that he’s reminded how he’s only an inch or two shorter than Harrington. Whatever.

***

Harrington makes him a fucking steak.

“My dad brought home a lot. I thought they were too fancy to make and eat alone.”

He makes spoon smashed potatoes too. They’re coated in butter, salt, and garlic and have Billy humming something dangerous when he tastes them.

“Damn, Pretty Boy. This is fucking good. You really know how to butter them up.”

Steve flushes at that. It’s red and starts in his cheeks, spreading down his neck and settling in his chest, underneath the stupid shirt he wears. Billy wants to rip it off with his teeth.

“Seriously, though, Bambi,” Billy continues, “If you haven’t thought of it, maybe you should think of culinary school. Shit’s fantastic.”

Steve stutters over his words. Gets bashful and red in a way that Billy has never seen. Makes him pause where he’s shoveling steak and potato into his mouth to look at Steve next to him at the kitchen table.

“Maybe,” Steve says, and it seems like he’s really considering it.

“My Nonna is Italian. She’s taught me a lot.”

“I’ll send her a fucking thank you card then, Bambi.”

“Darling, she’d love that.”

***

The problems arise after they’re well fed and Billy’s eyes start closing at the dinner table. Steve’s re-bandaged all that he’s needed after the shower and the sleep and the meds are taking him.

“Billy, go to sleep,” Steve says softly, almost fond.

Steve helps Billy upstairs. He helps him to his room, into his bed. Billy sighs deeply as he settles into the cushions.

“But what about you, Pretty Boy?” He manages.

“I’ll sleep in one of the guest rooms.”

“Fuck that,” Billy says from his half-sleep state. “This is your fucking room. I’m no pussy. I can share a bed with you.”

Steve looks at him. Then looks at the floor. Then the ceiling. Then the two walls, left and right. Then back and Billy. There’s no judgement or trepidation in his eyes. Just. Something else that Billy’s too tired to place.

“Plus, what if I break open a scab and bleed all over the place. I might want my doctor.”

Steve huffs out a laugh and Billy gives him one of his devilish grins. He tries to hide how bad he might want Steve’s help, how he needs an excuse for Steve to hold his face again or to use his hands to steady his back to check the bruising of his ribs and confirm the fractures that Billy suspected.

Billy holds his breath as Steve slips under the covers. It’s overwhelming to have the smell of Harrington hit him in the face with every shift on the bed, but having him snuggle into his pillow two feet away from him is a whole different kind of agony. Steve makes little noises as he settles, smushing his face into the pillow and getting comfortable. It’s endearing and kind of hot and Billy’s just lucky enough that his body is too offline for the whole sensation of it to go to his south.

Steve faces Billy when he settles, both of them curled towards the center of the bed. At first, his eyes are closed and Billy has the moment to really catalogue his face. He takes in the softness of his pale skin, the purpling of the bags under his eyes, and memorizes where the moles dot his cheeks. But then he opens his eyes. His brown eyes flit between Billy’s blue ones and just like before, an unreadable expression falls upon Steve’s face. Mainly it’s just open. He takes the time to take in Billy’s face, but in a blatant fashion, unlike the quick glances that Billy was sneaking in. It feels like he looks over each single freckle that dusts Billy’s cheeks and counts every dark eyelash. Billy feels his face burning, knows that he’s flushing red, but he’s comfortable. He’s too tired of his body’s protests and allows himself to have this moment; he can beat himself up about it tomorrow.

Steve lets out a laugh, one that sounds too young, full of a childish glee that doesn't seem to fit his mouth. He pulls the comforter to his nose then, as if to muffle it. His eyes are bright and sparkling as they look into Billy’s eyes and as they move across his face, drawing a red hot line of sight over his features. It makes Billy want to hide his face, to shove his head in the stand and wait it all out and stay there until Steve falls asleep.

Instead, Billy closes his eyes.

He’s close to falling asleep when he feels the bed shift and then the touch of Steve’s hand against his cheek again. His eyes flash open to see Steve’s big brown eyes taking him in. His delighted face is gone now, replaced with eyes swimming with sadness. The weight of his hand startles a breath out of Billy and Steve watches as it parts his lips.

“Billy,” he says. Billy watches as he says it and tries to memorize how his mouth looks when he says his name. Billy nods, unable to speak.

“If he ever lays a hand on you again,” Billy sucks in a breath, “You come to me, okay?”

Blue meets brown and Billy’s vision swims. His breath shakes as he breathes in and it only takes a moment before two arms wrap around him and pull him close.

His tears burn. They’re hot. Molten. Angry. He’s sad for the boy he never got to be and angry for the boy he’s become. He finds himself clinging to Steve, clawing at the shirt on his back. Steve holds him to his chest, laying his cheek against the curls at the top of Billy’s head. He’s whispering things that Billy cannot hear over his sobs. His chest hurts and his throat burns. Steve rubs his hands against his back, up his arms. His fingers trail against the fabric in a gentle way that he never knew existed before.

“I’ve got you, baby,” Billy hears once his breath has started to slow, when he can only hear the thudthudthudthud of Steve’s heart against his ear from where it’s pressed against his chest. “I will take care of you sweetheart. You’re not alone, darling.”

The words drip with a silent venom and the tears return tenfold, but his clinging stops. He lets himself go loose, but Steve continues to hold him close, like he’d float away if he let go. Billy wonders if that would be the better option for the both of them.

Billy keeps his eyes closed, settling in the dark that they allow him. Lets the black take him.

***

His head pounds when he wakes. It’s similar to a hangover, but a little different. The dehydration is the same, tongue heavy and dry, but his stomach doesn’t feel like it’s turning, so that’s good.

But then Steve shifts and Billy realizes that he’s snuggled into Steve Harrington’s chest, that his arms are wrapped tight around his torso and that Steve’s arms are roping him in and his stomach starts doing somersaults. The bile rises in his throat and he quickly shoots up from where he’s laying.

Steve’s eyes fly open and Billy can’t help but wince at it. He seemed so calm and serene. Billy’s not dumb; he knows Steve doesn’t sleep well. Billy’s angry at himself for upsetting a good night’s sleep for Steve. But then he sees the way Steve’s eyes dart away from Billy’s as soon as he realizes the situation they were in. He sees something flicker across his eyes. Shame? Regret? Pity? Billy can’t have it.

The clock reads 5:13am, but that’s enough for him. He gets up without a word. Steve doesn’t stop him, only sits up in bed to watch him. He throws his jacket on, checking for his keys and walks out the door without another look at the other boy. He feels the brown eyes as they burn through to his skin.

He starts his Camaro and peels out of the Harrington driveway feeling as shitty, guilty, and used as he does with all of his Hawkins conquests.

***

Billy keeps himself in his room all day, even though Neil unlatches his door. He only goes out to make Neil's coffee and to drive Max to school. He keeps his sunglasses on. He’s driving along, slower than he usually does, with the radio set low. He doesn’t even realize it’s too low until Max starts talking.

“Did something happen?”

Billy’s jaw sets. He chews on his words.

“Nothing you gotta worry about Maxine,” he replies. Usually, he would lash out at her, spewing whatever hateful and angry comment came to his head, but she’s been trying. She’s been helping him. He wants to be better to her than just her shitty, explosive brother.

He’s too tired to give a proper fuck anyways.

She doesn’t say anything again for the whole ride until he drops her off. She says goodbye to him-- actually lingering with the door open to let the sentence land-- before skating off. It’s new and foreign to him, but he chokes down the way it sits funny in his throat.

He sees the rugrats that she skates over, sees how they notice him and his face, sees how they start talking to Maxine. Billy notices the tension in her shoulders before she relaxes them and he feels bad for her. No one should have to be lying for a piece of shit like him. Especially at her age.

When she leaves the car, it’s too silent. He turns the radio up loud, hoping it will drown out whatever thoughts are in his head. His hands itch against his wheel. Ten to two turns to seven to five and his loose grip on his wheel becomes almost non existent. His car, his rides. They used to bring him freedom; he could drive for days at neck breaking speeds. Now, all he wants to do is return home.

His hands twitch and he wants to turn left on his way home, wants to pull into the parking lot of Hawkins High. Just for a moment, he wants to catch a glimpse of the boy who held him close the night before, the boy who had let him in his bed, the boy who had let him stay. Instead, he grits his teeth so hard that it pulses in his jaw and he pushes down on the gas pedal.

He sees a flash of red and blue for it. Has some gruffy looking cop pull him over. Has him rasp into his space, “Do you know how fast you were going, kid?”

Billy’s grinning at him already, ready to bite back and receive a smack for the pain of it when the cop’s eye’s squint.

“You’re Max’s brother, aren’t you?”

All of the wind goes out of Billy’s sails. Instead, all of the walls come up, faster than they usually do. He can’t meet the cops face, can’t help but swallow over the way his step sister’s name catches in his throat.

“Yeah, what about it?”

“She’s a good kid. I know you’re not far off either.” Billy wants to scoff, but the look in the man’s eyes keeps him from doing so. “I’m Hopp. If you need anything, and I mean anything, gimme a call.”

Billy bites back a retort as the cop gives him a card. It reads “Sheriff Hopper” in big black letters. Billy’s heard about him from Max and from Steve. He’s a good guy. Billy lets him slide by, knowing better than to bad mouth someone who’s not willing to give him a ticket.

“I’ll give you a warning, Hargrove,” Hopp warns. “Seems like it’s an off day for you. Next time I won’t be so lenient, especially in a school zone.”

Billy watches him through his rear view mirror as he gets into his truck.

“Take care, son,” he says as he slowly drives past. Billy sinks into his seat, preferring to shrivel up there than to accept the kindness of a cop. He taps his thumbs against the base of his steering wheel, willing the red hot embarrassment that paints his cheeks to go away. A handful of cars pass him, whizzing by. He knows that he’s the only California plate to be seen in this town, but knows everyone worthy of note is in school right now.

God, he thinks. That’s where I should be. Tommy didn’t even get the same sentence as him, which was complete bullshit. He threw the first punch or whatever, but Tommy had it coming. Harrington even tried to vie for him. Used his big shot daddy’s name or whatever. It made Hargrove feel small, but Steve was trying to keep word from getting back to Neil. Billy doesn’t think Harrington knew the gravity of it all at that moment, but he thinks that the boy is smarter than he lets on. He knew Steve had an understanding of it all, even if he didn’t acknowledge it.

It’s that fact that makes his hands shift as they grip his steering wheel. He’s pulling into the garage and is hesitant. Neil isn’t home; if he parks in the garage, Neil will park behind him and block him in. Yet, it’s all he can do. He has no excuse to not park in the garage. If he comes back later, he’ll hear the reprimand through the sound of Neil’s fists against his sides. Part of him wants it, wants to feel the shock of his skin when the blows hit. Sometimes, he asks for it, eggs it on. The pain of Neil’s ring splitting his skin feels better than whatever thoughts reverberate through his skull.

At least when he has the bruises, he can focus on that pain enough to quiet his brain.

It’s not healthy. He knows that much. He doesn’t need a shrink to tell him that; he can read it in Max’s tense shoulders and in the pinch of Steve’s brows. He finds himself hot when he gets home, temperature heating from shame instead of arousal. He peels his shirt off and throws it against the closed doors of his closet. It creates a whipping noise that he knows Neil would grate him for. It makes his blood sing; the fingers pressing into the purple and blue only making his veins serenade.

…

Billy keeps himself in his room all day, even though Neil unlatches his door. He only goes out to make Neil's coffee and to drive Max to school. He keeps his sunglasses on. He’s driving along, slower than he usually does, with the radio set low. He doesn’t even realize it’s too low until Max starts talking. 

“Did something happen?”

Billy’s jaw sets. He chews on his words. 

“Nothing you gotta worry about Maxine,” he replies. Usually, he would lash out at her, spewing whatever hateful and angry comment came to his head, but she’s been trying. She’s been helping him. He wants to be better to her than just her shitty, explosive brother.

He’s too tired to give a proper fuck anyways. 

She doesn’t say anything again for the whole ride until he drops her off. She says goodbye to him-- actually lingering with the door open to let the sentence land-- before skating off. It’s new and foreign to him, but he chokes down the way it sits funny in his throat. 

He sees the rugrats that she skates over, sees how they notice him and his face, sees how they start talking to Maxine. Billy notices the tension in her shoulders before she relaxes them and he feels bad for her. No one should have to be lying for a piece of shit like him. Especially at her age. 

When she leaves the car, it’s too silent. He turns the radio up loud, hoping it will drown out whatever thoughts are in his head. His hands itch against his wheel. Ten to two turns to seven to five and his loose grip on his wheel becomes almost non existent. His car, his rides. They  used to bring him freedom; he could drive for days at neck breaking speeds. Now, all he wants to do is return home. 

His hands twitch and he wants to turn left on his way home, wants to pull into the parking lot of Hawkins High. Just for a moment, he wants to catch a glimpse of the boy who held him close the night before, the boy who had let him in his bed, the boy who had let him stay. Instead, he grits his teeth so hard that it pulses in his jaw and he pushes down on the gas pedal. 

He sees a flash of red and blue for it. Has some gruffy looking cop pull him over. Has him rasp into his space, “Do you know how fast you were going, kid?” 

Billy’s grinning at him already, ready to bite back and receive a smack for the pain of it when the cop’s eye’s squint.

“You’re Max’s brother, aren’t you?” 

All of the wind goes out of Billy’s sails. Instead, all of the walls come up, faster than they usually do. He can’t meet the cops face, can’t help but swallow over the way his step sister’s name catches in his throat. 

“Yeah, what about it?”

“She’s a good kid. I know you’re not far off either.” Billy wants to scoff, but the look in the man’s eyes keeps him from doing so. “I’m Hopp. If you need anything, and I mean anything, gimme a call.”

Billy bites back a retort as the cop gives him a card. It reads “Sheriff Hopper” in big black letters. Billy’s heard about him from Max and from Steve. He’s a good guy. Billy lets him slide by, knowing better than to bad mouth someone who’s not willing to give him a ticket.

“I’ll give you a warning, Hargrove,” Hopp warns. “Seems like it’s an off day for you. Next time I won’t be so lenient, especially in a school zone.”

Billy watches him through his rear view mirror as he gets into his truck. 

“Take care, son,” he says as he slowly drives past. Billy sinks into his seat, preferring to shrivel up there than to accept the kindness of a cop. He taps his thumbs against the base of his steering wheel, willing the red hot embarrassment that paints his cheeks to go away. A handful of cars pass him, whizzing by. He knows that he’s the only California plate to be seen in this town, but knows everyone worthy of note is in school right now.

God, he thinks. That’s where I should be. Tommy didn’t even get the same sentence as him, which was complete bullshit. He threw the first punch or whatever, but Tommy had it coming. Harrington even tried to vie for him. Used his big shot daddy’s name or whatever. It made Hargrove feel small, but Steve was trying to keep word from getting back to Neil. Billy doesn’t think Harrington knew the gravity of it all at that moment, but he thinks that the boy is smarter than he lets on. He knew Steve had an understanding of it all, even if he didn’t acknowledge it. 

It’s that fact that makes his hands shift as they grip his steering wheel. He’s pulling into the garage and is hesitant. Neil isn’t home; if he parks in the garage, Neil will park behind him and block him in. Yet, it’s all he can do. He has no excuse to not park in the garage. If he comes back later, he’ll hear the reprimand through the sound of Neil’s fists against his sides. Part of him wants it, wants to feel the shock of his skin when the blows hit. Sometimes, he asks for it, eggs it on. The pain of Neil’s ring splitting his skin feels better than whatever thoughts reverberate through his skull. 

At least when he has the bruises, he can focus on that pain enough to quiet his brain. 

It’s not healthy. He knows that much. He doesn’t need a shrink to tell him that; he can read it in Max’s tense shoulders and in the pinch of Steve’s brows. He finds himself hot when he gets home, temperature heating from shame instead of arousal. He peels his shirt off and throws it against the closed doors of his closet. It creates a whipping noise that he knows Neil would grate him for. It makes his blood sing; the fingers pressing into the purple and blue only making his veins serenade.