Chapter Text
Everyone at St. John’s Catholic School for Boys knew that Steve Harrington had to buy his way into their elite inner sanctum and Billy Hargrove hated him for it.
For Billy this place was his haven. He loved that this was a boarding school and he could escape his shitty home life. For the longest time he didn’t even have a roommate- until Steve arrived.
The first day this new kid, Harrington, stepped foot into the school he had walked around like he owned the place. In a way he did. His father was paying for a whole new library to secure his place there. Some of the other boys were actually fooled by his demeanor, but Billy wasn’t. It was clear from his responses in class that even with this preparatory academy on his resume he would only make it into a low tier Ivy at best.
That wasn’t something the blond wanted to be associated with. He liked that he was on his way to being valedictorian and all the guys respected him for it. He didn’t have friends- but he was too busy for that anyway. He had to maintain a perfect 4.0 through all his high school years to get a full ride to Harvard. There was no way he could go there without one. Unlike Steve, he was a scholarship student all the way.
“Hey, what’s that you’re working on?” Steve asked when they were in their dorm after dinner one night.
Billy quickly shoved the other boy away. “Nothing. Mind your own business.” He quickly covered up his well-worn Molskine that was filled with original poetry.
“Doesn’t look like nothing to me…” the brunet taunted. “Are you writing love letters to some girl back home?”
This comment was ignored. He was not about to talk to this idiot about his personal life in any way.
“Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll figure it out. I’m a good detective. Like what’s his name…”
“Sherlock Holmes?” Billy rolled his eyes. This boy was stupid.
“Oh yeah, that guy. I’m a regular Sherlock.”
“I’m sure you are.”
This was the most words they had ever spoken to each other at one time. It was not something Billy wanted Steve to get used to.
He gathered up his literature assignment, and notebook just in case, and got ready to head out.
“I hope you’re not going to the library. It’s closed until Monday for renovations,” Steve pointed out smugly.
This guy was making his life miserable. Not only did he have to share his room with him, but he couldn’t even escape to the library.
Without saying a word, Billy sat back down at his small desk. He was going to have to try and drown out Harrington’s endless chatter. Too bad he couldn’t bring his walkman. There were some disadvantages to going to a school with the word “saint” in the name. He’d already had his favorite Led Zeppelin tape confiscated. He couldn’t risk that happening again.
———
Billy’s last remaining oasis, since the library’s completion date was pushed back again, were his classes. Especially his poetry class. They’d reached the unit he’d been waiting for all year: the British Romantics.
Most people only knew Shelley for being the husband of the woman who wrote Frankenstein, but to Billy he was the genius who composed “Ode to the West Wind,” a poem he read every autumn on the front lawn of the school. The leaves in the poem were as vivid as the leaves that swirled in the actual winds all around him.
And then there was Keats. Who wrote of love and melancholy better than him?
“Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!”
He’d never admit it, but this poem spoke to him more deeply than anything Led Zeppelin could ever sing. Weren’t there times when he too longed to just fade away into nothingness?
He settled into his seat with these immortal words still playing through his head. Steve sat next to him, but he was so lost in thought that he didn’t even notice.
“Good morning, class,” their teacher Mr. Robinson announced in his booming voice. “We are beginning our study of the Romantics. And please note that is Romantic with a capital R. There are no teddy bears and chocolates here. Instead we will see descriptions of nature that are both awe inspiring and terrifying like in Coleridge’s ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.’”
As he usually did the literature teacher took a dramatic pause before continuing, “I want us to start off getting to know these poems intimately. So I am pairing you off in groups of two and you will study and analyze a poem of your choice from the poet I assign to you. I also expect a presentation of course.”
Billy crossed his fingers under his desk. There were an uneven number of boys in the class. He might get lucky and be able to work by himself.
“The first pair will study the tragic John Keats. Mr. Hargrove and Mr. Harrington. I’d like you to work together, please.”
It felt like someone had punched him in the gut. He had to live with the asshole now he’d have to do a project with him?
Steve on the other hand looked pleased. “Hey, roomie! We get to work together. Isn’t that cool?”
Billy couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. Maybe the other boy was happy because for once he wouldn’t get a failing grade.
After class Mr. Robinson pulled him aside. “I know it’s not an ideal situation, but Steven really needs to keep his grades up. He’s in danger of… Well I’m sure you understand.”
All he could do was reply, “Yes, sir.” His teacher patted him on the back and smiled.
He left the classroom to head to lunch. Not that he was hungry, but he needed something to do. Plus Steve would be surrounded by admirers who longed for world of public school and most of all… girls. None of that interested Billy at all.