Work Text:
The winter sun sets early these days, even though Christmas is behind them, and the stillness of the shadows makes Steve think of monsters.
It’s something he noticed on Christmas day, when the lights were blinking in the steady rhythm of a heartbeat and all Steve could think was how much his own heart didn’t seem to slow down anymore. Monsters may not be lurking in the corners, but Steve’s body hasn’t received the message. Everywhere he looks, he’s waiting for the signal—for Dustin to tear up the road on his bike yelling about his cat, for Nancy to open the door with a bandage on her hand and war in her eyes.
It’s exhausting. So, he’s trying this thing now: he does what he wants. He doesn’t wait around for the world to come to him, because that’s all it seems to do these days. From now on, he’s going to go to it. Whatever it is. Steve’s heart aches with wanting, and he is no longer content to sit in indecision.
He drums his fingers on his steering wheel, watching the steady light of the arcade as he steels himself. All newfound resolutions aside, Steve has no fucking idea why he’s doing this. He knows why he’s doing , just not why he’s doing this, of all things. He suspects he’s gone insane; he can even point to the voices in his head that have sent him there. The memory of Max’s hushed whisper to the other kids is echoing round and round in his mind, filling his thoughts until there’s no room for anything else.
Billy didn’t get any presents.
He didn’t get any presents, and he looked sad.
Who the fuck doesn’t get presents on Christmas?
And why does Steve care ? This is Billy Hargrove, resident psycho, who beat Steve’s face in barely a month ago.
Except, Billy tried to apologize. He didn’t get the words out, and the conversation ended in a twisted grimace and something inaudible mumbled under breath tinged with cigarette smoke; but beneath the frustration, Billy’s tone had held something new in it, something delicate and fragile. It sounded more like a snarl than English, but Steve knows, he knows, that Billy was trying to say sorry. The only words Steve caught were something like “your face” and “didn’t deserve that”, and even though Billy stomped off into the night without finishing the sentiment properly, Steve can’t stop thinking about it.
Plus, Steve is trying to do this thing where he does what he wants, these days. And for some reason, he wants to do this.
He looks down at the mixtape clenched in his palm. He didn’t make this for Billy; he didn’t. It’s just…a collection of songs Steve put together a few weeks ago that maybe made him think of a certain tanned, blond boy who needs to learn how to button up his shirts. Steve was never going to give it to him. It just…happened. That Led Zeppelin song about California came on the radio, and Steve kind of liked it anyway but he definitely couldn’t hear it now without thinking of Billy, and then some other songs sort of made it on there because they matched the mood, that was all…
And then the guy had beaten his face in and things had gotten all mixed up. But Steve had thrown the first punch, and it’s not like he hasn’t forgiven people for winning in fights against him before, and…
And he made Billy a fucking mixtape. So what? Maybe now the asshole will learn how to enjoy something that doesn’t make your ears bleed.
Steve throws open his car door and stomps through the light snow to where Billy’s car is idling in front of the arcade. The kids still have ten minutes left before pickup time, but Steve was warned in no uncertain terms not to leave them waiting in the cold, and it looks as though Billy was given the same message.
Billy watches him approach, eyes fixed to Steve’s and expression unreadable. At least Steve doesn’t have to beg; the window winds down as he approaches. Before Steve can rethink all of his life choices, he throws the cassette through the window and even manages to enjoy the three seconds where Billy catches it—reflexively and with ease, of fucking course—and stares at it like he’s never seen a cassette before in his life.
“Harrington,” Billy says slowly, turning the tape over to study the neatly printed track list on the back. “What is this?”
“It’s this fun new invention. You stick it in the magic box and music comes out,” Steve says, because apparently he has a death wish.
Billy’s eyes flash while his eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline—both furious and incredulous in one. “What the fuck did you just say?”
Steve is already walking away. “You might like it. You might not. Throw it out for all I care.”
The car door is opening and Billy is in front of him so fast, Steve doesn't even have time to react. How the hell did he ever think he was getting away that easily?
“Harrington,” Billy says again, his voice low and a little husky. “Why are you giving me a mix tape?”
Because you didn’t get any presents for Christmas.
“Thought you might like it,” Steve says, staring Billy down and silently begging him not to make a big deal out of this. “And…” He lifts one shoulder in an awkward shrug, eyes sliding to the side as he stares at nothing in particular. “I thought we could, I don’t know, start over.”
“Start over?” Billy repeats. There is something strange in his expression. He gestures to his face, palm sweeping across the air in front of it while his eyes remain locked with Steve’s. “What about—”
Steve doesn’t know how to answer that; he’s honestly shocked Billy even brought it up. He’s shocked they got this far without it happening again.
“I don’t know,” he says, because he’s trying this new thing where he does what he wants instead of what he thinks other people want him to do, and right now he wants to be honest.
Blue eyes stare into his, wider and more guileless than he’s ever seen them. Then, the expression shutters closed again, and Steve wonders if he imagined it.
“Sorry about your face,” Billy says, not looking away. He swallows, the movement visible in the stillness of the air. “I shouldn’t have lost it like that.”
Something hot and painful stirs inside Steve’s chest, something he wasn’t aware of until now, and then it melts away. He takes a breath, not sure what he’s going to say or do, just knowing he’s going to do it, but then Billy steps backwards and the moment is gone. Irritation swirls in Steve’s gut, though he isn’t sure who he’s annoyed at: Billy or himself.
Billy lifts the tape up and sort of wiggles it in the air. “Thanks for the tape. Might give it a listen.”
Steve lifts one shoulder again, like he doesn’t really care what Billy does, even though his whole body is alight with warmth and there is a lightness inside him that wasn’t there before. “Whatever.”
Billy snorts, and then the kids are piling out of the arcade and rushing to their cars, chattering at a million miles a minute.
Steve tries to catch Billy’s eye before they leave, but for the first time since Steve met him, Billy can’t seem to look at him.
Maybe this was just stupid, Steve thinks, irritation spiking once more, hot like shame. What was he even trying to achieve?
But then the Camaro pulls out of the parking lot, and Billy isn’t listening to the same wailing guitars that were blasting from his speakers on the way in. Instead, familiar notes croon out of the stereo.
Going to California with an aching in my heart.
The warm feeling in Steve's body grows, bubbling up inside him until he thinks, absurdly, that it might spill over. Like he might finally leave some mark on the world instead of the other way around. Billy glances at him as the Camaro drives past, looking him in the eye at last.
The world holds its breath, and then Billy winks at him, and Steve wonders if maybe he isn’t the only one who wants.