Chapter Text
The text stays ignored for two days until Steve finally looks at it. He doesn’t talk to his mom much these days, and she doesn’t try and talk to him either. Not since he told her he’d rather go to college in a city where he doesn’t know anyone than stay in a state that just reminds him how lonely he is. How alone he is.
He’s never mentioned the part about never feeling like he could actually be himself, but he’s pretty sure that’s better left unsaid anyway.
Hi, Steven. It’s been a while. I hope you’re doing well. How’s California treating you? Your father and I are hosting a Christmas party and we wanted to invite you to come over for your break. Please let me know if you can make it. You’re always welcome here.
Steve’s thumb hovers over his keyboard. He reads the text again, and again and again, until the words start to blur together. He hadn’t expected anything different, but it’s still a little disappointing. It still leaves him feeling a little empty. There’s no sincerity in the text, but that’s never been a defining trait of the Harrington family. The last time they had a real Christmas dinner, just the three of them, Steve was nine.
He sighs, stares at the screen, glaringly bright, and puts his phone face-down on his desk. He doesn’t know what to text back, doesn’t even know if he wants to spend Christmas with his parents. He didn’t go back last year, and they never asked. Besides, Billy’s probably going to stay in California. Steve would feel rude leaving him behind.
He can’t bring himself to admit he’d also feel lonely in Indiana without Billy. Like a part of him would be missing, and it wouldn’t feel quite right; just him and his parents and his big, vacant house.
Steve ignores the cold, twisting, familiar gnawing at his gut - guilt, regret, anxiety, something uncomfortably delicate he’s not willing to name yet - and turns his attention back to his laptop with a sigh. He’ll deal with the text later, when its implications don’t sit so heavy on his mind.
Right now, though, he has more important things to worry about. His paper isn’t going to write itself.
Steve hadn’t originally wanted to be Billy’s roommate, but back when he was packing his things and moving to a state he’d never been in before, he figured it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. It might be nice, he reasoned, to share a dorm with someone he at least knew. Might be easier than rooming with a stranger.
Billy isn’t the roommate Steve had expected him to be. He’s organized and meticulous, and he does most of his chores without complaints. Over the year they’ve lived together, Steve’s learned that Billy prefers cooking over doing laundry, he has a pretty shit taste in posters, and he likes hogging blankets. They get along considerably well, actually; better than he would’ve thought possible. Billy doesn’t really seem to understand what privacy is - and Steve stopped caring about Billy barging in on him while he’s showering anyway - but at least he doesn’t steal any of Steve’s things.
They have a nice, domestic routine, and it’s good. Billy cooks breakfast, and on the odd days when he leaves before Steve, he puts the leftovers in the fridge. Steve always makes sure to get a bag of Starbursts when he buys groceries, mostly because it’s Billy’s favourite, but also because it’s usually a good way to win his forgiveness after an argument. They stay in most Fridays, even though they get a lot of invites to parties, and watch Netflix on their shared account, and neither of them ever mention the times Billy tucks Steve into bed when he crashes after a long, tiring day.
And somehow, somewhere along the way, Steve just… fell in love.
He doesn’t remember when it happened, what he was doing when he realized it. Maybe it was the day Billy took him to the beach and they kept trying to build sandcastles, and Billy kept laughing and putting his arm around Steve’s shoulder, and he looked like he was born to be framed by sunlight. Maybe it was the first time Steve pulled a successful all-nighter, during a cold week in late September, and Billy had showed up at the library with coffee and a blanket and donuts he stole from the dining hall. Or maybe Steve has always been in love with Billy Hargrove, and he just never knew.
Steve has a habit of falling in love with people too quickly, he’s well aware. Carol back in first grade, and then John Stamos when he was thirteen. Nancy. Billy. And, god, he really can’t screw this one up. They only just became friends last year, only just started getting comfortable with each other, but there’s still fragile tension between them, and Steve’s so, so afraid of ruining what they have.
He tries not to think about being in love with Billy. He’s gotten pretty good at that.
By the time Billy gets back to the apartment, Steve’s stopped working on his paper and moved on to watching compilations of vines he knows by heart. He’s too exhausted to focus on the textbook he has to read; besides, he’s still a week ahead of schedule, so he has time, if he feels like procrastinating. Which he does.
“Hey, princess, you home?” Billy calls out, kicking the front door shut. “I brought dinner.”
Steve waves in half-hearted acknowledgement as he shuffles into the living room, ignores the way his stomach flips when Billy smiles at him.
“Where else would I be?” He grumbles.
Steve wrinkles his nose; the shirt he’s wearing, which he’s now pretty sure isn’t even his, smells like sweat and Billy’s cologne. He should change, probably. But it’s more comfortable than half the stuff he owns, and anyway, Billy won’t care. He never does, whenever Steve accidentally wears one of his shirts, which happens embarrassingly often.
“Why would I know?” Billy asks, flashing him a shit-eating grin. “Maybe out with Robin. You spend a lot of time with her.”
“Well, she’s gay and you know that, so don’t get the wrong idea,” Steve says. Billy looks at him curiously, head tilted. His tongue darts out to lick his lips. Shit. Steve doesn’t know why he said that. He swallows thickly and clears his throat, nods at the ambiguous paper bag on the coffee table. “What’s that?”
Billy keeps looking at him with that weird, unreadable expression, but he doesn’t comment on the sudden change of topic. “Tacos,” he says, dumping out the contents of the bag. “I didn’t feel like cooking tonight, so. They’re authentic, not that Taco Bell shit you like so much.”
Steve shrugs. It doesn’t really matter to him where his tacos came from as much as Billy seems to think. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Billy says. He tosses a foil-wrapped taco on Steve’s lap and settles beside him on the couch, kicks his feet up on the table. “But you owe me a round of shots and like four coffees. Food isn’t cheap, you know.”
Steve laughs, and bits of lettuce fall out of his mouth, but he can’t find it in himself to care. “Yeah, okay.”
They argue over what to watch for half an hour, eventually settling on Riverdale , the one show they both like to make fun of. Steve only puts up with it because of Billy’s commentary; he snakes a hand around Steve’s shoulders, leans in close, and whispers whatever he’s thinking. Sometimes, Steve ends up with his head tucked against Billy’s chest, and Billy has one hand fidgeting with the hem of his shirt and the other gently carding through his hair. It’s cozy and familiar and dreamily domestic, and Steve likes to pretend it’s normal. That friends act the way they do. He knows, though, that one day he won’t be able to do all this; Billy will find a nice girl, and he’ll cuddle with her when they watch Netflix, and eventually he’ll move out. And he’ll stop touching Steve like-
Steve is startled out of his train of thought by Billy’s warm hand tracing circles on his waist, where his shirt rode up. It almost makes him forget about the inevitable future.
“Do you see this shit?” Billy gestures at the tv screen. Betty Cooper is currently performing a terrible strip tease to a laughable cover of Mad World . “God, her fucking mom ’s there. That’s fucking nasty.” He pauses, wrinkles his nose. “I could do way better.”
Steve snorts. “ You ? You don’t have enough patience to do a proper strip tease.”
Billy laughs, and his hand stills on Steve’s waist. It’s so, so intimate. “You’d be surprised, pretty boy. I’ll show you my moves some time.”
Steve’s breath catches in his throat; his heart starts pounding, so loud he’s sure Billy can feel it. He feels like there’s something in what Billy said that he didn’t quite get, something subtle embedded in his words. An unspoken possibility. There’s electricity in the air, on Steve’s tongue, in Billy’s fingers. His touch is intoxicating.
“Is that Jughead’s dad !?” Billy asks, gasping dramatically.
And just like that, it’s almost as if Billy hadn’t just offered to give Steve a strip tease. Steve pushes the thought to the back of his mind and tries to focus on the show, on its shitty dialogue and the small town that feels so close to home. And if he leans into Billy’s touch, if he imagines that Billy’s tracing I love you onto his skin over and over again, no one else has to know.
Steve gets another text from his mom in mid-November. He knows he probably shouldn't ignore it, that it'd be nice to at least reply, but he doesn't really have anything to say. He doesn't even know if he wants to go to their Christmas party.
Steven, let me know if you can come and when you'll be here. The Williamsons will be at the party with their daughter.
Of course his mom has to bring that up. She's been trying to set Steve up with Stacy Williamson for years, even though neither of them has ever shown much interest in the other. Stacy's nice, at least. She has a good sense of humour.
Steve types out a reply and immediately deletes it. He doesn't want to get his mom's hopes up, but he would also feel bad if he just outright said he wasn't coming over. So instead of saying anything, Steve sighs and turns his phone off, and wonders what Billy's Christmas plans are instead.
Steve doesn't even acknowledge Billy when he barges into his room; he just pauses the YouTube video he was watching and swivels around in his chair. He closes his laptop a bit too, just because he doesn’t want to deal with Billy teasing him about his chronic procrastination again.
Billy pops a bubble of gum and sits on Steve's bed, leans against his wall. "Hey, you're going to Shitville for Christmas, right?"
Steve frowns and shrugs. He doesn't really have an answer yet. "Why?"
"Well, cause I'm going, so." Billy waves his hand around vaguely. "If you're not planning on moping around here when literally everyone else is gone, I was thinking. We could, uh, go together?"
His voice is soft, nervous and tense, like he's suggesting something more. Like his question isn't just, do you want to go to Hawkins together? Like it's a confession, quiet and subtle and unmistakably there.
"It'd be convenient," Billy adds. He's looking at Steve expectantly, but he's still a little guarded. "And, uh. Road trips, you know. They're supposed to be fun and shit. Don’t make this a bigger deal than it is, Harrington.”
Steve finds himself smiling; he doesn't bother trying to hide it. Billy narrows his eyes curiously. "Sure," Steve says.
It's that easy, he thinks. That easy and simple, to say yes to anything Billy asks of him. He was actually starting to like the idea of not going home for two weeks, but Billy had asked. Had bared his soul and asked Steve to go on a road trip with him. And there was never a single second where Steve would've said no.
Billy doesn't say anything for a moment, his face unreadable, but then he slowly breaks into a lazy, infectiously happy smile and drums his fingers on Steve's bed. Sometimes, when it’s just the two of them like this, carefree and comfortable, Steve feels himself slip away, forget about the world. Nothing outside his room matters right now; it can’t, not when Billy’s looking at Steve with his bedroom eyes and the promise of something he can’t quite name on his tongue.
All Billy says is: “I’m driving.”
December rolls around with a heavy rainstorm, and instead of going to their respective 8AMs, Steve and Billy spend the whole day watching true crime documentaries and drinking Billy’s legendary hot chocolate. It’s kind of nice, Steve thinks. It leaves him all warm and soft, because he knows that Billy doesn’t let his guard down like this around anyone else. He doesn’t let anyone else see him in his ratty Target sweats and ridiculously patterned socks, doesn’t share his blanket with anyone else, doesn’t let anyone else make special requests for their hot chocolate.
Steve makes a lot of requests - cinnamon, Lucky Charms marshmallows, homemade whipped cream - and Billy always obliges, and it’s a nice feeling, knowing that he has something other people don’t. Knowing that this Billy, who snorts when he laughs and sings softly when he cooks, is all his.
By the time Steve finally gets to packing, it’s the thirteenth, and he’s slowly starting to regret leaving it until the last minute. Because now he has to spend his one free evening hurriedly trying to find clean clothes, or at least things that are vaguely presentable and don’t smell, while Billy follows him around just to provide snarky commentary. Currently, he’s limited to five polo shirts he hasn’t worn since he was seventeen, one pair of old jeans, and a single sock. He doesn’t know where the other half of the pair is, and at this point, he’s given up trying to look for it.
“Thank god you don’t travel,” Billy says, from where’s he’s leaning against Steve’s door frame. He nods at the duffel bag on Steve’s bed. “We’re not going to your fucking kid’s hockey tournament.”
Steve flips him off and continues methodically trying to shove things in the bag. It’s a lot harder than he would’ve thought, but he’s not about to ask for Billy’s help. Even though he knows Billy mostly finished packing two days ago, and that the contents of his suitcase are organized like a fucking flat lay.
“If you’re not going to help, you can just leave,” Steve huffs. He’s considering not wearing underwear until they have to leave, and maybe during the trip too, so he has more to spare.
Billy just keeps talking like he didn’t hear Steve at all. “Also, you pack like a fucking suburban mom.”
Without even asking for permission, Billy dumps out the contents of the duffel bag and starts tossing some of Steve’s clothes away, and Steve can’t find it in himself to care where they land. His room is a big landfill of a mess anyway; a few stray clothes won’t hurt. He watches wordlessly as Billy starts sorting through his designated dirty laundry piles, occasionally finding something that isn’t permanently disgusting and folding it neatly in the bag. It’s so domestic.
“What are you doing?” Steve asks.
He tries to close the bag before any more harm can be done, but Billy grabs his wrist before he can. His grin is predatory and sharp, but not cold. Not hostile, or unnerving, or uncomfortable. Steve could even say it’s playful.
“Reorganizing your bag, you dumb fuck,” Billy says. He doesn’t let go of Steve’s wrist, just presses his fingers harder against his skin. “You do know you’ll be able to do laundry, right? Like, you don’t need to pack only the shit that’s clean?”
Steve blushes and glances down at Billy’s hand. He tries to yank his wrist from Billy’s grip, but he doesn’t budge. “Yeah, okay, I get it, you know more about packing than I do. Big deal. Maybe focus on helping me get this done instead of being an asshole?”
Billy laughs, but he does release Steve’s wrist, so that is a win. Even if he is a little colder now. “Not possible, sweetheart.” Billy laughs, shakes his head. “But I guess I can do this for you.”
Steve lets out a sigh. “I didn’t ask you to-”
“Well, I offered,” Billy says, and Steve can tell by his sharp tone that there’s no point in arguing.
He swivels around in his desk chair, occasionally throwing his pens across his room to see how far they get, as Billy packs his duffel bag in comfortable silence. He’s surprisingly good at it, taking his time to organize Steve’s clothes in neat piles and making sure all the space is put to good use. Steve tries to busy himself with tidying up his desk - he feels a little guilty now, because Billy’s unleashed his inner Marie Kondo and Steve’s room is the definition of messy - but he keeps getting distracted by Billy, who has this habit of sticking his tongue out when he concentrates. Sometimes, Steve wonders if he does it on purpose.
By the time Billy’s satisfied with the contents of Steve’s duffel bag, it’s already late, and Steve can hear loud, thrumming bass from the apartment next door - a sure sign that they’ve got a party under way. And it definitely means he won’t be getting very much sleep.
“Well,” Billy says, dusting his hands on his shirt. “How do you feel about tacos?”
Steve spins around in his chair and says, “We had tacos yesterday. Too much at once.”
“No such thing, pretty boy.” Billy grabs Steve’s denim jacket, haphazardly thrown on his bed, and winks at him before he leaves. “I’m getting your usual,” he calls.
Steve stays in his room after he hears the front door slam shut. He cleans up a little more, still embarrassed about the mess, and then heads to the living room to aimlessly scroll through Netflix. He’s not in the mood to watch Riverdale ’s shitshow, and he has a feeling Billy isn’t either. Tonight seems like more of a Blue Planet night, anyway. Steve’s too nervous about going home for the break; he just needs to waste some time watching something calming and not ridiculously dramatic. He thinks Billy could probably use a distraction too.
Billy comes back twenty minutes later with tacos and bubble tea, from the cafe across the street. He has a habit of getting sidetracked when he goes to get takeout - last week, he “just happened” to stumble across a French bakery on his way home from their favourite Vietnamese place and “accidentally” bought two whole baguettes; this time, it’s bubble tea.
“Please tell me you got the good shit,” Steve says, stretching his hand out for the bag of tacos.
Billy tosses Steve’s jacket on the couch and lets out a mildly annoyed huff. “Harrington, have a little faith,” he says, setting the tea on the coffee table. “This stuff’s the bomb.”
He pushes one of the cups towards Steve and takes his own, casually snaking an arm around Steve’s shoulders. A year ago, he would’ve found Billy’s nonchalant, touchy affection a little weird. Now, he thinks it’s weird if Billy isn’t touching him in some way.
The other great thing about having Billy as a roommate - he always remembers what Steve likes. Steve’s pretty sure they only got bubble tea once, and they were both probably either way too drunk or way too hungover, but somehow, for some reason, Billy remembered that he likes peach best. Just like he knows Steve’s coffee order by heart, and that he has a deep hatred for anything that’s cherry-flavoured. Sometimes, it feels like there’s something else there, something so glaringly obvious that Steve’s missing, but he can never figure it out.
“ Blue Planet ?” Billy asks, absentmindedly chewing on his straw. He has a very noticeable oral fixation; Steve likes to pretend that’s why he’s always staring at his mouth. “What episode are we on?”
Steve clicks on it and says, “ The Deep . The one with all the scary-ass things.”
Billy drums his fingers against Steve’s shoulders, practically bouncing from excitement. When the narration starts, and the screen is just the massive expanse of ocean, Billy leans in close and whispers, “This one’s my fucking favourite.”
Steve already knows that from all the times they’ve rewatched the series; he knows that Billy goes nuts for the squids and the sharks every time, without fail. The Deep was never his favourite episode, mostly because he’s a little afraid of the kinds of weird-ass creatures that live down there, but it’s starting to grow on him. Probably because of the way Billy looks when he sees it, the unadulterated awe in his eyes, how batshit crazy he gets whenever an anglerfish shows up. It’s endearing, and it makes watching the show a little more fun. Steve doesn’t think he’d actually be able to sit through it with anyone else, because no one gets as intense about it as Billy does.
Steve wouldn’t have it any other way, though. The deep dark abyss is a little less scary, a little more bearable, when he’s tucked against Billy’s side.
Steve doesn’t really remember leaving the couch last night, but when he wakes up, he’s in his bed, so he figures Billy must’ve carried him back to his room. The thought leaves him feeling warm and a little fuzzy. He sits up and stretches, adjusts to the bright sunlight streaming through his window, and reluctantly rolls out of bed. The apartment smells like bacon and coffee - Billy must be making breakfast. That’ll always be Steve’s favourite way to wake up.
He finds Billy in the kitchen, as expected, humming under his breath as he sets plates on the table. There’s bacon and pancakes and toast and mugs of steaming, freshly-brewed coffee. Even if Steve wasn’t hungry before, he definitely is now.
“Morning, princess,” Billy says, once he sees him. He’s already dressed: ripped jeans and a white button-up, though Steve supposes he can’t call it that when it’s unbuttoned to his navel.
Steve waves and mumbles out a semi-coherent, “Morning.” He shuffles over to the table and rubs a hand across his face. “What’s up with the four-course meal?”
Billy rolls his eyes and huffs. “I thought you’d know what a proper breakfast is by now, god. You’re hopeless.” He nods at the food in front of Steve. “Eat up. I’m not planning on stopping at every gas station we see.”
They eat breakfast in comfortable silence, and whenever Billy looks down at his plate, Steve sneaks a glance at him, takes in his long eyelashes and artfully messy curls, and the faint dusting of freckles on his nose. Billy catches his eye a few times, but instead of teasing Steve like he usually does, he just offers him a small, soft smile. It speaks volumes, but Steve isn’t sure he fully understands what, exactly, it’s saying. The hopeful part of him wants to believe it’s a hint that Billy has a crush on him too; the rest of him knows it just means Billy doesn’t feel the need to be defensive, to put up a wall around him. That’s a good thing, regardless. Steve will take whatever he can get.
He gets dressed after breakfast, and then they have to leave. They’re already running a little late, anyway. Steve offers to help pack their bags in the Camaro, but Billy’s adamant about doing it himself. He makes up some bullshit excuse about Steve not doing it right - Steve knows he just isn’t good at accepting help. While Billy’s making sure the trunk can close, Steve gets in the passenger’s seat and hooks his phone up to the car, scrolls through Spotify until he finds his playlist. He made it specifically for this road trip, though he’d never tell Billy that. He can’t let on that a lot of the songs are about him.
“Well, we’re good to go,” Billy says, sliding into the driver’s seat. He fixes his rearview mirror and turns to grin at Steve. “You ready to be the family disappointment for two weeks?”
Steve snorts. “Speak for yourself, asshole.”
“I meant it as a compliment. All the best people disappointed their parents.” Billy reaches over to pat Steve’s knee. “And anyway, I’m the family fuck-up . It’s different.”
Steve ignores that. It’s too goddamn early to get into an argument because Billy’s not the screw-up he thinks he is, his father’s just a piece of shit, and no, he’s not just saying that to be nice. “I have a playlist,” he says instead.
Billy glances at his phone and huffs. “You really named it take me to the end of the world ? Don’t tell me it’s all indie.”
“Don’t judge,” Steve mutters, his face heating up. He presses play as Billy backs out of the parking lot, and Bishop Briggs’s voice croons from the speakers. “And it’s all good indie, anyway. Stuff you like too - stop acting like you’re above this.”
Billy raises an eyebrow and looks at him through the mirror. “Stuff I like?”
Steve turns to watch their apartment building disappear from his line of sight. “You know,” he says, waves his hand around for emphasis. “K.Flay and like. Kelsy Karter. There’s maybe one Metallica song, so you can’t even complain.”
Billy laughs. “Aw, that’s so considerate. Did you add it just for me?”
“Shut up and fucking drive, dipshit,” Steve says, only mildly annoyed. He’s not going to admit that yeah, okay, maybe he did add some songs to the playlist because he knows Billy likes them, even if they aren’t what he usually listens to.
Billy bats his eyelashes and says, in a ridiculously high-pitched voice, “Whatever you want, dear.”
Steve just crosses his arms and pointedly stares at the road. They get stuck in a typical Friday morning traffic jam about fifteen minutes into the drive, and by then, any tension from before has faded. Billy’s even quietly singing along to the playlist, tapping his hands on the steering wheel in time with the beat. Steve’s very close to dozing off the whole time - cars make him sleepy if he’s not the driver, and anyway, he didn’t get much sleep last night. He was too anxious about going back to Hawkins. And he knows Billy is too - he’s picked up on his nervous tics by now. Chewing cinnamon gum, smoking more than he usually does, not being able to focus on one thing for too long. He’s jittery, and normally it would drive Steve up the wall, but he gets it. He’d be the same way, if he had to see fucking Neil Hargrove again.
He doesn’t know what it is, exactly, about Neil that makes Billy get all tense and hyper-vigilant, but he knows there’s something . Billy doesn’t really talk about it, and Steve’s not going to pry if he doesn’t want to open up. He’s heard enough stories from Max, anyway, to get a clear idea of just how big an asshole Neil Hargrove is. Just the thought of having to spend Christmas break with him is nauseating. Steve can’t imagine what Billy’s going through.
By the time they’ve reached the highway, and the homey streets of Westwood are far behind, Billy’s calmed down a little, and he doesn’t seem as nervous as he was before. Steve knows that driving helps him, gives him something to do; it’s why he didn’t argue when Billy insisted on driving the whole trip. Besides, not having to drive means he gets more time to nap, which is always a good thing.
Steve looks out the window and sighs, watching the trees and buildings fly past. He hasn’t even been in California for that long, but he’s already going to miss it. It’s different than Hawkins - in a good or bad way, he doesn’t really know - and here, he’s always felt more free to be himself. To explore things he couldn’t back home, to meet people he wouldn’t have ever dreamed of. And the beach - god, he loves the beach. He loves it when Billy drags him along on spur-of-the-moment trips down to El Matador, loves spending hours at Manhattan making up ridiculous stories about the people they see, loves it when Billy tries to teach him how to surf and they just end up getting ice cream.
That’s what Steve’s going to miss most about California, he thinks. The beach, and the way Billy smiles when they’re there.
Billy gasps. “Is that Taylor Swift ?”
“Shut up,” Steve mumbles and flips him off.
Billy laughs, and it’s such a nice sound, Steve can’t find it in himself to stay mad.
They stop at Lytle Creek, and Steve is glad to stretch his legs and breathe in some fresh air. There's snow on the ground, crunching under Billy's Doc Martens, and puddles of icy slush in the parking lot. Billy lights another cigarette the minute he gets out of the car, leans against the hood and squints at something in the distance. He's already gone through a lot of cigarettes in the past two hours; Steve doesn't say anything, because he knows it's just one of those things Billy does when he's nervous. He smokes more. And, anyway, if Steve pointed it out, he'd be a hypocrite - he can't say he doesn't do the same.
"You wanna walk around?" Billy asks. He tilts his head up and blows out smoke, and then crushes his cigarette under his boot.
Steve doesn't really feel like doing much, but he is getting a little tired of sitting, and he knows that if he doesn't stretch now, his legs will cramp. "Yeah, okay."
Billy nods, more to himself than anything else, and Steve has to look away when the sun catches his nose piercing, blinding and bright. Billy pulls on his leather jacket, locks the car, and sets out on the nearby, well-worn path. Steve follows, head down, focusing on the snow and the leaves and not on Billy. It’s a little chilly for his liking; the air leaves a bitter cold in his lungs when he breathes, unfamiliar after months spent basking in the Californian sun. It hasn’t even been that long since he left Indiana, but its harsh winters seem a lifetime away. Like most things about Hawkins. There’s just something about the sprawling expanse of Los Angeles that makes Hawkins feel like a distant dream, something he can't quite remember but can't quite forget.
He doesn’t really mind, though. Not when Billy’s tugging his hand and the sky is blue, blue, blue.
After driving for another hour, silent except for Billy’s incessant drumming on the steering wheel and Steve’s playlist, they stop at a city Steve doesn’t think he’s ever heard of. Barstow, the welcome sign helpfully informs him. It’s kind of pretty out here; Steve thinks, maybe, when he has more time, he’d want to come back.
“Starbucks?” Billy asks, but he’s already parking the car right beside the building, so the question is kind of pointless. “But if you get anything that’s not actually coffee, you’re paying.”
Steve shrugs. He doesn’t really mind - and anyway, if he pays, he can get a cake pop or two. Billy never lets him, says it’s just more unnecessary calories. Whatever. Some people actually want to enjoy their lives.
“Okay,” Steve says. He stretches as he gets out of the car, ignores the way Billy’s eyes immediately go to the strip of exposed skin above his jeans because it doesn’t really mean anything, it’s just Billy being his usual shameless self.
But Billy has this weird look on his face, a frustrated sort of frown, and he’s grinding his jaw like there’s something he wants to say but just can’t get out. He’s been like that a lot lately, now that Steve thinks about it. Always looks like he’s keeping a secret that’s tearing him apart. Steve wants to ask what it is, but he doesn’t want to pry, doesn’t want Billy to think he has bad intentions and get all defensive. Especially not on their road trip-slash-vacation, which is supposed to be nice and fun and light-hearted. Four days to relax before they face their respective hells. So he doesn’t bring it up, and he follows Billy into the Starbucks instead.
The other weird thing: Billy doesn’t even like Starbucks. He talks about it all the goddamn time, never stops complaining about the quality of their coffee and the, quote unquote, “universal grossness” of the caramel frappuccino Steve likes. He says it’s a vomit-inducing kind of sweet, but Steve has never cared much for his opinion because he literally only drinks cold brew. Every time Steve suggests heading to Starbucks - between classes, after the one time Billy came with him to the LGBT club but never went back because everyone got on his nerves - Billy gives him his tired soccer mom look and says, “Steven, what makes you think I want to drink piss?” And this time, oddly enough, it hadn’t even been Steve’s idea in the first place.
“Is there any reason we’re going to Starbucks and not, like, some artsy cafe?” Steve asks. He keeps his gaze on the menu, pretends to be considering his options even though he knows what he’s going to order. Not a caramel frap, because fuck Billy’s teasing, he doesn’t need to deal with that shit right now. He’s going to try the cold brew. Be spontaneous.
“You mean, a place with actually good coffee?” Billy shrugs. “Well firstly, it’s too much of a hassle to look for one, and secondly, caffeine is caffeine, so. Guess you’ll just have to deal with me complaining.”
Steve rolls his eyes to mask the fact that he doesn’t mind at all. He likes listening to Billy’s voice, so he could literally say whatever he wanted and Steve would be content. Not that he’d ever say that, of course.
After they order - a nitro cold brew for Steve, and, unsurprisingly, a venti iced coffee for Billy - Steve’s a little surprised when Billy pulls out his wallet. He thought he was supposed to pay. This totally threw him off his game.
“Uh, what the hell?” Steve asks, blinks until he’s sure he’s not imagining it.
Billy just lets out a sigh and says, “Cold brew still counts as coffee, and I said you’re paying only if you get something that isn’t. You got lucky, pretty boy.”
“I really don’t mind paying, though,” Steve says. He knows he probably comes off as, like, desperate to pay or something, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not that he wants to pay, it’s just- he hadn’t expected Billy to, is all.
“Then next time,” Billy says, handing cash to the barista and flashing her a patented charming smile, “order something that isn’t coffee.”
Steve crosses his arms and huffs. If that’s the game Billy’s going to play, then fine, he’ll bite. He’ll get a fucking Teavana the next time they stop at Starbucks, something that has absolutely no coffee in it. And he’ll get to pay, and the world will make sense again. To be honest, Steve doesn’t even know why it’s so important to him. Maybe he just really likes one-upping Billy. It’s probably because he has a shit ton of money lying around and he wants to put it to good use, like buying things for the boy he has a massive crush on.
“You do know I got cake pops, right?” Steve asks, as they’re waiting for their drinks. “Cause I wasn’t expecting-”
“I know what I fucking paid for, Harrington,” Billy says, rolls his eyes fondly like Steve’s the biggest idiot in the entire world but he’s his idiot, so it’s okay. “And anyway, this is technically a vacation, so I’ll let you get your fucking cake pops. At least tell me you got the good ones.”
That’s Billy’s way of saying he wants one and he’s definitely going to steal it when Steve isn't paying attention.
“Chocolate,” Steve confirms. “And birthday cake.” Billy makes a face. “Don’t give me that look, you haven’t even tried it yet.”
“Yeah, because the only thing that tastes like birthday cake that’s actually good is birthday cake,” Billy says.
Steve blinks at him and says, slowly, “Billy, it’s all the same batter.”
Billy waves his hand around vaguely. “Well, the form it comes in matters, okay? It’s like, strawberry-flavoured shit doesn’t taste nearly as good as real strawberries. Same thing.”
“It’s not even remotely close,” Steve says.
“Same concept , Steven.” Billy shoves Steve’s drink in his hand and abruptly turns to leave. Just like that, their strangely heated argument about birthday cake is over. “Come on, princess, we have places to be.”
Billy does complain about his coffee, as expected, and Steve falls asleep halfway through his tirade. He doesn’t mean to, honestly, but he’s just so tired all of a sudden, so he closes his eyes for five minutes, and the next thing he knows, they’re parked at a Krispy Kreme, and Billy isn’t in the car. Steve figures it’s probably a piss stop - though he wonders why they’re not at a gas station instead of a donut shop - so he stretches, yawns, and closes his eyes again, only to be aggressively jostled awake.
“What?” Steve asks, voice groggy. He rubs his eyes and sighs.
Billy’s leaning over him, blocking all the sunlight. One hand is on Steve’s shoulder, ready to shake him senseless; the other’s holding a bag that looks suspiciously like it’s got food in it. Steve wasn’t even hungry before, but he could always go for a donut.
“You’ve been asleep for like three fucking hours, you know?” Billy says, sounding only mildly irritated. Obviously Steve doesn’t know how long it’s been, because he was asleep. “And I was talking, so that was rude of you.”
“Sorry.” Steve isn’t sorry at all. He doesn’t bother trying to hide it.
Billy huffs and shoves the mysterious food bag into his hands. “Whatever. I got you a donut, I figured you’d be hungry. You should eat, anyway. It’s cake batter.”
Steve is touched that Billy got him something, even though he fell asleep while he was talking and theoretically never needed to know they stopped at a Krispy Kreme. It’s a nice gesture. “I thought you said things that taste like cake but aren’t actually cake are gross?”
“It’s for you, dipshit,” Billy says. “I have good taste.”
“Asshole,” Steve mutters, instead of the thank you on the tip of his tongue.
Billy seems to get what he means. He ruffles Steve’s hair and says, “You’re welcome.”
Steve manages to stay awake until they reach Flagstaff, where Billy’s apparently booked a room for the night. He eats his donut and drinks the remains of his room-temperature cold brew, and passes the time by looking out the window like some angsty emo teenager and listening to his playlist. He hopes Billy isn’t paying too much attention to it, because some of the songs are very obviously about him. He probably should have thought more carefully about what he put on it, but at the time, it hadn’t seemed important. It hadn’t occurred to him that Billy, who’s smarter than he lets on, would listen to sappy love songs like King of Nothing and immediately figure out that Steve’s in love with him. But maybe, he thinks, it’s a good thing; those lyrics can say all the things he’s not brave enough to say himself.
Their motel looks a little worn-down, but it’s good enough for a single night, and it isn’t literally falling down, so Steve isn’t complaining. He stays by the car while Billy checks them in, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. It’s colder than California was; the air is chilly, and there’s way more snow on the ground. Steve thinks about Billy and his unbuttoned shirt, and wonders if he’s cold. He’s never been to Arizona, so he takes the time to look around, try and get a glimpse of any nearby restaurants or cafes or gas stations, because he’s pretty sure Billy’s going to need to fill up before they leave. It reminds him a little of winter back in Hawkins - fluffy, blindingly white snow and evergreen trees and blue skies. His bomber jacket’s a little too thin and it doesn’t block out the wind as much as he’d like, but he’s too tired to search for his coat in the trunk. He’ll just suffer until they get to their room, and then he’ll turn up the heating and wrap himself in a blanket burrito. That’s a good plan.
Steve looks at the motel’s lobby until he sees Billy, who’s probably freezing but, as always, opts to look nice instead of being warm. His jacket is still unzipped and his shirt isn’t buttoned up any more than it was when they left this morning. Steve shakes his head and lets out a quiet laugh.
“So, there’s a tiny problem,” Billy says, fidgeting with the room key. It’s an actual goddamn key. Steve can’t believe this. “Well, it’s not a problem , it’s more of a mix-up, but, um.” He pauses, gives Steve a small smile. “Uh, you see, apparently when I said I wanted a room for two people, they thought I meant, um, like- like we’re dating or some shit, so. Uh. Basically, there’s only one bed.”
Steve’s stomach drops. It’s not that he has a thing against sleeping with Billy, because he doesn’t; they fall asleep together all the time. The problem is, it’s always unintentional, and it’s always on the couch. Except for that one time Steve accidentally fell asleep in Billy’s bed when they were trying to pull an all-nighter, but that doesn’t count. This time, though, it’s intentional. And they’re going to be sharing a bed . On purpose . Like, both of them will be fully conscious and probably sober and they’ll have to sleep on the same bed, with the same blanket, and even if it’s a king size, Steve knows from experience they’ll end up cuddling anyway. Billy’s a cuddler, but he doesn’t like anyone knowing that. Steve knows, though. He fucking knows because they’ve fucking cuddled before. And sure, that makes things a little less awkward, but. It’s still a terrible situation.
Steve cannot believe he’s going to have to share a goddamn bed with Billy fucking Hargrove, and there’s nothing he can do about it.
“Are you sure?” Is all he manages to ask.
Billy nods solemnly. “Yup. I double-checked. It’s the only room they have, anyway. Apparently.”
The motel sure doesn’t look booked-out; the parking lot is practically empty, apart from three other cars and a van with peeling paint.
“Oh,” Steve says, voice quieter than he intended. “Okay. That’s- it’s fine. Right? We sleep together all the time, it’s not… different.”
That came out a lot weirder than he meant it to be, but Billy gets what he’s trying to say. If he can convince Billy that this isn’t a big deal to him, maybe he’ll actually be able to make it through the night and not, like, die of embarrassment.
Billy smiles at him and claps a hand on his shoulder. “You better not kick me, Harrington, or I’m gonna throw you out the window and you can sleep in the parking lot.”
“Pretty sure I’d be dead if you did that,” Steve says, and he can’t help but smile too. It eases his nerves a little.
Billy shrugs and reaches past Steve to open the trunk. “Wouldn’t be my problem until the morning, so. It’s a win-win situation.”
Steve almost considers not helping Billy take their things to their room - 215, on the upper level, because of course they have to use the sketchy-as-all-fuck stairs - but he feels kind of bad about it, so he pushes past Billy’s macho I can do this by myself, I’m such a big strong man attitude and carries his own bag. Billy only looks mildly affronted, but he’s probably secretly glad to have some help.
The stairs, as it turns out, aren’t as unstable and death sentence-y as they look. And the room isn’t half-bad either, minus the fact that they only have one bed. There’s a tv and an armchair and a decent shower, and the walls aren’t some hideous colour. They’re a nice deep blue; Steve actually kind of likes it.
The first thing Billy says when they open the door is, “I call dibs on the bathroom, I gotta piss.” Steve makes a face and throws his bag on the bed; it bounces precariously. The second thing he says is, “I want the left side of the bed.”
“Okay,” Steve says, shrugging. He doesn’t really care which side of the bed he sleeps on, as long as he actually gets some space.
The third thing Billy says, on his way to the bathroom, is, “God, the tv’s not centered, that’s gonna fucking annoy me.”
Steve thinks, fondly, that it wouldn’t feel right if Billy wasn’t pointing out what’s wrong with the room. It makes this place feel more like home.
Billy yells out stupid comments about the layout of the bathroom while he’s pissing and then fixing his hair or whatever, because he always takes so fucking long, but Steve ignores him in favour of unpacking what he needs. His pajamas and a new shirt for tomorrow, and his toothbrush, because maintaining oral hygiene is important. He doesn’t unpack Billy’s things, even though he did consider being nice; he knows Billy gets really pissy if anyone touches his stuff. It’s kind of cute, actually.
“I think my grandma used to have these exact sheets,” Billy says, once he’s finally out of the bathroom. He runs his hand along the edges of the pillow and hums.
Steve looks up from where he’s trying to organize the mess he made of his things. “What? Probably not.”
Billy nods. “Look, I’m telling you, she had the exact same ones. Every time I went over to her house, I used to make forts out of them, until-” He pauses, the words catching in his throat. Steve knows what he was going to say: until his mom left him, until he stopped visiting. “Well, anyway, the soap smells weird and the tiles don’t match up properly. I bet you like the room.”
Steve huffs. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“That you don’t give a fuck about the important things,” Billy says, nonchalantly flopping down on the bed, right on top of all the clothes Steve had laid out. “Aesthetics, you know. The details, the presentability .”
Steve isn’t even sure if that’s a real word, but he’s much too tired to get into that right now. “You watch too much HGTV,” he says instead. “You’re starting to sound like David from Love It or List It .”
This catches Billy’s interest. He leans back on his elbows, blows a tuft of hair out of his face, and pouts. “Are you fucking kidding me? I’m more of a Hilary, you know that. And I don’t watch HGTV that often, I just know what looks good.”
Steve can’t really argue with that - Billy does have Hilary’s good taste and ambition, but he’ll never be as good at dealing with problems as she is. No one is on Hilary Farr’s level, and those are the facts.
“Okay, fine,” he relents. “But at least get off my stuff.”
Billy rolls over and pushes Steve’s clothes away. He folds his hands under his head and sighs. “What do you want for dinner? I was thinking Panda Express, if we find one. I’m in the mood for lo mein.”
“I’m up for anything as long as we eat it here,” Steve says, kicking Billy’s boots away because he’d left them in the middle of the room. “Lo mein sounds good.”
Billy finds a Panda Express ten minutes away from the motel, and he tries to convince Steve that they should just walk there because exercise and like, it’s not even that far, and bullshit along those lines, but Steve isn’t having any of it today. His plan is to do the bare minimum, and he’s sticking to it. If Billy wants to walk, he can walk. Steve can drive. When he suggests that, though, Billy gets this horrified expression, like it’s the worst thing he’s ever heard.
“You? Driving my precious baby?” Billy scoffs. “Not a fucking chance, amigo. I can’t let her get manhandled by some stranger she doesn’t know.”
“I’m not a stranger, and I won’t manhandle your car, Billy, I’m a good driver.” Steve groans and rubs a hand over his face. “Why am I even having this conversation about a fucking car?”
Billy laughs. “Hey, you’re the one who thought I’d actually let you drive. But I guess, if you really don’t want to walk… I’m driving, and that’s final. You can have the extra fortune cookies, if you want.”
That’s a pretty good deal, considering Billy always hogs the fortune cookies whenever they get Chinese takeout, so Steve shakes his hand like it’s a business transaction, and he doesn’t even mind that Billy doesn’t trust him with his car. He gets it, sort of. The Camaro was the first thing Billy ever bought on his own - it represents his freedom, and it was one of the only ways he could express himself in high school. Plus, it is a pretty cool car, and Steve would feel really bad if he did anything to it. One day, though, he hopes Billy will trust him enough to let him drive. He’s working up to it.
They head back to the hotel after they get their food at Panda Express, and Steve gets cozy under the blanket while Billy sets the boxes out. They’re still broke college students, so they decided to split all the food to save money, or something. Steve wasn’t really listening when Billy explained his logic; he’d been too busy thinking about their hands brushing when they reach for the ginger beef at the same time. He’s aware of how hopelessly in love he is, but he can’t help it. He can’t help but melt whenever Billy smiles at him like he does at every girl he’s trying to seduce, can’t help but hope that there’s a small chance it’ll work out.
“Open your mouth,” Billy says, out of the blue. He’s holding a pair of chopsticks.
Steve obediently opens his mouth, and he literally can’t even process what’s happening because Billy’s feeding him noodles. He doesn’t think he was ever meant to compute something like this. What in the actual fuck.
“Why?” Steve asks cautiously, around his mouthful of noodles.
Billy shrugs and says, “They fell on the bed.”
Steve tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite work out. He swallows the noodles that probably have gross germs on them before talking. “Ah, that explains it. For a split second, I thought you were being nice.”
“I was being nice,” Billy says, using the same chopsticks to shove way too much noodles in his own mouth. “I could’ve eaten them myself, but I didn’t. You’re welcome.”
“You’re so fucking nasty,” Steve says, but he’s laughing, and he doesn’t really care about the hotel-bed-noodles anyway.
“That’s why I’m so likeable.” Billy winks at Steve too, which definitely does not help.
Before Steve can say anything to that - not that he can think of what to say, anyway - he turns on the tv and flicks through the channels until he finds Jeopardy . It’s not Steve’s favourite show, but Billy makes it bearable. He’s pretty good at it, too, which doesn’t hurt. Steve knows that Billy doesn’t like people knowing he’s smart, that he pretends the worn books lying around the apartment are actually Steve’s whenever they have people over although everyone knows Steve’s a nursing major and wouldn’t spend his non-existent free time reading Jane Austen, that he brushes off people saying, wow, you’re really smart like it means nothing at all. He has this weird thing about his intelligence, like he’s been raised to believe it’s a bad thing, it’s not manly , that he can’t be smart. Steve wonders if it’s because of his dad - he doesn’t seem like the type of person to praise his son’s book smarts.
So because Steve knows it’s something Billy hates people knowing, he appreciates it all the more that Billy’s comfortable enough around him to actually be his smart self, that he doesn’t try and hide it. When he’s not studying or helping Steve study (the smartass), he’s reading book after book on the couch. Sometimes, he doesn’t put whatever he’s reading away until Steve forcibly removes it from his hands and puts it on the very top shelf, where he knows Billy can’t reach it. Steve’s always finding him in uncomfortable positions, too, sprawled like he’s purposely trying to sprain his neck or something. And Billy loves talking about the books he’s reading, loves watching nerdy documentaries and game shows like Jeopardy , loves dragging Steve to the library with him just to look at all the books he hasn’t gotten to yet and the pretty covers, Harrington!
Steve doesn’t consider himself very smart, but he knows Billy is, and he likes seeing Billy embrace it. He likes that Billy feels like he can be himself around him. It’s probably part of the reason why his crush never died down, why it only keeps growing stronger. Because once he dug below the surface, from the day he first saw Billy sitting on the floor, in the middle of organizing the bookshelf in the living room, completely engulfed in some random novel he’d found - Steve realized that Billy Hargrove wasn’t so bad after all.
“Get off my side of the bed, Jesus,” Billy says, sighing like he’s said this a million times before.
He yanks the blanket from Steve and he lands with a surprised oomph! on the very edge of the bed. When Steve pushes himself up and scoots back over to not fall, he finds that Billy doesn’t even look the slightest bit remorseful for almost maybe causing his death. Sometimes, he really is the most stone-cold bitch Steve’s ever met.
“You’re just gonna end up on my side anyway,” Steve huffs. “We both know that.”
Billy scoffs. He’s not wearing a shirt, because apparently it isn’t too cold for him to be his usual borderline-exhibitionist self. It’s way too distracting. Steve tries his best not to stare at Billy’s perfectly tanned skin and chiseled abs, but it’s hard. It takes a lot more effort than he can spare.
“The cuddling just happens involuntarily, Harrington,” Billy says. “It’s not like hugging you is my endgame.”
“Ouch,” Steve says. He wiggles to get under the 10% of the blanket that isn’t currently on Billy’s side of the bed and then rolls over to face him. From this angle, he has a really nice view. “You could’ve been nicer about that.”
“Being nice is for cowards,” Billy grumbles.
Steve reaches up to pat his bare shoulder. He’s really warm. Maybe that’s why he isn’t as cold as Steve is. “Aw, what a gentleman. Chivalry isn’t dead.”
Billy narrows his eyes at him and says, “If you don’t shut yourself up, I fucking will.”
Steve raises an eyebrow, daring Billy to do just that. And how, exactly, is he intending on shutting him up? With his mouth, perhaps? Is he planning on kissing-
“Turn the tv off if you’re not gonna watch it,” Billy says, abruptly and rudely cutting through Steve’s train of thought. So that’s a no, then. “No one likes Friends anyway, it’s overrated.”
Steve takes that to mean Billy wants to go to sleep, and honestly, it’s pretty late so that isn’t a bad idea. He sighs and reaches across Billy to get the remote, careful not to let his hands linger against his side for too long, and then turns the tv off and shifts so that he has maximum blanket coverage. He knows he’ll probably freeze and wake up in the middle of the night because Billy’s hogging the blankets - he says he doesn’t need them, he gets too hot, but all the evidence points to the contrary - but he’s too lazy to try and bargain with Billy now.
Steve doesn’t know how long they stay like that, curled up on their respective halves of the bed, but the silence and the weird tension between them isn’t doing anything to help him fall asleep. His mind is racing with a million different thoughts, and he can’t focus on any of them. He keeps hearing thuds from the room next door, and there’s some sort of distant whirring noise, like someone has the AC on. And then there’s the light - he’s facing the window, and there’s a fucking bright-ass orange light streaming through the half-closed blinds. If Steve does manage to fall asleep, it’ll be a very long time before that happens.
“Hey, Steve?”
Steve opens his eyes and stares at the window, at that goddamn light, for a moment before rolling over to face Billy. His voice was so small and soft, like he’s insecure, like he was afraid to break the silence. His expression doesn’t do much to ease Steve’s worry, either. He looks pensive, but in that way when he’s thinking about something troubling, or he has bad news to break, or he’s struggling to say something that’s been sitting heavy on his mind.
“What’s up?” Steve asks. He has this urge to squeeze Billy’s hand reassuringly, but he doesn’t.
Billy squirms a little, eyes shifty until they finally settle on Steve. He takes a deep breath and says, “Steve, I-” he hesitates, closes his mouth. “Good night.”
Steve can tell that wasn’t what Billy wanted to tell him, but he doesn’t press it. Whatever it is, it must be big, must be important. When Billy’s ready, he’ll say it, Steve knows that. So he just smiles and reaches under the covers for Billy’s hand, lacing their fingers together.
“Good night,” Steve whispers.
The last thing he sees before he falls asleep is Billy’s gentle smile, bathed in a soft orange glow.