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English
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Part 1 of Harringrove Works
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harringrove for Australia
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Published:
2020-02-23
Completed:
2020-02-29
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7,498
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2/2
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202
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Baby's First Punk Rock Concert

Summary:

Will squeaked, beaming, and bouncing a little on his toes, and yanking his t-shirt taut to show it off. “Cirith Ungol is from the Lord of the Rings! They’re--they’re a band named after a place in Lord of the Rings!”
“I know,” Billy grinned down at him. “On the way to Mordor.”
“I--I like Faramir,” Will bit his lips, swallowing, his eyes searching Billy’s face. “I--I reread all the Faramir parts, I—”
“Everybody likes Faramir,” Billy whispered back, holding his hand under the "QUEER" written on his chest like he was selling his titties on the Price is Right. “I’ve got the book in my car,” he added, clinking his glass into the kid’s water bottle.

Notes:

Chapter 1: Billy finds a lost parcel

Notes:

Despair not, subscribers to my GROWING PILE of WIPs--I'm working on them! This was a gift for the Harringrove for Australia fundraiser!

This story is FINISHED! I will post the second half next week!

I know this is a little different from your prompt, Sky2Fall, but I think I kept the heart of it? I HOPE YOU ENJOY READING IT AS MUCH AS I ENJOYED WRITING IT!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Billy hummed to himself, washing his hands and grinning.  His knees were scuffed from the cement floor, his throat was raw, and he wanted a drink to wash the taste of latex away.  The man in the mirror behind him slid an arm around him and squeezed, licking the sweat off his neck and kissing his ear.  

“You sure you don’t want to leave now,” he whispered, rocking his pelvis against Billy’s ass. 

Billy laughed, elbowing him away.  “Show hasn’t even started.”

“Give me your number,” the guy tried next, and Billy looked him over.  

“Just here for a good time,” Billy told him, leaning in for a kiss as he slid by.

“Have a good night, you’re beautiful!” the guy yelled as he opened the door on the rest of the bar, and Billy’s cheeks heated as he considered heel-turning right back in and letting himself get hauled to some dude’s apartment.  

I can make it a couple weeks, he thought, without hooking up with some random asshole who tells me I’m pretty.  That’s a thing a normal person should be able to do.  

The bar was crowded—everybody wanting to get their drinks before the opening act started—and Billy got jostled into exactly the kind of homophobic dickheads that made trouble at Dicks shows.  He wondered, in the back of his mind, what looks they’d have on their faces when Gary Floyd walked out in drag.  They didn’t like a t-shirt, apparently, from the slurs they were guffawing, and the actual lost child they had braced against the wall was swallowing convulsively, with huge eyes.  The bartender caught Billy’s eye, and jerked her head at the kid. “Go ahead and make another dent on my bar, Billy,” she shouted.

“Hey hey,” Billy said, leaning between their heads, and interrupting their flow of critique of the kid’s t-shirt.  He slid his arms around their shoulders to show them his hands. “—lookie, my knuckles’ve just about healed up from the Nazis I hadta smash into that bar!  Y’know what that means,” he whispered against the ear of the one to his left, who’d gone rigid, staring around at a grim bartender and silent patrons,“—what that means, is,” he told the one on his right, “—my knuckles are itchy.”

They scrambled away, and the kid they’d had cornered took a shaky breath.  

“Freebies on me,” the bartender smacked a beer and a bottled water on the bar next to them, and Billy took a long grateful pull on the beer.  

The kid stared at her, then the beer, then Billy—and Billy tried not to snort his beer as the wide brown eyes followed his throat as he swallowed, then looked over his chest where his shirt was unbuttoned, before blinking back up, red-cheeked, at Billy’s face, and grabbing clumsily for the water.   Of course he’s hot for me, Billy bit back a grin, a middle-schooler who sneaks in to see a band that made J.D.’s Top Ten Homocore hits.  “You, uh, here with a…” Billy trailed off, frowning around, “—a—somebody else?”

The kid’s eyes widened, and then narrowed at Billy, and he nodded.  

“You want me to stick around until they show back up?”

The kid’s eyes narrowed further, and he startled as somebody rattled by on a skateboard, so Billy backed away.  “Stay over here, and that bartender will keep an eye on you,” Billy told him, finishing the last couple swallows of the beer, and waving for another.  

“I won’t let him get drunk—" the bartender yelled over the crowd, pushing back from the bar to run to the other end, and then trotting back over to frown at the actual child Billy had rescued.  "—what are you, twelve?!  The hell did you get in here—”

The kid didn’t look like he was gonna answer the question.  He still held the water bottle with his fingertips, like it might explode as Billy accepted a shot glass from somebody who clapped him on the back.    

“Anyway,” Billy tossed back the shot and shifted, thinking.  His shoes stuck to the floor. “If you need anything.  You want a t-shirt?  I can shove people around.  Get you in to buy a t-shirt.”

The kid flushed even more red, staring at him, and Billy grinned, shaking his head.  

“Okay, well, you know I’m here.  Drink lots of water, okay.  Only gonna get hotter in here.  You got earplugs?”

“Wha?” the kid whispered, clearing his throat.

“Here,” Billy said, slapping some in his hand, “—thank me when you can hear tomorrow.” 

The kid nodded, watching him go, and Billy resisted swaggering, not wanting to be the cause of a child’s dislocated jaw.

 

He was zoned into the music, yelling, when he ran into the girls.  He'd yanked his shirt off and shoved most of it into his back pocket so somebody with “VEGAN DYKE” scrawled across her bared breasts could write “QUEER” across his chest in lipstick.  He'd always looked good in red.

“Hoy Billy!” Kali yelled, and he waved back, chugging enough of his beer to not spill it as he wove through the crowd.  

“Hey,” he shouted back, clinking their drinks together.

Her lips thinned, scanning the crowd, and then she stood on her toes to yell up.  “Where’s the jackass?”

“What?!” he bawled back.

“Your other half?!”

Billy cleared his throat.  “He wasn’t,” he shouted back, then mouthed, then mimed a wedding ring, pulling it off, and tossing it over his shoulder.  

She elbowed him, grinning, and yanked him down by the shoulder.  “You’re better off—BETTER OFF,” she tried to stage-whisper over the crowd, loud as microphone feedback in his ear.  He shoved her off, then registered the kid from earlier staring at him through Kali and El like a pygmy owl through underbrush.  Billy shrugged, waving.  

 

A tattooed Billy Hargrove, feeling the music under colored lights, QUEER written on his chest in lipstick, and WIll Byers in the background with his jaw dropping

Image by the fantabulous GRAVEGROVES

When the set ended, El surveyed the crowd, her hands over her ears.  “Do you need a new boyfriend?" she asked, frowning up like his lack of arm candy made her suspicious.  "Maybe you’ll find a new one here,” she suggested.  “D’you see anyone you think is attractive?  I could—”

“Pretty happy as a free agent, for now,” Billy cut her off, laughing.  “Don’t drag anyone over.”

“I could, though,” she said, squinting.  “What about that one?  He could pick you up, probably, we could ask him to try.”

Billy choked on his beer, and Kali smacked his back.  

“We're not holding try-outs, El.  I think he wants to shop around,” she said, and Billy nodded, eyeing El’s pick.  She knew him better than he thought, apparently—the line of the worn t-shirt that was stretched over the man’s shoulderblades and tucked into his very tight jeans had Billy’s definite attention, and the lipstick he was wearing made something relax between Billy's shoulders.  But the stranger was screaming something at the stage, and waving a clenched fist, and Billy shook his head.

“Want me to see how the front of his jeans look?” El asked, miming a crotch bulge, and even Kali nearly spit her drink, cackling.  

“No, nah,” Billy laughed, grinning down at her.  “Think I’d like to try somebody who doesn’t start out pissed off, this time.”

Kali grimaced, shook her head, and squeezed his arm.

El shrugged, tugging Kali's sleeve, and addressing the kid.  “We’re thirsty.  Oh, this is Will,” she told Billy.

"Keep an eye on him," Kali hissed.  "We're gonna get some water."  She and El cut away through the crowd, and the kid—Will—nodded, glancing up at BIlly with narrowed eyes.

“Me too,” Billy shrugged, glancing over at him, and lighting a cigarette.  “I'm a William, I mean. Billy Hargrove.” 

“Will Byers.  Um, thank you.  For earlier,” the kid said, finally, and Billy nodded, squinting at him through the smoke and dim lighting from the stage.  He had a too-large shirt hanging half off one shoulder, with some kind of calligraphy on it, hard to make out.

“…aren’t you a little young for beer?” Billy asked. 

“I’m thirteen.  Almost fourteen,” the kid shot back, and Billy remembered telling people he was six and three-quarters, and covered a snort. 

“Yeah, sure.  Y’know, when you’re old enough to go to school, they’ll teach you how to count up your age,” he said, dodging Will's swift elbow.  “Nice shirt.  That an elf?”

“…shut up,” the boy frowned down at his shirt, and firmed his little pointy chin, clenching his hands into fists.

Billy shrugged.  “Looks like Lord of the Rings or something.  Elves.”

“It’s Cirith Ungol ,” Will hissed up, scowling.  “I know, not the place for metal, here, those assholes told me—wait, you—you read Lord of the Rings?” 

“Yeah, who knew, I can read,” Billy whispered back, and Will sighed, rolling his eyes.  Billy relented. “I even read the Silmarillion.”

“Really?!”  Will squeaked, beaming, and bouncing a little on his toes, and yanking his t-shirt taut to show it off.  “Cirith Ungol is from the Lord of the Rings!  They’re—they’re a band named after a place in Lord of the Rings!”

“I know,” Billy grinned down at him.  “On the way to Mordor.”

“I—I like Faramir,” Will bit his lips, swallowing, his eyes searching Billy’s face.  “I—I reread all the Faramir parts, I l-love Faramir—”

“Everybody wants Faramir,” Billy whispered back, holding his hand under the QUEER on his chest like he was selling his titties on the Price is Right.  “I’ve got the book in my car,” he added, clinking his glass into the kid’s water bottle, and watching the kid light up like the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center.  “How d’you know El and Kali?” Billy asked, to break the awestruck silence.

“Oh.  My brother’s girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend teaches their little-league team,” Will answered, as though that was a comprehensible thing to say, and Billy choked on his beer.  

“Kali’s in...Little League?” Billy asked, cocking his head, and grinning through the crowd where she'd wandered off.  He tried to imagine her in a baseball cap and white button-up uniform.

“Oh, she’s not any more.  But Kali and El's mom—”

Foster mom, Billy thought, wondering whether Will wasn’t aware, or just didn’t see the difference.

“—she gets everybody who wants into Little League, says kids should get to swing bats around.  Um.  Can—can I—I do want a t-shirt,” he admitted, still beaming that bewildered smile up at Billy like he couldn’t believe he was awake, and Billy covered his grin with his beer.  

“Let’s elbow our way in, then,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.  

 

In the thick of the crowd, and the thick of the smoke, it was hard to get people’s attention, but Billy smacked shoulders, and yelled in the politest way of his people, and once they turned around and saw Will’s determined jaw, and he pointed from his shirt to the merch table, they pushed him onwards, yelling a course open. 

By the time they reached the stage he was travelling with a company of pierced, painted protectors suited for his fantasy novels. He thanked a towering woman in platform combat shoes, a person in a clown suit of indeterminate gender, and a group of men with their arms around each other like they were in a musical football huddle, and they smacked his shoulders.  Will staggered under the force, and giggled, bouncing a little on his toes.

At the table there were shirts for both bands, and Will steepled his fingers before selecting one of each. The crowd around him, now invested, cheered, and he ducked his head, grinning.  There wasn’t a shirt small enough, of course, but Will looked delighted with the two t-shirts he bought, hugging them to his chest and turning to face the tide of humanity, when the other band walked onstage, and introduced themselves as the Big Boys. 

The singer did a spin in his tutu, waving to the audience, and everyone yowled at the first riff of guitar, shouting “Biscuit!” and song names.  Will’s eyes widened as he got shoved back into the table, nearly overturning it, and Billy planted his feet against the press of people, feeling like a herd beast protecting its child from a stampede.  The surrounding punks started yelling—both about Will, and at the musicians, and Billy crouched, patting at his own shoulders.  He tried to yell instructions through the wall of noise, but Will just blinked at him.

Will’s hands were white-knuckled on his haul, and Billy slapped his shoulder to get his attention, pointed to all of him, and then Billy’s own shoulders again, and held his hands out.  After a headcocked moment, Will nodded, and Billy picked him up and plonked him astride Billy’s head. Like that, Will could see, and Billy could dance, as much as anyone could, wedged in the crowd.  Somebody started throwing food—Billy honestly wasn’t sure whether it was the crowd or the band—and the opening riffs of Fun, Fun, Fun started, and Will nearly climbed onto his head. 

The singer whooped, waving, and Will waved back—and the guitarist beckoned him up, grabbing some other fan who’d crawled halfway onto the stage and hauling her up by the belt.  Billy elbowed closer, steadying Will as he climbed on the stage, and the singer introduced himself as Biscuit, grappling Will and a pile of other fans to sing the chorus into the microphone.  

 

The rest of the concert was a blur of adrenaline, as Billy panicked a bit over Will’s choice to crowdsurf to him, but the kid arrived safely, and Billy double-checked that he was wearing the earplugs.  Will climbed back up his shoulders, shouting along with the lyrics, and Billy relaxed into the pounding drums, letting himself be jostled and heated by the music and people roaring around him. 

After the last encore—when most of the audience was still onstage, singing the chorus of Hollywood Swinging for the seven hundredth time, and the Big Boys had yelled their signature “Now y’all go start your own band!”—El ran up and grabbed Billy’s arm, waving to Kali.  

“Couldn’t get to you,” Kali panted, grinning up at Will.

“I got on stage!” Will yelled, and El cheered.

“You don’t have anything written on you,” she told them, pointing out the “ANARCHY!” written across her back, between the straps of her tank top.  “Do you want me to write something on you?  It’s sticky, but I like it.”

“No,” Will giggled.  He let himself drape forward against the back of Billy’s head, heaving a long sigh.  “That was fun, fun, fun.”

Billy caught the momentary relief on Kali’s face, before she smiled.  “Our ride’s probably waiting,” she said, for some reason, to Billy.

El blinked.  “Oh!  Will, have you called Steve?”

“Noooo,” Will snickered, high on adrenaline, and possibly the smoke.  “I still need to call him...”

“Mmmm,” El frowned, glancing at the door.

“I can stay with him,” Billy offered, shrugging.  “Since he, y’know.  He goddamn...lives on my head now.  Climbing monkey.”  Will giggled.

“Oh,” El gasped, wide-eyed, “—Kali.  Steve’s coming to pick Will up.  Steve.  Billy’s going to meet Steve.”

Kali drug her away, muttering about matchmakers, and waved over her shoulder at them.

“Thanks for the ticket, Kali!” Will bawled after them, and Billy snorted, shaking his head, and went to get another bottle of water for both of them.  

“Gotta pee?” he asked his nesting owl, and Will hugged his head.  

“Nuh-uh.”

“Well, I do,” Billy told him.  “You gotta get down sometime.  You can call your ride.”

After a long moment of silence, Will sighed, swinging a leg back over Billy’s shoulder, and he helped manhandle the kid to the ground.

Despite his original plans coming to a queercore concert, Billy hurried in the bathroom, avoiding eye contact, to come out and see Will perusing somebody’s zines.  They were laid out on jackets on the floor with some empty shot glasses. The ladies selling them were half-asleep—probably stoned, Billy gauged, from the red eyes under their skull makeup, and the smell of the smoke—but they smirked goodhumoredly at Will’s questions about who wrote them, and how they were printed (“Photocopied,” one whispered, giggling), and whose pictures and articles were inside. 

“Her poetry’s in there,” the left one leaned to kiss the right one, and Will gaped, again, as he’d done all night, every time somebody did anything queer. He grabbed the zine, scrabbling for his wallet, and glancing up sidelong at Billy. The whole selection was probably pornographically gay, but Billy shrugged, knowing from his own squinting experience that the pictures would be so badly photocopied Will’s imagination would have to do all the work. 

“I’m a dollar short of buying all of them,” Will said, resting his chin on his hands to survey what looked like their own homebrew edition of Queercore, and the latest Dr Smith and JDs , and Billy rolled his eyes and dug out his wallet.  The woman on the left patted her jacket down, and pulled out a blunt—she handed it to the one on the right, who lit up—then tugged at her inside pocket, grinning at Billy.  She yanked at it again.  "I've—I've got Last Rites' Code Blue," she whispered, jerking a cassette free, and waving it upside down, and Will made a soft noise in his throat, reaching for it.

"So do I," Billy leaned to whisper in Will's ear, and handed over the dollar for the zines.  "I'll make you a copy, if you like."

“Thank you,” Will told them, and then beamed up at Billy, who rolled his eyes and helped the kid fold everything up so he could carry it.  “...uh, Steve said, um, he said he could pick me up at the diner.  Around the corner?”

As they wove through the remaining—extremely drunk—crowd, Will grabbed him by the shoulder, and started trying to climb his back again.  Billy piggy-backed him out to the parking lot, which had turned into an impromptu drunken skate park, full of singing.  Somebody'd brought spraypaint, and they were painting skateboards, the smell cutting through the smoke.  Will nearly fell off, staring at the flips, and Billy got his leather jacket out of his motorcycle saddlebag—only to register Will hanging over his shoulder to reach for it like he was in the middle of a religious experience.  

Billy waved it back and forth, and the kid’s head followed.  Billy shivered, sweaty as he was in the night air, but held the jacket up.  “You want to try it?”

“Yeh!” Will squeaked, incoherent.  “Yeh-yes!”

Billy sighed, and hefted his charge towards the diner, grinning to himself at Will’s describing every song as though Billy hadn’t been paying attention.  

“Oh!” Will yelped, smacking his shirts and zines over Billy’s chest just in time for Billy to push at the door.  

“Right,” Billy snorted, remembering the word scrawled across his chest, and finding an empty booth. 

Will interrogated Billy on his order, his music taste, Lord of the Rings, and was just rounding back to hashbrowns or toast—Billy shook his head again, laughing, his stomach if not his brain still entirely full of beer—when a man in a pink polo shirt, smelling of clean laundry, soap, and faint cologne, swung into the booth and grinned at the server.  

“Hashbrowns for me,” he panted.  His sleeved arm was warm against Billy’s sweaty one, and his thigh pressed against Billy’s jeans.

“We can stay?” Will asked, wide-eyed, and Steve cast a sideways glance at Billy.  

“Unless you’ve got somewhere to be.  Steve Harrington.”  He held out a hand, and Billy wiped his hand on his jeans before shaking it.  

“Billy Hargrove,” he replied, realizing his voice was hoarse, and Steve’s eyes sparkled when he smiled.

“I didn’t think you’d even get in,” Steve told Will.  “When you said where it was—”

“Oh, they get shut down all the time,” Billy told him, half-laughing, half-cringing.  “They don’t even have a liquor license.”

“Or a sign,” Will whispered.  “They used to be a gay bar.”

“That they did.”  Billy accepted coffee from the server, who winked at him.

“Billy helped me get t-shirts,” Will told Steve, grabbing one from the pile of leather jacket, t-shirts, and zines next to him.  “He let me sit on his shoulders.”

“Oh, did he?” Steve ran his fingers though his dark hair, missing the part where it stuck up at the back, and Billy’s itched to follow them.  Steve’d be asleep, Will’d explained, in the middle of the night—and now having seen him it was impossible for Billy not to imagine Steve Harrington sprawled across tangled sheets.  Snoring, probably, or possibly grinning, like now, as he listened to this nerdy kid Billy was fairly certain he barely knew.

Will gave Steve a play-by-play on the concert, and Steve laughed when the kid waxed melodramatic about Billy’s rescue.  “He scared them off with his arms,” Will slumped sideways against his pile of clothes, one leg kicking in the air.  “And his tattoos.”

“Sounds pretty heroic,” Steve said, leaning to bump his shoulder against Billy’s, and Billy laughed, biting his lip.  

“He’s all sweaty everywhere because he let me sit on his shoulders the whole time,” Will continued, and Billy let his head thump back against the wall of the booth, staring at the ceiling, and wondering why he had ever been born.

“Oh, I’ve been to concerts,” Steve laughed.  “It’s hot in there.  Particularly if you’re carrying some tiny shithead.”  He grinned over at Billy, then jerked, muttering as Will kicked him under the table.  

Billy grinned back, relaxing a bit.  “You don’t mind a little sweat, Harrington?”

Steve snorted, watching Billy’s mouth.  He met Billy’s eyes as he bit his lip, then let it slide through his teeth, and Billy stared, feeling a dull ache as his fingers dug into his thighs, trying to distract himself from his dick wanting to leap out of his jeans.

Will's voice broke the spell.  “He helped me up on the stage and I got to sing with them—”

“What, really?” Steve looked back at Will, distracted, and Billy took a slow breath, wondering if Steve could possibly be unaware of the letters across his chest.  Wondering whether this preppy Ivy-League looking kid would let Billy suck him off in the bathroom before he drove away, and forgot people like Billy Hargrove existed.

“They, um,” Billy said, swallowing, and trying to remember the question.  “They do that. Big Boys. They get the audience onstage.”  

By the time the food arrived, Will was rambling about Billy’s need to read Farmer Giles of Ham, and the affect of Tolkien on Led Zeppelin—Billy thought, because Steve Harrington kept sitting his coffee down, and unleashing smiles in Billy's direction like guided ballistic missiles. 

Notes:

I actually did a lot of research for this, but here's where I started! Queercore! This is one of a
few similar bars I based the description on! For people interested in the music, you can find SOME recordings of Big Boys and Dicks on youtube, mostly horrible quality, and this is the compilation Billy's absolutely going to remember to copy for Will!

So I lovelovelove hearing from people! Kudos! Short comments! Long comments! Questions! Constructive criticism! Comments as extra kudos! Talk to each other! Talk to me! =D Thank you, thank you for reading this far! XD (I reply to each one, so if you don't want a response to your comment, just say so! I will go be extra-nice to my friends or turn my delighted feelings into more WRITING! =D)

Like my writing? =D Subscribe to the Harringrove without everything else at Unrelated Harringrove Works Series! Follow my writing progress and WIPs on Tumblr at Platypan the writer!

Chapter 2: Billy falls hard

Summary:

Will talks to his new adopted brothers, Steve thinks Billy's motorcycle is nearly as sexy as Billy is, and they fail to set a first date.

Notes:

Major plot points all from original request by Sky2Fall! This is the second of my requests for Harringrove for Australia, gifting fanworks to help raise wildfire aid!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The server sat down plates of pancakes, hashbrowns, and eggs, and Will grabbed the plate of hashbrowns.  He tried to grab Steve’s coffee, and Billy snagged it away.  

The ceramic was too hot against Billy's palms, but Will still had his jacket, so Billy clenched his jaw and squeezed his hands around the mug.  The air conditioning blew around as the door opened, and Billy shivered, and took a sip of the coffee, rather than try and grab his jacket under the table, pull it on, and elbow Steve Harrington in the face. 

Glancing over as he took another swig, he noticed Steve watching him.  Steve skewered a breakfast sausage on his fork, and slid it between his lips.  

Billy scrambled to hold the menu up, hiding his laughter.  With the temptation hidden, he could focus better on Will’s earnestly sleepy monologue, and he leaned around to check the time on the clock on the wall.  

“...it’s nearly four am,” Billy told Steve, after checking twice.  “You really got all night to sit here and talk to me?”  He sat the coffee mug down, and Steve slipped his fingers under Billy’s and slid the mug back towards himself, spinning it in quarter-turns against the table.  

“Can’t think of much better to do.”  He glanced up at Billy’s face, taking a big bite of hashbrowns.  

Billy opened his mouth to say something, probably something incoherent, with Steve's touch still lingering on his fingers, but Will suddenly crumpled up the elf metal shirt he’d been wearing on the table, and buried his face in it.

Steve tried to finish chewing the half-hashbrown he’d shoved in his mouth, frowning at Billy.  He jerked his head at Will, and Billy nodded, reaching out to poke the kid's elbow.  “You tired, monkey?”

“Nooo,” Will mumbled, then raised his head, rubbing his eyes.  “I just—it’s dumb.”

“You’re dumb,” Steve retorted, and Billy elbowed him, and stole the coffee back.  “You—what’s wrong?  You wanna go home?”

“No,” Will took a deep breath, and then rolled his shoulders and lied, “It’s, uh, it’s nothing. It’s fine—”

“Out with it,” Billy growled, grabbing a straw, yanking the end off the paper, and blowing it at him.  Steve snorted and choked himself, and grabbed Billy’s hand to sip at the coffee mug in it.  His lips were warm against Billy's thumb.

Will shook his head, grinning down at the shirt.  “No, it’s—you—you guys are fine.  You—you’re just as—you’re—”  He said, laughing, and took a shaky breath.  “Th-thank you for helping me, um, come here, I’m so—happy—”

“Yeah, you sound real happy,” Billy muttered, crossing his arms, and sticking the straw in his mouth.

“I am!” Will snorted wetly.  He pulled the new Dicks shirt he had on up to rub the edge over his face, and held it hard to his eyes.  

“Thought Billy here showed you a good time,” Steve asked, clearing his throat and washing down his hashbrowns with more coffee.  Billy snorted, coughing.

“He did!  He did, he—” Will protested, sniffling, “—he—he threatened some people.  He beat up Nazis.”  

“What?!”  Steve yelped, wide eyes fastened on Billy, who waved his hands, sinking down in the seat and hunching his shoulders.

“No Nazis!  There were no Nazis!  Some dudes were just hasslin’ him, I went over and cracked my knuckles a little—”

“He saved me,” Will said, swinging his legs out of the booth onto the floor.  “I’m just—I’m just gonna—I’m gonna go pee and—”

Steve kicked a leg up under the table, across Will’s lap.  “Hold up, kid, what’s happening, somebody scare you, or—”

Will just shook his head, biting his lips, and Steve slid out to crouch on the floor in front of him.  

“What’s going on, Byers?”

“I’m sorry,” Will whispered, and Billy squeezed the warm mug tighter.

“Don’t be sorry, just say something, you—you feel sick?”  Steve asked. “I’m just gonna keep guessing.  You break your leg?”  

Will snickered, and Billy caught himself biting back a laugh.

“I didn’t break my leg—”

“Did you fall in love with the singer?”  Steve offered, grinning up.  “That happened to me once—”

“Shut up!”  Will hit him with the t-shirt, laughing, and Steve dodged away to drop back in the seat next to Billy.  

Billy tried not to lean into his warmth.  

“You—you’re really cool,” Will said, still half off the seat, his cheeks reddening, and Steve blinked, before running his fingers through his hair.

“You just noticed?!  Billy knows I’m cool.  Right?”

Billy laughed harder, leaning his head in his hand and smiling back at Steve Harrington.  “Yeah, sure you are.”

“See—?!”

“Everybody thinks Jonathan’s cool but I don’t know if he’d—” Will’s lungs forced a sob in the middle of his sentence, and he pulled his knees up to lean his face in them.

“Nobody thinks Jonathan is cool,” Steve began, “—nobody, okay, he’s definitely lying if he says they do, but—”

“What’s going on, kid?” Billy asked.

“I had two tickets," Will squeaked out around his rebelling vocal chords, "—but I c—I couldn’t—”

“You didn’t ask Jonathan,” Steve hissed, pointing at Will with his fork.  “Did you.  You little liar.  You said you asked Jonathan, and he couldn't—”

“Whoa, whoa—” Billy smacked Steve’s fork-hand, watching Will’s eyes well up, “—hold the phone, who the—who’s Jonathan?”

Steve was sputtering.  “This—this little fink—he said—he told me—”

“I said my brother was too busy to take me to the show, because I didn’t tell him, because I didn’t—I didn’t want him to know what kind of show it was,” Will whispered, swallowing, and Steve deflated.  

“You think your family’ll be pissed?” Billy asked, leaning in.  

“I—I—I think my mom knows,” Will said, his voice catching.  “I—I don’t know what she’ll say if—if she finds out m-my dad’s right about me.”

Just when Billy thought the entire conversation had fallen on him, Steve smacked the table.  “No,” he said, waving the fork again.  “No, no, that—no way.  Your mom—your mom knows your dad’s an asshole.  She wouldn’t—she doesn’t listen to him. He’s not right about anything.  Dads are assholes, okay.”

Will started to giggle, blowing his nose in a napkin, and Billy felt the same urge.  His throat burned, a little, and his eyes stung.  

“Jonathan would probably—he’d probably do it all wrong—or something,” Steve admitted, glancing at Billy, “—he’d—he’d get there and he’d be a fucking nerd, but he’d try, he’d—he’d fall over trying to carry you around for hours—”

“Get trampled to death,” Billy offered, snorting, and Will laughed harder, grabbing more napkins and pressing them to his face.  

“But he'd try," Steve told him, firmly.  "And she—your mom,” Steve said, to be clear, so we don’t think he means the other thousand women in the conversation, Billy thought, biting back a laugh as Steve brandished his fork, “—she loves you so much, she always tells people you’re different, you’re special, we have to be super nice to you or she will end us—”

Will’s head thumped back against the seat as he cackled aloud, wiping his eyes.  “Great, I’m special.”

“I mean—ugh.”  Steve dropped his threatenin’ fork, leaning his face in his hands.

“Might be better than telling everyone you’re normal,” Billy suggested, finishing Steve’s coffee.  “She knows you aren’t normal, and she doesn’t care.”

“Oh, she cares, she was ready to strangle me with a strand of Christmas lights,” Steve groaned.  “I don’t know why—”

“Probably because of his dad,” Billy said, spinning the empty mug on the table to have something to frown at.  “She knows what his dad says, and she thinks being queer ain’t so bad, maybe.  Maybe she’s trying to...fight what your dad says.”

“Dads are such assholes,” Steve growled, grabbing his fork again, and stabbing another sausage.  

Billy laughed, his stomach twisting.  “Dads are assholes.”

“Yours too?”  Will asked, blinking wide owl-eyes at him, and Billy flinched.

“Must be,” Steve reached over and grabbed Billy's hand, taking the mug and smiling to catch the server’s eye.  His grip was warm, and fleeting, and Billy wanted to grab his arm and pull it back over.  “I mean—c'mon—Will—he’s a shitheel to Jonathan too, right?”

“But he’s right about me,” Will's voice dropped to a whisper as the server's boots clunked over to their table to fill the coffee.  

Steve slid it over to Billy.  “Okay, we’re going in circles, you want me to come talk to Jonathan for you?  I can bring my bat.”

Billy, his mouth half full of coffee, tried to swallow and choked, coughing, and Will started snickering again.  

“No!  No!”  He giggled.  “Don’t hurt him!”

“You could talk to him together,” Billy suggested, grabbing a napkin to dab the coffee off his face and chest.  “Or hey, bring him to a concert, I’ll back you up.”  

Steve leaned over to bump their shoulders together, grinning, and grabbed Billy’s hand, holding it out to Will.  “Look at these knuckle callouses, he doesn’t even need a bat.  Take both of us with you.”

Billy pulled his hands back, suddenly wanting to sit on them, and Steve stopped pulling, letting his hand get tugged under the table with Billy’s.  He ran his thumb between Billy’s knuckles, squeezing his hand, and Billy’s shoulders relaxed a little.  

“Will," Steve said, waggling his eyebrows, and dropping his voice to a whisper, "—once we’re done making the Byers see reason, I can call my team up and we can all head over to Billy’s house, meet his asshole dad,” Steve waggled his eyebrows, and Billy snorted a laugh.  It came out kinda wet-sounding.

“Nah, it’s fine."  He cleared his throat.  "I moved out.  Mom—Mom and me.”  

“We’ll be like the Justice League,” Steve grinned between them, and Billy could feel the pink shoulder against his relaxing.  "One of us in front, one in his blind spot—"

“Don’t beat anybody up!”  Will kicked Steve under the table, laughing, and Steve threw a wadded-up napkin at him.

“We’ll just make sure they see reason!  I mean, they love you, but they might just...say something dumb, y’know—need some kneecapping—”

Billy snorted, staring into the coffee, but when he looked up again, Will was staring at his face.  “Oh.”  Billy cleared his throat, adding, “Yeah, if you want more backup. I—I can come.”

"We can give your brother a talking-to in another diner," Steve said, smacking his fist into his hand, and Billy laughed.

“Okay,” Will swallowed, nodding, and blew his nose again.  He took a deep breath.  “—oh—okay.  I can—I think I can maybe—maybe I can do that,” he said, rubbing his forearm across his eyes.  “I, um.  Thanks,” he said, nodding to Steve, then looked at Billy, and lowered his eyes. “...thanks.  Thank you, Billy.”

 

Steve changed the subject back to Jonathan’s elf shirt, and Will started explaining the lyrics to his favorite Cirith Ungol song, trying to half-sing, half-mumble metal songs quietly enough to be polite in a diner.  The server slid the bill under another cup of coffee, and Billy watched the neon OPEN sign flicker, feeling the warmth of Steve against his side.  Will's eyelids drooped as he trailed off and his head fell close enough to the table to bang his face hard into the edge of his water glass, spilling ice water all over himself and the table.  

Steve was immediately half across the table, laughing as he checked him for bruises.  “You have to drink with your mouth,” he told Will, and Will growled, rubbing his face, and dabbing sleepily at his shirt with a napkin.  “You good to drive?”

Billy chewed on the straw, frowning up as he realized Steve’s voice was directed at him.  “Mm?”

“You had enough coffee?   You safe to drive?”

“He wasn’t drunk, Mom,” Will muttered, grabbing his armload of t-shirts, zines, and Billy’s purloined jacket.

“...that what we were waiting for?” Billy asked, abruptly wondering how much whiskey he’d sweated onto Steve Harrington’s polo shirt.

Steve held his thumb and forefinger very slightly apart, grinning at him.  “Only this much.  I can give you a ride, too, if—”

“Nah,” Billy laughed, getting up from the booth, and grabbing Will’s haul.  Will waved a hand at it, and Billy stepped back.  “You gotta give back my jacket, sorry, half-pint.”

“He’s so sleepy he’d drop it anyway,” Steve said, and Will braced his feet, slapping his own face several times, and glowered up at them.

 

Steve paid for their food, and ushered Billy along with them outside.  “Everybody hold hands,” said the vision in preppy pleated pants, like that was a thing adults said to each other.  

Will groaned as Steve Harrington waved his hand, his attention on the walk signal, but Will obediently grabbed it.  

“He coaches Little League Tee Ball too,” Will whispered to Billy.  “They’re babies.”

Billy snorted, and grabbed Will’s other hand, biting back a grin as Will tried to stomp on his foot.  Billy and Steve held their hands in the air as they crossed the road, Will swinging between them, laughing too hard to cuss.  

“Ask—ask for—Steve,” he panted, once they sat his feet back on the ground.  “Steve.  Get his number.”

Billy suddenly registered—again—that he’d probably sweated out a whole six pack of beer, probably had some poured on his head, and his jeans had been kneeling on the floor of a dive bathroom while he gave some stranger a blow job.  He laughed, glancing down at the smeared ‘QUEER’ across his chest in lipstick, and then bared his teeth over at Steve Harrington, in time to see his smile fall.

Steve pulled the pink sweater off his shoulders to tuck under his arm, reached up to touch his hair, and shuffled his feet.  “...sure.  Yeah.  Sure.  Once we get you in the car, maybe I’ll ask him, Will.”

“Wait.  D’you want me to have your number?” Billy asked, yanking Will back towards him, so Will's other hand jerked Steve to a stop, and the kid stared between them with wide eyes and a wider grin.  

“I don’t know,” Steve said with a soft laugh, “—you gonna call it?”

Billy stepped in closer, running his tongue over his front teeth, and biting his lip.  He tried to think of what you did with a number like Harrington’s.  “Uh, dinner?  On Friday?” he asked, watching Steve watch his mouth.

“Yeah,” Steve whispered, brightening.  He nodded way too much, and Billy echoed it, wondering how that had worked.

“No, you can’t,” Will piped up between them, and Billy startled.  “That’s D&D night. Steve.  You said you’d—”

“Come play,” Steve patted his pocket, and pulled out a marker.  “‘Nother kid on my team’s the M&M.”  He stuck the cap in his mouth and yanked it off, then stepped close, running his thumb across Billy’s chest.  “Right here okay?”

“The DM, Steve,” Will huffed.

“Right there is fine,” Billy answered, holding hands with a snickering child, and staring at Steve Harrington’s mouth around the cap of a marker.

“There’s elves and things,” Steve said, muffled by the cap.  “In D&M.  You like elves.” He started writing big even numbers, and Billy tried not to lean into it, or twitch, or giggle.  He wondered if the expression of concentration was how Steve looked writing on a chalkboard, in the locker room in front of his team.

Steve stuck the marker back in the cap in his mouth in a weirdly smooth practiced move, and then licked his lips.  “There’s my car,” he jerked his head.

Billy imagined himself—sober—up to his armpits in engine grease, trying to plan dates.  Harrington probably expected real ones, with—with flowers, he thought wildly.  Dinner reservations at places Billy couldn’t afford.  “You, uh," he muttered.  "...no need for my number?” 

“My kids know you.”  Steve must have squeezed Will’s hand, because he rolled his eyes, groaning, and squeezed Billy’s.  “I can send the whole baseball team to haul you out.”

“Oh my god, just kiss each other,” Will moaned, and Steve yanked his hand free, and smacked him on the back of the head.  

“Hell no, you little blackmailer.  Don’t trust this one,” he said, looking at Will, then Billy. 

“You’re coming Friday, right?” Will asked, ignoring Steve.  "I can help you roll up a character!  You should come early."

“I’m calling,” Billy said.  “So maybe.”

“Or Saturday,” Steve suggested.

“You don’t take a date to watch you coach Little League,” Will hissed, confirming it was a date, and Billy felt a shiver up his spine as he resisted stepping closer.

“Oh.”  Steve grimaced.  “Sorry.  Uh, you want a ride anywhere?  You’re shivering—”

“He has a motorcycle,” Will squeaked, yanking on Steve’s hand, and Steve grinned at Billy.  

“You want a ride to your motorcycle?”

“...yeah,” Billy answered honestly, since he might as well, having already followed them to Steve’s car for no better reason than Steve ordering them all to hold hands, and stick together.  

“Oh!  Shotgun!” Will yelled, then froze.  “No, wait, I want to sit next to Billy.”

“I’ll let you two work that out,” Steve mumbled, flipping through his keys as he went around unlocking doors, and Billy slid in behind the driver’s seat.  He leaned forward as soon as Steve sat down, whispering “Hi, Steve,” in his ear, and Steve yelped with laughter, shoving the seat back.  

Billy squirmed, cackling, and Steve narrowed his eyes and reclined his seat, leaving Billy smushed, flailing any appendage he could, and Will laughing until he cried.  When they pulled up by Billy’s bike, Will clambered out, and Steve released Billy from where he was squashed.  

Billy clambered out and leaned on the passenger door, waiting for Steve Harrington to stand up from where his butt stuck out of the driver’s side while he adjusted his seat back to upright.  Steve stood, realized Billy was leaning a few inches away, and bit his lip in a grin.  He turned to face him, opened his mouth, blinked, and said “—whoa, nice bike, man.”

Billy blinked back, then laughed, stepping away to swing his leg over it and pat the gleaming gas tank.  “1967 Triumph Bonneville. Restored it myself.”  Will frowned between them, then at the motorcycle, and Billy snorted.  “Ever seen The Great Escape?”   Will shook his head, and Billy narrowed his eyes at Steve, who burst out laughing.  “The hell kinda substitute brother are you?!” Billy demanded.

Steve held his hands up, still laughing.  “Guess he needs a new one.  Your bike named McQueen?  Guess we know who little Billy was hangin’ posters of—”

“No!”  Billy shook his head, smirking.  “Nah.  She’s named—she’s Bonnie.  My, uh, my mom taught me to fix engines.  Used to hang out at her garage.  She named her, she’s not long on imagination—”

Steve’s grin quirked, and he opened his mouth, but Will interrupted, waving his arms.

“That was—tonight was so fun,” Will sighed, side-eying Billy, who cocked his head at the kid—Will was even more owlish, half-asleep—before suddenly being wrapped in a tight kid-hug.  “Best night ever,” Will muttered against Billy’s side, and Billy messed up his hair.  

“Say goodbye, concert,” said Steve, leaning against his car, and Billy automatically nodded.

“Goodbye, concert,” he repeated, and Steve bit his lips, reddening.  

Will started to giggle, pulling away from the hug.  “How old are you two.  I’m not saying ‘Goodbye Billy,’ right, you’re calling—”

Billy laughed, met Steve’s eyes, and slowly licked his lips, and Steve snorted.

“Gotta be sometime we can date with no children around,” he said.  “Gotta show you a good time.”

“I’m pretty easy,” Billy admitted, leaning against his bike, and Steve’s brow furrowed, but Will cut in.  

“Good, because he’s really bad at this,” he said, folding his arms.  “Are you two gonna make out?  I’m supposed to tell Nancy and El if Steve—”

“Get in the car,” Steve hissed, pointing.  “In the car, right now.  Little spy, Jesus Christ.”  Once Will was in the passenger seat, and had obeyed Steve’s furious seatbelt mime, Steve stomped over to Billy, pink-cheeked.

“...thanks for taking care of him.  He’s a good kid,” he said, and Billy nodded, watching Steve's mouth.  

“He’s, uh.  He’s got good people watching out for him,” Billy said, shrugging, and watching Will peer at them, unseatbelted, his face pressed against the inside of the window.  It was hard not to imagine what it’d have been like, having had someone like Steve to call, as a thirteen-year-old who stared at the mouths of other boys.  Billy wondered whether he’d have ended up less himself, if he’d had anyone safe to tell.  If he’d had anyone safe at all.  He huffed a laugh, rubbing his face.

“He finds good people,” Steve said, pulling the leather jacket out of Billy’s hands, and maneuvering him into it, leaning so their faces were inches apart.  “There were all kinds of things you coulda been doing tonight, instead of letting him climb on you—”

“Did some of ‘em,” Billy muttered, grimacing, and Steve grabbed his hands and squeezed them.

“You didn’t have to drop everything and make sure some random kid had a good time,” Steve whispered.  

“I—I didn’t want him to—have that night,” Billy told him, shrugging, and glancing at Will.  “—the night people have sometimes when nobody’s…looking out for them.”  He looked at Steve’s lips, and licked his own.

Steve’s smile softened, and he leaned the inch closer to kiss off the beer and sweat of Billy’s night, humming against his mouth.  He grinned, glancing over Billy’s face, and turned away—and then turned back to push Billy back against the motorcycle, kissing him again.  When he pulled back again, he was licking his lips.  “Call me.  Billy Hargrove.”

Billy watched them drive away, his heart pounding.  He leaned his hot face against his cold hand, eying the numbers across his chest in the side mirror of his bike.

Notes:

Headcanons—This is definitely also Billy's mom's job in Strangest. In this, she has her own classic car repair business in Chicago, and he moved in with her in highschool when Neil moved them all to Indiana. El is definitely going to give Billy a fact-filled review of Steve's physique based on observing him in his baseball gear. Steve definitely knows the gamerunner for D&D isn't called the M&M, and he definitely keeps using it anyway, infuriating his flock. Billy pretends to share his confusion. Also, I couldn't use it for a story that takes place at a real concert in 1984, but when Steve suggested they were like the Justice League, some version of Billy definitely said "Okay, Pink Ranger."

Not as much research for this one, but if you're curious about the motorcycle, the Triumph Bonneville was used by Motorcycle Hall of Fame and Stuntman Hall of Fame Bud Ekins. He taught Steve McQueen, Paul Newman, and CLint Eastwood to ride motorcycles. It's also a model that can be assembled from mostly new parts (apparently--I don't know anything about motorcycles, okay), so it's a good, inexpensive project for Angry Teen Billy. His mechanic mom chose well!

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