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There’s a splash as the paddle falls overboard.
“Fucking great, Harrington,” Billy says, eyes to the rippling water and fist releasing Steve’s now rumpled shirt as he sits straight again, scooting back. The canoe rocks gently. “That what this is about?”
Steve straightens too, just watching Billy sitting there, dragging his tongue across his lower lip like he’s testing to see if it does anything for Steve or not, Steve swears, those blue eyes hard and calculating—then the tongue retreats and the guy bites his lip, grinning. Like he saw something. Like he knows something.
“You trying to get us stuck out here together so you can have your way with me?” he says through that grin, eyebrows wagging. Gestures to the paddle now four feet away. Now five.
Billy Hargrove doesn’t know fucking anything.
“Like I’d waste the effort on such an easy lay.”
He says it because it’s the next line in the script. It’s what he’s supposed to say. What Steve Harrington is supposed to say to Billy Hargrove when the guy starts talking shit like always. Steve’s eyes, however, rest just over Billy’s shoulder. His words come out distracted. “Don’t flatter yourself, okay sweetheart?”
And it gets the chuckle he was after out of Billy. The familiar script goes unbroken.
It was the fight—the splash of the paddle falling into the water. That’s what brought her out—got her attention. He can feel her watching, though all he can see at this distance is the white moonlight bouncing off her pale face breaking the black water; can't make out any features.
Steve swallows. His resolve cracks and mends and cracks and he doesn’t know if it hardens with each new break or if it’s only growing more brittle. He’d promised her. He’d—
The thing swimming closer isn’t Nance though, is it. Nance is dead. Long dead. It gets close enough for him to see that before it’s gone, slipped silently under the flat black surface.
Waiting.
He feels the stoppered syringe as he digs in the icewater of the cooler and grabs up a beer, throws a wet cold can of the cheap shit to Billy. The top pops and Billy dutifully drinks down a gulp of the stuff but he rests it on his tight-stretched-jean-clad thigh after that one drink with the kind of finality that lets Steve know he ain’t relaxing his guard.
“So why we out here then, hmm?”
“Initiation,” Steve says, punctuating the word with a popped-top crack of his own beer can. “Like I said.”
“Yeah, except that’s bullshit.”
Steve bristles at the word.
Billy scoots down off his little bench and props one of the stupid fucking floating seat pads that’d been in the canoe up behind him. He settles in, comfy, his legs spread out wide touching the canoe sides and his beer can sitting on his buttoned-down exposed toned stomach so that it rises and falls with each breath he takes. Rises and falls marking each one just slow and steady and unbothered and he’s showing off. Like always. The show is as good as asserting his dominance in this little fucking boat. And Steve looks away, scanning the now-still water for reflected white. The fucker is too smart for this shit to work. For this plan to—
Steve should have just brought Tommy. No one’d ever accuse Tommy of being too smart.
“Steve.”
Billy’s eyes catch him when his attention swings involuntarily back at the first-name address. And Billy’s studying him. Always studying him. Always trying to figure him out. Like any asshole that wanted to couldn’t figure Steve out in a second. Like he’s any kind of mystery. Like he’s worth—
He’s King Steve. What the hell more do you need to know?
“What?”
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t give Billy this point. Ever since this asshole got here he’d been gunning for him. Gunning for Steve’s title or whatever. Wants to overthrow him. Isn’t happy to be part of the court like anyone else would be. Thinks he’s better. Than Steve. Than everybody. Like California’s still clinging to him, somehow making him cooler than everyone here. Cooler than Steve. And it pisses Steve off. And he’s sick to death of it. And he’s done with his beer so he reaches for another and his hand brushes the syringe again.
Soon Billy won’t be a problem anymore.
“You got a joint then, since we’re fucking stuck out here?” Billy says.
The way Billy says it seems off, rushed or something, but Steve’s eyes are scanning the quarry and he’s too distracted to care. His beer sits unopened in his loose grip.
“Yeah,” he says, setting aside the wet can so he can dry his hands, warming them with the friction of his jeans. He pulls the one he’d rolled in the car earlier, waiting for Billy’s ass to show, from behind his ear. “Sure.”
He lights it. Might as well. But after his initial hit he just sits there. Forgets to pass it. A cleared throat brings him back into the moment.
“You plannin on sharing there, pal?”
Steve Tsk’s and leans forward to make the pass. But Billy doesn’t budge.
“Can’t reach,” Billy says, quiet, through a private grin. “You’ll just have to come closer.”
Steve stares Billy down, the joint wasting. His eyes drop down to the cooler in the way—the syringe shut safe inside. He swallows. Then he nods; his will breaking again with a crack he can feel. He lips the joint and hauls the cooler carefully back behind him, trying not to tip the canoe. If they tipped— It lands hard and they rock unsteadily but they stay afloat and when Steve looks back, Billy looks unperturbed, sits up, leans forward, pats the canoe bottom in front of him.
“Right here, Stevie-boy. Huddle up.”
And he takes the joint from Steve when Steve scoots forward carefully and sits, both of them silent. His hand darts out and brushes against Steve’s. And the one stupid hit Steve’s taken has got his skin tingling at the unexpected contact. The brush—rush—of skin on skin.
He realizes he hasn’t been touched in—
He’s so goddamn lonely for touch, for anything, for—and at this touch he remembers, and why the fuck is this happening right now? Why? Why. Why not? It’s just his luck, isn’t it? He feels that old familiar loneliness full force in this moment; triggered by the touch. By the way he reacted to the touch, like— He motions for the joint, pushing the feeling down. Not the time to think about it. He tries to steel himself. Thinks of the syringe, behind him now. Out of sight, out of—
Billy leans forward when he passes the joint off, hand brushing again against Steve’s with a thrill, and Billy stays there, leaned in to study Steve from this closer perspective, those cool blue eyes picking Steve apart and—
Steve takes another hit. The smoke is thick and potent and sticky in his mouth and in his lungs and it goes right to his dick the way it sometimes does and isn’t that just ace for timing?
Great. Fantastic. How is he supposed to go through with this now?
His eyes start to drift off over the water but another brush of Billy’s hand has them closing involuntarily, sending a cold trickling tumble down his cheek. Great. Has his dick getting it’s hopes up. Shit. And he hates himself. Hates himself for it. And he looks down at the spot where Billy’s touched him—Billy, just Billy, I hate Billy—once his eyes open again. At the bit of ash left there by the theft of the joint. He blows it away, watches it scatter; hopes Billy doesn't happen to see his growing chub and get the wrong idea. Every rock of the boat is making the situation worse.
Steve looks up to Billy’s face, the thought of being caught out by him reminding Steve of his presence, and Steve’s gaze immediately snags on Billy’s intent puzzling stare and is trapped there. Guy’s studying him again. His face is lit golden as he steals a second hit and Steve leans forward, can’t help it, as he watches.
Billy lets out the held breath and what smoke remains in it floats lazily past Steve so he just catches the rich fucking scent of it and his cock twitches. Billy beckons Steve closer with the joint held loose between middle and pointer. And he’s smiling. And he must know. He must—
“Gotta get closer, Stevie.”
It comes out quiet, almost but not quite soft. And Steve moves closer without thinking. Moves farther from the forgotten syringe. Doesn’t take his eyes away from Billy’s face for a second to scan the dark waters around them.
They’re close enough now that Steve can smell Billy’s dried down cologne under the musk of the pot smoke and unconsciously leans a bit closer into the scent, into the friction of denim. God he hates— He hates— And they’re close enough to kiss. They’re close enough to kiss, now. Steve lifts his heavy eyes from Billy’s soft mouth to his hard studying stare. He wants to— Wants— Needs to—
He’s so damn empty. His chest is too empty. Too full. He needs—
“Shhh,” Billy whispers. “I got you. Just breathe.”
Billy pulls back a bit. Brings the joint almost up to his mouth but stops short. Steve watches, transfixed.
“Just breathe in real deep. In and out. There you go.”
Pulls a hit into his mouth but not his lungs. Touches Steve—touches him, fingers curled around Steve’s neck to pull him close. Close enough to— He blows the smoke slow into Steve’s open mouth, hot and moist and Steve breathes in real deep like Billy said. Holds that breath in as lips find his lips and seal them tight shut, then lick them back open. So soft. So— As a thumb runs up his cheek and swipes away the moisture there without ever mentioning— Like it had never—
The paddle makes a hard thwack when it meets with Billy’s head and Steve is choking, coughing his lungs clear and looking, searching, catching Billy as he falls bonelessly against him.
Water patters off the paddle and gathers, puddles, in the boat’s bottom. Steve’s palm grows warm and wet in Billy’s hair. If he pulls it away, he’ll find—
A voice, a sort of susurration of sound, of song, floats over the glassy surface of the water to him. Familiar. He can feel it pulling, like hands on him, like hooks in him. He wants to obey. He wanted to. He tried.
“I was gonna, I was. I was—”
He shivers in the boat, gasping. Doesn’t go for the syringe. No time for that mercy now. No reason. He lays Billy up along the side of the canoe, right at the edge.
The song balms him. Paws at him. Claws. Gentle and numbing and lulling and pulling, pulling him.
“Okay,” He whispers. Opens his eyes to see Nancy’s pale face in the moonlight. Nancy drowned not even a year ago in this quarry. Sunk broken to the bottom. A jumper. Shrugged off by police just like the accident she’d been investigating, that Will Byers kid. Just like all the accidents and suicides that this quarry had accumulated since it had first been dug out and filled in by the rain. Before this town was even a town.
“Okay,” he says.
Something down there, she thought, in the water. Something killing people. Some kind of creature. Some monster.
And now the monster wears her face. And now that face has been ruined by time spent stretched across the wrong framework of bones. That face isn’t hers. Isn’t her.
Steve braces his palms against Billy’s side; feels the rise and fall of Billy’s breath and closes his eyes, shakes his head. He’s crying again. He can feel it. Can’t stop it.
Fuck it.
He pushes as hard as he can. Launches himself backwards and into the water without tipping the boat. Without spilling Billy into the water. He looks up from below the surface. Can see the canoe still upright overhead, rocking less and less and less; silhouetted by the white moonlight above.
He closes his eyes. He can feel the slimy hands circling him at his neck, at his waist and pulling him in. Doesn’t look. Holds his breath.
Pointless to hold his breath, it sings.
Pointless to hold—
Pointless to—
He feels cold lips brush his. Cold dead lips that feel familiar and wrong, both at once.
Pointless—
He’s back in the boat, Billy leaning in and telling him to breathe. Just breathe in slow and deep, Stevie. Just breathe. And the smoke furls out from between the soft soft lips that he’d been thinking about kissing; rolling over sharp sharp teeth off a slick searching tongue.
Steve opens his mouth to inhale and the bubbles—last of his breath to escape—don’t wake him.
He opens his mouth for Billy. Waits to take his breath. Take this hit off of the fucking idiot sitting across from him in this stupid little boat that he somehow fucking needs to— Needs him to—
His chest feels too empty and too full.
He breathes in and the cold icy slide of the water flooding his throat wakes him enough to push back out of the thing’s grip. But he doesn’t struggle. It doesn’t hurt like he thought. He’d thought that it would hurt.
His lungs keep pulling in useless little hiccoughs as his head begins to float, thoughts sloshing. He stares at the creature wearing Nancy’s face. And in the dark water—in the shadow—it could almost be her.
The girl he would have given up a crown for. Once upon a time.
He raises a weightless hand to touch her cheek.
Bye Nance. I’m sorry. I’m fucking sorry I wasn’t there.
Warm dark nothing is creeping in at the edges. His hand drifts away from that pale cheek with the current, never touching. His fading vision tunnels in on her face.
Nance.
On the sudden shocked-wide O of her mouth. Her pained eyes. Dead and milky and wrong and NOT HER’S. He pinwheels away from her, backwards through the dark cold water.
Viscous muddy blood trails up and dissolves from her as she sinks. And as she goes, Steve Sees Billy’s grimace float up from behind her. Sees the flash of a knife in his hand.
He has enough sense, life, in him still to kick up towards the surface. And it’s enough. It’s barely enough. He breaks it and coughs the water from his mouth and throat—draws in one great gulping gasp before sinking back under. Kicks up once more and is able to keep himself afloat as he breathes and breathes and coughs and breathes some more and vomits up dark water that he’d swallowed and swears he’ll never take breathing for granted again.
“Steve,” Billy says, paddling over. “Asshole.”
Billy’s hand comes up and dunks Steve back under the surface and by the time he pops back up again for air, Billy’s swum over to their drited boat and has tossed the paddle he’d picked up on the way back in again; is hauling it over to Steve.
“I’m—“
“Shut the fuck up and get on that side,” Billy instructs, pointing. “Climb in on 3.”
Steve keeps his mouth clamped and follows orders. Doesn’t know what the hell he was gonna say, anyway. I’m sorry? I’m a lie and I’m lonely and I’m fucking heartbroken over a what if with a girl that never loved me back and I’m sorry Billy. I’m sorry. I’m sorry and I need you to touch me again. I need you. I’m selfish and I need you. I’m afraid and lost and I feel dead all the fucking time and I’m not worth it but I need you.
Better off keeping his mouth shut.
He catches the paddle that Billy tosses to him. Starts making his way back to shore, toward their cars, and watches Billy digging in the cooler. Waits for him to find—
Billy lifts the syringe up out of the ice water and studies it. Lets it drop out of his hand and into the dark water without comment. Picks up a beer and cradles it to his still-bleeding head. Sits staring at Steve as Steve digs the paddle through the water, switching back and forth. Steve watches the shore. Watches the shore through Billy. Ignores the sharp blue gaze like always.
When they pull up, Billy hops out and hauls the canoe out of the water. Walks over and holds out a hand to Steve.
Steve knows not to take it. He knows better. But you know he takes it anyway.
He’s hauled up and his face connects with Billy’s fist so that he’s knocked back on his ass into the dirt by the blow. He can feel blood trickling out of his nose and licks it from his lips. Billy shakes out his fist and scoops a new can of beer out of the cooler. Looks down at Steve.
“That,” he gestures at Steve’s nose, “was for this shit.” He puts the can to his head.
Then he walks closer and puts his hand out again, face serene. Steve’s a fucking idiot. He’s well aware. So he takes the guy’s offered hand again and this time all he gets is a lift up to his feet.
Billy lets go of his hand but not of his eyes.
“Get in my car.”
And Steve does. He’s in shock. Probably stand at the shore all night without some kind of direction. He’s a mess. He needs help. He needs—
He climbs into Billy’s car and relaxes into the seat at the sound of the engine revving to life. Billy kicks the heater on and Steve shivers at the still-cold blow of air over his wet clothes.
But there’s a touch on his arm. A hand on his thigh that has him gasping. Billy’s fingers vacate Steve’s arm to wrap Steve's jaw and swing it around and bring their lips together again. Claiming. Rough. Fucking desperate. As Desperate as Steve. Steve needs this. He fucking needs this. Want me. Touch me. Kiss me. Need me. Help me. He needs—
Billy pulls away, settles into his seat, suddenly across the car from Steve and eyes locked on the lake outside the windshield. The heater starts spitting out air warmer than Steve’s frozen skin. Not warm enough.
“I fucking hate you,” Billy says.
Then he swings his arm over the back of the seats and waits there, refusing to look at Steve. Refusing to invite Steve in.
But Steve’s selfish. He needs. And so he moves into Billy’s side like a wave sweeping up to shore.
And Billy’s arm brings him in even closer.
They wait out the night for morning; for Tommy’s arrival to find them back out in that fucking canoe, initiation complete. For the big fucking show and the all hail King Steve and the bullshit he needs just to get through the day. Want me. Love me. Worship me.
Help me.
Steve grabs tighter to the fistful of Billy’s shirt he’s got in a death-grip.
I fucking hate me too, amigo.