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The first time it happens, it’s on a Tuesday.
That. It goes against every law of nature. Nothing happens on a Tuesday. Tuesdays. Just. Don’t exist. They’re a black hole. Time and space get warped around them.
Nothing exciting ever happens on Tuesdays.
Except. Steve’s been charged with the chore. Duty. Extremely important duty. Of changing the day tags on some older tapes, and when he lifts the cover of Night of the Living Dead, a. A piece of paper falls to the floor.
Steve. Spends a good two minutes willing his heartbeat to slow the fuck down, because Robin made him watch the flick a couple nights ago, after spending no less than. Four shifts talking his fucking ear off about it, and like. Steve’s had enough run-ins with zombies to last him a lifetime even before Robin took it upon herself to. Educate him, or whatever, so.
Steve ain’t joking when it comes to zombies.
After he’s made sure a heart attack is still at least a few decades away, he. Glares at the paper. Glares at it for the three seconds it takes to remember Keith is one misplaced cinematic reference away from firing his ass, and like. Steve’s ego simply cannot take that hit.
Getting sacked from Hawkins’ best. Only rental video store is not a stigma he’s fixing to carry for the rest of his miserable life.
So. He picks up the paper.
Missed seeing you
That’s all it says. Just.
Missed seeing you
Steve. Frowns at it. Reads it so many times the words stop making sense.
Then he walks to the counter, where Robin’s nose-deep in a book. Steve catches the words desert and heart before slamming the paper next to the cash register, makes Robin jump a bit on her stool.
Steve smirks, mutters, ‘Someone’s got a secret admirer,’ forgets all about it.
The next time comes ten days after that. On a Sunday.
Sundays in Family Video are. Infernal. An actual curse from the gods. Proof that they’re actually in Upside Down Hawkins, doomed to serve families with an unnecessary amount of kids all day long.
An hour away from locking the door and leaving this wretched place behind, Steve leaves Robin to man the counter and goes to the back to restack some tapes.
It’s like. Fine. It’s almost December, and winter in Hawkins means the town goes ghost the moment the sun sets. Steve wouldn’t leave Robin alone otherwise.
Probably.
He’s rearranging the horror section, and he finally gets what deja vu fucking means, because. He grabs Creepshow, and a piece of paper falls on his left Tailwind, and like.
Okay, Steve snorts at that. Robin was going on about Creepshow a few days ago. He’s gotta give it to the guy. At least he’s self-aware. This is getting kinda. Creepy.
Except Steve turns the paper around, and he kinda. Sucks in a breath, because.
Couldn’t stop staring at your hands today. How you were taking the tapes out to rewind them. Is that weird?
I kept hoping our fingers would touch when you gave me my change. They didn’t
His throat’s all tight all of a sudden. Makes it kinda hard to swallow. He doesn’t know why. This one just feels so. Intimate.
He’s never given much thought to anyone’s hands. When he passes the note to Robin with a raised brow, he tries to figure it out. What’s got this guy composing sonnets about Robin’s hands.
The shift’s over, and Steve still doesn’t get it.
Billy Hargrove drops in to return a tape on Wednesday.
That’s. A recent development.
According to Max, and definitely not because Steve asked, or wanted to know, or whatever, Hargrove hightailed it out of the military hospital he was kept in since July the moment he got his legs working again. Max kept feeding him updates, so like.
Steve was not. Entirely unprepared for Hargrove walking in Family Video to return Sixteen Candles.
Steve’d raised an eyebrow, and Hargrove’d growled Max’s got the hots for Michael Hall, and Steve’d smirked, and hadn’t said a word, and.
Hargrove’s been a regular for the last couple months.
Steve’s. Not as annoyed as he thinks he should be. Hargrove’s almost. Friendly? In his own, asshole kinda way. It’s almost. Reassuring. The world’s gone crazy and back, but Hargrove’s still alive and kicking and making Steve’s life way, way harder than it needs to be.
It’s. Reassuring.
The bell rings to announce the Arrival of the Asshole, and two seconds later Steve’s fumbling to catch the tape Hargrove. Throws at him from the door.
Reassuring.
He’s lucky Steve’s reflexes have had two years worth of demodog fighting. Well. Steve’s lucky. It’s not Hargrove’s life Keith’s shadow falls over.
By the time he turns the tape over in his hands, Hargrove’s sauntered closer and is. Leaning against the counter with a smile big enough for Steve to shove his fist in.
He doesn’t. The guy died for them. He has to. Keep repeating that.
Gets easy to forget sometimes.
‘Shall we play a game?’ he says in lieu of like. A normal greeting. None of this is normal, anyway.
Makes Hargrove falter. ‘What?’
‘The. The movie. Shall we play a game? Y’know.’
Hargrove’s mouth does a weird little thing, twitches like it’s fighting the urge to lift at the corners. Like Hargrove’s trying not to. Smile. ‘You’ve watched Wargames?’
‘Yeah?’ Steve scoffs, because. ‘Robin made me. She’s got a thing for Ally Sheedy,’ he says, which is. Not what he meant to say. Definitely not what he should’ve said.
‘Does she?’
‘Uh. I mean. She likes her? As an actress. She’s a good actress.’
Hargrove raises one eyebrow and Steve. Turns around to rewind the tape before he says something irreversibly stupid.
‘Sure she is,’ Hargrove drawls. He doesn’t sound like he believes Steve, which is. Concerning.
Steve keeps his back to him. Seems. Safer somehow. The tape needs rewinding, too, so.
He jumps a bit when Hargrove calls his name a couple minutes later.
‘Harrington? You know how I almost died a few months ago? Back in the mall you used to work in?’
‘Uh. Sure?’
‘Feels a little unfair, doncha think? Living through all that only to die waiting for you to rewind that tape and give me my change.’
Steve huffs. Comes out amused. He. Did not intend for it to do that. ‘Hargrove, man, listen. You walk out that door, right, take the main road, drive for about. An hour and a half? There’s a giant Blockbuster in Indy. Can’t miss it. I heard it’s huge.’
He counts a dollar twenty, hands it out to the asshole still smirking at him. ‘Why doncha try that, next time? Don’t want you leaving your bones in Family Video under my watch.’
‘Sure.’ His nails scrape the inside of Steve’s palm when he grabs his change. He’s still fucking. Smiling. ‘Riddle me this, though. What am I driving to Indy with, in that scenario of yours?’
Which. Fuck.
‘Fuck,’ Steve mutters under his breath, and Hargrove’s smile spreads all the way up to his ears. Fuck. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘Y’know they gave me a check big as those fuckin’ tentacles?’ There’s something soft, in the way Hargrove cuts him off. Like maybe he. Never meant to go there, not today. Dealing with Steve’s colossal survivor’s guilt. ‘Hush money, the works. Made me sign a long-ass contract. Could probably buy three cars with my brand-new bank account.’
‘Why don’t you?’
Hargrove gives him a strange kinda look. Almost. Sad. He purses his lips. ‘Eh, think I started getting used to this place. ‘Sides, someone’s gotta keep you on your toes.’
Steve laughs, relieved, takes it for the offer it is. An out. ‘Least dying didn’t take the asshole outta you, huh.’
‘Still alive, Harrington,’ Hargrove says, kinda like he’s happy about it, kinda like he wishes he wasn’t, and the coins in his pocket jingle when he walks to the door. He opens it, standing split right in the middle, half in and half out, says, ‘But. Hey, here’s hoping, right?’ and.
Steve’s left staring at the world’s ugliest carpet and wondering why Hargrove’s words sit sour in his mouth.
The third one falls out of Dawn of the Dead.
Steve’s not the brightest bulb in the box, but. He’s starting to see a pattern.
He sighs. Picks it up. Doesn’t bother reading it before yelling, ‘Robin! There’s another one!’
She peaks her head out of the corner. It’s Monday, the first of December, and the bell hasn’t announced a client for. Almost three hours, now. Robin looks right about ready to claw out of her skin with boredom, but.
Her ears perk up at Steve’s voice.
‘Give.’ She makes an impatient gesture until Steve crumples the paper to a ball and aims at her forehead. He gets her on the nose, which is. Even better.
She looks kinda. Adorable, frowning at him with her nose all scrunched up, not that. Steve would ever like. Call her that to her face, and then Robin’s smoothing the note on her knee, and Steve watches mesmerized as something triumphant washes over Robin’s face.
‘Rob, oh my god, what.’ He hooks his head over her shoulder to find out what’s got Robin’s brows meeting her hairline. ‘C’mon, what’s it say?’
Robin shoves him away with a palm like. On his face. ‘As I suspected,’ she starts, deliberately slow to drive Steve three steps closer to homicide. Definitely wouldn’t be the most shocking thing to happen in this town. Steve can almost see the headlines. Slasher in Hawkins: Family Video loses one of its members in gruesome murder. Young heir at the center of the tragedy.
‘The notes were never meant for me,’ Robin says, and. Like.
What?
‘What? What’dya mean they’re not—of course they’re—’
‘Here.’ Robin cuts his rambling in the middle by pressing the note in his hand. ‘Let’s see you working those reading skills of yours, dingus.’
Steve scowls at her just for the sake of it. Then curiosity takes over, so he flips the paper over, and.
Can’t believe they’re making you wear that stupid vest. Still pull it off, though. Fuckin pretty boy
your dick looks like heaven in those jeans
‘Uh.’ Robin’s already smirking when he looks up, and Steve. Oh, he already hates this. ‘So I guess this is. For me?’
‘Yep,’ Robin says around her stupid smug smirk, ‘and I don’t wanna spoil that for you, pretty boy, but that right here? I’ll eat my hat if that’s a chick’s writing.’
Steve. Blinks at her. Frowns at the words. Blinks at her again. ‘You. Think this is. A dude. How. How could you—’
‘Steve,’ her palms land heavy on his shoulders, and. Oh. Robin’s got her I-mean-business look on. Steve. Viscerally loathes that look. ‘Remember that conversation we had back in summer, before the Big Bad Monster tried to eat us and the mall fell on our heads?’
If he rolls his eyes anymore, they probably won’t come back out, Steve is like. Sure of that. ‘You mean the one I confessed my undying love to you, and then you turned me down for Tammy Thompson? Yeah, Robin, I think I remember that conversation. Still don’t see what that’s got to do with—’
‘Listen. There’s this. Thing, okay, call it instinct. Intuition. A sixth gay sense. Whatever. I’m telling you, what you got here is a guy. A really horny, really gone guy with terrible taste.’
‘Take that back.’
‘Absolutely not.’ Her face does something weird, then, like she’s trying to look. Comforting? It’s weird. Robin’s usually yelling at him and calling him strangely affectionate derogatory names. Steve isn’t sure how to deal with. This new development. ‘How do you feel about that?’
He frowns at her. ‘About what?’
She rolls her eyes and sighs a deep, heavy thing and stares at the ceiling like she’s begging for a repeat monster performance. It never comes. ‘About,’ she starts, slowly, ‘the prospect of being some guy’s jerk off fantasy.’
‘I don’t. Know,’ he says, because. He doesn’t know. He didn’t know he should feel any different than. Learning a girl has a crush on him, but. ‘It’s kinda. Sad? I mean, it must feel. Lonely. Feeling that way in a place like this. Doesn’t make any. Difference to me? I mean. If it’s a guy. I think.’
He looks at Robin, and it takes him a second to recognize the look on her face. Almost like she’s. Proud of him. He doesn’t think there’s anything to be proud of, but. He’ll take it. It’s a whole new Robin experience.
He shrugs. ‘Just. I don’t get why he would. Me, y’know?’
Robin tilts her head to the side, and she smiles for a second, and then she. She hugs him.
‘I do.’
A few days later, he’s lying belly-down on his bed, fingers curled tight around the fourth one.
The christmas lights Robin helped him set up around the bedframe bathe the room in a warmth it never knew, not for a long time.
Not for. Almost two decades.
He can only stand white lights, now. Red and green and blue look a bit too much like teeth and blood flowers opening up, so.
Yeah. White lights are better.
His fingers are tracing over the piece of paper. It’s. It’s different from the others, in a way Steve. Can’t explain, but. Thinks he understands, anyway. The words tug at something in his chest, a point between his lungs.
He can probably recite it by heart, now, but.
He likes pressing his fingers on each letter. Feel the way the paper’s caved under the weight of the pen, how the ink’s dried up, feels different under his thumb.
Makes him feel. Not so alone, but. In a warm way. Safe, almost.
I hate winter, you know? And then you look at me with your stupid roasted chestnut eyes, and winter doesn’t seen so awful anymore. It’s not fair
You were smiling when I came in. I spent all day thinking about that smile
Wish I could’ve put it there
Steve thinks it should feel weird.
Guys—Steve’s never—he’s never—
He thinks it should feel weird.
It doesn’t. He finds he’s okay with that.
Max barges. Literally barges through the door on Tuesday, not twenty minutes after school’s over.
She doesn’t. Throw him the tape she’s holding, but. It’s a close call. She slides it across the counter in a very aggressive manner, and Steve almost has the time to decide to give her a lecture on politeness and good manners. Almost.
‘Can you hurry it up? Dustin’s already next door and he claims, get that. He claims he can beat me at Space Invaders. Can you believe that?’
And. Okay. Today is not a day for civilized discussion, apparently.
Max is flapping her arms around like a demented seagull, and her face is going more tomato with every word, and like. Steve’s getting worried? His training never covered dealing with a client dying on his shift.
He doesn’t think Max will oblige him by dying outside the store if he asks politely.
He grabs the tape instead. Sighs. ‘Your brother finally took my advice?’
Hargrove hasn’t been in for. Eight days, now. The tape he made Max return. Like the fucking asshole he is. Was due a couple days ago, and that. Never happens. Hargrove’s never late.
Not that Steve’s. Worried, or anything, but. Max is right there. Might as well ask.
The guy was a breath away from worm food not half a year ago, anyway. It’s not. Steve’s not. Worried. Or anything.
‘What?’ Max somehow. Makes that one word sound insulting. She’s frowning with her entire body. Steve. Might be a little bit intimidated.
‘Nothing, just. Said he might start going to the Blockbuster in Indy, ‘s all.’
Max is now frowning at him but like. In a disgusted kinda way. Like Steve’s entire presence is offending her. Honestly, the similarities are uncanny. They’re not even biologically related. Hargrove’s not even her real brother. It’s. Unfair, really.
‘Why would he do that? He doesn’t even have a car, like. How would that make any sense?’
‘I don’t know, Max, jeez.’ His voice might’ve come out a tiny bit higher than intended, Steve is. The first to admit that. He’s only got two hours left before going home. He really doesn’t deserve getting bullied by teenagers. ‘He hasn’t been in for a few days and I thought I’d ask. Y’know. Basic human decency, and all that. Jesus.’
She squints at him for a second. Then she rolls her eyes. Then she huffs. Then, she says, ‘He’s got a stupid cold, the fucking asshole, because he never listens, and now he’s got me running his stupid errands, like I don’t have anything better to do. Fucking asshole.’
Steve doesn’t point out Max is. Doing everything Hargrove’s asked her to anyway. He also ignores the way his chest does something stupid at the thought of Billy Hargrove getting crushed by a runny nose.
Both of these are irrelevant, he decides.
‘He lives on his own now, doesn’t he?’
Max looks at him suspiciously from. The door. When did she even get there? ‘Yeah? Listen, can we like. Do this some other time? Kinda busy right now.’
She doesn’t wait for the answer.
Steve’s really gonna need to have a word with her later.
He gets back home. Whips up a pot of corn soup. That’s. He hasn’t had a decent bowl of soup in a while, that’s all.
He spends three minutes staring at it before he decides it’s definitely more than one serving.
Seems like a waste.
He ladles most of it in a container. Grabs his coat.
It’s just. Hawkins gets really cold at night. Soup. Soup helps.
Extracting that very important piece of classified information took a bag of gummy bears mixed with shitty Family Video popcorn. He’d handed them over to Max, asked for Hargrove’s address, and she never even took her eyes off the game, somehow? Just. Shoved a handful of certain-death-before-sixty in her mouth and mumbled out an answer.
Steve considers himself extremely lucky he’s lived in Hawkins all his miserable life and knows every street by name, so.
He’s ringing Hargrove’s doorbell before he has time to wonder what the fuck he’s doing.
There’s shuffling, and something that Steve suspects is a muffled curse, and then the door’s slides open. Barely a sliver.
‘What,’ Hargrove growls, or. The half of his mouth Steve can see.
That’s all Steve can see. Half his mouth, and a suspiciously glassy eye, and.
‘You’re naked.’
Hargrove blinks. Looks down. At the boxers he’s wearing. And the blanket he’s wrapped in. ‘’m not?’
Steve rolls his eyes. This is going better than he expected, honestly. ‘I brought soup.’ He lifts the soup-carrying arm for proof.
The eye squints. ‘Why?’
Steve just. Really wants to pinch the bridge of his nose? Feels like the situation calls for it. He doesn’t, because he’s holding a container filled to the brim with soup, and one of them has to show some sense. Steve never thought that responsibility would ever fall on him, but.
He never thought he’d be bringing corn soup to Billy Hargrove, either, so.
He takes a very deep, very slow breath. ‘Because that’s what I made. Next time I’ll bring something else, okay?’
The door opens wider. Slightly. Steve takes in Hargrove in all his underdressed, barefoot glory. He’s. He’s barefoot. In December. In Indiana.
‘Harrington, listen,’ he starts, scrunches his eyes like the light’s too much to handle, ‘I have this. Splitting headache, so if you could like. Not do that? Right now? Greatly appreciate it.’
Steve pushes through. Steps into the apartment. Meets. Absolutely no resistance from the walking germ, and that. That has Steve real worried.
When he turns back to him, Hargrove’s blinking owlishly at the doorstep. The as of two seconds ago. Empty doorstep.
Steve really hopes the. Cosmos, or whatever, has some patience to spare. He thinks he’ll need it.
‘Man, I don’t know why I’m surprised, but. You really suck at being sick, y’know?’ He walks back to the door. Pushes it closed. Softly. Loud sounds are. Not preferable right now, he guesses.
‘I don’t need—’
‘No, yeah. I know. You don’t.’ He has to physically. Restrain himself. From reaching out to wrap the blanket tighter around this stubborn asshole, standing barefoot in front of him, shivering. Shivering. Fuckin’ idiot. ‘’s just soup, man. Just. Go lie down while I heat it up and I’ll call you when it’s ready. Sound good?’
Hargrove just. Deflates. Nods? Kinda. Disappears into the dark part of the house. Leaves Steve alone. In his. Space.
He ignores the gnawing in his mind and walks to the kitchen. Reheating the soup. That’s what he’s here for.
He looks around the cabinets. They stare back at him, miserably empty. He finds a pan. Turns the eye on.
Then he walks back out into the. Living room. Steve isn’t sure it qualifies as one? It’s. Small. Kinda empty. Like. Really empty. And really small.
Except. Robin’s been calling him a snob for months, so. Steve is trying.
Living room. It’s nice. Small. Cozy. A couch on one wall. A record player under the window. A bookcase taking over a whole side. There are succulents, which. Steve blinks at for a while.
Books and succulents and light blue curtains. It’s. Reconciling all that with. The image of the asshole shivering one room over is.
It’s easier than he expected, Steve thinks.
The soup must be ready by now, so he walks to the hallway. The bedroom door’s only half-shut, like Hargrove wanted to make sure Steve doesn’t make a go for it with his plants, or something.
He’s also a trembling, blanket-wrapped lump on the bed, so. It’s not like Hargrove could’ve stopped him.
Steve finds that hilarious. Kinda feels guilty about it, but like. Not really.
He clears his throat. Hargrove isn’t sleeping. Not even pretending to, so Steve doesn’t have to worry about. Waking him up, not that. Steve was particularly worried.
He wasn’t.
‘Food’s ready,’ he says, and when a very naked leg appears under the blankets, ‘don’t even bother coming unless you put on some pants.’
The naked arm that flips him off is. Relatively deserved.
Hargrove slurps down his portion, and goes for seconds, and then for thirds.
Steve’s still working on his first one, which. Brings him to—
‘When was the last time you went grocery shopping?’
All that earns him is a grunt. Muffled, because. Well. The soup. Hargrove’s gulping it down like he hasn’t eaten for days, and that.
‘There’s nothing in here to eat, ‘s all,’ Steve says, and when he only gets a shrug, ‘so I was wondering. What’ve you been surviving on? All these days?’
The stupid asshole shrugs. Again. Doesn’t raise his eyes from his bowl, but. He’s not eating anymore, either, and Steve. Oh, he. He doesn’t like where this is going.
‘Hargrove—’
‘Don’t fucking call me that.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t fuckin’ like it.’
Steve takes a deep breath. A very. Very deep breath. ‘You call me by my last name all the time.’
‘I can do whatever the fuck I want,’ he snaps his head up, and he looks more alive than Steve’s seen him in. Well. Since the last time he was being an asshole to Steve, so. Days. ‘You don’t get to call me that.’
‘Fine. Still waiting for an answer. Billy.’
Hargrove stares at him, almost like he’s planning to eat him up, too, like maybe that’ll take away the hunger, and.
He looks back down at the bowl. ‘Max brought some clementines a couple days ago. Ate those,’ he mumbles. To the bowl.
Steve. Waits for the rest. Doesn’t come. ‘Clementines,’ he repeats, very slowly. Very quietly. He’s about. Three seconds away from screaming the place down. ‘That’s all. You had a few clementines. Two days ago.’
Hargrove doesn’t answer, not really, but. The way he’s chewing his lip something bloody is all Steve needs.
He pushes away from the table, slides his coat on, checks for his wallet.
He cannot believe this fucking idiot.
He barks out, ‘Fuckin’ wait right here,’ and.
He gets cans of soup. Lots of them. And every vegetable that can conceivably be canned. He gets that, too. And tea bags. Instant noodles. Stuff this absolute fucking asshole doesn’t need to actually. Cook to keep himself alive.
He gets a few candy bars, too. And the instant oatmeal mix Steve is dying for.
He doesn’t know why.
When the door opens, after three minutes of banging. Banging on it, because the time for doorbell ringing politeness has long gone by, Hargrove.
Blinks at him. Says, ‘Oh. It’s you again.’ Steps aside to let him in.
Like that would’ve been. Normal. Steve walking out without a word. Like that would’ve been. Fine.
Steve grinds his teeth and doesn’t give in to the steadily rising urge to throw a can of tomato soup on him.
Instead, he says, ‘It’s hot as hell in here,’ because. It’s true.
Hargrove must’ve turned the thermostat up to ninety while Steve was out making sure he. Stays alive.
By the time he’s done storing the entirety of Hawkins’ tomato soup reserve in Hargrove’s cupboards, he’s actually sweated through his. Two shirts. In December. In Indiana.
Hargrove’s been lounging on the couch, watching Steve and giving instructions on the correct placement of each product, which is. Bulshit, in Steve’s book. There’s no way he keeps stuff in certain places, because. He didn’t have anything before Steve bought the entire store for him.
Steve flops down next to him, except he didn’t really. Take into account how small the place is. It makes sense, that the couch is really small, too.
Their arms are pressed together.
Well. Steve’s arm is pressed against the bundle of blankets next to him. He can make out. Maybe. A frown? And a couple stray curls.
He looks out the window and counts twenty snowflakes to maybe get the fucking adorable that’s climbed on his tongue maybe. Back in his throat. Maybe.
‘Fuck,’ he says, because Hargrove’s still beside him, and snow’s falling and turning everything really quiet, and Steve. Doesn’t like that, so. ‘’s really fuckin’ hot in here.’
‘Fuckin’ take your sweater off then, jesus.’
Steve pokes at the heap of blankets. It yelps. It’s. Enormously satisfying. ‘I’d say buy me dinner first, but. Hey, I already bought you.’
Hargrove folds a corner down enough to glare at Steve. ‘Already got m’shirt off,’ he says, in a voice Steve assumes is trying to be. Sultry? Seductive. Or something, except it’s stuffy and croaky, and Hargrove’s eyes are glassy, so.
Yeah. Fuckin’ adorable.
‘Yep,’ he says, kinda can’t keep the smile off his face, ‘I noticed.’
Hargrove opens his mouth to reply, except Steve doesn’t really feel like talking anymore, in case that stupid word ends up escaping his mouth, so he.
‘Hey, c’mere,’ he says, and rests one palm on Hargrove’s forehead, one palm on the back of his head to keep him still.
He’s not. Burning up, but he’s not nearly where he needs to be. That’s the first thing Steve registers.
The second thing is the. The softness. Those stray curls are. Really. Really soft.
The world’s really quiet outside the window, and Hargrove’s gone kinda. Pliant next to Steve, and that’s. The third thing. His eyes are shut, and his breathing’s slow, almost not. Not there, like he’s afraid to move enough to breathe.
Steve wonders how long it’s been since anyone—
He clears his throat. ‘Here,’ he says, reaching for the Tylenol he bought with everything else. ‘Take two of these, and then it’s bedtime. You need rest, asshole.’
Hargrove swallows down the pills, both of them, dry, gets up. Wraps the blankets around him tighter. He turns to Steve when he’s at the bedroom door. Finds him fluffing the pillows on the couch.
‘Whatcha doin’?’
‘Uh. They’re. Comfier that way?’
‘For what?’
‘Sleeping,’ Steve says, because. Obviously. Hargrove’s really testing his patience here.
‘Got a bed. Right here. In m’room.’
Steve flashes him a grin. ‘And I’m nice enough to let you have it. I,’ he says, sitting heavily on the couch like that’ll keep Hargrove from throwing him out the window, ‘am sleeping here tonight.’
It’s. Unnerving, how quiet everything is. Hargrove doesn’t answer, stares at Steve like he’s struggling to solve the world’s most complex equation, and then. Finally.
‘Why?’
‘Well,’ Steve sighs, ‘your fever hasn’t gone down yet, and you spent a whole week on nothing but clementines, that your kid sister brought you, and—’
‘Know all that, Harrington, shut your mouth. What ‘m sayin’ is. Why.’
Steve. Doesn’t really. Know? Can’t explain it, either. He just. He’s staying here tonight. That’s all.
‘Well. I mean. What am I gonna say, the guy who took five tentacles in his lungs to save me died from a cold? Everybody’s gonna laugh at me. Sounds like a bad joke.’
Hargrove looks at his feet. Tightens his fingers around his blanket, the way. Little kids do. Nothing can get you under the blanket, and all.
‘Didn’t do it to save your life,’ he mutters.
It sounds. Automatic, Steve thinks. Something he’s learned to recite by heart.
Kinda sounds like a lie.
‘Yeah. Well. ‘m doing it to save yours.’
He doesn’t think he can fall asleep, which is. Not surprising at all, because sleep doesn’t come easy in unfamiliar surroundings, but he also. Doesn’t feel. Unsettled?
He feels. Really fucking settled, actually, which. Doesn’t happen. In unfamiliar surroundings.
He throws away the blanket. Sits up. The curtains are drawn, and the streetlight right outside the window gives a golden hue in the room. Makes it feel even warmer.
He walks to the kitchen. If he can’t sleep, might as well do the dishes.
He doesn’t wanna think how. By the end of the night, he’ll know exactly where Billy Hargrove keeps his dishes, and his forks, and his stupid dish towels.
He finishes up, dries his hands, walks all the way back to the couch before deciding to check on the stupid asshole.
Everything’s quiet. Too quiet.
The door’s pushed more than earlier, but still not latched shut, like. Hargrove wanted to make sure he can hear it if Steve. Leaves.
Steve. Stares at it for a moment. Then he pushes it open, slower than he’s ever opened a door before, like. He should be getting an award for World’s Most Quiet Door Opening, or something, and a line of light cuts the bed in half.
He looks. Different. Hargrove—Billy. Billy looks. Different. Well. The parts of him Steve can make out under every blanket in the history of blanket existence, which means. Mostly his face?
He looks different.
Quiet, but not. Fever-quiet, just. Peaceful.
Steve absolutely does not want to walk closer and tuck him in even tighter. He doesn’t.
He leaves the same inch that greeted him on the door. He lies back on the couch.
It takes maybe. Three minutes before he’s fast asleep.
The room’s glowing bright when he opens his eyes.
The whole world is, actually. Everything’s covered in white, which means the snow’s been falling all night long. Probably only just stopped.
Steve’s still got a couple hours before his shift starts, and he really needs to get home before to take a shower. Change his clothes.
The day’s gonna drag like hell, he already knows that. Snow means no one gets out of the house, not unless it’s life and death.
Well. Keith’d argue Family Video does fall under the life-and-death category, but.
Steve’s not in the mood to think about Keith, like. Ever. Especially this early in the morning, so.
He sits up.
It occurs to him, right at that moment, that it’s almost the middle of December, and Hargrove doesn’t have any christmas lights on.
That thought. Bugs him. He doesn’t know why, just. It does.
He pushes it aside for the moment. He really has to get going if he’s gonna make it back home before his shift, but.
There’s something he needs to do first.
It’s a good thing Melvald’s had instant oatmeal.
His arms are full, so he uses his body to push the door open. The blankets haven’t moved since last night.
He draws the curtains open. The blankets don’t move now, either.
Steve sighs. Once. Loudly. ‘Billy—’
‘Fuck you want,’ the blankets snarl, far too quickly, which means. The asshole was awake.
He plasters a great big smile on his face. Walks to the other side of the bed. Right in front of Hargrove, so Steve’s sure the smile doesn’t go to waste. ‘Hello, sunshine. Sleep well?’
The blankets grunt. Then a growl comes out, like, ‘Whassat.’
‘What, this?’ Steve lifts the bowl in his hands to inspect it. ‘’s just oatmeal, and dried apricots, and almonds. Oh, and rat poison, but you’re not supposed to know about that.’
‘You tryin’ to fatten me up?’
Steve focuses on the one corner Hargrove’s face is probably growling under, so. He pushes it down, and. Bingo. He doesn’t know what he did in his previous life to deserve the full force of Hargrove’s scowl directed at him, but. Must’ve been bad.
‘Believe it or not, ‘m only trying to keep you alive. Sit up and eat your oatmeal. Can’t take pills on an empty stomach.’
‘Don’t need pills. ‘m fine.’
And. Yeah, okay, he must be feeling better? He’s fighting back, but.
Steve. Cups his cheek. To test. His temperature. Then he tries his forehead, too. ‘You’re still hot,’ he mumbles, and he instantly. Regrets it.
‘Not so bad yourself, Harrington,’ Hargrove drawls, voice still kinda scratchy. He slides the inch he needs to get out from under Steve’s palm. ‘Hair’s kinda flat, though. Might wanna do something about that.’
Steve’s still kinda towering over him, hand hanging empty and aimless between them like it missed the. No more touching memo. He huffs. ‘Gotta get goin’ anyway. Shift starts in,’ he checks his watch, curses, ‘an hour.’
He nods at the bowl on the bedside table. ‘You got another twenty minutes before it gets cold. Won’t be any use to you then, so. Eat up.’
A groan echoes under the blankets. ‘Go away.’
Steve laughs, and he doesn’t think about it when he rests his hand on. Hargrove’s back, he thinks? ‘Shift’s over at five, so I’ll be here by six. How’s tomato soup sound?’
Hargrove yells, ‘I’m fine,’ and then he coughs four consecutive times, so.
Steve laughs, again, ‘See you at six,’ leaves the door behind him open.
It’s a school day, so Robin’s not due till four, and that means Steve’s only got an hour of overlapping shifts to ignore Robin’s. Unfairly good sleuthing skills and keep his stupid mouth shut.
The snow starts again a couple of hours before Robin gets in, and by the time she does Steve’s rearranged maybe. Three sections, and gone over Family Video’s christmas decorations to find what he’s looking for.
It takes four seconds, which. Well it’s just. It’s unfair.
She walks in. Spares him one. One look. Raises a brow. ‘Your hair looks different.’
Steve rubs at the back of his neck. ‘Uh. Thanks.’
‘No,’ she slides behind the counter, starts unbuttoning her coat. She’s already broken through Steve’s defenses, and she. Isn’t even out of her coat. It’s just. Unfair. ‘Notice how I didn’t say your hair looks different, you should keep it that way. I said your hair looks different, which means explain to me why your hair looks like a duck slept on it.’
‘It’s not that bad—’
‘Steve,’ she squints at him. That’s never good. ‘What’s going on?’
Steve’s not. The best at keeping secrets, alright, unless they involve. Creatures from other dimensions, or something, and Robin’s squinting at him, so.
He panics.
‘Islep’w’Billylas’nigh’,’ he says. In one breath.
Robin. Blinks at him. ‘Say that again, very slowly, and make it sound like it makes sense.’
‘I slept with. At. Not. With. At Billy’s last night.’
‘Billy. Hargrove,’ Robin says. Steve nods, so. ‘Why?’
Steve shrugs. Not like it makes any sense in his mind, but. ‘He’s got a cold.’
‘Sucks for him. What were you doing in his place though? I didn’t know you guys were friends.’
‘We’re. We’re not?’ Steve sighs. Spends a good ten seconds chewing on his lip. ‘It’s just. He’s on his own? And he’s been through. A lot, I mean. You know that.’ Robin motions at him to continue, and her face goes kinda. Soft, so. ‘And it’s just a cold, y’know? ‘m not saving the world and everyone in it, like. He did. Just thought. I could help. I’d want someone to do the same for me if I was sick. I don’t know.’
Robin looks like she wants to. Hug him again, except she’s already shown weakness once this month, so like. That’s not happening.
Instead she reaches out a hand to smooth his hair to something socially acceptable, says, ‘How was it? Taking care of Billy Hargrove with a cold?’
‘A fucking nightmare, Rob, you don’t even know.’ He swats her away, except they’re both smiling like the world’s not ending twice every year, so. ‘Except he’s also. Kinda. Fun to be around? I don’t know. Might just be the fever, or something, but. Wasn’t bad. Was. Fun.’
Robin hums. She looks. Amused. Fond, but Steve would never call her that to her face. ‘You goin’ back after you’re done?’
He nods.
She hums, again. ‘Well,’ she drawls, ‘it’s officially 4.27pm, and I’ll bet you not a single soul will walk through these doors for the rest of my shift, so. Off you go. Go take care of your patient.’
‘You sure?’ Steve like. Really wants to hug her. He doesn’t wanna risk her wrath, though, so. ‘Rob, you’re a treasure.’
He bundles himself up in his coat, ignores her don’t I know it, remembers something very important.
‘Rob? Keith won’t mind if I borrow these, right?’
Hargrove greets him with. Another scowl.
He lets him in without a fight, though, so. Steve counts that as a win.
‘What the fuck, Harrington?’ He’s wiping the sweat dripping off his forehead and into his. Tank top. He’s. In a tank top. And shorts. In December. In Indiana. He’s got a cold. Steve can’t—‘You said six. You’re early.’
Steve. Knows that? Like. He’s aware of the time. He gets that. He’s early. He just. He wanted to. Come over. It’s—
‘What are you doing?’
Hargrove looks down at himself like he needs to check. ‘What’s it look like, Harrington, jesus. ‘m lifting.’
Steve pushes a thumb between his eyebrows. Forcefully. ‘Of course you are. You eat your breakfast?’
Hargrove rolls his eyes, but. Nods.
‘And take the pills?’
‘Like the good boy I am.’
Steve kinda wants to. Punch that smirk off his face? He sighs, instead. He does that a lot around Hargrove, he’s starting to notice. ‘Good. Go take a shower, and wear something warm, and I. I’ll go make us some soup.’
‘My set’s not fin—’
‘Billy.’ It’s such a rush, having the power to shut Hargrove up. Get him to snap his head up in attention. Steve. Likes it. ‘Go take a shower. Food’ll be done in twenty.’
Hargrove huffs. Then he purses his lips like he’s gearing up to talk back.
Then he obeys.
Yeah, Steve likes this.
The soup’s nearly done by the time Hargrove rolls back into the kitchen, only a towel hung low on his hips.
He hooks his chin over Steve’s shoulder, hums, right into his ear, says, ‘Want grilled cheese too.’
Steve. Absolutely does not shiver at the breath brushing the shell of his ear, and his cheek, and a part of his neck, too. He lifts an eyebrow, even though Hargrove can’t see it.
Steve’s got a feeling he can sense it, anyway.
‘Go put actual clothes on, and maybe I’ll make you some.’
He makes them both one.
Because Billy needs all the strength he can get, that’s all.
And because he sauntered back in the kitchen two minutes after Steve told him to get dressed, wearing sweatpants, and a t-shirt, and socks, did a little spin, like, passed the test?, made himself small on the left corner of the couch, the end visible from the kitchen, and.
He’s been watching Steve ever since.
It doesn’t make Steve nervous. It should, he thinks, but.
It doesn’t.
It’s almost. Easy. Like they’ve done this before. Easy.
‘Hey,’ he says, coughs to clear the raspiness out of his voice, ‘look in that bag I brought.’
There’s rustling, and then. ‘You bought. Lights? Uh. Good for you, Harrington.’
Steve rolls his eyes. At the grilled cheese. ‘’s for you, dumbass. Noticed you didn’t have any, so. Uh.’ When he turns around, Hargrove’s. Staring at the lights. Then back at him. Then at the lights again. ‘We had some spare decorations at the store, so. I thought. I mean. I can. Take them back? I didn’t like. Steal them or anything. Just thought they’d look nice with your plants.’
Hargrove doesn’t say anything for a while. Looks at the lights. Steve. His bookcase, with his books and his plants and his records. Steve again. Then he sniffles, and his nose twitches like it’s stuffy, and he frowns at the string of lights on his lap, and says, ‘Put ‘em up, then.’
They spend the next twenty minutes setting them up.
Well. Steve’s doing the work. Hargrove. Billy. He’s still on the couch, correcting Steve’s asymmetrical positioning, whatever the hell that is. Constantly. For the past twenty minutes.
By the time Steve asks, how’s that? for the thirtieth time in the last hour, and Billy squints, and tilts his head, and sighs, like, Guess it’s as good as it gets, the soup’s almost gone cold.
Almost.
The lights look. Really fucking pretty, actually, so.
‘Wait here.’ He doesn’t need to look to find Billy stuck to his spot on the couch. He’s good at. Following directions. Steve thinks it might be the fever.
He hopes it’s not.
He found a tray under the sink cabinet yesterday, so. He gets two bowls ready, stacks the grilled cheese on two plates on top, and he walks back into the next room to find Billy. Watching him with a soft kinda curiosity on his face. The christmas lights make him glow around the edges. It’s—
‘Here,’ Steve sets the tray on the coffee table. Hands a bowl to Billy. Ignores how cold his fingers are when they brush his.
Ignores that he ever noticed any of that in the first place.
He sits down, on the really small couch, in this really small room, with the christmas lights on and the snow falling outside the window and Billy almost. Purring next to him with every sip, and it’s. It’s almost like—
‘Mind if I put on some music?’
Billy. Snorts. Ungracefully. ‘Knock yourself out, Harrington. This’ll be good.’
Steve sends him a frown from where he’s crouching in front of the record player. ‘Do you have anything remotely. Christmas-y?’
‘Harrington. Let me eat my soup in peace, will ya?’
‘Fine.’ Steve huffs. Finds the first record with a mildly. Nonthreatening cover. For Billy’s standards that means. Not bathed in blood. He puts it on.
He scoffs out a laugh, because it’s not even close to like. Bing Crosby or something, but.
It’s nice.
They eat, side by side, and snow’s falling, and Billy’s record fills the silence with mellow riffs, and it’s. It’s nice.
Billy hums. ‘Tastes good,’ he says around a spoonful.
‘’s just canned soup, man. Nothing special.’
‘Yeah.’ He frowns at the bowl like Steve’s words got him to question its quality, and then he shrugs. ‘It’s good.’
Steve clears his throat, leans forward to leave the empty bowl on the tray. Regrets it the moment he doesn’t have anything to do with his hands.
‘So what do you. Uh. Do for food when. I’m not. Y’know. Around to heat up canned soup for ya?’
It earns him a breathy chuckle, that Steve absolutely doesn’t feel like being the cause of again. And again. And then maybe again after that, too.
‘I am pretty capable of going grocery shopping on my own, Harrington.’ He’s stopped eating, biting his nail something vicious instead, and Steve doesn’t. Think about it, just. Wraps his fingers around Billy’s wrist to pull it away. Billy. Blinks down at Steve’s fingers around him. Swallows. Loudly. ‘Just couldn’t do it with this fuckin’ cold,’ he adds. His voice is. Quiet.
Steve squeezes his wrist. Once. He hasn’t drawn his hand back, kinda. Isn’t planning to anytime soon, and he. He can’t. Explain it. Just feels. Right.
‘Why didn’t you ask Max to tell me, man? I know we’re not—I mean. We could—I mean—’
Billy laughs, but it comes out all. Wrong. Bitter. He stands up, hand sliding out of Steve’s grasp. ‘Don’t sweat it, Harrington.’ He pats Steve on the shoulder, once, like the last year never happened and they’re still naked and haunted and hungry for blood under the gym showers. ‘I get it.’
Steve doesn’t. Think he does. Steve doesn’t even get it. How could Billy—
‘I just wanna help,’ he mumbles, and it doesn’t carry half of what he wants to say.
‘Yeah. I know. You’re good like that.’
Steve doesn’t know what to say to that, so he frowns at Billy instead. He’s stacking their plates on the tray, and Steve starts protesting, but.
‘Harrington. Chill. You’ve done your part, okay? You nursed me back to health. I’m good to do the dishes.’
None of this goes down smoothly in his throat, and it doesn’t make any sense, because. Billy’s right. He looks fine. Steve helped. There’s no reason to keep—
‘Should probably go then,’ he says to no one but the empty room, and the lights, and the snow outside the window.
He tests the words on his tongue for a moment, and they never stop tasting bitter, so.
He stands up.
A piece of paper’s sticking out from under the coffee table, and Steve bends down to pick it up, one last act of good will before he’s. Not needed anymore, and.
His breath catches in his throat.
It’s just a. A grocery list, nothing more, except Steve knows those a’s, and he knows those y’s, and he definitely, definitely knows those s’s.
The notes have stopped.
Steve hadn’t noticed it until. This moment, because the notes have stopped, and Billy’s been sick, and Steve knows. Knows every letter, and every word, because Billy—
‘What the fuck?’
A hand snatches the paper out of his grasp, water and suds flying everywhere because Billy. Billy was doing the dishes, just now, and.
‘You should go,’ he says, and it’s so far from a question Steve flinches at the force of it.
‘Billy—’
‘No. No, get out. Out, Harrington, get out.’
Steve says I— and he doesn’t say anything else, and he grabs his coat, and.
His reaction must’ve been. A little miscalculated, because Steve runs through the Family Video doors, and yells, ‘Robin! You won’t believe what just happened!’ and.
Robin literally. Tackles him to the ground, like, ‘Tell me you got your stupid bat with you.’
Thankfully, the store is as empty as Steve left it.
Steve blinks at Robin, and says, ‘What?’ and then. Replays this whole thing over from the start, so.
Yeah, he may have overreacted. Just a bit.
He throws her off him. ‘Not that, Buckley, jesus.’
He definitely, one hundred percent deserves the slap on his arm. Which stings. Robin’s fit. It’s unfair.
‘This is Hawkins, Harrington, you come barging through the doors crying wolf means the world’s about to end. Again.’
Steve winces. Because she’s right. He hates it when that happens.
It happens a lot. Like. A lot a lot.
‘Yeah, sorry, not. That kind of emergency. I mean. It’s almost as serious, I’m telling you—’
‘What are you doing here, anyway? Thought you were playing nurse Steve with your guy.’
Steve chokes on nothing. ‘He’s not my—That’s what I’m trying to tell you, it’s.’ Robin’s really. Focused on him when Steve looks up, like she’s. Worried about him. Steve kinda. Loves her for that. Worrying about him. ‘It’s Billy,’ he says, aloud for the first time since his brain record scratched to a stop. ‘The—the notes. It’s Billy.’
Robin blinks, and she says oh, and she stands up. Just. Oh.
‘That’s it?’ Steve lifts his arms in despair, which. Okay, might just be the sequel to his first. Festival of overreaction, but. ‘Billy Hargrove sending me love notes is just. Oh to you?’
‘I mean.’ Robin shrugs, and Steve doesn’t like that look in her face. It’s the look she gets when Steve doesn’t know something she does. Steve hates that look. ‘We already knew it was a guy, and he’s been hanging around here a lot lately, especially during your shifts, and you—’
She has to bite her entire lip into her mouth to cut herself off.
Steve doesn’t like where this is going, not one bit.
‘How do you feel about that?’
He squints at her, like, ‘Depends on what you’re actually asking.’
The sigh she lets out echoes in the empty halls of Family Video and is, in Steve’s objective opinion, unjustifiably dramatic. ‘This isn’t me trying to force the homosexual agenda on you or anything, okay? But. I mean. You just spent the last couple days taking care of him, like. Feeding him. And making sure he stays warm—’
‘To which I failed. Spectacularly. He still walks around like he’s untouchable, and he’s not. Fucking asshole.’
‘—and,’ Robin shuts him up with a raised eyebrow, ‘He usually comes around when you’re here alone, so my benchmark for this is limited, but. I don’t know. You smile a lot. After you see him. And you keep saying how easy it is, to like. Talk to him. Be around him. I don’t know, maybe you only mean as friends, but.’ She finishes her speech with a shrug, which is. So typical of her. Dropping the bomb and then. Shrugging.
Steve’s still with his ass on the floor, which is good, because. He doesn’t think he could fight gravity at this particular moment in his life, too.
He crouches forward, rests his elbows on his knees, leans his head on his palms. The world’s kinda. Spinning.
‘He’s an asshole.’
‘Definitely.’
He sighs. Then he says, ‘And really fucking cute. When he’s sick. And when he’s not.’
Robin stares at him, and stares at him, and keeps staring, and.
‘Fuck.’ He claws at his hair a bit, like maybe that’ll screw his head back the right way, but. Doesn’t work. ‘Fuck,’ he repeats, spits it out there with a little more force than before. He thinks he’s entitled to it. ‘s not everyday he unearths his big stupid crush for Billy Hargrove.
He looks up at Robin. For. Comfort, or a lobotomy, or. Something. ‘Is that okay? That I like him?’
Robin. Deflates before his very eyes. It’s unnerving.
Then she sits back down next to him. Covers his left palm with her right.
That’s unnerving, too.
‘Steve. Hey, what is it?’
‘Nothing,’ he says, and he finds he. He means it. It’s all. Okay. The world’s still here. Still kinda spinning a little faster, but. Still here. ‘Nothing, ‘s just. It’s new. That’s all.’
She lets out a rueful kinda scoff next to him. ‘I know,’ she says, because. Steve knows she does. She knows. ‘That’s all?’
‘That’s all.’ He nods. Then he turns to her, face screwed up in agony, ‘I really like him, Rob.’
‘Well that’s. That’s good, dingus, he likes you too.’
‘He’s angry at me.’
‘Because you were snooping around his things?’ She laughs when he sputters at that, ruffles his hair with her other hand like she. Doesn’t wanna let him go with her other yet. ‘Betcha he’s not angry, though. Scared shitless, more like.’
Steve gives her a frown. ‘I didn’t say anything bad.’
‘No, but. This whole. New thing for you. Probably isn’t new to him. And he doesn’t even know about. You, and what he did, with those notes. He’s probably scared outta his mind, Steve.’
Which. Makes sense, but. Only just dawned on Steve. The look on Billy’s face when he walked into the room to find Steve holding the—
‘Shit. Shit, yeah, he. He looked scared. Fuck.’
Robin smiles at him, that smile Steve’s learned to translate to you’re a dumbass but. lovable, like she’s not sitting right next to him on the floor of Family Video, Hawkins’ best video rental, like they wouldn’t both give their lives for one another, like.
Like none of them has seen how easy they’d be asked to do that, stuck here in this town.
‘Listen. It’s almost closing time, and I know your brain’s running miles.’ She huffs when he scrunches his nose at her. It’s unfair, how. Well she knows him. ‘Go sleep it off, look at your pretty lights or something, and. You can talk to him tomorrow. Make it right.’
He says, ‘Yeah. Yeah, okay,’ and he gives her a hug, but only because she can’t use any of her arms to slap him, and.
He gets home.
Lies in his bed. Turns on all the lights. All of them. He stares, and he stares, and he tries to find them as pretty as the lights in Billy’s place.
Hours go by, and sleep doesn’t come, and the lights just look like lights.
Sleep doesn’t come, and that means Steve’s gonna be facing the Friday afternoon shift running on fumes.
He’s not particularly excited about that prospect, but. At least Keith had the morning shift, so Robin’s gonna be there to poke him back to awareness every time he falls asleep on his hand.
Keith’s exceptionally proud of Family Video’s weekly Friday turnout, except it hasn’t stopped snowing since like. A week ago, and people just. Don’t share his view on essential goods, so.
Robin’s hidden behind the War section, reading Orlando, whatever the fuck that is, and Steve’s been steadily decomposing over the cash register, when the bell rings.
A voice says, ‘Hey,’ and it takes Steve three seconds to get it, so he’s already halfway through how may I help you tod- and then.
‘Hey! Uh. Hi,’ he says. Shouts. To Billy. Standing in front of him. In an actual sweater, and. And a coat.
‘Hey,’ Billy says. Again.
‘Uh, how. How are you? The. Cold, I mean. How’s that going?’
Something. Closes off on Billy’s face. His mouth goes tight, just a single straight line. ‘Almost gone now. You said you’d pay me back, right? You saved me.’
Steve shakes his head, because it wasn’t a favor, not ever, says, ‘Billy—’
‘Here.’ He pushes a tape on the counter, slides it as close to Steve without actually. Touching.
It’s Gremlins, which means it’s Max’s, which means.
Billy wanted to deliver it himself. To Steve. To. To see Steve.
‘Listen, about yesterday—’
‘Harrington.’ It startles Steve, how firm his voice sounds. How. Small, and firm, and. Sad. ‘Just. Open the box, will ya?’
Steve’s waiting for it, the piece of paper that falls the moment he lifts the lid. Catches it before it meets the floor. He grips it tight, and he traces every letter, and he—
You’re so good. And so fuckin pretty, but mostly you’re just good
Thanks for saving my life, pretty boy
His breath catches in his throat, and then the bell’s ringing again, so there’s no time for anything else, because Billy’s—he’s leaving, and Steve won’t.
He won’t fucking let that happen.
He yells out, ‘Robin! Man the fort,’ waits not a second more to find out if she heard him. Runs out the door. With. No coat on. In the middle of an actual. Snowstorm.
Not his best decision, if anyone asks, except Billy’s already going blurry in the distance, and that is definitely up there at the top of Steve’s fuck-ups, letting. Billy go, so.
‘Hey,’ he catches Billy by the elbow, tries. Tries to catch his breath from running through the Great Snow Apocalypse of ‘85. ‘Hey, man, wait a second, you can’t just—’
Billy slides out of Steve’s grip with a hiss loud enough to defy the wind around them, like he’s been burned through three layers of fabric.
‘You don’t have to—’ He closes his eyes, and he licks his lips, and when he looks back at Steve his voice is steady. Steadier than Steve’s heard it in days. ‘You don’t owe me anything, okay? Never did. And you still—’ When he frowns, he looks. Pained. Lost. ‘I’m not gonna bother you, okay, I just. I wanted you to know.’
Steve. Very carefully, very slowly lets his arm close the distance between them, hooks his fingers around Billy’s.
He’s freezing, and he’s so. Still, frowning at that one point of contact like he can’t make any sense out of it, so Steve.
He says, ‘Wanted me to know what?’ Very carefully. Very. Very slowly.
He brushes his thumb across Billy’s. Stupid, frozen knuckles, just to get him shivering, just to see a spark of. Hope, Steve thinks, in his eyes, when Billy lifts them back up to his.
‘Wanted you to know someone—’ His brows are knitted together, and Steve does it again, that one small touch, to see softness clawing onto Billy’s features, one falling snowflake at a time. Billy clears his throat, and tilts his hand just so, so it can fit better under Steve’s, and says, ‘Wanted you to know someone loves you. I. I love you.’
His bottom lip’s disappeared into his mouth by the time he’s done talking, and Steve.
Well. He can’t have that, so he cups Billy’s jaw, pulls his lip from between his teeth with a thumb, and that’s. It’s not enough, because Billy’s eyes go really. Really big, and Steve hasn’t even—
He brings their faces closer, and slots their mouths together, and. He kisses him. Steve. Steve kisses him.
He’s freezing. Like. He’s actually trembling against Steve, and the snow’s falling on them, and Steve hasn’t got a coat on, and.
It’s perfect.
It’s just. Perfect.
Billy pulls back, only just. ‘I didn’t—You’re not—’
‘I wanna take care of you.’ Steve cuts him off with another kiss. The second. He can still keep count, and that’s just. It’s wrong. ‘It’s new. It’s a new thing. But I wanna—will you let me?’
Billy. Bursts out laughing, like. Gets tears in his eyes from it, the actual asshole, which is. Not the reaction Steve was going for. At all.
‘You’ve been feeding me canned soup for the last couple days, Harrington.’
Steve rolls his eyes at him, and smiles, and then. Kisses him again. The third. ‘Yep,’ he says. Mumbles. Against Billy’s lips. It’s better this way, talking. ‘And I’m gonna keep doing it if you say yes. Feed you soup and whine until you wear actual winter-in-Indiana-appropriate clothes, and—’
‘Take care of me.’
‘Yeah. That.’
‘We’re gonna get scurvy, and like. Die. From all the canned shit you packed my kitchen with. That’s like. The opposite of taking care of me, Harrington.’
‘It’s romantic, actually. They’re gonna call us Hawkins’ Star-Crossed Lovers.’ He lets go of Billy’s face, a sacrifice, really, to wave a hand in front of them. ‘I can see it in big neon letters. The Scurvy Boyfriends.’
Billy. His face scrunches like it’s fighting back. Something, and he sniffles, nuzzles his nose against Steve’s, mutters, ‘Say it again.’
Steve raises his hands to smooth out all the lines on his face, leaves the fourth, and the fifth, and maybe the sixth, too, on Billy’s soft, frozen lips. ‘I wanna take care of you,’ he says, and the world keeps turning.
‘’m not easy.’
‘No,’ Steve shrugs, uses the seventh kiss to drive his point, ‘neither am I. And this. This. It’s new, but it feels—’
Billy stops him with the eighth. ‘I know. ‘s okay. I know.’ He cups Steve’s cheeks in his steady, frozen fingers. ‘Steve—’
‘Your hands are so cold.’
Billy laughs, and whispers, ‘Steve,’ and he doesn’t really say anything else for the next two, three, maybe seven kisses, and Steve’s lost count by the time he pulls back, ‘’m freezing.’
His coat’s not nearly big enough to fit them both, but Billy still opens it when Steve wraps his arms tight around his waist, pulls him close, close, close as it gets, kinda. Manages to keep them both under it anyway.
Steve starts walking them back to the stupid store, because. Robin’s there, and he thinks she might be happy about. This, and Billy’s freezing in his arms, and Steve promised to keep him warm, so.
He presses his lips under Billy’s jaw, and he feels the rumble of his laugh, and he says, ‘C’mon, asshole. Once I’ll get you warm in there, you’re gonna explain to me why you ever thought leaving poems about my dick in tapes was a good idea.’
‘Still got you, though,’ Billy laughs, and then he kisses Steve, and Steve.
Suspects it might be the twentieth, but.
He doesn’t wanna keep count anymore.