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Billy doesn’t drive after starcourt. Something about being behind the wheel makes him sick with memories that he can’t understand. They’re abstract and totally unreliable.
But it’s kind of always been like that for him. He's used to having gaps in his memories, except most of the time it’s because of trauma. Or that’s what Joyce tells him and the rest of them whenever they have nightmares about things they don’t remember happening.
He's been living with the Byers and El. He tries to be useful around the house, doing whatever he can because he really doesn’t have anywhere else to go. It’s hard, though. It seems like everything he does, he does wrong. He never had to learn how to fold sheets or clean dishes. Not only was neil hargrove terribly homophobic, but also misogynistic, which is a word joyce taught him because she teaches all her kids that stuff. And he’s one of her kids now. So, yeah. Neil never had Billy do the chores because “he’s not a true man, but he sure as shit isn’t a woman.”
It's alarming how quickly this odd family replaces his old one. Neil seems miles away. Neil doesn’t try to look for Billy, and that’s fine as far as Billy's concerned. He's got scars to cover up the ones Neil made. no need to dwell on that when he has so much other trauma to process., right? Kind of.
He does check up on max. Asks her if neils pulling any of the shit he used to get from his dad. double checks for bruises hidden under makeup or long sleeves, and never finds any. Good.
Joyce is good. great, even. She doesn’t blame him when he breaks a dish because he heard a noise. She listens when he says he needs some alone time, and she knows when he’s just saying that. She gives good hugs and has no problem giving him Jonathan's old room to stay in while he’s off at college. leaving Hawkins behind him, calling every night anxiously awaiting the return of It. Nothing happens, and eventually they relax. Or they try to. That part of billy’s been broken for a long time, though.
So Joyce starts fading into memories of his mom, and he tries not to blame her.
Again. He's never had a great memory anyway. He does remember his mom telling him that boys don’t marry other boys when he was five and told her he wanted to marry his best friend. Then she told him never to tell his dad. It's strange, because he can’t remember her saying that she loved him, even though he’s sure she did. Did she? Huh.
At least the painful memories he gets to keep. Neil beating’s. Beating up on Harrington that night he didn’t know what was going on. The car crash before his mind was taken from him. Max’s terrible scream of “Billy” mixed in with the ear-ringing pain. Waking up in a hospital with starburst scars across his body. Skin that isn’t his. They remind him not to get to comfortable, remind him that the kindness he’s being shown isn’t well earned.
Because Billy knows he wasn’t worth those hospital bills and sleepless nights. All he’s done to the people here is hurt and scar and he’s seen them with the deepest kind of fear in their eyes. Fear because of him.
Everytime he goes down a path like this, he tries to stay clear of everyone. Because. They all tried to hide how much hurt he’s caused. They don’t blame him like they should.
He didn’t know any of them well before. But he knows El didn’t always carry around that police badge or look up at every siren, praying for a familiar face only to be disappointed and try not to show it. Because if Billy survived, couldn’t the more-deserving Hopper? Apparently not.
He knows Joyce didn’t always search for Will in every setting and have those folded up pictures of the two men that died because of all the shitty things that happened. Because she can’t stand to forget their faces or not carry that burden for just a second.
Will didn’t always get quiet every time a draft went through the room or refuse to go out that front door first. Because so many things have been ruined for him.
The rest of the kids didn’t always jump at every noise or bunch together for every corner, carrying lucky momentous and items. Because God forbid they have a break.
He doesn’t see them a lot, but Nancy and Jonathan definitely didn’t carry around an emergency kit everywhere they went, packed with medical supplies and Nancy’s choice gun. Because they’re going to be there to help if anything tries to take another person they loves away.
Some part of Billy reasons that it’s not all his fault. He wasn’t one of those scientists or government agents that started the whole thing.
But he did enough. Enough to warrant all the shit that he’s going through. It’s not the healthiest way of thinking, he’s aware of that, but it helps him get by.
No matter how hard he tries, though, there’s always someone at the house that finds him. Curled up into a ball, dry hitching sobs and no tears because “Hargrove men don’t cry.” Billy gets damn close sometimes, but the fear that Neil’s going to come out from the cracks in the wall and kick him where he lays is too real.
There are usually soft words.
“We don’t blame your here, honey. That wasn’t you, that did all that stuff. And I’m not going to let anything else bad happen to the people under this roof.” Joyce’s strong and sure voice, only breaking at the edges.
“I know what it’s like to have him control you like that. I know better than anyone else, and I know how scary it is. Mom says it’s over now, though, and I can’t feel It anymore. I would tell you first if It came back.” Will never says anything more than that, which is comforting in itself. It’s nice to have someone else.
“They lost. You’re here. I’m here. Will’s here. It is safe.” El’s statement is simple, but she makes it easy to believe.
He believes them until he gets another new memory of what he did. The Mayor’s blood on the floor. Heather’s petrified screams. Standing before that thing and feeling nothing but a perverse sense of but awe and, buried beneath that, a screaming sense of horror and the constant feeling of slipping in the sand.
There are times, like right now, when he doesn’t want someone to make him feel better. He wants someone who can drive him away from here and sit in an empty parking lot and smoke away the thoughts. Someone like Steve.
He would do it himself. He would. But he can’t. Can’t get over that fucking gas pedal. So he calls Steve.
They’ve done this enough times for it to make sense for Billy to have Steve’s number memorized. And his work schedule. And to know when he’s with Dustin or Robin or any of the others on one of those group outings Billy can’t bring himself to go to. There are too many sad faces, too many broken homes.
It doesn’t matter what he wears. It’s just Steve, and they’ve gotten past the point of caring about things like that.
Which. Is obvious to anyone who looks at Billy, not that he sees anyone. He’s lost a lot of weight. Muscles that used to be defined are gone, replaced by scars. He can’t get them back yet, because he’s not strong enough to lift any of them. And because muscles like that can hurt and hit. His eyes are surrounded by heavy bags, bloodshot and tired. The new callouses on his hands are mostly scars from anxiety ridden breakages, and the pained nails are because El wanted to try the new dark blue out. His hair is greasy and flat, nowhere near what it used to be. It hangs around his shoulders in curled waves, so far from where he used to be.
He doesn’t even try to smile to the sad reflection in the mirror.
Steve doesn’t honk when he arrives. The first time he did that and the noise sent Billy spiraling, and Steve had felt terrible, cussing up a storm that actually helped Billy out of it. Luckily, it was just Billy home and no one else was there to witness they’re collective train wreck.
Before he leaves, Billy grabs something from the bathroom and stuffs it in with the rest of the random shit he brings.
Billy slides into the passenger seat, leans his head back against the headrest, and says, “So, Harrington, how you been?”
Steve, mercifully, looks the same as always. He looks good, the asshole. It’s a relief that he’s still able to feel that fire Steve lights up. Different than all the other Kings from California. A few more scars, but they all have that. His shades are pushed through his hair, brown strands flopping over lazily.
“Same as usual, so fairly shitty and on the brink of breakdown. You?” It would be a normal conversation if Steve wasn’t completely serious, corners of his mouth only ticking up when Billy reaches over and bats at the band-aid charm hanging from the mirror. A joke from Billy to say sorry for, you know, almost beating him to death for no real reason.
“Oh, you know.” He doesn’t need to say more for Steve to get the idea. It’s the same way they’ve been feeling for months now.
“Yeah.” The car ride over isn’t far from the Byers’ house, and they spend it in almost silence. Some pop station is playing low on the radio.
“This the shit you listen to, pretty boy? I expected more than this.” It’s an attempt at normalcy, something that they’ve slowly been working up to.
“At least I don’t blast out my eardrums every time I want to listen to music,” replies Steve quickly, smile evident in his tone.
And it’s normal. It’s them. The way they were before it all got so messy. For that brief moment, there’s no winter night or july 4th. For a brief moment Billy can entertain a reality where he went to find Steve instead of a fight. A world where Steve, with those pretty eyes and snap remarks, could hold his hand and stop him from doing all the bad things in the future.
But the moment passes. Steve clears his throat and looks forward at the road.
They arrive to the quarry, water at the bottom glinting, tossing, teasing. The car doors slam shut, and they slide up on to the front of the car. Billy pulls his last minute grab out of the bag and hands it to Steve.
“I want you to cut my hair.” Steve takes the scissors and towel in his hand, looking at Billy.
He doesn’t ask if Billy’s sure. Billy figures that Steve knows at this point he wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t real. If Billy wasn’t sure. Steve cards a hand through Billy’s hair. It feels. Good. Real good.
Steve starts cutting, and Billy winces at the sound of the scissors closing around his hair. His past.
“I like to think it isn’t just part of me.” The comment comes out of nowhere, surprising Billy more than it surprises Steve.
“What?” Steve’s voice is calm, the sniping of the scissors is methodical.
“The anger. The aggression. The tendency to hurt. I like to think it’s not in my nature, but my nurture.”
“I don’t think you’re violent.” It’s a laughable statement.
“You’re joking. Did you forget most of last year? I’m the one with the bad memory here, Harrington.” Billy can practically hear Steve’s disapproving mother’s frown behind him.
“That wasn’t you.”
“Right, sure, whatever, bullshit. But what about…you know. Last winter.”
“What happened before that?” asks Steve patiently.
“Jesus, you’re worse than Joyce. My dad sent me after Max. Found her at Byers’ place with you. Hurt you a whole fucking lot.”
“Is that all he did? He just told you to go after her?” Billy ignores the way his stomach does flips when Steve runs a hand through Billy’s hair, straightening it out.
“So you’re my fuckin’ therapist now? What do you want me to say? He kissed my head and sent my on my merry way? That’s now how he works. I’ll admit, I was saved by his new wifey. He can’t use me as a punching bag when she’s standing right there, not like he did with mom. Nothing I couldn’t handle. Nothing worse than what you’ve done to me. And the insults weren’t too bad either. He forgot to call me a fag.”
“Oh. Shit, Billy, I-“
“It’s fine,” cuts in Billy, hating the pity in Steve’s voice. He’s not the one who should have it.
“You didn’t deserve that.” This time it does make Billy laugh. It’s a hollow and haunting sound, an echo of his charming boyish laugh.
“Sure I did, dipshit. You’re probably one of the people who knows best why I did, in fact, deserve it.”
“So then I’m the best person. to tell you that you aren’t that person. You haven’t been that person since you left him and all of that shit. Let me ask you something. Do you want to hurt people now?”
“No!” Billy startles himself with his sudden enthusiasm, and Steve jumps a little behind him. Steve is quicker to recover, though, and he runs a hand through the hair he hasn’t cut yet. It’s soothing. Billy barely resists the urge to lean into it. Ask for more.
“Did you ever want to hurt people? Like really, truly want to see them hurt?” Billy has to think about the question. Steve deserves an real answer.
Flashes fly through his mind, bringing on too familiar emotions. Anger, a need to make someone, anyone, feel the way that he’s feeling. Fear that not having this power over people would make him weak. Horror at what he’s about to do. Detachment, painful as he grinned and laughed.
“I just wanted to have control. Take some of the hurt I was feeling and give it to other people. It was a rush that I was addicted to. The thrill of the fight, the feel of flesh against my fist, the look of blood on my knuckles. I liked fighting, still do. I didn’t like hurting people.” Steve puts the scissors down on the car hood, fluffing Billy’s hair and sliding down next to him.
“I’ve been on the wrong side of the fists of two people I’m now okay with,” admits Steve. “Believe me, I know now to take a beating. I’ve been heartbroken by two other people I’m close friends with. I forgive too easily.”
“So you’re a compulsive truster and I’m a compulsive fighter. What a pair we make, huh Harrington?”
“Yeah.” agrees Steve, bumping his shoulder against Billy. “What a pair.”
Maybe it’s the haircut. Maybe it’s the sunlight confessions. Maybe it’s how carefree and happy Steve looks. But Billy feels lighter. Like there was this unspoken weight he had been carrying around that no one knew about. Or everyone knew about, but couldn’t help.
The thing is, Steve didn’t even say anything. He didn’t promise a better future, he didn’t say that he was safe. He shared some of the personal pain they all carry around.
“I don’t think I ever said sorry. I am sorry, you know. I. I didn’t-“
Mean to hurt you. Want to hurt you. Mean to let you see how much I hurt. Want to need you.
“I know. I’m sorry too. Someone should’ve known. About you.” Steve leans closer, and Billy chalks it up to the night chill as the sun settles below the glistening rocks.
“I was good at hiding things I didn’t want people to see.”
“Yeah, well you’re not alone there either.”
“You good at hiding, pretty boy?” Billy’s eyes flick down to Steve’s lips, and, is Billy imagining it or is Steve looking at him the same way?
“Apparently not good enough,” jokes Steve. His smile falls off of his lips, and he leans minutely closer. If Billy wasn’t paying attention to all of Steve…
The way his hair glows white and gold in the sunset. That wrinkle between his brows. The way one of his eyes is a little darker than the other. How he smells like cigarette smoke and that fancy hairspray, even when his hair is blown from the wind.
The way he looked that night. Cool and collected, then terrified and fighting for his life. So beautiful in the harsh starlight and then so abstract in the broken kitchen light.
Before he knows what’s happening, Steve is filling that gap. Kissing Billy like he’s trying to sooth the pain from their past. Maybe he is. Billy wouldn’t put it past him.
His hand finds a way to Steve’s hair, the same way Steve’s been running his through Billy’s now shorter hair. He curls it into the strands, holding on tightly. Soft.
The way Steve sighs his name takes Billy away from it all. The pain. The memories. The lack of memories.
They lay out under the stars for a few minutes, but Billy knows Joyce will freak out if she can’t find him. Not because she doesn’t trust him, he has to remind himself, but because she doesn’t trust others.
On the drive home Steve plays that pop stuff again, and Billy gives him the appropriate shit for it, a smile on his face the whole time. His fingers laced through Steve’s.
They arrive at the house, and Steve declines to come in. Gives the excuse that his parents will be waiting up when they both know it’s not true. Billy can’t blame him. Billy understands needing to be alone, needing to get away.
Billy leans through Steve’s window and wishes that he could kiss him goodbye. Well. The teasing will have to do.
“Night, King Steve.”
“Goodnight, Asshole.”
If Joyce gives him a knowing smile at the door, Billy doesn’t smile back. Probably.
He definitely does. Maybe he deserves the smile. If Steve thinks he does.