Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He doesn’t know why he does it.

Maybe it’s the Fifth of Whiskey he polished off on his way up the drive. Now, before you worry, it wasn’t that much; just the last dregs of a bottle from his Father’s den that he’d been siphoning from for the past couple weeks. Barely a drop.

Skipping dinner had offset the pitiful amount. Tommy taught him that trick years ago when they used to raid the liquor cabinet together. All hushed voices and odd socks tripping their way across the shag carpet of the den. Back when there was someone around to overhear them. 

Back when there was a ‘them’.

Tommy hadn’t stuck around. But his tricks had, and for once, Steve was glad for it. He’d essentially funneled the alcohol directly into his bloodstream, quickly calming his nerves. Loosening his muscles. Dulling his inhibitions.

But that still couldn’t have been enough to make him do it.

Maybe it’s Nancy. The scenes of them that play when he closes his eyes. Knees brushing together beneath soft sheets. Her eyes on his. Calling him an idiot with that small, sweet smile of hers that made Steve feel like maybe, just maybe he could be the centre of someone’s universe. Perfume like sweet peaches on his tongue, her lips on his collarbone, his hands in her hair. She’s wearing it now. He wonders if Jonathan knows he bought it for her. That she used to wear it for him.

Those peaches have gone sour.

She doesn’t smile at him anymore.

Steve’s noticed - It really hasn’t been hard to. He’s caught eyes with her a few times tonight, through the sea of bodies as they split and sway to the thrum of the speakers. Not long enough to hold each other’s gaze, but enough for him to see the look on her face; brows all in a knot, lips pressed into a tight little line.

He’s not sure why she’s doing it, but Steve is pretty sure she’s trying to act like she cares. Like she’s worried about him. Like she’s not spent the rest of her time tonight making heart-eyes at Jonathan over her dixie cup of punch. He’s not even sure why she’s here. If she was even invited. 

Then again, he’s not really sure he was either.

Maybe it’s just that he wants to feel something other than this dull ache in his chest. The hole that’s somehow been clawing its way open wider, deeper, since Halloween. Since that night. When he went to the gates of hell and set them on fire. 

The adrenaline crash after that night had been massive, and now he just needs something, anything to feel other than the gnawing emptiness in the pit of his stomach. Something to level him out again, take him out of this month's long spell of feeling like a walking corpse, even if that means starting a fight that he might lose.

Hell, that he’ll most definitely lose, going by his track record.

No matter what, it’s undeniable that it’s something stupid and reckless that has him stumbling his way onto the balcony to rip the cigarette out of Billy Hargrove’s mouth. To pull in one long, slow drag of smoke and blow it right out into Billy’s face.

Billy doesn’t flinch.

But that doesn’t really mean a thing, cause Billy never flinches.

There’s a moment where they’re just sort of staring at each other; Billy, fingers still hovering near where he’d been holding the cigarette to his lips, cogs ticking over his brain as he undoubtedly tries to figure out how to respond, and Steve, feet planted in preparation for when he does. Yet no amount of preparation would have got him ready for what happens next. Cause when Billy’s lips split open, it’s not to ask what the fuck he thinks he’s doing. To spit barbs or cuss him out.

It’s to laugh.

A lungful of smoke just got blown straight in his eyes and Billy’s laughing.

And it’s not in the maniacal, unhinged way he had before breaking a plate over Steve’s head in November either. No, this one bubbles out in a gleeful, eye-crinkling sort of way. Almost a giggle.

It’s a good thing Steve’s feet are planted, cause the shock of it damn near bowls him over. Billy Hargrove isn’t a giggler. He cackles. His laughs are evil. They’re supposed to be taunting. Not fucking bright and - and goddamn joyful.

Steve’s almost about to pinch himself until Billy opens his eyes again enough for him to see that they’re...red. But like, not an angry red like the writers in the books they have to read in English like to say. Actually red and a little half-lidded and - oh.

Oh .

Is Hargrove high ?

Steve holds the cigarette into the light, and after looking at it a little more closely, he can see that it’s not Billy’s usual brand of Marlboro reds. This one is hand rolled, fat, and messily packed by what can only have been inebriated hands.

He rolls his tongue around something pungent beneath the taste of tobacco in his mouth. 

“Is this…?”

Billy’s grinning. Mouth wide, lids low. “Yeah.”

Now it’s Steve’s turn to laugh, embarrassingly high and a little hysterical.

Obviously it’s far too early for the weed to have kicked in, but he may have lied about how much was left in that whiskey bottle, and shit, he really wasn’t anticipating this .

He’d been expecting to feel the rings on Billy’s fingers against his temples again. To reopen the little cuts left there that still haven’t fully healed. To make him feel something other than the numbness in his chest. His limbs. To set his nerves alight with pain.

What he hadn’t expected is to feel those same knuckles brush softly against the skin of his cheek as Billy takes back the spliff. It’s not the kind of contact he was looking for, but somehow, it sparks something all the same. Something in his chest. He doesn’t know what. But it’s a start. It’s something .

And he wants more.

And then Billy’s turning his attention away, eyes roaming across the yard below, and Steve has to blame his stuttering lurch forward on the whiskey. He catches himself on the banister with a hip before he can get too close, trying for casual.

More like desperate . His mind supplies.

He ignores it.

“Not sharing tonight?” Steve asks, because that has to be why Billy’s up here on Nicole’s parents’ balcony alone while a party rages below their feet.

“Fuck no.” Billy chuckles around another drag. He lets the smoke billow out from his nose like Steve imagines one of Dustin’s dungeons and dragons enemies would. Taps off the ash before he adds, “This is good shit.”

Someone’s managed to score two kegs tonight, and they’ve taken full advantage of this by starting a keg stand competition. Tommy’s on one now, up against one of the Tiger’s players. Steve can’t remember his name, but thinks he sits behind him in math.

“Tommy tell you that?” Steve teases tilting his head towards the commotion below, because he knows the pitch Tommy gives to potential customers. And he’s still trying to rile Billy up. Rolling the dice to see if the dragon will spit fire.

It works.

“No, Harrington. Tommy didn’t tell me that.” Billy says derisively, “This isn’t that swamp algae trash he hands out that’s damp like he’s put it through with his laundry. This is good shit. Shit that’ll put Indiana hicks like you on your ass.”

“If it’s so good, why’re you cutting it with tobacco?” Steve fires back.

Below them, Tommy comes off the keg spluttering, and staggers through the jeering crowd to retch over a flower bed. For someone so quick to make fun of Steve for losing the keg-king title Tommy sure is shit at handling his liquor.

When he looks back, Billy’s giving him the side-eye, jaw working.

“One, it smokes better this way than a joint does. Two, it wastes less. Ever heard the saying ‘don’t get high on your own supply ’? This-” Billy holds it out, the cherry red end pointed towards himself - a surprising show of politeness as he offers it back to Steve. “-is a compromise.”

And that’s how Steve learns that Billy sells weed.

He should have known. Nice car kept in pristine condition, always filled with gas; shiny jewellery on his fingers and ears; cash for endless amounts of cigarettes to chain-smoke between classes. Billy has to be getting it from somewhere, and he sure as hell knows it’s not from Neil Hargrove, if the vague information Max has let slip about the guy is anything to go by. 

It couldn’t be from a part-time job, either. Steve can’t imagine a world where Billy would apply for a job at one of the few places in town willing to hire teenagers. He’d probably rather drop dead than be caught in a uniform for Bradley’s Big Buy.

God, wouldn’t it be a sight, though.

Steve has to indulge himself in the image for a moment as he lets out a plume of smoke. He can see it now; Billy, piercings taken out, ironed white shirt buttoned up all the way, half strangled by a tie, all topped off with one of those ugly, bright red sack-like vests they force their employees to wear. Like a Christmas stocking with eyebrows.

Steve can’t hold back a snicker.

Billy glares. “It’s good shit, Harrington. Cali shit. And if people want some they’ve gotta pay for it.

“Uh.” Steve says dumbly, because he’s just finished taking another long drag that’s drawn the spliff down to a stub.

Billy’s pushing himself up from the banister then, straightening his spine. Squaring his shoulders. Despite being an inch or so shorter than Steve, his broad frame still feels like it’s dwarfing him as he leans in closer to speak low and firm, “I don’t give freebies.”

Billy plucks it from his fingers to take the last hit before flicking the butt off the balcony. It lands somewhere on the roof tiles, and then Billy’s turning to look at him again, this time pointedly. 

At least, he thinks. Things are starting to get a little fuzzy round the edges.

Damn , Cali shit, huh?

Steve does a clumsy pat-down of the pockets of his members-only jacket and comes up with nothing but his keys and a bubblegum wrapper from the arcade.

He glances up to see Billy watching, an eyebrow raised.

“Fuck, uh. I think I left my wallet in the Beemer. Want me to go get it?”

Billy shrugs, leather jacket creaking.

“I’ll- yeah. I’ll go get it.” 

Billy nods, still staring.

Steve nods back and takes that as a cue to start making his way back to the sliding door. But it doesn’t appear, and Billy is still somehow in front of him, even after he blinks a couple times. His feet feel heavy, like they’re rooted to the ground, and when he looks, they’re in the same spot they were in when he last spoke. 

Jesus Christ, Tommy’s weed never hit this hard after a few tokes.

“Harrington.”

Steve makes an attempt at wiggling his toes, but as much as he tries he can’t see through his Nike sneakers to tell if they’re moving.

“ Harrington.” 

“ Just give me a minute, damn.” He waves a hand, and that feels heavy too, like he’s pushing it through water.

Holy shit.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“But you said--” 

“ Don’t worry about it,” Billy repeats, looking as serious as he can despite the fact that his eyes are practically slits, and then he’s grabbing Steve by the collar of his jacket. Shoving him back. Pushing him down onto one of the wooden reclining chairs, and Steve lets him.

At least, he thinks he does.

Not that it really matters, cause even if he wanted to stop Billy it’s not like he’d have actually been able to do it in this state. 

“Sit.”

“H-hargrove, what-“

“Don’t wanna be responsible for you braining yourself trying to walk down the stairs,” Billy states, “Besides, I don’t want your daddy’s money.”

“That’s all I’ve got.” Steve says, and it might come out a little quiet, because Billy’s hands are still tangled in his jacket, rough knuckles pressed up against his collarbone. Billy‘s breath is warm on his cheeks and-

When did he get so close?

“Is it?” Billy asks, head cocking to the side.

Steve’s mouth works, but nothing seems to come out.

When Billy’s knee comes to rest against the end of the chair between Steve’s thighs, his shirt shifts, falling open a little.

Steve’s gaze is drawn down at the movement - the angle he’s at granting him a view of what would usually be hidden beneath the black fabric; the tiny freckle below his sternum; satin skin over hardened abdominal muscles, flexing and pulling taut as Billy adjusts his weight, down to the dip of his navel, just the right shape to press a thumb into.

He’s seen it all before in the showers after basketball practice, but not like this. Up close. Near enough that he can smell the spice of Billy’s cologne, salt and sweat mingling with the heady smell of marajuana in the air between them. 

Steve knows immediately that this isn’t the same. This feels like something dirty. Forbidden. 

He doesn’t know why he can’t look away.

“I think you could think of something else. Something you could give me.” 

Steve’s eyes snap up from where they’ve been tracing the line of Billy’s pectorals, and he feels himself flush.

Billy’s teeth are sharp. White. Predatory. 

“Like what?” Steve stutters, because surely Billy Hargrove, Hawkins’ resident womaniser isn’t implying what he thinks he is. Especially not here on a balcony at a fucking party where just anyone could look up and see. 

“I think you know.”

“I don’t-” Steve’s breath catches a little - he isn’t prepared for the rush of heat to his stomach when Billy’s eyes flicker down to his lips as he speaks, and it has to be the weed that has his guts twisting in knots. It just has to. Because he’s not like that . “I’m not-”

His voice dies out completely when he feels the hand on his neck, slipping in beneath the wool of his scarf.

It’s cold out tonight. They’re deep in the middle of a frostbitten Hawkin’s winter, and Billy’s fingers are white from the chill in the air, so they should feel like ice. They should. But when the tip of Billy’s thumb digs into the soft spot below his ear, it feels like his skin is burning . 

Steve’s had hands on him before, but it’s never felt quite like this. Not with a girl. Not even with Nancy. He’s never felt someone’s touch like this . Searing white and hot where their flesh meets. Making his heart race overtime to deal with the heat sinking through his skin and into his veins. 

But maybe that’s cause girls are delicate. They don’t have calluses on their palms like Billy. There’s not a firmness to their grip like this; a hint of strength beneath the pads of their fingers like Billy’s have where they press into the nape of his neck. A reminder of just how easily they could overpower him. How easily they have before.

He’s never been on his back with a girl over him like Billy is; all heat and muscle, pupils blown wide and zoning in on him like he’s prey . 

Billy’s tongue is pink. It only darts out for the briefest second, but it’s long enough for Steve to follow its movement. To watch it leave a shiny line of moisture along Billy’s lower lip.

If Steve wets his lip too, it’s involuntary.

Cause this is a guy he’s looking at. Billy is a guy, and Steve doesn’t like men. He likes girls and tits and the feeling of soft thighs under his hands. And -

And Billy does too, right?

He has to. Because Billy is constantly flirting with girls, and there’s a new one hanging off his arm at school every other week, so he can’t like men. 

But if Billy doesn’t like men, then what’s to explain the way that his gaze falls once again to Steve’s lips, or why his muscular thighs are pressed up so firm and warm around one of Steve’s? 

They’re close enough now that if Billy were to lose his footing on the slippery wood of the balcony then their lips would-

He can’t even complete the thought, not just because it’s unthinkable, but because Billy’s hand is moving again.

The fingers of one hand thread into the fine hairs at the nape of his neck, those on the other slide under the collar of his jacket. Loop through the scarf around Steve's neck, drawing him forward minutely.

Steve hates how it has his breath coming out in quick, hot little puffs, and it doesn’t help that Billy almost seems to chase that same breath across own lips with another slow swipe of his tongue.

“Hargrove.” It’s meant to sound warning, but it comes out as more of a whisper.

The woods.

Demodogs.

Demogorgons.

Steve’s not sure he’s ever felt as frightened as he is now with a boy’s lips within an inch of his own and-

-And wondering what it might feel like if they were one inch closer.

It’s simultaneously the most terrifying and exhilarating thing he’s ever experienced in his life.

Tommy’s played chicken with him before at parties. But that was different. That was all for show. Just a way to get Carol riled up, shrieking and batting at their arms, and one of them always pulled away. It was a joke. This doesn’t feel like a joke, and Steve isn’t pulling away.

Neither is Billy.

There’s a look in Billy’s eyes when they flick back up to meet Steve’s. Searching. Curious. Like he’s trying to work him out, and Steve can’t feel his face enough to know what it might be showing, so he shuts his eyes tight enough for colours to bloom across the backs of his eyelids.

He’s fucking with you.

He’s fucking with you.

He’s just fucking with you.

A thumb presses into the pulse at his jugular, and Billy’s eyes are flicking back up to his again almost like-

Like he’s waiting. Like he’s asking .

Is he?

Steve can’t help but wonder what the fuck was in that weed.

“B-Billy-“

He’s cut off by a clatter from behind the sliding door.

Billy’s off like a shot, launching himself from the chair, far enough for his back to hit the railing, chest heaving. It’s only for a moment, but it’s long enough for Steve to catch it; Billy’s eyes are wide. Wild. Panicked as they snap onto the source of the muffled voices in the room behind Steve’s head.

And then it’s gone, and he’s leaning back dangerously over the railing to let out a peal of laughter, mean and wicked. The way it’s meant to be.

“Oh my fucking god, you should have seen your face!” Billy flips himself back upright to jab a finger at him.

Steve can’t do anything but sit there in shock. 

“Damn you’re easy to wind up.”

Steve blinks. “I- what ?”

Steve watches helplessly as Billy fishes around in the pockets of his jacket to pull out his pack of reds. Tap one out. Shove it between his lips and light up all languid and casual. Steve doesn’t understand how he can manage to act so normal. Like those lips hadn’t just been an inch away from Steve’s.

“I’m just fucking with you, man.”

Billy’s signature smarmy grin is back, lopsided and confident, but his hands are telling a different story. They’re twisting in the scarf that Steve has only just now noticed is missing from his neck. His eyes are too, darting and forth between Steve and the glass behind his head.

He’s nervous.

He’s lying .

The s liding door rattles when it opens, and Billy’s boots scuff against the floor as he squares his shoulders again to the newcomers. Steve doesn’t turn to see who it is, because he can’t stop staring at where Billy’s fingers stretch and pull at the fabric.

“Shit, didn’t realise anybody was up here. You guys mind uh…moving it along?”

“Was just on my way out.”

“Um.” Is all Steve is able to manage, unable to tear his eyes away from Billy’s face.

Billy’s fingers still for a moment when he notices Steve looking, before he wraps the scarf high around his own neck and turns his attention quickly back to the guy waiting at the door.

Whoever it is huffs impatiently. “Alright, well-“

“I said I was on my way out.” Billy snaps, advancing forward.

“Okay okay! Jesus.” 

The sliding door slams shut, and then it’s just the two of them. For a moment, it’s as still as it can be with the thrum of the bass under their feet.

It’s Steve who breaks the silence. “Hargrove, I- um. My…scarf?”

Billy’s eyes snap back to his, fingers clenching in the ends of the wool again. Something flashes across his face as he inspects the garment for a moment, but then it’s gone, replaced with a smirk. “Consider it collateral.”

“Collateral.” Steve echoes.

Billy shrugs and moves to pass, but not before pausing at the chair to clamp a hand down on Steve’s shoulder. Fingers squeeze briefly at Steve’s shoulder, and he can feel his face heating up again at the touch.

“It’s your lucky day, Harrington. I’ll put this one down as an I-O-U. For now.” Billy leans in, voice dropping to a quiet murmur as he says, “You want any more of that, you know where to find me.”

Then, before Steve has the chance to figure out what ‘that’ might be referring to, Billy’s gone, whisking past, shoving his way through the door and slamming it behind him.

Chapter Text

In the hours between Saturday night and school on Monday morning, Steve is an utter wreck. He spends Sunday in a daze. There’s a biology assignment due this week, but he’s too busy drowning in his own thoughts to focus on the ecological diversity of Indiana Lakes.

He tries, he really does. Spends hours reading the same sentence in his encyclopaedia over and over, but it’s futile. He can’t take in one word over the noise in his head. He even makes an attempt to start writing, but as soon as his pen touches paper his mind goes sliding, avalanching back to the scene on the balcony.

Back to Billy.

The memory is stuck under his skin like a bullet he can’t carve out. The press of his fingers. The heat of his skin. The look in his eyes, somehow predatory and hungry and hesitant all at once. Like he knew what he’d been doing was wrong, but he just couldn’t help himself.

Because that’s what it is. Wrong.

Boys aren’t supposed to want other boys. Boys who like other boys end up in the back pages of his Father’s newspapers. Hated and sick and dead. He’s been dragged along to enough Sunday sermons with his Mother to know that boys who do those things go to hell. Indiana’s no place for boys like that. There’s no good in the world for boys like that.

Steve’s still not certain what Billy meant before he left him on the balcony. If it was just about the weed, or if it was about sins more forbidden. Spit slick lips. Rough hands. The slide of one warm thigh over another. Muscle and Skin.

You want any more of that, you know where to find me.

Steve supposes what’s more important is what he wants it to mean. What he wants.

He’d been looking for a rush. A spark. That’s what he’d wanted. What he’d asked for when he tugged the cigarette from Billy’s mouth.

But he hadn’t asked for the goddamn sexual identity crisis that came with it. And of course it all had to come from one of the worst human beings he’s ever had the displeasure of meeting. The fresh king of all assholes at Hawkins High.

Billy fucking Hargrove.

To make matters even worse, Billy could have been right when he was just fucking with him. Steve could show up to school on Monday to find what’s left of his measly reputation in absolute ruins. He wouldn’t put it past a guy like Billy to jump at the chance to spread rumors about what had transpired on the balcony on Saturday night.

It wouldn’t even matter that Billy was the one coming onto him. Or pretending to. Whatever. People aren’t going to care about the fine details, and they sure as shit aren’t going to take the words of a fallen king over Billy’s.

Did you hear about Steve?

You know Steve tried to kiss Billy on Saturday night?

Did you know Steve Harrington is a fag?

That last one is something he’s been asking himself over and over since Sunday.

It’s not something he’s ever entertained the thought of. Never needed to. Not until Billy Hargrove came along. With his whispered words. His touch. Hitting him like lightning. Sending him stumbling into uncharted territory with no hope, no knowledge of how to plant his feet.

At the time, he’d thought for sure that everything Billy was saying was real. He saw the panic in his eyes when they’d been interrupted. The fear. But Steve was drunk. High. Sometimes it’s easy to see things that aren’t really there when you’re off your face. He can’t come to any conclusions based on things he might have seen while blasted. He can’t know for certain that Billy wasn’t just afraid of getting caught with a bit of weed.

All he can know for sure, is that if the offer he thinks he’s been given is truly on the table, he’s not going to be able to deny himself of that rush again.

A boy who likes boys has a death wish.

But Steve is already dead inside, so what does it matter?

***

The hours seem to drag on forever as he waits for Monday to come. He’s a ball of anxiety. Trepidation. Fear. Consumed by a colossal mass of emotions that he hasn’t been able to feel for months. Simultaneously dreading school yet rife with anticipation at the thought of answering all of the questions he’s been going over in his head.

And then Monday comes, and it feels far too soon.

When he pulls into the school parking lot, Billy’s already there. Leaned up against the hood of the Camaro with a cigarette in his hand like he is every morning, smoke billowing up around his head.

The sight of him makes Steve shiver, goosebumps fizzling up across his skin.

It’s cold out, and Billy’s still wearing nothing but a shirt under his denim jacket. They’re in the depths of December now, the Hawkins’ air getting icier by the day, yet he’s still dressed like they’re in California. 

It’s stupid. 

What’s even more stupid is the thumping in Steve’s chest as he sits in the beemer, watching as Billy’s gaze roams lazily over the lot. There’s only a few minutes left before first bell, but he can’t go in yet. He needs to see it. Something, anything that could give any indication of what Billy really meant on Saturday night. A smirk. A wink. A scowl. He’ll take anything that Billy will give him, just to free himself from the emotional torment he’s been under. He waits with electricity in his veins, sure that Billy will give him the answers. What he’s looking for. 

But he doesn’t.

Billy doesn’t even look at Steve when he finally works up the nerve to get out of the car. Just pushes himself up off the Camaro, flicks his cigarette butt into the dirt and strides off towards the school without so much as a glance.

Like Steve isn’t even there at all.

And just like that, the fire fizzles out.

The rest of the day passes, He waits. He watches. He listens. Yet as time keeps trundling forward, nothing. Happens. There’s no quiet murmurs behind his back. No sneers or jabs in the hallways. Tommy shoulders him on the way into English. Has his blood running cold for a second, before Steve finds out that it’s just to spout some shit about Nancy and Jonathan walking ahead of them. Nothing new. Everyone’s acting exactly the same as they were the week before.

Even Billy.

And somehow, that’s even worse than anything he could have imagined.

Tuesday is no different. He pulls up to school and waits. And waits. And waits . Stares across the lot as the minutes tick down towards the bell. Stands outside of the car, just in case Billy hadn’t actually noticed him yesterday. 

But nothing changes; The bell rings and Billy’s up off the camaro, cigarette in the dirt without a look in his direction.

Wednesday has Steve starting to feel a lot like that little cigarette butt in the dirt. Done. Finished. No longer wanted. Billy gives him nothing. Doesn’t notice Steve. Doesn’t know that every time he walks away he’s tearing away at another part of him, and that soon there’ll be nothing left but little pieces on the pavement like the ash from his cigarettes.

Invisible.

Steve’s no longer a walking corpse. He’s a ghost, stuck in limbo with no way of knowing how to move on.

And to be honest, it makes him angry. At Billy, for not giving him the answers he wants. At himself, even more so, for believing that Billy might give them to him. That he could get so hung up over such an asshole who cares about nobody but himself. That Billy can carry on his life as normal, like he hasn’t left Steve in ruins.

He drives home everyday with his hands clenched so hard that the stitching on the steering wheel leaves indents on his fingers. He drives out to the quarry and throws rocks and stones and bottles across the edge, over and over until he can’t breathe and his arms are aching. Smokes through the stash of cigarettes in his bedside drawer like they’re his only source of oxygen.

He replays the memory of that night on the balcony again and again. Forward, reverse, rewind. Pausing at any moment that might have the answers. Wondering if anything is missing. Tries to think forward to after - anything happened. If he saw Billy at any other point that night. If he did or said anything while drunk that might have pushed him away. But he didn’t. Nothing happened, and he really starts to believe that nothing will happen at all. That he’ll be stuck like this forever.

That is, until Friday.

Steve pulls into the lot, and Billy is there, leaning up against the hood of the Camaro. Cigarette in hand, smoke and condensation drifting from his mouth, playing together in the breeze. The air is frigid, but Billy’s staying true to fashion, wearing the same California-Winter outfit as he always does.

Minus one tiny detail.

He’s wearing Steve’s scarf.

Steve double - no, triple - takes, not quite able to believe what he’s seeing, Digs a palm into his eyes until it hurts, but it’s unmistakable. It’s his. Billy has Steve’s scarf draped over his shoulders, green wool over battered leather calling out like a beacon.

Calling out to him.

Steve scrambles to turn off the engine. Pull out the keys. But his hands are shaking, and in his haste he drops them in the footwell. Swears. Snatching them up and stumbles his way from the car - just in time for the bell to ring.

Billy pushes himself up from the Camaro.

Takes one last drag from his cigarette.

Flicks it in the dirt.

It’s only for a second, but it happens.

He sees it.

Before Billy walks away, he turns, looking Steve dead in the eyes, and with a slow exhale through parted lips, blows the flames right back into Steve’s blood.

It roils up from his stomach, charging through his veins. Burning all the way up to his face. His brain. His ears. Rushing, screaming and hot.

Raging. Fire.

That’s when Steve realises that all this time, Billy wasn’t ignoring him at all. He wasn’t pretending like Saturday never happened.

He was waiting.

Billy isn’t giving him an answer. He’s sending him a message, and Steve can read it loud and clear.

If you want more of that, you know where to find me.

Chapter Text

It starts snowing during second period. Flakes drift down from the sky, covering the asphalt in a vast, white blanket. And it’s cold. So cold that there’s a chill coming through the single glazed windows, but not even the icy air is enough to dampen the fire roiling away in Steve’s veins.

Because Billy is waiting.

For him.

Steve could call it a coincidence. Say that Billy saw the frost on the windows when he woke up. Felt the bite of it on his skin as he got out of bed. Grabbed the closest, warmest thing, which just so happened to be the scarf Steve’s mom bought him from some department store on the east coast. Put it on without a thought towards its owner. What he might think. What it might mean.

But that’s not Billy.

Even when it’s freezing outside, Billy never wears anything warmer than a Canadian tuxedo. Not in the rain. The hail. The snow. Nothing. Indiana could put out a statewide severe weather warning and Billy would still walk out the door in a wifebeater and jeans. It’s a dress code -  enforcing fashion over function, which Billy never breaks. Like there’s an American Council of Bad Boys somewhere who’ll have his head if he dares to dress for sensibility over style. So there’s no way. No possibility of convincing Steve that Billy’s chosen to wear his scarf for the weather. He’s wearing it for Steve.

He’s waiting for Steve.

Around every corner. In the hall between classes. Broad shoulder pressed up against a locker, hip cocked, fingers twitching for the reds in his back pocket. At lunch. Strong legs straddling a vandalised bench, cackling around stolen tater-tots from Carol’s lunch tray. Outside under an awning, smoking next to a sign that threatens detentions for students caught with cigarettes on school grounds. To anybody else, Billy isn’t acting any different than he does on any other day. But Steve knows what he’s doing. He knows. He fucking knows.

And he knows that Billy’s watching him, too.

Steve’s had this feeling all day. The one that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. An innate sensation, ingrained in humans from eons past. Dark and creeping. A whispering in his skin telling him that something, somewhere, is watching. That he’s being preyed upon. 

And Billy is the predator.

Steve doesn’t ever actually catch him looking. Billy’s gaze has always snapped away by the time he turns around. He’s holding his cards close to his chest. Playing like he’s not looking. But it doesn’t matter. Steve’s sat in on enough of his Dad’s poker games to know that everyone has their tells. Billy is no exception. Steve can see it. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Each and every time he turns to look. 

A brief, little curl to the corner of Billy’s lips.

It’s crazy, really, how just one little movement is enough to set him off. One little tug of his mouth and Billy’s got everything inside Steve burning up. It’s intoxicating. Addicting. Heavy and hot, in a way that’s almost enough to make him feel sick, and he hates it. He hates Billy. The guy’s spent a week acting like absolutely nothing happened on Saturday, and now he’s fucking taunting him, and he’s loving every second of it.

But shit. Steve can’t say he doesn’t love it too. 

It’s disgusting. It is. How Billy’s got him under his thumb like this. Got his chest firing on all cylinders, when he’s barely doing a thing. Just being there, existing. With his stupid mullet and stupid dangly earring and that stupid smile on his stupid face. Pretending like nothing’s different. But Steve knows it is. Billy can try to act as normal and innocent and unassuming as he wants, but Steve knows what he’s doing. Can see him for what he really is. 

He’s the monster laying dormant at the end of the tunnel, wrapped up in a big green bow, waiting for Steve to come with the torches. And Steve is ready. He’s been ready. To see what’ll really happen when he sets Billy alight. 

But he can’t.

It’s not nerves. Not exactly. Of course there’s an anxious churning beneath the flames in his belly, and a shame bleeding through his skin, colouring his face. But none of that is what’s stopping him. It’s something much, much worse.

It’s Tommy.

Tommy, who’s everywhere too. Stuck to Billy’s side like the social fucking parasite he is. Talking Billy’s ear off outside social studies. On the other side of Carol at lunch, swiping more of her tater-tots while she’s busy ripping into Billy for doing the same. Outside, taking a quick drag from Billy’s cigarette when he thinks nobody is looking. Like he used to do with Steve. Back when days were better. Or, when Steve didn’t know any better. 

Days like that are long gone.

Tommy’s not his friend anymore, and they don’t talk. Not the way they used to. Not without it hurting.

See, where Billy is fire, Tommy is poison. Words that were once easy banter are now laced with hatred. A bitterness that’s dark, thick and acrid. Stinging in a way that Billy’s words never could, because it’s not just a petty rivalry. There’s history here. There’s feeling behind what Tommy says. Vitriol and malice that can only come from eleven years of friendship and confessions and dreams and trust, broken and bruised in a way that Steve’s not sure can ever be repaired.

Deep down, Steve’s always known that Tommy’s an asshole. A terrible influence. A bully. The bringer of a thousand bad times. Detentions. Groundings. Arguments. Fights with Nancy. Jonathan. Between themselves.

But…with all those bad times, came a thousand good times, too.

Cause yeah, Tommy’s a dick, but he’s still Steve’s friend. Was. Fuck. Was his friend. His best friend. Growing up, Tommy was always there. For everything. School. Sleepovers. Trips to the Hawk where they’d movie hop all afternoon until they got too old and grew too tall to sneak through the crowds undetected. For all of Steve’s crushes and breakups in fifth grade, and seventh, and tenth. After his mom found a pair of women’s sunglasses in his father’s car that weren’t hers. The smell of an unfamiliar perfume on his coat. Receipts for restaurants she’d never been to. For all the fights labelled as ‘discussions’, overheard night after night when Steve was supposed to be focusing on being a kid. On growing up, without being caught in the middle of two adults who never really had.

All of the shitty things before and between and beyond, Tommy was there to get him through. To be the one to suggest another raid of the liquor cabinet in the den when Steve’s eyes were starting to get too watery. To crack a joke at someone else’s expense to distract Steve from his overactive thoughts. To toss his last minute homework aside and drag Steve out of his house, out to the empty shell of Hawkin’s pool, where they’d spend hours talking about things that didn’t matter, and seeing who could bullseye an empty soda bottle through the gap in the back of the lifeguard’s chair first.

Unconventional methods for sure. But the thing is, they worked. They always did. Tommy always knew exactly what to do and what to say to pull Steve out of his misery, even if it meant getting in trouble, or roughing him up a bit. Tommy might have always been a douche of immeasurable proportions, but he was never like that to Steve. Not really. It was never intentional. 

Until it was.

It was Steve who messed it all up. He was the one to throw Tommy aside, forgoing their friendship to get with a girl who never gave a shit in the end anyway. It doesn’t matter that he’s not with her now. Tommy’s decision has already been made, and Steve won’t ever be forgiven. They were brothers in arms once, but now Tommy’s only armed with dirt, and when he gets more he wants Steve to know it. 

He wants it to hurt . 

If Tommy were to find out anything about Saturday night, or get any idea what’s been going on inside Steve’s head-

Steve can’t stomach the thought. 

No matter how much he wants to find Billy, to get the answer to the big ‘if’, the The true or false that he so badly wants - no, needs - an answer to, he can’t. Not right now. Not with Tommy around. 

He has to get Billy alone.

***

It’s not until the evening light begins to fall low and heavy behind the tree lines of Hawkins that Steve manages to find the right house.

It doesn’t look much like he’s imagined. Where he’s expecting lava and brimstone, sits a one storey house with a decently sized, snow-laden yard, and an enclosed front porch that his mother would probably advertise as ‘perfect for iced tea and sliced mangoes in the summer’.

There aren’t even any gargoyles on the roof.

Steve almost wonders if he’s got the wrong place. If Dustin lied when Steve asked him for Hargrove's address. This house is just so incredibly…normal. Unassuming. Ordinary. Nothing like what Steve expected from the home of a guy who’s anything but.

Steve deserved to be lied to - he had done it to Dustin, after all. The spiel he’d given during his chauffeur duties earlier about ‘needing to drop off a textbook that Billy forgot at school’ was such blatant bullshit. The kid had almost blown a fuse at the idea of Steve doing anything helpful for The Party’s ‘mortal enemy’, and had accused Steve of conspiring with the devil, so it really shouldn’t be a surprise if he’s been given a phoney address. 

But Dustin didn’t lie. That’s the Camaro parked by the curb out front. Those are Max’s red vans tossed haphazardly by the front door. This is the Hargrove house. Billy’s house. And he’s inside. Waiting.

The minute on the beemer’s digital clock ticks over.

Steve gets out of the car. It’s only a short walk up the path to the door. Steve’s sneakers slide over the remainder of the snow on the shovelled payment, but it only makes him speed up. He takes each set of steps as if they’re one. His feet hit the doormat, and the bell is right there. Nothing can stop him now. Nothing. 

This is it, this is it, this it-

Steve pauses, fingertip on the bell. There’s three yellow stained glass windows in the door, all three displaying a warped, harried reflection of himself. He curses, pulling back to run frantic hands through his windswept hair, smoothing it back into some semblance of order. He takes a breath. Shakes out his arms. Smooths his hair once more, then reaches again for the doorbell.

It rings.

There’s the muffled sound of an unfamiliar yell from somewhere distant in the house, followed by one much more familiar, and much more close. Footsteps near the door, and as the lock clicks, so does Steve’s spine as he draws to attention. Sucks in a breath and puffs up his chest.

The door creaks open.

It’s him. Billy. 

He’s in loose sweatpants, and a t-shirt that’s stretched and worn almost translucent in places, like he’s had it for years. He’s fresh from the shower, curls damp, falling soft and loose over his shoulders, steam coming off his body from the enduring heat of the water. There’s a small towel wrapped around his neck in place of Steve’s scarf. Droplets of water on his skin. On the slope of his shoulder that’s visible in the open doorway. He’s still looking back over it as he calls out into the house.

“Look, I’ve got it! Okay? I’ve got it. Damn.” Billy curses, and then he’s turning. He’s turning, and he’s looking at Steve. He’s staring right at him, wide eyes fixed, unblinking, and Steve is on fire again. He’s on fire, flames roaring to an impossible crescendo because this is what he’s been waiting for. This is when he gets his answers. This is when he gets what he wants. 

And that’s when Billy opens his mouth, and says it. The last thing, out of every possibility, that he ever expected to hear.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”