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Right after the first game of the season, when the team’s more or less done celebrating a hard won game, Billy walks right by him and knocks his shoulder with Steve's. A soft thing. A greeting. A question and an invitation and everything that makes Steve’s heart flutter in his chest.
He waits a good five minutes, just to keep up appearances. Not that it matters much. Feels like all of Hawkins showed up to this one game, parents and teachers and families meeting up in the court, the band still playing some shrill melody for the cheerleaders to jump around to. No one is paying them any mind.
So Steve goes.
They’ve gotten into the habit of meeting under the bleachers whenever they’ve got the time.
Steve can’t be sure who initiated this fragile thing they’ve got going at this point. All he knows is one careful touch led to the next and all of the sudden they were this, this, a mess of wet kisses and wounded sighs, little lunch dates and nights by the quarry and long conversations that never fail to leave them both breathless.
Steve’s dizzied with it, intoxicated.
And there he is, Billy, still in his uniform, sweaty and gross just like Steve is, standing under the shadows of wooden beams and rusted chairs. Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful.
“Hey,” Steve says, the second he lays his eyes on him. His heart is very much fluttering, anticipation and left over adrenaline from the game coursing through his veins.
Billy smiles a devilish thing, pink tongue poking out. “You miss me, pretty boy?”
And, well. What can Steve do? He doesn’t waste another single second before getting his hands on him, his mouth on him.
Billy’s like putty under Steve’s palms, lets himself be pressed up against the wall with nothing but a wobbly smile and a soft sigh, buries his fingers in Steve’s hair without a care in the world.
And—he’s different like this, after the game. Tired. Relaxed. Hell of a lot more malleable. Steve’s not seen that dopey look on his face many times, loosened up and deliciously carefree. He likes the idea of Billy fully unwinding and having a good time. Likes the way he melts under his touch, lips parting, knees weak, wet tongue meeting his with lazy, languid strokes.
Steve loses himself in the moment, in the chaf of Billy's stubble and all of his warmth. He runs his palms up and down Billy’s shoulders, his chest and up his neck, couldn’t stop if he tried, and then—
Then. A noise. Just beside them. This affronted little huff of air, a choked gasp.
They both freeze dead on their tracks.
They both turn to look towards the only ray of light, the one and only entrance to their little hiding place. And it’s—tucked away, that entrance. Fully hidden from view in a darkened corner of the court, away from prying eyes.
Still, Neil Hargrove stands there, watching them. Having watched them.
Wet kisses and wounded sighs.
“Dad,” Billy says, voice broken, scared.
He doesn’t ask what he’s doing here, even if it’d be a reasonable question. Steve was under the impression Susan was on some sort of work retreat and Neil had to stay home and watch Max for once, wasn’t going to make it to the game one way or another. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask any questions. He says dad and he doesn’t move a muscle and he waits and waits and waits and waits for Neil to make the next move.
“Say goodbye,” Neil says, tone inscrutable, dangerous .
Steve’s shaking, he realizes. Steve’s shaking and Billy’s standing deadly still. A deer caught in the headlights. And—their hands are intertwined. When did that even happen? They weren’t holding hands before but now their hands are intertwined and Neil Hargrove’s looking at them both like they’re scum!
Worse than scum. Dirty. Nauseating.
“Billy,” Neil says. “Say goodbye. We’re leaving.”
Billy flicks his eyes towards Steve, a brief, short-lived thing. Steve only catches a silver of blue, a silver of naked fear and raw emotion before Neil’s making this tsk-tsk noise, getting Billy’s attention like he’s a goddamn dog. And he's still not really moving, not doing much of anything. He’s still like putty, Steve realizes, will do anything anyone asks of him. Will listen to his fucking father because—what the hell else is he supposed to do? That’s his father. His father .
Neil is a rock and Neil is a constant and Neil shaped everything that Billy is today.
Neil says, “Do I have to repeat myself?”
And Billy lets go of his hand. Just like that.
He takes a couple wobbly steps forwards, resigned, terrified , and Steve—Steve can’t. He just can’t. He cannot let him walk away and into whatever nightmare Neil’s already conjuring up for him.
“ Billy ,” Steve says, and holds on to the nearest thing he can reach, the back of Billy’s shirt, synthetic fabric bunching up under his fingers tips.
And—oh, Billy does turn to fully face him at that.
There’s this look of well worn anguish on his face, familiar, an old friend. He knows how this story goes. He’s lived it time and time again.
“Do not look at him,” Neil’s saying, a warning, and suddenly he’s walking in long strides and clutching Billy’s shoulder in a death grip, spinning him around forcefully. “Look at me . Look me in the eye when I speak to you.”
Billy obligues, of course. Tears are already threatening to spill out of his eyes.
“Hey!” Steve shrieks, trying to—insert himself between them both, to put some distance between them, to wipe that horrifically resigned look from Billy’s face.
But—Neil pushes him.
Neil pushes him!
Steve’s so not expecting it and he ends up falling backwards on his ass, not really hurt but stunned all the same, unable to understand how their night came to this.
Billy flinches, recoils, makes some sort of aborted movement, clearly wanting to go to Steve but thinking better of it at the last second, still pinned in place by his father one way or another. There’s no getting out of this.
“We’re leaving,” Neil repeats forcefully.
And Billy lets himself be led when Neil tugs him along, speechless.
Steve wastes precious seconds scrambling off the floor. The one thing they’ve got in their favor is that Neil is one for keeping up appearances. He’s not going to make a scene out in the open for everyone to see if he can help it—and the court’s still bursting with life, chatter and laughter and music and all of their neighbors enjoying the night.
“Hey!” Steve shrieks, all over again. “Hey! Stop! Dammit—Stop!”
Neil fucking walks faster, dragging Billy along. He turns his head to the side and scans the crowd until his eyes land on Max , bothering Nancy and the other kids from the school paper. “Maxine!” he barks. “We’re leaving!”
Max looks up, rolls her eyes, blurts, “We literally just got here!” but she obligues, turning right around and starting a series of complicated handshakes with some random kids.
And there’s Steve’s answer. Neil was supposed to be watching Max, alright. She probably begged to come, even if she swears up and down she couldn’t care less about basketball or Billy, claims she only ever shows up to every single one of his games out of boredom.
Why even come after the game was finished? Did they not know the time? Were they just here to pick up Billy? Drag him away from the team’s celebrations?
Steve has no idea what Neil’s thought process was, doesn’t care to find out one way or another. All he knows is Billy’s expression is one of unfiltered fear, knows the second they step away from the safety of the game’s crowd then that’s it—that’s it! He may never see Billy again.
Steve pushes past some teachers, doing nothing but stand there blocking his way, and he manages to reach Billy then, grabs his hand once again and tugs him close, and—
Billy—he freezes. Billy looks at him with such sad, sad eyes. He’s still sporting the shadow of a bruise. From last time. Last week. Or was it two weeks ago? Steve can’t remember. He got home past his curfew or he missed an assignment or he said something Max shouldn’t have heard or he didn’t do the dishes or he talked back or he was in the wrong fucking place at the wrong fucking time.
The bruise’s not quite gone yet. “Steve,” Billy says, voice cracking. “Let me go,” he says. “ Please ,” he says.
And Steve crumbles.
“What? No. Billy. I’m—I’m not—”
I’m not going to leave you, he means. I’m not going to do that to you. You’re not alone. You have me . You don’t have to be alone.
But Billy’s eyes look sad, and he’s scared, and Neil’s a looming presence behind him, watching the interaction with something both eager and disgusted—he wants to see his son make the wrong move, wants one more thing to hold against him again and again and again.
“ Steve .” Billy says.
And Steve gets it.
Unlike Neil, Steve may not have any qualms about making a scene if the situation calls for it, but—then what? If he draws any attention to them then Neil’s going to speak and then what? He outs them both and then what? This isn’t California or even fucking— Indianapolis , there’s no place for people like them here.
If word spreads then they’re well and truly done for.
He’s not helping Billy by holding his hand in the court, by looking into the blue of his eyes as he holds back tears. No one’s noticed them yet. But they might. And then what?
Steve lets go of Billy’s hand slowly, feeling nauseated. A monster.
Neil has the fucking audacity of laughing before dragging Billy along all the way to the parking lot.
He might still not do anything while Max is in the car—wouldn’t want to scare Susan off by hurting his son in front of her daughter. He’ll wait, Steve can tell. It’ll be a long drive, Billy shaking in the backseat, counting down the minutes…
The second they get home and Max steps foot outside the car Billy will know hell.
And there’s nothing Steve can do.