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The conversation with Max is, as usual, unproductive. She wants to know why Billy isn’t coming home for Christmas.
“I never come home for Christmas, Max,” he says flatly.
She sighs, an irritable rush of static that buzzes in Billy’s ear. “Yeah, duh,” she says, sounding for a moment like she’s still thirteen. She’s not. She’s twenty-four, adult and poised in a way that Billy will never be. “What I want to know is why.”
“You know why,” he says.
“He won’t be there,” she says. “It’s not - I mean, come on. I’m not asking you to spend time with him. He and mom broke up. I’m asking you to spend time with me.”
Billy presses a flat hand to his forehead, as if he can stave off the headache he can feel building behind his eyes. He’s standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with the phone clutched so tightly in his hand that his knuckles are white.
“They still talk,” he says to Max. “Don’t tell me they don’t, because we both know it’s not true.”
This time, the noise she makes is more frustrated now than annoyed. “Yeah, but—”
“They still talk,” Billy repeats, “which means he could come by - just like he did on your birthday - and I don’t want to see him.”
“That was five years ago, Billy,” Max says.
He rubs the bridge of his nose. “You’ve seen him since then.”
Frustration is tipping over into sadness. It’s a familiar pattern of emotions, one building effortlessly into the next, played out so frequently that it’s become routine. “Only when mom invites him and I’m there,” she says. “I can’t - I can’t stop her seeing him.”
“I’m not asking you to stop her seeing him,” Billy says. “I’m asking you to accept the fact that you can’t have both.”
“Both?” she repeats.
“Me and him,” Billy says. “If you want to see me for Christmas, come and see me for Christmas. But don’t expect me to come somewhere he might be.”
She says desperately, “He didn’t even come last year!”
“Max,” Billy says, “stop pushing this.”
There’s silence on the other end of the phone. They don’t do this very often, drag themselves through these conversations like they’re crawling through broken glass, because it always ends the same way. In a moment she’s going to say something that Billy won’t be able to take, and then he’ll hang up the phone.
“He’s your dad,” she says, and there it is. “I know he’s not… not a good person. I wish mom would stop talking to him. But… he’s your dad. You could just—”
“He hit me, Max,” Billy snaps. Anger, now - anger boiling up inside him, anger that takes over his whole body, anger that he’ll be struggling to shake for the rest of the day. “You’re asking me to just - just what? Just get over it?”
He hears her taking a long, shaky breath. She says miserably, “I just miss you, Billy.”
It gets him every time, when she says something like that. She’s grown into sincerity, much better at it now than she was a few years ago, and it cuts through him like a knife. His teeth sink into his lower lip, and an involuntary tear drips down his cheek.
Sometimes it’s enough to dissolve the anger - but not very often.
He says, voice trembling, “Yeah? Well, if you miss me so much, maybe you should be the one to do something about it, instead of always asking me to make all the sacrifices.”
And then, just like he’d known he would, he hangs up the phone.
For a few minutes, Billy just stands there in the kitchen. He doesn’t resist the tears, or the waves of rage that roll through him. He knows from experience that the only way to prevent a physical outburst is to just let himself feel it, let it seize his body and then pass on.
It dies down eventually, as it always does. Billy wipes his eyes on the back of his hand.
The kitchen door opens, and Paul wanders in. He’s just out of the shower, bare-chested and still a little damp with his wet hair slicked back behind his ears. Billy feels a lump rising in his throat as he looks at him. As always, he’s reminded of himself, of the person he was ten years ago.
“Hey,” he says, stretching his muscular arms above his head. He moves forward, kissing Billy’s cheek. “You okay?”
Billy wonders vaguely if he really hasn’t noticed. Surely it must be obvious that he’s been crying, that his eyes are red, that his body is held tense with residual anger? But maybe it’s not. Maybe he really is that good at hiding it all, after all these years.
Maybe Paul just doesn’t care all that much.
“Yeah,” he says, letting his palm skate over Paul’s smooth shoulder. God, he’s so beautiful. Young and beautiful. “Yeah, I’m good. You sticking around?”
Paul yawns. “Gotta get going,” he says. “Gym.” He heads to the cooker, glancing back at Billy over his shoulder. “You want some eggs?”
“Sure,” Billy says, lips cold.
“I’m headed out tonight,” Paul tells him casually. He ducks down to the cupboard where Billy keeps his pans, pulling out a frying pan with a clatter. “With some friends. Just this bar downtown.” A pause. Then, unenthusiastically: “You can come if you want.”
Billy leans his head back against the cabinet and imagines saying yes. “I’m good,” he says. “I have to work, anyway.”
Paul laughs, going over to the pantry. “Isn’t the whole point of onshore leave that you don’t have to work?” He opens the pantry, peers inside, and then adds before Billy can respond, “Dude, why aren’t your eggs in here?”
“They keep for longer in the fridge,” Billy says automatically, and then bites his lip. Paul doesn’t scoff outwardly, but Billy can imagine what he’s thinking. He sounds so old, so old and tired and goddamn domestic. When he was Paul’s age, he would have utterly despised anyone who cared about refrigerating their eggs.
“Oh, okay,” is all Paul says, and he goes to get the eggs out of the fridge instead.
Paul is getting tired of him. That’s okay, really, because Billy has been tired of Paul for a while now. He’s tired of twenty-three-year-old postgrads who are between jobs right now but right on the cusp of finishing their debut novel, who just need a little leg-up because their parents kicked them out for being gay and they’re tired of hustling for tips at their local diner.
He feels for them. He always feels for them, because he used to be them. But in some ways that makes it even more exhausting, because it’s like he’s living through it all again.
The eggs sizzle gently over the hob, and Billy watches the muscles in Paul’s broad back jump as he stirs them. He’s tall, taller than Billy, and he’s rocking a greasy Jared Leto kind of look with his hair cropped at his chin and a black choker round his neck. It looks good, especially when paired with his usual white tank top and plaid shirt.
He looks a little clean-cut to really fit into the bad boy mold he’s trying to emulate, but he’s attractive enough to pull off anything he damn well pleases.
Twelve years ago, Billy used to wear white tank tops. He wore them with much tighter jeans, of course, and a leather jacket and mullet completed his look, but the general principle is the same. His clothes, his hair, the little silver cross he wore around his neck, the earrings shaped like daggers… they made him feel dangerous. Invincible.
This morning he’s wearing a pair of tan slacks with a loose white sweater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hair is still long - much like Brian May, Billy has no intention of ever cutting it - but it’s more evenly distributed now, rather than the mullet he used to sport. He currently has it pulled back into a bun at the base of his neck, just a few curls escaping to frame his face. He’s not wearing any jewelry at all.
“Paul,” Billy says, picking his words with deliberate care. “When you go to the gym this morning, make sure you take all your shit, and don’t come back.”
Paul freezes in the act of scooping scrambled eggs onto a pair of plates.
He turns, a look of utter shock on his smooth attractive face, the spatula wobbling in his hand. “What?”
It can’t really be a surprise, Billy thinks viciously. He’s sure Paul has been sleeping with other people. He’s been coming home later and later, his excuses vague and disjointed. Billy’s seen it play out before.
“You heard me,” he says, taking a little vindictive pleasure in staying calm. Once upon a time, he would have raged and bitten - but the deadliest snakes are the ones which keep still. He makes an expansive gesture with one hand, ignoring the way it trembles slightly. “Time to get out before we both hate each other, right?”
Paul just stands there. A blob of scrambled eggs falls off the spatula in his hand, hitting the floor with a wet splat. “Is this a joke?” he says in a small voice. Billy almost feels guilty, but he won’t let the emotion bloom. “I don’t - it’s not funny.”
“Do I look like I’m laughing?” Billy asks meanly.
“What… what are you doing?” Paul says.
Billy looks away. “You’re bored of me,” he says, voice hitching. He hurries on before it becomes noticeable. “I’m bored of you.”
“I’m not bored of you,” Paul says unconvincingly. Slowly, he puts the spatula down on the kitchen counter.
Billy laughs, though there’s no real humor in the sound. “Yeah, you are,” he says.
There are two little spots of color in Paul’s cheeks. “Not - not really,” he says.
“It’s alright,” Billy tells him. “If I was your age, I’d be bored of me too.”
It’s the truth. If he was twenty-three, he’d be disgusted by himself, this empty exhausted shell that he’s become. At twenty-three, he thought he had excitement and pleasure ahead of him. He was right at the start of his career, finally free of his dad, shaking off the vestiges of his childhood, free to do whatever he wanted. Free to sleep with whoever he wanted.
Seven years later, he has all the things he dreamed about back then. Everything he worked for, he got.
“You think I’m an idiot kid, yeah,” Paul says in a hard voice. “You’ve made that pretty clear.”
“Kids are supposed to be idiots,” Billy says.
Paul shakes his head. He’s angry, Billy realizes. He was hurt, but now he’s angry. “Wow, yeah, super deep,” he says bitterly. “Thanks. Thanks for calling me an idiot. That’s really… Wow, that’s a really shitty way to break up with somebody, actually.”
Guilt, guilt like tiny pinpricks stabbing him all over his body. Billy pushes it all away. He can’t let himself think about it. He feels too much, he always has, and that’s why this keeps happening to him. “Come on, Paul,” he says, letting scorn enter his voice. “What did you think was going to happen? I’m not your goddamn Prince Charming.”
“No, you’re not,” Paul says at once. He turns back towards the countertop, and then unexpectedly slams his hand down on it, making the plates rattle. “Jesus. You could’ve at least told me before I started cooking for you.”
“I didn’t know then,” Billy says, startled into honesty.
Paul turns back to him, eyes shining with tears. “Tell me why,” he says. “I get it, you think I’m just a dumb kid - but you approached me. This was… you asked me out.”
“I don’t think you’re dumb,” Billy says, because at thirty he’s grown out of some of his cruelty. Paul makes a scoffing noise. “I don’t,” Billy repeats. He sighs. His wave of malice has dissipated, and all he’s left with is a bone-deep sadness. It will pass. It always does. He says: “This isn’t a relationship. It’s a transaction.”
“Well - yeah, but…” Paul drops his head. He’s crying, Billy realizes, with another pang of conscience. “You wanted it that way,” he says thickly.
Billy lets his head fall back against the cabinet behind him. “So did you,” he says.
“Yeah, but I mean… it suited both of us!” Paul says.
“It did,” Billy says. “And now it doesn’t.”
And that’s the crux of it, the heart of this pattern that repeats itself in Billy’s life, over and over again, a spiral he can’t escape. He’s so lonely, so desperately lonely, and so he finds someone - someone young, someone who reminds him of himself, the version of himself he used to be. He rescues them, helps them, puts them on their feet again.
That’s what he did for Paul. That’s what he did for the one before Paul. And it’s what he’ll likely do again, although he’ll swear he won’t.
Now is the time for the disgust. The realization that he’s buying every element of the companionship Paul gives him, buying it with fancy dinners and nice hotels and expensive gifts. Every time Paul listens to Billy talk about work, every time he rubs his aching shoulders after a long day, every time he enthusiastically sucks Billy’s cock - it’s because Billy paid for it.
It fills him with disgust, a disgust that builds and builds until he can’t stand it for a second longer.
Paul leaves. It doesn’t take him long to throw his belongings together. He takes the things Billy has given him, which is good. Billy wants him to. Sometimes he offers money, like a parting gift, but he judges that Paul will be too insulted to accept it and wisely leaves his wallet in his pocket.
He’ll feel better for a while. He’ll decide not to do it again, not to pick these buoyant and hopeful youths to ruin, and he’ll stick to that resolve for a while. He’ll focus on work, spend longer in the gym than usual, maybe even pick up a new hobby. But eventually, he knows, the loneliness will overtake him once more.
The worst part of the whole thing is this: he eats the eggs.
An hour later, he’s standing outside Barnes and Noble. If it was the sort of bookstore where the staff took stock of its customers, they’d be very familiar with Billy; he ends up here every time he breaks up with someone new. Really, he thinks wryly, stepping inside, he has his dad to thank for that.
It was right after he moved away from Hawkins, a few months after all the supernatural bullshit that sits firmly in the rearview mirror of his life. Phantom pain bursts in the center of his chest as he remembers that tangled and unhappy time, the weeks spent lying in a hospital bed, the crushing loneliness broken only by Max’s occasional visits. When he was finally released, they told him they would pay for his physical therapy in Indianapolis. He asked for an apartment instead.
Perhaps they were afraid he would sue, or go to the papers, because they ended up giving him both. He spent the first two years of his new life in the city attending physical therapy twice a week and working part-time down at the auto shop to pay the bills on his tiny studio in between.
He was climbing the walls back then. He liked working with his hands but found vehicle repair mind-numbingly dull, and his co-workers - most of them students from the university - even more so. And then his dad called.
Billy still doesn’t know how Neil got his number. Max has always denied giving it to him, so maybe he found it in her room, or the government lied about him not being listed. Either way, the shock when he picked up the phone after a shift and heard his dad’s voice on the other end was indescribable.
The conversation, if it could be called that, lasted less than five minutes. Neil thought he should come home. Billy disagreed. Neil called him a loser, and Billy hung up.
But his dad was right, because his life… his life sucked. It was dead-end, going nowhere, and Billy decided right then and there that that had to change.
That was the first time he found himself at Barnes and Noble, looking for some books to teach him a skill, any skill, that might propel him towards a life he could actually enjoy.
It’s been almost a decade since he first walked through these doors. That first time, he discovered a career; now he’s looking for a new hobby. The impetus is the same. He can’t let himself be dragged under.
It’s a Saturday, so the store is busy with customers, and a queue curls away from the counter, winding between the display tables of different books. Billy ignores the couples walking hand in hand, the little gaggles of friends laughing together, the parents with their children. Even after all these years, he’s still not very good with families.
The non-fiction section is unfortunately right by the children’s section, so Billy has to listen to the swell of high-pitched voices and immature tears as he peruses the shelves. He tries to ignore it. He’s decided he wants to learn a new cuisine, so he heads for the shelves with the cookbooks on them.
Somewhere behind him, a clear little voice says firmly: “I don’t like it, daddy.” Billy, in spite of himself, smiles fleetingly.
“Why not?” an older voice says, presumably her father. Billy frowns to himself, finger pausing on the spine of a book on Mediterranean cooking. That voice…
The little girl is going on, her voice disparaging. “It’s about magic. Angie told me about it at school.”
“What’s wrong with magic?” her father says. Billy frowns still deeper. There’s something almost familiar about that voice.
Cautiously, Billy turns around. Standing by a nearby display table bearing picture books is a man and his daughter, just as he might have expected. The man is about Billy’s height, wearing a dark trench coat and a blue scarf. He has his back to Billy, but his hair is long and a little wavy, and something like recognition stirs in the pit of Billy’s stomach.
It can’t be. There’s no way.
The little girl beside him is looking very festive in a red hat and scarf, a bright blue wool coat and a smart pair of yellow rubber boots. She has a small round face and large dark eyes, and a few dark curls are escaping from under the brim of her hat.
As Billy watches her, she rolls her eyes impressively and gives a little tut. “That’s for babies, daddy.”
“Oh,” the man says, and again Billy feels that leap of recognition. “Okay. Well, what about this one?”
Billy can’t see the book he’s pointing to, but he does spot a slightly wistful expression creeping into the little girl’s face. She tilts her small head to one side. “Did you know that owls have three eyelids?”
This seems like a complete non-sequitur to Billy, who isn’t even pretending to be searching for his own book anymore, but her dad rolls with it. “No,” he says. “I didn’t know that.”
Billy takes a tiny step towards him. That voice, again - it can’t possibly be the person Billy thinks it is. And yet—
And yet, Steve Harrington has a very distinctive voice.
God, Steve Harrington. It’s been a long, long time since Billy thought about him.
Steve Harrington’s daughter nods decisively to herself, as though her father’s ignorance of owl facts is precisely what she expected from him. “Well, they do,” she says.
Billy lifts a book at random off the shelf beside him, pretending to examine it as he watches the pair of them. He still can’t quite believe it’s really Steve Harrington. It’s been - Jesus, it’s been more than a decade since they were in the same room. The last time was in the Starcourt Mall, though Billy is not thinking about that ever again.
It can’t really be him. It can’t - except then he turns, sliding an easy arm around his daughter’s shoulders, and it is.
It is him. Steve Harrington - the same gentle easy face, the same dark hair drifting into his eyes, the same broad shoulders and warm smile. Billy spent too many hours surreptitiously watching him from across classrooms and locker rooms not to recognize him now.
He looks down at his little girl with an affectionate smile on his face. “That’s cool,” he says, with such sincere interest that Billy can tell it’s genuine. “Why do they need so many?”
Steve’s daughter considers the question. “I don’t know,” she admits. “Maybe it’s because their eyes are so big.”
There was a time when Billy was pretty much obsessed with Steve Harrington. It seems almost laughable to remember it, because anyone watching would have thought the complete opposite; after all, everyone at Hawkins High School knew how much they hated each other. Billy can still remember the way Steve’s face crumpled underneath his fist, that one time.
It makes him shudder a little to think about it. It’s not that he doesn’t still feel the urge to respond with violence when he gets angry - he doesn’t think that particular instinct will ever fade completely - but he’s spent the last ten years finding different ways to control his aggressive impulses. He’s not that guy anymore.
“Maybe they all close different ways,” Steve says. “One set closes up and down, like ours, and one closes side to side. And the third one…” He pauses, looking down at the little girl with a grin. “Well, what do you think?”
She giggles. “Daddy, it’s not three sets of eyelids,” she says. “It’s three eyelids, like one—” she touches her own eyelid “—two—” this time she touches the lid under her eye “—three, but we don’t have that one.”
“Maybe it’s right in their eye,” Steve suggests, pretending to touch his eyeball and then letting out a little yelp. “Ouch!”
Billy hides a smile.
“You shouldn’t touch your eyes with your bare hands, daddy,” the little girl informs him. “There might be bacteria.”
Steve laughs and puts his arm around her little shoulders. “That’s very sensible,” he tells her. “Do you want to get the owl book?”
She turns, and Billy sees her face full-on for the first time. It takes him aback. She looks - she looks so much like Steve, enough that there can’t be the slightest doubt about whose child she is. The shape of her face, her eye color, her nose, the birthmarks scattered across her skin - it’s all Steve Harrington. Billy, in spite of himself, feels his breath catch.
“No-o,” the little girl says, though she sounds a little wistful. “It’s all pictures. That’s for little kids.”
“Uncle Dustin reads books which are mostly pictures,” Steve says, and Billy’s chest hitches again. “He’s not a little kid.”
Uncle Dustin. Jesus Christ. Billy knows that name - Max very rarely talks about her friends, her boyfriend, but she’s mentioned them enough that Billy knows who they are. It seems strange, thinking that he and Steve are still connected. Max has probably seen him over the years.
Maybe she’s even met this child, this little girl who looks so much like him.
Right now, she’s giving Steve a narrow-eyed look. “That’s different. Those are comic books.”
“Well, you know, Uncle Dustin would also tell you that you can read any books you want,” Steve persists, and Billy, illicitly eavesdropping, feels a lump rise in his throat. “It doesn’t matter how old you are.”
It shouldn’t be a surprise that he’s a good father - and it’s not, really. Billy might not have been particularly involved with all the supernatural events that linked him so inextricably with Max and her friends, but he was close enough to see how well Steve looked after all the kids. He saw him at parties, hanging out with friends, always the person checking in, making sure everyone was alright.
He did it subtly. He didn’t even do it all that well. But he did it, and now he’s doing it again for his own daughter.
His own daughter, whose mouth twists as she looks back at the picture book Steve is pointing to on the display. “It’s okay,” she says. “I don’t want that one.”
“Okay,” Steve says, but he reaches out and picks it up anyway. “Maybe I’ll get this one for me, then. You can pick something else for you.”
She giggles again. “You’re too grown up for that book!”
“I can read it if I want,” Steve says. He flips the book open. “It’s my favorite book.”
“It isn’t,” she says firmly. “You haven’t read it. You don’t even know what it’s about.”
“Owls,” he tells her. He frowns thoughtfully at the page. “Huh. It actually has a whole chapter all about owl eyelids.”
Billy abruptly turns away. This is why he can’t spend too long around families. It’s almost more than he can bear, to hear Steve Harrington being a good father to his daughter. To listen to him talking to her so easily, laughing her out of her worries, encouraging her to have what she wants… It reminds Billy of everything he never had, growing up.
He turns back to the bookcase, trying to redirect his attention to the rows of recipe books lined up along the shelves. There are a variety of different cuisines for him to choose from - Vietnamese, Thai, Indian, Mediterranean… Billy replaces the book he’s holding, picking up one on Greek cooking instead.
When he looks back around, Steve Harrington and his daughter have gone.
It’s for the best. Billy doesn’t want the reminder of the person he was in high school, of all the horrific things he witnessed and was forced to participate in. He tucks the cookbook under his arm and heads for the back of the queue leading up to the counter.
The problem, of course, is that less than thirty seconds later Steve and his daughter join the line behind him.
Billy stands stock still, limbs frozen as soon as he realizes they’re there. He wonders if he’s as recognizable to Steve as Steve was to him. Probably not, since the reason Steve’s face is so branded in his memory is because of the pathetically unrequited crush he had for nearly all the time he lived in Hawkins; Steve doubtless only thinks of him - insomuch as he thinks of him at all - as the asshole who beat him up once.
And the guy who let a shadow from another world murder half the town.
He shakes his head. That wasn’t his fault. He’s spent a long, long time making himself believe that, and he’s not going to ruin his equilibrium just because some guy he knew at high school has turned up in the same bookstore as him by chance.
Besides, it’s unlikely that Steve Harrington will recognize him from behind. He doesn’t look anything like he did at high school - none of the right clothes, not even the same hair. From the back, Steve can only be seeing a respectable, relatively middle class man of a similar sort of age to himself. No one who knew Billy in high school would ever associate that description with him.
Then a small, slightly high-pitched voice behind him says suddenly, “Daddy, what’s Mediterranean?”
Billy’s entire body seizes. Steve’s voice says: “What?”
“Mediterranean,” the little girl repeats, sounding out each syllable carefully. “I thought that was the sea.”
“It is,” Steve says. “What do you mean, why do you ask?”
A small pauses. Then: “That man has it on his book.”
Billy’s hands shake. He hadn’t realized he was holding his cookbook behind his back in such a way that the title can be seen; even if he had, he wouldn’t have thought of moving it. Why the hell should he? He doesn’t know anything about little kids. He didn’t know Steve’s daughter would suddenly take an interest in what he’s buying.
All he has to do is keep standing still, keep pretending that he doesn’t hear what she’s saying. It doesn’t mean Steve will realize it’s him.
Behind him, Steve is saying, “I think it’s a cookbook. You know, with recipes from near the Mediterranean Sea.”
“Oh,” the little girl says.
All he has to do is stay still and silent. But Billy has never been very good at that.
“It’s called the Mediterranean Basin,” he says without turning around, the words falling out of his mouth before he can stop them. He swallows. Jesus, it shouldn’t be this difficult to bump into someone from his past, someone who, after all, means very little. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to look at other people’s shit?”
Why does he do it? Why does he always have to be inflammatory? It’s because he’s so wound up, angry with himself after everything with Paul, with Max, the time of year, being reminded of his past when so many other things are happening at the same time—
“Excuse me—” Steve begins a little heatedly behind him - as well he might.
The words spill out of Billy as though entirely unconnected with his actual thoughts. “Key ingredients: oil, bread and wine. Keeps you healthy.” He stops, taking a quick shallow breath. “Good fucking food,” he says slightly unsteadily.
And then, as though he’s being drawn by an invisible yet entirely inevitable string, Billy turns around.
In the line behind him stands a man and his daughter, so similar in appearance when seen side by side that it makes Billy start. The little girl has her arms folded, large dark eyes narrowed towards him, her small mouth twisted in an unimpressed expression. And beside her…
Beside her, Steve Harrington looks exactly the way Billy remembers him, as though he’s barely aged a day since graduating high school ten years ago. Perhaps there are a few graying hairs by his hairline, a few lines around his mouth, but he still looks boyishly handsome, effortlessly attractive with his hair tossed back in the way he always used to wear it.
Billy catches his breath.
Steve’s daughter tilts her head in an irritable sort of way that would be amusing if Billy weren’t so focused on Steve. She says flatly: “I know those swear words,” she says. “You’re not telling them to me for the first time.”
“And there I was trying to shock you,” Billy says, mouth twisting in a sad little smile.
There’s a beat. Then Steve’s eyes widen almost comically. “Holy shit,” he says.
“Daddy,” his daughter says, scandalized.
Billy just looks at him, meeting Steve Harrington’s eyes for the first time.
Steve doesn’t look nearly as unhappy to see him as Billy might have expected. There’s warmth in his brown eyes, and a small smile on his face that Billy has never seen directed towards him before.
“Billy Hargrove,” he says slowly. And then, again: “Holy shit.”
For a few moments, nobody speaks. Steve’s daughter still looks outraged, but it’s blended with confusion now. Billy swallows. “Long time no see, princess,” he says quietly.
“Daddy,” the little girl says uncertainly. “Who’s this?”
“This is a friend of mine,” Steve says, eyes still on Billy. There’s still a tiny smile on his face; Billy wonders what he’s thinking, as he looks at him. A friend of mine. Jesus. “We went to school together.”
“With mommy?” his daughter asks. “And Auntie Robin?”
“Yeah,” Steve replies, and now at last he turns to look down at her. “Yeah, but Billy was in my graduating class. You know mommy and Auntie Robin were the year after me, right?”
The line moves forward a little, and Billy turns to follow it automatically. When it comes to another stop, however, he swivels back around to face Steve and his daughter. His heart is beating a little too quickly. “Who’s your mom?” he asks her.
“Nancy Harrington,” the little girl says proudly. Billy feels his eyes widen; Steve, on the other hand, glances away.
Billy says with some surprise: “Wheeler? You married Wheeler? I thought she left high school with Byers.”
“They broke up right after graduation,” Steve says stiffly. Billy feels a little spear of guilt at the question.
“Damn,” he says. “Well, congratulations.” But as he speaks, he shoots a swift look at Steve’s left hand; it’s bare, with no hint of a ring.
He’s sure Steve sees the direction of his glance, because he lifts his chin and slides an arm around his daughter’s shoulders, giving them a little squeeze. “We’re actually not together anymore,” he says. She leans into him a little, watching Billy. “Still really good friends though!” he adds quickly.
Billy nods slowly, eyes flickering to the little girl. “Okay,” he says.
It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Steve - Steve is just a high school crush, someone Billy hasn’t seen or even so much as thought about in more than a decade. And yet somehow the news that he and his wife have separated, that his marriage hasn’t worked out the way Billy always would have assumed, sends a little thrill through him.
“What about you, are you married?” Steve asks with a slightly forced joviality. “Any kids?”
Billy frowns at him, unexpectedly winded by the question. “Don’t you keep up with Maxine?” he asks roughly. “Doesn’t she tell you this sh… stuff?”
“Auntie Max?” the little girl says, before Steve can reply.
“Yeah,” Steve says. He glances at Billy swiftly, looking somewhat guilty. “Yeah, Alex, Auntie Max is Billy’s little sister.”
“Stepsister,” Billy says quickly, and then bites his lip.
His daughter, on the other hand - Alex, apparently - brightens noticeably. “Oh, cool,” she says. They take another couple of steps forward in the queue. “Auntie Max has the best videogames.”
“Yeah,” Billy says tightly. It’s still painful to think about Max, about the argument they had on the phone earlier. “She sure does.”
The little girl looks up at him with a frown. “Why is your voice funny?”
“Alex,” Steve says admonishingly, and she drops her head, shuffling her feet a little. He looks back at Billy. “This is Alex,” he says unnecessarily. “My daughter.”
Billy extends a formal hand, and after a moment of consideration, the little girl puts her own into it. “Good to meet you, Alex,” he says.
“Nice to meet you too,” she says, flashing him a bright grin as she shakes his hand.
“How old are you?” Billy asks her curiously. He wants to know how soon after high school Steve got married, how quickly he settled down into a comfortable life of matrimony and child-rearing. How differently Steve’s life diverged from his own.
Alex says confidently: “Six.”
So he was twenty-four when she was born. Twenty-four, which means Steve was probably twenty-two or twenty-three when he married Wheeler. So young. So fucking young - as young as Paul, and Paul really was a child.
Perhaps Steve knows what he’s thinking, because his cheeks flush pink and he runs a hand through his hair with his eyes cast to one side. Billy turns around as the line shuffles forward again. He’s next in the queue now, right behind the dumpy middle-aged woman currently paying for her Harlequin novels at the counter, and he swings his cookbook under his arm.
The middle-aged woman moves away, and Billy steps forward. The girl behind the counter looks about twenty-five, thin and bored with frizzy yellow hair and glasses, but she brightens visibly at Billy’s approach.
His mouth twitches with a satisfied smile. He’s still got it, in spite of his age and his innate weariness.
“Hi,” he says to her, flashing her a grin as he puts the Mediterranean recipe book in front of her. He pauses, leaning one arm on the countertop and meeting her eyes behind her glasses. She beams at him. “Just this.”
It’s second nature, flirting with women he meets by chance, as much as it will never go anywhere. It’s a little piece of himself he’s still holding onto from his youth, the piece of him that attracts attention effortlessly, drawing women in with a magnetizing smile and an enticing tilt of his hips. It’s a diversion, a way of reminding himself that no matter what else he might have lost, he can still do this. He can still feel good about his own allure.
So he chats to the girl behind the register, casual and easy, and she giggles chirpily as he pays for his book, hips tipped out with his elbows on the counter. It doesn’t mean anything; he barely even thinks about Steve and his daughter waiting in the queue behind him.
Until he turns at the end of the transaction, just in time to catch Steve Harrington wrenching his eyes away from Billy’s ass.
It’s almost a comical moment. The two of them stand there, a few feet away from each other, Billy wide-eyed and shocked and Steve blushing and guilty. The little girl beside him is momentarily forgotten.
Then the girl behind the register leans forward. “Next, please!” she calls impatiently, and Steve shakes his head and steps up to the counter.
Billy just stands there, rooted to the spot. Steve Harrington was looking at his ass. Steve Harrington - Steve Harrington - the object of Billy’s youthful affections, the person who made him realize he doesn’t like girls, the guy he spent his teenage years pining for - Steve Harrington was looking at his goddamn ass.
“Daddy, why is your face red?” Alex asks Steve, as he finishes paying for their books.
Steve glances up towards Billy. Billy raises his eyebrows. The corners of his mouth, he realizes, are twitching. In spite of all the years that have passed - and his own better judgment - Steve’s interest is flattering.
Something about his expression must be a relief to Steve, because he exhales softly as he looks down at his daughter. “I’m fine,” he tells her. “You in the mood for an ice cream?”
His daughter giggles. “It’s December, daddy!”
“A hot chocolate,” Steve revises, eyes flicking towards Billy.
Alex follows the line of his gaze. “Is your friend from school coming?”
Steve lifts a single eyebrow, shrugging his shoulders in question; Billy feels himself nodding, just the smallest amount. After all, Steve was just watching his ass. He can’t exactly walk away.
“Yeah,” Steve says to Alex. “He’s coming.”
And so somehow Billy finds himself walking down the high street with Steve Harrington and his six-year-old daughter, as though it’s something he does every day. Alex walks between them, holding Steve’s hand but sneaking little glances at Billy every now and again as they head towards the Starbucks on the corner of the street.
“Can I get marshmallows?” Alex asks with a little skip in her step. “And cream on top?”
“I think that can be arranged,” Steve says, sounding amused. He looks sideways at Billy. “Same for you?”
Billy shrugs, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. This is the closest he’s ever been to a child under the age of ten - which is how old Max was when Neil brought her into his life - and he’s not really sure how to handle it. Billy Hargrove is the antithesis of everything necessary to be around children, or at least it feels that way. He’s not gentle, or kind, or patient - he swears like a sailor - he’s probably the worst influence in the world.
He’s itching for a cigarette. Damn Gary - two boyfriends ago - for convincing him to quit.
Hands shoved into his pockets against the cold, Billy turns to Steve in an effort to pretend that there isn’t a little girl walking between them. “What are you doing with yourself these days, Harrington?”
“Steve,” Steve says comfortably. Billy resists rolling his eyes. “That’s a funny story, actually - I was working at my dad’s company right after high school until a couple years ago.”
“But you hated it,” Alex says in a knowledgeable sort of voice. Billy never knew Nancy Wheeler terribly well, but he’s suddenly struck with a fleeting sense of recognition. Steve’s daughter may look like him, but she’s certainly got her mother in her too.
Steve just laughs. “Yeah, I hated it,” he says. “I quit three years ago and went back to college.” Another short little laugh. “Well, went to college. I never went after high school.”
Billy’s eyes widen. Attending college at this age can’t have been easy. “That was brave,” he comments, and is rewarded with a small smile. “You’ve graduated now?”
“Yeah,” Steve says.
“He’s a speech therapist,” Alex says proudly as they step through the doors of the coffee shop. She turns around to look at Billy, her large dark eyes unexpectedly solemn. “That means he helps people who can’t communicate properly.”
Billy’s eyebrows lift. “Big words for a little kid,” he says.
Alex rolls her eyes impressively. “I’m not little,” she says. “And I’m not dumb.”
“She’s really smart,” Steve says, guiding them towards the counter. There’s clear pride in his voice. “Top of her class, just like her mom.” His daughter beams, and Billy feels the familiar lump rising in his throat.
They queue up at the counter, and Steve buys three hot chocolates against Billy’s objections. “Hey, man, it’s no problem,” he says, when Billy tries to hand him a bill. “I invited you, right?”
There’s a slight flush in his cheeks as he says it, and Billy, remembering the guilty way he looked away when he was caught staring at Billy’s ass, decides to allow Steve to pay.
“What’s your job?” Alex asks Billy, as the three of them settle around a small table by the window.
“Offshore drilling engineer,” Billy says, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. Well, the kid said she wasn’t dumb, and he’s no good with children anyway. She can figure out what he means.
She takes a large gulp of her drink, leaving cream smeared on her upper lip. “Is that for oil?”
Billy raises an eyebrow, impressed. Steve’s right; she is smart. “Yeah, that’s right,” he says. “I manage a rig in the Gulf of Mexico. You know where that is?”
“Yes,” Alex says composedly. “It’s the big sea under Texas and Louisiana.”
“West of Florida,” Billy says, just to be a dick.
Alex nods and licks cream off her lip. “I know all the states,” she tells him.
“Smart kid,” Billy says.
Steve smiles, eyes once again full of pride. “Told you,” he says.
Alex asks, “If you manage a rig in the Gulf of Mexico, what are you doing in Indianapolis?”
“Nosy kid, too,” Billy says. Jesus, he really can’t keep his mouth shut - Alex looks crestfallen, and Steve leans forward, clearly about to pacify the situation. Billy sighs. “It’s alright, kid, I was the same. I live here.”
“So do we,” Alex says.
Billy nods. He supposes it makes sense; Indianapolis isn’t too far from Hawkins, and it’s not as though there are many opportunities back at home. He’s sure plenty of his old peers have wound up here in the city. “I get onshore leave every few weeks. A month on the rig, a month at home. They gave me Christmas this year.” He sighs, taking another sip of his drink. “Pulled the short straw,” he mutters.
Alex giggles. “It’s Christmas,” she says, as though Billy is being ridiculous - and to a six-year-old, he probably is.
He’s worked Christmas for the last four years, always the first to volunteer so that the younger guys can be with their families. At least, that’s the reason he gives - but the reality is that it gives him something to do over the holidays, not to mention an excuse for Max.
Of course, all of that will be far above Alex’s head - but not Steve’s. He’s giving Billy a narrow-eyed, contemplative look, hot chocolate held in both hands. He says quietly: “What are you doing for Christmas, Billy?”
Billy shrugs irritably. “Why ask when you already know the answer?” he snaps, because it’s obvious that Steve does know the answer. There’s sympathy in his face that Billy hates, no sign of the lasciviousness he displayed in the bookstore.
His daughter shoots a swift glance between the pair of them. “We’re having it all together,” she informs Billy uncertainly. “Mommy and daddy, at mommy’s house.”
“That’s nice,” Billy says woodenly. On the chair opposite him, Steve makes a movement that could almost be a flinch.
“Yeah,” Alex says. “I’m staying the night with mommy, and then daddy is coming in the morning. I’m not opening any presents until daddy comes.”
Billy finishes off his hot chocolate. This was a mistake. He can’t do families, can’t behave the way people are supposed to behave around small kids, and all the rush of pleasurable excitement he’d felt when he caught Steve’s eyes on his ass has faded away. He puts his mug back on the coffee table with a clatter.
He’s about to stand up and make his excuses when Steve says abruptly: “I need to use the restroom. Alex, you’ll be alright with Billy for a minute, right?”
“Sure,” Alex says. Billy glares at Steve - but he’s already standing up and making his way around the table, heading for the bathrooms at the back of the room without so much as asking Billy if he minds.
“Jesus Christ,” Billy mutters irritably.
Alex puts a marshmallow in her mouth. “He gets sad about mommy sometimes,” she says in a confidential tone to Billy. She lets out a deep sigh. “They don’t love each other in a husband and wife way anymore.”
Billy blinks. “Is that what they told you?”
She nods. “Mommy says they were too young when they got married,” she explains. “They’re better as friends.”
“And you’re alright with that, are you?” Billy asks interestedly. It’s probably not what he’s supposed to say to her; he ought to give her some meaningless platitude about parents, but he’s never been very good at that sort of thing. Besides, he’s curious.
Alex shrugs her small shoulders, licking chocolate off her fingers. “My friend Angie says her mom and dad have really big fights all the time,” she says. “And my other friend Carla doesn’t even have a dad. He went away when she was little and never came back. My mom and dad are nice to each other.”
“Even though they’re not together,” Billy clarifies.
“Yeah,” Alex says. She puts down her mug. “They were sad before.”
Billy absorbs this in silence. It strikes him that she’s a very self-aware child - but then, maybe all children are. He certainly knew exactly what was going on at the age of six.
He glances towards the bathroom door. Steve is sure taking a long time - or maybe it just feels that way because Billy is so uncomfortable. He says awkwardly, “But… but they’re happier now?”
“Yes,” Alex says. She licks her small fingers again. “Do you have a wife?”
“No,” Billy says with a snort. “No, Jesus, no wives here.”
She nods as though this is entirely what she expected him to say. “Auntie Robin isn’t ever getting married either,” she says. “She says it’s an anti… anti…” She frowns. “It means old,” she says at last. “An old thing to do.”
“Antiquated?” Billy asks, amused.
Alex nods. “Yeah,” she says. “Ankitated. She’s not getting married ever. Mommy says she’s not allowed, though, because Auntie Lucille is a girl.”
“Who’s Lucille?” Billy says.
“Auntie Robin’s girlfriend,” Alex says, as though it ought to be obvious.
For a few moments, Billy just stares at her. He thinks he remembers some chick named Robin from school, a girl Steve Harrington spent enough time with that there were rumors about them. But apparently she wasn’t one of the many girls who were crushing on him. She has a girlfriend.
“Huh,” he manages.
Alex doesn’t seem to notice his surprise. She says, “Are your mom and dad still together?”
Jesus fucking Christ. “No,” he says. “My mom fucked off when I wasn’t much older than you.”
“Oh,” Alex says. She doesn’t seem fazed by him swearing again. “Like Carla.”
“I guess, yeah,” Billy says.
She nods in a world-weary sort of way. “Do you miss her? Carla doesn’t really miss her daddy, but she was too small to remember him. Is that why you’re not spending Christmas with your family?”
“I hate Christmas,” Billy growls. “Anyway, how did you know I wasn’t spending it with my family?”
“Because of daddy’s face,” Alex replies promptly. “Anyway, you can’t hate Christmas. What about Santa?”
In spite of himself, Billy chokes on a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, that’s true,” he says. “I guess I forgot about Santa.”
“Daddy says that people who forget about Santa don’t get any gifts,” Alex says primly. “And mommy says that Christmas is about family and connection, not just presents and food.” She giggles to herself. “But daddy says it can be about all of it.”
Billy smiles at her, feeling oddly fond. His own memories of childhood Christmases are a mixture of pain, anger, and then, later, gritted teeth and fake smiles, when Susan was there and everyone was pretending. Those times sometimes ended in pain too, of course.
But that clearly hasn’t been Alex’s experience, even with her parents apart, and Billy is glad for her. Not that he could ever imagine warm-hearted Steve Harrington behaving anything like Neil Hargrove - but it’s nice to have the proof.
The door to the restroom opens, and Steve comes out and walks over to them, a small smile on his face as he sits back down beside Alex. He reaches out for his mug, drinking down the last of his hot chocolate. “All good?” he asks.
“Yes,” Alex says complacently. “Billy said he hates Christmas, but then I reminded him about Santa and he changed his mind.”
Steve laughs. “Yeah, he was always smart,” he says in an indulgent sort of voice.
She looks across the table at Billy. “If Auntie Max is your sister, why aren’t you spending Christmas with her?”
“Alex,” Steve says quickly.
“She asked me,” Billy says, eyes on Alex. “I just didn’t feel like hanging out with my parents.”
Once again, Alex nods as though this makes perfect sense to her. “Like daddy,” she says sensibly. Steve stirs; she shrugs. “What? You don’t like being with Grandma and Grandpa either.” She looks back at Billy. “They’re weird,” she explains. “They weren’t nice to daddy when he was younger.”
“Alex,” Steve sighs again, gaze flickering to Billy a little shamefacedly.
Billy leans forward a little. “It’s okay,” he says to Alex. “My dad wasn’t all that nice to me either.”
“You should come and spend Christmas Eve with me and daddy,” Alex says with authority. “Mommy is going to Uncle Mike and Auntie El’s house that day, and me and daddy are being by ourselves.” She pauses, and then goes on a little guiltily: “Sometimes I don’t like going there. Uncle Mike is uptight.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “Alex, that’s not nice,” he chides her.
She throws up her hands, and Billy snickers. “He is! I heard you say so to Auntie Robin.”
“Yeah, I remember your uncle,” Billy says, even though he doesn’t really. Not the way he remembers Steve. Then he frowns. “Max isn’t uptight, though, right?”
“No,” Alex says, laughing. “Auntie Max is the best. She’s spending Christmas Eve with Uncle Lucas. Did you know they’re getting married?”
Billy swallows, abruptly less amused. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough.
“And Auntie Robin will be with Auntie Lucille, and Uncle Dustin is hanging out with Uncle Will because he says he can’t spend the holidays with any one girl because that might give them ideas, and Auntie Holly is just at home with with Nana and Pops because Nana says she’s not old enough to spend the holidays with her boyfriend—”
“Auntie Holly?” Billy interrupts.
“Nancy’s little sister,” Steve says. “She’s nearly seventeen now.”
Billy casts his eyes down to the table, suddenly realizing who Nana must be. He doesn’t really want to think about Karen Wheeler. He hasn’t really forgiven her for agreeing to meet with him that night. She was an adult; she should have known better.
He may go out with younger men, but they’re not teenagers.
“Anyway,” Alex goes on insistently. “Everyone else is busy, so you should come and spend Christmas Eve with us.”
Involuntarily, Billy’s eyes slide to Steve. He has an odd sort of smile on his face, perhaps tentatively encouraging, and he does not - as Billy had thought he would - immediately disavow his daughter’s invitation. He just shrugs a little, hands opening, as if to say - why not?
“Well,” Billy says cautiously. “Maybe.”
“You should,” Steve says suddenly, smiling warmly.
Billy thinks about his large and lonely house, filled with expensive furniture and up-to-date appliances. He thinks of the spaces Paul left behind earlier this morning when he took the few things he had away with him. He thinks of the complete lack of anything representing Christmas in the house - no tree, no decorations, no holiday cards. He thinks of how absolutely uninterested he is in being alone there at this or any other time of year.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”
Steve and Alex both beam at him, the latter clapping her hands together a couple of times, her little legs kicking against her chair. Steve starts gathering together their outdoor clothes from where they’re strewn across the empty seat beside him, throwing his scarf around his neck.
“We’d better get going,” he says to Alex. “Mommy will be wondering where you are.”
“I live with mommy usually on Fridays,” Alex explains to Billy, as she hops to her feet. “Daddy is just taking me out today because I don’t have any school.”
Billy nods seriously in agreement. “Very sensible,” he says, and Alex laughs.
They leave Starbucks together, Billy shrugging on his wool jacket as he steps out into the weak December sunlight. Alex skips on ahead as Billy and Steve walk together down the street towards the parking lot behind Barnes and Noble, where apparently both of them have left their cars. Her hair is escaping from her bright red hat, and the plastic bag containing her new books is swinging from one arm.
“She’s a cute kid,” Billy comments. “Smart, too.”
“Yeah, she gets that from Nancy,” Steve says with a smile. He glances sideways at Billy. “Never thought I’d end up here, but I wouldn’t change it.”
Billy absorbs this in silence for a few steps. “Where’d you think you’d end up?” he asks.
Steve shrugs. “Six kids and a house in the suburbs, I guess,” he says. “All I wanted was Nancy, you know? A wife, a family…” He shakes his head. “I have Alex,” he says firmly. “None of the rest of that shit matters.”
“Six kids, Jesus,” Billy murmurs, and Steve laughs. The sound is bright, rippling through the air, and ahead of them Alex looks around briefly before continuing on her way.
“Yeah, yeah, it was ambitious, I was an idiot,” Steve says, looking down at his feet as they go on walking. “After Alex was born I was like… you know, maybe one’s enough!”
Billy laughs. “I never saw kids in my future,” he admits. “Never really saw much of a future at all, to be honest.”
“And now look at you,” Steve says, and Billy smiles. They walk on, past a brightly colored toy shop filled with loudly calling children, and Billy wonders if he might have thought differently about his future if he’d had a different family. He wonders who he’d be, without Neil Hargrove’s influence in his life. It’s a familiar and unsatisfying line of thought.
He says restlessly, “So, man. Christmas with the ex, huh?”
“Yeah,” Steve says with a shrug. “We’re not on bad terms.” He glances ahead, clearly making sure that Alex is out of earshot. “We just never should’ve got back together, you know? We were really young, and after everything that happened in Hawkins…”
“Yeah,” Billy says in a low voice.
Steve nods, and his shoulder bumps companionably against Billy’s. Billy feels a little frisson jumping through him at the contact. “Yeah, you get it,” he says quietly. “Her and Jonathan broke up, we were both lonely… we fizzled out before we really began, you know? But by then she was pregnant with Alex, so we just kept trying to hold things together.” He lets out a bitter little snort. “It was a relief when we admitted it was over. That was about a year ago now.”
Billy says awkwardly: “I guess it’s - it’s good for Alex, right? That you get on, or whatever.”
“She’s amazing,” Steve says, voice softening as his eyes travel over to his daughter. “Jesus, whatever we throw at her - she just takes it. She never seems to mind that Nancy and me aren’t… you know, aren’t together anymore.”
“She’s a pretty great kid, and I don’t usually like them,” Billy says, and means it. Steve looks pleased, and for some reason Billy feels the need to say: “Look, man, I never said. I’m sorry I beat you up that one time, you know?”
Steve laughs. “Dude, you get a pass,” he says. “You saved the freaking world.”
Billy feels unexpectedly winded.
Before he can speak, Steve tilts his head to one side, looking hesitant. “Hey, look, tell me I’m overstepping, or whatever, but… why aren’t you spending Christmas with Max?”
Billy folds his arms across his chest, his good mood abruptly punctured. He looks away from Steve, out across the busy street, at the cars passing and the dusting of snow on the sidewalk. “She’s spending it with her mom,” he says gruffly.
“She said she was going to invite you,” Steve says with a frown.
Billy raises his eyebrows. “You talk to her a lot, huh?” He’s obscurely surprised; Max has never mentioned Steve, or any of her friends, and he’d had the vague idea that she didn’t really see them too often anymore. He knew she was getting married to Lucas Sinclair, of course - they got engaged a month ago - but as to the others…
Well. There’s a lot they don’t talk about.
“Every now and then,” Steve says cautiously. “She mentioned that it’s your first Christmas off work for a few years.”
Billy shrugs. “Yeah, well,” he says. “She did ask me, but I’m not going anywhere my dad might be.” His voice comes out hard and bitter, and he feels a pulse of regret for it. He’s not sure he wants to be saying these things to Steve Harrington; they don’t know each other, not really.
Steve’s face tells him that the mention of Neil isn’t a surprise to him, nor the fact that Billy doesn’t want to be around him. Billy grinds his teeth, wondering exactly how much Max has told him - and who else she’s told. He supposes it’s almost as much her business as his, although he doesn’t like the idea of all her friends knowing his secrets.
“Your dad and her mom, though… they’ve split up, right?” he asks.
Billy is pathetically grateful that he’s not going to start asking questions about Neil, although he’s less than pleased about having to defend his holiday choices all over again. “Yeah, but she still sees him.” He lets his arms fall to his sides. “Max thinks I just need to get over myself.”
“Get over yourself!” Steve exclaims, and Billy turns in surprise at the vehemence in his voice. “Why the fuck should you?”
“Wow, man, take a breath,” Billy says mildly, his own residual painful anger subsiding in the face of Steve’s obvious indignation. “It’s not - I mean, you know, she just wants to get me over there, right?”
“Well, sure, but that’s just inconsiderate,” Steve says firmly, shaking his head. “I can’t believe she said that to you. Jesus, those kids - they’re smart, but they’re sure as hell dumb sometimes.”
Billy laughs, feeling curiously lightened by the conversation. It’s nice to feel like someone is on his side, backing him when he’s spent the whole day going back and forth, wondering if he’s really the one in the wrong. With Steve so adamant, he feels better about the phone call with Max, even if the situation itself hasn’t improved.
He nods towards Alex. “Not yours though, huh? She’s too smart to be that dumb.”
“Yeah, I’ll tell Max to take a leaf out of her book,” Steve says with a snort. He glances sideways at Billy. “Seriously, man. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Billy says. He nudges Steve’s shoulder again. “Thanks, though.”
Steve grins at him, and for a moment it feels like something is passing between them - something warm, fizzing with a potential that Billy is suddenly excited for. He remembers again the feel of Steve’s eyes on his ass, the confirmation that something might be there to explore.
As if in answer to his train of thought, Steve says hesitantly: “So… you’re not, like, with anyone, right?”
Billy hides a smile. “Just split with someone, actually,” he says casually.
“Oh,” Steve says. He pushes his hands into his pockets. “Sorry, man.”
“It wasn’t serious,” Billy says, dismissing Paul in three simple words. It’s not as though it’s untrue; Paul meant almost nothing to him, which says more about Billy than it does about Paul himself. He’s had a history of choosing men who won’t really affect him emotionally.
Steve, if he becomes something - which Billy is suddenly and possibly irrationally hoping he does - wouldn’t be like that, which is somewhat terrifying - but not enough to hold him back.
“Oh,” Steve says again, but this time he sounds almost… hopeful.
“Yeah, you know,” Billy says. He takes a breath. “He was never going to last.”
He. He can see the moment Steve takes it in - the moment the thing they’ve been dancing around is spoken aloud. He, because Billy Hargrove dates men, which means that Steve’s illicit glances at Billy’s ass are completely permissible - encouraged, even. Billy’s made it pretty clear he’s interested.
Steve nods quietly to himself, shoulders rounded. He screws up his face like he’s steeling himself for something.
Then he says, “You know, I’m dropping Alex off at Nancy’s, and then I don’t have any plans tonight.”
“Huh,” Billy says, smiling into his collar. “That so?”
They’ve reached the parking lot by now, and Billy slows down as they approach his car. Alex is returning to them, the plastic bag still hanging from her arm with her cheeks all pink from the cold. Steve glances at her, and then back at Billy. “So… you want some company?”
“Kinda sounds like you’re asking me out on a date, pretty boy,” Billy says.
Steve smiles. “Christ, it’s been a while since anyone called me that,” he says. “And yeah.” His smile widens into a grin. “I am.”
“I guess I’d better give you my address,” Billy says with affected insouciance, and he does just that as Alex draws up beside the two of them, rustling in his pocket for paper and pencil to write it down.
He feels on top of the world on the drive home, excited in a way that he’s never been excited for a date. This isn’t some twenty-two-year-old he’s met down at the gym or at a late-night bar, someone to momentarily help him fill the void of his endless loneliness before the disgust overtakes him.
No, this is Steve Harrington, someone he’s liked for years, someone he never thought he’d ever be able to have. This is the opportunity to have something he’s been missing.
He stops off at the grocery store on his way, to pick up some ingredients for the Mediterranean cookbook he just bought this afternoon. He and Steve didn’t say that they’d eat together - but it seems like a good chance to impress with his new recipes.
The afternoon is wearing on by the time he arrives home, the sun beginning to set behind the tops of the trees and the roof of his house. He slides the car into the garage, pausing for a moment to take in the late afternoon winter scene: snow dusting the lines of bushes and plants under the windows, the warm orange glow of the sunset illuminating the icy puddles underfoot. It’s a beautiful evening, and Billy is basking in it.
He’s still smiling as he unlocks the door, hanging his coat on the peg by the door and putting his shoes on the rack. Everything is neat as a pin, courtesy of the cleaning company he’s hired to come once a week, and he likes to keep it that way.
Billy prepares Greek moussaka, layering ground lamb with eggplant and potato and topping it with cream sauce ready to go in the oven, should the opportunity present itself. He’s a good cook these days, after years of experimenting in the kitchen by himself, and he’s rather looking forward to showing off his skills.
After he’s done he takes a shower, which means that he’s still in the bathroom drying off when the telephone rings. Billy frowns; he’s not expecting a call, unless Steve has changed his mind about tonight.
Surely that can’t be the case? Not after so little time has passed. Billy sighs, striding downstairs and into the kitchen and picking up the phone.
“Hello?” he says brusquely.
“Billy?”
Billy’s heart drops to his knees, because it’s Max - and he doesn’t want to do this now. He doesn’t want to have this fight again, not now. He’s too happy after meeting Steve and Alex. He doesn’t want another argument to bring him down.
“Max,” he says heavily.
She sighs on the other end of the phone, a rattling crackle in his ear. “Billy,” she says again. “I don’t - I don’t want to leave things like we did.”
He turns, leaning against the counter. It’s so reminiscent of this morning, of her bitter words in his ear, and he feels a lump rising in his throat. “Yeah,” he says huskily. “Yeah, me neither.”
“I’m sorry,” Max says, which is so unexpected that Billy actually trips a little.
He says, “What?”
“I’m sorry,” she repeats. “It’s bullshit, what I said to you. You shouldn’t have to deal with that.”
“Max…” he says slowly. It feels a little surreal - as though he’s caught in a very strange dream, one where people keep saying all the things he wants them to say, at exactly the moments he wants them to say them. But that never happens to him. “Max, what—”
“Steve called,” she says in a rush, and Billy’s heart jumps. She laughs a little bitterly into his ear. “He… well, he kinda yelled at me, actually. He told me I was being a bitch.”
Billy half-slumps against the counter. “He said what?”
“He didn’t actually use that word, but, you know. That’s what he meant.” She doesn’t sound upset by it. There’s something almost cheerful in her voice, as though she’s quite used to Steve telling her off when she fucks up. They must be closer than Billy has known, and it cheers him up to hear it.
She goes on, “Billy, he was right. I shouldn’t’ve said that to you. And I shouldn’t’ve asked you to… to risk seeing him.”
“Shit, Max,” Billy says, alarmed by the sincerity in her voice. They don’t usually talk to each other like this, except when they’re fighting - and it makes him somewhat uncomfortable, as much as there’s a smile on his face.
“Seriously,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head a little, even though she can’t see him. “It’s okay,” he says, and suddenly it is. His heart is lighter than it’s been in a long time. “It’s okay, Max. I get it.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have to get it,” she says decisively. “I’m coming over on Christmas.”
Billy staggers. He actually fucking staggers, his arm catching the counter at the last second to prop himself up. “Max—”
“I mean it,” she says. “You were right, Billy. You shouldn’t have to be the one to make sacrifices all the time. And this isn’t a sacrifice for me, anyway. I want to see you.”
“You can bring your mom,” he says, which isn’t something he ever thought he’d hear coming out of his mouth.
He can practically hear her smiling on the other end of the line. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he says. He doesn’t want her to have to sacrifice, doesn’t want her to have to leave a parent behind. No one should have to do that. “Yeah, of course.”
“I’ll tell her,” Max says. She laughs. “So you’ve got, like, four days to get me a gift, okay, asshole?”
In spite of himself, Billy laughs as well; she knows him far too well. He hasn’t got her anything, relying on skipping the holidays to get away with it. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Alright.”
As she’s answering him, her voice cheerful in his ear, there’s a loud buzz as the doorbell rings, and Billy loses half her reply as he turns towards the sound. A smile is spreading across his face, because that means Steve is here.
Steve is here, and Billy is wearing a towel around his waist and nothing else.
“Max,” he says. “I have to go.”
“Sure, sure,” she says. She pauses. “I’ll see you on Christmas Day, okay?”
He smiles, pushing a hand through his damp hair. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’ll see you then.”
The doorbell buzzes again, and Billy hastily says his goodbyes. He takes a look at himself. He’s not in quite the same shape he was at eighteen, but working on the rig keeps him fit enough. He’s not ashamed to have Steve see him like this, as much as he’d expected to be a little more dressed when he greeted him.
He walks through the hall to the front door, smiling as he sees Steve’s shadow through the frosted glass. He reaches out, opening the door.
Steve is standing there, looking as handsome as he ever did at eighteen - tall, warm, hair slicked back and a smile on his face.
“Hey,” Billy says.
Steve’s eyes widen almost comically as he takes in his half-nakedness. “Hi,” he says with an even wider grin.
“Yeah, sorry,” Billy says, although he’s well aware that he doesn’t sound sorry at all. “Got caught on the phone.” He steps back, allowing Steve to come inside. “Funny thing,” he adds. “Max called.”
“Oh,” Steve says, closing the door behind him. He’s blushing very prettily. “Yeah. I might’ve… I might’ve called her this afternoon.”
Billy takes his coat, hanging it beside his own. He likes the way it looks, having two jackets there instead of one. He says, “Yeah, she mentioned that.”
“Are you mad?” Steve asks a little hesitantly, as he follows Billy through into the kitchen. The moussaka is sitting out on the counter, and he pauses, looking suitably impressed. “Wow, man, did you make that?”
“Not mad,” Billy says. “And yeah.” He grins, trying to look modest. “Just threw it together. It’s no big deal.”
Steve lets his eyes fall to Billy’s chest. It seems he likes what he sees. “Looks good,” he says, and somehow Billy doesn’t think he’s talking about the moussaka.
He says, “I’m spending Christmas with her, thanks to you.”
“Good,” Steve says. “I’m glad.”
Billy moves a little closer, close enough to feel the warmth of Steve’s body a couple of feet away. “I’m a social animal these days,” he says. “Max on Christmas Day, you and Alex on Christmas Eve.”
“You’re a popular guy,” Steve says. He takes a step forward, and one hand lands on Billy’s arm, making him shiver at the touch.
The room suddenly feels a little warmer than it did before; Steve’s mouth is suddenly very close to his own.
Billy lets his eyes close, leaning in as Steve’s lips meet his.
It’s going to be a very good Christmas.