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Steve didn’t know what he’d been expecting until the bells above the diner door let out a merry jingle—and there he was.
Apparently his subconscious had imagined someone gaunt, haggard. A shaky mess. Not that he’d sounded like that on the phone, despite the obvious nerves.
I’m looking for Steve Harrington? Dunno if he lives here anymore. The voice was gruff in a way that enticed, so he’d said this is Steve, and the ensuing silence was broken by a cough. Oh—uh, hi. This is… Billy Hargrove. From high school?
Sense memory knocked him flat—Hargrove taunting him at practice, pressed against him, tongue wagging; crouched above, pummeling; on his knees, clinging to consciousness, the Mind Flayer melted mush.
Hargrove stumbled through a semi-rehearsed spiel. How he was in recovery, had reached the step of compiling the people he’d done wrong. How he wanted to make amends—could do it over the phone or in person or not at all, which he’d understand.
I’m back in Hawkins, but I can drive—and Steve had interrupted that he was in Hawkins, too. Did not say he’d been back a couple months, ever since Nance said they needed to talk.
It was a little pathetic, how eager Steve had been to meet up with a guy he hadn’t thought of in over a decade, because the only friends nearby were his and Nancy’s friends in Indianapolis.
So they’d made plans, and here they were: Steve, a soon-to-be divorcé working a soulless job at the family business, who at least had his hair, health, a measure of wealth; and Billy, not even slightly a woebegone waste case—scanning the booths with piercing baby blues, hair shorn on the sides, tawny curls piled on top. His ears glittered with metal hoops and studs, and that skin was bronze as Steve remembered. New tattoos twined his arms, disappeared under the white tank hanging loose from his shoulders, tucked into tight jeans.
He’d gained some weight—stood solid. Thick. It suited him.
Spotted, Steve raised an awkward hand, pursed awkward lips, and when Billy scooted in opposite, the exchanged hellos were—yep—awkward.
Unsure of the protocol for amends, Steve tried small talk—learned Billy lived with Max, who was caring for her ailing mother. His dad was still in the wind, vanished post-flaying while Billy was comatose.
Far as Steve knew, Billy had likewise vanished after a spell in the ICU. Rumors he’d been abducted by the government, but most figured he’d run off. Done the reasonable thing and put Hawkins behind him.
Turned out it was both. In exchange for his silence plus months in a secret lab, they’d set him up in the city of his choosing—and he’d chosen home. San Diego.
“Got an apartment, started community college…” Billy shrugged. “Over-indulged in the club scene. Couldn’t keep a job, couldn’t sleep. Tipped some bad dominoes. Hurt some good people.”
He’d been sober about a year, fully committed to the whole body-is-my-temple mentality. Been using music and exercise as his outlet whenever he itched.
“Went from bar hopping to gym bunny?” Steve suggested, and Billy flicked an assessing glance, wondering if the pun was deliberate.
It was. Steve’s mouth twitched, and Billy huffed a laugh. “Least I’m not eating rabbit food,” he said, nodding at Steve’s very sad salad.
“Hey, it’s tough diving into singlehood at our age,” he protested. “Gotta whip myself into shape.”
Billy guessed it—divorce?—and winced, commiserating.
“How about you?” No ring, he noted. “Seeing anyone?”
“Ah—nope,” Billy replied, with a self-deprecating snort. “Not the marrying kind.”
And that… wasn’t quite what Steve asked. “Not the dating kind, either?”
Billy grimaced, conducted a short debate with the middle distance, and cleared his throat. “How about I say what I came to say and then we can… keep chatting. If you want.”
Steve pushed his plate aside, hands folded like it was a contract negotiation. “Okay.”
Deep inhale, and Billy mirrored him. “All right. So—I’ve been working backwards through people I’ve hurt, and you’re part of the last group. From when I was still a kid, technically, but old enough to do real damage. And… whether or not I need to… I want to. Like, it feels good to… purge, I guess.”
Beating Steve’s head in—that’s what he wanted to apologize for. He could have inflicted some lasting traumatic injury, hoped he hadn’t—you didn’t, Steve assured him, I’ve always been this confused—and had since developed other ways to cope with and express his anger.
“Like what?” he asked, curious. Billy blinked, lost track of his mental cue cards.
“Like—meditation,” he said, and Steve pictured him cross-legged on the beach at sunset, centering his chakra. “And journaling. And…” He scrunched his nose, flushed. “Uh—crochet.”
“Is that… when you hit balls through little hoops?”
“That’s croquet. Crochet is like—” Billy huffed, dragging hands down his cheeks. “It’s like knitting, okay? Will you let me just…?”
Steve waved for him to continue, mimed zipping his lips. Covered his mouth at the thought of Billy knitting blankets of rage. This was serious, he scolded himself. Knock it off.
But… teasing Billy was fun. Gave him a strange thrill. Like when they used to spar at school. Banter.
Taking a deep breath, Billy found where he’d left off. “Right. Anger management. But I’ve also been re-examining my—motivations. Because for awhile, I told myself you deserved it, that I was protecting Max from shady dudes who’d lured her to the woods—”
Well, that’s fair, Steve thought, his perspective on that night radically shifting. Optics not great.
“—But I didn’t give a shit about Max,” Billy confessed. “I was just mad she got me in trouble with my dad and ruined my date… mad you lied to me about her being there, and that she’d ignored me about Sinclair, and… mad I was in Bumfuck Nowhere. So—I’m grateful you grabbed me off the kid. I’ve already made amends with him. And with Max. And I’m sorry I beat you so bad. Sorry I took it out on you.”
Steve hadn’t even remembered some of those details until Billy blew off the dust—one of those weird moments where you realize a hazy event was crystalline for someone else. Vivid and weighted with meaning.
“It’s fine, man,” Steve said, simple and easy, and Billy nodded, a fine tremor up and down. “Water under the bridge. I’m glad you’re—”
“I’m a fag,” Billy said, blunt. The eyes that rose to meet him were flat. Slate blue. “S'why I’m not the marrying kind.” A short, fractured laugh, devoid of humor. “And don’t think you’d call it dating, what I was doing. Russian roulette, more like. I should be dead several times over by now. Dunno how I’m not.”
Steve swallowed hard, couldn’t wipe the dumb shock—and the blue slate buckled, about to crack. So he revised his sentence from before. “I’m glad you’re not.” Managed a weak smile, heartfelt. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”
Billy ducked, but Steve caught the flash of wet. Slate in the rain. “I don’t have it,” he muttered, single sniff. “In case you’re wondering.”
And Steve meant to say I’m glad, a broken record but a sincere one, only the thing gnawing at him since the separation hijacked his mouth. “Nancy thinks I’m in love with this guy at work. This guy who’s a man.”
Billy’s head swung up, thrown off course for maybe the fourth time since he’d entered the cafe, and Steve facepalmed.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s not why we’re here. I keep dive bombing your… amending. Amendment?”
That might have broken Billy—the poor dude slumped forward, brow on the table.
“I really am sorry,” Steve repeated, earnest. “And I’m glad you’re okay. That’s what I meant to say—that I’m glad you’re okay.”
A long sigh, and Billy propped his chin on folded wrists. “Are you in love with this guy who’s a man?”
“No,” Steve said, heating as it dawned on him that Guy Who’s a Man bore a striking resemblance to Man Sitting Opposite. “It’s more—crippling lust.”
“Did you cheat?”
“No!” Then, dialing his tone from offended to firm: “I don’t do that.”
“Okay.” Billy straightened, thinking. “I’m not the best person to be anyone’s gay sensei, but I’m gonna give you my number in case you need to talk about this shit. And you better be careful. Be safe if you decide to… dip your toes in the water.”
Through the wall-mounted speakers, Jewel wondered one last time who would save their souls if they wouldn't save their own, the track winding to a close, and Steve had opened his mouth to ask Do you think we could have done that, way back then? Dipped our toes in the water? when Billy scrambled upright, nope, nope, nope under the faint strains of the next tune.
“Gotta go—this song’s gonna wreck my sobriety.” Finger guns, backpedaling. “You pay up. I’ll wait outside.”
Steve cocked an ear, bemused, listening hard all the way to the register. Plucky melody, a crooning boyish falsetto, incomprehensible—then finally, impassioned: Can you tell me who will still care?
The chorus kicked in as he walked out, and Steve caught on—laughed at the sky.
Mmm bop, ba duba dop
Ba du bop, ba duba dop
Ba du bop, ba duba dop
Ba du—
He sang along, full chested: “Yea-ee-yea-ah!”
Billy groaned, slipping him seven scribbled digits with the air of already regretting his decisions.
“Thanks,” Steve said, genuine, running his thumb across the numbers. “Maybe I’ll see you around?”
“Yeah.” Billy swiped his curls. Unwilling smile. “Maybe.”
💛 🎶 💛