Chapter Text
“Who is that?” Carol leans across the table with yearn; She’s clearly attracted to the person of whom, has piqued her interest. Tommy isn’t too pleased. “Settle down there, won’t you?”
Steve doesn’t typically pay too much attention to Tommy and Carol when they get to bickering over silly things. But, to say the least, his interest is piqued too. Carol rarely shows any interest in anyone other than Tommy, and despite her many flaws, she is, loyal. Though, sometimes, the loyalty of these two leaves a bad taste in Steve’s mouth. Sometimes he wishes that they’d just suddenly, betray him, leaving him alone to lick his wounds; To heal.
Wishful thinking.
Anyway; Interest piqued. He turns his head to look in the direction of Carol’s eye view.
A boy.
Steve's eyes linger on the boy across the room, just as Carol's are. He's smug looking, like Tommy is most of the time. He's wearing denim on denim, which Steve has never seen anyone do, ever; Interesting. Maybe it was bizarre for Hawkins, but Steve seemed to appreciate the look; Only because, he’s tired of feeling like, he’s surrounded by more of the same, everyday.
But he absolutely doesn’t appreciate the way this boy seems to walk into the room, commanding it. Or the way that everyone seems to be swooning over him. It feels too effortless. Too, surreal.
Everyone watches the boy, including himself, and the boy seems not to care. And Steve can't explain it, not even to himself, why this bothers him, instantly.
The girls are all, like Carol, practically running out of their seats to get a good look at him. And the boys all look, worried, maybe. Steve doesn’t understand it. He’s not that special.
Surely, he’s never seen anything like this; Well, except for of course, when he walks into a room. But it didn’t happen overnight. He’s put work in, time. He’s suffered many parties and many false laughs. He’s faked many smiles and jokes. He’s—-He’s done his time. He earned his spot here at the top. And some new kid isn’t just going to walk in and take it from in. No.
Steve can feel it, an unreasonable hatred boiling within him. He doesn’t know this boy.
This boy with golden retriever colored locks, curled into a mullet; A mullet that, if he must say so himself, looks, interesting.
This boy who looks like he spends way too much time in the gym; Though his muscles, also look, interesting, to Steve.
This boy who Steve can see, even from here, has the most striking blue eyes that he’s ever seen across any room.
This boy who looks way too smug and way too new to be getting this much attention.
Yes; Steve hates him.
For no logical reason. There’s a strong hatred here.
He can feel it settling in the pit of his stomach, and curling inside of his veins. Nesting in the deeps of his lungs; A warmth, a fire circulating within him, cradling around his heart. Squeezing it, gently.
He can feel the sensation, as he looks over the boy, from head to toe, noticing things about him. Probably noticing, the same things that the girls are noticing.
Yes; It has to be hatred. It must be.
Steve has never felt anything like this.
It’s hate.
Surely.
It has to be. Because, it is...
“...Steve, did you hear me?”
No, he hadn’t.
“…Steve.” Tommy’s voice had changed, getting louder this time.
Steve whipped his head away from the boy, freeing himself from the trance that he had been placed in. “...Yea? Yea what’s, what happened?”
Steve sounded winded, confused.
Tommy smirked, and his eyes glimmered mischievously. “Taking a good look at the competition huh?”
For some reason, the implication left Steve feeling, nervous. Had he been looking, that hard?
He swallowed the lump that nested inside of his throat. “Nah man, I just. I just—-Carol was looking so, I…” He turned his face up as he spoke the words.
A shitty move, sure; Throwing Carol under the bus. But what else could he say? He couldn’t really say it aloud, that he hates this boy.
This boy of whom, is wearing a deep ruby-plum colored button up shirt, under his denim jacket, with the first three buttons, intentionally, undone.
This boy whose chest is exposed for the world to see, here, in Hawkins, when it’s cold. The boy is an idiot, surely, asking for an illness.
Still, idiotic or not, Steve can’t out with his hatred for him this soon; This hatred he has, for this, stranger. I mean, it’s absurd. He doesn’t even know the boy’s name, or anything about him really, other than this feeling he has; This heat—Hate.
Yes of course, it’s hatred.
What else could it be?
Tommy looks again at Carol, snickering to her under his breath; Once again, leaving Steve to his own thoughts. Steve sighs relief; He’s managed to take the attention off of himself, for now. But he knows that this isn’t over. He knows that he’ll be seeing this boy again. Because a boy like that? A boy who walks into any room, like that, and who gets that much attention, effortlessly... A boy like that would be coming for his thrown. And Steve knows better than to let his guard down.
No. Billy Hargrove—Not that Steve knows his name yet, will not get the best of Steve the King Harrington. Not now. Not ever.
Steve wouldn’t——
A slam on the table right in front of him. A tan hand, large, muscular looking. The knuckles were bruised, swollen. Already?
Steve wonders who this boy could’ve fought. He hasn’t been here for long. Or, if he has, Steve hasn’t seen him before. He would’ve remembered laying eyes on a boy like this—-For no other reason than, the fact that this boy is, obnoxious, way too bold for this town. He sticks out, to anyone. Not just to Steve. Surely.
Shit.
Steve feels surrounded by a smell that he’s never smelt before. The boy smells like a mix of so many things that seem foreign to Hawkins, Indiana. His nose is overcome with the scent of this boy. Flirting with---Terrorizing him, actually.
Steve’s never been to the beach, there aren’t any here. And he doesn’t know what the beach smells like, not from any personal experience, anyway. But he's heard about it, through stories from his parents, when they come around. And if he had to describe the beach, he might describe this strange boy in front of him; For he certainly looks like a beach boy; Like the boys on Baywatch. But—He mostly looks at the girls anyway, so…
Well, he looks like a person from Baywatch. Just, any person. Girl, boy, anyone. And he smells like someone who spends a lot of time in the sun. And there’s this sweaty musk on him too, but its oddly sweet smelling, like vanilla, spice?
Not that Steve is lingering on the smells; Because, he isn’t noticing that they work well together, swimming up his nose gloriously. He’s never smelt anything like this on a boy before, let alone a girl. It’s, interesting.
Furthermore, it’s frustrating.
Yea; It isn't, interesting, it's annoying. This boy is intruding upon him, upon his space. His table. His friends. Yes; Frustrating, indeed.
Steve balls his fist up on the table, squeezing the fork in his hand; Eyes fixated on the hand in front of him.
The skin there is light golden, like sun-kissed, or whatever, if Steve had to say.
And as his eyes slowly trailed up the arm, over the small curl dancing along the shoulder of the denim jacket, across the bareness of this boy’s chest, up his face, the hair on his upper lip, the long brown lashes fluttering atop of his icy lake-blue eyes, with tints of green, his thick brows, his—-
Sorry, this was getting, way too descriptive for someone who isn't paying too much attention to this boy. So...
As his eyes shot up to this boy's face, his rival, Steve knew that this boy would be a problem. This boy was going to get under his skin.
If he hadn't already, would be a miracle.
Who does he think he is?
Steve’s eyes settle back on the hand before him; It seemed the safest to look here, instead of into the other’s eyes. He wants to punch this boy in the face, already.
“What the hell man?” Tommy was already complaining. Steve was thankful for this.
He can’t see the look on their faces, since his eyes remain on this large hand before him, slammed against his own table, but he can imagine the look in Tommy’s eyes, and Carol’s too, for that matter.
“...I was told that this is the King’s table.”
Carol kept her eyes fixated on him.
His voice was low, but rich, deep, vibrating over the table; And probably over Carol’s body too.
He was breathing low, humming over Steve, breath intruding upon his face. He was looking down at the brunette boy, antagonizing him with his look. Not that Steve could see it, because he was avoiding the other’s glare like it was bubonic.
Steve’s nostrils flared. Fucking dick.
His name is Billy.
Billy Hargrove.
But not to Steve.
No; To Steve, he was just, an arrogant piece of shit.
And no, he doesn't need a lecture, Steve knows; He knows how unreasonable this is, but he can't control it. It's boiling within him, steaming out of every breath he takes.
Fuck.