Archive of Our Own ^beta

1:

Getting the job at Starcourt had been a lifesaver—and in more ways than one.

When Steve had gotten the news a few months prior that not a single college had accepted him, it honestly wasn't a shock. His grades were abysmal, his essay letter had been dubious even with Nancy's help, and while his family were wealthy, they weren't 'fund a new wing of the library to bribe his way in' rich.

His plan to join his dad's company had been his back-up plan for years, but apparently he'd been so disappointed in his only son and heir's total mediocrity that he'd outright refused to give Steve so much as an internship; which meant that Steve was pretty much left high and dry.

So when the Starcourt Mall had finally opened, he had applied to nearly every shop opening up in the place as soon as they put up their hiring signs. He might not have to pay rent or bills, but he did need food, gas, car insurance and whatever was left over for personal expenses like clothes, hygiene and a social life.

Scoops Ahoy paid well enough—considering it was a dead-end job designed for teenagers wanting a part-time through high school—and it's prominent location meant that not only was there a steady stream of social interaction, but he could also hang around before and after his shift, so he wouldn't have to sit alone in a house made for a family.

The other massive benefit of the job was, of course, Robin.

Steve had a few other coworkers, all also high schoolers or recent graduates, but he'd only met them a few times, when one of them called out and he had to fill in. Apparently it had been easier when making the schedules just to put him and Robin on the same shifts every week, and he wasn't complaining.

Sure—she made constant fun of him, teased him about his hair, his luck with the ladies, his general existence—but she was also smart, funny, and he couldn't think of anyone else he'd be able to stand spending thirty hours a week slinging ice cream with.

Not anymore, at least; considering that, somehow, over ninety percent of his friend group were children.

….There were also a few downsides to the job, though. Dead-end, like he said. Long hours, often late into the night - Scoops Ahoy always closed last, since a lot of the other mall employees liked to pick up a late night treat before driving back. Robin had to leave early on Tuesday evenings, which meant he had to close up by himself, locking down the shop and trudging through the abandoned, dark, creepy mall by himself.

All the way out to the parking lot, where his car was parked dutifully in her bay wherever he'd managed to find a spot that morning; and where the biggest problem was waiting. Namely-

"Thought you skipped out on me, Harrington. You're late."

Steve took a steeling breath, willing himself to remain calm and focused, despite knowing what was coming next and already being dead on his feet. "Had a problem with the freezer, took a second to fix it."

Billy stepped out from the shadow he'd been slinking around in, shirt hanging open despite the chill of the night's breeze. His eyes were fixed on Steve's with the hunger of someone who knew they were about to feast, "Yeah? You've been a a regular handyman tonight, huh Princess?"

That stupid nickname.

King Steve had never even been Steve's idea - Tommy H had coined it, and for some reason it had just…stuck. It was supposed to be a respect thing. Steve had ruled Hawkins High, he was the prettiest, the most charming, the one who people flocked around.

Billy had taken his respect, his status, his place in the world. And then he'd taken his nickname, and he'd twisted it.

Not a king anymore—but a prissy princess.

"Hey man, it's been a really long night. Can't we just reschedule th-"

Steve was rather proud of the fact he was able to dodge the first swing.

The second one? Not so much, but when they'd started this a couple of months ago he'd not been able to dodge anything; so the improvement was there.

…Somewhat.

A familiar pain sparked along Steve's jaw upon contact, immediately followed by a solid thump to the chest that sent him reeling.

He swung back within seconds, connecting with a solid shoulder and attempting to sweep Billy's legs from under him. The blonde just skipped back a step before he charged right back in, lips pulled back to bare his teeth.

Steve just braced himself, and summoning the last reservoirs of his strength, flung himself into battle.

It was like almost like a dance, the way they weaved between each other, back and forth; spit and blood flying, muscles twitching in protest as they were pushed too far, too hard, too fast.

Steve's stamina had increased significantly since Billy's attacks had begun. Before Hargrove had moved into his town, he'd probably been in three fights at most—and none of them had gone great for him. He really had no clue what he was doing, and it showed; he kept getting bulldozed every night while Billy walked away with barely a split lip. Really, it had been a matter of survival to improve, his sanity and his functionality depended on it.

Steve had learnt the hard way that concussions were awful for both of those things, and his head already throbbed enough from the various hits he'd taken over the years. So his improvement had been slow, but noticeable, and he'd gotten to the point where it was almost halfway to a fair fight.

Emphasis on almost.

Steve had blood dribbling down his chin, his left shoulder yelled rather angrily at him, and there was surely a lovely bruise doomed to form dead centre on his chest. But for once, he'd managed to mostly keep his face intact; and Billy was limping slightly where his boot had collided with the younger man's leg.

He just needed to stop Billy from pinning him down, and there was a chance he might actually get out of this relatively unscathed today.

Steve skipped back a step to dodge another blow, spinning round to get some distance between them and panting to catch his breath.

"Finally planting your goddamn feet? I'm impressed, Harrington! It only took you… What, two months to take my advice? How stubborn of you."

Billy was panting just as hard as he was, but where Steve's face was crumpled in concentration, the blonde was grinning wildly, something slightly unhinged in his eyes.

"I'd call you a good teacher, but usually it's illegal to beat the shit out of a student."

"Only if they're a sissy snitch." Billy snorts, cracking his neck by rolling it over his shoulders. "You gonna tattle on me, Princess? Gonna run home to your mommy and daddy?"

"I'm going to break your fucking teeth-"

Steve lunged forward again, energized by a sudden burst of unexpected anger.

Not directly at Billy, oddly, but close enough that it felt right to snap his fist directly into his intended target. For one endless moment, Steve relished the look of shock and pain in those ocean blue eyes, the way Billy genuinely hadn't seen the blow coming, nor anticipated the force with which Steve would swing.

And then they were tumbling backwards.

The blonde had lost his balance, and Steve failed to catch himself in time, landing squarely on top of what felt like solid marble carved into a six-pack. It always amazed him just how much of Billy there was, densely packed muscle bulking his chest into something that made Steve look like a Girl Scout in comparison.

Steve remained on top for precisely seven seconds, shock leaving him stunned and motionless on top of Hargrove's chest, practically nose to nose on the concrete.

Billy recovered first. They rolled across the rough concrete, his legs wrapping around Steve's to pull them over; The blonde pushes himself up to half-sit on Steve's torso, one arm being pressed into his windpipe while the other slammed his flailing wrists into the ground.

"Get off me, asshole-" Steve wheezed, stars winking behind his eyelids, glad that Billy wasn't actually strangling him yet, even if the position wasn't exactly comfortable.

"You don't make the rules around here anymore, Harrington," Billy grinned, as the pressure on Steve's throat steadily increased, "I thought we'd already established that- but you just don't learn, do you?"

Steve's wrists throbbed as they were released, tingling from where the blood flow had been cut off. His head was getting foggy with the lack of air, eyes struggling to focus on his captor.

He really wanted to go to sleep. Part of him wondered what Billy would do if he just… laid there, and napped.

…Beat him worse, probably, Steve concluded reluctantly. If he wanted to nap, he had to get out of this somehow.

"-rrington? Don't pass out on me, Princess, I'm not done with you yet."

It took Steve a moment to realise that Billy had been speaking to him, and another to realise the arm across his throat was gone, although he was still pinned to the ground.

The next gulp of oxygen he sucked in was possibly the best he'd ever had, the cold air reviving part of his brain that was shutting off between the pain and the exhaustion.

It seemed he was being given a moment's reprieve before the beating was to be continued.

How very kind of Hargrove to drop his guard—at least long enough for Steve to sucker punch him in the throat (or his best imitation of it, considering the awkward angle).

The blonde wheezed, taken by surprise twice in one night; a new record for Steve.

The precious seconds he was thrown off balance was all Steve needed to shove him off. He was dazed, but stumbling to his feet and making a break for his car. He flung the door open, putting his keys in the ignition before he even bothers to pull it back shut. The beauty started in seconds, engine roaring to life like she heard his urgency, and he tore down the parking lot like hell was on his heels.

It wasn't until he was almost out that he risked a look back in the mirror, to see whether the maniac was in pursuit or not.

Billy was still lying on the ground right where Steve had left him, chest rising up and down swiftly, body shaking. It took Steve a moment to recognise the action, mostly because it was so out of place for someone who probably couldn't breathe properly.

Billy was laughing.

The prick.

2:

"Okay, okay- so explain to me again why you can't just- park your car somewhere else?" Robin exclaims, probably close to the hundredth time, "There's staff parking lots, dude, you don't have to go crawling back to Hargrove for your weekly beat down."

Steve huffed, folding his arms defensively, "One: you make it sound worse than it is, two: I do not crawl."

"Dude- you're literally volunteering to be his punching bag! I'm making it sound a very appropriate amount of bad!" Robin flung her hands up exasperatedly, looking at him like he was a total idiot.

"I'm not 'volunteering'—I don't like being hit!"

"You must, because you keep going back!" She insists, clapping her hands on his shoulders and shaking him lightly. "Every week, at the same time. You said he gets offended when you're late!"

"You make it sound like I actually have a choice. Robin, if I move my car or switch shifts, then I'm giving up! I'm giving in to him, he'll win!"

His friend and co-worker groaned, slouching on top of the counter in the back room and pinching the bridge of her nose. "Stevie, he's winning anyway! This isn't playground bullying, where you can ignore it and they'll leave you alone. You are being bullied by a professional in the art of beating the shit out of someone. He's going to keep going unless something majorly changes."

"It's not bullying!" He weakly protests.

"It's totally bullying."

"It's- yeah it's bullying."

Steve's shoulders slumped, and he dropped his head into his hands. "Look- I don't like being hit. It sucks, actually. But I can't just give up. He's- he's so infuriating! He'd never let me live it down if I ran away."

A solid weight pressed against his shoulder, and Steve leaned into Robin's warmth.

"Yeah, yeah, you're a stubborn bastard, I get it." Robin pat his shoulder sympathetically, "But seriously- you can't keep doing this. One of you is gonna get like- paralysed or something. Imagine how mad your dad would be if you went to jail for murder. You know how easy it is to kill someone? If you hit his nose at the wrong angle, the bone can like- shove up into his brain and it kills him instantly! My dad had a friend back in high school who got into a drunken bar fight and still isn't out of jail-"

"Robin, you're rambling again," he interrupts with a sigh.

"At least I'm not getting slapped around by Billy Hargrove," She retorts. "The difference between me and you, Stevie, is that my rambling is a bit weird but tolerable, and your stubbornness is fatal. And your idiocy thankfully not contagious, otherwise we'd all be terminal by now. Infectious diseases are so scary - they're in my top ten greatest fears. Did you know that-"

"Robin! Come on man!"

Her laughter was just as contagious as the diseases that worried her, and Steve found himself grinning despite himself.

Robin was great, always knew what would cheer him up.

And he wasn't an idiot.

For the record.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Steve Harrington was lucky that he was so terribly pretty, cause Robin was fairly sure there was just nothing up there. If she cracked open his skull, she fully expected to see a bunch of moths fluttering helplessly around, occasionally crashing against the side of his head and sparking a thought.

At first Robin had thought that he was doing what every queer person in a small town did; hide the darkest parts of yourself and hope that you never slipped, because if you slipped in front of the wrong person, you could lose everything. At the very best, it would be all respect, relationships and probably your job too, and you'd have to leave town if you ever wanted to show your face in public again.

At worst, you could lose your life.

It had taken her a hot second to work it out - years worth of seeing Harrington with Nancy Wheeler, of seeing him parade around school as the alpha, of watching girls hang off his every word had thrown Robin off the scent. She had thought that King Steve was a shallow caricature, a brief blaze who would peak in high school and then make the rest of his life centre around the time he'd been popular and cool.

Coming to work at Scoops Ahoy with him and realising that, hold up, there was a person under the bravado? It was a surprise for sure, but a nice one.

He was absolutely an idiot, and as stubborn as they came, but he also sort of reminded her of a golden retriever; with his goofy smile and the way he positively mothered the endless streams of children he was friends with. Surprisingly charming, funny, and possessing a heart of pure gold. He was all around a great guy.

Steve Harrington was also, bafflingly, gay—not that he seemed to realise it.

Oh, how easy it must be, when you're so good at keeping secrets you can even keep them from yourself.

She'd never met anyone so oblivious about their own attractions. Baby-Robin had been firmly in denial, but some part of her had always known. Meanwhile, Steve Harrington spent his days flirting with women and then went and spoke about wrestling Billy Hargrove more sensually than most erotica novels and steamy movies she'd seen.

There was simply no feasible heterosexual explanation for the look in his eyes when he spoke about the sensation of digging his nails into another man's flesh.

Whether or not Hargrove was also a friend of Dorothy's was yet to be seen - Robin had only ever seen the violent bastard from a distance, and while she had her suspicions based off those whorishly tight jeans and how much effort he put into his hair (and his strange obsession with Steve, of course), she couldn't say anything for sure.

Which totally, totally, wasn't why she was currently sitting in a shadowy corner just outside the mall at half eleven on a Tuesday night.

Look- she wasn't stalking them! She was just curious!

Robin was insatiably curious about the real reason that Steve kept coming back every Tuesday night, why he refused to take her advice and save himself pain; to know what was so captivating about why Hargrove hadn't gotten bored yet—of what was apparently the exact same fight every single week. So after her shift, instead of going home and resting for early morning band practise, Robin left her bike at a friend's who lived closer to the mall and then walked back to Starcourt. Then she'd found a spot to spectate thee lot, crouched to sit on her haunches in the shadows, and waited.

It didn't take long - Steve was out at exactly 11:31pm, according to her watch - and Robin watched in fascination as he sped up a little through the parking lot, bee-lining towards the only two cars left in the lot.

And the figure leaned casually against the side of a familiar Camaro.

There was no attempt to side step, to draw Hargrove out and away so Steve could make a run for it - and nor was there any particular reluctance to his gait. Robin could tell when Steve was dreading something, and this wasn't dread, even if it wasn't quite eagerness.

She couldn't quite make out what they were saying from here, although she caught the faint rumble of conversation. Not an argument, but not a friendly conversation. Banter, almost? No- that was the wrong word. Foreplay, her mind supplied instead, and Robin couldn't stifle her giggle at the comparison. Sure, they weren't having sex (she hoped, cause she'd totally murder Harrington if he'd been holding out on her), but they were certainly building up to something.

And then the something came, and it was…

Well- They technically weren't having sex. It was just that, maybe the line wasn't as defined as she'd thought.

The basic components of a fight were there, yeah- there punches were being thrown, they were both ducking and weaving in a long-established pattern, able to anticipate blows before Robin even saw them coming. However, the blurred line she's referring to was more present in the finer details.

Like how Billy's eyes glittered with something other than rage in the street-light above them, a bone-deep hunger that made Robin shiver just seeing it. The way their eyes never broke contact, the rest of the world blurred out until it was just them, panting, bleeding, feral. And also the way that once the punching stopped and the wrestling started, Robin was convinced they'd be taking their pants off at any moment.

It was a writhing mess of limbs and growls and there was definitely blood involved, and probably a decent amount of sweat. If Robin had been a straight, normal woman, she probably would've fainted at the sight.

As it was, she began to feel incredibly uncomfortable, and like she was intruding on a private moment. Which like- she was- but she hadn't expected it to be like this.

Thankfully, the entire thing lasted probably twenty minutes at most, and eventually the both of them stilled, Steve pinned to the ground on his stomach, Billy on his back. Robin shifted her cramping legs, relieved that she'd finally be able to move again…only for Hargrove not to rise.

She'd expected him to leave immediately, maybe a parting kick to the ribs, a snarky comment or two.

She hadn't expected him to lie down, still on Steve's back, chest visibly heaving from the exertion. He looked comfortable, lax and calm as he regained control—and Steve looked equally unbothered by the entire situation.

Was this—Was this normal to him? For them? Did Billy Hargrove tuck his face into Steve's neck like that on a weekly basis??

Robin's mind was still reeling when they finally moved a full 2 minutes later, Hargrove pushing himself up easily, and then yanking Steve to his feet too. They spoke some more, Steve seemed annoyed but not angry, and then- and then they went to their cars.

Steve left first, pulling out swiftly onto the main road. Meanwhile, Hargrove took his sweet time; lighting a cig on the bonnet of the Camaro before he made his exit.

Robin just sat there for a while longer, letting the night's air seep into her bones.

She may have potentially misjudged this.

Instead of convincing Steve to get out of this, she should've been working out a way to tell him he was gay, and that Hargrove was also probably gay (and she was definitely gay and therefore had seniority on this), and that if they didn't kiss soon, she was going to smack their heads together.

…Well, at the very least she wouldn't have to worry about him hating her when he eventually found out. Birds of a feather, and all.

3:

Steve hummed to himself as he pulled down the metal grate at the front of the shop, ensuring that it locked properly despite the fact that all cash was stored in a lock-box in a different location and no one would break into somewhere to steal ice cream. The last time he'd brought this fact up to his manager it had not gone well, and he'd been vigilant ever since about making sure everything was secure.

Starcourt was dim as he walked through it, trying his best not to think about all the horrible things that could be lurking in the shadows. Specific shapes came to mind, set on four legs and screaming with faces that came apart.

That stuff was over, Steve, he reminded himself, the gate is shut, the demodogs are dead and even if something was coming, El would sense it first and warn them all. He was safe, everyone was safe.

Safe from the monsters, at least.

Except apparently, Steve was also safe from humans tonight.

He stared blankly at the empty parking lot, only his BMW parked in its usual spot. No sign of the Camaro, and no sign of Billy.

The sensible part of Steve told him that this was just a lucky break; that Hargrove had probably lost interest and had finally decided to spend his Tuesday nights more productively. Steve should get into his car, cherish his painless condition, and never look back. The other part, which made up a larger portion of his mind than he was truly comfortable with, insisted that something was wrong—and that he needed to figure out what. Not quite the same part that told him to try and kill a demodog with a baseball bat to protect his kids, but definitely adjacent.

Steve was by his car now, just standing in the night's air, looking around like Hargrove would materialise from nowhere and tackle him to the ground.

No such thing happens, and the silence stretches.

Steve waited longer than he really should've to actually leave—telling himself he was just making sure the engine was properly warmed up, that he was scanning the trees for wildlife and nothing else.

The drive back to town felt unnatural. His blood wasn't pounding in his veins, his breathing wasn't erratic, there wasn't blood steadily soaking into his clothes. All the anticipation was still there, bubbling inside him, the adrenaline rush teetering on the edge of falling.

Billy had never missed a night. Not a single one over the man months they'd been doing this. He'd turned up drunk, stoned, even sick once, coughing like the smoker he was even while he still kicked Steve's ass.

Something bad must've happened.

It wasn't quite a conscious decision to drive past the turning for his road, more like Steve blinked and the next thing he knew he was two miles out from where he should be, and down the road from the Hargrove's on Old Cherry Lane. By the time he had stepped out of his car, his brain had caught up with the situation; and his inner monologue was looking like something along the lines of 'oh god oh fuck this is such a bad idea' as he walked - not crept - down the short driveway, pausing a few feet away from the front door.

Billy's Camaro was there, parked next to an unfamiliar car which he assumed was Mr Hargrove's. The living room window was slightly ajar, and through it, Steve could see the back's of two heads sitting on a couch, watching some game show. Mr and Mrs Hargrove, presumably.

No sign of Billy or Max.

The responsible, adult thing to do would be to just knock politely on the front door, ask after Billy's well-being in the capacity of a concerned friend, and then go back home once he'd figured out what was wrong. Clearly the man wasn't dying or dead, as the irrational part of Steve had been worrying - his parents wouldn't be so calm if he was - which meant that it was probably something painfully mundane. His car broke down, or he fell asleep early.

Instead, because clearly he was neither responsible, adult or rational, Steve debated for roughly twelve seconds on his course of action before he darted round the side of the house, away from the living room and the attention of it's occupants.

He didn't know much about the Hargrove-Mayfield family, aside from the fact that Max and Billy didn't get along. Neither of them ever wanted to talk about their parents, but the little voice of intuition—the one that usually buzzed to life when he was about to fight something horrible and inhuman—was blaring sirens that made him think he probably didn't want to know what made Mr. Hargrove so bad.

The first bedroom he peeked into was dark, but the curtains were open by just a sliver, the moon lighting up what was definitely Max's room, unless another skate-board loving teenaged girl happened to be living there. The next window was frosted - a bathroom, presumably - and so Steve rounded the corner to the back of the house, where-

Bingo.

A lit up window, curtains thrown wide open, beaming into the night like a search beacon, like it was calling to Steve. He approached cautiously, not wanting to startle whoever was in the room if it wasn't his intended focus, but it seemed he'd guessed right as he peered over the window ledge.

Billy looked… bad.

That was Steve's first impression, chest lurching as he recognised fresh bruises and barely-crusted blood. Not from his fists, but someone else's.

Mr Hargroves'.

He was lying up against the headboard of his bed, facing the window, eyes closed and headphones in. He wasn't quite asleep, but this was not the alert, wicked man that Steve was accustomed to getting beat by.

This Billy seemed almost… defeated.

It made the pit in Steve's stomach gape further open, a black hole of pity, horror and, to his mild surprise, a surge of protectiveness. Billy might be a jackass, but your parents were supposed to protect you, not- whatever this was.

Steve knocked on the window.

It was a split second decision, his hand moving before his brain caught up with him, and his eyes widened in shock, expecting Billy to leap to his feet. He didn't even twitch. Steve stared a moment longer, deliberating.

He should leave, now.

He'd done his bit - he'd gone above and beyond, actually, for someone who hurt him on a regular basis. Billy was clearly… well, he wasn't fine, but nothing was drastically wrong and Steve had no obligation to check up on him in the first place.

Robin would be laughing so hard at him if she were here - he could see the look on her face so clearly, hear her calling him a sentimental idiot and advising him to clear out before he lost a tooth. She'd think he had lost his mind for real this time, trying to climb headfirst into the coyote den. Except, Robin wasn't here right now, and Steve's common sense always seemed to make itself scarce just before he made any decision around Billy Hargrove.

The window was cracked open, with just enough clearance for him to squeeze through if he let out all the air in his lungs.

Steve had done more embarrassing things in his life than he'd ever like to admit, but wriggling through that window definitely made the top ten. It was awkward, indignifying and a little painful as he scrabbled at the wall in attempts to lever himself up enough to actually get on the ledge. Despite being on the first floor, it was harder than sneaking into Nancy's room had ever been.

It was a testament to how out of it Billy was that he didn't even open his eyes until Steve face planted on his floorboards, yelping loudly when his arms got twisted and his nose took the brunt of the fall. Not broken, thankfully, but sore. His ego was in a similar state as he kicked free of the curtains that had gained sentience and tried to strangle him.

"Harrington?" There was an equal mix of disbelief and shock in Billy's voice as he shot upright, almost falling off the bed himself as he scrambled to stand. "What the fuck do you think you're doing??"

"I'm-" Steve grunted as he sat upright, "-practising rock climbing for the next Olympics. What does it look like I'm doing?"

"You- you just climbed through my fucking window?!"

Billy seemed frozen, halfway across the floor, still staring at Steve like he was an alien. Or like he'd just broken into house, to be more accurate.

"Nice one, Captain Obvious," Steve says sarcastically, rubbing at his tender nose. "Your floor is really hard, you should get like- a rug or something. You're not gonna try and hit me, right? I came all this way to make sure you weren't dead and it would totally suck to jump back out the window after all that effort."

"You came to- check up on me?" Billy sounded a little like a broken record, still just staring with slightly unfocused blue eyes. It was better than punching him, though, so Steve took the win.

"Yeah? You didn't turn up tonight, man, I was worried something happened."

And I was right, was the unspoken truth hanging in the air between them. Steve was solidly ninety percent sure that the blonde was concussed, from the dazed air around him and the corresponding shiner on his face.

Billy seemed speechless. It might've been a nice change and something to savour—if Steve hadn't been so preoccupied worrying about the way he was swaying back and forth slightly, unsteady on his feet.

"Look, just- sit down, yeah? You don't look good."

"I'm fine, Harrington." Billy snapped, but he kept his voice low and sagged obediently back against his rumpled sheets, shooting a nervous look towards the door, "Just- keep your voice down."

"I was keeping my voice down, you were the loud one." Steve snapped back, looking briefly around the room and, upon finding no chair to sit on, sitting decisively on the other end of the bed.

Billy scrunched his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. Steve recognised the position all too well - he got a ridiculous number of headaches since the events of last year, where he'd been beaten so many times it was a wonder he was functional at all between the concussions. Hargrove was hurting, worse than he'd ever been after a fight, and it was clear that no one here cared.

"Where's your bathroom?" he asked, finally forming and committing to his plan—which in hindsight, he probably should've done before he broke into the house.

"Did you seriously break into my house just to piss?" Billy's palms were pressed to his eyeballs, but his tone was sharp as ever.

Steve just rolled his eyes, "No, jackass, I'm going to get you some Tylenol. I'd grab some ice too, but I think your parents might have something to say about that."

He didn't miss the full body flinch that wracked the blonde's frame. "She's not my mother. They're not my parents."

Steve's tongue was burning with the need to push. To ask questions, to press, to figure out what the hell Billy's life was. But now was absolutely the wrong time to ask.

Instead, he just nodded, "No need to bite my head off. You got a washcloth, too? A glass?"

"…The bathroom is the first door on your left, washcloths and glass in the cupboard under the sink," the blonde relented, rubbing at his forehead. Somehow, it felt like a victory. Steve was being let in, even if it was the tiniest amount.

"Alright, hold on a second-"

He tried to keep his footsteps nonchalant as he opened Billy's door, ignoring the poster of a naked woman on the back of it and stepping into the darkness. There was no reason for anyone to suspect he was anyone but Billy, but he couldn't be too cautious.

The bathroom was exactly where he'd said it would be - Steve went right for the cupboard, pulling out three clean washcloths and one of the glasses stashed there. It was a weird place for them to be, but maybe Billy couldn't always risk going into the kitchen for a drink.

Tylenol was next - the medicine cabinet was pretty much bare, aside from way too many bottles of antidepressants and razors. But there was a half-empty bottle right at the back, which yielded two pills into the palm of his hand. Bingo.

The tap was rusted and stiff, but icy water flowed after a moment, filling the glass and soaking the-

"Steve?"

He hadn't locked the bathroom door.

Oh fuck he hadn't locked the door-

"Max. Max I- this isn't-"

The smaller girl barely looked awake, squinting in the bright light, swaying on her feet in slightly-too-big pajamas. Steve was so used to her looking tough, with her jeans and her skateboard, that it felt weird and wrong to see her so small and young.

"Why are you in my house? Does my mom know you're here? Does Billy know-?"

"Uh- it's a long story, just- please keep your voice down? Your mom doesn't know but Billy does. He uh- he missed something tonight and I got worried, so I came to check on him."

Max didn't look convinced, eyebrows furrowing suspiciously, "And what, he just let you climb in his window? Billy hatesyou, Steve, he beats you up like all the time-"

"Hate is a strong word," Steve said awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck, "We uh- we spar. But that's not the point, I'm just here to make sure he's okay, and I'd really appreciate it if you didn't tell your parents."

Max snorted, looking a little more awake as she adjusted to the light, "He's not my dad. He's just the guy who married my mom. And of course I won't, I'm not a snitch. Well- I won't tell them. I'm totally going to tell the others."

If it weren't for the looming crash of reputation she'd just threatened, he might have noted the similarities between Billy and Max upon his invasion of their home. As it was, Steve considered briefly whether running away into the woods and becoming a hermit was worth pursuing as a career.

"Come on- Max, don't do this to me. I do favours for you all the time, give me this one thing?"

The red-head looked unconvinced. She folded her arms tightly, reminding Steve, oddly enough, of Nancy when she got something into her head.

"I want free ice cream for the next month, and you're going to fund my next arcade trip," She says authoritatively. Robin would kill him if he let a child extort them for free ice cream that long.

"Ice cream for a week and I'll give you five dollars."

"Ten and we have a deal."

Steve sighed, "Fine, okay, ten. Why are all the children I know extortionists?"

"Why do you know so many children?"

"A great question, I'll let you know when I figure it out. I'm just gonna- yeah I'm gonna go now. Sleep well Max."

Steve went to step past the girl, glass in one hand and washcloths in the other, but before he could, two small arms wrapped around his waist.

"Woah-"

Max's voice, when she spoke, was whisper quiet. "Thank you for looking after him."

And then Steve found himself pushed out into the corridor, the bathroom door closing behind him with a click.

Well then.

He headed back through the hall, gently slipping Billy's door shut behind him before daring to speak again.

"Okay, I have the-"

Billy was asleep.

Neck lolled at an awkward angle on the bed, eyes closed and breathing even.

Steve set the glass and washcloths down carefully, unsure of what to do. He really wanted Billy to at least take the pills first, and clean up the cuts while he was at it. And wasn't it supposed to be bad to sleep with a concussion?

"Hargrove-" he reached out gingerly, shaking the blonde's shoulder lightly, "Billy, wake up, you- OH FUCK-"

Steve would've winced at his own volume, if he hadn't been too busy rolling across the floor to avoid a sloppy swing, Billy lunging across the bed in flat seconds. It might have been an impressive reaction time if it weren't for the fact it almost got Steve punched in the jaw.

"Hargrove-" he hissed, "Billy it's me, it's Steve- I mean, you hit me anyway so I guess it's not much of a deterrent to violence, but right now is not the time to punch me!"

"Harrington? Oh, fuck-" Billy rubbed his eyes, blinking blearily to focus suddenly on reality and not whatever he'd been fighting in his dreams, "I'm sorry-"

Of course the one time Billy had ever apologised to him was while he was 1) concussed and 2) hadn't even made contact.

"It's fine-" Steve said, daring to inch closer again, "I probably shouldn't have woken you up. I just- I have the Tylenol. And some water. Are you gonna hit me again if I come back?"

"… no."

He looked defeated enough that Steve believed him, stepping back across the room. Billy didn't react when he pressed the pills into his hand, throwing them back and swallowing with the water, before his gaze dropped back to the floor.

It felt so incredibly wrong to lift a corner of one of the washcloths to Billy's face, to dab gently at the crusted blood on his lip, his cheek, his brow.

It felt wrong, because it felt so right.

This wasn't the first time they'd been so close, not by miles, but it was the first time that Steve had not been aching while they shared the same air, when his mind was clear and his heart-rate slow and calm. The first time Billy was without the restless energy that made him practically vibrate. The first time that the heat that always radiated off his skin like the surface of the sun did not burn.

The washcloth was dark with rust by the time Steve pulled away, and he tossed it in the direction of the laundry basket before he picked up another.

"Take off your shirt." he commanded without thinking, only to receive an eyebrow raise in return.

"So eager to get me naked, princess? Careful, people might get the wrong idea."

His tone was off, heavier than usual and strange, but he was trying. Steve could find it in himself to at least pretend to be annoyed.

"Shut up Hargrove, you know that's not what I meant. And I'm not the one who runs around calling people 'pretty boy'."

"I don't call everyone that. Just you."

Steve swallowed hard. It was the concussion talking, Billy was barely coherent. He couldn't listen to anything stupid he said, or it'd just confuse everything.

"Yeah well- just take it off."

Billy's made no further comment or protest as he dragged his shirt over his head, gasping in pain when he lifted his arms above his head.

And then Steve was gasping too, as the usually-smooth and unblemished surface of Billy's chest was revealed.

He'd seen it way too many times in the last few months, when spring became summer and the nights had gotten too hot and humid; Billy often rocked up shirtless to their fights. Tanned skin, the lightest smattering of blonde hair, as curly as the ones on his head, and defined muscle with the slightest hint of softness.

Now, that skin was more purple than gold.

Steve didn't do half this damage even on his best nights, and they went at it weekly. This wasn't a fight, this was a beating.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer."

Steve startled, clearing his throat as he realised he'd been staring. "Right- right, sorry- it's just-" he paused, washcloth mid-air, suddenly wondering whether he was gonna do more or less damage if he tried to clean this, "Billy… who did this? It's- your ribs might be broken."

Billy flinched. Not at the cloth wiping gently across his skin, but at Steve's words.

"My ribs aren't broken." he said shortly; and Steve knew then that he wouldn't get any more out of him. Not who did this, not why they did this - not why Billy knew what broken ribs felt like well enough to tell the difference. He could try to push, but he knew that tone well; the blonde would only clam up further, until he silenced himself entirely.

"Alright… if you're sure."

He didn't bother even suggesting the hospital. Steve did occasionally put his brain cells to use—and as much as he thought Billy should have his head checked, that fight definitely wasn't worth picking tonight.

His chest didn't look any better than when they started by the time the last two washcloths were more red than white, but his breathing, which had been strained and heavy, slowed down. He looked exhausted. Beaten, exhausted, and small.

Steve fought the urge to hug him, to hold him secure like he did for Nancy when she was upset. Billy wasn't even his friend, let alone someone who he could safely hug.

Plus, his whole thing was being macho and manly, Steve was sure he wouldn't appreciate the gesture. He'd probably take out the indignity of being cleaned up on Steve next week too. Reputation was everything to a preening, self-serving bastard like Hargrove.

…He should go now. He'd done as much as he could, Billy would heal and survive.

Maybe he should stay longer, though. To keep him awake a bit longer, to stop the eyes which were already drooping shut from closing fully. To make sure he didn't spontaneously bleed to death in the middle of the night.

Maybe-

"He took my keys."

"What?"

Billy swallowed thickly, shifting backwards on the bed, away from Steve to lean against the headboard. His eyes fluttered shut. "My dad. He took my car keys. That's why I didn't turn up tonight."

"You-" Steve's voice caught in his throat, "You were gonna turn up like this? If your dad hadn't grounded you? Billy, you were gonna fight me with broken ribs-?"

"They're not broken. And I would've won, still. I saved your ego from getting beaten up by a guy with a concussion, you should thank me, Princess." Billy cracks his unblemished eye open at him long enough to smirk past his busted lip.

"You're-" Impossible. Insane. So, so stupid and reckless and uncaring of his own health. "You're such an idiot."

"And yet you're the one who broke into my house."

"Yeah well, it was a spur of the moment decision. I should go, anyway-"

"Wait-"

A hand shot out, grabbing Steve's wrist so tight he thought it might bruise. Billy's eyes were wide; the pupils blown, almost swallowing the blue. He almost looked like Max had in the corridor, only worse—because Steve had never seen him like this.

Young. Vulnerable. Hurt and defenceless.

"Don't go. Please. Don't-"

Don't leave me alone with them.

Steve's breath caught, and he stared back, slowly sinking back to the bed. What else was he supposed to do with that? With the way Hargrove's voice cracked in it's gentle plea, with the absolute death grip on his wrist? He pulled his legs up so they rested on the bed, trying to indicate he was going to stay.

"I- I won't," he said softly, "I won't leave, Billy. It's- fuck, it's okay, I won't leave."

The grip on his arm didn't loosen, holding fast.

"Just- just for a bit." Billy seemed caught, a flush high on his cheeks, eyes trying to focus as his body and mind betrayed him, "Harrington-"

"I'll stay."

Steve pushed lightly at Billy's chest, his lungs not quite pulling in enough air as the blonde lay down against the untidy sheets. His own head was getting fuzzy as he found himself dragged down too, his wrist left stuck in that unrelenting grip until they've both completely laid down.

Billy stared at the ceiling, and Steve stared at Billy, feeling like he was in the middle of some fever-induced dream, and that he would wake up any moment to find himself in his own bed.

Instead, he found himself watching as slowly, slowly, long lashes fluttered down once again, and Billy's breathing settled. Most girls would kill for lashes like that, Steve thought idly as he traced Billy's face with his eyes again and again. Thick, inky as midnight, brushing softly against his skin.

He didn't realise his hand was moving until it was halfway to Billy's face, snatching it back like it belonged to someone else.

He should- he should go.

Billy was asleep now, he wouldn't miss his absence. Not that he would if he was still awake. Presently, Hargrove was just vulnerable and hurt, Steve reminded himself. This was nothing personal, he would've said the same to anyone else who had climbed through his window that night.

Climbing back out was surprisingly harder than getting in, but not for the reasons Steve might have expected. He could open it more from the inside, and just drop down into the garden below.

And yet; he hesitated on the windowsill, staring at the sleeping figure with a feeling he couldn't identify. There was a line between Billy's brows even in sleep, and he had the inexplicable urge to smooth it out with a finger, to bring him peace in a household that was clearly hell.

Maybe Steve was concussed too, it would explain why his brain was being so weird. He shouldn't want to help a man that beats the ever loving shit out of him constantly. Maybe he'd breathed in more chemicals than he'd thought when cleaning up earlier.

Steve took a deep breath of the cool night air as he jumped down, landing easily on the grass and creeping back out towards where he left his car. If there was anything he was sure about tonight, it was that he was not telling Robin.

Seven days later, Billy broke his nose and then kicked him so hard in the ribs that Steve ended up going to the ER to check they weren't broken.

So much for gratitude.

4:

Billy had started biting him.

Well- technically, Steve had started it, in a moment of desperation during a particularly brutal choke hold; leading to instinctively clamping his teeth around a mouthful of flesh until the grip around his windpipe had loosened and he had a chance to run to his car. In hindsight, it'd been a mistake—because now Billy bit him somewhere every time they fought.

When Steve had called him out on it, after Billy had sunk his teeth into his shoulder and almost taken out a chunk of flesh big enough to require stitches, he'd just shrugged and said that if Steve hadn't wanted it on the table he shouldn't have used it in the first place.

And then he'd slammed an elbow into Steve's gut, and he went down like a wheezing stone.

It hadn't been the worst thing, admittedly - better than a concussion, for sure - but what wasn't better? The blooming, violet hickey on the side of his neck. It would surely scare away any chance Steve had of getting a chick for the next week, at least.

"You're doing like- such a bad job, you know?"

Robin's drawl was amused, perched on the edge of the the counter while Steve dabbed stolen foundation onto his neck.

"This is harder than it looks," he huffed, shooting her a glare, "You could help if it's so offensive."

She hummed in faux-consideration, "Mmm, nah, I think I'm good. Maybe you could start taking a different route home. Park out back instead. Also, you should probably like- get checked for rabies. It would really suck if you died horribly, I'd get bored so fast."

Steve gave the girl an incredulous look, "Billy doesn't have rabies, Robin."

"He might! What if he does? There is something wrong with that man and rabies is more common than you think. ..I think. I read it somewhere, I swear-"

"Robin. He doesn't have rabies, and neither do I."

Rabies really would suck. Steve liked his life—despite all the shitty things in the world like demodogs, murderous sentient vines and corrupt government agencies who kept almost destroying the world and leaving it to a bunch of small children to save.

The irony of surviving all of that supernatural shit only to be murdered by some normal guy like Billy Hargrove would, well. Kill him.

His friend and co-worker put her hands up placatingly, but on her face was the biggest shit-eating grin. It only widened when Steve pulled a face back at her, his signature 'Disappointed Mom Stare', as the kids had dubbed it. He really didn't see it, but he can only argue with a bunch of 14 year olds about any given topic so many times before giving up.

"Touchy subject, I see how it is. Soooo… you're just going to let him keep biting you?"

"I'm not letting him do anything!"

"Says the guy with a hickey-"

"It's not a-" Steve's indignant protest was cut off by the obnoxious ringing of the store-front bell, indicating a customer was waiting very patiently and calmly for service. He scowled once more at his neck in the mirror—the bruise was barely covered by the makeup, and totally obvious to anyone looking for it—and then stalked towards the counter, since Robin had taken the last one.

Steve prayed for a hot chick to talk up, or at the very least someone he could flirt with and prove that he still had it. A date would really make up for all the-

"I like the hat, Princess."

Internally, Steve screamed at the top of his lungs.

Externally, he froze like a deer in the headlights, staring wide-eyed at the figure leaning lazily on top of the ice-cream counter, Billy Hargrove meeting his eyes with a lazy smile.

His hands unconsciously rose to fiddle with the brim of the ridiculous thing on his head, the bane of his good fortune and the total ruin of his hair, unable to form words for a moment.

Billy didn't come into the mall. Or, if he did—he didn't come into here.

Steve tended to associate Billy Hargrove with the darkness, with the tang of rust and copper, with gravel digging into his cheek and pain exploding in every bone of his body. Everything from his wicked grin to his eyes was like the night itself, a hunter, a predator. He felt so incredibly out of place in here, under the stark white of the shop lights, and Steve blinked at the sight of him in total disbelief. Some small part of him was expecting the phantom to vanish and leave nothing but his lingering cologne behind.

Instead, Hargrove raised an eyebrow, smirking as Steve worked his jaw and forced his brain to do it's job again.

"Uh- you're- what are you doing here?" he managed, very eloquently, "You're-"

"Waiting on my peanut butter swirl, Harrington. You're not gonna deny me an ice cream, are you?" He leaned down onto the counter, casually propping his head up with his elbow and forearm.

"I mean uh- I could, technically. We don't legally have to serve you, and uh- you beat the shit out of me regularly. Maybe I don't want to give you ice cream."

Petty? Yes. Would Steve actually follow through? … potentially.

Something flashed in Billy's eyes, and for a moment Steve swore he was about to be dragged bodily across the counter and turned into a bloody pulp on the floor then and there.

Then it passed as quickly as it came, and the smirk returned even wider than before.

"Aww, you mean you're upset about that? And here I thought you liked our little dates—I mean, why else would you keep crawling back?" The question is asked so innocently, obvously pretend confusion dripping into his tone.

"You jump me!" Steve cried, throwing his hands up in his protest. " I'm just trying to get to my car, man!"

"Which you park in the same spot every week?" Billy's eyebrow perked with his scepticism, "Nah man, I don't buy it. You like it."

Steve opened his mouth to retort, to disprove Billy's obvious lies in a way that left no doubt on either side. He did not like it, he only parked there because it was convenient and also moving now would be giving in. Before he could, however, Robin decided to make her entrance, slipping silently through the door and coming to his aid and support.

"I've been telling him this for weeks! There's like- three private staff lots he could hide in! He's just too stubborn to quit it!"

Steve gave Robin a look of the deepest betrayal and disbelief, but she ignored him, sounding for all the world like she and Billy were two old friends complaining about a mutual problem.

"I'll give it to him," Billy said conversationally, lifting his head again. "He doesn't back down easy. Never met anyone so eager to get his ribs broken and teeth kicked in."

"You're telling me. He's such an idiot, I'm surprised he's survived to adulthood." Robin snickered, her betrayal complete. She was talking shit about him to the enemy, like he wasn't even there!

"Hey, assholes, I'm still here!"

"Yes Stevie, we noticed. You can't really deny it though - this is a solid forty percent your fault," Robin pointed out gently—like she was still on his side, somehow.

"I'm being bullied! How is this my fault?"

"Saying 'bullied' sounds like we're still kids; I think I prefer harassment. Repeated assault, perhaps."

Steve opened his mouth, shut it, and opened it again—but nothing came out. He didn't think he'd ever been this speechless in his life. Robin was still leaning on the counter across from Billy, both of them giving him a look that broadcast the message loud and clear; "get a load of this idiot".

He'd been completely back stabbed. Et tu Brutus, or something.

Steve folded his arms and turned his head away to avert his eyes from the scene, "I don't have to talk to you. Just- leave."

Billy pulled a fake pout. "Without my cone? I'm a paying customer, you know."

"Great point—peanut butter swirl you said, right? It's on the house, for the inexcusable behaviour of my colleague."

Robin gave Steve the sweetest smile he'd ever seen her make as she pulled out her scooper and a cone. He flipped her off as he stormed into the back again, trying to ignore the snicker he could hear from Billy.

When he was mostly hidden again, Steve scrubbed furiously at one of the empty pans in the sink to drown out the friendly voices coming from the main shop. Of course Robin was the one person Billy actually got along with. The guy seemed to generally hate most of Hawkins' population, so naturally he just had to take Steve's last remaining friend.

Well. His only friend who wasn't a child, his ex, or his ex's new boyfriend, that was.

Kinda depressing, actu-

A cold finger brushed the bruise on his neck, bringing all his thoughts to an abrupt halt.

Steve shrieked, and almost decked Billy with a sponge when he spun around—forcing his hands back down before he got the volatile maniac who'd apparently hopped the counter soaking wet with suds.

"What are you doing-" he choked out, panic making his voice lilt high, "What-"

"Stevie, chill, I let him through. He promised not to punch you on the clock," came Robin's soothing voice. Like he wanted to fucking hear it right now, she was helping his bully harass him in his workplace.

Billy took a step back, licking the cone in his hand demurely, his look of total innocence belied only by the dark amusement in his eyes.

"Robin, why did you let him through?" Steve's voice was still a full octave higher than it should be.

"Why do you let children through here all the time?"

"That's totally different! Mike Wheeler or Henderson or any of them have never broken my nose!" He's forced to put down the sponge so he can gesture widely and emphasise his point without getting sudsy water everywhere.

"Don't get your panties in a twist, Princess. I promised your lady friend that I would be nothing but gentlemanly." He smirked, eyes focusing on something below Steve's face.

"Your neck is lookin' pretty rough… Is that mommy's makeup I see?"

"That's none of your business. If it bothers you then maybe you shouldn't have bitten me." It's hard to keep the vitriol out of his voice. That bruise really would muck up his chances of picking up anyone—he was allowed to be upset about that.

"Maybe you should try taking my advice more often. Cold spoon, by the way."

Steve was gonna get whiplash just from this conversation. "What?"

"Cold spoon." Billy repeated, like it was the most obvious thing ever, "Frozen, actually - rub it against the bruise, even pressure, and it'll help get rid of it faster." He demonstrates the circular motion with his free hand. "And you're using the wrong shade."

He blinked at Billy dumbly, and the blonde rolled his eyes, pointing at his own neck where Steve's mark was. "Your foundation, Harrington. It's completely the wrong shade. You're calling even more attention to it by half-assing your coverup—a pretty bad look for 'King Stevie'. Or is it Captain Stevie now?"

Steve reflexively flinched back as Billy leaned forward, only for him to flick the stupid hat with a grin.

"It is, actually. And your orders are to get out."

The words came out far more confidently than Steve felt as he glared at Billy, puffing up his chest a bit. Although, considering he was feeling like a cornered kitten against a rottweiler, sounding braver than he was isn't particularly difficult.

Billy paused a moment longer, narrowing his eyes slightly. His hand drifted back down to flick Steve's cheek—and then he stepped back, lifting his melting cone to his mouth, tongue flicking out to clean off his fingers. He doesn't drop eye contact with Steve even once. It felt sort of like when a cat stares down a bird, deciding whether or not to pounce.

Then he grinned from behind his ice cream cone, chuckling slightly, "Aye aye, Captain Princess! I guess I'll be seeing you next week—unless you chicken out on me, that is, like your friend here keeps advising."

Then he turns to Robin, giving her a sly smile and holding out his free hand for her to shake.

"Thanks for the ice cream. Lovely meeting you, Robin. It's nice to know Stevie here has good influences—and that he listens to your advice just as infrequently."

And just like that, he left. Sliding neatly over the counter and sauntering out through the front doors like he owned the damn place—leaving behind Robin's stifled laughter and a very stunned Steve Harrington.

He really didn't move for a good thirty seconds or so, hand raised to press against his still-stinging cheek.

What the fuck was that?

-0-0-0-0-0-

He didn't go get the right shade of foundation, for the record.

He'd reluctantly paused outside the beauty store for longer than he should, on his way home that night, but ended up leaving without so much as stepping inside.

The one he had was close enough, anyway—and the spoon trick Billy had taught him, annoyingly, worked great.

Tuesday evening, five days later, he stumbles into the huge and hollow house that was supposed to be his home nursing a bloody nose and a bruised collarbone; though luckily, he didn't think anything was broken.

It was with great confusion, however, that as he emptied his pockets of change, keys and crumpled paper, that he found a little tube of the stuff - the expensive stuff, the stuff that his mom used only on special occasions. When he swiped it across his hand curiously, wondering whether he was losing his mind or if he'd started shoplifting makeup in his sleep—he found that it was a perfect match, indistinguishable from his skin.

…Maybe Robin had gotten it for him? Slid it into his pocket before he left?

But… No.. No, he'd had his hands in his pockets all through his shift, he would've noticed it before then, wouldn't he?

Which left one other person he'd been in close enough contact with since then.

But that was ridiculous. Right?

5:

Steve was sick.

Properly sick, the most ill he'd felt since he was a kid chalk full of germs at the beginning of a new school year.

He hadn't exactly felt that great the night before, picking at the pasta and sauce he'd made since his parents hadn't been back in three weeks; eventually giving up and going to bed.

Barely four hours later, and he'd woken up in a cold sweat, panting and dizzy, staggered to the bathroom just in time to throw up into the toilet. The cool tile floor provided precious relief to his burning ears and forehead; and he'd ended up spending the rest of the night in there, passing in and out of consciousness, disorientated and aching.

By the time his stomach had finally stopped flipping, and when he felt safe enough to leave the bathroom, Steve had discovered that his shift started an hour ago, way too late to call in now. So instead, he staggered to the sofa, pausing only to grab the sick-bowl from its place under the stairs, and promptly curled up under as many blankets he could fit under.

Steve knew that you needed to cool down when you had a fever. But for as badly as his ears were burning, he was shivering hard enough that his teeth were chattering. He just wanted it to stop, for the sensations assaulting his all senses to cease. He knew he should get up—at the very least to get some water to rehydrate himself— but picturing the effort he would have to exert to move made him want to curl and die. Maybe he would do that anyway, just to save himself the agony of whatever this was.

The rest of the morning passed in somewhat of a blur, and Steve was resigned to catching as much sleep as he could between his pounding head and aching in what felt like every muscle. It was poor and restless for the most part, ruined by feverish, nonsensical dreams and half-lucid states.

He was finally, actually asleep when the doorbell rang, followed by several loud bangs, one faint "HARRINGTON?" and then a solid minute of abuse back on the doorbell, ringing insistently while Steve tried not to cry.

It took way too long to stagger to his feet, blanket wrapped around his shoulders, face flushed and hair tangled. If he hadn't been so fever-addled, he would've rather jumped out the back garden window and fled into the woods than be seen like this; but as it was, he didn't have a single thought left in his head other than 'what's the quickest way to get back to the couch'.

When he finally reached the door, slowly tugging it open, he instantly wished he had taken the window route.

"Please go away." He sounded pathetic even to his own ears. He guessed he must've looked it, too, since Billy's eyes widened at the sight of him, roving his body judgmentally.

"You look like shit, Harrington," Billy said, with the same tone as if his fly was down and he hadn't noticed.

"Thanks. I feel like it."

They stared at each other a moment longer, and Steve's eyes fell to the cigarette hanging off Billy's lips, unlit, just being chewed.

"What do you want?" He managed finally, dragging a hand down his face. "..And how do you know where I live?"

"You weren't at work today. I stopped by earlier, and Birdie told me that you didn't even call in." He tsked at him like he was scolding a child. "Really left her hangin', Harrington."

Bir- oh. He must have meant Robin. Who Billy was apparently on good enough terms with to have a nickname for. Steve just couldn't win. Sick, observed in his vulnerable condition by the exact worst person, and losing his best friend to the charming and attractive wiles of the same aforementioned asshole.

"Yeah well, I'm sick," He said thickly. At least all fuzz in his head and ruining his enunciation really sold how awful he felt. "So if you could just fuck off, that would be great."

Steve went to slam the door shut, only for it to be caught by a single tanned hand, Billy leaning right up into his personal space. And into his house.

"I meant it, Princess, you look like shit. You got anyone else here?" The blonde craned his neck to glance around behind him.

Steve's silence said it all. "I don't see why that concerns you," he responded after a moment, with more passive aggression than he really had the energy to feel.

Billy's smile was as fake as Steve's composure, "You're my sparring partner! I can't have you killing yourself 'cause you're incapable of self-care."

"Hey! I can look after myself-"

Billy quirked an eyebrow up in silent doubt. Steve wrapped his blanket further around himself.

"Whatever," he muttered, rolling his eyes and turning away. "I'm going back to my couch, please leave my house. I don't need you here."

He was too feverish to deal with this. He didn't need to deal with the house fire that was Billy Hargrove when he himself was ablaze.

Which was why, naturally, Billy followed him in.

Steve didn't try to argue further as he curled back up on the couch, burying his face in blankets. What was he gonna do, fight back? Try to physically remove him? Hah- he could barely stand, let alone throw a punch! He was just going to have to tolerate the home invasion and hope that Billy would take enough pity on his pathetic state not to kick him while he was down.

He could hear footsteps through the house, and the familiar creaking of cupboards - Billy was making himself at home, apparently, rifling through their possessions like he'd never heard the words "private property". Hopefully he didn't steal anything - it would suck if his Mom's jewellery went missing, and Steve had to explain why Billy Hargrove had been in the house to start with.

"Hey, Princess-" The voice was louder than he expected, and Steve startled a bit.

"What?" He grumbled as the footsteps returned, growing near and halting a few feet away from him.

"Your medicine cabinet is empty."

Steve groaned, tucking further into his covers. Why would Billy want access to his medicine cabinet? His parents cleared out all their stuff when they travelled and he didn't see the use of keeping it stocked. He had, however, been forced to invest in the basics since Billy had started beating him senseless every week.

"There's uh- a first aid box in my room. Under the bed."

The footsteps left again, this time going towards the stairs. Billy tried two doors before he found Steve's, stepping inside and pausing. If he dared to comment on any of Steve's stuff, then he swore he was gonna get his dad's shotgun and run the fucker out with it. He knew his room hadn't been updated in a few years, but in his defence he'd almost died like five times since then—and it really hadn't hit his priorities.

Time passed weirdly in his feverish daze, and it could've been a minute or two years before Billy returned, a box and a glass of water in hand. Steve was almost tempted to laugh at the reversal of the situation that Billy had refused to acknowledge for weeks, but he started to cough the moment he opened his mouth and thought better of it.

Billy practically shoved the pills at him, before attempting to pass the glass of water. This failed miserably, since Steve couldn't figure out how to work his unbearably heavy arms, leading to a heavy sigh and glass being clanked against his teeth. Steve spluttered, but managed to swallow and not choke, the pills going down harshly but firmly.

Hopefully he didn't throw them right back up.

Hopefully they were just Tylenol, and not something Billy had gotten special from one of the local dealers. He didn't get a chance to ask, though, because the second he pulled away from the water to cough, Billy was gone again, stalking off to god-knew where.

Steve had no clue what the fuck was going on, but he felt way too ill to question anything. He wasn't being beat, so it really wasn't worth overthinking.

…Maybe he was hallucinating. That- yeah, that was fairly concurrent with his fever and the amount of brain injuries he'd received lately. He was sick enough that his brain was conjuring phantoms to pretend that he had someone who cared about his well being. Someone who, technically speaking, had shown up for him more than anyone in his life.

(Aside from Robin, that was, but he guessed his hallucination knew she was working and therefore not plausible).

He wished his parents took care of him like this.

When he was little, he had a nanny who raised him, but she was fired shortly after he started school because she'd gotten too attached. So Steve got good at pretending that he had everything he needed, that his parents were enough as they were.

He wasn't entirely sure that they'd ever loved him, exactly. From what he could tell, they had been a newly wed, successful couple whose expected next step was children, but they hadn't ever wanted them. Steve was independent and popular, kept his grades in the sweet middle spot where no-one got concerned and he wasn't seen as nerdy, and he kept up his reputation as Hawkin's golden boy. Or you know, he had. Right up until Jonathan Byers had smashed his nose in.

They cared about him, sure - his mother got affectionate when she was drunk, and his dad was proud right up until aforementioned nose-smashing - but they honestly treated him more like a financially irresponsible roommate than a child.

Well- he wasn't a child anymore, now.

So if he could survive eighteen years of dealing with sick bugs by himself, then he could survive this. He didn't need a hallucination of Billy Hargrove to make him feel better.

…Except, he was pretty sure hallucinations couldn't use the blender. The unmistakable sound of it running jarred him upright. Unless he'd started to develop telekinetic powers like El, there was a horrible chance that it was real.

Steve stumbled his way into the kitchen with a mix of bewilderment and concern. Why was Billy making food in his house?

"Back to the couch, Princess. I'm not carrying you when you keel over." The command was clear, but Steve ignored it. Billy wasn't going to boss him around in his own damn house. Instead, he stared at his kitchen, which was covered in more green things than it had seen in years.

"What-" The cutting board was out, and there were lemon and spices on the counter too. Was he cooking? "Billy, what the hell are you doing?"

The blonde shot a look over at him, curling his lip in a smirk, that damn cigarette still hanging out, "What does it look like? I'm making you a smoothie. Might actually build some muscle on you."

Steve blinked at him incredulously. "A smoothie?" That did it. He was convinced—absolutely none of this could be real. It was just some bizzarishly convincing dream. "Where did you even get all this stuff?" Surely not his fridge, it was always starkly bare.

"Usually people get food from grocery stores," Billy said flatly, squeezing a lemon out over the blender. "Not sure what you've been doing, but-"

"Don't be obnoxious, Hargrove." Steve snapped, folding his arms and leaning against the doorframe in a way he hoped looked deliberate and not because he was about to fall over. "You know what I meant."

"That's a big word, Stevie! I know thinking isn't your strong suit, I'm real proud of you using your words."

Steve blinked away a fantasy of smashing one of the frying pans on the wall into that pretty, perfect face. "Answer the question, asshole."

Billy rolled his eyes, even as he reached for a glass, "It's my stuff. I'm making you some super juice, my own recipe. You don't get looking this good by accident." He waved his arm down to gesture at himself, to what Steve knew was a body in perfect shape and of course his hair and face smooth to match. He'd probably never had a pimple in his life if he drank that noxious-looking green shit all the time.

It didn't mean Steve was eager to put it into his body, though.

"Thanks, but- ow-" Steve's vision blurred a moment as he was slammed backwards into the wall, finding himself pinned between quite literally a rock and a hard place. "Come on man—"

The glass was shoved into his hands, barely enough room between them to lift it up to his mouth.

"Drink."

Billy's tone and voice left no room for argument.

Steve drank.

It was- surprisingly good? Weird texture, odd taste, but not bad. It tasted pretty healthy, at the very least, and didn't make Steve want to hurl immediately— so it was a win.

The glass was a only little over halfway empty when Billy was apparently satisfied, pulling it down and away from his mouth.

Steve swallowed, blinking dazedly at the other.

"Can- can I go back to the couch now?" he asked, feeling oddly meek. He was being bossed around by Billy Hargrove in his own home—into taking care of himself. The absurdity of it all made him feel like he must be delirious.

Billy scanned his face, eyes flicking over his hair, his eyes, his lips, before nodding and stepping back. Steve slouches down off the wall immediately, relieved to have personal space again.

"Drink the rest of it, and then go take a shower. As hot as you can take, I want you to sweat this out," Hargrove directed sharply.

Of course, his strict instructions sounded absolutely awful—but then again, so did the idea of defying the maniac who had barged into his house, and probably had a solid forty percent chance of hitting him even when sick.

"Okayyy Dr. Hargrove," he said sarcastically, sipping on the glass obediently. Only because it was actually pretty good, not because Billy had basically forced it down his throat.

Steve felt… weird. Still sick, obviously, wracked with shivers and aching like nobody's business, but he felt lighter somehow. Like he could relax, the decisions being made for him instead of him trying to protect everyone else.

His unwanted 'Dr. Hargrove' had, annoyingly, been right about the shower.

Steve got the water so hot it almost scalded his skin, and then sat shivering under the spray until he was beet-red and blind from the rising steam. Despite being half-boiled, he's sure he hacked the volume of his lungs out; his head was clearer, he felt better for having the gunk and grime washed off, and he could breathe properly again. By the time he made it back down-stairs, he was almost feeling halfway alive again.

What he saw when he reached bottom, however, made him pause again.

Steve's house was never exactly dirty. His parents would obviously kill him if he trashed the place, and despite what Billy kept insinuating, he had enough basic life skills to take care of himself—but neither was it ever spotless. There were generally clothes thrown around, a few glasses on the side, scattered papers back from when he was in school.

Now, the living room looked out of a catalogue. The couch was neatly made up with pillows and blankets, the surfaces cleared and disinfected, from the spray bottle and cloth left on the coffee table, and the air smelt fresh and vaguely floral.

There was also another two glasses of the smoothie on the table, which he picked up with a little more enthusiasm this time.

If Steve wasn't sure that Billy would kick out any other intruders faster than he could sneeze, he would've said that Nancy had snuck over, with the precision everything was laid out. He couldn't for the life of him put the image of Billy and cleaning supplies together in his head, the man was anything but a house-wife. The closest image he could conjure was Billy wearing one of those frilly "Kiss the cook" aprons that came in soft baby pink—and he had to stifle a snort at the thought.

"Did you, uh… did you do all this?" He asked, projecting his voice so the other could hear him from the kitchen.

Billy rolled his eyes as he stepped back into the room, holding a plate of dry toast in one hand and another glass in the other (Steve had a feeling he was going to get sick of spinach soon), "Noo, no. The magical cleaning fairy turned up and waved her tiny little wand while you were busy having your spa day."

"You told me to-"

"Don't get your panties in a twist, Princess," Billy rolled his eyes harder, "No point in getting you better if you're gonna sit in your own germs all day. At least one of us paid attention in biology class, ya know?"

Steve groaned as his headache returned in full force, "Why are you like this? Actually, don't answer that, I want a nap more than I want your tragic backstory."

"Drink your juice first."

Steve drank. Not because he was told to! For the record! He just liked the taste.

He set the glass carefully to the side, and then looked up, "Can you go now?"

Billy scoffed, and gestured to the other two glasses, "I said drink. You're dehydrated."

The look Steve gave was positively incredulous, "You're actually insane."

A bright smile, which on anyone else would've been so charming and sweet, "So I've been told. Don't make me ask again, Harrington."

Steve made a face, but picked up the glass. Worse things had happened in his life, he could deal with a little vegetation. To his pleasant surprise, this one tasted much more citrusy and fruity than the last few cups—if he weren't so sick that his sense of taste was all but shot, he'd attempt to identify what was different about it.

His thoughts are interrupted by Billy's snort. He looked up to find that his eyes were on him, twinkling with faint amusement.

"Is that more suited to your pallet, Princess? See, I figured you'd be picky little bitch about all the spinach, so I added more fruit juice to those ones. You're welcome."

It was utterly baffling, really it was, how Billy made something that Steve would ordinarily consider incredibly thoughtful sound like such a fucking insult.

"…What is wrong with you?" He settled on instead. It didn't sound as condescending as he meant it to—closer to startled, maybe even awed. Nevermind what was wrong with Billy, the hell was wrong with him?

He's startled out of wondering by the sound of laughter—Billy's laughter. He was chuckling into his hand, as if to be polite and stifle it, except there was no attempt to do so at all. Hargrove stared right at at him as he cackled, eyes crinkled with his laughter.

Laughed at. For being sick and not the biggest fan of spinach. Steve didn't understand—why did this feel so normal?

He completely gave up on questioning anything anymore as he dropped onto the couch with the grace of a falling boulder, sipping on the juice, smoothie, super food concoction Billy had prepared for him. The man showed no indication of leaving and Steve… wasn't actually as upset by that as he felt like he should've been. It was nice, he realized, that Billy was taking care of him.

…Assuming any of this was even real. Jury's still out on that one.

Somewhat to his surprise, Billy flopped down beside him. On the opposite side of the couch, obviously, clearly not wanting to catch his sick. Steve's chest didn't twinge slightly at the space between them, not at all.

"…How long are you going to abuse my 3rd Amendment rights?" He asked glumly, but the bite he's trying to manifest into his voice still doesn't come.

Billy tsked at him, rolling his eyes again. "Till I'm satisfied you're on the mend and taking care of yourself, Princess. Can't have you dying because you failed to drink water and consume nutrients while your body was begging for it, dumbass. Who's supposed to be my punching bag then? Not Birdie, she's above that kind of barbaric ritual."

It was strange to hear Billy talk so much without thrown punches punctuating his sentences, but Steve would be lying if said he disliked it. If he wasn't convinced he was already dreaming, he might have retorted that his body was begging for sleep.

Instead, he downed the rest of the cup and reached for the next—without being prompted. A glance over as he does, and he noticed Billy nod approvingly, crossing his arms.

"…I kind of thought you hated me." It tumbled out of his mouth before he can stop it, and before Steve had even registered that he was talking, he continued recklessly, thoughtlessly. "I mean, especially after I broke into your house—we're like, mortal enemies, and I crawled through your window—" Mortifying, really, when he put a little more thought into it. Not that it been endlessly replaying in his mind at every punch Hargrove threw that landed, or anything.

"So uh, you probably should hate me—and I really thought you did, because you hit me even harder after that," At least, to Steve it had felt much harder. "But this is all really, uh… Different? Not bad differe- I mean—all of this just seems to mean you don't, actually, uhm—"

Okay, that was more then enough of that.

He jams the cup to his face and tilts his head back so that he's forced to stop running his big mouth and just chug the liquid. His whole face was burning, and he'd probably be very wistful to think that all of it was from his fever.

The silence was deafening, but he dared not look over at Billy Hargrove, afraid that this dream would become a nightmare if he did.

…It didn't

"…I don't—" Billy's voice came from beside him—and it was still his voice. No twisted, conceited nightmare version that yelled and called him names. If anything, it was almost a bit too soft, "I don't hate you, Steve."

"…You don't?" That's enough to make him turn his head, bringing the cup down enough to do so without spilling. "I broke into your house at midnight—"

Billy shook his head, looking a bit stunned. He's sat with his legs crossed on the other end of the couch, facing Steve in an an open, casual position.

"That just means we're frr-" He stiffened a bit. "..Rivals. Yeah, rivals. You know what a rival is, Princess?"

"I know what a—" He started.

"A rival," Billy spoke over him without missing a beat. "Is someone who prays, not for your downfall, but to be your downfall. So that's what we are. Rivals."

It was Steve's turn to laugh, now. It was too much, this was just too much. He giggled like a middle school girl, clapping his hands over his eyes and wrapping his other arm around his chest to brace his aching ribs. Rivals. With Billy Hargrove. There was just no fucking way any of this was real.

He was struck by how drowsy he suddenly felt. Was it normal to feel this sleepy when you were already dreaming?

"What a fucking fever dream this has been," Steve managed to slur out groggily through smaller bouts of giggles, slowly sliding down so that his head rested on the arm of the couch, and drew his knees up to his chest. "I don't hate you either, Billy Hargrove."

He didn't remember falling asleep, he just knows he must have—because when he opened his eyes again, it was the next morning. Sunlight was streaming in through the window, and distantly, he could hear birds chirping. When he sat up to see if Billy was still there (he wasn't), Steve noticed a blanket fall from his shoulders that he didn't remember having before.

…That couldn't have really happened, right? There was just no way.

+1:

In hindsight, Billy probably should've known that something was wrong the second Harrington stepped out of that damn building.

He'd been walking strangely, something robotic in his movements, joints stiff and head down. If Billy had waited, taken a single moment to look at him, maybe he could've taken a step back; put his fists away and use his common sense for once.

Instead, he'd been so preoccupied with his own thoughts—taking a drag on the cig hanging off his lips, perched on the hood of his Camaro—that by the time he'd registered that Steve Harrington was not okay, he'd already crumpled to the floor like a corpse.

In that moment, Billy panicked.

He hadn't hit him that hard, even counting the element of surprise through not starting with their usual banter. Even that was a somewhat familiar routine for them; the dirty hit would have prompted Harrington to loudly complain about the unfairness of his dishonourable start, to which Billy would have retorted that life isn't fair, and tried to hit him again. The bruise would barely be visible by the morning, something that the older consistently shook off on a weekly basis.

Yet there Steve was, alive at the very least, but now curling into a protective ball, head tucked into the knees of that corny sailors outfit.

"You okay down there, Harrington? Don't think gonna go easy on you just 'cause you're feeling prissy today." Billy kept his voice even, kept the deliberate mocking tone even while alarms were going off in his head.

Steve didn't respond to his attempt to rile him. He didn't even twitch in understanding, and that was when Billy knew he'd fucked up.

"Hey, Earth to Harrington? …Princess?" he knelt uncertainly, lowering himself to the floor. One hand came cautiously rest on Steve's shoulder, shaking the older boy gently. "Jeez, did someone get to you first?"

No response. Billy had to listen closely to ascertain whether the guy was even breathing. The breaths were there, certainly—but quick, and shallow. Definitely not a healthy sound.

"Awhh, fuckin' hell-" Billy grasped Steve's shoulder firmly, rolling him onto his back in a swift motion. His eyes were open but blank, staring emptily up at the sky.

His heart plummeted at the sight. This wasn't Steve. This was an empty shell, something wearing his skin while his real mind retreated somewhere unseen.

It reminded him of something else, his blank stare eerily similar to a look he'd seen before. It always sat on one of the guys back in Cali who never seemed to leave the bar; perched eternally on that seat with a mile long gaze, a tremor in the hand that lifted his beer, two sets of dog-tags hung around his neck.

Harrington had obviously never been to war, but there were clearly more demons behind his easy-going demeanour than Billy had realised. He'd figured that daddy issues were the depth of what was plaguing Steve Harrington, maybe some trouble with the ladies—considering that Nancy Wheeler was parading around with the fairy she called a boyfriend.

He wasn't prepared for this, a trauma that definitely ran much deeper than the surface of skin.

"Steve. Steve." He slapped his cheeks firmly, trying to bring any sort of awareness back to the man's eyes, "Harrington, snap the fuck out of it."

Nothing.

Billy groaned lightly, leaning back from over him to sit on his heels. What to do now, with the mess he'd made? He couldn't just leave him there, lying on the filthy concrete of the parking lot. But… if he drove Steve back to his annoyingly large house in the Camaro, he would be stranded at home in the morning—car left abandoned at Starcourt.

Unless-

Billy groaned again, louder this time, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. He didn't actually owe Harrington anything, this time - he'd paid back his debt by looking after him when he was sick - so there was no reason at all that he had to do anything.

And yet, at the same time… leaving him there alone was completely unthinkable.

Steve didn't react at all as Billy dug through his pockets, nor when he heaved him upright, half-dragging the man towards the car. He did stir the slightest bit once he got the door open, helpfully sliding into the passenger seat, but didn't seem inclined to buckle himself in. Billy was cursing every god he could recall learning about in school as he leant across the cramped space, fumbling in the dark for the belt.

The belt clip had just clicked in when Steve moved on his own again. He leaned forward in his seat just enough to press his face into Billy's neck, burying himself in his hair.

He froze, hand still hovering over the fastener.

Steve didn't speak, nor move any further. He just stayed there; and his breathing, which had been erratic and somewhat panicked, started to slow down and even out. Like he was using the physical contact to ground himself out of whatever episode Billy had unwittingly triggered.

He tolerated it for far too long before he gently disengaged, pulling carefully out of the car. So he didn't bump his head on the roof, obviously.

There was no visible upset at losing the contact (Billy's chest did not squeeze up at that, nor did his heart twist), and Billy loped around quickly, hopping into the driver's seat and starting the car. The BMW ran smooth enough, he supposed—though not as smoothly as his baby. He pulled out of the lot with one final longing look at his Camaro. Billy had put years of blood, sweat and tears into his girl, she was probably the best car Hawkins had seen in decades.

The fact that he knew exactly how to reach the Harrington residence was… coincidence. Steve was probably under the impression that his co-worker Robin—or Birdie as Billy had taken to calling her—had told him, but that wasn't quite true. He was not a stalker- he'd just followed Steve home a few times, at a distance, when he was worried he'd given him a decent concussion and was nice enough to make sure he didn't end up dead in a ditch somewhere.

Steve stared straight ahead into the night the entire time, but some of the stiffness did loosen from his shoulders, and he seemed to be somewhat coming to. Not quite enough to form words; but he was tapping idly on his knee along to the radio, which Billy had jammed on about 20 seconds into the drive in an attempt to lift the silence.

He had no fucking clue what had happened back there, but hopefully Steve was snapping out of it now.

It would totally suck to try and explain to the hospitals why the guy with weeks worth of bruises was suddenly completely catatonic. Authorities would get called, and then he'd have a whole situation on his hands. Neil would make damn well sure he wasn't upright for a month if he brought the cops back again.

"Hey, Princess, we're home. You're home." He shoved Steve lightly, really barely a nudge. "Not gonna help me out? Alright, I'll do the heavy lifting again."

To his credit, Steve did in fact get himself out of the car, shuffling zombie-like towards the front door. Billy did another awkward pocket rummage, this time pulling out a house key and letting them both in.

He paused on the threshold, watching Harrington fumble his way into the house, finding a light switch after a few misses. He stood in the middle of the living room, looking lost, looking small; despite the fact that he was a full inch taller than Billy (much to his disdain).

For just a moment… he genuinely considered staying. To make sure Steve ate something, that he got to bed safely, that he didn't have to sleep alone in this empty house.

As he stood there and watched Steve stare at his couch, Billy even briefly entertained what it would be like to lie down next to him. To watch his eyes drift shut, to keep him safe as he slept, and then to stay to the morning, so that the bed wouldn't be empty and cold when he woke up.

Then he shook his head firmly, recoiling at his own thoughts as he felt his face tug down into a scowl.

What a stupid idea. What a fucking idiot he was.

Steve Harrington did not want his company. Actually, more than that, he'd told him explicitly—multiple times—that he wanted him to fuck off. To go away, and stop pushing himself into his life.

And even if, by some miracle, he didn't hate his guts? (If the sick, feverish declaration that he 'didn't hate him' was even remotely honest? )

…Then he sure as fuck wouldn't want to be anywhere near Billy's disease.

The sickness that he couldn't cut out as much as he tried, the rot in his soul that made him so wrong. The mistake he tried to patch up with as many women as he could run through, that he shoved so far down that he could (almost) never think of it. The dirty, shameful secret that had run them out of Cali, because his good-for-nothing, brat of a sister (it wasn't Max's fault, she was a kid, she didn't know what she was saying) had spilled the darkest parts of his soul in the daylight and landed him in hospital.

Steve Harrington was straight as a pin, both morally and… in that way, and would want nothing to do with him if he found out about Billy.

He was good. He was good and kind and far too understanding, and Billy was going to beat his face in for that sin until his own insides stopped writhing in shame and guilt.

Billy slammed the door shut behind him so hard that the windows rattled, stalking down the driveway into the darkness.

It would take a while to walk back to Starcourt, so he might as well start now.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Steve groaned as he woke up with his face smooshed into the couch cushions, a killer crick in his neck and exactly zero memory of anything that had happened after about 5 PM the day before. He also woke up to Robin roughly three inches from his nose, which was somehow the most concerning of the three—largely given to the fact that she didn't even have a house key.

Why did people keep breaking into his house??

"You alive, Stevie?" Her volume was soft at least, and not an affront to his current groggy and slightly irritable state. If morning people were real things, Steve was definitely not one of them.

"No." he groaned, rolling away from her to face the back of the couch, "Robin, how are you-"

"One of your windows was open, I just climbed through," she explained quickly, patting his head.

Ah. This was his karma, surely.

"Okay, then why are you-"

"Because you just looked so out of it last night, and I wanted to make sure you made it home safe," She interrupted again. "You were all zombie-ish in the late shift, it was kinda scary, you were barely even talking. But you look less like shit than you usually do on Wednesdays - What, did you actually take my advice and run this time?"

Steve's mind went blank.

It was Wednesday?

…That couldn't be right, because his body didn't hurt.

"I uh- I-"

And then a blurred snapshot filtered through his conscience, a disjointed mosaic of memory. Yesterday had been a Tuesday—and Billy had been there. But he couldn't even remember being punched.

"I think… Billy actually, uh. Drove me home?" It sounded right; matched up with what scattered things he could recall. The radio, Billy in the driver's seat—walking him up to his door. He didn't feel concussed, so logically, Steve concluded that must have really happened.

Robin was silent for so long that he rolled back over, to watch her stunned expression.

"Hargrove drove you home?" She parroted at him incredulously. The disbelief in her voice was not concealed at all. "But- your car is in the driveway?"

Was it? Steve assumed they were in Billy's car and that he'd have to walk back to Starcourt today.

"Huh… he- he must've driven me and then walked back," he reasoned out. But it almost sounded wrong when he said it aloud.. It kinda didn't add up. "Why would he do that? It's a good few miles downtown… maybe he felt bad for me."

Robin stared at him for a moment longer, so intensely that Steve thought her eyes might actually pop out of her head—before unceremoniously shoving his legs off the couch so she could sit cross-legged at the end.

"You're telling me that Billy Hargrove felt bad enough for you to not only spare you a beating," She said in total bafflement, "But to drive you home in your own car and walk back to his own? Stevie-" She paused to groan, rubbing her eyes, "That's- that's not feeling bad. That's-"

She cut herself off, glaring at him with unexpected ferocity, "You are such an idiot, you know?"

"Yeah, yeah, you've said." Steve swallowed, noting his dry throat. He was not fed or watered well enough to feel like bothering to ask why he was an idiot this time. "I'm gonna get some water - do you want like- breakfast? I can do toast and eggs, and I think I have some bacon."

"I always want bacon," She replied, following him into the kitchen. "I didn't know you could cook, though? Most men I know weaponize their culinary incompetence - did you know that's a whole thing men do? Pretend to be bad at something so their wives have to pick up the slack. Cooking, cleaning, child-rearing-" Robin ticked the points off on her fingers, "It's so common in uh- …nuclear family type households."

"Well I do all three of those, so I guess I'm better than most men," he says sarcastically, turning on the stove and putting on a pan to warm. Being able to cook or clean wasn't anything special—he'd been expected to prepare his own meals since he was roughly 12 years old.

"Child-rearing?" Robin's eyebrow quirked up.

"What do you think the kids are? I babysit way too often for those little shits." He scoffs, remembering the most notable times he'd been responsible for their well being. A shame he couldn't tell Robin about any of them. "You wouldn't believehow hard it is to keep them alive."

Steve waited for Robin to reply, pulling food out of his fridge, only for her to be silent. When he glanced over to see what her deal was, she was staring at the fridge door.

He swung it shut—and then he saw what she was looking at.

A torn-out notebook page, looped with surprisingly fancy handwriting, detailing Billy's smoothie recipe.

He'd discovered it left there when he crawled into his kitchen that morning after, the most damning evidence that Billy really had been there taking care of him while he was sick. Steve had looked up all the ingredients and found they all had some sort of well documented health benefits, mixed up in the perfect ratio for it to taste good and not just green. He was drinking it at least a couple times a week, now, and begrudgingly felt better for it.

"What's that? I didn't think you were a health-nut," she asked with intrigue, curiosity shining brightly in her eyes.

"That? Oh that's-" Steve cleared his throat, reaching for a glass of water, "That's Billy's. He sorta… turned up here when I was sick the other week? Force fed me smoothies and cleaned like, half my house."

There's a bang as Robin slams her hands on the kitchen island. "Huh?! You never mentioned that!"

Steve winced at her volume, the girl staring wide eyed and disbelieving at him.

"Steve!" She shouted at him.

"What?!" He turns to stare at her, flinging his hands out exasperatedly. "I'm trying to cook, Robin!"

"Steve he- he turned up at your house to look after you while you were sick?" She punctuated her words by massaging her temples, and her mouth hung open slightly.

"I mean- yeah?" He dropped a few slices of bacon on the pan now that it was warm enough.

"Why didn't you tell me??" She sounded borderline frantic—this was a way higher energy than he'd been hoping for first thing in the morning.

"I didn't think it was important!" He exclaimed at her. It wasn't, not really—Billy had said it himself! Steve could remember most of it. Something about wanting to be his downfall. Being rivals, yada yada. Something like that.

"Not impor- god, you're hopeless!" Robin grasped him tightly by the shoulders, rocking up on her tiptoes to stare Steve down at eye level, "Stevie, Steve, Harrington, you are so oblivious! I love you so dearly but god you've really never even thought about it, have you?"

"Thought about what?" Steve felt completely and utterly bewildered. And also, a little offended, but that was standard with Robin. As per usual, there was clearly something he was missing, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out what. Something big, hovering just out of view, that apparently Robin had known for a while. Something to do with Billy Hargrove.

… yeah he had no clue what she was on about—they'd already established he was an idiot for not parking somewhere else, what was she so worked up about now?

Robin groaned, shaking him a little harder, "C'mon Stevie, I know you're smart underneath-" she gestured vaguely towards all of him, "All the jock running through your veins. Okay, okay, let's reverse the positions. How close would you have to be to someone to not only drive them home, but abandon your own car to do it?"

"I mean- pretty damn close. I would probably do it for the kids? If they had cars? Nancy definitely and you, I guess."

"Okay that's- that's getting there! You're nicer than I expected, most people don't drive the hordes of children who harass them around. Uh- and I guess you'd look after them too if they were sick…"

She stepped backwards away from him to pace back and forth, "God Stevie, emotional talks aren't my thing! I bully you for your terrible track record with women, not try to get you to understand fundamental truths about yourself!"

Steve folded his arms and gave her his best unamused expression. He was starting to feel pretty exasperated by this conversation, "Can't you just tell me?"

"No! I can't just tell you, Steve! You need to do what every, uh… person like us has done before, and figure it out yourself! Just- tell me how you feel about Hargrove. I want everything, even the thoughts that feel so random and crazy that you feel like they're someone else's."

Steve made a face. What did she want from him? "I mean he's- he's a jerk? Total jackass, beats me up once a week, he-"

"No, no," Robin cut him off, "Don't tell me what he is, tell me what you feel."

"Feel? I- I should hate him, probably…" Steve trailed off, thinking once again about the borderline absurd conversation they'd had while he was sick, one he's not entirely sure he believes actually happened; When Billy had told him they were rivals, something closer than enemies. "…But I don't. I don't get why, but I don't hate him. I actually sorta… like him? When he's not hitting me, he can be pretty funny."

Robin rolled her hands forward expectantly, the universal gesture for 'go on'.

"And… I mean he's-" Steve swallowed, taking a steadying sip of his water while a thought swirled round and round in his mind, something so strange and alien that… that it felt like someone else's. "He's-"

Billy was pretty.

So very, incredibly pretty.

And he smelled great. Which was… really weird to think about, and it was strange that it was the first thing that came to mind-- but whatever cologne he used to cover the smell of cigarettes, mixed with the sweat of fighting, the tang of blood and adrenaline, and something distinctly Billy that he couldn't put a name to. Something he associated with lying in the dark of the parking lot, blood trickling down his body and hot breath panting into his ear while they recovered, warmth pressed against him.

Steve had never really thought much about this - he didn't find Billy pretty in the same way that he found girls pretty, (although it was veering uncomfortably close to the way he'd found Nancy pretty). And why would he? It was just an observation, anyone could tell that someone was attractive even if they weren't attracted.

And Billy… he wasn't anything like Nancy had been. Sure, they both had fire and beauty and intelligence and a stubborn streak the size of Indiana, but even before he and Nancy were dating, even before they were friends, she'd never declared her hatred for him in fists and low-blows.

And the only electricity he felt between them was when they were brawling, the rush of the fight and shock of power through his body.

…And when he'd broken into his house and laid with him in bed until he fell asleep, and when Billy had taken care of him when he was sick, and every time they'd played ball back in school and then bickered about the match in the showers… (which may have made it every time they saw each other, but the thought of reading into that had never crossed his mind.)

The point was-

Uh…

What point had he been making?

"He's… A lot. He's so… he's so angry, Robin. And I feel… I don't feel sorry for him, not exactly, but I feel for him. There's so much bubbled under the surface and I kinda want to see more than just the outer shell of violence. I want-"

Steve cut himself off before he could finish his thought as a realization as all consuming as the dawn crept up on him.

He wanted him.

He wanted Billy.

Cogs were turning, slowly but surely in Steve's mind. He could almost see the pieces as they were sliding into place, everything lining up in neat little rows.

Steve thought that Billy was outrageously pretty.

Steve felt electricity between them whenever they spoke.

Steve wanted to take care of him at his worst, and be taken care of in return.

Steve wanted to touch him when they weren't fighting, to feel his warmth in the daylight instead of the dark, to extend their banter beyond the few precious moments they stole and to have entire conversations to pick apart the brain he kept hidden.

Maybe Steve hesitated to call Billy a friend because he didn't want Billy like he'd once wanted Tommy and Carol, to be his friends and have his back.

It hit him then like a speeding truck; He wanted Billy like he'd wanted Nancy.

"Oh. Oh."

Robin stared at him expectantly, doing little awkward jazz hands. "Did you uh- figure it out?"

"I- I think I did," he said quietly as his face started to heat up.

"Oh thank go-"

"Robin, this is so bad!" Steve buried his hands in his hair in distress, dropping back into the fridge with a light thunk as he realized all at once that he needed to sit the fuck down, "What do I do now? Billy hates people like- like that!"

Robin stared at him, mouth hanging open. "Steve. Stevie. You sweet, precious idiot, I- what part of any of this made you think that Billy was straight?"

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Of course Billy was straight—wasn't he?He was always running around with some chick hanging on his arm and staring at his perfect jawline—fuck, how hadn't this ever occurred to him until just now?

His disbelief must have shown on his face, because Robin loudly scoffed at him, rolling her eyes. "I hate to break it to you, but straight men do not cuddle with other men! They don't come over to clean your house and make you smoothies and leave you the recipe! They don't drive you home in your own car and walk five miles back to their own!" She jabbed his finger into his chest with every point, and then shook her head with impatience, "And I thought I was hopeless!"

Steve's mind was shattering a little. Surely Robin didn't mean that Billy Hargrove wasn't… straight? He literally flirted with every girl in school and half the married women! Except- well, he supposed he'd never seen him actually kiss any of them, just sorta… charm them?

Could she be right? Could the local heartthrob and heartbreaker who beat him up every week really be— "… He's- Robin, do you really think so?"

The shorter girl gripped his shoulders so tight it'd for sure leave a bruise, "Steve, look at me- in the eyes. I know a gay guy when I see one, and even if Billy is usually straight, which I doubt, he for sure is into you. Like- so incredibly into you." She made a face similar to the one she'd made when Steve had jokingly pitched his idea for anchovy flavoured ice cream, glancing away for a second. "..Admittedly the bullying confuses it a little and usually I'd tell you that 'he's mean to you cause he likes you' is bullshit, but for this I'm making an exception because I've seen that man wrestle you to the ground and then spoon you—within like three minutes of each other!"

Steve's focus flicked so fast that it made his head whirl, his mind all too eager to flee the revelations that would not stop coming, "Hold on- what do you mean—you've watched us fight?"

Robin blanched, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish while she scrambled for a response. Her cheeks heated up a bit, tinged with pink in a look that he could only call flustered indignation.

And then Steve's brain caught up a little more, processing the rest of Robin's words like he'd only just learned the English language—and his eyes bugged halfway out of his head, "And what did you mean by 'people like us'?"

Robin laughed nervously, and her hands dropped from his shoulders to fidget anxiously, eyes darting between Steve and the door like she was considering making a break for it.

"So- funny story-"

-0-0-0-0-0-

Steve spent a full day trying to figure out his new reality.

He… he liked men. Or, at the very least, a man.

The words were hard to get out even in his own mind - not because he was ashamed or embarrassed, but because the thought had genuinely never crossed his mind. He was Steve Harrington, he was eighteen years old, and he liked girls. Except, apparently now he liked girls and Billy Hargrove.

Which was also something he struggled to wrap his head around, turning it over in his mind again and again like looking any closer would change the shape of the artefact he'd unburied from the depths. The feelings made sense, now - the electricity, the tug in his chest to be close, the way he relaxed so thoroughly after they beat the shit out of each other. That bizarre conversation, where he'd admitted feverishly to his lack of disdain for the man… it all finally had a name, a reason. He should have been relieved.

And yet, at the same time, it made everything even more confusing, and complicated, and stupid—because according to Robin, Billy liked him back.

And Steve wasn't quite sure what he was even supposed to do with that information.

When he'd started dating Nancy, he'd just copied what he'd seen in all the best romance films; bought her flowers and fancy chocolates, asked her out on dates to the movies and walks in the park, walked her to her doorstep and shook hands firmly with Mr Wheeler when he dropped her off. He might've been a dick about other parts of their relationship (he hadn't stepped foot in his swimming pool since Barb, he kept thinking about how terrified she must've been, dragged into the hell dimension that was the Upside-Down and murdered horribly, hoping all the while that someone would come to rescue her and no one even noticing until she was cold and dead and-), but he at the very least had courted her properly.

He knew for sure that if he turned up at Billy's doorstep with a bouquet of flowers, they'd be returned to him via a swift sucker-punch.

So that left the question, the one that Robin had explained to him that all gay people shared—because she actually liked girls, apparently, and knows of such things—how was he supposed to communicate to Billy that he knew?

He needed something thoughtful, personal. Something that said 'I know you', something that would make Billy understand that he didn't need to use his fists to be heard.

Steve spent the rest of the week mulling it over. He went about his work on autopilot, ignoring Robin's never-ending teasing about how he'd needed to have the sense quite literally shaken into him to figure it out. He laid awake at night thinking about it, agonizing over what to do or say. Nothing he came up with really seemed right.

It didn't actually click for him until that Saturday morning, when Will tumbled by him with the other kids to get to their movie, wearing an oversized jacket that definitely didn't belong to him.

The answer was so obvious that Steve wanted to slap himself.

But since that would be wildly counterproductive, he settled instead on actually going through with his new plan before he chickened out.

Time for him to pay a visit to Jonathan Byers.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Billy was half-asleep on his bed when Steve Harrington broke into his bedroom for the second time in as many months.

He wasn't severely concussed this time, which meant that he noticed the slightly pathetic struggle at his windowsill before Harrington had even got his feet in; but he didn't move from his spot on the bed, watching him clamber inside with a mix of incredulousness and vague concern.

He looked better than he had the other day, at least—and evidently, whatever Billy had done to trigger the episode clearly hadn't scared him off.

"Careful Princess, you're going to become a career criminal at this rate," he drawled, raising a carefully angled eyebrow, "Breaking into my house twice is probably enough evidence for a restraining order."

The irony of this jest when Billy kicked the crap out of him every week was not lost on him, of course. Birdie was completely correct, Steve should have probably done something about it by now. Literally anything, really. He's honestly sort of shocked it's gone on this long—Harrington was many things, and an idiot was surely one of them, but he certainly didn't back down from a fight or a challenge. Even when he probably should.

Steve rolled his eyes at him as he stood upright, dusting himself off. Billy thought maybe he was right to be concerned when he noticed him shifting on his feet, an anxious energy about him.

"Says the guy whose been stalking and assaulting me for months," He retorted. His tone didn't actually sound all that offended. "I uh- I came to say thank you. For the other day."

"And you couldn't have, I dunno, called like a normal person? Waited until next week?" He raised an eyebrow at him, leaning into his hand.

"I also wanted to talk to you, and it's hard to talk when you're being jumped," Steve said flatly, crossing his arms.

A… fair point, actually. Billy didn't usually like to hang around on their nights together - he itched for contact and every moment passing was a moment wasted.

"I could still do that," he pointed out very logically, but made no move to stand. He didn't actually want to hit Steve. It'd cause too much noise, and he'd sooner drive off a cliff in the Camaro than be caught by Neil or Max or anyone with Harrington in his room.

"You won't," He droned on, immediately calling his bluff. Damn. "You want to hear what I have to say."

Another fair point. Billy wondered again how Steve hadn't gotten into any colleges, there was clearly something intelligent underneath his thick, very punchable skull. They'd already established that Steve probably wouldn't break into his room for nothing, so something he deemed important was going on.

…Important enough for Billy to know. The hell could that be? He was getting kinda sketched out now—they didn't talk about their personal lives. They hit each other for sport, that's not exactly an intimate kind of relationship where you tell each other things. Was he dying, or something?

More likely, he thought, that Steve was just fixing to explain what had freaked him out so badly that night. Yeah, that was rational enough to be true.

"Alright Princess, you have ten minutes to grovel your apologies for wastin' my evenin' and then you're out." Billy nodded to the end of the bed, and the other took the hint, sitting down. He watched lazily as Steve's throat bobbed, swallowing the nervousness down. What had gotten him so worked up? Harrington was usually the epitome of calm in crisis.

"I'm not grovelling, for the record, you're way too cocky," He clarified with a little glare in his direction. It softened, though, when their eyes met, and ever so slightly, so did his tone. "..I did want to apologise for the other day, though, I usually have it under better control, but I guess I just lost it."

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable, "Some… things happened, last year. And I sometimes I can kind of freak out. Over, like. Literally nothing. You didn't have to drive me-"

"Save the theatrics, doll." Billy interrupted with a snort, "Don't go all coy on me. You 'freaked out', so what? Big deal." He really didn't understand why Harrington seemed so self conscious about it. It's not like he was entitled to an explanation.

"You owe me a spar, though, I'm going twice as hard next week to make up for it. Was there anything else or are you actually wasting my time?"

And there it was, the thing he was after; the flash of indignation in those intense eyes, the fire rising a moment as Harrington fought his annoyance.

Except.. this time, it melted away in seconds. Steve didn't stay riled up as he usually did, didn't lean forward to keep on the bickering until one of them threw a punch. He just… sat back. Took a deep breath.

What the fuck? He just had to spoil it—Billy loved getting a rise out of him! Steve was just so passionate about everything, he loved seeing his entire body clench in anticipation of an argument, to hear that quick tongue ready to battle his. What the hell is he going and ruining a good thing for by actually keeping his cool?

"I'm not wasting your time. I-" he swallowed again, "I have something for you. Merry Christmas, or something."

Steve fished in his pocket a moment, before tugging out a small brown paper bag.

Billy's eyebrows crumpled as he took it, initially assuming that Steve must have been passing him substances. Weird, since he hadn't taken him for that kind of delinquent. The paper felt soft in his hands, like it'd already been worn by constant use. Then he felt a familar weight and shape inside, and his confusion increased as he opened the bag to see it's contents.

…A cassette?

"It's uh- I made it myself" He said quietly, staring down at his hands. "Jonathan Byers helped me, he's the one with the musical style. But I picked out all the songs I thought you'd like."

Billy's mouth was dry. His throat frozen. Holding the tape in one hand, staring at the scrawled 'Hargrove' on the case in sharpie.

Steve had… made him a playlist?

He rummaged through the bag again, finding a piece of scrap paper with a list in the same chicken scratch handwriting, this one of songs and band names. He recognised most of them, the artists if not the songs, but there was also a handful he didn't.

He didn't realise Steve even knew what sort of music he liked.

"That's-" he cleared his throat, blinking back what he realised in a horrifying moment were tears. Fuck no, they weren't crying today. That wasn't something he was going to do in front of anyone, especially not Steve. "That's real sweet, Princess. Guess that makes us even."

Harrington looked up at him again with wide eyes—he almost looked surprised at Billy's reaction—maybe even relieved?

"Y- yeah. I mean, I guess it does." Steve didn't move from the bed. Just kept staring at him with those endless eyes, which saw far too much— and not nearly enough.

"Billy-"

"You gonna-"

They both spoke at the same time, but Billy dipped his chin again, motioning for Harrington to go first. The other clenches his hands a few times, relaxing them again each time; a familiar ritual that Billy recognized as the way he steeled himself before he did something bold.

"Billy. I- I learnt something, the other day." The tremor in his voice was uncharacteristic, any uncertainty always so well concealed by an air of confidence and arrogance. "Well, I figured out half of it with some prompting, and Robin sorta told me the other half. But-"

Birdie? Oh, fresh hell— what was Billy being dragged into now? The kid was sweet but she could blabber for the Olympics, and if whatever she'd told Steve was bad enough that he seemed wracked by anxiety trying to get the words out, it must be bad bad.

"Spit it out, Harrington, I'm not running a hotel here." He would not tolerate idiotic and aimless rambling. It was cute when Birdie did it, but it was a bad look on Steve.

Steve shut his eyes. Took another deep breath.

The anticipation clawed at his stomach like the gnawing apprehension when he waited for his grades, holding his breath until he saw whether they were good enough to be left alone.

"She may have… insinuated that- that you're gay," he stutters out, like it wasn't literally the end of the world—Billy nearly threw up on the spot as the invisible talons around his abdomen sunk into his flesh and dug in deep.

Static played in his head, ringing like the first time he'd shot a gun and hadn't realised he needed protective gear. She- Birdie-

Steve knew what was wrong with him.

That was why he was so nervous.

He knew that Billy was infected, that he was sick and twisted. He would go back out and tell everyone, and then Neil would beat him to death properly this time, and it would probably be better than having to face the town while they packed up their life again to another small town where no-one knew that Billy Hargrove was a dirty queer-

"-grove? Billy? Cmon man, snap out of it- breathe for me, it's okay, cmon, breathe with me."

The static was fading slowly, replaced by the drum-beat of his pulse in his veins. His head was pounding along with the rythym, he could swear he could hear the blood rushing past his ears.

Then that replaced by the steady warmth of a familiar figure, pressing into him, hot breath on his face.

Billy followed along subconsciously, a small, selfish part of him latching onto the reassurance; slowing his breathing and letting the dread and nausea fade.

It took him far too long to realise that it was Steve Harrington's arms that he was curled up into, wrapped firmly around his shoulders in the first real hug he'd had since he and Max had stopped being friends. He knew he should push away, should start to punch down, to use his fists to threaten Harrington into silence. Maybe he could salvage this, if he convinced the man that spilling his awful secret would end in mutually assured destruction.

Instead, to his everlasting shame, he started to beg.

"Please- please don't tell them, please don't tell my dad." he choked out, white-knuckling the back of Steve's shirt as he pleaded for his silence without any right to do so, "He'll kill me, they'll all kill me, please Steve, please don't-"

"Hey, hey—" One of the arms wrapped around him slid over so that a firm hand sat on his back, rubbing small, gentle circles over shoulder blades that tremored with self-disgust and fear. "Billy, you need to breathe. I'm not going to tattle on you to anyone, what sort of asshole would I be then? C'mon dude, please just breathe- it's okay. I promise it's okay."

How could it be okay? He knew, how could Harrington sit there and hold him and promise it would be okay?

Billy didn't realise he'd spoken that last thought aloud until Steve replied, voice low and thick with emotion.

"It's going to be okay because I'm not going to tell anyone. I'm-" He sighs, letting his head drop lightly onto Billy's. "..I'm still figuring my own shit out. Robin's helping, but- I'm like you, Billy. I'm…" Steve took a deep breath, and Billy mirrored it instinctively, "I like you. More than friends. Way more than rivals."

Oh, so he did remember that mortifying conversation they'd had while he was sick. Billy couldn't help the damp chuckle that was pried out from him, a pathetic noise while his mind reeled.

Steve was… Steve liked… Steve liked him?

Fucking—as if.

"Don't fucking lie to me!" Fueled by a sudden burst of hurt and embarrassment, he tries to push Steve away. There must not have been real heart behind it, though, because it wasn't effective as it should have been; only really successfully pushing himself out of his embrace.

Harrington even had the audacity to sound offended, "I don't lie! ..Not about stuff like this, at least. Billy- I mean it. I care about you, and… I figured out why I care, even though you're a real jerk sometimes."

"Prove it." Billy hissed the words with such venom, anger rising in seconds, hot and fast. He didn't have the rational capacity to figure out the mechanics of that, but as it turned out, he didn't need to.

Mostly because Steve, in one swift and brutal motion, yanked him forwards by the hair and sunk his teeth into his lip.

The kiss was like nothing Billy had ever felt before. Back home in Cali he'd tried out the girls first - soft, dainty things, always passive, always wanting to be led. Most of the guys were no better, either assuming he wanted control and not doing anything to help, or trying to take complete control and then get angry when he bit back.

Kissing Steve Harrington was different. It was like kissing the sun itself - full of fire and passion and there was the tang of rust on his lips that meant one of them was bleeding. Hands tugged harder at his hair, and Billy returned the favour, plunging his tongue into Steve's mouth the moment he gasped, pressing as close as humanly possible and wanting to get closer still.

This was everything he'd pushed down for six months, all the too-long stares, all the casual touches, all the admiration and inexplicable jealousy and the way his heart beat far too fast when he watched blood trickle down that picture perfect face.

When they finally broke apart, it was for the sole purpose of breathing, both of them staring with wide eyes and heaving chests. Steve looked… electric. Like all the light inside was spilling over. He was practically glowing.

Billy felt a grin crack across his face unbidden, and then indulged the impulse to lean forward to lick the blood off his chin.

"How was that for 'proof'?" Steve asked, still breathing heavily but now staring fixedly at Billy's tongue. "Good enough for you?"

"I don't know, Princess—think I might need to test it again." Billy couldn't help but tease, his terror pushed aside in the face of Steve Harrington at his most glorious.

He laughed aloud when Steve groaned, shoving his shoulders lightly, playfully. It was nothing like their usual skin contact, where teeth and nails raked across skin and the only kiss was of fists upon cheeks.

"Later," Steve told him, as he slid his hands back through his dishevelled hair to pull it out of his face. For once, he didn't seem to care about the state it was in. "We can- we can test that more later. ..I need to go, before your dad catches us."

He seemed reluctant to move, however, and Billy positively preened at the knowledge he was willing to risk being caught just to stay a little longer.

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Harrington."

The look in Steve's eyes was positively wicked as he grinned back, and it sent Billy falling backwards for miles without ever moving. "Don't worry about that, Hargrove. I know what I want."

And then they were kissing again, and he couldn't quite remember what he'd ever been so worried about, so terrified of. This was fucking great.