serendipity-writes

[serendipity-writes]

drown ourselves so we don't sink

Written for Harringrove Week July 2022! No prompt, just pain

This is my last work for Harringrove Week, and I just want to say thank you so much to the people who organized this event and everyone who participated, whether it was by making content or engaging with what's been posted. This is truly the best fandom experience I've ever had, and I owe it all to you.

Fics for this event: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Rated Mature, 5.1k

Warning for self harm, past/remembered abuse, a current somewhat abusive relationship, and some creepiness involving locker room showers

Summary:

Billy knows a thing or two about scars, has a few himself. He knows what animal bites and claw marks look like, as well as some… less savory injuries, but in all his life, he’s never seen anything like that.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, unable to stop himself, and Harrington nearly slips on the tiled floor, he spins around so fast.

“What?” he spits when he sees Billy’s wide-eyed stare, like he’s issuing a challenge, like he’s bracing for impact.

And Billy’s never been able to leave well enough alone, so he gestures vaguely in Harrington’s direction, mouth curling halfway into a sneer, and asks, “How’d you get those, pretty boy?”

He curls in on himself, a defensive position, but his eyes are bright and flinty when he replies, “Fighting monsters.”

read on ao3

--

Harrington showers fast.

It’s not like Billy’s trying to like, keep track or, or fucking stalk Harrington around the locker room. He just does the same thing every day, waits until most of the team’s finished up, scrubs himself like he’s being chased or something, and leaves without saying a word to anyone. It’s usually just Billy and Tommy left to witness this, Tommy because he takes fucking days to shower, talking Billy’s ear off with shit about practice and other students, and Billy because if he showers well enough at school he doesn’t have to shower at home.

So he’s there when Harrington’s there, and it’s hard not to notice his habits, is all.

* * *

Harrington’s on edge, and this is something Billy’s looking for. He’s got dark circles under his eyes like he hasn’t slept all week, but despite that he’s jumpy in practice, flinches at every loud sound, looks around like he expects something to leap out of the walls at him.

When Billy’s guarding him, he leans back and asks, “What’s got your panties in a twist, pretty boy?” Harrington startles so bad he almost falls flat on his ass.

“None of your business,” he hisses back, and it’s meaner than usual, venomous in a way that says if Billy pushes, he’ll bite. A month or two ago, he would have. Would have shoved Harrington right into the floor, gotten all up in his face, poked and prodded until Harrington lashed out, until he had a real, good fight on his hands.

There’s still a part of him that wants to, a little voice in the back of his mind that whispers that Harrington looked good in blood and bruises, but Billy promised Max he’d do better and he really is trying. So he hip-checks Harrington a little harder than necessary to get the ball, slams it into the net, and turns to back to Harrington with a sharp, victorious grin.

Except Harrington isn’t looking at him. He’s staring at his own hands, shaking in front of his face.

“All right ladies, that’s practice today. Get your sweaty asses out of my gym!” Coach calls, and Billy falls into step next to Harrington as the team jogs to the locker room. Harrington spares him a sidelong glance, but otherwise doesn’t react. Billy isn’t bothered. He really isn’t.

Harrington’s in and out of the shower in record time, so quick he’s nowhere to be seen when Billy’s done.

* * *

He seems more settled the next afternoon, head in the game, hands steady when he passes the ball. Billy elbows him in the stomach on the way to catch a rebound. Even though Billy was playing rough on purpose, Harrington’s wince is bigger than it should be, the breath he sucks in through his teeth more pained. Billy slows for just a second, staring at his eyes, his shirt. Harrington raises an eyebrow at him.

The ball nearly catches him in the face, Billy’s quick reflexes and honed peripheral vision the only things that save him from permanent embarrassment in front of the whole team. He looks for Harrington once he’s got it in his hands, but he’s disappeared.

Harrington doesn’t waste any time gathering his things after practice, not even bothering to change before he leaves. When Tommy asks, he mumbles something about showering at home before fleeing the locker room. Billy stares at the door swinging shut behind him until Tommy slaps him on the back, tells him he played a good game.

* * *

Any school Billy’s been in, there’s an unspoken rule in the locker rooms to keep your eyes above the belt, or at least not get caught if you don’t. Even when he’s talking with Tommy in the showers, which, for the record, Tommy initiates every time, they look at each other’s faces or the walls surrounding them. Billy’s always been paranoid, careful not to let his eyes stray, desperately afraid of what will happen if someone thinks he was sneaking a peek at them.

But now. Now it’s just him and Harrington. Tommy finally got his ass out of practice on time, blabbering to anyone who would listen about his “date night” with Carol, and the rest of the team rolled their eyes and cleared out with the air of people who have better things to do than hang around in a locker room.

So he’s alone with Harrington, who picked a shower far from him out of respect for the social code and also because he doesn’t actually like Billy at all, and Billy lets himself look.

He’s not looking for anything in particular, not looking at anything in particular, just sort of taking note of Harrington’s shoulders, broader than they appear under all the stupid shirts he wears, his arms flexing as he lathers his hair with shampoo, the defined muscles of his thighs, always hidden by pants or long basketball shorts. Then Harrington turns, rinsing out his hair with his back to Billy, and Billy’s breath catches in his throat.

His back is—Billy’s first instinct is to say that it’s a mess, but it’s not really. Four thick lines of white, knotted scar tissue run from his left shoulder blade to the right side of his ribcage, diagonally across the swathe of his back, and another set of four nearly identical scars start to the right of his spine and cut to his left hip, just above his ass. They’re clean, isolated, almost… methodical.

Billy knows a thing or two about scars, has a few himself. He knows what animal bites and claw marks look like, as well as some… less savory injuries, but in all his life, he’s never seen anything like that.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, unable to stop himself, and Harrington nearly slips on the tiled floor, he spins around so fast.

“What?” he spits when he sees Billy’s wide-eyed stare, like he’s issuing a challenge, like he’s bracing for impact.

And Billy’s never been able to leave well enough alone, so he gestures vaguely in Harrington’s direction, mouth curling halfway into a sneer, and asks, “How’d you get those, pretty boy?”

He curls in on himself, a defensive position, but his eyes are bright and flinty when he replies, “Fighting monsters.”

Billy knows a thing or two about fighting monsters too. “Must have been a big one.”

Harrington lets out a dry chuckle, slaps the knob of his shower so the water cuts off. “You could say that,” he says as he grabs his towel, walking out with it slung over his hips, somehow not entirely turning his back to Billy as he leaves.

Billy stands under the hot, high pressure spray for too long. He’s not sure how Harrington’s managed to hide those so far, but he thinks he understands why he always plays shirts.

* * *

He’s so sure, so sure he’s figured it out when he sidles up to Tommy after practice and goes, “Hey, you seen Harrington’s old man around?”

Yeah, this is the same kid whose head he broke a plate over back in the fall, but in this one specific situation, he’ll go to bat for him if it means he gets taken out at the kneecaps. If he can’t save himself, at least he can take a shot at saving someone else.

But his grand, heroic plans are thrown on their head when Tommy says, “Nah, not for a couple months now. Hey Steve, where’re your folks at?”

“Italy,” Harrington replies, sitting on a bench with his back leaning against a row of lockers.

Tommy turns back to Billy and shrugs. “See? His parents are almost never home. ‘S why he used to throw the best parties. Speaking of which, how about Friday, Casa de Harrington?” This last is tossed at Steve, who shakes his head.

“Can’t,” he says. “Got plans Friday night.”

A chorus of “ooh”s rise from their teammates, but Steve just rolls his eyes. For the former King of Hawkins High, he’s good at playing indifferent.

The wind has left Billy’s sails now that he has to recalibrate the understanding he thought he’d reached, and he showers in silence, walking away in the middle of Tommy’s third retelling of when he first went to the quarry and got high. At Tommy’s indignant squawk, he flips him the bird over his shoulder.

He almost waits for Harrington by his car, drives off extra fast before he can talk himself into it.

* * *

Billy swings by Harrington’s house that Friday night, headlights off and engine quiet, for once not wanting to draw attention to himself. He’s curious about what plans are more important to Harrington than a good old-fashioned rager, figures he’s got either a date or a quick fuck lined up.

The truth is underwhelming. Billy idles in front of the house for five minutes, watching through the living room window as Harrington eats what looks like instant mac and cheese on the couch and watches some TV program Billy can’t see. It’s sad, honestly, and Billy almost wonders if he should go knock on the front door just to give Harrington something to do. The only even slightly unusual thing about the picture is that every single light in the house seems to be on. He supposes Harrington’s brand of rich doesn’t have to worry about electrical bills.

He’s about to pull away when he catches sight of something else strange. Leaning against the couch next to Harrington’s leg, handle up like he’s expecting to swing it at any given moment, is a wooden baseball bat. The bottom is mostly cut off by the windowsill, but Billy can see enough to know for sure that huge nails have been driven into the end of it. A weapon like that could really fuck someone up.

Maybe Harrington’s monsters are more real than he’d like Billy to believe.

* * *

He brings it up that Monday, sliding next to Harrington as they’re preparing for practice because the fucker changes with his back to the lockers. He leans in close, sees his breath ruffle Harrington’s hair when he whispers, “So what were you up to Friday, hmm? Fighting monsters?”

Harrington falters at that, dropping the shirt he was holding to the floor. Billy smirks as he bends to pick it up, keeps smirking as Harrington glares daggers at him. “What’s it to you?” he fires back, but it holds less vitriol than some of their past interactions.

Billy shrugs, carefree and nonchalant. “Nothing. Just don’t want you having fun without me.” He walks away before Harrington can reply, all the hairs on the back of his neck standing up straight.

He’s not sure if he’s just offered to have Harrington’s back or be the monster he’s fighting.

* * *

He starts playing more aggressively, just to see how Harrington will react. He steps up to the plate most days, and Billy’s always thought he was meaner but Harrington can be vicious too. They’re careful not to let it get too physical, not to let Coach see, but a quick dig to the ribs here, a heel ground into someone’s toes there becomes their new normal.

Except for the days when Harrington can’t seem to get out of his own head, when he looks around like he’s waiting for something to come for him, something that isn’t Billy. When he blinks and is suddenly somewhere else, somewhere the rest of them can’t see, like he’s having a bad trip. Often, Billy has to shove him to reel him back to the gym. Sometimes he doesn’t come to until he’s knocked onto the floor.

Billy also takes to keeping a crowbar in the trunk of his car, just in case Harrington’s monsters come out to play. Billy’s pretty sure Harrington would carry his bat around the school if he wouldn’t get arrested for it, and Billy honestly can’t blame him. If there really was something out there that did… that, to him, Billy’d be terrified too.

Harrington’s burrowing under his skin, itching like a rash that won’t go away. Billy wants to scratch it, feels like he shouldn’t.

He’s never been too good at self-control.

* * *

Harrington finds Billy smoking under the bleachers one day, cutting fifth period English because he’s already read The Great Gatsby five times and if he has to listen to one more person talk about Nick’s secret desire for Daisy he’s going to shoot himself. Nick and Gatsby so clearly wanted to fuck each other. Why won’t anyone bring that up?

“What’re you doin’ out here?” he asks as Harrington leans against the brick wall next to him. He crosses his arms over his chest, shrugs.

“Needed some air.”

Fair enough. There are days Billy thinks he’s going to crawl out of his skin if he spends another second in this shithole town. Those are the days he drives ninety in a twenty-five, windows rolled down and music blasting obnoxiously loud, the days he almost itches for something to come try him so he can put his fist through a wall.

Harrington looks a bit like he could crawl out of his skin, now.

It takes Billy all of three seconds to pull out his pack and offer a cigarette. Harrington takes it with a mumbled “Thanks,” holds it still between his teeth as Billy flips his lighter open and cups his hand around the end. As soon as it’s lit, Harrington breathes deep, holds it in his lungs until Billy knows it must be scorching. He exhales upward, a gray haze drifting away into the equally gray sky. Harrington follows it with his eyes like he wishes he could float away too.

“Why’d you do that?” he asks suddenly, still staring at the clouds. Billy nearly chokes on his smoke, clearing his throat as it burns its way up his nose.

“Do what?” he asks, arms crossed over his chest.

“Offer me a cigarette.” Harrington makes it sound like Billy gifted him a family heirloom or something.

“Dunno. It’s just a cigarette.” Billy shifts against the bricks digging into his back. Everyone in Hawkins knows he doesn’t share his cigarettes. “Maybe I’ve got monsters too.”

Harrington huffs, takes another drag. “Not like mine,” he says, smoke leaking from his mouth and nose. Billy rolls his eyes, snorts a laugh of his own.

“Not like yours, pretty boy,” he agrees, staring out through the bleachers and lifting his cigarette to his lips. “You got yourself into some deep shit.” When Harrington doesn’t respond, Billy glances back at him, at the tightness around his mouth, the tension in his shoulders, and raises an eyebrow. “What, you got a problem with me being nice to you?”

Harrington scrubs his hands over his face and sighs the kind of heavy, world-weary sigh Billy used to hear from his grandfather, years after he returned from Vietnam. Harrington has the same eyes too, Billy realizes, eyes that say they’ve seen some shit even if the rest of him screams rich, preppy prom king material.

“No,” he says. Billy’d almost forgotten he’d asked a question. “I just want shit to go back to normal, I guess.”

“I could slam your face into the wall if that’d help,” Billy offers, grinning dangerously around his cigarette. Harrington’s eyes cut to him, still for a moment before he lets out a surprised chuckle.

“Not right now,” he says, answering smile sharp as glass. “But I might call that in later.”

He’s joking, Billy knows he’s joking, but there’s a hint of truth in his voice.

Billy feels his blood thundering through his veins.

* * *

There’s blood on his shirt the next day. Not a lot, just a small spot, red blooming in the yellow fabric over Harrington’s stomach.

“You’ve got blood on your shirt,” he whispers into Harrington’s ear during second period History. Sitting right behind the guy has its perks sometimes.

Harrington stiffens at the words, ducking his head to look at the offending piece of clothing. “Shit,” he whispers, but there’s not much he can do about it at this point. Billy knows how to get blood out of cotton, but that information feels too personal to offer.

“Where’d it come from?” he asks. Harrington turns his head slightly so Billy can hear his muttered response.

“Got a nosebleed this morning. Didn’t realize it got on my shirt.”

There’s a waver to his voice, like the words don’t quite fit in his mouth. He’s lying, Billy’s almost sure of it, but he’s got no ground to stand on, so he sits back in his chair and mulls it over.

Just because Harrington’s monsters nearly ripped him apart doesn’t mean they’re incapable of subtle cruelties. Billy knows that well enough.

* * *

Billy starts hanging around Harrington outside of practice after that, not to check up on him or anything stupid like that, but because the guy’s actually pretty good company when he’s not hiding Billy’s sister and lying about it. And, fine, also to keep a closer eye on him. Something’s up with him, and maybe if Billy can figure it out he’ll be able to get Harrington out of his goddamn mind.

A few weeks in, he’s begun to piece together a pattern. Harrington gets wound increasingly tight, flinching more and sleeping less, if the shadows under his eyes are any indication, looks strung out and still prettier than anyone that wrecked has any right to be. Then, anywhere from two days to a whole week into this, he goes home after practice one day and shows up the next… well, not fine, but. His feet are steady, his smile charming, his play quick and coordinated. He doesn’t tend to shower in the locker room on those days, hustling out the door in his gross practice uniform like he’s going to be late for the toaster if he doesn’t leave right the fuck now.

The light never quite returns to his eyes. Billy wonders what Harrington’s actual friends, the Wheeler chick and her freak boyfriend Byers, are doing when they’re with him, that they don’t seem to notice this. ‘Cause if Billy can tell, it has to be pretty obvious, right?

* * *

He sees it coming, once he knows what to look for. Friday practice, Harrington’s all over the place, catching passes in the sternum, letting the ball slip from his fingers, missing shots his weird little middle school friends could probably make. Coach calls him over after practice, tells him to get his head in the game before sending him to the showers with everyone else. Billy can’t help glancing over at him out of the corner of his eye, but it’s like Harrington’s in his own world.

Billy spends the entire weekend sitting on his bed, alternately telling himself to stay away from Harrington’s house and just drive over there, you motherfucker. In the end, he doesn’t go.

He looks for Harrington on Monday, though. For some reason he can’t quite pin down, part of him is expecting Harrington’s spot to be empty. But his car’s there, right where it usually is, and when Billy swans through the doors to the school, Harrington’s leaning against his locker, chatting with Wheeler. Something inside Billy shudders awake at seeing him in the flesh. He meets Billy’s eyes as he walks by, and Billy must be imagining things because he thinks he sees a spark in Harrington’s.

He doesn’t stop to talk. There are unspoken rules to their friendship, if it can be called that, and one of them is that Billy doesn’t bother him when the other two musketeers are around. In fact, he spends the day waiting for Harrington to approach him, sure it’ll happen, until practice rolls around and they haven’t spoken at all.

“Avoiding me, pretty boy?” he asks as they’re getting ready, the smell of body spray thick in the air around them even though they’re about to go on the court, not get off of it.

“Nah,” Harrington replies casually, easily. “Just got busy.”

He can’t quite look Billy in the eye.

Practice goes well, Coach even flashing Harrington a thumbs up at the end. Harrington jogs over to talk to him in hushed tones. Billy can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but lingering in the gym would be too obvious, so he heads to the locker room like he always does.

Harrington still hasn’t come in by the time he’s all packed up and ready to go. Billy stares at his bag, the sliver of the dumb polo he can see through the open zipper.

“You coming?” Tommy asks, paused in the door to the hallway.

“No,” he says after a moment. “Gonna stick around for a minute.”

“Okay,” Tommy says, looking at him like he’s finally lost the plot before he leaves, door shutting gently behind him thanks to Billy’s hand on the doorknob. He circles the locker room until he finds a seat out of sight of the door to the gym.

It’s another few minutes of staring at his hands and bouncing his leg against the floor before the door creaks open. He hears Harrington’s footsteps, holds his breath as silence descends over them. “Hello?” Harrington eventually calls. Billy doesn’t move a muscle.

He knows it’s a little weird, maybe even creepy, but something’s off about Harrington when he’s like this, temporarily okay, and Billy just… he has to know.

He stands up when the shower starts, padding through the rows of lockers on bare feet until he rounds the corner and sees Harrington, standing under the showerhead with his eyes closed, water pounding on his face. The ends of the scars on his hip are just barely visible, gleaming pale against Harrington’s already fair skin. They still surprise Billy sometimes, even though he’s memorized their exact placement, could probably trace them with his eyes closed. Then Harrington lifts his arms to press his palms to his eyes and it’s like that first day all over again.

Because his stomach is covered in thin red lines. Scattered across the flat expanse from his pecs to the vee of his hips, cutting in different directions, crossing over each other, ranging from fractions of an inch to the better part of half a foot. They’re a couple days old, mostly scabbed over, but some of the rivulets running off of them are tinged pink with blood.

Billy wants to stop seeing this, can’t tear his eyes away.

He doesn’t make a sound, knows he doesn’t because when Steve finally opens his eyes, he jumps a foot in the air and has to catch himself against the wall. Any other time, Billy would laugh at him. Now, all he can do is look in his eyes. He can’t put a name to what he sees there, can’t define his own emotions. All he recognizes is intensity.

“What the fuck, Billy?” Steve whispers when he recovers, standing frozen at the edge of the shower. Billy steps forward, pulled along by an invisible string.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. This close, he can see the faded marks beneath the new ones, layer upon layer of scars, evidence that this has been going on a long time, maybe even since before Billy showed up. He reaches out to place his hand on Steve’s waist, thumb just shy of brushing the closest wound. Steve breathes in sharply at the contact, eyes fluttering shut before they fly open and he shoves angrily at Billy’s chest, forcing him back far enough that he can twist the shower off and stalk over to the closest bench to grab his towel.

“This is seriously fucked up,” he says as he wraps it around his waist, high even though there’s no way he can cover all of the cuts.

Billy finds his voice then, in the worst possible way he could have. “Yeah, it is,” he says, and Steve’s eyes go ice cold.

“Fuck off,” he hisses. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know enough to tell you that shit is fucking wrong,” he says, which is also not the right thing. Steve bangs around the locker room, looking for his clothes. Billy trails behind him, unsure of where he stands but unwilling to let Steve leave his sight for even a moment.

“Well, what do you suggest, then?” Steve forces through clenched teeth after he’s pulled his shirt over his head. “Since you’re obviously the authority on dealing with your issues.”

Billy blinks in shock, confused as to how this conversation turned on him when Steve’s literally bleeding in front of him. “The fuck?” he mutters, then shakes his head. “I don’t—fuck off about me, you should be above this.”

“You’re one to talk,” Steve says, hopping around with one leg through his pants. “Oh wait, you don’t hurt yourself. You like to hurt other people.”

The words sting like acid, cut straight toward Billy’s heart. Snatches of other conversations, with a different voice, flood his ears. You've never been responsible enough and You don't know how to handle yourself like a man and I've tried to make you into a good son, but you're not capable of that, are you?

“At least I don’t drag innocent bystanders into my bullshit,” Steve adds, straightening up and buttoning his jeans. “And why the hell do you care, anyway? You beat the shit out of me at the beginning of the year and you’d do it again, don’t lie and say you wouldn’t!”

He’s close by the end, practically yelling right in Billy’s face, and Billy’s just starting to see red, to think maybe he would, maybe he will, when he remembers smoking together under the bleachers. I might call that in later, Steve said, and Billy had thought he wasn’t serious but felt something honest even then.

He’s calling it in now, Billy realizes. He’s itching for this to come to blows, to get slapped around and shoved into the lockers because it’s easier to scream and throw punches at someone else than face a part of yourself you don’t want to see. Billy should know. He’s done it enough times.

But not now. Steve wants a fight, and even though Billy’s craving it like air or water or the chance to throw his old man off the cliff at the quarry, for once he’s not going to give it to him.

“Steve,” he says, steady, steely even, placing his hands on the other boy’s shoulders and holding them at arm’s length. “Don’t drag yourself down to my level. Don’t let your monsters take control like that.”

He’s not sure he means it.

Steve stares at Billy, eyes wide and mouth parted slightly. He looks fragile, fucking innocent in a way that makes Billy want to protect him from the world and break him more thoroughly than he’s ever broken anyone else at the same time. Which is why he doesn’t expect the side of Steve’s fist to slam into his chest. He sways back but keeps his footing. There wasn’t any real force behind the punch, and it’s not like Steve has a great track record of winning fights anyway. He does it again, then brings his other fist up, hitting Billy over and over, not even hard enough to bruise. Billy flinches at each blow, doesn’t move his hands from Steve’s shoulders.

“Goddamn it!” Steve shouts at him, something wild in his eyes. “Fight back, you motherfucker!” He searches Billy’s face frantically, looking for something he must not find because he drops his gaze to the floor, shoulders shaking with silent, manic laughter. “Fight back,” he pleads again, leaning his weight into the fists still pressed to Billy’s chest.

“Or what?” Billy asks the back of Steve’s head. He feels something small and wet hit the top of his foot, thinks Steve’s hair is still dripping from the shower until he looks up and Billy sees the tears welling in his eyes.

“Or I’m going to do something really stupid,” Steve whispers before moving suddenly, shifting so his hands are fisted in Billy’s shirt rather than against it and crashing their mouths together.

There’s nothing tender or gentle about it; it’s all teeth and tongue, their noses smashed against each other until Billy tilts Steve’s head, lines them up. He walks forward until Steve’s back hits the row of lockers behind him, fingers running through the hair at the nape of his neck. Steve’s teeth scrape over his bottom lip, biting down until Billy tastes blood. Billy gives as good as he gets, shoving his tongue down Steve’s throat, tightening his grip on his hair until Steve moans into his mouth. Steve pulls Billy in even closer, moves his hands from the front of his shirt to his waist, his lower back, nails scratching him through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

Billy’s not a good person. He held himself back from fighting Steve, but if Steve wants Billy to hurt him, he doesn’t think he has the strength to say no.

He slides his hands down Steve’s chest while nipping at his jawline, knows he’s hit the cuts when Steve hisses, digs his fingernails harder into Billy’s skin. “Don’t stop,” he commands, and Billy complies. He drags his fingers over Steve’s stomach, pressing harder than he should, reveling in the way Steve’s breaths come fast and sharp. Steve’s whole body spasms when Billy bites down on the tendon straining against the soft skin of his neck; there are clear teeth marks when he pulls away.

Steve ducks down to catch Billy’s mouth again, absolutely merciless in his pursuit, tongue laving over the tender spot where he bit Billy just a few minutes ago. Billy presses in further, hard enough that their lips will bruise, feeling like if he just gets close enough he might not be alone down here anymore, like if he gets really lucky Steve might join him.

“Promise me something, pretty boy,” he murmurs in the space between their lips. Steve arches his back, pushing into Billy’s solid muscle mass, gasping at the pressure on his stomach.

“What?” he pants, eyes glassy, lips spit-slick and swollen. He almost looks like he got in a fight anyway.

He’s so beautiful Billy’s heart aches.

“Next time you feel like doing something stupid,” Billy says, hands slipping under Steve’s shirt, thumbs digging into his waist to punctuate his words, “call me.” He breaks off to press another open-mouthed kiss to Steve’s lips, Steve surging forward to meet him halfway. “I won’t tell you to stop, or—or get help or whatever, but I’ll be there,” he continues as Steve bites along his jaw. “Just call me.”

“Okay,” Steve whispers, breath ghosting over Billy’s cheek. He shudders, dropping his head to Steve’s shoulder, sinking his teeth into the juncture at his neck. Steve’s fingers are ruthless on Billy’s hips. He can feel the bruises forming, mirroring marks that have just begun to fade.

Maybe this is what they deserve.

[serendipity-writes]

All the Things That I Know (That Your Parents Don't)

Written for Harringrove Week July 2022! Prompt: handcuffs

Fics for this event: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Rated Gen, 4.7k

Warning for a brief Neil Hargrove appearance (but Steve is also there so he doesn't try shit) and alcohol

Summary:

“I’m sick of your bullshit,” Nancy says primly, hands clasped behind her back. “So you two are stuck together until you learn how to get along or one of you kills the other. Have fun!”

“Nancy—” Steve starts as she walks around them, ushering Max, El, and Dustin out the front door. He’s distracted by the soft, vehement “fuck” issued by none other than Billy, still standing next to him, and when he finally looks down, he can see why.

They’re—Nancy fucking—

“Are these from the police station?” he shouts at her, gesturing at the handcuffs connecting his wrist to Billy’s.

read on ao3

--

They’ve been scowling at each other for about three minutes straight now, which has to be a record.

Well, a record in that they’ve never lasted this long without shouting or swinging at each other.

Steve and Billy are standing in the Wheelers’ entryway, waiting for their respective children to emerge from the basement. Nancy is by the foot of the stairs to the second floor, arms crossed, staring each of them down. She’s termed this “chaperoning,” as though she can’t trust Billy and Steve to behave themselves around each other.

To be fair, they’ve yet to prove her wrong.

With a great show of restraint, Steve tears his eyes away from Billy’s and focuses them on the banister. He can still feel Billy’s glare burning a hole into the side of his skull, and he’s only capable of gazing stoically ahead for so long. Eventually it’s just too much.

“Will you cut it out,” he hisses between clenched teeth. Billy chuckles like he’s just won their silent battle of wills, which he absolutely has not.

“Cut what out, pretty boy?” he asks, taunting and irritating and just fucking there, standing next to Steve with the audacity to pretend he doesn’t know what Steve’s talking about.

“Staring at me,” Steve grits out, finally giving in and turning back to Billy, fists clenched at his sides. There’s a fire in Billy’s eyes that says he’s looking forward to doing this for the seventh time this month, a fire that Steve wants to slap onto the floor.

“Do either of you have plans tonight?” Nancy interrupts, gaze flickering between their faces when they turn in synch to look at her. After a second or two, Billy spreads his arms, gesturing grandly to the house around them

“You’re looking at them, princess,” he sneers, and Steve also wants to slap that word out of his mouth.

Nancy ignores it though, choosing instead to focus on Steve. He shrugs. “What else do you think I’ve got going on?”

She shrugs back. “I don’t know. Wait here, I’m going to check on the kids.”

With that she disappears into the kitchen. Steve glances at Billy out of the corner of his eye. The fight hasn’t quite left him, per se, but his face is puzzled rather than gleefully angry, which Steve thinks is a step up.

Not that he spends time thinking about Billy’s face or anything.

“What do you think that was about?” Billy asks after a moment’s hesitation. Steve crosses his arms over his chest.

“No clue. Just ‘cause I dated her for almost a year doesn’t mean I have any idea what goes on in her head.”

The children flood into the hallway before things can turn bad between the two of them again, all six of them piling up by the stairs even though only three are leaving right now.

“Alright, Max,” Billy says as she hugs El goodbye. “We gotta get moving, shitbird, your curfew’s almost up.”

Steve doesn’t bother with words, just gestures vaguely at Dustin with his right hand.

Which proves to be his first mistake, as a cold band of metal closes around his left wrist.

“What the fuck?” he and Billy say at the same time. That immediately doesn’t bode well. Steve tries to turn around, but finds he can’t move his left arm. He ends up kind of sideways, looking awkwardly over his shoulder at Nancy, who somehow snuck behind them while they were busy with the kids.

“I’m sick of your bullshit,” she says primly, hands clasped behind her back. “So you two are stuck together until you learn how to get along or one of you kills the other. Have fun!”

“Nancy—” Steve starts as she walks around them, ushering Max, El, and Dustin out the front door. He’s distracted by the soft, vehement “fuck” issued by none other than Billy, still standing next to him, and when he finally looks down, he can see why.

They’re—Nancy fucking—

“Are these from the police station?” he shouts at her, gesturing at the handcuffs connecting his wrist to Billy’s.

“Don’t worry, they won’t even notice they’re gone!” Nancy assures him, which is not very comforting in these trying times. “I’ll drive the kids home, it’s alright.”

Max’s face pales at that for some reason, but Steve doesn’t have time to think about it because Billy is suddenly yanking him out the door and down the front steps toward where the Camaro is parked on the street.

“—has to take me home,” Max is telling Nancy when they arrive, Billy tense and Steve flushed. Nancy looks between her and Billy, a suspicious glint in her eyes, before nodding.

“Okay,” she says. “That’s fine. Billy, you’re good to drive, right?”

“Absolutely,” he replies, “if you’ll take these off.” He shakes his arm for emphasis, rattling Steve’s hand around and tugging uncomfortably at the thin skin of his wrist.

“Hey, hey!” he says, fighting to still the motion, which only makes him hurt more.

Nancy looks like she’s considering it for a moment before she shakes her head. “You know, I’m not sure where I put the key,” she offers by way of explanation, which Steve knows is absolutely not true.

Billy looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm. Steve would be worried for Nancy if he wasn’t more worried for himself, seeing as he’s handcuffed to the guy and all.

“Fine,” Billy growls, and somehow that word sounds like more of a threat than anything he’s ever said to Steve. Nancy, absolute badass that she is, doesn’t look cowed in the slightest. “Max, get in the car.”

She obeys without a word.

Steve starts heading for the passenger side door before he’s abruptly pulled back. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Billy asks, venom in his words. Steve starts pointing to the car when Billy shakes their wrists again. Suddenly, Steve realizes the flaw in his plan.

“Right,” he says slowly, and follows Billy around the other side of the car.

“Go ahead,” Billy says when he’s opened the door. Steve glares up at him as he slides into the driver’s seat.

“For the record, I don’t like this,” he complains, crawling over the gear shift and flopping unceremoniously across the passenger seat. Even being pulled along, Billy enters the car smoothly, the bastard.

“Neither do I, pretty boy,” he mutters as he turns the key in the ignition, then, “Shit, shit, shit!”

Steve glances at the clock. 9:56. Shit.

Billy floors the gas before Steve’s even buckled in, racing away from the traitorous Wheeler household. Steve hopes Nancy suffers a painful death at the hands of Dustin’s excessive knowledge about every science topic known to man.

The ride is tense and silent, Billy glaring murderously at the road in front of them, Max in the backseat not making a sound, and Steve too confused by what he’s just been pulled into to risk saying a single word. Billy treats road signs like suggestions and corners like he’ll get points for skidding around them. Steve’s knuckles are white on the handle of the car door, but Max doesn’t ask him to slow down, so he takes her lead.

“For the love of God, Harrington, be cool and let me do the talking,” Billy says, breaking the silence as they pull up in front of his house. He jerks their hands back so the handcuffs aren’t visible on the center console. Steve’s just about to complain about this treatment when he catches sight of Billy’s face, his eyes. For once, there’s no anger boiling under the surface, waiting for an excuse to burst out.

It’s been replaced by fear.

So Steve keeps his mouth shut as Max gets out of the backseat, as the front door opens to welcome her in. The car clock reads 9:59.

A figure, silhouetted by the light pouring out of the doorway, walks the short distance to the curb. Somehow, they’re imposing even though they’re not particularly tall or large. Billy rolls down Steve’s window, and as the person braces one hand against the roof of the car, Steve can make out dark eyes, a stern mustache, an even sterner mouth.

Steve takes a moment to reassess everything he’s ever thought about Billy’s life.

“Mr. Hargrove,” he says, taking a gamble and inclining his head slightly. Whatever luck he’s had with anyone else, Steve has always been able to charm parents.

Billy’s father, because Steve’s guess seems to have been correct, glances at him briefly and nods back before his gaze shifts. Steve knows he’s looking at Billy right now, but for some reason, he keeps his gaze fixed on the elder Hargrove.

“Billy,” he says, and Steve can feel Billy’s flinch through the cuff on his wrist. “Why don’t you introduce me to your friend here?”

“Steve Harrington,” Steve offers before Billy can say anything, blatantly ignoring his request to keep silent. Mr. Hargrove holds his hand through the window, and Steve thanks God that it’s his left hand that’s attached to Billy as he shakes it.

“Harrington,” Mr. Hargrove says when Steve’s been released. “I know your father. Good man.”

“Yes sir,” Steve says, because it’s useful enough to keep all the adults in Hawkins thinking that.

“We were gonna go for a drive,” Billy says. “See what’s happening tonight. Sir.”

“Ah.” Billy’s father looks at him, then back at Steve. “You get into a lot of trouble, son?”

“No more than a healthy teenage boy should, sir,” Steve answers with one of his patented schmoozing-the-parents grins. Mr. Hargrove looks taken aback for a moment before releasing a startled chuckle. Works every time.

“Maybe you can keep my son in line, boy,” he says before turning back to Billy, smile tightening almost imperceptibly. “Don’t let me hear you come home late.”

“Yes sir,” Billy says. Steve’s never heard that amount of deference in his voice before. It’s borderline frightening.

With that, Billy’s father backs away and Billy wastes no time driving into the night, leaving Steve to roll up his window himself. He keeps an eye on Mr. Hargrove in the rearview, still standing in the front yard until the road curves and he’s out of sight.

* * *

“I thought you said this was gonna be easy,” Steve huffs, changing the position of his legs for the third time since Billy started trying to pick the lock on the handcuffs.

They’re sitting in the junkyard because Billy didn’t have wire in his car, and that’s apparently a crucial material for picking handcuffs. Not that it seems to be doing them much good, since all Billy’s really succeeded at is growling in frustration and rubbing the skin on Steve’s wrist raw.

“Yeah, well, it’s been a while since I’ve had to pick law-enforcement grade cuffs,” he fires back, wire still scraping around in the little hole by the chain. “Can’t believe Wheeler fucked us over like this.”

“Hey, she did ask us if we had plans,” Steve offers in Nancy’s defense, although he’s not her biggest fan at the moment either.

“Still a fucking bitch,” Billy mutters under his breath.

He grunts as Steve leans forward and grabs the chain connecting them, tugging it harshly and twisting Billy’s arm into what he hopes is a really uncomfortable position, since he’s doing his fair share of suffering. “Call her that again,” Steve hisses, staring deep into Billy’s eyes, “and I’ll break your face.”

Billy looks almost chastised for a breath before his swagger returns full force. “Yeah? How well did that work out for you last time, pretty boy?”

Steve doesn’t really have a good defense for that, so after another tense second, he pushes Billy’s hand away as far as it’ll go and falls back against the trashed bumper he was leaning on before. Billy chuckles, a victorious set to his shoulders. Steve wants to kick him so bad. He doesn���t, though. Getting along, and all of that bullshit.

The silence lasts another few minutes, during which Billy makes absolutely no progress on the cuffs, before Steve feels the urge to break it again. “You must take after your mother,” he says, not quite sure what prompted that observation.

Billy’s shoulders stiffen, but his tone is casual enough when he says, “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, head lolling to the side so he can see Billy’s face. “You don’t look like that ugly son of a bitch at all.”

That was a gamble too, but one that paid off if Billy’s shocked burst of laughter is any indication. Damn, Steve’s on a roll. He should hit up a casino after this.

“Steve Harrington,” Billy says slowly, smirking up at Steve, “are you calling me pretty?”

Steve smiles back, almost against his will. “I don’t know,” he hedges, “I thought that was your thing.”

Billy laughs again, throwing his head back. Moonlight shines down on his face, casting his features in an ethereal light. He looks like how Steve imagined those fairies did in that one Shakespeare play, A Summer Dream or whatever.

Steve still wants to kick him. Kind of. Not really.

* * *

“So what do we do now?” Steve asks. He’s lying on his back, gazing up at the sky because after half an hour or so, the shapes of the junkyard at night started to wear on him. God, he wishes he had Josephine with him, her sturdy, reassuring wood in his palm. Even if he could only swing her with one hand, she’d still do some damage.

Billy is sitting up next to him, hand resting on the ground so Steve doesn’t have to lift his arm. He’s long since given up on picking the lock. Even when he claimed the darkness was interfering and they’d turned on the Camaro’s headlights, he hadn’t been able to spring them. Somewhat unexpectedly, he’d accepted this defeat with grace.

“I don’t know,” he admits, shrugging his shoulders and jostling Steve’s arm. Then he stills, turns to Steve with a nearly manic grin. “What if we break them?”

“What?” Steve asks, but Billy’s already standing. Steve squawks as he’s dragged to his feet, stumbling after Billy as he makes for the Camaro.

As soon as he pops the trunk, Steve steps back, hands raised. “Nope, not a cold chance in hell, Hargrove.”

* * *

Steve screws his eyes shut as Billy raises the crowbar over their heads. “I swear to God, Billy, if you take off one of my fingers—”

“You’re coming for my kneecaps, I know.” Billy doesn’t sound the least bit concerned. Steve has the energy to be offended for all of a second before the crowbar comes whistling down.

* * *

“What if we just go to the station and ask them to unlock them?” Steve muses. They’re both lying in the grass now, staring despondently at the clouds that have just started to roll in. Steve’s got the fingers of his right hand wrapped loosely around the crowbar. After that spectacular plan had failed, he’d refused to let Billy put it back in his trunk. Billy made it quite clear that he thought Steve was out of his goddamn mind, but he let him keep it.

“Absolutely not,” Billy retorts. “You wanna walk into a room full of cops and explain that your ex-girlfriend got the jump on us with equipment she stole from them?”

Steve shrugs. “Fair point. They probably wouldn’t be too happy to hear that.”

Billy laughs incredulously. “I don’t give a fuck about the police, Harrington. It’s Wheeler I’m worried about. She’d skin us alive if we threw her under the bus like that.”

Billy’s… got a point, Steve has to admit. Just picturing Nancy’s expression has his blood running cold.

“Okay, so no police.”

* * *

“D’you think she’d believe us if we told her we’re cool now?”

“No.”

* * *

“Well, since we’re stuck here,” Billy starts, which in Steve’s experience is never an auspicious beginning, “might as well entertain ourselves.”

Steve shudders to think of what this entertainment might entail. “Why, got some ideas?”

“Eh, we could do some bullshit party game. Twenty questions, or something.”

“I’d rather eat the goddamn handcuffs,” Steve responds. Billy huffs a laugh. Turns out Steve’s pretty good at that, making him laugh. “You don’t have a deck of cards or anything in your car?”

He can feel more than see Billy’s lewd grin. “Well, usually when I’m taking someone back to my car, it’s not to play cards.”

Steve rolls his eyes so hard he can see the inside of his head. “Fine, shoot.”

“King Steve,” Billy drawls. Steve is suddenly very worried. “Handcuffs.”

“Handcuffs,” Steve repeats slowly, unsure where Billy’s going with this.

“You ever fuck in them?”

Steve drags his free hand over his face. “Coming out of the gate strong with that one, huh?” He feels Billy shake next to him, although he can’t actually hear his laughter this time. “What would you think if I said yes?”

Billy abruptly freezes. Steve turns his head to find Billy staring back at him, eyes wide and glittering in the slivers of moonlight peeking through the clouds. “I’d think you contained multitudes,” he says eventually. A goading smile steals over his face as he adds, “Always thought you’d be Midwest fuckin’ vanilla.”

Steve blinks, trying to figure out if he should be offended or not. “I think I’m gonna take that as an insult,” he decides.

“From me? Definitely.”

“Alright then, California boy,” Steve retorts. Billy’s grin grows wider. “You a handcuffs kind of guy?”

“Not usually,” Billy answers. “But in the right circumstances…” he glances between them, where their hands lie next to each other, nearly touching despite the several inches of chain they have to work with, “I could get into it.”

Steve can’t help it; a laugh bubbles up his throat. “You’re ridiculous,” he says. “Your turn again, I guess.”

“Hmm.” Billy actually seems to be considering this one, which soothes Steve’s nerves not at all. “Why’d you and Wheeler break up?” he settles on. Steve winces.

“Well, she got drunk at Tina’s party, called me bullshit, and essentially told me she didn’t love me.”

Billy whistles through his teeth. “That sucks, man.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs. “But we’re past that now. Water under the bridge.”

“Gotta say, Harrington, I’m not sure I’d be able to do that,” Billy says. “Seeing her as much as you do and not holding a grudge? That takes character.”

“Billiam Hargrove,” Steve says, surprised, “is that a bona fide compliment?”

“Cherish it like your little shitheads,” Billy replies, “because it’s the only one you’re gonna get. Now ask me something, I’m getting bored.”

“What’s the deal with your dad?” Steve bites his lip as soon as the question’s out, wishes he could take it back. Billy turns his head back to the sky, jaw clenched. He doesn’t have to say anything. Steve gets the message loud and clear.

* * *

“I’m sorry.”

* * *

“Alright, I’m gonna need alcohol for this,” Billy says, actually waiting for Steve to be ready this time before standing up. Turns out he’s got a six-pack in the Camaro’s backseat, which he pulls out with a flourish.

“IPA?” Steve says, bending closer to look at the cans. “That cheap shit tastes like piss.”

“More for me then,” Billy says, chuckling when Steve snatches a can from the plastic rings.

They end up sitting down by the Camaro, leaning against its front bumper. Steve would have rather been on the hood of the car, but the look Billy gave him when he suggested that implied both that he valued the car over his own life, and that he would happily gut Steve with an empty aluminum can if he so much as smudged her paint. So back to the hard-packed dirt they went.

Billy’s chugged his way through two beers and is nursing his third when he finally speaks. “My old man’s a piece of shit,” he says, then takes a hearty swig. “My mom, she got out, but she left me with him.”

“That sucks, man,” Steve echoes, unsure what else to say.

“Yeah,” Billy replies, his faint chuckle sad and angry. Steve finds himself missing his laugh from earlier, when he told Billy “pretty boy” was his thing, or when he said he’d rather eat the handcuffs than play the stupid game that got them here. “Can’t do anything right in his eyes.” He finishes the third beer, reaches for a fourth even though technically Steve can lay claim to it. He lets Billy take it, crumples his own empty can against his leg and grabs the last one. “He woulda flipped his shit on both of us if he saw us handcuffed together.”

That explains why Billy was so worried when they pulled up to his house, then. “Sorry,” Steve tries, but it’s flat even to his own ears. “Anything I can do to help?” It’s a genuine offer, but it still sounds lame as shit. Steve wishes he could come up with something better.

“Nah,” Billy says, looking down at his beer. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about me.”

His hair is silver in the intermittent light. Steve kind of wants to kiss him.

* * *

“Do you think we’re cool now?”

“Yeah, pretty boy, I think we are.”

* * *

“Truth or dare?”

“Who’s coming up with lame-ass party games now?”

Steve snorts, runs his hand through his hair. He’s not drunk, he only had two beers, but the buzz feels nice. “Just answer the question, Billy.”

“Truth,” Billy says. It feels like he’s placing a lot of faith in Steve, considering everything he’s already told him. Steve’s not going to abuse it.

“How do you really feel about Max?” he asks. Billy rolls his eyes.

“She’s a shitbird,” he responds, and Steve’s about to call bullshit because that’s nothing he didn’t already know when Billy continues speaking. “But she’s my sister. I don’t think we’re quite there yet, like how siblings are supposed to be. I don’t know if we’ll ever get there. But I’m trying.”

Steve nods slowly. He’s heard from Max that Billy’s doing better, at least when he’s not around Steve. He almost wants to laugh. If only Max could see them now.

“Truth or dare?”

Right, it’s Steve’s turn. “Truth.”

Billy opens his mouth like he’s already got his question prepared, then closes it. If Steve didn’t know better, he’d think he looks… uneasy.

“Fuckin’ go for it, dude,” Steve says, spreading his arms as much as he can. “I’m an open book.” Well, except for some things. You know, the ones involving little girls with superpowers and interdimensional monsters in this very junkyard and literal pounds of NDAs, but he highly doubts that’s where Billy’s going to take this.

Billy raises his eyebrows at Steve, who nods encouragingly. “Alright,” he says, like it’s Steve’s fault he’s about to ask whatever it is. “Ever fuck a guy?”

And, yeah, Steve can see why he’d be a bit apprehensive to ask that. There isn’t enough time in the world for him to count up all the guys in Hawkins who would kick Billy’s face in for that question, and then drag him home so his dad could probably beat the shit out of him too. But that’s not what Steve thinks about. Instead, his mind turns to his thirteenth birthday, to Tommy staying over after all the other kids had left his birthday party, them sitting next to each other on Steve’s bed, Steve leaning over to kiss Tommy clumsily, half on his mouth and half on his chin. Tommy, staring at Steve with wide eyes before kissing him back, closer to the mark this time. The two of them making out in Steve’s room all night, swearing to each other never to mention it again in the morning.

“No,” he says, staring out toward the old school bus where he’d almost gotten himself killed, not really seeing it.

After a moment, Billy’s shoulder bumps into his. “Gonna ask me, Steve?” he prompts.

“Truth or dare?” Steve asks, more on autopilot than anything else.

“Dare,” Billy responds, false confidence covering something else, something that Steve’s worried will break if he examines it too closely. He blinks and swallows, his throat suddenly dry. Turns to look at Billy, his face shadowed by the clouds covering the moon.

“Kiss me.”

The clouds break, silver light spilling down on them just in time for Steve to really see Billy, sitting next to him, lips parted in shock, before he surges forward.

Steve’s not sure what he was expecting, but it isn’t the electricity that crackles down his spine, spreading through his arms and legs, leaving his face tingling in the cool night air. Billy kisses him hungrily, with the same kind of aggression he’s been throwing at Steve every time they’ve seen each other these last few months, but it’s not mean now. It’s… intoxicating, rushing straight to Steve’s head, making him feel like he could fly. He swings a leg over Billy’s, settling on his lap as Billy swipes his tongue over Steve’s bottom lip. When he opens his mouth, lets Billy inside, he swears he can feel the stars raining down on them.

It gets a little awkward when they remember that they can’t move their hands apart, but that doesn’t hold them back for long. Billy runs the fingers of his free hand through Steve’s hair, tugging at the strands slightly as Steve’s hand slides down his chest, feeling the hard planes of his muscles through the thin cotton of his shirt. Steve nips gently at Billy’s lip and is rewarded with a sharp gasp, Billy’s hand sliding down from his hair, blunt nails scratching at the nape of his neck. Steve breaks the kiss, leaning their foreheads together as he pants into the space between them.

“Who would’ve guessed,” Billy breathes, hot air ghosting over Steve’s lips. “King Steve contains multitudes.”

“Can I tell you a secret?” Steve whispers back, not really waiting for Billy’s answer. “I’ve never actually fucked anyone with handcuffs on.”

Steve chases the chuckle that falls from Billy’s lips, connecting them again. It’s Billy that pulls away a few moments later, looking up at Steve like he’s seeing him for the first time. “Lucky for you,” he says, lifting their joined wrists into the air, “I know where we can find a pair.”

Steve falls forward, forehead landing on Billy’s shoulder, wheezing with silent laughter. “How about we go get out of these?” he suggests when he’s recovered, rolling off of Billy so they can stand.

“I don’t know, pretty boy,” Billy says, and the nickname that used to burrow under Steve’s skin now makes him flush, “they’re kind of growing on me.”

“No,” Steve says, trying for serious even though he can still taste Billy on his tongue. “I am not spending the rest of the night handcuffed to you. It’s, like, four a.m. already, and we have school tomorrow.”

“We should skip tomorrow,” Billy murmurs, pulling Steve closer by his waist. “I can think of better uses for our time than sitting in a classroom.”

“Alright,” Steve concedes, “but we’re still making Nancy take the cuffs off.”

“I’ll let you handle that,” Billy says as Steve once again clambers over to the passenger seat of the Camaro. “Good luck.”

“I don’t know,” Steve parrots, “I think we can make a pretty good case for ourselves.”

* * *

As soon as Nancy lays eyes on them at her door, she pulls the key out from her back pocket and unlocks them. There’s a red circle around each of their wrists left from the metal, but as Steve looks at it, he can’t find it in himself to be annoyed.

“I’m keeping these,” Nancy says, holding onto the handcuffs threateningly. Billy laughs at her.

“Good,” he says, not leering like he might have earlier that night. “Now I know where they’ll be.”

She narrows her eyes at him before backing into the house and closing the door slowly behind her. Steve turns to Billy.

“I think we convinced her,” he says. Billy nods.

“We’re gonna give her so much shit for this though, right?”

“Of course,” Steve says, unable to conceal his grin. “We’re gonna make her regret the day she ever made us get along.”

[serendipity-writes]

I Can See Your Breath Move in the Dark

Written for Harringrove Week July 2022! Prompt: fuck or die (+ car sex, as a treat)

Fics for this event: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Rated Explicit, 6.7k

Summary:

Everything is entirely Dustin’s fault and Steve is prepared to die on that hill.

Which is good because, you know, he’s starting to think he might actually die.

Or: Dustin makes Steve accompany him on a very ill-advised scientific trip to the Upside Down and Steve comes down with the fuck or dies

read on ao3

--

Everything is entirely Dustin’s fault and Steve is prepared to die on that hill.

Which is good because, you know, he’s starting to think he might actually die.

It started, as all things in this godforsaken town do, with an offhand comment that turned into the most batshit insane idea Steve has ever heard in his life.

“So I looked at the demodog we shoved in Will’s mom’s freezer,” Dustin said as he hopped into the passenger seat of Steve’s car, instead of “Hello Steve, thank you for driving me to the arcade,” like a normal person.

Steve, admirably in his humble opinion, took it in stride. “Okay, so what did you find?” he asked as he pulled away from the curb.

“It was really interesting! When I dissected it—”

Steve, very heroically, did not drive them into a tree. He did accidentally blow through a stop sign before pulling over to the side of the road a scant block away from the arcade to fix Dustin with his best I-am-your-father-what-the-FUCK-did-you-just-say-to-me glare. “Dustin Henderson,” he said slowly. “Are you telling me you cut that thing open on Will’s kitchen table without supervision or proper protection?”

Dustin, the little shit, didn’t even have the decency to pretend to look chastised. “Of course not,” he scoffed. Steve made the mistake of allowing himself to be relieved for the blink of an eye before Dustin continued. “Will, Mike, and Lucas were with me. And we all wore gloves and goggles.”

Steve stared at him incredulously before bringing a hand up to his forehead. “Okay, okay, so you pulled the demodog apart and looked at its super cool and not at all gross insides. Did that satisfy your curiosity?”

Of course, that was when Dustin decided to answer his original question. “I know we all know the demodogs look like they’re made of the same slimy, rotting stuff as the rest of the shit in the Upside Down, but when I dissected this one, it looked like the viney outer appearance continued inside of it. Like it actually was made out of the vines that are all over the place over there. And we already know that the vines have some sort of sentience. So what if the demodogs are made out of the vines? Like, the vines produce some sort of bud or sac or something, and demodogs grow inside of it until they’re big enough to hatch like Dart. What if that’s how they reproduce?”

Dustin looked at Steve expectantly, like he wanted some sort of encouragement or reassurance of his brilliance or even any response at all. Steve blinked a couple of times, which he thought was a pretty good showing.

“Anyway I’m going to the tunnels tonight to collect more specimens. I can walk from here thanks bye!”

Steve startled back into motion as the car door slammed behind Dustin. He rolled down his window and stuck his head out, shouting directly at the quickly retreating figure on the opposite sidewalk. “Henderson what the fuck! Get back here! You can’t just—” he broke off as Dustin hurled himself through the arcade door, grinding his teeth against the frustrated scream building in the back of his throat. With an angry slam of his palm on his steering wheel, Steve drove off.

A few hours later, he’d gathered all his gear and eaten a lovely dinner at Dustin’s house, during which Dustin glared at him over the instant mashed potatoes whenever his mom wasn’t looking.

“Listen, shithead,” Steve said when he’d successfully extricated himself from one of Ms. Henderson’s famously affectionate (and long) goodbye hugs and made it to his car, Dustin hot on his heels. Dustin opened his mouth, no doubt to start defending himself, but Steve just held up a hand. “I hope you know that I absolutely fucking hate that I’m about to do this, nevermind that you’re coming along, but I know there’s literally nothing short of tying you to a chair in my basement that will keep you from digging that hole back up, and I don’t want to be put away on a child abduction charge.” Steve glared down at Dustin, hoping the force of his hatred of this idea would make Dustin back down. No dice, but he hadn’t anticipated success. “So I am going to go with you, to make sure your astoundingly idiotic plan doesn’t get you killed. You better come up with a fucking incredible thank you gift for me,” he added before Dustin could respond.

The kid blinked for a moment before shrugging. “Okay, let me get my stuff.”

For the, what, fifteenth time that day? Steve froze in shock and stared at Dustin as he climbed the steps to his house. “‘Okay’? That’s it? What the fuck is wrong with you, Henderson?”

Dustin didn’t deign to respond. He simply emerged from his front door about twenty seconds later, backpack slung over his shoulder and flashlight in his hand. “Did you bring your bat?” he asked as he let himself into Steve’s car.

“Of course,” he replied automatically, because Josephine was God’s bravest soldier and he was so emotionally attached to her that he couldn’t sleep without her comforting presence under his bed. He’d sooner chop off a finger than go anywhere without that ‘roided up piece of wood.

Yeah, so maybe Steve had issues, but he didn’t particularly care to open up that baggage, so he was going to leave it right where it was.

The drive out to the farm was filled with more hypotheses and long scientific words than Steve ever wanted to hear in his life. He was almost relieved when they pulled up to the bare patch of earth in the middle of the field, until he remembered what they were about to do.

“Okay,” he said as he hefted a coil of rope over his shoulder and grabbed his shovel with his free hand. Dustin looked up at him expectantly, the picture of wide-eyed innocence. God, Steve really hated his children sometimes. “I am going to dig the hole. I am going to tie this rope to the front of my car. And then I am going down first.” He waited for an argument, something along the lines of “but science waits for no one you have to let me go first,” but Dustin just nodded earnestly. Either he was wising up to the fact that if they were going to do this, they were going to do it Steve’s way, or he was just happy to wait up top while Steve threw himself into imminent danger.

Knowing him, it was the latter.

“If and when I give you the all clear, you can come down. You will have five minutes to gather anything you find in the immediate vicinity.”

And there was the opposition. “But—” Dustin started. Steve shoved a finger in his face, effectively shutting him up. “Five minutes, Henderson,” he warned, “and then we’re hauling ass out of there. Got it?” After a moment, Dustin gave a reluctant nod. “Good.”

Digging the hole was by far the most tedious part. Everything after was surprisingly easy. As soon as Steve touched down on the tunnel floor, he could tell there was no life left there. The vines were all hanging still, dry and dead as they should have been. There wasn’t a demodog or any other creature in sight. Cautiously, he blinked his flashlight up at Dustin. A few seconds later, a pair of feet thudded down next to his own.

“Remember what I said?” he asked, turning his flashlight on Dustin’s face. He nodded.

“Five minutes. Right here.”

“Okay, go ahead.”

Steve had to hand it to the kid. He made every second of those five minutes count. Steve alternated between watching him shove a truly impressive amount of random crap from the walls and floors into his bucket with his mom’s worst pair of barbecue tongs and glancing up and down the tunnels just to be extra sure nothing was coming after them. Fortunately, the coast remained clear.

When he caught Dustin reaching for one of the vines dangling from the ceiling, he almost broke his fingers snapping to get the boy’s attention. “Hey, hey!” Dustin paused with his tongs in midair, staring guiltily back at Steve. “You cut one of those vines and I’m gonna cut you, got it?” Even if Steve was pretty sure there wasn’t a drop of life in them, he wasn’t about to risk it.

“What if I find one that’s already been cut off from the main system?” Dustin asked, eyes now raking the floor.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve whispered. “You’re going to get us killed.”

But after five minutes and an extra thirty seconds sunk into a staring contest, Dustin climbed up to the surface, Steve hustling after him. He pulled up the rope, refilled the hole, and had just slipped his goggles and bandana off his face when he turned to see Dustin poking at the stuff in his bucket with the tongs.

“Whoa, whoa, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Steve asked, doing his best to loom over Dustin with his arms crossed. “We agreed that as soon as we got out you would cover that and wait to look at it until a weekend when you could bring it to Will’s and take whatever safety precautions are available.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dustin waved him off airily. “But I found something really weird at the end there, and I’m trying to figure out what it is.”

“Figure it out later,” Steve huffed, turning away until Dustin grabbed his sleeve.

“No, wait, look at this—” he said, tugging Steve over the bucket.

Three things happened in that moment. Dustin stepped back. The pulsating red blob he’d been harassing released a cloud of truly foul gas. And Steve, surprised, breathed all of it in.

“Ohmygod are you okay?” Dustin asked, pulling Steve away from the bucket and examining his face. Steve blinked a few times, sniffed, sneezed once, twice, and shook his head out.

“Yeah, I think I’m fine,” he said. “Aside from smelling really bad, it didn’t seem to do anything.”

“Are you sure?” Dustin asked, now bustling back to the car to tie the scrap of old tablecloth over the top of the bucket, as per the plan.

Steve couldn’t help himself; he smiled a bit at the excessive concern. It was nice to know these kids cared about him as more than a chauffeur.

Even if it was Dustin’s fault that something had happened in the first place.

“Yeah, buddy, I’m good. Come on, get in the car,” Steve said, ruffling Dustin’s hair. “I’m driving you home.”

“Take me to Will’s,” Dustin replied, still looking askance at Steve as he started the engine. “Told my mom I’m sleeping over tonight.”

“Really? On a school night? And she was okay with that?” Steve asked, but he obediently drove them toward Will’s house.

Which just about brings Steve to now, sitting on the Byers’ couch, being aggressively cared for by four people instead of one.

“Is there anything I can get you, sweetie?” Joyce asks for the third time, hovering over him. Dustin had, of course, blabbed as soon as she’d opened the door, although he at least had the decency to say it was some weird plant in the woods, rather than the Upside Down. Then again, that lie was saving his own ass as well as Steve’s.

“I told you, I’m alright,” he says, trying not to let his impatience bleed into his voice. “I really don’t think it’s a big deal. I feel fine.”

“You look a little flushed,” Will, the absolute traitor, pipes up from behind his mother. Joyce presses a cool cheek to Steve’s forehead.

“You do feel a little warm,” she muses as Steve focuses the entire power of his glare on Will, who shrugs in response. “Jonathan, grab the thermometer from the hall closet.”

As Jonathan takes off down the hall, Steve’s face is almost painfully yanked to the other side. “Your pupils are dilated,” Dustin says, scrutinizing his face and pinching his wrist. “Your heart rate is kinda fast too.”

“Well, it’s not very bright in here,” Steve defends himself. “And all this attention is making me uncomfortable.”

Just then, Jonathan comes back with the thermometer. “Oh, I really don’t think that’s necessary—” Steve tries, but Joyce is already attempting to shove it in his mouth. He fixes Jonathan with his best pleading gaze, the one that says “You stole my girlfriend and beat my face in, please take my side in this.” With a sigh, Jonathan steps forward and places a hand on his mom’s shoulder.

“If Steve says he’s fine, I believe him,” he says gently. “We should probably let him go home. I’m sure he’s tired.”

Joyce hums, looking between Jonathan and Steve. “Well, okay…”

Steve shoots Jonathan a quick, grateful look before pushing himself up from the couch. “Alright, well, I’ll just be on my way…” he starts to say, but as he rises fully to his feet, his vision starts to swim and his head goes all bubbly. He ends up collapsing back onto the cushion, head in his hands. And now that they’ve mentioned it, the room is kinda hot, which is unusual because the Byers’ house tends to run cold. In fact, Joyce, Jonathan, and Will all have sweaters on and don’t look too warm at all.

Steve feels his heart start to race in his chest as he realizes what’s happening. Of course he’s having an allergic reaction to the weird undiscovered alternate reality plant that Dustin brought back. Or maybe the plant itself is just toxic and he’s gonna be the first person to die a preventable death by hell dimension. Either way, what a shitty way to go.

“Steve, honey, what’s wrong?” Joyce’s voice filters through Steve’s mental breakdown, reminding him that he’s not, in fact, alone. He shakes his head slowly from side to side to see if that’ll help clear it. Amazingly, it works.

“I just got a little lightheaded,” he lies weakly. “I think it’s probably ‘cause I’m tired. Just need to sit down for a little longer.”

Joyce doesn’t look like she entirely believes him, but she nods anyway. “Of course, take as long as you need,” she says, shooing the boys back a few steps, presumably to give Steve space to breathe. He’d appreciate it, if only the room wasn’t getting hotter. At least, he’d like to say it’s the room, but he knows it’s probably just him. It’s almost stifling, definitely irritating. A bead of sweat slides between Steve’s shoulder blades. He doesn’t want to worry everyone else, but he also doesn’t want to leave. If he’s gonna die, at least let him not die alone.

Then the heat in his body begins to concentrate itself, rushing down to the pit of his stomach along with a fair amount of blood, and he really realizes what’s happening.

Oh this is so much worse.

A few seconds ago, Steve was desperate to stay on this couch. Now, he’s equally as desperate to get himself out the door.

“Okay, I think I’m good now,” he hears himself say, voice surprisingly steady as he rises smoothly to his feet. “Thank you so much Joyce, but I really would like to go home and get to bed.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” she says, walking with him to the door.

“Dustin, I’ll pick you up before school tomorrow,” he calls over his shoulder before stepping out onto the porch, Joyce following behind. She pulls out a cigarette as he gets into his car, lighting up while he twists the keys in the ignition. He watches the bright cherry bob in the darkness before pulling away.

He’d flat out lied to her, which he does feel kind of bad about. But the thing is, the thought of going back to his big, empty house and sitting in his room while he’s like this makes him feel like he’s gonna spontaneously combust. So he drives around aimlessly, no destination in mind, not really paying attention. It’s late enough that no one else is on the road anyway. It doesn’t matter if his thoughts drift to Nancy, to that night at his house, her skin so pretty bathed in the moonlight, her hair perfect for him to tangle his fingers in, and holy shit, that’s a nope. No, no, no. Nancy broke up with him ages ago, he shouldn’t be thinking about her like that. Besides, she’s with Jonathan now, which… doesn’t actually help matters. In fact, now he’s thinking about the three of them together, Nancy’s long legs, Jonathan’s unfairly large hands, and Jesus fucking Christ, he really needs to get his head on straight.

He ends up driving to the quarry because he knows no one’s gonna be there tonight, he’d have heard about a party if there was one, and he needs a place with a lot of fresh air and silence. He parks his BMW, leaves the headlights on, sits on the hood. It’s peaceful out here, still in a way that seems content rather than anxious, awaiting the next bad thing that comes up out of the ground like Steve does. It would be really nice, actually, if he didn’t feel like he was on fire.

The cool breeze coming out of the gully helps a bit, but he’s burning up on the inside, flaming and raging and boiling over, spilling out onto the hood of his car, pooling on the stone cliff in front of him, dripping over the edge into the water hundreds of feet below.

But he’s pretty much fine. He can wait it out.

At least, that’s his plan. This is weird and fucking agonizing, but eventually it’ll wear off and he’ll go home, go to sleep, and pick Dustin up tomorrow like he promised. Besides, Steve’s just petty enough to refuse to give that dumb fucking plant the satisfaction of seeing him give in.

The issue is that it doesn’t seem to be wearing off. In fact, as far as he can tell, it’s only getting worse. His blood roars through his veins like a flamethrower, sweat is dripping into his eyes, and he’s so hard it’s physically painful. And now he can’t sit still.

Steve jumps off the hood of his car, pacing back and forth on the stone and pulling his hair out. He’s never been so horny it made him angry before, but he’s fucking pissed now.

He kicks out at his tire before he even registers what he’s doing. The pain that blooms across his toes is different, grounding. He does it again, reveling in the sting, how it takes the edge off. “Stupid— goddamn— Upside Down— motherfucking— sex plant!” he growls, punctuating each word with another kick to the tire. His foot is definitely going to be bruised tomorrow, assuming he even makes it to tomorrow.

He’s just starting to casually wonder if throwing himself off the cliff will help, if the quick death will make him feel better even if the water doesn’t, when a familiar engine roars up the road behind him. This is literally the worst case scenario. Seriously, Steve would take another pack of demodogs over this bullshit.

He doesn’t turn around when the engine shuts off and a car door slams shut, too afraid of what will happen if he does.

“Whatcha doing out here this late, pretty boy?”

Steve isn’t quite able to suppress the full body shiver that goes through him at the sound of that voice, of those words. He’s so hot it’s torture; honestly, he’s amazed Billy can’t feel it radiating off of him, amazed he hasn’t set the trees ablaze yet.

“I could ask you that too,” Steve replies after a beat, sheer force of will keeping his voice from trembling like the rest of him.

“Oh, same as you,” Billy responds evasively. Footsteps crunch closer to Steve, and his spine stiffens of its own accord. “You alright, Harrington?” Billy asks.

For some reason, the question makes Steve absolutely livid. “I’m fine,” he grits out, finally turning to face Billy. The sight hits him like a punch to the gut, Billy silhouetted by the headlights of Steve’s car, blond hair glowing gold like a beacon, blue eyes shining out of his shadowed face, those sinfully tight jeans and one of his stupid shirts unbuttoned nearly to his navel. Steve has to take a moment to recover before he’s able to force more words past his lips. “Go away.”

See, the thing is, if Steve’s being honest with himself, which he figures he kind of has to be at this point, he’s wanted to fuck Billy since Day fucking Zero. The moment his denim-clad ass had stepped out of that obnoxious as fuck car on that fateful day, Steve’s wanted to pin him down and fuck him slow, make him beg, see a side of him he’s pretty sure no one else has seen before. It was easier to keep that urge in check when Billy was being a massive asshole to him, but the last few days he’s been calling Tommy out when he starts poking fun at Steve, actually passing him the ball in practice, even telling him which answers he got wrong on the math homework so Steve can correct them before Mrs. Newbury collects it. Steve’s not sure Billy’s capable of saying “I’m sorry,” but he figures that’s about as close to an apology as he’s going to get.

He did apologize to Lucas, though, Steve knows that much. He heard it from the kid himself, shocked to the bone, as well as Max, Dustin, and Will, who were witnesses to the event. And all that’s made it a little harder to hate him, general dickishness aside.

But Steve’s been dealing with it, and pretty well if he does say so himself. The problem now is that Billy’s mere presence is stoking the flames consuming him, and he doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to hold himself back.

Billy crosses his arms over his chest. Steve barely resists the urge to lick his lips at the sight of those muscles flexing. “Make me.”

This, Steve is used to. He can take a challenge, he can fight it out with Billy until he gets the hell out of here. He’s just about to respond, mouth already open, when Billy squints and steps closer.

“You sure you’re okay?” Billy asks, and dear God, he actually sounds like he’s genuinely concerned. “Because it’s like 45 degrees out and you’re sweating bullets, not to mention you’re shakin’ like a leaf—”

“I said I’m fucking fine,” he snarls. Billy’s eyes widen in surprise. “Now leave me the fuck alone.”

Billy stares at him a moment longer before shrugging. “Whatever you say, pretty boy,” he drawls, taking a step back, and something inside of Steve just. Snaps. Between one blink and the next, he’s got Billy pinned against his car door, his forearm across Billy’s upper chest and his hand gripping Billy’s hip so hard it’ll bruise. Neither of them say anything for a moment, their chests rising and falling with heaving breaths, the pull between them so strong Steve doesn’t think he could look away from Billy’s eyes if he tried.

“What the fuck, Harrington?” Billy breathes, and Steve can feel the words ghosting over his neck, his lips. He shudders again, almost violently, hard enough that there’s no way Billy didn’t notice.

“I thought. I told you. To leave,” he growls, his fingers flexing where they’re holding Billy down.

“Yeah, and I was about to until you slammed me against your car,” Billy fires back. “Seriously, what the hell is wrong with you tonight?”

Steve doesn’t have the words for it, can’t express the sensation of the inferno inside of him, how it swells with every second he spends close to Billy, making his skin feel tight, stretched thin until he’s a rubber band on the edge of breaking. He tries to step back, tries to release his hold on Billy’s hip, move his arm off of his chest, but he’s rooted in place. He’s panting. He’s fucking panting, he’s so desperate. And he’s not entirely sure he can trust his own perceptions right now, but he thinks he sees something in Billy’s eyes too, a blue fire matching his own.

Billy’s tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip. Steve tracks the movement hungrily.

“Whatcha gonna do, pretty boy?” Billy rasps, voice low and husky, resonating deep in Steve’s stomach. His thumb just barely grazes the exposed skin above Steve’s waistband where his shirt rode up, and the fire inside him explodes.

Steve slams his mouth against Billy’s, crushing their lips together. The arm pinning him against Steve’s car shifts so Steve can bury his hand in Billy’s hair. He presses their hips flush against each other, so far past caring that Billy will be able to feel his erection. And he vaguely thinks that it doesn’t really matter anyway, ‘cause Billy’s pulling him closer too.

Billy kisses like he fights, rough and wild and unforgiving. Steve needs it like he needs to breathe, needs Billy shoving his tongue down Steve’s throat, needs Billy pulling his hair until it hurts, needs Billy’s bruising grip on his hip mirroring Steve’s own. The fire is burning even hotter, as hot as a nuclear reactor, but now it rides the knife edge between pleasure and pain. He can’t help it; he starts grinding against Billy’s leg, chasing the friction from the seam of his jeans. It’s soothing and riling at the same time. He wants more, but this’ll do.

At least, it does until Billy flips them over with a level of skill and precision that Steve was not prepared for. Now Billy’s got Steve against the car door, still sucking bruises into his neck that have Steve clenching his jaw to hold back what he’s sure is an absolutely obscene moan. Part of him is angry at the loss of control, but the rest of him insists that it doesn’t matter as long as he still gets off.

Then Billy pulls away, and Steve honest-to-God whines. “If we’re doing this,” Billy growls into Steve’s ear, sending a fresh wave of tremors through his body, “we’re doing it my way.”

Steve almost comes just from that, those words in that voice sliding over his skin, raising the hairs on the back of his neck, but his body screams for more. He’s not sure how long he’s going to last without it. He feels like he’s going to die.

He’s so lit up he almost doesn’t feel Billy’s hands at the waistband of his jeans, pulling his zipper down, sliding his pants and boxers over his hips until his cock is free, hard and heavy and positively dripping precome. He chokes back another whine, abs flexing with the effort it takes to keep still.

“God,” Billy whispers, looking down but not touching him. “You’re desperate for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Steve hisses between clenched teeth, “so fucking get on with it.”

Billy chuckles in the back of his throat. It might be the most attractive sound Steve’s ever heard. Then he drops to his knees.

Stars burst into life across Steve’s field of vision when Billy wraps his lips around his dick. And he just keeps going, igniting every cell in Steve’s body as he takes him all the way to the back of his throat. Steve’s hands scrabble at the smooth metal on either side of him, seeking a purchase where there is none, before they land in Billy’s hair. He tightens his grip involuntarily, fingers clutching onto anything they can for stability. Instead of knocking his hands off or pulling away with a “Watch the hair, Harrington,” Billy groans around Steve’s dick, sending vibrations all the way up and down the shaft. Steve keens, hips bucking forward of their own accord, but Billy slams a hand against him, effectively pinning Steve to the car.

He takes his sweet time pulling back, moving agonizingly slowly until just the head of Steve’s cock is left in his mouth. Billy flicks his tongue over the slit, pouring gasoline all over Steve’s wildfire, sending it flaring into the sky. Steve’s arms jerk, pulling at Billy’s hair even more, and his knees nearly buckle as Billy moans again. He takes all of Steve, faster this time, setting an almost punishing pace, and the flames are growing toward a crescendo, consuming Steve from the inside out, until all of a sudden it crashes over him, contracting every muscle in Steve’s body and whiting his vision out. He’s dimly aware of Billy swallowing around him, of sagging against the window, all of his weight supported by the car and Billy’s hand, still on his hip.

When he comes down, it’s like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. The fire’s still there, but it’s abated, simmering rather than thrashing just under the surface. Only then does Steve look at Billy, really look at him, at the mess he made of Billy’s hair, his kiss-swollen lips, the rope of saliva still connecting them to Steve’s now–softening cock. At his eyes, meeting Steve’s with something difficult to name, like defiance or a challenge but not quite either one.

Billy rises, sliding up Steve’s body like a panther, all sinuous strength and lazy confidence. “That enough for you, pretty boy?” he asks, and his rough, scratchy voice shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

“No,” Steve gasps, fingers finding the handle of a car door. Billy barely has enough time to raise his eyebrows before Steve’s pushing him just far enough to swing the door open behind them, unceremoniously shoving Billy into the car and following him down. Billy lands on his back in the backseat, pupils blown wide as Steve crawls up his body not unlike Billy just did to him. Even through the slowly resurfacing haze of heat and want and need, he takes his time, licking a stripe from Billy’s waistband to his chest, pausing to slide his tongue over one of Billy’s nipples and rub his thumb across the other one, so easily accessible because of the goddamn shirt. He doesn’t break eye contact once, he’s honestly not sure he even blinks, and Billy’s eyes grow darker and darker with lust until Steve thinks he might be swallowed whole. He finds he’s okay with that idea. Better than dying of alternate dimension boner.

After another second, another moment of watching Billy slowly unravel beneath him, Steve drifts upward, nipping at Billy’s collarbones before sucking a deep bruise in the column of his neck. Billy twitches and jolts beneath him, all his muscles drawn tight as though he’s straining just as hard as Steve to keep himself still. And something about that is gratifying, encourages Steve to lift his head a few more inches so he can whisper, “Now we’re doing it my way,” directly into Billy’s ear.

Billy closes his eyes and shivers, full body like Steve did only Steve’s pretty sure he’s not under the influence of whatever fucked up shit he breathed in. He marvels at the control he has in this moment, the influence he holds over the man beneath him. Where just a few minutes ago the fire flooding his veins made Steve feel helpless, now it feels like power. He drags his hand back down Billy’s torso, feels his abs trembling beneath his fingertips, before popping the button on Billy’s jeans.

When he pulls Billy’s dick free of his underwear, Steve’s not surprised to find him as hard as he was. As he is, he realizes when he glances down the sliver of space between their bodies. He slides his thumb through the precome beading at the head of Billy’s cock, spreading it around before wrapping his hand around the base and giving it one long, slow tug all the way to the tip. Billy better fucking appreciate the taste of his own medicine.

Steve can’t keep it up for long, though. The desperation is building again, and with it, his speed. It’s Billy breathing heavy now, moaning whenever Steve presses his thumb in the slit, high and needy. Something about it—who is he kidding, everything about it is sending waves of scorching heat through Steve again, setting him ablaze. He breaks his rhythm for a moment, at which Billy releases a frustrated groan and slaps his hand haphazardly against Steve’s side, to line their cocks up so he can wrap his hand around them both. As soon as Billy realizes what he’s doing, his eyes go wide.

“Ready for round two already, Harrington?” he gasps, chest heaving as Steve starts back up again, the slide of their dicks against each other better than anything Steve’s ever felt in his life.

“Yeah, I don’t think recovery time is gonna be an issue,” Steve pants. His eyes snap back to Billy’s, like they always seem to, and this time it’s not fire, it’s electricity, a lightning bolt sparking down Steve’s spine. Billy drags his hand up, fists it in the hair at the back of Steve’s head, pulls him down to his mouth as Steve keeps jerking them off, rough and a little unsteady.

They come at the same time, with the taste of each other on their lips.

Steve’s not down for long before he’s ready to go at it again, but the fire is tamer still this time around. Hopefully he can just fuck it out of his system.

When he mentions round three, Billy chuckles weakly and throws an arm across his eyes. “So, what, we’re gonna have marathon sex in the backseat of your car?”

Steve shrugs. “Ideally, yes.”

Billy shakes his head under his arm. “I’ve had worse,” he says, which Steve takes to mean “sure, you crazy motherfucker.” To be fair, Steve’s well aware of his own lack of sanity. “But you better have some lube in this fucking car!”

* * *

Hours later, when they’re both so fucked out they haven’t spoken for longer than Steve cares to know and the fire has finally faded from his body, he props himself up on his elbow so he can look down at Billy’s face. Billy cracks an eyelid, probably in response to feeling the movement next to him.

“I feel like I should tell you something,” Steve says, voice hoarse from activities his parents definitely wouldn’t approve of. Billy’s eyes open fully, and a little warily, but Steve holds up the hand that isn’t currently balancing his weight. “Earlier tonight, I was fucking around near the lab, like a complete idiot,” he starts, and Billy huffs a laugh through his nose. Score one for Steve. “While I was there, I think I breathed in some sort of weird aphrodisiac shit that leaked out with the chemical spill.”

Billy stares at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. Like, real, full-body, deep chested guffaws, like Steve’s just said the funniest thing he’s ever heard. It sounds like gravel being crunched by car tires, but it’s still so damn hot.

And Steve’s not even suffering from that dickwad of a sex plant anymore.

Billy wipes tears away from his eyes with Steve’s shirt, tossed haphazardly on the floor next to the seats, which are definitely too small for the both of them. They’d stayed anyway. “That’s a good one, Harrington,” he says, traces of mirth still audible in his voice. Steve just stares at him, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Slowly, Billy hardens, becomes serious. Steve is sad to see his beautiful, happy smile go. “No shit?” he asks, like he almost can’t believe he has to.

In all fairness, Steve doesn’t think he’d believe it either.

“No shit,” he repeats, and Billy sits up so fast his shoulder clocks Steve between the eyes. He drags Steve up with him, because there’s not enough room for Steve to avoid his fucking brick wall of a chest, but aside from that short journey, Billy doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. Instead, he glares at Steve, the fury in his eyes so strong Steve almost wishes the sex plant would give him one last hurrah so his heart would be beating out of his chest for a good reason.

“So, what, I was just the first warm fucking body that stumbled upon you?” Billy growls, and now he’s moving, casting about for his shirt and jeans in the darkness of the backseat.

“No, I—” Steve starts, but Billy cuts him off.

“You’re not even queer, are you?” he hisses. “King Steve, the straightest boy at Hawkins High.”

“What? That’s—”

“I could have been anyone, literally anyone. And now you can hold this over my head for the rest of my life.”

“It isn’t like—”

“Thanks but no thanks, Harr—”

“Oh my god, will you please just shut up!”

Billy’s mouth clicks shut at the sharpness in Steve’s voice. His eyes are still angry enough to kill, but under that Steve can see something else, something like… fear.

“Just listen to me for once in your goddamn life,” Steve says, and, miracle of all miracles, Billy nods. “I felt like I owed it to you to tell you, because otherwise I wouldn’t have come on so strong. Or for as long, probably.” Billy’s face morphs, steely rage sliding into confusion. Steve forges ahead. “But the truth is, I’ve wanted to jump your bones since the first day you showed up in Hawkins. And somewhere between then and now, I’ve started to actually like you. Even though you beat the shit out of me and smashed a plate over my head.” Billy winces at that, and Steve almost feels sorry for bringing it up except that if they’re going to continue… whatever this is, they’re going to need to address it with actual words at some point. “So I hope the next time we do this, neither of us are under the influence of suspicious, unknown chemicals.” He glances down at the seat he’s on, smeared with sweat, lube, and come. Oh God, how is he going to explain this to his parents? “And preferably we use a bed.”

Billy blinks once, twice, opens and closes his mouth like a fish, and finally settles on, “Next time?”

“Yeah, I mean, if you’re up for it,” Steve says, going for casual even though he’s suddenly fucking terrified.

Billy bites his lip and Steve has to suppress the urge to kiss it, waiting to hear what he has to say. Slowly, he looks down and starts shaking his head, a grin breaking over his face. “What do you know,” he whispers, almost to himself. “Steve Harrington, full of surprises.”

They clean up quickly after that, sliding back into pants and shirts that are only slightly better than the alternative of driving through Hawkins in the nude. Before Billy can head back to his own car, Steve slips his fingers through his belt loops, pulling him close. Billy comes easily, leaning over him just enough to press him gently into the car. Steve flushes thinking about the similarities between now and earlier that night, and for the first time since junior year is grateful to the darkness for hiding it.

“I’m sorry we had marathon sex in my car,” he whispers into the space between them. Billy laughs, chasing the breath that ghosts over Steve’s lips with his own mouth.

“Don’t be,” he says when he pulls away. “It was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

Steve lets him go when he steps back, slightly dumbstruck as he watches Billy walk to his car. “See ya tomorrow, pretty boy,” Billy calls through his open window before peeling away from the quarry, revving his engine like the obnoxious asshole he is. Steve rolls his eyes affectionately before getting behind the wheel of his own car. He catches sight of his reflection in the rearview and does a double take, adjusting the mirror so he can see himself better. He’s absolutely covered in hickies and bite marks. There isn’t enough of his mom’s makeup in the world to hide this.

Oh God, how is he going to explain this to Dustin?

[serendipity-writes]

In Which Steve Plots Robin's Murder

Written for Harringrove Week July 2022! Prompt: working at the car wash

Fics for this event: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Rated Gen, 2.2k

Summary:

“I’m sorry, a what?”

“A topless car wash,” Robin repeats gleefully, practically bouncing in place. “The band’s gonna make so much money off of this. Maybe we’ll even be able to ditch the decade-old uniforms.”

Unfortunately for Steve, his life is so batshit insane nowadays that once the initial shock wears off, he realizes this is like, the least concerning thing he’s heard in the last month.

read on ao3

--

“I’m sorry, a what?”

“A topless car wash,” Robin repeats gleefully, practically bouncing in place. “The band’s gonna make so much money off of this. Maybe we’ll even be able to ditch the decade-old uniforms.”

Unfortunately for Steve, his life is so batshit insane nowadays that once the initial shock wears off, he realizes this is like, the least concerning thing he’s heard in the last month. “Right, yes. End-of-year fundraising, that’s fantastic. How exactly did you get this approved by administration?”

Robin shrugs, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Well, you know, Jenny Fischer can be very persuasive.”

What she probably means by that is that Jenny stole her dad’s credit card and made a hefty “donation” to the school again. The rumor is that’s how she managed to convince the school board to hold prom at an offsite venue, which Steve definitely wasn’t upset about. And you know what? If the school okayed it, this car wash thing really isn’t his problem.

“Well, I hope you have fun,” he says, mostly trying to end the conversation because he somehow got roped into making a casserole for “family dinner” at the Byers’ and he really doesn’t know what he’s doing. Robin scoffs as he cracks open the oven. The edges look a little burnt, but the inside is still raw. Maybe he should turn the heat up?

“I’m not gonna be working it,” she says, as though Steve’s an idiot for even thinking that. “Besides, you have to come! We need some of that sweet, sweet blood money, Harrington.”

It’s smoking a little bit now, but like, not that much. “Sure, whatever,” he says as he fans the oven with a dishtowel.

“Great! It’s tomorrow from noon to three,” Robin hollers as she sprints out the door, her mission apparently complete.

Steve doesn’t really register her words. This casserole is looking more and more unsalvageable. What did his mom’s recipe even say? He casts about for it, but it’s nowhere to be found. Ah well, maybe the microwave will fix it.

He ends up buying one from the grocery store and letting Joyce cook it in her oven.

* * *

A knock, sharp and loud, echoes through Steve’s house at precisely 12:26 pm. He sets down the cereal he’d been shoving unceremoniously into his mouth and pads to the door, clad only in the shirt and boxers he slept in last night. It’s Saturday, who the hell is bothering him at this ungodly hour?

Robin, apparently. She doesn’t wait for a greeting or an invitation inside, just barges her way past Steve. “Ready to go?” she asks despite the clear evidence to the contrary, grabbing an apple from the bowl on the kitchen counter.

“Go where?” Steve asks as he reacquaints himself with his box of cereal. He leans his hip against the counter and raises an eyebrow at Robin when she just blinks at him, apple juice running down her chin.

“‘Go where?’” she repeats incredulously. “‘Go where,’ he says! Steve, Steve, Steve, did you listen to a single thing I said last night?”

He casts his mind back to crashing on the Byers’ couch for a couple of hours, before that to getting high with Jonathan on their front porch, even further to making that disaster of a casserole. That’s right, Robin was there for that bit.

“Yeah, your band fundraiser thing. The car wash, right?”

“Bingo,” she says, crunching into her apple. “And you said we would go today, to support your bestest friend in the whole wide world. So, here I am, ready for us to go.”

Honestly, that… sounds like something Steve would do. “Alright, give me a minute to put on actual clothes,” he says. Robin snorts. Before he’s even halfway up the stairs, she’s got her hand in his cereal box.

Five minutes later they’re on the road, heading toward the Hawkins High parking lot, which Steve thinks should be considered a crime on the weekend, even if it is the summer. About a mile away, signs begin appearing along the side of the road. Some of them are tame, advertising the band fundraiser aspect of the event, while others take a bit of a different approach. Steve’s personal favorite is the one that just says “TOPLESS CAR WASH” in big black letters on a white poster board. There’s nothing else on the poster, and for some reason Steve finds that hilarious.

Robin’s sporting a maniacal grin in the seat next to him, and he wasn’t terribly worried last night but now he’s starting to be.

As soon as they pull into the parking lot, Steve gets the joke. It is indeed a topless car wash, but all the washers in question are dudes. He thinks he recognizes a couple as band kids from the last few basketball games he played, but there are definitely guys out here that aren’t in the band. Steve wonders how they got roped into this. He has to give credit where credit is due, though; every one of them committed to the bit. He admires their dedication, even if there isn’t much else to admire.

He pays the two dollar entrance fee, then gets into the line. It creeps forward agonizingly slowly.

“This better be worth my two dollars, Buckley,” he threatens, and she chortles.

“Oh, it will be,” she promises, and suddenly Steve’s not sure he should be here.

But then he finds himself at the front of the line, and he’s waved all the way down to a spot at the very end of the swathe of soapy cars. After a moment, and what sounds like a short scuffle behind his car, a knuckle raps on his window. Steve obediently rolls it down, and this is where the problem arises.

Because Billy fucking Hargrove bends down to stick his head in Steve’s car, elbows resting on the edge of his door. And he is in fact topless, as the posters promised.

Steve is immeasurably glad he actually put on a clean shirt before walking out the door.

“Hello, valued customer,” Billy drawls, tongue flicking out to lick his bottom lip. Jesus Christ. “I’ll be servicing you today.” Steve doesn’t know how a person can make a wink look that fucking dirty. He’s gonna have an aneurysm.

“Don’t break anything, Hargrove,” he says on autopilot, thank God. Billy shakes his head before straightening up, purposefully flexing his bronzed abs and almost certainly lingering to make sure Steve gets an eyeful.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, pretty boy,” he says, thumping the roof of the car as if to disprove his point. “And you might wanna roll that window up, unless you wanna get wet,” he adds before sauntering around the front of the car to grab a sponge and a bucket of soapy water.

“Thanks,” Steve calls out sarcastically before doing just that. As soon as it’s closed, he turns to Robin, careful to keep his face neutral and his voice low in case Billy’s looking or listening in. “Hey, what the actual fuck.”

Robin looks like she’s barely holding back laughter. “You should have seen your face,” she hisses, smiling so wide she looks like she’s fucking insane. Steve isn’t quite sure she isn’t.

“Yeah, I’m sure it was a fucking riot. What the hell is he doing here?”

Of course, now Robin pulls her face into something resembling sincerity. “Hmm, washing cars I think. Yeah, that seems right.”

Billy starts wiping the sponge over Steve’s windshield, much slower than is really necessary. When he catches Steve’s gaze through the glass, he grins the kind of grin he likes to toss around near the mothers of Hawkins. Steve gives him a tight smile in return and pointedly does not watch the beads of sweat and water dripping down his toned arms.

“Okay, let me rephrase,” he starts, still very much not looking at Billy. “Why the hell is he here?”

Robin shrugs in his peripheral vision. “I’ve heard Jenny Fischer is quite persuasive.” He can hear the laughter in her voice. What a betrayal.

“That’s the same thing you said last night,” Steve grits out. He really wishes Billy would get on with it and move to the back. Of his car. The back of his car.

Robin claps, exaggerated excitement suffusing her voice when she squeals, “So you did listen to me!”

Steve rolls his eyes. Billy’s washing the driver’s side window now, and Steve has to physically turn away to hide the redness he knows is spreading over his face. “I don’t know what game you’re running here,” he says, even though he knows exactly what game Robin’s running here, “but you severely overcharged me.”

“Whatever you say.”

Robin’s undeniably smug as she settles back into the passenger seat, arms crossed over her chest. Steve’s going to strangle her. “I’m going to strangle you.”

“Better wait until we’re alone, pretty boy,” she mocks. Fuck his life.

Billy finally does get around to the back of the car, and for some unknowable reason, he seems to wash it much faster than the front. He still winks at Steve in the rearview, though. Steve flips him off in return, and he can practically feel Billy’s laugh even though he only sees it in the mirror.

Billy drags an upturned bucket over to use as a stepstool so he can get to the top of the car. Steve is one hundred percent sure it’s just an excuse to show off his ass in those fucking skinny jeans. They should be illegal. They’ve caused casualties before, Steve’s seen it. He does his time in the parking lot on school days.

But fortunately (or unfortunately, a traitorous part of his brain whispers), he only has to spend a few minutes trying not to make direct eye contact with the zipper on Billy’s jeans before he hops down from the bucket and drags a hose over from… somewhere. One quick rinse later, and he’s knocking on Steve’s window again.

“Clean as a dream, Harrington,” he says as soon as Steve starts rolling it down. “Hope you enjoyed your experience at the Hawkins High Band Car Wash.” Steve can hear the capital letters. It almost makes him laugh.

“Customer service could have been better,” he says instead. Billy raises an eyebrow.

“Is that so?” he asks, and there’s an edge to his voice that makes Steve’s heart race. “Do let me know how I can improve for the future.”

The easy answer is to complain that it took too long or the job was sub-par (which Steve is pretty sure it is), but Billy doesn’t go for the easy answers, and two can play at that game.

“You could have put on a better show,” Steve says, gesturing across the parking lot where several girls he recognizes from school, as well as some of their mothers, are desperately trying to look like they’re not watching Billy as they speak. “I don’t think every member of the fan club got to see you flexing your biceps.”

He has the satisfaction of seeing Billy’s eyes widen, hearing a surprised chuckle burst from his mouth, before he’s leaning forward, grin almost predatory. “I think the real fan club is in this car, Harrington,” he drawls. It sends a shiver down Steve’s spine.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he replies, but even he knows it’s not his best work. “Now back up so I can leave.”

Billy steps back, hands raised in a show of surrender. “You’re the boss!” he calls as Steve drives away. He sticks his hand out the window to flip Billy off one more time for the road.

He doesn’t understand the unusual number of people who snicker at him as he drives home until he parks his car in his driveway and actually opens the door. Or, tries to, because something’s holding it shut. Driving his shoulder into the door works on the third try, by which time Robin’s already out and collapsed in a fit of laughter on the pavement. Steve slams his door shut and stalks a few steps away to observe the full scope of what’s happened.

There, larger than life, across the whole side of his car, is a crude depiction of a penis made out of what appears to be masking tape.

For a moment, Steve’s almost impressed. He doesn’t know when or how Billy managed it; Steve was watching him the whole time. Wait, no he wasn’t. Billy had plenty of opportunities, definitely. Yeah.

So now he’s just pissed, stripping the tape off his car and rubbing at the sticky residue it leaves behind. “Robin, I swear to God—” he starts, then cuts himself off. Death threats are nothing new between them, and he needs to put the fear of God in her for pulling this shit on him. “I am going to lock you in a utility closet with Tammy Thompson for an entire week.”

“Oh my God, Steve, noooooo,” she whines from the ground. “Don’t do that to me! I don’t deserve to be bullied like this!”

She definitely does, but Steve thinks that walking into his house two weeks later to find him and Billy furiously sucking face against the kitchen counter, screaming something about her pure, innocent eyes, Steve! and promptly leaving the way she came might be punishment enough.

He searches Tammy Thompson’s number up in the phone book just in case.

[serendipity-writes]

The One Where Hopper's Office Definitely Doesn't Catch Fire

Written for Harringrove Week July 2022! Prompt: last day of summer camp

Fics for this event: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Rated Gen, 2.3k

Summary:

“Hey, Harrington!” a new but familiar voice booms. “Enjoying being president of the Geek Squad, I see.”

Yeah, Steve might miss the kids, but he’s not going to miss this.

read on ao3

--

The last day of camp is always bittersweet.

Granted, there are sessions that are more sweet than bitter (the one at the beginning of the summer, with Troy and James, comes to mind), but this was actually a good one. Steve got real lucky with his group these last two weeks; everyone got along with everyone else. Of course, he had high hopes as soon as Jonathan told him his and Nancy’s little brothers were going to be in Steve’s cabin, which he somehow knew before the official assignments were released. Steve suspects he may have edited the list himself, off the books, but he’s not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth because the boys were great. And they got awesome cabin mates, too. Dustin and Lucas were down for anything Steve threw at them, and by the end of the two weeks, the four boys were fast friends. Dustin in particular wormed his way right into Steve’s heart, the little shit. He still isn’t sure how the kid pulled it off.

“Oh, that’s my mom!” the camper in question says, shading his eyes against the sun and squinting at the cars pulling in to pick up their kids. He turns quickly, curly hair bobbing with the movement, and throws his arms around Steve’s torso. Steve lets out a startled “oof” but hugs Dustin back.

“Alright, kiddo, it was awesome to have you here but it’s time to go,” Steve says, attempting to ruffle Dustin’s hair before he ducks away. Damnit, unsuccessful again.

“Have fun!” Dustin calls as he runs to his mom’s car.

“Be safe!” Steve shouts back, waving at the car until it pulls out of the parking lot.

He feels a presence at his shoulder before he even turns around, but he knows exactly who it is. He and Nancy, as the current longest serving counselors at Hawkins Summer Camp besides Tommy and Carol, have forged a bond few can match. They’ve just about managed to convince the rest of the counselors that it includes telepathy.

“Last one?” Nancy asks.

“Yep,” Steve replies, popping the “p” obnoxiously. “Now the real work can begin.”

They stare at each other for a moment before Nancy turns and dashes up the hill behind them, leaving Steve in the dust.

“No fair!” Steve yells, sprinting behind her. “That’s a head start and you know it, Wheeler!”

“Not my fault you were too slow to catch on!” She laughs as she says it, and soon Steve’s laughing too, struggling to continue moving even though his cabin’s literally a few steps away. He sees Nancy disappearing into hers just as he’s stepping through his door. Hah. She may be smarter by miles, but he’s still faster.

Besides, he’s got the next part down to a science. Because it’s a sleepaway camp and the counselors are paid to be there literally all summer, it’s their responsibility to get the cabins cleaned up and ready in the few days between sessions. This is a little different, since it’s the last session of the summer, but it starts the same. Steve’s been doing this long enough to be able to strip four twin beds in just over thirty seconds. (Robin timed him once. It was a race between him, Nancy, and Jonathan. Steve won by a landslide.) And, unlike Nancy, who actually has a laundry hamper that she uses to tote clothes back and forth from the main cabin, Steve just piles everything inside one of the fitted bedsheets and runs.

By the time Nancy skids into the laundry room, panting and determined, Steve’s leaning back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest to disguise how he’s still breathing heavily himself. All four washing machines are currently occupied by roughly equal portions of sheets and pillowcases. That was the first lesson Steve learned as a counselor: the machines break if you try to wash two sets of sheets at once.

“Damnit,” Nancy mutters, then louder, “God damn you, Steve Harrington!”

He just chuckles, and she shakes her head as she smiles. There was a time when Steve would have been scared half to death hearing those words out of Nancy’s mouth, but it’s long past.

Just then, footsteps echo from down the hall, heralding the approach of none other than Robin. “Steve, my man!” she says as she walks right past Nancy to give Steve a bro hug, knocking their fists together in what could almost be considered a fist bump.

“Robin, my dude!” he answers, returning the fist whack with more enthusiasm than is probably warranted. He tries to ruffle her hair but she skips out of his reach, wrapping her arm around Nancy’s waist with a smug grin. He’s now oh for two. Great.

“I feel betrayed,” Nancy complains, despite the fact that she’s now leaning fully into Robin’s side. “What does Steve have that I don’t?”

“Bro status,” he and Robin answer in synch. It’s enough to make Nancy laugh, and Steve’s heart fills with warmth at the beaming grin Robin’s sporting.

“So I see you got here first,” she says to Steve, gesturing vaguely toward the hamper of sheets that Nancy dropped on the floor at some point. “What’s the damage?”

“Well, nobody drew on the walls with Sharpie this time,” Steve muses, hand on his chin, “so it probably just needs a good sweeping and I’ll be home free.”

“My girls were wonderful,” Nancy brags, as though both Steve and Robin didn’t know that already. Steve and Nancy’s cabins always end up spending a lot of their free time together, since it’s the only time Steve gets to talk to Nancy (except when they all sneak out of their cabins in the middle of the night to light up with Jonathan). And in the last couple of years, Robin’s been joining them more and more often. Steve didn’t get to know her kids that well, but Nancy’s somehow integrated themselves into his cabin. It was great to see Jane and Max put the boys in their place, and hilarious when it came to Lucas bickering with his sister. Seriously, Steve could watch that shit all day. What was even better was the sheer multitude of arguments Erica won, despite being the younger sibling.

Robin plants a kiss on the top of Nancy’s head before pulling away gently. “I’ll go sweep your cabin for you, babe,” she says, and Nancy smiles gratefully. “Steve, you’re on your own.”

“Hey!” he shouts indignantly. “What does she have that I don’t?”

“Girlfriend privileges,” Nancy and Robin reply in unison. Steve gives Robin’s retreating back the finger as she leaves the room. After a moment, a pale hand comes back around the doorway, flipping Steve off.

Ah, the love shared between fellow counselors.

* * *

“I am going to miss those kids, though,” Nancy says, swirling her straw around her glass of lemonade.

They’re all sitting at one of the picnic tables in the pavilion, her, Robin, Steve, and Jonathan. It’s Jonathan’s fault they’re still there; on the last day of camp, the counselors are allowed to leave whenever they finish cleaning their cabins, but his sheets are still in the dryer and, for whatever reason, the four of them have established what essentially boils down to a suicide pact wherein none of them can leave until everyone’s ready to go. Steve has never benefitted from this clause in the Camp Counselor’s Guidebook, since he’s consistently one of the first people done, but he figures he can probably use it to cash in some favors down the line.

“Yeah,” Steve sighs. “I’m gonna miss the little brats too.”

“Ohoho!” Robin chuckles with far too much glee. “He called them ‘brats’! You must have really liked these ones. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you refer to a group of campers as anything other than ‘little shits’ or ‘motherfuckers’ since I started working here.”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Steve says. “The only reason I didn’t is because I know Nancy and Jonathan would each kick my ass if I called their little brothers ‘motherfuckers.’”

“Damn straight,” Nancy says as though she isn’t currently melting into Robin’s side. Jonathan doesn’t have to say anything. They all remember, or at least have heard stories about, the time Tommy of all people had to pull them apart Steve’s second summer working at Hawkins. But that’s water under the bridge now.

“Hey, Harrington!” a new but familiar voice booms. “Enjoying being president of the Geek Squad, I see.”

Yeah, Steve might miss the kids, but he’s not going to miss this.

“Sure am, Billy,” he says, looking up at the chiseled fucking Adonis statue striding toward their table. “Why don’t you join? You could be the secretary, I’d love to have you working under me.”

Robin gags exaggeratedly next to him, which Steve supposes is fair, but Billy’s eyes light up. “Someone’s got some fire today!” he crows. “Speaking of which, what say you and I go set fire to Hopper’s office? You know, as a little goodbye present.”

Steve scoffs. “So you can implicate me in the resulting arson case? Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

“Dunno what all this ‘King Steve’ business was about,” Billy fires back. “You’re not much fun, you know that, Harrington?” He moves on before Steve has a chance to reply, turning to Nancy. “How was my shitbird sister, huh? She treat you nice?”

“Max was a pleasure to have in class,” Nancy says, her voice the kind of saccharine that makes Steve’s blood run cold. That’s her “I could drag you to hell and back” voice. Steve should know. He’s seen it happen.

But he loses track of that conversation, focus returning to Billy saying he isn’t fun. Something about the guy pushes his buttons. It’s almost like he’s doing it on purpose, just to Steve specifically, and has been since the beginning of the summer. If it were anyone else Steve would let it go, but he finds himself rising to his feet behind the table and leaning forward so he can stab a finger intimidatingly toward Billy’s face. “Hey, who was the first person to agree to your little night swimming adventure last session?”

“Tommy,” Billy says without missing a beat, smirking just a little.

“Okay.” Steve regains his footing quickly; he honestly shouldn’t be that surprised. “Who was the second person?”

“Heather.” Billy crosses his arms over his chest, smirk growing wider, and Steve falters a little.

“Fucking hell, really?” When Billy just nods, Steve narrows his eyes at him. “Alright, but I came.”

“I’m sure you did, pretty boy.” Billy winks and Steve feels himself flush all the way down his neck. Fuck. It’s not as fun when the jokes are being made at his expense.

Their eyes remain locked for a few more seconds, Billy’s eyebrow raised in a challenge while Steve calculates just how likely it is he’ll actually get murdered if he jumps the table and punches him in the nose. Then a throat clears to Steve’s left, and he remembers they’re not alone.

“I hate to interrupt this weird-as-fuck mating ritual,” Robin starts, and the faintest spots of color bloom high on Billy’s cheeks. Huh. “But Jonathan, I think your laundry is ready.”

“I’ll come help you with it,” Nancy rushes out, practically vaulting over the bench she was sitting on. Steve watches the three of them traipse down to the main cabin before turning back to Billy.

“Well, guess that’s my cue,” he says, straightening up slowly and stretching his arms over his head. He thinks, for a moment, that Billy’s eyes drift to his stomach when his shirt rides up, but before Steve can even hope to confirm, Billy’s got that easy, infuriating grin back on his face.

“Are you sure you don’t want to give this place a proper sendoff? We could put one of the canoes on the lake and shoot flaming arrows at it, Viking-funeral style.”

The scary thing about that idea is that they could absolutely do it. The canoes are right down by the beach, and the archery equipment is locked away for the summer but Steve knows where the key is. Tie a little cloth to the arrowhead, dip it in the bottle of whiskey Steve definitely hasn’t had stashed in his bag all summer, and boom! Weapon of questionable legality. It’s so easy to imagine, actually.

The scarier thing is that, for a moment, Steve seriously considers it.

But something on his face must read as a rebuff, because Billy shrugs and says, “Your loss,” like Jonathan did when Steve refused to try the new strain of weed he’d gotten his hands on. Steve rolls his eyes at that, reminding himself that he absolutely hates Billy and does not want to spend any more time with him.

“Enjoy your last few days of summer,” Billy says, clapping him on the shoulder as he walks past. It sounds like a threat, distracting enough that Steve almost doesn’t feel the slight pressure against his back pocket. He whirls around, fully prepared to curse Billy out, but he’s already yards away, whistling through his teeth with his hands shoved into his own pockets. Steve watches him go, hand drifting absently to the pocket Billy just violated. He’s not sure what the point of it was until his fingers close around a scrap of paper. When he pulls it out, he has to admit he’s surprised by what’s on it. There, in clear, neat print, reads 317-555-0806. There’s no name. Steve is pretty sure Billy knows he won’t need one.

“What did he say to you?” a voice asks at his shoulder, and he jumps, startled by Robin and her unusually silent approach.

“Nothing,” he says, hurriedly stuffing the paper into his other pocket. “Just, uh, just goodbye.”

Robin hums, looking unconvinced, but she doesn’t comment. They watch as a blue Camaro peels out of the now sparse parking lot, engine revving obnoxiously as it goes. Steve rubs the paper in his pocket between his fingers. There’s no way in hell he’s going to call that number. In fact, he’s going to throw it away as soon as he gets home. Yup, it’s going straight in the trash. End of story.

(Steve does not throw it away.)

[serendipity-writes]

Boys Will Be Boys (That's the Way That This Thing Goes)

Written for Harringrove Week July 2022! No prompt, just silliness

Fics for this event: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Rated Gen, 2.2k

Summary:

“Isn’t it strange, how they get along so well now?” Martha whispers to the group one day as Steve takes up his new usual position by Billy’s side. “I thought they were at each other’s throats.”

Karen hums in agreement. She’s seen Steve around; it’s nice that he’s making more friends his age, considering how much time he spends with all the kids. Why it has to be Billy, she doesn’t know, but she supposes it’s not her place to make value judgements on that sort of thing.

read on ao3

--

Karen Wheeler doesn’t spend an inordinate amount of time at the Hawkins community pool. It’s just that it’s so hot in the summer, and there really isn’t much to do in Hawkins at any given time. So unless she wants to be slow-roasted in her own house, which isn’t particularly appealing, her only option is the pool.

The presence of a certain… attractive young lifeguard is just a lucky bonus.

The other one, Heather, Karen thinks, uncrosses her legs and hops down from the chair. “Ladies,” Karen murmurs, because it’s time. She hears the faint rustling and muted whispers that come with her friends adjusting themselves for the main event, but she keeps her eyes glued to the door Heather disappeared through.

Sure enough, he emerges mere moments later, toned arms and bronzed chest sparkling in the midday sun like a Greek god. He strides out onto the concrete, pausing on his way to the chair like does every day.

“Hello, ladies,” he says, the low rumble of his voice entirely too smooth and sultry for their location.

“Hi Billy,” they chorus back. He grins at them, all teeth and charm, nearly blinding in the sunlight.

“You’re looking hot today,” he tells them. “Remember to stay cool out here.” It would be an innocent enough comment, if not for the look in his eyes.

Karen swears he’s staring straight at her as he winks and walks away.

The rest of her “coven of wine moms,” as Nancy so elegantly describes them, titter behind her, but she doesn’t bother to engage. Every once in a while, Billy will toss a smile her way.

Yes, the pool is the place to be.

* * *

That Tuesday is shaping up to be a real scorcher. Ted barely blinks an eye when Karen tells him she’s headed to the pool. Bitterness rises in her chest like bile for a moment before she puts it out of her mind. She’s got bigger, better things to focus on.

She times her arrival perfectly, having just settled in when Heather’s shift ends. Billy takes her place as usual, with his customary greeting to Karen and her friends. He looks so relaxed up on the lifeguard’s chair, like he knows he can handle anything that’s thrown his way. Something about that easy confidence makes Karen hot under the collar, so she settles back against her pool chair, magazine held up in front of her face so she can watch Billy over the edge of it.

About half an hour later, something strange happens. Namely, Billy shadows his eyes with his hand, squints into the sun, and shouts, “Harrington! To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Karen looks toward the gate to the pool, where Steve Harrington has appeared with five children in tow. One of them is hers, she realizes as Mike elbows Will’s arm and leans close to whisper into his ear. Dustin and Lucas are there too, as well as a redheaded girl Karen vaguely recognizes as Billy’s sister.

She turns back to Billy, a little wary. His voice was laced with a challenge, and everyone in Hawkins has heard the rumors about their fight last November. Karen hadn’t had the misfortune to see the aftermath herself, but from what little she’d picked up from her kids, it wasn’t pretty.

But Billy doesn’t seem like he’s going to get up from his perch, and Steve doesn’t look particularly threatened either.

“The brats wanted to come to the pool,” he calls back, because they’re still at opposite ends of it, “and I had the day off. So, you know, here I am.” He says it with the kind of weariness that Karen associates with parenting preteens, a weariness she knows well. Steve’s turned into a good kid.

“Lucky you,” Billy sneers. Steve’s too far away for Karen to really see his expression, but she’d put money on him rolling his eyes so hard he sees his brain.

He ignores Billy after that, turning to the children and speaking to them softly before letting them free. He doesn’t swim himself, just takes a seat in a chair across the way from Karen, fully shaded by an umbrella, and slides a pair of sunglasses over his eyes. After a few minutes, Karen’s pretty sure he’s asleep.

Billy dons sunglasses as well, and doesn’t flash her a single grin until Steve’s gone.

* * *

It becomes something of a regular occurrence after that, Steve showing up with a varying number of other people’s children a couple of days a week. Usually he claims a chair and immediately passes out on it, although sometimes he brings a notebook along and spends hours with his head bent over the pages, scribbling away like he’ll die if he stops. And once or twice, he arrives in swim trunks and slathers more sunscreen on himself than Karen makes Mike wear, which is really saying something. Somehow, he still comes out the other side looking mildly burned.

Whenever Steve is there, it’s like Billy forgets Karen even exists.

* * *

Maybe three weeks into this, Billy calls Steve out like he always does, but instead of shooting some thinly veiled aggression his way and leaving him be, he beckons Steve over. The hesitation in Steve’s movements is painfully obvious, but he walks over to the lifeguard’s chair anyway, coming to stand under the umbrella. Billy starts talking to him, quietly now that they aren’t separated by a hundred feet of splashing water and screaming children. With a sigh, Karen drops her eyes to her Cosmo and actually reads it for the first time in her life. When she glances up about an hour later, Steve is just walking away from the chair, Billy staring after him as he goes.

He doesn’t come by the next three days, and Billy’s back to being his usual charming self.

* * *

The next time Steve shows up, he’s brought someone his age in addition to the ever-present children. She’s somewhat tall, with sandy brown hair and a slightly awkward gait. Karen can tell just by her posture that she’s not thrilled about being here. She pulls Steve aside to talk to him while the kids gleefully jump in the water, swatting him gently on the shoulder when he says something she evidently doesn’t like. But then she shakes her head and flaps a hand at him, collapsing into a chair when he walks away. Karen hasn’t heard anything from Nancy about Steve dating someone new, but she thinks they make a nice couple.

The redheaded girl seems to like her too, taking the chair next to her rather than joining the boys in the pool. The older girl ruffles her hair like Nancy used to do to Mike when he was younger. It’s cute.

Steve, strangely enough, heads straight for Billy. He crosses his arms over his chest, obviously more at ease than the last time they had spoken. Karen’s all for mending bridges, but she has to admit it’s a bit unexpected.

* * *

Billy starts keeping a closer eye on the gate. Karen only knows because she still keeps a close eye on him, like Ted keeps a close eye on his newspaper.

* * *

“Isn’t it strange, how they get along so well now?” Martha whispers to the group one day as Steve takes up his new usual position by Billy’s side. “I thought they were at each other’s throats.”

Karen hums in agreement. She’s seen Steve around; it’s nice that he’s making more friends his age, considering how much time he spends with all the kids. Why it has to be Billy, she doesn’t know, but she supposes it’s not her place to make value judgements on that sort of thing.

* * *

Billy absolutely roars with raucous laughter, slapping his leg and drawing every eye in the pool to him. “Full of surprises, Harrington!” he shouts, loud enough for the Carsons down the road to hear him. “Who knew!”

Next to him, leaning against the arm of the lifeguard’s chair, Steve is smiling like he’s holding back his own mirth. Karen rolls her eyes. Boys.

* * *

On the rare occasion that Steve is off doing something else, Billy’s gaze follows him around the pool.

* * *

Billy and Steve are sharing a cigarette by the end of the pool.

Billy smokes all the time, despite the No Smoking signs posted everywhere. But he’s the kind of guy who will chew out anyone else trying to light up with his cigarette still dangling from his lip. It’s alluring, his flagrant disregard for the rules combined with the obvious double standard.

But now, Karen thinks as she watches Billy hand the cigarette to Steve, watches Steve take a long drag before passing it back, that double standard seems to extend to the other boy.

It’s almost funny, when Billy yells “Hey!” and points threateningly at a kid that probably went to school with them. He’s got his lighter halfway to the cigarette held between his teeth, frozen with confusion rather than fear. “Can you not fucking read?” Billy shouts, gesturing with the hand holding his own cigarette at the sign on the fence just behind the offender.

“But—you—” the kid starts, pointing back at Billy, then at Steve, who plucks the cigarette from Billy’s fingers and inhales deeply, blowing the smoke out with a smug smile. “Him—”

“Ah,” Billy cuts him off. “Put it away. Rules are rules.”

The other kid looks like he’s going to keep protesting for a moment before the fight drains out of him and he shoves his hands in his pockets, kicking rocks as he flees with his tail between his legs. Billy and Steve share a look before cracking up silently into their fists, Billy leaning dramatically against the back of his seat and Steve nearly bent double.

Steve’s girlfriend, who’s been accompanying him to the pool more often recently, rolls her eyes with her whole body even while sitting. Karen is inclined to agree.

* * *

Billy hasn’t looked her way in days. It’s starting to feel like she’s back in her own home.

* * *

Heather slides down from the lifeguard’s chair to the excitement of every woman at the pool. Karen positions herself carefully on her pool chair, casually showing off the new bathing suit she bought at the mall yesterday. Ted hadn’t said anything that morning, of course, but Billy’s always been very observant and liberal with his praise. It’s harmless, really. Just a bit of an ego boost.

Except Heather leaves the locker room with her things and Billy still hasn’t come out to take his station. Which, truthfully, is surprising, because whatever else one might say about his professional demeanor, Billy is always punctual.

Two minutes pass, then five, and the concerned whispers around her are just starting to grate when she feels a touch at her shoulder. When she turns, Mike is standing next to her, dripping wet and shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Hey Mom,” he starts, returning her slightly confused smile. “Can I have some money, please? Will and I want popsicles.”

“Of course, sweetie,” she replies, reaching into her bag to pull out a couple of neatly folded dollar bills. “Is Steve here with you?”

Mike shrugs, taking the offered money. “Yeah, he brought us here, but I don’t know where he went. Thanks!” He runs off before she can question him further, looping his arm over Will’s shoulders as they walk to the concession stand. There’s still no lifeguard on duty.

“All right, ladies,” Karen says, unfolding herself from the chair and standing up. “I think it’s about time for someone to check up on this public safety violation.” She makes for the locker rooms before the rest of the women have a chance to respond. At the very least, that bitch Doris would try to convince them to let her go instead.

Inside the building there’s a clear sign indicating that the men’s locker room is to the left and the women’s is on the right. Karen knocks on the wall outside the men’s side, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. “Billy?” she calls.

His response comes almost immediately. “Karen?” he asks, sounding startled. She supposes it’s a fair reaction.

“Heather went home for the day,” she explains, “and there’s no lifeguard on duty right now. Some of us parents are a little concerned.”

It takes him a moment to reply this time. “You’ve caught me at a bad time,” he says, voice quite steady if that’s the case. “I’ll be out in just a moment.”

“Alright,” she says slowly. When he doesn’t offer anything else, she pads out of the building.

True to his word, Billy strides to the chair after barely thirty seconds have passed, tossing her a suggestive wink as he takes his seat. She smiles back over the top of her Cosmo, licking her lips briefly.

Several minutes later, Steve comes out of the locker room, rolling his shoulders like he was just lifting something. He slides onto the chair next to his girlfriend’s, popping his sunglasses on and leaning his head closer to her so they can talk. Billy keeps glancing over at them as they laugh together, and even though Steve’s eyes are obscured, it’s clear enough from the tilt of his head that he’s looking at Billy too.

Karen doesn’t really understand their friendship, but stranger things have happened in Hawkins, Indiana.

* * *

(She realizes pretty quickly after that that trying to draw Billy's attention away from Steve is an exercise in futility.)

[serendipity-writes]

seen so much you could get the blues

Written for Harringrove Week July 2022! Prompt: the Harrington lake house

Fics for this event: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Rated teen, 3.4k

Warning for suicidal thoughts/ideation and alcohol mentions

Summary:

That’s what it is, he realizes, that’s what’s keeping him up at night, what has him walking the knife edge of paranoia. He feels helpless, hopeless. He feels hunted.

“I’m tired of being scared all the time. Thought maybe this would help, but I just feel worse.”

“We’re all fucked up, Harrington. You’re not special,” Billy says.

read on ao3

--

The house is quiet for the first time in maybe seven hours.

Not just quiet, but silent; not even soft snores or the faint swish of water lapping at the lake shore penetrate the bubble surrounding Steve. He picks his way around the dropped cups, spilled liquor, and broken glass that litters the living room floor, draping the blanket from his bed over Jonathan, who’s passed out on the couch. It’s not like Steve’s using it.

Normally, Steve likes the hour after a party’s over, the silence and darkness and frozen state of the world. It takes a moment to adjust, to come down from the high of the party, but by that point it’s toeing the line of overstaying its welcome and he needs a break anyway. But it’s like he can’t come down from this one, hasn’t been able to in the hour and change since he kicked everyone but Nancy, Robin, and Jonathan out.

It’s like he hasn’t been able to come down all week.

They’d been skeptical when he brought up the idea of throwing a late summer rager, and fairly so. Nancy in particular hadn’t been thrilled, seeing as how Tina’s Halloween bash had gone, but Steve assured her this one wouldn’t be the same.

“Listen, I don’t give a shit about all of the popularity contests or reclaiming my title as ‘King Steve,’” he’d told her, which wasn’t quite true but was close enough that she didn’t call him out on it. “This is just an excuse to get blitzed out of my mind and wake up with a hangover rather than a panic attack for once.”

She conceded quickly enough after that.

And it worked great, while it was happening. But then it ended, Steve hustled everyone out the door not because his parents would kill him for throwing a party in their lake house but because he just didn’t want to deal with people that weren’t his people anymore, and then his people crashed within fifteen minutes. Steve spent an hour lying on his back, staring at the shadows the trees made on his ceiling and convincing himself he saw monsters in leaves and moonlight until he couldn’t stand it anymore.

It’s not that he can’t sleep, per se. He just can’t make himself want to.

The clock in the kitchen reads 3:17. Steve hits the brew button on the coffeemaker without checking to see if it actually has coffee in it. It whirs quietly as he retrieves a mug from the overhead cabinet, the first sound he’s heard in an hour beside the screaming in his head. The mug clinks when he sets it on the counter, and he’d be worried about waking Jonathan if he didn’t know for a fact that that boy is dead to the world.

A thin stream of coffee pours into the pot, and Steve fills his mug to the brim. He’s mostly sober by now, but he’s restless and anxious and has to go all the way or else he’ll start drinking again. And despite the brief release it provides, he doesn’t actually want to become an alcoholic. He wants to feel prepared for the things that go bump in the night. Yeah, the coffee will probably make him worse, but at least he’ll have his head back.

It burns the roof of his mouth when he takes his first sip. A part of him wants to chase the pain. The rest says it’s not worth it.

The house is too small, has been since he was a kid, and Steve steps carefully around the detritus left by trauma and teenage rebellion so he can slip out the door to stand on the back porch. The chilly air on his face is bracing, a reminder that fall is approaching even if it’s still ninety degrees and sunny during the day. He takes another sip of coffee, cooled by the breeze running fingers through his hair, and stares out over the water.

It’s still, unnervingly so, and Steve misses the height of the party, when the less sloppily drunk kids had decided to go skinny dipping off the dock.

The same dock, he realizes, that someone’s sitting on right now. Quick on the draw, Harrington, a voice chides in his head. It almost sounds like it could be someone he knows. But the three people he knows best are asleep in the house behind him, and he made everyone else leave.

He steps off the edge of the porch and starts walking barefoot down the path to the lake. Curiosity killed the cat, they say. He knows what’s out here, knows what he could find, but he’s not sure he cares anymore. Besides, as he draws closer, the silhouette settles into the figure of a man sitting cross-legged on the wooden slats. He shifts slightly and Steve catches the bright glow of a cigarette over his shoulder.

Demogorgons don’t smoke.

He isn’t disappointed, not even a little, not at all.

The moonlight is bright enough to illuminate Steve when he stops just behind the other person’s left shoulder, bright enough to illuminate the planes and angles of Billy Hargrove’s face as he takes another drag from his cigarette, gaze fixed straight ahead. He doesn’t have a shirt on and his hair is still damp from the lake, shining darkly in the white glow. Steve can’t decide if he looks more or less human like this.

“What are you still doing here?” It comes out rough, scratchy because he hasn’t spoken in the last hour and before that he was screaming with everyone else.

Billy blows smoke out into the night. “Don’t want to go home yet.” It’s barely louder than a whisper, but the sound carries. It’s just because they’re near water, Steve tells himself. It has nothing to do with the attention they’re drawing to themselves by breaking the silence. Normal kids don’t think like that.

Steve shrugs and sits down next to Billy. He feels the other boy’s eyes on him as he raises his mug to his lips, tasting the coffee but not swallowing any. After a moment, he offers it to Billy.

Maybe an eternity later, he accepts it, holding out his cigarette in return. Steve takes a drag, feels the nicotine sharpening the edges of his mind. Edges that could cut, he thinks. Edges that will cut, if he isn’t careful.

They can cut him. That’s fine. But he can’t let them cut anyone else.

“What are you still doing up?”

The question interrupts Steve’s private pity party, pulling him back to the lake, to the dock. “Don’t want to sleep,” he says. Billy nods briefly and hands the coffee back to Steve.

They stay like that for a few minutes, passing the mug of coffee and the single cigarette back and forth until both are drained and useless.

“You alright?” Steve asks. It’s too cold for Billy to be sitting out here in just a pair of jeans, but then again, it’s too cold for jeans and a t-shirt and that’s all Steve has.

“What is this, twenty questions?” Billy scoffs, then squints at Steve. “I should be asking you. You don’t look so hot, Harrington.”

Steve knows, sees the dark circles under his eyes every morning, feels himself shaking even though the temperature isn’t bothering him. He feels stretched thin, one phone call away from bursting apart at the seams. “Please,” he replies, trying for one of his patented King Steve grins, even though he knows it’ll fall flat. “Don’t pretend you don’t want this, Hargrove.”

Billy rolls his eyes, reaches toward his pocket like he’s going to pull out another cigarette but thinks better of it. Steve brings his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs, rests his cheek on them so he can look at Billy. The moonlight, the stark contrast between light and dark, should make him look harsher, but they do the opposite. He looks almost… well, soft isn’t a word Steve ever thought he’d associate with Billy Hargrove, but he looks like he could be.

“How was it, being the King of Hawkins High?” Steve’s not sure why he asks; he knows well enough, it can’t have changed that much. He still finds himself curious, though, listening intently for Billy’s answer.

“It’s a heavy crown,” Billy says, and even though Steve knows it’s true, knows he’s not lying, he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “Sometimes I think maybe you got it right, getting out while you could. Say a word and you’re dead,” he adds, but it sounds like an afterthought. Steve huffs a laugh through his nose anyway.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell.” Steve’s fully awake now, fully aware, and he remembers why he’d wanted to get blackout drunk and forget all of his problems. There are worse things out there that want him dead than Billy Hargrove. He’s stared them in the face.

He wishes he could say that meant he wasn’t afraid of them anymore.

That’s what it is, he realizes, that’s what’s keeping him up at night, what has him walking the knife edge of paranoia. He feels helpless, hopeless. He feels hunted.

Steve says it before he even thinks it, before he even wants to think it. “I’m tired of being scared all the time. Thought maybe this would help, but I just feel worse.”

He coughs as a wave of cigarette smoke hits him in the face. Billy leans back, a satisfied grin creeping across his face as Steve glares at him. So he did light up again.

“We’re all fucked up, Harrington. You’re not special,” he says.

“I know, trust me.” Steve gives a dry, humorless chuckle, holds his fingers up without looking over. The cigarette lands in them anyway. He takes a long pull, holding the smoke in his lungs until it burns, until it hurts enough that he feels alive. “I’m like, the least special person alive,” he breathes on the exhale. “Ever feel like everyone else brings something to the table, something important, and you’ve got absolutely nothing?” He scoffs, keeps talking before Billy can answer. “What am I talking about, you’re Billy Hargrove. The King, the heartthrob, the basketball captain. You’re practically dripping value.”

“Hey,” Billy cuts in, sharp but somehow not threatening. “Don’t go around assuming you know what my life’s like. I did that to you last year, till you taught me not to.”

Steve makes a non committal sound in the back of his throat, lets Billy steal the cigarette back from his loose grip. He stares at the lake again, the perfect, black mirror of it. He hadn’t gone swimming with everyone else because he’d felt like it would swallow him whole and he’d never come back out. Now, he wonders if that would really be such a bad thing. If he just slipped under the water and let it take him away.

“Why’re you telling me all this, anyway?”

It takes Steve a moment to register the question, another to realize he doesn’t know. They were poking and prodding each other just a few hours ago, Tommy egging them both on. Steve was goaded into shotgunning four beers, Billy chugged vodka straight from the bottle. They narrowly avoided a two-on-two fistfight, Nancy quite literally dragging Tommy and Billy away while Robin held Steve and Jonathan back the only reason they didn’t actually come to blows. Steve doesn’t even remember what it was about, doesn’t have the energy to care. The point is that historically, they’re not exactly good together.

But it’s not like he’s got anyone else. There’s Nancy and Jonathan, of course, but he’s always felt like he’s on the periphery, not quite fully in their loop. And he has Robin now, but she’s been through less than he has and he wants to keep it that way. It’s not… he feels different from them too, like they’ve been able to process, to move on with their lives while Steve’s rooted in place, poised and waiting for a threat that’s already come and gone. And he’s sure they’re still not over it, no one is, but none of them have to go home to a big, empty house every night and think about how all they can really do is throw their body in front of danger, how they’re practically useless if they can’t get there in time. None of them stay up all night waiting for a message that they desperately hope won’t come until they start wishing it does, just to prove all the watching and fear and pain was worth it, just to be able to do something.

He shrugs. “Guess it’s easier, sometimes, to talk to someone who doesn’t care at all than the people who will care too much, y’know?”

Billy doesn’t respond right away, and when Steve turns to look at him, he finds Billy staring back. “What?”

“Nothin’,” he says, shaking his head. “Just, you seem like the kind of guy who always cares too much.”

In any other context, Steve is pretty sure he would take that as an insult. “Yeah,” he says, thinking about Nancy and Robin, sleeping in the same bed in the room next to his, about Jonathan, who’s going to cut his feet on glass in the morning because he refused to take the other bed, about Dustin and Lucas and Will and Mike and El and even Max. “I can’t really help it at this point.”

Billy shrugs, turning back to the lake and raising his cigarette to his lips. “Well, maybe that’s what you bring to the table. Not many people are capable of caring like that.” There’s a bitter edge to his voice, like they’re starting to tread on something personal. Steve doesn’t want to push him, but it isn’t easy to keep his mouth shut.

Billy blows smoke rings over the dock. Steve tracks their movement until they dissipate above the lake. As the last one floats by, he feels a gentle pressure under his chin and turns his head slightly to see Billy’s fingers in front of his face, holding the cigarette to his lips. It’s his thumb that’s under Steve’s chin, anchoring his hand to Steve’s head.

Steve imagines he can taste Billy’s lips on the paper as he takes a drag, staring Billy in the eyes. Even washed out in the moonlight, they’re so fucking blue. Billy’s touch lingers on Steve’s skin even after he’s broken the contact between them. Silence falls again, the kind of silence that presses on Steve, that makes him feel trapped. He digs his fingernails into his arms, but the pain isn’t as grounding as it used to be.

“I’m sorry,” Billy says suddenly. Steve’s startled by the words themselves, grateful for the sound of them. “For beating the shit outta you last fall. And for going after the kid.”

“You should be,” Steve says instead of something rational like “Thank you” or “I appreciate it,” because apparently he actually has a death wish. “But I—I realize what it must have looked like to you, how bad it was. I’m sorry too.” He only looks at Billy after he’s done speaking. Billy nods, looking pensive as he pulls from his cigarette again.

“Some shit went down that night,” he says. It’s not a question. Steve nods anyway. “That why you’re afraid?”

“I dunno.” He does know. Not that it matters; Billy seems to see through the lie.

“I know what it’s like,” he says slowly, looking out over the lake, “to be scared all the time. It sucks ass.”

Steve huffs in agreement, flopping back so he’s lying on the dock, legs stretched out in front of him. After a moment, he hears rustling beside him, feels the warmth of Billy’s arm line up with his as he follows Steve to the floor.

“I just want it to be over,” Steve whispers.

“Someday,” Billy replies, and it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as much as Steve.

It all seems so surreal, this conversation, the kind of thing that could only happen at three in the morning, far away from anywhere they see each other during the day. And that’s the worst part; they’re fifty miles outside of Hawkins. The lake isn’t going to swallow him. There are no demodogs stalking the underbrush, waiting to catch him by surprise. Not even a whiff of a gate to be seen. Steve knows he’s being irrational about it all, there’s nothing out here to get him, but he’s still shaking, his heart’s still racing like it’s the last five minutes of a game.

Maybe he can’t get away from it.

“Don’t go home,” he says before he can overthink it. He feels Billy shift next to him, knows he’s being stared at, keeps his eyes fixed on the stars overhead.

“What?” There’s something in Billy’s voice that Steve can’t quite identify. He wants, desperately, to know what Billy’s thinking in this moment. If he were El, he could find out. The best he can do now is turn his own head, meeting Billy’s gaze. Their faces are inches apart.

“You said you didn’t want to go home,” Steve says, because once he starts digging, he can’t stop. “So don’t. Stay here tonight.”

Billy chuckles, but it’s strained, like he’s trying to hide something else. “I don’t think your nerdy little friends are gonna like that.”

“Who cares what they think?” Steve asks, and now he’s really caught Billy by surprise, because at literally any other time, he’d fight to the death for them. “There’s plenty of room.” A bald faced lie.

“Steve,” Billy says, and it’s serious now, intensely so. “Don’t do this. I don’t need protecting.”

Steve’s thrown for a moment, because he hadn’t thought Billy needed protection, hadn’t been trying to offer it. Something’s stirring at the back of his mind, Don’t go around assuming you know what my life’s like and I know what it’s like to be scared all the time and I don’t need protecting, but he’ll figure it out later. “Then protect me,” he says, and wants it even when Billy’s eyes widen in surprise. “Just. Stay.”

Steve’s not quite sure what happens after that. One moment Billy’s lying next to him, looking like he might be giving in to Steve’s obvious desperation, and the next he’s on top of Steve, arms bracketing his head and one leg slotted between Steve’s.

“Did you mean it?” he whispers. Steve feels the warm puff of breath hit his nose.

“Mean what?” He sounds absolutely wrecked to his own ears, and he should care that Billy can probably hear it but he doesn’t.

“When you said you wouldn’t tell,” Billy says, and it takes Steve a moment to remember that far back. “Did you mean it?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, and then Billy’s kissing him.

It’s like drowning and coming up for air at the same time, like a weight’s been lifted from his chest even as he’s being smothered. Billy’s a solid presence above him, the only solid thing he’s felt in the last year, and it takes Steve all of three seconds to run his hands up Billy’s sides and pull him down until he’s pressing Steve into the dock. Billy’s lips strike sparks against Steve’s, light a fire in the pit of his stomach where he’d been cold and empty. And he knew before, knew that he was hollow, but he didn’t realize how much of him was gone until now. He’s not sure what he can get away with, knows most people don’t like a tongue shoved all the way down their throat, but he needs this like he needs to eat, to breathe, to stop thinking. Needs to be as close to Billy as possible.

For the first time all day, all week, maybe since his life was quite literally ripped in two, Steve feels real.

Billy starts kissing along his jaw, down his neck, and Steve feels his nails scratching Billy’s back but he can’t stop his fingers curling in. “Don’t leave,” he pleads one last time, eyes screwed shut and hands clutching desperately at Billy’s shoulders. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Billy moves back up to his face, wipes at the tears falling from the corners of his eyes with the pads of his thumbs.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

[serendipity-writes]

there's someone outside that caught my eye

For Harringrove Week July 2022! Prompt: heatwave

Fics for this event: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Rated Teen, 2.9k

Summary:

When Harrington opens his door, disgruntled and a little confused, his first words aren’t “Hey what the fuck” or “go away.” Instead, his brow wrinkles adorably as he says, “Billy? What are you doing here?” So Billy’s already doing better than he’d hoped.

read on ao3

--

When Harrington opens his door, disgruntled and a little confused, his first words aren’t “Hey what the fuck” or “go away.” Instead, his brow wrinkles adorably as he says, “Billy? What are you doing here?” So Billy’s already doing better than he’d hoped.

As for what he’s doing knocking on Harrington’s door at four in the afternoon on their third day of summer break, he thought that was obvious.

“Well, it’s hot as fucking balls out,” Billy starts, and Harrington winces in sympathy. “Tommy said you got a pool, so I thought I might use it to cool off or, you know, drown myself.”

This time, Harrington’s grimace doesn’t look sympathetic so much as involuntary and unpleasant, but he shrugs it off like he didn’t want Billy to see, so Billy keeps his mouth shut.

“Right,” Harrington says slowly, “because we’re friends now, or something?”

Billy gets Harrington’s skepticism, he does. Not even a year ago, he’d smashed a plate over the guy’s head, for Christ’s sake. But the thing is, aren’t they friends? Or at least, Harrington’s the closest thing Billy’s got to a friend. Their animosity in basketball practice doesn’t usually get physical these days, and they eat lunch at the same table sometimes. Hell, Harrington’s bummed cigarettes off Billy under the bleachers, when Billy has a study hall and he knows Harrington’s supposed to be in sixth period US History. If that isn’t friendship, Billy doesn’t know what is.

“Yeah, ‘cause we’re friends,” he says, all charming smile and soulful gaze. Harrington rolls his eyes, but steps back to let Billy inside the house. Billy very carefully does not shiver as their hands brush in passing.

Of course, the Harringtons have AC because they’re stupid rich. It’s not turned up very high, though, because the house isn’t exactly at a temperature that Billy would call comfortable. He indicates the thermostat and raises an eyebrow. Harrington shrugs.

“I don’t know, I guess I feel bad about using it too much. Don’t want to strain the power grid,” he says. Of course Harrington’s got a fucking complex about that shit. Whatever. Billy’ll let him roast alive in his own house if that’s what he wants.

“Suit yourself,” he says, clapping his hands. “Now where’s this pool that I came all this way for?”

“‘Thanks for inviting me in, Steve,’” Harrington mutters under his breath as he starts walking through the house, Billy trailing a few steps behind. “‘You’re such a gracious host.’ ‘You’re welcome, Billy. It’s a pleasure to have your company.’”

“A pleasure, huh?” Billy asks, unassuming except for the exaggerated way he leers at Harrington, who simply rolls his eyes again. He points to the back of the living room, where a sliding glass door opens onto a spacious backyard. Off to the left, Billy can just see the edge of what looks like concrete. “Harrington, you’re my hero,” he says, and he’s not even joking that much. He pushes past Harrington, making a beeline for the pool as soon as he gets outside. His shirt’s already tossed on one of the lawn chairs, jeans soon to follow, when Harrington pipes up behind him.

“Where’s your swimsuit?” he asks. When Billy turns to look at him, he’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

“Come on, King Steve,” he says, eyebrow raised just a tad suggestively. “Never done a little skinny dipping?”

Harrington’s face flushes bright pink at that, poor, innocent little thing. For half a second Billy thinks he’s gonna fight him, insist that Billy is not in fact allowed to swim nude in his backyard, but all he says is, “If you piss in my pool, I’m making you run home naked.”

Billy throws his head back and laughs before sliding out of his pants and boxers and diving gracefully into the pool. When he resurfaces, shaking the water out of his eyes, he finds Harrington looking stoically in the opposite direction. “No need to protect my modesty, Stevie. Nothin’ you haven’t seen in the locker room.”

Harrington glances back at him and smiles, but it looks tight. He’s kind of pale, too, not just corn-fed Indiana white boy pale but not as rosy as he should be considering how hot it is out here. And Billy had thought, maybe hoped, that Harrington’d come swim with him, but he hasn’t even taken a step toward the pool.

“You look a little warm, Harrington,” Billy calls to get his attention. His best method of getting Harrington to do anything is still goading him into it, so he allows a bit of a challenge to seep into his tone when he says, “You should come in. Water’s nice.”

But Harrington just gives him the same tight smile and steps fully outside, closing the sliding door behind him. “I think I’m good here, thanks,” he responds, settling on the lawn.

Billy keeps an eye on him as he drifts about the pool. Harrington seems fucking wired, fingers tapping on his leg, knee bouncing against the grass. And it’s like he can’t look at Billy too often, but can’t stand to not look at him for long either. He’s not trying to sneak a peek while Billy’s attention is elsewhere; he knows what that looks like, knows what it feels like. Harrington would be avoiding his eyes, casting about for something, anything else to look at, blushing red all the way to his chest probably. But Harrington doesn’t balk from Billy’s gaze, and when he isn’t looking his eyes are fixed on something in the distance, not flitting around. Even though his behavior is controlled, there’s something frantic about the actions, like Harrington’s just waiting for an excuse to vibrate out of his skin.

“You alright?” Billy asks, crossing his arms on the edge of the pool. Harrington startles at the sound of his voice, as though he forgot Billy was there despite his constant vigilance.

“What? Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, but Billy’s not convinced. There’s a waver to his voice, an edge that most people probably wouldn’t pick up on except Billy’s trained himself to notice little cues like that. It’s a self-defense mechanism most of the time. He doesn’t usually have to use it like this.

But if Harrington doesn’t want to talk, Billy can’t make him. “Whatever you say,” he drawls, slipping under the water after. It’s nice around his head, cool and soothing. He feels almost weightless, probably because his hair is drifting around him, supported by the water. With his eyes closed, he can almost imagine he’s back in California instead of Bumfuck Nowhere, Hickville. The illusion lasts as long as he can hold his breath.

When Billy breaks the surface, splashing and sucking in a lungful of Midwest summer air, Harrington flinches back like the water burned him. His face is white as a sheet. Billy doesn’t even know when he got so close to the pool.

“The hell is wrong with you?” he asks, and he tries not to sound angry, he really tries, because he’s not accusing Harrington, he genuinely wants to know. Doesn’t matter much, because Harrington throws himself backward anyway.

“Don’t—it’s nothing, just. You were down there for a long time,” he says. “I had to make sure you were okay.” This time, he doesn’t even sound like he convinced himself.

“Okay? In the seven foot deep pool in your backyard?” Billy asks, hoisting himself onto the concrete. He might not understand, but something about him swimming in that pool is agitating Harrington, and not in the fun way. Besides, he thinks he might want pants on for this conversation.

Harrington turns his back as soon as Billy emerges fully, but after a moment of fidgeting, he glances over his shoulder, almost like he can’t let Billy out of his sight. Or, Billy thinks as he tracks the movement of Harrington’s eyes, maybe it isn’t him.

Maybe it’s the pool.

As soon as he buttons his jeans, Billy pulls Harrington gently away from the water. They end up standing on the grass, Harrington’s back to the house so that he can check up on the pool every five seconds. He’s wringing his hands now, Billy notes with some concern.

“Hey, something’s going on with you,” he starts, hand on Harrington’s shoulder, trying to be open or comforting or whatever the fuck it is he’s supposed to be. He’s not good at this, never has been. “You can… talk to me,” he finishes lamely.

Harrington looks at Billy, really looks at him, for the first time since greeting him at the front door, and there’s something in Harrington’s big brown eyes that makes Billy’s blood run cold, something dark, something afraid.

Something haunted.

“No, I can’t,” he says with a sad little smile. At least he’s not denying it anymore. Billy wonders if Harrington’s aware of how much he’s leaning into the hand on his shoulder, thinks probably not.

“Hey, I won’t tell,” Billy says, holding up his free hand in a show of peace. “I’m great at keeping secrets.”

“I’m sure you are,” Harrington responds, the smile slipping off his face, “but I actually, legally can’t. I had to sign a shit ton of NDAs, and if anyone finds out I’ve told you anything, they’ll—”

“Know why we moved to this shithole town?” Billy’s mouth is moving faster than his brain. He didn’t consent to interrupting Harrington, definitely didn’t consent to bringing this up, but he did it for a reason. His heart thuds in his chest. Now that he’s started them down this path, he knows he’ll see it through to the end.

He’s a little terrified of that.

For Harrington’s part, he just looks confused. “No? I mean, if this is an attempt to prove that you can keep your mouth shut—”

“My old man,” and Billy feels his lip curl at the words, “caught me. Blowing my best friend. He said Cali was too open, too liberal or whatever, that it was making me queer, that he wouldn’t raise a faggot for a son. So he dragged us all out here, hoping the good old conservative Midwest would fix me. It didn’t, case you were wondering. Fix me.”

He manages to cut himself off there, manages to hold back the other half of the confession threatening to spill out, that he looks at Steve’s lips wrapped around a cigarette and wonders what they’d feel like against his own, that his eyes follow Steve all fucking day, that his attempts to rile and antagonize him at the beginning of the year were really just him screaming look at me, goddamn it, notice me!

When Billy finally gets out of his own head, it’s to see Steve blinking at him, mouth open in a little “o” of surprise. Billy’s never wanted to kiss him so bad.

“So, there,” he says instead. “You’ve got insurance. If I spill anything you tell me, you can take that story to the fuckin’ papers and ruin my life.” He’s trying so hard to come off casual, to bury the bone-deep fear that telling this secret elicits, but it’s not working. He knows it’s not working.

“I would never do that,” Steve says, painfully earnest, and suddenly he’s so much closer, filling Billy’s entire field of vision. “I need—I need you to understand that. No matter what you do, or what you’ve done, or anything else, I would never tell anyone. Okay? I’ll take that to my grave if you want me to. I swear on my life.”

Something about the way he says it, the intensity maybe, the depth of emotion, scares Billy more than the thought of being outed did. Steve is serious, he realizes. He’d die before selling Billy out to anyone.

Billy’s not sure he deserves that kind of loyalty.

“It better not come to that, pretty boy,” he says, because he can’t say what he wants to, can’t say thank you and I’ll die for you before you die for me and please, please hear what I didn’t tell you.

Steve nods, the self-sacrificing son of a bitch, and Billy feels relief flood his chest. At least this, this misplaced faith or pity or whatever the fuck it is won’t get Steve killed. He’ll make sure of it himself if he has to.

But then Steve kind of curls in on himself, wrapping his arms around his stomach, not looking Billy in the eye, and he’s just started thinking maybe he shared too much, maybe he’s fundamentally damaged their friendship, maybe he should go, when Steve blurts out, “I kissed Tommy.”

It’s Billy’s turn to blink in shock. “I’m sorry, what?”

Steve fidgets, staring down at his shoes. “When we were like, thirteen,” he starts, shifting from foot to foot. Billy wants to remind him to plant his feet, can’t decide if he wants to scream or whisper it, when Steve does. He settles down, feet anchored slightly apart, arms pulled up to cross over his chest, and stares defiantly at Billy’s face. “When we were thirteen, I kissed him. I never did it again, and he never told anyone, and I’ve—I’ve tried not to think about it, really, but I know. I’ve known since then.”

Billy runs a hand across his forehead. “I swear to God, if you’re fucking with me, or—or lying in some fucked up attempt to make me feel better—”

“Not lying,” Steve interrupts, laying a hand on Billy’s forearm, pulling it down. “This isn’t… the best place to be like this,” he says, and Billy snorts.

“Yeah, no shit.”

“So I wouldn’t lie about it. Not to you.”

For a moment, a sweet, dangerous moment, Billy lets himself feel special, like there’s a category set aside just for him in Steve’s mind. Like maybe he’s got a sliver of hope, a prayer of a chance with him. But he can’t let that train leave the station. He’ll lose his fucking mind if he does.

“Well,” he breathes, more to break the silence than anything else. “That’s a real bomb to drop on someone, Harrington.”

“Like you didn’t just do the same thing to me,” Steve fires back, and he’s close to laughing, and Billy feels a grin, a real one, tugging at the corner of his mouth, and everything’s almost okay for a single moment. Then a breeze blows through, disturbing the pool enough that water slaps against its side. The sound echoes like a gunshot through the backyard. Billy watches the blood drain out of Steve’s face so fast he worries he’s gonna pass out, hands flying to his waist of their own accord as Steve jerks his head around like he’s trying to give himself whiplash.

Billy’d almost forgotten about the goddamn pool.

He snatches his hands away before Steve turns back to him, that same destroyed, haunted look in his eyes. “I wasn’t lying about that either,” he says softly. “I really did have to sign a ridiculous amount of NDAs, and I can’t tell you everything.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Billy says, trying for comforting again. It’s working better this time, he thinks. “You don’t have to tell me.” Knowing about whatever happened doesn’t seem as important now as it did five minutes ago.

“No, it’s—” Steve starts, then sniffs, swipes the heel of his hand against the corner of his eye. Billy suddenly feels out of his depth, like he’s bitten off more than he can chew and he doesn’t even know what exactly he’s bitten into yet. “Like, two years ago, a girl—she died. In my pool.”

Jesus fucking Christ. Billy wasn’t prepared for that. He couldn’t have been prepared for that. “Shit, Steve.” His joke about drowning himself earlier comes back to him like a slap in the face.

“Yeah,” Steve replies, laughing humorlessly. He scrubs at his eyes again, tears smearing high on his cheekbones so they don’t have the chance to fall.

“What was her name?” Billy asks gently. Steve looks taken aback, like it’s not something he’s used to hearing, like people don’t usually bother to ask.

“Barb,” he says, then takes a deep breath and it’s like the floodgates have opened. “And it’s like, I know it’s not gonna happen again, but—but what if it does? What if everyone who goes in that pool dies? What if… what if I could have done something? What if I could have stopped it?” He’s whispering by the end, eyes rolled up and blinking rapidly, trying to stop the tears before they have a chance to start.

Billy knows. He’s done that a hundred times.

Before he lets himself think it over, talk himself out of it, he pulls Steve close. His arms wrap around Steve’s shoulders, stiff with surprise, and he ignores the way Steve’s hands are trapped between their bodies. He’s still shirtless, but dry as a bone thanks to this God-forsaken heatwave. “I’m here,” he breathes, because he swam in that pool and came out just fine. “I’m here,” because he told Steve something he swore to himself he would never speak of again, and Steve told him something he really wasn’t supposed to, and neither of them ran away.

Slowly, the tension bleeds out of Steve’s shoulders. He moves his hands, tentatively circling his arms around Billy’s waist. Billy feels it as Steve buries his face into his shoulder, feels the moment he lets go and the tears start sliding hot and wet all over Billy’s skin, Steve’s blunt fingernails digging into his lower back. He tightens his grip in response, pressing his own face against Steve’s neck. They’re not okay, either one of them, but he thinks that maybe they can figure out how to be okay together.

[serendipity-writes]

i wonder if you feel kinda like i feel (temporary)

Vol 2 fucked me up

Rated Teen, 4.1k

Summary:

But you make her feel like she’s not a mistake at all, like she’s better for being different.

“Mike,” Will says, gripping his shoulder before pulling his hand back like Mike’s jacket burned him.  “Don’t stop, okay?”  He prays the tears in his eyes don’t fall, not while Mike’s looking at him like that.  “You’re the heart.  Okay?  Remember that.  You’re the heart!”

For a moment, Will can almost convince himself that Mike’s looking at him like he hung the moon and stars, like he looks at Mike every damn day.  But Mike turns back to El fast enough to give himself whiplash, starts talking to her like they’re the only people in the room, tells her he loves her.

The cracks in Will’s heart grow wider, but he can hold on.  He can ignore them for just a little bit longer.

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See how you’re leading us here?  You’re guiding the whole party.  Inspiring us.  That’s—that’s what you do.

Will’s crying.  Will’s crying and Mike doesn’t know what to do.

It’s not like it was when they were kids, when he could hug Will and get him a Superman Band–Aid and tell him everything was going to be okay.  Too much has changed.

They’ve changed.

And Mike doesn’t know how to go back to the way it was, doesn’t think he’s supposed to want to, isn’t he happy with how things are now?  He is.

He is.

(He wants to hug Will again, but he doesn’t know how to reach across the gap between them.)

And things can’t go back to the way they were, anyway.  Will’s looking out the window and crying with his hand over his mouth so Mike doesn’t hear and he doesn’t know what to do, so he stares out the front windshield and pastes on a little smile like everything’s going to be okay, even though there’s a pit in the bottom of his stomach telling him it won’t be.

And see your coat of arms here?  It’s a heart.  And I know it’s sort of on the nose, but that’s what holds this party together.  Heart.

It’s not fair.

And Will’s accepted his lot in life, he’s come to terms with the fact that things will never be fair for him, but it’s not fair of him to put this on Mike.  Mike doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve a friend who can’t even manage to give him a proper pep talk about his girlfriend without inserting himself into the conversation, doesn’t deserve someone who cries for no reason at all in the backseat of a pizza van that smells of weed and sweat.

But it doesn’t matter, because Mike didn’t understand a word of it.  Not one word.

So Will turns his face away from Mike, stares into the miles and miles of desert passing them by, muffles his sobs into his palm so Mike doesn’t know, and screams She doesn’t need you, I do! in his head until he’s sick of the sound of his own thoughts.

Maybe if he thinks it loud enough, Mike will hear.

Or maybe he’s getting what he deserves, for everything he did to Mike.  Everything he’s still doing to Mike.  Everything he’s still feeling for Mike.

Somewhere dark, deeper down than he likes to look most days, he thinks he can feel cracks forming at the center of his heart.

Because without heart, we’d all fall apart.  Even El.  Especially El.

Mike knows.  He knows as soon as that helicopter goes down that El’s there, she’s right there, and even though she’d be his Superman with or without powers, she has them back now, so maybe she’ll finally start believing she’s Superman too.

And then he sees her, kneeling in a pair of dusty white jeans and a blue plaid flannel.  He throws himself out of the car before Jonathan’s even fully stopped, long before he puts it in park, and he runs across the sand, skidding to his knees next to her, saying, practically shouting Eleven!  Eleven! and she finally turns to face him.

(The look in her eyes reminds him of Will, of him telling Mike he’s the heart.)

She loops her arms around his neck and whispers Oh, Mike.  They lean their foreheads together, noses bumping, and he doesn’t kiss her, she doesn’t try to kiss him.  Her voice cracks as she asks It’s really you?  Mike’s breaks just as much when he answers It’s me, I’m here.

It doesn’t quite sound like I love you.

These past few months, she’s been so… lost, without you.

Will watches as Mike leaps out of the van, as he runs to El, screaming her name, as they embrace.  He’s close enough to see as they press their foreheads together, grinning like kids who just got ice cream, like they’re young and in love.  He’s close enough, barely, to catch the whispered words between them, their emotions laid so bare, so free.

He’s not jealous.  He’s not jealous of his best friend, of his sister.  He’s happy for them, happy they get to be happy together.

Deep in that dark, unspoken place, he feels the cracks spreading, hairline fractures like his mom’s old porcelain doll.

It’s just that she’s so different from other people, and… when you’re—when you’re different, sometimes… you feel like a mistake.

She’s never not responded to him before, not like this.

Sure, El has iced Mike out for many different reasons, often conflicting and sometimes all at once, but now it’s not like she’s choosing to ignore him, it’s like she can’t say anything at all.

It’s like she can’t breathe.

“Help me, help me!” Mike shouts, working his arms under her shoulders as Jonathan lifts her legs, raising her out of the water, onto the table, now radio–less.  “El, can you hear me?” he asks, panicked, but she just keeps choking on nothing.

His fingers clutch hers desperately, knuckles whiter than her shirt, as he tries and tries and tries.

And then, suddenly, there’s a hand touching his shoulder, skin warm through his jacket for the fleeting moment it’s there.

“Mike,” Will says, tears at the corners of his eyes.  “Don’t stop, okay?  You’re the heart.  Okay?”  His voice grows steadily more urgent, not desperate and hoarse like Mike’s has, but urgent like he needs Mike to know this, like it’s the difference between El’s life and death, like it’s maybe even more than that.  “Remember that.  You’re the heart!”

And Mike knows what he needs to do.

“El?  I don’t know if you can hear this, but—but if you can, I want you to know I’m here, okay?  I’m right here.  And… I love you!  El, do you hear me?  I love you.”

It doesn’t feel like he thought it would, like jumping off the cliff to save Dustin or setting the tunnels on fire to draw the demodogs away from Joyce and Hopper.  It feels like coming home after a long day, safe and warm and… familiar, like he loves his sister and mother, like he loves his friends.

(Like he used to love Will, before they changed.)

“I’m sorry I don’t say it more,” he tells her, and he is.  “It—It’s not because I’m scared of you.  I’m not, I—I’ve never felt that way, never.  But I am scared that one day you’ll realize you don’t need me anymore, and I thought that if I said how I felt, it would somehow make that day… hurt more.  But the truth is, El, I don’t know how to live without you.  I feel like my life started that day we found you in the woods.  You were wearing that yellow Benny’s Burgers t-shirt,” and he wavers a little, laughter creeping into his voice at the memory, “and it was so big it almost swallowed you whole.  And I knew right then and there, in that moment, that I loved you.  And I’ve loved you every day since.  I love you on your good days, I love you on your bad days.  I love you with your powers, without your powers.  I love you for exactly who you are.”

He keeps talking, tells her she’s his superhero, tells her he can’t lose her, tells her to fight, and it’s all true, every word.

It just isn’t true in the way he thought it was.

But you make her feel like she’s not a mistake at all, like she’s better for being different.

“Mike,” Will says, gripping his shoulder before pulling his hand back like Mike’s jacket burned him.  “Don’t stop, okay?”  He prays the tears in his eyes don’t fall, not while Mike’s looking at him like that.  “You’re the heart.  Okay?  Remember that.  You’re the heart!”

For a moment, Will can almost convince himself that Mike’s looking at him like he hung the moon and stars, like he looks at Mike every damn day.  But Mike turns back to El fast enough to give himself whiplash, starts talking to her like they’re the only people in the room, tells her he loves her.

The cracks in Will’s heart grow wider, but he can hold on.  He can ignore them for just a little bit longer.

Then Mike says I feel like my life started that day we found you in the woods, the day that Will went missing, the day that started what he’d truly hoped would be the worst week of his life, they day he still hasn’t recovered from, the day that none of them will ever truly recover from, and that’s it.  His heart shatters, so forcefully he can feel shards of it embedding themselves in his lungs, his stomach, his ribs, ripping out from beneath his skin to strike everyone and everything around him.  He’s amazed that no one else heard it break until he meets Jonathan’s eyes, sees the pain and regret reflected there, and realizes maybe someone did.

He doesn’t hear much of what Mike says after that.  The carnage is too great, the casualties too high.  Will feels like Eleven must have, like he could just choke and die right now on nothing but the blood he imagines bubbling up his throat.

Naturally, the pieces of his heart have all gravitated toward Mike.

And that gives her the courage to fight on.

The fight with Vecna is far from over, he’s made that abundantly clear.  Still, it feels like they’ve bought themselves a moment to breathe, a moment to prepare before they’re responsible for saving the world.  Again.

It’s been a few days since Jonathan pulled into Hawkins as everyone else left, since they decided to hide El in the cabin again.  It’s gotten loud in there now that Joyce and Hopper are back.

Mike wasn’t sure how to feel about that, at first.  He’s blaming it on shock; everything just happened so suddenly, without any sort of warning, and they’d already run the gauntlet the previous few days.  Hell, they’d thought Hopper was dead for eight months.  They’d had a funeral!  Mike thinks he should be allowed to be a little taken aback by his sudden reappearance.

But then El hugged him and smiled and cried just a little bit, and Mike was happy enough for her that he got over his own shock pretty quickly.

They’re walking in the woods now, him and El.  Too many people in this cabin, El had said, and when Hopper had told her she wasn’t allowed to walk alone, she’d invited Mike to come along.

They haven’t gotten much of a chance to talk.  Saving the world, or at least trying their damned hardest, doesn’t leave a lot of time for emotional conversations.

Mike waits until he’s sure they’re out of earshot of anyone who might be trying to listen to them, which could very easily be everyone, before he stops.  “El…” he starts when she turns to face him, but he doesn’t know how to continue.

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to.  El steps forward, nodding.  “I know,” she says gently.  “I could tell when you said it to me.”

Mike sighs, dropping his head into his hands.  “I really did mean it,” he mumbles.  “I love you, just…”

“It’s okay,” El interrupts.  “I love you too.  As friends.”

“Friends,” Mike echoes, peering down at her.  “Yeah, friends.  I like that.”

El nods decisively, like she’s just solved all of Mike’s problems with one statement.  In a way, she has.

(Except one, but he can’t tell her about that.)

They start walking again.  Mike doesn’t realize until several yards in that El’s steered them back toward the cabin.  “I can still need you,” she offers.  “As a friend.”

“And I still can’t lose you,” Mike replies.  “As a friend.”  He feels like a weight’s been lifted from his shoulders.

As the cabin comes back into view, Mike gives in to the question that’s been nagging at the back of his mind.  “Did you ask Will to make that painting?” he asks.

El furrows her brows at him.  “No,” she says.  “I told you in my letter, he would not let me see it.  I thought it was—”

“For some girl, yeah,” Mike finishes.  “I remember now.”

He wonders who the girl is, if Will ever talked to her, if he misses her now.

(He wonders why that thought makes his throat burn like acid.)

If she was mean to you, or it seemed like she was pushing you away, it’s probably just because she’s scared of losing you, just like you’re scared of losing her.

Something’s changed.

Will can’t put his finger on what, exactly, but Mike and Eleven are… different.  They’re easier around each other, more relaxed.  They smile and giggle with their heads close together, Mike casually throws his arm across El’s shoulders when they sit next to each other, they whisper in each other’s ears like they’re sharing secrets no one else is allowed to hear.  Hopper isn’t even mad about it anymore.  Will catches him looking at them sometimes, but instead of the fierce protectiveness he used to display, his expression now, more often than not, is fond.

And Will’s happy for them, he really is.  It’s great to see them more comfortable around each other, great to see them finally get to be happy together.

He doesn’t know how long he can keep lying to himself, but as long as that deep, dark place inside of him is still broken and empty, he’ll try.

He’s happy, but it’s just a little hard to be around them sometimes.  So he finds himself making excuses when everyone gets together, when El flops on the couch next to Mike and he playfully ruffles her growing hair.  He finds himself seeing less of El when she’s with Mike, and less of Mike altogether, and something inside of him aches but he knows it’ll only hurt more if he stays near them, so he pretends nothing’s wrong as he draws away.

It’s the story of his life, he supposes.  It’s what he deserves.

And if she was going to lose you, I—I think she’d rather just get it over with quick.  Like ripping off a Band–Aid.

Mike doesn’t know what Will’s problem is.

But he knows walking up to him and going Hey, what’s your problem? is not the right way to approach the issue.  So he waits, biding his time until Will’s alone, until Joyce confirms he’s in his bedroom just down the hall, walks to the door, softly like he’s scared of spooking Will, and knocks twice.

“One second, Mom!” is shouted on the other side of the door, and a few moments later it swings open, revealing Will in all his slightly disheveled glory.  Will, who Mike hasn’t seen in three days, Will whose mouth is open in a little “o” of surprise at seeing Mike shifting his weight from foot to foot in the hallway, smiling sheepishly, an apology on the tip of his tongue.

“Sorry for showing up unannounced,” he says, glancing at the floor, then back up at Will.  He still hasn’t closed his mouth, Mike notes absently.  “Can I come in?”

The question seems to spark Will back to life.  “Yeah, sure,” he says, stepping to the side and holding the door for Mike.  He leaves it open (three inches exactly), but Mike shuts it quietly behind them.  He’s not sure how this conversation is going to go, but something tells him Will might not want his whole household to be able to hear it.

Will’s eyes dart to Mike’s hand on the doorknob, but he doesn’t try to stop him.

“Hey,” Mike says when the door’s closed and they’re standing awkwardly in the middle of Will’s room.

“Hey,” Will responds, holding his arms across his stomach, not meeting Mike’s eyes even though Mike can’t stop looking at him.

“So, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you,” he tries.  Will’s grip on his own elbows tightens.  The fabric of his shirt wrinkles under the force of his fingertips.  He doesn’t say anything.  “Are you avoiding me?”

Will looks up at that, brow furrowing.  “No, I—”

“Because I know I fucked up,” Mike cuts in.  “And I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry—”

“Mike—”

“Just tell me what I did wrong and I’ll never do it again, I promise—”

“Mike!”  

He’s startled into silence by Will’s shout, controlled as it was.  He doesn’t usually interrupt, doesn’t unusually raise his voice.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, softer, kinder, like the Will Mike knows and loves.

(Loves.)

“Then what’s wrong?” Mike asks, painfully earnest.

“Nothing,” Will says.  “Everything’s fine.”  Suddenly, it’s like he can’t meet Mike’s eyes anymore.

“No it’s not,” Mike insists.  “You’re my best friend, do you really think I can’t tell when something’s bothering you?”

“I told you, nothing’s bothering me.  I’m fine,” Will says, and he still won’t look at Mike but he sounds almost angry, which only lends credit to Mike’s theory.

“Hey,” he murmurs, trying to dispel the pressure in the air.  “You can talk to me about it, okay?”  He reaches forward, wraps his fingers loosely around Will’s thin wrist as he says, “Maybe I can help.”

Will goes rigid at his touch, as still as a corpse.  “Mike,” he repeats lowly, tension written clearly across his shoulders.  “Please let go of me.”

“Why?”  This never happened when they were kids.  And even now, even after things changed between them, Will’s never been so repulsed by Mike’s mere presence that he couldn’t bear to be touched by him.

“Because I asked you to.”  Will’s voice is more strained than Mike’s ever heard it, and that’s saying something.  He’s heard Will trying to lie to his mother, heard him praying for a high roll in D&D, heard him wake up screaming and crying after coming back from the Upside Down, heard all the awful things the Mind Flayer made him say when he was possessed.

Mike doesn’t let go.  This is him reaching across the gap, and he might not be doing it right but he’s not going to back down now.

“Just tell me what’s wrong,” he whispers, his breath stirring the strands of Will’s hair that lie on his forehead.

Will looks up at him, brown eyes wide and overflowing with something Mike can’t name, and for a moment he thinks he’s made it, thinks they’re finally standing on the same side of the canyon that was between them, before—

“What’s your fucking problem, Mike?” Will hisses, shoving at his chest.  Mike stumbles back a few steps, releasing Will’s wrist.  He rubs it like Mike burned him, like he wants to scrub the feeling of Mike’s fingers off of his skin, and something ugly flares to life behind Mike’s ribcage.

“I don’t know, Will, what’s your problem?”  The second he says it, Mike is desperate to take it back.  He didn’t mean it, it’s his fault, not Will’s, Will’s never done anything bad in his life, he doesn’t deserve this, he doesn’t deserve such a shitty friend.

He thinks, at first, that Will will get more angry, that he’ll scream and shout and never want to see Mike again, and Mike won’t be able to say a word against him, he’ll just live with the knowledge that every time he tries to fix things, he just makes them worse.  What he’s not expecting is Will’s face splitting open, tears streaming down his cheeks, an entire ocean in his eyes, and the broken way he chokes on a single word.

“You.”

And before Mike can register it, can realize what Will’s trying to say, he’s crashing their faces together, hands fisting in Mike’s hair, lips crushed against Mike’s mouth.

Will is a thunderstorm.  Lightning zips across Mike’s lips, down his spine, but it’s just the warning, because the sonic boom that resonates through his chest, the tears that aren’t his own falling like rain on his cheeks, that’s what takes him out.

But before he can decide if he wants to push Will away or pull him closer, Will makes the choice for him.  He stumbles back until he hits the wall, breathing like he just outran a Demogorgon, scrubbing his hands frantically over his face.

“It’s not you,” he babbles, voice muffled slightly.  “You’re not the problem, I am.  I’m the problem, and I’m so sorry I did that, I’ll never do it again, I swear…”

Mike looks at Will, looks as his hands gradually slow their movement, looks at the tears shining like diamonds trapped in his eyelashes, looks at the perfect cupid’s bow of his mouth, pressed against his own just a moment ago, and as he reaches up to touch his still tingling lips, he thinks, Oh.

“…wanted to stop it,” Will’s saying when Mike is able to focus on his voice again, “and I’ve tried for so long, but it just won’t go away, and I understand if you don’t want to see me anymore, I’ll leave—”

“I wouldn’t,” Mike says, fingers dropping slowly from his face so his hand is hanging loosely by his side.

“What?” Will whispers hoarsely, eyes shining with yet more tears.

“I wouldn’t.  Want to stop it,” Mike clarifies.  Will’s puzzled expression morphs into one of shock, as though he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“So, what, you’d want to keep this horrible secret forever?  You’d want to live the rest of your life loving someone who could never love you back?  Why would anyone… want…”  Will trails off as Mike reaches up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing away the tear tracks left on his cheek.  His mouth is open again, frozen in that same “o” as when Mike first showed up at his door.

“You’re not listening to me,” Mike says.

“You’re not making sense,” Will counters, although there’s a hitch to his breath, a tremor in his skin that says he thinks Mike is saying something.

He could be doing a better job of it, though.  So he takes a deep breath, steels himself, plants his feet like Steve told him once, and looks Will dead in the eyes as he says, “I love you.”

This, this is the cliff, this is the fire and the demodogs and sneaking out of his house at night to look for Will when he went missing because he can’t remember a life before Will, can’t imagine one after him, and it’s been worth it every single time so even though Mike’s scared shitless, he believes, he knows this is worth it too.

But Will doesn’t know.  He’s looking at Mike with confusion and trepidation and sadness that’s trying to beat the life out of the tiny spark of hope Mike sees in his eyes, and he has to prove it to him, has to show him that he means it, means it differently than he means it to Nancy and Dustin and Lucas, to El.

Will’s lips are stiff under Mike’s, as unresponsive as Mike imagines he was when Will kissed him not two minutes ago.  He shifts closer, slides his fingers from Will’s cheek to his waist, brings his other hand up so he’s holding onto him, and Will finally, finally kisses back.  He throws his arms around Mike’s neck, fists one hand in the back of his shirt and runs the other through his hair, gentler this time.  And Mike’s had more practice than Will but he doesn’t care, doesn’t think there’s a force in the world that could make him think this kiss is anything less than perfect.

And when Will pulls back to rest their foreheads together, arms holding tight around the back of Mike’s neck, tears still falling like stars but a smile shining through them, he thinks Will just might think it’s perfect too.

So yeah, El needs you, Mike. And she always will.

Will never thought, never let himself hope, that he would get to have this.  But as Mike leans in to kiss him again and again, their smiles pressing together until they’re just holding each other in Will’s room, lungs breathing the same air, hearts beating the same rhythm, as the gaping cavity in his chest fills and fills with starlight until he feels like he’s going to burst, he thinks maybe it’s time to believe that the universe gives good things alongside the bad, maybe he’s had enough of the bad, maybe he deserves this one good thing.

Yeah?

Yeah.

[serendipity-writes]

(Every Word Was) Like Smoke From a Cigarette

I do actually write sometimes, hard as it is to believe!

Rated Teen, 1.3k

Summary:

“None of your fucking business, is what it is!” he shouts, slamming a fist on the dashboard.  “Just a gift from my piece of shit dad to his piece of shit son.  It's my fault and I.  Don’t.  Need.  Your.  Help.”

Billy’s never seen Harrington’s face morph from gentle worry to pure rage so fast in his life.  “Absolutely the fuck not,” he snaps.

read on ao3

Billy chuckles weakly, turning his head to look out the car window. The newest bruise over his cheekbone throbs, the scab where his skin split under his father’s ring pulling tight at the movement. “I just don’t get why you’re so concerned, Harrington,” he says. “Don’t you have some shitheads to babysit or something?”

“I’m concerned because of your face,” Harrington shoots back, and wow, that actually sounds like genuine worry in his voice.

Fuck him.

Billy leers as best he can with a fat lip and a black eye. “Aww, don’t be jealous, pretty boy,” he snarls. The pain is making him angry, making him mean, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

Harrington, the asshole, doesn’t rise to the bait. He sits back, hands raised in a gesture of goodwill, and stares. Billy’s used to being stared at, by girls, women, even the occasional guy who doesn’t know better, doesn’t know how to hide it (Tommy looks in the locker room, sometimes, although Billy knows he’d never admit it), but he’s never been stared at like this. It’s like Harrington's trying to peel back the layers of his face, like he wants to see what’s underneath.

The worst part is, Billy thinks he might let him.

“Just tell me what happened, man,” Harrington says, all soft voice and doe eyes. “Maybe I can help.”

And there it fucking is. Steve fucking Harrington, the goddamn white knight of Hawkins, Indiana, swooping in with his BMW to pick up damsels in distress on the side of the road and kiss away their boo-boos. Only he got Billy instead, and Billy sure as hell isn’t gonna fall for that.

“Fuck off, Harrington, I don’t need your help,” he grumbles, turning away again, but Harrington just can’t leave well enough alone.

“Honestly, dude, whatever it is, I won’t judge. I’ve done some seriously stupid shit, trust me.”

Billy’s tried, really. He’s tried to remain civil. But Harrington can’t take a fucking hint or twelve, and his patience has run out.

“None of your fucking business, is what it is!” he shouts, slamming a fist on the dashboard. “Just a gift from my piece of shit dad to his piece of shit son. It's my fault and I. Don’t. Need. Your. Help.”

Billy’s never seen Harrington’s face morph from gentle worry to pure rage so fast in his life. “Absolutely the fuck not,” he snaps. He’s actually shaking. Incredible. “Billy, I don’t care what the hell else happened, this is not your fault in any way, shape, or form. Nobody should have to deal with that, and you especially shouldn’t blame yourself for it.”

If Billy didn’t know better, didn’t know that Harrington would get knocked on his ass in a second flat, he’d think he was ready to go pay Mr. Hargrove a visit right the fuck now. What did he say? Harrington, the white knight.

“Thanks, but I already know how much you hate me.” Billy sighs and reaches for the car door. “I’m a big boy, you don’t have to lie to try to make me feel better.”

“I’m not—” Harrington breaks off with a frustrated groan, and Billy’s caught for a moment by the way he runs his hand through his hair. “I don’t hate you, and I’m not lying to you,” he finishes. Some of the fury has drained out of his shoulders, but he’s still tense, still wound up. The way he carries the tension looks... familiar, like he’s used to it. Billy wonders what a guy like Harrington has to be that tense about, what he does to blow off steam. He’s not like Billy, basketball and girls are probably enough for him, aren’t they?

He’s taken too long to respond, he knows that, but he still scoffs and rolls his eyes. Not the right thing to do, it seems, because Harrington crosses his arms like Billy’s just issued a challenge.

“What do I have to do to prove it to you?” Harrington asks. “What, was picking you up off the side of the road not enough? Seriously, what do I have to do?” he continues as Billy, accepting the fact that he’s apparently not leaving the car any time soon, reaches for his cigarettes. He doesn’t reply, just flicks his lighter open and holds it up to the cigarette with trembling hands.

He’s barely stuck his lighter back in his pocket, cigarette glowing and clenched between his teeth, when Harrington reaches out and plucks it away. He doesn’t even smoke it himself, just tosses it out the driver’s side window. Billy opens his mouth to protest, a “What the hell, man?” on the tip of his tongue, but it’s swallowed by Harrington’s lips.

Billy doesn’t know what’s happening at first. One moment Harrington’s there in the driver’s seat, and the next he’s leaning over the center console, one hand fisted in the front of Billy’s shit and the other resting on his knee. And then he’s just everywhere, filling Billy’s senses, smelling of rain and pine trees and just a little bit of sweat from basketball practice earlier, his stupid fucking hair tickling Billy’s face, and his lips are so soft, so gentle against Billy’s. He minds the split in Billy’s lip, presses in firm but not hard, traces the seam of Billy’s lips oh so slowly with his tongue. When Billy finally kisses back, finally opens his mouth, he chokes down the moan that crawls up his throat, although he can’t suppress the shudder traveling through his spine. He buries his hands in Harrington’s hair, grabs it and pulls just a little, just so he can get his tongue in Harrington’s mouth. Can Harrington taste the lingering blood on his teeth? Billy can.

This is the best thing Billy’s ever experienced.

He’s freaking out a little.

But then Harrington pulls away, not far, just enough to put some air between them. “I don’t hate you,” he repeats. Billy can’t stop staring at his lips, spit slick and cherry red. “In fact, against my better judgement, I like you. Kind of a lot,” he adds. His hand is still gripping Billy’s shirt. Billy’s hands have fallen to Harrington’s shoulders.

Harrington leans forward then, and for a moment Billy thinks he’s going in for round two, but he doesn’t, just leans their foreheads together. “Come back to my house tonight,” he whispers into the space between them, so quiet Billy almost thinks he’s misheard. “Not for that,” Harrington cuts in before Billy can even think of an innuendo to make. Better off that way, he supposes. His ribs are definitely bruised. He’s not doing much of anything tonight. “So you can sleep in a bed without your fucking father down the hall.”

Billy wants to say yes, wants to thank him, kind of really wants to kiss him again, but because he’s allergic to sincerity in all its forms, what comes out of his mouth is, “Jesus, Harrington, I didn’t realize you cared.”

They’re still mere inches apart. Billy feels Harrington’s huff of laughter against his lips. “I care too much,” he says, and something about the way he says it makes Billy think this is about more than just wanting to fuck, or wanting to like, make out under the moonlight because that’s the kind of sappy romantic shit Harrington is probably into. It makes him think that Harrington’s got some shit too, like maybe he wasn’t cared about enough as a kid, and maybe Billy isn’t the only one he cares too much about (it’s those fucking kids he babysits, Billy would stake what’s left of his life on it), but right now Billy’s just happy to be included. He nods against Harrington’s forehead, sighs against his mouth.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

[serendipity-writes]

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[serendipity-writes]

So I heard we were reblogging with our writing...

“Must have had rabies,” Dad says as he kicks the rat’s limp body onto the cement of the driveway.  The other one got away, but he didn’t want me chasing after it.  Mom and Ella look away as the edge of his shovel comes down, but I watch as its body twitches twice before stilling.  The head, where it rolls around on the shovel’s other side, is devoid of the foamy saliva it should have.

The “rabies” outbreak spreads around the community.  Soon it’s all Dad and our neighbors talk about.

“Our dogs started fighting,” Mrs. Simowski tells him.  “Tore each other near to death.  We had to put them down.”

“That’s a real shame, Martha,” Dad says.  I don’t think they know I’m listening.  They’re in the driveway, and normally I wouldn’t be able to hear them, but it’s late August and our air conditioner just broke, so I have my window cracked to try to alleviate some of the oppressive heat.  “They always seemed like they got along so well,” he continues.

“I just don’t know what got into them,” Mrs. Simowski laments.  “We’d been so careful.  I thought for sure there was no way they could have caught it.”

“Sometimes, things go bad no matter what you do.”  Dad’s fond of little pearls of wisdom like this.  It seems to make Mrs. Simowski feel better, anyway.  She sends him off with a wave and a grateful smile, but that’s not the end of it.

Mr. Kim’s dog goes next, then the stray cat we all affectionately call Lucky.

One of Ms. Gutierrez’s cats tears the other one’s throat out with her teeth.  Mom couldn’t pull me away before I saw the blood.  They weren’t allowed outside.

Adib comes home one day to find that all but one of his fish are floating corpses at the top of their tank.  He flushes them down the toilet and then calls me about it.

“I flushed Zad too,” he admits quietly.  “He just seemed so smug, I couldn’t look at him anymore.”

I don’t ask how a fish can look smug.  Now isn’t the time.

“Strangest case of rabies I’ve ever seen,” is all Dad says when I tell him about Adib’s fish.  I think maybe, for once, he doesn’t have anything else to offer.

I used to be jealous of my friends who had pets, but as I field calls from all of them over the next week, I start to think that maybe I got off easy.

Ella’s scared when school starts up again, almost too scared to leave the house, but I drag her out the front door anyway.  I refuse to be late to school because she needed three extra hugs from Mom.

I let her hold my hand on the walk, though.

“Aren’t you worried, Bee?” she asks as we pass the empty lot halfway between my school and hers.

“No,” I say.  “Look.”  A tiger swallowtail floats past us on the breeze, fluttering its wings and not paying us any mind.  “They don’t care about us, see?  We’re safe.”

Ella watches as the butterfly drifts away, then turns back to me and nods.  “We’re safe,” she echoes.

“And if anything tries to pick a fight with us, I’ll just sting them,” I say, jabbing my finger forward like it’s a stinger.  Ella giggles at the old joke and lets go of my hand when we get to her school.

While I’m walking back along the route we just trod, a horrendous squawking assaults my ears.  When I look for the source of the cacophony, I spot a squirrel and a sparrow dueling in the empty lot.  As I watch, the sparrow swoops down and rakes its talons across the squirrel’s face.  The squirrel lunges in retaliation, gnashing its teeth and snapping the sparrow’s wing in half.  It goes down hard, skidding in the dirt, its wingtip dangling behind it.  Before it has the chance to struggle back to its feet, the squirrel’s jaws close over its head.  All I can really think as I watch the squirrel tear apart the rest of its body is that I’m glad Ella wasn’t around to see this.

I’m late to my first day of seventh grade, but plenty of other kids don’t show up at all, so no one tries to discipline me.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” my new English teacher tells us all.  The chalkboard says her name is Ms. Oboros.  “I’m sure this will all settle down soon.”  The rest of my classmates take her words to heart.

Three weeks later, the first commercial airs.

We don’t watch cable much anymore, but Dad likes to watch the morning news.  “We believe the cause is an air- and water-borne virus,” some guy in a lab coat is saying when I walk into the living room.  “As of right now, we don’t know how to slow its spread or alleviate the symptoms.”

I’m eating cereal at the dining room table when they cut to commercial in preparation for the arrival of the 7 o’clock team.  It’s the usual stuff at first, three thirty second advertisements that could have been carbon-copied off of each other, the first trying to sell a car, the second a cologne, and the third a new ice cream flavor.  Then bright colors light up the television screen.

“Collect local animals!” the peppy voice-over says as a boy and a girl hold their hands out toward the camera.  Clutched in each of their fists is a small ball with a little round button on the front.  “Have fun battling your friends!”  The visual switches to the two kids standing opposite each other, the girl’s cat swiping at the boy’s dog, which jumps back before running forward to bite at the cat’s leg.  “Gotta catch ‘em all!” the voice-over exclaims as the final scene, that of the boy throwing one of the balls at a raccoon, which disappears in a flash of light, plays out.  “Exercise caution when approaching unfamiliar animals,” a different, deeper voice says.  The video is replaced by a still image of the balls the kids were holding, along with text that proclaims them Catch Capsules.  “Brought to you by Capture Corp.  Subsidized by the United States Government,” the new voice finishes.

Mom tuts at the screen as I finish my breakfast.  “I don’t want you doing any of that,” she tells me as I pack up my backpack.

“Don’t worry, Mom,” I say.  Ella’s standing at the door, waiting for me.  I give Mom a hug on my way.  She squeezes me tighter than she usually does.  “I’m not gonna get involved,” I promise her.

“Alright,” she says.  “Have a good day!”

Ella and I wave as we leave.  Everything seems pretty normal.  Aside from a few hushed whispers in the hallways and the cafeteria, no one’s really talking about the Catch Capsules.  We all see it, though, when a blue jay pecks a crow’s eye out of its skull right next to the window in my math class.

“Wouldn’t it be safer if they were with us?” one girl murmurs behind me.

“So, what, we’d just keep them locked up in those Capsules for the rest of their lives?” her friend responds.

“We can let them out sometimes,” the first girl says, but she doesn’t sound so sure of herself anymore.

There’s about half an hour between when I get out of school and when Ella’s done for the day.  It takes me fifteen minutes to walk to Mr. Ypsilanti’s store from school, but if I hurry, I know I can get there and back before Ella’s class lets out.

He doesn’t even blink when I burst through the door, breathing heavily.  “What are you looking for, Bee?” he asks.

“Those.”  I point at the wall behind him.  He turns to see, then looks back at me.

“Did your mother give you permission?”  I nod, hoping if I don’t say anything he won’t be able to tell I’m lying.  It seems to work.  “How many?”

I dig my fingers into my pockets, count out my allowance.  “Five,” I tell him, dumping the dollar bills and coins on the countertop.  He tallies up my change, sweeps everything but a nickel into his cash register, and hands me what I asked for.

“Be careful, now,” he tells me as I rush out the door.

“I will!” I call over my shoulder.

The empty Catch Capsules are carefully stored in my backpack by the time I show up at Ella’s school.

A virus causes all animals on Earth to become hostile towards each other. A tech startup mass produces small spheres which can contain the animals, while the government starts a propaganda campaign that encourages young children to “catch them all”