#xharringrove

[withoneheadlight]

| harringrove | n s f w | hospital sex + sexual dysfunction (kinda) + steve doing you know what kind of magic with his hands + mutual pinning because ofc | for @lovebillyhargrove, the sweetest human being ❤ | AO3 |

~

One hundred and seventy five.

That’s how long he’s been here. Tubes and needles and metal stitches and beeping machines. The emergency light above the door of his room endlessly flickering. One hundred and seventy five and stiff, nuclear-white bedspread and freshly pasted wallpaper and the piercing stink of disinfectant and bleach. 

One hundred and seventy five days and Billy feels like he’s become aseptic by now, sterile, in this arctic-pristine space. Gloved hands constantly touching him in plasticized intimacy. The most pure detachment of touch. 

One hundred and seventy five days and, when it happens, it pierces through Billy like lightning in a glacial storm. Bright. Bright. Bright. Thundering.

Hot.

Steve Harrington touches him: the most pure delirium of touch.

The most well-intended. The most innocent. Steve just happens to be there and Billy’s back hurts and it’s like, 

“Can you. Please help me to―?”

And like―

“Yeahyeah. Sure”

And like,

Steve’s hands feel warm against the paper-thin fabric of his hospital gown. Tender. On his side on his belly on his hip. Billy’s skin’s bristling under his touch and he― he moans. It sounds like a sob. He gets so hard so fast his cock throbs throbs throbs and―

Steve. Dark. Round eyes. He notices. Of course he does. Doesn’t stop touching Billy, tho. Acts as if not. Pity, Billy realizes.It stinks in harmony with the sanitized purity of the room. Creeps like bile up his throat.

One hundred and seventy five. Billy thought he’d be used to shame by now. But this time is the worst. He bites his tongue. Metallic. Pushes Steve back. Shows teeth,

“It’s not about you, Harrington. Don’t get your hopes up”

But Steve fucking Harrington just snorts a laugh. Steve fucking Harrington shrugs it off with a smirk and the kind of half-lidded gaze that’d have gotten a less sedated, less undead Billy Hargrove’s heart to beat up his throat.

Asks,

“You sure?”

This Billy’s chest, instead, feels so thin it’d shatter.

Nausea hits him. It’s been one hundred and seventy five days and he ain’t told anyone but he wretches it up now like it’s a sickness.

“It’s brain-dead, ok? It can― Piss and, hang and sometimes it. It does. That. But. That’s all about it, alright?”

Steve sits back. Looks him in the eye. Takes his thumb to his mouth, teeth on his nail but. Doesn’t bite.

One hundred and seventy five days and one, two, three—fifteen seconds, and then he says,

“I could help” and his eyes wander. Down. For just a slice of a second. He sets them back up, lashes cutting “With that. If you wanna”

Billy swallows. His stomach hollows. He squeezes his thighs close. Feels the ghost of that dripping feeling. How sweet it was. And he wants it. Sticky. Nasty. Hot.

God, he wants it back.

“With what”

Steve just keeps staring at him. His eyes talk, one brow cocking up. They say You know what so he just gotta add,

“Maybe if. If. You know. Somebody else― did it. Maybe then it’d―”

Pity. That’s the one thing all these high-purified cleaners can never seem to mop off the tiles. It’s like acid on the top of Billy’s throat, like it’s just been scrubbed with the sharp edge of ammonia. He pulls up the blankets to cover himself. To cover it. As it starts to deflate. Chubb. Then go flatline. His hands clenched into fists. Tight. Knuckles white, dry, stinging.

He takes the pain. Spits it out. Rage’s always tasted red on his mouth. Between his legs.

And God, he misses it. God he wants it.

“Are you a fucking weirdo or what, Harrington?”

Steve doesn't flinch. His eyes talk, still, those amazing, expressive eyes he’s got, but this time Billy can't really get what they’re saying as Steve just–  stays there. On that chair. Picks up the book on the nightstand and reads from Max’s last dog-ear as if nothing’s happened. Stays until nightfall. Until Billy’s been fed and changed and gotten his vitals checked.

He looks like he’s completely forgotten about it.

But,

It’s an infection: despite how millimetrically sterilized his new cage is, what just happened worms its way through Billy’s mind like a parasite.

He can’t now stop thinking about it.

x.

He’s still awake, when the clock on the wall ticks its way up from one hundred and seventy five to one hundred and seventy six, days going by like seconds on the clock, just as simply irrelevant.

He breathes in, breathes out in sync, still wide-eyed at one, two in the morning. He’s usually out by nine, ‘such a well-behaved boy’ as his nurses tell him, but not tonight, sleeping pill sneaked into the stuffing of his pillow, nerves knotted tight down his stomach with the twisted anticipation of what he’s about to do. And he's alone. Truly, overwhelmingly alone. For the first time since they took him into the arctic of this nuclear kingdom.

And night― night’s always been the only place he’s ever really felt safe. Just him and his thoughts. His truths. His desires. Just him and that stupid bulb agonizing above the door, now.

At night it’s just him and―

His hand. Cold. Always so cold, now. Riding his hospital gown up. Thinking about lips and the harsh pressure of fingertips and that way Steve’s eyebrows burrow when Billy gets him thoroughly pissed. That way he tried not to dig his nails into the sharp bone of his hip but―

Couldn’t really help it and,

Down there, Billy’s become the land of the fucking dead. Romero at his finest. His dick barely reacts. Wakes up then fills then gets almost limp. Useless. The spark of Steve’s touch an undercurrent of need pulsing at the base of his balls, goosebumps up his belly. Billy fucking tries. Closes his eyes. Pumps it. Can’t make it fucking work. He feels ashamed and desperate and unsatisfied and nasty. Wants to call the nurse and ask her to drown him in disinfectant. He squeezes his dick until it hurts. At least pain feels like something.

Three. Four in the morning. He doesn’t cry and the bulb above the door doesn’t blow and he’s broken beyond repair and―

Somewhere around dawn sleep finally takes him over.

x.

One hundred and seventy nine. Days. Nights. And Billy― Billy asks for it.

Tentative.

“The other day―”

Fragile.

“You said―”

His skin so thin it barely covers him.

“Would you― actually. Do it? Just so I know if―”

Steve hasn't come in three days. They all take turns at staying with him. PityPityPity. Harrington. Max. Joyce Byers. Will. El. Even the fucking chief. They all know Billy has no-one. Sit in that stiff hospital chair between the bed and the window and Billy feels too empty not to pretend they’re here for him when they all act like it.

Today’s Steve’s turn again and he’s more laid down than seated. Headphones purring around his neck and one foot tapping against the metal frame of the bed. His eyes cut up to Billy’s, eyelashes sharp, soft. And Billy’s trying to breathe steady but the air inside his lungs comes out broken and arrhythmic.

Out. Out.

Out. Out. In.

Steve says fucking nothing. He just― moves. Slow. Fluid. Drags the chair with a metallic rasp along the cold-tiled floor. Limbs light. Dark hair like a waterfall. He leans in just so. Fingers long and careful. They brush Billy’s forearm. A quick touch. Featherlike. His skin goose bumps like in a paper cut.

And Billy’s body feels heavy. Numb. Anesthetized. He smells that warmth of Steve’s skin that’s always out of reach. That feeling of a dream blowing away like breeze between your fingers. A blink of sunbathe and sweet in the middle of all this barren purity.

And Billy’s drained. Of feeling like a flaccid shredded skin of what he used to be. Of bleach and surgical steel and the dry taste of antibiotics.

He fucking pleads for it, 

“Please?”

Steve nods. Licks his lips. His fingers hook into the hem of the blanket. Draws it down, the motion an eternity, and Billy’s―

Shaking. Toes curling against the bleached fabric of his sheets. His cock pulsing. Starvation wet at the tip. Can’t look but he can feel how it’s dripping down, spotting the sheets and,

Steve's voice breaks. He gasps “Billy―” swallows “Shh. It’s ok, Billy”

Blood rushesrushesrushes, stings like sunburn all along his chest. His stupid thighs are trembling. The worn out fabric of his hospital gown feels raw. Perfect. Against the hypersensitive skin of his cock. His hips buckle up. Like a convulsion.

Steve’s fingers brush his knee. Billy’s legs spread wide apart, eager. He feels bare. Exposed. Stupid. He needs this more than he’s ever needed anything in his fucking useless life and–

Steve’s fingers dare up. Dip under the hem of his gown. Run all along the inside of his thigh. Billy feels like fucking crying.

“Harrington. Steve���” his chest is heaving. Hollowing. He’s got no fucking idea what he’s trying to say “I. I―”

But Steve’s eyes slide up. His hand. Billy’s open thighs. Billy’s shame. His torso. Up. Up. To his eyes. And he gets off the chair to sit right by his side. Hips touching. Leans closer, then. Speaks so close words brush his open mouth. 

“Hey. It’s alright. I got you. C’mon, s’ alright”

His fingers wander up sensitive skin and need and lust. Like Billy barely remembers it. Famelic. Blind. And―

“FuckFuckFuuuck”

It’s a seizure. His body winds up tight, back arching up when Steve runs the back of his fingers all along the underside of his cock. The barest expression of touch. They slide at the tip, brush against that tender spot just right there where it feels so good it almost hurts. And Billy’s cock jerks. Pleasure like a cutting edge. Sharp. Silver-bright. His cock weeping precome and the sweet, heady tone of Steve’s ragged laugh burning hot, melting like sugar down his mouth.

“God, Hargrove, you ain’t gonna last shit ain’t ya?”

And Billy wants to lick it, taste it. Wants to cum all over it and then kiss the dirtiest mess out of that prettypretty mouth. Instead, he bites down a sob and a,

“Go fuck yourself”

But then Steve fists his cock. Heat so tender it’s unbearable. Pumps it like it’s a point he’s gotta make, milk the truth out of him. The head of Billy’s cock squeezing in and out the wrap of his fingers. Sliding. Each time delirium. Billy fucks into his hold, hips thrusting, and it’s osbcene, nasty. It feels like bone-deep intimacy and hysteria and magic and― 

Billy chokes out a breath. Hips spasming. Steve groans a ragged “C’mon,” lips blood-red and full and pretty. Billy grabs his arm. His nails dig into the tender meat. It’s involuntary.

He feels so close. So close. So close but―

“I don’t’ know if I. Can. I. Ah―Steveah―”

“You can” He slows down the rhythm. A sweet, honey-coated drag. “For me. Billy, for me. I wanna see ya. Billy I―”

Billy cums so hard he feels ripped apart. Hot. White. Wet. Messy. Cums like a fist in the mouth, like the first lick at candy. 

And Steve looks at him like it’s hurting him too. Between his legs. Where nobody’s touching him. Grins to the side. Mutters,

“Guess you’re not that broken, uh?” and his voice sounds like Billy feels. Shaken apart. Dangerously unsteady.

Billy can’t speak. Can barely move. Can’t stop looking at him. His mind white noise. Limbs weary. Not broken, maybe. But maybe something even worse.

Scarier.

.

Steve has to clean him off, after they both regain some composure. After― everything. Damp towel. Warm. Tender.

It’s pathetic.

It’s the softest thing he’s felt in days that too count in hundreds.

And Steve stays, afterwards. Sun setting. Gold melting in that fractured space where earth meets sky. Helps him lean up against the pillow when one of the nurses brings him the dinner tray. Sits there, with him, till he finishes.

Winks at him goodbye.

“Sleep tight, weirdo”

Billy stays awake all night.  

x.

One hundred and eighty.

What Billy does know now: it was the sleeping pills what were doing the trick. He can’t fall sleep by himself for fucks.

What Billy doesn’t: if his little stupid useless dick is actually cured, now. Brought back to life by the works and miracles of Hawkings King himself. If he’s been uncorked now, somehow. Emptied back to life.

His dick still feels sore and hypersensitive and wide awake and perfect one whole day after. The ghost of Steve’s hand an ever-present feeling, like it’s been imprinted into the ends of Billy’s nerves. He takes a deep breath. Thinks about Steve and cum spilling hot all over his belly like melting caramel, the kind of feeling that sticks to the tip of your tongue.

He wraps his hand around that thought and he―

He doesn’t dare.

x.

He was sure that would be it but,

It happens a second time.

The bathroom tiles are pure, pure, pure, the purest shade of white.

It’s shower time. Saturdays, Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays. The shower heating up next to him in a heavy stream. And Billy’s still too weak. To walk. To exist. To fucking shower on his own. And usually there’s a nurse by his side but in one hundred and eighty six days you earn privileges. More so if you got that hair, those eyes, that smile. Not Billy of course. Steve. He gotta use them. Pale February light filtering in from the ceiling-high windows, casting shadows from his lashes, teeth movie-star perfect, eyes like starting a wildfire in this barren, glacial land.

The smile he puts to good use is one of those lopsided ones, the most dangerous kind he’s got. He’s leaning on his shoulder against the wall. Irresistible. Billy’s nurse sneaking glances at him like she really wishes she could, but knowing it’s pointless.

Because who can resist Steve Harrington?

“I can do it, if that’s alright?” Eyes round. Impeccable high-class education “Really. I promise I’ll call if we need anything”

He doesn’t even have to insist. The rightful heir to the throne Hawkins. The million dollar baby-boy.

So she leaves them alone with a timid smile and a bat of lashes and Billy’s heart feels like trapped in the very eye of the storm.

It beats, beats, beats, beats. Steve pushes off the wall. Gets closer and―

Traces down the curve of his shoulder, the touch feather-like, monstrous in the bare intimacy it carries. His breath on his skin the most real thing Billy’s felt in one hundred and eighty six. Days. Eighteen. Years. Forever.

Steve asks. “What do you need?” and Billy’s―

Naked. Exposed. Stripped out bare. He’s got a skin that barely covers him. It feels washed out. Frayed.

There’s no way he can hide himself from Steve.

No way he can hide how bad he wants those hands all over him and to never again feel this cold. No way he can hide how bad he wants the hard spray of the shower to cover them like a shelter, like so many times in those dreams he shouldn’t dream.

No way he can hide how bad he wants Steve. Always Steve.

The bathroom’s been getting warm and warm and warmer. Feels dream-like and intoxicating, dense with desire and shame and the tangible wetness of the steam, sweet like cotton-candy. Billy’s breathing in short, sharp inhales. It feels like drowning. Steve’s hand trails downwards― Billy’s waist and Billy’s hip, the curve of his belly. Steve’s eyes following the path his own hand trails across the clear drops of Billy’s perspiration.

“Billy you are―”And, for a second, they’re surviving on the same breath of air. And it’s not enough. It’s not enough. Because his head’s spinning and his lungs are hurting but―  “God, Billy you are―”

“Yeah” Burning. Dying. Pulsing. Needing. Billy is― “Yeah”

So hard he’s dizzy. Knees weak. Heart a machine gun.

Except it’s Steve who shoots him. Bullets for words.

“Ask me, Billy” he fucking riddles him “Tell me you want me to touch you”

One hundred and eighty six. Seven days, since Steve― And Billy’s got withdrawal syndrome. From feeling like this. From just feeling.

It comes out shattered into tiny little pieces.

“I want you to touch me”

Steve smiles that same smile. Soft. Loopsided. It’s a killer. He guides Billy’s arms around his neck, wraps one of his around Billy’s waist. Presses them flush, the dampness running down Billy’s skin seeping through his clothes and into his own body and―that smile, it feels even softer when Steve brushes it against his ear, makes blood rush hot to his cheeks when he hushes, tone low, rasp, fucking teasing,

“Ok, pretty boy” bordering on obscene, “Hold on fast”

And then he sneaks his hand in between Billy’s thighs, drawing up his fingertips and the blunt edges of his knuckles up the fine skin in there and then higher and higher up, cupping Billy’s balls in the palm of his hand, squeezing lightly and― Billy fucking shivers, teeth clenching hard, nails finding grip in the meat of Steve’s back. He feels dizzy and deadweight. Feels raw and out of his body, when Steve’s hand curls around his cock, his touch such a fucking relief, Billy’s knees almost giving out.

He holds onto Steve. Fast.

“Fuck, I―”

“Shhh, I told you. Told you I got you, didn’t I?”

Steve's hand moves like torture and balm and Billy― Billy can’t help himself. Buries his nose into the curve of his neck, hides himself in there, takes this safeness that Steve’s offering, that Steve’s giving to him. This pleasure and this warmth and this smell of him, sweet with sweat and life, like scented soap and sunlight. And Billy feels high, light-headed with how gut-wrenching real it all is.

He moans “Steve” breathless “Steve” lips on his pulse, on this unrestrained life of him, “Steve” because his mind is empty of any other word, only SteveSteveSteve, but Steve gets it and―

 “You’re close. You’re so close. Fuck, Billy. C’mon―”

Billy’s cock is weeping thick, long beads of precum. He can feel himself pulsing them out, drenching Steve’s hand. It’s lewd. Pornographic. Steve’s fingers sliding on his length. His fist squeezing the mess, shifting oh so slightly, oh so sweetly at the top, thumb rubbing that tender spot just below the head. And Billy’s holding so tight he might be drawing blood, making it soak out Steve’s neatly pressed blue shirt. He wouldn’t ever, ever scratch it from under his nails. Keep it as a reminder on this cold white still life painting. Of this feeling. This moment. Of Steve―

Running his teeth along Billy’s pulse. Harmless. In spite of how bad Billy wants him to bite.

“Cum for me, baby. I want you to cum for me again”

Babybabybaby. Billy’s heart can’t take it. It’s gonna burst out of his ribcage. Steve kisses his neck. A soft, loving thing. It’s what draws blood out of Billy like no bite would ever do. He cums so hard it’s blinding. In shocks. In thick, long ropes. Steve’s lips trail to his cheek, kisses it the sweetest “Baby”. It’s anything but harmless.

He leaves one last kiss on the corner of Billy’s mouth, thumb stroking his cheek, says,

“I’ll clean you up, ok? Just don’t let go yet”

Billy couldn’t even if he wanted to, his legs won’t hold him on.

And Steve does. Cleans him off under the forgotten stream of the shower. Gets himself all wet but doesn’t seem to care. Takes him to bed. Arranges the covers all around him and gives him that smile again. Then one that’s different. One Billy’s never seen before. One he’d give anything to see again.

“Are you ok?”

He nods the tiniest yes. He’s lying. And he’s not. Steve uses his privileges to stay way after past visiting hours. As he always does.

That night, Billy takes his sleeping pills. The water washes away most of the sourness of their flavor but not the acid coming up his throat with the burn of pity and the helplessness of how this is something he’s not meant to keep. Steve Harrington is not a weirdo, not the same way Billy is. This was the second time. There won’t be a third.

One hundred years pass until he finally falls asleep.

x.

―and eighty seven. Eighty eight. Eighty nine.

Sometimes, he thinks the emergency light over his door is trying to hypnotize him. He’s forgotten how it was not hurting. They won’t give him stronger sleeping pills.

So he finally surrenders and does. Try. Again.

Hips grinding against the rasp fabric of his pillow. Sweat running down his spine both from terror and need. His mind full of Steve. SteveSteveSteve. Full of that kiss right by his lips and baby. His mouth full of the how would it be, to let his knees give as they want to, get on them for him. Take him inside his mouth till he’s so full he’ll be barely breathing. He fucks hard into the matted stuffing. A wet finger down his ass doing what it shouldn’t and―

Two. Three in the morning. He tries. God he tries. But can’t finish it.

He falls sleep to the magnetic feel of the veins of his cock pulsing back into emptiness and the drying stickiness of precum and sweat. The unsatisfied stink of sex fading out in his pillow.

He feels broken beyond repair. Tries, but doesn’t remember ever feeling different.

If the nurses notice anything in the morning they just zip it, and Billy buries his face in the familiar smell of bleach of his new sheets and wishes it would strip out all this shame, and all this starved desire too.

x.

Steve’s comes back on the one hundred and ninety, one hundred and ninety two. He doesn’t touch him again. Billy doesn’t ask him to.

And they might have been doing the trick before but― his sleeping pills do absolutely nothing.

x.

On the two hundred and two, he loses it.

Or, at least, he thinks he does. It’s white tiles and then it’s blood running down the wall, dripping on the floor. His knuckles look violet and black and broken. On the big, round clock on the wall, twenty four minutes are missing. They’re wiped out of Billy’s memory too.

It’s three o’clock in the morning.

This time, they increase the dose.

x.

“Do they hurt?”

Two hundred and five. Steve answers himself before Billy can even look up at him, exhausted as he is from lying on this bed, from antibiotics and wearing-off sedatives. Avoids his eyes when Billy does, shaking his head towards nothing.

“Forget it I― of course they do”

But it’s already been three days of cures and anesthesia and they―

“No. They― they’re numb. I can barely feel them”

Steve’s eyes trail off to the window. They stay in there.

“That’s good. I guess I―” His teeth catch his lower lip. Sink in. Release it. Do it all again. Looks like some tiny, peripheral punishment. It’s bright red when he finally stops “That’s good”

“Steve wh―”

“Listen” He says. Then says nothing at all and―

Right there. On that chair. In the middle of Billy’s recurrent nightmare, sun melting around the wild crown of his hair, framed like a masterpiece by the peeling window pane, Steve looks like everything Billy’s ever wanted, like everything he can’t reach out for with his damaged hands.

He treasures him, commits him to memory, golden and beautiful, right then and there, because when Steve does finally speak, he sounds like everything’s about to change.

“I’m sorry I― did what I did. I didn’t want to hurt you”

Steve― Billy could hear him talk, those first weeks. Heard him in between dreams. Heard him call him an asshole, a piece of shit. Could hear him whispering next to his bed, hours and hours sat down in that chair while Billy hadn’t still woken up, not really. ‘Max needs you to come back, so fucking do’ and ‘If you don’t and don’t give me the rematch, you’ll be a fucking chicken, Hargrove’ and ‘I swear I’ll piss on your goddam grave if you don’t’.

Steve’s spent with him all the two hundred and forty-two days that have passed since they took him to this cold, lonely, creepy hospital wing in the colder, lonelier, creepier Hawkins Laboratory, one way or another. On that chair, on his mind, on his heart. Everywhere. King of every single corner of Billy’s mind so―

Billy doesn’t get what the fuck he’s talking about.

He frowns, too weak still, too groggy, to do anything more than that and rasp out a,

“I don’t like, enjoy seeing your stupid face almost every frikin’ day, Harrington, but it ain’t like, it’s actually hurting me I―”

“I. Touched you. And you―” Steve’s tone hitches up, teeth back on his lip and he shouldn’t, shouldn’t be the one biting it “Maybe you didn’t want me to. Not really, because you’re―here and you’re probably― And I. I wanted to. But maybe you didn’t and I― I was the one who. Started it and I―”

“What? No. Don’t―no” suddenly, Billy feels fully awake. Shook out of lethargy. Because Steve can’t think― can’t really think “It wasn’t you. Doesn’t have to do anything with you at least no― not because you. Touched me” he takes a deep breath. Looks Steve in the eye, hard as it is, he does it “I hurt myself, pretty boy, not you”

And it might work because those eyes of his, they always, always speak, once you learn to understand their language.  His smile deepens at the corner, dimples blooming like the first of May. Billy wants to get up and soothe the red out that bitten mouth of his.

Steve nods. Once, twice.

“Then why?” he asks, voice hushed and hesitant.

Billy’s heart ignites, pumps shame and fear and adrenaline. The whiteness of the room feeds on the warm golden of the day, it latches on it, devours it. Billy feels both shaken and numb.

“’Cause I thought” he starts. Pauses. He’s got to tear the truth out of him. Open and infected as it feels, the worst of his wounds. Raw and bleeding “I thought they’d fix me. I hoped they’d fix me but― It’s been two hundred and five fucking days and I can barely― do anything I can’t even― I―”

It’s the quietest thing. Slow motion. Steve gets up from that chair, sun blinding. Pulls down Billy’s sheets and his weight dips the mattress, as he lays right next to him and it’s suddenly― mind-blowing, intoxicating, all this life radiating out of him. His warmth, his smell, the heaviness of his presence, that heart-stopping way their foreheads are brushing when he gets real, real close.

Steve pulls the sheets back up.

Brings them over their heads. Reduces the whole universe to this: their breaths mingling, just millimeters apart, the light bump of their knees, his voice the kind of caress that’s water under the desert sun, his face lit up in velvet-like white through the thin fabric.

 “What. You can’t even what, Billy”

“I can’t. I still can’t even―” shame. Washes over him. Like a wave, like a starving ocean “Make it work. Not if you don’t touch me”

Steve smiles, fingertips ghosting over his temple, trailing up to his hairline.

“So? Does it really matter? If I wanna do it again? If I want to touch you?”

On him, this alien, unnatural white, looks like the warmest of colors.

“Steve―”

Steve’s hand, it trails down now. Over his paper-thin chest, over millions of invisible scars. It finds its way under the hem of Billy’s gown and into that place between his legs where Billy’s starting to feel wet and hot and heavy.

“Uhm?”

He sighs, full body and shaking, when Steve wraps his hand around him. It feels like relief. Like his skin’s been wantingwantingwanting. Missing.  When Steve stars stroking him. Coaxing pleasure out of him but―

Billy grabs his wrist. Makes him stop. Didn't even realize his eyes had closed when he blinks them open and Steve’s looking back at him with that same worry from before back on his face.

“You don’t have to. If you’re doing this for pity you don’t have to―”

 “Hargrove” Steve cuts him off. Smiles at him. Presses closer. Makes his heart run so fast it trips on its own beat. “You ain’t been fucking listening, uh?. I said I wanted to” but he― he stops touching him. Makes him moan at the loss when he lets go. “’C’mon, lemme show you” and Billy― his fingers feel barb-wired around Steve’s wrists but he. Lets go. Fingers brushing as Steve switches sides. His finger drawing a light caress upon the pulse on Billy’s wrist, right above the bandage, then curling back around it. He guides Billy’s hand like this, still clutching at him, to in between his own legs and then he―

“Touch me” says, breath hitching up, carrying Billy’s with it “’C’mon. Touch me” and Billy inhales. Deep. Fights the fear circling in his gut and―

“Steve”

Steve’s hard. So hard Billy can feel the way heat throbs, under the thick fabric of his jeans. Pre seeping through with the sweet wetness of it. And he doesn’t but he wants to, touch him. Move his hand and make Steve feel so good as he’s made him feel. His hand feels like crying with the raw desperation of it.

“Does it feel like I don’t want to? Does it feel like pity to you?”

Billy swallows.

“No”

“Say it again”

“No”

“Now what you ain’t saying”

And Billy. Billy says it. Says it with a moan that splits him in two, when Steve rolls his hips into the palm of his hand. Says it with the way his breath breaks out of control when Steve’s lips brush against his. Says it with the way wetness weeps down the inside of his thighs. The way his whole body aches for sliding his finger back where it shouldn’t, open himself up to make space for Steve.

Asks, for it.

“I wanna touch you”

 “Ok” Steve nods against his lips and Billy bites his own not to bite him. But it’s Steve who catches his mouth. Who sinks his teeth into him. Who licks at his tongue like he’s the one who’s spent his whole life this hungry and―

Eighteen years. One hundred and forty-two days. He’s survived them. But it’s Steve who destroys him, somehow, right in this moment.

“Ok, baby. Ok. I want you to. I want you to, too”

Somehow, it’s Steve who stitches him back together again.

He unbuttons his jeans. Pulls them to his knees. Lets Billy touch him. And Billy―

Billy never thought it’d feel like this.

Touching another boy. Touching Steve.

He’s as hard as Billy is. Soft like silk against his palm. And it’s electric, when Steve reacts to it. When his voice bleeds into a cry. When he begs his name “Billy, please. Fuck, Billy, please”. When he sucks his tongue and grinds into his hand. Uncoordinated. Almost erratic. Like he’s so hungry for it. Like he’s so desperate.

“Fuck. Come ‘ere” Steve pants, and his palm feels soft and so big, curving along the small of Billy’s back. And Billy can’t even―breathe. When their cocks bump together and then slide. Skin on skin. A burn between their bodies Billy wants to forever grind himself against. And then, for a long, long moment, it’s like he’s been narrowed to this and only this: their heated bodies sticking to the white sheets, breaths becoming shallow, lips and hot spit and tongues and Billy’s teeth catching Steve’s lips until―

��Tell me. How much of a weirdo can I be?” Steve pants, sweat hot and sticky on their foreheads, and under the minuscule igloo of his hospital sheets, Billy feels like he’s suddenly breathing fire.

“All you want” he says, feels his own heartbeat in his throat, loud and heavy.

Steve brings his fingers to his mouth. Waits till Billy opens it. Sinks two of them into it. Three.  When Billy opens wider. “Get them all nice and wet for me, baby” Steve whispers, babybabybaby eyes fixed on him, cock dragging against his. And it’s a famelic kind of need, this one Billy feels. The pull to get filledfilledfilled. He swallows around Steve’s fingers, trying to get them deeper, his eyes watering with how stuffed they feel inside his mouth. Chokes out a cry when Steve takes them out, shhs him, kissing him brief before offering the palm of his hand for him to lick. And he tastes like salt and anticipation and like Billy, like the way they’re both aching between their legs.

Steve brings his hand down. Wraps it around the head of their two cocks. Strokes them together and it’s― fuck. It’s like nothing, nothing Billy’s ever felt. Because he knew, the moment he laid eyes on Steve. That it would forever haunt him: the possibility of Steve’s touch. The absence of it. This recurrent dream about how his name would taste on Steve’s lips and he’s got it. Right here and now. Everything. Everything.

Steve arches his neck backwards, moans at that same touch. Cries out at the feel of Billy’s teeth on his throat.

Everything.

Says:

“Billy I― Billy I want―”

“Yeah?”

Steve’s hand works them faster and the feeling cuts through him, the exhilaration of being on knife’s edge, so close he can taste it. He tangles his bandaged hand in Steve’s hair, brings his mouth back. Wants to never stop kissing him. And Steve laughs, gasps. Feeds on Billy’s breath.

“I want to get you out of this fucking place. I want―” Hips thrusting, rhythm crooked. His hand slick and perfect, slippery with saliva and precum “Want us to make the biggest mess out of my bed.  And I want you to stay, Billy. With me. ‘Cause I can’t stay with you in here and I― I wanna―”

Billy kisses and kisses and kisses him. Because in Steve’s words there’s no pity. There’s no shame.

“I wanna touch you. Like this like― everything, Billy. Every way I can”

And then he kisses him back, and kisses him back, and kisses him back. Keeps on touching him like nobody else’s ever before. In all those ways nobody’s ever before. And his body, his wasted, broken body, feels like it’s blooming under Steve’s touch, feels as if life is something you can caress into somebody's skin, kiss into somebody’s lips. Steve breathes life into his lungs and Billy’s there, right there. Alive inside his own body since longer than he can remember and then. Steve says it again, Baby, like a spell, “Baby. ‘Cmon, baby, I know you’re right there” licks it into Billy’s mouth. “I want to feel you. Billy, baby” Makes him shiver with it. Draws him closer to the edge “I want you to cum all over me, please, baby, please” and Billy’s moaning, fucking into Steve’s fist, cumming with his nails dug deep into Steve’s back and sobbing into his mouth and Steve’s cumming too, hot and thick and filthy and fucking perfect, making a mess of Billy’s impeccably pure bedding, of all the stupid shit plaguing Billy’s head, making him feel like it really doesn’t fucking matter, how broken he might be, how beyond repair, if he’s got Steve’s hands to hold him like this, whisper sweet nothings into his ear, just like this. Call him baby. Keep all his pieces close together with all the care in the world, like they’re more than enough, for him.

“I wanna be with you, too” he whispers, his palm spread down the back of his neck, lips on his. Right at this moment, Billy feels like he ain’t ever gonna be able to let go of him “Steve. Fuck—you. You got no idea―”

“But I do. God, Billy I do” Steve breathes out a tiny laugh, it tastes like sunlight on his lips “I’ve been counting the days. Till you woke up and then. Till maybe one day I could. Kiss you. I could. Touch you like this” he reaches out to trace the shape of Billy’s mouth with his fingertips “I’ll count them to that day you’ll come with me, now”

Billy kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. There’s nothing else he can do. Nothing else he wants to ever do. Somewhere outside the daylight-white of their little fortress of sheets, the emergency light above the door of his room flickers, the clock on the wall ticks its way to two hundred and six. When the night nurse comes to check on him, Steve earns himself a pass to stay way, way beyond visiting hours. 

“He fell asleep on me. Don’t wanna wake him up” he whispers, and Billy knows it was that smile that did the trick when the door clicks close one second later.

“I’m not” Billy mumbles into his chest, his voice dense and drowsy. Can't remember ever feeling so warm.

“But you’re about to, baby” Steve laughs softly into his ear and―

Billy burrows against him and sighs, not giving him the satisfaction to hear what Billy already knows: he’s gonna be the best sleeping pill Billy’s ever had.

Two hundred and six days after Billy woke up, he falls asleep in Steve’s arms.

[withoneheadlight]

| harringroveson / harringrove + eddie | n s f w | tw: drug use | part 1/? |

(ok this-- was eventually bound to happen bc threesomes are the single thing i just can't resist. thanks, @c0bblenygma for the ship name!)

~ ~ ~

The thing is, Eddie’s been selling Marijuana for years but he’s never, ever, shotgun it with anyone.

The other thing is that, two joints and a half after Billy Hargrove as always, banged his fucking door and, as always he and Steve Harrington invited themselves to his home and as al-ways took reign of his “Dirtier than a fucking rat’s, Edward. For dear fucking Jesus, you should call plague control”―bed, in Hargrove's words, Eddie―well. Eddie slips.

‘Fuck. I’ve never done that’

He slips. Can’t help it. Just fucks up. Firs rule of survival: never, never slip about anything. There are stories. Legends. About Eddie Munson that keeps on slyly changing hands same as Eddie passes the good stuff. They’ve granted him, over the years, enough respect to make him almost untouchable. Respect. Envy. Fear. And the first rule is always this: never, ever let anything slip out.

There’s the juicy rumor that once Eddie did it with Tina and Julia Rusell like two Halloweens ago. The shotgunning. All Eddie remembers is having blown the smoke of his cig in Tina’s face. That’s how you become King of the unpopular: rumors and never. Letting. Anything. Slip. Out. But―

They’re laying down, the three of them, transversely on the old mattress Eddie's got on the floor, feet stretched out and sharing the third joint and―

Hargrove and―

Harrington.

Eddie’s got them one on either side, sweating in the toxic August heat, tears of laughter drying in their eyes, relaxed, thoroughly stoned. The two Kings of Hawkins spending their weekends in Eddie the freak Munson's trailer. One of the few rumors that are actually real. One that of course Eddie won’t go on denying.

Billy Hargrove. Steve Harrington. Their temples glistering with sweat and their shirts lost somewhere between the first and the second. Steve's chest covered in thick dark fuzz only half visible in between the denim of Eddie's vest because at some undetermined point Hargrove got one of those fits of malice that take over him sometimes and said "I bet even not even you can pull that off, Stevie" and Harrington got infected by it like he always does and slide vest over his bare skin because "The hell I can't."

Harrington and Hargrove.

This is how it happens:

Hargrove asks him “Want a hit?” and Harrington’s like “Sure” and they half rise up on their elbows. Hargrove sucks on the joint in a long long long inhale, the kind that fills your whole chest. Lips red, eyes glazed. He turns the joint over in his hand, offers the butt to Harrington and there, right there, that's where reality breaks through the invisible veil of magic because Harrington leans over to suck it from his hand, his bare belly pressing against Eddie's side and his eyes almost closed but then Hargrove pulls his hand away, staring at him with those melting-blue eyes of his and a tight-lipped smile, cocks an eyebrow and Eddie knows then, that he was just baiting him, because Harrington chuckles, licks his lips, looks up at him from in between those long lashes and―

Nods. Skims closer, closer. Parts his lips.

And fuck if that ain't magic. Because then Hargrove gets closer too, his fingers finding grip on Eddie's bony hip and his nails digging in and his lips parting for Steve Harrington and then smoke’s escaping though those red lips and they’re almost pressed against Harrington's and the tips of their tongues are almost touching and Billy's nails are digging so deep it hurts and― that magic’s running liquid and hot down the curve of Eddie’s spine, curling between his legs when Harrington inhales, and their mouths brush, and Billy Hargrove, Billy Hargrove moans, a low, lewd thing, and― Eddie. Eddie knows this kind of magic. Eddie’s used to feel it in his fingertips and for it to make his heart beat rabid, like it's just been electrified back to life. This magic is Heavy Metal and madness and Billy Hargrove and Steve Harrington are conjuring it with their mouths, with the hungry shimmer of their tongues and the way they’re breathing smoke into each other like all they want is to drown and. And―

“Fuck, I―” and what wants to come out of Eddie’s throat is a moan but he somehow manages to tone it down into a sigh. He feels like his skin is burning, right beside where Hargrove’s nails are buried “I’ve. Never done that. With anyone”

And never means but I want to and anyone means with you. I wanna do it with you two and―

By the time Eddie realizes what he’s just said, it’s late already. That’s the first of his mistakes and Hargrove throws him head first into the second with a broken laugh and bare white canines and Harrington with a sweet smile that slides down softly on the impossible curve of those pretty plush lips he’s got.

 “C’mon now, Edward. Really? Never ever?” Hargrove teases and, immediately―

“Wanna try?” Harrington reads his mind, whispers, “With us?”

And they break apart just enough to look down at him, the two Kings of Hawkins, half-naked and sweaty and stoned. They almost wring a second confession out of him. That something he’s never told anyone. That something that’s always harder to hide from when weed turns reality into mist and makes the things that matter too much seem like they don't matter at all.

What they do wring out of him is―

“I wanna try” a second mistake: “With you”

I wanna know how it feels like, to do what you just did.

Harrington’s smile melts, sugar and smoke and malice. And Eddie feels breathless when he suddenly remembers who’s actually the worse of them two, when he steals from Hargrove the joint he’s just slipped back to his mouth and takes a long drag and laughs.

And the next thing that happens is the animal riff of Stranglehold. Is November Rain when Slash makes it rip through your ribcage, exposing the bone. It’s the high of Thunderstruck and the fucking, fucking insanity of Bohemian Rapsody.

“’Course you do” And his voice, his voice’s Kashmir, when the Leds get the fuck out of their minds.

~

part 2

[withoneheadlight]

(lipstick) stain

| harringrove | n s f w | breakup + emotional trauma + angst +  enemies to lovers + happy ending | part 1/? |

the one where steve finds the lipstick stain on billy's denim jacket, and his whole world comes crashing down.

~ ~ ~

It takes him a long time, to notice it.

It takes him December, then January, February because all Steve can see is the way Billy’s lashes look so, so heavy as they fall, when their mouths get close and their lips brush and they lick each other’s tongues and, every time, Steve can’t help but think all this time he’s been kissing Billy Hargrove like you kiss in dreams, fingers tangled in those blond curls of his not to wake up, the tips of his toes barely grazing the ground.

It takes him March, then April, the waistband of Billy’s jeans buried into the tender meat right under the swell of his ass and Steve buried deeper, barely pulling out with every thrust, because his cock weeps when he’s got it squeezed like this, in between Billy’s thighs, and Steve couldn’t notice anything even if he tried because his brain goes atrophic, like this, it asphyxiates in the narcotic heat of the car and the sweet smell of perfume and sweat and Billy, nothing but Billy, that he breathes off the crook of his neck, right on that point where they grow smaller and tighter and blonder than ever, those curls of his, and Steve kisses them right at the root, then licks his way up Billy’s earlobe, his cheek, his mouth, because Billy loves smelling like Steve and Steve’s brain malfunctions like this, and maybe it’ll even become permanent, the atrophy.

(And he couldn’t care less)

So it takes him almost all May too, to notice it. The stain. It has to come Spring and that amazing fucking way Billy’s chest gets damp with sweat and glistens right above the low collar of his white shirt,  the sun falling in love with the trail of golden fuzz growing up his belly when he rides it up to scratch at it. It takes six months of Steve wrapping his arms around Billy’s waist right under that jean jacket he insists on keeping on wearing in spite of the cold. Six whole months of Steve fucking him on the backseat so fast and so wild and so obsessive that more often than not he's still wearing it by the time they're done.

Six fucking months until his brain sobers up enough from what it is to be head over hills about Billy Hargrove and to something to click from under the atrophy and for Steve to finally, finally notice it. And it’s May. Late May. And they’re at the quarry, same as always, because it’s beautiful and quiet and barely anyone comes here anymore and― Billy’s ass is on the hood of his Camaro and Steve’s practically straddling him. He’s spent the last twenty minutes working a mark on his neck right below that soft line from where his curls are growing and grinding against the hard, hot shape of his cock, perfectly squeezed inside his jeans like it always is, whispering in his ear that what he really wants is for Billy to take him to the back of the car and put him underneath him, to make him cum so hard it stains the leather, to leave him shaky and breathless in the stifling heat of the backseat.

“Not if you keep on moving like that, pretty boy” Billy pants and Steve pulls away to plant a short laugh and a kiss on his lips. Keeps on rocking his hips. Slowly. Pinches Billy’s nipple between his fingertips "Cause I'm gonna― Fuck. Amgonna―cum if you keep― doingth―ah"

Billy moans. Thrusts up. And they look so heavy, his lashes― it feels inevitable when his eyes fall shut. And Steve purrs his name against his cheek because he so much concurs, in that this is the best of dreams. He leans to suck at it a little, gets the fabric damp with the tip of his tongue. Billy groans a “Fuckfuckholyfu―” and his voice melts, in the dense and suffocating heat of the closeness of June and Steve grinds fasterfasterfaster, almost bouncing on his legs. Just a little. Then stops. Because he’s addicted to it, this feeling of keeping Billy right at the edge, Billy’s hands grabbing his ass, nails digging. He licks that sweet sweat trying to slip down between his tits and thinks about how much more he wants. Wants Billy’s naked skin and that violent tension charging his muscles when he cums and wants his tongue down his sternum to lick at the rest of that sweat, bite at the hard curve of his tits.

He's yanking at the collar of his jacket before he even registers.

Billy barks a laugh.

“Eh. But wh―?”

“Shh. Take this off”

He pushes it over his shoulders then halfway to his arms. Grabs the folded cuff of the sleeve and pulls and―

There it is. Red. Delineated. Perfect.

A lipstick stain.

"What―" he swallows. His whole body goes cold "What is this?"

He runs the pad of his thumb over it and something rots at the pitch of his stomach because―

It's a kiss.

On the corner of his eye, Billy frowns, looks confused. And it's been almost seven months. Of fighting and then touching and then kissing and then―

Falling in love so fast and so hard with Billy Hargrove that Steve loses a tiny bit more of heart against his skin and feels vertigo, every time Billy kisses him.

It's been almost seven months but still―

Steve doesn't know. What Billy feels or. Anything. Not really. Doesn't know anything at all. Because Billy kisses him and smiles at him like all the lights of the world went off and Billy calls him baby, so soft it hurts, baby. But it's been almost seven months and Steve doesn't have the guts. Doesn't dare to ask so― he just doesn't know. What they are. What Billy wants. What Billy thinks. He doesn't know if other hearts are getting lost on his skin too, in the shape of other kisses.

He doesn't know. If Billy lets them too.

He’s so scared of the answer.

And he wants to believe him but he just can’t, when Billy's eyes fall to that point where Steve's thumb’s pressing hard against that red kiss that isn't his and says,

"Oh. That" his eyes clear and sincere and so, so blue. They could color the sea "It's been there forever"

Steve swallows.

"It's―" once. Twice "the first time I've seen it."

Billy snorts a laugh that sounds amused. It sounds tender. His palm is open, firm against his skin. It’s a piece of goldsmithery: fits like custom-made, perfect against the curve of his back.

He says,

"Well. It's been there for a long, long time."

Steve licks sweat off his upper lip. Asks,

"When―" he starts to ask but shuts up abruptly, when he realizes what he really wants to know, "Who?"

Billy stands still. Just looks at him. So, so still. Licks his own lips in reflection.

"I―" he shrugs. Lets out a short laugh. Nervous. As if there's something, something cornering him. "I cant’― I don’t. Remember. It was long ago, baby. I just don’t"

The same thing, maybe, that Steve suddenly feels is cornering him too.

"Sure," he lets go of the jacket and gets off Billy’s lap and feels empty just thinking about how tightly he's been holding onto him without even realizing it, how impossible it suddenly feels to let go of him. Thinking about how, maybe, Billy hasn’t been holding onto him, all this time "We should― We should go”

Something changes in Billy's gaze. Something abrupt. Unguarded. Like― reaching out but. Finding no grip.

"I thought we―"

Steve doesn't want to look at him. Swallows. Repeats.

"We should go”

Billy clenches his jaw. Pulls his jacket up. And Steve knows there's a spring. There. Inside Billy. Somewhere. Something that always responds with more. And with worse. And with everything in Billy that's been becoming hard and cold and nails and teeth but―

Billy just seems― sad. And lost and. Like he doesn't know where to hold on to. But he says.

"Sure let’s― Let's go."

And they sound like together. Those words. They sound like you and me. Sound like the last almost-seven months and the way Billy whispers into his neck when they're on the back seat, fingers tangled with his and 'Come on, pretty boy, I want to feel it when you cum, come on, come on' but―

Steve already has the keys of the BMW in his hand and Billy’s looking at him like he doesn't know which direction he should go. If Steve wants him to follow him. Or let him go. And Steve―

He doesn't know either.

"See you. ‘Kay?"

Billy looks at him blue and with a different kind of weight on his eyelashes. His voice sounds hurt as he murmurs,

"Yeah, see ya."

When Steve starts the engine and takes the fork leading back home, Billy doesn't follow.

~

part 2

[withoneheadlight]

(lipstick) stain | part 2/? |

| harringrove | n s f w | breakup + emotional trauma + angst +  enemies to lovers + happy ending | part 1 here |

the one where steve finds the lipstick stain on billy's denim jacket, and his whole world comes crashing down.

~

“You keep staring at him like that, you’re gonna burn him faster than the sun. And he looks like, about medium-well already”

Robin jerks her headphones back. Purses her mouth in that characteristic gesture of hers, the one that makes every sentence inevitably end in dingus. Wet hair, black bikini, green eyes shielded behind the Ray-Bans she’s just snatched from him. And his mistake, Steve realizes, is that he keeps surrounding himself with people who are way too smart, and way too observant and―

Very, very nosy.

“And that’s your business ‘cause―?

The Ray-Bans are dark-glassed and reflect the June sky and Steve can’t, strictly speaking, see the way she’s rolling her eyes but, he so, so can feel it.

“You could accidentally make Heather Holloway burn, too. And that is my business”

“Uhm” he grins, this is also something that she does, no matter how shitty he’s feeling “More like you wish, Rob”

Robin pokes him with her foot. Steve pinches her small toe. And truth is―

Steve does like Heather. Likes her a damn lot, actually. Has the best memories from that time in sophomore year they hooked up.

Right now, he could burn her to ashes.

Because Steve hasn’t seen him in three days. Three days with their three nights. An emptiness in the pitch of his gut that feels raw and dry and cold, because he can’t stop thinking about the who, and when, and how. Of that kiss he carries.

(From behind. Hips pressed flush against soft, plush flesh and fucking them from behind. Same as Billy’s fucked him so many times. Same as Billy’s making him moan and bite, so many times. On that same spot. Leaving a similar mark on the skin of his forearm.

Except from teeth instead of―

Lips)

And Billy’s chit-chatting with Heather. Heather, who’s got lips shaped like a heart, the kind that, if she put lipstick on, would probably leave the prettiest, most perfect mark. And Billy― he hasn't even darted his eyes to Steve. Not once. And he’s leaning against one of the white poles of his lifeguard chair and a little towards Heather, giving her his undivided attention and that grin he’s got, lips oh so slowly spreading. The one that makes Steve want to devour all the space between them, get his hands on all that sun-kissed and golden, throw him into the water for being such an asshole and for so many other reasons that make no sense at all. Drag him out. Hold him close. So close he just won’t see anybody else. Nobody but Steve and then, kiss him and―

He stands up.

“Hey!” Robin calls after him, her ears deafened by music; high-pitched, wavering voice “Where you going?”

“Bathroom” Steve scoffs. Leans in to pull the headphones off her ear and whisper “So I don’t ruin the view for you”

Robin flips him off, glasses sliding down her nose. From over the plastic bridge, she peers at him: smeared black mascara and worry. Steve’s throat works.

“Do you― want us to get outta here? Have a smoke or so―”

“No” Steve shakes his head. Slowly. Steps away, walking backwards “I’m good, Buckley” he lies and hopes for the music to deafen it too,  the way his voice sounds broken and hoarse “be back in five, uh?”

And turns around before he’s the one who burns.

*

Hey, Billy says. Only and exclusively that, “Hey”

And in the eternity that follows, there’s only them and the heat clinging to the pastel-blue walls and the question of whether it's that or Billy's closeness, what’s making the air almost unbreathable. Or if it is perhaps the way in which, when Steve answers with another,

“Hey”

Just as tiny. Just as drowned. Billy crosses his arms over his chest, hands clasped under his armpits, and he squares up, biceps bulging, all hard lines and that dormant violence of his curves but. What he really looks like is small, like this. Small and lost and fragile, where he’s always, always seemed so immense to Steve.

And, it tiptoes past the fogged clarity of the sun reflecting off the mirrors, this eternity. Tries to catch its breath as the slimy moisture from the showers swirls up in ragged-clouds, a summer storm gathering up the ceiling. Until―

Billy leans to the side, shoulder against the wall. Blocks him the way, somehow. Because it feels impenetrable, that barrier built of his mere presence, and―

Of that way he always, always looks at Steve and,

“Eh. Pretty boy. The other day. What―” He starts. Pauses. And he’s got those lips, so red they look permanently stained. Of kisses. Of lipstick. Of somebody else’s heart. And Steve’s being a brat. He’s been making all this up in his mind because it’s actually never― “Happened. Did― did something happen?”

“No” Steve shakes his head. Tears his eyes away from Billy’s lips “Nothing at all”

Because they’ve never, ever talked about it. Not really.  Because Billy kisses him like a caress and Billy calls him baby and keeps on asking if he can ‘See you tomorrow?’ and because Billy keeps on looking at him that way like. He wants. This. Steve. And moremoremore. So much more. As if they were actually―

Together. Togethertogether. But―

In reality, They’ve never been more than desperate fingers aching for touch and starving hands searching for the heat in each other's pants. Finding. Billy’s cock rock-hard against his palm and Billy’s cock throbbing inside his mouth and never. Ever. In seven months. Has Billy told Steve. Or Steve told Billy.

And he’s being such a fucking brat because Billy doesn’t owe him anything. They’ve never talked about anything.

And Steve. Steve ain’t got the right.

“Oh” Billy breathes in deep, deep, deep. And it seems like, at least for one of them, the air becomes breathable, again “I thought―”

“What?”

Billy lets out a crooked laugh, shakes his head like he’s shaking off some absurd, stupid idea.

“Nothing”

Nothing.

And Steve ain’t got the right to ask him not to kiss anyone else because they’re exactly that. They’re nothing.

Except―

Sometimes. It feels impossible. Not to think they are because of―

They way Billy lowers his voice. His eyes drop to Steve’s mouth.

The way Billy says Ok, says Good and peels off the wall and steps close and pushes him back. Gently. Carefully. Into one of the showers. Shuts the curtain tight. Billy presses him against the beads of condensation weeping down the tiles, tears against his back. Grazes Steve’s lips with his own and Steve's heart is trembling, trembling, suddenly breaking when he says,

“’Cause it’s been three days since the last time I kissed you”

And it’s―

It’s Steve, who catches his lips. It’s Steve who kisses him long, and deep and like that sting in your eyes when you want to cry but hold back. It’s Steve who licks into his mouth, throat aching with the knowledge it won’t ever be enough, he won’t ever feel satiated. Three days of emptiness and his mind overflown with Billy and with For me, too. ‘Been for me, too. I want to never stop kissing you.

He pushes down the elastic of his swimsuit. Feels it drop around his ankles. Yanks his feet out of it, kicks away the fabric. Wraps his leg around Billy's hip and gasps, when Billy's hand slides up his thigh, grips him tight, tighter. Touches him in that way that splits Steve in two, like he’s never wanted anything as bad as this, as bad has he wants to touch him.

Even though maybe― maybe he does. Maybe there’s someone else he touches. Like he touches Steve. Maybe he does remember, too. Who those red-stained lips belong to.

He fumbles for the tap. Smacks. Opens it.

Cold. Warm. Hot. Billy groans a "What―?" then laughs soft, and pretty. Hides his face in Steve’s neck as the water pours down "Whatcha doin’, baby?" but he keeps laughing, soft and delicate, perfect against his pulse.

And the wise thing, Steve knows, would be letting him go but. He can’t resist him.

So he drags his lips along his cheek, searches for his mouth. Catches it with his tongue and a little teeth, kisses Billy deliberate and wet and slippery and open-mouthed. Kisses him with his whole body and with all this emptiness devouring him up from the inside out. Holds Billy close, heartbeat against heartbeat, shuts his eyes. Gives himself this: the water deafening everything that’s not the way Billy’s kissing him back. The fantasy of them dragging for just a little longer and―

It’s easy. When Billy holds him fast. When Billy kisses him like there’s nothing else for him, either. Just them, and the water washing away the whole world outside. And he― God, he moans. Broken. Pained. When Steve yanks his swimsuit down, too. When he springs out of it and their cocks bump and brush. Slide. Sweat and heat and that sweet, sweet stickiness dribbling between their cocks as they rock. Billy runs his fingers down the small of his back, and further, the barest touch on the tender skin of his crack. And the contact is so light, so not enough, when they graze his entrance, with an aching, hungry feeling, and all Steve can think is Billy opening him up with his tongue. Billy thrusting into his ass till. Billy’s making him full. Till he’s all Steve can feel inside.

Half a broken breath, half a plea, he whispers it in Billy’s ear “Baby. Baby. I need you inside of me. Need you to fuck me” It makes Billy moan obscenely loud, fingertips pressing into Steve’s hole, pads slipping in, sweet and rough.

"Shhh" he ghosts his lips along the shell of Billy’s ear "Shhh" Thinks It's okay. Thinks This is enough. This fantasy. This thing they’re doing none of them has put a name on. This is enough for you, Steve. Good enough for you. But― He knows it's not true. Kisses Billy softly, mouths the cold ring hanging from his earlobe, grabs his wet, darkened curls,

"Down. Keep it down, sweetheart. I don't want anyone else can hear you when I make you scream my name"

.

part 3

[withoneheadlight]

(lipstick) stain | part 3/? |

| harringrove | n s f w | breakup + emotional trauma + angst +  enemies to lovers + happy ending |  | part 1 | part 2 |

the one where steve finds the lipstick stain on billy's denim jacket, and his whole world comes crashing down.

big thanks to @wholeshebangs and @dragonflylady77 for beta-ing this ❤❤❤❤

~

July.

It goes by fast. Pastel-blue so pale it’s almost white. The sky indistinguishable from the clouds. It goes by along with the skin-caressing breeze blowing through the town and that kind of melancholy that carves out its nest into the hollows of your hands when it’s been too long, since they’ve really gotten to touch somebody. It goes by with Steve thinking about how the sun’s always gonna, be able to touch Billy the way he’d want to. No doubts. No fears. Not worrying about how this could be the last time.

Goes by with Billy crowning himself King one more night in the last of the summer parties and taking Steve by the hand in front of absolutely everyone. The prettiest smile Steve’s ever seen while dragging him out of the room and towards the shed in the backyard.

And it goes by fast. Everything. Not only July. And Steve’s got to clench his jaw real, real tight, when Billy kicks the door close, fingers wrapping on his wrists, and guides his hands around his waist until Steve’s crossing them tightly behind the curve of his back. He allows himself to rest a little, right there, to let his forearms fall like lead against the solid shape of Billy’s hip bones. Tries not to think about how perfectly they fit like this, the two of them together. Tries not to think about how this is Tina's house and how well Billy knew his way to the shed in her backyard and―

July goes by and Steve’s got to clench his jaw real damn tight because not long after they arrived to the party Billy realized he’d left his cigarettes on his car and Steve did what any guy who loves to deepthroat another guy’s dick but doesn’t have the balls to ask him if you two are something more than nothing would do: he offered to go, acted like a good whateverweare, told Billy “I’ll get them” and. Now―

Now, he knows there are five tear-opened letters stuffed down the Camaro’s glove box. Five. Each one from miles and miles apart from where Steve’s gonna spend stuck the rest of his life.

Yale. Columbia. Harvard. Berkeley. Stanford.

But it doesn’t really matter because it really isn’t enough for Steve but it has to. Because Billy’s got goals and aspirations and dreams. Billy’s got that something Steve's father keeps going on about that takes to fulfill them. Billy will surely have already made his choice and maybe this, this little incursion into Tina’s shed it’s really going to be the last time, so Steve―

Closes his eyes when Billy takes his face between his hands and kisses him soft and sweet and pretty and like they’ve made already a million promises to each other instead of having never said a thing. Lets Billy trap him between his body and the edge of the wooden table. Wraps his arms around Billy’s neck and that stupid denim jacket he keeps on wearing and Steve swallows and tries not to look down towards that kiss that ain’t his when Billy leaves a freshly made one, still hot, into his ear, whispers “Ehh. I missed being alone with you, pretty thing” making Steve’s heart into an open wound at the same time he gets his hands on his ass, lifts him up the table, pries his legs apart.

And Steve― traps him. In between them. Searches his lips. Kisses him open-hearted and moans from the hollow space between his ribs when Billy yanks his pants dawn and spits on his palm to make it slippery, his hand stroking Steve’s cock and slicing him open here too, forty-seven inches down below his heart: sticks three spit-slicked fingers up his ass and makes a plea sweat down the arching curve of Steve’s back. Makes Steve’s voice break same as everything else “Inside. Billy, please. I want you inside” and Billy breaks apart, just enough, millimeters, not really that much. Stares into his eyes. And he looks split open, too. Two wounds bleeding, one against the other. Billy nods. Asks,

“Hold me tight?”

And Steve chokes back a laugh, voice broken beyond repair. He doesn't want to cry so.

He clenches his teeth so damn fucking tight. Already knows how much it's gonna hurt. Already knows it's too late already for it not to.

Holds Billy. Tight. Wants to heal against his body. Wants their skin to become scar tissue, that soft, tender, newborn thing that grows afterwards. Can’t tell him everything he’s thinking but, he tells him this―

“I don’t want to ever have to let you go”

And Billy slides in. Hard and throbbing and dripping with heat and desire and Steve crosses his ankles over his ass and squeezes to get him deeper, deeper inside.

He doesn’t wanna cry but. Does. Hides his tears on Billy’s curls, when Billy speaks into his pulse, voice drawing a shiver down his spine.

“Then don’t ”

It’s the saddest thing to hold on to. Feels like a white lie:

Never let me go/This is the last time. 

Steve takes it anyhow.

.x

That same Saturday night, Steve runs the palm of his hand all along the three meters fifty centimeters of expensive wallpaper and vast emptiness separating his room from his parents’ down the hall.

He keeps the lights off, tries not to make a sound, barely allows himself to breathe while he carefully turns the handle, and slips inside.

His parents are not here, they’re at some expensive hotel down in Florida, toasting with champagne and weary spite, but in the empty bed their ghosts always dwell. They sway, pristine white, on the sharp-pink curtains and make twisted shadows against the mirrored new closet, freefall from rose-shaped shades of the ceiling lamp.

Steve only turns on the row of tiny lights on the vanity. He quickly grabs what he's come for.

Chooses the one that comes in a gold container, a thin ring of rhinestones separating the two cylindrical halves. The label on the bottom reads 'Heartbreak-Red', like it’s a fucking joke, and Steve bites down his lips and can’t keep his eyes off the way they flood with that same red, the way they split around that thing he feels for Billy Hargrove when he just can’t say it but draws it into his mouth, right in front of his absent mother’s mirror in the dim golden light.

He’s lacking the courage so, doesn’t try it.

Instead, he slides it into the thin pocket of his pajama pants. Turns off the lights. Holds on his breath all along the abyss back.

Doesn’t think her mother will miss it much.

[withoneheadlight]

And Steve. It’s minuscule. A work of art. The way those eyes widen just so. The way breath catches on his windpipe. The way that, apparently, it was this what it took, all along, Billy in front of him without his army. Not a conquer but,

A surrender.

His whole heart for the King of Hearts.

And then, Robin Buckley cackles.

Or: Hopper offers him a job, afterwards.

[withoneheadlight]

Max feels like breaking something: the brand-new vase her mom reverently placed this morning in the dining room, yellow daisies overflowing. The sympathetic but stiff ‘I’m so sorry for your loss’ expressions in the officers’ faces. The freshly served plates with their steaming chicken soup waiting for them at the table.

The stoic, perfectly composed, solemn smile of Billy's father.

or; Max salvages everything she can.

[withoneheadlight]

skin (and everything underneath)

| harringrove | enemies to friends to lovers | 8k+ | billy secretly loves to draw. steve finds him secretly endearing. some tattooing happens (in more ways than the usual) | AO3 (english) | AO3 (español) |

“Ok. No gift, no loan. So, what about a deal?”

Billy snorts. 

 “A deal” 

Steve nods, slowly, and Billy wonders if maybe he can feel it, the way his pulse is racing at the speed of light, right underneath that point where their wrists are still touching.

“It’s mine. The tattoo, and all the skin underneath” he makes a face. A tiny, quick thing. Cocks his head slightly, scrunches his nose, his cheek, the corner of his smile curving sideways. And Billy wants to kiss him so, so, so, so bad "My own little piece of Billy Hargrove”

:::

There’s an in-between, the high school and the middle school. A bare piece of land, yellowed from the lack of grass and the rough kiss of the sun and, right in the middle, an old shack barely standing.

It's a shabby thing, with peeling paint and darkening humidity but it’s out of sight, in that way of things that are just there but no one wastes time looking at anymore are.

That's where they meet.

Billy lights up a smoke. Slides his ass up an ancient, long retired desk, pasture now of the damp and the rot, and leans against the wood. Front and back-row seat to the long column of trees the wind’s rippling along on the other side of the wire fence. The ember warms up his lips as he inhales a deep puff and exhales a,

“You’re getting soft, Billy Hargrove”

He leans his head back and closes his eyes, ears on that ceaseless chirping of the birds that weaves together the slow-passing hours of the days and nights of Indiana, and on the delighted screams from the middle-schoolers, remembering that, somewhere in there, there's a bunch of kids who will still be laughing just as hard, just as happy, a few years down the line. That maybe even Max could be one of them, if Billy hurries. That maybe he will too, if Billy is able to control that instinctive reaction that pulls his skin inward and warms him to stopstopstop , that soft skin shreds, falls apart so easily.

But maybe it can be both of them , if Billy manages to clench his teeth hard enough, and keep on softening.

‘Cause soft skin hurts when it breaks but,

"Hey!"

Sometimes it’s worth it.

Will’s smile widens and widens as he gets closer. He stops running abruptly and then just stands in there, panting. The kid’s got a funny nose and giant eyes and the kind of bangs that make you wanna blow them out of his eyes even though what’s there is too short, actually, and Billy’s always thought he'd do better in life if he didn't. Notice things. If he didn't see that widewidewidewide smile and could read it so easily.

"I've been dying to show you this!" Will explodes suddenly into motion again. Kneels down into the grass, chopping out the words in between exhalations. Pulls at the zipper of his backpack, chest heaving. And he doesn't realize he's going to get dirt on the knees of his jeans or that Billy can read it. His relief. At finding him in here and not just an empty desk. At how for a kid, every single day more means You care.

(You care about me )

It started in early December. One Friday right after last period. Happened like one of those silly things you only see in movies. Something that felt so choreographed, so out of a script that Billy nearly considered looking up at the ceiling to make sure John Hughes wasn't silently watching them, taking notes from above. They crashed in the middle of a corner. Billy sped up because he was in a hurry and the only way to catch Max in time lately was to intercept her right out of class. Will because he's always going like that, Billy knows now. Always a thousand miles per hour. Always verging on warp speed but then being the kind of kid who seems so quiet it's scary. They crashed hard in the middle of that corner. Papers flying all over and a curse (Will) and a muffled groan (Billy) and they ended up pulling at the same paper, each with their fingers on a corner: it was a drawing. Trolls and wizards and a castle and an emerald-green light. A star in the distance, auguring bad omens. Billy forgot to be frightening and Will must have forgotten he was supposed to be frightened when he blurted out a,

"Fuck, Byers. This is frickin’ fantastic."

No fear or reticence or that way he sometimes has of bumping into words and stumbling, just a "Really?" eyes huge and bangs brushing against his eyelashes as he blinked when Billy also forgot he was also supposed to― well , supposed to be Billy Hargrove.

"’Got more?"

So now he skips English instead of Algebra, every Tuesday and Thursday. Sneaks off to that in-between place he knows no one wastes time looking at anymore to light up a smoke, same time as Will has his recess. And the kid doesn't always manage to shrug off his flock of nerds but he’s lucky, some days and, 

He brings his drawings.

Orcs and goblins and enchanted mountains on the northwest and it seems to Billy that there are more princes than prince sses and, that if there are any woman, they’re almost always sorceresses, almost always queens, and your attention gets hooked on their burning eyes, not in the clothes they’re missing. And Billy feels like it's a small grain of sand in the kid’s life, this thing they’re doing. Knows that someone’s already keeping a solid ground under Will's feet ( 'Joyce' he says it’s her name. And it stings , the way he manages to fit so much love , into such a tiny word). But it also seems to him that maybe it doesn't take much more, for Will to become one of those kids that still be happy, a few years down the line. Just a few grains of sand, to replace those that being a strange kid in a small town sick with apprehension for what it finds strange takes every day away from him.

So Billy’s gonna have to clench his teeth till his gums start bleeding because it’s that, or let his skin toughen up again. It’s that. Or fucking everything up. Again.

And Ave María, Billy doesn’t want to fuck it.

So he sucks on his cigarette. Cocks an eyebrow. Waves his hand to hurry the kid up.

“Mmm. That’s how good you think it is, dickwad? ‘ C’mon , got my next class in twenty”

Will flies over the papers. Head nodding and fingers skimming fast. Finds what he’s looking for and yanks it out, raises it up triumphantly in his hand. It’s the sword in the stone and he carries it up to Billy with wet knees and just a little mud-staining. It’s February and the sun’s burning brightly over all the wetness the night’s spent crying. The drawing is a huge dragon, wings made of leather and cartilage, spread out in eclipse in front of the moon, only a few silver rays illuminating the dark knight in front of it. Blue eyes lined in black, blond curls cascading down his back and Billy was clenching his teeth but they part now, ‘cause the figure looks too much like him to be a coincidence. A smile devours his whole mouth. Soft . A joke itching on the tip of his tongue. He grunts a,

“I’ve been called many things. But never this, Byers”

Only half his expression’s visible, eyebrows covered with those thick bangs, and Billy has to once again fight the impulse to blow them out.

“¿Hum?”

“ Knight ” he says, drawing the teasing tone out “In shining armor”

And It’s such a loss, all that hair. Because It’d pass unseen, if you don’t know him. The way his eyebrows spike up underneath and it burrows in between them, the eagerness of teasing back. But Billy’s lucky, ‘cause it’s been more than two months like this and Billy―

Knows him . Well enough at least. So it doesn't pass unseen to him.

“You know the drill, William. Spit it out. Can see you’re holding it up from miles ”

Will purses his lips out tight. Looks like he’s trying but. Nah.

“Wouldn’t be that shiny '' scrunches his nose. Throws a meaningful glance at Billy’s disheveled looks. More thoughtful than not, way more intentional . But that's something he'll figure out when he grows up.

Billy cackles. Will's smile widens, satisfied. Hops onto the desk next to his. Billy offers him the cigarette.

“And― this ?” Will shrugs inwardly. Glances up at him. Then down, at the exchange between their hands. Takes the cig in between two fingers and it doesn’t burn but he barely presses them against the filter, anyway, as if he’s afraid it would, all of a sudden.

"Retaliation," Billy half grunts, half laughs, and Will huffs, but swallows a deep breath to gather strength. Exhales. Takes a tiny puff and―

"Argg," coughscoughscoughs "This is. Ugh. It's awful. I don't know how you―” almost throws the cigarette back to him "Ufff, what a―" he hesitates "Yuck"

Billy snorts. Thinks about Max inhaling deep, no more than two weeks ago, eyes pinning his in place. Breaking into a violent cough only a second later.

Billy pats Will’s back too.

“That’s good” he says “You better not like it” Will scrunches his whole face “And this too” Billy adds, shaking the drawing a little “This is good, too. Amazingly good, man”

Will. Stares. At him . One. Two. Three long seconds. And Billy hurts a little. With every single one. Three sharp stabs with that newly freed sword. A different kind of 'you care' each one: 'it seems so impossible to me (that you care) '. 'If you think so, maybe it's true (and I do care, that you think it) ’. 'Thank you (for caring)' . And then. Those hidden eyebrows. Will’s cheeks puffing out a little when he bites the tip of his tongue and―

"Billy?" his eyes glinting, heavy with ill-contained malice.

"Uh?"

"You're the dragon"

"You fucking ass―!"

Billy shoves him sideways. But Will just sways. He doesn't lose footing on that firm ground he’s standing on. Looks back at the drawing, hunches a shoulder up.

"But you’re the knight, too"

He says it in a tone that cuts straight through Billy’s chest. Thank you he thinks, even though his soft skin is hurting. And he still doesn't blow hard on that bowl fringe from where it covers Will’s whole forehead but―

Stirs up all his hair instead.

“Eh!!”

“Hey, shitbird. Wanna see the one I’ve made?”

Will nods quickly. All contained-speed and reverberating and sometimes Billy doesn't know how so few people can see it, how big he is for his own skin and he thinks I wish, wish he'd accumulate enough grains of sand to raise up that firm ground under his feet, and get him really, really high.

“Sure!”

He keeps it tucked away in the breast pocket of his jacket. Folded in on itself. Same way he keeps everything else. Folds and layers and at the bottom of pockets no one ever looks at but.

He unfolds it to show it to Will Byers.

“Wow” Will says, and smiles up at Billy like Two months since we crashed against each other and I feel like I know you a little too, Billy Hargrove and Billy hit rock bottom but now at least Max and him sing AC/DC in chorus on the rides back home and Will's voice sounds like 'You're good' as he runs his fingertips over the graphite outlines of the skull and repeats, " Wow "

“Gonna have it done” Billy inhales a deep drag of Marlboro and of four months to eighteen and for a moment it’s like he could feel the smoke curl up inside his lungs before blowing it out. The image is as pretty as it is stupid. He glances at the open jaw of the drawing and thinks maybe he'd like a drag too "Have it healed for summer and―"

“What’s happening here?”

Steve.

Harrington.

Hand on his hips, preppy pastel polo lapels up, Ray-Bans holding up that way his hair swirls without really taming it. The twelve o'clock sun is shining sideways from his back and he's pretty. Painfully pretty. And Billy’s sure it's impossible that this redneck raised on corn and money amassed in dubious moral business is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen but sometimes he forgets. That it is impossible because. Fuck . It so seems like it. Light flicking on the ends of his hair where it curls. Under his earlobe. In the long curve of his neck. And the world doesn't halt and the birds don't stop chirping and the clouds don't part and no preternatural shit happens because this is the black hole where all the world's shit goes, Indiana. But. It so seems like it and,

Billy.

Knew how to breathe but that’s another thing he keeps on forgetting. Every time Steve Harrington passes him by.

He’s gotta force himself. To nod. To stop choking. When Will looks up at him with those big eyes. Questioning.

Apologizing.

Billy Hargrove, from freshly crowned local terror to―

“I was―” Will starts. Inhales. Presses his lips together right before blurting out the truth ‘cause he knows it's the only real way out "Showing Billy my drawings. Sometimes we―"

―the softie whose pride goes high up in his throat every time an eleven-year-old kid says 'Billy, this is good. It's very. Very good, Billy’.

"Sometimes we. Uhm. We―"

Will's already huge eyes get bigger, rounder. As if he’s just realizing that where he's stuck his foot keeps getting muddier, trapping himself all the way in. And Billy smiles lightly at him, sideways, so it’s hidden. From Steve Harrington. From all the world beyond. ‘Cause of that thing about facades and how hard they are to maintain, when on one side is pressing what you're supposed to be and on the other, relentlessly, what you're hiding.

But Steve’s asking,

“Sometimes― what?” and Will’s eyes are fixed on Billy, two wide-open I’m sorry s and Billy thinks Fuck it, Hargrove. C’mon. Stop hiding.

So he’s the one who says,

“We share our drawings, Harrington”

And Steve.

He’s got those eyes.

They're like a troubled ocean in the heart of winter, those eyes. Hard, hard, hard. Imposing. But soft. So fucking soft . When something catches him off guard. Rolling stones in the breaker. And Billy wants to get swept up in them, like falling along the curve of a wave. Steve looks at him, and at the drawing in his hand, his eyes a swirl and, when he looks up, the calm. And Billy feels like in those moments when it seemed to him the waves wanted. To wrap around him. To catch him. Soft as the reflecting clouds. And Billy feels like in those moments when he’d let them. Carry him. Drag him to the shore. Safe and sound.

“Is that yours?” Steve frowns. When he does that. He looks the prettiest. And Billy's heart breaks. In tiny tiny pieces. Thinks This is what it takes , thinks Fuck , thinks, This is how things hurt when you let your skin get soft.

What you don’t have. What you want. What you could―

Fuck.

What you could love so hard you'd rip your own skin off, so they could touch your heart with their bare hands.

Billy nods. Will smiles. Steve’s frown softens and― waveswaveswaves . On an autumn morning. Waves lapping at the surface of an ocean of calm.

And now. Billy sings AC/DC with Max. His heart taking on water when his voice falls off-key and she clutches at her throat, choking on laughter. Now, he sits in the back of an old shack halfway between who he is and who he should be and so, so very carefully turns the pages of Will Byers' sketchbook.

And Billy Hargrove hit rock bottom one day in late October. Hit rock bottom and beat into pulp that pretty face he can't stop seeing in his dreams. When he's asleep. When he's awake. Hit rock bottom and that's where he's going to stay. It's either that. Or risk coming up to the wrong surface. And it's easier, here at the bottom. Easier to see what matters, when you look up.

Here, Billy takes a breath. Deep. Deeper. Holds onto that air so he has something keeping him alive underwater when Steve snatches the drawing out of his hands. Studies it carefully. Says,

"It's―Uhm. Well― " Grins "It's not. Beautiful. Like, conventionally ." He eyes cut back to Billy and something in them breaks into whitewater, into that softness he can't help, as if everything else is as much of a lie as 'Billy Hargrove' and all those imaginary walls "But―"

He says ‘But’ and then . The bell goes off.

"Oh!" Will bounces on the spot "I have to―" he yanks the backpack shut "Class!"

He takes off. Running. Turning around right before the corner of the shack to wave at them, flashing one of those smiles Billy has involuntarily categorized as 'the good ones' , wide and already almost panting again, before disappearing at the speed of light towards school and to, Billy hopes, be one of those few kids who are still going to be laughing just as hard, just as happy, a few years down the road. If they’re lucky.

(If Billy’s lucky)

Steve Harrington is still there, planted in front of him when the bell stops.

"Can I bum one of those?" he asks, chin pointing to the smoke Billy's squeezing between his fingers. In the drift of his hair the Ray-Bans fight to stay afloat, almost capsizing.

Billy bangs the base of the pack against his thigh, pops out a cigarette. Offers it to him. Scrapes his thumb along the wheel when Steve takes it to his lips, leaning forward and― It's broad daylight, but in the thin glow of the flame it almost feels like it’s that exact instant when the world begins to fade, darkness turning wide-open spaces into narrow little universes: Steve Harrington and his red lips around the smoke and a small ache in the pad of Billy's thumb from keeping alive the fire and from wanting things with a bigger kind of ache, his heart cauterizing from holding inside the rage of knowing he's never, ever going to have them but―

"But?" Billy asks.

Steve grabs his wrist. Hollows out his cheeks. Inhales deep . Takes him a moment when he pulls away. To let go. Long enough that his fingers could read the way Billy's pulse is raging in his wrist, if he wanted to.

“ But ” And he’s smiling. Lopsided. He slips into Will's seat and stretches his neck toward the sky. Prolongs the wait. Exhales. "It's cute."

And then his gaze cuts down and he’s searching for him, with those eyes of his. For Billy, who can never stop looking at him so, when he finds him, finds him looking back already.

And Billy―

Billy .

"Cute?"

Billy. Blinks. His hand stops halfway from getting his own cigarette to his mouth. Stops his heart and it feels like time’s stopping too, in this narrowness Steve's presence has reduced the moment into. And he’s smiling big now. His eyes soft. Soft. So fucking soft. And Billy thinks,

You're getting soft too, Billy Hargrove. You want to let him shred off your skin, when Steve says,

"You," snorting a soft laugh, sun melting in his eyes like honey "With Will. Drawing ."

Billy wants him to never stop looking at him like that. Wants to lean in, and kiss him.

"Shut up and smoke your fucking cigarette, Harrington" he growls.

And Steve rolls his eyes in a way that screams 'Gotcha, Hargrove' , but leans his back against the peeling wood of the shack.

And does as he’s told.

*

Next Tuesday, it's not just Will who shows up, when the bell starts ringing.

*

“ Mmmh . Maybe some flowers. Or– something?”

“To look like a moron , you mean”

“Uh? Nah. That you got covered”

“You’re so, but soooo funny , Harrington”

“I know” Steve grins wide, sharp, and then– “ Roses ”

“Roses? Really? As in the most cliché flower out there?”

“I dunno I―” Steve shrugs, bows his head down, eyes on the half-moons the tips of his shoes are drawing on the parking lot’s gravel “I like them”

And he suddenly sounds self-conscious and it’s been about two months now, since they started this, so Billy knows he's also feeling a little silly. A little dumb . And no. Nonono. That isn’t what Billy―

“Ok, I guess, they aren’t that bad” he grumbles, and he knows that with Steve he is always more surly, even now. As if this raw feeling he’s got under his skin is building trenches, trying to cover itself. Because with Steve, his skin feels not only softer but thinner , almost see-through. “Red. Red roses”

And what Billy’s hiding underneath–  that he doesn’t know if Steve would want to see.

But Steve looks up. Says "Those are my favorites" and smiles. Impossibly soft. The kind of boy that’d show up with a bouquet wrapped in shiny paper and a matching bow. And Billy’s heart is beating so fast it’s rumbling against his skin like the traitor it is and Billy knows the day will come when none of this will matter because it’s gonna be impossible.

Ain’t  gonna be a way he could keep on hiding it.

“Just so you know. You’re a frickin’ sap, Harrington”

“Guess I am”

And Billy doesn't tell him ‘I like it’ but Steve’s already waiting with a grin when Billy looks him in the eye and realizes it’s already started, the not being able to hide.

(Realizes Steve probably knows it, too)

*

“No. No fucking way” Billy inhales deep, by the nose, teeth clenching by themselves “No, no, no and no. I’m sorry”

Steve frowns at him. Billy presses the envelope even harder against his chest.

“But―”

“I’ll just wait. And that’s it. It’s not a big deal. Have plenty of time to get it done”

He says it but―does a really poor job of believing it himself, wishes he was the kind of guy who could drink his weight in beer and then wake up with a mind like a black hole the morning after. ‘Cause it would be so much better , no remembering anything, not the sharp jab pain in his ribs, or the taste of blood, or the way it smells of softener and newborn skin and like warmth and warmth and warmth and warmth , unbearable warmth, the curve of Steve’s neck. Wouldn't have to remember that yeah , of course they tickle, those curls peeking out under his earlobe.

Steve looks at him like it hurts, a paper-cut. Thin and almost-invisible but deep enough that it stings . And it looks like nothing but a plain, cotton-white, boring letter envelope, what he’s pressing against Steve’s chest, but it must be a double-edged sword too, ‘cause it gives Billy the same kind of wound and fuck. Fuck .

It hurts.

But Billy can’t.

Just cannot accept it.

“Listen―” Steve starts. Soft eyes and soft voice and soft hands, fingertips caressing the back of Billy’s own, wrist to tip till he covers it. There. Right there. Over his heart. So much softness Billy’s got to close his eyes ‘cause he’s gonna throw a bite, if he doesn’t hold himself back, when what he really wants is to let himself cry and Steve Harrington to kiss him hard, to not care about how Billy’s lips taste like salt, to not let him go till his tears have run dry. “Hey. You can give it back. Whenever you can. Forget about the present thing, alright? What about a loan?”

Steve's fingers squeeze hard, curl inward, fingertips pressing into his palm. The envelope rustles, pristine white but crumpled a thousand times, like the money inside. He must have had it on him for days, Steve. Maybe since that night, not even a full week ago. Neil's knuckles slamming right into his lungs. Billy's meager savings going from the jar still churning on the floor to the bottomless pit of his wallet "So you have money stashed away but I have to be the one paying for your whims?" . Hours of lawn-mowing and unloading trucks on Fridays and soaking in the smell of burnt meat and old fryer-oil at Benny's on Saturdays and Sundays. Billy  told him to fuck off and earned himself a right hook and a split cheek and saw red all the way from the dead-grass driveway of the Cherry Lane house to the tastefully hedged driveway of his favorite rich kid. Steve poured whiskey on a cotton ball, disinfected the wound. Let Billy swallow the whole bottle even though he knows for a fact that it can no longer be disinfected, what Neil’s done to him on the inside.

Billy told him, in the end. Curled tight against him in bed.     

(His bed)

That’s is not just a fucking tattoo, that’s,

"Eighteen, Steve. And it's still gonna be his fucking roof but I―" Won’t "could―" be his "Go. Wherever I want. Whenever I want" Not anymore .

Eighteen and,

"Are you―?" Steve took a deep, deep breath. Their foreheads were pressed together. Their mouths so close no one had ever breathed Billy’s air like that before, taking it straight from his own lungs "Are you going to leave?"

"No" and then "Yet" and then "I want to graduate first. Try to―” Be fucking something. Someone. Or just. Be. Away from Neil. Just― "And there's Max and Will and―" You. And he didn't say it but Steve. Steve notices things. He hugged him tight tight tight and Billy felt like losing his shit and fucking laughing because he knows it's bullshit, that there's really no difference. Between Neil's knuckles and marking his skin with something he wants. Between seventeen and eighteen if nothing really changes except for a few milliliters of ink. Between being trapped by his father or letting himself be trapped by Max, by Will, by Steve. Because he wants to.

There's really no difference. But―

"I can't" he repeats now, his voice and his breath shaking as Steve nods slowly, and Billy realizes all at once that he wants to . Take the money. Let Steve help him get a shitty tattoo that changes nothing but means everything. He realizes he wants a hundred lame roses wrapped in shiny paper and a ribbon to match and that he wants soft . He wants someone to take care of him like Steve did that night. Someone to tell him everything’s gonna be ok, take him to bed and hold him tight and give less than a shit what the whole fucking world has to say about it.

You're turning into a fucking softie, Billy Hargrove he thinks as he feels his heart breaking And this is the price.

"It's not―" Steve starts, ducking his head, and it's been four months and Billy knows what he's going to say before he opens his mouth again. Thinks nonono as he recognizes the embarrassment, the way Steve suddenly fears he’s doing something wrong and nonono fucking no "I didn't ask my dad for it. If that's what you think."

"Steve. No―"

"It's mine. Kinda?" She exhales a shaky laugh. Looks up at him with those big, huge eyes. Bites his lips "I know it all technically comes out of the same place but. I've been saving it up. I wanted to get you― something and. Then. That happened, and I thought―"

"You don't have to give me anything," Billy blurts out, quick, a reflex. And Steve squeezes a smile between his pressed lips, as if he was already expecting Billy would say something like that and,

Was ready.

“I’m not doing it because I have to , Billy” and the way he’s looking at him is too much, and Billy feels split open and bleeding,

“That’s a lot of money, Harrington” but his voice fails him and he’s is well aware by now that Steve can practically smell it, that instant knows he's almost won and,

He smiles. Steps forward. If somebody were to see them now. It’d look like they were holding hands. He searches for Billy's eyes and locks them tight. And Billy bites at his cheeks to keep from making the mistake of smiling back, and frickin’ encouraging him.

“Ok. No gift, no loan. So, what about a deal?”

Billy snorts.

“A deal”

Steve nods, slowly, and Billy wonders if maybe he can feel it, the way his pulse is racing at the speed of light, right underneath that point where their wrists are still touching.

“It’s mine. The tattoo, and all the skin underneath” he makes a face. A tiny, quick thing. Cocks his head slightly, scrunches his nose, his cheek, the corner of his smile curving sideways. And Billy wants to kiss him so, so, so, so bad   "My own little piece of Billy Hargrove”

Billy swallows. Knows he still looks whole on the outside but―

“That makes no fucking sense, Harrington”

―he’s breaking in a million tiny pieces, on the inside.

But Steve just― shrugs. Make that fucking face again. Lets out a short laugh and his hand’s still there, solid against his. And Billy is well aware he's never gonna get the kind of things he wants but. This . What he can have is this, and the way Steve’s holding him and saying, almost whispering , as if he’s realized it too, that they never have just one conversation at a time, that there's the one that lives above the surface but also this other one, this one that's spoken in glances and whispers and inhabits right underneath,

“I know it’s important, ok. So just this once, let me?”

(Let me take care of you?)

Steve doesn’t say it but it’s there, in his eyes. It floods down into Billy’s lungs in a way that feels like drowning. So much fresh air to breathe he can barely take it. Thinks, thisthisthis, thinks, What can I do not to love you? , thinks, Take what you can get, Hargrove. So he takes a deep breath of that pure air that being in love with Steve Harrington makes almost unbreathable. It all comes rushing out of him when Steve's free hand comes up to his cheek, drags his thumb over a tear.

Billy nods. He’s shaking.

He’s got to clench his teeth when Steve leans in, says it low against his ear,

“Happy Birthday”

And Steve doesn’t kiss him but― he hugs him again. Same as that night.

Doesn’t let him go till his tears have run dry.

*

“I want you to redraw it” he tells Will two days after. And it must be the way he says it, ‘cause Will’s gonna ask or try to talk him out of it, or something but,

He doesn’t.

*

“You want me to what?”

Billy snorts, feigns annoyance. He’s gotta turn his face to the side to avoid her gaze.

“Ain’t that fucking hard, shitbird. Just chose one and keep your trap shut”

And, to his surprise, Max does as she’s told.

*

A few days later he sits in the back seat of his car. Cold June morning. All alone in the junkyard. Pen tightly gripped in his left hand.

Takes a deep breath, and holds it.

Starts working around Will’s drawing.

*

At some forgotten point, they started parking side by side in the mornings. Started sharing a smoke before getting to class. Mondays and Wednesdays they have English first period.

They skip.

“So today’s the big day, huh?” Steve asks, stretching, stretching , stretching all along the side of the car, arms up to his full length, back arched following the curves of the Camaro “Scared?”

“Have you ever seen me scared?”

Steve arches a brow, his grin dipping into his cheeks. And it’s been months. Months since that first morning at the back of the shack, so Steve doesn’t say them but Billy hears them anyway. The words, the tone that implies ‘Way more times than you think, Hargrove’  and Billy wants to feel under his fingertips the ripples of his ribs so, instead of that, steals the cigarette from him.

Steve grunts a laugh. Tries to hit his boot with the pristine white toe of his sneakers but barely manages to graze it sideways. Doesn’t seem to mind too much because he intertwines his hands behind his head, then, wriggles down a little, letting his eyelids slip closed. Sleep’s always had a hard time letting him go, this early, and Billy relates so fucking much, because who would want to, if they had him. Who wouldn't beg for just a little more, of hearing him breathe softly and of the warmth of his body on the blankets and of that hair spilling over the pillow and their foreheads brushing.

Billy’s only had it once. He’s never gonna be able to forget it.

“Bet that’s why you don’t want me to come. So I can’t see you shitting yourself” and something’s off in his tone, in the way he’s pressing his lips together right after saying it. And Billy wouldn’t ever hurt him again but he apparently has, even if it wasn’t intentional. And he could, should, tell Steve the real reason but he wants, needs , it to be a surprise: somehow, in his mind, Billy’s gifting him something back.

So he rolls his eyes, goes for dramatic, and,

“You fucking wish. Max wants to come along and―” says, tries to let it soak into his eyes, his voice, how much he wants it too, for Steve to be the one there with him. Softsoftsoft “ they won’t let more people in"

Steve nods. Eyes made of winter and of that way in what dreams still linger on his eyelashes, long after he’s woken up.

“No big. I get it” he says, but the side of his mouth is slightly wrinkled and Billy can see there, that he does get it but― doesn’t really like it and―

Billy likes that he doesn’t.

Thinks, C’mon, don’t be stupid. Don’t be fucking stupid, Hargrove.

Because hope is the last thing you lose but it should be the first , when it makes your heart explode every time your best friend looks at you like this, and you know you could never have him.

“I’ll show you when it’s done”

“Uhm” 

Steve closes his eyes again, hands behind his head, intertwined. The sun’s bathing his skin with a cold-colored light, ocean blue and not so long for the summer. The same kind of light that would break against the reef of his covers would tangle in foam on the white of his pillow if they were not here but so close again, like that morning, in his bed.

But what Billy’s got is this, so he molds his own spine to the shapes of the Camaro, leans next to Steve, tries to make the effort not to but in the end is pointless, so he just stands there, silent, looking at him.

Till Steve sighs, lets the air out as if he's been holding it in for a century.

“Then you’re gonna have to tell him”

“Tell who― what ?”

“The guy who does it to you”

And when Steve turns his head, Billy’s pulse is rabbiting. He barely separates them, his lashes. Just a flutter and it’s worse , thinks Billy, worse than having to look at the whole of his deep brown eyes, this close, because it sounds like more, when Steve speaks, and Billy knows that’s impossible. Sounds like so much more than what Billy will ever get to have, when Steve nudges him just so, shoulder against shoulder, mouths so close words feel like warmth and more, more, so fucking more, when he licks his lips and mumbles,

“That this is mine now, Hargrove. So he better treat it with care”

*

“Really?”

“You told me to choose and I chose ” she sounds pissed. She isn’t. Keeps her eyes fixed forward while buckling her seat belt.

“Any special reason?”

Max shrugs. Purses her lips. She’s got that way of sticking her chin up, letting her eyelids fall, that never fails to persuade anyone who's dared to start asking questions to stop. Has never worked on Billy but he acts as if it does, this time.

Turns on the engine.

“Wanna play it?”

Max's lips curl in a different way. She’s fire and ice, all at once, but always, always burning.

She rummages through the cases scattered in the glove box till she finds AC/DC. Pumps the volume so loud Billy can feel the drum beating into the steel skeleton of the car, music piercing into it like ink on a tattoo.

Billy folds the scrap of paper she gave him, slips it into his pocket, right there with the drawing. Thinks This is the last time. No more folds. No more layers. No more secrets at the bottom of pockets no one ever looks in but–

There . Exposed on the skin. In plain sight.

‘Livin' easy. Lovin' free’ in Max’s handwriting.

They rewind the song again and again and again. Their lungs raw after singing along it all the way to Indianapolis.

(In the end, it fits perfectly with the whole design)

*

“What the fuck, no ? You said when it’s done ”

“That’s right. And it isn’t ”

“But if it’s―”

Steve reaches out to his arm. Enough summer in the sky already that the asphalt is burning under the soles of his boots and Billy can wear short sleeves. Steve’s fingers graze his skin and try to slide their way underneath. Billy grabs his wrist halfway and earns himself a snort and a,

“ C’mon , Hargrove”

“―still healing” Billy finishes for him, and Steve's pulse against his palm makes his bones rattle, his own triggering as if his body is screaming a plea for him to let it bleed itself out.

Into Steve.

Spill into him like ink on a tattoo.

 “ When? ”

Steve huffs and,

“When it’s done, pretty boy” and it takes him a few seconds more than it should to let him go ‘cause his hands get rapt at so much softness, he ain't to blame.

Steve rolls his eyes, a sharp laugh deflating out of his lungs as if he were thinking ‘You fucking asshole’ but he really didn’t mind that much .

When it’s done, Billy thinks.

‘ Livin' easy. Lovin' free’

Only one week more.

Till it’s fully healed.

Till it has bloomed.

*

It’s the last day of high school. Billy gets a card with a ridiculous caption that cheerfully dismisses him until 'One more wonderful year together!' and Steve graduates "Inglorious! Failorious ! No future promising in sight” with a sealed diploma and a farewell letter he proceeds to translate for Billy into "The unsweetened version" topping it off with a "Welcome to the first day of the rest of your useless fucking life!"

One should be throwing his cap into the air while the other makes ugly faces at him from the tastefully decorated seats, but―

They skip.

End up at the quarry, as they always do.

All Hawkins’ breathing in radiant light and promises to keep but it’s right by this quiet shore that summer’s come to take off its clothes and steal their breath. The bare earth of winter now swaying in greens and yellows and the wild blue of the flowers and the water that’s sparkling in the light like in a fucking Coca-Cola commercial. And it's sweltering, the heat, and the way Steve pushes his glasses up over his sweat-damp fringe and rests his ass on the hood of the Camaro with that unabashed satisfaction it gives him thinking he’s bothering Billy with it. And it does bother Billy, but he's way more bothered by the way Steve’s lips curl over his cig and they cling all over, those blue suit pants he's tightly pressed in. Bothered by the expensive white sleeves carelessly rolled up to his elbows and just a single done up button more than Billy would like.

It's this suffocating summer that's beckoning him from the water and knocking all the air out of his lungs but it's Steve what Billy would drown into, if he were to choose.

“So, what are you gonna do now?”

He sits right by his side on the hood and Steve looks even more satisfied, when the metal gives. Billy feels like risking it all and licking a kiss off his throat, and damn the consequences.

" Really ? You too with that fucking question?" He snorts, and the cig wobbles in his mouth and his words sound muffled but he doesn’t look like it annoys him, really. More that it makes him a little amused, at first, then the feeling quickly morphs into something a little like pain, or bitterness or longing, right after “Being a failure. I guess” he shrugs, his shoulders look heavy. Barks out a laugh “You see, I just suck at anything else”

And I do see Billy thinks, and sometimes he wants to rip his eyes out and hand them to him and say ‘Look at yourself with these. Tell me what you see now’ because nonono,

“You’re not ―”

“ And what if ―” Steve cuts him off. With his words. His eyes. His own voice breaks before he can finish.  And Billy breathes. There’s no space for anything else, when Steve Harrington’s looking like that at him. “If I am, Billy” he makes a pause that’s a sigh. Bites at his lips. ‘Cause I’m tired. So fucking tired of just can’t. Be it and. That’s it, ¿you know?”

And his smile is kind of sad, kind of weary and the breeze’s making a mess out of his hair, the sun bathing him in light and memories Billy’s gonna take with him forever, no matter where he goes.

He disagrees. With all he’s got. All he feels. But Steve needs him to understand so he understands. Nods. Pushes him gently until he capsizes sideways and that smile breaks into foam. No more sadness. No more weariness.

“’Sides” he keeps on going. Takes a deep puff and passes him the cig, and Billy ain’t being keeping count, all those second-hand kisses “that means I’m trapped in here. So’s not that bad”

“What do you mean?”

Steve steals back the cigarette. Inhales. Exhales. And Billy ain’t being keeping count but he’s kinda being, after all.

“I mean I’m not going anywhere. And you ain’t either” he lowers his gaze. Blinks back up “’Least not soon, right? So. Well. You know”

And it sounds contained but it's there , the way Steve's voice is soaked in hope.

(And fuck. That is the problem)

(That Billy doesn’t want to , anymore. Doesn’t want to ever leave)

It cuts him in half. The pain. Because it doesn’t matter, how much he already knows. Doesn’t matter how many times he tells himself The more it hurts, the faster you’ll get used to it because truth is, he doesn’t think he’s gonna. Get used to it. Doesn’t think he's gonna be able to get used to this way Steve has, of loving him so much without loving him.

Not the way Billy wants him to.

But the saddest thing, he suddenly, heartbreakingly realizes, is―

That  he shouldn’t.

Livin’ easy. Lovin’ free .

This ain’t what he wants. This ain’t, the way he wants to live.

Getting used to it.

He wants no more folds. No more layers. No more secrets at the bottom of pockets no one ever looks inside.

And that includes Steve.

Happens so fast it weighs like made of concrete on his heart. The realization flooding like water into his lungs. But Billy hit rock bottom once, and now he won’t ever go back. You can really see what matters from the bottom, when you look up but―

That’s also the price.

He’s gotta tell him. Now. Before he’s got time to chicken out.

It’s that, or forever living like this. That, or keep on living halfway.

It’s gonna hurt worse than any punch Neil has ever laid on him.

“Steve. Hey―” He starts, and Billy only rarely calls him by his name but it sounds soft now. The light brush of kisses and quiet whispers in the ear and that soothing feeling of burying your face in your pillow. It sounds of that way Steve always looks at him. Softsoftsoftsoft. Steve. Sounds like being about to lose everything you never really had. But Stop hiding , he thinks , Stop hiding “There’s something I gotta―”

“Really. Pff. Was about time”

Billy― blinks. Steve’s fingers are searching for the hem of his shirt. They curve, knuckles grazing as his navel. Billy’s stomach hollows, his skin bristling to the touch.

“What―?”

“C’mon”

“ C’mon what?”

Steve frowns. Twist the corner of a smile, of a tentative doubt. He doesn't understand what Billy isn’t. The wind ruffles the pristine white collar of his open shirt, the wavy ends of his brown hair. If it hadn't been inevitable, this would be the moment Billy’d choose, to think about how much he regrets falling in love.

Steve looks exasperated. Clarifies,

“The tattoo”

Fuck.

“ That ain’t what I―”

“ Billy” He drags the y in a whine. His knuckles fit square between the gaps in his ribs.

“Hey!”

Steve bares his belly.

“Wanna see what’s mine, Hargorve” he says, voice commanding. And Billy stands still. Suddenly frozen.

“Steve―”

And it was supposed to be a surprise. And today. Today was gonna be the day. Problem is― What the fuck Billy though he was gonna tell him? I got this for you and when Steve asked Because this is the first time, and I don’t want to ever forget it and when Steve asked For all the reasons you’re gonna think are wrong but― Steve’s fingers are tangled in the ragged white of his shirt and Billy thinks this ain’t even the worst way anyone’s gotten him bare so―

“ Billy . Lemme”

Billy lets him. ( Of course . Of course he lets him). Brings his arms up. Steve's skin caresses his sides, that sensitive part under his arms. Gently pulls his ears out and doesn't stop, keeps on touching him. Fingers on the curve of his shoulder, on the skin healed already from the tattoo. Soft soft soft. So soft . Touches him the way Billy wants him to touch him and he’s gotta bite his lips to keep from screaming stop stop stop

Please. Or you'll tear me apart. Stop it.

“ Fuck ” Steve takes a deep breath. Exhales slowly. It’s ink, what Billy’s got sunk deep inside his skin but thinks this is gonna imprint into his body too. This warmth and that look on his face, when Steve’s eyes cut up to him, his thumb pressing down hard into the drawing. " Roses . You. Got them―" You always wear it there , pretty boy, Billy thinks , your heart, in your eyes . His own stops when he thinks that And now I gotta tell you. That I want to steal it in all the wrong ways. And I’m so fucking scared.

Steve smiles, a tiny, hesitant thing, big eyes, asks,

"Why did you―?"

And Billy thinks You already hit rock bottom, Billy Hargrove.

“Because you like them,” he says. Sun and the low whisper of the water and the feeling of the first day of summer all around them. White shirt and breeze and Steve and the way those lips of his are parting. Before. And after. And Billy thinks, I don’t want to ever forget it. That you are the first time I’ve ever fallen in love. “And because it’s yours. The tattoo”

Steve― doesn’t say anything. He just stands there. Looking back at him.

And Billy thinks, ‘Cmon, Billy, ‘cmon. You already hit rock bottom. Now’s when you gotta let yourself drown.

“The tattoo” he says “And everything underneath”

Steve. The pain floods into his eyes. It clouds up the brown and climbs up his lashes and spreads to the way he clenches his teeth and his throat works and Billy thinks It’s done, thinks Steve’s finally seeing them, all these months of half-truths and daydreaming and thinking about the way Steve's smell had a different kind of warmth, in the fabric of his pillow. That’s he’s finally become so soft he’s gotten completely transparent.

That this is it. This is how it’s ending.

Steve smiles a smile that shakes just a little, right at the end and, then, takes a deep, deep breath.

He caresses the red petals blooming out of Billy's skin as carefully as if they were real.

“Everything, uh?” And he sounds sad. Sad. So, so sad. The low tone of his voice turning the immense open space into a tiny universe, reaches the question mark in a whisper thinner than a grain of sand.

“That was the deal” Billy swallows. He wants to tell him but it’s a stupid deal because you already had it. Being having it for so, so long. Wants to tell him that his now soft skin’s breaking with how bad he wants to. Being able to just get used to it. Being able to shut up and hide just to keep him. He wants to scream. To run. Wants to tell him that this is the first time and he can’t find it in himself to regret it. No matter how bad it hurts. Falling in love. Even if it was inevitable.

But Steve’s saying “Not everything”, fingers on his clavicle and drawing a new, undiscovered curve against the hollow of his throat, fingertips warm under his ear and if only they’d imprint themselves there, too. Leave a soft mark over every single piece of skin they’re touching, till everything he is belongs to Steve Harrington.

“Steve, what―”

“It’s not everything” Steve swallows. Too much heart in those eyes, for Billy not to fall “What I want is―”

And then, he steals all the air off his lungs.

Steve kisses him and it ain’t― fuck. Ain’t soft. It’s Steve’s nails on his skin and Steve’s teeth on his lips and Steve’s breathing in deep, deep, off Billy’s mouth, and Billy wants to bite the words off his mouth, (wants) tell me (to know) That you too (needs to know) Tell me I’m not the only one drowning.

It ain’t soft.

Except. Steve breaks apart, fingers still over his pulse, the same kind of pain in his eyes. And he says “What I want is this” and Billy thinks Oh, thinks, All this time alone at the bottom, and it turns out we were both castaways. Buries his fingers in that pristine white shirt and pulls . Draws the words on the surface of Steve’s lips. Says,

“You didn’t get it, pretty boy” and kisses a little more breath into his mouth. Feels the current dragging them offshore. The waves carrying them. Foam caressing their toes. And it was good, at the bottom but it’s here, here, where Billy really wants to stay “It’s already yours. All my skin. And everything underneath”

Steve laughs in his mouth. Salt and softness and his heart on his eyes when he holds Billy’s, his palm outstretched over the tattoo: the skull, now drawn by Will. Max and AC/DC and her favorite line (thirty miles and two full rounds of the album is what it took her to answer. "Because that's what I want for you," and her eyes burned so hard as she said they both ended up burning). Red roses. Because Billy wanted to give him a gift too. Because it’s the first time but Billy already knows, this way he’s in love with Steve Harrington is a once in a lifetime kind of thing, one that was gonna stay forever tattooed under his skin, anyway.

He lets out a soft laugh. Steals another breath of fresh air from Steve Harrington, his lungs widening as he smiles against the shape of  his mouth.

"What?" asks Steve, eyes of hurricane and calm.

Billy kisses him again, forehead to forehead. He wants to never, ever stop.

"That at the end, I got lucky, and turned into fucking softie"

And the sand’s firm under his feet, when Steve breaks away a little, leans forward. Leaves a kiss on the skin of his shoulder. Warm. Soft . Lips over ink and over everything Billy is, everything Billy has. Everything he wants to give.

He grins full-mouthed when he pulls away. Eyes brimming with everything Billy wants. A little teasing. A little cocky.

"It's cute," but by the way he says it, Billy's not entirely sure if he’s talking about―

"The tattoo?"

Steve nods, those curls under his earlobe tickling his cheek as he buries his face in Billy's neck, breathes in deep, and his voice washes over Billy’s transparent skin as he exhales,

"And you too, Billy Hargrove."

.

.

.

the biggest thank you to @chrisbitchtree for helping me with this and being an absolute SUN 🔅 🔅

that one in the moodboard is my first manip in ages and i know it looks horrible ok. i know. also i feel like somebody did something like it before but i'm not sure neither can remember who if it was you please tell me and i'll happily credit the idea!

also! this is my "2 years in the harringrove fandom celebration fic" so yay!! :D

[withoneheadlight]

very close, very close to the bone

{ max (& billy) | season 4 spoilers (kinda) | tangentially harringrove | spanish version | AO3 }

~

They find it in the trunk.

It’s the police who bring it. Shiny, black plastic bag, one of those huge ones, those as suitable for getting crammed with trash as for covering a body. Opaque, the kind that won’t let you get a peek. And Max’s only thirteen but this is the third she’s seen. Her grandma. Billy. Whatever’s inside this one the officers solemnly hand to Neil Hargrove.

Max feels like breaking something: the brand-new vase her mom reverently placed this morning in the dining room, yellow daisies overflowing. The sympathetic but stiff ‘I’m so sorry for your loss’ expressions in the officers’ faces. The freshly served plates with their steaming chicken soup waiting for them at the table.

The stoic, perfectly composed, solemn smile of Billy's father.

Because they’ll say it and Max knows it. They'll talk about it on their way down the gravel path on the front and will nod it to each other as they fasten their seat belts. They'll forget about everything else and just remember that by the time they've turned the key in the ignition, and then they'll go telling it around town for days, for weeks, an echo that starts at the Hargrove’s house on a Friday at seven and repeats and repeats and repeats itself until everyone has had the chance to feel adequately admiring.

What a man. Such fortitude. Hasn't shed a single tear. What an example of character.

And Max feels it thin, fragile, the skin of her knuckles, from how hard she’s clenching her fists.

When the officers finally excuse themselves with a light gesture and a nod, Neil shuts the door close very, very slowly.

The bag hits the floor with a bam! when he lets it slip down his hand. Round, gigantic, it looks fake, a cartoon-like bomb.

Neil Hargrove just stands there, staring at it and, on her shoulder, Max feels her mom’s fingers clenching hard, and the clock on the kitchen wall goes click. click. click. But nothing really―

Explodes.

“Maxine―” the voice’s harsh. Low. The hamstrings around Neil Hargrove’s mouth go taut. And Max knows what they’ll say, what will ricochet off tongues and walls and will be carried by the wind, in the end, all along the length and breadth of Hawkins.

But it’ll all be a fucking lie.

“―take all this garbage” his throat works. Up. Down. And Max can see it, just for a split second, how they get stuck in there, all those things nobody will ever get to know about him “Get it out”

When blood starts flowing again, Max’s hands burn, sting.

It costs the pain of biting down into her cheeks but Max nods, does as she’s told.

The bag’s so heavy she’s gotta drag it to take it outside.

When she comes back into the house and sits down to take dinner, Neil and her mom are talking about how incredibly beautiful the new vase looks.

x

Nobody’s ever gonna ask Max what she remembers, when she thinks about the night but, if they did, she’d know exactly what to say. No doubts and chronologically. And if they were to ever ask why, she’d say it’s because those memories are always different from the rest, more clear, focalized. They are the stream of a flashlight finding focus in the middle of the night, the golden circles coming off the street lamps. The flashing flame of a lighter, and the night closing in around.

What Max remembers:

Nights of made-up bedtime stories and nights of fever and warm kisses on the forehead, and falling asleep cuddled up to her mother.

Lullabies in the middle of the night, and his grandmother's sweet singing voice, and the softness of her laughter.

The first night dad didn't come back home, and the light from the hallway seeping in through the crack in her door, golden.

Shouts and a blunt sound coming from the kitchen. Neil Hargrove's low, hoarse, ever-so-reasonable voice, and Billy curled up under the table, crying.

Lucas, Dustin, Mike, Will, El. Sneaking out through her window. Sneaking in through her window. Words whispered under the covers, the static of the radio filling up the air.

And tonight, the night she sneaks out to rescue what little’s left of Billy.

It’s still there. By the dumpster. Dark and immense. A bomb about to blast, just like her brother. And Max is sweating, from the anguish and the pent-up rage and the three-in-the-morning cold sticking to her skin when she finally manages to drag it to her window and,

Under her bed, now Max’s keeping three treasures, stolen before Billy's room became completely empty: his brown leather jacket. The beaded belt that used to hang behind his door. His favorite Metallica album and, now,

The bag feels heavy. So heavy, with all the things kept in there. So Max takes them up one by one, two by two, three by three, carefully adding them to her treasure. Four, five, six in the morning, the clock click-click-clicking, but the bomb doesn’t explode either as Max dismantles it. Retrieves a little more of Billy, piece by piece. Cassettes and lighter gas and some crumpled clothes and some neatly folded clothes and, in a cloth bag, a straw hat fraying at the edges, a blue jacket, an envelope full of pictures.

Pictures of her.

Days of beach and blue sky and days of the light coming-in in stripes of gold through the kitchen’s window, and Billy smiling, and his mom smiling and the park in the afternoon and the blankets of his bed rolled up un a mess in the morning, and presents unwrapped on Christmas Day, and a tiny-tiny Billy barely hitting five with a scrunched up nose and a wide-mouth grin, baby teeth slightly apart and, then, the last one, a blurry polaroid: Steve Harrington’s hand, trying to block the lens of the camera, the sun aflaming his hair from behind and a happy smile, of joy and complicity and that other something. The kind of smile that illuminates everything the sun cannot.

The jacket, Max suddenly recognizes, is his and, for a split second of silliness, she thinks about whether maybe, maybe she should, give it back to him, but then she thinks that, if somebody would ever ask Billy what he remembered, when he thought about blue skies and sunny days, he would have surely thought about the days these pictures were taken. So she puts it all back in the bag again. Slides it under her bed, where from now on she'll be the one to keep it safe.

Then, swallows, comes back outside.

She finds:

That dark-green blanket that used to be on his bed.

A cardboard box with condoms wrappers, movie tickets, perfectly folded dinner receipts, one of those keyrings you can win at the fair that reads 'I love you, asshole', a Bruce Springsteen cassette.

A package wrapped in one of those cheesy birthday papers stamped with butterflies and flowers in pastel-pink shades, the exact kind that never fails to make her cringe. The surface’s crumpled, full of those little white cracks from having been stacked for too long, or too many times handled. It's the first thing that makes her hesitate.

That makes her wonder if she should.

‘Cause Billy is dead. He’s dead but it’s a strange feeling, an impossible feeling, as if his brother’s still occupying invisible spaces, filling the nothingness with his presence even when he isn’t here. And, in her mind, it’s like Max can hear what he’d say, with his perpetual bad mood and a cigarette dancing in between his lips,

“That’s none your business, shitbird”

So she does what she’d have done, if he were still here.

Tears off the paper and says it loud and clear, so he can hear her, "Fuck you."

It’s a skate. Brand new. Smooth, shiny varnish underneath. Drawn right in the center, a skull sticks out its tongue, flips her off, circled by fire.

Max loves it. And hates it. And she doesn't cry.

Thinks, what strength of character, Maxine, what fortitude. And hates herself.

Thinks, Thank you, thinks, asshole. ThinksI hate you, I hate you, I hate you so fucking much.

Doesn't even cry when she finds the letter taped to one of the right wheels, lined notebook paper neatly folded in three quarters.

Max unfolds it carefully and,

Starts to read.

x

She knew she’d find it in the junkyard.

It’s on the back, jammed into a corner. Open wound on its nose and badly burnt and, more than a car, Max had always thought of it as a predator. Terrible. Wild. Thundering. Mythological. Now, it just looks like a dead animal.

But even so, Max finds it hard to get close. Finds it hard to touch the rims of the wound and run her fingers along its curves and its ridges, mouth to tail. Hard not to shudder at the seven-thirty-in-the-morning―icy touch burning in the metal and the trepidation running up her spine at the thought that if either of them goes looking into her room, they won't find her there, asleep as they expect her.

(And it won’t be Billy who comes find her this time)

The trunk’s open, and it feels so heavy, when she pushes it up but, Max thinks, there are some stolen treasures that have to be returned.

So she puts in there, the cloth bag with the hat, and the photos, and Steve Harrington's sky-blue jacket.

Among the first of Billy's belongings the police gave to Neil Hargrove the day he was called to the station to certify his only son’s dead were: a wristwatch, a thin hoop earring, a carved ring, the car keys.

The only time Max heard Neil ask why they weren’t where he’d put them when he came back home (third drawer in the hallway console, behind that pile of bill envelopes and crumpled gas station tickets that keeps and keeps building up). She got slowly out of bed and slid the latch on. Then came back to hide under the covers, trying not to make a sound, her heart drill-drill-drilling into her temples, a metallic taste at the back of her tongue and a question: how long is it going to take for that latch to disappear from the right side of the door, appear on the wrong.

(Like Billy’s)

But the latch’s still where it was and. Neil never asked again so―

Max closes the trunk and turns the key.

The next part is the hardest.

She's been carrying it around for weeks. Thought she was waiting for the courage but. She was waiting for the rage.

And it comes. It burns her eyes. Her throat. Spreads like wildfire. And Max thought she knew rage. She swallows it, vomits it, breathes it, inhabits it every day, drowns in it, like living under the weight of water. But the rage she feels that same morning in the house at the end of Cherry Lane is different. It’s white, like the fresh coat of paint Neil Hargrove’s spreading on the facade, stained hands and a ‘Good morning, sweetheart’ and the smell of coffee and toast at seven in the morning, his mother's curls fluttering, red and precious, when she leans over to kiss her, asking, “Honey, what do you want for breakfast?”.

And the sun was flooding in through the window, gold and beautiful and warm. A perfect morning. A perfect life. A perfect family.

It's only been a month.

And Max thinks of that parallel darkness creeping around Hawkins. Violent and twisted and terrifying. She thinks That's reality. That, and not this.

The next part is the hardest but Max bites down on her cheeks and unlocks the driver's door and sits back into the seat. And inhales. Inhales―

She can’t breathe.

There’s a grave. But it’s empty. It says William Hargrove. It's not his brother's grave.

She turns the key to open the glove compartment.

That isn’t but this one is. This forgotten skeleton and the memory long wide roads and heavy metal, the rumbling of music still throbbing under the rotting skin of the dead beast. The smell of leather and cigarettes and that aggressive, kamikaze, inevitable way of living that was only his.

She grips the steering, tight, Mad Max she thinks, and the rage’s so white, it’s blinding.

‘Cause this is it. This is his brother's grave.

And she’s crying.

The first scream rips her throat off. High. High. To the top of her lungs, the highest. Makes way for the next. The next. Fuck you! Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou. She screams till it feels like they’re burning― the forest all around and this cemetery and the inside of the car. Like she’s burning. Watching through the tears how the flames creep high and high and higher, eating it all up. Devouring. Screams until her chest is hurting. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck all of you! Because the letter said Dear Max and,

Fuck you too, Billy. Fuck you!.

Now her brother’s dead.

When she finally stops, the world around’s still sun and clear morning sky at the end of summer. There aren’t ashes nor remains. But Max can breathe now. Can reach the letter she’s been carrying in her pocket.

She puts it in the glove compartment and,

“Thanks for the skate” she tells him, because if there’s anywhere he’d listen that’s here, inside this piece of metal that’s not breathing nor living not fighting, because it’s missing its heart. Inside this piece of metal where Billy kept all the things he loved. His treasure.

She wipes her tears with the back of her sleeve. Says, softly, "I'm so sorry too."

Gets out of the car and locks it up. The cold’s cutting like a knife, so she snuggles into her jacket, thinking that maybe it will fit her now, even if it's still a little big, that leather one she’s keeping safe under her bed that screams Billy, like no one’s screaming it.

The one that’d paint white-blinding-rage that Neil Hargrove's perfect, charming smile everyone talks so much about.

"See you tomorrow. Asshole" she says by way of goodbye, but still stares for a while at the way the painting shines under the rays of sun cracking the cold, the way the clouds reflect on it, the blue sky spilling on it like ink over the ocean.

x

She comes back the next day.

And the next, and the next.

Comes back every day.

Doesn't open the glove compartment again until two weeks later. Late August and the sleeves of Billy’s leather jacket rolled up tight up to her elbows and Neil Hargrove's picture-perfect smile peeling off like cheap paintwork and―

A letter.

There. A letter. Not the one Max’s got in her pocket now, not the one she wrote days ago, on that night, and left there even though she knew Billy could never find it. But a letter written on yellowed paper so skinny it shows-through, rigorously folded in three quarters.

Max's heart surges and she feels it thin, fragile, the extension of all her skin.

Because it marks into the paper, the long, crooked calligraphy, so harsh in some spots that it tears, hurts, but so soft, so delicately soft in others, curves that sway over each other, the ocean’s shore drawn in blue pen.

It’s Billy's handwriting.

Max slams the door close. Pulls the lock. Takes a deep, deep breath, hot leather and build-up heat, the smell of stale cigarettes and boy and all those times he took her to and back from school, the pool, the mall, to the wide, infinite beaches of California. The long, long drive here.

Hope creeps up her throat and Max catches it with her teeth, can’t let it slither out. It's too much. Too much.

Reaches for the letter.

It starts exactly like the other. With that thing they’ve never said out loud. That thing with which Max started her first. Her second letter. By the time she finishes, hope has turned into a snake, it slips out her mouth, curls around her ribs, bites at its own tail and squeezes, her heart, her stomach, her lungs. It’s a deceitful kind of hope, it begins and ends with Billy’s words when he writes,

―and I don't know where I am, Max. But I think it’s hell, and I'm scared.

But Max―grits her teeth, swallows her tears. Max knows where he is and, knows how you kill a snake, too.

Her brother told her how.

Chops off the head of that way in which hope’s strangling her, paralyzing her, because Billy’s in the upside-down but he's alive. He’s alive.

So she digs a pen out of her backpack and turns Billy's letter over, writes hers on the back with that thing they’ve never said out loud, and then seven words,

Dear Billy,

Hang in there, we're coming for you and, signed,

Mad Max.

Her hand’s trembling as she lays it like that, unfolded, fully displayed in the glove compartment.

So it’s the first thing Billy sees.

"Don't die, shithead" she says, inhales deeply "Okay?" her lips taste like spilled salt when she adds "Just wait for me."

She locks the car when she slides out. Now she knows there's someone on the other side who’s got the key too and, also, that some secrets gotta stay between siblings and, then―

She starts running.

Something in the world goes click. click. click: this time, Max is the bomb.

[withoneheadlight]

when she leaves, billy stops surfing.

stops because it's the only other thing that makes him feel free, that makes him feel happy, and for a long, long time, those two feelings become unbearable.

but that’s until steve comes along and, when billy’s at risk of feeling so close to freedom it hurts, steve holds his hand, and when billy’s at risk of feeling too happy, steve caresses his face, eases the pain away.

the first time he picks up a board again it’s steve who takes him by the hand and draws him to the waves, steve who tells him 'i'm going to be here, ok?. all the time. watching you. waiting for you’

and for the first time in a long, long time, with steve smiling, waving at him from the shore, waves breaking around his ankles, dark hair blowing in the breeze―

love stops hurting.

[withoneheadlight]

(you gotta have) faith

| harringrove | new year's eve | very irresponsible use of the song 'faith' | ao3 |

.

At first, Steve thinks it’s just one of those weird things that happen sometimes.

Brain cacophonies, Carol calls them (“And it’s always my mom and always that tone she uses. Her ‘That-cleavage-is-too-low-Caroline―tone. It’s just. It’s c.r.e.e.p.y”), that thing of suddenly thinking somebody’s calling your name except, when you turn around, you realize it was all in your own head.

It happens to Steve with that commanding voice his father uses to hiss out his name (‘Tomorrow at five. Don’t be late, Ssssteven’ and ‘It’s time you stop behaving like a kid, Ssssteven’ and ‘I said no, Ssssteven. And this is my last word on it’). It makes him jump out of sleep at night, that voice. Swears he can hear it calling sometimes while he’s taking a shower, so he can’t but step out of the cozy warmth and slip on his way to the door to check. So fuck if Carol ain’t right. Goddam creepy. Even creepier when is his late English teacher’s, Mr. Fleishman, and that nasal, high-pitched tone with which he used to blow Steve’s ears up and out of his cloud of self-absorption and that now still haunts him sometimes, like some phantasmagoric retaliation for all those times it was Steve who made his ears blow up trying to convince him into turning his C’s into D’s to, ironically, avoid his father’s hissing.

(Steve’s pretty much run out of luck when it comes to‘Otherworldly things that come back to haunt you’. Wouldn't be that much of a surprise having to add Mr. Fleishman to his inexorably growing list)

But.

It’s neither his father's nor Mr. Fleishman's. Nor is it calling him from the messy insides of his own head.

No-no.

The voice Steve hears. The voice yelling his name. The voice singing from the other side of the façade. Hoarse and grave and a little shaken, almost trailing out of key. The voice that makes Steve get up and go looking for it. That voice sounds, unequivocally, like,

“But what th―?”

“―If I could touch yourrrr―ohhhhhHARRINGTON!”

Billy’s.

Right under his parent’s window. Zig-Zig-Zagging with his feet. Side-to-siding his hips. Indexes drumming along the rhythm of what should probably look like some kind of dance but— doesn’t. Billy’s voice and Billy’s wholeness. Optimistically defying the mid-December frost clouding his breath when he bursts into laughter.

“Holymotherofgod. You’re deaf as a post, Stevie!” he cackles, looking all like he just walked out of one of those ’pieces of clothing you should & shouldn’t wear to avoid stalagmiting in Indiana’ Cosmo top-five’s: ripped-off jeans. Leather jacket. No gloves. No hat. No sense of survival.

He―spins around. Smooth. Smooth. Till. He dead-stops. Stumbles.

Squeals.

“Dwoh-oh-oh!”

Five + one: no sense of self-consciousness.

It’s― Problematically endearing.

“Yeah. No. You can stop yelling. I can perfectly hear―”

“ArE-yOU-SUre-GranPA?”

Billy smiles a curved-all-the-way-up, clownish smile. Lips freezing-red. Eyes bright. Smug. So self-satisfied. Looks stupidly triumphant as the question hits the slatted wall and bounces back, the last vowel rumbling all along the avenue on its way into the dark.

“―you” Steve purses his lips. Rolls his eyes “That's why you came all the way here? To call me deaf on New Year's Eve?”

Billy's expression changes. It’s sudden. Finger-snap quick. Looks at him with that face he always makes (mouth downturned, brows frowning) when he thinks Steve’s just said something stupid. He’s got a bottle of something pink and wobbly and expensive-looking in his left hand and he’s pretty much drunk, if Steve's instincts aren’t failing.

"No" Shakes his head. Takes a swig "Well. Not only"

“Then?”

It's almost imperceptible, but he kind of― shrinks into the visibly scarce protection of his leather jacket, as if trying to retain what little warmth he’s managed to gather, keep it from running away with the cold outside.

Eyes fixed on Steve when he deadpans,

“Went to the party. Didn’t find you in there”

This time, his voice doesn't rumble anywhere. Loses strength instead. Plummets. It’s the opposite kind of power, the one that now carries. Heavy with that something Billy never says, but kind of― implies, sometimes. Sharpens the ends of the words with the unexpectedness of it. And Steve has never been stabbed but he's heard it goes like this: you don't feel anything and then, suddenly, the red is staining.

You don't feel anything and then, violently, in between the gaps of the words, Billy Hargrove has hidden an ‘And I missed you’.

And Steve. He’s more clever than people give him credit for. Definitely more clever than hoping for this being something’s not. But sometimes, Billy goes straight for the heart, and catches him with nothing at hand to stop the bleeding.

Steve can’t tell him Be careful with how you hurt,so he says instead,

“You know me, William” Cool. Unaffected. Not a glimpse of what’s happening inside because Billy’s eyes are on him, searching, observant as they always are. The blue of the sky in-between the storm that’s passed, the storm that’s about to burst. Hungry for detail. And Steve shivers. Because it’s too cold to be only in his pajamas. Because some lies gotta be told to keep something worth keeping “Now and then, it’s good to leave y’all wanting”

Billy scoffs, biting at the inside of his cheeks, lowering his head as he shakes it, damp curls swaying faintly. Draws a curved, trembling line with the tip of his boot along the puddle of water he’s standing into.

“Guess you got it all tried and trued, King Steve. Don’t cha?”

The orangey light of the street lamps whirlpools and glints at the pass of his feet and, for a long moment, he seems captured on the depths of the reflection, captured in the depths of his own head, perhaps, capturing another tiny part of Steve’s heart in the process.

“Anyway” he says, cranking his head back up, shaking his already half-emptied bottle “I’ve got booze so. Are you coming down or what?”

Steve rolls his eyes. The fabric at the elbows of his thin shirt feels damp and cold from the remaining raindrops on the windowshill, and he slides his numbing hands into the opposite sleeve in seek of some warmness.

“In this freezing-ass cold? No shit, man”

Billy’s shoulder quirks up in whaterverness, tongue bulging under his upper lip as he rubs that sharper canine he’s goton the left side.

“Alright―” Takes a long swing. Throat working as the alcohol bubbles up on the inside “―’s up to you”

“But you can come in and―” Steve starts very reasonably saying but Billy,

“WEEEELL―ahguess itwouldBEnice! If-ah-could―”

“Reaaaally?”

Billy winks at him.

“―touch your booOOdy. I know notevery―booody ‘sgot a boody like youAaaaand maY-BE!”

“Billy. It’snot even like that!”

“Ooooh” he rolls his eyes “Then why don’tcha come down here and show me how it goes, Mozart”

“Mo―” Steve takes a deep, deep breath “’Cause you’re outside in the cold. At night. In winter”

Billy holds the bottle in front of his mouth. Uses it as microphone.

“BUT I’VE BROUGHT LIQUID HEAT, DARLING!!” shouts. Spins again. Stumbles again “Uhhhhh-haha” Zig-zags “Tcha-tcha-tcha-tchatcha!” Makes his curls bounce all over as he shakes his head and movesmovesmoves. Wiggles. Slides. Jumps. Makes water spatter. It’s. A sight. Not exactly bad. Not exactly as horribly ridiculous as it should be. Just―a sight.

Pretty much amazing.

“Good God, Hargrove. This is” Steve clears his throat, not really wanting to break the spell but “This. I think this is the first time I’ve seen you dancing”

Because, for all Billy Hargrove never, ever stops moving, he’s a quiet drunk. Calculated movements. Calculated pose. Calculated words. You can still see energy buzzing inside of him like in a plasma ball but, contradictorily, he’s at his best to keep it on a string, hold it back tight.

“Uh-uh-Uh- uhhuhuhuH. I’m gooood!”

Steve’s gotta snort. It’s completely unvoluntary “Yeah. Sure you are, Aster”

And Steve tries and tries and tries to retain his smile but. It’s inevitable. It kind of blooms out of his face. Big and infatuated and You’re gonna be the end of me and sometimes I don’t even careand, the moment he catches sight of it, Billy’s own lights up like in a solar fire. Exultant and happy and―

And. The kind of smile that says,

I’ve got ya.

And Steve knows he shouldn’t feed the predators but. Sometimes (“Oh―but I neeeed some time OFF from that emOtiooon”) they have the most beautiful smile you’ve ever seen and no matter how risky it is, you (“Time to-pick-my-heart upoff the flo-Oor!”). Just can’t hold yourself back.

Because Steve, you see, he‘s got another growing list, still left to decide if it’s more or less supernatural because, the things in there? They too haunt him.

It’s called: ‘things about William fucking Hargrove you shouldn’t find breathtaking but. Do’

“Ok. How drunk are you? And how the hell did you get here?”

Billy does that thing of rising up your arms as in a ‘Who knows?’ kind of gesture, then lets them fall loudly at his sides.

He’s panting. Cheeks flushed pink. Curls damp and frizzy.

And Steve is so, so screwed.

“Oh, I came waaAlking, Stevie. How fucking eh-else?” singsongs “Or ―doyousee-―A.car.here pretty bo-oy? Hu!”

“That’s the thing I like about you, Hargrove” Steve just, gives up. Cackles “You can always make it worst”

“The only thing?” Bright eyes and soft-spoken words and So much worst Steve thinks as Billy points at the empty space in front of him “C’mon. Come here with me”

And Steve. Might. Could. Wants to. It’s the end of the year, after all.

So he sighs. Deep and loud and dramatic.

“Aaaalright. Give me a fuckin’ sec”

He trotters to his room. Puts his new, fluffy robe on. His woolen hat. Takes his scarf in a last minute thought as heading to the door and,

Stops.

There’s a reason, why he didn’t go to the party. A reason that sings out key. Drinks too much at social meetings. Tends to get handsy and affectionate. Dangerous. And last time, Steve made a promise to himself. No more Billy Hargrove and parties. No more pretty boy whispered like a secret in his ear. No more ‘I knew we would be so good together. You and me’. No more ‘I love you, man. Did I ever tell you that? That I love you?’.

No more getting the words, but not the meaning.

But― Billy’s calling him again, loud and insistent, in that way he has Steve doen’t really find unnerving. And it’s the end of the year, after all. All weaknesses be forgiven.

And they’re not a party. Not really.

(Except Billy kind of brought it to his door.

Kind of.

And I missed you)

He shakes his head. Stops fucking thinking and just― rushes down the stairs. Two steps at a time. And the cold, when he opens the door, knocks all the air out of his body.

That, and the way Billy’s looking at him.

“God, Stevie. You always make yourself look so pretty just for me. Now def you look like a Grandpa”

But Billy’s eyes wander all over him, tip to toe and Steve would think he actually looks good if he didn’t know better.

“Don’t be an asshole. It’s a gift. And I’m warm. Unlike some” he glares. And “Here. Lean in”

He holds the scarf in front of him. Waits for Billy to call him a Grandma too.

He doesn’t.

“Thanks,” he says. Eyes searching. Voice soft. As if it’s Steve who tripped him off to the ground, this once. Except it knocks Steve off his feet, too. Billy going soft like this, making it feel like he tamed all his wildness, just for him. Lowering his head so that Steve can put the scarf on his neck, wrap it all around it.

“Don’t thank me” he wears his grin like a shiny armor, but the attacks are breaking in “Now you look like a grandpa, too”

It only takes a smile like the one Billy gives him for Steve to surrender his whole kingdom to him.

“Ok so. Tell me” clears his throat, too many things crammed in there that could get out if he doesn't “What kind of catastrophe made you. Walk. All the way here”

“I do walk to places, Harrington. Way more than you’re implying”

“Nono. Not until tonight. I’m sure this is your first long-distance”

“That you have witnessed” Billy retorts, but he huffs a soft laugh and Steve knows he’s got him, too.

“Does what I don’t witness even exist?” Steve drawls, fake-frowning.

“Here. Asshole” Billy shoves the bottle right into his chest. Only lets it go when Steve’s fingers close around it. Says “C’mon. Chug it!” gesturing upupup with the palm of his hand. Watches him intently. Waits until Steve has taken a swig to say,

To fire, point-blank at him.

“I didn’t want you to be alone on New Year’s Eve”

Catching Steve unharmed, and vulnerable.

So he. Clears his throat. Once. Twice. Hums.

“Is. Uhm. Is this―” He needs to Stop looking at him, Steven, just stop looking at him. Glances down at the pink, delicate, at least thirty-bucks bottle “Where did you get this?”

It’s. Stupid. How unaffected his voice comes out.

“Stole it” Billy says , makes it sound like ‘what else?’

“From―?“

“Caleb’s. Mom? Dad? Dunno. Was in some fancy cabinet. It reminded me of you.”

Steve chokes out a half-broken breath, half laughter “And how’s that?”

Billy quirks his mouth to the side. Takes a step forward. Close. “Well, you know. A pretty drink for a pretty boy” Closer.

And he looks so― soft like this. So stupidly soft. Red nose. Red cheeks. Steve’s scarf wrapped around his neck. Looks even closer than he already is. Reachable. Possible. The most dangerous that he’s ever been. And Steve’s gotta be careful, even in this night, even with all weaknesses forgiven.

(Precisely, because of that)

“Oh. You think I’m” He checks the label “As pretty as ‘craft cherry gin’ so. You stole it”

Billy reaches for the bottle. A movement that lasts for eons. Fingers closing around Steve’s. Feels like one of those times. Those No more-times. Steve’s nose buried on the crook of Billy’s neck. Nuzzling at his jaw. Not cherry but the acid tang of keg beer. Billy’s words turning his chest into a bottled-up tempest. “C’mon, pretty boy. Let’s get out of here. You’re the only thing in this party I give a shit about, anyway”. His voice lowering to a hush, charged with some kind of emotion Steve can´t quite identify, leg perched over Steve’s leg, arm curled tight around his shoulders, both tangled into the drunken mess of the other on somebody’s couch, at somebody’s party.

Truth is. Steve’s not really sure all weakness can be forgiven.

“It’s not only that”

“Oh, there’s more?” Steve snorts, he’s good at this, got years of practice.

“I―” Billy looks straight into his eyes. Hesitates but, doesn’t stop, never, ever really stops “Needed it. The liquid courage”

Steve sucks in as much air as his lungs can take.

It feels like nothing.

“What for?”

And he knows he’s being stupid. He knows but, Billy runs him over anyway, fingers closing tighter, those thunderstorm blue eyes he’s got all Steve can see and, in the darkness of the night, it feels like it ain’t left any other color.

“Ana Porolowski . She asked me to be her midnight kiss and―”

It― Pierces. Cuts. And Steve. He promised. Promised to himself. No more. No more. No more―

Wanting. Longing. Watching Billy sneak upstairs with some girl Steve once upon a time thought he was in love with, back when he still didn’t really know how love feels like.

It hurts. The fucker.

“And?” he gasps, his heart like a fist inside his chest because he’s never getting Billy Hargrove. No matter what it looks like, feels like. No matter how tight his grip is. How charged with meaning are his blue eyes.

No other point of balance left. No other color.

“And then Faith began to play”

Steve sighs. Inhales.

“And it reminded you of me?”

No other feeling except the bleeding, coming out from in between the gaps of the words that will never mean what Steve wants them to.

“It did”

And he’s gotta close his eyes to stop the dreaming.

“So you had to walk almost four miles to come and sing it to me?” He’s been doing this for so long. He’s so good at it. He’s weary. “Must be even more baked than you look, Hargrove”

He blinks his eyes back open as Billy lets go of his hand. Steps back. Swallows.

“I had. I’m not. I thought I had lost it but. I still got it”

And he’s always so nervous, so nervous. Energy bursting out of him. But he stands quietnow.

So quiet.

Which is stupid because,

Billy Hargrove is the unsteady ground beneath his feet. He’s all the times Steve has wanted to close his eyes and just say ‘fuck it’. All the times he's had to open them and remind himself what he stands to lose.

And he so, so tired,

“What?”

Of not being able to stop himself from―

“Faith”

It sounds soft. There’s no way for it not to. Faith. It’s a landmine of a word. The most treacherous kind. The one that always sounds like fingers threading the surface of deceitfully calm waters.

Steve knows a lot about soft-sounding, heart-pulverizing words. They spin around his mind at night, keeping alive feelings that shouldn’t. But Billy’s looking at him and it seems important, so Steve smiles a small smile and puts his stupid hope aside, saying,

“Thought you always carried it with you” pressing his fingers over that spot where he knows it is, has seen it a million times, has wondered a million more.

Has never asked.

“No” Billy reaches out, wraps his hand around Steve’s wrist. Fingertips fitting into the hollows between his bones “Not that kind of faith”

And there’s something. Something. In the way Billy’s gaze is holding onto his under the liquid, golden halo of the streetlamps. The way Billy is― waiting on him. Like he needs Steve to ask, first. Like he needs Steve to want to know what comes after. As if what he’s holding in unsaid between them requires of way more than whatever cherry-flavored liquid courage he can swallow.

And Steve is far from feeling corageous tonight. It took all the strenght he had to not go to that party but, it’s been too late for too long, now, for not giving everything he’s got to Billy Hargrove.

“Billy―” he starts, and it’s barely a step, what takes Billy to get them flushed together, what makes that, surrounded by the clear dampness of the night, the only thing he can feel is that devastation that is Billy Hargrove “Then what, Billy?”

And there's this thing, about Billy most people overlook. He's always hiding in plain sight, covered in tiny mirrors. They reflect and deflect but, they can't truly hide what's underneath, once you know him. And in this mirror maze he is, Steve can’t always find the way out but, sometimes he thinks Billy might help him, if he just reaches out his hand for him.

Maybe there's some faith in that too. And maybe Steve’s right because,

“In believing that, if I was in the right place, at the right time, maybe I’d get the midnight kiss I actually wanted” Billy says, soft and slow and careful, and it feels like he’s―

Taking Steve’s reaching hand. Walking him to the center of the maze. Looking at him with those blue eyes that make disappear any other color and― shattering all his mirrors.

For him.

And Steve doesn’t know what to do. Doesn't know what to think. Doesn’t know what to say. He’s been trying so hard to not want this. To not hope for this. But then Billy’s breath shakes out of him in the middle of the cold, like glass dissolving into the clearest of sands and,

“Fuck!” Billy’s eyes cut apart. He shakes his head “This was the shittiest idea ‘am so sorry I―” He starts to move away and―

“No. No. No” Steve grabs the back of his arm. Holds him in place. And he doesn't know what to do and doesn't know what to think but, he manages at least to capture some breath inside his lungs to gasp “How long till midnight?”

And Billy goes still.

“Ahm” He clears his throat. Checks his clock. And it must hurt, how hard Steve’s fingers are digging on his skin, but he can’t let go “Four-uh. Four minutes”

“Alright,” Steve nods. Feels the cold on his lips as he presses his tongue between them, the distant remnants of cherry gin “Alright”

He’s careful. The most careful he thinks he’s ever been, whith anyone else, with himself, as he wraps his arm around Billy’s waist, guides Billy’s over his shoulders. But it feels like it’s all in vain, because Billy lets out a nervous, trembling laugh, a ‘Fuck, Harrington’ and Steve’s whole body’s shaking and is definetly not for the cold, because there’s no cold, not in this tentative space where their bodies are touching.

“Keep on singing?” He asks. And there are too many things already, hunting Steve in this little town, but in this moment, right here, what he feels for Billy Hargrove is the most terrifying.

“Ok” Billy nods, fast “Ok”

And then they move. Then they dance.

Shaken breaths. Unsteady footsteps. Billy starts to sing. Softly. Slowly. Turns the song into a ballad "Oh, baby, I reconsider my foolish notion” Lulls them as they swing around on the wet asphalt. And Steve leans into the quietness of his voice, into the unreal drift of what is happening, “Well, I need someone to hold me but I'll wait for somethin' more ‘cos I’ve gotta have―”

“It’s a weird song to―, you know” Steve cuts him off “Sing to somebody you want to―”

“Kiss?”

His heart skips a beat, so hard and so sudden that the next feels loud. A full-body rattle.

“Yeah”

"That's. Only because the song is not about you. Well. Not all” Billy breathes out “It's― about me. And you. You’re the something more." and time, it must be playing on them some kind of trick. Because it's impossible that’s not midnight yet. Impossible that Steve’s lips feel like this, like it’s gonna take whole years and not seconds, “You're. You’re the chorus, Steve” like a whole lifetime is gonna pass before he gets to kiss Billy Hargrove.

“You realize that― doesn’t make much sense. Right?” he stutters, and Billy stifles a laugh into the crock of his neck, his breath hot and bristling.

“Makes more than it seems like”

And then, time catches up in the beepbeepbeep of Billy’s watch. The first seconds of midnight. And they’re wrapped into each other, not dancing anymore. The silence of the night loud around them, listening closely to their ragged breaths.

And Steve thinks that maybe Billy needs it to, to reach out and for Steve to―

He buries his face in Billy’s neck and inhales deep, the scent of flowery detergent from his own scarf, the warmth contained under his curls and Billy, Billy, Billy,

"Come on, Hargrove” he whispers, voice thin and unsteady “you've walked almost four miles, haven’t you?"

And then Billy pulls away just a little, just enough to― bring his fingers to Steve's lips, map their shape with his fingertips, as if he's a little scared too, now the illusion of him is scattered on the ground in a million broken pieces and,

They say it hurts, afterwards. But it doesn't. Billy's lips touch his and it must be a clean wound, the kiss piercing its way straight to his heart and then healing inside of it. Billy drags his lips over his, licks his mouth open, reshapes a space for himself inside of Steve, and Steve kisses and kisses and kisses him back, falls into him, lets Billy lead him wherever he wants because Billy’s arms curl around his neck and, again, they’re dancing.

“So—was it this?” he asks when they break apart, his breath a mess, Billy’s lips red and tender and warm as they brush his “The midnight kiss you wanted?”

Billy huffs a short, light laugh, as he hadn't just mortally wounded him, saved him with a kiss right afterwards. Pulls him in by the collar of his robe. Laughs a little higher. Gets them both smiling into each other’s mouth.

“Yeah, pretty boy. It was”

“Well. I’ve got more, loverboy, if you wanna stay” he says, breathless, his heart restless. Comes out as honest and raw as he feels, the words hiding nothing. The please stay left unsaid loud and clear between them “Wouldn't want you to have to walk all the way back. I know how much you hate it”

“Ok, I loathe it. You happy now?” Billy chuckles.

“I am” he breathes out a smile, and Billy kisses him brief and sweet and exhilarating “And I’m glad. That you did it”

Billy nods, their breaths mingling in the cold as they sway, quietly, lightly, as they just hold on into the other and dance. Right here in the middle of Steve’s puddled driveway. In the first few minutes of the new year. And Steve can feel it, hope, rebranching itself out of his chest and faith, in that from now on, he’s gonna get to give Billy all those midnight kisses he really wanted.

“Billy—” he bumps the tip of Billy’s nose with his, catches with his thumb the smile that’s growing towards the side of his mouth, thinks And more. So many more kisses "Just so you know. Me too"

“Uh?”

And they’re too close, he thinks, too amazingly, extraordinarily, spectacularly close, to left anything unsaid so, he says it,

“I missed you”

.

.

(happy 2022, fandom. I 💗 you)

[withoneheadlight]

| harringrove | n s f w |

I just love the idea of Steve being an hyperfixative asshole like:

Sun peaking up in the sky. Midsummer. A quiet breeze rippling all along the clear-blue water sparkling on the pool. ‘Watermelon sugar high’ set on a loop on the player of Steve's phone and Billy barely keeping his balance on all fours, hands and knees reddening where the roughened plastic of the loungers is biting into his skin, back bent in a sweaty curve, ass popping up for Steve, for the way his tongue is drawing lazy, wet circles around Billy's hole, humming along as he goes, and Billy whines, when he dips just the tip, fingers parting his crack so he can lick in deeper. Whines because Steve's got the song in a fucking loop and Billy has lost track of time, his brain trapped in that ragged edge of his voice when he put his tender, warm lips into his ear and whispered 'hey, baby, can I eat you out?' and Billy got so hard so fast it gave him brainfreeze except now he’s melting, cock dripping through the pure-white slats and onto the pavement, Steve stroking him lewd and inconsistent and lazy and not fucking enough. So Billy whines, keens, spreading his legs further apart, knees skirting the edge and begs, with his ass, wiggling his hips so he’s grinding his hole against Steve’s mouth, cock fucking into the light pressure of his hand, moaning a broken “Steve” voice falling into a litany of sobs “Please, please, c’mon Stevie, please, I need to cum” when Steve’s fingers untangle, taking all the heat, all the softness with them, leaving Billy fucked-out and twitching, need making his thighs spasm when Steve holds his hips tight in place, saying,

“Shh, baby. In a minute. I’m gonna make it so good for you. I promise. But you gotta hold on” but―

It’s a lie.

He spits into Billy’s hole. Once. Twice. Thick, hot saliva slipping down his balls, the whole length of his cock, mixing with pre and need at the tip and then dripping, adding to the big, big mess on the lounge. On the floor.

It’s a lie. And It’s not. ‘Cause Steve doesn’t touch his dick again, and it’s not a fucking minute, but Billy’s body doesn’t really seem to mind because his cock is throbbing, wet and rock-hard, hypersensitive in the breeze’s cool, caressing brush, legs trembling as Steve eats him good, eats him perfect. The song still rolling and rolling and rolling around, hypnotic, tension coiling up as Steve works him closecloseclose. Kisses and flat-tongued laps and just the tips of his fingers, in and out, ‘till Billy’s head’s spinning along, ‘till Steve’s got him sobbing, pleading for mercy with his forehead pressed tight against the burning plastic of the chair, face hidden in between his forearms and,

“God” A wet, light kiss on his asscheek. Steve’s knuckles brushing the head of his cock making it jump “Baby, I love that song. Think we can keep it on a ‘lil more?”

And Billy would, in other circumstances, tell him to go fuck himself and pump himself dry, But he’s got Steve’s full, undivided attention on him and there’s nothing, nothing that could ever get Billy off as hard as that.

So he nods. Cries out a moan when Steve starts to fuck him with his tongue. All his body straining. Shaking. Ready to burst. Two minutes forty-five seconds draw out long, long. Impossibly, unbearably long.

“You taste so good,” Steve says, and Billy feels dizzy, head clouded and high “I would keep on eating you for hours” and Billy gasps, ass clenching, his belly wound up tight. Because the song keeps on playing and Billy can’t. Can’t. It’s too much. Too high. He’s at breaking point. Feels like he’s going to pass out.

But Steve―

Maybe it wasn’t a lie, after all. Not when he’s made time lose any meaning. Replaced it with the feel of his tongue.

Says,

“But you’ve been so good, baby. Guess we can play it again any other day if you want” And Billy. God. Billy's about to break. But still wants "But now, I guess we can play a different one"

And with that, Steve breaks the loop.

Eases a thumb into Billy’s ass and curls it and drives it deep. Rubs at that bundle of nerves that’s burning inside of him and then Billy’s cumming, lightheaded and shattered and spent, ropes of cum splattering, spurting out in shocks in between his legs as Steve hums happily, waits ‘till Billy’s almost stopped pulsing around his finger and then lets Billy’s ass push it out slowly. Soothes the build-up tension out Billy’s body with the palms of his hands, big and hot and soft as they trail down his spine, fingertips pressing at the base of his scalp. Steve guides him carefully into his lap, gives him a long, open-mouthed kiss that tastes of swollen lips and sex under the sun, tastes of being an hiperfixative asshole and the same way the song still flooding Billy’s head feels like, as his fingers draw a path of goosebumps down his side and then sneak in between Billy’s thighs and then inside of him, two at a time.

“Fuck, babe. I love how you taste. How you feel”

“Uh? And hows-ah that?”

A kiss that tastes of the wicked grin Steve licks into his mouth, when he answers.

“Ripe”

And Billy, he would (maybe), in other circumstances, call him a weirdo and an ass. Would flip him over and take payback but Steve’s looking at him like he wants, breath hitching, hips twitching and want, want in his blown out eyes. So Billy rocks, fucks himself into those two fingers, moaning loud for what he really wants, begging, for it. ‘Cause the song is still on a loop and there ain’t any space left in his mind, summer melting on their skin, sweet on Steve’s mouth, so he licks at his ear and says,

“Then bite”

[withoneheadlight]

Towards the limits of maps

~~

Hopper offers him a job, afterwards.

“It’s not much, but It’ll help you get by, pay the bills, ‘till you find something better”

It’s at the station. No less. Consists basically of tidying up the office and replacing the tank from the water machine and keeping the bathrooms clean and generally “Getting some heavy lifting out of our dear Flo’s shoulders” and. The old Billy Hargrove. The one that used to swagger his way around and was all charm and purposeful winks and still hadn’t been permanently scarred from the inside out would’ve gag at the mere thought of it. Accepting a job from the Chief of Police. The Hawkins, Indiana , Chief of Police. But this Billy has trouble keeping his spine from crumbling down on his best days and feels stupidly, shamefully thankful for the way Jim Hopper knows without asking. Understands, without Billy having to say a word so,

He takes the job.

Vacuums the cars. Mops the floors. Buys yellow-bright rubber gloves so he doesn’t actually gag as he scrubs off the toilets. Does his best to get that weight off Flo’s shoulders and Flo―

Flo.

Smiles at him radiant . A warm “ Good morning, dear!” every day ( every , single, day). Asks him how he likes coffee once and then remembers . Insists on still brewing it herself because “I’m kind of an egoist, you see. Love to see people’s faces when I bring it to them. It’s like liquid happiness. Makes people beam . Probably because it’s, you know, technically a drug but― ’guess everybody needs their some” grinning and nudging at Billy’s ribs with a strength that makes him wince like she’s seventeen instead of sixty “But I also kinda like to water it a bit and forget to warm it up if they get me real pissed”.

Flo.

Teaches Billy how to use the squeegee so washing the windows takes him two hours instead like, two days. Makes him type whatever notes have to be typed because “It’s a good skill, boy. And you’ve to start thinking about your future”. Makes him laugh until he goes breathless and has to brace his ribs from the shock of laughter but also from the timid, feather-like feeling of actual, genuine happiness and from yeah, some little more elbowing that kind of makes his chest bloom with warmth. Flo asks him how his day’s going. If he’s feeling well. Brings the back of her hand to his forehead if his eyes look “A little too bright, sugar. Think you should go home early today”. Calls him―calls him sugar. Like Billy’s sweet . Worth having around. Worth “Making my wrinkles even deeper, hon. I swear” Has this effect on Billy, makes him want to take care of her. To be nice . Polite. Better . Earn that sugar she keeps on putting on his coffee and right after his name.

Flo.

Smiles at  him sad and wish you could have it, kid. The day she notices. Two months into the job. Steve Harrington showing up for the fourth time that week. Something about a ‘Plan’, about being ready ‘Just in case’ and a wholla lot more of somethings neither him or Hopper share with him because Billy’s too fragile or maybe too potentially dangerous or maybe just― too blurred into his periphery. Steve Harrington. With his movie-star hair and his movie-star stance and his flashy-white smile and his flashy-white nikes Billy shouldn’t like this much. Leaning on the reception counter to flirt with Flo, tease Billy about how much more cute he looks with his now longer hair. Making it feel like he’s also flirting. With him. Pretending to check him out with a slow, deliberate up-and-down-and-down-and-up stare. Making Billy both want to punch him straight into the nose and let his eyes wander, wander, wonder. Up the unbuttoned collar of his preppy-in-pink lapels-raised polo. Up the trail of dark fuzz coming out and those dots ascending in twos. Trace their route with the tips of his fingers. Two on the hollow of Steve’s throat. Two over the beat of his pulse. Two on the apple of his cheek and then just― fall. Pads on his lower lip and tugging. A wordless question. ‘Can I? Can I? Open your mouth with my mouth. Find out what lies beyond the limit of maps?’.

But Steve. He’s a daydream. An illusion. Will never become real, for someone like him. So he keeps on doing the job. One day at a time. One foot after the other. And the money pays for staying out of Neil’s. Pays for having Max and her flock of nerds over on Saturday nights and those dead hours of Sundays. Pays for having something resembling a life enough for Billy to keep on going. Think about that future Flo keeps insisting on from time to time. Pays for some peace of mind.

Pays for the possibility that, after all, Billy is gonna survive all of this.

So winter passes, and then spring , over this supposedly “Just for a few weeks” ―job and now Billy’s attending the calls, some days, kinda playing the secretary, kinda “ Not much ‘till I retire, kid . So you might as well learn how it’s done. In case you’d consider to―you know. Take it”. Feeling good, and maybe, perhaps. Happy. Feeling like life’s not a burden anymore, at least, when Flo feeds him homemade donuts and drags him into a shopping rampage to get a few things so she can help him to “Make that apartment you live in look more like a home and less like an abandoned mausoleum” and it does , in the end, look more like a home, like ‘A Billy Hargrove lives here’ instead of a ‘Here lies a Billy Hargrove’ and Flo says “I told you” , success making her bold enough to make him buy some new clothes, buy him some more, assault the black hole of Billy’s wardrobe and dig out his old leather jacket, saying “ You look gorgeous, sugar. You should wear this again” making  Billy get a little too emotional, a little too trying not to drop his feelings so they don’t go scattering all over the place, when he asks her,

“How could I― repay you. For all of this”

Truly meaning all, meaning me, when he says this. But all Flo does is snort, shake her head, pat his cheek and tell him,

“Billy, sugar. You repay me every day”

But then her face lights up, all old-lady mischief behind impossibly big glasses. She looks down at the jacket, up at Billy, and then,

“But I’ve heard it’s been a while since you went on a date”

So Billy snickers, ceremoniously puts his old dangling earring on. Invites Flo to popcorn and to that Cobra movie with Stallone. Laughs his ass off for the whole theater to hear from the second row, where he and Flo had to sit because “Can you believe it, sweetie? I can barely see the screen from here but he’s gonna arrest those men wearing his goddam sunglasses”.

It’s only after all the credits have rolled off, the room nearly empty, that Billy spots him. Walking down the steps from the top row, side by side with Robin Buckley. Smile growing and growing and blooming something wild as their eyes lock. Movie-star pretty and as unreachable as if he shared their same sky. And he’s― saying something. To Billy. Something including a “Hey” and a “Glad to see you too, Flo” and then a “Really?” when Flo explains to him that no, she didn’t trip , that’s not the reason why’s she leaning on Billy’s arm “But thank you for caring, hun” . Then she’s explaining the real reason. At length. Going on and on and on about how “This sweetheart here. He’s so caring. Keeps on spoiling me to no end” while Billy feels blood rushing to his face and thinks that they must be there all the time, waiting for when the light is right, just like now: that golden crown and that royal smile. And the seats of The Hawk are red and velvet and the projector’s still running behind him, bathing his body in a sunshine glow and Billy might be feeling a bit dazed, a bit shot through the heart.

It was love at first sight, then. Now. Every single time.

That’s why he’s not fully functioning, not fully at the reigns of himself when Steve glances back at him. Grins. Says.

“Gosh, Hargrove. Makes me wish you’d treat me that well”

And. You see. Billy’s been in Flo-mode for months on end. And Flo-mode means getting the calls with a “Helloooooo!”. Adding dear or hun or sugar at the end of every phrase. Bringing Hooper his coffee and stir his half a spoon of sugar for him with a smile so big his six-am temper goes crashing into it. Hiding Powell’s nicotine menthols and putting the blame on Callahan while trying not to choke-chuckle as they bicker about it all day. Means joking about the daily crossword in the newspaper during lunch breaks. Means being around someone with whom billy can be light.

Means that, against all odds, the paper-thin skin of his scars might hold up, after all. Keep him alive inside. Means Billy’s become sweeter, indeed. Taken down his guard.

Means that, when Steve Harrington tilts his head to the side, all honey-coated eyes and waiting, Billy trips on what’s left of his swagger and falls hard on his knees and mumbles.

“I would. If you’d let me. I’d treat you like nobody else has”

And Steve. It’s minuscule. A work of art. The way those eyes widen just so. The way breath catches on his windpipe. The way that, apparently, it was this what it took, all along, Billy in front of him without his army. Not a conquer but,

A surrender.

His whole heart for the King of Hearts.

And then, Robin Buckley cackles.

Steve breathes out, says “Oh” and then “Wow” and the here and now seems to shake out of its stillness with him. And the damage must be serious because Flo’s hand is tightening around his forearm and she’s got that voice on, the one she uses when Randolph Ferguson calls drunk-as-a-skunk every Sunday morning at seven a.m “You should go to bed and sleep it off, honey” . Conciliatory. But what she’s sayings is “We maybe should get going, sweetheart” tugging slightly at him while Buckley’s laughter sets into a maniac grin even if she’s― not looking at him, but at Steve, drawling something in between her teeth, something with a ‘Told’ and a ‘You’ , but Flo’s very politely tugging harder, waving them away, damaging control at its best, because she knows , and she knows , that billy doesn’t need more breaking, so they’re almost at the door, running away, not unscathed but, almost when Steve,

Calls,

Calls him.

“Billy!” and he hasn’t moved an inch but he sounds out of breath, rasps a “Hey” and at first, Billy thought all he wanted was something shiny. A King. A Crown. A conquer. But then Steve Harrington looked at him with those eyes and Billy knew all he really wanted was to know how love looked written all over them.

So he turns. Sets his jaw. Squares himself to take the blow.

“Yeah?”

How he would look. Close enough to be reflected on them.

“Tomorrow. When you―. Want me to pick you up, when you get out?”

And Buckley’s eyes jump into Billy’s, now. Teeth biting at her grin through the inside of her cheeks. And Flo’s sighing her relief right by his ear. And they’re holding. These scars. They’re holding but also― he can feel it now, where skin used to be worn-out leather and now’s paper-thin, the way Steve might be, too. Wanting. Longing.

To let Billy part his lips with his.

And Billy’s― Static. Thunderstruck. But Flo says,

“At five. Sharp” and her fingers dig deeper on Billy’s forearm but now they’re not tugging away “I’ll make sure of it”

And then Steve smiles and it’s lovelovelove , at every fucking sight. Dimples deep and those two dots right by his check, one last step and then―

“It’s a date” he nods, and he’s what Princes Charming grows into, and Billy wants to ask him once and then remember , make him coffee every morning just so he can see that smile “Can’t wait to see if you meant those words”

(And he does. 

Black. One spoon of sugar. Takes it to their bed. Two years later. Wakes him up with a kiss, makes him smile, falls in love a little more.

In a few hours, they’ll be eating homemade donuts and making toasts at Flo’s retirement party. Billy’s planned on taking her on a date, afterwards.

“Hop’s offered me the job” he says, getting back under the covers and–

That smile .

 “And are you ― gonna take it?”

One of Billy’s favorite things, is that Steve can’t really contain it.

“ Well, I still mean what I said so. I guess I have to”

And then there’s lovelovelove , when Steve brings him to where the limits of maps are waiting, lovelovelove , where Billy’s reflected into his eyes)

[withoneheadlight]

| billy & will + pre-harringrove | full fic in spanish |

~

There’s an in-between. The high school and the middle school. A bare piece of land, yellowed from the lack of grass and the rough kiss of the sun and, right in the middle, an old shack.

It's a shabby thing that accumulates lack of re-paintings and excess of humidity but that’s out of sight, in that way of things that are just there but no one wastes time looking at anymore are.

That's where they meet.

Billy lights up a smoke. Slides his ass up an ancient, long retired desk, pasture now of the damp and rot, and leans against the peeling wood. Front and back-row seat to the long column of trees the wind’s rippling along on the other side of the wire fence. The ember warms up his lips as he inhales a deep puff and exhales a,

“You’re getting soft, Billy Hargrove”

He leans his head back and closes his eyes, ears on that ceaseless chirping of the bids that sews together the slow-passing hours of the days and nights of Indiana, and on the delighted screams from the middle-schoolers, remembering that, somewhere in there, there's a bunch of kids who will still be laughing just as hard, just as happy, a few years down the road. That maybe even Max could be one of them, if Billy hurries. That maybe he will too, if Billy is able to control that instinctive reaction that pulls his skin inward and screams at him to stopstopstop, that the soft skin shreds, falls apart so easily.

But maybe it can be both of them, if Billy manages to clench his teeth hard enough and keep on softening.

‘Cause soft skin hurts when it breaks but,

"Hey!"

Sometimes it’s worth it.

Will’s smiling wide. Stops running, abruptly, and then just stands in there, panting. He’s got a funny nose and giant eyes. The kind of bangs that make you wanna blow them out of his eyes even though what they're is too short, actually, and Billy’s always thought he'd do better in life if he didn't. Notice things. If he didn't see that widewidewidewide smile and could read it so easily.

"I've been dying to show you this!" Will kneels down into the grass, chopping out the words in between exhalations. Pulls at the zipper of his backpack, chest heaving, and he doesn't realize he's going to get dirt on the knees of his jeans or that Billy can read it. His relief. Of finding him in here and not just an empty desk. Of how for a kid every single day more means 'You care’.

(About me)

It was early December. Friday right after last period and one of those silly things that only happen in movies. Something so like scripted and choreographed that Billy nearly considered looking up at the ceiling to make sure John Hughes wasn't silently watching them, taking notes from above. They crashed in the middle of a corner. Billy sped up ‘cause he was in a hurry and the only way to catch Max in time lately was to intercept her right out of class. Will ‘cause he's always going like that, Billy knows now. Always a thousand miles per hour. Always verging on time-jump speed to then being the kind of kid who seems so quiet it's scary. They crashed. Hard. In the middle of that corner. Papers flying all over and a curse (Will) and a muffled groan (Billy) and they ended up pulling at the same paper one from each corner. A drawing. Trolls and wizards and a castle and an emerald-green light. A star in the distance, auguring bad omens. Billy forgot to be frightening and Will must have forgotten he was supposed to be frightened when he blurted out a,

"Fuck, Byers. This is frikin’ fantastic."

No fear or reticence or that way he sometimes has of bumping into words and stumbling, just a "Really?" eyes huge and bangs brushing against his eyelashes as he blinked when Billy also forgot he was also supposed to― well, supposed to be Billy Hargrove.

"’Got more?"

So now he skips English instead of Algebra, every Tuesday and Thursday. Sneaks off to that in-between place he knows no one wastes time looking at anymore to light up a smoke, same time as Will has his recess. And the kid doesn't always manage to shrug off of his flock of nerds but he’s lucky, some days.

And he brings the drawings.

Orcs and goblins and enchanted mountains on the northwest and it seems to Billy that there are more princes than princesses and that if there are any, they’re almost always sorceresses, almost always queens and that your attention gets hooked on their burning eyes, not in the clothes they’re missing and Billy feels like it's a small grain of sand, this thing they’re doing. Knows that someone’s already keeping a solid ground under Will's feet ('Joyce' he says it’s her name. And it stings, the way he manages to fit so much love, into such a tiny word). But it also seems to him that maybe it doesn't take much more, for Will, just a few grains of sand, to replace those that being a strange kid in a small town sick with apprehension for what it finds strange, takes every day away from him.

So Billy’s gotta have to clench his teeth ‘till his gums start bleeding ‘cause is that, or let his skin toughen up again. Is that. Or fucking everything up.

And ave María, Billy doesn’t want to fuck it all up again.

So he sucks on his cigarette. Hooks up an eyebrow. Waves his hand to hurry the kid up.

“Mmm. That’s how good you think it is, dickwad? ‘C’mon, got my next class in twenty”

Will flies over the papers. Head nodding and fingers skimming fast. Finds what he’s looking for and yanks it out, raises it up triumphantly in his hand. It’s the sword in the stone and he carries it up to Billy with wet knees and just a little mud-staining. It’s February and the sun’s burning brightly over all the wetness the night’s spent crying. The drawing is a huge dragon, wings made of leather and cartilage, spread out in eclipse in front of the moon, only a few silver rays illuminating the dark knight in front of it. Blue eyes lined in black, blond curls cascading down his back and Billy was clenching his teeth but they part now, ‘cause the figure looks too much like him to be a coincidence. A smile devours his whole mouth. Soft. A joke itching on the tip of his tongue. He grunts a,

“I’ve been called many things. But never this, Byers”

Only half his expression’s visible, eyebrows covered with those thick bangs, and Billy has to once again fight the impulse to blow them out.

“¿Hum?”

“Knight” he says, drawling the teasing tone out “In shining armor”

And It’s such a loss, all that hair. Because it’d pass unseen, if you don’t know him. The way his eyebrows spike up underneath and it burrows in between them, the eagerness of teasing back. But Billy’s lucky, ‘cause it’s been more than two months like this and Billy―

Knows him. Well enough at least. So it doesn't pass unseen to him.

“You know the drill, William. Spit it out. Can see you’re holding it up from miles”

Will purses his lips out tight. Looks like he’s trying but. Nah.

“Wouldn’t be that shiny '' scrunches his nose. Throws a meaningful glance at Billy’s disheveled looks. More thoughtful than not, way more intentional. But that's something he'll figure out when he grows up.

Billy cackles. Will's smile widens, satisfied. Hops onto the desk next to his. Billy offers him the cigarette.

“And―this?” Will shrugs inwardly. Glances up at him. Then down, at the exchange between their hands. Takes the cig in between two fingers and it doesn’t burn but he barely presses them against the filter, anyway, as if he’s afraid it would, all of a sudden.

"Retaliation," Billy half grunts, half laughs, and Will huffs, but swallows a deep breath to gather strength. Exhales. Takes a tiny puff and―

"Argg," coughscoughscoughs "This is. Ugh. It's awful. I don't know how you―” almost throws the cigarette back to him "Ufff, what a―" he hesitates "Yuck"

Billy snorts. Thinks about Max inhaling deep, no more than two weeks ago, eyes pining his in place. Breaking into a violent cough only a second later.

Billy pats Will’s back too.

“That’s good” he says “You better not like it” Will scrunches his whole face “And this too” Billy adds, shaking the drawing a little “This is good, too. Amazingly good, man”

Will. Stares. At him. One. Two. Three long seconds. And Billy hurts a little. With every single one. Three sharp stabs with that newly freed sword. A different kind of ' you care' each one: 'it seems so impossible to me (that you care)'. 'If you think so, maybe it's true (and I do care, that you think it)’. 'Thank you (for caring)'. And then. Those hidden eyebrows. Will’s cheeks puffing out a little when he bites the tip of his tongue and―

"Billy?" his eyes glint, heavy with ill-contained malice.

"Uh?"

"You're the dragon"

"You fucking ass―!"

Billy shoves him sideways. But Will just sways. He doesn't lose footing on that firm ground he’s standing on. Looks back at the drawing, hunches a shoulder up.

"But you’re the knight, too"

He says it in a tone that cuts straight through Billy’s chest Thank you he thinks, even though his soft skin is hurting. And he still doesn't blow hard on that bowl fringe from where it covers Will’s whole forehead but―

Stirs up all his hair instead.

“Eh!!”

“Hey, shitbird. Wanna see the one I’ve made?”

Will nods quickly. All contained-speed and reverberating and sometimes Billy doesn't know how so few people can see it, how big he is for his own skin and he thinks I wish, wish he'd accumulate enough grains of sand to raise up that firm ground under his feet, and get really, really high.

“Sure!”

He keeps it tucked away in the breast pocket of his jacket. Folded in upon itself. Same way he keeps everything else. Folds and layers and at the bottom of pockets no one ever looks at but.

He unfolds it to show it to Will Byers.

“Wow” Will says, and smiles up at Billy like Two months since we crashed against each other and I feel like I know you a little too, Billy Hargrove and Billy hit rock bottom but now at least Max and him sing AC/DC in chorus on the rides back home and Will's voice sounds like 'You're good' as he runs his fingertips over the graphite outlines of the skull and repeats, "Wow"

“Gonna have it done” Billy inhales a deep drag of Marlboro and 'Four Months to Eighteen' and for a moment it’s like he could feel the smoke curl up inside his lungs before blowing it out. The image is as pretty as it’s stupid. He glances at the open jaw of the drawing and thinks maybe he'd like a drag too "Have it healed for summer and―"

“What’s happening here?”

Steve.

Harrington.

Hand on his hips, preppy pastel polo lapels up, Ray-Bans holding up that way his hair swirls without really taming it. The twelve o'clock sun is shining sideways from his back and he's pretty. Painfully pretty. And Billy’s sure it's impossible that this redneck raised on corn and money amassed in dubious moral business is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen but sometimes he forgets. That it is impossible because. Fuck. It so seems like it. Light flicking on the ends of his hair where it curls. Under his ear. In the long curve of his neck. And the world doesn't halt and the birds don't stop chirping and the clouds don't part and no preternatural shit happens because this is the black hole where all the world's shit goes, Indiana. But. It so seems like it and,

Billy.

Knew how to breathe but that’s another thing he keeps on forgetting. Every time Steve Harrington passes him by.

He’s gotta force himself. To nod. To stop choking. When Will looks up at him with those big eyes. Questioning.

Apologizing.

Billy Hargrove, from freshly crowned local terror to―

“I was―” Will starts. Inhales. Presses his lips together right before blurting out the truth ‘cause he knows it's the only real way out "Showing Billy my drawings. Sometimes we―"

―the softie whose pride goes high up in his throat every time an eleven-year-old kid says 'Billy, this is good. It's very. Very good, Billy’.

"Sometimes we. Uhm. We―"

Will's already huge eyes get bigger, rounder. As if he’s just realizing that where he's stuck his foot keeps getting muddier, trapping himself all the way in. And Billy smiles lightly at him, sideways, so it’s hidden. From Steve Harrington. From all the world beyond. ‘Cause of that thing about facades and how hard they’re to maintain, when on one side is pressing what you're supposed to be and on the other, relentlessly, what you're hiding.

But Steve’s asking,

“Sometimes―what?” and Will’s eyes are fixed on Billy, two wide-open I’m sorrys and Billy thinks Fuck it, Hargrove. C’mon. Stop hiding.

So he’s the one who says,

“We share our drawings, Harrington”

And Steve.

He’s got those eyes.

They're like a troubled ocean in the heart of winter, those eyes. Hard, hard, hard. Imposing. But soft. So fucking soft. When something catches him off guard. Rolling stones in the breaker. And Billy wants to get swept up in them, like falling along the curve of a wave. Steve looks at him, and at the drawing in his hand, his eyes a swirl and, when he looks up, the calm. And Billy feels as those times when it seemed to him the waves wanted. To wrap around him. To catch him. Soft as the reflecting clouds. And Billy feels as those times when he’d let them. Carry him. Drag him to the shore. Safe and sound.

“Is that yours?” Steve frowns. When he does that. He looks the prettiest. And Billy's heart breaks. In tiny tiny pieces. Thinks This is what it takes, thinks Fuck, thinks, This is how things hurt when you let your skin get soft.

What you don’t have. What you want. What you could―

Fuck.

What you could love so bad you'd rip your own skin off, so they could touch your heart right with their own hands.

Billy nods. Will smiles. Steve’s frown softens and― waveswaveswaves. On an autumn morning. Waves lapping at the surface of an ocean of calm.

And now. Billy sings AC/DC with Max. His heart taking on water when his voice falls off-key and she clutches at her lungs, choking on laughter. Now, he sits in the back of an old shack halfway between who he is and who he should be and so, so very carefully turns at the pages of Will Byers' sketchbook.

And Billy Hargrove hit rock bottom one day in late October. Hit rock bottom and beat into pulp that pretty face he can't stop seeing in his dream. When he's asleep. When he's awake. Hit rock bottom and that's where he's going to stay. It's either that. Or risk coming up to the wrong surface. And it's easier, here at the bottom. Easier to see what matters, when you look up.

Here, Billy takes a breath. Deep. Deeper. Holds onto that air so he has something keeping him alive underwater when Steve snatches the drawing off his hands. Studies it carefully. Says,

"It's―Uhm. Well―" Grins "It's not. Beautiful. Like, conventionally." He eyes cut back to Billy and something in them breaks into whitewater, into that softness he can't help, as if everything else is as much of a lie as 'Billy Hargrove' and all those imaginary walls "But―"

He says ‘But’ and then. The bell goes off.

"Oh!" Will bounces on the spot "I have to―" he yanks the backpack shut "Class!"

He takes off. Running. Turning around right before the corner of the shack to wave at them, flashing one of those smiles Billy has involuntarily categorized as 'the good ones', wide and already almost panting again, before disappearing at the speed of light towards school and to, Billy hopes, be one of those few kids who are still going to be laughing just as hard, just as happy, a few years down the road. If they’re lucky.

(If Billy’s lucky)

Steve Harrington is still there, planted in front of him when the alarm stops.

"Can I bump one of those?" he asks, chin pointing to the smoke Billy's squeezing between his fingers. In the drift of his hair the Ray-Bans stay afloat, capsizing.

Billy bangs the base of the pack against his thigh, pops out a cigarette. Offers it to him. Scrapes his thumb along the wheel when Steve takes it to his lips, leaning forward and― It's broad daylight but in the thin glow of the flame it almost feels like it’s that exact instant when the world begins to fade, darkness turning wide-open spaces into narrow little universes: Steve Harrington and his red lips around the smoke and a small ache in the pad of Billy's thumb from keeping alive the fire and from wanting things with a bigger kind of ache, his heart cauterizing from holding inside the rage of knowing he's never, ever going to have them but―

"But?" Billy asks.

Steve grabs his wrist. Hollows out his cheeks. Inhales deep. Takes him a moment when he pulls away. To let go. Long enough that his fingers could read the way Billy's pulse is raging in his wrist, if he wanted to.

“But” And he’s smiling. Lopsided. He slips into Will's seat and stretches his neck toward the sky. Prolongs the wait. Exhales. "It's cute."

And then his gaze cuts down and he’s searching for him, with those eyes of his. For Billy, who can never stop looking at him so, when he finds him, finds him looking back already.

And Billy―

Billy.

"Cute?"

Billy. Blinks. His hand stops halfway from getting his own cigarette to his mouth. Stops his heart and it feels like time’s stopping too, in this narrowness Steve's presence has reduced the moment into. And he’s smiling big now. His eyes soft. Soft. So fucking soft. And Billy thinks,

You're getting soft too, Billy Hargrove. You want to let him shred off your skin, when Steve says,

"You," snorting a soft laugh, sun melting in his eyes like honey "With Will. Drawing."

Billy wants him to never stop looking at him like that. Wants to lean in, and kiss him.

"Shut up and smoke your fucking cigarette, Harrington" he growls.

And Steve rolls his eyes in a way that screams 'Gotcha, Hargrove', but leans his back against the peeling wood of the shack.

And does as he’s told.

(Next Tuesday, it's not just Will who shows up, when the bell starts ringing)

.

.

i just finished translating this and, since i had originally written this part as and stand-alone thing. here it is. idk if it's worth the work of translating it whole, or if i really feel like it but, we'll see!. i've been at war with life and writing this past few weeks but i've been missing you so much, fandom <3<3<3. hope you've been doing well.

also billy + will + drawing is one of my fav hcs and there are a few tiny things more that i wanna write? hopefully i will 🌟

[withoneheadlight]

I’m s o r r y but I made myself sad over this one so naturally I’m here to share the pain

Okay so I was thinking about the alternate timelines//realities thing and what if there’s a universe where Billy dies, and a universe where Steve dies,, and somehow they meet ~maybe in the Upside Down???~ and Steve is like 🥺 b i l l y,,, but Billy can’t deal with it??? Like, “you’re A Steve, but you’re not MY Steve”

| quick heads up!: mentions of death and mourning ahead |

.

Ahhhhhh, Kelly!. Bring the pain, bring the pain, we’ll deal with it together, cry together, blow our noses together! 😢😢

i’ve been having my mind full of that alt timelines/realities idea these last few days, and that’s surely the reason why that’s what I saw in your beautiful 3-sentence fic, both because a post i saw about one of the boys dying (i can’t find it now. please human who posted it, tell me if it was yours!) and bc of this marvel @edith-moonshadow (<3) wrote in one of my posts. and then you sent me this ask and wrote that fantastic piece and-- IT'S ALL BEEN VERY COSMIC AND PLANETARY ALINGTMENLY and i didn’t want to make myself sadder or make you sadder but,

,

I can imagine how it’d go. Both of them trapped on the upside-down. Both of them bleeding out. Sliced down as they are, right through the middle. Half a Billy and half a Steve, the wound still fresh with the part they’re missing and I imagine they could barely stand it, right at the beginning, the mere sight of that other that’s not― That’ just not. What was once love rotting into hate, into feeling trapped, doomed, to live in this cage with the constant reminder of their loss.

And Billy’d miss the way Steve used to roll his eyes at him, and the way Steve used to sigh all dramatic like ‘God, Billy Hargrove, you’re too much for me I swear’ but would then wink and pull him close and steal a kiss, voice falling low to smile a ‘Definitely way more than I deserve’ into his mouth. Would miss the way Steve used to brush his hair to the side, bite at the curve of his neck, and words, they always sounded better when Steve traced them against the shell of his ear ‘Tell me I’m your pretty boy’ he’d say and Billy would tell him, would try to catch his lips but ‘Ah-ah’ and Steve’d shake his head, brush their lips together ‘First babe, you gotta tell me how much I love you’, holding him tight and not letting him go ‘till Billy would get over the way his cheeks were blushing, and tell him. But―

This Steve. This Steve doesn’t love this Billy. Doesn’t love Billy. This Steve gets mad and yells at him when Billy’s been ‘Too fucking much, I swear! You’re too fucking much’ and it hurts, when he puts his hands on his hips and looks exactly like his Steve. And it hurts even worse, when he sets his jaw and looks wrong and like somebody else completely (And it hurts even worseworseworse, when he finally says it, what they both think. When he opens up those pretty lips Billy used to kiss, to love, those pretty lips that used to say ‘I love you’: “Of all the monsters in here, you’re the only one that gives me nightmares”).

This Steve never calls him by his name. This Steve doesn’t look him in the eye. This Steve hates him.

And weeks pass, and months pass, and they repel each other, can't stand each other but ―they can’t, either, even if none of them ever says it, bear the idea of splitting apart. And Steve’s house is not Steve’s house, but it makes do, with its walls re-painted in horrors and damp seeping through the floral wallpaper of the hallway his mama used to be so proud of. And there’s mold growing in the mattress and invisible night-terrors that bite living in the blankets and it gets cold at night. Cold and lonely and hopeless. And Steve doesn't want to and Billy doesn't want to but. They sleep together. Back to back. Touch only where they have to touch. Not to freeze (not to feel. Except they― ). Wake up together (like they used to). Steve's face buried in Billy's curls and the smell, the smell is the same. Exactly, perfectly, dishearteningly. The same. Right there, all along the tenderness at the curve of Billy’s (this. Not his. Thisthisthis. Never his) neck.

And weeks pass, and months pass, and it hurts. Every minute, every second and every tiny, tiny particle of time. Because this Billy is not Billy and Steve―

Steve’s missing a half. Steve’s an open wound and it doesn't matter how much alike they are, how much they feel (exactly, perfectly, dishearteningly) the same under Steve’s touch, because this Billy is another Steve's and he doesn't fit, and he wouldn’t ever heal, against his skin but― his blue eyes are the same and those curls of his look like they’ve forever captured the sun in the same way and his scars are gone but when the creatures hurt him and draw new ones Steve recognizes under his fingertips the familiar shapes of his back, the way Billy bleeds, the way his skin feels warmth against his palms and,

Billy.

Billy recognizes the way Steve touches him, the way he groans a "Be quiet for frikin’ once. And hold still!" but then, lower, softer, a whisper “Shhh. C’mon. Shhh. Just a second, alright? I promise I’ll be careful” and Billy does and bites down his tongue and the pain and the tears as Steve stitches the wound and Billy wants to ask him to sew his whole body, too, all along that wide wide line where it used to fit that half he’s missing, but what he says is "Would you kiss me once? Just once? So I can feel like I still have him?".

And it's the same. And it's different. And it's not Steve. But it is. Steve. And they kiss and Steve’s crying, because is thesamethesamethesame, the way Billy’s lashes are falling and Billy wants to say ‘I love you’, but he doesn't, and it becomes a lump in his throat as they kiss and kiss and kiss for hours, on that bed they’ve been sharing, that bed they’ve only been touching for survival, and when they're done, Billy wants to ask Steve to sew his lips together too. So he can’t ask him again. So he can not want to but― the nights are cold and lonely and hopeless. So they touch. And they kiss. And weeks pass. And they touch and they kiss and they fuck. And months pass. And they kiss and touch and fuck and fight. And they need each other. Want each other. Hate each other. Hate themselves. And then Steve says "I'll never love you. I'll never love you like I loved him" and Billy says "Neither I will”. And they’re both are bleeding. Been bleeding for so long. Bleeding out. And they won’t heal, a Billy-less and a Steve-less, as they are. So it spreads. The rot. And it's even worse like this, hating what there’s left of themselves. Because they don’t fit but it feels like they do, when they touch and they kiss and they fuck. When they fight.

(When it feels like love but― isn’t).

(Can’t be)

And weeks pass and months pass and neither of them says it (‘Wanna touch you again, kiss you again, fuck you again’), even though they're both thinking it and it’s been almost two and a half years. Five hundred days. Five hundred nights. Of hiding from each other, of finding each other in this endless night, when the dormant creatures start to crawl out of their nests, when the darkness is filled again with growls and howls and screeches. With danger. Vines coming back to life after their hundred years of sleep and then something’s coming something’s coming something’s coming and,

“Take all you can”

“Get the bat!”

“Run, Billy run!”

“Block the door! Block the door!”

“The head! Steve! Slam ‘m on the head!”

“Come on, come on, come on! Let’s get the shit outta here”

and then,

“The gate. Somebody must be opening the gate”

They find it.

Seven feet. That’s how far it is. That's how close they are from making it. And must be some kind of cosmic joke, so Billy laughs at it. Gives that one to the universe. Chokes on his own blood.

Steve’s blurred, less and less clear every time he blinks. Still the most beautiful thing Billy’s ever seen.

“C’mon, pretty boy” he says. Squeezes Steve's hand tighter. Just one second. It’s the end of the end of the world and Billy feels like he’s spent a whole lifetime like this. Stealing Steve Harrington in seconds. So he can steal one more. That’s always been the deal. Just a little more, a little more, since the moment he saw him “You know you hafta go”

Salt. Tears. That detail, Billy always forgets: they taste exactly like the ocean.

“Nah. I’m thinking that― they won't split us apart. Not this time”

Tears. Salt. The ocean on Steve’s lips. Taste like coming back. Coming Back home. But,

“It’s ok, pretty boy. I’m not him”

Steve shrugs. Smiles. Dots on the curve of his cheek. Eyes like the first day of fall. It’s in the curve of his lips, where Billy’s history has always been rewritten.

“But there was a me, that loved you. And there was a you, that loved me. And I guess it’s just impossible. Not to do it again so―” and words, they always sound better when Steve traces them against the shell of his ear, says,

“Can you kiss me? So I can know how it is to have you?”

And it’s the end of the end of the world.

(But,

Time Swirls. Space wraps around itself. Reality flickers. So maybe― maybe it really is. The end. But. Maybe,

There's a house. Steve’s house. And is not the same. But it’s not different, either. And there’s daylight pouring down the hallways, burning bright against that soft-gold wallpaper his mama’s always been so proud of. And the mattress is soft and warm and feels familiar. And the blankets smell like softener and old memories. Like new memories. Like us. Us.

“Tell me how much you love me”

Steve brushes Billy’s hair to the side, runs his lips all along the curve of his neck, leaves a kiss behind his ear. And it’s the same, but it’s different and Billy know it’s always, always gonna hurt. Because they’re still a Billy-less and a Steve-less but. They’re always gonna be a Billy one Steve loved, a Steve one Billy loved. They’re this Billy and this Steve.

But there’s this one thing, that’s always gonna be the same. This one thing neither of them would ever do in halves.

“I love you with all my heart,” he says, and draws Steve closer, closer, ‘till there’s barely any space left between them.

And they allow themselves to feel, where their wounds touch.

Allow themselves to love.)

[withoneheadlight]

ok i saw this cap of zoë kravitz in hf and she's got such a dreamy expression, she looks so deeply self-absorbed and infatuated by whatever she's imagining and those lines. and i couldn't stop picturing billy exactly like that for days so,

,

There’s a pretty unusual sound coming off the house when Max comes back home, that summer afternoon.

Full volume. Walls shaking. And she quietly walks to the source of the sound, holding back her breath right in front of Billy's room because, there's this second sound? Stranger and way more unsettling and Max's not sure-sure at first but then Steve Perry’s voice takes off and Billy’s follows it and then he's like, singing along and. Well. Max did know Billy liked Journey but not like, their 'stuff for pussies' but uhm, he does, apparently. Rasps his voice all the way through ‘Faithfully’. Kind of, sighs. Longingly? When it ends? But pfff, ok, big brothers are weird. Definitely weirder after being possessed and then kind of resurrected. Even if it's in a good-weird way but, whatever. So Max's just about to sneak to her room, dutifully rolling her eyes, steps muffled by the first chords of 'Edge of the blade' when―

Click. Click. Billy stops the tape. Click. Takes it out. Tap. Tap. Click. Puts on― Billy puts. On,

Heaven.

Bryan Adams’ Heaven.

And Max―

Being a younger sister is a meticulous kind of full-time, private detective job. You gotta learn how the person you’ve been watching so carefully for years and years works. Hafta develop some sort of―sense about your target. And Billy’s been—un-Billy-like? These past two months. Smiling more. Telling more jokes. Playing ‘You shook me all night long’ in a loop on their drive to school and back, not complaining at all but even joining when’s Max who can’t help but sing along so.

So. She retraces her steps. Knocks. Takes the distracted grunt she gets as a ‘Yeahyeah, c’mon in c’mon in’ and,

Creak. Creak. ‘―baby you’re all that I want’

“Billy?”

Billy’s sitting cross-legged on the floor. Radio close to his knees. Cassettes scattered everywhere. Piles and piles of breakwater surrounding Billy’s old, rusty beacon of sound. He’s reading through the song-list of one of the tapes, a smoke locked on the corner of his mouth, bouncing up and down with every little, absent suck he takes, and he looks. He looks―

Self-absorbed and even. Relaxed. Happy. Like whatever he’s thinking about right now is actually carrying his thoughts away to fucking heaven.

“Ehh”

“Uh-hu?”

‘When you’re lying here in my arms!’

“Billy are you. What―” ‘I'm findin' it hard to believe. We're in heaven’ “What are you doing?”

But there’s this orbit around the sun and then there’s whatever one Billy's been spinning along with the last couple of months so he completely ignores her question. Shakes the tape on his left hand. Picks another one from the pile on his right. Asks her.

“Is Billy Ocean too much? ‘Cause I think it’s too much. But it kind of fits into what I'm trying to say so” he says, shrugs, looking up at Max and waiting for the answer of what she realizes was not really a question. Not at all. So she does her little sister job and just, nods “Right. That’s good. I think it’ll slide just nicely into Bruce Springsteen and―”

“Billy” Max insists, waiting for the charm of the third time to work. It doesn’t. Not really. But keeps Billy's eyes on her long enough to squeeze an “A mixtape?” And, uh. That’s what gets it on. The charm “Are you making a mixtape?”

“Uh?”

And it’s like Max just shook Billy out of a daydream. Ash plopping down from his cigarette as his lips try but can’t purse and Max― she’s good. She’s stellar at this detective thing. Recognizes an opening the moment she sees it, right there in front of her, frozen in the middle of shaking Billy Ocean and Bruce Springsteen in the air right before cocktailing them together. Shaken, not stirred, please. Max’s upgraded to James Bond-level just right now.

“You’re making a mixtape for someone”

“Oh-nonoMaxi―”

“But you didn’t have those tapes before. Not even in your secret stash”

“How do yo―?”

“Holy. ShIT. You’ve been listening to somebody else’s music” This is. Oh, God. This. Is. GOLD. Max gotta take a moment. Blink. Breathe. Process. Her hands move by themselves, palms spread toward Billy in a wait-a-minute kind of gesture except. Max’s gonna need way more than a minute for this “You’ve accepted a music recommendation”

“Maaaaax”

“Gosh, you’ve even listened to the tapes enough to. Make―”

“Max!”

“I just can’t believe it”

And Max was glad. Well. As glad as one can be. Bunch weeks ago. Her mom and Neil out for the day. Coming back home a little earlier than she usually does to hear those ugh. Those other noises. Happy screams. Again. After months and months of Billy being basically alone except for her and the party and Steve. And Max’s so glad, of course she is. But she’s also a little sister. And all this investigation work has a high, rightful purpose.

Make her big brother’s life a living. Hell.

“Oh my god, you must be so gone!” Max brings her hands to her mouth. Takes a deep, deep breath that’s more a poorly restrained giggle. Shoots her index at him “Is it Bon Jovi? What I’m seeing right there? Goddam, Billy are you in lo―”

Bam.

Bam. Bam!

The front door.

What a way to spoil the fun. Max doesn’t have time for this. She’s working.

“BILLY?” comes a voice from the other side “Billy are you in there?”

Steve.

Oh.

What a way to make the fun a hundred times better.

Bam.Bam.Bam!

She’s starting to move to get to the door, sinsonging “Well, I guess Steve’s gonna find out you’re so stupid in love you’re willingly listening to―” when she realizes Billy’s eyes have widened and he’s jerkingly trying to unfreeze, he’s mumbling something in around his already extinguished cigarette in the ways of “Can’t” and “Find out” and “Surprise” and “Fucking help me!” While literally trying to shove the huge mass of tapes under his bed, his tone like hurryhurryhurry!, like he would start gagging and throwing his lungs out at any given minute, so nervous he looks.

So Max doesn’t go for the door. Yet. She basks in the enjoyment.

“Oh, is it a secret romance or something?” She sighs happily, leaning against the doorframe instead. “‘Cause you look pretty worried”

Steve’s banging the door now, voice wavering a little as he asks-shouts “Billy? Billy answer me! Hey, bab―Are you ok?”

“Max, please” Billy begs. Begs. Crawling over to where a Madonna’s Like a virgin is laying with the tape looping slightly out “He really can’t find out”

“What? That you’re in lo-o-oh-oh-OH―”

Billy stops at the tone, right there on his knees. Spits his forgotten cig to the side. And in the instant it seems to take him to make up his mind they both can hear Steve shout “Ok. I know you’re in there!. I’m coming in now!!”

“Fuck! Yeah. I am. Ok?” he looks like he just realized he’s tripped. Blushes. “Making it, I mean”

BAM!

And Ohhhhhhh.

Zero-fucking-zero-fucking-seven.

“Steve,” Max gasps. Because. Hear it makes it like. Easier. To process “You. And Steve”

B A M!

“Yeah, Max, Yeah. And this is a fucking surprise and he’s gonna―”

‘I've been waitin' for so long. For somethin' to arrive. For love to come along’

Ok. Oh. Okok.

“Door!” Max hastens him.

“What?”

“You. Door. Run!” She commands, and Billy― sometimes Max can’t honestly understand how he's got the grades he's got, because Billy blinks, looks clueless “C’mon slow ass. Hurry! I’ll hide all this shit”

And Billy finally gets it. Nods. Slow. Then fast. Stumbles up. Literally runs, to get to the door.

Max still gets to hear his labored “Fuck, pretty boy. “That was really hardcore of you. That's how bad you wanted to see me?” And Steve's own breathless “Really?” Before pushing Billy's room door close with her back, and kneeling on the floor to check for stray, incriminating cassettes.

Pretty boy. Maybe Max isn't as clever as she thought she is. Or hasn’t been doing her job right, clearly.

It's when she’s making ‘It’s a kind of magic’ disappear into the rest of the pile that she lays eyes on it. The case. The J-card written almost all the way down to the B-side already. A mixture of songs Billy's heard so many times there are parts where his tapes screech, and others she'd bet her life he wouldn’t have deigned to listen to. Not ever. Definitely not because―no, for, somebody. Bowie and Cher and Cindy Lauper and Bob Seger right next to Metallica and Guns n' Roses and Meatloaf and― there. There. Almost hidden in the back of the spine. A note. A tiny, thin-lettered thing Max really, really shouldn't be reading but―

‘Thanks for driving me back.

Love. Billy’

But. That's what little sisters do too, she guesses. Intrude. Annoy. Snoop. Feel this sudden rush of relief. Of happiness. When Billy laughs softly, on the other side of the door. When Steve laughs back. Maybe a tear. Or two. But just maybe. She’s really good at this little sister thing, after all.

Hopes for stellar.

,

or: that post s3 where steve lets a camaro-less billy drive him around in his own car "really? again, hargrove?" almost every single day, for months, after he comes back, because "you’re gonna perpetually stick yourself to my ass at least let me do the one thing that frikin’ calms me down" which results in steve resigning himself to deejaying in the shotgun even if "jesus, what's that shit, harrington?" "my car, my rules, sweetheart" which results in billy developing a ‘songs steve harrington is in love with’ mental playlist, realizing he’s probably a little bit in love with the way he loves them and, possibly, a little much love with steve and then stealing steve's tapes one day and,

making a mixtape about it.

(the first of a whole lot, of love letters)