Billy has never put much thought into being poor.
He grew up in the low-income housing of San Diego. His friends were kids with single parents, kids with parents that worked two or three jobs. Black and Latino kids who were doomed from the start simply because they weren’t white.
They were all in the same boat. No pocket money, hand-me-down clothes, and second hand skateboards.
So they would go to the beach, and steal popsicles from street vendors, and loiter outside of shops full of shit none of them could afford.
And there’s some of that in Hawkins. Kids that hang out by the quarry because they can’t spare enough change to catch a movie at the Hawk, or haunt Benny’s Diner because he’s known to give out free milkshakes to kids that look poor enough.
And Cherry Street is just like any other street he’s grown up on.
The pavement is fucked up and the neighbors use one another’s hoses when their water gets shut off.
So he’s never cared enough to be embarrassed about being poor.
So it comes as a shock to him, when his face is on fucking fire, and he’s hiding behind unorganized racks at the army surplus store.
Because the army surplus store is where he does his fucking back-to-school shopping.
He already has a heavy coat draped over one arm, a thick canvas fucker with grey wool sewn inside. There was mud and paint smeared on the left shoulder, and a rip near the elbow that Billy would have to fix, but it was eight dollars and would keep him warm through the shitty midwestern winter he was honestly dreading.
He was looking through the boots, trying to find something in his size that wasn’t completely worn out (or ugly) when he caught sight of him.
His reputation precedes him.
Billy’s only been in town a few days, but he knows about Harrington. The popular, rich, dickhead jock that used to rule the entire school.
He had fucked more than half the girls in his grade, according to rumor. His parents owned six vacation homes in Europe, according to rumor. He had a pool in his backyard and an unlimited supply of pot, according to rumor.
Billy had only met him once, during their shared P.E. class.
And Billy hadn’t been expecting Harrington to be so, downright, beautiful.
The type of beautiful that made Billy’s heart beat too fast in his chest to be comfortable. The type of beautiful that made his promise to himself to only date girls in this town completely fucking shatter.
And he’s sussed out which rumors are true, and which are bullshit.
Steve used to sleep around, but he’s been with the same chick for a year now.
The chick that has him totally whipped for her. The chick that made him give up his popularity and his title and everything to be with her.
The same chick that also lives in the nice part of town. That has never had to share a bathroom with the three other people that live in the house. That has an allowance. That doesn’t get socks for Christmas every year.
Steve had a serious look on his face, making a beeline for the back of the store.
Billy watched him, crouched awkwardly behind the rack of boots, watching Harrington go right to the back wall of the store, taking stock of the large display.
He had a basket in one hand, and with the other, he began grappling handfuls of industrial-sized nails out of the labeled bin.
Billy watched him fill the basket with a few handfuls of nails, adding two hunting knives and a staple gun to his haul before he turned around, and caught Billy staring.
Billy acted quickly, drawing himself up to his full height.
“Building something, Pretty Boy? Maybe a ladder to reach your princess in her tower?”
Steve looked pale, his eyes darting between Billy and the cash registers at the front of the store.
“Something like like that, Hargrove.” Steve chewed on his bottom lip. “I hate to interrupt your, uh, very important shopping here, so I guess I’ll-”
Steve pushed past him, his eyes flicking once to the old coat over Billy’s arm.
And Billy began to heel the hot feeling of shame curling in his gut, ice curling around his spine.
Harrington was fucking making fun of him.
And instead of wanting to pound his face in, Billy wanted to curl up in his car and cry about it.
“Some of us don’t have rich assholes for parents that buy us fucking mink coats when the winter rolls around.” Billy succeeded in making his voice as mean as possible, in baring his teeth instead of letting his eyes water.
And then Steve was looking at him, really looking at him, with eyes that weren’t far away or drifting somewhere else.
“Shit, that’s not what I meant,” Steve breathed, his eyes going sad, his pretty kilt turning down at one corner. “I’m really fucking stressed-sorry.” He shook his head. “Don’t get motorcycle boots. You’ll need something with better tread than that for the ice and snow.” He grabbed a pair of black leather boots from the top shelf. “Here. Steel toed, waterproof, good tread.”
He handed them to Billy, a tiny smile on his face.
Billy took the boots, his fingers brushing against Steve’s in a way that was totally not at all on purpose.
(It actually was on purpose.)
