hawkins feels like a punishment he can’t name. new house, new school but same old bruises and same old man. susan tries, max tries, but billy keeps everything locked down tight. it’s easier to be angry than to be anything else.
and then there’s steve harrington.
steve, with his stupid hair and his stupid soft bambi eyes and his dumb way of looking at billy like he’s not a grenade waiting to go off. billy doesn’t know how it happened. how they went from shoving each other in hallways to meeting in secret, to talking in low voices in the dark, to something that feels like a secret he wants to keep instead of bury.
steve’s house is always empty. his parents are always gone. it’s quiet there in a way billy doesn’t know how to handle.
he sees it immediately the first time he walks into the harrington living room… a small upright piano tucked against the wall. he’s too busy pretending he isn’t impressed by the stupidly big place, to realise he was staring at it too long.
long enough that steve notices.
“you play?” he asks, voice light and curious.
billy scoffs, looks away and shrugs like the idea is ridiculous. “nah, never learned.”
and before steve can ask anything else, billy steps in close, kisses him and lets the warmth and distraction swallow the moment whole. it works. steve melts into him, and the piano becomes just another piece of furniture he refuses to think about.
months pass and their secret grows roots. billy finds himself at steve’s house more often than his own, finds himself breathing easier in the quiet. steve never asks for more than billy can give. he just…stays and billy doesn’t know what to do with that.
that night was a bad one.
his dad’s voice still rings in his ears when he pulls up to steve’s house. his ribs ache in that familiar, dull way that means he’ll be sore for days. he hates that he’s gotten good at breathing around it. hates that he knows exactly how long it’ll take to fade.
steve’s car isn’t in the driveway, but billy knows he’s just dropping the kids off. he knows the routine. he knows the key in his pocket will unlock the back door. steve had given it to him without hesitation.
he lets himself in and heads to the living room where he sinks onto the couch, elbows on his knees, breathing slow and shallow. he tells himself he’ll wait for steve. he tells himself he won’t think about anything.
but then he looks up and the piano is there.
it’s impossible to ignore. like it’s glowing. like it’s calling him by name.
he tries to look away. he really does. but something in him cracks, small and tired and aching, and before he knows it he’s standing in front of it. his fingers hovering over the keys, trembling.
he hasn’t touched a piano since he was a kid. since california. since afternoons at his neighbor’s house, sunlight on the carpet, his mom’s laugh soft and warm as she guided his hands. since she whispered, “don’t tell your father,” like it was a secret just for them.
his ribs protest, but he ignores them. he presses one key. then another. the sound is thin and hesitant, but it’s familiar.
and suddenly he’s not in hawkins anymore. he’s eight years old, legs too short to reach the floor, his mom’s arm around him as she shows him the melody again and again until he gets it right. he remembers the way she smelled like sunscreen and citrus. he remembers how proud she looked when he finally played the whole thing without stopping.
he presses more keys as the song comes back slowly, like it’s been waiting in the dark for him to open the door. his fingers move on their own, shaky but sure, and the melody fills the room, soft and aching.
he doesn’t realise he’s crying until a tear hits the back of his hand, but he keeps playing anyway.
steve hears the music before he even opens the door.
he freezes on the porch, confused at first. his parents aren’t home, that was normal they never were, and there was only one other person with a key.
he stepped inside quietly, heart thudding, and the confusion melted into something else entirely when he saw billy at the piano.
billy, shoulders hunched, head bowed, fingers moving with such skill. billy, who never lets himself be soft. billy, who looks like he’s breaking and holding himself together at the same time.
steve doesn’t say anything. he doesn’t want to scare him. he just walks over slowly, quietly, until he’s close enough to see the tears on billy’s cheeks and hear his sniffling.
the song ends on a trembling note and billy’s hands fall still.
steve then wraps his arms around him from behind, gentle, careful of the way billy flinches at sudden touch. he presses his cheek to billy’s shoulder, holding him like he’s something precious.
billy stiffens for half a second.
his head drops back against steve’s chest, breath shuddering, and steve holds him tighter, one hand covering billy’s where it rests on the keys.
the room is full of everything billy can’t say out loud. the memories, the hurt, the longing, the love he’s terrified to name. and steve feels all of it too.
he doesn’t move for a long time.
steve’s arms stay around him, warm and steady, like he’s trying to hold all the pieces of billy together before they can scatter again. billy’s breathing is uneven, catching every few seconds.
the house is still. the last note he played seems to hang in the air long after it’s gone.
“hey,” steve murmurs eventually, voice low against billy’s shoulder. “i’m here.”
billy squeezes his eyes shut. he hates how much that sentence hits him. how much he wants to believe it. how much he wants to lean back and let someone else carry the weight for once.
he doesn’t answer. he can’t. his throat feels tight, raw, like if he tries to speak he’ll fall apart completely.
steve doesn’t push. he just shifts enough to slide onto the bench beside him, keeping one arm around billy’s back. his other hand rests lightly on the piano, fingers brushing the keys like he’s afraid to interrupt whatever this moment is.
billy stares at his own hands. they’re shaking a little. he curls them into fists.
“i didn’t know you could play,” steve says softly, not accusing, not surprised in a bad way…just gentle.
billy swallows. “i don’t,” he mutters, even though the lie feels pointless now.
steve gives him a look. not a sharp one. just a knowing smirk. it’s patient. the kind of look that makes billy feel seen in a way that’s almost unbearable.
“okay,” steve says, like he’s agreeing to the lie even though they both know better.
billy’s chest aches. not just from the bruises.
he drags a hand over his face, wiping at the dampness he wishes wasn’t there. “i haven’t… in a long time,” he says, voice rough. “since i was a kid.”
billy hates talking. hates opening doors he’s spent years nailing shut. but his body hurts and the music is still in his head, and his mom’s face is still too close, and steve’s hand is warm on his back.
“my mom taught me,” he says quietly. “before sh-”
the words feel like they’re being pulled out of him, slow and painful.
steve’s fingers curl slightly against his side.
“she must’ve been good,” he says softly.
billy huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh, almost a sob. “yeah. she…she really was.”
the silence that follows isn’t heavy. it’s soft. like a blanket instead of a weight.
steve leans his head against billy’s shoulder. “you can play here whenever you want,” he says. “you don’t have to hide it.”
billy’s breath stutters. he looks at the piano again. the polished wood, the quiet keys, the reflection of two boys sitting too close on the glossy surface.
“i don’t…” he starts, then stops. he doesn’t know how to say he’s scared. that playing feels like opening a wound. that remembering hurts almost as much as forgetting.
steve seems to understand anyway.
“you don’t have to,” he says. “only if it feels good. only if you feel comfortable and safe too.”
billy lets out a shaky exhale. “i don’t know”
“that’s okay,” steve whispers. “you don’t have to know right now.”
billy leans into him then, just a little. enough that steve shifts closer, enough that their shoulders press together.
steve’s thumb rubs slow circles against his back and billy just breathes slow. for the first time in a long time, he lets himself breathe without bracing for impact.
after a while, steve nudges him gently. “you wanna sit on the couch? or stay here?”
billy thinks about moving. about standing up and pretending none of this happened. about putting the walls back up.
but he’s tired. so tired.
“here’s fine,” he murmurs.
steve smiles against his shoulder. “okay.”
they sit like that, side by side on the piano bench, the room dim and quiet around them. billy’s heartbeat slowly evens out. the ache in his chest softens, just a little.
but he doesn’t pull his hand away from the keys, either.
and steve stays right there with him, warm and steady, until the shaking stops. he lifts a hand, slow enough that billy can pull away if he wants. he brushes his thumb under billy’s eye, wiping away a tear he missed. his touch is feather-light, careful.
it’s not like their usual kisses. not rushed, not heated, not a distraction from something billy doesn’t want to feel. this one is slow and gentle and almost shy. steve’s lips press against his like he’s afraid to break him, like he’s holding something fragile.
billy melts into it before he can stop himself.
his hand comes up to rest on steve’s knee, grounding himself. steve’s fingers slide into his hair, not pulling, just holding. the kiss is warm and unbearably tender, and billy feels something inside him loosen, something he didn’t realise he’d been clenching for years.
when they pull apart, steve stays close, their foreheads almost touching.
“I love you” he whispers.
he leans his head against steve’s then, eyes closing as steve wrapped an arm around him again. he lets himself rest there, just for a moment.
the piano sat quietly in front of them, the last notes of the song long gone but the feeling lingers, soft and bittersweet.
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