Strangest 2: Fractionally Gay
As Steve was laughing at Billy’s horror over the bat, his lungs starting to clench at the impossibility of explaining, the phone rang. He batted Mike aside and swung his leg over the back of the couch--any effort was worthwhile to forestall certain conversations.
“Steve,” the small voice came through raspy, and it took him a second to place it.
“Max?”
Billy’s head popped up like a meerkat’s.
“Billy ran out screaming. Lucas said I should warn you.” She gulped, difficult to understand through the rapid breathing. “You--you better call Hopper, Steve, he might--”
“He’s just sitting here drinking hot chocolate, Max,” he hurried to reassure her, wincing as Billy stumbled back over the arm of the couch towards the wall, smacking his hand down for the bat as he moved. Will kicked it out of his reach, and Billy winced as his shoulderblades thudded against the wall.
Max was breathing slowly--consciously, Steve thought, maybe he wasn’t the only one whose body had forgotten how. “He’s what,” she asked, voice flat.
“He show...he shows up here, sometimes,” he closed his eyes, feeling the Judgemental Adolescent Brigade’s attention shift from Billy to him with laser focus, “--it’s fine. I mean, he’s still an asshole, but he hasn’t done anything. He--” Steve stopped himself before telling a middle-school girl her delinquent brother’s semi-alcoholic cigarette funk was more grounding than a lightning rod. “...are you okay?”
“Me and Lucas are fine.” She swallowed hard again, and Steve waited patiently. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He might’ve...broken something. His, um. His dad said he fell down the stairs, but he’d just got in the shower. He wouldn’t be trying to get laundry or anything. He totally wanders around in his underwear if he forgets pants, Steve, he wasn’t hurrying to get anywhere,” she scoffed, and Steve frowned over to where Billy was still leaning against the wall, now casual, the bruised side of his face turned away from the room. “I think he, uh. I--I think he slammed him into a few other things. The tub makes a noise.”
“You gonna call ‘Hopper’ on me?” Billy bared his teeth, staring at the bat, and Mike crouched, reaching for it.
“Whoa, whoa, hang on, Max,” Steve pressed the phone to his chest. “Dustin. Put the bat, uh, with the skis, y’know--” He waved vaguely, hoping to convey the bat’s location to everyone but Billy. “Billy, if you’re gonna hit anything, uh. Go upstairs and punch a pillow or something. My room’s plaid.”
“So plaid,” Dustin confirmed, proud of his insider information.
“I think we should go,” Will whispered, and Mike slid an arm around him, baring his teeth right back at Billy.
“And leave him here with Steve? We should call Hopper.”
Billy snorted, but gave them a wide berth on his way to the kitchen, where he pointedly loitered for a while, reminding Steve of nothing so much as a cat who doesn’t want to admit anyone else has a good idea. The stairs creaked under his rapid footsteps as Dustin returned, then spun in place. “Where the hell is he?! Did you kill him?!”
“He went upstairs,” Will whispered back, frowning up at the sound of a creaking hallway.
“Max,” Steve tried to ignore the whispered conference behind him, “--he seems fine, but I’ll check later. Glad you have a date night, or every little shithead I know would be here. Why don’t you guys ever just show up to sell cookies?” He frowned accusingly at Mike, who frowned back.
“I just don’t want the stupid shit dying in your house,” Max grumbled, and Steve found himself grinning again into the handset.
“It’s okay, we’ve got a shovel.” He rubbed his face.
She snorted. “Are you sure I shouldn’t call Hopper? I mean he might...set you on fire, or...fuck your mom.”
“...what a resume,” Steve sighed, trying not to just sit on the floor and laugh, or possibly cry. His lungs were ready to heave, but undecided. “He’s not doing anything, yet. If he sets my mom on fire, I’ll definitely let you know.”
“Does Steve have a mom?” Steve heard Mike asking Dustin.
In his ear, Max took a shaky breath. “...okay. Okay. Are...are you sure we shouldn’t come over? I can steal my mom’s car.”
“No!” Steve barked. “No! It’s fine! You definitely don’t have to get arrested to come protect me, holy shit. Go...watch My Little Pony or something. Or hey, watch something for you, screw what Lucas wants.” That brought grins to Dustin, Mike, and Will’s faces, and he heard Max relaying it to a shouting Lucas over the phone. “Okay. I’m gonna hang up. It’s fine. If anything happens, I promise I’ll call Hopper.”
“Yeah, you better.” The connection clicked over to dial tone.
“...if we keep watching, it’ll show us how to kill the Nazgul Steve’s got in his bedroom,” Dustin sing-songed, grinning, and Steve sighed.
“Yeah. Sure. I need more--” the kettle shrieked again--Billy must have switched it on again, after Steve had chosen to busy his invaders with the microwave instead of allowing conversation. He frowned as he flicked it off, but no stairs creaked, so he figured it was to be obnoxious, rather than a need for more hot chocolate. “...I need more hot chocolate.” So did they all. Steve surveyed the Hot Chocolate Cupboard--the only cupboard he used, the only one that wasn’t a bit dusty--and couldn’t really think of much else he could buy. I could fill up the garage, he thought, thinking of the ease of routine in the grocery store, filling an entire cart with marshmallows, and the reassurance of a shelf of them every time he parked his car. I’ll have to stockpile candy canes, he thought with a snort, his intestines doing a crampy clench at the idea of running out in mid-February, and having some kind of breathing emergency that required them. They’ll find me blue in the kitchen, he muffled his snickers against the sleeve of his forearm, after I collapse because my hot chocolate isn’t right, and my lungs turn into inflexible plastic soda bottles, and Billy isn’t around to bitch about singing mice.
“...Steve?” Dustin’s voice trailed in from the front room over the sound of goblins, and Steve wiped his eyes, sniffling.
“Be right there.”
Another hour in, and Steve had jerked awake nearly every ten minutes to the sound of Dustin’s voice, so he stood, stretching. Dustin crawled forward to pause the VCR when Steve walked into the kitchen.
“Go ahead,” he leaned back into the front room, “I’m beat. I’m going to go sleep upstairs.” On his way, he refilled his hot chocolate, and grabbed another, crouching to make sure they didn’t foam up over the sides, that there were equal piles of marshmallows, and that his was actually mostly coffee.
He didn’t see the exchange of wide-eyed glances.
The lights were off in his room. The hallway light shone across Billy’s defined abs where he was sprawled across Steve’s bed. Steve kicked his way through a pile of shoes on his way to the desk lamp.
“What the hell,” Billy groaned, covering his face with his arms.
“I brought more hot chocolate, I guess,” Steve shrugged, rattling around in his desk drawers. “I told Max I’d make sure you weren’t broken anywhere, or anything.” He thumped the first aid kit on his desk. It still had smears of blood on it.
Billy snorted. “The hell did she tell you.”
Steve opened his mouth to ask about the hand-shaped bruises he’d compared to Sylvester Stallone’s, closed it again, and shrugged. “Sounds like your dad’s an asshole.” Billy flinched, then tried to cover it with a luxurious stretch.
“Breaking news.”
“Come on, sit up, dickhead, let me check out your face.”
“You just wanna check me out,” Billy bared his teeth in a wide smile, leaning in like Steve was somebody he was about to ask to Makeout Point.
“Um--” Steve leaned away so fast his head hit the wall, and Billy cackled, curling on to his side on the bed in a fit of the giggles.
“Y’don’t want a blow job, Harrington? Are you sure? You’re being awfully,” his mouth quirked into a crooked grin, “--fucking. Sweet to me. You had me wait in your bed.”
Steve sighed, rubbing his face. There was probably some scientific name for something just difficult enough to keep your mind off worse things. Nancy would know. Maybe he could switch to a different awful thing to keep the nightmares away. Alcohol would probably work, but the idea of being drunk and not noticing the motion detector lights coming on all around the house--he grabbed at the hot chocolate, slopping it on his math homework, but feeling the heat ease into his palms. The marshmallows were sweet foam, almost entirely melted, and he sipped slowly, licking the sugar off his lips. After Max’ phone call, he couldn’t just kick Billy out--That’s almost worse than the trunk, he thought, sending him back to somebody who slams his head into the side of the tub. He could put the kids in his parent’s room, he thought, then imagined them wandering off to poke Billy in the night, ending with Billy a snarling silhouette at the treeline, dragging a bleeding child away, red spray against the snow and trees, and dripping blood from his mouthful of soft belly. He sighed, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, Billy had gone very still.
“...you gonna get your bat, King Steve?” he whispered.
“I’m not going to hit anybody with a nailbat,” Steve opened the first aid box, counting off breaths in his head. One one thousand, he breathed. Two one thousand. He breathed again. “Not unless you make me.”
Billy’s grin widened. “How do I make you? I could fuck Nancy. I could punch what’s his name. The kid with no teeth.”
Steve stared at him. “That’s...that’s the shit you’re gonna do?”
“Not if you tell me the rules.” Billy sat up and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms with a smirk.
“What.” Steve squinted, suddenly trying to calculate the amount of sleep he’d had recently. It wasn’t enough. He knocked back more of his ‘coffee’. “What are you talking about?”
“When,” Billy leaned in again, “--you gonna--” his breath tickled Steve’s lips, “--fuck me up, Harrington.”
“Jesus,” Steve jerked back again.
“Some blood on that bat.” Billy stretched, leaning to look out the window. “You gonna bury me out in the woods? Oh, no, I know, the sheriff’s your friend, you make it look like I drove drunk.”
“What--” Steve clenched the edge of the desk, hoping this ride slowed soon so he could get off. “...I’m not…”
“Oh, I get it now,” Billy laughed, going still again. “You killed that girl. Barb. That’s why little Nancy-Nance broke up with you.”
“I didn’t kill anyone,” Steve watched Billy’s legs kicking in the air as he lolled around like a happy cat, rubbing his eyes.
“That’s how you know ‘Hopper’. He helped you cover it up. Was she pregnant?” Billy cracked up, covering his face. “I thought you’d make a great dad, King Perfect, Steve Harrington, but that’s really shitty of you.” He grinned over lazily. “You’re starting earlier than mine did, did you make the bat for that, or did you already--”
Steve slammed his fist on the desk, making the light bounce and flicker. “I didn’t kill anyone. It was some--animal. It ate Dustin’s cat. Got in Will’s house. The--the little shitheads are just impressed because I babysat them while Hopper and Ms Byers set the nest on fire.”
“What, you hit some little...coyote?” Billy sat up to glare at him, all the musculature on display vibrating with tension as he leaned to breathe all over Steve’s face again, and Steve rolled backwards in the chair, sighing.
“Yeah. Yeah, it was a coyote. I’m not gonna hit you with a nailbat, jesus.”
“So when I showed up at the Byers, you were all afraid of a coyote.”
“It was scary as hell,” Steve shrugged.
“So scary you had syringes of sedative big enough to put me down. Lookee, your majesty, I’m so much bigger than a coyote.” He spread his arms, smiling. It looked uncomfortable, Steve thought, the stiff denim over all that sweaty bare shivering skin. Max’ call earlier had given Billy the added funk of adrenaline sweat over his usual eau de teenage alcoholic smoker whose shower got interrupted, and Steve tried to lean back in subtly, feeling his brain clear of blue tint.
“Look, we don’t know what it was. It ate people--”
“Who, Barb?”
“Barb! Yes! It ate Barb, that’s why no one found her!”
“Why the hell didn’t you just shoot it?”
“I don’t have a gun.” Steve rolled his eyes, inhaling the relaxing smell of stupid asshole, and feeling it work on his lungs. “‘Hey, Sheriff Hopper, I need a gun!’ I’m sure that would have worked.”
“The hell? Where was he? They just left you with the kids and went off--what was it, a bear?!”
“Sure, yeah, I guess.” Steve shrugged, rubbing his face as the adrenaline keeping him awake ebbed.
“Sure. And then you used your syringe on me.”
“Max was afraid I’d die! At least we didn’t leave you on the floor to get eaten.”
Billy stared at him. “You locked me in a trunk...to be a Good fucking Samaritan. What the hell were you supposed to do with a syringe against--a whatever, like, jump on its back?”
“Well, you knocked me out,” Steve rubbed his face, his brain going a little fuzzy as the image of Billy punching him superimposed itself over Billy sitting on the edge of his bed. “That was Max and them. You’d just tried to kill her friends, she maybe just wanted you locked up somewhere. I didn’t wake up until they were driving,” he grimaced, forcing another deep breath.
“Yeah, but, I mean--they just left you with a bat and a syringe? What the hell kind of--where are your parents? ‘Hopper’ and the Byers just leave you to defend against--things--”
He sounded as pissed off as usual, and Steve shook his head, grinning. “Pretty safe until you showed up.”
“I wasn’t gonna...fucking kill them,” Billy snorted.
“You sure? You were sure acting like it.”
“He told me to get the little bitch home, okay--”
“Leave the little assholes alone, I am not fucking around about this--” Steve’s eyes narrowed.
“That’s when the bat comes out,” Billy took a shuddering breath, rubbing his face, “--just them, huh? ‘Cause you’ve still got some greeny face there from when I clocked you in the--”
“Fuck you, and me,” Steve amended. “Me too. Goddamn. Just don’t--fucking attack people. We used the syringe, and not the bat. Look, do you want a shirt to put on.”
“Make me,” Billy grinned, but his voice was starting to sound hoarse, and his hands trembled. “Why don’t you make me, Harrington.”
“Damn iiiiit.” Steve let his head clonk against the first aid kit. “Look, you’re shaking. Are you actually hurt. Are you cold. Do you have any wounds.”
“I’m great,” Billy beamed back, eyes over-shiny in the low light, “--wanna check my teeth? They’re a little loose on the left. They’d probably come out easy. Bloody teeth all over your room.”
“Max was afraid your head hit the tub.” Steve leaned in to frown at the bruise, and Billy caught his breath.
“My--my knee. And--it’s fine. Why the hell was she listening.” His eyes were fixed on Steve’s mouth, like Steve was the biting risk.
Steve sighed with relief, spun in his desk chair, and stalked over to his dresser to throw a sweatsuit over--at first he aimed for Billy’s head, but logic happened, and he just tossed it on the bed within reach. “Do you want a shower? I mean, she said you--”
“Max should get that diarrhea of the face checked,” Billy growled.
“Or not, but they’re clean and dry.” Steve shrugged, wishing Billy and all his problems would just vanish into a nice sleep-inducing haze until morning.
After an odd moment where Billy apparently felt the need to hold up the elastic and test it, he glared over. “You gonna watch? My hot chocolate’s cold. Fix it, Mom.”
Steve blinked, then sighed, wandering back to the desk to grab both mugs. “We shower together after games, asshole. I’ve seen it all before.”
“Oh, you were looking?” Billy snarled, and Steve backed out of the room. “You eyeing me up? Wanna put your hands on me, King Harrington?”
“Just trying to pretend you were Cindy Crawford,” Steve backed through the door, sighing. “Bathroom’s through there, if you want it. I’m gonna go let the Scooby Gang know I’m alive.”
Naturally, there was a general scramble on the stairs as he turned down them. “We heard a thump...” Will watched his face nervously.
Upstairs, the shower turned on, and Steve sighed, dropping into a chair at the kitchen table. “Yeah, he’s so annoying I slammed my hand on the desk. Okay, I’m not saying I like him, or want him around--”
“Psh yeah,” Dustin agreed stoutly, glaring at Mike.
Huh, Steve thought, too tired to ask. “...I need to talk to Hopper.” He leaned his face in his arms.
“I’ll call El,” Mike’s eyes narrowed, his voice ringing with judgement. After a minute or so of whispering, the plastic of the handset banged Steve in the head, and he flapped his hand for it.
“Sheriff Hopper?”
“Steve.”
“Uh, you called me before when Billy was driving around. Did his dad call you again?”
“We’ve got a report of him leaving the house drunk, disorderly, and intending mayhem,” Hopper sounded disbelieving, “--which sounds about right, for him, what you got, kid?”
“Um.” Steve felt his shoulders hunch. “He was...here, that time. He wasn’t even drunk! He was just--” he waved a hand, “--sitting on the couch. We watched Star Wars.”
“Okay,” Hopper waited, sounding even judgier than Mike.
“He just...showed up here again tonight, soaking wet and half in his jeans--”
“Ew, gross,” Dustin made a revolted face at Mike, whose nose wrinkled. Will shot a glance upstairs, wide-eyed.
“And, uh, Max called? And said Billy’s dad grabbed him out of the shower, kicked his ass. Threw him down the stairs...I guess?” he trailed off, shrugging apologetically at the phone, as Mike mouthed ‘Good,’ to nods from the other two. “He’s pretty banged up?”
“Billy Hargrove has been hiding out at your house,” Hopper said slowly, and Steve rubbed his face, groaning, and feeling like he was shrinking inches every minute this conversation continued. He’d have to see if Billy minded carting him around, once he was the size of Stuart Little. “Did he finally do something? Why own up now?”
“Well, I mean, he’s not actually doing anything? Instead of having to drive around all night looking out for him, you can just call up and ask me whether there’s an asshole here bitching about Secrets of NIMH?” Steve bit his lips, uncertain about this strange ritual of communicating with adults.
Hopper took a long whistly breath through his teeth. “Not too comfortable with him around the kids.”
“Uh, yeah, I had him go upstairs, they’re like...segregated,” Steve made an apologetic face at Will, who blinked, then shyly nodded.
After a brief pause, Hopper asked “You tell that boy what to do and he does it?”
“...mostly? I mean, he knows I know you, I think he thinks you’d help me cover up his murder?”
“Hopper would.” Dustin nodded confidently.
“...only if it were Billy Hargrove,” Mike shook his head, “--he wouldn’t let Steve murder just anybody--”
“I trust you not to murder anyone unless it’s self-defense,” Hopper sounded exhausted, but also like he might be laughing. “Call if you need anything, you know that.”
“...yeah,” Steve’s throat felt too tight to swallow.
“Night, kid.”
“Yeah. Yeah, night.” He sat listening to the dial tone, wondering what to do.
“Why do you have to harbor that fugitive,” Dustin shuddered, holding his hands up like a silent movie heroine in denial. “Couldn’t you have, like, a hot British double agent? With eleven guns, that does flips.”
“Usually it’s fine, because nobody’s here.” Steve waved his arms, sighing.
Mike and Will both frowned from his face to Dustin’s, but Dustin made a very obvious “Cut it off” motion at his neck, and they didn’t ask. Steve couldn’t help it, the idea of Dustin keeping track of his friends’ slumber party etiquette had him snickering again. “Holy god. I’m going back to bed.”
“But...Billy’s up there,” Will pointed out, and received an elbow from Mike.
“Yeah, he is. You guys can sleep down here or in the big bedroom, Dustin knows where.” Dustin nodded, obviously resisting a salute. “He’s...look, it’s fine, he...sleeps, like everybody else--”
“Is he why you haven’t been sleeping?” Will asked solemnly.
Steve snorted. “Ha. Nuh-unh. Okay, you guys have had nightmares--” Mike and Will nodded, while Dustin scoffed. “Imagine you’re--” Steve glanced at Will, trying to phrase it without pressing anywhere sore, “--somewhere in a nightmare, but something really weird walks by, something so out of place it’s funny--”
“...Clifford?” Will suggested hesitantly.
“Eugh!” Mike groaned. “I’m gonna burn that ABC book--”
“It’s really hard to focus on our game around stupid Clifford--” Dustin rolled his eyes, “--you walk into a dungeon and suddenly Mike’s mom’s voice, ‘That’s an ostrich! O! O is for Ostrich!”
“I know--” Mike groaned. “Try living there--”
“Clifford!” Steve grinned. “Exactly! That’s right. So you’re in a nightmare, and Clifford walks by. And you don’t really want Clifford around--”
“He’s annoying as hell--” Mike slumped into the other kitchen chair.
“Yeah,” Steve nodded, at Will’s thoughtful expression. “He’s huge and he smells like a dog--”
“He takes huge shits,” Dustin grinned proudly.
“--but,” Steve eyeballed Will in particular, “--you can’t really be scared, either, with the Big Friendly Dog stinking up the place--’
“Billy is Clifford,” Will’s eyes widened, “--you like having him here. Even though he smells awful.”
“Yeah, well. He’s showering.” They all grimaced at the ceiling.
“I listen to music with Jonathan,” Will said softly.
Mike nodded. “I call El, or put the TV on.”
“I’m not scared,” Dustin snorted, “--but if I was, I’d call somebody, Steve, come on, pick up the phone, you don’t need a huge shitty dog.”
“Bedtime.” Steve stretched, groaning. “It’s...whatever. I don’t care.” He staggered upright, already focused on the hours of sleep he might get with Billy breathing in the same room. “I’m going to bed, to sleep, and if anyone wakes me up, there better be--” he glanced at Will again, and cleared his throat, and his head of monsters, “--a costumed supervillain, like, circling the house.”
“Nah, he’s already upstairs,” Dustin muttered, and Steve flipped him off, already running up the stairs.
As Steve frowned at the bed--it’d seemed bigger when he had a girl in it, but then, he supposed, he wasn’t wary of Nancy breaking his face if he brushed his elbow against hers in the night--Billy wandered in, sweatshirt half pulled over his head.
“Holy crap, there.” Steve stared at the purple bruising under Billy’s right shoulderblade and across his ribs, the familiar greeny-yellow handprint on his shoulder, fingermarks on his forearm, and what honestly looked like a heel-stomp on his lower back.
Billy scrambled to get the sweatshirt pulled down. “Fuck you. Go fuck yourself. King fucking Steve Harrington.”
Steve ordinarily had no trouble restraining the urge to laugh at Billy, who he mostly thought of as an unexploded bomb, but listening to his angry “fuck”s muffled through thick jersey fabric was hilarious. He forestalled it with a hand over his mouth. “I’m gonna go to sleep.” He pointed at the bed, more for his own comprehension than anyone else’s. “You can do whatever, but there’s still a whole Munchkin music number going on downstairs.”
Billy looked from his pointing finger, to the bed, back to Steve’s face. “This is an invitation to sleep in your bed.”
“I don’t care,” Steve tottered over and pulled back the covers. “Oh, I guess you could sleep in your car. I told them downstairs they could have the other bedroom or the couch, but I won’t be there to stop them bugging you, and if you murder them I’ll have to…” the pillow against his face felt like the smooth feathers of a celestial swan. “This is the best bed,” he mumbled.
“Harrington,” Billy’s voice came from somewhere off to Steve’s right. “Steve.”
“Sleeping,” Steve told him, wondering dazedly whether he’d dream about Clifford. Or Billy. Or Billy riding Clifford.
He didn’t remember what he dreamt about, jerking out of a sound sleep to a shout of his name downstairs (Dustin, probably), and the streaming light of the motion detectors. He had a vague impression of vaulting over the banister and not dying, and finding Mike and Dustin trying to jolly Will out of a panic attack.
“It’s probably just a leaf or something,” Dustin said, both thumbs up, as Steve sighed and got his bat. The VCR clock said it was four, so he’d actually gotten a few hours of sleep. He shoved his feet into his boots by the door, and stepped outside, keeping to the shadows, and shuffling, so he wouldn’t crunch loudly in the snow. The lights were scheduled for three minutes, so they flipped off soon after he began his circuit. He rested the bat against his shoulder, closing in on the sound of snow crunching.
Of course it was just Billy. Steve shuffled silently closer to the lit end of Billy’s cigarette, only to have the motion detector lights snap back on and illuminate Billy’s face from less than a foot away. Billy screamed, flailing backwards and landing on his ass in the snow, and Steve started snickering, leaning on his bat.
“What the fuck, Harrington,” Billy yelled, sounding breathless. His hair was dusted with snow, and the hoodie hood was wedged awkwardly half under the jean jacket, making him look a little less dangerous than usual. “What the hell, what in the--”
Steve considered himself, shirtless in yanked-on, unbuttoned jeans, a bloodied nailbat over his shoulder, and grinned. “I look like Conan or something.”
“You fucking asswipe, you look nuts--I thought I was gonna die--”
“The little bastards saw the motion detector come on and woke me up,” Steve shrugged, leaning on his bat again as he held a hand down for Billy, who’d landed in about two feet of snow and a patch of scrubgrass, and was stabbing his hands in the snow without finding any leverage to shove himself upright. Billy jerked back, and Steve groaned, rubbing his face. “...you’re just gonna sit there in the snow?”
Billy’s glare didn’t waver as he grabbed at the uneven grass, trying to push himself up, and Steve finally bent in close and grabbed his hand.
Billy yanked back. “--fuck go of me--”
“Come on.” Steve set the end of the bat in the snow and pushed off it to haul Billy up so chilled denim thudded against his chest.
Billy went still against him.
“Breathe,” Steve recommended, recognizing the signs of recalcitrant lungs, and brushed a hunk of snow out of Billy’s mullet. The skin under the denim collar was warm, and Steve let his half-frozen fingers linger there, breathing easily in the cloud of cigarette smoke, and the smell of his shampoo on Billy Hargrove’s mullet. It was soft, and Steve let his fingers curl in it, resting his thumb behind Billy’s ear.
“The hell are you putting your hands on me.” Billy’s breath was warm against his ear, but he didn’t pull away.
Steve considered, head clear and and nearly fizzy with the hours of sleep. In the chill of snow against his shoulders, with his hand clenched in the denim of Billy’s jacket, he felt farther away from tunneling nightmares than he had in months. Billy finally lifted his face from Steve’s shoulder enough to take another drag on his cigarette, which forced him to wrap that arm loosely around Steve’s shoulder to reach. Steve giggled, mentally cataloguing the windows probably holding small, horrified faces.
“You tell my dad I’m here and nobody’ll ever find my body,” Billy breathed smoke against his head, before pulling back enough to press his lips to Steve’s.
He has long eyelashes, Steve thought, less confident about his wakefulness than he’d been moments before, but kissing Billy’s warm mouth was weirdly cozy, and he leaned into it, feeling the bat slide from his hand. “Wait--” He clenched his fingers in the curls at the base of Billy’s skull, and Billy groaned against his mouth, eyes sliding shut. “...wow,” Steve paused, distracted by the immediate rush of red across Billy’s cheeks, but Billy ducked his head, jerking away, so Steve pulled him back with his other hand around Billy’s neck. “Wait.” He licked his lips, thinking. “That’s. Huh. We should go back inside. But your dad knows you--you’re gay?”
“I’m not a fag.” Billy jerked backwards, but didn’t try to disentangle Steve’s hands from his hair and neck. “I fuck women, Harrington-- ”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, but you just...I mean,” Steve ran his thumbs up Billy’s cheeks, pulling him closer, fascinated at the lack of protest, “--wait, that’s why he--?” He touched the bruise carefully.
“No,” Billy growled. “I mean, I don’t know, I know mom didn’t just have a dizzy spell on the stairs, but I bet she--she wasn’t--fucking women--”
“Jesus.” Steve tugged him back in so their foreheads met, studying Billy’s closed eyes and shivers as their breath fogged. “You think your dad’s a murderer? You think he-- ”
“Shut the fuck up, Harrington.” Billy swallowed. “The hell are you gonna do. You gonna tell ‘Hopper’ I kissed you. You gonna tell my dad. Might as well kill me with that bat, Steve.” He shifted away, stilling at Steve’s hand on the back of his skull.
“No, no, jesus, calm down--” Steve pulled him close again, breathing in Essence of Hargrove in hopes his mind would stop spinning. “Fuck. Your--your dad killed your mom?”
“Dunno what the hell else coulda happened,” Billy said thickly, tense against him.
“...jesus.” Steve whispered against his jaw. “You should--you should tell Hopper. Christ. Uh, we should--we should go back inside.”
“Your three little piglets probably already called him. They’ll think I ate you out here.”
“Oh shit.” Steve grabbed Billy’s hand in one of his, scooping up the bat with the other, and began dragging him back toward the house. “How long have I been out here, they probably did--”
“What the hell, Steve, why--you’re--let go--” Billy tried to shake him off, staggering after him through the snow.
“It’s fine!” Steve shouted, stumbling over all the shoes as they tromped through the door. “This asshole was having a cigarette!” He held up his and Billy’s hands like they’d won a trophy, and Billy tried to jerk away again, snarling under his breath.
“What are you doing,” Dustin said levelly, staring between them.
Mike’s nose was wrinkled. “You can let him go now.”
Will’s red rimmed eyes traveled over Billy and fixed on their clasped hands, but he just cocked his head, raising his eyebrows at Steve, who felt his face heat.
“We’re going back to sleep--” Steve dove towards the stairs, prompting a burst of expletives from Billy, who scrambled after him.
Upstairs, Steve closed and locked his bedroom door, dropped the bat to thud against the wall, and turned to face Billy, who was shuddering at regular intervals. “Un...less you want more hot chocolate.” Steve stood back, surveying the shivers and teary eyes.
“I don’t fucking want hot chocolate, what is it with you.” Billy bared his teeth, hunching in on himself, and Steve reflected with a grin that for once, he didn’t want hot chocolate either.
Steve dropped into the office chair, letting it slowly spin him all the way around. “You kissed me.”
“Prove it in court,” Billy sighed, hugging himself in his snowy jacket.
“Come on.” Steve waved him over.
“Hell no.” Billy backed away, his shoulders hitting the wall again.
Steve opened his mouth, closed it, then snorted a laugh. “Don’t make me grab your hair again.”
“Fuck you.” Billy’s eyes narrowed, but slowly traveled down Steve’s chest, over his abs, and down to his unbuttoned jeans and visible triangle of briefs. “...plaid the new thing at court? Isn’t your room enough? Look,” he rolled his shoulders, probably forgetting his borrowed saggy grey sweats were hiding his usual flexing pectorals, “--you want a blowjob? You can’t tell anyone.”
“What?” Steve blinked.
“Want my mouth on your dick?” Billy sauntered towards him. “Don’t tell my father.” He leaned in to whisper along Steve’s jaw, and Steve resisted the urge to reach down and hoist his dick out of his briefs. “Don’t tell the sheriff.” Billy dropped to his knees, mouthing down Steve’s chest. “Don’t--cave my--head in,” he went still as Steve slid a hand in his hair. “Don’t crush my eyeballs with a nailbat, and I’ll blow you.”
“Wait,” Steve groaned, tugging to detach Billy’s warm, soft mouth from the edge of his jeans. “Damn it. Billy, hold on--”
“The hell is wrong with you, Harrington?” Billy sat back on his feet, eyebrows raised. “Close your eyes if you want, I don’t care--”
“I just--” Steve ran his fingers along Billy’s jaw, losing his train of thought as Billy tipped his head willingly.
“You wanna hit me and have me?” Billy laughed, turning his head to bite gently at Steve’s hand. “I’m hot with bruises. Gimme a bloody nose, kiss off your daily iron allowance, your majesty.”
“No. No.” Steve clenched his fingers in the silky hair at the back of Billy’s head again, feeling him sag. He was careful not to yank individual strands.
“Don’t tell anyone, though. Hit me, don’t kill me--” Billy pulled Steve’s thumb in his mouth with his tongue, sucking suggestively, but his eyes were getting shiny again. “Come on. You don’t really wanna haul me out of another trunk.”
“Jesus, Hargrove,” Steve yanked his hand away from Billy’s mouth, “--I won’t tell anyone you’re--I mean, that we’re--what are we even doing.” For the first time, his lungs started to feel stiff even with Billy Hargrove right in front of him. He forced some small, shallow breaths, watching Billy’s eyes start to brim over. He put the hand not holding Billy’s hair over his mouth to forestall what was probably about to be another flood of abuse, and took another breath. One one thousand, he counted to himself, holding it and letting it out. “You--you’re a fuckhead,” he started again, feeling Billy laugh against his hand. “Look, I’m not gonna--if you get up right now, I won’t tell anyone, and I won’t--hit you, or anything. If you wanna be there, that’s--that’s good too. But. I won’t tell anyone.”
Billy shook his head, trying to get away from Steve’s hand over his mouth--since Steve hadn’t moved when he licked it--and Steve lowered it, narrowing his eyes. Billy cleared his throat. “What’s the point, then?”
Steve flailed his free hand. “It was your idea!”
“I like women,” Billy bared his teeth, “--you’re just gonna shut your eyes anyway.”
“What, you want me to stare at you?” Steve pressed his licked thumb to Billy’s lower lip. He’d tasted like cigarettes and chocolate.
“I don’t fucking want anything.” Billy let his eyes slide closed, pressing his face into the seam of Steve’s jeans. “Neither of us are fucking...queers.”
Steve wondered, in passing, whether he wanted more of a sexual buffet table than he’d suspected. It makes sense, he thought, one hand in Billy’s hair, the other satisfying various curiosities about Billy’s ear piercing, the texture of his stubble, and the heat coming up in his cheeks. Nobody wants the same thing forever, right? He leaned in again, kissing Billy Hargrove, and huffing a laugh of disbelief. Billy flinched back, eyes blinking wide.
“You gotta lay off the little shitheads,” Steve remembered to say, pulling back. Billy’s mouth quirked, and Steve kissed it again, tugging at Billy’s lower lip and its edge of stubble with his teeth. Billy moaned into his mouth, and Steve grabbed the collar of his jacket, pulling him closer--not that there was much closer for him to be.
“I don’t give a shit about them,” Billy panted against his mouth.
“I ended up with them somehow, you need to be...okay with them, if you can be nice to people without...taking your pants off,” Steve pressed lightly on Billy’s unbruised cheek with his thumb, and Billy obediently opened his mouth. He still tasted better than Steve would have expected, his mouth warm and smoky, and his body ever more pliable as Steve held him firmly by the hair.
“Being nice right now,” Billy whispered back, and Steve snorted, pulling him into another kiss. The left side of Billy’s mouth tasted coppery, and his soft groan turned into more of a pained whine, but he slid his arms around Steve’s neck to stop him from pulling away.
“God,” Steve tucked his face against Billy’s other cheek, breathing him in, “--you--you gotta promise, though. If you’re about to lose your shit at a kid, walk away.”
“I wouldn’t really,” Billy laughed, pulling his arms back to fumble at Steve’s pants. Steve grabbed his hands.
“Billy.”
“I won’t,” he shoved away to stomp over against the wall, “--the hell is this, Harrington, some kinda trap. Fuck you.”
“Nooooo,” Steve said slowly, feeling whiplash, “--that was…” He felt his cheeks flush. “That was good. You should come back over here.”
“Why the hell would I.” Billy rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck menacingly, but wandered a few feet closer. “What if one of your spawn calls the sheriff. He’ll show up and shoot me in the head.”
“Oh! I called him,” Steve blinked, “--while you were in the shower--” he cut off at Billy’s soft choking noise.
“He’s not here, what, he’s just waiting for me at home, then--” His voice had gone high and wet.
“What?”
“He’s gonna know, Harrington, he’s gonna--god, fuck you, he’s gonna nail me to a fucking fence--” He scrambled over to reach for the bat, and Steve put all his basketball lessons in interference into preventing him from reaching it, finally hugging Billy’s arms to his body.
“Sshhhh,” he tried, unable to think of anything else. “Shhh, Billy. I called Hopper. I told him your dad was a liar. I told him we watched Star Wars. He’s not coming. He’s not telling your dad.”
“Fuck you--” Billy’s voice shook.
Steve rocked them back and forth, hugging him tighter, and Billy snorted into his shoulder. “Lemme go.”
“Not sure I should,” Steve breathed against his neck.
“This is so gay,” Billy groaned.
“I think we’re both maybe half gay, though.” Steve loosened his grip, sliding his hand up to stroke his thumb against the base of Billy’s skull, and Billy shuddered, snorting a laugh.
“Fags come in fractions?”
“Maybe.”
Billy took a deep breath, tickling Steve’s ear. “...maybe you’re a moron.”
Steve slid his other hand under the denim jacket and old sweatshirt, running the flat of his hand up and down Billy’s back.
“Maybe,” Billy whispered in his ear.
(I think Tumblr ate my first three chapter posts, so I’m redoing them?!) Strangest chapter 1/chapter 2/chapter 3/chapter 4/chapter 5/chapter 6/chapter 7/chapter 8/chapter 9/chapter 10/ But really I’d recommend reading it on Ao3 under peterqpan, scrolling through it on Tumblr sounds crazymaking
