Bartender Billy strikes up a conversation with a cute patron—an eccentric artist named Steve. He tells Billy his beauty inspires him and that he’d like to paint him, so Steve invites Billy over to his apartment.
Billy has no idea that Steve’s "passion project" is a messy, fetish fantasy.
M is for Mess Fetish (Enjoying the mess created by sexual fluids. They may use the fluids as lubes, to drink, to “paint” on their partner’s body.)
This is the 13th fic in my Harringrove Kinktober ABCs
A series of 26 unrelated ficlets about Billy and Steve, each one written for a kink that starts with every letter of the alphabet.
@harringrovekinktober
A young man, likely in his mid 20’s walked in with a smile and energy that could light up the room—even a dimly lit bar like Billy’s.
“Hey there!” He greeted Billy as he sat on a bar stool, swiveling from side to side. “Nice bar you’ve got here.”
“Thanks. What can I get you?”
“Hm…maybe a whiskey? I just sold a piece that took me a year to finish, so I’m kinda celebrating.”
“Congratulations.” Billy smiled. “You an artist or something?”
“Or something.” The artist laughed. “I’m more of a hobbyist who got into art by accident and learned that this shit kinda works for me. Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do, I just didn’t think anyone else would.”
“Got any samples?” Billy curiously asked as he poured his drink.
“Sure.” He took out his phone and showed Billy a photo of his gallery.
“You did all that?” Billy raised his brows, impressed. “You’re damn good.”
“Thank you. I-I really appreciate that.” He sipped his drink.
“So why’re you celebrating all alone?”
“Ah, my best friend’s away on her honeymoon. Usually we’d go to dinner or something nice after I make a big sale but…I’m all by myself.”
“Not completely. You’ve got me.” Billy winked.
“That certainly counts for something. So what’s your story, Mr. Bartender?”
“It’s Billy. I’m a bartender by night and lifeguard by day.”
“A lifeguard, huh? Makes sense.”
“Does it? Why’s that?”
“Your physique. I was about to ask if you were a model.”
Billy laughed, bashfully turning his head away. “No, I’m not a model. Never considered it, honestly.”
“No? You’re gorgeous, though. I’d love to paint you.”
“Paint me?” Billy echoed in surprise.
“You could be my muse. I’d love for you to be the subject of a passion project of mine.”
Billy had been flattered before, but never admired in such a way that he’d be seen as art. The thought thrilled him.
Billy shrugged. “Fuck it. Let’s do it.”
“Great!” He handed Billy a card. “Text me when you’re free and you can come by my studio—which is...also my apartment.” He nervously chuckled. “Hope that’s okay.”
Billy grinned. “In this economy? It’s fine…” He read the name on the card. “Steve.”
My entry for Day 24 of the HarringroveApril challenge
Afterlife
According to the articles, Billy was declared dead on the 4th July.
According to the letter Max intercepts, he's declared officially alive again by the 4th August.
In January 1986, Billy Hargrove is declared missing. He never turned up at the halfway house.
Never took up Joyce's offer of a spare room.
Instead he just vanished. Disappeared.
And Steve hates him for it. Hates what he did to Max. How he left her just as she got him back. No note, no number to call. Just...gone.
Steve keeps an eye on her. Listens to her yell and scream and tell everyone who'd listen that Billy was in Cali. That's where he'd be heading. That if they set off now they could catch him.
And he’s tempted, so tempted to load her into the Beemer and drive away and spend months chasing a ghost.
But he doesn’t. Instead he convinces her to let him go. To try and understand. And he sees her go from fire to ash when the rage dies down. Sees her crumble.
And he burns with guilt and he seethes and he hates himself and he hates Billy.
But he gets it. Why Billy went.
When you've seen what Hawkins has, what it's hiding, why not run? Take the first chance to move away and move on and start a new life. Steve can’t say he’s not thought about it.
But he's always had something to stay for.
But then it's been a year. Robin leaves for college, and the kids have found their niches at high school. Even Max is getting better. They don’t need him anymore. And Steve realises he's spent damn near every evening drinking red wine with his Mom and shouting at Dynasty.
Well then.
Maybe it's time for him to move on too.
He drives. Finds himself heading west. Just like he told Max he wouldn’t. He tells himself he's not looking for Billy. He's not following breadcrumbs. He's just getting out. Moving on. As far as he can go.
But even though he's not looking, Steve finds him. Some might call it fate. Meant to be. Not Steve. But. Some might.
It's the cocktail menu that does it. Steve's glancing over it, something to read while he waits for his food, when a couple of the names catch his eye.
Mind Flayer, Demogorgon, Upside Down.
His stomach churns, drops to his feet like he’s lurched over the top over a rollercoaster. He goes cold all over. And then hot. Too hot. Sweat prickling at the back of his neck.
He tries to think logically. Rationally.
The kids named all the Hawkins shit after their dumb little game. And they're good names. Cool sounding. So it's not unthinkable that some other nerd opened up a bar, hell, maybe it's a damn franchise tied-in with the game. Maybe the whole place is saturated with other references Steve doesn't get.
But he has to know.
He comes back that night. The place has a different vibe after dark. A lot different.
And there he is.
Billy.
Longer hair now, and the scruff of a beard clouding his chin. Combined with the lines around his eyes, he looks older. But he’s smiling, chatting with some guy dressed in tight leather pants and nothing else, tipping brightly coloured bottles out into tiny shot glasses and lining them up for other, equally leather-clad men, to drink.
Steve thinks about turning round. About walking straight back out. But he thinks of Max's distraught face. Of how she didn't eat. Didn't sleep. How he picked her up off the side of the road more than a couple of times, her thumb sticking out and her self-preservation all lost under the wave of grief, and t he rage carries him forward. Propels him right over the threshold and over the sticky floor until he's only a few paces away from the bar, almost there. But there's a crowd. More men. All men.
Steve takes advantage of the cluster of bodies to hide from sight and take a moment to watch Billy work.
He's beaming, talking animatedly and doing some fancy flippy manoeuvre with the cocktail shaker as he pours a brightly coloured drink into a tall glass, topping it off with a bright red cherry.
And then the guy picks up the cherry. Holds it out, between a finger and thumb, and Steve can’t help the gasp that escapes as Billy leans forward with a flirty wink and takes it right into his mouth, tongue brushing the guy's thumb before he pulls back and swallows the cherry right down.
The guy doesn’t even look at his drink. Instead he beckons Billy closer again, whispering right into his ear, and whatever he says has Billy laughing, a proper laugh loud enough to hear over the music playing and the growing hubbub of the crowd.
Steve's shocked by it. Not just the...act, but by how happy Billy looks, so much lighter and freer than he'd ever seemed in Hawkins. At ease. No trace of the anger or the frantic energy thrumming through his veins, so potent that it had seemed like electricity. How the smile doesn’t drop when FlirtyBoy moves away. How it’s not an act. And he's so lost in thought that he doesn't even notice when the space between him and Billy opens up, no more crowd to hide him.
But Billy does.
"Shit!" There's a crash as he drops the glass he was holding, but he doesn’t even move to clear it up, his eyes locked ahead, locked on Steve, "Harrington?" He turns, about to walk around the bar, but Steve moves faster. He’s not prepared for Billy out in the open, wants to keep some kind of barrier between them for as long as he can.
“Yeah, it’s me.” Echoes of before. And Steve cuts himself off before he can finish the remark. It doesn’t seem right. Not here.
But Billy just looks panicked, more worried, "What are you-? Is Max OK?"
Now he cares. And that has Steve’s blood boiling,"You mean after you left her? Just vanished. Not a word. Left her to grieve for you twice?”
Steve’s done. He was an idiot to come here. Doing exactly what he tried to protect Max from. He turns to go, but can’t resist the parting shot, “You know what, Hargrove, she's actually doing damn well. No thanks to you."
There’s a beat of silence. So loud it seems to swallow the sounds around them. And then Billy breaks it, "I had to get out,” his voice is small. Quiet. Tinged with regret.
"Without a goodbye?” Steve crosses his arms, takes a step backwards.
"She woulda...I couldn’t have left if I'd seen her, Steve. If she asked. And she woulda-"
A high pitched whistle distracts him, some too-tanned guy in tight shorts down the other end of the bar waving a wad of notes in the air.
Billy cringes, "Shit, I gotta go. But I can go on break in...ten? And then I’ll explain. Let me...let me explain. Please.”
It’s the please that does it. Soft. Actually pleading. So unlike Billy. And Steve’s waited damn near a year. He can wait ten more minutes.
Billy's true to his word about the time at least. Twelve minutes later, Steve's standing outside, by the propped open back exit, a cigarette in his hand and a head reeling with questions.
He decides to start with the most recent.
"You're a bartender then?"
Billy snorts, gesturing around, "No Steve, I'm a fucking...doctor. This is just a hobby."
Steve shakes his head at Billy's patronising tone, "Alright, asshole You could be, I dunno, a college student or something. You were smart enough."
"Whatddya mean?" Billy stares at Steve intently, and Steve shuffles his feet, staring down as he toes a line in the dust with his Chucks, "I, uh, I helped Max pack away your things. When, y'know...when your Dad wanted to…it doesn't matter. Anyway. I saw your books. Your essays. Your grades. Dude you were...you were smart ."
"Still am," Billy says smugly, "But, yeah, never exactly graduated high school. Not officially.”
There's an awkward silence, but Billy just shrugs, “‘s fine. Ally, the, uh, the dude who owns it, he’s training me up. Got me as practically a manager now. We’re gonna redesign the whole place. New name, new scene, whole new menu. Gonna be...yeah. Gonna be totally radical.”
Steve grins at the phrase, and the way it rolls off Billy’s tongue so easily. And it all leads him so nicely onto the question he’s been wanting to ask since he saw them, "So, the cocktails?"
Billy's laugh is quiet, but real, "Oh that. That's my way of...dealing with it, I guess. Owning it. All those fucking things that Max tried to explain. The things that ruined my life. I wanted to make them into something. Something else. Plus, they're good names. Seems a shame to let 'em go to waste.” He reaches over and plucks the cigarette from Steve's hands,”Named one after her. Max. ‘The Brat’. Tastes like fucking candy and got more sugar than alcohol but...yeah. Bestseller.”
He takes another drag of the cigarette, and his voice drops even lower so that Steve has to lean in to hear him, "I even named one after you, y'know."
"Yeah?" Steve tries not to let it show, the way his chest feels tight at that, and there’s a pleasant fluttering in his stomach. Instead he stares at the cigarette in Billy's mouth. Doesn't even try to take it back. Just watches the plume that Billy exhales.
"Yeah. ‘The Harrington’. It's whiskey. The top shelf stuff. And...Creme de Peche...sweet peach shit."
"I didn't see it on the menu," Steve manages, but it comes out strained.
"Nah, had to take it off. No one ever ordered it," Billy sighs, a little wistfully, or maybe Steve's just projecting, "It was expensive. Complex flavours. And, uh, it was made for savouring."
Steve wants to say something, to ask Billy if he’ll make it again. Make it for him, but Billy’s already waving back through the door and shrugging, "Not really what this crowd's after. They want whatever gets them wasted quickest. Shots, mostly. Or something bright pink and covered with fruit. Something that looks as colourful coming back up as going down," he shakes his head, "Not exactly the classy joint I thought I’d be running."
Steve huffs out a laugh, "It’s a good place, Billy.” He remembers the name, “Val's Hall? That mean something?”
"Val was the guy who owned it originally. Way way back in the 20s I think. Used to be some fancy-ass dance hall. But, uh, it's Valhalla now. Well it will be. Got the new sign on order."
The name rings a bell, and Steve thinks for a moment, "That's, what, like Viking Heaven? Or something."
"Pretty much," Billy nods, “It seemed. I dunno. Fitting. A place to eat, drink and be merry. After, y’know, fighting with all….all the real life shit.”
The sudden tiredness in his voice, the weight of it all, hits Steve hard. He gets it even more then. How much Billy’s been fighting. Not only the Mindflayer but...everything. And how he needed something. Somewhere. To be himself. A whole new life. Yeah. Steve gets that.
There’s a silence again. Less awkward this time, and Billy stubs out his cigarette. Lights up a new one and passes it over to Steve, "I can't imagine this is your scene though," he shrugs.
"Nah, not exactly. Can't say I'm a fan of ABBA-" Steve smirks, pausing for a moment as the tell-tale opening of Dancing Queen floats through the open door, "But maybe there are some parts of it I'm kinda into."
It's the closest he's come to admitting it. To saying out loud what he’s been thinking about for a year. More, if he's honest. Trying to figure it out for himself. And his heart speeds up as soon as it passes his lips. Part fear but also excitement. Joy. A giddiness at feeling free enough to say it.
Oh yeah. He gets why Billy wanted to leave. Needed to.
When he looks back, Billy’s staring at him, an unreadable expression on his face. Steve waits.
"Well now I know that's bullshit," Billy’s shaking his head, and Steve's mood instantly sours, eyes turning hard as he prepares to defend himself. But then Billy's grinning, teasing, "Cause everyone loves ABBA."
The relief flooding through Steve leaves him shaking, and Billy seems to get it, because he nudges his elbow against Steve’s and Steve nudges back, leaving their arms pressed together,
"Even you?" he asks, teasing back, but Billy seems genuine when he nods,
"Especially me. Who'd'ya think puts together the playlists?”
They both laugh then. Too loud and high, both trying too hard, but it helps. What little tension had grown diffuses, and then Billy's turning to face Steve, moving close enough that their hands brush. Neither of them pull away.
“Hey, uh, I dunno what you’re planning on doing. If you want to stay," Billy's looking right at Steve, tongue running over his lips, but his eyes keep flicking away, like he can't quite dare to meet Steve's gaze, like he's already anticipating an answer he doesn't want to hear, "But if you wanna-"
“You still got the peach shit?” Billy looks bemused, but, for the first time, his eyes stay focused on Steve's. Bright and blue and tinged with hope as Steve continues, “You owe me an explanation. And Max an apology-”
“I know,” Billy closes his eyes at that, but Steve sees them flood with disappointment first, “Shit, Harrington. I know but I-”
“Tomorrow.” Steve cuts him off, “Tomorrow I’m coming back in, OK? And you’re gonna make us both a ‘Harrington’ and we’re gonna savour it and we’re gonna talk. Properly.”
Billy nods, mouth set in a straight line, eyes open but staring down at his feet.
Steve presses a finger to Billy's chin, tilts it until he's looking up again, “But not now,” Steve drops his voice, practically a purr, “Not tonight. Tonight you’re gonna make me something bright pink and covered with fruit and I’m gonna get wasted. Might not even find my way back to my hotel room. Might end up crashing out in the bar. Might need some kind, considerate, hot bartender-slash-manager to find me a place for the night.”
He leans in even closer, breath ghosting over Billy’s lips,
“So won’t you stay for a moment?”
“Why should I stay with you..?”
“Because... I’ll pull on your heart strings.”
If someone would’ve told Steve that his band, A Stranger’s Mind, would be taking off into the world of music - he would’ve downright laughed in your face and told you to “piss off.” But, when his band and he find themselves reaching Top Charts, they grow excited… However, with money tight, they seek out new gigs and bars to play at, so what happens when A Stranger’s Minds’ guitarist finds a bartender looking for a life that’s a little more… In tune?
Find out in Stuck On A Heart String.
________
“So, tell me again why you’re taking OUR band all the way to Los Angeles WITHOUT consulting anyone first!?” Dustin grumbled, watching as Steve finished packing the last of the equipment with a sigh.
“Dust, come on! Trevor got us a few good gigs at some bars there, and besides,” he paused, slamming shut the small traveler van with a huff. “Money is really tight right now, so we could use the cash.”
“Okay? But I don’t see why none of us can come.”
“Do you really believe any of the party’s parents would let them travel with me across the states to go to a few bars?”
Dustin grew silent, slumping against his usual lawnchair with his bottom lip jutted out. Steve sighed, pushing off of the double doors and moving to sit next to his little buddy, shouldering him as the young boy glanced at him, a few unushered tears settling on his waterline.
“Hey, I’m doing this for us, okay? I’ll come back, it’ll… It’ll just a little while, okay?” Steve murmured, reaching out and patting Dustin’s shoulder while he stared at him, frowning slightly before sighing.
“Yeah, yeah, okay… You better bring something awesome home.” He scoffed, reaching up and tugging down the brim of the teens’ hat, grinning as a few curses flew from his lips.
“Hey, language,”
“Oh, tell it to my dick,” he shouldering Steve’s stomach, making him grumble before shoving the young boy forward. “Where is everyone? I thought you were supposed to leave like an hour ago?” Steve rolled his eyes, fishing out his phone and glanced at the clock, 2:30… Trevor, Steve, Austin, and Tommy were supposed to leave by noon.
“Hell if I know, maybe they’re drunk or something.”
“That’s comforting to know you’re taking a bunch of drunk assholes with you to California.”
“Okay, hey, those assholes are still part of this band.” Steve sighed, standing from the squatted position and moving towards the mini-fridge, snatching a Coors and cracking it open. “And like I said before, I’ll send you guys updates after every show and I’ve already talked to Will, he said he would ask Johnathan to help live stream us.”
Dustin eyed him, his brow cocked and lips pressed into a thin line. “You do realize you shouldn’t be drinking two in the afternoon, right? Especially since you’ll be at multiple bars once you get to California - by the way, why’d you choose Cali, anyway?” Dustin reached over, grabbing his Dr. Pepper from the speakers’ top, sipping at it as Steve grimaced, shrugging one of his shoulders.
“I didn’t choose Cali, it was Valentine’s choice,”
“You seriously let Trevor pick where you were taking your - scratch that - our band. All the way to California when you could’ve picked somewhere else?”
Steve sighed, fighting back the urge to roll his eyes while grabbing his acoustic guitar, tuning the strings with a few plucks before gently strumming at them, somewhat drowning out Dustin’s angry comebacks. The melody flowed from the instrument, Steve’s gentle humming adding as he thumbed the nimble lines, not flinching at the small pricks that stab into his pad. Stretching out his legs, he continued to strum when the sound of screeching tires came from the road outside of Steve’s small home.
“And que the assholes,” Dustin sighed, pushing up from the lawn chair as Steve rolled his eyes, yet he was grinning, before allowing the instrument quieted. Trevor, Tommy, and Austin came barreling into the garage, making Steve arch a brow at his bandmates who all paused at the sight of him lounging on his stool, a Coors cracked open next to him and his guitar in hand.
“Jam sess’ without us? That hurts, Steven,” Austin snorted, moving close and patting his shoulder and squeezing it while grabbing the open beer. “Wouldn’t have had to have one if you all would’ve got here on time,” he shot back, snatching the beer away from his friend, a few slipping past the two boys' hands, glaring daggers.
“But, yes, I’m so sorry it hurts your pride.” He grumbled, practically chugging the last bit of the beer before setting his guitar on the stand gently and standing. “Where the hell have you all been anyway!? We were supposed to leave hours ago-”
“Chill it, King Steve,” Tommy sighed, grabbing his own beverage before cracking it open like an ape. “We’ll get on the road when we’re good and ready.” He shrugged, glancing over at Dustin, who was typing away at his laptop, most likely adding updates to ‘A Stranger’s Mind’ webpage, social media, and their groupie page.
“Dusty! Long time, no see.” Tommy cackled as Dustin glanced up, holding his nonimpressed look before going back to his laptop.
“Leave him alone, Hagan, we need to go NOW. Our first show is supposed to be at 8 tomorrow night, and it’s a fucking 32-hour drive!” Steve deadpanned, standing in front of Dustin’s laptop stand, somewhat protecting him from any more pokes from Tommy.
“Yeah, Steve’s not wrong… We all have to drive cause I’m not going to force Steve and me to drive the entire way while you and Trevor get your beauty rest.” Austin quipped, standing next to Steve who nodded once, thanking him.
Tommy rolled his eyes, waving Steve and Austin off before marching towards the van, leaving all of them standing there, eyeing it. “Somethings up with him… And I don’t like it.” Trevor frowned as the other two nodded, sighing.
“Whatever it is, he better get over it because we’ve got a long trip ahead of us,” Steve sighed, crossing his arms over his chest before turning towards Dustin. “Everything updated?”
“All set - a lot of people are saying they’re pumped for you to be coming to their city, so, have fun and post videos and photos, got it? I can’t run this thing by myself.”
“You got it, Dusty bun!” Trevor called over his shoulder Austin and he walked towards the van as Steve snickered, grabbing his acoustic guitar before following them.
“Hey, I’ll see you on the flip side?” Steve grinned as Dustin smiled back, flipping him off as Steve did it back, shaking his head gently. So much for good influence.
“Trevor said he’ll drive first, I took back and so did Tommy, so you get shotgun.”
“Good, it’s my van and we need to figure out what songs we’re singing so we can get set up when we get there.” Steve chewed on his usual ballpoint pen, making small smudges and notes in his notebook that contained all of his songs - it was a bit awkward to have it out, as the others rarely got to look into it.
“We’ll figure it out, King Steve, now blast some tunes and let’s goooooo!” Tommy shouted, reaching forward and blaring the radio, making the others flinch before Steve’s hand shot out and turned it down, making Hagan grumble. Jesus… This is going to be a looooong trip.
__________
So, nothing much happened, but I just wanted to establish the band ethics and let you guys get to know everything first!!
I hope you do enjoy this little AU and you’re excited about the next chapter!
