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skin (and everything underneath)

“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

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