𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕 [𝒗𝒊𝒊.]
⊹ ࣪ ˖ summary: "You treat people like projects. Fix this, fix that, fix them. And the second they don’t work the way you want? You write them off as faulty parts.”
⊹ ࣪ ˖ pairing: billy hargrove x f!reader
⊹ ࣪ ˖ wc: 13.2k
⊹ ࣪ ˖ warnings: none this time.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes: longest chapter but it needs to do a LOT of groundwork for the big Halloween chapter next week heh. I hope you enjoy this chapter, there's a lot that happens. And, as always, massive thank you to every single one of you who likes, reblogs and especially comments/messages me about this series, it makes me so happy!
read on ao3. ⊹ series masterlist.
The following day, you avoid the cafeteria entirely.
Eddie follows you behind the school to your old smoking ground, bumping your shoulder to check in with you in his typical, Eddie way. An entire conversation exchanged in a single point of contact, the way it’s always been between you. You haven’t spoken about what transpired after the band practice. Eddie knows it’s been bothering you, because Eddie always knows. Because there was cruelty in what you said, and how deliberately you said it, knowing it would cut, knowing it would break something.
You used his father against him.
Threw Neil Hargrove in Billy’s face like a weapon, like you had any right to touch that wound. And maybe he was being an asshole, maybe he made threats towards Eddie, but it doesn’t change the fact that you had no right to stoop so low.
Fuck both of you.
“You okay, sweetheart?” Eddie murmurs, dropping his arm around you, heavy and comforting and him.
You stare at your meagre lunch, and rest your cheek against Eddie’s shoulder for a moment, just the one. You’ve built so many walls around yourself over the years. One brick at a time for every time you’ve run into casual cruelty of your existence (poor, a woman, smart in a way that makes men feel inadequate), and it’s only with him and a few others that you allow yourself to be soft, if only for a moment.
“Fine,” you reply distantly, pressing closer for a breath. “Just—fine.”
You’re not fine, and you both know it.
. . .
Tuesday, you glimpse Billy in the hallway between third and fourth period.
He’s got Tina Morrison pressed against the lockers, hand braced above her head, leaning in close enough that their mouths are almost touching. She’s giggling at whatever he’s saying, twirling her hair, and Billy is smiling with his teeth but not his eyes. You hate the fact that you recognise the difference now.
You force yourself to keep walking. Force yourself not to look or linger, or give him any indication you’re watching. But you feel his attention snap to you like a rubber band pulled taut. Feel the weight of his gaze tracking your movement down the hallway, heavy and deliberate, a physical touch between your shoulder blades.
You don’t turn around.
In calculus, he shows up fifteen minutes late, his hair mussed and his collar skewed. Doesn’t look at you once as he swaggers across the classroom, all eyes on him. Just sprawls on his chair in the back row and stares out the window like he’s planning his escape route in his head.
There’s a new bruise on his knuckles when his skin catches sunlight. Fresh. Purple spreading across the ridge of bone and tendon.
You wonder who he hit. Wonder if it helped. Wonder if anything helps when you’re Billy Hargrove and your Neil’s voice lives in your head.
Mr Martinez calls on you to solve a problem on the board. You stand, move to the front on automatic, and as you’re writing out the equation, you feel it—that prickle at the base of your skull that means someone’s watching. No, not just someone.
You glance over your shoulder.
It’s him, of course, because it’s always him. Billy is looking at you, sprawled back into his seat, the chain around his throat winking in the afternoon light. His eyes are flat, empty, and when you meet his gaze head-on, he doesn’t look away. Just holds it, unblinking, until you’re the one who breaks first, something like shame curdling inside your chest, strange and unfamiliar.
Your hand trembles as you finish the equation.
“Correct,” Mr Martinez calls, but you barely hear him over the buzzing in your ears.
You return to your seat with your pulse throbbing in your throat.
By Wednesday, everyone is talking about the party at Tina’s and, even more importantly, the Halloween bash next week.
You cut through the hallways like a minefield, ignoring the bodies and the noise. You’ve been good; work, scholarships and grants, helping Eddie with his homework, ignoring the unspoken weight between you.
Billy hasn’t so much as spoken a word to you, and a part of you is glad, while another part keeps you awake late into the night, staring at your ceiling, mulling over your words. How easy it was to reach for something you knew would hurt him.
You sigh, lift your eyes from the floor, and stop dead in your tracks.
Billy is half-leaning, half-slamming his weight against the locker beside yours, one hand flat on the dented metal, the other braced on his hip. His head tips back, laughter spilling out of him in a rough, deep spill that makes several girls down the hall turn reflexively towards the sound.
There’s a girl under his arm. Blonde. Cheerleader skirt, perfect hair, lip gloss that catches the fluorescent light. She’s laughing too, high and breathy, one hand pressed to his chest like she’s trying to keep herself upright.
Your stomach does something unpleasant.
You’ve seen her before. In the halls, at games you showed up to only for Eddie—on those rare occasions you went at all—holding pompoms and cheering loudly. She’s not mean, as far as you’ve seen, not the way some of the others have been, treating you like a stain, a freak. She’s just… one of them. The ones who know precisely how to move through this world: eyes forward, lip gloss perfect, never bumping into the edges, an ease to her life you’ve always envied rather than resented. But it feels, oddly enough, like a slap to the face to see them together near your space. Because of course this is the type of girl Billy goes for, he’s been consistent if nothing else, and you’re just…
A stain.
“—you’re terrible,” she giggles, swatting at his arm.
“I know,” Billy drawls, sounding delighted, a devilish grin tugging upwards. “That’s why you like me.”
“I never said I liked you,” she argues, but it’s a weak, unconvincing statement, and Billy knows it, too.
“No?” he poses lightly, dipping his head closer in that cocky, confident way. “Could’ve fooled me Friday night.”
Your eyes flicker down her neck before you can stop yourself. And there it is—a faint bruise at the curve, half-hidden by her glossy hair. His handiwork.
You slam your locker door a little harder than you strictly need to. They both look over at you due to the proximity of the sound. For a split second, his expression does something strange when he recognises you—surprise, then something else, darker and hotter, predatory around the edges.
Then the mask slides back, his eyes narrowing.
“Oh, hey,” he says as if you’ve just wandered into his living room. “Didn’t see you there, grease monkey.”
You arch an eyebrow. “You’re shouting. The entire hallway sees you, Hargrove.”
His jaw pulses, once, gaze darkening further, growing more stormy by the minute as he drags his eyes over your features. Perhaps because he was expecting this conversation to go differently, but your tongue won’t obey, and you’re not sure how to backtrack on what you said to him that night outside of Gareth’s place. And another, smaller part of you is unsure whether he deserves an apology, given everything he’s said and done since getting to Hawkins. To you, to Max, to others.
The girl under his arm looks between you, evaluation flashing in her eyes. She’s pretty in that effortless, catalogue way. Blue eyes, small button nose, hair glossy and smooth in the overhead light.
“Hi,” she says, a little uncertain. “Do you… need the locker?”
“No,” you reply, briefly flicking your attention towards her. “Already got my stuff. You’re fine.”
“Oh. Okay.” She smiles, tentative but surprisingly sincere. “I’m Jessica. Jess for short.”
You know who she is. Everyone in Hawkins knows who Chrissy Cunningham’s best friend is. The two best cheerleaders at Hawkins High, beautiful and intelligent, both from good families.
You give her a shallow nod. “Yeah. I’ve seen you around.”
“You’re the mechanic girl, right?” she asks, recognition sparking. “You fixed my dad’s car last fall. And for a lot cheaper.”
“That’s me. Cheap labour.”
“That’s really cool,” she says, and you can tell she actually means it, not just performing. “Thanks again. It’s running great.”
Something in your chest eases a fraction, defences folding back an inch or two. Billy’s eyes flick between you and Jess, like he’s watching a tennis match.
“Look at you, grease monkey,” he huffs, amused, but there’s something edged in meaness about how he rolls his words. “Making friends.”
You adjust your weight, cutting a brief look at him, then force your gaze away. “I have friends.”
“Sure you do,” he begins, and there’s something soft and cruel about his tone. He’s looking for a fight, you realise, nothing about your last interaction has left his mind. “Little brats and a local freak—”
“Don’t talk about Eddie like that,” you snap automatically, fire flushing through your system.
Your gazes clash, and he grins, teeth on display. It’s his victory, you realise angrily, he’s forced you to meet him toe to toe again. “Jealous?”
The look you shoot him is withering at best, the air between you pulling taut, prickly with heat.
You’re not running because you like this.
The urge to prove him wrong, to shut out his voice from your head, wins out, working your tongue before you can pull the words back. “Of what? Your ability to turn any girl in a ten-foot radius into a cautionary tale?”
Jessica’s confused little smile falters. You see it, feel it, the way her fingers curl tighter on the strap of her bag as if holding on means she can brace for what’s coming.
“Hey,” Billy begins, but there’s no gravity in his voice, no incredulous anger on Jess’s behalf. You think, deep down, that he enjoys this, seeing you throwing back the same viciousness he can. “Be nice.”
You snort. “That’s a bit rich, coming from you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jess whispers, frowning faintly as she tracks the tension between you two.
You hesitate, your tongue frozen behind your teeth. In truth, you don’t know her. She’s not your friend. She’s just some girl with perfect hair who picked the worst possible guy to hang out with. That’s on her, not on you. Not your business, not your headache. And yet…
You could let it go.
You don’t.
“It means,” you begin deliberately, levelling your gaze on her, “he goes through girls like cigarettes. Enjoy the attention now, because once he’s bored, you’re just another stomped-out butt in the parking lot.”
Her face flushes red. “Excuse me?”
Billy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Damn,” he murmurs under his breath.
“Don’t act like it’s not true,” you snap at him, nostrils flaring, hating the knowing, smug little curve of his mouth, as if you just proved something right. “We’ve all seen it. You show up, you turn on the charm, you drag them into your car or some sad corner of a party, and then you move on. Next name, same boring game.”
“That’s not—” Jess starts, then stops, gulping down a breath. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know him.” And it’s frightening how certain you sound, how Billy’s expression tenses, eyes blackening like he’s considering wrapping his hand around your jaw again, dragging you towards him until you’re sharing oxygen again. “And guys like him don’t suddenly become relationship material because you wear a bow in your hair.”
Her eyes flash. There’s no mistaking the hurt beneath the anger, and you immediately hate yourself a little. She straightens, shoulders pulling back, drawing away from Billy altogether. He doesn’t stop her.
“You’re just jealous,” she exhales, loud enough that several people around you look in your direction. “You’re jealous because he’s with me and not with some… grease-stained weirdo from the auto shop.”
“Ouch,” you say mildly. “There she is.”
“You don’t know what he’s like when it’s just us,” she pushes on, ignoring you. “He’s actually… he’s really… he’s nice.”
You risk a glance at Billy. He’s watching you with that familiar, intense stare. Not her. You. Something in your stomach twists, constricting painfully, leaving your skin tight and hot.
“I’m sure that’s what he wants you to think,” you say quietly, weakly.
“You think you’re so much better than everyone,” Jess scoffs, voice going shrill at the edges. “Like just because you work with cars and hang out with those kids and know big words, you get to judge everyone else.”
You’re not sure whether to laugh or cry. “I don’t think I’m better,” you articulate in such a painfully flat way, you hope she realises how ridiculous her assumption sounds. “I’m the resident freak, okay? I’m fully aware of my social standing. I just think I know how this ends. Spoiler: not well.”
Jess swallows, folding her arms over her chest. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” You shrug, conceding the fact. Sighing, you attempt to soften your expression. “Which is why I’m telling you to be careful, not to stop. You wanna keep hooking up with him, go for it. But understand it’s not because you’re special. It’s because you’re available.”
A couple of students whisper under their breath, exchanging looks, sensing drama. Your spine prickles, tension coiling tighter around you.
“Wow,” Jess says, eyes shining. “You must be really fun at parties.”
Humiliation burns your skin. “I don’t go to parties.”
“That explains a lot,” Billy mutters knowingly.
You glare at him. “Stay out of it.”
“You’re talking about me,” he replies boredly. “Kind of hard to.”
“That’s because you make it about you,” you snap, sucking in a breath, and it’s so much easier to do this with him. To argue, to fight, because you know which buttons to push, because you know he’ll push back. “You treat girls like… like they’re accessories. Something to hang off your arm until you get bored, then toss them aside. And everyone just goes along with it because you’re good-looking and you have a nice car. You’re not some bad boy, Hargrove, you’re just a bad person.”
The word “girls” comes out harder than you intended. Everything about your words slips out, knife-sharp, ready to tear and cut.
Jessica flinches; a small, troubled thing, shoulders slanting downward. Billy spins fully to face you, stalking a step towards you, a feral glint in those blue eyes. You try to ignore the way both your chests expand simultaneously, as if something has loosened between you now that you’re near each other again.
“And what?” Billy poses, his voice going quiet in that way that makes your pulse spike. “You want me to take them to church instead?”
“I want you to stop acting like they’re disposable,” you argue, breathing hard. “Like they don’t walk away from you feeling smaller than when they met you.”
Jess’s face goes paper-white, her mouth wobbling.
“Stop it,” she says suddenly. “Just stop.”
Your mouth snaps shut, your pulse deafening in your ears. Jess looks between the two of you, chest rising and falling too fast.
“You don’t get to talk about me like I’m not here.” She looks towards Billy, but he’s still glaring holes into your face, ignoring her. “You don’t get to talk about him like he’s some… some monster and I’m too stupid to see it. I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.
“Yes,” she shoots back fiercely. “And if he… if he doesn’t feel the same way about me as I do about him, that’s my business. Not yours.”
The word feel hangs in the air like smoke. You see Billy’s jaw clench, something about his expression cooling immediately.
“I didn’t say you’re stupid,” you say, a little softer. “I’m saying he’s… not good at this, with anyone. He doesn’t know how to be. He doesn’t care to learn. And you deserve someone who doesn’t have to unlearn treating you like trash.”
“Shut up.”
You look towards Billy. There’s a raw edge to his expression again, half-frozen, half-feral. The one from your drive when he backed you into your truck, the one outside Gareth’s house. The one that says you’ve hit something raw. Again.
Jessica notices too. You spot the way her hand curls into his jacket, like she’s not sure if she’s holding back from putting his hands on you or anchoring herself.
“What is wrong with you?” she asks you, her eyes narrowing. “Did he reject you or something? Is that why you’re so obsessed with what he does?”
You actually laugh at that. You can’t help it. The sound comes out sharper than you intend. Meaner, too. “He didn’t reject me. He wouldn’t know what to do with me if he tried.”
“Try me,” Billy snaps, no hesitation.
There’s a beat of silence. He looks like he regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth, but it’s too late. Jess’s face crumples, cracking around the edges. Her fingers jerk away from Billy’s jacket as if he burned her. But this is worse, so much worse. A breath scrapes down your throat when you suck it in, your eyes still locked.
“You’re disgusting,” she whispers, and the quiet devastation in her voice makes you wince.
“Hey,” he says, turning toward her. “Jess—”
“No,” she snaps, stepping back. “You are. And you—” she hisses at you, tears bright in her eyes, burning in a way that makes something cramp in your stomach, “—you’re cruel.”
She snatches her books out of her locker with shaking hands and slams it so hard the metal rings. Then she pushes past both of you and disappears into the stream of bodies, one hand up to her face. You stand there, the echo of the slam vibrating through your chest, ringing in your bones. The hallway noise rushes back in like coming up from underwater. Snatches of broken conversations. Laughter. A locker door slamming shut two rows down.
Billy turns on you. Right there, too close, physically in your space in a way that makes your skin tingle.
“What the hell is your problem?” he snarls, low and furious.
You blink, trying to process everything that’s just transpired. “My problem?”
“Yeah, your problem,” he repeats, more snarling this time, his head bowed towards you. “You see a girl smiling for five seconds, and you gotta come in and piss all over it?”
“You’re the one who said—”
“I know what I fucking said,” he snaps. “You think I don’t hear myself?”
“Funny,” you say, heat rising up your throat. “Because you sure act like you don’t.”
He steps in even closer, crowd tightening around you like you’re both generating your own gravity. You’re aware of people watching, pretending not to, the whispers, but breaking eye contact now would mean his victory.
“You’re such a fucking hypocrite,” he snarls, low and furious. “You stand there with your big brain and your big mouth, acting like you’re better than everyone. You treat people like projects. Fix this, fix that, fix them. And the second they don’t work the way you want? You write them off as faulty parts.”
Heat creeps up your throat, your glare clashing with his. “I see patterns. And I’m not gonna stand there and watch you chew up somebody who actually seems nice just because you’re bored.”
“Maybe she’s not bored,” he says. “Maybe she likes it.”
Something about the way he says she likes it lingers in your mind, the implication blatantly clear. You cross your arms over your chest. “Maybe she thinks you’re capable of more than this,” you reason, voice dropping. “Maybe she’s wrong.”
His eyes flicker.
There it is—the nerve.
“You really think I’m that bad?” he asks scornfully, a laugh caught in his throat. “That I just… what, go around ruining lives for fun?”
“I think you go around making sure no one gets close enough to see you,” you argue back, equally as scathingly. “So you treat people like crap before they have a chance to expect anything from you. That way, when you bail, you can tell yourself they’re better off.”
He scoffs, but it’s weak. “You’re projecting. Daddy bailed, so now you walk around with a chip on your shoulder.”
You don’t bother asking how he found out, if someone told him, but the words are barely out of his mouth before you go for his throat in return. “Or maybe you just like being like him.”
His hand moves so fast you barely see it. Billy slams his palm into the lockers next to your head, hard enough that the metal dents. Several people jump. Someone gasps. You don’t move an inch; no blink, no gasp, just steady, hard eye contact. Your heart rockets, though, beating so loud you fear he might hear it due to your sheer proximity, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing you shrink.
He’s inches from your face, breath hot, eyes wild. Your lips tingle where his breath fans over your skin.
“Don’t fucking talk about things you don’t know,” he hisses through his teeth. “Or next time I won’t just hit the locker.”
He peels his hand away from the metal with a screech of protest and takes a step back, raking a hand through his hair. He turns and strides down the hallway, shoulders tense, head high.
You lean back against the cool metal and let out a breath caught in your windpipe, dizzy from the rush inside your head. The dent next to your head stares back at you. You slide your fingers over it, almost a caress. The metal is warm to the touch. You should feel shaken, and you do, but not in the way you expect. Because under the adrenaline, under the anger, there’s this stubborn, stupid ache.
You hurt him. Again. You meant to hurt him because he hurts everyone else. To make him feel, just for a moment, what it’s like to be on the receiving end of it.
You also didn’t. It’s a tangle you can’t unravel properly. He brings out the worst in you, he’s an itch you can’t scratch, and yet…
His face springs to your mind, the split second before his hand flew free, the series of small decisions and their outcome. It would be so easy to hate him because he’s a hateful person, because he fucks up, because he uses people and treats them like shit. He could choose to be better, but he doesn’t. Maybe because it’s all he knows, maybe because this is easier. His pain isn’t an excuse, you know that.
You gather your books with hands that only shake a little and head to class.
. . .
After school, the shop feels more like home than your actual trailer.
The air is warm with the familiar mix of oil, rubber, and metal. The radio on the shelf keeps drifting between classic rock and static. The big bay door rest rolled halfway up, letting in a band of cool autumn air that smells faintly like wet leaves and something vaguely rotten.
You brace one knee on the bumper of a sedan, elbow deep in the engine, fingers slick with grease as you retighten stubborn bolts. Your shoulders protest, but your brain never does. You like this part—problems with clear causes, clear solutions, parts that either work or don’t. Machines you’re good at, excellent at, even.
If only people came with specs and wiring diagrams. If only you didn’t care about the damage your mouth can do. If only you could fold time back and choose less poisonous words.
You get the bolt finally, the wrench slipping just enough to bang your knuckles against metal.
“Shit.”
You suck the sting, shake out your hand, and grin despite yourself. Pain makes sense when you can see where it comes from, when the price for it is success.
“Everything alright back there?” Frank calls out from the office.
“Peachy,” you shout back.
You’re just leaning back from the hood when you hear it, a soft crunch of bike tyres on gravel. Your eyes skim towards the bay doors. A small figure on a bike slows to a stop just outside the concrete lip. The kid dismounts awkwardly, one foot hitting the ground before the other, hands wringing the handlebars like he’s reconsidering this whole endeavour now that he’s here.
Will Byers.
You recognise his rounded shoulders, the bowl-cut hair, the way he seems to fold in on himself like he’s practising taking up less space. You also recognise the hesitant half-wave he gives when he spots you looking.
“Hey,” he says, voice light but thin. “Uh. Is this a bad time?”
You wipe your hands on a rag and toss it onto the cart, searching for Mike or Dustin or even Lucas behind him, but it’s only Will, and after last year, the lonesome sight pings something like worry in your chest. “That depends. Did you bring snacks?”
His mouth twitches, eyes widening. “No?”
“Then yeah,” you say, mock-seriously. “Terrible time.”
His eyes bulge further before he catches the smile you can’t entirely hold back. He gives a huff of relieved laughter, visibly relaxing.
“Oh. Right. I forgot you do that.”
“Joke?”
“Say things like you hate everyone when you actually really like us,” he replies sheepishly, wandering a little closer, eyes scanning the tools with an endearing kind of awe. “Dustin insists he’s your favourite person in the world.”
“Bold assumption,” you muse, tracking the unsure way he lingers, not entirely committed to staying yet. “What did you need, Byers? You’re a bit far from Castle Byers.”
The way his shoulders twitch at the mention of his hideout makes you wince inwardly. After the horrors he’s been through last year, the word castle must burn like a brand.
“Sorry,” you mumble. “Habit.”
His feet shuffle, and you’re struck again by how small he is, even now, and your anger returns, fresh and hot. “It’s okay,” he whispers, avoiding your eyes.
You nod toward his bike to change the subject towards safer waters. “She holding up okay?”
He glances back at it like he’d forgotten it was there.
“Oh. Yeah. Mostly,” Will explains quietly. “Chain slipped earlier. But that’s not why I came.”
You lean back against the workbench, crossing your arms. “Alright. Lay it on me.”
He bites his lip, clearly rearranging thoughts in his head.
“Can I… hang out here for a bit?” he blurts finally. “Just… until my mom’s shift is over? Jonathan’s at work and… I don’t really wanna be at home alone right now.”
Something in your chest folds.
“Yeah,” you say immediately. “Of course. You don’t need a reason. You wanna sit, sit. You wanna help, help. Just don’t touch the welder unless I say so.”
His face loosens minutely. “Okay. Thank you.”
A pang goes through your heart at the shaky gratitude in his soft voice. You pat the stool near your bench instead, swallowing. “Parking spot for visiting royalty.”
Will climbs up, swinging his legs a little, eyes darting around the shop like there might be monsters hiding in the racks of tyres. You go back to the sedan, but not entirely. Your attention splits—half on the engine, half on the quiet shape perched on the stool.
“You wanna talk about it?” you ask casually. “Or just rest in mutual silence and pretend the world isn’t awful?”
He huffs. “The second one sounds really good, actually.”
“Done. Silence it is.”
The radio crackles through songs while you work. Will examines his surroundings with curious eyes, now a little looser, less sharp angles and trembling shoulders. You work quietly, falling back into your familiar rhythm, cycling through tools like they’re extensions of your hand. He watches you with a solemn sort of silence. If it were Dustin, he would be asking you a thousand questions right now, but Will has never been a loud audience, not even the few times he’s shown up alone. This feels different, though. Like something’s been fundamentally stripped from him since last November.
“Do you ever feel…” he starts, then stops.
He’s quiet for a second, but you don’t rush him, keeping your attention on the engine in front of you. You hear him pick at the edge of the stool, fingernails clicking softly against metal.
“I feel… wrong,” he exhales finally. Small voice, yet bigger than the shop.
You put the wrench down.
“Wrong how?” you ask quietly.
He shrugs, shoulders hunching. “Like… like everyone else got given a script, and I missed rehearsal. So I’m saying my lines too early or too late, or I don’t know them at all. And they—” he gestures vaguely toward the world outside “—can tell and they judge me for it.”
Your throat tightens.
“And also,” he adds, voice dropping, “there’s the… other stuff.”
You know what he means. The shadows. The Upside Down and its stain. The lab visits Joyce and Hopper barely talk about. The way his eyes go somewhere else sometimes, dark and far away.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “That’ll do it.”
“Kids at school think I’m weird,” he blurts out, as if now that the dam burst, he can’t stop. “They always did, but now it’s… worse. They look at me like…” He fumbles for words. “Like I’m freak. Or cursed. Or… crazy.”
You drop the hood of the sedan with a careful thump and turn to face him fully, leaning back on your hands against the bumper.
“You’re not crazy.”
He shoots you a look that’s halfway between sceptical and please.
“I’m not saying you’re not dealing with some serious supernatural nightmare bullshit,” you explain carefully. “Because you definitely are. But reacting to that? That’s not crazy.”
He lets out a breath, shoulders shaking a little. He shoots you a wide-eyed look, panic and desperation, small beacons lit with frantic need.
“Sometimes I just want to be… normal,” he whispers shakily. “But then that feels wrong too. Because if I were normal, I wouldn’t see things. I wouldn’t be able to help.”
“Exactly,” you say calmly.
He blinks, swallowing. “That’s not what everyone else says.”
You hum knowingly. “What do they say?”
He shrugs one shoulder, scrubbing jerkily across his face. “‘It’ll be okay.’ ‘It’s over now.’ ‘It’s all in your head.’”
You make a face. “Yeah, that last one’s my favourite. Like, no shit it’s in your head, Brenda.”
He snorts, surprised.
You soften your tone. “You know why they say that?”
“Because they don’t believe me?” he guesses.
“Maybe some of them.” You search his expression until he’s looking at you, making sure he takes in your following words. “But mostly I think it’s because they’re scared. The idea that what’s happening to you is real? That it could happen to them? That breaks their whole brain. So they try to shove you back into a box where everything makes sense—‘oh, he’ll get better, everything’s fine.’ It’s not fair to you. But it’s easier for them.”
Will’s eyebrows crease. “That’s… messed up.”
“People are messed up,” you say, nodding. “I diagnose them all the time.”
He studies you for a moment. “Do you feel like that?”
“Like the world is wrong?”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, a little shyer now. “You don’t… I mean you… You don’t seem like everyone else.”
A small snort escapes you. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was,” he says quickly.
You let your gaze drift over the shop. The stains on the concrete, the pegboard lined with tools, the calendar with a girl in a bikini leaning on a sports car that you keep threatening to take down.
“I’m a girl mechanic in a town that thinks women should only touch cars to wash them.” You swallow over the lump in your throat, sniffing once. “I’m poor. I’m smart in a place that doesn’t know what to do with smart without it becoming about a man. So yeah. I get it.”
The groove between Will’s brows deepens. “Do people… treat you differently?”
You huff. “You mean besides the customers who ask to ‘talk to the man in charge’ when I tell them what’s wrong with their cars?”
His eyes go wide. “They really do that? Still?”
“Weekly,” you confirm flatly. “Sometimes daily. Had a guy last month call me sweetheart three times and explain to me how the engine works while getting every single part wrong. I finally let him finish and then told him I’d put his air filter in his glove compartment if he didn’t shut up.”
Will laughs out loud—a real laugh, not the strained kind.
“What did he do?” he asks.
“Got red,” you say. “Left. Came back two days later when the car stalled out on the highway, like I said it would. Didn’t call me sweetheart that time.”
Will’s smile fades into something more thoughtful.
“But,” you continue, “being treated like I don’t belong? Like I must be confused about what I want? Yeah. That’s… constant.”
Something about that clearly hits close to home because he follows that up with, “How do you handle it?”
“Badly,” you admit. “Yell a lot. Get into arguments I shouldn’t. Say things that are too sharp.”
Your jaw remembers the pressure of Billy’s fingers. Your tongue remembers the taste of every nasty thing you hurled at Jess. At Billy. How easy it is to judge, to tear down because you’re so used to baring your teeth, to biting, so you won’t be hurt first.
You swallow again, a discomfort blooming inside your chest, alongside realisation you shouldn’t have done what you did.
“But sometimes,” you add more carefully, shaking off your spell, “I use it.”
“How?” Will asks curiously.
You dip your head in a nod, rubbing the edge of your thumb, oil sunk deep into the groves of your skin. “Everyone underestimates me. That’s their first mistake. They talk over me, so they don’t hear the part where I’m right. Then, when the car fails—or whatever metaphorical car they’re driving—I’m the only one who knows how to put it back together. That gives me leverage. Options. And someday, if I play it right? A way out.”
“A way out,” he echoes, more thoughtful.
“Yeah,” you say. “I wanna be an engineer. Or… something like that. Fix bigger things than transmissions. Design stuff that doesn’t break in the first place. But college costs money, and money costs time, and time is currently measured in overtime pay and how much sleep I can sacrifice without turning into a zombie.”
“You’d be a really good engineer,” he says, earnest in a way that punches clean through you.
“Tell the scholarship committee,” you choke out, but the warmth lands anyway, warming you from inside.
He hesitates, eyes dropping to the floor. “Do you… ever feel guilty for wanting to leave? Like you’re abandoning people?”
You think of your mom, asleep in her small bed with her back to the wall. You think of Dustin and Lucas and Max and Will himself. Of Eddie, his warmth all encompassing, his laugh thawing something cold and jagged inside you. You think of Hawkins, with its rotting underbelly and monsters both literal and metaphorical. That horrible, belly-deep sense that what happened last year isn’t concluded, not really.
“Yeah,” you exhale heavily. “All the time.”
“But you still want to go,” he says slowly, a question there.
“I have to try.” You shrug, kicking the floor with the tip of your boot. “If I stay here forever just because other people need me, I’m gonna end up resenting them. Or myself. Or both. And that’s… not fair.”
He looks down at his hands. “I want to go too. Sometimes. But it feels like the other place is tied to me. Like if I leave, it might follow.”
“That’s not on you,” you say immediately. “You didn’t ask to be kidnapped by a monster and kept in another dimension.”
He laughs weakly. “No, guess not.”
“If anything,” you go on, “you’ve done more than anyone to keep the rest of us alive. You’ve survived, Will.”
He looks up, eyes dark and too old for a face so young. “Then why do I still feel so…” He scrunches his face, searching for the right word, exhaling a shaky, “Broken.”
You exhale slowly.
“Because people keep treating you like you are. Because kids are jerks. Because adults are cowards. Because what happened to you was horrible, and it’s not a light switch you can flip off when it’s inconvenient.”
“That’s depressing.”
“Depressing is telling you everything’s fine when it obviously is not.”
He considers that. Then: “Is that why you told Jess those things? Yesterday?”
You blink, thrown by the sudden change in conversation. “How do you—?”
“People talk,” he answers, tips of his ears going red. “Also, Lewis Brown’s older sister saw the whole thing, and he overheard her on the phone last night with a friend.”
You press the back of your wrist to your brow, trying to rub out the dull ache suddenly forming there.
“He said it was kind of awesome,” Will adds hastily, seeing the twist of your mouth. “In a terrifying way.”
You grimace. “I was… not nice.”
“You told the truth,” he says, echoing your own words.
“Yeah,” you say slowly. “But…”
You picture Jess’s face, the way her eyes filled with tears, the tremor in her voice when she said, That’s my business, not yours.
“I talked about her like she wasn’t there. Like she was stupid. Like she needed me to tell her what was good for her.”
“She kind of does,” Will says, frowning. “You were just being honest, right?”
“That’s not the point,” you say with a tired groan. “Honesty is great. Necessary, even. But there’s a line between being honest and being cruel. And I stomped right over it.”
He swings his legs a little, the soles of his sneakers scuffing the stool. “You were trying to protect her.”
You wish it were the case. Because maybe, yeah, a part of you was. But this wasn’t about Jess, or even doing the right thing. It was about Billy. Everything in your life is about him these days. “Maybe. But I was also… angry. At him. At the way he uses people. At how everyone lets him. At how normal it is. Jess caught the shrapnel for that.”
Will watches your struggle play out, frowning thoughtfully, then, “Do you feel bad?”
“Yeah,” you admit quietly, the response immediate. “I do.”
He looks at you for a long beat. “You should tell her.”
You huff out a breath. “I know.”
“You’d tell me to,” he insists, giving you a pointed look. “If I yelled at Mike because I was mad at the world and made him cry, you’d say I should apologise. In fact, that’s exactly what you did last summer when Lucas and Mike had their fight.”
“Don’t use my own logic against me, kid,” you grumble, squeezing your eyes shut.
Will smiles, small but real, slightly crooked. “Then maybe you should stop being so logical.”
You throw a rag at him. He ducks, chortling.
“I’ll… think about it.”
“You’ll do it,” he corrects right away, looking smug and knowing, and you can’t even be mad because it warms you to see him like this again, even if only for now. “Thinking about it is for people who aren’t you.”
You flip him off lovingly and go back to the sedan.
You work until the sky outside the bay door goes from light grey to deep slate. Will sits in his spot, legs swinging, notebook out, scribbling something with a pencil you pulled out of your pocket and passed to him with a sworn promise you’ll get to see the finished thing.
A soft call of your name jerks your head towards him. You haven’t noticed him pack up, but he stands there, backpack on, no notebook in sight. There’s something about his expression that makes you stand up straighter.
“What’s up?”
Will sucks in a tiny, wet breath. “There’s…. something else. I haven’t told anyone, but…”
The hairs on your arm prick up, the comfortable air from moments prior dissipating like smoke. You bite your tongue, not pushing him, letting Will process whatever it is in his own time. Will battles with whatever is stuck in his mouth, the words that won’t come out, but you can tell it’s something bad. He’s shaking, you realise with a quiet curl of dread in your stomach.
“Hey, kid, I’m—”
You both jerk towards the office, where Frank stands frozen in place, his eyes on Will. “Oh, Will. It’s good to see you again, son.”
Will attempts a weak smile. “Mr Hopkins.”
Not waiting for another moment, Will hurries towards his bike. You follow after him, your eyes narrowed. “Will.”
“Thanks,” he blurts out, one foot on his bike pedal, one hand on the brake. “For… you know. Everything.”
You search his face. He drops his gaze first, fingers wringing around the bike handles.
“Are you sure you’re okay? You wanted to tell me something.”
He jerks his head in a nod. “It’s fine. It can wait.”
He pedals off, light blinking on the back of his bike, disappearing into the early evening light. You watch him go until he’s no longer visible, then turn back to shut the bay.
His words linger.
You should tell her.
You go to bed with them still echoing in your head, and the lingering terror on Will’s small face burned into your mind.
. . .
The next morning, you get to school earlier than usual.
Partly because you finished your shift at the shop on time for once. Partly because you woke up before your alarm with your heart pounding from a dream about pipes bursting and water flooding everything you own.
You see Jess in homeroom. She looks rough in a way that’s unusual for her.
Her ponytail is lopsided today, dark circles linger under her eyes highlighted by too much concealer. Her cheer jacket is wrinkled around her shoulders. Her laugh rings too loud when her friend says something, the sound unusually brittle.
You see Billy later in the hall after the second period.
He looks… fine. Tired, maybe. There’s a scratch on his neck that wasn’t there the other day, and a hickey peeking above his collar that you try very hard not to stare at. His walk is the same, his smile the same. If anything, he seems more relaxed. Loose around the edges, content.
You hate the way your brain puts two and two together.
After the third period, you march towards your locker, only to find Jess already there.
She’s in her cheer skirt, a sweater layered over it, hair pulled up into a high ponytail that’s been redone since homeroom to be sleeker. Her back is to you, shoulders hunched slightly, like she’s trying to make herself small even while wrapped in school colours.
You suck in a deep breath, square your shoulders, and walk forward.
“Hey,” you call out, keeping your voice low.
She stiffens. Slowly, her head turns in your direction. Up close, Jess looks more haggard, drained somehow. There are faint shadows under her eyes, the kind you only notice if you’re looking for them. Her smile sits on her face wrong: polite, small, flat.
“Hi,” she says.
You lick your chapped lips. You’re suddenly very aware that you’re not great at this—apologising, being vulnerable, admitting mistakes. You’re much better at fight-or-flight. Mostly fight.
Still.
“I—” you start, stop, force yourself to go on. “Look, about yesterday.”
Her hands close around the books in her arms. She stares at the locker door. “It’s fine,” she says too quickly. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s not fine,” you cut in. “I was an ass.”
She blinks, surprised enough to look at you.
“I shouldn’t have talked about you like you weren’t there,” you say, grimacing. “Or like you’re stupid. You’re not. It wasn’t my place to make you feel small. I was angry at Hargrove, and I took it out on you. That’s… not okay.”
She swallows. The movement is small but visible. “You were just trying to help.”
“Maybe, but intent doesn’t cancel impact. I meant what I said about him being bad at this. But you didn’t deserve to be collateral damage in our weird little war.”
The corner of her mouth twitches, like she wants to smile but isn’t sure if it’s allowed.
“Your… war,” she repeats.
This time, you grimace for a different reason. “We’ve been… clashing. Since he came by the shop. He brings out the worst in me.”
She nods like she gets it. You lean against your locker, watching her, scratching at the spine of your textbook.
“Look,” you begin, sucking in a fortifying breath. “I’m not gonna pretend to know everything about what’s going on between you two. And I’m not gonna tell you what to do. If you like him? That’s your business. But if he hurts you? If you ever need someone to… not look at you like you’re crazy for feeling how you do? I’m around.”
The words feel clumsy and too soft in your mouth, but you let them sit. Jess studies you, something complicated jumping across her features, as if she’s unsure whether you’re making fun of her.
“Why?” she asks quietly.
“Why what?”
“Why would you care?” she clarifies bluntly. “You don’t even like me.”
“That’s not true,” you disagree, almost offended. “I don’t know you enough to like or dislike you. I dislike what this place does to girls like you.”
“Girls like me,” she echoes, but there’s less heat this time.
“Ones who are expected to smile,” you explain, watching understanding dawn across her face. “To be pretty and sweet and small and never complain. To date the quarterback or the new guy with the cool car, and be grateful even when he’s a dick. To never be angry in public.”
You pause, cutting your gaze across the moving throng of students around you.
“Girls like me are allowed to be angry. That’s the only thing we get. We do something wrong, and everyone rolls their eyes and says, ‘of course she’s like that, look at her.’ But girls like you? You’re not allowed. So when you do snap, they call you crazy, or ungrateful.”
Her throat works. “You’ve thought about this a lot,” she says.
“Occupational hazard,” you say with a scoff. “I overthink everything. Comes with the wrench, I’m afraid.”
She huffs a tiny laugh despite herself, and it makes you feel at least ten pounds lighter to hear it.
“Anyway,” you say, clearing your throat. “What I’m trying to say is… sorry. For yesterday.”
There’s a long pause between you, too much noise, but not enough relief in the tension arcing between you.
“It hurt,” she whispers at last. “What you said.”
“I know.” The admission sits heavily in your chest. “You don’t have to forgive me.”
“I…” She fidgets with the edge of her sweater. “I don’t know. Yet.”
You fight to keep your expression steady. “That’s fair.”
“But,” she adds, so soft you almost miss it, “thank you. For saying it.”
You nod, too, a little stunned by how much lighter you feel just hearing that. How a tight knot in your chest loosens, letting you breathe a little easier. Briefly, your traitorous mind slots Billy in her place, and you almost bite your tongue in retaliation. Would it feel like this? Would forgiveness and communication be even possible between you, or would you default to your usual warfare?
Before either of you can say anything else, a familiar voice slices down the hallway.
“Jessica.”
You don’t have to turn to know who it is. The hair prickles at the back of your neck anyway.
Billy. Like your mind has conjured him up from thin air.
He’s striding down the corridor like he owns it, denim jacket slung over one shoulder, boots hitting the floor in measured, unhurried thuds. Even at this hour, he looks like he’s been awake for days and doesn’t intend to sleep anytime soon.
Jess goes still.
You watch her knuckles whiten around her books. Billy stops a few feet away, gaze flicking from her to you and back again. There’s a tightness around his mouth that wasn’t there yesterday. He looks coiled.
“Can we talk?” he says to Jessica, not taking his eyes off you.
She hesitates. Then she nods, looking equal parts determined and focused.
“Alone,” he adds pointedly, chin jerking in your direction.
You feel your spine stiffen.
“I should get to class anyway,” you say, catching Jess’s eye as you turn to go. “ You need me, you know where I am.”
Her mouth parts slightly, like she wants to say something, but Billy is already stepping into the space you vacated. You move down the row, pretending to fuss with a poster on the bulletin board around the corner. You’re not proud of it, but you don’t leave, either.
You lean your shoulder against the cool cinderblock wall and listen, the thin metal of the lockers carrying their voices along like a tin can telephone.
“What do you want?” Jessica asks stiffly, her voice small but not weak.
“Yesterday,” Billy says bluntly, as if it explains everything. “We need to clear that shit up.”
“There’s nothing to clear up,” she replies, trying to match his tone. “You made it pretty clear what you think of me.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth.”
This is the part where the charm starts to fray, you think knowingly, tracking the pitches in his voice like weather.
“I don’t have to,” she says, and there’s a tremor under the steel now. “You said them yourself.”
You close your eyes briefly, remembering his careless, heated, Try me.
Billy exhales sharply, laughing under his breath. There’s heat under the sound, smoke fanning, but it’s not seductive; it’s heated in an angry, destructive way.
“I was pissed,” he says. “She was being a—”
“Don’t talk about her,” Jess cuts in, surprising you enough to blink.
“I’m not here because of her,” she continues. “I’m here because of you.”
“What, you believe every word that came out of her mouth?” he demands, mockery creeping back into his tone, pointed and sharp. “You’ve known me what, a few weeks? A couple of nights? You think she’s got me all figured out?”
“No.” Jessica’s voice shakes, only once. “But I think she was right about one thing.”
“Oh yeah?” His tone dares her to say what you’re all thinking. “Which part?”
Don’t do it, you want to warn her. Don’t pick this fight, not with him, because he’ll break you. He will find a way to rip you apart from the inside out. Because a monster raised Billy Hargrove, and the monstrous parts in him keep winning, keep eating the man he could be and spitting out something ugly and cruel. And worse still, you realise how much you’ve done to draw that side of him out.
“You don’t care,” she says, her voice quiet with defeat. “About me. Not really.”
You hear the soft thunk of locker metal. You picture Jessica setting her books down, needing her hands free.
“You’re fun,” he says eventually. “We have fun.”
“I’m not… a toy,” Jess says shakily. “You can’t just pick me up when you’re bored and then drop me when you’re done.”
“I never said—we never said this was anything. You knew what it was.”
Fun. A way to pass the time. A distraction so he doesn’t have to go home and face reality.
“I thought I did,” she says miserably. “But then you said those things in front of her like I wasn’t there. Like it didn’t matter what I felt.”
“What you felt,” he repeats, like the word is a foreign language.
“Yes,” she says, voice gaining strength. “What I feel matters. Maybe not to you, but it does to me.”
Billy lets out a derisive noise, and you hear him moving, maybe adjusting his position, maybe something else. “You’re a cheerleader, Jessica. This isn’t a goddamn romance movie. We hang out. We mess around. That’s it.”
“That’s not it, though,” she argues. “Not for me.”
“So that’s my fault?” he demands with a cold laugh, and you can almost see how he rolls his eyes. “Because you decided to catch feelings?”
You wince. He always manages to find the sharpest possible phrasing. No hold backs, no hesitations. It scares you, just a little, how much of yourself you can hear in him sometimes. How attuned you are to going directly for the throat, directly for the softest bits that hurt the most.
“I didn’t ‘decide’ anything,” she says. “It just happened.”
“You know what else just happens?” Billy asks, voice going cold and hard. “Gravity. People fall. Doesn’t mean the ground is to blame when they hit it.”
“You’re comparing yourself to the ground? Like you can’t help it if you hurt someone?”
“That’s not what I—” He cuts himself off with a growl. “Jesus, you’re twisting everything.”
You hear her shaky exhale, deep and exhausted. You feel sorry for her standing there with your shoulder against the cool wall, because Billy is a hurricane, pure destruction, and Jess is just a girl folding under his intensity.
“I’m not twisting anything. I’m just tired.”
“Of what?” Billy scoffs. “Of being seen with me? ‘Cause I can solve that real fast.”
“Of pretending that it doesn’t hurt when you act like I’m… nothing,” she says, voice cracking. “Like I’m just—just some girl you can kiss when you feel like it and ignore when you don’t.”
“You’re—”
He stops. The silence stretches between them. You find yourself holding your breath, waiting for his response.
“I’m what, Billy?” Jessica asks, barely audible. “Say it.”
“You’re pretty,” he grinds out finally. “You’re easy to be around. You don’t nag. You don’t ask questions. Or you didn’t, until she—”
“Don’t,” Jess snaps, and this time her voice rings louder, clearer, syllables more solid. “Don’t blame her. She might be rude, but at least she doesn’t lie to my face.”
“I haven’t lied.”
“Yes, you have,” she snaps back. “Every time you looked at me like I was special when I wasn’t.”
Something in your chest twists. You’re not sure who you’re feeling it for.
“You are special,” he says, frustration bleeding into his tone. “Just not—”
“Not enough,” she finishes for him. “Not the right kind of special.”
He doesn’t answer.
“I like you,” she says. “I know that’s stupid. I know you’re… you. But I do. And I thought… I don’t know what I thought. That you might care. Even a little. Eventually. Not just about how I look in your car.”
“You look good in my car,” he says automatically.
“You’re not listening,” she spits back, “You never listen.”
“I listen,” he protests.
“To what you want,” she stresses, more assured now. “What you need. What you’re angry about. But when I try to talk about me? You change the subject. Or you make a joke. Or you…” She trails off.
You hear a soft thud. Maybe her head against the metal.
“I shouldn’t have slept with you,” she says quietly.
You exhale through your teeth.
“Don’t say that,” he snaps.
“Why not?” she asks, genuinely confused, and you close your eyes. “It’s true. You wouldn’t talk to me if I hadn’t. You’d just find some other girl to climb into the back seat with.”
Don’t say you regret him. Your eyes open, a shaky breath escaping your lips. That’s why he’s angry, why he’s demanding she doesn’t say stuff like that. Because it hurts. Deep down somewhere, it nags at him because it’s one thing when he uses, but another when someone regrets letting him.
“That’s not—”
“You told her you’d ‘try her’ right in front of me,” Jess snaps, voice shaking with anger now. “Do you have any idea how that felt?”
You hear him move. A shoe squeak, a shift of weight, you stop breathing for a moment.
“I was pissed,” he repeats. “She was being a bitch.”
“Maybe she was.” Jess lets out a sound between a laugh and a sob. “But she saw something I didn’t want to see. And instead of proving her wrong, you proved her right.”
“She doesn’t know me,” he says, low.
“Do I?” she demands immediately.
Silence. You stare at the chipped paint on the opposite wall, jaw clenched. You could and should walk away, but your feet won’t move.
“Answer me,” Jess says, fiercer than you’ve ever heard her. “Do I know you?”
“No one knows me.”
There’s no brag in it. No cocky edge. It sounds… empty. Hollow in such a way that it rips clean through you. Once upon a time, you thought the exact same thing: that no one could understand you, that no one saw you. Or ever could. You were an oddity in a world demanding conformity, to be eradicated at first chance, not here to be understood or accepted.
What must it be like? To live with Neil Hargrove in your house, to fear the hand and voice and presence of a man who should love and protect you, but instead hurts you? It doesn’t excuse the harm Billy does, but does it not explain it? If all you know is fear and hurt, is that not going to be what you put out into the world? Kindness requires the kind of bravery people like Eddie possess. To be open and loving in a world that’s determined to punish you for it.
“Whose fault is that?” Jess whispers after what feels like a small forever.
Billy laughs once, sharp and humourless. “Yours, apparently,” he replies flippantly. “For thinking there’s something to know.”
“That’s not what I—”
“You want some douchebag who’s gonna write you poems and hold your hand and talk about forever?” he asks, words turning cruel in that quick, familiar snap. “Go find someone else. I’m not your fucking boyfriend, Jessica. I’m not your saviour. I’m not your anything.”
“Don’t talk to me like that,” she chokes out, voice cracking.
“You wanted honesty,” he spits out. “There it is. Now get lost.”
There’s a sharp, wet inhale, and you hear, more so than see, the hurried retreat. The slapping of feet and the hiccup she sucks in as she runs past, mercifully turning in the opposite direction and not noticing you standing there. Your heart thuds as you watch her retreating back, your brain buzzing, caught in a maelstrom of warring emotions.
Footsteps draw in your direction, and you tense, hurriedly checking if you can make a quiet escape.
“This is where you say I told you so,” Billy announces dryly, rounding the corner, his expression closed off.
Your gaze roams over his profile, the glinting earring at his ear, the tension in his jaw. “How did you know I’m here?”
He barely turns his head, but the electric blue of his eyes is devouring, zapping you until your back brushes the wall behind you. The way he’s looking at you is answer enough. Because you both always know. Because your personal, inbuilt fucked up sensor for one another never seems to fail.
“And I wasn’t gonna say that,” you add, readjusting your stance.
“Why not?” he sneers, his teeth appearing in a predatory smile. “You were right.”
“Being right doesn’t feel good right now. It just feels… sad.”
He laughs once, bitter enough to sting. “Get used to it, grease monkey. That’s life.”
“Doesn’t have to be.”
He shoulders past you. You catch the faintest brush of his arm against yours. No shove. No deliberate hit. Just contact, like he has to have this, even now, when everything is bubbling hatefully between you.
“You think you’re so different from me,” he throws over his shoulder. “But you’re not. You break things too. You just convince yourself you’re doing it for a good reason.”
You flinch. An hour ago, you would have argued with him until you were ready to drop. But you can’t, not anymore because he’s not wrong. Billy disappears into the flow of bodies, broad shoulders swallowed by noise and colour. Yet he lingers on your mind the entire day. And maybe that’s the real problem.
Because for all the ways you can see him clearly—
You still haven’t figured out how to stop looking.
. . .
Friday arrives with rain and pre-game excitement.
You spend the day in a fog, going through the motions—classes, lunch with Eddie at your usual table, more classes. Eddie finds you after seventh period with that nervous energy he gets before performances, talking too fast about setlists and amp settings and whether they should open with Zeppelin or Sabbath, or something else entirely.
You let his words wash over you, anchoring yourself to his familiar presence.
“You’re still coming, right?” he asks as you’re walking to the parking lot.
Your elbow meets his ribs gently. “I said I would.”
“I know, but you’ve been weird all week. I just wanted to make sure—”
“I’ll be there, Ed.” You soften your voice, force a smile on your face. “I promise.”
He relaxes instantly, shoulders slumping. “Okay. Good. Game starts at seven, but we go on at seven-thirty. Meet me by the bleachers?”
“Sure. I’ll see you there. Don’t suck or I’m disowning you.”
He flips you off with both hands, but he’s grinning now. Happy, a soft part of you notices, and you watch him climb into his van, watch him drive away with one hand out the window in a wave.
Then you go home, shower off the day’s grease and anxiety, and try to figure out what you’re going to wear to a basketball game you don’t want to attend. You settle on jeans and a sweater—nothing special, nothing that says you tried. This isn’t a performance. You’re just showing up for Eddie.
That’s all this is.
. . .
The gymnasium buzzes with noise.
You forgot how much this town cares about high school basketball. How it’s the only thing that matters from November to March, how everyone shows up to cheer for boys who’ll peak at eighteen and spend the rest of their lives talking about glory days that never were.
The air smells like popcorn and sweat as you push your way through the crowd, the air humid with so many bodies packed together. The bleachers are full already, the band is setting up at one end, and on the court, the team is warming up—running drills, taking practice shots, bodies moving with coordinated precision.
And there, in the centre of it all, is Billy Hargrove.
He’s in his uniform—number 8, white tank top with green and orange trim—and even from here you can see the way his body moves. Fluid and controlled. Every motion is calculated for maximum efficiency. He takes a shot from the three-point line. Swish. Nothing but net.
The crowd roars.
It’s hard not to admire him, the predatory grace of his body, the subtle, coiled aggression in each gesture. You knew he would be here, of course. He’s the new star of the team, but you’ve never seen him in an actual game, and the last thing you want is for him to spot you. You’ve lost enough hours thinking about what transpired between you and Jess.
No one knows me.
You find Eddie near the bleachers like you promised. He’s tuning his guitar, fingers moving across the frets with practised ease.
“You made it!” He’s grinning, nervous and excited. “We're on in twenty. You gonna stay for the whole game?”
“Maybe. Depends on how much I can take.”
He glances at the court, and something in his expression tightens. “Well, Hargrove’s been on fire during warm-ups. Coach is probably creaming himself.”
Your mouth refuses to work, so you say nothing, but you make the mistake of looking the same way and freeze.
Because Billy is looking at you now, across the gymnasium, through the crowd and the chaos, his eyes find yours with that same unerring precision. He’s holding the ball in one hand, subtle tension in the tendons of his hand. Sweat glistens on his tanned skin, his curls pulled back, but there’s something feral in his expression.
Then someone shouts something at him, and the moment breaks.
“Come on,” Eddie urges, pulling you toward one of the last available spots. “Let’s get you a seat before it’s standing room only."
You follow him up, find a spot in the middle section where you can see the court and the band. Eddie lingers for a moment, like he wants to say something, then thinks better of it.
“I gotta go, but I’ll find you after?”
You try to smile, tap the metal bolt resting against his chest. “For luck,” you remind him, everything you need to say packed into those small words. “Break a leg.”
Eddie’s face softens, but he still rolls his eyes dramatically. “That’s theatre, sweetheart. For musicians, it’s—actually, I don’t know what it is for musicians. Don’t die?”
Despite everything, you laugh. “Don’t die then.”
He bounds down the bleachers, all nervous energy and long limbs, and you’re left alone in a sea of people who all seem to know each other.
The opposing team comes out. West Lafayette. Bigger school, better funding, players who look like they’ve been recruited since middle school. But when the whistle blows, and the game starts, none of that matters.
Because Billy Hargrove plays basketball like he’s trying to kill something.
. . .
He’s vicious.
That’s the only word for it.
He moves across the court with controlled violence, driving to the basket with his shoulder down, taking hits that would flatten other players and bouncing back like they’re nothing. When someone tries to block him, he doesn’t go around—he goes through, all elbows and aggression and the particular kind of rage that can’t be contained.
By the end of the first quarter, he’s scored twelve points and picked up two fouls.
The crowd is going insane.
You watch him intently, and something in your chest clenches tight. Because this isn’t about basketball, maybe it is to everyone else, but you know better. This isn’t about winning or glory or proving he’s better than West Lafayette.
This is about punishment.
Every drive to the basket, every hit he takes, every time he goes down hard on the court and gets back up—he’s hurting himself. Deliberately. Pushing his body past limits because pain is familiar, pain is controllable, pain is the only thing that makes sense.
You’re destroying yourself, you think, and something like anger and grief collect at the back of your throat until you want to push into the middle of the court and shake him.
The buzzer sounds for halftime. The teams head to the locker rooms, heads bowed in discussion. The crowd shifts now that there’s nothing to watch, talking, laughing, heading for concessions.
And Eddie’s band takes the floor.
You watch them set up, watch Eddie adjust his mic stand and make some joke that gets a smattering of laughs. They launch into their set. Covers, mostly, safe choices that won’t offend the parents in attendance, something you know Eddie abhors, but is better than not playing at all.
Despite that, Eddie transforms when he plays. You’ve seen it many times, but it never gets old—the way he becomes larger, more confident, more himself. His voice fills the gymnasium, rough and powerful, and for a moment, you forget about Billy Hargrove and scholarship applications and the crushing weight of wanting things you can’t have.
You simply watch your best friend play, and let yourself feel proud.
The set ends to genuine applause. Eddie catches your eye in the crowd and grins widely. You offer him a thumbs-up with a crooked smile.
Then the team comes back out, and the game resumes.
The second half is worse.
Billy is playing harder now, more recklessly. He takes a hit that sends him sprawling across the court, and he comes up with blood on his lip and fury blazing in his eyes. The ref calls a foul. Billy doesn’t acknowledge it; he just wipes his mouth and gets back into position.
West Lafayette is starting to get scared. You can see it in the way they hesitate, the way they give him space, the way they track him like he’s something dangerous.
They’re not wrong.
With three minutes left in the fourth quarter, Billy drives the lane. A defender tries to block him and gets an elbow to the ribs for his trouble. The defender goes down hard. Billy scores.
The whistle blows shrilly. Another foul. But Hawkins is up by fifteen, and Billy got twenty-eight points to his name.
The crowd is chanting his name like it’s a church hymn.
You feel sick to your stomach.
The final buzzer sounds. Hawkins wins, 78-60. The team swarms Billy, slapping his back, shouting his name, celebrating in a hooting, brash way guys often do. He accepts it with that sharp, empty smile, all cockiness and ease, letting the praise soak into his ego.
Then, for just a second, his eyes find yours in the crowd.
And you see it. The exhaustion. The particular kind of emptiness that comes from pushing yourself past breaking and finding nothing on the other side. You stand before you consciously decide to. Start making your way down the bleachers, moving against the tide of people heading for the exits.
Eddie catches you at the bottom. “Hey, where are you—”
“I'll call you later,” you say, and keep moving.
“Wait—”
But you're already gone, pushing through the crowd, heading for the exit that leads to the back parking lot.
. . .
The back parking lot is nearly empty. Most people are still inside, celebrating or commiserating. The air is cold in a stinging way, making your breath visible in the lights that buzz overhead like dying insects. October in Indiana means the temperature drops deceptively fast after the sun goes down, and you can feel it now—the bite of it against your cheeks, the way it makes your lungs work harder.
Your truck sits parked at the far edge of the lot, under a broken light that keeps flickering on and off. You’re fishing for your keys when you feel it—that particular weight of his attention.
You turn slowly.
Billy leans against the side of the building, half-hidden in shadow. Still in his uniform—number 8, white tank top dark with sweat, gym bag slung over his shoulder. His hair is damp, curls falling across his forehead, and there’s a bruise forming on his jaw from where someone caught him with an elbow in the third quarter.
He looks exhausted. Hollowed out. Like he’s been running on fumes for so long, he’s forgotten what it feels like to have anything in the tank. In the intermittent darkness, his eyes look more black than blue.
“You waiting for someone, mechanic?” His voice cuts across the space between you, sharp, edged with something mean.
Your hand tightens on your keys. “Good game.”
“That’s why you’re out here?” He pushes off the wall and starts moving toward you. Slow and deliberate. “To tell me I played well? Give me a little gold star on my homework?”
“No.” You force yourself to stand your ground even as every instinct screams at you to get in the car. So much has been said between you, most of it intended to harm, and right now, the weight of those words is like a third person between you. “I’m out here because you’re destroying yourself and somebody should probably say something about it.”
Billy laughs; short, cold, utterly devoid of humour. “And you think you’re that somebody? After what you said last week? After the shit you said to Jess? I’m supposed to believe you give a shit?”
The words hit exactly where they’re supposed to. Your chest tightens, shame and regret twisting together. A week of chewing over your words and their impact, and you try, once again, to find the words that are foreign to you.
“About that—”
“Save it.” He’s closer now, maybe ten feet away, and you can see the exhaustion written in every line of his body. “I don’t need your pity. I don’t need your concern. Or for you to try and figure me out through a basketball game.”
A thousand insults and observations burn on your tongue. Yet you think of Will asking you if you feel bad, about the bruises on Billy’s skin, about Jess and the relief of apologising. About that soft, gentle part of yourself you’ve hidden away to keep yourself safe. A side of you very few ever see, and only because they deserve it: Eddie, your mom, the boys, Frank, and, more recently, Max.
Right now, the fire ebbs from you, and instead, you hear yourself say, “I’m sorry.”
Billy goes completely still. “What?”
“For what I said.” The words come out rough, reluctant, but honest. “About your father. I shouldn’t have—I didn’t have the right to use that against you. It wasn’t right.”
He’s staring at you like you just spoke a foreign language. A foreign emotion spasms his face, there and gone in an instant. His jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle jump in that trademark way you’re beginning to associate with him.
“But,” you continue, and your voice hardens, “I meant what I said about Eddie. He’s off limits. Whatever you think is happening between us, whatever this is, Eddie doesn’t get pulled into it. Do you understand?"
Something passes over Billy’s face, dark and primal, as he pushes towards you, the distance shrinking.
“So you do think something is happening between us.”
“I—” You falter. “That’s not what I meant—”
“Yeah, it is.” He takes another step, and now he’s close enough that you can smell him; sweat and something else, copper maybe, from his split lip. “You felt it.”
The light flickers. In the darkness, Billy’s face is all sharp angles and shadows. He chuckles suddenly, looking away, then back at you, a rough, pleasant sound. Real, in a way his performative, arrogant displays of amusement never are.
“I was pissed at you,” he says quietly, and there’s something dangerous in his voice now. “After last week. After you threw my father in my face like you had any fucking right—”
“I said I was sorry—”
“I’m not finished.” His voice cracks like a whip. “I was pissed. I wanted to make you feel it too. Wanted to make you as angry as I was.”
His tongue drags over his lip again, his stare searing. When he speaks next, Billy’s words tumble out raw, rough in a way that makes your spine tingle. “I wanted you to think I’d hit you, wanted you to believe I would.”
The parking lot light buzzes. Flickers. You can hear your own heart, thudding like a drum inside your chest. His head angles away from you, half-turned away.
“But I wouldn’t have.”
“I know.”
The words are barely a whisper, but they land like a grenade between you.
Billy’s head snaps back toward you. “What did you say?”
“I know.” You’re surprised by how certain you sound, how serene, how true it feels even as you repeat it. “You wouldn’t have hit me.”
“How?” The word comes out surprisingly strangled, a crack you’ve never heard in his voice. “How the fuck do you know that?”
Because you’ve grown up around violent men, you’ve tasted their cruelty. You know how easy it is for them to commit to it. If he truly, deep down, wanted to hurt you, he could have. Would have—many, many times. Despite the cruelty and ego, despite his temper and threats, he hasn’t done anything you could truly hate him for because you’ve returned his fire with fire of your own.
Because underneath all the rage and posturing and desperate need for control, there’s a line Billy Hargrove won’t cross.
At least not with you.
“I just do,” you say simply.
Billy breathes hard, his fists clenched at his sides. You’re intimately aware of how you’re the only ones here, your truck cold against your back, with him a stride away. You wonder if there will ever be a time when there’s not this torturous electricity between you, capable of destruction and—
“You think I don’t like it?” he asks abruptly. “The way you talk to me. The way you look at me like you see all the shit I’m trying to hide and don’t back away.”
“You act as if you hate it,” you point out, frowning.
“Maybe I do,” he counters with a breathless, dangerous little laugh. “Maybe I hate that I like it.”
You could kiss him. You could shove him. You could do both, one after the other.
“I should go,” you say instead, something breathless in your voice because you want. So much it’s making you dizzy, unbalanced, and wanting is a dangerous thing for a girl like you.
“You sure?” he asks, low and throaty. Not mocking, not challenging.
You swallow thickly. This is different, a new shade between you, something you’re not sure is safe to explore, something you doubted you were even capable of. No teeth or snarling, just… this. A prickling heat, simmering steadily between you.
“No,” you admit despite your better judgment.
Something like satisfaction licks across his face.
“You’re not good for me,” you say absently.
“I’m not good for anyone,” he says without missing a beat.
You believe that, too.
“Let go,” you repeat.
This time, he edges back slowly half a step, still drilling holes into you. He searches your face one last time, like he’s memorising it, seeking something. Like neither of you is entirely certain how to proceed now.
“Go home, princess,” he calls out after what could be minutes or hours of watching each other. “Fill out your forms. Dream your big dreams. Pretend this is all temporary.”
“And you?” you can’t help but ask. “What do you do?”
Billy smiles; a small and sharp thing. “I play the game,” he replies lazily, mockingly. “It’s the only thing I’m good at.”
His gaze sweeps over you, a flicker of something there, and you would give anything to know what he’s thinking about right now, as he examines you.
“Night night, mechanic.”
“Night, Hargrove.”
Smirking, he turns, ambling back towards the noise and the lights, the shape of him familiar and magnetic. Sad. Something about him walking away fills you with sorrow you can’t quite explain. You watch him go, hands trembling slightly where they hang at your sides.
You don’t know if he hates this or loves it. You don’t know if you do, either.
You just know that you’ve stepped too close to something with teeth, and part of you is already leaning in for another bite.
an: what's THIS? resolution to a conflict? actual communication? it only took 50k+, maybe in another 200k, we'll get to a kiss. but next chapter is gonna be Halloween, and BOY is it gonna be a joosy one. thoughts? ideas? musings? let me know and see you next week, hope you have a good one.
