#And sloooowly drag one finger down his spine | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

platypanthewriter · 4 years ago

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Birdwatching for Dummies 1/3

Reality didn’t work as Billy knew it, in Hawkins.

It wasn’t just that the rich kid whose ass he beat didn’t tell his parents, or that he didn't even seem pissed. Maybe, Billy thought, the head trauma damaged his memory—when Billy cornered him against his locker, he looked blank, then sloooowly nodded, slapping his fist in his hand like he’d come up with the answer to a difficult Jeopardy question. The bell rang then, and he pushed Billy away and walked off, waving over his shoulder.

That wasn’t the only weird thing. There were mass funerals a couple months after they arrived—students, and researchers from the lab, and cops. Then the lady at Radio Shack burst in tears as she rang up Billy’s batteries, telling him her boss was eaten.

She then stared into his eyes, laughing too loudly, and tried to cover with some dumbshit story about how he’d ‘—overeaten, actually,’ leaving Billy adding the two incidents together, and wondering whether his dad had picked the one town in Indiana run by cannibals.

He didn’t spend all his time wondering about Hawkins, obviously—if he was in a horror movie, he’d figure it out eventually—but occasionally something bizarre would happen, and he’d think Hawkins, you fucking ass-end of nowhere bullshit backwater shithole. One night Max got up from the table in the middle of dinner, and he knew—obviously—she wouldn’t get the shit for it that he would, but then she grabbed a huge pair of binoculars that’d been around her neck, hidden by the table, and stared out at the woods.

Neil just stared after her, his fork and knife in mid-air. Susan cleared her throat, hunching her shoulders, and asked, “M-Max, what are you—?”

��Heard there might be a Fulvous Whistling-Duck in the area,” Max said flatly, focusing her binoculars. They thumped lightly against the window. “...or a Western Wood-Pewee.”

Billy wondered whether she was possessed. Or a cannibal.

“I am a birdwatcher, now,” she said, which was honestly weirder, and Billy stared at her along with Susan and his dad. “...I think it could be a Fulvous Whistling-Duck,” she muttered, in the serious tones she usually used to try and keep her mom from interfering between Billy and his dad. He’d never heard her sound that vehement about skateboards, let alone birdwatching.

Billy bit his lips, regarding his meatloaf, but waited to see what his dad would do. Cold meatloaf sounded even worse, he thought, with a stab of annoyance at Max for acting like a freak when it was a pretty okay night otherwise. Neil leaned back in his chair, and everyone tensed at the creak.

“It’s for school,” Max huffed, craning around, and Susan relaxed a little, with a glance at Neil.

She smiled nervously at her plate. “For—for school,” she said, giving a high laugh, like she was a bird herself. “Birds—birds wouldn’t be considerate of, of dinner, would they?” She glanced over at Max, then at Neil again, biting her lips together as she shrank a little into her chair.

“It’s good to see her working diligently,” Neil said, their judge and executioner, and Susan laughed, a breathy sound of relief.

Max lowered the binoculars and walked back over—then stalked right by the table again on the way into the hall. Neil’s tableware froze again, nearly lowered to his meatloaf, and Billy swore internally, listening to his step-sister make a goddamn phone call during the dinner her mother had cooked.

“There’s a Fulvous Whistling-Duck out there,” she told the person on the other end. “No, a Fulvous Whistling-Duck. No, a—no—no, a Fulvous Whistling-Duck. Just come over! Come now. No, the—the big one, moron—didn’t you write them down?! The big one, there is a big one in our woods, and—and smaller—ones—just bring your biggest—goshdarn— ” she hissed,dropping to a whisper, “—binoculars and get your butt over here.” The phone clunked into its cradle.

“...did you invite your friends over?” Neil asked, when she came back in the room to stare through her binoculars again. His voice was levelly amused, but Susan flinched, dropping her fork with a clatter, and apologizing through her fingers.

“Nope,” Max said dryly. “They’ll stay outside. We probably won’t even hear ‘em. They just...want to see the duck.”

“It’s almost dark,” Billy said, finally, since nobody else was going to. Max ignored him.

“Do—do you need to take a picture?” Susan asked softly, like Neil wouldn’t hear. “Do you want my camera?”

“No,” Max said, and Susan flinched. “No, sorry, Mom. I’m just—just making sure I remember enough detail to mark it on my...bird report.” She chewed her lip, shifting her feet, and dashed to the window again.

Billy couldn’t see anything out there.

Billy cleared the table while Susan did the dishes—the perfect ratio, he’d found, of showing her respect without actually taking over a chore he couldn’t even manage to do properly—while Max hovered at the window, squinting into the darkness. She never did eat, which was probably healthier, on the whole, than eating the grayish meatloaf.

He went to his room after and cranked the music up as high as he dared, grabbing a Playboy. When he went to lower the blinds, he saw Steve Harrington’s car in the street, with binoculars pressed against the window.

Where it was parked between the streetlights, it was hard to be sure, but Billy knew his neighbor’s cheapass cars, and Harrington’s BMW stood out. Billy waited for Max to head to her room, and grabbed her, dragging her inside to point. “What the hell is Harrington doing here?!” he hissed, and she yelped so loud they both heard the soft thump of Neil’s recliner in the front room, and the squeak of floorboards as he neared.

Max shoved Billy back as he yanked his hands away, and then Billy’s dad was in the doorway. “You putting your hands on her?” he asked, and Max and Billy both said no, shaking their heads. “...go help your mother,” Neil told her, gently, and she sidled past him, then ran.

“I was just asking if that was her friend outside,” Billy said as Neil turned to survey his room, his gaze taking in the overflowing ashtrays, empty beer cans, and dirty clothes.

“When we married,” Neil said, “—I told Susan I’d keep her little girl safe. Safe and happy. Do you think she’s happy...Billy?”

Billy backed away until his shoulder hit the sash of the window, and jerked his thumb at it, trying to hold Neil’s gaze, and failing. “I was asking a goddamn question, that’s all—”

“Sounded a bit scared, to me,” Neil told him, conversationally. “You scared a little girl. Whatever you’re seeing out the window, that justify that kind of behavior? Billy?”

“No, sir,” Billy said, without meaning to, then, “—she was startled maybe, I didn’t—”

“Why don’t you take a good look,” his dad said next to his ear, pushing him against the window so hard it rattled the glass, “—and tell me what’s out there that’s so...damned... important.” His hand came up Billy’s spine, cupping the back of his head and shoving him harder, so his cheekbone and jaw ached from pressure against the window. His breath obscured the glass.

The stuff Billy wanted to say—that it was stupid, Max pretending she was birdwatching, something else was obviously going on— sat in the back of his throat on a tide of acid, and he swallowed it back, reminding himself that none of that was what his dad wanted to hear. The window creaked with the force of pressure, and Billy’s forehead ached.

His dad’s fingers dug painfully into the thin skin and bones at the base of his skull, and Billy started to cry with impotent fury like a fucking pussy, even as he remembered, his stomach sinking, that Harrington was out there, and he had binoculars too. Neil’s nails ground against his skull, it felt like, and the glass creaked like he was about to go through it face first. With Billy’s eyes full of tears, he couldn’t see whether the binoculars in Harrington’s car were focused on him.

“Is there anything out there that makes this behavior acceptable?” his dad asked, and Billy couldn’t move to shake his head, so he cleared his throat, sniffling.

“No, sir,” he whispered.

“I hope we won’t have to have this talk again,” Neil said, patting his shoulder and walking out, and Billy realized he was just standing there furious and shaking, tears dripping down his face. He yanked the blinds down. The bed thumped into the wall as he dropped down against it to sit on the floor, trying to steady himself with deep breaths, and not scream.

Steve was still outside the next morning, one leg out the window, folded over his side mirror, the other wedged around the steering wheel. Billy did his reps at him, flexing his biceps to remind Harrington that even if he had seen Billy bawling like a tiny fucking child, Billy could still feed him his own fists.

Before Max left, she made her mother promise not to leave the house, not even to hang laundry, with some bogus explanation that the weather had predicted sudden showers of baseball-sized hail. Billy covered his snort.

Max ran out with smuggled pop-tarts—you could tell Susan smelled ‘em, but she wasn’t gonna say anything—and Harrington disentangled himself, rubbed his face, and gave her a ride to school.

It had a Very Hawkins Episode feel to it, but Billy wasn’t gonna ask again.

That afternoon, Harrington was parked outside his house again, but before Billy could stalk out and ask what the everloving fuck, Max brought him inside. He stood smiling around like a moron, and complimented Susan’s ruffled pillow shams. Billy’d never thought much about them, but it touched off a whole explanation of how difficult they’d been to sew.

“I’m so glad to meet your friend!” she told Billy, who bristled, and Harrington shook her hand, introducing himself like he was used to infiltrating random people’s houses.

“I’m Steve Harrington,” he said, beaming at her. “I’m in Billy’s, uh, third period class.”

“He’s here for a project,” said Max, and Billy frowned warily between them.

“Here for that, um,” Steve said, like a genius, and Max glared at him meaningfully. Steve forged ahead. “The uh, the...geology...report. For class.”

“...the geometry test?” Billy offered, unable to take Harrington’s idiocy, whatever else was going on, and Harrington’s eyes widened in alarm as he thought.

“Oh,” he said, frowning at his bag. “Yeeessss?”

“You two can study out here until dinner,” said Max heavily, staring at Billy like she was trying to use the Force on him.

“Will we be in the way, ma’am?” Steve asked Susan, and she smiled back at him, her shoulders relaxing. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Oh, no, a kid’s job is school,” she told him, smiling. “Feel free to use the table—”

At the thought of actually helping Steve Harrington learn Geometry, with witnesses, Billy chose the less infuriating option. “We’ll be in my room,” he said, stomping off, and Max and Steve both said “But—” as Susan said “I’ll bring you some cookies!”

“...she brings you cookies,” said Steve, following him, and Billy held the door open, rolling his eyes. “I want some cookies…” he trailed off, his eyes fixed on the padlock on the outside of Billy’s door, and Billy shoved him inside.

“Last family kept a big dog in here,” he lied, and Steve nodded very slowly, like even he wasn’t that stupid. Billy yanked the door shut and hissed “Why are you here,” as Steve walked over and sat on his bed, bouncing like he was testing it out.

“Uh, birds,” Steve said, squinting like he was trying to remember, and then getting up to pick through Billy’s records.

“Birds,” Billy ground out, his teeth clenched. “You’re gonna watch for birds. From my bedroom.”

“Uh,” Steve said, frowning back at him, like Billy was the one acting weird. “Can’t see ‘em from here, that’s why we were setting up in the front room. This, uh,” he smirked, raising his eyebrows, “—this wasn’t me trying to get in your bedroom, man.”

“Why are you here,” Billy growled, stalking up to him, and Harrington just sat down on the floor, flipping through records like Billy wasn’t standing there, fists clenched.

“Closer to the bathroom,” Steve said, shrugging. He didn’t even look up. “Told your sister I had to piss in a bottle last night, so—” he trailed off, his eyes flicking towards the window, and Billy knew he’d seen.

“Answer the fucking question, Harrington,” he said, bristling, and Steve snorted a laugh.

“Yeah, you’re gonna kick my ass right here, huh? In your house, while your mom brings us cookies.”

Billy flinched at the thought of what his dad would do if he and Steve Harrington got in a fistfight, and stumbled back. “She’s not my mom,” he hissed, like he was five, and Harrington raised his eyebrows.

“Cookies!” Susan called, knocking on the door, and he heard her rattling around outside. Once she got the door open, she smiled like she was fucking proud of Billy, bringing home a clean-cut kid like Steve Harrington to do homework. Steve brightened at the cookies—and milk, Billy registered, a tray with cookies and milk— with a winning smile, and Susan beamed at them. She surveyed them and waved, pulling the door shut, and Billy flipped the door off, mystified and annoyed.

Billy felt exhausted, suddenly, and he walked over to sit on his bed. “...the fuck do you want,” he bit out at Harrington, just as Max clomped in.

“Mom’s phoning Neil to see if she can invite you to dinner,” she told Steve, who looked delighted.

Billy wondered whether it was meaner to quash his hopes now with the reality of leftover meatloaf, or whether he should wait and watch Steve’s soul be crushed on a voyage of discovery as he bit into thrice-heated rubber tireloaf that night at the table. He kept his mouth shut, raising his eyebrows at Max, who shrugged, grimacing.

“Neil keeps trying to make her cook like his mom,” she whispered, pulling the door shut as she stepped in, and Billy resisted the urge to chase all these invaders out with a broom, like the fucking vermin they were.

“Get the hell out of my room!” he hissed at her, and she ignored him, taking a cookie.

Steve nodded slowly, picking up empty beer cans. “Never met a home-cooked meal I didn’t like,” he said cheerfully, and hucked a can at the trash. “He shoots, he scores!” he stage-whispered, and tossed two more, while Max got through the whole top layer of cookies like goddamn wood chipper.

“I don’t know what the fuck is happening,” Billy hissed, “—but why is it in my room?!”

“We’re, um, birds—” Steve said, frowning like he was trying to remember his stupid lie, and Max groaned.

“You wouldn’t believe us if we told you,” she sighed.

“Yeah, gee, I don’t think you’re really birds at all, goddamn,” Billy snarled. “I’m going for a smoke, don’t break my shit, Harrington—”

“No, no, no!” they both shouted, scrambling to stand between him and the door, and they looked worried, which was weird as hell. Billy began to seriously entertain the cannibals theory, and he wondered whether the cannibalism was scheduled. Whether there were cannibals wandering the woods, and Max had... spotted them somehow.

What made cannibals distinctive, Billy wondered, when they wandered around in the woods? Were there cannibal team colors? He raised his eyebrows as he stuck a cigarette in his mouth.

“I’ll just go with him,” Steve said, waving Max off. “It’s fine, I don’t have my bat, anyway, I’ll grab it from my car.”

“Your fucking what,” Billy asked, as Harrington pushed him outside, and Max chewed her lip some more. Billy waited until they were on the front steps, lit up, and shoved Harrington’s shoulder so hard he staggered. “You fucking told her. Didn’t you.”

“Told her what,” Harrington snorted, looking around, until Billy grabbed his shirt and yanked him closer.

“Told her I was crying like a fucking pussy,” he hissed, blowing smoke in Harrington’s wide brown eyes. “Bawling my fucking eyes out, Harrington, what in the goddamn fuck do you think I mean—”

“I didn’t—” Harrington waved the smoke away, rolling his eyes, and grabbed Billy’s arm, hauling him to the curb. “I didn’t say anything, come on—” he stopped, looking both ways like a little kid, and drug Billy across the street to his car.

“That’s why she’s worried,” Billy told him, half-running behind, “—isn’t it? She thinks I’m gonna break.”

“...are you?” Harrington asked, blinking at him, but it was the first time he’d stopped and listened, his eyes intent, and Billy just stared back, then took a long drag off his cigarette. Steve cocked his head. “What happens then, you just—just go on and beat the shit out’ve somebody?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Billy muttered, watching Harrington pull a bat full of nails out of the back seat. He wasn’t sure what it would look like, breaking, but it felt like it would be breaking apart, sometimes, like he was fracturing like the old stones in the graveyard, crumbling where the Indiana winter had gotten in their cracks. He’d kicked one over, once, drunk, and it’d fallen into a pile of gravel.

Harrington stared past him at the treeline, spinning the bat around his hand, and Billy told his imagination to shut the hell up. He blew out a cloud of smoke. “There’s something out there, isn’t there. Indiana get...bears?”

“Ohhh,” Harrington grinned at him, and grabbed his wrist, hauling him back towards the house. “That’s closer than I thought you’d get,” he whispered, barely giving Billy time to toss his cigarette before he yanked them both inside. He pulled Billy against him, so Billy wouldn’t bang his shoulder into the door.

It felt weirdly like being friends.

When they made it into Billy’s bedroom again—Steve hauled him the whole way, trying to hold the fucking nailbat out of sight, but also steering Billy around the hall table, and the doorjamb of his room—Steve let go, and Billy stomped over to stare out the window, waiting for his face to cool off. It didn’t make sense to go comparing his dad to the King of Hawkins High, even if his dad would’ve maybe yanked him so his thigh banged into the table, and his shoulder hit the door.

Steve had pushed him around, but like—like a teammate, Billy thought, a little rough, a little protective. His cheeks heated worse, and he stared out at the Harringtonmobile, remembering Steve’s words about attacking somebody. Billy bit his lips together, remembering the night he’d chased Max through the entire fucking town and arrived to see perfect Steve Harrington protecting Billy’s sister from him like Billy was a rabid fucking beast.

He snorted softly.

“Anything out there?” Steve asked, and Billy shook his head. “...there really a test in Geometry?”

“...yep,” Billy said, wishing he still had his cigarette, for something to do with his hands. “And I’m not helping you study.”

“Fine, asshole,” Steve sighed, and Billy heard his bed springs squeak, and the noise of a zipper. He spun around to see Steve opening his backpack, and not his pants, and wondered what the hell had been in his cigarette that he’d even think—

“Ooo, Playboy,” Steve said, realizing part of the mess he was sitting on was a magazine. He flipped it open, and Billy spun back around and leaned his face against the cool glass of the window, wanting to die.

“Don’t jack off on my bed, Harrington,” he hissed—he didn’t mean to, but his voice came out hoarse.

“Why not, nothing else to do,” Steve said, on his bed. “Wanna teach me geometry after all? Nice centerfold.” The bed creaked again, and Steve grunted with a little moan in the back of his throat.

Billy spun around, snarling, and Steve burst out laughing, dropping the magazine on his face and rolling onto his side, shaking with giggles.

“I’m not gonna whip my dick out on your bed, dumbass,” Steve cackled, and Billy growled deep in his throat. Steve was pink-cheeked with laughter, clutching his ribs. Every time he opened his eyes to look at Billy, he laughed harder, and Billy put his fists down, swiveling in place to glare out the window again. His face was as hot as a southern California sidewalk.

“Oooo, mmm,” Steve called. “Oh baby, look at those jugs,” and Billy spun back around and stomped over to murder him, but when he got there he didn’t know what he wanted to do, and Steve scrambled up and away. He caught Billy’s arm and yanked him down face-first on the bed. Billy started to slide off, and Steve shoved him all the way on the bed as Billy tried to figure out what was happening, and then Steve Harrington was sitting on his butt, Billy’s wrists securely in his hands. “Yeah, we’re not doing the concussion thing again,” Steve said, a little darkly, and Billy tried to keep his breathing even.

“Get off me,” he panted.

“Nope,” Steve said cheerfully, and picked up the magazine, lying it across Billy’s back so he could read it and still hold Billy’s wrists. Billy squirmed, rocking them around, and Steve snickered. “You don’t think I’m really gonna let you up, do you?”

“Get off,” Billy hissed, trying to tip Steve over with his hips, and Steve shifted forward to sit on his waist, leaving Billy with a reason to have trouble breathing, at least. His dick was a bar of hot iron against the bed, and Harrington’s ass cheeks were even softer through his shirt than through his jean pockets. Steve’s legs were folded against his sides, his muscular thighs pressed against Billy’s ribs, and Billy’s heart thudded in his chest.

Steve’s fingers lifted from his wrists, flipped a page, and then held him again, warm and a little sweaty. It felt just like when Billy’d yanked him back up on the basketball court, but that had been fast, and Billy’d let go, and Steve’s hands were just holding him. He kicked the mattress, groaning into his comforter.

“I didn’t tell her,” Steve said, suddenly, as he sat on Billy, holding him still while he looked at topless women. “Max. I didn’t say anything.”

Billy took a shuddery breath, his face heating more at the thought that Harrington could feel him shake. He tried to hold his breath, shutting his eyes until his lungs stopped jerking, but Steve leaned forward and brushed the curls off his neck, and Billy let his breath out with a startled wooof.

His scalp tingled as his hair stirred, and he hunched his shoulders, biting his lips together. He clenched his eyes tighter as Steve combed his fingers up through his hair, tangled from the long day, but Steve stopped every time he hit a snag. His fingers were firm, but gentle. “...jesus,” Steve said, slowly. “He bruised you up pretty good. Actually made you bleed,” he said, brushing his fingertips over where Neil’s nails had dug in at the base of Billy’s skull.

“...shut up,” Billy told him, and he could hear the tears in his own voice, thick and soggy-sounding. His eyes were stinging, and he was almost grateful he had his face in a blanket, because it soaked up the evidence. He wasn’t even less turned on, he thought with disgust, apparently just as goddamn horny for Steve’s gentle hands as he was for his muscled thighs. He tried squirming again, just to make it clear he wasn’t into it, and then went perfectly still with a gasp as he nearly came in his pants.

“Sorry,” Steve said, smoothing Billy’s hair back over the marks Neil had left, and Billy nearly laughed aloud, his whole body shaking with tension. His arm was starting to cramp, and he half desperately needed Steve to leave the room, and half wanted him to stay exactly where he was, forever. “Oh,” Steve said then, leaning forward again, his muscled thighs pressing into Billy’s sides.

He tugged at the collar of Billy’s shirt, where it was crooked from Steve slamming him face first onto the bed. “The fuck are you doing,” Billy wheezed, as Steve’s hand smoothed down his spine.

“Don’t freak out,” Steve said, letting go of Billy’s wrists, and Billy just laid there, without being held down, letting Steve Harrington sit on him and straighten his shirt collar.

“Not fucking freaking out,” Billy yelled, his voice muffled, and then he full-body shivered as Harrington laid his hands over Billy’s again, holding them to his back. “Get the hell off, my dad’s gonna—he’s gonna think you’re queer, asshole—”

Steve was quiet for a long moment, and then Billy realized he was shaking with laughter. “The—this isn’t—” Steve snickered, wheezing, “—he does know this isn’t how sex works, right?!”

“...fuck you,” Billy muttered, catching his sniggers. They both laughed for way too long, and then Steve rolled off to lie next to him, and Billy scrambled up to sit on the edge of the bed, facing away, and rubbing his arms.

“That didn’t actually...hurt, right,” Harrington said behind him, and Billy jerked at the sound of his voice.

“No, it didn’t fucking hurt, Harrington. I’m not delicate.” He didn’t turn around, though, because his whole body was radiating heat from the soft brush of Steve’s hand over his hands before letting him go. He was fairly sure if he turned around and saw Steve Harrington in his bed, rumpled from wrestling, his cock would fucking burst through his pants like a Looney Toons characterthrough a wall. He tried to think of unsexy things, like Looney Toons characters, and he wrinkled his nose at the idea of kissing Sylvester the cat.

Then the springs creaked as Harrington sat up, and Billy remembered why he’d let him go—and why he didn’t seem mad about getting beat up, probably—and wanted to punch him again. “...fuck you, Harrington,” he said, going for threatening, but coming off tired.

“What’d I do now?” he asked, and Billy wondered, grimacing, what he’d looked like, crying in the fucking window.

“Shut up,” Billy sighed, then startled as Harrington’s fingers slid up the side of his neck.

“Your ears are all red,” Steve said, sounding entertained, and that was just— great.

“Fuck you,” Billy spat, smacking his hand away, and turning to glare at the most popular boy in school, currently in his bed. “Yeah, you know all about me now, huh?! You know all my shitty secrets, go ahead, tell the fucking world.”

Steve blinked his big, soft brown eyes, looking thoughtful. For a wild second, Billy wondered whether he even remembered seeing Billy and his dad the night before—whether the King of Hawkins High was even capable of remembering Billy Fucking Hargrove, if even a fistfight hadn’t made an impression. Steve cocked his head. “...I’m not gonna...spread rumors about you, jesus.”

“Yeah, you fucking won’t,” Billy hissed. The idea of King Steve not just...feeding Billy his own teeth at the idea of Billy’s eyes on him was...unlikely. “Why the hell are you pretending this is all fine,” Billy hissed, glaring, gathering himself to beat Harrington into oblivion.

“You gonna do something that isn’t?” Steve asked, and Billy took a shaky breath.

“...you already saw what I am,” he laughed, and Steve narrowed his eyes.

“I don’t give a shit what your dad thinks,” he hissed. “You try to hit me again—”

Billy swung his arm out, just to see, and Steve slammed him into the bed again. Billy stared up, panting for no reason. His face was hot.

“You can want me to hold you down all day, I don’t give a shit,” he said, and Billy choked, coughing. “I know what I look like,” Steve said, leaning in, and Billy coughed harder, his eyes watering. “You sure you don’t want me to jack off on your bed?” he whispered in Billy’s ear, and Billy clenched his fingers in his mattress as he recovered his breath, wiping his eyes.

“...the fuck would you wanna give me a show,” Billy whispered, staring at him, and Steve’s grin widened.

“I don’t mind an audience,” he said, settling back against Billy’s pillow, and Billy realized it would smell like him that night.

His cock hadn’t gotten very distracted anyway, hadn’t even made it down to half-mast, and he nearly shut his eyes as it went granite-hard again. He felt the burn of friction from his cheap cotton underwear. “What,” he muttered. “What the fuck.”

“Tell me you got some lotion in this shithole,” Steve said, folding his arm behind his head, and lifting his t-shirt to show a trail of hair leading into his pants, and Billy forgot there was anyone in the world besides him, and the boy on his bed, grinning over.

He turned like a fucking robot and walked over to where all his hair shit was. He grabbed the Avon bottle Susan had bought—she’d been trying to get the Avon lady to leave her alone—and returned like he was on remote control, to slap the bottle into Steve Harrington’s outstretched hand.

Steve hummed, opening the magazine back up—they’d scrunched it, rolling around and laughing—and folding his knees up to lean it against. Billy remembered his door didn’t lock, so he backed away until his shoulder blades thumped into his door. He slid down to sit against it as Steve fucking Harrington punched his blanket into a pile with his pillow, reclined back against them, and unzipped his jeans. He shimmied them down around his hips, shoving his skivvies down over his bony hips, and his cock laid half-hard against his stomach.

Billy swallowed thickly.

“This why you were such a fucking freak in the shower?” Steve asked, and Billy threw an empty beer can at him instinctively, like swatting a fly. Steve laughed as it bounced off his knee, his abs flexing in the light of the window. Billy’d seen him in the showers—he’d barely been able to tear his eyes away, but Harrington knowing he was looking and liking it was a whole different feeling. It had Billy breathless. Steve was going pink too, across his cheeks and ears.

He braced the magazine open against his knees, squirted some lotion into his hand, and slowly rucked his shirt up under his armpits. Billy clenched his fingers in his thighs as Steve stopped, and checked his watch.

“...man up or put your cock away, Harrington,” Billy hissed.

“When’s your dad get home?” Steve asked, and Billy laughed.

“Let a man pick the way he dies, Harrington, jesus.”

Steve looked over, his head cocked. “We should still have a while, though, right? Plenty of time.”

“Depends how good you make it,” Billy told him, his cheeks burning ever harder as he pushed, and pushed, and waited for the boy in his bed to back down, and admit he’d been bluffing. Because Billy was apparently hallucinating, or possibly dead, Steve’s dick hardened visibly at the challenge. Steve shrugged, his dick bobbing. “You want my cock to be your last sight on earth, I can make that happen,” he said, flashing a grin Billy’s way.

Billy bit his lips together, and silently unzipped his fly, letting his eyes flutter shut at the relief of pressure—and then he jerked his head up to watch Steve Harrington. His head thumped the door, and Steve glanced over, smirking.

“Shut up and yank your dick,” Billy growled, and Steve laughed, folding his arm behind his head to look at the magazine. He ran his fingertips over his chest, and down his belly alongside his cock, and Billy threw another empty can at him. “Just do it, what the fuck, you’re such a slut, Harrington!”

Steve burst out laughing with a full belly laugh, his head tipping back so his hair fanned against the sheets. Hopefully Susan and Max thought that was just them fighting, Billy thought, listening. He bit his lips together, hiding whatever sound he’d been about to make, and Steve ran a finger from the base to the tip of his cock. “Can’t believe you just yelled that,” he snickered, grinning.

“Can’t believe you’re doing some kind of— striptease in my bedroom,” Billy hissed back, his cheeks flaming as he watched Steve Harrington rub his thumb over the tip of his dick, then lift away a string of fluid.

“Sometimes you gotta remind people what they’re missing if they, y’know, keep studying, and leave you lonely,” Steve said, staring at the magazine as he finally— finally— slicked up his dick, closing his eyes with a soft groan. The lotion gleamed on his skin.

Billy had a vision of Nancy Wheeler studying until she looked over and saw this, and the jealousy felt like acid inside him. He tried to imagine ignoring him, and laughed. “You been lonely a lot, King Steve?”

“Ha,” Steve said, stroking his cock, and smiling crookedly at the naked woman in the centerfold.

“Jesus,” Billy whispered, imagining his hand, his mouth on Steve’s dick, stretching around the shiny, blood-darkened skin, and Steve flashed him a grin. He was flushed all over, sweating as his back arched, and Billy pressed the heel of his hand against his cock, trying not to squirm.

“Faster,” Billy muttered, as Harrington put on a fucking show, smirking the whole time. At Billy’s voice, his fingers slowed further. He moaned theatrically, trying not to laugh, as he squirmed in Billy’s bed, trailing his fingers over his balls. “Christ, Harrington,” Billy said, punched out of him as he watched the muscles working in Steve’s ass and thighs.

“Patience—patience is a virtue,” Steve panted, sliding both hands over his sweaty abs and then grasping his dick as he grunted, letting his head loll back, his eyes fluttering shut. Billy didn’t even breathe, his whole being focused on Steve Harrington’s hand on his dick as he came over his thumb and belly, stilling for a long second, then relaxed against Billy’s bed with a soft sigh.

“Holy shit,” Billy mumbled, his heart pounding probably harder than Harrington’s had been. He was soaked with sweat. He pressed his cock again, wishing he’d left his pants zipped—he’d done laundry, at least, so his underwear was stretched around his cock and nearly transparent, like a fucking wet t-shirt contest for cocks, but at least Steve didn’t have to look at his dick.

He was still sprawled, the breeze from the window stirring his sweaty hair, and Billy tried not to look as he fumbled around and found the paper towels Susan had brought in with the cookies.

“...gimme some of that milk,” Steve panted, and Billy rolled his eyes and brought it over, not realizing what he would look like, post-orgasmic Steve Harrington, his head tipped back as his throat worked, and a white trickle sliding down his jaw. Billy dropped the paper towels on him, and then went still again as Harrington finished the milk and rolled the cool glass across his flushed chest. “I’m not gonna scream, jesus,” Steve said, snorting a laugh. “I’ve seen cocks before. You never watch porn with anybody?”

Billy snorted so hard he nearly choked. “Seems kinda different, Harrington,” he pointed out. He couldn’t help imagining what Steve wanted, thin shoulders and soft tits, Nancy Wheeler’s, specifically, he was pretty sure, but he was so hard it felt like blood was pounding in his brain. He sat heavily on the bed and reached in his pants, eyes fixed firmly on the floor, and Steve unfolded his long legs so one was behind him, one across his lap.

Billy turned to glare at Harrington, and he was propped up on his elbow, offering the lotion, still covered in his own jizz. He waggled the bottle, raising his eyebrows, and Billy took it, just holding it like a dumbass, because all he could think about was tipping sideways between Steve’s sprawled legs and sucking hickies into his thigh.

Billy wanted to know what his skin tasted like.

“Did you short out?” Steve asked, yawning and rubbing his face. He squirmed, running his hands through his hair, and his whole torso flexed.

Billy squirted lotion in his hand, and they both snickered because it sounded like a series of wet farts. Steve sighed with satisfaction, sprawling back, and Billy slid his hand in his briefs and yanked at his cock, groaning with relief. He was in a hurry, unlike Steve, and it only took a few tugs before he was coming all over his jeans and skivvies. He glanced over to see Harrington watching, his eyes dark and curious.

“...what,” he hissed, and got a crumpled-up paper towel to the head.

“Clean yourself up before Max walks in,” Steve told him with a wide smirk, and Billy half wanted to punch it off his face, and half wanted to kiss it. The bed creaked as Steve lifted his hips, yanking his pants back up. “What the hell did you think I’d told her? Your dad’s an asshole? I mean, she knows, right?”

Billy stilled, his heart juddering like he’d worked it too hard watching Harrington. “What,” he said, buying time. “...how much did you see,” he gritted out.

“I’m not gonna go tell anybody, jesus,” Steve rolled his eyes. “I mean, what the fuck are you gonna say then—tell everybody I did my best pinup thing on your bed? What happens in your bedroom stays in your bedroom, christ.” His ears were getting redder, even as the rest of him cooled off.

“...what,” Billy asked hoarsely, clearing his throat, “—you don’t do that with all the guys?”

“Ha…” Steve said. “...not like that.” He sighed, cocking his head to look at Billy’s back. “I thought he was gonna put your head through the window,” he said, swinging his leg up and over Billy’s head so he could swing them both over the edge of the bed and sit up. “I was looking up and down the street for a phone booth to call an ambulance. I had a rock to throw at the house, distract him, but he left.”

“...he wanted to know what I was looking at. Why I—I yanked Max in here,” Billy said through gritted teeth, remembering how her skinny arm felt in his hand. He didn’t think he’d yanked hard.

Steve cocked his head, watching him. “...and you didn’t just...tell him?”

“The hell was I gonna say?!” Billy snarled at him. “There’s a car outside? I think I recognize it?”

“...sorry for making your life hell,” Steve said, and Billy laughed.

“You didn’t. He’s gotta keep me in check, right, otherwise I attack people.”

“More...hell. Hell...er,” Steve pulled his shirt down finally, considering. “Helly? Hellier? I was about to huck a rock at the side of the house and just run when he came out to see what made the noise,” he said, steepling his fingers like it was a cunning plan, and Billy glanced sideways at him.

“...why?” he asked, snorting a dismissive laugh. “Max said I gave you a goddamn concussion. The fuck do you care if he makes me look out the window.” Harrington opened his mouth, and his hand twitched towards Billy, but he didn’t say anything. “...what the hell are you here for, anyway—” Billy started, remembering why he’d been watching at all.

“No, I think—” Harrington said, at the same time. “I mean, it still matters, right, you’ve got bruises—”

“He doesn’t treat Max like that,” Billy shot back, feeling a little shaky, like he did whenever he had to look at the truth of himself. “I’m a bad seed, right—”

Steve looked confused, but then he shook his head. “M-maybe you are?! But in school when some of the seeds came out, y’know, weird and crooked, we didn’t hit ‘em, that doesn’t help—”

Billy’s eyes went a little blurry with tears—of laughter, because of how stupid that argument was. “Did you fucking...grow little pea plants in plastic cups or something?”

“Yeah,” Steve told him, decisively, like he’d won. Like his dumb pea plant experiment made him the expert on what Billy Hargrove deserved. He glared over as Billy started snickering. “Hey,” he said, narrowing his eyes, and Billy laughed harder, kind of unable to stop. His eyes teared up again, and his hands shook, and Steve’s frown went wide-eyed and uncertain.

The garage door opened.

Billy snorted, wiping his eyes, and getting up to yank his jizz-covered jeans and tighty-whiteys off. He yanked some black silk boxers on—the friction against his dick had been no joke—and realized the only clean jeans were his party pants, years old and strained across his ass and thighs. He squirmed getting them on.

“...dinner and a show, huh?” Steve asked awkwardly, and Billy whipped around to glare at him suspiciously.

“...shut up, you don’t give a crap about my ass,” Billy snorted, and Steve folded his arms, quirking his mouth. His cheeks had gone pink again, and Billy stopped like he’d been turned to stone midmotion. “...holy shit,” he whispered, but then the door from the garage into the house closed, and he listened for his dad’s voice, or nearing footsteps.

“He’ll want dinner,” he said, nearly under his breath as he listened to his dad ask Max whether she was still birdwatching.

“...you have to talk nice to plants,” Steve said, like a moron. “Some of them like music.”

“I’m not a plant,” Billy hissed back, but he couldn’t help a huff of laughter at the idea of him in a little plastic cup, with Steve Harrington playing him Def Leppard and spritzing his head.

Steve grinned at him. “Dinner time?”

“Yeah,” Billy sighed. He was setting his shoulders to leave his room when Steve threw his arm around them, and hauled them both out Billy’s door. He pulled Billy close against his side, so Billy’s shoulder didn’t hit the edge of the doorway, then again when they passed the table in the hall, and Billy tried not to lean into him too much.

Part Two

#Harringrove #Billy Hargrove #steve harrington #Steve Sees Abuse #Steve finds out about Neil Hargrove's A+ parenting #Forced proximity #Enemies to allies to lovers

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