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stars4chratt · 28 days

Text

Subconscious

Pairing: Matt x fem!reader

Warnings: Again, smut / use of drugs / confessing / cocky to sub!Matt / softdom!reader / high sex (i do not condone this in any way guys, just a fair warning) / praise / stoner!Matt / grinding / handjob / vanilla(ish) / mommy kink / pet names (sweetheart, princess, mommy, etc etc) / a trip (no pun) / aftercare / a lot of swearing

Summary: The reader and Matt have been the best of friends ever since they were eleven. As they got older, the more vulnerable they were to alcohol and drugs. Matt would always be by her side getting high and drunk at desolate and abandoned parks, or maybe even in Matt’s room. Matt and the reader agreed to only stick to natural stuff like weed. But now, they’re taking it up a notch by taking a round and earthy psychedelic.

Author’s Note: stoner Matt > as i’m writing this i have Matt’s recorded twitch streams playing in the back. MY BAD I KEEP ADDING THE SWEETHEART PET NAME WITH MATT I JS LOVE IT SM ESP AFTER THE BAGS TT. Anyways, this wasn’t requested or anything this is something i just really wanted to write because i love it when there's a best friend trope weaved in <3 HOPE YOU ENJOYYYY. From Maxine, with love ♡.

“Are we still friends? Can we be friends?” - ARE WE STILL FRIENDS?, TYLER THE CREATOR

╔══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╗

Matt has always had an obsession with spirituality and the 60s. From the posters of Jimi Hendrix on his walls, to the deluxe edition Beatles vinyl records that sit alongside the vintage record player on his hardwood dresser.

Ever since Matt’s dad bought a collection of thrifted CDs for his car when he was only a toddler, he fell in love with psychedelic rock and the whole new era of love and peace and tranquil that came around in the mid to late 20th century.

Whenever he isn’t in his cramped and maximalist abode smoking bubba kush, he’s out going to underground stores which sell abstract and kaleidoscopic clothes and fashion statements in general.

The vibrant colours and the political mindsets and the pure lack of fucks to give during the time period has Matt enamoured. Calling him a big fan would be putting it extremely lightly.

You and Matt first met in 6th grade of middle school. From what you can remember, you were sitting next to him.

He was laser focused on his assignment with big and obvious headphones clasped onto his head.

Bobbing his head slowly to the smooth and flowy melodies, you pat him on the shoulder.

He turns his head and immediately pulls the headphones to the side so one of his ears perks out.

“What music are you listenin’ to?” Matt instantly thinks you’re about to ridicule him. He, for some odd reason, has always been the victim of mockery. You never understood why, he’s such a cool and chilled out kid.

“O-oh…um…” Matt stutters nervously. He was truly unsure of what to say or do in this situation. You could feel the fight or flight trigger in his hard gaze.

“Gimme the headphones! I wanna listen.” Exclaiming with an odd sense of compassion. Matt furrows his eyebrows and looks at you funny but still gives you his headphones anyway.

You whiz the headphones around your ears and onto your head. The hallucinatory notes mixing with the light and staticky voices put you in a heavy but pleasing trance.

You feel a big smile wipe across your face clean as you look back at Matt staring at you impatiently. Silently telling you ‘give me my headphones back, you weirdo.’

“This is so cool! What’s the song called?” You speak enthusiastically, still with a big grin on your profile.

Matt’s eyes light up slightly at you. You can’t tell if it’s because he’s shocked at your interest in this type of thing or because he was alarmed by how bubbly and enthusiastic you are.

“Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds… It’s by the Beatles.” He drawls out, now looking down at the floor and fidgeting with his fingers.

“Siiiiiick. Are there any more songs like this one?” You hand him back his headphones, you start to rock in your chair in anticipation and out of looking for something to do now that you don’t have the sensory fulfilment that is Matt’s music taste.

“Oh of course. They’re a band with a bunch of other songs and albums, kid.” Matt calling you kid after almost instantaneously sparking an acquaintance with you makes you giggle to yourself. What a funny nickname for someone you just met.

“Well, can you show me them? Pretty please?” You utter with an exaggerated pout on your lips as you flutter your eyelashes at him. You intertwine your hands and rest them at the side of your face to hyperbolise the sad puppy look, making Matt chuckle lightly.

“Fine…there are many other bands like them, y’know.”

“Show me those ones too!” Yelling down his ear with eagerness, he flinches at your noisiness and covers his ear you just bellowed in.

“Ugh.” He scoffs in annoyance, whilst you’re sitting across him with the biggest twinkle in your eye.

“Yay! Thank youuuuu.” Your genuine excitement makes his face flush into a deep maroon. He turns his head around in embarrassment, trying not to maintain eye contact.

“Yeah whatever, kid.”

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

NINE YEARS LATER

“Wanna try it?”

What Matt has in his hands is a vacuum sealed metallic bag. You could not make out what it is but you knew for sure it was some kind of drug.

“What the fuck is it? I thought we made an agreement that we weren’t gonna do chemical shit. Y’know how I feel about that.” You scrunch your nose in both confusion and disgust. Yet you were still curious as to what Matt was holding in his hand.

“Kid, have you never heard of magic mushrooms before? Jesus, for someone who smokes a fuck ton of wedding cake, you seem to have no clue what these boomers are.”

“I do know what a fucking magic mushroom is, Matt. I just didn’t want it to be a bag of heroin or some shit like that.” Your legs cross whilst you look at him through your eyelashes. You’re genuinely hesitant since you’ve never tried a mushroom before. Yeah, you smoked weed. But this is a whole different thing. This is a literal psychedelic.

“Heroin at mass is sold in baggies or balloons, stupid.” He chortles. “As I was saying, are you gonna try it with me or nah?” He chucks the small pouch at you.

There’s a small plastic window where you can see the muddy fungi inside. You cringe in distaste, you wonder to yourself where the fuck he got them from. Incredibly skittish, you want to back out. But curiosity and temptation is killing you at the same time.

“I don’t think I wanna try this Matt. It seems stupid.” You scoff. Matt smirks down at you and grabs the bag again.

“Don’t knock it ‘till you try it, kid. It’s just mushrooms, you’re not gonna die.” He waves the sealed bag tantalisingly around your face.

“Fine, fine whatever.” You give him the bird and suck your teeth. He chuckles like a little child at your offensive remarks. He offers you the bag again.

“Ladies first.” He remarks cunningly.

You break open the packet and receive a heavy waft of dirt. You turn your head the other way immediately as a natural reaction. The strong scent makes your face almost turn inside out in repulsion.

“You’re so dramatic.” Matt smirks. You turn back at him with a mean glare.

“You sniff it, then. ‘Cuz you’re soooo tough.” You jitter mockingly right up in his face. Dragging your hand right under his nostrils for him to get a whiff. His eyebrows knit close together and screw his eyes shut.

“Who’s dramatic now? Hm?” Your teasing rhetoric strikes one of his nerves. He immediately plunges his hand in the bag and takes the squishy piece of matter.

“Hey hey, slow down. Let me get one out.” You yell out at him in shock at his lack of hesitancy. He rolls his eyes with impatience while your shivering hand places itself into the plastic bag to pick one out.

“Oh yeah, just so y’know, this could last up to 5 hours.” Matt states super casually. Your eyebrows raise as you look back up at him. You’re not all that surprised though. What were you expecting? It's not plain jane weed, it’s mushrooms.

“I don’t give a fuck anymore, let’s just get this over with.”

Soon after you said that, you both hastily gulped the abnormal saprophyte down. Both of your faces contort at the peculiar taste and texture.

“Eurgh… that was the worst.” You gag at the displeasure going down your throat and into your digestive system.

“Yeah, this is a one time thing for sure.” Matt affirms with a deep frown. He turns to his queen sized bed with silk sheets and plops down next to you.

“When will these hit?” You quiz him curiously. Tangling and playing with the strands of your hair out of a way to distract yourself from what you just did.

“It's the same principle as an edible, it’ll take a while to hit. So don’t take another one.” He mumbles inconspicuously since his face is half smushed into his soft mattress.

“Shall we smoke some weed while we wait?”

“No, dude. We’d literally die. Let’s not fuckin’ kill ourselves from severe psychosis tonight, yeah?”

You smile at his stupid banter. It’s what made Matt so appealing to you. His dry humour alongside his ridiculous behaviour when you’re both stoned as shit is like taking a breath of fresh air. Knowing each other for almost ten years and you two still never get tired of each other. Constantly hanging out, doing stupid and reckless shit ever since you two were tweens. True best friends.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

A while has passed, and the both of you are so far out of your heads. Every single time you turn to look at each other, the more distorted everything gets. You see things you don’t actually see, you hear things you don’t actually hear, you smell things you don’t actually smell. The tie dye-like swirls on Matt’s tapestries that hang proud on his walls disfigure and circle around putting you under a strict hypnosis.

“Holy shit…” Matt’s voice rattles through your cochleas, making your head sting from the blare. You move around to see him while your vision oversaturates and wiggles with no rhythm or control.

“W-what is going on…” The bare echoes of your voice tingles your senses. The soft scent of Matt’s white musk incense blazing in the background fills the crevices of your nostrils and massages your brain, it was the only thing soothing you from the extremity of the situation.

“Matt…I’m scared…What the fuck is going on.” Abruptly, the effects on your voice quickly transitions into a thick static. The sensory overload inflicts the both of you. You feel incredibly overwhelmed and almost spiral into a state of panic.

“I’m here, I promise.” Matt mutters under his breath. His clammy hands take a hold of your wrist firmly. You look up at him to see his pupils viciously dilated while finding it hard to breathe.

“I’m so scared.” You shudder. Pure anxiety soaks you up but is squeezed back out when Matt moves your head to rest on his shoulder. He tilts his head so it lays on top of yours.

“It’s going to be okay, sweetheart. I promise.” Your heartbeat pounds rapidly. You don’t say or do anything both because you’re way too high as well as wanting to savour this moment since you purely assume this will never happen ever again.

Why is Matt being so soft with you? Ever since you two first met, he’s never been the type to call you these names.

“From now on. Weed n’ fuckin’ weed only.” You demand in a serious manner. Matt sighs out a laugh while he strokes your hair in reassurance. “Of course… p-princess.”

You purse your lips as a way to try and hide the excitement from Matt calling you these sudden names. A million thoughts come racing through your mind all at once. You’ve gotten both high and drunk with Matt on several occasions. Are the mushrooms that strong?

Your vision is still eradicated and infused with neon reds and pinks. You want to close your eyes but when you’re in pitch black darkness, the patterns become more prominent and it freaks you out to an extreme.

You hear Matt whisper delicately which makes your ears perk up indefinitely. You twist your neck to look up at him for his gaze to meet yours. His mouth hangs slightly open with his pupils large and his eyebags hang low across his defined cheekbones.

“l-like…you..” He sputters out. He sounds like he has no more control left in the muscles of his face any more. Jesus christ, this shit is strong.

“...huh…” Rebound of the vowels smushed on your tongue and teeth is elevated by the effects of the drug. Both you and Matt are incredibly discombobulated. You raise yourself from underneath Matt’s figure for you to try your absolute best to attempt to understand what he just said.

Matt’s now looking up at you through the locks of hair that drape over his low and inflamed eyes.

“I really…really like you… like, ‘ver since… I-I got to know you better in 6th grade…I now have a decent excuse for why I’m telling you this... I’m fucking tripping balls.” He laughs it off as if he didn’t just confess his feelings to you off the rip right in front of you, face to face.

You just sit there gazing down at him bewildered with your mouth agape. He clenches his lips shut and frowns slightly, averting his gaze down to the bed in regret of just blurting that out.

“Matt…w-what the fuck…” Immediately after you utter this question, Matt slaps his hand over his mouth and starts to slightly curl himself up into a little ball like a shrivelled raisin.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry I-I ruined the experience… I thought you felt the same way and I was thinking too quickly ahead of myself I-I’m really sorry-”

You pat both of Matt’s shoulders and force his head up to look at you.

“Matt, I-It’s okay… I promise you. I-I feel the same. I know we’re both high as fuck right now, but I know for sure t-that I’m telling the truth. I really like you, Matt.”

His body loosens underneath you in reaction to your words. Your thumb rubs softly over his defined cheekbones. The frown on his face turned upside down completely into a large smile.

Your big and swollen pupils squint down at him. His heavy breaths, his cherry pink lips resting lazily and hanging slightly open, and his frizzy and dishevelled hair that drapes gracefully over his droopy eyes.

Everything about him, the whole sight of him makes you soaked at your core.

Your thighs clench together in desperation and you grit down onto your bottom lip intensely. The flesh of your hand is still resting on Matt’s face. You can feel the pricklyness of his stubble on your very fingertips.

The two of you just stare at each other, admiring every little thing about one another. In a comfortable but loud silence. The effects of the drug are still sharp around the edge, jabbing and stabbing both of your 5 main senses.

You feel your body start to give in and fall forward into Matt. Your forehead clashes with his. Your large breaths blend together.

Abruptly, he tilts his head up. His lips just graze against yours. You can tell he’s desperate with his eyes full to the brim with lust and eroticism. You pull away lightly with a smirk on your face whilst Matt writhes and squirms. He tries to follow your head so he can make contact with your mouth. He really wants to kiss you.

Seeing him this vulnerable makes you melt. What once was a bad-mouthing, cocky and smug little shit who smoked with you every week was now gone. He’s now tripping on mushrooms underneath you with a throbbing semi.

You manoeuvre yourself over so both of your legs are spread on top of him. You’re in a cowgirl position, with Matt.

His prick pulses harshly beneath your heat. The only thing stopping the contact between the two of you are your clothes. Matt’s now fully hard, to the point where his dick has developed a tent in his harem pants.

You start to sway your hips back and forth. Matt’s head flips back fully and his mouth hangs open. His Adam's apple is fully revealed and bobs up and down marginally. His hefty breathing now transitioned into hot and rowdy moans and whimpers.

“Look at me baby, look at me while I grind on your cock.” You finally spoke, after there was nothing but whines and sobs filling the air.

“Y-yes mommy…” You sigh out a sharp laugh. Knowing your arrogant friend who’s always causing a riot with alcohol and dope is now rock hard thanks to you, moaning and whining into your ear like a little bitch fills you with an overwhelming sense of fulfilment.

“Yeah that’s right, be a good boy for me. Keep calling me mommy.” You feel as though you could do anything to him right this second. You had all of the power and control over Matt. Your teeth grit together and the smirk on your face largens.

“You make me feel so good, Mommy. Y-you’re gonna make me cum…” The words come spilling out of his mouth like calm waves of the ocean. What used to be the intense sound of his voice from the drugs now turned silky smooth from the euphoria spooling out from your sensitive nerves.

You stop rocking your hips on top of his cock. Matt looks up at you with his bottom lip concealed fully inside his mouth by his teeth.

“Take your pants off baby, lemme make you cum properly.” You command him pompously. Immediately, he speedily grasps at his waist band and tugs it down his thighs.

His cock bounces out of the loose fabric. The tip was swollen and pink with precum dripping out thickly. The rhythm of his breath matched with the harsh trembling of blood flow to his dick.

“Jesus Christ… and I barely did anything to you, not yet anyway.” You tease. Matt’s face jams up with impatience and knuckles his hands into his vibrant sheets.

“P-please just touch me. I really wanna cum mommy.” He pleads eagerly. His eyebrows furrowed deeply into his skin and his face splashed apricot pink. His whole body shivers. Anticipating heavily for your skin to press into his.

You reach out your hand and wrap it loosely around his large and thick cock. You slither down his shaft slowly in a jesting manner. You leer up at Matt to see him gaping down at you, panting stiffly.

Your pace on his dick starts to quicken. Your fingers clench tightly around him making him jolt up into your hand.

Matt loses all control within himself and starts to thrust up and down hastily. Practically fucking your hand. You push him down with your other palm and hold him into place. You shoot him a mean stare as he gulps down what was left of his pride.

“Don’t move.” The stern tone infused in your voice makes Matt quiver. He tugs at the collar of his shirt and pulls it up his face to conceal his severe embarrassment.

What’s happening right now tells you one thing that you never would’ve thought would be the case. Matt loves being controlled. He admires the idea of being dominated. And you are contributing to that fantasy.

The pad of your index and middle finger press onto his fleshy, rosy-red tip faintly. A choked up whine crawls out of his throat and his legs rise upwards but your weight stops them.

“M-mommy… please don't stop... I’m gonna cum.”

“Do it baby. Don’t be shy. Be a good boy for mommy and cum.” You start to go faster and more harsh on his sensitive tip. Matt’s entire body shakes and his hips buck and lock into place.

“Cumming mommy, c-cumming...”

His tip suddenly spurts out long thick strings of his load. Onto your face, your hand, your clothes, your chest, everywhere. Every single time a white rope would come spilling out of his prick, an intense shiver would shoot through his body and his shirt is now crumpled into its original place.

He gasps intimately while you sit there with his seed still dripping down your face.

Matt’s eyes suddenly widen and he raises his entire figure in a panic to grab the box of tissues on his bedside table.

“No no, don’t worry. I got it.” You disclose to him delicately. You tug out a few sheets of tissue and wipe at his skin from the waist below.

“I’m sorry for making such a mess… I didn’t think it would be that bad.” Matt utters sorrowfully. He pulls his pants back up and you grab more tissues.

He takes hold of your wrist to take the tissues from you. He places his thumb onto your chin to position you as he folds the tissues.

“It’s fine Matt, I enjoyed it. A lot, actually.” You grin compassionately as Matt swipes at your face with the tissues.

“I think that’s the first and last time we’re ever gonna do mushrooms, though.” He snickers, crumpling the dirty tissues and chucking them into the bin lying at the side of the bed.

“Yeah, one time thing.” You rest your head on his stomach, you rise and fall with his breathing.

"Can I braid your hair?" Matt casually inquires. "I have a bunch of charms and hair ties."

You beam a smile from ear to him, your face fills up with a cherry blossom pink.

"Yeah, of course Matt."

╚══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╝

Author’s Note No.2: I think this will most definitely have a part 2. I have no complaints with making a series, if you haven’t already noticed with me always bringing up pins n’ needles. This took me a while to write because I’ve been busy with exams and social life. But I finally completed one after 2 weeks!!! Yayyy!! ‘Till next time, pooks.

༝༚༝༚, Maxine.

Taglist: @gamermattsgf @luverboychris @worldlxvlys @chrissystur @chaosisalwayscrying @bellasfavbisexual @luvmxtt @tillies33ssss @breeloveschris

#christopher sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo x reader #smut #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo smut #sturniolo fanfic #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo x reader

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deep-fried-egg · 7 months

Text

Should've said no

CW: jealous Lorraine, Lorraine is a little bit insecure, you're a pornstar, angst to fluff

"Why didn't you disagree y/n!? I thought you knew I have a crush on you!" Lorraine yelled, she's mad at me because I did a scene in RJ's movie with Maxine and didn't disagree with the idea.

"Lorraine I-"

"No! Be quiet! You don't have any excuse!" Lorraine yelled, "I can't believe you would do something so low." Lorraine turned around to storm off to her room, but before she did so she looked over her shoulder to get In one final word. "We're going to talk about this later." As soon as she left I heard footsteps behind me.

"Y/n. What happened?" Maxine

said, "I've known you since kindergarten and even when we first went out you never acted like this. Something's got you upset..." She trailed off.

"Lorraine's mad because I shot that scene with you." I admitted. "And the thing is Maxine," I said turning to face her, "she's right, I don't want to be seen as someone who sleeps around."

I sighed and sat down on my bed. "But, if she wants to think of me like that then so be it."

I feel like I should apologize for what I did... "You know Y/n," Maxine spoke up, "I don't think you should take what Lorraine said to heart."

"Of course it isn't okay that she'd say something like that... I mean I'm just doing my job. It's just sex." I mumble to myself

I don't want to let anything get to me. I just need to focus on filming, but still Lorraine's words are stuck in my head. I was trying not to think about that, I really was. But I couldn't help but feel like I'm in the wrong...

I know I love Lorraine though. And I need to tell her that. But, how do I do that after we just had an argument about me being a pornstar and having sex with people that aren't her even if we aren't together... fuck.

I really need to get this off my chest though. It's eating me up inside .

"Hey Maxine." I spoke up suddenly, getting her attention. "Do you ever feel like you need to tell someone what your thinking about?" I asked, feeling stupid when she gave me her 'are you crazy look'.

"Uh..." She hesitated, obviously wondering why I asked her that,"Well yeah, I suppose"

"Well, I feel like I need to tell Lorraine how I feel but I just can't bring myself to." I confessed, looking anywhere but her."It feels selfish and maybe I am being selfish because I know she'll get mad at me if she finds out, but I also feel like it would be worth it if she would see how much I care about her." I told her honestly, finally meeting her eyes.

Maxine paused for a moment, thinking about my question and eventually nodded her agreement, "I think you're probably right. Why don't you just go get some food and ask her tomorrow? She might forgive you if you try." Maxine suggested.

I smiled weakly, "Thanks Maxine." I gave her a small hug, "You're always there for me no matter what."

~*~*~

I walked towards Lorraine's room, knocking gently against the door three times to alert her that it's open, I walked into her room, finding her lying face down on her pillow.

I quickly noticed the tears streaming down her face, "Hey Lorraine." I started, sitting beside her.

She slowly lifted her head, her eyes were swollen from crying, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gotten so angry at you." She tried to smile. "You did nothing wrong."

"Nah, it's okay"

I reassured her. We both fell silent for awhile until I decided to break the ice, "Lorraine... I wanted to say something... I feel kinda guilty for shooting that scene with Maxine."

"Oh, don't worry y/n I know you don't actually -

"No!" I interrupted, "That' not it, I swear! It's just..." I started, pausing to gather courage, "It feels so bad seeing you so sad about it."

I waited for a few moments to see if she'd continue to stay quiet and let me speak, but when she didn't say a word I continued, "And there's also another thing I wanted to tell you actually..."

"What is it?" Lorraine asked, wiping away her remaining tears with the back of her hands.

"Lorraine...I think I might have a crush on you." It felt liberating to say those words out loud. I wasn't scared or embarrassed. Instead I felt more confident.

Lorraine's jaw dropped, "You do?! Wait...you said you weren' sure about it! And, how could you have a crush on me? I'm not beautiful. You're gorgeous. Your hair is gorgeous, your eyes are gorgeous, your lips look perfect and you have great body, why would anyone-"

"No, no... Lorraine you're beautiful." I interrupted, reaching up and running my thumb along her cheek."The only person who doesn't get that beauty is yourself."

"You..." Lorraine stopped herself, looking at me like I've grown two heads or something,"You really think that about me?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Even though you know I can' be compared to you. You still think so highly of me?" She was shocked.

"Yes, I do, Lorraine."

"Why would you want to spend time with such a worthless person?" Lorraine sniffed, starting to cry again,"Look at how ugly I look."

"You are not ugly Lorraine," I said sternly, "And don't call yourself 'ugly'." I scolded, "There is absolutely nothing about you that is unloveable."

I reached out and wiped the remaining tears off of her face and held her hand. "Y/n..." Lorraine whispered. I leaned forward and kissed her softly, Lorraine pulled me closer by my shirt,"Y/n...I-"

Just then Maxine came storming in, interrupting us "Hey guys!! Can I join your huddle?" She asked, laughing.

Lorraine pushed me away from her "Maxine, get out." She growled, glaring daggers at her older friend.

Maxine raised her eyebrows "Ooh, somebody's in a mood." She teased, grabbing her keys, "Have fun y/n!" Maxine sang, leaving the two of us alone.

once she did we stared at each other awkwardly for a few seconds until Lorraine broke the silence with the same question from earlier, "Y/n?" She said softly. I took that as an invitation to sit next to her on her bed and wrapped my arm around her shoulders.

"I think, that if you wanted to kiss me, you could've just asked." I said smirking and wiggling my eyebrows. Lorraine laughed quietly, leaning back into my embrace. "So, about that scene..." I started.

"Yeah." Lorraine breathed deeply. "We can forget about that.

#eggsub thoughts #ask #jenna ortega x reader #vada cavell x reader #lorraine day x reader #wednesday addams x reader #camila montes x reader #phoebe atwell x reader #lorraine day x you #lorraine day #lorraine day x #jenna ortega x y/n #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega #jenna marie ortega

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passivenovember · 4 months

Text

Night Shift (for @catharrington )

The first thing he sees when he comes to is Max.

She’s crying in her sleep, the liquid timbre of it slipping loosely in time with a heart monitor, somewhere to the left, fading in and out of view as the steady drip of morphine fights to drag Billy under.

He realizes, that. The heart monitor is his. He’s plugged into it and he hurts. More than Neil. More than anything.

What’s left of his mind is liquified, sloshing around in a body strapped to a bed. It turns the memory of Maxine over in his hands like a rubber duck in an ocean of guilt.

She’s alive. Billy made sure of it, so. She’s alright. She’s okay–

It aches to breathe, burns so bad that his vision blacks out and Billy thinks, eyes glued to the grounding shock of red hair on his sister’s head, that he’s too young to die.

–

The first time Billy’s strong enough to crash awake and stay there, he wishes for death.

Fuck being too young.

Everything burns, and then he’s gasping around a pain unlike any he’s ever felt as warm amber light filters through his eyelashes. He’s bleeding, from the very center of his chest, watercolor seeping through a cloth. He watches red bloom, bloom, bloom over white gauze and thinks. He should call for help.

But then someone snuffles, deep in sleep and Billy flinches toward the sound, teeth on edge.

Maxine looks like she hasn’t moved or showered or eaten in days, and Billy grunts. Her angry, cave-man big brother even knocking on death’s door. He tries to sit but something else escapes him, a fucking. Whine.

More blood.

He’s crying. He doesn't know when he starts crying, but he’s fighting to get to Max, he’s wading through shit and fire and and then someone says, “Don’t move, Hargrove, you’ll rip yourself open again.”

Steve Harrington looks like he went three rounds with a meat grinder. Like someone tried to kill him. Like Billy–

“Shh, it’s alright,” Steve’s fingers are soft, through the searing pain, gentle as butterfly wings on the caps of Billy’s shoulders. “Lay back,” Steve tells him, blue and black and purple, like spilled paint, “Lay down, okay?”

Billy gets lost in the fat bulge of Steve’s bottom lip. Thinks.

He probably did that to Steve. Everything’s fuzzy, he doesn’t remember anything but he remembers wanting. Steve. Everyone dead. Everyone and then himself.

He didn’t think everyone included Steve Harrington.

“It’s alright,” Steve cards those soft, sweet fingers through Billy’s hair. “Lay down,” He says, “Rest.”

Billy does.

–

The next time he wakes it’s because Maxine is throwing a temper tantrum.

Billy would know the sound of her voice in death. The shrill, ear-splitting soprano of Max’s screams could yank him out of hell and catapult his body through the lid of his coffin, startled lips gathering earth between his gums until he’s awake, again.

Alive.

A man in a white lab coat tells Max to calm down.

She spits, instead, phlegmy and gross and just like Billy taught her, in the Doc’s face, “You’re not moving him.”

It’s half-way unintelligible. Billy squints, like there’s sunlight streaming bright and relentless from his sister’s throat and he’ll go blind if he doesn’t protect himself.

“Kid,” The Doctor says, “He’s not awake. He’s not getting any better–”

“If you take him to Chicago I’ll kill myself,” Maxine declares. Stubborn bitch. “If you take him, I’ll. I’ll chain myself to the bottom of the helicopter. I’ll stop eating. I’ll starve myself–”

She will. She’s a man of her word, the fuckin’ loser.

“A hunger strike?” The Doc frowns, regretful. “You can try, kid. Won’t bring your brother back.”

Billy smirks. Almost. It hurts and his head splits open and across the room, on his feet and ready to restrain Billy’s very own red-headed tornado from punching a hole through the Doctor’s sternum, Steve Harrington watches Billy.

His face looks normal now.

Almost.

He’s yellowing, sort of, like an old photograph, but. He’s beautiful.

Billy’s chest aches.

“--His entire life is here,” Maxine says, voice wobbling dangerously. Billy knows she’s about two seconds from decapitating this Doctor with her bare hands, “His family. I’m his family, you’re not just going to take him away from–”

“--Kid–”

“--Don’t call me kid, you fucking asshole,” Max says, “Don’t–”

“--If we can’t get him somewhere he’ll wake up, he’ll die.” The Doctor says. Not a teensy bit regretful.

Billy doesn’t exactly blame him.

But you’d think a bomb has gone off. You’d think society’s on the brink of collapse, by the way Maxine goes shocked still, and then.

She moves.

Or, She tries to move, screaming and screaming as Steve holds her back, never once taking his eyes off of Billy. “Max,” Steve says. His lip’s not bulging anymore.

Maxine wails against the Doctor, anyway, her tiny fists not packing much force because the fucker just looks sad, about it. For her. Max will break her thumb, doing that.

Billy tries to call her a dumb fucker and fails.

Tries to sit up and fails.

“Max,” Steve tells her, putting himself in front of the Doc, “Look.”

Her eyes are blue, like his.

Somehow Billy forgot about that while he was treading water in the sea of everything else. Billy and Max stare at each other for ten long, breathless seconds.

And.

All Billy can think is that he should’ve stayed dead. He should’ve followed his mother’s voice into the pits of hell, like she wanted him to, he should’ve stopped fighting and in that stretch of breathless anticipation, he knows.

Maxine is going to open her mouth and tell him that he fucked it up. Again. Die, she’s thinking. If you’re not going to do it, I’ll kill you myself.

Max blinks and then she opens her mouth. Makes a terrible noise. It’s the worst fuckin’ thing Billy’s ever heard, and turns out he was right, her fists don’t pack much force but she knocks him one across the jaw, anyway. Maybe an accident, but then again. Maybe not.

“You fucking asshole,” She says, scratching and clawing until Steve Harrinton grabs her around the chest in a barrel hug, lifting her off the hospital bed like she weighs nothing.

It’s alright, Billy wants to say, I deserve it. It’s the least of what I deserve. And besides. It’s the only place on Billy’s entire body that isn’t screaming in pain, so.

Small victories.

“Let me go,” Max shouts, but Steve doesn’t. He holds her tight, watching Billy.

The Doctor stares, too, like he’s witnessing a miracle. Like he isn’t sure what to make of all this. Like he’s going to run screaming into the halls and take all the credit even though he was ready to ship a corpse off to Chicago this morning.

Immediately, Billy hates him.

Max elbows Steve Harrington in the gut. He drops to the floor, groaning, and Billy has the nerve to feel proud as his sister climbs over the lip of the bed with a fire in her eyes, unlike anything Billy’s ever seen, and.

He was standing at the mouth of hell, once.

Billy notes, distantly, that he shouldn’t have worried so much about her. Shouldn’t have risen from the dead to make sure she’d be, not. Alright, but. Something. Maxine can take care of herself and Billy never should’e doubted it. She’s gearing up to take care of him, now, let the trash out to roost, but.

But.

Maxine collapses on top of him, instead. Billy thinks, distantly, that she might be trying to suffocate him because she’s laying flat across his oxygen tube.

But.

She’s crying. Her body shakes hard enough to rumble the bed and the linoleum floor and the entire building beneath that. It hurts. Billy wants to lift his arms and hold her to him, but he can’t. He can’t feel his arms, he can’t–

“I’m sorry,” Maxine says, clutching at his neck, “I’m so sorry, Billy.”

Steve Harrington and the Doctor are gone before Billy thinks to ask about the hole in his chest. When the door slams shut behind them, Maxine sits up and O2 hisses through the plastic around his nose.

Billy can breathe, again.

–

“What did it feel like?”

Billy’s grateful that his room has a window. The trees have been good to him.

Maxine knocks her sneaker into the hospital bed, shooting pain up Billy’s left side. He ignores it, biting against the fleshy patch of his cheek until blood drips on his tongue. “Billy.”

Billy shakes his head.

Steve Harrington stands watching, backlit with bright September skies. He’s been perched under the window for hours with his arms across his chest, holding vitriol in the birdcage of his ribs, just. Watching. Billy and Max together.

“Dipshit,” Max says, “I know you can hear me. You’re mute, not deaf,” Max kicks him, ignoring his wince of pain, “What the fuck happened to you while you were–”

“Max,” Steve tells her, coming to life, “He can’t talk.”

Or think, Or move.

“I know.”

“You’re stressing him out.”

“How the fuck do you know, Harrington?”

Billy smirks, a little, watching the roll of Steve’s neck muscles. Irritated, like Billy. Like a brother. “Look at him,” Steve says, “He’s begging me with those big blue eyes, Harrington, she’s stressing me out, make her stop.”

Billy wants to smile. He tries to, but.

“I can’t stress him out,” Maxine says, kicking at him again. “He’s not even doing anything.”

It’s lighthearted. As bright as things can be when Billy’s still on a respirator, but he knows she’s pissed. Out of everything, he knows that. The shape of Maxine’s rage.

“Jesus Christ, Mayfield,” Steve exhales, exhausted, and every tree branch outside the window moves with him. “You have to give him time.”

Maxine kicks the bed again, hard and insistent until Billy has to look at her otherwise his lungs will explode with the pain. He doesn’t want to. He manages, anyway, and. Maxine deflates. A wilted red balloon.

She’s crying. Suddenly.

He frowns at her, like. What, shitbird?

Max seems to hear him. “What happened to you?”

Blue eyes, blue like his. Their anger falls the same way, like a sledgehammer against tempered glass. Pain spiderwebs out from him, varicose veins devouring all the light and warmth from the room with guilt.

Max’s face wrinkles, a raisin in the September glow, and Billy forces air through his lips. I’m sorry, he wants to say, I’m sorry I can’t put words to it right now. I’m sorry I can’t make sense of it for you. I’m sorry you have to carry it on your shoulders like a backpack full of algebra homework. I’m sorry–

Her fingers are cold when they curl into the palm of Billy’s hand. He’s sorry this is happening to them. To her, so.

“See,” Harrington says, “You stop flapping your gums for five seconds and he’ll give you what you want.”

Billy rolls his eyes and holds her fingers tightly, trying to press every syllable into Max’s thundering pulse. Billy hopes she understands, knows she does, and when he turns back to the window Steve Harrington is there.

Watching Billy with pink cheeks, a pink nose. Not sepia at all anymore.

Healed.

–

“We have to change your linens,” The nurse says.

Billy doesn’t know what a fucking linen is. He wrinkles his nose, waiting for Maxine or Steve Harrington to jump in and gather context clues, but they’re useless. Basically wallpaper, anytime the nurses come in.

He’s never seen two storybook heroes more squeamish at the sight of blood or the sound of discomfort.

The nurse raises her eyebrows at them, already pissed off. “Bedsheets,” She says. “We need to change them so he doesn’t get sores.”

“Sores?” Maxine says, finally serving as Billy’s voice box.

“Yes, he hasn’t learned to walk yet–”

“--What if he never learns to walk again?” Max wonders, “Will he get sores from laying around all the time–”

“--He’ll learn,” The nurse says, done deal. She’s a bitch. Billy’s favorite, so.

He knows right away that it’s going to hurt. Makes a noise like a fork caught in a garbage disposal, completely involuntary, and his backup helper snaps out of it. “How do we change his bedsheets?” Steve asks. Which.

Douses Billy in cold water.

He would rather die than let Steve see that. And he has. He almost stayed dead, too, and now–

“Little girl,” The nurse says to Maxine, “Wait in the hall.”

“No way,” Max says, crossing her arms, “No fucking way I’m leaving you in here with my brother, alone–”

“--I’m here–” Steve says.

“--Little girl, do you want to watch your brother thrash in agony and wet himself?”

The nurse waits, her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline while Max comes to terms with losing the bitch-off in a hospital room, of all places.

“No ma’am,” Maxine says finally.

“Perfect. do as I say.”

Max nods, pinning Billy with a flat stare. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

He nods.

The second the door shuts behind her, the nurse tears the blanket from Billy’s legs, “You hold him still while I jimmy the sheet out from under him.”

Steve Harrington looks nervous. Comical. “Isn’t there another nurse who can help–”

Billy’s torso lights on fire when the nurse yanks on his bed sheet and one of the elastic corners snaps around his foot like a claw. She’s not gentle but she’s fast. The linen drags him into a sea of pain, Billy’s arms move independent of the rest of his body, yanking the I.V. out of his arm, and he’s embarrassed but he can’t stop.

Humiliated when the nurse says, “Lay still, sweetheart,” Like his chest isn’t a gaping wound. “You’ll just make it worse for yourself.”

Billy screams as best he can. Thrashes. Tries to center himself in the reality that Steve Harrington is watching him, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Billy’s asshole nurse shouts, “Come hold him down, alright?”

Harrington has the nerve to look terrified.

“Alright,” Steve says. “Okay. Yeah.” His jaw squares with determination and then he’s leaning over Billy, palms white-hot and stubborn against Billy’s shoulder caps.

He smells good, like pine needles.

“Hey,” Steve says, smiling softly, “You’re alright–”

Billy’s nurse yanks the sheets out from under him, jostling Billy up and back down again on the lumpy fucking horrible mattress.

He must scream.

It must be awful, because Steve rubs his palms up and down, up and down, trying to soothe him, “There we go, Malibu, doing so fuckin’ fantastic,” He says, “Just a little bit longer, right nurse?”

Malibu.

Malibumalibumalibu–

“We still have to sit him up to put the new sheet on the bed,” Billy’s nurse says, just to spite him.

He won’t survive it. He’s being torn apart. Billy thrashes in Steve’s hold. Can’t take it. Won’t–

“Hey. Look at me, Hargrove.”

Billy. Gets lost in the expression on Steve’s face. It reminds him of the court, of a time when Billy wasn’t this pathetic, whimpering mess of torn skin and bones.

Steve rubs his thumbs, gently, over Billy’s jawline, “I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here with you, yeah?”

Billy nods, blinking against tears.

“Good,” Steve says. He turns to the nurse, “Alright, when do we–”

Billy bends at the waist, sitting heavily in Steve’s arms.

And.

Death smells like pine. Feels like warm hands, rubbing circles into his back.

–

He lives.

–

It’s like the flood gates open. Steve touches Billy whenever he wants, after that, and when Billy goes into surgery to replace the tattered skin on his ribcage, Steve’s there.

Holding Billy’s hand when he falls asleep. Holding Billy’s hand when he wakes up.

–

Eventually, Steve starts talking.

He brings up high school, which has disappeared into the rear-view of where they are now. Rivalries and broken plates and bloody knuckles don’t matter, anymore, in retro-spect.

Maybe they never did.

Steve helps him learn to use his vocal cords, again. He waits with patient, sparkling brown eyes, stubbornly insisting Billy can answer small questions.

When it finally happens, Steve calls him a hero.

They share stories, dreams, pudding cups and cold lasagna from the hospital cafeteria.

Steve Harrington is funny.

Billy never gave the possibility much thought. Steve’s earnest and loyal and beautiful, but Billy never considered that Steve would say and do things that make Billy laugh so hard his stitches nearly pop.

The hospital staff hate Steve as much as they adore him, and when Billy learns to sit again, Steve Harrington is right there, holding Billy’s hand. Rubbing circles into his wrist that Billy senses like lightning in the heartland.

Steve. Has tears clinging to his lashes, looks like he’s never been more proud of anything in all his life, and Billy thinks. He could be worth something, again. Someday.

Worth Steve.

–

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” Steve says that night, when they’re alone, in the dark. “You’re not what I thought you’d be, you’re. Billy; you’re amazing.”

Billy can talk, again. He thinks he should say something, but the words won’t come.

–

Maxine has to go home at the end of the day. That’s the deal.

The hospital Billy’s staying in may know about monsters and dimensional tears but they still make preteens go home to sleep in their own bed once their brothers are out of the woods. It’s the worst part of Billy’s recovery. The dark.

Max fights it, tooth and nail. They both do.

Round and round she goes with the Doc. She’s his sister. She can’t leave him alone because she doesn’t want to leave him alone, blah-blah-blah, and.

Maxine screams and cries so much that, eventually, Owens and his goons make an exception. Steve Harrington volunteers to serve as Billy’s discount little sister because he doesn’t have school or a job or a girlfriend. No one to miss his body like Billy does, so.

He's always at the hospital.

Not much changes, in retrospect, because Steve was there on that first afternoon and he’s there always, day and night and back again, Billy blinks and then suddenly he can’t remember a time when Steve Harrington wasn’t two feet away from him, complaining about whatever cassette tape Max brings from home that week.

Steve’s only ever gone for an hour at a time. He disappears in the early morning to go home and shower, change his clothes, and then he’s back, again, to keep Max’s cot warm for her while she’s playing Only Child.

Neil never comes to the hospital. Like Billy said. Small victories.

–

Will Byers is the first to notice that Billy’s a faggot.

Well.

He’s not the first but he’s definitely the most gentle.

Billy clocks that about him the first time someone knocks on his hospital door and he has to do a double take because Maxine is doing her calculus homework on the cot next to him, and Steve’s the one that pulls himself away from Billy’s dinner long enough to swallow a hunk of cold lasagna to open the door.

Everyone in the entire world who cares about him is already here, but Will Byers leads a group of doe-eyed, worried looking people behind him, all bundled up in winter coats because it’s February. Somehow.

Billy slept through most of 1985 so he’s shocked when Little Boy Byers is tall enough that his mom looks like a munchkin when she bullies her way into the room. Joyce, Billy thinks she’s called.

Mrs. Byers introduces herself while she drapes a blanket over the foot of Billy’s hospital bed and scolds Steve Harrington for picking at Billy’s dinner. Freak Byers stands next to his brother looking high and uncomfortable.

Mostly high.

“Waa?” Steve demands, Bambi through and through with a roll sticking out of his mouth, “But. Joyce, Billy said–”

“It’s alright, Mrs. Byers,” Billy tells her, wary when the Chief of Police lumbers over to clap a huge, concerned paw onto Max’s shoulder, “I don’t like the hospital food, anyway–”

“You have to eat, honey,” Joyce says.

Honey.

Honey feels like Malibu but tastes so, so different.

When Bill doesn’t say anything, Mrs. Byers nods. “I’ll bring you something. And. It’s Joyce.”

“No, that’s alright,” Billy tries to sit, wincing when his chest bandage tugs at the tender, curling pieces of raw across his pecks. Steve leans forward with the lip of a putting cup in his mouth and helps him settle against the pillows, hands warm where they stay, sleeping against his stomach.

Like he’s worried Billy might stand up and run away.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mrs. Byers says, piling another blanket onto the foot of Billy’s bed, “If you’re going to get out of here, you need your strength. You need your food,” Mrs. Byers says, yanking the pudding cup from Steve’s teeth.

She tosses it to him and Steve grabs it from the air.

“Alright, open up, hero,” Steve tears it pop tab loose with his teeth and feeds it to Billy, one spoon full at a time. A little gets on Billy’s nose and Steve uses his thumb to wipe it away, lingering.

“Your nose,” Steve says quietly, voice thick with vanilla, “You’ve got a cute nose. Like a goddamn rabbit.”

Billy smiles. They smile at each other, big and dumb like always, only.

Across the room, Little Boy Byers watches them.

Billy thinks he might catch on fire.

–

“I want to take you out of here,” Steve says in the dark.

It’s late. So late the sky has started to turn silver.

Steve’s thumb rubs circles into Billy’s wrist, where they’re stuck like paper dolls. It’s the only way Billy can sleep, but. He’s awake, streaming with consciousness when Steve says, “You have to get strong. You have to get better, for me.”

Billy. Feels the press of lips against his hand. Thinks.

He’d crawl if he had to.

Wherever Steve wanted to go, he’d crawl.

–

He learns to walk. Has to get out of here, someday.

—

Steve Harrington asks what Billy’s going to do when he gets out of here.

Doesn’t know that Billy was awake, that night.

Doesn’t realize–

Billy just got the clear to ditch his oxygen tube and it’s got them both giddy. Smiling at each other and the Doc when he says, “Almost home free, son.”

It’s the closest Billy’s felt to joy in longer than he can remember. Steve’s laugh soothes a part of Billy that’s been aching since before the monster made a home inside of him, and the question fills him with an unfamiliar kind of hope.

Steve’s eyes sparkle when he says it. “What are you doing after this?” Like they’re finishing up an afternoon of basketball practice and Steve’s been trying to work up the nerve to ask Billy. Not on a date, but. Something.

Billy feels naked without his oxygen tube. Exposed. “What do you mean?”

“When you’re strong enough to go home,” Steve says, sinking lower onto Maxine’s cot. She’s at school, and they’re both graduated, so. Steve takes up residence in the daytime, eating Billy’s hospital food and listening to him read whatever books Max leaves behind.

Usually, they sit close together, thighs pressed close together, but.

Not today.

Billy without an oxygen tube is unstoppable. Free. He almost misses it. Thinks. Can’t be worth it if Steve’s not holding him together.

“I dunno. Maybe I’ll go back to California.”

“Can’t do that,” Steve says, like. Done deal.

“Why not?”

“Because,” Steve says, searching for the words. His nose scrunches like it does when he’s deep in thought and Billy fills in the blanks for him. You can’t leave because we’re friends now, Ghost Steve says, even though they’ll never admit it. You can’t leave because I want to play basketball with you, again, even though Billy’s still about an inch from blowing a fuse when his legs pick up speed. You can’t leave because.

I love you.

Steve hums, still searching for the words. Billy sits on his hospital bed and waits for him to sort through, heart pounding, until Steve grins at him. “You can’t leave because I need a roommate, Malibu.” Steve decides.

It’s a relief and it’s not. It’s death.

Billy’s dying. “What?”

“My parents never use the house,” Steve tells him, sitting forward so his elbows leave little indents on his thighs. Billy’s always thinking about Steve’s thighs. “I have a million empty rooms. Empty beds.”

“Plural,” Billy teases.

“Yeah. I was born with a silver fuckin’ spoon in my mouth, sue me.”

“I’m not a charity case.”

“You’re not a charity case,” Steve says, grinning, “You’re my roommate.”

Billy imagines it, as those brown eyes pin him to the hospital bed. Steve Harrington in his space, or Billy in his, always. Forever.

Billy shrugs. Nothing hurts so much he can’t breathe, anymore. Not in the physical sense. “I can’t.”

“Why not? Better offer?”

“No. I’m an invalid.”

“So am I,” Steve says, “Mentally.”

“You’re not, you’re–” Perfect. Billy ignores Steve’s eyes as the go soft and gooey, cookies fresh from the oven. “I can’t make you take care of me.”

“I want to,” Steve says loudly. Stubborn like Billy. Like Max. “I like taking care of you–”

“We weren’t friends before.”

“That doesn’t matter, I didn’t know you before.”

Billy smirks, “And you know me now?”

“Yeah,” Steve pokes at him with one cold index finger and leaves it there, “Yeah, I. C’mon. Move in with me. Let take you out of here.”

–

In the middle of night sometime just after May Day, 1986, Steve Harrington has a nightmare. Maybe he was always having them.

Billy wakes slowly and then all at once, surprised that the pain doesn’t knock him out cold, anymore. Apparently. Steve is a shaking meld of blanket on the cot next to the hospital bed. Billy can just make out the pad of Steve’s foot where it vibrates, toes flexing the cotton expanse of his sock like he’s climbing something, in never-never land.

Billy lies awake and counts the steady beep-beep-beep of his heart monitor, too afraid to get up because Steve’s monsters might eat his head and crawl out of the mass of him, plopping wet and slimy onto the hospital floor.

But.

Steve thrashes violently, and Billy can’t take it anymore.

“Harrington—”

Steve huddles away from the sound of Billy’s voice and it’s a war, not to take it personally, to harness his bravery and toss his blanket to the side, to shuffle off of his lumpy and uncomfortable mattress and stand over the cot, thinking he’s not afraid of me. We’re friends now. Steve–

“Steve,” Billy tries again, teeth clenched against the sound Harrington makes in the throes of his nightmare. Like he’s being chased. Hunted. He twists under the blanket, and the dull, eerie light from Billy’s health monitor catches the sweat on Steve’s forehead, and. The fuckin’ look on his face–

“Please,” Billy says thickly, “Please, Harrington, wake up–”

Steve jolts, ripped out of dreaming by Billy’s hand on his shoulder. The usual calm, sugary warmth of his eyes has disappeared and he zero’s in on Billy, face contorted with rage and fear.

Steve swings wildly, shoving until Billy falls back onto the hospital bed. Harrington watches the fall, coming back to himself just as the air knocks loose from Billy’s lungs.

He hurts, again. Like last summer. Like he always has, the beautiful boy in front of him flashing like lightning, and.

For just a moment. Looks like Billy’s father.

“Billy,” Steve says, cheeks dripping with emotion, “Billy, I’m so–”

Billy flinches away from him on impulse, and.

Steve cracks. Breaks. Before Billy can tell him that it’s okay, it was accident, Billy’s stronger than he used to be–

Harrington bolts from the room, door slamming shut behind him.

–

Freak Byers starts driving Max to the hospital.

–

Billy can’t say he’s surprised when the only people who come to see him are his sister and her stupid little friends, riding their bikes to spend all day at the hospital when the weather is nice enough.

They’re loud and annoying but Billy likes them. Will, at least.

Steve vanishes, so.

It hurts and it doesn’t. They were on to something good, before that night, something Billy wants with the same intensity that he needs air and water. He’s grateful, in a way, that the possibility of roommates has died before it ever began.

Less he can fuck up. Less that can make him bleed.

Bygones. All that.

–

On July 20th, a year after death, Billy moves into Joyce Byers’ house because he has nowhere else to go.

It’s as simple as Will Byers helping Billy into the clothes he brings from Jonathan’s closet, clutching Billy’s elbow until Joyce’s tiny brown car swings into view. “Let’s go home,” Will says.

So they do.

Steve never comes to visit.

–

Two months after moving into the Byers’, his Camaro appears in the driveway good as fuckin’ new. On the windshield they’ve taped a check for five hundred thousand dollars and a note that says, sorry for your loss.

Billy watched a monster tear his only friend in half, dozens of people in half, and all of them were carted around in this fuckin’ car like lambs to the slaughter.

He had to learn to walk again.

It’s good to know what their lives are worth, Billy guesses. What Big Brother is willing do to keep him quiet.

–

“I saw you, once,” Will says, not long after Billy settles onto the couch.

The Byers’ place smells like pancakes and cigarettes all the time and it’s fuckin’ weird. Joyce is trying to quit for Billy and so is Hopper even though they don’t know that Freak Byers rolls joints for him, and the whole thing is huge and uncomfortable. Like how kids hide things from their parents to protect them.

Billy’s starts to think of the living room as his.

All that time he hid on Cherry Lane in that fuckin’ room and all it takes is the soft care of Joyce Byers and a beer from Jim Hopper and Billy’s home. The safest he’s ever felt even though he’s out in the open and vulnerable to Will Byers’ soft declarations. Eleven’s wide, staring eyes.

Billy looks up from the book he was reading, startled, “Huh?”

Will fidgets in the doorway, dressed and ready for the first day of school. Billy resists the urge to snap at him, spit it the fuck out. Will’s not tough like Maxine. He’d melt, probably. Keel over, and. Billy likes the kid.

Sue him.

So he waits, fiddling with the worn edge of his library book, until Will exhales everything all at once. “I saw Steve Harrington feed you pudding at the hospital that day, when you were just learning to talk and walk again–”

The book falls shut.

“--He said you were cute. That you have a nose like a rabbit. And. I was just wondering,” Will says, choking on his words, “I was just thinking. That.”

“Don’t think about it,” Billy says. “Steve and I–”

“--I just–”

“Will,” He says softly. Thinks he should probably be afraid. Hopper’s in the kitchen. Joyce is at work, and. She won’t be able to stop him if Hop gets the wrong idea about Billy. Or the right one.

But.

He knows he’s safe. In the pit of his stomach, curling like warmth through his bones, Billy knows it.

They’re safe, here.

Will shakes his head. Afraid of other things, himself maybe, so. He shakes his whole body. “Billy, I think I might. I might be–”

“I’m driving you to school,” Billy stands up, his blanket falling to the ground.

–

It’s hot enough now that Billy’s arms stick to the leather in the Camaro.

He doesn’t let anyone ride with him, but not for the reasons he used to pull out of his ass pre-’85. Now it’s wrapped in bodies, the skin of dozens and dozens of people who will never make it home because–

Will is silent most of the way, fingers white-knuckle on his knee caps.

Billy loosens his hands on the wheel and it feels like his knuckles are breaking. He itches for a cigarette. Plays Eagles instead. Waits for the other shoe to drop.

They’re parked in front of the high school, watching the excitement of everyone’s first day, when Will says, “I think I like boys,” and.

His voice cracks under a pressure unlike anything Billy’s ever heard.

He gets it. And he doesn’t.

In his own life it was never news. Neil let him know what was happening right away. Three letters thrown back at him, sharp enough to leave scars in their wake.

This is supposed to be news, for Will Byers. The end of the world. Billy’s supposed to look over at the kid and call him a faggot, tell him he’s an abomination, fuckin’. Whatever. He won’t, though. Pot calling the kettle, right?

Billy watches hundreds of teenagers on their path toward a higher education. “Me too,” He says. Life goes on.

Will turns to him, shocked. “You do?”

Billy’s closet is glass. Always was. “Thought you saw me and Steve.”

“I didn’t know Steve likes–”

“He doesn’t,” Billy replies, not. Swallowing. His throat might click with unshed tears. Break and split open, so. “He’s just. Good. A good person, to me.”

“I understand,” Will tells him, “My friend, Mike, is. He’s like that, too. Not like us.”

Us.

Billy breaks for him. Didn’t think he was capable of it, but.

He breaks, anyway.

–

In November, Billy opens the door to his bedroom and Steve Harrington is sitting on the couch right where Billy sets his pillow every night. He jumps to his feet, hands balled at his sides as if caught. Guilty of something else, and all Billy can think about is burning his hand-me-down pillow and sleepin’ with his nose pressed to the place Harrington was sat, watching the front door.

“Billy–”

“I’ve been calling all day,” Maxine says, steamrolling him. She grins at Billy, planted firmly in Hopper’s chair. Queen of the castle.

Neil doesn’t like them to see each other, so.

Billy’s chest expands like a springtime rose at the sound of her voice. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Steve, “I don’t sit around waiting for you to call me, Max, I’m not glued to the phone.”

Steve flushes red. Spilled paint.

“You should be, it’s the only way I can ever get a hold of you,” Steve’s bright yellow sweater is eclipsed by red when Max pulls Billy into a hug, crushing him. “How are you?”

He doesn’t take his eyes off of Steve, “I’m fine.”

“Good, is Will home?”

Billy looks at her, then. “I thought you were here to see me?”

“No. We’re starting a new campaign and you happen to live here, now, I figured,” Maxine pinches him, “Two birds one stone.”

“Great, thanks,” Billy rolls his eyes, padding toward the kitchen, “He’s probably over at the Wheeler’s. Did you check there?”

“No,” Max says, “Steve–”

“Fuck Steve,” Billy says, not caring. Caring so, so much. “They’ll be back soon. If the station wagon’s gone that means Joyce went to grab him.”

Max hovers in the doorway, frowning when Billy digs through the refrigerator for a beer.

Her eyes are blue like his, judgmental like his. “You’re not supposed to drink that shit,” Max tells him, wrinkling her nose.

Billy cracks the pop top. “And you’re not supposed to play DND on a school night.”

“Things are different, now.”

They watch each other, silent, until the front door swings open and a hundred teenagers swarm the living room. Max hugs him once, right around the middle, before following their voices to Will's room. The door slams shut and all the fuckin’ racket gives way to muffled silence.

Different.

Things are different now.

Billy leans against the sink and sips his beer. Waits for Joyce or Freak Byers to round the corner into the kitchen until he remembers that they’ve both got work tonight and Hop’s at the cabin.

Joyce does that. Carts teenagers around in between shifts at the general store because she’s a good mom. Good person.

Steve Harrington appears, arms crossed over his chest. “Fuck Steve, huh?”

Billy’s heart thunders in his chest. It’s been months, and.

He shrugs.

The air rushes from Steve’s lungs. “Don’t have to be an asshole about it.”

“That’s just what I am,” Billy says, “An asshole.”

“Maybe.”

Billy holds his can out, “Want a beer?”

Steve stares at him. Then the slick rim of the can. Then at Billy. “No.”

“Suit yourself,” Billy says. “Where’ve you been?”

“Playing chauffeur, I guess.”

“Couldn’t stop to say hi in between shifts?”

Steve flushes. “Billy–”

“You never came to see me again,” Billy says, “You disappeared. I made it out of the hospital and–”

“I shoved you, Billy.”

“It was a nightmare.”

“Right. Exactly,” Steve shakes his head, like. It doesn’t matter. But the thing is, Billy knows shoving with intent. He knows men who plot to draw blood, and he knows monsters and Steve, just.

Isn’t that.

He is an asshole, though. “Maxine couldn’t ride her bike over?”

And Steve folds like a house of cards. “C’mon, you know Neil doesn’t let her ride that thing around, especially when it’s cold like this.”

“I know Neil. He was my dad.”

Steve looks ready for a fight. Poised to run at any second.

Billy’s never been more exhausted in his entire life. “Glad you can be her big brother, now.”

“Billy–”

“No, they’re some huge fuckin’ shoes to fill. I’m dead, anyway.”

“You’re not dead–”

Billy tosses the can into Joyce’s recycling bin. It clatters and causes a scene and Billy wants to take it back. Steve deflates like a balloon. “Shouldn't you rinse that before you throw it away?”

“Yeah well. I make a shitty roommate.”

Steve watches, spooked, as Billy shoves past him and disappears.

–

Christmas 1986 and January, 1987 come and go.

Joyce gets him a sweater.

Billy wonders if he’ll ever feel alive again.

–

In April, he starts to miss the sea.

Conscious enough to think of home.

–

“I think–”

Max stares at him, a cigarette pinched between two fingers.

“--I think I want to see California.”

She cut her hair over spring break so it twists, too lazy to be called a curl, under the determined jut over her chin. It’s what girls are doing, in 1987. Cutting all their hair off. Max looks older, all of a sudden, and Billy doesn’t know when he missed it.

She hands him the cigarette because he’s comin’ up on two years post recovery and, dramatics aside, he could shave a couple years off the impending decades. The smoke burns through his lungs pleasantly, paints the sky purple when he lets it go.

“You want to see California,” Max repeats, staring out across the quarry as the words settle on her tongue, “Like–”

“--I think I could stand a change of scenery.”

She takes the cigarette from him. “That’s not a change, you’ve lived there for most of your life.”

“I’m not looking for LBC, I want–”

“--Mountains?”

Billy thinks about it. Really, he wants two-thousand miles between him and everything, but. “Yeah,” he says, because it’s simple. Low stakes. “Mountains could be good, like. A cure.”

“Like tuberculosis victims?”

“Sure. Claws aren’t that different.”

Maxine snorts. They smoke for an eternity in silence, basking in the sunset, and Billy thinks she’s on board. She’s okay with it, because she’s older now, but then she throws the lit cherry at him and it scathes his jaw. Sears him to the bone.

“Ow, Maxine, what the fuck–”

“You’re pathetic,” She says, full of venom.

“Probably.”

“Why are you always running away?” Max slides off the car hood and gets in his face, and Billy.

Two years ago he would’ve–

He can’t think that way anymore.

“Max–”

“So, what? You save everyone and become the hero and fuckin’. Sulk around for two years like a dickbag and now you want to run away? Just when everyone’s starting to love–”

“No one fuckin’ loves me,” Billy says. A non answer. Tastes like a lie, but. It’s the truth. He clears his throat. “I don’t want to run away.”

Max shoves him, “I love you. Asshole.”

“I know. Love you too.”

“Don’t I count?”

Billy grabs her hand, “Of course you do, dipshit. The most.” Maxine’s crying for real, now. Billy hates it so fuckin’ much.

“Can I come?”

“Your a minor,” Billy supplies. Regrets it more than anything that he’s got to leave her behind, but. “Don’t worry. Not about anything, alright? Steve’ll–”

Max shoves him again, “This is about Steve Harrington, isn’t it?”

“No.” Billy lies.

“Steve’s going to–”

“--He’s not gonna do anything,” Billy snarls, “He’s not. We haven’t spoken in months.”

“He always asks about you,” Max says simply, and.

Billy’s got a flat tire. It lets all the air out of the sky. It shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t put his brakes on, but.

He blinks. “Okay.”

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Max says. “He’s not going to let you leave, Billy. Not without–”

“--He doesn’t get a say, in this.”

Maxine stares at him, eyes polished like Riverstone. “Are you going to say goodbye to him? At least?”

“No.”

“Alright,” Max says. She shoves him again, “Dumbass. I hate you. I hate you so much–”

Billy hugs her.

Loves her, just. So much his chest aches and burns like he’s back in the hospital, day one, July 20th, 1985, and.

He thinks.

Worries about how many people he knows he can’t say goodbye to.

–

Will takes it the hardest. June just makes the pain turn raspberry on his cheeks and Billy hates to see him cry, so. He isn’t surprised when Little William locks himself in his bedroom to make shit easier on the both of them.

Freak Byers hugs Billy, slips a joint in his pocket, ruffles his hair.

Hopper gives him a beer. The last they’ll share in all the world. Maxine tells him to call. El tells him to write, and.

Joyce Byers slips a sheet of paper in his glove compartment.

It sits funny, in retrospect. He took his hush-money and ran off to the sea and she left him something to remember her by, and that’s death. Burial. It’s her fault and it’s not. It’s the thing that breaks the dam. The last straw and suddenly the weight of everything is too much.

Really, it starts before that. With the rumble of truck tires into the cracked driveway of a new home, thousands of miles from the sea. It begins with the pier, months before that. A boy with beautiful brown eyes that could only ever raise suspicion in Neil’s gut because he was right about this. Everything. Billy.

Truthfully, it starts with a phone call and a shitty, half-baked apology from a woman Billy would never see again.

He isn’t smart enough to keep track, though.

So he almost dies and then doesn’t, and decides pretty quickly that it's Joyce. It starts and ends with summer air licking at the tender, still-healing pink of a hole punched through his chest 630 days ago. It begins with the glove box, and a note that’s gotta weigh less than an ounce.

It starts with Joyce Fuckin’ Byers.

Billy figures maybe Hop did the dirty work for her. That he took a rolled-down window as an invitation, once Billy caved on the beer he was always offering and let it spill that he was leaving so they thought. Now is the time for action. Hop slipped the thing in between Billy’s vehicle registration and insurance proof when he wasn’t looking. He played his part.

The paper is definitely from Joyce, though.

He’s seen her handwriting, before, all over the fuckin’ place, swooping, swirling cursive that reminds her to get milk the next time she’s at Melvalds. Billy’s seen it pinned to the fridge in sappy, sweet-sick notes that she leaves for Hop and Freak Byers and Byers’ little brother, telling them to eat something while she’s gone, to remember to take out the trash, fuckin’. Whatever.

Point is, Billy knows it was her. And when he finally digs it out of the glove box, when he runs into it looking for an old pack of smokes somewhere outside of Nebraska, it’s folded in half three times and stamped with his name and feels like an attack.

Billy.

Only, Joyce calls him William when it’s something heavy and important, so. William. Might as well be, as far as Billy’s concerned.

Billy, she starts. Good a place as any, sparking a fuse she isn’t equipped to monitor. He doesn’t deserve shared beers and hidden notes.

Billy, Joyce says, with all the weight of William. I know that you’re having a hard time adjusting. I should’ve checked on you but I wasn’t sure what to say and now you’re gone. I wasn’t always the best mother to my own kids, and sometimes old habits die hard. I know you’ve had a hard life, even though you never talk about it, and I know all of this shit must hurt like hell, but you have to know that I’m proud of you for everything. Making it out of the hospital in one piece. Especially that–

His palms sweat, smearing the page when he flattens it against the wheel, smoothing its surface in the moonlight so he can read it, and can’t, because Hop insisted they have one more beer before Billy took off for the coast, and now–

We should’ve checked on you before. That’s all I want to say. You’re a good kid, Billy. You pretend not to be, but you are, and seeing you with Hop, how he loves you like a son…I’m here for you. We all are. I’ve included a list of phone numbers you can call any time. We’re here to help–

Phone numbers for both Wheeler kids. And Lucas Sinclair. And Dustin Henderson. And the Byers’ place.

Call anytime, Joyce says.

Anyone. Anytime.

Seeing you with Hop, how he loves you like a son–

Billy sniffs and chokes on a sudden, violent wave of emotion. Joyce Byers doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about.

–

He should’ve said goodbye to the one person that came second to mattering the most.

It eats at him, tearing away chunks of his flesh with small, sharp teeth. He moves into his new apartment by the sea and thinks about drowning himself in it.

–

A month after landing in California things are different.

Worse.

–

He tries not to think about Steve Harrington, who he hasn’t spoken to since that cold, shitty night in November when they shed each other’s apologies like old winter coats.

Everyone else came to say goodbye, but.

Not Steve. Should be a clear enough answer that what they had was nothing but that doesn’t matter to Billy. Could never matter. Steve’s memory comes up like gray water in the bathroom sink. Not there one day, and then.

There.

Sits like a ghost in the corner in the same outfit he wore the last time Billy saw him, delivering Maxine to a brand new campaign. Soft yellow sweater like swallowing canyons in the morning light.

“You look like shit,” Billy tells him. The Doctors said it could happen, off and on, for the rest of his life. Seeing the dead and the left behind, it’s the cruel result of playing bitch to an interdimensional monster. Taking a claw through the chest and surviving an IV drip of internal bleeding that still acts up when Billy takes a fist to the head.

It never happened, when he was in Hawkins, but.

That’s just Bill’s luck. It’s a punishment. He’s in hell. No two ways about it, because.

Ghost Steve Harrington shrugs his yellow shoulders and everything looks worse, here. Drab. Billy thinks California wasn’t made for gray weather but since it’s November, the sea foam has scrubbed the color from everything until only acid remains.

Ghost Steve’s sweater looks brown in Billy’s bedroom.

Billy gets used to him, more or less. Ghost Steve never says anything, but he watches Billy fall into bed every night and his eyes spell judgment. Why don’t you unpack these boxes? Why haven’t you used any of that green to buy a half-decent setup? Why don’t you call Joyce, you know she worries–

Once, Billy throws a pillow at Ghost Steve Harrington’s head. “Go away, already.”

Billy wonders if the real Steve, alive Steve, is as pretty as his memory makes out for him.

He is. Always was.

Billy hates himself. “You’re not real, you know. You’re alive. Most of you is alive, back in Hawkins.”

Ghost Steve just smiles at him, slow and terrible as if to say I’m dead here and so are you.

It fucking sucks. Billy tugs the blanket over his head and ignores Steve Harrington the Ghost. He ignores everything until it starts coming up like sludge in the bathroom sink.

–

Billy writes a letter to the only person in the world who understands what it feels like to harbor shit for a man who never once noticed him, until they had each other’s blood under their nails.

So.

As soon as the landline is installed, Billy breaks his rule and scribbles the number down, addressing the envelope to Little William Byers, Who Can Always Hold His Water.

415. 667. 8224. For Emergencies only.

From, Big William Hargrove.

Will can be trusted. Billy worries about him and it’s a roiling, sore-spot weakness. He’s terrified that Will’s made up his mind to never speak to Billy again.

He sends the letter, anyway.

–

Billy starts seeing other people, too. In his house. On the street.

Ghost Steve Harrington isn’t too thrilled with all the extra company, but the only other memory in the world brave enough to stand in his bedroom used to tuck him into his He-Man pajamas at night, so. Nothing Martha Hargrove hasn’t seen before.

Billy starts to wonder if he’s going crazy.

Heather’s got dominion over the bathroom. Looks exactly like the last time Billy saw her, in that dumb-fucker Lifeguard uniform, except her arm is gone. Torn away. Little bits of her blood get on Billy’s cheek when she turns from her reflection in the mirror, eyes brimming with vitriol and lost potential as if to say, you fed me to that thing. We were friends, Billy, I was your only friend–

“You’re not real,” Billy tells her. Pisses in the toilet bowl, as if to prove his point.

Heather’s not real.

None of it’s real.

–

A week before Thanksgiving Billy calls to tell Joyce he’s suffocating. To tell her that he misses Freak Byers and his little brother so much that Billy can’t breathe sometimes, and it’s Joyce’s fuckin’ fault. She’s a bitch, and Hop’s a loser, and he misses them both so much that he’s packed and unpacked and repacked his apartment four times because California doesn’t feel like home anymore.

He misses the couch. He wants the dead to stay buried. He wants to go home.

So Billy drinks a bottle of schnapps and calls to say that Joyce can go fuck herself hard, Billy hates her for turning him into this, but Steve Harrington answers the phone.

It’s two o’clock in the morning Hawkins time, so Billy hangs up.

Steve calls back immediately, “Everyone’s asleep,” He says, voice rough with unuse. “Make it quick.”

Billy’s killed himself thinking about Steve, like this. Fresh from sleep. Warm. “Uh,” He says intelligently, “Sorry.”

“Who is this?”

He wonders if Ghost Steve is still in the bedroom, or if he went back to Hawkins. Floating on the clouds. “This is, uh. This is Billy.”

“Billy Hargrove?” Like he didn’t spend months in Billy’s hospital room. Didn’t cry when Billy learned to walk again.

“Yes.”

“Hi,” Steve says, soft.

So warm and fleece-lined with emotion that Billy wants to curl up inside of it and never, ever leave. Something ruffles as Steve shifts his weight, waking up a little bit. “Hold on, Bill, let me–”

“No,” Billy says, “She’s asleep. You don’t need to wake her up.”

“You called.”

“I know.”

“She won’t want to miss you, you never call.”

“I know, alright? I just. I don’t want to wake her up,” Billy says, swallowing against the threat of tears. He hates Joyce but he doesn’t want to make anything worse than he already has by just. Living.

“Are you serious?” Steve snorts like Billy’s the most ridiculous, stupid fucker on the planet. “You called at two o’clock in the morning and you don’t want to wake her up?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“That’s so weird.”

Billy sniffs, exhausted, “Who asked you?”

“Nobody,” Steve tells him easily, “No one, I just think–”

“Why the fuck do you care enough to think about it or me or Joyce?” Billy snaps. The receiver groans a little in his fist, “It’s not any of your business–”

“--You know I care about you, Billy.”

“Do I?” Billy sips at his bottle, angry enough to see red, “You say shit in the dark. When you’re tired. When–”

“Hey, dickshit, you woke me up.”

“It’s not dickshit, it’s dip shit–”

“--Okay–”

“Fuckin’ Einstein.”

Steve doesn’t hang up. Billy considers it, seething until he takes another swig, and then Steve asks, “Are you alright?”

The world comes to a sudden, screeching halt. The tender pink and still-healing parts of himself inflate with vulnerability, which only makes him angry. “I’m fine.”

“Really?”

“Yes, asshole.”

“You’re drunk and it’s two in the morning–”

“--It’s only midnight where I am–”

“--Well, people who are actually fine don’t drink schnapps at midnight on a fuckin’ Tuesday.”

Billy freezes, back going ram-rod straight against the drywall. “How. How’d you know–”

“Only schnapps gets you slurring like that,” Steve says. Then, catching himself, “I mean ‘you,’ as in. The royal you.”

They partied in high school. Never together, but near. Billy–

It feels like a lie. He lets it go.

“I don’t know what schnapps does to you, as in. Billy Hargrove.”

I miss the way you say my name, Billy doesn’t tell him. He tosses the bottle back, swallowing fire as it bubbles up the lining of his throat. “Kay, well. Tell Joyce I called.”

“You could call back tomorrow and tell her yourself.”

“No,” Billy says, fiddling with the hole in his jeans.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s none of your fucking business, Harrington, that’s why.”

“She worries about you,” Steve says, fully awake now. Sitting, probably.

Billy tries not to get caught up in the mental image of Steve Harrington with bed-head and pillow lines on his cheeks and blankets pooling around his hips.

Fails.

Steve says, “Joyce loves–”

“--Why are you sleeping at her house?” Billy demands. Remembering himself. Remembering that the couch used to be his, before he ran away.

“I get nightmares,” Steve says. Billy knows that. Billy knows–

“Bullshit,” He’s angry about it. What tore them apart. “What’s there to be afraid of, anymore?”

“I saw you get punched through the chest,” Steve says, “On July Fourth. I was up there in the rafters, and I just. Saw. Does something to a nineteen year old, you know?”

He was there after, too. Until he wasn’t.

Billy’s palms grow wet and clammy against the bottle.

He has the sudden and familiar urge to apologize. Sorry Steve had to see that. Sorry the image of it meant nothing, in the long run. Nickels and dimes. He lived and, really, what was the trauma for?

Billy opens his mouth, chin wobbling and–

“Is that why you. The hospital. Why you–”

“Shit, it’s late,” Steve yawns. “I’ll tell her you called.”

“Sure,” Billy says, scrubbing the wet on his cheeks. “Thanks. Appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

–

Max sends him letters. Another thing he caves into, later on.

For Emergencies only.

From, Billy Hargrove.

She writes immediately. The envelopes are always crinkled by fingertips and nails, the ink always smudged with tears and grief. He has to imagine that they get that way, dilapidated because a journey across six states can’t be easy on them.

He can’t imagine Max crying as she writes to him. Can’t imagine her crying at all.

He thinks about her in that house, sometimes.

He hopes. Prays. The guilt swallows him whole.

–

Billy develops a system for determining if the person he’s talking to is real.

“You’re a beach bum,” The guy says. All tanned skin and small, curved lips. No black sludge leaks from his eyes, so.

Real. Things have gotten worse on the coast.

Billy stares up at him from the sand, counting the seconds. He doesn’t have a towel. Joyce tried to get him to take some, one, but Billy is the spitting image of his father. Old habits die hard, so. He’s got minerals seeping through the holes in his pants and his hands feel grimy, covered in sea stuff for his pride.

“I see you here,” The guy says, “Every day.”

“Sure.”

“Ain’t you got a job, man?”

Billy turns his attention back to the waves. The foam.

“Guess not,” The guy shifts his weight, blocking dull gray sunlight. “You from around here?”

“LBC, originally,” Billy says, surprising himself. He pulls his knees to his chest with a burst of salty, stinging wind off the shore. Somewhere, about a mile into the deep past Manila landing, something massive is rotting in the waves. Feeding the ecosystem. Circle of life, and all that.

The guy nods, “What brings you to Arcata?”

“Just moved back from the midwest.”

“Mm, Chicago?”

“No, Indiana.” Billy says, not in the mood for conversation.

“Got used to small and shitty, then?”

Billy laughs, surprising himself. It's the first noise he’s made in weeks with a person who’s not caught in a ten-second delay over his landline. Feels okay. Weird. “Yeah,” Billy determines, “I like that Arcata’s on the bay and not wide open. Out there, you know?” Billy gestures to the ocean with his sleeve cuff.

Can’t see the other side of it. Landlocked or not.

The guy seems to understand. He watches the shoreline for a long while and then he says, “What’s in Indiana?”

Monsters. My sister. Shadows. “Nothing,” Billy says. “That’s why I’m on the beach.”

“Nothing here either, amigo,” The guy says, grinning slow and easy, “Looks like you traded shit for shit.”

“Alright. Thanks.”

“I’m Argyle,” Argyle says.

“Billy,” He lifts his hand toward the sky for a shake, just like his daddy taught him.

Argyle just nods at him, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Billy’s palm falls, dejected, to the sand.

They watch the shoreline. They watch a seagull try and swallow a crab and then laugh when its throat is nearly torn open from the inside. It’s good to laugh. Weird. Dark thing to find humor in.

“I own a surf place,” Argyle says when the seagull takes flight. “Ever heard of it?”

There are a million out here. “Sure.”

“Not really a surf place, in the conventional sense. I do longboards too. And Mary Jane. Pizza, for Miss Mary’s lovers.”

Billy nods, pulling his knees close again, watching sand tumble from the grip of his leg hair.

Argyle sparks something that looks like a cigarette and smells like a joint. “You need a job?”

“What kinda job is it?”

“Selling surf supplies. Longboards and weed and pizza–”

“Is that legal?”

“Not yet. Legalize gluten,” Argyle says, with a triumphant fist.

Billy shrugs so Argyle shrugs, casting shadows. Teasing. “If you ain’t got a job, how’d you afford to leave LBC for Indiana, and then bum-fuck for Arcata?”

“Big Brother hush-money,” Billy says, serious as a heart attack but Argyle laughs, and like.

The skies, fuckin’. Break. Open and pour.

It’s the best thing Billy’s ever heard. The timbre of it licks at the pink, still-healing skin on Billy’s chest through his jumper. Argyle’s lilting, chaotic beat lights him up and magically casts itself out of Billy’s lungs until they’re laughing at each other. Laughing together.

It’s weird. Good.

“You’re a bizarre fuckin’ guy, beach bum.”

Billy shrugs, again, self-conscious. “Where’s your shop?”

Argyle points over Billy’s shoulder at a small, driftwood shack he hadn’t noticed today, or yesterday, or last week. The sign looks brand new. Says, Surfer Boy Pizza, In bright, shining letters.

“That’s her,” Argyle says, in love.

Billy stares at the shoreline. “That’s a dump.”

“Hey, I’ve had to hoard money from the Government. We’re not all as lucky as you,” Argyle grins, slow and easy, “You want the job or not? Could use a little silence in the shop. The other guy I work with, Eddie, he’ll talk your fuckin’ ear off about nothing if you give him the chance. Look to me like you won’t give anyone a chance.”

Billy feels like he’s been doused in cold water.

He rocks back and forth, breathing in and out until the feeling passes, “Maybe,” He says. The best he can do. A non-answer. A remedy.

“Alright, well. Stop in sometime, if you get bored staring at the ocean,” Argyle grins at him, beaming itself onto Billy’s face until they’re mirror images. “Freak.”

–

Billy watches a lot of T.V.

His living room is cast in a permanent silver hue, painting his hair gray and his lips purple. All that money rotting in his bank account and he’s only pitched together enough to buy a standard television box, and a place for her to sit, and a place for him to sit.

His apartment is functional, like a prison. His kitchen is made of one bowl, one cup, one spoon (because he can saw into things with its blunt edge, should anything ever come to that), and a hot plate. He doesn’t have a skillet or a soup pot or anything so the shit is practically useless.

He eats dollar tacos from the hut.

He starves.

He drinks enough water and beer to send fluid leaking from his pores, and he watches T.V.

Always. Blue.

This close to Christmas, all three stations are swamped with targeted Ads. Can’t go half a beer without enduring another fuckin’ commercial, selling sneakers and Atari game consoles and brand new VW station wagons.

Billy chugs another PBR and thinks he could buy a hundred VW station wagons, thanks to Big Brother. He could buy a private plane, and an eight-bedroom house on the coast, and if he ever runs out of green there’ll be more where that came from. That’s the perk of getting possessed by a monster, so.

Billy finds a scrap of newspaper border and jots down the number that flashes across the screen. Thinks, he could probably visit VW tomorrow. Could pay for the entire thing in cash. Could pack a bag and drive back to the Midwest–

Hallway through an ad for hair plugs, the phone starts to ring. Billy ignores the shrill ding of the bell until it stops. Starts up again. Stops. Starts.

Eventually he yanks his telephone off the hook, swallowing a mouthful of beer. “What.”

“That’s not how you’re supposed to answer the phone.”

Billy pulls away, staring at the receiver. “Who is this?”

“Steve.”

“Steve Harrington?” Billy asks, a mockery of their first phone call. Like Steve didn’t take care of him in the hospital. Wasn’t there when Billy learned to walk again. When Steve doesn’t say anything back, Billy swallows. “It’s two o’clock in the morning.”

“You were kind enough to call at two my time, thought I’d return the favor.”

His stomach swoops, low and dangerous. “That was weeks ago, now.”

“You never called Joyce.”

“So?”

“So, I promised I’d do a wellness check.”

Billy mutes the T.V., his arms breaking out in goose pimples with Steve’s next inhale. Feeling warm breath against his cheek from two thousand miles away.

“Well. I’m alive.”

“Barely. Tell Joyce that.” Steve Harrington exhales into the phone. Billy imagines cigarette smoke and fire.

Wishes it could burn him to the ground. “Look, I appreciate you reaching out or whatever, looking me up in the phone book so I can apologize to Joyce for being the shittiest of all her adopted children–”

“--I didn’t look for you in the phone book–”

Billy’s mouth dries up, tacky and uncomfortable.

“--No one could look for you in the phone book. Way you run your life, you don’t exist, Hargrove.”

Billy stands. His knees crack. “How’d you get this number?” Sounds like a shitty, drunken cop in a shitty, dark thriller/drama about his shitty, shitty life.

“I asked Joyce.” Steve says easily. The hero.

“Where did she get this number?”

“From Max.”

Billy’s stomach swoops. “That’s bullshit. Max knows my address, not my phone number.”

“Maybe Joyce got it from someone else, maybe she didn’t, maybe she found it on a crumpled piece of paper that was thrown into the trash,” Steve says, “Does it really matter?”

“Yes. You had no right to do that,” Billy says, voice shaking. He wonders if Will threw his note away. If he’s angry. “None of you have any right to do this to me–”

“Totally,” Steve says, “Your sister has no right to know where you are. Joyce, who put a roof over your head for a year after you left the hospital, is supposed to stop worrying and missing you because you want it. Screwed that we care about you, the asshole who saved the town and all our lives and the fuckin’ world, on top of that.”

We.

Screwed that we care about you.

Billy’s stomach is full of rocks, roiling and knocking into one another. They throw him off balance and send river water pulsing up his throat. He’s drowning, he–

“You can’t save everyone and then disappear.”

Billy swallows. “I didn’t.”

“You didn’t even say goodbye, Billy.”

“Neither did you,” Billy says, furious. “Before that. At the hospital–”

“I don’t want to hurt you, okay? I. When I pushed–”

“Stop,” Billy says, “Please. Stop.”

“Sure,” Steve Harrington scoffs, full of rage. “My bad. Forgot you can’t accept that you’re a regular fuckin’ hometown hero and I’m a piece of shit.”

Billy hates this. He left Hawkins, to. To get away from this, and. He ran.

Might as well admit that, now.

Billy must make a noise, must fall apart, because. Steve’s stubble scrapes against the phone. “Billy. Look, I–”

“What do you want?” Billy’s voice shakes. Sounds weak.

Harrington doesn’t seem to hear. “I just called to check on you.”

“Feels more like you’re beating me over the head with a rock.”

“Funny,” Steve says, “Cain and Abel, right?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Not really,” Steve tells him. An awkward silence yawns between them, stretching on until Billy thinks the call must’ve dropped, and then; “I didn’t call to check on you.”

Billy snorts. “And after all the steam you put into that speech?” He’s grateful that they’re even, now. Neither looking down their nose at the other. Liars and crooks, two of a kind. “Jesus Christ, what will Joyce say?”

“I haven’t slept in two days. I’ve tried everything, but. I keep thinking about Starcourt.”

It takes the air out of Billy’s lungs.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Steve mumbles. Soft enough that Billy isn’t sure he heard it right, but then, “Billy. I just. I needed to hear your voice. Are you okay?”

Billy can’t say anything back. He’s learning to speak, again, he can’t walk, he’s on the brink of death–

“Malibu? You there?”

Not a damn thing can be funny, anymore. “I’m sorry, Steve.”

“It’s alright.”

“If I hadn’t been at Starcourt, you’d be asleep right now.”

Steve snorts, “Don’t be stupid.”

“It’s true,” Billy mutters, sick, “In a roundabout way, if I hadn’t been on the road that night, if that. Thing had never crawled inside of me–”

“If that hadn’t happened we wouldn’t be together now,” Steve says.

The weight of the world, on their shoulders.

Billy cracks. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for. You. Hargrove, you’re the only person left who doesn’t have to apologize,” Steve Harrington breathes deeply, into the receiver, and Billy swallows it. Fills his own lungs to taste cigarette smoke. “I called because I knew you’d be up. I just. Knew you would be. Cain and Abel, right?”

“Brothers’ keeper,” Billy says. The television screen flickers. The world is blue, and Billy is. Cast in its light.

“Can you sit with me? Just until I fall asleep.” Steve sounds like he’s drowning.

Billy can’t help but to jump in and save him.

–

Surfer Boy Pizza is even uglier on the inside.

Argyle wasn’t kidding about the surf supplies plus description. From the moment the door shuts behind him, Billy’s at a loss trying to figure out what anyone would stop in here to buy since it seems like the kind of place people are exiled to.

The air is stale. Beach salt and sweat permeate the air as the result of a broken cooling unit, leaking onto the ground that hasn’t been scrubbed clean in months.

“Hello?” Billy asks, barely above a mumble, “Anyone home?”

“Back here!”

Billy tugs his flannel closer, cherry-picking his way through piles of useless shit and garbage. Surfer Boy’s walls are messy with knickknacks and shitty wire shelves pushed haphazardly against white and red checkered tile. Piles of fishing nets, lead-bellied life preservers, and vintage scuba gear mark the landing of the main desk, which has to be a repurposed McDonald’s check-out counter.

Behind it, covered in swirling, snaking tattoos, a man stares at him.

He’s cute. His fist turns white around a water-spotted glass jar that says, Eddie’s Homemade Fishing Bait. The H has been drawn to look like the devil.

“Uh,” The guy says smartly.

“I’m Billy,” He puts his hand out but the guy doesn’t take it, he just stares. Stares and Stares.

“Okay. I’m here to see Argyle,” Billy points to the jar, “I’m guessing you’re Eddie?”

“I’m Eddie,” He says, cheeks turning bright pink.

Great.

“Okay, uh,” Billy fiddles with the cuffs of his flannel. “I sit on the beach, sometimes.”

“Every day,” Eddie tells him, still not moving, “I see you out there sometimes.”

“Every day, uh. Yeah. Is Argyle–”

“Are you here for a job?” Eddie asks, tacking his jar behind a sign that says the exact same thing. Eddie’s Homemade Fishing Bait, like maybe he’ll lose one or the other if he doesn’t keep track. “If you’re sniffing around for a job–”

“--Look, man, Argyle asked me to come and work for him.”

“Right, yeah, but I’m his partner,” Eddie says, scrubbing his hands on his jeans. “I’m his silent partner. Do you know anything about crabbing?”

Billy frowns, “Crabbing? I thought this was a surf shack.”

“And a fishing place, we sell longboards, too. Contraband t-shirts, homemade banana bread and vintage earrings, bait–”

“--And weed–”

Eddie jumps over the counter, slapping a damp, smelly hand over Billy’s mouth, “Dude, what the fuck? That’s private. That’s a private–”

Billy shoves him off, chest heaving like he’s just been chased. He’s been caught.

Eddie tracks him, eyes wide and afraid. Big eyes. Brown. Pretty.

“Don’t touch me.” Billy says, moving away.

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Your fingers taste like fishing bait,” Billy spits, scrubbing his own hand over his mouth.

“Sorry, I was making–”

“--Sure–”

“--Weed brownies,” Eddie says, wagging his eyebrows.

“Weed brownies,” Billy repeats, tasting fish on his tongue. “Why the fuck do they taste like pond scum?”

“That’s my special ingredient,” Eddie says, and. He cackles. High and bright and frightening, like a man brandishing a knife who knows something Billy doesn’t.

It’s strange.

It startles a laugh out of Billy, anyway. Weird and good but terrifying. Argyle in another font, scribbled in the shape of swirling tattoos and pretty brown eyes.

Eddie watches him.

“What?” Billy says. He rubs a palm over his face, suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothing,” When Billy stares at him, wide-eyed and confused, Eddie grins. “When you laugh, you’re just. You’re beautiful. Know that?”

Billy scoffs, “You’re a fuckin’ weirdo.” He says, but his stomach swoops. The Bastard.

“Yeah. When can you start?”

–

“I got a job,” Billy says, instead of hello when Steve calls on Friday. It’s warm, for late January, California finally giving up her quest toward the unfamiliar.

Steve chuckles. “Got a job as, what, a government spy?”

“No.”

“Supermodel, then. Undercover CIA ops, government supermodel–”

“--Like Nixon?”

“No, what the fuck? Have you seen yourself in the mirror, Malibu? You’re more JFK,” Steve says, sleepy and warm.

“I’m working at a surf place,” Billy tells him. It’s no fun to make Harrington guess when he sounds a minute from sleep.

“No shit? Didn’t know you surfed.”

“Used to,” Billy says, grinning when Steve makes a low, impressed noise. “Don’t get excited, I stopped when Neil moved us to corncob hell.”

“Maybe you’ll get back into it. Being around that stuff all the time, y’know.”

“Maybe,” Billy says. His belly flutters with possibility. He’s strong enough to run now. Hopeful enough to work. “It’s more than just surf stuff, actually. We do fishing bait, and crabbing and long boards–”

“--They sell hand blown Christmas ornaments too?”

“Probably,” Billy can hear the smile in Steve’s voice, dawning over his perfect pink lips. “High people love interior design.”

“What’s high got to do with it?”

“We sell Miss Mary.”

“Criminal,” Steve says, “I leave you alone for two minutes–”

“Eight months,” Billy tells him. A pin drops. “Not that I’ve been counting.”

Billy prepares himself for something, though he can’t put a finger on what’s got him ready to pace the fuckin’ floor, geared up for the deafening click! Of Harrington’s receiver as it hits the cradle.

They’ve never hung up on each other, but. Then again, they’ve never held a conversation this long either. Usually Steve just calls so he can fall asleep to the sounds of Billy swishing beer around in a can, pissing into the toilet bowl, blowing his nose when the weather’s cold enough.

But.

There’s a first time for everything.

“Has it been that long?” Steve wonders, surprising him.

“Yeah,” Billy says. Lying, because it’s more than that. Two Novembers and a New year, a cut and dry four-hundred days trying to acclimate to all of the rot they’ve been dealt. But who’s counting?

“When do you start your new job?”

“Sunday,”

“Got the whole weekend to, fuckin’. Skinny dip, rollerblade on the pier, and hike in the mountains.”

“I don’t live in the mountains.”

“Huh. Maxine said–”

“Jesus. Girl runs her fuckin’ mouth too much.”

“She’s just excited,” Steve tells him. Sounds like a big brother, a proud mom. “She talks all the time about joining you out there.”

“She’d hate it.”

Steve snorts. “Kid was born for the ocean. Like you, you know? Your eyes.” When Bilyl doesn’t say anything back, Steve yawns. “I’m sure you’ve got your reasons. Bay Watch not her scene anymore?”

Billy shrugs, “Not as beachy, where I am. LBC was quintessential California.”

“Where are you?” Steve asks, voice full of wonder. “Hold on, lemme get a pen and paper–”

“Not falling for that, Harrington.”

“Why not?” Steve demands, pouting. “I’m not gonna show up at your apartment door one day, y’know–”

“You might. With your pen and fuckin’ paper.”

“You’re right, I might,” Steve sing-songs, “I was able to bully your phone number out of the Byers’.”

“Hah!” Billy says, leaning forward. His beer’s almost gone so it doesn’t slosh when he jabs an accusatory finger at Steve from two thousand miles away, “I knew Will was the one who gave you my phone number. Little shit.”

“It’s not his fault, I wasn’t eating or sleeping, after you left, so. Joyce took pity on me.”

Billy almost cracks with the weight of his heart battering against his ribs. “Joyce?”

“She. Gave it to me.”

Billy swallows, throat clicking with emotion. “She had it the whole time?”

“They all did. Do, I guess,” Steve tells him. Then, after a beat, “You’re not mad, are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Please don’t change your fuckin’ number because of this.”

“Dunno. Might,” Billy lifts the can to his lips, sad to find it empty. “Should probably move, too, before Maxine tells everyone where my apartment is and you’re all pissed to find that the beach here sucks and we can’t even climb a fuckin’ mountain.”

Steve laughs. “But the other stuff?”

“Totally,” Billy says. He stands, pulling the phone as far as it will go until he gets his hand around the refrigerator door.

Steve lights a cigarette, inhaling sweetly into the phone. “Why didn’t you move to the mountains, anyway?”

“Room and board is expensive up there.”

“Didn’t the government shell out some money for your trouble?”

“Yeah,” Billy says, “Not enough.”

“We could combine our shit,” Steve says suddenly, “Y’know. Merge our assets and get someplace real nice.”

Billy drops his beer can. It gushes over kitchen linoleum like an unleashed tidal wave and he swears, stooping to mop it up with a dish rag. “Shit—”

“--Did I say something–”

“--No it’s. Nothing more stupid than the shit you usually say,” Billy tells him. Because. Combine our shit and merge our assets feels like something else. Grows teeth to chew and lips to say remember what tore you apart?

“Billy? You there?”

“I’m here,” Billy says. He dumps the dishrag into the sink, throat drier than it’s ever been in his life.

He clears it.

Says, “You want me to be your roommate,” and the words taste like lead. Burn like poison.

“I want you to be my roommate,” Steve admits.

It’s dark, through the kitchen window. Arcata sleeps and dreams outward, in every direction, and it makes Billy brave. Stupid.

“Alright,” He says, playing along.

“Done deal,” Steve says, grinning, “Pack your bag, baby. I’m coming to get you.”

Billy’s heart swells, ignorant to the pain that will come in the morning when he comes to. “You work at Family Video, now?” Can’t. Stand the pressure of the moment.

“Yeah,” Steve says, “The mall burned down, so. Not a ton of other options unless I want to work at the General Store.”

“And you’re gonna come get me on a Disk Jockey’s salary?” Billy leans forward, fingers scrambling for his pack of smokes. “You could open your own ice cream parlor.”

“I don’t have–that’s not what I want to do with my life.”

“Really? Being a lifeguard is what I want to do with mine.” Billy quips. Steve laughs suddenly, smooth as marmalade on fresh toast. Warm. Billy wants to make him do it again. “Rescuing screaming brats from themselves as they run around the edge of the pool and stub their toes and crack chins on wet cement–”

“--Jesus Christ–”

“--Sunburns,” Billy admits. “The lis goes on.”

“That’s bullshit,” Steve says, ruffling the couch face as he sits straighter. “The chicks never shut up about you, that summer. You tanned.”

“Yeah, over my burns.”

“Is that even possible?”

Billy exhales a cloud of pale purple smoke, basking in the light from the television. “Sure, if you know the right elixir of sunscreen, tanning oil, and bomb-pops. Anything’s possible.”

“Another load of bullshit,” Steve tsks lightly, “Y’know, I was held prisoner in that fuckin’ sailor uniform all summer and I never saw you come through. Not once.” He says. Regretful, like it’s a goddamn shame Steve never got to see him in his slutty little shorts.

“Yeah,” Billy grumbles, “Never saw me once and now I’m damaged goods.”

“You’re Clark Kent,” Steve tells him, “You’ve got, like. Superhero good looks.”

Billy chuckles, “Thought I was a CIA Government Plant, Spy–”

“You’re beautiful,” Steve says suddenly.

Billy stalls. The air escapes from his tires and he’s, fuckin’. Trapped. Stranded in this endless, horrible moment where all the shit he never thinks about lathers like soap suds, tasting bitter on the back of his tongue.

“Needa get your eyes checked, Bambi Boy.”

“Eyes are fine,” Steve grumbles. “How’d you get a bomb pop if you never–”

“--Max would get them for me.”

“Oh! Makes sense, I guess. She was always pink-cheeked and pissed off. Buying two of whatever she wanted that day. Guess I always assumed it was for Sinclair and not–”

“--Her bull-dog brother?”

“Her lifeguard,” Silence yawns again but doesn’t get to settle as Steve lights his cigarette. “Why’d you never come in yourself? Why send the kid?”

“You really gotta ask that?” Billy demands, grinning, “C’mon. Wouldn’t be caught dead in an ice cream parlor before work, pretty boy.”

“Not even for a bomb pop?”

“Not a chance,” Billy says easily, not. Wanting to tell the truth.

Steve seems to understand, anyway. “I lied.”

“--Yeah?”

“I saw you around. That summer, before. Everything,” Steve says. He’s out there alone, making these swooping declarations, and he always has been, if Billy thinks back on it. If he’s honest with himself, so.

“I was carryin’ a torch for you, before that summer,” Billy says. Figures. He probably owes Steve the truth after. Everything.

Harrington sucks in a breath, “Billy–”

“I was scared. Always was.” Steve doesn’t say anything so Billy exhales everything, “Look, you don’t. It’s not–”

“--I didn’t know,” Steve says thickly. “I had a feeling, maybe, sometimes, but. Billy, if I had known–”

“--Then, what, you would’ve dumped your girlfriend sooner? Sucked me off after basketball practice?”

“Maybe.”

Billy’s vision blacks out for a second. Like a hard reset to make room for this new information. Whole machine’s fucked so they’ve gotta restructure, figure something else out.

It’s whiplash.

“I wound't have let you,” Billy’s skin is pink and tender, at his core. Not for monsters, for once. “My dad, and. Everything. I wasn’t a good guy, Steve.”

“Neither was I.”

“No, you don’t get it. I deserved what I got, Steve. Everything I did to my sister, and. To all those people–”

“--That wasn’t you.”

“Maybe,” Billy spits, “The shit in the summertime was fueled by a monster, but. Before? Steve, I–”

“--You’ve only ever been around monsters,” Harrington tells him. It sits for a moment, on Billy’s sternum. Weight. Eventually, Steve clears his throat, “I know more than I probably should, but. Max and I have talked.”

“Yeah, she fuckin’. She told me, right before I left Hawkins. Said that you ask about me. All the time.”

“You’re interesting,” Steve says, like, “Even before Starcourt I was interested in you. Understanding you.”

“There was nothing to understand. You didn’t know me, before–”

“Yeah, but I know you now,” Steve tells him. Because it’s enough. In his world, good’s always going to win out in the end, “And, like. I’m just thinking if there are monsters and Russians under the mall and little girls who can throw shit with their minds, it just. Doesn’t matter. I’m thinking it shouldn’t fuckin’ matter that I didn’t know you before you almost died because I was there for the bad shit. I saw you, Billy. I know you taught yourself to walk again, and I know you make me laugh, and I know that I can’t sleep unless I hear your voice, and I know that they night I pushed you down I ruined something. Good.”

Billy scrubs at his cheek. I comes away wet.

“I’m serious about combining our shit,” Steve tells him, “Merging our assets, or whatever.”

“No you’re not. You haven’t really thought about it–”

“Fuck you, baby, all I do is sit here and fuckin. Think.”

About you. All I fuckin’ do is sit here and think about you, Billy fills in the blanks for him. Figures, they shouldn’t have to spell everything out after everything they’ve barely lived through–

Billy clears his throat. It scrapes and burns. “What about Hawkins?”

“What about it.”

“I dunno, wouldn’t. Everyone miss you? Max and that curly haired, freaky little boy genius, and–”

“--I can’t sleep without you, Billy,” Steve says. Sounds like he’s drowning, like that first night, when he said– “Everything that’s happened, and it’s like. We’re just animals, you know? Caught up in trying to stand on two feet and we get so fuckin’ consumed by the specifics of everything. What you had to do to survive, the shit I don’t know about, the kids, the mosnters, just. Everything.”

Speeches. Billy had to sit through so many speeches, when he wouldn’t fuckin’ die already, and.

Never thought he’d want to listen.

Never thought Steve–

“All I know is I want to be with you, Billy.”

Outside the window, the sky is turning silver.

“Let me be with you. Any way I can.”

–

It’s nice to be around people who don’t know where Billy came from. To the boys at the Surf Ship, he is a ghost, born in some long ego era.

Whoever he was before doesn’t matter.

Argyle and Eddie bring him back to life.

–

Neil Hargrove tries to kill him.

Just after Valentine’s Day, just after we’re animals, let me be with you, all i know is I want to be with you–

Maxine calls to tell Billy that Neil shot himself.

Yeah. Calls, like. The telephone. Billy can’t find it in himself to be angry about that, because he’s missed her and then she says, something happened.

She says, Dad ate a bullet for his first meal of 1988. And then she says, Your dad. Neil did, like Billy would ever forget. Would ever need reminding. Then she says, he didn’t survive.

Billy.

He’s got all sorts of fucked up feelings about it, right away. He folds in half three times until he’s on the floor, marking the way his legs throw shadows on the carpet, large enough to cast doubt over everything Billy thought was true.

He cries.

Neil is dead and Billy cries, already forgetting the sound of his voice.

–

At two o’clock in the morning the phone rings, again.

His neck hurts from laying on the carpet. The frayed edges of Maxine’s notebook paper plant like tiny, insignificant seeds. They catch and take hold and Billy thinks, distantly, that he should do something before grief roots itself in the apartment, where it was never really allowed to before.

The phone stops ringing. Starts. Stops.

Another letter has taken control of his life, and that makes him angry. He cries about it, and the phone starts to ring again.

Billy holds the receiver to his face, watching the note flutter when he says, “My dad died.”

“I know,” Steve tells him. “I meant to call sooner. I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I wanted Max to be the one to tell you. And she doesn’t have your landline–”

“--I know you gave it to her,” Billy says. Thinks, if Maxine had sent him a goddamn letter through the fuckin’ mail to tell him the last monster is dead, he would’ve lost what’s left of his marbles, he would’ve–

“--Neil ate a bullet,” Billy says. He sounds like himself, but. He doesn’t. Steve holds his breath on the other end of the line, so Billy says, “I’ve never seen someone get shot, before. I’ve seen them get ripped apart.”

“Billy–”

“I shouldn’t have left,” He tells the ceiling.

Steve goes quiet. It’s terrible, not hearing the cigarette smoke leave his lungs, not sensing his laugh where it blooms and grows like springtime flowers. They don’t deserve this. They’ve never deserved any of this, but. Who fuckin’ cares.

“You had to get out of here,” Steve tells him. The real Steve, alive and unwell in Hawkins, Indiana. “Billy, this place is–”

“Neil’s dead.”

“Maybe he deserved it.”

“And maybe I should be there for Maxine, for once,” Billy says. Aches to see her. Burns to hold her close.

Steve snorts, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I just. I think that if anyone here was supposed to die–”

“--Stop–”

“--There’s a hole in my chest,” Billy admits. He can feel it, sometimes, rising like tree bark to scrape and tear at the air around him. A monster aiming to carve a place on him.

It’s so late. It’s so goddamn early–

“I’ll patch it up,” Steve says valiantly. The hero. The prince.

Everything’s so easy for him. Simple.

“Maybe you’re right,” Billy says after a minute. After catching his breath.

“Maybe I’m right about what?”

“None of it matters,” Billy tells him. “Nothing matters so much that I can’t just. Tell you–”

But that’s a half-truth, funny in retrospect. Because almost three years ago, Billy died. Nearly. And he never expected that anything would matter to him ever again, but things happen all the time that have nothing to do with anything. That’s the beauty. They help him live. Will and Joyce and Freak Byers and Maxine and–

“Steve. I,” Billy swallows, throat clicking, “I lo–”

“--I want to see you,” Steve says in a rush, “Just. Tell me where you are. I can be there in a few days.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Maybe but that’s what I want. You. I want you–”

“You’re insane,” Billy scrambles, trying to grasp whatever excuses keep eluding him. “Like you don’t already know my address. Like Max didn’t fuckin’ tell you.”

“You’re right. I still need you to say the word, though,” Steve sounds like he’s moving, on the other end of the line. Bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation. “I’m serious. Tell me you want me and I’ll leave right now. If I drive through the night I can be there in a day.”

Billy’s heart soars, emotion flapping like wings in his chest.

But.

“You can’t leave Maxine. Not with all this shit happening in Hawkins with Neil, and–”

“I’ll bring her with me,” Steve says, “We can take turns driving.”

Tears slide down Billy’s cheeks, full of hope. “She’s a bitch in the car."

"So am I, I only want to listen to Wham."

"She's only got a permit. What if a cop–”

“--We’ll go on a high-speed chase. I’ll get to you sooner.” Harrington says.

Billy exhales a laugh.

Thinks about the years spent wondering what he deserves. What he wants. Never imagining the line between them would whittle away and disappear until their weight could kiss like reunited lovers.

Thinks of death and life. Of Max.

"Y'know, I usually sit on the beach, first thing. Watch the sunrise."

Steve hums. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Billy scrubs away the tears on his face, shuddering as more slide to take up their mantle. “Got something to write with?”

–

The answering machine gets him.

"Argyle," Billy says, standing over his kitchen sink. "You're not in. Uh. I just wanted to let you know that Steve's coming to town. Steve Harrington. He's on his way and I don't know what this means, I sorta feel like I'm drowning a little bit, but. In a good way. A really good way."

Billy rinses his stomach bile, watching as it swirls and disappears.

"I don't think I'm going back to Hawkins, but. I also don't know if I'm staying here. My dad died, and Steve's brining my sister to see me, 'cause. I have a sister, I think I told you about her, and. I have a Steve. You know about him, so."

Billy swallows, wondering how many fuckin' goodbyes he will have to live through.

What he will have to live through, now until forever.

"Just," Billy says, voice cracking, "Thank you. For talking to me on the beach that day, and asking me to come work for you, and just. You brought me back to life. That's it. Maybe I'll see you tomorrow. Maybe I won't, but. Give Eddie a punch goodbye, for me. See ya around." Billy sucks a mouthful of air, scrubbing at his eyes, "This is Billy, by the way."

Billy's grateful Arcata has a shoreline. The ocean has been good to him, his first true sanctuary. Makes him think of the trees back home, in Hawkins. Has him wondering if it's okay, now that home is a person. People.

It's warm, for February.

He watches the sunrise with a lump in his throat, knowing that any minute a car will pull into the lot behind him and love will walk back into his life. Maybe it never left. Maybe it's not something he's ever had to work for.

He counts the minutes. He adjusts his blanket, the very same one Joyce draped over his hospital bed all those months ago, and then a car approaches. Two doors open and shut, one right after the other, and then.

Dawn breaks, driving a knife through the dark.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #holiday exchange #tw: homphobic slur #tw: violence #healing #post season 3

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king-zacharyy · 3 months

Text

Part 1 (Here) Part 2

EDIT: I fixed some spelling/grammar errors and added some things to a couple areas.

TW: Injury, hospitals, surgery mentions

——————————————

"Four chimes. Max."

Nancy had barely finished speaking before Steve was out the door of the Creel house, sprinting back the way they came. He wove through the forest on muscle memory alone, a resurgence of adrenaline fueling his exhausted, wounded body.

The pain and lightheadedness faded away under the constant stream of Max Max Max because that's his kid. His kid, who he let get put in danger. His kid, who he wasn't there to protect, and she has to be okay. She has to be.

Because they had plans for a concert in summer that he had spent months saving up for just for her. And she has to be okay, because if she isn't, he doesn't know what he'll do with himself. He doesn't know how he could possibly live without one of his kids. Without Max. Without his little sister. Without Max.

The sound of loud, gut wrenching, sobs and screams cut through his thoughts, and he stuttered to a stop. Dustin. He bolted in the direction of the sound, absent-mindedly stepping over the demobats littering the ground, motionless.

In the center of the bats, sat Dustin, hunched over a motionless form, his shoulders shaking with the sobs that were much louder now that he was closer.

Steve's shoulders drooped at the sight of Dustin alive before his brain registered who Dustin was slumped over and the state he was in, and he had to bite back a sob of his own. Because there lay Eddie Munson in a pool of his own blood. Munson, who clearly pulled some hero shit, and damn it, Eddie, I told you not to be a hero!

Steve slid in front of Dustin, causing the boy to look up. "Steve! Steve, you have to help him! Eddie, he– he cut the rope– and– and—" Dustin's voice trailed off into sobs again, and Steve sprung into action.

"Dustin, you gotta move. I'm gonna help him, but I need you to move." The curly haired boy nodded, hiccuping, and moved out from under Eddie.

Steve was quick to check his pulse, finding a faint, but very much there, thump thump thump. Steve ripped off his jacket and tied it around the wounds on Munson's side. He took a deep breath to steady himself as he hefted Eddie into a bridal carry and stood.

When he turned, he was met with Nancy's determined face. "Dustin said Munson cut the rope, so I won't be able to get him through there. I want you to take Dustin back through the gate in the trailer and call for an ambulance to Fred's gate. After that, go pick up the kids. Robin, you're with me. Meet us at the hospital."

His tone brokered no arguments as they set off in the direction of the highway, his thoughts a constant stream of Eddie Eddie Eddie and Max Max Max.

The next moments were a blur of movement and sound as they got Eddie and themselves through the gate and into the ambulance once it got there.

They rode in the ambulance with Eddie, Steve making sure the paramedics were doing their job. As soon as they got to Hawkins General, Eddie was taken into surgery, and Steve and Robin were alone in the parking lot.

As they entered the lobby, they were met with chaos. He wove his way through the crowd of people seeking treatment or waiting for loved ones and went to the reception desk, Robin following closely behind him.

"Excuse me, was a Max– um Maxine Mayfield admitted recently?" He asked the nurse there, body thruming with anxiety. She clacked away on her computer for a minute before turning to him.

"There was. Are you family? I'm afraid I can't give any more information unless you are."

"I am. I'm her brother? Please, we got separated, and all I know is she got hurt. Is she– is she okay?"

Pity swirled in her eyes, and he tried not to snap. She glanced back at her computer, reading something before answering, "She's in surgery right now, I'm sorry, I don't know much beyond that."

He nodded shakily, stepping back from the counter. He stumbled as the adrenaline faded. His vision blurred, he felt lightheaded, and his sides burned.

"Steve? Steve!" Robin shouting was the last thing he heard before he collapsed, and his world went black.

●●●●●

"Scoops! I work for Scoops!" He thought he escaped. Why was he back in the base? His head felt light and floaty, so they must've drugged him again. Robin. Where's Robin?

"Steve! Calm down! You're in the hospital. We're not in the base. We got out. I'm right here. Breathe, dingus. You're okay. I'm okay."

Slowly, Steve's breathing evened out, and his vision cleared. He took in the white walls around him and sagged against the bed. White, not steel gray. He glanced to his right, where Robin was sitting, gripping his hand, and he relaxed fully.

The memories of the last week rushed back, and he fought the panic that threatened to rise. Robbie squeezed his hand, reading his mind, and said, "You collapsed because of your wounds and had to be rushed into surgery. You've got some damage to your throat from being strangled, and your bat bites got a minor infection. Your back is also raw and had some cuts on it. The doctor said you'll have a lot of scars, and you'll likely need some physical therapy to rebuild the muscle the bats took, but you should be okay. Don't ever scare me like that again, though, Dingus."

He squeezed her hand, urging her to continue. "Max is.. She's hurt pretty bad. She has a broken arm, both of her legs are broken, and her eyes took a hit. They're not sure if she'll ever walk again, and they have to wait until she wakes up to know if she'll be able to see, but they're hopeful. She's in a medically induced coma so she can heal.

Eddie got here just in time. He lost a lot of blood and needed several transfusions, but he's alive. He'll probably need physical therapy, and he'll scar, but he's gonna be fine."

Steve practically collapsed in relief. They were okay. Hurt, but alive. He squeezed her hand in silent thanks, a question in his eyes when he looked at her.

How is everyone else?

"Everyone else has minor injuries. Erica has some scrapes and bruises from Andy tackling her, and Lucas had to get some stitches because of Jason. Apparently, they attacked the kids, and Jason went all pitchforks and torches on Lucas. Max's Walkman broke in the scuffle, and that's why she got all hurt."

Steve had to breathe for a minute to stave of the murderous rage he felt and the sudden and all-consuming urge to kill the bastards who dare lay a finger on his kids.

"Down, boy. Jason got killed when the gates split open, and Andy is currently in custody. And before you ask, the gates closed pretty soon after they nearly split the town open. We don't know how or why, but they're closed.

Back on the topic of everyone's health, Dustin got a sprained ankle when he went back through the gate after Eddie cut the rope, so he's got an ankle boot for that, but he'll be fine. Nancy and I are okay. The only injuries we got were from the vines choking us, but there was no lasting damage."

He nodded, opening his mouth to talk, barely getting a word out before he's thrown into a coughing fit. Robin handed him a cup of cold water, and he was quick to gulp it down.

"Try not to talk. Like I said, you've got a bit of damage to your throat, so it's gonna hurt to talk for a little."

He nodded again and mimed writing. She grabbed a legal pad and a pen that sat on the table by the bed and handed it over.

'Any word from the Byers?'

"Yeah, Jonathan was able to get into contact a few hours ago. He said they were on their way back to Hawkins and would explain what happened on their end when they got here."

'How long have I been out?'

"About a day. Your surgery lasted for a few hours, and then you were in and out of consciousness a couple of times after the anesthesia wore off."

'Why was everything chaos when we got here yesterday?'

"When the gates initially opened, it caused a pretty massive earthquake, and a lot of people got injured. Now, enough questions. You still need rest. When you wake up next, I'll see if I can convince a nurse to let you see Max. Sleep, everyone will still be here when you wake up, and I'm not gonna leave your side."

With that last bit of reassurance, he drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

Part 2

——————————————

This was mostly an excuse to write Steve passing out from his injuries in Season four and some Steve and Max sibling-ism!

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billyhargrove-s · 2 years

Text

A Pair of Trouble

A/N: I'm back! Season 4 has me missing Billy so here we are. Also can you tell I love writing brother! Billy? Will probably continue on with this specific reader in future.

Characters: Sibling!Reader x Sibling! Billy (Twins)

Warnings: Mentions of Domestic Abuse (Neil), underaged drinking, mentions of date rape (nothing specific), Billy gets in a fight, blood, etc. Vomit. Y/n is pretty similar to Billy with her actions, but also notably tamer. Some wholesome sibling content. (Most warnings are for the end of the story!)

word count: 6.3

Out of all places you thought you’d end up living, Hawkin’s Indiana was the last on your list. It was quite literally, the middle of fucking nowhere. Compared to the sunny California you’d grown up in your entire life. You hadn’t even seen the house you’d be moving into across the country. Only your father Neil and new step-mother Susan had. You were going in blind and it terrified you.

The last minutes of your school day were quickly approaching, the last moments of normalcy creeping up on you like some kind of monster in the night. As soon as the bell rang, you’d climb into your twin's car and leave your entire life behind, leaving straight from the school. Both yours and Billy’s belongings were either already in the uhaul Neil, Susan, and Maxine were driving or tucked away in the back of the camaro. Your friends had been giving you teary-eyed goodbyes all day. All the plans you’d discussed regarding your senior year, halloween plans, and graduation had been thrown away when your father dropped the bomb about the move last week. Based on the fight that had occurred between you and Billy versus him, he’d been waiting until the last minute to give the two of you zero room to argue and change his mind.

A shrill sound rang out, signaling the end of the school day. You gave one last hug to your lifelong friends, and headed to your locker. Billy was already making his way to the car and you saw numerous guys pat him on the back and girls throwing themselves at his feet, telling him how much they’d miss him making him promise to stay in touch. You scoffed, knowing he’d be doing none of that. Shoving the rest of your books and miscellaneous items from your locker into your backpack. You slammed your locker angrily and hot tears began to stream steadily down your face as you grit your teeth together, your jaw set in the expression that deemed you a bitch from most people.

It was bullshit, everything was bullshit. You wanted to punch something, anything to release the anger coursing through your veins. There was no denying that you and Billy both had extreme issues when it came to controlling your anger, you could thank your father and his methods of ‘parenting’ for that.

You made your way to Billy’s camaro, Neil had sold your car without you knowing the day the bomb about Hawkins was dropped. Probably knowing you’d be the less explosive between the two of you. You had screamed at him, that was for sure and it wasn’t until Neil had stood up abruptly you made eye contact with Billy, no doubt him telling you to pick your battles. This was not one you’d be winning. Your brother was currently leaning up against the driver's side door, a cigarette placed between his lips which you took the minute you noticed it.

“Give me that.” You muttered, placing it between your own lips as he protested behind you. Ignoring him, you found yourself in the passenger seat, arms crossed as you took a puff from it, blowing the smoke out of the side of your mouth. Billy had already lit another one by this point and was now getting in the car, placing the key in the ignition and listening to the engine turn over with a rumble.

He said nothing as he pulled out of his parking spot and onto the main road, music blaring through the speakers. The windows were rolled down, and you took the time to take in your surroundings of the place you grew up in one last time. You snuffed out the cigarette in the ashtray occupying the middle of the front seat. Eventually, when you made it to the highway leading away from California, Billy rolled up the windows and turned down the music.

“You okay?” He asked cautiously. 17 years of arguments and tears from that exact question in the back of his mind. The two of you being twins meant that sometimes you knew the other better than they knew themselves. Both of you were practically attached at the hip, and it was always just the two of you against the world. God forbid anyone got in your way. You’d go to war for each other, and there’d been numerous fights broken up by each other to prove that. It was school-wide news that the pair of you were trouble and not to be fucked with.

“No.” You said shortly, puffing out your chest and he laughed quietly as you stated the obvious.

“Neither am I.” He admitted, turning the radio up once more.

_____

You arrived in Hawkins, approximately 48 hours later. After hours of switching between who was driving, and even pulling into a rest stop to sleep in the camaro, you in the backseat, Billy in the front, (who admittedly hadn’t slept well, waiting after you had gone to bed to make sure no one approached the car until eventually he couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore) your new house was in front of you. It was a shit shack. An actual shit shack.

“Fucking hell.” Billy grumbled, parking on the street and turning off the car. Silence encased both of you as the radio turned off with it.

“Fucking hell is right.” You muttered, opening the car door and stretching your legs for the first time in hours, getting the first official glance at your new house.

The front porch was encased by screens to keep bugs out, and the house itself was white. Mildew stained the sides of it green and your fathers car was already parked out front, taking up the entirety of the driveway that could easily fit two. Guess the Camaro would permanently be parked on the street.

You and Billy walked to the front door, your heart felt like it was going to pound out of your chest. Max was sitting outside on the porch, taping her skateboard.

“Welcome home.” She grumbled, her attention never leaving the skateboard.

“Thanks.” You said back pushing the door open, Billy following suit. Boxes were stacked everywhere, some already unpacked, more waiting for the two of you. It was Sunday night, you’d have school in the morning but your father surely wouldn’t let either of you sleep until the entire house was unpacked. You had flashbacks about the conversation regarding “respect and responsibility” that ended up with you having a bruised wrist from how hard he’d gripped it, and a hole in the inside of your cheek from biting it so hard to avoid snapping back.

The house had four bedrooms, they were extremely tiny, but at least you’d have your own space and wouldn’t have to share with Max. Probably better for everyone involved. The bathroom would be shared between the three of you but you could work with that, fully prepared to fight Billy for your time to get ready in the morning.

“About damn time the two of you showed up.” Your father spoke, coming from what you could only assume was the kitchen area. “What took so long?”

“We had to sleep sometime, dad.” You mumbled taking in the space that would now be your room. Whether he heard you or not wasn’t discussed as Billy came into your room, holding your backpack out towards you.

“Thanks.”

“The two of you need to get your rooms unpacked before you go to bed tonight. Try not to slack, you still have school in the morning. No excuses.” Neil said, looking between the two of you as if waiting for some sort of objection. Neither of you had the energy to fight him on this and it already felt like you were walking on eggshells around your fathers temper the minute you entered the house. “Susan and I are going out, so I expect you both to keep an eye on Maxine.”

“Yes sir.” Billy said hoping the conversation would end and Neil would leave them both alone.

Finally, Neil left the room. The twins let out a sigh of relief when he was out of ear shot. It was 5 o'clock now, and the amount of boxes that crowded the hallway was already overwhelming enough, let alone the fact that you had school in the morning and had been in a car for the past two days. You heard the door shut and the engine of your fathers car come to life and pull out of the driveway. They’d be gone for hours, you could almost guarantee it.

Every bit of your entire being wanted to lay down and sleep, but unfortunately your mattress hadn’t even been placed on the bed frame. Instead it was leaning against the wall in the hallway, right next to Billy’s.

“Alright Billy, better put your workouts to use.” You said, grabbing his attention from where he was putting your knick-knacks on shelves. Oddly enough it was one of his favorite things back in California. He’d rearrange them to make them fight, or put them in lewd positions waiting for you to notice and bitch at him for moving them.

“I’m busy.” He all but whined, placing seashells in the shape of a penis. Still he followed you to the hallway and helped you maneuver the mattress through the door.

“Jesus Billy, are we in middle school?” You asked, shaking your head. He only giggled and told you to move and allow him to put the mattress on the bed frame.

Eventually your rooms began to resemble just that. Like there were people living there rather than blank walls and bare shelves. It was approximately 11 o’clock when the two of you finished unpacking. Boxes were broken down and put in a recycling bin on the curb.

Max was already in her room with the lights off, probably sleeping while you and Billy shared a cigarette on the front porch. Probably the last moments of peace you’d have for a while.

Your new house was smaller than the last, and tensions were bound to be high. The fall air was cold, you had a crew neck from your old highschool on. It was strange, referring to it as your old school. Didn’t feel normal at all. Nothing about this was normal.

You snuffed the cigarette out on the railing, throwing the bud somewhere in the bushes hoping Neil wouldn’t find them.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” You asked your brother who was taking the final drag of his own cigarette. Blowing the smoke up into the brisk night air and watching it disappear.

“Not worried about it whatsoever if that’s what you’re asking.” He scoffed putting his cigarette out on the same rail you did. “Won’t take long for us to climb the ranks, I’m sure everyone’s dying for someone new to roll in.”

_________

Morning came and Billy’s words from the night before seemed to be proven correct. All eyes were on the camaro as it peeled into the parking lot, blaring Rock you like a hurricane by the Scorpions. Max was in the backseat, eyeing the middle school with disgust. Billy stepped out first, his dirty blonde mullet styled to perfection. Every single person in the lot eyed the denim clad boy who shut the car door behind him taking a cigarette out from in between his lips as he looked back towards you letting Max out of the car, putting the passenger seat back in position. Max skated off towards the middle school, and Billy offered you a drag of his cigarette before throwing it to the side with a flick of his fingers.

You blew the smoke towards the sky with a laugh shaking your curls back behind the base of your skull, pulling your leather jacket on tighter. Your jeans hugged your waist and the cream colored sweater you had on kept you warm in the brisk October air.

“Who are they?” You heard a feminine voice ask from across the parking lot. You smirked looking at your brother and the two of you walked in the building as if you already owned the place. Then again, it wouldn’t take long until you did.

By the time the bell rang, the two of you were still in the office getting schedules and locker combinations. Luckily, they were practically the same. Apparently the majority of Hawkin’s students had the same one. In a town this small, they could be. Eventually the secretary let you go to find your first class of the day which happened to be chemistry. Internally, you groaned. It should be a crime to take chemistry at 7:30 in the morning but here you were.

Billy was behind you as you opened the door, interrupting the man teaching who you presumed was Mr. Blake. Once more, all eyes were on you.

“Ah, you two must be our new students. Everyone, this is Y/N and William Hargrove.”

“Billy.” You and your brother spoke in sync. Immediately correcting him.

“My apologies, Y/n and Billy. There’s a couple of spots in the back for you.” Unfortunately the only spots left were at different tables, luckily they were tables adjacent to each other. You sat next to a boy who was practically drooling as he took you in. His black hair was to his shoulders and he held out his hand for you to take.

“I’m-” He started but he never got the chance to finish his sentence.

“Piss off.” You grit through teeth and you feel Billy glare at the guy next to you before slinking back into his seat. If there was one thing Billy was good at, it was getting creeps to back off if you couldn’t.

Mr. Blakes lecture droned on and you tuned it out completely, tapping your pencil on the desk mindlessly as the guy next to you blatantly stared at your curls. Eventually after learning about ionic bonds or something along those lines, the shrill sound of a bell ringing pierced your ears. Immediately you stood up, your chair scraping against the floor as you grabbed your backpack.

A girl was handing out bright orange flyers in the doorway. Both you and Billy took one graciously. A badly drawn ghost and bottle of booze accompanied the words “Tina’s Halloween Bash” and it was telling everyone to “Come and Get Sheet Faced.”

“Hey.” She said with a wink towards Billy. “Be there.”

“Guess we have plans for tomorrow.” You grinned. It wouldn’t compare to any party you’d gone to in California, but free booze was free booze. Along with that, it was the perfect opportunity to get out of your house for the night.

By lunch, the Hargrove siblings were the talk of the entire school. Spots at the table with the so-called popular kids were already reserved for them and Billy let you take your seat first. Turning the chair next to you around and straddling it. He leaned his chin on his fist as the people already sitting began to introduce themselves.

There was Tina, the one throwing the party tonight. Tommy, was the one of two guys at the table and was obviously looking for a new leader, saying something about how the now King of Hawkins was whipped or whatever. Carol was his girlfriend, a girl with bright red hair not to be confused with Vicki who was currently eyeing Billy hungrily. There was also a man named “big Mike” who was staring straight at your chest.Your brother rolled an apple in your direction and you took a bite out of it, breaking Mike out of his trance and listening to the gossip of your new school.

“Will you two be at Tina’s party tomorrow? It’s gonna be all the rage.” Carol asked, Tommy’s arm slung over her shoulder.

“We might make an appearance.” You weren’t one to promise things, especially knowing that there was a chance one or both of you would be required to babysit Max, who probably already had plans to trick or treat anyways. You saw the Michael Myers mask and fake knife sitting on her bed yesterday as you moved things in and shut the door so Billy wouldn’t find it. Your brother knew you had a fear of horror movies and would most likely use it to his advantage at some point to scare the living hell out of you for a quick laugh.

“How are you liking Hawkins so far?” Tommy asked, puffing his chest out, like they were in some sort of competition. Like he could be superior to Billy. There was a sense of pride in the boy's voice, probably because he was the top dog around the place, then again there was no competition before either of you came around.

“It’s shit.” Billy said, twirling a cigarette lazily between his fingers. He wasn’t dumb enough to light it with teachers staring him down like a hawk at the edge of the cafeteria.

“Oh yeah, it definitely is.” Tommy’s smile was wiped off of his face within a split second of Billy’s response. That gave you all the information that you needed to know about Tommy, he was a pushover and willing to bend over for anyone he deemed superior, if you weren’t he was a bully.

“What’s it like in California?” Vicki asked, resting her head on her hands and batting her eyelashes towards Billy. Just like that, your position at the top of Hawkins High was claimed.

_______

After school the next day, Billy was leaning against the Camaro, obviously annoyed that he was waiting for not only you, but Max. He was smoking a cigarette, watching as you conversed with the girls from the lunch table earlier. Obviously in no rush, he was growing irritated with you as more time went on. Max skated up to the car from the Middle School, and you looked at your brother watching you angrily. Obviously in a hurry to leave.

“I’ll see you ladies tonight.” You said tossing your bag over your shoulder and approaching the Camaro.

“You're late again and you’re skating home, you hear me?” Billy was telling Max as you got to the passenger side door.

“Oh piss off Billy.” You said ruffling his mullet, knowing that would push his buttons even further. “She’s got a farther walk.”

“Yeah and she still made it before you.” He mumbled, flicking his cigarette to the side.

“She still made it before you.” You mocked in a high pitched voice getting in the front seat of the Camaro. “I was getting our plans for the night dipshit. Stop being a grouch.”

He simply ignored you starting the engine and blaring Wango Tango through the speakers. Obviously annoyed. He sped off, going much faster than the speed limit on the backroads to your new house. You noticed he always took the back roads, probably because that meant you'd be home later and that was less time to deal with your father.

“God this place is such a shithole.” You laughed pathetically looking out the windows at dead trees that had fallen to the ground.

“It’s not that bad.” Max piped up from the backseat.

“No?” Billy asked, rolling down the windows of the speeding Camaro, and plugging his nostrils for dramatics. “MMMM. You smell that Max? That’s actually shit.”

“Cow shit.” You laughed, your curls blowing in the wind around your face.

“I don’t see any cows.” Max said, reaching in between the two of you to roll the windows up.

“Clearly you haven’t met the highschool girls,” Billy said.

“Please, you’re still gonna bang your way through the school.” You said smacking your brother on the shoulder. You knew him better than he knew himself.

“So, what do you like it here now?” He asked the redheaded girl who was angrily staring out of the window.

“No.” She said defensively.

“Then why are you defending it?” You asked whipping around to look at the girl. She shrugged silently and looked once more out the window before replying.

“I’m not.” She mumbled.

“Sure sounds like it.” Billy spoke. It was unfair, the way you both seemed to gang up on her. The relationship you had with Max was a rocky one. When you were all introduced she was the definite outsider. Both you and Billy were entirely content that it would be just you and him against the world for the rest of your life, there was no room for someone to join that pact. Thus, Max sometimes fell victim to the way you and Billy seemed to bounce off of each other.

“It’s just that we’re stuck here so,” She told you both.

“You’re right, we’re stuck here. And whose fault is that?” Billy asked and there was not a doubt in your mind that this was about to be a famous Billy explosion. Especially after you heard Max mumble something that you couldn’t quite pick up. “What’d you say?”

His attention was quickly going back and forth between the road and Max in the rear-view mirror.

“Jesus Christ Billy, just focus on the damn road.” You interjected before he could start yelling. “Deflate your ego for just a damn second.”

“Shut up Y/n.” He snapped and your eyes widened turning towards him angrily. “Don’t be a bitch.”

“What did you just say?” You asked bewildered, your jaw set in a scowl.

“I told you to shut up.” He said.

“No, uh-uh. What the fuck did you call me William.” You asked angrily. “Because I swear to fucking god if it starts with a B and rhymes with itch I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“Not if I kill you first.” He said snarkily, changing gears on the camaro and beginning to speed even faster down the street. The sudden change of force made you hit the back of your seat and cross your arms. You both knew you didn’t mean it but when your temper got this high there were no apologies coming any time soon, just rage filled screaming matches.

“Oh yeah, here we go Mr. Fucking tough guy.” You said throwing your arms in the air with a laugh, you turned the music up louder. He hit his hand on the steering wheel to the beat and you noticed a group of kids on bikes and he only sped up faster. “Jesus Billy are you on a fucking warpath?”

“Billy slow down.” Max warned from the back.

“Oh are these your new hick friends?”

“No I don’t know them!”

“Guess you won’t care if I hit them then huh?” He spoke, turning around to look at the fear on her face and you laughed. “I get bonus points if I get them all in one go?”

“No Billy, stop! It’s not funny.” Her panicked voice made you laugh loudly as Billy didn’t appease her at all, and only continued banging the steering wheel to the beat of the song as he looked back at her. “Billy slow down! Come on! Stop it! It’s not funny, stop it!”

As you came closer to the group of kids Max quickly launched herself at the steering wheel and swerved around them. Billy laughed maniacally as she did it matching your own.

“Woo!” He yelled shrillely. “That was a close one huh Max?” Your adrenaline was pumping as you looked back at the kids who had peeled off into the grass seeking refuge from the speeding Camaro. Your brother’s laughter was louder than your own as he still continued to drum on the steering wheel the entire time it took to finally pull up to your house.

As soon as you let her out, Max was the first one inside of the house and slammed the front door shut behind her. Luckily, your father’s vehicle wasn’t already parked in the front to complain about the noise that surely you or Billy would get blamed for. You only had a couple hours to get ready for the party tonight so you looked over your shoulder who was walking behind you.

“I call shower!” You yelled and raced in the house before he could object, grabbing a towel from the linen closet and slamming the bathroom door shut before he even made it inside the house.

______ Tina’s house was large, and sweaty teenage bodies filled every square inch of the interior and exterior. You had a drink that was most definitely vodka, fruit punch and more vodka. Already you were beginning to feel the effects of the drink in your body, everything seemed a lot funnier and Billy had pointed out fairly quickly that the whiskers drawn on with eyeliner were already smudged, to which you flipped him off and took another large gulp of your drink.

Billy, as always was shirtless underneath his leather jacket leaving little to the imagination of the girls who were oogling him without remorse. Currently he was upside down in a keg-stand, chugging as much beer as he possibly could, the sound of Mötley Crue no doubt motivating him even further.

“Fourty! Fourty-one! Fourty-two!” The crowd was cheering him on as he came down, spitting in the air and raining down beer on anyone who surrounded him, including you.

“Yeah!” He screamed, loudly taking the cigarette you gladly handed to him. Before coming, the two of you had made a promise to stick close to each other, mostly to relieve any type of anxiety Billy would have about worrying about your safety if you weren’t in his line of sight.

“We’ve got ourselves a new keg king!” Tommy yelled loudly following you and your brother inside the house like a puppy. The crowd surrounding you chanted his name like a mantra and you smiled wickedly knowing that there was no doubt anyone that would over take you both at this point in time. In a matter of 48 hours, the two of you had made Hawkin’s high your bitch.

“That’s how you do it Hawkins!” Billy yelled, taking a drag of his cigarette. “That’s how you do it!”

You passed off your cup to big Mike who was on your left shoulder. “Get me another drink will ya?”

You danced your way through the living room, arms reaching for Billy’s cigarette as he held it above his head as he weaved through the crowd, pulling Tina’s ‘decorations” which consisted of toilet paper hung from the ceiling, down to wipe his mouth. Finally you snagged it and took a drag, smiling as he looked at you in annoyance. You’d seen that look many times before and only blew the smoke in his face.

“Haven’t you had enough to drink yet?” He asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Not enough to forget we’re in California!” You said as big Mike came from the kitchen with your drink in hand, you took one sip cringing at the taste. “Besides, this shit still tastes awful. That’s how you know I’m fine.”

“Alright just, slow down a bit okay?” He whispered, letting down his facade for just a second to be the older brother he always was. Even if he was only older by 6 and a half minutes. “Let’s try to be coherent for at least an hour more.”

“Yes sir!” You slurred and he rolled his eyes.

“I see we’ve already failed that request.” He scoffed, grabbing your wrist and dragging you through the crowd once more. He took the cigarette out of your mouth and placed it between his lips. “Give me back my cigarette.”

“It’s got my germs on it now.” You warned.

“We’re twins, we share the same fucking DNA Y/n, we have the same germs.”

“Oh yeah.” You laughed clutching your stomach tightly as you tried to regain composure. Once more, he dragged you up the stairs stopping in front of a boy in sunglasses. He stood next to a pretty girl, who was obviously annoyed with the interruption.

“We’ve got ourselves a new keg king Harrington.” Tommy said, appearing over your shoulder to gloat Billy’s accomplishment.

“Yeah, eat it Harrington!” Mike said from next to you.

The girl accompanying Harrington rolled her eyes and walked away quickly disappearing into the crowd.

“Better go follow your bitch.” You whispered, pointing to the girl who walked away. Billy and his posse laughed and Harrington took off his sunglasses to glare at all of you. Big Mike returned to your side, handing both you and Billy a cup full of punch. “Word on the street is that you’re whipped.”

Without a word back, he followed the girl to where the large bowl of punch sat and you smirked. Your words proved to be right as he watched her make her way into the crowd after slamming her drink. Mimicking her, you did the same dragging Carol and Tina to come dance with you.

“I love this song!” You screamed laughing hysterically as AC/DC blared on the speakers. Carol was equally as piss drunk as you were and sometime throughout the night her cat ears had gone missing.

You weren’t sure how long you danced for, but you knew you were in need of another drink and made your way over to the punch bowl, filling your cup to the brim with red liquid. Steve and his girlfriend were in the middle of an argument about her having more to drink. You sipped yours, entertained as the arguing caused the girl to spill the liquid all over herself.

“Party foul!” You yelled as the rest of the onlookers let out a collective ‘Ohhhh’ and downed your own drink as you saw Billy making his way towards you. You filled it up once more and set it on the counter.

“Fucking hell, I left to piss for one minute and you disappeared.” He snapped.

“Billy!” You cheered. “My song came on! I can’t believe you missed it, you shit head.”

“Sorry kid.” He apologized but it was anything but sincere. “How much of that garbage have you had?”

“I don’t know, probably at least one or two” You slurred and your words hinted that it was anything but one or two. You picked up your cup once more. “I’m just trying to have fun Billy. I’m just trying to catch up to my friends, they said if you walk out with no help you’re doing it wrong and, and, and I agree. You need to catch up.”

“No, you need to chill.” Billy said glaring. You said nothing and only took a sip, there was no taste by this point and some tiny, very tiny, voice in the back of your mind said you should probably stop, another voice, a very loud one said you should annoy your twin at all costs and you smirked. “I know that look, don’t even think about it Y/n.”

You laughed and instantly chugged the rest of your drink, red stained your face as you brought the cup down.

“Happy now?” Billy asked.

“Very.” You told him, beginning to wobble on your legs. He put two hands on your shoulders to steady you and you looked at him strangely. Your legs felt like they were giving out. “Fuck Billy-”

You reached for your brother with weak arms, collapsing into him the same way you did the first time you got dumped freshman year. Your make up smeared on his chest, leaving black lines from your whiskers as your words only became more and more incoherent. He held you upright, leading you outside quickly.

“Don’t feel-” You said, short breaths escaping your mouth.

“I know. Just cooperate with me a little bit Y/n.” He was leading you towards the camaro but it felt miles away. Your vision was blurry and nothing around you felt right. “Don’t forget to breathe.”

“Trying too.” You mumbled as the passenger side door opened and you were placed inside.

“Don’t puke in my car or I’ll kick your ass.” Billy warned, but it was an empty threat. Most he would do would be to make you clean it up. He eyed you with caution, watching your eyes stay wide with wonder looking at the streetlamp above you.

“Why the fuck is the moon so close?” You asked, looking at your brother before letting your body fall forward and head drop onto his shoulder

“Because that would be a streetlamp, not the moon.” Billy said, turning the key to the camaro making the engine roar to life. “God you’ve never been this fucked up. Did you drink the same punch as me?”

“Yup.” You slurred, eyelids getting heavy as your body began to grow limp. “Big Mike hand delivered it to us, remember?”

Billy took his hands off of the wheel immediately, lifting your body off of him by the shoulders. Your eyes were barely open and words were becoming less and less coherent as more time went on.

“Fuck.” He whispered to himself before gently setting you down and taking the keys out of the ignition. “Fuck, fuck,fuck.”

“Fuck is right.” You slurred once more. “Dad can’t see me like this Bill, please don’t let him, he can’t- fuck. He’ll kill me.”

“Just stay here kid.” Billy said, getting out and slamming the door. “Don’t fucking leave this car, got it?”

Crowds parted as Billy walked back into the party on a mission for blood. He found Big Mike talking to Tommy with a drink in his hand.

“Hey Billy! Where’s Y/n?” Mike excitedly, reaching out to give the guy a hug. Billy said nothing as he grabbed Mike by the shirt and shoved him against the wall.

“What the fuck did you do to my sister Mike?” He yelled, grabbing the attention of Tina and Carol who were nearby.

“What the fuck man?”

“You have less than a second to answer me or I swear to god I’ll fucking kill you.” He whispered in his ear causing the boy to shake. Already, a crowd was beginning to form around the two boys.

“Nothing! I swear!” Mike said. “Get off of me man.”

“Well if you swear, then I guess you’re telling the truth.” Billy said, shrugging and putting him down, beginning to turn away. “Except, did you know you look past me when you lie?”

His knuckles hit Mike’s face with a crunch, and the boy was on the ground in less than a second. Billy on top punching him once more, he didn’t stop until Mike was pleading.

“If you ever even think about my sister again, you’re dead.” He whispered into his ear. “Got it little man?”

“I’m sorry!” Mike was crying on the ground. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

Billy said nothing as he turned on his heel and left the party, finding you barely conscious in his car. He couldn’t go home, he knew that. If Neil found you in this condition you’d be dead, skipping curfew would have consequences but not as dire as coming home reeking of alcohol. He was afraid. You barely looked alive in the passenger seat of the Camaro as your eyes were half opened and you laid limp. He wasn’t sure what to do, waiting it out seemed like the best option so he decided to stop at a gas station, purchasing a couple waters and something solid in hopes of getting you to eat and filter everything out of your system. He found the bathroom on the side of the building, an idea sparking in his blond head.

“You’re gonna hate me for this, but you’ll owe me big time Y/n.” He said, opening the door and leading you towards the bathroom. He placed you in front of the toilet and gently opened your mouth.

“I’m sorry” He muttered before sticking his fingers down your throat, forcing you to puke all of the contents of your stomach into the bowl before you. Green bile coated the toilet and you groaned falling back into your brother's chest.

“Fuck, Billy why?” You asked, hiccuping as you regained your breath.

“Just, trust me on that one.” He said handing you a water bottle. “Feel better?”

“Kind of. You’re not going to hold this against me will you?” He only laughed and shook his head.

“I think we need to forget this night ever happened.” Billy said, helping you lean over the toilet once more as you gagged. “And Y/n? Let me know if Big Mike gives you trouble.”

“Noted.” You muttered. “You kicked his ass didn’t you.”

“Something like that.” Billy shrugged and held your hair back away from your face. “Let’s just say he won’t be coming around you anytime soon.”

“If I ever see that slimy fucker-”

“Don’t even worry about it, I took care of it.”

You liked this side of your brother. The one that was caring, even if the two of you fought like no other, you still loved each other endlessly. It was the two of you against the world and sometimes it felt like you only had each other.

“Thank you Billy.” You said, finally sitting up on your own.

“It’s kinda my job, I am your older brother.” He said teasingly as the two of you walked back to the camaro. Your legs felt wobbly as he opened the door and you all but fell into your seat.

“By like 30 seconds, hop off your high horse.” Billy laughed loudly and got into the driver's seat next to you.

“So, we’re already in trouble because it’s way past curfew.” He said. “Figured we just don’t go home.”

“Can we get food?” You asked, clutching on your stomach that still felt like there were waves inside of it.

“Yeah, we can get food.”

#billy hargrove fanfic #billy hargrove #billy hargrove x reader #stranger things #billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove imagines #stranger things imagine #stranger things x reader #x reader #stranger things fic #Billy Hargrove x sibling reader #stranger things season 2 #stranger things season 3

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thissortofsorcery · 1 year

Text

Harringrove social media AU (in a season 2 setting because that is my paradise land) where Billy makes surfing TikToks as a teenager, with a really good following and a promising career as a pro surfer. Until Neil moves the entire family to a landlocked state, and Billy knows it's to punish him.

There could be several reasons for this:

-Billy is becoming too independent from Neil;

-Someone questioned a bruise Billy didn't cover up well enough and now it's all over the internet;

-Billy was caught with a guy he was seeing;

-Billy's mom saw his TikToks and tried to get in touch, Neil had been keeping him from her;

And now Billy's in a town in the middle of nowhere, Indiana, two months into the school year, and everybody expects him to, what, be chill about it? Not care that Neil can just ruin his life and his career on a whim, and there's nothing he can do about it? Billy's raging, Billy's seething, Billy's hurt, and no one wants to or can help him. Susan won't lift a finger or say anything against Neil, looks down every time his dad raises his voice or his hand to hit Billy. And Max- Max is furious with him, blames him for the move like he was the one who decided to pack everything, like he was the one who sold his board and packed the cars and bought the ugly house on Cherry Lane.

What the hell is Billy supposed to do now? He's a senior and he had no plans of going to college, hasn't even thought of applying anywhere. His account is going to die out if he doesn't post anything, and who can guarantee he can raise it from the dead in a year if he makes it back to California once he's eighteen? He needs the TikTok money to make it back to California anyway. He's screwed. He's so screwed.

On the other side of this, is Steve. Steve is a gaming streamer and youtuber, or was- is. He's trying, okay? But ever since- everything, he can't play horror games anymore. He used to stream horror games pretty much exclusively, had whole events for it, charity streams, sponsorships, and then the whole Upside Down thing happened, and he knows his role in it was minor, okay, he knows he was there just for the tail end of it, but a seven-feet tall monster with a flower for a face coming out of the ceiling of the Byers house was both his starting and breaking point, apparently.

His channel was pretty good. Pretty stable. Then he tried to stream Blair Witch about a week after everything and had a panic attack on stream. Things didn't get better after that.

Nancy got him into Animal Crossing, because it's soothing, so he streams that now. And The Sims. Needless to say, his channel took a pretty big hit, as did his reputation. Like Tommy H. says, he turned bitch.

But it's fine, everything's fine. He's got Nancy, he's got a loyal online community that stayed after everything, even if it's small and no one's anywhere near Hawkins. He's got his SAD (Steve After Dark) Streams for when he can't sleep. Halloween is coming up and he's maybe sad he's not doing Spooktober this year, but. Maybe on the last week. Maybe on Halloween Day. If Nancy doesn't want to go to Tina's party.

Billy and Steve collide pretty much the same way. Steve is on edge and Billy is on edge, then the world's ugliest dogs are let out, and Maxine sneaks out, and Billy finds her in a house full of boys and an 18 year old washed out streamer who lies to him about it. Next thing Billy knows he's waking up in a half-destroyed kitchen with an empty syringe two feet from him, car gone, and not a single person in sight.

On Monday, Harrington's face looks bad. It's been a while since Billy's felt this guilty about putting a bruise on someone's face, but he knows he lost it a little, that night. Went too far. He doesn't remember most of it, and Billy doesn't know if that's from whatever drugs Maxine shot him with or from just- anger. Remorse just clogs his throat and he can't breathe. He decides to stay the fuck away from Harrington.

And then Tommy H. just has to take pictures of them, make a damn video, post it to Instagram and TikTok and tag them both. Of course it goes viral.

Billy spends a full week in a state of panic. He fully expects Harrington to press charges now.

(Steve, similarly, is panicking. He streams family friendly content now. He can't just get into fights. He can't stream until his face heals as it is.)

Billy feels even more like shit when his follower count goes up and his account sees more activity than it has since the move. Like it's a reward for beating up Harrington, or something. It's not right.

(The same happens to Steve.)

So Billy has an idea. He wants to apologize to Harrington. Wants to make it up to him. Maybe he can help him get his popularity back, get his channel to how it used to be, somehow. And if it keeps his own account alive, well.

It takes a little convincing, but Steve agrees. Dustin is trying to get him into his nerdy games, but Steve isn't sure he likes them. Steve's been having a hard time, since the second round with the Upside Down. He can't sleep, can't focus, Nancy went off with Jonathan. So maybe he wants a distraction, okay? Maybe he wants something that isn't life or death.

So Billy and Steve start a partnership of sorts. Steve films a couple of youtube videos playing co-op games with Billy. Branches out to TikTok, maybe. Starts bringing Billy to his streams, at first just to hang out and then to take over and play some stuff. Billy manages to burn down Steve's entire 9th generation legacy mansion on The Sims in 30 minutes. Billy and Steve play Dead By Daylight together, and Steve feels increasingly comfortable playing horror games with Billy around.

It's working so well for Steve, he decides he wants to pay it back. So he teaches Billy to ice skate so they can make content for Billy's TikTok. Steve takes Billy sledding when it snows. Billy films Steve falling asleep in unlikely places during the day and not waking up when Billy piles things on him.

Steve hunts down and finds Billy's old surfing board that Neil sold and buys it back.

At some point, Steve becomes Billy's best friend. If he could- If they could, Billy would- They could be more, Billy thinks. But they're all over the internet, and Billy doesn't think Neil watches their content, but word can get back to him really easily. People like to speculate as it is. It's a small fucking town.

The climax would be, of course, getting Billy out of Neil's house. Getting Neil arrested. So Billy can be free.

(Feel free to explore and play with this AU as you like!!)

#harringrove #billy x steve #billy hargrove #billy antis dni #mine

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inchlingprincess · 4 days

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i would like to introduce my mini-giantess oc and her regular-sized human friend!

they are college schoolgirls who love video games and streaming. minnie is basically in her vtuber persona all the time. maxine helps with the technical aspects and modding technology to better suit minnie's needs as a bigger person.

#g/t #mine #ocs #sfw g/t

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every-dayiwakeup · 2 years

Text

Max, Wake Up

Tw: heavy on the angst, THAT lumax scene rewritten

"Get your fucking hands off my sister, Carver!" a large bloody blur appears out of thin air, launching itself at a bewildered Jason.

"Billy? How-" Lucas starts, his throbbing head trying to process what he's seeing.

Billy Hargrove is in one piece, and he's angry- this resurrected embodiment of nothing but pure rage makes prior images of him at the Byers house look like child's play.

A wild animal has been unleashed, and by the grace of God, he's not even remotely interested in focusing any of that on Lucas.

He's never seen anyone fight with their entire body. Billy is pounding his fists into Jason, and his boots make squelched sounds as he stomps Carver's flesh like a Halloween pumpkin.

Crack.

Oh shit. Max.

His fiery soulmate is still suspended in mid air, and to Lucas's horror, her limbs are starting to contort into opposite positions.

Billy must see it, too, because he drops Carver, and grabs at Max's sneakers. "Shitbird, snap out of it! Sinclair, where's her damn walkman?" he snaps, urgency in his tone.

Lucas points to the damage on the floor beside Carver, and Billy shakes his head, his matted hair slapping his face.

Max's vibrant blue eyes are squirting out blood, and another agonizing crack fills the air.

"MAXINE! YOU LITTLE BITCH, WAKE UP!" Billy roars, and suddenly Max's crumbled body falls into her brother's arms.

Lucas's mouth is open but no words are coming out. He reaches for Max and Billy actually growls at him.

He's about to give Hargrove a piece of his damn mind, but then he notices how Billy is holding her. He's cradling her in his arms, shaking her gently, his shoulders moving up and down.

He's crying.

"B-billy?" Max gasps out.

"It's me, Shit Bird," Billy says, voice cracking.

"Billy, I-I can't f-feel or-or s-see anything."

"You're gonna be fine, Max, you hear me?"

"I don't.. I don't wanna die..."

"You're not gonna! I'm not gonna let you!" He cups Max's ears, and yells, "SOMEONE GET A FUCKING AMBULANCE! PLEASE!"

"D-don't cry, Billy..."

"ERICA! ERICA, HELP!" Lucas shouts for his little sister, tears streaming down his face.

"Don't... be mad, I'm going... to the movies with... Lucas..."

"I'm not mad, Shit Bird, I'm not. You're gonna be fine- SINCLAIR WHERE'S THE GODDAMN AMBULANCE!"

"ERICA!"

"Big... bro..." Max struggles to speak, her sightless eyes unfocused.

"I'm here, Maxine. Keep talking to me," Billy pleads, sniffling.

"Wish..."

She goes still, and Billy starts to shake her again. "No, no, Shit Bird, don't die! DON'T YOU DARE...Max?"

His voice sounds so small, a grieving mouse in a lion's body.

Lucas is watching one of the big bads of his childhood come undone before him.

But Billy Hargrove isn't a villain at this moment. Maybe he never was.

Right now, he's just a little boy, trying to wake up his sister.

+++++++

Tags:

@emeraldwitches

@namorian

@theabyssofdeathandexistence

@cherry-sorry

@spaceboxkitty

@shipworm

@flayedintheusa

@talesfrom-theupsidedown

@harringroveho

@magellan-88

@m0isttoenails

@suspiciouslackofclowns

@wixterirox

@phishyie

@ouizzyharringrove

@harringrovetrashh

@thatawkwardlittlefangirl

@justan-0-t-h-3-r

@polaris-ursae

@skyesayshi

#billy hargrove #this was in my drafts #heavy on the angst #i think i may have broken my own heart #billy and max #red writes #red fics #redwriting #not harringrove #i did it from lucas's pov #trying something new here #not fluff #not clownery

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steddie-fanfic-recs · 3 months

Text

Sleep Walk (Tethered To You)

by min_T

Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington & Nancy Wheeler, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington & Maxine "Max" Mayfield Characters: Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, Wayne Munson, Robin Buckley, Nancy Wheeler, Minor Characters, Maxine "Max" Mayfield Additional Tags: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Grief/Mourning, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Multiverse, Temporary Character Death, Happy Ending, Fix-It, Soulmates, Steve Harrington’s suicidal tendencies, First Time, Pining, Multiple Orgasms, Anal Sex, Pet Names, Soul Bond, Virgin Eddie Munson, Bottom Eddie Munson, Top Steve Harrington, Gay Steve Harrington, Confessions, Romance, Emphasis On Happy Ending, A sprinkling of gothic romance, Post-Season 4 Words: 26,579 Chapters: 8/8

Summary

“Steve opens his eyes to the sun streaming in, and just like that, the dream is gone. Torn away by the light permeating behind his eyelids, even as he groans and tries to go back to sleep, to chase the world where he and Eddie… Steve pops up, sitting ramrod straight. Where they had been…what? Best friends? Steve doesn’t think sending a year’s worth of locker notes and calling your friend “pretty” looks so strictly platonic, which only serves to make this new dream even weirder. Eddie is…is his dead friend who was barely even a friend. His fists clench in his bedspread, and he fights against the lump that lodges in his throat as he tries to convince himself of that fact. But their closeness, the way they had been with each other…it felt so real. It lingers, in a way that leaves Steve short of breath as it collides with reality, this world where Eddie is gone and was never his. He lays back down, arm extending over the empty space in his bed. His fingers trace the absence of a body that was never there, and it wrenches a tight gasp from his lungs as he senses the phantom feeling of another hand in his.”

#steddie #steddie fic rec #multi-chaptered #25-50k #angst #angst with a happy ending #fix it #au soulmates

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randombush3 · 2 years

Text

Dinner Dates and Taxi Drivers III

part one, part two

summary: you see Flo again.

words: 3171

warnings: none

notes: do we want a revival?

It’s been four months since you kissed the movie star in a pub in front of both your sisters. Thankfully, Isa is no longer a minor and so does not use you as an excuse for her clubbing habit. She can’t. You don’t live in London anymore.

Work got a bit… hectic. They requested you move to New York because the UN suddenly decided you were all they needed in a lawyer. If only your dad agreed (but he’ll get over it). As you very well know, the UN do not request things that they don’t expect to happen, and so you packed up the flat and found a tenant. He’s really nice, and enjoys the fact that his landlady not only texts Florence Pugh, but also lets him keep his cat. It’s a pretty cute cat.

Maxine’s husband knows a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who is definitely in the mafia, and the chain of knowing people leads you to a penthouse that you cannot afford. You made such a statement as he showed you around, but the man who knows a man who knows a man who knows your sister’s husband told you it was already paid for. By whom, you have no idea.

Your office sits between the cleaning cupboard and your boss, with her office being Amal Clooney’s sloppy seconds. You’ve met Amal. She’s lovely.

Inside, you keep the mandatory family photograph along with a few framed certificates hanging on the wall. The back wall — the wall your desk faces — showcases the city to you wandering eyes, often screaming at you that most people don’t watch the sun rise and set from their office window. It’s setting now, in fact, at the grand hour of 8.30pm. Your stomach rumbles.

It’s not that you have to keep working. Human rights law just shatters your perspective of necessity, is all. Sometimes you really miss Florence.

You cling onto that night and the morning afterward. Deb and Clint had smiled with an unspoken approval. Your mum just rolled her eyes and decided she needed to buy a villa as a form of therapy. At home, your father watches the girls while she takes some time to herself in Italy, visiting Max and frequenting the beach.

Lately, it feels like Florence is a scent that you can only remember and never relive.

You look up from your desk.

- - -

All it took for Florence to enter the legal department in the United Nations Headquarters was a simple “I’m here to see my girlfriend” and a mutter of your name to the woman who was sitting at the front desk looking bored. She hates her shift because no one actually comes in, unlike the peak hours where clients are a steady stream. Plus she is surprised because Nancy didn’t know you had a girlfriend (neither did you until she tells you), and wonders how awful that relationship must be if you see your workplace more than you see her. Nancy is sure of that because she takes early mornings and late nights, and you never forget to bring her a coffee when you return six hours after leaving.

She also recognises your girlfriend as Florence Pugh. This makes her gasp inwardly, and bow her head down to the microphone that announces visitors. Flo reaches her hand out, mumbling that she’s surprising you. Nancy nods.

Knowing that Flo hasn’t ever visited before, she gives clear directions to your office and a reminder to be mindful of the unhealthy amount of people still working. The 9pm rush is when most leave for their bed, but your face hardly ever appears in the bunch. Everybody knows how hard you are working.

Flo walks down the hallway, takes a left, and then a right; she stops at an antique library of sorts. She admires the leather-bound books. She continues walking.

Your office is the second to the corner, next to where Flo almost concusses herself by walking head on into a mop. You can hear the sound of chunky boots on polished floors. You wish that person would think twice about what they wear to work: it’s law, not a fashion show.

There’s a knock on your door, and you realise maybe it’s a client — but at this time? With a smirk of vindication, you have found a way to justify practically living in the office.

“Come in,” you call, standing from your chair. The door, made of privacy glass, clicks open. Without looking, you motion for the leather armchairs by a glass coffee table.

“We won’t have time for that.”

Something stops you from moving.

That voice.

The rasp, the intonation, the slight amusement…

“Florence?” You look hard at her, almost believing that you are just incredibly sleep deprived, but she pulls you into a hug. She smells just as she did before, only very fresh for this time of day. Like she’s going out.

“You have ditched me for New York,” she mumbles, her laugh muffled by your blouse. The top three buttons are undone to tease relaxation into your body. “I missed you.” Her squeeze tightens.

Once you pull away, you stand awkwardly close together. “Why are you here?” You’re curious, not unhappy. “It’s not that I— We’re both so busy and— I…”

“It’s okay.”

“Is it?”

The question rolls off your tongue too quickly to take back, and she makes no attempt to mask the brief glint of hurt in her gaze. “You could’ve told me you weren’t coming back for their last dinner party. I had to make a decision between the teenager table and grown-up conversation.”

“Sorry, I was busy.” She raises an eyebrow. “Okay, I can’t even put that in the past tense.” Florence laughs.

“I had to call a good few people to find out where you were in this bloody city. Your doorman was the only one who could tell me.”

“Stalker.”

“I wanted to find you.” If you hadn’t had missed her and thought about her and actively not let her become a stranger in your mind, you’d have found that awfully creepy and called security. But, because she’s Florence, you want to kiss her.

So you kiss her.

Carefully, but desperately. You’re tired, and are only just realising it’s a knock-on effect from the weeks of postponed sleep, but there is a surge of adrenaline that you dive into. She kisses you back, smiling into it, arms wrapping around your waist. She pulls away far too soon.

“How come you’re in the city?” She’s assumed you’ve moved here for work, but you can’t assume anything about actors these days. “Just for me?”

She shakes her head, grinning. “I know it’ll hurt your ego, but I’m here for work.” There was an opportunity to be a rom-com, but she missed it. “Work starts in a week. I came early because Isa told me you live in New York now.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Speaking of taking…”

“Horrible segue.”

“We have a dinner party tradition,” she begins, smile becoming mischievous. “A friend of mine has invited me over and I’m already late. My date cancelled on me at the last minute and you’re here…” She didn’t have a date whatsoever. It was always going to be you.

“I’m in a half-buttoned blouse and joggers.” She doesn’t even try to hide herself checking you out. Full on lingering at your boobs and all. “Just because you like it, doesn’t mean they will.”

“As if you don’t have a whole walk-in wardrobe and a bed in here!” She looks around, smirking when she sees a small chest of drawers in the corner.

“In case someone spills coffee on me,” you defend while she holds up various blouses that all are white and all look the same. “I’ll be too overdressed.” Flo can barely smirk anymore when she pulls out jeans and a grey Nike sweatshirt.

“Put them on quickly, I’ll drive us. It’s ten minutes away.” Of course Flo’s friend lives on the Upper East Side. You replace your slippers with converse, one step closer to matching her casual dungarees. You wait for her to turn around, which she does with an eye roll. “I can’t believe you,” she mutters, bringing you right back to the memory of her undressing you. God.

You sit mostly in silence in her car, a rented blue toyota. She focuses on the road, glancing at her phone for directions every so often, but makes no effort to start a conversation because neither of you really know what to say. What do you say to her? Realistically, she’s nothing more than a one night stand, right?

Though you don’t know it, she can’t quite manage to focus entirely on the road while you’re next to her. She has an inexplicable want to hold you and never let go. Florence thinks she may have fallen in love with you.

- - -

“This is a fancy building,” you comment once you are in the lift. It’s like your own, but the Upper East Side version (a times ten on expenses). “Who are you friends with?”

“You can’t freak out.” Oh…? That’s exciting. She places her hand on your arm as the lift dings on the correct floor, opening up to a carpeted hallway. “You’ve met famous people before.”

“Politicians,” you correct calmly. “I’m prepared to see AOC.” You hide your smug smile at the quiet ‘again’ you follow up with.

“Yeah, you’re not a big TV watcher.” Flo leads you down the hallway. “I hope you’re not absolutely in love with the Marvel movies.” She likes to tease the lack of popular culture involved in your lifestyle. Growing up was tennis, garden parties, and playdates in country homes. The absence of it has been your whole life, and you don’t feel particularly drawn to finding out who Taylor Swift is currently sleeping with.

“I will remain composed even if the Beatles are behind that door.” Florence notes that you must love the Beatles then. “Go on, we’re probably late.” You nudge her to knock, and she does: three raps, quickly and clearly, and the door opens.

“Not very punctual, are you?” Scarlett Johansson greets her, almost neglecting to look at you. But then she does and suddenly has a knowing smile. “Come inside, you two. The dogs will escape if we stand here any longer.”

The dogs in question are two children who clamour for your attention. Well, one is a child and the other is a baby who’s crawling at top speed (for a baby). Florence is used to the former, and scoops her up, making her giggle. She introduces herself as Rose, and points to the baby. “He’s called Cosmo.”

“Hi, Rose,” you say, surprised that she is so easily talkative. “I’m Y/n.”

“You sound weird.”

“Rose!” Scarlett’s look of alarm is combatted by Flo setting her down and booing her.

“Y/n sounds wonderful.” You blush. You have a dirty mind. Florence swats your hand. “Just like me, right? Same area of England and everything.”

“Hi, I’m Scarlett.” The introduction is useful and normal-feeling and probably just what makes Scarlett Johansson maintain her sanity. “Colin’s in the kitchen,” she then says with a domestic nod to a closed white door. “It’s so lovely to meet you.” She pulls you into a ready hug. You’ve forgotten what those felt like to be honest.

“And you.” Florence has been distracted by the baby, Cosmo — Rose said, and has sat on the couch with him on her knee. You find that very attractive.

Scarlett hands you a glass of merlot, and you both stand with different topics of conversation on the tips of your tongue.

“Do you live in the—”

“This is a nice—”

“…city?” You stop abruptly and let her repeat her question.

“I moved here for work a little less than three months ago.”

With a pause, she asks where you found a place; “The city’s expensive as fuck these days.” Yeah, your morning coffee costs $9 (£8) which is too much for someone who prefers sparkling water.

“Well, erm, I was really lucky, thankfully, so my flat’s in Turtle Bay. Makes getting to work really easy.” She nods, understanding something you don’t quite understand. “I like being able to walk, you know? Reminds me of home.”

“Oxford, right?” And just Europe in general. You’ve grown up in Monaco and obviously Italy as well as Oxford. “Apparently it’s really walkable?”

“God, yeah. But now I’m only a six minute walk from work, so I suppose I can manage.”

Your— Florence’s ears perk and she feels the need to jump in and sing your praises. With pride she states, “Y/n is one of the United Nations’ lawyers.” You attempt humility, and try to forget the feelings swirling around in your mind.

- - -

Colin Jost is a funny man, and you’d still be laughing at his jokes if it wasn’t for the woman beside you waking you up to point and giggle at a pigeon outside of your window. One of your many windows.

You’re naked, realising this because it’s oddly droughty down there. When you lift the covers to confirm your guess, you find that she is too, to a certain degree. She has one of your old t-shirts on: Reading 2014. It rides up slightly when she gets up, and although she is wearing nothing underneath, you find Florence Pugh to remain admirably dignified. This is probably more than a hookup now. Like, casual sex. Honestly, that sounds good enough considering your history and your circumstance and your strange desire for Flo that’s bubbling away.

Wordlessly, you bask in the warmth she left and she disappears through the door, feet padding softly as if she’s already trying not to wake you up. Your eyes flutter shut to the sound of her cautious humming.

When you wake up the sun is fully slapping you in the face, so much so that you worry you’ve tanned. You find some underwear in the drawer (and also remind yourself to either do the washing or pay someone to do it), grab another giant t-shirt, and follow Florence’s path to the kitchen. You know she’s there because you can hear the clanging of pans and bowls and… Plates? You have plates?

The floor is icy cold on your bare feet once you leave yourubsr room, and your fuzzy vision tricks you. “Fuck this open plan shit,” you mutter under your breath, rubbing your head as if that will fix your stubbed toe. And it’s fucking cold. “Alexa, turn on underfloor heating.”

The sun is way too high in the sky.

“Alexa, time.” Who needs a clock though?

The echo dot glows a comforting shade of blue. You have Alexa’s everywhere (bar your study because work must stay strictly so). “The time is—”

“No!” You snap your head to the origin of the outburst, finding Flo standing over the stove with an exasperated half-pout. Her hand brushes her cheek accidentally, and you smile at the trail of flour it leaves. However charming she may be, though, you still wait for her to explain herself, arms crossed, foot tapping.

“You looked so peaceful and last night was tiring, I know you were already tired from work… And I know that you haven’t been sleeping or eating because you told me—” She stops rambling and frowns. “Why are you smiling?”

“You have flour on your face,” you reply simply, trying to be calm while she’s not. Hastily, she wipes her face with her forearm, turning red with embarrassment. With a sigh, you say, “Okay. You can feed me, I suppose it won’t hurt.”

“It never will!” She begins to mix the batter, and you find yourself suddenly craving pancakes. “It’s only nine. You can make up some bullshit excuse about coffee queues or something.”

“Or I can tell my boss that a really pretty actress stayed over and cooked me breakfast…” She laughs. “You’re right. Coffee issues it is.”

And that’s how it goes for the week. With Florence making you both breakfast after waking up with sweet morning kisses and offers to shower together and save water. In the afternoon, she’ll meet you for lunch, and you run away from the tourists wondering why you’re being escorted out of the UN and the paparazzi trying to take a picture. She always laughs when that happens, because you get so determined to find refuge in a new spot every day, thus adding five more eateries to your stomach-count.

Florence hates that you can speak the language of every restaurant you enter. You like being labelled as one of the many UN employees who frequent each restaurant, because that gives you a sense of belonging you’d never have gotten if you’d become the in-house lawyer for one of your father’s companies (or all of them, if you wanted to bore yourself to death). It’s nice to feel. You feel it at its strongest when you’re with her too.

Dinner is always a date, and she’s declared that a tradition by Friday evening, when you venture out to Raoul’s in fancy clothing and high heels. You get the subway even so, ignoring the looks of ‘wait who’s that’ by grabbing a newspaper to read. You hold it up in front of both your faces. “Thank you,” Florence whispers, leaning in to peck you on the lips before the cover is blown and she can no longer. Some people must think you two find page seven incredibly intriguing.

Then, when you think the coast is clear, you lower the paper and sit back, head against the glass. The girl two seats to the right of you is on her phone. Instagram. FlorencePughDaily.

Well you’ve made an appearance.

Florence visits a friend in NYC, it’s captioned. You don’t know why, but that makes you angry. It’s so silly to feel that way, and you repeat that in your head, but you find yourself waiting until the girl is looking at Flo. You nudge her knee with yours so she’s facing you, and your hand goes to her cheek. Kissing a movie star on the subway takes more than the balls needed for the pub: it takes ovaries.

Flo chuckles lightly and pulls away, breathing out like she’s had to consciously force herself to. “What was that for?” she asks. She finds herself blushing. You blush because you made her blush.

“We are definitely not friends.” She waits before laughing; determining whether you are being serious or not. You sort of are. “Just checking.”

As you get off the subway, you find the girl has taken a video of it and that she is sending it to everyone she knows. You hold Flo’s hand quite daringly. It’s nice to touch her this way. Her fingers find comfort in being intertwined with yours, and she finds any hidden anxiety dissipating.

You don’t know it yet, but Florence is also wishing that this will turn into more.

tags: @pewpughpew @ridlz @jeyramarie @flosbelova @kassies-take

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