
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/14118939.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Stranger_Things_(TV_2016)
  Relationship:
      Billy_Hargrove/Steve_Harrington, Maxine_"Max"_Mayfield/Lucas_Sinclair
  Character:
      Billy_Hargrove, Steve_Harrington, Maxine_"Max"_Mayfield, Dustin
      Henderson, Lucas_Sinclair, Eleven_|_Jane_Hopper, Jim_"Chief"_Hopper, Neil
      Hargrove, Susan_Hargrove, Mike_Wheeler, Nancy_Wheeler, Jonathan_Byers,
      Will_Byers, Joyce_Byers, D'Artagnan_"Dart"_(Stranger_Things), Mews_the
      Cat_(Stranger_Things), Tommy_H._(Stranger_Things)
  Additional Tags:
      Bottom_Steve_Harrington, Top_Billy_Hargrove, Protective_Steve_Harrington,
      Protective_Billy_Hargrove, Billy_Hargrove_Tries_to_Be_a_Better_Person,
      Gay_Billy_Hargrove, Bisexual_Steve_Harrington, Underage_Drinking,
      Canonical_Child_Abuse, Steve_Harrington_Has_Nightmares, Post-Traumatic
      Stress_Disorder_-_PTSD, Past_Child_Abuse, Past_Violence, The_Upside_Down,
      Internalized_Homophobia, Period-Typical_Homophobia
  Series:
      Part 1 of The_Lights_Will_Guide_You_Home
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-03-27 Updated: 2018-03-29 Chapters: 2/4 Words: 7601
****** The Lights Will Guide You Home ******
by theproblematicgay
Summary
     Billy didn’t know what he expected to find in the forest but it
     wasn’t this.
     Harrington rushes forward after a second’s hesitation and Billy
     thinks that he has to be the most stupid, fucking idiotic, pretty-
     oh, God, is that a bat full of nails? What the ever-loving fuck is
     happening right now? The demon-dog-flower-thing is knocked from his
     chest by Harrington, who Billy can only recognise as ‘King Steve’:
     the cocky motherfucker he’d heard so much about the past month and a
     half and hadn’t seen a single glimpse of in all that time.
Notes
     Or, Billy doesn’t know whether to be confused as all Hell, concerned
     or amused at just how fast he ended up feeling... something, for
     Harrington of all fucking people, pretty much somewhat unofficially-
     adopted by the chief of police and the new co-babysitter of
     Harrington’s gaggle of fucking nerds.
     -

          ‘And now everybody thinks that you’re the bad guy. Well,
          guess what, I think that you are, baby.’ - The
          Neighbourhood, U&I
***** Chapter 1 *****
Billy made a habit of getting drunk. He knew who threw the best parties, judged
them on the impressive ability to acquire enough alcohol to water down a hoard
of teenagers and still have enough left that by the end of the night Billy
really shouldn’t be driving home. He didn’t enjoy the parties. Bodies that
insistently pressed up against him only brought irritation and anger and
disgust that he tried hard not to feel. It always got too hot. But free alcohol
was never something Billy would consciously or knowingly refuse.
If he woke up the next morning with bruises he didn’t remember receiving upon
eventually coming home, nobody needed to know.
 
Billy is sure that his father, all clenched fists and swinging belt is going to
come charging through his bedroom door any moment now. The latch on the window
sounds ridiculously similar to a gunshot in the dead of night. He doesn’t
understand how Max manages to do it so quietly most nights, despite the fact
that he knows every single time she sneaks out and hears almost every word of
every conversation she has on that goddamn walkie. She doesn’t have to be
afraid of the consequences of getting caught though, he guesses.
He nearly drops his cigarettes on the floor and only sheer will keeps him with
a now mostly-empty pack, achieving almost-silence as he clambers outside. It’s
cold and he doesn’t have his jacket – forgot it, and doesn’t want to think
about the fact that it’s lying on the end of his bed, merely feet away through
the window. He lights a cigarette and inhales sharply.
After a few minutes of staring down the trees behind his father’s house he
hears the front door screech and the heavy tell-tale footsteps that he’s still
not over hearing, even though it’s been years since he was first afraid of
them. He ends up blanketed with shadows in the tree line, grateful and feeling
sick watching his father light a cigarette too. Billy steps on his own with
more aggression than would probably be deemed necessary were anyone looking.
He looks at the sky with a deep exhale and thinks that there’s something
missing. He doesn’t know what it is. There’s a distant feeling in his chest
like there’s supposed to be something tethering him to the ground he’s standing
on. He doesn’t have a tether, he thinks.
He’s grateful for the sparse light after he nearly trips over the root of a
tree. A hundred million tiny pinpricks of light poking little holes in the
solidity of the darkness. He doesn’t want to think about the dark or he’ll
eventually end up thinking about the darkness that he knows must be inside of
him. He sees it in the face of his father too often for it to not be instantly
recognisable. Familiar.
He might still be somewhat drunk, he realises a little belatedly, almost
stumbling into a bush after about fifteen minutes of aimless walking. He then
proceeds to vomit over said bush and feels slightly better afterward for it.
A growl catches his attention and he spins around so violently that he hurts
his neck and feels so dizzy for a moment that he worries he’ll throw up again.
In the thick darkness he can make out a pretty damn large dog only a few steps
from where he’s swaying under the effort of standing. It must be a Rottweiler
or something similar from the size and build of it, thick and dark as it is, he
can tell, even in the little moonlight that there is. His uncle had had a
Rottweiler once, sometime during his childhood. It had bitten him when he’d
tried to pet it and his uncle had slapped him on the back, chuckling at his
naivety.
It steps forward menacingly and the reality of the situation Billy’s in hits
him like a punch to the chest. That and the demon-dog from Hell had launched
itself at Billy and pinned him to the ground in one swift movement, its weight
overbearing atop his bruised ribs.
Billy knows now that he must still be drunk. Must be. Must have taken something
that he can’t recall too probably, because the dog’s head, the snout that had
been pushing into the skin just below the hollow of his throat unfolds like one
of those Venus flytrap plants he’d seen once in his biology classroom in middle
school back in California. Or a really ugly and terrifying flower.
Just as Billy has accepted that he’s not going to make it out of this with his
face, Harrington emerges from the bushes looking determined and distraught,
catching sight of the thing sitting on Billy’s chest like it’s the puppy he’d
been searching for the past hour and thank God, he’s been so worried, oh, my
god, thank you for finding him. He doesn’t look surprised to see it though,
seems more horrified to see Billy there if anything, trapped beneath it where
its drool or whatever Billy will have to deny it is later splatters beside his
head.
Harrington rushes forward after a second’s hesitation and Billy thinks that he
has to be the most stupid, fucking idiotic, pretty- oh, God, is that a bat full
of nails? What the ever-loving fuck is happening right now? The demon-dog-
flower-thing is knocked from his chest by Harrington, who Billy can only
recognise as ‘King Steve’: the cocky motherfucker he’d heard so much about the
past month and a half and hadn’t seen a single glimpse of in all that time.
Billy’s grateful that he doesn’t recall the time passing so quickly as he
watches Steve lean over him after a minute or so where he’s still lying
motionless in the dirt, not attempting to get up and trying really fucking hard
to not look at the now-dead thing lying only a few feet from the both of them.
He offers a reluctant hand and, surprisingly, Billy takes it without much
hesitation.
 
~
 
Harrington had ended up half-carrying Billy to his car where it’s parked not
too far from the road leading up to his father’s house. He couldn’t imagine
going back there tonight and frankly, he doesn’t want to. The car ride had been
mostly silent. Billy had felt the questions, among other things, bubble up deep
in his chest.
“What the fuck, Harrington?” Billy had yelled suddenly after a few minutes of
driving. Harrington had jumped so hard behind the wheel that Billy had been
momentarily scared that they were going to die then, in a car crash after
having narrowly escaped being eaten in the grotesque mouth of whatever that had
been earlier. It was preferable to say the least, but it wasn’t exactly
desired.
He had felt himself sobering up somewhat whilst Harrington had simply grimaced
through his teeth, eyes locked on the road ahead as he said nothing, scanning
the trees that they had passed almost maniacally and Billy had found that he
couldn’t blame him. The car ride had been filled with silence after that, and
Billy is sure that he had passed out for some time before the engine had been
killed.
Now, he’s surprised, but then again really not upon seeing Max through the
window of what he guesses must be Harrington’s house. The other kids that
Harrington had grown sickeningly attached to are there too, crowding around him
and then retreating somewhat hastily upon noticing that he has Billy in tow
when they walk through the door – not the bat that he’s still wielding like he
imagines he’ll need it, or even that he’s spattered with blood that isn’t his
own.
Billy can really only think that monsters should not look like flowers and that
Harrington should not be this pretty, especially when he’s covered in
something’s blood and still holding the goddamned bat in hand, blood and
gristle still practically dripping from the protruding nails and spattering
onto the floors as nobody cares enough to make him leave it outside or at least
put it down. Billy could imagine that they’d have to pry it from his hands at
this point judging by the way his knuckles are white where the skin is pulled
taut over the bones, gripping the bat like a lifeline.
He feels the material of the sofa on his back as he’s laid down, eyes slipping
shut of their own accord, and thinks absently that it must be new because it
crinkles under his weight, not softened from use yet. It must be nice to afford
expensive new things, Billy thinks as Harrington touches his face with the
backs of his cold fingers. He finds then that he really doesn't care enough to
try and stay awake.
 
~
 
He wakes up with a startled cry when something prods at his leg, jumping up and
hissing when it pulls at his bruises enough to leave him gasping. The smaller
one of the group of weird kids Maxine had started hanging around a while ago is
standing at the end of the sofa looking like a miniature version of the blond
guy in some of his classes, only more regretful.
It’s morning and Billy isn’t sure where he is or whose sofa he’d crashed on
last night but he vaguely remembers some dream he’d had; something about
flowers and dogs, and for some reason Harrington had been there, and oh, God-
“What the fuck?” He barks after a pause where he grips his hair in a trembling
fist, startling the kid who steps back a little and shouts to someone in
another room, but Billy doesn't hear.
Harrington nearly crashes into the doorframe just seconds later, coming to
stand by the kid he hadn’t actually meant to frighten. He’s just glad right now
that he’s alive and not drunk and grateful Harrington doesn’t have that fucking
bat anymore, despite the fact that he looks prepared to go and get it from
wherever it must be lying around. There must be a God, ‘cause it looks like
he’d taken a shower too, now that he’s no longer blood-stained. He should thank
Harrington for saving his ass, probably, but he won’t.
“Harrington?” He grinds out, sounding more unhinged and unsure than he really
wanted to with his fists clenched at his sides as he feels his chest wavering
slightly with the waves of panic he’s trying desperately to stave off. He
hasn’t felt this out of control since-
“Billy?” Harrington steps forward hesitantly. “Billy, look at me.” Billy
reluctantly raises his gaze from his shoes, hands curling and uncurling
erratically at his sides. Harrington steps forward into his space and while he
speaks quietly his voice is firm. “It’s okay.” He tries and when Billy doesn’t
answer, staring absently to the right of Harrington’s stupid fucking head, he
reaches out slowly and takes Billy’s wrist.
He tows Billy into the kitchen by his arm, tugging him along beside him like a
broken-down car when Billy doesn’t yank his hand back with one of his usual
sneers, instead trying not to feel too shocked by the warmth seeping through
his skin from the fingers curled around his wrist. In the kitchen, the group of
kids that Harrington happily lives to babysit and drive around like their
personal chauffeur are sat bickering heatedly at the table. They pause,
momentarily silenced and wide-eyed with spoons of cereal held midway to their
mouths when they see Billy.
A bowl is held out beneath his nose when he looks down again, unsure of himself
where he’s left standing awkwardly beside the fridge and looks up to see
Harrington levelling him with an expression on his face that practically
screams eat it or I’ll shove it down your throat. Henderson looks torn between
openly glaring in his direction through narrowed eyes and trying to have an in-
depth conversation with Harrington through just eye-contact. He eats silently.
Robotically. Trying not to look as out of place as he feels.
He doesn’t know what to do with the bowl once it’s empty so he just holds it in
his hands, ridiculously grateful for the way that it hides how they’re shaking
a little.
Sinclair, the kid that’s clearly infatuated with Max is practically hissing at
Henderson. “It was your fault.” He can hear the way Henderson gears up to argue
back. “You put the rest of us in danger ‘cause you wanted a pet.”
“He missed me!” Henderson protests vehemently, sitting up a little straighter
in his seat.
“It just missed having access to an easy meal!” Billy watches Harrington listen
to them, eating his cereal and refilling the bowl when it gets empty. He looks
tired. No, he looks exhausted, and Billy can’t find that he blames him. If he
squints a little he can see the faint shadows of what’s left of that night
those weeks ago now, small splotches of colour staining his skin here and there
as he shifts under the bare bulb of the kitchen light. Billy has to duck his
head to avoid looking like a deer in fucking headlights when Harrington’s eyes
flick over to him.
Sinclair starts arguing with Henderson about- darts? Billy’s really not drunk
enough to deal with this shit right now. He doesn’t know how it all came down
to this moment: mesmerised by Harrington glaring into a mug of coffee, his
fucking little gaggle of nerds arguing about something Billy doesn’t understand
– doesn’t really want to – whilst he’s eating Harrington’s cereal, the guy he’d
beaten to a bloody pulp last month as he sort-of-guiltily wonders whether he
should apologise for that. Probably. He hadn’t felt sorry when he did it, nor
had he afterward, but watching Harrington now with his temples tinged with
colour has Billy avoiding his eyes.
Max is babbling something, sounding simultaneously concerned and pissed off but
he doesn’t hear her. He’s too busy trying to imagine how one would go about
apologising for having been well on their way to killing someone. Harrington
doesn’t strike him as a bunch-of-flowers kind of guy.
He looks at Max then – just properly looks at her for the first time since he’d
first met that stubborn and freckled little eight year old some four, five
years ago, back when he’d been only twelve himself. He’d had short hair back
then, tight blonde curls atop his head and wide blue eyes that had been filled
with excitement at the idea of having a sister, and maybe a mom again. Max had
only come up to his shoulder then, tiny. She still did. It hadn’t stopped her
from squaring up to him just days before though, demanding to know why his eye
was black, yelling in retaliation and calling him an asshole when he told her
to fuck off, trying to avoid the question.
Max was everything Billy would hope for in a sister, if he wanted one. She was
everything he wished he was.
After Harrington’s kids empty their bowls like ravenous carnivores and finish
arguing over fucking darts of all things the doorbell echoes through the house.
What surprises him is that nobody gets up, just stays where they are despite
snapping their heads round in the direction of the door. A girl he’s never seen
before, probably around the same age as Max, walks in and takes in the scene.
They make quite a group – an asshole like himself, a pretty boy like Harrington
and five absurdly nerdy kids all stopped dead in their tracks to stare at her.
Apparently they must know her ‘cause Harrington smiles at her, if a little
strained, and one of the kids rushes up to her like a puppy, looking entirely
too smitten and all too willing to go and get her the fucking moon. Billy has
to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. He mustn’t do a very good job of it
‘cause Harrington smirks a little, glancing at him from the corner of his eye.
“El, we don’t know what we’re supposed to do. We tried to find the rest of them
but they’re just gone-”
“Steve said there’s more than one just running around in the forest-”
“Can you find them? What if they hurt someone? Hopper’s gonna have a cow if he
finds out that we-”
The girl, El, waves her hand and they all shut up simultaneously. Billy likes
this kid. She needs to stick around if Billy’s going to have any hope of
keeping his sanity. And she needs to teach him whatever that was. She’s wearing
dark dungarees and a striped shirt, similar to one he’d seen Wheeler’s brother
wear sometimes. Her hair is short, awkward and it curls at the nape of her
neck.
She turns to him then and frowns. Billy’s surprised at how much he doesn’t like
being on the receiving end of some girls grimace. It’s more than concerned or
confused – it seems to cut into his fucking soul and he hates it. She steps
toward him and the entire room seems to hold its breath as she stares him down
despite having to tilt her head to meet his eyes as close as she is. She sticks
her hand out somewhat mechanically, although the look on her face is anything
but cold, as if she’s actively trying to remember social etiquette. She looks
like she’s trying pretty goddamn hard. Billy would know. Some days it’s hard to
grind out a ‘good morning’, even to try and avoid the inevitable fallout just
that little while longer. His father had never needed a reason though. What did
we talk about?
Her face seems to fall a little then and Billy isn’t sure what to do as he
watches her curious expression crumple, quickly replaced with something akin to
understanding. Her hand reaches out further, with purpose and her lips pull
tight as her face becomes conflicted. Her fingertips brush softly against his
upper arm where underneath his short sleeves he knows must be the dark rings of
finger-shaped bruises by now. He flinches a little and sees in his peripheral
how everyone stiffens. She stays steady, touch gentle but solid.
She nods at him ever so slightly, her voice a soft whisper. “Papa.”
He crosses the room and sits down a little aggressively on the sofa, rigid.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     Billy didn’t know what he expected to find in the forest but it
     wasn’t this.

          ‘Mama said if I really want to, then I can change. [...]
          Mama, there is only so much I can do. Tough for you to
          witness but it was for me too.’ The Neighbourhood – R.I.P.
          2 My Youth
Harrington had eventually had to sit down beside him and tell him everything.
Well, not everything. God, Billy wasn’t sure he whether he would’ve wanted to
know everything, not after the first minute of listening to Harrington try and
explain shit that really shouldn’t ever have to be explained.
The kids had all gone upstairs to snoop after Harrington had given them the
option, practically shoving them out the door while Billy was trying to wrap
his head around- fuck, monsters. He knew they existed, sure. Hell, he lived
under the same fucking roof as one. But not one with a face that opened up like
a goddamn flower and tried to eat him. One that came from some sort of gate
that apparently they had all thought was closed. From another fucking world –
“Dimension, Steve.” “Does it look like he gives a shit what you call it,
Dustin?” – right under their goddamn noses. A gate that was going to be found
and closed by El. Again, apparently. Christ. Billy wasn’t sure if he was never
gonna be able to fucking sleep again.
Harrington finished talking, finally, and puts his head in his hands. After a
few moments where Billy doesn’t speak, doesn’t make any noise or move
whatsoever, he turns his head, as if making sure that Billy is okay, as if he
could be after that shitstorm, or at least still there, not running screaming
down the street. He sighs and puts a hand on his shoulder.
“So, yeah. Any questions?” Billy isn’t really sure how to fucking respond to
that. What the fuck?
He stares at Harrington incredulously, head snapping toward him with an audible
crack that actually hurts a little but he doesn’t give enough of a shit about
to care. He laughs a little breathlessly, a probably manic grin spreading over
his face and exposing his bared teeth. It drops from his face just as quickly
as it’s put on though as he leans back on the couch and asks Harrington where
he keeps his liquor.
“There’re kids in the house. Hopper’ll kill me.” At Billy’s bewildered
expression Harrington explains offhandedly, “He’s coming to take the kids home
on his way back in about an hour.”
What, can’t hold your liquor, Harrington?” He says it like a challenge.
Harrington sighs, heaving himself up and smiling somewhat when Billy doesn’t
really bother to follow him as if he expected that he would. Billy’s still
feeling a little too shaken to try and stand at this point. “Don’t forget the
good stuff. I know you’re loaded now, pretty boy.” He yells when he hears
cabinets opening in the kitchen. Harrington comes back with two tumblers and a
mostly-full bottle of expensive-looking scotch.
“Went for the shittier stuff. Probably what you’re used to, drinking with Tommy
and all.” Harrington shrugs, making an exaggeratedly casual expression as he
gestures to the bottle that had to have cost a small fortune, laughing a
little.
Billy rolls his eyes. “That shitstain’s got no fuckin’ taste.” He grumbles,
grabbing his glass and watching Harrington’s throat work as he takes a long
sip.
“Why d’you bother with him then?” Harrington looks genuinely curious, so Billy
decides it’s only fair to grace him with a genuine answer.
“S’got it’s perks, I guess.” Like not spending his weekends alone, or stuck in
the same house as his dad. Harrington shrugs, nodding a little. “At least he’s
my age.” He jerks his head toward the sound of screeching from upstairs.
It’s Harrington’s turn to roll his eyes at that point. “Everyone our age is
either an asshole or done with me.” Billy doesn’t think Harrington meant for
that answer to sound so heartfelt and sees him think the same thing, the
surprise in his eyes. He knows he ticks one of those boxes, not sure how he
could ever be the other. Not after this.
Billy shrugs, trying for nonchalant.
Half an hour passes in this way, the bottle, now less than half-full has begun
to work its way to their heads judging by the way Billy smiles, too wide, when
Harrington jumps out of his skin at Billy’s touch. His hand rests on
Harrington’s thigh, his knee pressed up against his where he knows Harrington
can feel the warmth of him through their jeans. A deep flush has settled
underneath Harrington’s skin and Billy isn’t sure whether his proximity or the
alcohol is to blame. Harrington stumbles on through whatever story he’s telling
though, as if Billy isn’t almost strewn over him, or at least looking very much
like he wants to be.
Harrington seems to lose his train of thought then, lips parting around the
word he’s just lost and eyes glancing down as if he’s expecting to see it
scrawled on his hand. It takes a moment for Billy to realise that he’s blinking
at the hand on his leg. Billy throws back whatever’s left in his glass and sets
it on the coffee table, relaxing back into the sofa and making little circles
with his thumb over the material of Harrington’s jeans. Harrington’s tongue
flicks across his bottom lip that’d gone dry and he pointedly doesn’t raise his
eyes.
He takes Harrington’s glass, staying pressed up against him and relishing in
the way Harrington seems to loosen up, in the unsteady breaths just barely
brushing against his shoulder. He hesitantly reaches up, calloused fingertips
fleetingly grazing Harrington’s jaw. His palm spans the stretch of skin at his
throat and Billy feels the sudden intensity of want, wanting to bite a bruise
there. He wants to fucking devour Steve; both devastate and envelop him
completely. At the touch of his hand, brown eyes flicker up to meet his, wide
and too trusting, not wary like they should be. As if he wanted this just as
much as Billy did. Billy seriously doubted that, what with the warmth now
unbearable in his chest, threatening to reduce him to embers, inside-out.
Billy rushes forward, catching Steve’s mouth against his own in an almost
violent graze of their lips. He feels how Steve’s hand tightens into a fist
against his thigh, eyes widening before ultimately fluttering shut. His lips
are unexpectedly soft, though Billy doesn’t know what he expected, and there’s
a lingering taste of the scotch that only serves to draw him in further,
chasing the flavour. He sucks in a sharp breath through his nose – and Steve’s
all that he can smell. That goddamn hairspray he uses that Billy can only
recognise ‘cause there’s a can of it in his room, the same cigarette smoke that
Billy can’t seem to get out of his clothes, and then something abruptly and
entirely Steve that Billy can’t say he’s ever known before. He’s addicted
before he even exhales.
Steve pulls back though after a moment, a hand pushing against his chest, only
ever gentle yet sending Billy struggling back, retracting his hands somewhat
reluctantly but off of Steve nonetheless. Steve’s eyes catch him entirely
unguarded, every wall he’s ever built ripped down with just a stare, something
akin to fondness. The hand on his cheek is cold against his warmth and Billy
wraps his own around it, fingers trembling. He doesn’t even acknowledge how is
chest is heaving because Steve’s is too.
This time it’s Steve who leans into him, slow and soft. His hand curls around
the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in the blonde curls there, pulling a
little. And it’s the gentleness of it that does it, that has Billy pushing
forward, arms encircling Steve and tilting him back into the cushions,
blanketing his frame with his bulk. Steve’s other hand is clutching at his
shirt, tugging him closer until they might as well never separate, comfortable
and content as they are. Billy’s never wanted to stay right where he is quite
so much in his life.
Billy’s hand, the one that isn’t angling the scotch away from where they’re
pressed together, trails down the material of Steve’s blue pullover fervently
before wrenching it up, fingers reaching for the exposed skin eagerly. He pulls
back from Steve’s lips, still holding his jumper up and attaches his lips to
one of Steve’s nipples after kissing and nipping his way down Steve’s throat.
Steve lets out a strangled whine, throwing his head back as his hips drive up
ardently into Billy, once, twice. As he rolls the pink little bud between his
teeth his hand moves further, fingers curling around the waistband of Steve’s
jeans and dipping beneath them just enough to graze the softer skin there.
Steve’s breath hitches and he seems to gather himself, sitting up against the
arm of the sofa but not forgetting to drag Billy with him who’s still hovering
with his knees either side of Steve’s legs. He looks utterly fucked, hair a
mess and lips bitten from muffling his sounds. He hurriedly pulls his jumper
back down.
“We can’t,” He tries, chest heaving and Billy just has to smirk in response,
attaching his mouth back to Steve’s neck.
“Sure we can,” Billy chuckles, his hand reaching to cup Steve’s jaw once again,
keeping him there beneath him as their legs begin to tangle together as Steve
shifts, his muffled groans escaping against Billy’s mouth.
A shock of red hair eventually catches his attention in his peripheral and it’s
like being drenched with cold water. He jerks himself away from Harrington,
ridiculously thankful for the fact that she hadn’t been a minute later and
nearly spills the scotch down his and Harrington’s fronts. He jumps up, leaving
Harrington looking entirely too bewildered and downright debauched with his
hair mussed and lips red and swollen where he’s slumped into the sofa, knocking
his shin into the edge of the coffee table with a wince. The mortification is
enough for him to calm himself down almost immediately and within seconds he
feels a hell of a lot more sober. His heart’s still racing though, maybe faster
now.
Max doesn’t say anything, her eyes wider than he’s seen them in a long time and
lips parted in what Billy thinks is probably disbelief. He barely believes it
himself. She looks as though she’s trying to say something, or had only come to
tell them something in the first place but she just lets out a little
scandalised noise that has Billy striding past her and out the front door.
In the car, Billy’s hands are white-knuckled on the wheel, shaking a little but
that isn’t really noticeable he’s grateful to find as he stares at them,
waiting for Max to hurry the fuck up and get in already before hastily pulling
out of Harrington’s drive. There are no other cars on the road that he passes.
Max is silent beside him, clearly thoughtful. He doesn’t think about
Harrington, left on the sofa with blossoming little bruises on his neck that
Billy had put there.
He pulls up on the curb two streets away from their house. “I don’t know what
you think you saw, Maxine, but-” He stops as she levels him with a glare.
“I know what I saw, Billy.” She practically spits, her voice laced with venom.
“Don’t talk to me as if I’m eight again.”
His mouth snaps shut and he doesn’t know what else to do other than hit his
head on the steering wheel, gritting his teeth and trying not to yell when he
grinds out, “You can’t tell anyone.” He hates that he sounds as if he’s
pleading with her, because he isn’t.
She holds her hard stare for a minute, arms crossed over her chest before she
asks, “Do you love Steve?”
The question catches him so off guard that he chokes a little on his next
breath, pulling a muscle in his neck when he whips around to face her too fast.
“What?”
She’s unfazed. “Do you love Steve?” He gapes at her a little incredulously,
eyes narrowed. “You were... kissing him,” She falters. “And stuff.” Mumbling,
her cheeks turn red and she shrugs a little too stiffly. Billy would bark out a
relatively hysterical laugh if he knew it wouldn’t be stifled with the
mortification.
“You can’t tell my dad.” He rasps, trying not to think too hard about that.
He’s grateful that she doesn’t say that doesn’t answer the question like he’s
thinking. She just continues staring, something calculating in her gaze. She
gives a minute nod though after a few seconds and turns back to glaring out the
window like it’d done her wrong.
When he climbs into bed later on he abandons his jeans, tossing them in the
corner, but he leaves his shirt on, which has absolutely nothing to do with the
fact that it still smells like Harrington’s there beside him, that it lets
Billy pretend that the cold he can feel where his leg hangs out of the covers
is Harrington’s skin pressed against his. He turns his face into the pillow,
desperate to smother... whatever this is. It doesn’t change the fact he can
still feel that lingering warmth deep in his chest.
 
~
 
Harrington calls him at something-past eleven and Billy has to scramble out of
bed to silence the phone before the second ring, holding it against his chest
for a minute, listening to Harrington’s voice from the other end of the line
before he holds it up to his ear, less convinced his dad is actually gonna
murder him for taking phone calls this time of night when he has to head to
work at six.
“What the Hell do you want, Harrington?” He whispers furiously.
There’s silence for a moment before Harrington actually responds, a little
tentative. “I don’t know.”
“What the fuck are you calling me for then?” He runs his hand through his hair
with a sigh. “Is it...” He doesn’t know how to ask, has the stupid feeling that
Harrington’s going to ask what the Hell he’s talking about like none of it ever
happened and he was just hit a little too hard that night.
“You remember how I said there were more?” He grunts in confirmation. “Well,
just be careful. Okay?” Billy knows that the rest of them can’t be far, given
that the one that attacked him had only been a fifteen minute walk from his
house.
“You think I’m an idiot, Harrington? I’m not gonna go walkabout now that I know
what’s out there. Some of us don’t actually have a death wish, you know?”
“You sure Max hasn’t snuck out or something?” Harrington sounds a little
concerned. Billy guessed that was probably one of the main responsibilities of
being the babysitter to his little flock of dorks. “El was worried about
something.” He explains after a moment.
Billy blanches, pinching the bridge of his nose with a defeated sigh. “Hang
on.”
He sets the phone down on his bed, stepping over the cord before making his way
to Max’s room. He doesn’t bother knocking on the door, half-expecting her to
launch one of the ends of her broken skateboard at him for it but she’s out
cold, hair a wild mess fanning out around her head, an arm and leg hanging out
of the bed and her mouth open a little. He’d take a picture if he had a camera.
He commits it to memory instead with a little smirk.
He’s trailing back to his room from the kitchen, back to tell Harrington that
he could look out for his own goddamn step-sister with a glass of water in hand
when he nearly runs into his dad. He stops dead in his tracks and almost drops
the glass.
“Dad.” He falters, scrambling to think of what his father’s expecting.
He’s met with a cold stare. “Where did you disappear to last night? You weren’t
there when Susan checked. She was worried.”
“I- I...” He can’t say that he doesn’t know, and he knows that it’d effectively
be suicide if he said I went out. He doesn’t finish his sentence, looking at
the floor and concentrating too hard on the cold tiles underneath his feet.
His dad takes the water from his hand and sets it gently on the kitchen
counter, the ring on his finger tapping lightly against the glass. Billy
doesn’t move from where he’s stood, rooted to the floor, almost out of the
kitchen.
 
~
 
Harrington opens the door and his eyes, exhausted and narrowed, widen almost
comically. “Billy?”
He knows how he looks. There’s blood on the collar of his shirt, the one he’d
haphazardly thrown on before stumbling to his car, and he can feel where it’s
dried on his face, congealed on his lip in an uncomfortable clump. He opens his
mouth and he feels when the blood starts to trickle again. He sighs when he’s
practically yanked inside by the shirt.
Harrington seems more of a mess than he does, and that’s saying something.
Billy watches him pace the floor of the kitchen from where he’s sat on the
counter holding the frozen peas that’d been shoved at him to his cheek. He can
imagine the blooming blue bruise and tries to ignore the ache in his side. He
focuses on Harrington instead. He doesn’t notice Billy’s eyes on him as he
tears through cabinets, searching. His eyes linger on Harrington’s neck, the
blossoming red mark that’d been sucked into his skin only hours earlier.
“What happened?” Harrington pulls out a first aid box and rifles through it.
“El called me before ‘cause she thought something was up. She didn’t know if
they’d moved ‘cause she couldn’t get a good look at whatever-”
“Harrington.” Billy grinds out, cheek pressed into the slowly warming bag of
peas.
“She knew it was near you and Max, though. She called ‘cause she wanted to make
sure-”
He moves to stand between Billy’s legs, pulling the bag aside and pressing his
hand gently to the bruise. For once, he feels warm. “Harrington.” Billy snaps,
though quietly. “It wasn’t those dog-things.”
“Then who-” He starts as he grabs for one of the alcohol wipes, dabbing at
Billy’s split lip.
“Does it fucking matter?” He hisses and regrets it almost immediately; the way
Harrington makes to step back before he steels himself makes Billy feel like an
asshole. He pauses, hesitant, but ultimately mutters, “My dad.”
Harrington’s eyes harden and Billy marvels at the flush that creeps up his
neck, highlighting the bruise Billy’d bitten there before. “Asshole.” For a
minute, Billy thinks Harrington is speaking to him but he recognises the
contained rage in his expression, one he’s worn himself.
“Yeah,” He fingers the counter absently, not sure what else he could do other
than agree. Because, yeah, his dad is an asshole, but also because Billy thinks
that he could never argue with Harrington when he’s like this, all suppressed
outrage – for Billy. He can’t imagine ever becoming tired of that. The want
flares in his chest again, and along with it, the ache in his ribs.
Harrington must notice his wince because the next minute he’s pulling Billy’s
shirt aside, undoing the last few buttons. “Surprised I even need to fucking
undo them.” He hears him mutter under his breath and Billy smiles, looking down
at him as he abandons the buttons in the end, just rucking it up instead when
his fingers keep slipping.
“If you wanted me out of my shirt, Harrington, all you had to do was ask.” He
smirks to hide the smile, coquettish.
“Shut up.” Harrington rolls his eyes but hisses through his teeth in sympathy
when he sees the skin there, an amalgamation of vibrant blue and deep red.
Billy sees the colours burst behind his eyelids when Harrington gently touches
him with the backs of his fingers, closing his eyes tightly and gritting his
teeth. Harrington looks a little lost when he opens his eyes again.
“I don’t think anything’s broken.” His voice falls flat even though he tries to
smile up at Billy, settling his hand on his thigh as the other reaches for
painkillers.
“I’ll be fine.” Billy assures him even though Harrington doesn’t seem to be
comforted by it. “I’ve had worse.” He tries instead but that really only makes
it worse.
Harrington looks pained and that was the opposite of what Billy was going for.
“Jesus, Billy.” He rolls his eyes at him, dismissing the concern.
Billy wants to kiss him again, wants to kiss that goddamned look off of his
face. He’d been thinking about it before the son of a bitch had called, staring
at the ceiling and imagining how he could get Harrington on board to do it
again. Even if it would’ve had to involve alcohol, a near-death experience and
goddamn monsters in order to do it. It was worth it. Billy realises, the
thought delayed somewhat, that he could kiss Harrington. His face was close
enough for Billy to just be able to do it. He might be a little bit high on
adrenaline and pain and how Harrington’s hands are flitting under his shirt but
he was sure that he could. Harrington hadn’t stopped him the first time, hadn’t
pushed him off and called him a faggot – had instead pulled him closer and
kissed Billy back.
He fists his hand in Harrington’s shirt and tugs him forward on impulse.
Harrington’s forced to lift his head or end up crushed against Billy’s chest.
He makes a surprised noise, muffled against Billy’s mouth, his hand hovering
over Billy’s shoulder as if he isn’t sure where to put it. His legs wrap a
little around Harrington’s waist, pulling him against the counter where he
leans up to meet Billy’s mouth with his own as his hands cup Steve’s face,
silently begging him to stay right where he is.
And all of a sudden, it isn’t just about wanting to touch him – Billy wants to
get rid of that goddamn warmth in his chest. It’s building with every minute,
slow and unbearable.
They break apart, breathing heavy, staring at one another for a minute. Steve
eventually tosses him a blanket, looking very much like a deer in headlights.
“Stay the night.” And something in Billy can’t refuse him that. It scares him
how much he really doesn’t want to.
So Billy had ended up lying on the sofa and listening to the Harrington’s house
breathe, fingering his mother’s necklace absently as he whispered under his
breath, voice low and muted. He thought of his mother sometimes. He didn’t like
to, because he knew no amount of remembering could make her appear in front of
him or expel the feeling in his throat that had first been there when he was
six, standing under his father’s arm as a priest had read her last rites. He
couldn’t remember anything other than her pale skin, eyes dim when she had
kissed his forehead. It felt wrong to remember her like that. He felt guilty
for not being able to remember her before. Her hands had been cold when she had
held his, telling him that he would be okay, telling him there was a place
called Heaven. Billy didn’t consider himself religious. Not because he didn’t
believe, but because he had been done with whatever higher power there might’ve
been since he was eight, knowing then how his mother must’ve felt lying in that
hospital bed two years earlier, refusing to forgive his father for the first
time.
Billy pulls the blanket up to bury his face in it and he revels in how it
smells like Steve. He’s thinking of how he’s gonna tell Harrington he needed a
new sofa, something more comfortable, when a yell shattered the silence. He
tore the blanket off and practically leapt from the room, taking the stairs two
at a time. Harrington had sounded scared. Crashing into his bedroom probably
wasn’t the smartest plan but he had been too preoccupied with the thought of
what could make Harrington yell like that. The thought was followed by the
immediate image of Harrington struggling, stuck underneath the bulk of a demo-
dog. Still a stupid fucking name for a thing that tried to eat my fucking face
a couple days ago–
Harrington is sat upright in bed, blankets pooled at his waist and revealing
how his shirt’s stuck to him, skin sweat-slick and clearly hot. Despite the way
Harrington seems to be burning up inside and out, he’s shivering, arms jolting
every few seconds under the strain of trying to keep still. His eyes are wide,
drawn to the corner of the room where the shadows seemed to convalesce,
swelling in the darkness. Billy reached for the light switch.
Harrington jerks hard, head snapping toward Billy as if now only noticing he
was there. His gaze claws back to the corner every few seconds as his chest
heaves, wrenching breaths that sound painful. His hands are fisted in the
blankets and Billy notices the way his legs draw up under the covers.
There was nothing in the room. Harrington had had a nightmare, and by looks of
it, was still caught up in the thick of it. Billy stepped forward carefully,
raising his hands and stepping lightly. Harrington stared at him, looking
shocked. Billy was a little shocked himself, at his own gentleness. When he
reached out slowly to- Billy doesn’t know what. He’s never comforted someone
after a nightmare before. When he reaches forward though, Harrington flinches
and he pulls his hand back as if burnt.
“Harrington,” Billy falters, unsure of what exactly he should do.
“I’m fine.” His voice is wrecked, thick with sleep and terror that’s still
clear in his eyes. “Sorry I woke you.” Harrington won’t make eye contact with
him, ducking his head and Billy just wants to make it better but doesn’t know
how.
He stands there for what must be a long few minutes until Steve isn’t gasping
anymore, isn’t glancing wildly around the room. In the end, Billy just leaves
when Harrington lies back down, turning so that Billy can’t see his face
anymore. After trailing back downstairs to his sofa, trying really fucking hard
not to feel defeated, Billy finds himself listening out. He could swear he
could hear Harrington breathe if he listened for it long enough.
Billy is half-awake, drifting, when Steve sneaks into the room. He has a thick
blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders and sends Billy a glance, a stiff
something-like-a-shrug of his shoulders as he settles on the floor in front of
the sofa, leaning against it. Another ten minutes pass before Billy is tired
enough to think fuck it and curls a loose fist in the back of Harrington’s
shirt without opening his eyes, dragging him up onto the sofa and reluctantly
offering up his warmth to combat Harrington’s shivers.
Harrington’s hair is soft where it brushes against his throat, forehead cold in
contrast to the skin of Billy’s bare chest, but Billy finds with surprise that
he doesn’t mind, hand splayed across Harrington’s back.
“Isn’t this gay?” Harrington mumbles, voice muffled against Billy’s skin and
low with sleep.
Billy stifles a snort, smirking into Steve’s hair. “Shut up and go to sleep,
Harrington.”
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