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Max turned seventeen three weeks ago. It’s hard to keep track of the days sometimes but Billy’s pretty sure he’s right. It’s hard to wrap his brain around Max being seventeen. When he pictures her in his head she’s still a bratty twelve-year-old with skinned knees who doesn’t know when to shut her mouth.
He tells Hop. Tells him about the birthdays he was there for, wonders about the ones he wasn’t. Cries a little too. Funny how easy it is to do that now. It used to be an ordeal, would burn and claw at him until he broke. He’s too exhausted for that nowadays, lets his tears fall unfettered and ignores the shame that still sneaks up on him when he does.
They have to be quiet, always afraid of being caught again. Billy’s constantly looking over his shoulder, jumping at shadows. It’s stupid to risk it, for something so trivial, but he can’t stop the words from spilling out.
“You miss her.” It’s not a question. Hop doesn’t ask that kind of shit, he just knows. Which is why Billy doesn’t respond. Doesn’t have to.
He pats Billy’s shoulder awkwardly. It’s the clumsy kind of affection a father is supposed to offer and it sets Billy off again, tears dripping down his nose and cutting streaks through the dirt smeared on his cheeks.
They’re holed up in an abandoned warehouse this time. Waiting. Always waiting. The plan is to stow away in the next cargo hold with enough space but in the meantime they’re fugitives, laying low wherever they can find empty, forgotten places.
Hop tells him about El while they wait. Billy’s heard most of his stories by now, but he listens anyway. Listens to the wobble in his voice as he talks about teaching El to read, hears the question under it all, about whether he’ll ever see her again.
Billy wishes he had an answer.
The first time Billy set foot in Hawkins, Indiana, he was seventeen, angry and wanting nothing more than to be anywhere else.
It’s three days after his twenty-second birthday the second time. An icy December evening, dark and windy. He’s exhausted. He hasn’t eaten in two days. He’s a patchwork tapestry of scars that weren’t there before, a battered effigy of the person he used to be, cobbled together with scraps of what he could salvage.
Hawkins is the same unremarkable, rinky-dink town it always was. Seeing it again is a relief and a punch in the gut all at once. It’s all he’s wanted for three years, but it’s terrifying.
They end up in Loch Nora, of all places. The Byers’ old house was empty, and going too far into town is risky.
It doesn’t feel real. Standing on Steve Harrington’s front porch, suddenly all too aware of the layer of sweat and grime on his skin. This place is too clean, too quiet. Peaceful, in a way that can’t be true.
Billy chews on his thumbnail, stands behind Hopper while he bangs on the door. There are no cars in the driveway, which means at the very least Steve’s parents won’t answer the door. But there’s no guarantee that Steve even lives here anymore.
He’s getting antsy, glancing around, heart pounding.
Then the door swings open.
Billy is seventeen, half-drunk and stinking like beer, colder than he’ll let on because fucking Indiana and its shitty weather, wiping the drool from his chin when he spots him across a room, already half in love by the time he’s clambered over a couch to get a closer look.
He blinks. He’s twenty-two, pale and shivering, thumbnail still between his teeth, and Steve Harrington’s doe eyes still make him weak in the knees.
Steve’s hair is longer, brushing his shoulders, but other than that he doesn’t look any different. Except that he isn’t looking at Billy with thinly veiled contempt or anger.
“Hey, kid.” Hopper says. “Gonna let us inside, or what?”
Steve is silent. Staring, lips parted. One hand still on the doorknob, the other slack at his side. He sways dangerously, and Billy tenses, prepared to catch him if he falls over. He doesn’t, but Billy’s still itching to touch him.
“Am I dreaming?” Steve blurts, looking dazed, unable to decide who to look at and ending up unfocused and hazy.
Yeah, it’s me, don’t cream your pants. The memory feels like someone else’s. A lifetime ago.
Billy bites down on his lip, battling an inexplicable, and slightly hysterical, urge to laugh.
“Dream about me often, Harrington?” Billy says, because apparently it takes more than nearly dying and spending three years as a fugitive to get over his inability to keep his mouth shut around pretty boys (or one in particular). Though now his voice comes out soft, quiet, betraying genuine sentiment. He’s not sure if that’s better or worse than the armor of taunts he used to cover that shit up with.
Probably worse.
Steve’s looking at him. Only him. Billy had almost forgotten how addictive that is. He watches Steve’s mouth open and close, tracks the way one corner curls up a little when he lets out a little disbelieving huff that isn’t quite a laugh. “More than you’d think,” he murmurs.
And Billy’s brain shuts off. There are a thousand questions stuck up there, but he can’t get a single one of them out because he’s too busy trying to get past, more than you’d think, echoing through his head in surround sound.
He’s startled out of his Steve-induced haze by Hopper’s pointed cough.
It seems like he’s not the only one, because Steve visibly flinches, “Right, shit,” he stammers, “Get—uh, get inside.” He ushers them in, glancing around, checking the street behind them.
The Harrington residence is one of those big fancy houses with more rooms than anyone could possibly need, but that means multiple bathrooms so Steve (as politely as possible) tells them they can both shower whenever they feel like it. And he fusses. A lot. All nervous hands clutching his elbows and teeth worrying at the inside of his cheek, eyes darting between Billy and Hopper like he’s sure they’ll vanish any second and never have been there at all.
Billy isn’t sure how to deal with it, so he avoids his eyes. Then misses looking at him.
An hour later they’re all in the kitchen. Billy keeps plucking at the sleeve of his borrowed sweatshirt, trying to keep calm. It’s too much, all at once. His skin feels raw, weird and tight. The overhead light is too bright, and the smell of Steve on everything is making him lightheaded. The soft detergent scent from his clothes, the shampoo Billy used when he showered (his hair is a lot longer than it used to be, it took forever to detangle it all).
Steve makes some calls. It’s late, too late to be calling people’s houses but he does it anyway.
Not long after, the front door bursts open.
Max is taller than he remembers. Rougher around the edges. Her hair is a choppy mess, auburn waves sticking out in every direction, curling around her ears, and there’s the sharp glimmer of silver in one lobe. She’s wearing a jean jacket with a torn elbow.
And she’s crying, messy and red-eyed, not bothering to wipe the snot from her nose.
“Where. The fuck. Have you been?” she sobs, shoulders shaking, and she practically trips forward in her hurry to throw her arms around Billy’s neck.
He opens his mouth. Closes it again. Feels unsteady, like he’ll fall to pieces if he moves wrong.
“I’m here now,” is all he can manage. She doesn’t need to hear about military hospitals and Russian prisons, about being kept in a cell, wondering if he’d ever see sunlight again… She doesn’t need that right now. Hell, he’s not ready to talk about it. Might never be.
He hugs her back, torn between wanting to squeeze as hard as he can, make sure she’s real, and being terrified of breaking her.
She still uses that shitty coconut-scented soap, and that’s what shatters him. He’s crying into her shoulder, clutching the back of her jacket. He used to dwarf her, remembers her being tiny and fragile, despite her fierceness, yet now she’s supporting his weight while he buckles.
They’ve never actually hugged before, he realizes, and that realization opens a door he wishes he could’ve left closed a little longer.
Guilt. Like undertow, pulling him back to harsh reality, cold steel gripping his heart, weighing it down. He should’ve been better. Treated her better. And now she’s here, crying like she actually missed him, and he doesn’t deserve it.
He pulls away, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes.
She’s still looking at him, hands on his shoulders, a wobbly smile on her face.
Billy is overwhelmed again. It must show, because suddenly Steve is at Max’s side, eyes gentle and his soft mouth pinched in a frown, “Max. Maybe give him some space.”
She clenches her jaw, probably physically holding back an argument, and nods, stepping back despite the reluctance written all over her face.
“I’m sorry,” Billy says, barely louder than a whisper. Then he can’t stop himself from saying it, again and again, gaze fixed on the floor, tears still dripping down his chin. He has to bite his lip hard enough to draw blood to finally stem the tide of apologies. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to will the world away.
“Billy.” Steve’s voice is soft. He has a nice voice, so Billy focuses on it, through all the angry buzzing in his ears. “Billy, I need you to nod if you’re listening.” He doesn’t want to, he wants to curl up and fucking die, anything but be a person right now because everything hurts and there isn’t enough air in this room and— “Billy?”
He bows his head, twitches, it’s barely a nod but it’s all he’s got.
“Okay, good. Can I touch your hand?”
Billy’s heart stutters, aches. He’s having a hard time concentrating through the burn in the back of his throat, the static drowning out his thoughts. He nods again.
Steve’s fingers are gentle, pulling Billy’s hand from where it had tangled in his hair. He hadn’t noticed the fingernails digging into his scalp until Steve took one of his hands away. It ends up pressed against something warm, soft material under his fingers, moving slow—oh. His hand is on Steve’s chest.
“Can you breathe with me? Concentrate on me, okay?”
He does.
Steve’s cradling his hand. He’s got callouses along the top of his palm, barely there but present. He’s breathing deep, calm and steady. But despite his outward demeanour his heart is racing, Billy can feel it through his shirt. He curls his fingers into the sensation, fingertips digging in as far as he can push them.
Billy almost forgets to breathe he’s so fixated on Steve’s heartbeat.
It does its job either way though, because exhaustion is starting to hit him as the static recedes. He sags, relaxes. Every muscle in his body feels leaden.
He opens his eyes, squints against the sudden light.
He’s almost afraid to look up. Afraid of being judged, of triggering another episode, so fucking terrified, all the time—
“Billy?”
His fingers twitch reflexively, tightening his grip on Steve’s polo.
“You good?” His voice is still so soft, and so close it hurts.
It takes several long moments for Billy to collect himself. Then he looks up.
Max is hovering, standing behind Steve with wide eyes, her worry palpable. Hopper looks grim, but then again, he kind of always does. He’s a respectable distance away, watching. And Steve… Steve is right there still, holding Billy’s hand and looking at him like he cares, doe eyes shining, fixed on Billy’s face.
“I’m okay,” Billy says, voice rough. He sounds like hell, but they all visibly relax anyway.
The room is silent for too long after that. It feels tense in a distant way, like it would be awkward if Billy had the energy to care, was awake enough to feel anything but vaguely fuzzy. He’s still got a handful of shirt and doesn’t plan on letting go any time soon. Steve’s the only thing keeping him upright, and he hasn’t let go either.
“Did… did I do something wrong?” Max asks, her voice is small and tremulous and cuts right through Billy.
“No!” he’s quick to cut in, “No. Max. It’s…” Billy trembles, stutters to a stop. He has no idea how to explain, even to himself, let alone Max. Steve squeezes his hand. His stomach flips. “It’s not your fault.”
She doesn’t look like she believes him, but she doesn’t argue. He wishes he could make it better, but he’s got no idea how.
“We should all get some sleep,” Steve says.
And that’s that. His tone brooks no argument, even in a room full of stubborn assholes. Apparently, the past few years have given Steve time to hone his babysitting skills. Or maybe they’re all just as exhausted as Billy is.
There’s some squabbling about sleeping arrangements though.
Everyone insists Hopper take the master bedroom, Steve says his parents won’t know or care, his old friends did worse than sleep in that bed. They all poke at him until he relents and trudges off, bidding them a quiet goodnight.
Then Billy says he’ll take the couch and both Steve and Max yell at him.
Billy rolls his eyes. “It’s fine, guys,” he mutters. He’s not about to make Max sleep on the weird little couch (he’s done enough to her already) and putting Steve out in his own house would be shitty. “It’s not like I haven’t slept on worse.” He winces as he says it, realizing as the words come out of his mouth that it’s probably the wrong thing to say. It was meant as a reassurance, that he would in fact be fine with the couch, because at least it’s clean and warm, but all it does is make Max look sad and put a little wrinkle between Steve’s eyebrows.
“I’ve slept on this couch before,” Max says, a stubborn tilt to her jaw, “I’ll take it.”
Steve scoffs at that, “You complain every time you have to sleep on that couch, Max. Take the guest bed. Billy can take mine.” His fingers tense when he says it, and Billy realizes they’re still holding hands. His hand slipped from Steve’s shirt while they were bullying Hopper into taking the master suite, but Steve has yet to let go.
And… suddenly he wants nothing more than to sleep in Steve’s bed. But. “Only if you come with me,” he blurts.
Which is really not how he should have said that, but it’s out there now.
“Oh my god,” he hears Max mutter.
His whole head feels like it’s on fire. “Shit. I—I mean—”
“Okay,” Steve says hurriedly, then clears his throat, “Yeah. That. That works. Uh. Okay.” He’s glancing at Max awkwardly, nervous, but she just rolls her eyes. Billy barely notices her do it, too busy looking at Steve, his heart hammering.
“Steve, it’s okay. I’m—” It’s her turn to look uncertain, but it’s only for a second. “Me and El are dating. We’ve been trying to figure out how to tell everyone, and—yeah. Anyway. I’m not going to judge you, or whatever.”
Well, that was not at all what Billy was expecting. He takes a moment to worry about both of them, be terrified of what would happen to them if someone found out. Then he remembers that El can kill people with her brain and Max once threatened to castrate him with a spiked bat. The knot of anxiety doesn’t dissipate but he’s freaking out less.
“How long has that been going on?” Steve asks, sounding more bemused than anything.
Max turns pink, and it’s kind of fascinating to watch. She’s flustered. That’s adorable. “Since, um. Since April.”
“Happy for you, kid,” Billy says. And he means it. He barely knows El, in theory, but really. The kid’s been in his head. He could recite every story Hopper’s told him about her from memory. He died protecting her.
He knows her well enough to know she’s good for Max, and he loves Max enough to want her to have good things.
She grins, bright and real. Billy’s fairly certain he’s never seen her that happy before, and his heart clenches.
“I’m not sure who I’m supposed to give the shovel talk to here,” Steve says, mostly to himself.
Billy snickers, and tugs on Steve’s hand, “Like you could take either of them.”
Steve steps closer, looking faux-offended, “I’ll have you know I won a fight once.”
“Yeah, three years ago. You’re a has-been, Harrington,” Max chimes in.
“Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
“I’m seventeen, dingus.”
“You’ve been spending too much time with Robin.”
He missed them so much. Missed something he, if he’s being honest with himself, never really had in the first place. They both hated his guts before, and he… he was a mess. Still is. Just a different kind now. But being here, being part of this, is something he always on some level wanted and…
“Oh my god, Billy, are you okay?” Max asks, concern bleeding into her voice.
He’s crying again, smiles through the tears. “Yeah. Yeah I am.”