Chapter Text
August
The junction between Billy’s shoulder and neck hurt like hell. Eddie had nearly taken a chunk out of him as they came on each other's stomachs earlier. He had wet a washcloth and was attempting to clean off the semen from his happy trail with the hand not pressing down on his neck.
“Fuck…”
He traced his fingertips over the already darkening wound. Eddie’s bathroom in the trailer was cramped, Billy had to blade his body through the broken door to get in. He hissed when he put a little too much pressure on and turned back towards the bedroom, where Eddie was leaned against the door naked with an unlit cigarette between his fingers. He was waiting for Billy to come light it. He lost every lighter he ever had.
“Munson you are such a fucking bitch. You think fuckers at school won’t notice this?”
Eddie’s nasally voice bit back, “Just say it was one of your ladies, Hargrove! Anyways, are you thinking MTV or Disney?”
“I’m not watching fucking Cinderella with your dumbass.”
“Nah,” Eddie pushed off the wall and grabbed the remote from the coffee table. He flipped through static and game shows until the little Disney logo flickered into life. “it’s The Fox and The Hound. Shit always makes me cry.”
“That’s because you’re a little bitch,” Billy said automatically.
He turned back to the mirror, thumb pressing into the bruise blooming at the base of his neck. The skin there was hot and tender, shaped almost perfectly to Munson’s goddamn jaw.
He pictured his third period gym class, some mouth-breathing jock, Tommy Hagan probably, leaning over in the locker room. “Yo, Hargrove, your girl go vampire on you or what?” He pictured himself putting their face into the bathroom tile. He’d get off on it too, material to jack off to when he wasn’t with Eddie or Harrington’s yearbook photo was across the room and he couldn't be bothered getting out of bed.
“Seriously,” he called, “this is fucked. People are gonna see.”
Eddie didn’t look particularly sorry. He sprawled across the couch, one hand behind his head. Still naked but pulled a throw blanket over his lap at least.
“Again,” Eddie said, “just tell ’em it was one of your cheerleaders. You’ve got, what, a rotation?”
Billy snorted. “Cheerleaders don’t bite that hard.”
That got Eddie’s attention. His grin sharpened.
“Oh?” he said. “So you liked it, big man?”
Billy shot him a look in the mirror. “I liked coming,” he said. “I didn’t like you trying to chew your way to my spinal cord.”
He rinsed the washcloth out, wrung it, and tossed it into the tiny sink. The bathroom felt about four degrees hotter than the rest of the trailer, sweat prickled at the small of his back. But it smelled like Eddie’s soap. He didn’t bother with aftershave unless his uncle let him borrow it and used the same shit across his whole body and face. Billy at least had the decency to pick up a bottle of Neutrogena. Eddie couldn’t stop laughing for hours after he brought it over the first time.
“C’mere,” Eddie said.
Billy arched his brow. “To get my throat finished off? Pass.”
“Not that.” Eddie wagged the cigarette. “Be a gentleman and light my smoke. Ever since you know…the incident…Wayne says I can’t be trusted with fire. And anyways, musician’s hands should be protected”
“Your musician’s hands just left marks like a fucking bear trap,” Billy muttered, but he edged sideways out of the bathroom all the same, shoulders brushing the doorframe.
The “living room” was barely bigger than the bedroom. Eddie had his feet up on the coffee table, hair a rat's nest, chest still rising a little fast. There were faint crescent marks on his ribs where Billy’s fingers had dug in.
Billy leaned over him, one knee sinking into the couch, one hand braced on the wall to keep from falling on him. He pulled his Zippo from his sweatpants, clicked his lighter and cupped it around the end of the cigarette, the flare of orange briefly painting Eddie’s face in light. Damn he’s hot.
Eddie sucked in, eyes half-lidded, watching Billy’s mouth around the lighter.
“Thanks, sugarplum,” he said around the filter.
Billy snapped the lighter shut and dropped it onto the table.
“Call me that again, and I’ll bite you next time,” he said, but his voice had lost most of its sting.
On the flickering screen, a red fox pup tumbled through grass, yipping. The hound pup barreled after him, ears too big for his head. The music was all strings and wholesome bullshit. Billy thought Eddie could probably do better on his bass. Probably.
“You are not making me watch this,” Billy said, settling in pressed against Eddie.
“Buddy, it’s too late,” Eddie said. “You’re in the den now. No escape, only feelings. Oooooo spooky.”
“I don’t have feelings,” Billy said.
Eddie took a drag and blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Yeah,” he said. “You keep telling yourself that when the fox has to go live in the woods and the dog has to chase him. I’ll pretend I don’t see you wiping your eyes.”
“Shut up,” Billy muttered.
He laid back, more because there was nowhere else to go than because he wanted to, and let his head slowly turn to rest on Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie shifted without being asked, tucking himself in along Billy’s side, ankle hooking over Billy’s shin. Cigarette hand careful, the other traced idle circles around the bruise on Billy’s neck like he’d just remembered it was there.
They watched in silence for a few minutes.
Onscreen, the fox and the hound swore they’d be friends forever. You’re my best friend, Todd.
“Stupid,” Billy said under his breath. “They’re gonna grow up and the whole thing’s gonna go to shit.”
“That’s the point, man,” Eddie said softly. “That’s why it wrecks me. Nature sucks. Society sucks. You can’t keep nice things.”
“Spoken like a guy who’s never had a nice thing,” Billy said. Stealing the cigarette and taking a drag before passing it back.
“Bold of you to assume I don’t consider you my nice thing,” Eddie said, grinning sideways.
Billy elbowed him. Lightly. “I’m your worst thing.”
Eddie hummed. “My favorite worst thing, then.”
He settled his cheek on Billy’s head, and let his hand rest right near the bite, like he was staking a claim. Billy breathed in smoke and shampoo and whatever cheap detergent Wayne used.
A thought rose up from nowhere and sat in Billy’s throat.
“You ever think,” he said, slowly, cautiously, “what this would look like if there was… someone else here?”
Eddie’s fingers paused on his skin. “Define someone,” he said.
Billy rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “You know who.”
Eddie went quiet. On the TV, the fox chased a butterfly, oblivious.
“Say his name, coward,” Eddie said eventually.
Billy’s jaw flexed. He didn’t say it.
Eddie huffed. “Fine. I’ll do the hard work around here, as usual.” He tipped his head back dislodging Billy and forcing him to look him in the eye. “You mean Steve.”
The name sat between them. Hotter than the summer air.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
Eddie sighed, softer now. “Yeah,” he said. “I think about it.”
Billy’s throat felt tight. “What do you think about?” Most emotions always twisted and turned in his chest into a mean, violent anger. This particular topic though with this particular person he had dug a small part of him that could be something other than himself every once in a while.
Eddie huffed out a breath, smoke curling out of his nose. “Startin’ with the easy questions, huh, Hargrove?”
Billy didn’t say anything. The TV crackled. The fox and the hound chased each other in endless circles, promising things they couldn’t keep.
“Fine,” Eddie said, tapping his chin like they hadn’t been over this hundreds of times. “I think about… stupid shit first. Movies.” His mouth twitched. “You, me, Harrington. Three idiots in that Starcourt movie theater, watching some crappy horror. You two fighting over the popcorn while I cop a feel of both of you.”
Billy pictured it before he could stop himself. Steve’s long legs pulled into criss-cross, laughing at something dumb they always had in those slashers. The way he always tilted his head when he was really listening. The way every room bent a little toward him.
His chest hurt.
“That’s not stupid,” Billy muttered, mostly into Eddie’s chest.
“Oh, it gets stupider,” Eddie promised emphatically, nodding. “Us dragging him to the quarry with a cooler, making him actually relax instead of hovering around those kids. Road trips. Joyrides. You showing off in that stupid Camaro while I heckle your taste in music and Stevie holds on for dear life. You’d like that?”
He let his eyes fall half-shut. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I would.”
Eddie kept talking, voice softening at the edges, the same fantasies he’s narrated a hundred times before.
“Taking him out to that shitty diner off the highway. The one with the three sided booths.” he said. “You on one side of the booth, me on the other, Steve in the middle trying to stop us from starting a fight. Making him blush so hard the waitress thinks he’s gonna pass out.”
Billy could see it. Steve’s knee knocking him under the table, that startled little laugh he made when someone flirted with him on purpose. The heat in his neck climbed up behind his ears.
“That’s the romantic comedy bullshit,” Eddie said, waving the cigarette. Ash trembled onto the carpet; he aimed vaguely for the tray and missed. “If you want the other stuff…”
Billy’s hand tightened on his knee. “I want it.”
Eddie’s eyes flicked over, sharp and pleased. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
He took a drag, held it, then let it out slow.
“I think about him between us,” Eddie said. “On that big stupid bed of his. You on one side, me on the other. Him all pink and flushed. Ours.”
Billy’s pulse stuttered. His voice came out rough. “You on his mouth or his ass?”
Eddie’s head snapped toward him, grin vicious and delighted. “Oh, we’re skipping straight to the good part, huh?”
Billy rolled his eyes, but he could feel his face heating. “Answer the question.”
“Both,” Eddie said, without hesitation. “Every permutation, baby. But if I gotta pick?” He dragged his tongue over his teeth thoughtfully. “I wanna see him ride your thigh first. Wanna see his face when you put your hands on his hips and actually hold him. Then I wanna get him on his hands and knees and—”
“Fuck,”
His brain jumped tracks without asking him first. His mouth followed.
“I’d love to be in his mouth and see you in his ass,” he said, low. “Watch him take you. Watch him look up at me while he’s choking on my cock and know he’s feelin’ both of us.”
Eddie stared at him, cigarette dangling forgotten between his fingers. His grin went slow and wicked. He slid his hand from Billy’s neck down to his chest, tracing the line of his collarbone, digging his fingers into Billy's wiry hair. Eddie’s hand slid lower, resting on Billy’s stomach just above the waistband of his sweats
Billy’s breath hitched. “We take him apart,” he said. “Slow.”
“Slow,” Eddie echoed. His fingers drifted just under the fabric. “You go first. He’d trust you to hold him down, I think. You’ve already broken him, might as well put him back together.”
Billy made a low sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Shut up,” he said, but he didn’t pull away.
“And I’ll talk to him.” Eddie’s grip firmed, nails gentle against his skin. “Tell him he’s pretty. Tell him he’s good. Tell him we’re not going anywhere. Then we switch. You hold him. I fuck him. We both watch him realize he gets to keep us.”
“You talk too much,” Billy muttered.
“You like it,” Eddie said, and then he leaned in and kissed him, cigarette crushed out half-successfully in the ashtray as his hand slid further under Billy’s waistband, wrapping around his cock. “Fuck…” it was more of a groan than a word from Billy as he ducked his head back into Eddie’s chest, taking his nipple in his mouth and biting down.
“Shit man! That fucking hurts!” But Billy could feel him getting hard under the blanket. He slid his own hand under the blanket too.
They worked each other back up as easily as breathing. It wasn’t the frantic slam of earlier where Eddie had pinned Billy against the wall and Billy nearly threw him across the room. This was slower and lazier, full of low promises and half-whispered what-ifs about Harrington’s mouth, Harrington’s hands, Harrington’s stupid gorgeous eyes going glassy between them.
Billy would have been embarrassed of how quickly he came if it wasn’t with Eddie, and it wasn’t like Eddie was that far behind. All that cleaning in the bathroom and the ruined washcloth for fuck all he supposed.
After he laid there, chest heaving, Eddie practically melted over him like a second skin. The Fox and the Hound credits rolled past in a wash of names no one cared about.
“I gotta go,” Billy said into Eddie’s chest.
“No you don’t,” Eddie said, voice muffled against his hair. “Stay. Wayne won’t be home ’til morning. We can put on something actually good.”
“Neil will lose his shit if he notices I’m not there when he wakes up. He’s awake at the crack of fucking dawn,” Billy said. The thought of his father snapped reality back into place like a rubber band. “I’m not giving him an excuse.”
Eddie groaned theatrically and tightened his arms for a second before letting go. “Fine. Go be a good little soldier.”
Billy shoved at him half-heartedly until he could sit up. Every muscle protested. His neck ached. His thighs ached. He felt loose and wrung out and more awake than he wanted to be. He found his shirt on the floor, tugged it over his head, then readjusted his sweatpants as Eddie whistled. He watched him from the couch, blanket back up around his waist, hair in a halo.
“You know this isn’t going away, right?” Eddie said. “The Harrington thing.”
Billy paused with one boot half on. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
Eddie’s smile turned small and surprisingly earnest. “Good,” he said. “Be a shame if I was the only one crazy enough to want him that bad.”
Billy rolled his eyes, finished lacing his boot, and leaned down to steal one last kiss, quick and hard.
“I’ll see you at school,” he said.
“Don’t hide your neck,” Eddie called as he headed for the door. “I wanna see how my work’s healing.”
“Fuck you, Munson,” Billy said without heat, stepping out into the thick August night.
“Already did!” floated after him before the door shut.
The air outside felt cooler, but only just. He shoved his hands into his pockets and headed for the Camaro. He left the Munson trailer feeling how he did after every Sunday evening, pulse a little too fast, the name Steve Harrington pounding in his head.
—-------------------------------------------------------
Eddie swung the van into the Hawkins High lot on autopilot, the shocks whining, sending a stab through his ear. It reminded him why he had wanted to skip today. It wasn’t like he’d slept much.
His lower back ached, his thighs ached more, and there was a faint tension in his jaw from when he’d been grinning like an idiot into Billy Hargrove’s shoulder while a cartoon fox and dog chased each other. And the bite. Every time he blinked, he could see the outline of his teeth in Billy’s neck. His bite, his mark. It flashed in his mind right next to Steve Harrington’s stupid perfect face. He did not want to examine any of that too closely before homeroom, those fantasies were usually reserved for after the sun went down and his heart was softened by sex. So he cranked the volume instead.
Master of Puppets screamed through the speakers as Eddie threw his head back. “Obey your master!” he yelled along with Hetfield, smacking the wheel in time with the drums as he coasted into a spot near the back of the lot. The last note rattled through the van’s loose panels as he killed the engine.
Silence dropped in its wake, just the tick of cooling metal and the distant roar of other cars pulling in. He sat there for half a second, hands on the wheel, letting the good mood buzz under his skin next to the soreness. He slung his backpack over one shoulder, kicked the door open with a squeal of metal, and stepped out into the too-bright morning.
And there he was.
The morning sun made a halo through his golden hair. Billy Hargrove leaned back against his Camaro like he was shooting a goddamn magazine spread, one boot hooked over the bumper, cigarette hanging lazy from his fingers. Hagan, Perkins, and a few other jocks Eddie couldn’t name in a lineup were clustered around him, metaphorically licking his face like dogs.
“Hargrove, you’re king!” one of them crowed, slapping his shoulder.
“How many girls are on the roster now?” another said. “You gotta share, man.”
“Damn, Hargrove, your girl got carried away,” Hagan snickered, pointing at the dark bruise at the junction of Billy’s neck and shoulder. Eddie had to bite down on his tongue to keep from laughing out loud. Yeah, man. She really did. He hiked his backpack higher on his shoulder and cut across the edge of their little kingdom, aiming for the front doors trying to avoid being sucked into the gravity of the Camaro.
“Fuck you want, freak?” Hagan barked as soon as he noticed him, peeling away from the group to step right into Eddie’s path. Eddie stopped, rocked back on his heels, and gave him his best lazy grin.
“Relax, Hagan,” he drawled. “If I wanted something from you, you’d know. I’d bring a trash picker.”
Billy moved without thinking. Just a half-step, but Eddie saw it. His weight shifting forward, body angling just a little between Eddie and Hagan on instinct. He had dropped the cigarette. One of the other jocks snagged Hagan’s jacket sleeve.
“Nah, man,” he muttered. “Careful. heard Munson stabbed a guy last year behind the gym.”
That stupid rumor had been floating around forever, born from a broken bottle and a lot of yelling. Eddie watched it do its work. Hagan’s mouth snapped shut. He threw Eddie one last confused glare, then backed right off, circling behind Billy like a good little minion falling in line.
“Yeah. Didn’t stick deep enough, though,” Eddie said mildly, shouldering past. “Was only in the hospital for a week.”
As he went by, he risked a glance back. Billy’s eyes flicked to his, just for a second. There was a quick, crooked twist at the corner of his mouth. Gone in an instant, small enough the others could miss it. Eddie caught it anyway. A look he knew from last night, half fond, half horny.
He just flipped his hair, gave an exaggerated little bow like he was taking a stage, and sauntered through the doors.
—-------------------------------------------------------
Eddie had the Hellfire table eating out of his hand.
“—and then the paladin,” he said, standing on the chair so he could loom properly, the teachers had long since stopped trying to get him to sit down “decides he’s gonna seduce the dragon. No plan, no spell slots, just raw, uncut stupidity. And terrible luck with his rolls”
Gareth was doubled over his tray. Jeff had tears in his eyes. Lucas was half-covering his face, the way he did whenever secondhand embarrassment got too bad, and Mike was bright red from a spirited argument.
“It wasn’t stupid,” Mike insisted. “I was being bold!”
“Bold would be preparing a spell before you try to fuck something with that many hit points.” Eddie said, jabbing his fork at him with a tatertot skewered off the end. “Bold would be having a backup plan that isn’t ‘hope the DM pities me.’”
Dustin banged his juice box on the table. “You did pity him! You didn’t even roll the—”
“That’s because your buddy the dragon-fucker rolled a NAT ONE on seduction, Henderson,” Eddie said. “I was too busy laughing to pick the dice up off the floor.”
They howled. This was his kingdom. Sticky table, shitty food, bunch of loud, mouth-breathers who thought he hung the moon. No jocks, no preps, just his little army of freaks. Until Dustin opened his mouth for some hero worship as per usual.
“We should get Steve to play,” Dustin said suddenly, grinning. “He’d totally be a fighter. Or a paladin. He’s got the heart for it!”
Eddie joined Jeff and Gareth in audibly groaning and loudly vetoing.
Speak of the Devil, or an angel in this case, and he shall appear.
You can always tell when Steve Harrington entered the lunch room from the hush that fell over everyone. Even after, especially after, he dropped the King Steve act, his followers only grew.
Steve was threading his way through the tables, tray balanced on one hand, laughing at something one of the basketball idiots said as they peeled off toward their usual spot. He stopped every other step. A quick word with JV baseball here. Compliments to the theater kids there because of course he went to the school plays. At the band table, Buckley got up to follow in his wake. He was magnetic that way. He was in that stupid polo he wore when he was trying to look like a Serious Student, books tucked under the arm not balancing a tray. His hair looked effortlessly effortful. And if Eddie got closer he’s certain he’d smell Ralph Lauren Polo. He wore the same cologne everyday. Eddie had spent an entire afternoon at Starcourt trying to figure out exactly what it was. Unless he was at a party then he switched it to Drakkar Noir.
Billy did the same but he practically used half the bottle. Eddie was starting to think mall security was catching on with how many bottles he’d stuffed in his jacket for Billy.
Harrrington settled into the Harrington Table with Buckley. Once people noticed he sat down, seats were swarmed and more were pulled up. From across the room Steve must have felt Eddie’s stare on him because he let his eyes glide over the other tables and land on the Hellfire group. Eddie dropped his eyes back to his plate too fast. Something in Eddie’s chest did a weird little lurch. It yanked up a memory he’d been trying real hard not to look at directly.
Early junior year for Stevie, same cafeteria, different Harrington, or same Harrington depending on how you looked at it. Steve hadn’t been King of anything at that point. No Nancy on his arm, no Hagan shadowing him, just him and his stupid tray and a few JV jocks trailing like ducklings. He looked smaller. Shoulders tucked in, dark smudges under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in weeks. He hadn’t even been doing anything, just walking past Hellfire’s table on his way to sit with the freshmen freak brigade.
Eddie had stuck a boot out anyway.
The tray had gone sideways, fries skidding, milk sloshing over the edge. Steve caught it before it all went down, of course he did, but it jolted him hard enough his hip slammed into the table. Eddie was on his feet before Steve could straighten, hand flat on his chest, pinning him back into the edge.
“Careful there, your highness,” he’d drawled, loud enough for the whole cafeteria to hear. “Looks like you lost your throne. Must suck, slumming it with the losers now. No queen, no crown.”
Steve hadn’t shoved him off. That was the worst part. He’d just gone very still for a second, eyes flicking down to Eddie’s hand like he was cataloguing the pressure, the contact. Then he’d looked up, tired more than angry, and if Eddie was honest with himself, a little scared.
“You done, Munson?” he’d said quietly. “’Cause the JV striker is gonna wear his lunch if you don’t let me move.”
Eddie had let him go with some half-assed laugh, made a show of bowing, like it was all a bit. Steve had stepped around him, checked the baby jock was okay, and sat with the kids like nothing had happened.
Now, across the cafeteria, Harrington was just staring at them again, Dustin with his fork in the air, Eddie with milk still burning in his throat. Eddie forced himself to look away first, back down at his tray, shame crawling hot under his collar.
“Don’t,” he said automatically, sensing Dustin’s bad idea. “I know that sound. That’s a dumb idea sound. No dumb ideas at my table unless they involve fucking with preps or homebrew monsters.”
Dustin ignored him. “Steve!” he yelled, voice cutting clean across the cafeteria chatter. The whole place went deadly silent. Eddie choked on his milk. Jeff actually flinched. Gareth put his head in his hands.
“Oh my God,” Eddie hissed. “Indoor voice, Henderson!”
But it was too late. Half the room had turned. Harrington did too, pivoting in his chair at the Harrington Table, brows lifting and a smile splitting his face when he saw the source.
Dustin, of course, beaming like he’d just rolled a NAT 20.
“STEVE!” he repeated, as if the first shout hadn’t done it. He waved both arms over his head now, fork still in one hand. Mashed potato flicked onto the table. “DO YOU WANNA PLAY D&D WITH US NEXT WEEK? I CAN HELP YOU MAKE A BUILD!”
The silence that dropped over the room was nauseating. Somewhere a fork clinked against a plate. Someone snorted, trying not to laugh.
Eddie wanted the linoleum to open up and swallow him whole.
Gareth and Jeff both said, in perfect horrified harmony, “Nope.”
Lucas’s eyes were huge. Mike looked like he wanted to die.
Across the room, Steve just stared for a second, processing. His gaze flicked from Dustin to Eddie and back, like he was trying to triangulate what the hell was happening. To Eddie’s mounting horror, Steve actually got up.
He said something to Buckley. She made a face that Eddie couldn’t read from here but definitely recognized as “I will be demanding a full debrief later”, and then he picked up his tray and started walking. Not back to the jocks. Not to safety. To them.
“No, no, no,” Eddie muttered. “Absolutely not. Henderson, I swear to Satan, if you’ve just—”
Too late. Steve slid in at the end of their table like it was the most normal thing in the world, tray clattering down between Mike and an empty chair. The air pressure seemed to change. Conversations at the nearby tables stuttered and bent around them. Gareth and Jeff nearly hissed.
“Hey, guys,” Steve said, easy as breathing. He ruffled Dustin’s hair on the way down. “What’s this I hear about me joining your cult?” The smile came as easy as all his others.
“It’s not a cult, it’s a campaign,” Dustin said, practically vibrating. “We’re starting a new module and we need another party member. I can help you make a build, I already have, like, three ideas—”
“No!” Jeff and Gareth snapped at the same time.
“Henderson…” Eddie warned, sharper than he meant to.
Steve looked at him then. Up close, his eyes were lighter up close, the brown becoming almost greenish under the fluorescent light. Eddie felt his stomach do that annoying swoop it did whenever Harrington got too close. He was right about the cologne too. Ralph Lauren Polo. He caught the edge of it on the other side of the table.
“I, uh,” Steve said, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t know the rules? Like, at all.” He laughed a little, self-conscious, gesturing helplessly toward Mike. “I don’t even know what a, uh, build really is?”
Dustin opened his mouth, ready to launch into a thirty-minute explanation. Eddie got there first.
“Yeah, we kinda figured, princess,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair. “Dungeons & Dragons is more ‘satanic panic’ than you’re used to.’ Might cramp your style hanging out with the freaks, so maybe scream before I have to chase you off.”
The kids all shot him looks. Dustin’s face went stormy. Mike frowned. Lucas kicked him under the table.
Steve’s smile flickered, just a hair. He covered it fast, like he always did.
“Yeah, well,” he said, and his voice didn’t quite match his grin. “You know me. Wouldn’t wanna drag your reputation down, Munson.”
“Impossible,” Eddie said. “My rep is already somewhere south of hell”
Dustin tried one more time, stubborn. “We could teach you,” he said. “We don’t mind.”
“We do.” Jeff cut in.
Steve looked at him, and the fondness in his face made Eddie want to punch a wall. “Maybe some other time, okay?” he said gently. “I’ve got a lot of… stuff… right now.”
“Yeah,” Eddie cut in, too loud. “Harrington’s got better things to do than crawl around in imaginary caves with us. Don’t you have a basketball trophy to polish or something?”
For a heartbeat, Steve just looked at him. There was something in his eyes Eddie couldn’t name, and then it was gone.
“Guess so,” Steve said lightly. He bumped Dustin’s shoulder. “Rain check, Henderson.”
Then he was gone, back to his own table, the crowd swallowing him up again like he’d never left.
It took another ten minutes for the cafeteria to slow back down to the lazy energy crawl it had before. Even Eddie had settled, leaning back his chair on the back two legs, nearly colliding with the gaggle of cheerleaders passing through. He mostly ignored them until he heard one of his two favorite names.
“Harrington’s throwing one Friday.”
The name snapped Eddie’s attention up like someone had yanked his leash. He had the same reaction last week when he heard Mrs. Jameson shout “Hargrove” across the hall. A knot of cheerleaders had clustered just behind him, trays in hand, half blocking the aisle. They weren’t talking to him, nobody like that ever talked to him outside of Hellfire, but their voices carried just fine. One was scrapping her tray off, the other following after.
“His parents are gone, it's an open invite like last time,” the leader said, popping her tray under her arm. “You have to come, it was insane.”
“Insane as in fun, or insane as in Hagan puked in the ficus again?” the follower asked.
“ Both,” the first girl said, laughing. “Hargrove almost threw him in the pool. Carol had to pull him off. Apparently ‘open invite’ now means everyone BUT Hagan.”
Billy, Eddie thought, automatically. Of course Billy went to Harrington’s parties. Of course he did. Billy loved parties. Not for the reason most people did, but he got off on the dominance, the posturing, as close as you can get to an animal without being arrested.
So…
Of course Harrington. Empty castle, big party. King of the open invite.
This is exactly the kind of scenario we talk about him in, you and Billy in the Camaro, him in the middle, that big stupid house full of light.
Is Billy going this time? If Billy went last time, he’d go this time. Parties were bloodsport to him
“Wait, wait, back up,” Dustin said, twisting in his seat so hard his fork nearly flew out of his hand. “Steve’s throwing a party?” The cheerleaders shared a look before walking off.
Eddie smirked. “Congratulations, Henderson, you’ve cracked the code,” he said. “That’s what ‘Harrington’s throwing one Friday’ usually means.”
“We have to go,” Dustin barreled on, ignoring him. “It’s Steve’s house! He’s a great cook! And baker! He’ll probably make stuff for it.”
Lucas frowned. “Do you think he even wants us at those parties? I feel like those are for older kids”
“It’s open invite,” Mike said, not sounding convinced. “We count. I think.”
“Sure,” Eddie said. “Open invite. ‘Come one, come all, watch the golden boy bask under his chandelier while the entire basketball team fights over his attention.’”
Eddie stabbed a grayish cube of mystery meat with his fork and spun it. “You know it’s gonna be a zoo, right? Wall-to-wall preps, enough hairspray to suffocate a cow.”
Inside though, his thoughts were clear
Yes. Billy and I are going. Even if I have to sneak in through a goddamn window.
“Can we at least ask?” Lucas said. “If he says no, we won’t go.”
Eddie sighed, theatrically. “Fine. Ask mommy if you’re allowed out past curfew,” he said. “Just don’t come crying to me when you realize how lame beer pong actually is.”
Dustin, undeterred, was already plotting. “I’ll ask him after school,” he said. “He likes us. He’ll say yes.”
Eddie didn’t doubt it. That was the problem.
—-------------------------------------------------------
Whenever Billy parked outside a party, Harrington’s, Carvers, didn’t matter, he liked to sit in the Camaro for a minute and pet her steering wheel like he was soothing a nervous dog.
In through the nose.
Out through the mouth.
It wasn’t fear. Far from it. It was that animal itch under his skin, the one that made him want to bite, scratch, fuck, bark, howl. If he went in riding that wave too hard, he’d end up with blood on his knuckles and somebody’s tooth on the floor, and then Neil would have a shiny new excuse to break his ribs. So. Deep breath. Slow exhale. Hand smoothing over cracked vinyl. Focus.
Through the windshield, Harrington’s place glowed like something out of a goddamn movie. Big technically three-story but looked like two from the front, all its windows warm and bright, every lamp on. Cars jammed up along the curb and halfway down the street, music thudding through the glass. Kids already spilling across the lawn and edging towards the pool, red cups in their hands, laughter too loud and sharp for Billy’s oversensitive ears
One of the sophomores pulled up next to him. Carver and Smith were arguing in the backseat about who could do more push-ups drunk. The sophomore whose name Billy didn’t care to remember leaned over almost through the driver's window, practically vibrating.
“Dude, Harrington’s throwing down tonight,” he said. “Carol said the last one went ’til like three. Keg in the kitchen, pool’s open, his folks are gone ’til Christmas—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Billy said, not taking his eyes off the house. “Try not to jizz yourself before we get through the door, champ.”
They laughed, slapped each other’s shoulders as they crawled out, clearly pregamed, all keyed up about cheap beer and girls in wet T-shirts. He let them think he was here for the same reasons. He gently pressed open his door. He’d been nervous about his girl since Max had started slamming the doors again. He pushed the Camaro door shut, gave her roof one last affectionate pat, and squared his shoulders toward the house.
Billy’d been inside enough times now to know how it felt. The Harrington house was the only place in this town that reminded him of those hotel rooms his mom used to get when she managed to scrape together enough cash, when she smuggled them away from Neil for a night or two. Too many pillows, carpets that swallowed sound, that faint expensive sweetness in the air you couldn’t quite place. The thermostat was just a little too warm. Soft. Tranquilizing. He hated how much he liked it.
On the front step, the door was open just enough to give him a slice of the foyer. Someone passed through the gap, a solo cup in one hand, head tilted back in a laugh. Harrington. Obviously. White polo, collar popped like an asshole, hair big and eyes bright. He was talking to somebody behind him, free hand landing automatically on their shoulder as he steered them toward the living room.
Billy’s chest did that annoying tight twist it had started doing lately whenever Steve or Eddie was in his periphery. It was another thing that reminded him of his mother. The desperate, hungry ache for something he knew he didn’t deserve on Christmas.
“Yo, Hargrove, you coming in?” Carver slapped his back. “Party’s not gonna fuck itself, man.”
Billy ended up by the back sliding doors, staring aimlessly out towards the pool. Steve pushed past him, shoulder clipping Billy’s arm without even looking, towels in both arms. He smelled like that same cologne Billy drowned himself in, cut with chlorine and sweat.
“Hey!” he barked, voice carrying clear over the music as he strode toward the kids. He tossed a towel at Sinclair and another at the Byers kid. “Dustin, get out of the deep end! I cannot pull you out if you start drowning.”
“I can swim!” the kid shouted back, flailing his arms for emphasis. Kid hadn’t even gotten out of his shoes, just jumped in with everything on
“Uh-huh…” Steve planted his hands on his hips. Billy could only see his back from where he was at the door, the broad shoulders and tiny waist in that stupid white polo and his stupid nice ass, but he’d bet good money Harrington had his eyebrows up. “Yeah, and I can do calculus. Doesn’t mean I do it well to do it at a party. Shallow end. Now.” He snapped his fingers towards the shallow end as the kids shuffled over.
The pudgy kid in the pool huffed but started paddling toward the ladder.
Steve bent his head to say something quieter to Max. Billy couldn’t hear it over the music, but he saw the way her shoulders were up around her ears, the way her mouth was pressed into a line. He hated seeing her like that. It wasn't her fault her mom liked being pushed around by his chauvinist father. Whatever Harrington said landed and some of the tension bled out of her. Her arms loosened. She rolled her eyes, but it looked more like she was covering a smile now.
Billy must have chuffed or coughed because Max’s gaze snapped up across the pool and slammed into his. Her face went tight again, shutters slamming back into place. She leaned to her left and muttered something to Sinclair without taking her eyes off Billy, and the kid followed her look, frowning when he saw who she was staring at.
Billy looked away first.
His throat felt too tight. That old, ugly twist hit behind his ribs. It quickly burned into fury. That’s not fucking fair. He took care of her. Drove her fucking everywhere. Took her licks from Neil, and she still looked at him like he was the one she needed saving from. But there was a small part of him, the same goddamn stupid part that went soft when he spooned Eddie in bed or when his shoulder brushed Harrington’s in a crowded hallway, that ached whenever he locked eyes with Max. Sometimes he imagined walking over there. Saying something that wasn’t a snarl. Asking if she was okay. Telling her he was trying not to listen to that nasty Neil-shaped part of himself. That he felt like he was nothing but rage and pain and reactivity all the way through.
He never moved. Because what the hell was he gonna say? Sorry your step-brother’s a monster?
He took another swallow of beer instead, watching Harrington from the shade of the doorway.
Steve checked the Byers kid’s towel, ruffled his hair hard enough to make him squawk, nudged Wheeler’s shoulder so he wouldn’t get stepped on by some drunk senior, leaned down to say something low to Max again. Every gesture was easy. Automatic. All that stupid, endless care he poured into anybody who came within ten feet of him.
Billy knew he was like that with everyone. That was the problem. Even people who didn’t deserve it. Especially people who didn’t deserve it.
It’s what fed that rotten little part of him that thought. Maybe, if he ever got close enough, Harrington could be like that with him too.
On one of his laps between the kitchen and the pool, Harrington cut too close to the doorway. Billy had just stepped back in for another beer when a soft shoulder brushed against his own.
“Sorry, man,” Steve said automatically, still not quite registering who he was. He glanced up, and for the first time that night they were face to face, only a foot apart.
For a second it wasn’t Harrington’s stupid white polo and bright doe eyes in front of him. It was the Byers’ living room. His knuckles singing where they’d met bone. Steve going down hard, head cracking against the floor, hair bouncing. The way his hair had felt when Billy had grabbed a fistful to haul him back up, thick, softer than it had any right to be. The sharp, clean hit of shampoo cutting through dust and sweat and blood. There’d been a second, just one, where that smell and the feel of that hair and the wide, dazed look in Steve’s eyes had almost taken the teeth out of Billy’s rage. Almost. Then Neil’s voice, ugly and furious, roared up in his head. Don’t you fucking hesitate, boy. His fist had come down again.
After, at school, he’d seen the damage. Harrington’s nose taped, bruises blooming purple and yellow along his cheekbone, one eye nearly closed. Billy remembered leaning in a locker doorway, watching him laugh at something the girl Wheeler said, and feeling his hands twitch with the urge to pick another fight just to get that close again. To touch him. To prove he still could. To run his hands through his hair.
Now, in Harrington’s kitchen, all that was gone. No tape, no bruises, nothing left but the faint crinkle at the corners of Steve’s eyes when he smiled past Billy at somebody over his shoulder. Billy’s stomach flipped. His grip tightened on the bottle of beer.
“Seriously, my bad,” Steve added, clearly trying to avoid a beat-down. He shouldered past, back out toward the noise and lights and kids, leaving Billy in the doorway with his heart hammering and his pulse still stuck in that living room.
He might’ve stayed planted in that doorway all night, just watching Harrington orbit the kids, if the shriek hadn’t cut through the music.
“Argh! Leave me the fuck alone, Munson! I don’t even know who let you in.”
One of the junior girls, hair sprayed high enough to brush the ceiling, heels wobbling on the carpet. Billy remembered, vaguely, that she’d blown him in the back of somebody’s, who he coincidentally also couldn’t remember, Oldsmobile last spring. Couldn’t have picked her out of a lineup now. Just another pair of glossy lips. He wondered what Steve would look like in lipgloss, pretty pink lips wrapped around his cock.
He knew that made him an asshole. Didn’t stop it being true.
As Billy turned the corner into the living room there he was.
Munson.
Jean jacket swung over his shoulder, just in a wife beater underneath, tattoos on his arms on full display. He had his hands up like a mime, palms out in surrender, grinning that sharp, shit-stirring grin. The one that followed or preceded his barking laughter.
“Ma’am,” he said, with a quick bow to let her pass. She huffed, arms crossing over her low-cut top as she shoved by him, trying to block off her breasts.
Like Munson gave a shit about women’s tits.
She almost ran straight into Billy. He sidestepped without looking at her. His eyes were already locked on Eddie. Eddie tipped his head, curls wild in the lamplight and tv glow, and covered the side of his mouth facing the room with his right hand. Rings flashing, silver and cheap and his.
Hey baby, he mouthed.
Something in Billy’s chest did that flip. The same one he always did when he noticed Eddie and Harrington were in the same building. His boys. Before he knew he’d moved, he had Eddie on his toes, his fist knotted in the front of that wife beater, dragging him in close.
They gnashed their teeth at each other, foreheads nearly bumping, the space between them hot and static.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Munson,” Billy snarled.
Eddie’s hands came up out of reflex, fists bunching in Billy’s t-shirt. He gave a mean shove back, nearly sending Billy on his ass, dislodging his hold.
“Same thing as you, Hargrove.” His eyes were bright, blown wide. “Hunting.”
Somebody behind them yelled, “Yo, fight!” The words rolled across the room, people twisting in place to get a better angle. A few of the guys Billy liked to keep around already half-chanting his name. “Hargrove, Hargrove.”
“Careful,” Eddie said under his breath, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re gonna mess up Harrington’s grandma rug. Think he’ll spank us?”
“Pretty sure he only spanks good boys,” Billy muttered back. He jumped forward, grabbing Eddie again and hauling him half a step closer. They knocked chests. Eddie let out a low, delighted sound that only Billy heard. A chirp.
“You two gonna take this outside or what?” Carver called, laughing, from the couch. The circle widened a little. People were backing away from the coffee table like they expected blood.
Perfect.
Billy rolled his shoulders like he was getting ready to swing. Instead of throwing a punch, he shoved Eddie sideways. Just enough to send him stumbling in the direction Billy wanted him to go.
“Yeah,” Billy said, raising his voice this time. “C’mon, freak. You wanna dance, we’re not doing it in front of the TV.”
Eddie caught himself on the arm of a chair, hair flying, barked out a wild laugh that might as well have been a growl.
“Ohh, I’m the one who wants to dance? You grabbed me, Hargrove. Buy a guy a drink first.”
Billy jerked his chin toward the hallway. “Move your ass, Munson.”
Eddie flipped him off with both hands, but he did it walking backwards, letting Billy herd him. Eddie would get his get back soon enough. His boots thudded on hardwood, then the sound changed to carpet as they hit the narrower hall by the stairs. Behind them, the music swelled again. Somebody turned away, already losing interest now that it looked like the show was going to relocate. Once they were out of the line of sight of most of the living room, Eddie’s hands came to his jaw, grabbing him tight and forcing eye contact.
“You gonna actually hit me this time,” Eddie asked, voice lower now, “or just push me around until we find somewhere fun to fall down?”
Billy’s mouth twitched. He let Eddie give the first shove this time, up the steps.
“Depends if you keep running your mouth,” he said.
There was a wild, hungry glint in Eddie’s eyes Billy had started to recognize. The same one he saw in the mirror sometimes.
“Let’s go, big bad wolf. Show me where you wanna huff and puff.”
Billy snorted, but his pulse stuttered. Upstairs. Away from the eyes. The music dulled as soon as they hit the narrow hall, bass turning into a thick pulse under the floorboards. The air was hotter here. Somebody yelled his name from the living room, the chant trying to restart, but it sounded far away now. Good. Let them think he’d gone outside to finish it.
Eddie shoved him once back for good measure, shoulder into his ribs. Billy let himself hit the wall harder than he had to, more for the excuse to grab a fistful of Eddie and slam him back. Eddie just laughed, breath hot in his face.
“You’re gonna get us kicked out before we even find a good landing spot,” Eddie said.
“Trust me,” Billy muttered, jerking his chin down the hall. “This is the only room I give a shit about.”
Eddie’s eyes flashed at that. He knew exactly whose door Billy was aiming for. He still gave him another little shove from behind on the stairs, just to hear him growl. Third door on the left. The only room not cracked open or filled with puking or fucking teenagers.
He wrapped his hand around the knob before he could talk himself out of it and twisted.
The light was off, but the hallway glow bled in enough to sketch the shape of it. Harrington’s room. The air in here was cooler, the overhead fan gave a constant purr. It smelled like Steve, laundry soap, and something softer underneath, shampoo, maybe, or just him. Billy always thought he had a natural hint of vanilla. The bed was against the far wall, sheets mostly straight but a little twisted toward one side like somebody had crashed on top of them instead of getting under. Textbooks stacked on the desk, one flipped open with equations crawling over the margins in blue pen. A couple of trophies lined up on a shelf for basketball and swim next to a Walkman and a crooked row of cassette tapes. There was a corkboard over the desk with Polaroids pinned up with Buckley, Wheeler, and that Byers kid on a couch, one with the kid troupe and a half-blurry Steve in the middle, laughing, one old shot of him and Wheeler with their hands barely touching. A Scoops Ahoy hat hung off one corner.
“Holy shit,” Eddie breathed, stepping over the threshold like he was waiting for an alarm to go off. “We are in the lion’s den.”
“He’s not a lion,” Billy muttered, shutting the door with a quiet, definite click. “He’s a serval at best.”
“The fuck is a serval?” Eddie shot him a look over his shoulder, then made a beeline for the bed.
Eddie bounced once on the mattress and let himself fall flat on his back, arms spread. “Good spring,” he said. “Figures. Bet he sleeps like a princess.”
Billy crossed the room in two strides and planted a hand right in the middle of his chest, shoving him down harder into Harrington’s sheets.
“Get your muddy boots off his bed, freak.”
“Oh, now you care about his feelings,” Eddie shot back. He hooked a heel behind Billy’s knee and yanked. Billy went down on top of him, a curse half-formed on his tongue and dying there when their noses bumped. Eddie’s laugh puffed warm against his mouth, a little breathless huff.
“Hi,” he said, stupidly, like they hadn’t just been trying to knock each other’s teeth out.
Billy should’ve shoved off. Instead he dipped that last inch and kissed him.
It was messy at first, all teeth and panting and the taste of beer. Eddie made a noise into his mouth, that little chirp Billy pretended he didn’t like, and grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt to haul him closer. The bed springs complained under them. Harrington’s bed. Harrington’s sheets. Harrington’s goddamn pillow right by Billy’s head, smelling like that cologne and something softer underneath.
“You’d be so good to him. We both would.” Eddie said it right into his mouth. Billy couldn’t muster up a protest. Just a whine and the picture of Stevie looking over his shoulder on his hands and knees with Billy rocking into him from behind.
“Him right here,” Eddie murmured, dragging one hand up to tap the mattress beside his head. “You on one side, me on the other. Those stupid long legs of his kicking when we make him laugh. You holding him down, me telling him he’s perfect. Tell me you don’t want that, big man.”
“Shut up,” Billy said, but it didn’t have any teeth. He ground down, hard enough to knock a moan out of both of them
The bed springs squealed loud enough to make his heart spike. For a second he thought it was just them, then he heard it, footsteps in the hall, the wobble of somebody’s drunk laugh right outside the door. A hand hit the wall, a muttered “wrong room, man,” and then the sound of them staggering past.
Eddie went still under him, both of them holding their breath. Billy could feel Eddie’s pulse jackrabbiting against his chest. His own wasn’t much better. He could see Neil’s fist coming right for him.
“Fun as it’d be getting caught like this,” Eddie murmured finally, voice gone hoarse against Billy’s mouth, “pretty sure Harrington didn’t mean ‘make yourselves at home’ this literally.”
Billy let his forehead drop to Eddie’s for one more second. One more breath of shared air, Harrington’s scent in the sheets under them and Eddie’s sweat in his nose. Then he pushed up, the loss of contact making his skin feel wrong and too exposed.
On the way out, Eddie’s fingers brushed the Scoops hat hanging off the corkboard. He plucked it down, turned it over in his hands, thumb running over the silly little anchor logo. He tossed it once, caught it by the brim.
“Think he’d notice if this went missing?” Eddie mused.
Billy shot him a look. The sour look made Eddie’s grin falter.
“What?” Eddie said. “Just a souvenir.”
“Put it back. He’ll know.” Billy said. It came out hoarser than he meant it to.
Eddie held his eyes for a second, then sighed and hung the hat exactly where it’d been. “You’re no fun,” he said.
“Sure,” Billy muttered.
He cracked the door and listened. Hallway noise, not party noise, bathroom fan whirring, a toilet flush, somebody whispering and giggling behind a half-shut door. The bass from downstairs rumbled up through the floorboards, duller now.
“Coast is clear, big bad wolf,” Eddie murmured at his shoulder. “After you.”
Contrary to popular belief neither of them were idiots. Billy would go down first. Eddie would wait at the top of the stairs after enough time had passed people would forget they were coming from the same direction. Billy stepped, shutting the door. For a second his hand stayed on the knob, thumb rubbing over the cool brass like he could feel where Harrington’s palm had been.
Mine, that ugly part of him thought. Then, worse. Ours.
He dropped his hand like it burned and started down the hall. Eddie fell into step beside him, just close enough their arms brushed every other stride. They hit the top of the stairs and the party roared back to life below them. Music, laughter, somebody yelling about beer pong rules. Billy paused halfway down without really deciding to, one hand wrapping around the banister.
“You’re brooding,” Eddie said.
“Shut up, Munson.”
From here he could see the whole main floor.
Harrington was on the edge of the couch with Buckley, both of them arguing about some movie, talking with their hands. Harrington getting up mid-sentence to knock that one kid’s fingers away from the stereo, then ruffling his hair when he complained. Harrington trading a red cup out of Max’s hand for a can of Coke, eyebrows up in that gentle warning way that somehow worked better than yelling. Harrington laughed at something one of the girls said, throwing his head back, throat bare and shining in the lamplight. He wanted to wrap his hands around that throat.
Eddie bumped his hip with an elbow on the step behind him. “Hey,” he said. “You spacing out on me, or you having another moment about him?”
“Just taking in the view,” Billy said. His voice came out rough.
Eddie followed his gaze and let out a low whistle. “Yeah, hell of a view.”
Harrington tipped his head back and laughed at something Buckley said, eyes crinkling, whole face going bright. Something in Billy’s chest went hot and sharp and awful, like wanting and guilt had gotten tangled up and decided to share a room. If he was this fucked up just from touching Harrington’s sheets, he didn’t want to think about what he’d be like with Harrington’s skin under his hands.
He tore his eyes away first. Always did. He took the last few stairs in two long steps, rolling his shoulders like he could shake the feeling off.