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The Harrington house burns down when Steve is twelve.
It's the one that's actually outside of town, with the big yard for a dog he was promised and never got. There are shady trees everywhere, because that's what his mother wanted - the big, beautiful oaks and cedars, the white pines that line the long, winding driveway. She's told Steve before that she planned to do all the gardening herself, picked out the asters and the tulips as well as the first round of petunias and zinnias. Now she pays a gardener to make that dream come true for her.
There's an old pine tree near the house that was stuck by lightning a while ago. The wood is dry and bare now - it died slowly, over the course of a year or so. The gardener recommends to Steve's mother that they pay to have it removed before it falls, or even just have it chopped down for firewood so they can enjoy that fireplace in the living room in the winter. Someone comes and tears the tree down, chops it into smaller pieces, and Steve has them put it in a stack against the house.
It's the first summer that Steve is alone. His parents have hired a nanny to keep an eye on him, some college student home for summer break, while they're having a "working vacation" on the beach. She's supposed to be helping him with the work he has from summer school so they can't hold him back another year, she's supposed to be making sure he sticks to his bedtime, supposed to be making him meals that aren't just junk food. She's good for the first week, maybe, and then his parents are gone and she stops caring. He hears her call it a "cushy job babysitting some rich brat" over the phone while she's racking up long-distance charges, after he's been given a lunch of a bologna sandwich and an entire bag of Doritos.
He doesn't like bologna.
He doesn't like her.
The summer is a particularly dry one. Heat catches and lingers in the air. It's not hard to try and convince his nanny that Steve wants to try camping outside. She likes the idea of having the big house to herself, maybe, to spend even longer on the phone or watching television. It isn't even hard to ask her if she can help him make a fire to roast marshmallows and hotdogs on. She knows how, gives him a little lecture on fire safety before she goes inside.
Steve knows all about fire safety. He's dumb, but he's not an idiot.
The campfire burns bright as the light fades. His little tent is cozy, and would probably be pretty comfortable if he were actually going to sleep in it. Her entire fire safety lecture missed one key factor, which is to make sure that the fire isn't started with anything flammable around it in the first place.
The wood from the dead tree burns quick and sudden. She left her Coke outside when she went back in for the marshmallows, and Steve's been tall enough to reach his mother's medicine cabinet for a couple of years now. So she doesn't wake up on the couch, he knows when he starts his leisurely walk in the woods. The nearest neighbor is half a mile away, and it takes him a little bit to get there, to put on the appropriately terrified expression and cry his way through them calling the volunteer fire department that services the county.
There's nothing that can be saved from the fire, really. Went up like it was made of cardboard. An accident, the fire department decides, a result of the abnormally dry summer and the inattention of the nanny, her failure to make sure that the campfire she built was safe enough. It's a miracle that Steve was outside camping, instead of sleeping in his bedroom.
He doesn't remember her name now, but he remembers the taste of the marshmallows. Blackened and charred, gooey and sweet on the inside, the smell of smoke around him and the near-blinding light as the house went up in flames.
Summer, Steve learns, is the best time to start fires. It helps that he's basically unsupervised after the first nanny dies. His parents don't exactly want to stick around, but they don't hire anyone else to watch him now. He spends the next seven years functionally alone in the new house in town. There are no shady trees or beautiful flowers, but there is a pool in the back that Steve can laze around by.
People chalk his failures in school up to the trauma of that house fire. It's convenient, how he doesn't really have to try anymore. Steve skates through life and enjoys being top of the food chain, likes having Tommy at his beck and call and Carol eyeing him when Tommy's not looking. He likes sleeping his way through half the school, with the trail of broken hearts behind him. The girls take advantage of his wallet and call him a "gentleman," and the boys keep him like a dirty little secret and avoid talking about him at all unless someone finds out that they were curious.
Nancy Wheeler comes along around the same time that Steve starts thinking about a long-term plan. He can't fuck his way through his dad's company, after all, and his grades are dismal so college really isn't an option. She's sweet, and he actually likes her. Thinks that maybe he can settle down, that maybe Nancy and the small fires out in the woods can be enough. He ends up babysitting a group of kids, and finds he even likes that too, like he's righting past wrongs by making them eat real food and keeping them all out of trouble.
So it hurts, actually hurts, when he finds out about Nancy and Jonathan. Makes him angry. A small fire in the woods doesn't help take the edge off this time, and Steve plans while he watches the kindling burn. He doesn't want to kill Nancy - or, well, he doesn't now, so maybe that little fire did help more than he thought. He could settle for killing Jonathan, can see the Byers' house going up in flames in his mind's eye, but one of Steve's kids lives there too. He likes Joyce well enough. Burning down the Wheeler house isn't an option because of another of Steve's kids.
The thing is, he doesn't want to kill Nancy, but he does want her to hurt. There's just a fine line between making her hurt and exposing himself, and killing Jonathan might be too suspicious.
But there are other people that Nancy cares about.
Hopper comes to talk to him after Barb goes missing. Steve feigns concern, says all the right things. No one suspects the lovable, dumb image he's perfected over the years. No one saw him ask Barb to take a ride with him, and no one saw him drive out to the old Harrington house while she was passed out in his passenger seat from the Valium-laced lemonade he offered her.
If they saw him come back into town, then Steve was just driving to clear his head. No one sees him, though, so they don't see that he's wearing different clothes, don't know that he smells a little like woodsmoke and a lot like dirt. Burning clothes is easy, he's learned over the years. Burning a body is a little more difficult, so he ends up burying what's left under one of the dead flowerbeds.
Billy Hargrove comes to town in October. It's a turning point for Steve, to say the very least.
At first, Steve's annoyed by Billy. After the fight though, Steve gets it - sees an obsession in Billy that he recognizes. A kindred spirit, violence that can complement his. He's had to adjust his long-term plans, what's one more change?
He's still wearing the bruises when he leans against the Camaro one day after school while Billy's in detention. The cigarette is a comfort more than anything, just a spark and red, red cherry that he can watch even if he only takes a drag every now and again. People see him there, waiting, and he gets more than a few curious looks, knows that they're whispering and making bets as to whether there's going to be a another fight.
Hell, there might be a fight. Steve's not sure. "Predictable" is a word that he doesn't think he can apply to Billy Hargrove, and that's... exciting. If there is, Steve will lose, hands down. Billy is wild in a way that Steve isn't, unpredictable like a tornado. You can watch a tornado, though, get an idea of where they're going to touch down, which way they'll turn, what kind of weather creates them. Guidance. Hints and signals. Maybe this is a twister that Steve can point in a direction just to watch the destruction follow in its wake.
He's just got a feeling. A sense of connection. And it'll either end with him on the ground, bleeding from the nose, or them somewhere else. Ideally, they'll drive out to the burned-out shell of the old Harrington house. Steve's not too picky about that part, where the night ends. He's flexible like that.
The parking lot empties out slowly until there's just a couple of cars left. Steve's BMW is one of them, he's leaning against the Camaro. There's a teacher's car, he thinks, and maybe another student's - whoever it was that Billy had the altercation with earlier. He waits for an hour or so, until his watch ticks over to just after 4:30 and a third cigarette is burning in his hand. He doesn't turn around when he hears the crunch of Billy's boots on the gravel, just drops his smoke and smothers it out under his shoe.
"Comin' back for more, Harrington?" Billy says, leans up against the door next to Steve with his hands in the pockets of his jacket.
Steve shakes another cigarette out, holds it out to Billy and scans the parking lot. "I guess that depends on you."
This is awfully public for him, is the thing. Even with just two other cars in this parking lot, all it takes is one offhand comment to put him in the right place at the right time, instead of whatever story he's thought up. His body count may not be all that high, but he's learned a few things over the years from the little fires he's set around town. Can't get caught if no one knows you were ever there.
There's a moment where Steve's not sure. Then, Billy takes the smoke and lights it. The car moves just a little bit when he leans back against it once more. "What is this?" he asks after Steve watches him take the first drag out of the corner of his eye. "You looking for a truce or something?"
"Or something." Steve shifts. Turns his face to look at Billy, really look at him, and gets his eyes caught on the cigarette in Billy's mouth. He thinks his face actually heats up when his eyes finally snap up to Billy's after he watches that cocky, open-mouthed grin take shape. "You feel it, too. Right?"
"Fucking masochist." Billy says it under his breath, like he's fond, amused. Endeared by Steve. "I mean, I've heard locker room talk about your pretty mouth, but I ain't heard that you like foreplay that rough."
Oh. Well, that's disappointing. Maybe this isn't what Steve thought it was. He wouldn't mind to fuck around with Billy, but that's... run of the mill. Something he can get anywhere. He pushes off the Camaro and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Throws a "My bad, Hargrove, I misunderstood" over his shoulder as he starts the walk back across the parking lot to his Beamer.
"Wait."
Steve's never been one to do what anyone tells him, but Billy's got this tone when he says it. Insidious and coaxing. So he stops, turns to face the Camaro again, pretends he's not drinking the sight of Billy in. There's something about his posture that Steve recognizes, a shift in his demeanor that makes his eyes a little sharper, even if he's still giving that crooked, dirty grin.
"Who was your first, Harrington?" he asks, gaze intense where it's locked on Steve's.
Steve rolls his eyes. He's done with the foreplay for now, thanks. It's good to know he's got another way to scratch the itch, but he doesn't need to find a sexual outlet in Hawkins, he's good on that front. "I didn't come to trade conquest stories with you. I'm sure you can get your kicks from-"
"No, pretty boy," Billy breaks in. He takes slow, slow steps, brings the cigarette up to his mouth again. "Who was your first?"
Oh.
Steve can't stop the grin. "I don't even remember her name," he admits. "But I was twelve. Burned the whole fucking house down around her." It's a bold feeling, to actually say it out loud. He licks his lip, chasing the phantom feeling of a sticky, sweet marshmallow. "What about yours?"
"It was messy." Billy's still coming closer. Prowling, almost, like he's a predator waiting to strike and rip out Steve's jugular.
They're too out in the open for Billy to step so far into his space, but that's exciting. Not to just be a dirty little secret under the bleachers or in the locker room after practice. To be able to have this kind of conversation and not worry about landing himself on death row. His heart's pounding, arousal already sitting heavy in his stomach.
"He screamed," Billy adds. "Just a kid in my class who made fun of me one too many times. I think his name was Josh? Jake? Whatever. Doesn't matter." He stops, just inside Steve's space, close enough that Steve could reach out and pull him closer. "You should show me. Where you work."
The split that Billy gave him only a few days ago stings when Steve's tongue licks at his lip reflexively. This is where he wanted this to go, right? It's just surprisingly hard letting someone know him.
But he's the one who set this in motion, so there's really only one answer he can give. "Your car or mine?"
It's not exactly surprising that Billy's got a higher number than Steve does. Steve gets his thrill from the fire more than anything else. Every time he's killed has been a calculated move, not an urge, not like it is for Billy. He itches for the smell of smoke and accelerate, for the deep breaths he can take while he's looking at the blaze. He likes the killing too, honestly, the little hit of power he's gotten from it. It's just not a need.
Yet.
Steve's count is two, total. Billy's up to four, all of them left on the California coastline. "I could afford to be a little reckless out there," Billy says over greasy diner food at the 24-hour place.
It's going on two in the morning, and Steve's still a little fucked out still. His knees hurt from the blackened wood of the old house. He knows his hair's a little wild, but he can't bring himself to care when there's no one here but the tired waitress that doesn't give a shit about them beyond refills. He yawns, shoves another fry in his mouth before he says, "Yeah, when people go missing in Hawkins, it gets attention."
"Especially when you're flashy about it." He means the fire, of course. Which, yeah. Billy's got a point. "Lots of hitchhikers in Cali, you know? Think the only one that actually got any attention was what's-his-face."
"Jake? Josh?"
Billy shrugs, takes a bite of his burger. "Whatever."
Fuck, he's sleepy. Steve's got stamina, but Billy's got more. "The first one was officially an accident," he says with another yawn. "Second's still technically missing, I think."
"I wear you out, pretty boy?" Billy leans back, hooded eyes and a pleased grin. "Need me to put you to bed?"
"It's not like my parents are ever home." Steve's got stamina, but he's about out of it. All the same, he likes the idea of Billy fucking him while he's sleepy-pliant, wrung-out and vulnerable. "And I'm not getting up for school tomorrow, so you could."
There's a pop when Billy rolls his head on his neck, one arm slung across the back of the booth on his side of the table. He gives Steve a look, heated and heavy, and then he twists to call to their waitress. Interrupts her magazine reading at the counter to say, "Hey, can we get some to-go boxes?"
She's friendly when she comes over, is pretty even though she looks tired and is wearing the stupid uniform. She drops the check onto the table, puts the pair of to-go boxes down with a smile, and tells them to have a good night.
There's no reason for it.
But Steve can see the way that Billy's eyes linger on her, the way they go sharp like jewels instead of warm and inviting. Something deep inside him responds to that look on Billy's face, to the gears he can see turning in Billy's head. A need to please, maybe, which is unexpected. Maybe that will be his downfall in the end, more than his urges to start fires - he wants to make Billy happy, wants to be good for Billy in a way that he's never really considered with anyone else.
It feels out of control. He thought he'd be directing the storm, but he thinks he might get swept up in it instead.
Steve's into it. He can adjust. He's flexible like that.
He waits until they're back in the car before he brings it up, rests his head back against the seat and looks at Billy. "We could fuck again," he says, watches the way Billy's eyes go dark at the thought. Then he adds, "Or."
It takes Billy a second to catch on. Steve likes the slow grin that's gone feral and bloodthirsty around the edges. "It would make our first date memorable. I have my shit in the trunk."
There's no separate kill count for either of them, anymore. Steve and Billy work in tandem, bending around each other and filling in the cracks. Soulmates, if Steve thinks about it too much, if he feels romantic. Cut from the same terrible cloth. Billy is the gasoline to Steve's fire, he thinks, when he's feeling poetic.
By the time they leave Hawkins, there's a trail of missing persons cases behind them. Barb, of course. The waitress from their first date. Neil Hargrove supposedly skipped town after Hopper got called for a domestic dispute. Steve's parents will probably never come back from that beach vacation, or so the local gossip says. A couple of other people that don't matter in the long run - notches in the bedpost, just a number.
"You know," Billy says when they blow past that city limit sign for the final time. They're coming up on the long driveway to the old, burned-out house, but they'll pass that one too. Steve doesn't need to linger anymore. "Plenty of people go missing all over the country, every day."
Steve's got the cash he pulled from his bank account after "his father" wired him the last payment before he vanished. If anyone comes looking for him or Steve's mother, they won't find anything but a house that's long been empty.
"A road trip sounds nice," he says, settling back into his seat to enjoy the drive.