Archive of Our Own

Steve has always been the family failure, the prodigal son who could never live up to the expectations set up for him at birth. His father has always made him very aware of his shortcomings. His lack of academic success has haunted him since third grade when he came home with his first C in mathematics. Division just wasn’t in the cards for Steve.

And a son who couldn’t divide was not in the cards for his dad. It was the start of their never ending antagonism. Robert Harrington would not have a stupid son. But no matter the amount of berating, Steve never did get better at math. Instead, his grades in his other classes started to slip too, until Steve became a solid C student.

Staring down his last high school semester, Steve’s got his prerequisite of Cs and no college acceptance letters on the horizon. He can’t begin to imagine the apocalyptic fit his dad is going to throw when he finds out his only son, his only child, is too dumb to get into college.

Steve would like to be shallow enough to be able to ignore the whole ‘no prospects’ thing and focus solely on his break-up from Nancy, the concussion Billy Hargrove gave him in the Byers’ kitchen, or his miraculous survival against Demodogs. But he can’t. With every rejection letter that he steals from the mailbox before either of his parents can see it, Steve’s heart sinks lower and his frustration rises higher.

He’s really butting up against the very last of his patience when he meets Robin Buckley. She takes the desk behind him in Ms. Norris’s Sociology class. It’s an elective and one Steve is hoping is more about watching videos than it is about reading books. Steve and reading are not on the best of terms.

Ms. Norris ends up rewarding Steve’s faith in her with the class being practically 50/50 videos and books. Steve is even getting cocky enough to think he might be able to pull something unreal like a B- in this class. So when she assigns them a partner project, Steve turns around and asks Robin.

For all that she looks shocked that Steve even knows her name, Steve is pretty sure Robin is aware that she is the only person in class who does the reading assignments and is therefore the only person to answer questions about them. Of course Steve is going to ask her to be partners. He wants that B-, okay?

By March, Steve can’t remember what his life was like before Robin was in it. He eats with her at lunch; he drives her home after band practice; and he crashes at her place on Saturdays when they don’t have anything better to do. She’s his best friend. Not that anyone asked.

So it’s only natural that when Steve opens his eleventh, eleventh, rejection letter that he drives straight to her house. He knocks for way too long, knowing her parents are still at work for another two hours.

She pulls open the door with a grimace. “Steve, the fuck? There is a doorbell right there, dingus.” She jabs the doorbell for emphasis and it chimes brightly in the house.

Steve shoves his rejection letter at her and moves past Robin into the house. He heads straight for her fridge, pulls out a Coke, and cracks it open. He glowers while Robin quickly scans the letter, sucking her bottom lip between her lip as she reads.

When she looks up at him, pity respectfully concealed behind concern, Steve is practically crushing the Coke can. “Okay, well, they say if you can spruce up your entrance essay they’ll reconsider your application. That’s good news, right? You said you liked Shermer University.”

“Robin, my essay is never going to get any better!” Steve says in frustration. “You helped me with that essay. You spent a weekend working on it with me. That is the best essay I have ever written in my entire school life.” He dents the sides of the can between his fingers. “Face it, I’m just too fucking stupid for college.”

“No, hey, no, come on.” Robin throws the rejection letter onto the counter. She cups Steve’s shoulders in her hands and peers up into his face. “You’re not stupid, Steve. You’re actually pretty smart. You’re just not, you know, good at school stuff.” She frowns. “That wasn’t as comforting as I wanted it to be. Let me try again.”

Steve huffs a laugh, dropping his head onto her shoulder. She’s quite a bit shorter than him and it bends his neck at an awkward angle, but it’s worth it for the way Robin wraps her arms around him in a hug. “Why can’t I just do this stuff like everybody else? What does it have to be so fucking hard for me?”

“Because your hair is so fabulous that you had to have other deficiencies so we, mere mortals, wouldn’t end up worshipping you as a god?”

Steve laughs for real this time, leaning away from Robin. “As if you believe any of that.”

“Hey, just because I don’t want to make kissy faces with you doesn’t mean I don’t think that, objectively, you’re good looking.” Robin fluffs his hair with her fingers to make her point.

Steve rolls his eyes, but Robin has successfully brought him out of the depths of despair which is why he came here in the first place. He sighs, resting his elbows on the kitchen counter inches from the rejection letter. “I’m running out of schools to apply to, Robin. We are nearing crisis mode.”

Robin presses her lips together, thinking. She picks up the letter and smoothes it out. “I mean, I think you still have a pretty good shot at this school if we can get your essay up to snuff. And, I told you when you first asked, English is not my forte. I’m more of a science and languages girl. Like if they had asked you for an essay in french, we probably could have gotten you in on the first try.”

And it’s true. Robin had told him English wasn’t her best subject. But she got B pluses in English. That was like a fucking A++ to Steve. Plus, she was in Juniors’ Honors English. How could she be in honors English and not be good at writing essays?

But the problem was, of course, Steve. Robin didn’t write the essay for him and Steve didn’t want her to. She just helped him with what he’d already done. Which was the whole fucking issue. Steve just could not organize an essay to save his life. He couldn’t get what he thought to appear on the paper when he started writing. He couldn’t keep his spelling mistakes from littering the pages. Steve just fucking sucked at school.

“Jesus. My dad is going to have a fucking field day when I tell him that I’m not going to college.” Steve laughs humorously. “You think you’re parents’ll let me live in your guest bedroom?”

“Steve,” Robin pleads. “I’m not giving up and neither are you. They say here that their deadline for applications is in a couple of weeks. We’ll find someone else to help with the essay. Like, didn’t you say Dustin is way smart?”

Steve looks at Robin like she’s lost her mind, because clearly she has. “I am not asking Dustin, a middle schooler, to help me with my college essay. I am not going to do that. I would rather become Hawkins’ High’s janitor than do that.”

“Okay, okay,” Robin says, holding up her hands. “We’ll think of someone else.”

“There is no one else.” Steve grabs his Coke in his right hand and Robin’s hand in his left. “Can’t we just, like, watch some shitty tv or something? I can’t talk about this anymore.”

“Sure,” Robin agrees readily.

But the entire time they watch MTV, Robin is distracted. Her mouth pulled down at the corners, eyes just to the left of the tv screen. Steve knows she’s trying to come up with a solution for his problem and while he seriously loves her for that, this isn’t something they are going to be able to solve.

It’s a fucking shame he couldn’t put Demodog Slayer on his college application. He probably could have gotten a free ride somewhere if he did. Instead, he’s looking at a bleak future of washing floors and getting ‘kick me’ signs tapped to his back. Fuck.

Robin comes sailing into Sociology with the biggest grin on her face. Steve finds this very concerning. Robin doesn’t smile like that unless something really stellar has happened, and since her latest mission has been attempting to woo Tammy Thompson, she of the muppet singing voice, Steve is not prepared to spend his Saturdays hanging out with a she-muppet, no matter that Robin is his best friend.

“You know I think you can do better,” he hisses in a whisper when Robin takes her seat behind him.

“What?” Robin asks, clearly confused.

“Oh, please,” Steve says, giving her the stink eye. “Tammy. I am not hanging out with Tammy. You can’t force me to either. If I wanted to watch the muppets, I’d fucking rent The Muppets Take Manhattan.”

Robin stares at him, her mouth open, then she slaps him soundly upside the head. “No, dingus! Jeez! This is not about Tammy, and like, for your information, I have moved on.” Robin sniffs poshly, like this new crush is some hot number who deserves Steve’s respect.

Steve taps on her desk with his index finger. “Name?”

“This is so not the point right now, Steven.” Robin rolls her eyes. “I actually wanted to tell you that I have a solution to the essay problem.”

It’s Steve’s turn to be shocked. “How?”

“Not how,” Robin says slyly, “who?”

Anxiety stretches it’s way across Steve’s shoulders. Who is not a comforting question. He can handle being known as a slacker jock by the other kids at school. But having someone else know the true extent to which Steve just cannot get his brain to function at school is a whole other thing.

If Robin wasn’t his best friend, he never would have trusted her with helping him with his essay in the first place. And at least she had the grace to be nice about it. Nancy, for all her girl next door charm, had been pretty obvious that she thought Steve was dumb as a rock when it came to school stuff.

Still, he is getting really desperate, and he has no idea how he’s going to live through telling his dad. So Steve asks, “Who?”

Robin flashes him her brilliant smile. “Billy Hargrove.”

Steve doesn’t get the chance to properly tell Robin how out of her fucking mind she is because Ms. Norris chooses that exact moment to start class.

So Steve waits until they are sitting together at the corner lunch table, a plate of fries shared between them. “Billy Hargrove, as in the douchebag with the mullet who literally brained me with a plate and left me with a nifty scar that I am only so lucky my gorgeous hair covers?” Steve tugs back his hair line, revealing a small, snaking, white scar.

Robin pushes up on the table to get a better look. “I mean, I’m not disagreeing with anything you’ve said. But, he’s also the top student in Honors English.”

And this - this does not compute. “What do you mean? Are you telling me Billy Hargrove, the Billy Hargrove, is secretly smart?”

“Uhm, more like wicked smart,” Robin corrects. She sits back down and picks up a fry, crunching on it before pointing the uneaten half at him. “I stayed behind after class and when Mr. Johnson left, I snuck back in and flipped through his grade book.”

“Robin!” Steve says, astonished but also pleased that she would go to those extremes for him.

She shrugs it off. “Whatever. The point is, Billy has gotten an A+ on every single one of his papers. And Mr. Johnson is a harsh grader.”

“Okay,” Steve says, stretching out the word as he thinks this over. “But I don’t see how that matters to me. Because I’m still not going to ask Billy for help. He’d either punch me in the dick or laugh in my face. Or worse, like, spit in my eye and infect me with some kind of douchebag mullet disease.”

“Douchebag mullet disease!” Robin chokes on a fry as she laughs.

Steve shoves his Coke at her and takes a quick look around the cafe. Billy’s at the same table he always is. The one that Steve used to sit at until he started dating Nancy. The one with the other varsity basketball players and the cheerleaders.

As if sensing his gaze, Billy looks up abruptly. Their eyes meet and Billy smirks before flipping Steve off and turning back to his conversation with Tommy. Steve grimaces. Nope. Not happening.

“Well,” he says, pushing back from the table, “as stunning as your solution was, I’m going to have to take a pass. Janitors Incorporated, here I come.” Steve picks up his tray and heads to the trash, dumping it all in while trying not to imagine himself as the pathetic slimy thing at the very bottom of the trash can.

Amazingly, Robin doesn’t give up on her harebrained idea. She shows up to Wednesday’s Sociology class with a comic strip detailing instructions for Steve on how to ask Billy for help. The Steve stickman, with impressively high hair, is walking up to the Billy stickman at his locker. Billy’s stickman has a flowing mullet and even a little dirt stash. Steve’s speech bubble says, “Hey, Billy.”

In the next panel, the Billy stickman is facing Steve’s stickman. Billy’s speech bubble says, “The fuck you want, Harrington?” Which is pretty on point, in Steve’s opinion.

Under this, Steve’s speech bubble says, “I heard you’re looking to score some quick cash to buy new rims for your dumb boy car.”

“Dumb boy car?” Steve asks, looking up at Robin with a grin.

She flips her hair with one hand. “I’m a band geek, not a car geek.”

Steve shakes his head, still smiling, and goes back to reading the comic. The third panel shows the Billy stickman with his arms crossed over his chest and Steve’s stickman holding out a little pile of bills with large dollar signs on them.

Steve’s speech bubble in this panel says, “Help me with my essay this Saturday and I’ll pay you.”

Billy’s speech bubble says, “How much?”

The final panel shows Steve’s stickman hugging a Robin stickwoman and the Billy stickman seeming to count his stack of bills. The Billy stickman’s speech bubble says, “See you Saturday, Harrington.”

A thought bubble above Steve’s head reads, “Robin is the best. I should always trust her. She is never wrong.”

Steve lifts his eyebrows, laughing as he folds the comic in half and slides it into his back pocket. He wants to put it on the corkboard in his bedroom. It’s absolutely ridiculous and totally Robin, so it needs to be preserved for all eternity.

“I mean, I really think you have a career cut out for you in the Sunday funnies if nothing else pans out, Buckley.”

Robin purses her lips at him. “Don’t be dumb. That is a foolproof plan. Narcissists like Billy always need money to buy shit. For their car, for their hair, for their wardrobe, whatever. Offer him a decent amount, payable only after he helps you with the essay and voila! You can reapply to Shermer University!”

Steve really has no intention of going through with Robin’s plan. But after baseball practice the following Tuesday, because sports are the only thing that Steve doesn’t suck at so he’s on a team for every season, Steve finds himself walking almost parallel with Billy toward their cars.

Billy’s smoking, which Coach Miller already ripped him a new one for. But, like, half the team smokes. Including Steve, he’s just more discreet about it than Billy since they are literally still on school property and Coach Miller could easily see them.

As Steve strategically glances at Billy, all he can think about is the stupid comic. He still thinks it’s a dumb fucking idea. But it’s been a week and Steve has zero other solutions to the college disaster.

So somehow, he jogs the short distance between them and coughs to get Billy’s attention.

Billy side-eyes him. “The fuck you want?”

“I heard you telling Jensen you want to get new rims for the Camaro,” Steve says.

Billy lifts his eyes to the sky as if to ask ‘why me?’ “And?”

Steve’s not sure if he should be worried about the fact that he is following Robin’s comic word for word. Does that make this plan more or less likely to succeed?

Steve decides to veer off the script. “How much do they cost?”

Billy stops dead. He fixes Steve with a hinky stare. “Are you trying to pay me for a blow job or something here, Harrington? Because I don’t know what shit you’ve heard about California, but I am way outside your price range.”

Steve immediately commences choking on his own spit. Just really hacking and sputtering and waiting to erupt into flames of unbelievable embarrassment. “Why the fuck would I be trying to engage in, like, prostitution with you?” he demands.

Billy shrugs. He licks his bottom lip and smirks. “I mean, I know I’ve got the body to rock anyone’s world, but really, how the mighty have fallen, King Steve.” He shoulders past Steve, heading for his car.

Steve stands frozen for a beat. Then chases after Billy before he can go and spread the word that Steve Harrington is going around propositioning guys in the school parking lot. Thanks a fucking lot, Robin.

“Hargrove!” Steve shouts.

Billy flicks his finished cigarette to the asphalt and lifts his brow. “I already said no, Harrington.”

Steve’s pissed. This is so ridiculous. How does he even get into these situations? “No, you fuckhead.”

“Fuckhead?” Billy looks mildly affronted. “Is that even a thing people say? Or is that some weird Bumfuck, Indianna thing? Because you all fucking suck at being cool, FYI.” Billy shakes his head like the plight of how lame Hawkins is causes him physical pain.

Steve pinches his eyes closed and breathes in deeply through his nose. “I have a paper. An essay for college. I’ll pay you to help me write it.” He opens his eyes.

Billy is looking him up and down. “Tommy told me you were flunking every class. Why would you want to go to college?”

“Hello? What do you care? I’m offering you twenty bucks to help me write an essay on how I hope to impact society. But, hey, if you’re not interested?” Steve shrugs and turns toward his car.

“Hey,” Billy snaps, his hand latching onto the shoulder of Steve’s jacket. “I didn’t say I wasn’t interested, shithead.”

Steve grins to himself before turning back to Billy, features smoothed over. “Then what are you saying, Hargrove? Cuz I’ve got shit to do and I don’t feel like wasting my time in the parking lot with you.”

“When?” Billy asks.

“Tomorrow, after practice, four thirty, my place.”

Billy thinks it over before sighing. “Fucking fine. But you pay me before I come over.”

Steve gives him a look. “Sure? Whatever? Just be on my porch at four thirty.”

Billy shoves Steve’s shoulder, making him trip back a step. “See you then, pretty boy.” He smirks before pulling open the door of his Camaro.

Steve goes to his own car, silently celebrating the success of Robin’s completely idiotic plan. And while it might still blow up in Steve’s face, at least now he has a slim chance of fixing his essay for Shermer.

“Oh my god,” Robin crows when Steve tells her in Sociology the next day. “Am I a genius or am I a genius?”

Steve smiles as he runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not sure we can give out those declarations until tonight when Billy either turns over a completely new leaf by being helpful, or more likely, he’s a complete piece of shit and shows up only to take my money and run.”

Robin waves this away like it’s nothing. “He’ll show. For twenty bucks, he’ll definitely be there. If anything, you should be worried he’s going to try and draw the thing out into more than one night so you’ll keep paying him.”

“Honestly, if he can make my essay look like it was written by someone who actually understood half of their English class, then I don’t care if it takes a whole fucking month.” Steve flips open his notebook and points to his homework entry for today. “I mean, look at this, Robin.”

Robin squints, then tilts her head to the left. “Were you at least in a hurry when you wrote this?”

Steve snaps the notebook shut. “It took me a half hour.”

She grimaces. “Maybe you can ask Nancy to borrow her little sister’s handwriting books?”

Steve drops his head to his desk. “Is it scary that I’m willing to consider that?”

Robin pats his back consolingly. “Hey, handwriting isn’t everything. And neither is spelling. And really, who even cares about five paragraph essays?”

Against the desk, Steve just groans. God, please let Billy actually be the genius at English that Robin claims he is. Please, please, please.

Baseball practice is nothing like basketball. Which is true for most sports. They're all inherently different and that's why most guys are good at some of them and shit at other ones.

Steve's more of a baseball guy than basketball, but he still plays basketball passably. Guys like Tommy are shit at both, but in a town with an athletic population as small as Hawkins, that means he's still fairly decent. And the there's Billy Fucking Hargrove.

Steve knows there is not a single sport Billy hasn't been amazing at. Like even with shit like volleyball, he's probably an Olympic athlete. It's ridiculous and obnoxious, exactly like Billy.

So, of course, for whatever cosmic reason, Billy is a drag bunter. Coach Miller practically wept when Billy tried out and showed off the most ridiculous skill a left hander could have. If Steve had at one point been the King of Hawkins High, watching Billy bunt his pitch and sprint with ease to first base was the equivalent of watching himself be dethroned.

Steve is a good pitcher, a great one even, for high school standards. No one else on the team is really at his level. And then fucking Hargrove strolls onto the field, looking like he couldn't give a shit that Steve could easily peg him in the thigh if Billy isn't quick enough, and then gets a base hit. Fucking disgusting, really.

But fucking awesome for their team. So Steve is actually way more cool with playing on the baseball team together compared to the fiasco that had been their basketball season. They don’t talk more than is strictly necessary and Billy spends his time on the bench with Tommy while Steve hangs out with the other pitcher, Kyle Hernadez.

Coach Miller is in a frenzy today, really revving up for their game this Saturday. They are playing against the next town over, the Stapleton Raptors. Which is a dumb name, in Steve’s opinion. Hawkins Tigers isn’t exactly fierce, but the Stapleton Raptors does not refer to the dinosaurs, oh no. Stapleton is too lame for that. Their mascot is a falcon. Steve would pity their team if they weren’t actually pretty good.

So Steve gets why Coach Miller is drilling them to death, but he can’t help that half his mind is focused on what will happen at four thirty. “Harrington!” Coach all but screams which gets Steve to his feet in a hurry. “Get out there and throw it down the line to Hargrove!”

Steve trots out to the mound, catches the ball Kyle tosses as he heads back to the dugout, and sizes up Billy down the line from him. If Steve is being perfectly honest, pitching to Billy is probably the most fun he has during practice. He never knows what Billy is going to do.

That’s what makes him such a great drag bunter. When Billy slings the bat over his shoulder, his back foot is already moving to the front of the box as his hand shorts the barrel of the bat. Billy can just tell when the ball is right for a bunt and if everything is good, which it usually is for Billy, the ball hits the wood and spins straight between first and second with Billy already halfway to first.

If the ball isn’t right, like the pitch that just left Steve’s hand, Billy will foul it off, because he’s an asshole like that. They both know Billy could have hit the ball for an out, but Billy doesn’t bother with shit like that. He’s going for the bunt or the home run every time. It would be wildly impractical if Billy wasn’t so fucking good at baseball.

Steve thinks Billy will never need to worry about writing a stupid fucking college essay because he’ll be offered a baseball scholarship and that will be the end of that. By that time, Steve will probably be working at the mall they are threatening to build on the edge of town. It’s a depressing thought.

After practice, Steve hits the showers, waiting for Billy to pick one first, because Steve has still not gotten over Billy shutting off his shower and blinding Steve with shampoo. It was a fucking dick move and as much as Steve would like to repay the favor, he’d also rather get in and out of the high school showers as quick as possible. He firmly believes every secret crevice of this school is infested with black mold. Nothing can convince him otherwise.

When Steve gets home, his mother is in the living room, watching some talk show while sipping on her glass of white wine. She looks up when he says hello and smiles demurely, as if Steve is a friendly roommate rather than her seventeen year old son.

“Hey, Mom, I’ve got a friend coming over to help me with some English homework, okay?”

“Oh, of course,” she says with polite disinterest.

Steve looks from the television to his mother. He wonders if he had a studio audience would his mother find him as interesting as her talk shows?

Before Billy arrives, if he arrives, Steve wants to get his room sort of in order. Like, he’s not a typical messy guy, but he’s still got some laundry on the floor and he wants to make sure his porn mags are stashed safely beneath his mattress. The last thing on earth he wants Billy finding is what Steve uses to beat off with.

Steve’s just kicking a final pair of dirty stock beneath his bed when the doorbell rings. Steve peers out the window behind his bed and spots Billy’s Camaro in the driveway. Holy shit, he really came. Steve jogs down the stairs, calling out an arbitrary, “I’ve got it,” to his mom.

Pulling open the door, Steve has a crisp twenty dollar bill in his free hand. “Hey,” he greets.

Billy pushes his sunglasses up into his curly mess of hair. “Money?”

Steve readily hands over the cash. The make it or break it moment is upon them. Steve holds his breath.

Billy pockets the twenty and steps past Steve into the foyer. He lets out a low whistle. “Nice digs.”

It’s patronizing, but Steve is so elated that Billy is actually following through that all he does is slam the door closed and lock it. You know, in case Billy is thinking of darting away at the first chance he gets. “My room’s up here.” He tips his head toward the stairs and starts to lead the way.

“You home alone?” Billy asks.

“My mom’s in the living room,” Steve answers. He glances back at Billy, curious about the question.

Billy’s got a furrow between his brows, like something is out of place. His hand hesitates above the wooden staircase banister. He’s ocean blue eyes scan the open archways of Steve’s house.

That’s when it clicks for Steve and he half laughs. “Uh, yeah, you don’t need to say hi or anything. She barely knows I’m here. She certainly isn’t going to care if you are.” Steve takes the rest of the stairs two at a time.

Billy trails after him, clearly taking in the perfect professional photos lining the stairway wall. Each one a family portrait spanned three years apart. Little Stevie growing up into fifteen year old Steve. They’re slated for another portrait session soon after Steve’s eighteenth birthday.

“Really grew into your head of hair, huh, Harrington?” Billy asks. Steve can literally hear the smirk in his voice.

“You’re talking to the winner of both Hawkins Beautiful Baby contest and Terrific Toddler contest, so watch your mouth, Hargrove.” Steve pushes open the door to his room.

“No, shit!” Billy says with a laugh.

Steve shrugs, grinning. “Yeah. My mom was really into that crap.”

“So what happened with the Cutest Kid competition? Lose out to some child beauty queen?” Billy steps into Steve’s room and takes a good look around.

Steve laughs again. “Uh, well, no, not exactly. I revolted. Pulled my pants down on stage and got banned for life.”

Billy bursts out laughing, swinging his gaze back around to Steve. “Really stuck it to the man, huh?”

“My mom was pissed, but I was like five and seriously, it was the worst.” Steve shakes out his shoulders, nerves running high, because all of this is weird. Billy isn’t currently being the world’s worst human being and they are, dare Steve think it, getting along?

“So, where’s this essay?” Billy asks, flopping back on Steve’s bed with his shoes on which immediately negates him not being the worst human being.

“Dude! Take your fucking shoes off.” Steve sort of lunges at Billy’s high tops like he’s going to pry them loose himself.

Billy watches him and leaves his feet exactly where they are. “I got paid to help with an essay, not to take my shoes off.”

“What? No!” Steve squawks. “I’m not paying you extra to not act like an animal.”

Billy cracks up, but he bends forward, unlacing his left sneaker to Steve’s great relief. Of course, he then proceeds to chuck it full force at Steve’s head who only manages to dodge it by dropping to the floor like this is a raid drill.

“Fuck you!” Steve shouts, huddled on the floor.

Billy missiles his right shoe at Steve as well, this one missing by bare inches and striking his dresser instead. “Do you want me to read your essay or what, Harrington? Because I’m happy to sit here with your twenty bucks in my pocket instead.”

Steve gets up, flips Billy off, and scavenges his essay from his desk. It’s crumpled at the edges now, well worn from how many times he’s read through it and had no fucking idea how to make it something worth reading. He tosses the stapled pages over to Billy. “It’s not great,” he warns.

Billy rolls his eyes. “That’s what you're paying me for, right?” He makes a grabby hand motion. “I’m going to need a red pen, pretty boy.”

In his mind’s eye, Steve sees bright red splashes of ink, like blood, on his poor, pathetic essay. Still, he drags a red pen from the drawer of his desk and surrenders it over to Billy.

Billy sits cross legged on the bed, his white ankle socks a stark contrast to the dark blue sheets on Steve’s bed. He’s got the essay in his right hand and the pen in his left. He uncaps it and immediately starts chewing the shit out of the cap.

Steve grimaces. That pen is going in the trash as soon as Billy is done with it. Steve can’t even begin to imagine the places Billy’s mouth has been.

Uncomfortable, knowing he’s being judged, Steve sits in his desk chair and tries to pretend he’s alone in his room. He stares at the floor, swiveling his chair back and forth as the minutes tick by.

He’s pretty deep in a daydream about living in a shitty New York apartment with Robin where she’s a burgeoning photographer and Steve has some nameless job on Wall Street, when the cap clicks back into place on the pen.

Steve’s heart drops. He looks across at Billy, licks his dry lips, and awaits the verdict.

“Man, this is garbage,” Billy says.

“I know,” Steve groans. Billy looks up, like he was expecting Steve to rebuttal him instead. “Dude, I know,” Steve repeats.

"I mean, I'm not going to be able to help you fix this in just one night, Harrington," Billy says like it needs explaining.

But worse, he doesn't sound like he's trying to be a jerk or even to extort Steve for more money. If anything, it almost sounds like he feels bad for Steve, as if Billy were capable of human emotions like empathy. Except, Steve hasn't forgotten the plate smashed over his head, or the manic exhilaration Billy had gotten from beating the shit out of him. So Steve knows it's not sympathy.

“Okay, so, like, what should I do?” Steve asks, when the silence stretches on too long and he starts to feel awkward.

“First of all, the only reason I can read this is because I’m left handed and I spent all of fourth and fifth grade learning how to stop writing exactly like this.” He jabs the closed pen at Steve’s essay.

Steve winces. “Yeah, I know, my handwriting is atrocious.”

Billy lifts his eyebrows as if to say ‘that’s putting it mildly.’ “If you know it, then why are you paying me to tell you that?”

“I’m not,” Steve grits out.

This was such a bad idea. He does not need Billy knowing any more of his flaws than he already does. Since, really, knowing that Steve got dumped by Nancy for Jonathan and Steve didn’t even realize it, is probably the biggest flaw anyone could know. Follow that up with Billy knowing Steve doesn’t have a chance in hell of taking Billy in a fight and really it’s all adding up to Steve becoming the laughing stock of Hawkins High.

Billy gives Steve a once over before sighing. “Second of all, have you even heard of a five paragraph essay?”

“Obviously,” Steve says. “They talk about it every year in English.”

“Then why can’t you write one?” Billy asks.

Steve presses his fingertips to his temples and tries not to scream in frustration. Robin is dead to him. This whole thing was her idea so it is only right and just that he blames this entire disaster on her and never forgives her.

“Hargrove, I am very aware that I wrote the world’s shittiest essay, that my handwriting looks like I wrote with my fucking foot, and that my five paragraph essay has three paragraphs. This is why I paid you to help me.”

Billy stands up and Steve waits for him to walk out of the bedroom door with Steve’s twenty bucks secure in his pocket. Instead, Billy digs a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his jean jacket. He holds out a cigarette to Steve who accepts without hesitation.

Steve eases open his bedroom window to keep the smoke from taking over completely and leans against the window sill. Billy flips him the lighter when he’s done. Steve lights the tip and inhales a lungful of smoke.

When he hands Billy back his lighter, Billy says, “Why’d you ask me?”

“My friend Robin said you’re pretty aces at the whole writing thing. Even in Honors English, you secret dweeb.”

Billy grins, tongue licking over his white teeth. Then he slips his cigarette between his strawberry pink lips. Steve tells himself to look away, instead he drags his gaze up to Billy’s gorgeous lashes. So much longer and thicker than any girl’s that Steve’s dated.

“I’m multifaceted, pretty boy. You obviously are not.”

Steve hangs his head, blowing a line of smoke towards his carpet. “I’m not too bad at sports.”

“No,” Billy allows, “you’re not.”

Steve gets his ashtray from his nightstand and sets it on the desk. “So are you going to help me or what, Hargrove?”

Billy shrugs. “If you want to pay me to try, I’ll keep showing up.”

“I do,” Steve says quickly. “I just - “ he breaks off, rolling his eyes upwards and shaking his head. This is so dumb. He does not want to share his feelings or whatever with Billy Fucking Hargove.

Billy glances over at the clock on Steve’s nightstand. “I’ve got to go at five thity. My dad’s a real hardass about ‘family dinner.’” He air quotes the words. “So, the prompt for the essay is what exactly? Because I couldn’t make shit out of your paper.”

Steve stubs out his cigarette and runs a hand through his hair. “How do you hope to positively impact society with a college education?”

Billy bobs his head. “Alright. So, how do you?”

Steve falls dramatically down into his desk chair. “By lowering the population of Hawkins by one person when I use my degree to get the fuck out of here.”

To Steve’s surprise, Billy bursts out laughing. Steve tilts his head to the side so he can peer at him. Which is the worst idea. Because Billy is smiling, for real. That wide mouthed smile that puts all of his pretty white teeth on display. That wide mouthed smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes his eyelashes even more prominent. That wide mouthed smile that cuts soft lines from the corners of his lips to his chin.

Billy is without a doubt the most attractive guy Steve has ever seen in real life. And he thinks about this fact more often than he is completely comfortable with. Especially right now, with Billy in his bedroom, Billy’s stupid white henley tucked into his exquisetly fitting jeans.

“Now, that’s an essay I would love to read,” Billy says when he stops laughing.

“I doubt the college board would agree,” Steve grumbles, twisting his chair to face his desk.

“So, different answer, pretty boy.”

Steve sighs loudly. “I don’t know.”

“Then make something up, because time’s a’wasting and I’ve got dinner a la Susan to race home to.”

Steve chews his bottom lip for a moment before deciding he doesn’t have anything left to lose. “Okay, so, try not to be a complete asshole and laugh, but I want to major in Phys Ed so I can coach at a school.” Steve keeps his eyes focused on his empty desk, not willing to see Billy mock his sad little dreams.

Billy says nothing but Steve hears the scratch of a pen against paper. After a few moments, Steve’s garbage essay lands in his lap, but now with a red line where his thesis should have been.

In red ink Billy has written in disgustingly perfect handwriting, “By achieving a degree in Physical Education, I hope to share my passion for sports by coaching students and encouraging their own passion for team ethics and active lifestyles.” Steve mouths the words before looking up at Billy in surprise. “Holy shit!”

Billy shrugs. “It’s not great. Actually, it kind of sucks. But it’s still a million miles from the crap you wrote.” Billy crushes out his cigarette and drops Steve’s red pen on the desk. “See you tomorrow, Harrington.”

Billy leaves with Steve still staring in reverence at his new red ink thesis. When the front door slams shut, Steve rolls his chair over to his nightstand and grabs his phone.

“Hello, the Buckley residence,” Robin answers politely.

“Oh my god! He did it!” Steve breathes. “Billy actually helped me! I can’t fucking believe it.”

“Oh. My. God!” Robin shrieks. “Tell me everything.”

Before Steve makes it into the high school on Thursday morning, Dustin has mobbed him and Steve’s flattened up against his car. “Dude? Personal space?” Steve tries to edge around his overeager friend, but Dustin just crowds him even further.

“Okay,” Dustin stares him down, which is impressive since Dustin has to crane his neck back to meet Steve’s eyes, “I know you’re new to the rules of true friendship. But Steve - Steve,” he shakes his head, “you do not ever work with a known enemy.”

Steve presses his lips together and lifts his brow. “I’m worried you’re talking about, like, a dream or something where I hung out with that kid El made piss his pants? Is that what this is?”

This earns him a whack on the chest. “No, stupid! Billy. Billy Hargrove?” He stretches out Billy’s last name like it’s a disgusting line of spittle.

Steve rubs his face with his hands. “How do you even know that?”

“Duh, Max?” Dustin sighs. “It’s one thing to come to the Party with your problems and lay it out for us that you want to go rogue and seek assistance from a known enemy. One who has attempted to murder not one but two Party members.”

Steve blinks, trying to process Dustin-ese. “So, I know, or at least I hope, you’re going to grow out of your D&D phase - “ Dustin gasps in horror “ - but in the meantime, I assume you’re talking about the Byers Kitchen Fight, which no, I have not forgotten. I had that black eye for a week. But, frankly, this is more important than a black eye.”

“More important than Lucas?” Dustin challenges.

Steve falters. Because, Billy’s racism really shouldn’t be swept under the rug just to increase the improbable odds of Steve making it into college.

“Ha!” Dustin crows. “You lost your way, man, it happens even to the truest of us. But, now that you are back on the path, you can come to me and the Party and we’ll figure out what to do. Max said Billy was helping you with homework or something -”

“No,” Steve says, finally managing to step around Dustin. “I don’t want your help with this, Dustin.”

He sees Dustin’s face fall but there isn’t anything Steve can do about that. No matter how much better at school Dustin and his friends are, they aren’t going to be able to help him write an essay for college. So, Steve’ll just have to find a way to resolve his current crisis.

Fucking Hargrove. Of course he had to be a fucking racist.

Steve feels guilty leaving Dustin dejected in the parking lot, so he turns around, calling back to him, “Thanks for the offer, man, but I’ll sort it out, okay?”

Dustin just makes a face and heads for the middle school.

It would be one thing, if Hawkins was a halfway decent town and had more than two black families in its entire radius. But Hawkins is a shit town and has exactly two black families in its radius. One of them being the Sinclairs. Which means there isn’t any other data pool for Steve to gather evidence of Billy’s racism.

This leaves him with the particularly unpleasant job of just straight out asking Billy what the fuck his problem is and hoping that Steve can like talk equality at him until - until Steve doesn’t even know. Naturally, this means Steve spends the entire day distracted and being more of a loser in class than normal.

He doesn’t manage to answer a single question correctly in any of his classes. And by the time he gets to practice after school, he’s stewing in agitation and annoyance. Why couldn’t Billy just be a normal jackass without complicated elements of racism and being a dickhole to his own sister?

But even when he gets on the pitcher’s mound, Steve can’t settle his thoughts down. The whole day has fucking sucked from the moment Dustin found his this morning and Steve just really wishes he could wake up and do the day over again. Since he can’t, Steve tries to channel himself into practice.

Steve’s a good pitcher, he was Coach Miller’s favorite player until Billy rolled along. Steve’s a good pitcher who doesn’t throw shitty balls, who is always up for whatever Coach wants him to help the other guys practice with their swings, who has never once hit one of his teammates with a ball. Until today.

Billy’s on plate, hat ducked low to keep the sun out of his eyes, mouth partially open, his tongue running along the bottom of his front teeth. And for one black second, Steve really and truly hates Billy fucking Hargrove.

Steve slings the ball, catches the instant where its speed surprises Billy who is never surprised. Billy drops the bat a half inch but it’s already too late. The ball pegs him hard as hell right above his knee and Billy grunts, the bat falling from his hands.

“Hargrove!” Coach shouts.

Steve’s already covered half the distance to home plate, skidding across the dirt the rest of the way to frantically wave his hands around Billy’s knee. “Shit, man! Shit. I wasn’t focused and I don’t - I don’t know -”

Billy jerks his head up at Steve and shoves him hard in the shoulders, sending him toppling to the field. “Don’t say it was fucking accident.”

Steve’s heart leaps and then free falls. “Billy, man - “

“Don’t fucking lie.” Billy glares down at him. He grabs his dropped bat and pushes himself to his feet using it to stabilize his weight. “I’m hitting the showers,” he tells Coach Miller. He brushes the dirt from his track pants, showing Coach where he got hit.

Coach Miller swings his attention around to Steve. “The hell, Harrington?”

“I’m sorry, Coach,” Steve says, pulling himself up from the ground. “I got distracted and threw a bad ball.”

“Hell of a bad ball.” Coach eyes him, looks at Billy’s retreating form, and fingers the packet of cigarettes in his back pocket. He might not let his players smoke, but Steve and the team have seen him out back of the gym having a smoke break more than once.

“Won’t happen again,” Steve promises.

Coach taps his fingers against his cigarettes. “It won’t,” he agrees. “Hernadez,” Coach barks at the bench, “get in here!”

“Coach?” Steve questions and this is just what he needs, to suddenly be the pariah of the one thing in school he’s actually good at.

“Take the rest of the day off,” Coach says. He grabs Steve’s shoulder and squeezes. “It was a bad ball, nothing else, right?”

“Right,” Steve agrees fervently.

Coach claps his back. “Good. Go home, take a rest, get back out here tomorrow ready to play, got it?”

“Got it.” Steve trots off the field.

He hears the shower running but Steve doesn’t want to be alone in the locker room with Billy. Even if Billy doesn’t decide to try and break his nose in retaliation, Steve has no interest in showering next to him. He grabs his shit from his locker and jogs out to his car still in his practice clothes.

His mother doesn’t flinch at Steve being home a half hour earlier than normal. “Have a good day?” she calls from the living room.

“Yeah, great,” Steve calls back, voice absolutely dripping in sarcasm.

His mother hums. “That’s good, dear.”

Steve rolls his eyes, hackles raised as he takes the stairs in leaps. He throws his gym locker clothes into his hamper before tugging off his practice shirt and pants, kicking them to the floor. He slams open the door to his bathroom and yanks the shower knob to scalding.

Steve’s face down on his mattress, his tape deck playing The Rolling Stones’ Sympathy For the Devil. He’s got his eyes pinched shut trying desperately to come up with a single sentence to add to his essay. It’s been nothing but an exercise in frustration since his shower.

Steve just isn’t made for this stuff. He’s such shit at writing. It’s beyond stupid that he even fooled himself into thinking he could do the college thing at all. Even if by some fucking miracle he got in, what is he going to do as soon as he’s in a class? Pay someone else to write his papers? Fail all his classes like he practically has in high school?

Jesus. He should drive over to Hawkins High right now and ask for their janitor application. If he’s lucky they won’t ask for anything more complicated than his name and birthday. God forbid they ask for prior experience of which Steve has exactly zilch since he’s supposed to be a trust fund baby.

It’s while Steve’s sinking further and further into his bleak depression that the doorbell rings. It startles Steve into toppling off his bed. His mother’s voice floats up to him, “Could you get the door, dear?”

Steve’s hoping it’s Robin come to pick him up out of his despair, having sensed what a fucking mess he was at school today. He pulls open the door getting ready to suffocate her in a hug, left arm already reaching out.

Instead, he gawks.

Billy’s expression is unreadable behind his black sunglasses. He crushes out his cigarette beneath his All-Star. “Are you going to let me in or what, Harrington?”

Steve angles his body out of the way. “I - didn’t think you were coming?”

“You got my twenty bucks?”

Steve fumbles out his wallet and hands over the allotted amount. Billy pockets it and steps into the house. He shoves his sunglasses up into his hair. He gestures impatiently for Steve to lead the way. Which he does, albeit in complete disbelief.

Steve had without a doubt believed that any help from Billy had vanished with that ill-advised pitch. Apparently, the lure of twenty dollars and the promise of the new rims they would buy his Camareo was enough for Billy to overlook the injury. To be sure, it was an injury; Billy would be sporting a nasty black and blue welt far into next week.

In his room, Steve lets himself fall back into his desk chair, marveling as Billy kicks off his shoes and climbs onto Steve’s bed like this is something they have done forever.

“Are you going to fucking say something, or am I supposed to be a telepath as well as a word smith?” Billy asks.

Steve snaps his mouth shut, runs a hand through his hair, and blinks a few times to try and reset his entire being. “I just - I didn’t think you were coming.”

“Yeah, you already said that.” Billy shrugs out of his leather jacket. He bunches it up and puts it behind his head as a pillow against the headboard. “Are we working on your paper or not? I’m happy to take your twenty and sit here. Could definitely have better company, but they aren't paying me the big bucks, so . . .”

“You broke a plate over my head,” Steve blurts out.

Billy lifts his dark and perfectly shaped brows. “And?”

Steve stares. “And you threatened to kill Lucas Sinclair. Like, for real, you threatened to kill a fucking twelve year old because he’s black and has a crush on your sister.”

Billy snorts. “Fuck you.” He lifts one finger. “Max is not my sister.” A second finger goes up. “Sinclair’s dad works with my old man at the bank. Neil Hargrove is a security guard and Sinclair’s dad is the loans’ officer. I don’t give a royal fuck about the Sinclairs, but Neil goddman hates Sinclair’s dad for having a better position than him. I don’t think Daddy Dearest would take too kindly to Maxine showing up on the doorstep with Lucas holding her hand.” Billy lifts a third finger. “You’re a fucking creep who hangs out with middle schoolers in an empty house. With only one girl in the mix. My dumb bitch step-sister.”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot straight to his hairline. “That’s not even - That’s so far from - “ He shakes his head violently. “I was babysitting!”

Billy stares at him, waits for more, then laughs. “Jesus, Harrington, you are the biggest fucking dweeb in Hawkins. Is that what everyone meant by King Steve? King of the fucking Dweeboids? The fuck you were hiding my step-sister for then?”

Steve crushes his fingers against his temples and tries to force life back onto a normal tract. “Because you’re insane? Clearly? She was scared you’d hurt her, which, fucking hello? That’s pretty much exactly what happened? You stormed in like the world’s biggest bastard and threw her aside to start choking out a fucking kid? Like, what world do you live in, man, where that is normal behavior?”

His question is followed by an eerie silence. Billy flicks his tongue against his front teeth. “Max shot me full of a fucking tranquilizer and tried to take my balls off with a spiked bat. The fuck kind of world you live in, Harrington?”

They stare at each other across the distance of Steve’s bedroom. Shit is seriously fucked up in Hawkins and Steve doesn’t even know where to start with that. He doesn’t want to start, actually. He just wants to get into college.

“Are you a racist?”

“No. Are you a child perv?”

“No.”

Billy holds out his hand. “Give me a notebook. And the red pen.”

“Harrington, seriously, the biggest problem you’ve got right now is that you don’t know what the fuck the five paragraph essay is for,” Billy complains twenty minutes later, a litter of balled up lined paper surrounding him on Steve’s bed.

“I know,” Steve says, “I know. I’m sorry.”

Billy squints at him. “Don’t apologize to me, man. I don’t give a fuck. But I can’t help you if we don’t fix that first. So sit down and listen.”

Steve sits back down in his desk chair. Billy glares at him. “Not there, dipshit,” Billy says. He points to the space next to him on the bed.

“Fine.” Steve drags himself over to the bed and prepares to be talked down to and still not understand what the five paragraph essay is.

“Alright, so you get baseball, because you and I are the only players on that team keeping us in the game,” Billy says, apparently unaware that he has complimented Steve. “So let’s talk baseball.”

“I thought -”

“Shut up, Harrington. I said listen, not question.” Billy turns to a new page in the notebook. He sketches in a baseball diamond. He makes an arrow and labels home plate ‘thesis.’ “The most important part of the game is going from home plate and then crossing home plate again, getting the run, right?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees.

“Okay. But you can’t get to home plate without crossing the other bases first, right?”

Steve nods, worried because he understands everything Billy is saying so far. That means it’s only seconds until he is utterly lost.

“Those other bases; first, second, and third; they are your three supporting paragraphs. Without them, you can’t get back to home plate.”

Steve starts to sweat, scared. “Yeah, right.”

Billy glances at Steve, seeming to check if Steve is just placating him. Finding that he’s not, Billy gives a small smirk. “Okay, so, pretty boy, this is where the introduction is with our thesis, home plate,” he taps his diagram. “Then we gotta round first, second, and third, our supporting paragraphs.” He traces the path around the diamond. “And for the homestretch, we gotta get back to home plate, our conclusion with our thesis again.”

Steve’s stomach bottom outs. “Holy shit,” he whispers, scared to death that all of this sense making is going to disappear the moment he acknowledges it.

Billy grins. “Yeah, I know, I’m a fucking genius.”

“Billy, fuck!” Steve says, elated.

“As pretty as you are, I already said I’m out of your price range.” Billy flips to the next page. “So we’ve got your home plate.” He writes down the thesis he made for Steve. “Now what we need to do is break this up into first, second, and third.”

Steve exhilaration at having finally conquered the purpose of the five paragraph essay comes crashing down. “How? I don’t know how to do that. I can’t, I -”

Billy smacks a hand over Steve’s mouth, sharp enough that his lips sting. “Listen,” he repeats, “don’t question.” Billy takes his hand off Steve’s mouth and turns the notebook to him. “By achieving a degree in Physical Education, I hope to share my passion for sports by coaching students and igniting their passion for team ethics and active lifestyles.” He points his pen at the thesis. “See, you’ve already got your bases written into it, that’s the whole point of the thesis.”

Steve stares blankly at the thesis. “It’s just a bunch of words.” He grimaces, why can’t he be good at any of this stuff?

“It’s not just a bunch of words, Steve,” Billy says.

His continued patience catches Steve off guard and Steve can’t help but side-eye him. It’s almost scary how money can make Billy so much more tolerable a person to be around.

“Watch,” Billy instructs as he underlines ‘my passion,’ ‘team ethics,’ and ‘active lifestyles.’ “Bases one, two, and three.”

“Oh,” Steve says in wonder.

Billy smirks at him again. “If I’d known you were so easy to impress, Hargrove, I never would have bothered with Hallowen.”

“What?” Steve asks, confused and only half listening, still marveling over the possibility that with Billy’s help he might be able to write a halfway decent essay.

Billy hands Steve the notebook and stands up. He uses the pen to point at Steve’s alarm clock. “My time’s up. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow to be wowed with my earth shattering outlining skills.”

“Outlining?” Steve asks, standing up with him.

Billy grins at Steve’s confusion. “You’re a wonder, Harrington.”

“Thanks?” Steve furrows his brow.

Billy laughs, not bothering to say goodbye as he heads down the stairs and out the front door. Steve goes back to his room and picks up the notebook. He takes a blue pen from his desk and traces out a new baseball diamond. He labels the bases the way Billy had explained them. Then he gets a black pen and writes his thesis above home plate and the parts of his thesis at the other three bases.

“I can do this,” he says to his empty room, hoping it’s not a lie.

At lunch on Friday, Robin and Steve are at a coveted window table, hunched over their cafeteria pizza and vending machine Cokes. “Like, who knew Billy ‘Fuck You for Breathing’ Hargrove would turn out to be the world’s best tutor,” Robin says.

Steve shakes his head. “I’m still trying to accept it. The guy is the fucking worst any other time I’ve been with him. Except for baseball,” Steve shrugs, “but I think that’s just because he thinks everyone else on the team sucks.”

“They do,” Robin says flatly.

Steve makes a face. “Hey, have some Hawkins Tiger’s pride.”

Robin stares at him. “I am Hawkins pride, both on and off the field.”

Steve cracks a grin. “Such a dumb joke.”

“Screw you, it’s a great joke. And, I totally talked to Tammy Thompson in PE yesterday.”

“I knew it!” Steve smacks his hand on the formica table top. “Oh my god. Not TT Muppet. No! You are way too hot for her, Robin. And, you know, generally non-muppety.”

“Muppety is not a word,” Robin says primly. Then she grins, “You really think I’m hot?”

“I’m not friends with ugly people, Robin. I might not be an asshole anymore, but I’m still allowed to be shallow.” Steve takes a bite of his pizza.

“That’s the weirdest thing.” Robin picks the pepperoni off her pizza and places them in a neat stack on Steve’s plate. “You don’t sound nearly as dumb when you’re talking.”

“Compared to what?” Steve asks, trying not to be completely offended. “The dumb look on my face?”

“No!” Robin says, breaking up into laughter. “I meant the way you write. You aren’t friends with ugly people and I’m not friends with dumb people. And if you were dumb, you certainly wouldn’t be my bestest of best friends. But when you write,” she shrugs, “I don’t know, everything gets all jumbled or something.”

“That’s how it feels too,” Steve says. He picks up the stack of pepperoni and downs it with a swig of Coke. “It’s like all the words white out in my head when I have to write something. Like if there was a dictionary in my brain, as soon as I pick up a pencil, every single page of that dictionary is blank.”

Robin pulls a long face. “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” Steve nods,” it really fucking does.”

Across the lunch room, Billy’s braying laughter cuts through all the other noise of teenagers eating and gossiping. Steve and Robin look in his direction, watching him flip off Tommy who’s got soda running down both sides of his face.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Tommy lost the soda chug. He owes Billy five bucks.”

“Ew, that’s a thing?” Robin’s nose wrinkles up.

“It’s a thing,” Steve affirms. “A dumb thing, like a lot of the shit I used to do.” He eyes scan over to the table that Nancy and Jonathan are sitting at, surprising everyone by actually being in school today.

Half of Hawkins High was convinced back in October that Nancy and Jonathan were running away to have their teenage baby together. Honestly, Steve wouldn’t have been surprised by that either. It wasn’t like Nancy kept him in the loop about her life anymore. Which Steve guesses is for the best. He doesn’t want to know about her new romance, the one where she apparently means it when she says ‘I love you.’

“Hey, chin up,” Robin says, seeming to sense his thoughts, “pretty soon you’ll be dating college girls. I’ve heard they are way more mature than high school girls.”

Steve shoots Robin a grateful grin. “Probably fewer muppets too.”

Robin squawks in outrage, throwing her napkin at him. Steve dodges it and swipes a bite of her pizza for good measure.

“Big game tomorrow,” Coach says at the end of the practice, when all the guys are sitting on the bench. “Big game. We need everyone at their best. So no going out tonight. You buckle down, do that homework you planned on putting off until Sunday night, and you get a good night’s sleep. I need you refreshed and bright for Saturday, you got that?”

“Got it, Coach,” Steve's teammates call back with enthusiasm.

“Alright, get the hell out of here.” He flaps his clipboard at them dismissing them.

Steve jumps up, heading into the locker room after Hernadez. “You think we’ll win?” Kyle asks.

“If we get Mitchell out early, then yeah,” Steve says, referring to Stapleton’s best hitter.

Kyle nods. “Yeah. If we get Mitchell.”

“The hell is Mitchell?” Billy asks, coming up behind them.

“This six foot two motherfucker,” Tommy answers and suddenly the locker room is feeling crowded.

Steve twists his way toward his own locker, leaving Tommy and Kyle to proclaim Mitchell’s greatness to Billy, the uninitiated. He’s got his locker open, reaching in for his towel when Billy hip checks his locker closed.

Steve gives him a look. “Not like I was using that or anything.”

“I asked who Mitchell is.”

Steve looks over Billy’s bare shoulder, because of course Billy’s shirt is off the second they are in the locker room, and finds Tommy and Kyle still debating Mitchell’s prowess. “Hernadez didn’t give you the rundown?”

“I asked you.”

“Right.” Steve opens his locker once more and successfully retrieves his towel. “He’s, like, this baseball god. Everything he hits is either a homerun or a double. It’s unreal.”

“What do you pitch at him?” Billy asks. He follows Steve to the showers, snagging a towel out of his own locker on the way.

“Everything?” Steve tries to avoid being at the same shower as Billy, but Billy just switches to Steve’s shower. “Those extra drills Kyle and I did at the start of practice yesterday were specifically because of Mitchell.”

“Changeups and curveballs.” Billy shampoos his hair.

Steve has a tragic moment where he’s caught watching the white suds tangle in the golden curls of Billy’s hair. Then he tugs his shower knob to cold and snaps himself back to reality.

“Those aren’t your best throws,” Billy says, turning his back to the spray and rinsing his hair.

“What?” Steve says, feeling stupid and confused.

Billy looks at him through the shower and for some reason smirks. “Changeups and curveballs, Harrington. You’re good at them. But you are wicked at splitters.”

“I am?” Steve sounds like he’s fishing for compliments, but he’s really trying to catch up to a life in which he and Billy shoot the shit in the showers after practice.

“So throw him a splitter tomorrow,” Billy says, ignoring Steve’s hanging question. Billy picks up his soap and Steve decides he’s better off showering at home.

“See you tonight?” he asks, already turning off his shower.

“Got my twenty?”

Steve nods.

“See you at four-thirty, pretty boy.”

Steve escapes to the sanity of the rest of the locker room, where the air isn’t filled with steam , where guys are at least half clothed, and where Tommy and Kyle are still going off about Mitchell.

Since it’s Friday, Steve’s mom is already at her friend Lisa’s drinking bottles of wine. Steve won’t see her again until Sunday afternoon when she arrives hung over and snippy, ready to bitch out Steve’s dad who will get back later that evening from another business trip.

The upside is, Steve has the house to himself. So, instead of being trapped in his bedroom, Steve lays out what little he has as far as his essay on the living room coffee table. In the corner of the room, diagonally aimed at the viewing audience is Steve’s parents’ ostentatious television. Directly across from their leather couch is the grand fireplace.

On the coffee table is Steve’s essay, notebook, some spare sheets of lined paper, red and blue and black pens, a pencil, two cans of Coke, and the letter from Shermer U outlining the requirements for the application essay.

Steve’s already on the porch when Billy pulls up in the driveway. Steve’s smoking a cigarette, watching the breeze drift browned leaves across the pale grass. It’s not exactly spring, but the weather’s getting warmer by the day.

“Hey,” Steve says as Billy gets out of his car.

Billy salutes him with two fingers, tossing his own spent cigarette to the driveway. “Just couldn’t wait to see me, Harrington?”

Steve shrugs. “You’re late.”

Billy rolls his eyes. “By five minutes. Jesus, you some sort of military sergeant?”

Steve flicks the twenty he’s got between his fingers in Billy’s direction. Billy snags it, shoving it into the pocket of his impossibly tight jeans. Steve has heard endless things about those jeans from the girls in his classes. In English class, Marsey Kallen wrote a fucking ode about those pants and presented it straight faced to the class. The other girls applauded when she was done.

Steve would like to say he doesn’t get what the fucking fuss is, but that would make him a liar. Steve is very, very aware of just how good Billy looks in those sinfully tight jeans of his. How good his ass looks and how good his thighs look.

And Steve might find that concerning if he hadn’t come to terms with his bisexuality during the first two weeks of his friendship with Robin. Watching The Breakfast Club together, Steve had jokingly said he’d gladly let Judd Nelson stick his head between his thighs. That's when it clicked for him. Or at least, it clicked after Robin upended a bowl of popcorn over his head and joyously screamed, "Welcome to the rainbow side, dingus!"

So yeah, Steve likes both guys and girls. He just hadn’t exactly realized it before because he’d only ever had crushes on girls at school.

Part of it came down to Hawkins simply being crap in the department of attractive guys. There just really weren’t that many. Or maybe Steve’s standards for guys were too high, that was Robin’s opinion, but he hardly thought it counted since Robin didn’t like guys anyway. While Hawkins had its fair share of hot girls, hot guys were lacking. That was, until Billy Fucking Hargrove stepped out of his shitty, sexy Camaro to reign disdain down on Hawkins.

Which, yeah, Steve is very much aware of all Billy has to offer physically. He’s just equally aware of all Billy doesn’t have to offer as an actual person. So, while Steve enjoys the window dressing, he isn’t about to make an offer for anything in the store.

“Come on,” Steve says, standing up and opening the door. “We’ve got the house to ourselves.”

Billy follows him into the living room, casting an appraising eye over the pictures on the mantel, the art pieces on display, and the whopper of a television. “Rich bitch,” he comments.

“And you haven’t even seen the pool,” Steve says.

Billy eyes slice to the side of the house. The pool is visible from Steve’s window and it’s obvious Billy hasn’t missed the view. “Why can’t Daddy Harrington just buy you into college?”

Steve pales and busies himself with the pens on the coffee table to try and hide his face from Billy. “Harrington is a name met with some respect around here, having to buy your son into college isn’t respectable.”

There’s also the fact that his dad will cut him off in a heartbeat if Steve doesn’t make it into college, proving once and for all what a bonehead his son really is.

Billy sighs in disgust at Steve’s pathetic rich people problems. He picks up one of the Coke’s Steve set out, looks at it, and sets it down. “Where’s the beer?”

“In the fridge,” Steve says.

Without a word, Billy turns and goes in search of the kitchen. Steve leaves him to his own devices. He doesn’t give a shit if Billy wants to drink the cheap beer Steve buys for weekends with Robin. He hears Billy rummaging around and a few minutes later he returns with a can of Miller High Life.

Billy takes a seat on the couch next to Steve and leans forward, picking up the notebook. He flips to the most recent page and looks over Steve’s additional notes. He slants a look at Steve then takes a drink. “We’re going to skip the intro and conclusion until after your body paragraphs are written,” he tells Steve. “They’re easier to do once the rest is finished.”

Steve nods. “Okay.” He pops open his Coke, feels momentarily like a dweeb drinking soda while Billy drinks beer, then thinks fuck Billy. Steve feels he is way too near the end of his high school career to succumb to peer pressure.

“Your first supporting paragraph is about your passion for sports. So you need to start with a topic sentence, give three or four supporting details, then write a transition sentence.”

Steve wilts into the couch. “I don’t understand anything you just said.”

Billy smirks as he tips back his Miller and drinks. Steve takes the moment to admire the way Billy’s throat bobs as he swallows. Nothing else about this is going to be fun, so might as well get his kicks while he can.

“You’re a real wonder, Harrington,” Billy says. He licks the top of his lip as if Miller High LIfe is something worth savoring, not just cheap name brand beer.

“You said that yesterday,” Steve points out. He doesn’t think it’s a compliment.

“Topic sentence,” Billy says as he writes it in the notebook, “equals what this paragraph is about. In this case, it’s your passion for sports.” He jots this equation down. “Supporting details equal examples of that topic, as in examples of why you like sports. Transition equals a puzzle piece sentence that connects this topic to your next topic. Or, for those who suck at English, like you, a sentence that connections your passion for sports to team ethics.”

“Got it,” Steve says. He kind of does, so it’s not a full on lie. He’s also kind of entranced by the way Billy can break this shit down so that Steve actually understands it when none of his teachers have ever been able to do that.

Billy’s mouth tilts in a grin that says he knows Steve doesn’t get it completely. Weirdly, it’s not a mean girn, instead it’s the kind of grin Robin gives him when Steve says something stupid about Star Wars, like she knows he’s an idiot but that’s part of his charm.

“This is where we outline,” Billy says, turning the page in the notebook. He puts ‘intro’ at the top, a bullet point under it says thesis. Then he writes ‘my passion’ and makes three bullets under that. He taps those bullets. “So, Harrington, tell me all about your passion for sports.” He grins, leans back against the couch, and drinks his beer.

Steve gaps at him. “Seriously?”

Billy toasts him with the beer can. “Seriously.”

“Okay . . . “ Steve looks blankly at his living room. “Because it’s the only thing I don’t suck at?”

“Brutally honest and also bullshit. You are not good at basketball.”

Steve is startled into a laugh. “Fuck you! I can play basketball.”

“Sure, you can play basketball,” Billy concedes, “but that doesn’t mean you play it well.”

“Jesus, man! Fuck off!” Steve says, still laughing, because it has been a really long time since anyone has ragged him in a way that hasn’t left him bloody and bruised. Except for Robin, who is seriously, like, his only friend right now.

“If you can’t handle basketball, Harrington, there is no way you could handle me.” BIlly winks at him, pink tongue curling against his front teeth.

Steve flips him off. “You are so fucking concieted, Hargrove.”

“You have such a prodigious vocabulary for a guy who can’t write to save his life.”

Steve groans, dragging a hand across his face. “That’s why I’m paying you, asshole.”

“So tell me why Steve Pretty Boy Harrington is oh so passionate about sports.” Billy fixes him with vaguely interested blue eyes.

Steve closes his own and tries to think of anything besides the fact that PE is the only class he hasn’t come close to failing. “I don’t know, I guess because I’m confident I can do well?” He peeks through his lashes to see if Billy is going to make fun of him.

Instead, Billy jots down confidence next to the first bullet point. “Next?”

“I guess sports set you up to overcome challenges?”

Overcome challenges goes next to the second bullet. “Stop asking me, man. Just tell me what you think. I’m not going to say you’re wrong. This is your stupid essay.”

“Right, okay.” Steve shakes out his arms like he’s warming up for practice and really, this essay is way more work than any sport he’s played. “You get to bond with teammates.”

Billy shakes his head. “Nope, that can go in the next paragraph about team ethics, but not this one.”

Steve stares at him. “You said you weren’t going to tell me I was wrong.”

“I lied and you were wrong.” Billy taps his pen against the notebook. “Come on, pretty boy. Last one.”

Steve squints his eyes shut again. One more reason. Why does he like sports? They’re easy, they come naturally, he likes winning, they made him popular, they are the only thing that makes his dad like him, he’s competitive. “I dunno, you can, like, see that you grew into a better player?”

“Still a question,” Billy says, “but not wrong.” He writes growth next to the third bullet.

They follow a similar process for the next two paragraphs, filling in the outline. Then Billy tilts the notebook in Steve’s direction. He points his pen to the first paragraph section. “So you want to write a sentence about each of these things. For topic sentences, you start out with something like, I believe a passion for sports makes me a good candidate for Shermer U.”

He hands the notebook to Steve who has to put down his Coke to take it. “What? Like you want me to write it right now?”

Billy looks at him like his dumb is showing. “Yeah, Steve. That’s the whole point of our exchange of money, right?” He leans over the coffee table and picks up the TV remote. “And I’m going to surf your one hundred and one prime television channels while you do that.” He hits mute when the screen turns on and starts clicking through rapidly.

Steve stares at his sad little outline. He picks up his shiny, yellow number two pencil and tries to remember what Billy had said his topic sentence should be.

“Okay,” Billy says. Steve can tell he’s trying not to physically wince at what Steve has written. Or how he’s written it. His handwriting is atrocious. “It’s not awful,” he offers.

Steve hangs his head. “Just tell me, lay it on me, I’m never going to be able to do this, am I?”

Billy looks at him. He shrugs. “I mean, you’re not a naturally talented writer or anything, and Max’s handwriting is lightyears ahead of this, but, it’s still better than your first essay. At least this paragraph stays on topic.”

“What am I doing wrong?” Steve asks, begs really.

“Overthinking,” Billy says right away. “It took you twenty minutes to write four sentences, man. That’s fucking nuts.”

Steve collapses sideways on the couch and covers his face with one of his mother’s lacy pillows. Maybe if he holds it tight enough, he can just suffocate here and now. Steve throws the pillow to the floor and jerks into a sitting position.

“This is stupid,” he tells Billy. “I’m stupid. This was never going to work. I’m never going to be able to write this essay and it only proves how fucking stupid I am that I thought I could do it at all. So - yeah - just forget this whole thing. You’ve got sixty bucks from me, but you’ll have to scrape up the rest for your rims from someone else.”

Billy finishes his beer before lifting an eyebrow at Steve. “Back in Cali, I have this friend Diego. He’s shit at writing, like you. He told me he could explain stuff just fine but when it came to writing, nothing came out right. I figure it’s the same with you. And that’s just your fucking lot in life, Harrington. But throwing in the towel on the essay and college, that’s all on you. It’s no skin off my back if you want to give up; I’m out twenty bucks a day, but I’ll figure something else out.”

It’s like Steve’s been beamed to the world of David Bowie’s Labyrinth or some shit. Billy’s giving quasi-motivation speeches that are mostly just insults, but somehow it’s kind of working for Steve. Not that he says that aloud because he’s still stewing in self pity right now.

He stands up and tosses the notebook to Steve. “See you tomorrow at the game, Harrington.” Billy says.

“Yeah, tomorrow.”

Steve’s parents haven’t come to one of his sports games since he was in T-ball. But during middle school and beyond, the rotating door of Steve’s girlfriends have shown up to cheer him on. Now he’s single, but he’s got more fans than ever. Dustin drags his whole crew of friends to the field, even Eleven who Steve isn’t even sure exists in the eyes of the State. And Robin’s sitting with them, blowing huge pink bubbles with her gum and holding a sign that says ‘Harrington is my favorite dingus.’

It makes Steve smile, the quiet smile that keeps his spirits up even after he throws a bad pitch. Not that he has thrown many today. Steve took over during the fifth inning with Kyle having put in a solid game for the team. It’s the top of the ninth and the Hawkins’ Tigers are leading by one run. Steve’s facing down fucking Mitchell with the count at three balls and two strikes.

Steve has been throwing Mitchell the fastballs and curveballs Coach Miller had him drilling with Kyle. It’s been a fifty-fifty success rate, but with his potentially last pitch, Steve’s wavering, palming the ball in his glove and negating his catcher Jonesy’s calls at home plate.

He can tell Jonsey is getting pissed and he knows it’s only a minute more until Miller will be striding out to the mound. Still, for a brief second, Steve’s eyes dart to the dugout. Billy’s fingers are hooked through the chain link. His hat blocks his eyes, but Steve knows Billy is staring at him. Billy tilts his head at Steve.

Steve snaps his attention back to the game, he pulls his arm back, fingers curled around the dusty leather of the baseball, and releases a splitter. The ball speeds towards Mitchell. Mitchell tilts the bat. The ball drops right before home plate. Mitchell swings at empty air.

“Strike three!” the ump screams.

The stands erupt into cheers, Steve’s teammates rush the field, but it’s Billy who grabs Steve around the waist and hoists him upward. Kyle rushes in, supporting Steve’s other side. Steve’s gets carried through his ecstatic teammates like a king.

In celebration of their first major win this season, the locker room is full of talk about tonight’s party at Jonsey’s place. His parents are out of town and he’s already got the kegs ordered. Everyone is going and even though Steve hasn’t been too keen on parties since getting dumped at the Halloween party, he knows he’ll go to this one. But he’s going to bring Robin so that he doesn’t end up like some dweeb in the corner nursing his beer by himself.

First, though, he needs to celebrate with his fan club. Steve lets Dustin and his rowdy friends crowd unsafely into his backseat. Robin’s already claimed shotgun so it’s chaos in the back. Dustin keeps shouting that Lucas is crushing his ballsack. Max tells them both to shut the fuck up before pulling her boyfriend onto her own lap.

Mike has Eleven safely caged in his arms behind Robin. “Dustin, let Will sit on you,” he instructs.

“I don’t give a fuck who sits on who but you all need to sit the fuck down or I am turning this car around and there will be no milkshakes for anyone,” Steve threatens, feeling closer to forty that twenty.

While Robin snorts with laughter, the backseat shifts into fierce whispers. Before they get to the first stoplight, everyone is situated and Dustin turns the conversation to the game. “You’re the best player on the team, Steve.”

“No, he isn’t,” Max says. “Billy’s the best player. He was in California too. But Steve’s probably like second best.”

“Oh, geez, thanks, Max. Why are you getting a ride in my car anyway? Shouldn’t you be giving your brother this praise in person? In his backseat?” Steve glances at her in the rearview mirror.

“Uh, no? Billy would never take me out for milkshakes. Besides. I didn’t say Billy was my favorite player. That’s obviously you, Steve.” She simpers at him in the mirror.

“Ha, ha,” he says before flipping her off.

This sets the kids to squawking again. Dustin’s up in arms that Max has dissed Steve, Lucas is defending Max, Will wants Dustin to stop moving, and Mike is explaining the different aspects of baseball to a bewildered Eleven.

Robin leans over. “How do you stay sane with all of them around?”

“I limit their visits to weekends only, like all successful single fathers.”

Robin cackles. “Ultimate babysitter Steve.”

“Nobody even fucking pays me,” Steve gripes. Robin laughs harder.

By the time six rolls around, the munchkins have been dumped off at Mike’s where they are holding an epic D&D fest. Steve is savoring the bliss of it being only him and Robin once more. They’re up in his bedroom, where she is reading a comic on his bed while Steve smokes out the window.

“Who’s going to be at the party tonight?” she asks, looking over the cover of her comic.

“Everybody?” Steve shrugs.

“Is it going to suck?”

“Probably. But I just have to make an appearance and then we can ditch and do something else.”

“An appearance? I thought you had resigned the crown.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but it’s for the team. Otherwise shit gets stirred up and the guys start questioning your like jockness, or whatever.”

Robin sets her comic aside. “And they won’t when you show up with me?”

Steve crushes out his cigarette. He makes a face. “Fuck them, if they do. I want to go to the party with you, but if you don’t want to go, you don’t have to. But, I did hear that one TT Muppet is going to be there.”

Robin perks up even as she narrows her eyes. “That’s totally underhanded.”

Steve shrugs. “Are you coming or what?”

“Take me home to change?” Robin touches the back of her hair.

Steve pulls his shirt over his head and aims it into the laundry basket.“Sure, give me a sec to get ready.”

Robin giggles as Steve drops his pants. But it’s kind of amazingly freeing to be able to strip down in front of a girl and know she doesn’t give a single fuck about your naked bod. Steve rummages through his closet, finds the navy blue sweater he’s looking for and vest to go with it. Then he gets out a fresh pair of jeans, finishing the look by retousling his hair in the mirror above his dresser.

He looks back at Robin; she flashes him a thumbs up. “Let’s roll.”

They get to the party at that particular sweet spot where they aren’t the first but they aren’t the stragglers either. The gravel street Jonsey’s house is on is lined with cars that Steve recognizes from the school parking lot. Including Billy’s Camero several spots down from where Steve parks.

When they walk up to the house, they can hear the stereo speakers pumping through the walls, Devo’s Whip It thrilling party goers. Steve shoulders open the door, dodges a guy with a sloshing red plastic cup, and grabs Robin’s wrist so she doesn’t get sucked into the crowd. Jonsey’s place isn’t as big as Steve’s, it’s more like Nancy’s house, but still the downstairs is swamped with kids from Hawkins High.

“Steve!” Jonsey shouts, pumping his fist into the air. “Harrington’s here!”

“Jonsey!” Steve returns the greeting. There’s a general roar of approval from the party guests and then behind them another guest enters.

“Ryan!” Jonsey shouts, no fist pump this time, but still welcoming Ryan Skeers into the fray.

Steve winds his way into the kitchen and gestures to the liquor covered kitchen island. “What do you want?” he asks Robin.

She eyes the island before looking to Steve. “Something without drugs in it?”

Steve laughs, walking around to the fridge and pulling it open. He fishes out two beers and tosses one to Robin. She catches it gamely and cracks it open, taking a sip. Her face scrunches up at the taste, but she goes back for a second sip.

“Yeah, not as good as my cheap beer,” Steve quips.

Robin toasts him. “Amen, at least you’ve got good taste in cheap beer.” Turning to lean against the island, Robin surveys the party. “So what do we do now?”

“We either find people we want to talk shit with, dance badly with those other losers by the speakers, sneak upstairs to make out in someone’s unoccupied bedroom, or awkwardly try to cram on the couch. Your pick.”

Robin taps one red painted fingernail against her chin. “Well, I mean, I am a fabulous dancer.”

Steve grins, offers her his free hand, and they wade back into the center of the party.

Around them, Steve’s teammates pat him on the back, congratulating him again on striking out Mitchell. A couple of his fellow seniors edge up to him, girls with big hair and eyelashes not nearly as pretty as Billy’s, tracing their nails down his arm and offering to dance with him. He pulls Robin close each time saying he’s taken for the song.

Robin’s looks more incredulous with each offer. “It’s the hair,” he shout-whispers, leaning close to be heard. “And probably the vest, because this vest is cool.”

Robin gives him that smile that tells him she thinks of him like a younger, dumber brother when in fact he is older, even if he isn’t smarter than her. “Does that mean I should blow out my hair if I want to dance with those girls?”

Steve shakes his head. “No, you should let me introduce you.”

He takes her hand in his again, scans the crowd, then finds the girl he’s looking for. “Fiona,” he says, gesturing with his mostly empty beer can.

Standing near the couch is the petite, blonde, Fiona Garbel. Pixie like features, clear blue eyes with long black lashes, and skin as soft and pale as a lily. With the added bonus of never having dated a guy. Steve is suspicious of that, because looking like she does, there is no way Fiona hasn’t received at least one date offer she was willing to consider. Unless, the wrong type is offering the date.

“No,” Robin hisses. “She’s way too gorgeous.”

Frowning, Steve looks down at Robin. “Yeah, that’s the point. You’re hot, she’s hot, you should chat her up and find out if she’s down to see a movie with you.”

“You said Tammy Thompson would be here,” Robin says, still trying to backpedal as Steve slowly drags her closer to Fiona in her soft pink dress that matches the flush of her cheeks.

“I lied. Because Tammy is a muppet and Fiona is a goddess.”

“Steve,” Robin whines, her All-Stars all but skidding on the floor.

“Fiona!” Steve calls out before Robin can bail completely.

Fiona tosses her head to the side, peach pink lips curling into a smile. “Hi, Steve!” She shifts through the people between them and meets Steve and Robin in the hallway where it is slightly less cramped. “Great game today.”

“Thanks,” Steve says with his trademark ‘aw shucks’ smile and shrug. “Hey, do you know Robin? She’s saving my life in Sociology class.”

“No, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Fiona.” And it’s kind of ridiculous that even Fiona’s voice is soft like wind chimes.

Steve is worried Robin will falter but instead, she fucking shines. “Hi,” Robin says brightly, her mega-watt smile sparking to life and making her adorable freckles look even more adorable than normal.

Fiona’s perfect smile lifts even more and Steve fucking knows he has nailed this introduction. “Anyone need a refill on drinks? Oh, both of you? Great, I’ll be right back,” he says, without waiting for their input.

Then he quickly works his way back to the heart of the party, and makes a sharp right to where a crowd of guys and girls are in the kitchen, getting their own refills. Among those present are Heather and Billy. Heather’s a cheerleader for Hawkins High and while the cheerleaders don’t come to the baseball games, they are at basketball.

So Steve assumes Heather and Billy are a newer item since he’s never seen them together before. Especially not with Heather’s waist bent backwards over Billy’s arm as he clasps her hip in one hand and the back of her head in the other. Billy’s making out with Heather like he’s in a goddamn porno.

The intimacy hits Steve like a fist to the jaw, leaving him feeling off kilter and kind of sick. He quickly turns away, yanking open the fridge and making a balancing act of the three beers. Before he can make a clean escape, Kyle grabs him by the shoulder, eyes blood shot, smile as wide as a fucking mile.

“Man! Man, you fucking crushed that game today.” He shakes Steve by the shoulder.

Steve grins back, juggles the beers to keep from dropping one, and sidesteps Kyle’s reach. “Thanks, man. Couldn’t have done it without your great start though. We’d have been nothing without you."

Kyle throws his head back and shouts, “Go, Tigers, fucking roar!”

The rest of the party throws their collective heads back and let out their ferocious Hawkins Tigers roar. Including Billy, who breaks away from Heather long enough to get his roar out, his blonde curls tumbled around his face like a fucking mane.

And Steve really doesn’t want to be looking at Billy the way he is, but he’s been finding it harder and harder to look away from Billy since he started helping Steve with his dumb essay. Their eyes meet across the kitchen and Steve waits for the easy smile of recognition to grace Billy’s face. Or a smirk that says, ‘I know you’re stupid, but it’s our dirty secret.’

Instead, Billy looks right through him, as if Steve is as disinteresting as the pantry he is standing in front of. That weird sick feeling cuts through Steve and he realizes he’s already had enough of this party as he can stand for the night.

He shoves his refill beer into Kyle’s open hand. “Enjoy this for me, okay, Hernadez?”

“Fuck yeah!” Kyle crows.

Steve pushes out of the kitchen, making his way back to the hallway. At first he can’t find Fiona and Robin, but after a brief moment of panic, he spots them sitting at the bottom of the staircase. He crosses to them, holding out the beers. They’re too busy talking to notice him.

“Hey, Robin,” he touches her elbow with the cold can to get her attention.

“Oh, Steve!” Robin looks up with a blush, quickly accepting the beers, passing one to Fiona. “Thanks!”

“Yeah, sure. Hey, is it cool with you if I jet? You guys are free to come with or I’m sure Fiona can get you a lift home?” Steve bobs awkwardly from foot to foot.

Robin gives him a critical look, concern etched in the furrow of her brow. “You, okay?”

“Yeah, just not feeling this,” he gestures around them, “tonight.”

Fiona nods. “I know. Jonsey said it was going to be a small party but this is such a mad crowd. But I’m cool to stay if you are, Robin?”

“I - “ Robin squints at Steve.

“No big,” he rushes to assure her. “I’ll call you tomorrow or something, okay?”

“Okay.” She stands up, wrapping him in a quick hug. “Everything’s cool though, right?”

“Promise.” He kisses the top of her head. “See you, Fiona.”

She waves to him.

Steve runs a hand through his hair, flashes a trademark smile at the two girls, and makes his escape.

Back home, his house still empty, Steve chucks his vest in the back of his closet and starfishes across his bed.

Steve knows what’s going on here. He’s seen the warning signs. He hasn’t fought particularly hard against it. Like, yeah, Billy is the first guy in real life that Steve has been attracted to. But Steve’s not having a heart attack or anything about that.

Paired with his poster of Heather Locklear - his mom is a big fan of Dynasty and Steve is a big fan of Locklear - Steve’s got a poster of Rob Lowe. Because Rob Lowe is hot as fuck and Steve is one hundred percent okay with wanting to lick Rob Lowe’s jawline.

So, yeah, being attracted to Billy is not that big of a deal to Steve. What is alarming, like red flashing lights and shrill alarms alarming, is that until tonight, Steve didn’t realize he cared who Billy was kissing. But, apparently, Steve wants to be the person Billy is kissing.

And that part, that is not okay. Having the hots for Rob Lowe or dorky Michael J. Fox is okay. Those feelings applied to Billy? Not okay. Least of all because Billy would probably fucking crush Steve’s nuts if he knew, but because Billy is not boyfriend material.

Billy is mean, crass, and a dickwad with a penchant for violence. Even if a totally different version of Billy emerges when he tutors Steve. It does not matter.

Because the way Billy looked through Steve tonight is the same way Nancy was looking through Steve near the end of their relationship. Steve knows he’s not really set up to be someone’s perfect boyfriend, but he has enough self respect to hold out for someone who is going to look at him like he’s the best thing that’s happened to them. The same way he knows he’ll look at them.

Which, means, really, that Steve is lucky he had his dramatic meltdown on Friday about his essay. Clearly, he can’t keep doing study sessions with Billy. He’ll do something stupid like blurt out - “we should kiss” and then he’ll have his front teeth knocked. And Steve likes his front teeth, they are crucial to his ‘aw shucks’ smile.

So, tomorrow, Steve will write his dumb essay, trying to do all those things Billy told him. He’ll ask Robin on Monday about the introduction and conclusion. He’ll tack those on. He’ll beg Robin to read over his essay. Then he’ll mail it into Shermer, most likely get rejected, then start working up the nerve to break the news to his dad.

Game, set, match.

Monday rears its ugly head with grey clouds and rain drops. Steve dodges out of the house to his car to avoid getting his hair wet, ignoring the distant shouts of his parents in yet another argument. Steve isn’t sure what the basis of this one is, but he thinks it has something to do with his mom wanting to get a poodle.

Steve’s honestly hoping his dad will win this fight because after the Demodogs, Steve doesn’t think he’s a dog person anymore. Maybe he can convince his mom to get a cat instead, if he starts leaving, like, cat brochures around the house or something.

In Sociology, Robin is doodling pictures of her and Fiona. Steve thinks there might be flower crowns involved. He grins. “Things went well, I see, since someone was too busy to take my call on Sunday.”

Robin drops her head back on his desk, staring up at him with love struck eyes. “Fiona is a goddess. You were so right.”

Steve allows himself to feel smug. “So what were you two up to yesterday?”

“We watched Dark Crystal.”

Steve’s expression flattens out. “Are you serious, Buckley? Are you fucking serious? Is this like a muppet fetish I need to know about?”

“What? No!” Robin cracks up, jerking up right and turning in her seat to better face Steve. “We both just like that movie. It was romantic actually.”

“Uh-huh,” Steve says suspiciously. Maybe it’s a lesbian thing he doesn’t get. Or a gay thing? Weren’t Bert and Ernie gay?

“Hello? Earth to Steve?” Robin taps her pencil against Steve’s slack cheek. “I asked how your essay is going?”

“Oh.” He shrugs and busies himself with getting out his textbook. “I wrote it or whatever. Maybe you can look it over for me today?”

She frowns. “What happened to Billy the Wonder Boy?”

“We completed our business transaction and now I am asking you, my very best friend, to help me finish the essay off?” He doesn’t want to explain about his melt down or his stupid crush.

She eyes him, mouth pinched to the side. “Right, I totally believe you aren’t hiding anything. But I can’t come over tonight. Fiona and I are going to Marley’s Shake Shack.” Her cheeks glow a soft pink.

Steve smirks. “Cuties.”

Robin bites her lips to keep from grinning too widely. “Tomorrow though, for sure, okay?”

“Definitely,” Steve agrees. And if waiting a day gets him off the hook for the first time in a week about obsessing over his essay, that’s not a bad thing.

Ten minutes into practice, Steve wants to fake an injury and head home for the day. Instead of sitting next to Tommy like he has always done, Billy takes a seat on the bench next to Steve. Like right next to him. Their thighs are touching. Steve is not okay with it.

He subtly scoots to the left. Billy copies the movement. “You left the party early,” Billy says, voice pitched low which adds a husky quality Steve never needed to know about.

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t really feeling it,” Steve says, unnerved that Billy even realized he was there on Saturday.

“Should have stayed. A group of us ended up playing spin the bottle.”

At this, Steve can’t help but turn and fix Billy with a disgruntled look. “I’m not exaggerating, but there is no one at that party I would have wanted to be forced to kiss.”

Billy licks slowly over his bottom lip and Steve wills his eyes to stay trained on Billy’s. “You sure about that, Harrington?”

Mercifully, before Steve can even begin to freak out about how to answer that, Coach Miller shouts for him. Steve spends the rest of the practice playing ‘dodge Billy’ by continually squashing himself in between two of his other teammates no matter how small the space on the bench is. It gets him bitched at, but it keeps him safe from Billy and his weird questions.

When practice is finished, Steve doesn’t even pretend to have any intentions of showering. He grabs his shit from his locker and beats a trail out to his car. And to think his day had been going along so peacefully.

At four thirty, Steve is lounging on a pool raft. Yes, it’s spring and technically he’s covered in goose-bumps, but the sun is out, it’s a rare sixty-five degrees out, and the pool is open. Steve’s dad has this weird thing about opening the pool at the start of March. So his pool is open and ready for Steve to float in it like he’s clinging to a raft in the Arctic ocean. One wrong move and Steve will be plunged into more or less icy depths.

Vaguely, he thinks he hears the doorbell. Which could mean the imminent arrival of his mother’s dreaded poodle. This provides Steve with zero reason to paddle to the edge of the pool and get out to answer the door. So instead, he closes his eyes behind the tinted lenses of his sunglasses and basks in the pale spring sunshine.

A few minutes later, a metallic rattling has Steve yanking off his shades and looking around desperately for a weapon, because clearly a Demogorgan is attempting to breach the metal fence Steve made his dad put in place around their property. Except a second later a denim jacket lands with a slap against the concrete deck of the pool and the next thing Steve knows, curly blonde hair pops up above the fencing.

“Hargrove?” Steve’s mouth drops open as he watches the other teenager nimbly climb the fence and drop down neatly near the top of the pool deck.

“The fuck, Harrington? You could have at least left the door unlocked,” Billy bitches. He tosses his sunglasses onto a pool chair where they are shortly followed by his black t-shirt.

Steve stares at the muscular planes of his chest, mouth still open. “What - what is happening right now?” Steve asks, desperately trying to rearrange his reality to fit the situation.

“Do you have shorts for me to borrow or are you down for me jumping in bare ass?” Billy’s hands go to the waist of his jeans.

Steve tumbles off the pool float, hisses as he hits the cold water, and flails his way to the surface where Billy is staring down at him incredulously.

“Do you actually know how to swim, Harrington? Or is this you asking me to teach you how to swim instead of how to write?”

Steve lunges for the pool ladder and heaves himself out of the water, teeth chattering. “Of course I can fucking swim, Billy. I just - whatever - “ Steve cuts himself short not wanting to admit that the thought of Billy pulling off his jeans and Steve getting a first hand look at his probably glorious dick was more than Steve’s brain could handle.

Billy looks at him for a beat and Steve can’t imagine what he’s seeing. Steve’s in good shape but he doesn’t look ready to pose for photoshoots like Billy does. It takes a few seconds but eventually Billy looks back at Steve’s face. “You didn’t tell me not to come, so I came.”

“It’s fine,” Steve says, figuring it wouldn’t hurt to have Billy look over his essay since he's apparently here anyway. “I’ve got some extra trunks in the bottom drawer of my dresser.”

“And you’re just trusting me to go through your things?”

Steve shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, what are you going to do? Steal my red pens and a shirt that won’t fit you anyway?”

Billy keeps standing there and Steve doesn’t know what else he wants, so he lets himself fall backwards into the pool, holding his breath at the last moment before the cold water pulls him under.

It takes a few minutes, during which Steve swims the length of the pool a couple times, before Billy arrives back at the pool's edge in Steve’s black swim trunks. Their snug at his waist, because Billy’s got a nicer ass than Steve, but otherwise they’re fine.

“Coming in?” Steve lifts an eyebrow as he treads water.

Billy flips him off before cannon balling dangerously close to Steve and splashing him directly in the face. Steve laughs, shaking his wet hair from his eyes. Billy breaks the surface, smiling bright enough to replace the sun. “Fuck, this water is cold!”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “Cold as fuck.”

Billy sighs contentedly, plunging back below the surface only to reappear at the other end of the pool. “It was like this in Cali in March too. My buddies and I would go down to catch some waves even knowing our skin would be blue by the time the sun went down.”

It occurs to Steve in this moment that as much of an asshat as Steve has built Billy up to be, he’s just as flesh and blood as Steve. With his own disappointments like being shipped off to Indianna with a replacement family.

“Are you going to go back in the summer?” Steve asks.

“To Cali?” Billy breast strokes toward Steve. “Nah, my old man wouldn’t allow it. He’s a hardass like that.”

“But, like, isn’t your mom there?” Steve gestures toward his own absentee mother in his house.

The corners of Billy’s lips pull down for the barest of moments. “My mom’s dead.”

“Oh, shit. Fuck. Sorry, man. I - I didn’t know,” Steve fumbles his way through the apology, feeling like an absolute asshole.

For his part, Billy lifts one golden shoulder in a shrug. “How would you? We aren’t friends. It’s not something I just go around advertising.”

Steve nods meekly. “Sure, but still . . .”

Billy rolls his eyes. “Don’t feel bad for me or I’ll fucking drown you in this pool, Harrington.” Steve scoffs offended, which must be the right reaction because Billy smirks. “But since you made me admit something personal, you’re turn. Are you fucking Robin Buckley?”

“What? No - I didn’t agree to that - And - Seriously? Robin? No - No I’m not -”

Billy grins. “Shit, Harrington, you’re cute as peaches when you get all flustered.”

“What does that even mean?” Steve splashes the water for emphasis, feeling completely off his game and like, when did Billy even get this close to him? There are barely three inches of cold water between them. Steve can literally see the droplets running down Billy’s frankly very lickable chest.

“God, you’re just so dumb, Steve,” Billy says, fingers bushing Steve’s waist under the water.

“Hey! No, I haven’t even said anything dumb yet and - “ Steve tries to back away but finds Billy’s hands gently bracketing his hips.

“See? You said yet, like you just fucking know you’re going to say something dumb and adorable.” Billy’s nose crinkles up as he smiles, now so close Steve is having trouble tracking the conversation, choosing instead to look at the water clinging to Billy’s eyelashes.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks, his hands winding around Billy’s neck without Steve’s permission.

“Well, pretty boy, I’m thinking of kissing you. Is that alright by you?” Billy tilts his head to the side, his beautiful ocean blue eyes taking measure of Steve.

“I saw you sucking face with Heather on Saturday,” Steve points out even as his fingers tangle in Billy’s wet curls.

“Duh, Steve. I made the world’s biggest show of making out with Heather to show you what you’re missing out on.” Billy edges his face closer, eyes dipping to Steve’s lips. “Did you like what you saw, pretty boy?”

“I fucking hated it,” Steve complains. “That’s why I left early.”

Billy pulls back abruptly, laughing. “No shit?”

Steve shakes his head. “No shit.”

“Damn. I really fucked that one up, huh?”

“So you’re not like, seeing her, or whatever?”

“Steve,” Billy sighs, digging his thumbs into Steve’s hips. “I have been trying to get you to make out with me since I started showing up here. I’m not seeing Heather or anyone else for that matter. I’ve been too busy trying to romance you with my particular type of charm to which you have proven impressively oblivious to.”

“Oh,” Steve says dumbly.

“Oh,” Billy agrees, grinning again. “Like I said, you’re a wonder.” He leans back in, his lips just brushing Steve’s as he whispers, “Kiss me?”

Steve wraps his legs around Billy’s waist so Billy can hold him up in the water. Then Steve goes about kissing the ever living hell out of Billy Hargrove. There’s no one to see them in the privacy of Steve's backyard and his mother hasn’t looked out a window since the gigantic television got installed.

Billy bites at his bottom lip and Steve pulls back in surprise. “Fuck,” Steve groans. “That’s hot.”

“Of course it is,” Billy drawls. “Everything about me is hot, Steve, don’t you know?”

“So much ego,” Steve chides, moving back in to kiss Billy into silence.

They don’t break apart until the need for air rivals the need to taste each other. Steve slides his legs back down to the tiled pool floor, but Billy keeps him close with both hands on Steve’s ass.

They take measure of each other for a long moment. “So, do I have to keep paying you for help with my essay?” Steve asks.

Billy tips his head back and laughs. Steve takes this opportunity to bite hungrily at the sharp hinges of his jaw. “No, pretty boy, you don’t have to pay me. But you do have to make-out with me after we’re done looking at it.”

“That can be arranged,” Steve says. He twines his fingers with Billy’s, pulling him toward the side of the pool. “But I’m really fucking cold. I think my dick’s going to freeze off any second.”

“Can’t let that happen,” Billy says, following Steve out of the pool.

They wrap up in towels and gather Billy’s clothes before heading up to Steve’s room.

“Did you really work on your essay this weekend?” Billy asks as he rummages through Steves’ drawers for clothing he is apparently planning to wear and steal.

“Uhm, yeah? I mean. I have to resubmit it next Friday, so . . .” Steve towels off his hair before pitching the towel into his laundry and changing into gym shorts and a t-shirt.

Billy settles himself on Steve’s bed, wearing a pair of Steve’s sweatpants and a random sleeveless shirt Steve doesn’t even remember owning. “Then let me take a look.” He holds out his hand.

Steve offers up the customary red pen along with his essay. He wavers at the edge of the bed, unsure if he should climb in or sit in his desk chair like normal. Billy decides for him, grabbing Steve’s forearm without looking up and hauling Steve onto the bed.

Steve grins, climbing over Billy before curling up next to him. Billy adjusts Steve to his liking, pulling one of Steve’s legs over his and then smooshing Steve’s face against his chest. He rests his right arm over Steve’s back, the essay held in his hand.

Steve thinks he could doze off from the warmth radiating off of Billy and his smooth even breathing. Instead, Steve is a wretched ball of anxiety over his essay proving once more to be garbage. But the few brain cells he can spare from worrying are really hyper aware of the fact that not only is Billy a secret dweeb, he’s also a secret cuddler.

Occasionally, Billy’s red pen scratches against Steve’s paper and Steve feels his chest tighten. He really, really wants this paper to be good. Not just okay, but good. He followed every guideline Billy gave and if just this once, Steve could be good at school, he would be forever grateful to the Academia Gods.

“Steve?” Billy sets down his pen and runs his fingers through Steve’s mostly dry hair.

Steve sits up to face the music. Nervously, he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and starts to chew at it. “How was it? I know the second paragraph probably wasn’t that strong, and I mean, it still needs the introduction and conclusion but -”

“How long did you work on this?” Billy asks instead of answering him.

“Oh. Uh, a couple hours. You know, so the handwriting was legible?” Steve makes a weird gesture with his hand to try and encompass the mess that is his typical writing.

Billy captures his wandering hand, linking their fingers together. “It’s good, babe.”

In any other circumstance, Steve would be caught up on Billy’s endearment. In this circumstance, he puckers his brow. “The handwriting?”

“The paper, pretty boy,” Billy teases. He smacks a kiss to Steve’s forehead. “Thank god you are so adorable.”

Steve stretches frantically over Billy and grabs the paper from the nightstand. He scans through the pages, finding all the places Billy’s red pen has touched it. For spelling errors, for different word choices, for changes to punctuation, but never once to scratch out an entire sentence let alone a paragraph.

“Holy shit! It’s actually good?”

“Yes, it is,” Billy praises.

In Steve's moment of complete distraction, Billy wrestles Steve back against the mattress. Steve's wrist end up caught in Billy’s hands, his hips bracketed by Billy’s thighs. In Steve’s right hand, he continues to clutch his ‘good’ essay.

Billy's shadowed eyes are dark blue as he looks intently down at Steve. “Now, I’m going to need you to really listen to me, pretty boy, okay? Listen and not talk.”

Steve nods, wanting to appease Billy so he can read his essay again, maybe bask in the after glow of not being a total fuck up for once. Billy must sense his lack of focus because he sucks a mean hickey against Steve’s lower neck.

“Billy,” Steve complains, shaking his head to try and escape the pressure of lips and teeth. Not that it doesn’t feel good, it feels fucking fantastic, but he doesn’t want to have to explain a hickey during locker room time at practice.

“Are you listening now?”

“Yes, you asshole.”

Billy smirks, tongue licking over his front teeth. He nips Steve’s neck one more time for good measure and then, weirdly, he grows serious. “You are not fucking dumb, Steve.”

That’s all he says. Steve stares at him. Waits for the but. Nothing happens.

He blinks up at Billy, with his very serious eyebrows and his very serious firm mouth. “Uhm, okay, like, you know I’m already down to be your boyfriend, so you don’t have to butter me up or anything.”

Billy pinches his eyes closed, breathing deeply through his nose like Steve is trying his patience. “Steve, you are not dumb, okay? You’re actually surprisingly smart for a guy who dated Nancy Wheeler.”

Steve blinks, rapidly this time. “Did you hit your head in the pool or something? Because, Billy, seriously, my report cards since elementary school would beg to differ with you. I get Cs when I’m working my butt off. Smart kids don’t get Cs.”

“Yeah, they do,” Billy counters with frankly far more sass than Steve thinks is strictly necessary. “My friend Diego? His mom took him to see some people and they found out he’s dyslexic. It’s when words don’t stay the right way on a page, your mind blanks on you when it comes to writing, it doesn’t matter how well you can explain it out loud, once it comes to paper and pencil everything falls apart, and your handwriting can be the fucking pits. Sound like anyone you know?”

“So what, you’re saying I’ve got like a special name for my particular brand of stupid?”

Billy growls. Again, different circumstances where he’s pinned to the bed with Billy stretched out on top of him, Steve would be hard as diamonds and ready to go. Right now though, he’s just confused.

“Steve, if you were stupid you would never have understood my baseball analogy. You wouldn’t use fancy vocabulary when you felt like it, and you wouldn’t care about putting so much effort into this essay to get into college. You’re smart and whoever made you think you were dumb should be fucking hung by their balls.” Billy's looking at Steve like the most important thing to him, in this moment, is that Steve believes him.

And just like that, Steve Harrington falls in love with Billy Hargrove.

“Don’t sit with Tommy at lunch."

Billy takes his turn at blinking. “Because he always smells like salami?”

“True, but no. Eat with me at lunch. Sit with me on the bench at practice. Hog the shower next to mine in the locker room. Keep coming over after school. Invite me to your place. Make a fucking scene of shoving your tongue down my throat at the next party.”

Billy tilts his face down to ghost his lips up Steve’s neck, stopping when he is breathing against Steve’s ear. “If I do that, I’m never letting you go, Harrington. Is that something you’re up for?”

“Billy, I showed you my fuck-up essay. I’ve been yours since you showed up and tried to say hi to my shitshow of a mother.”

Billy huffs a laugh, his breath a warm press against Steve’s temples. “I’ve still got to be home at five thirty today. Want to trade hand jobs before I have to jet?”

Steve drops his essay carefully to the carpet. “Introduction and conclusion tomorrow?”

“Uh-huh,” Billy promises, already tugging up the hem of Steve’s t-shirt. “God, you are so fucking gorgeous, pretty boy.”

Coming from Billy's mouth, Steve feels like a fucking Playboy center fold. And suddenly, Steve desperately needs Billy to know how Steve sees him.

"Jesus, Billy, you’re like a fucking underwear model, every wet dream I’ve ever had, the be all and end all of hottness in Hawkins,” Steve babbles, finally getting to run his hands all over Billy’s perfect body, albeit under his shirt.

Billy mixes kisses with laughter as he eases Steve’s shirt over his head. “You’re such a fucking wonder.” The shirt pulls back against his hair and Steve feels it when Billy hesitates.

Steve slips the shirt the rest of the way off and looks up at Billy. “It scarred,” he says.

“I was an asshole.”

“You were,” Steve agrees.

“I was mad. At my dad. My home life is actually way more fucked up than yours.” Billy tracks his eyes down to Steve’s. “I’ll get mad again.”

“Then I’ll take you to Hawkins’ posh driving range and you can whack the shit out of some golf balls instead of smashing plates.” Steve slowly pulls Billy’s borrowed shirt up and over his head. He meets Billy’s gaze before dipping his head and slowly kissing his way up from Billy’s chest.

“See,” Billy says, in the softest voice Steve has ever heard him use, “you’re fucking brilliant, pretty boy.”

Steve smiles as he presses a kiss over Billy’s heart.