Chapter Text
December 21st, 1984
“Good luck,” Steve says as he clasps hands with Dustin, who gives him an affirmative little nod in return before he slips out the passenger-side door. God knows he probably needs it after Steve personally coached him on how to style his hair and talk to girls — because it isn’t like Steve is some kind of authority on women, or like his advice is even any good anymore.
As if right on cue, Steve catches sight of Nancy through the window while he’s watching Dustin step through the front doors to the Snow Ball. She’s all dolled up for the evening, her hair piled on top of her head in tight curls, and she’s laughing with someone. Even from profile, Steve can see the way her smile lights up her face and her eyes crinkle at the corners. She looks happy.
Because of course she is.
Steve feels like his heart has dropped into the pit of his stomach. Like the last two months of trying to forget about her have been all for nothing.
Bitterness wells up in the back of his throat. He rolls his eyes at himself, shifts off the brake, and drives away from the parking lot of Hawkins Middle School before anyone can catch him staring.
‘Pretend like I don’t care’. Right.
What a fucking joke.
*
Lover’s Lake is so utterly still tonight that it looks frozen, its mirror-like surface reflecting the pale glow of the waning moon and the faint pinpricks of starlight that dot the velvet black sky. It’s the kind of scene that might have struck Steve as peaceful, maybe even pretty, if not for the dull ache in his chest and the unease itching at the nape of his neck.
The thing is, Nancy Wheeler isn’t all that Steve’s been trying to forget.
It’s as if he’d made some kind of involuntary association between Nancy and everything he’s been carefully bottling up since last summer, when he first came face-to-face with a living nightmare. Or maybe it’s harder to pretend like he has everything under control when there’s no one around to play tough for. Since his fall from popularity, Steve has lost his captive audience, his so-called friends, and his girlfriend. All that he has left now is— what? A thirteen year old kid who looks up to him for some reason?
He’s alone, in other words. It’s exactly what Steve has been trying to avoid — desperately, once upon a time. Everything’s just so backwards these days. Steve’s still trying to recalibrate, like maybe he can get back to something resembling normalcy, like maybe it’s hidden just around the corner and all he has to do is keep moving forward, but he feels so—
Stuck. Stuck on Nancy Wheeler. Stuck on that feeling that there’s still danger lurking in the dark.
It’s driving Steve fucking crazy.
It might explain why he’s here: Lover’s Lake, after dark, sitting in his car and staring at a familiar navy blue Camaro parked beside a tree not fifty feet away. Steve thinks he can see a single silhouette in the driver’s seat, but can’t make out any details besides, and he isn’t sure why that leaves him more nervous than he would have been if he’d stumbled across Billy Hargrove fooling around with a girl.
It’s probably because this means he has no good excuses to not follow through with what he’s come here for.
Either way, it’s stupid — that he’s anxious, that he bothered to come, that Tommy couldn’t just sell him the damn weed himself. He’d told Steve when and where to find Hawkins’ only dealer (doubtful, Steve’s reasonably sure that Tommy is full of shit), likely assuming that Steve isn’t going to go out of his way to have any encounters with Billy that he can otherwise avoid.
And he’d have been right, except that Steve has reached some kind of tipping point tonight. He’s ready for something, and whether it’s a buzz, or a distraction, or a kick in the teeth, at least it beats wallowing alone in his parents’ empty house all night.
Or, Steve figures it should. He isn’t actually sure what to expect. Billy Hargrove hasn’t hassled him since their show-down at the Byers’ house. Either Max’s threats of unholy retribution had sent him running off with his tail between his legs, or Billy had gotten all his pent-up aggression out on Steve’s face and just doesn’t give a shit about harassing him anymore.
It’s been a nice change, if a little jarring. Steve hadn’t expected the cool reception during their subsequent basketball practices, nor had he anticipated that Billy would more or less ignore if not outright avoid him. He’s thankful for it. After all the shit he’s had to deal with these past couple months, the last thing Steve needs is for Billy to continually find new and inventive ways to push him around at every opportunity.
Coming to him might very well be asking for it, though; Steve doubts that Billy is any less of a raging asshole just because his fire has turned to ice.
Not like Steve’s frightened of him — how could he be? He’s fought a fucking Demogorgon.
Still, he wonders if maybe he should be grabbing the studded baseball bat he keeps hidden in his trunk when he steps out into the chilled night. It’s not so much because he thinks Billy might jump him and steal his wallet, it’s because he can’t stop noticing how the tree branches look like twisted claws, or how the beam of Billy’s headlights catches on the grass and casts elongated shadows across the ground that resemble discorporated tendrils.
Steve’s hands are balled into fists at his sides by the time he reaches the Camaro, and for a moment he’s frozen there for reasons aside from the frigid bite of the night air. It’s almost a good thing that the window is still shut, because it means Steve can forget his apprehension long enough to feel a jolt of annoyance.
He raps at the driver side window more forcibly than he has to, and can’t help but feel surprised when it immediately rolls down.
Billy isn’t looking at him.
There’s an unlit cigarette loosely dangling from between his lips, and for a long moment he doesn’t so much as grace Steve with a sidelong glance, staring straight ahead with both hands on the steering wheel like there’s something more interesting to look at between the unstirring lake and the dark tree line beyond the windshield. There isn’t, and they both know this, but apparently Billy’s cool treatment transcends any real rhyme or reason, because for a long moment he acts like Steve isn’t even there.
It takes Steve clearing his throat — which he does after a moment spent wondering if this is even worth it (he thinks it probably isn’t, but then again, neither are the sleepless nights and the constant, furtive glances over his shoulder every time he’s startled) before Billy finally acknowledges him. His eyes dart out the open window, scan Steve up and down, and then settle straight ahead again to stare at something in the middle distance.
There’s another long beat of silence before Billy reaches for his cigarette and plucks it out of his mouth.
“The hell you want, Harrington?”
He sounds about as tired as Steve feels and just as wary, like he thinks that someone’s going to come after him for talking to Steve after dark; this despite the fact that anyone who might have beef with him is currently at the Snow Ball.
Steve isn’t sure how to feel about that. On the one hand, it’s been nice being left alone. On the other, though: the reason it’s even like this is because Billy’s thirteen-year old sister drugged and threatened him. It doesn’t quite sit right with Steve that his knight in shining armor is some teenage pipsqueak — one that doesn’t even have superpowers.
He should probably be grateful; if that fight had lasted any longer, he would’ve gotten out with much worse than a busted face and a minor concussion.
And now he’s trying to buy weed off the guy.
This is so fucking stupid.
“Tommy told me you were selling,” Steve manages to dislodge the words from behind his teeth where they’d been stubbornly sticking for the past three seconds. Restless, he shoves his fists into his jacket pocket to keep them away from the stinging chill. It’s freezing out tonight; Steve can see the puffs of his breath hanging in the air with every exhale as he waits impatiently for what he thinks is inevitable.
Billy is going to tell him to fuck off. Steve can practically feel it festering in the icy silence that passes between them. Billy isn’t going to sell him anything, either because he isn’t actually selling or he just isn’t selling to Steve, and that will be that. Steve will storm off, pride stinging and nerves frayed, and he’ll be back to square one: stealing booze from his parents’ liquor cabinet and wishing he hadn’t burned through his last pack of Marlboro Reds.
So, Steve isn’t sure what to make of it when Billy rolls his head to the side to level him with an appraising look, like he’s trying to figure out if Steve is worth his time. He looks Steve top to bottom again, contemplative, and maybe he thinks that he can upcharge Steve, or maybe tonight’s slow and he’s desperate for buyers, because he finally sits up straighter and unlocks the passenger door.
Steve stares at him, frowning in bewilderment — why the hell would Billy unlock his door if all he intends to do is sell him some weed? — when Billy lets out a put-upon sigh and gives him an eye-roll so precise that Steve can’t help but wonder how often it’s been practiced.
“Get in the car, dipshit,” Billy drawls. Then, before Steve can get a word in edgewise, he rolls the window back up. Steve is left staring and indignant; he wonders, not for the first time, if he should cut his losses and get the hell out of here while he still has the chance.
Steve isn’t sure what compels him to instead walk around to the other side of the Camaro. It’s like his body’s moving on autopilot when he swings open the unlocked passenger-side door and ducks inside, slamming it shut behind him.
Of all the many stupid and impulsive things Steve has done in his life, getting into Billy Hargrove’s car has to rank high among them.
They’re alone now. Well, they’d been alone before, but now they’re sharing the same cramped space and breathing the same air. It smells like cigarettes and weed in Billy’s car, neither of which is masked by the pine-shaped air freshener that dangles from the rearview mirror, or the spicy scent of what Steve assumes is Billy’s aftershave clinging to the interior. It feels so surreal, like maybe this is some kind of implausible fever dream. Never in a million years did Steve think he’d be willingly interacting with Billy Hargrove again.
Steve also never thought he’d ever have to defend himself and a gaggle of children from extra-dimensional monsters, though, so.
“Is this necessary?” he asks, too uneasy to suffer another stretch of uncomfortable silence. At least Billy’s left the heat blasting; Steve takes the opportunity to pull his hands out of his pockets and warm them in front of one of the vents. “I just want to buy some weed, man.”
Billy looks at him like he's stupid, like maybe he’s about to change his mind and kick Steve out of the car. It also kind of looks like Billy wants to punch him. Steve's put himself in the perfect position for it, so he can’t help the way he flinches when Billy reaches across him to the glove compartment to fish out a disposable lighter.
"If you're not selling, then—"
"I am," Billy brusquely cuts him off as he lights his cigarette, takes a deep drag, and exhales a thick cloud of smoke and particulate. Steve jealously watches him, craving the buzz of nicotine — or anything, really, that might keep his hands and thoughts occupied.
"I'm just trying to figure out—" Billy starts saying, pausing to tap his ashes out the driver-side window he has cracked open a half-inch while the thumb of his free hand drums out an idle, agitated beat against the steering wheel "—what kind of honest-to-god dumbass walks up to someone's car and tries to buy pot like they're at the drive-through."
It’s the condescension in Billy’s tone that sets Steve off. He says it so derisively, with a nasty sneer in his voice that cuts through his otherwise impenetrable cool. He’s talking down to Steve, and whether it’s because Billy just thinks that highly of himself, or because he thinks so little of Steve, it’s infuriating.
Coming here was a bad idea.
"You know what?" Steve's already red-faced, having gone from zero to irritated in no time at all. Why did he think Billy was going to sell him anything? Of course he wouldn’t. This had all been just some clever ploy to humiliate Steve, and Steve had willingly, foolishly, waltzed right into it.
"If you're not gonna sell to me, then fuck this," he snaps, already reaching for the door like he can maybe save some face if he dips out of here fast enough. The lock clicks down before he can, and for a moment Steve’s stuck yanking on the handle like an idiot.
He can feel Billy watching him as he struggles with the powerlock, but it isn’t until Steve wrenches it open and has one foot out the door that he finally pipes up again.
“How much you looking to buy, Harrington?”
Steve pauses. He considers, for a moment, telling Billy where he can stick his weed, because he's still running hot, tempered by the humiliation and anxiety that have left him bristling. Billy looks cool as ever when Steve shoots a glance his way, and even that agitates him.
Then again, he's already come this far; to go home empty-handed at this point would be like rubbing salt in the wound. Steve might as well commit and get this over with if Billy's intention is just to fuck with him.
He mulls it over for a second, the warmth of Billy's car at his back, the frigid night air nipping at his front. Fuck Tommy, honestly. He knew he was Steve's only hook-up, that Steve's never actually bought weed before, and that he doesn't actually know the first thing about how much to buy or what it costs because he's only ever bummed joints in exchange for cigarettes.
It's ultimately the cold that prompts Steve to drop back into the passenger seat and shut the car door behind him. He figures that if he’s going to continue having this conversation, he might as well be warm.
"I don't know," Steve says at length, digging a leather wallet out of his jacket pocket. "What would fifty bucks get me?"
Billy's brows hike up his forehead. For the first time since the start of their chat, Steve feels like he has Billy's undivided attention. He can't decide if that's better or worse; the full force of Billy's stare has him trying not to squirm and makes him think that he's said something wrong, or stupid, or both.
But he’s already committed with a fifty dollar bill fished out of his wallet and held between them like some sort of peace offering, or an olive branch extended in exchange for weed that Steve doesn’t really want so much as he feels like he needs to help soothe some of the nightmares.
Billy glances at the bill, then back up at him, mouth pursed in a thin, contemplative line. The seconds stretch between them before he seems to come to a decision and answers:
“Fifty’ll get you a quarter.”
‘A quarter of what?’ Steve wants to ask, but thankfully he manages to bite his tongue before he can get the words out. He's pretty sure it's a stupid question.
It sounds like too much money for very little product, but what the hell does Steve know, anyway? Billy’s expression betrays nothing, and even if he is upcharging, there’s nothing Steve can really do about it. It’s either this or trying to hit Tommy up again, and that had worked out so well the last time.
Steve chews on his bottom lip while he thinks about it, as if he doesn’t already know what his answer is going to be, before he thrusts the wrinkled fifty toward Billy.
“Yeah, fine. A quarter.”
He thinks he can see a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of Billy’s pink lips when he snatches the proffered bill. Steve imagines it’s amusement, probably at his expense. He wonders if maybe this is where Billy really does kick him out of the Camaro, out fifty bucks with nothing to show for it.
At least Billy doesn’t leave him wondering for long. He shoves the bill into the pocket of his leather jacket — which is about as appropriate for the winter weather as his unbuttoned shirt — and reaches between his thighs to grab at something beneath the driver’s seat. Steve watches as he sits back up with a crumpled paper bag. He’s only sort of surprised that, rather than pulling out a switchblade (or a middle finger), Billy’s grabbing little plastic dime bags one at a time. He stops when he’s counted seven, reaching over to unceremoniously drop the fistful of baggies onto Steve’s lap.
Which — alright, yeah, this is going better than Steve figured it would, even if he’s having to scramble to collect the plastic wrapped buds before they can slip between the seat. He hadn’t been too optimistic about getting what he’d actually come here for, so the fact that he’s not going to be leaving empty-handed is something of a relief.
There’s just one small hitch.
“Is this really a quarter?” Steve asks, staring dubiously at his purchase; he’s counted twice, and there’s definitely seven dime bags, but he can’t reconcile the number in his head. Maybe he should have clarified what he’s getting a quarter of, after all. It certainly isn’t a quarter pound, which may or may not have been where Steve’s mind had initially gone.
“It doesn’t look like a whole lot.”
"How much did you expect it to look like?" Billy says, the beginnings of an irritated scowl tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Steve turns one of the bags over in his hand and counts them all again, inspecting the contents with a furrow creasing his brow. The little green chunks of dried-up leaves look nothing like what he'd seen Tommy pack into a spliff before. They're too big, for one, and Steve has a sinking feeling that there are steps between acquiring weed and actually smoking it that he is sorely uninformed of.
Billy seems to catch on to his bewilderment before Steve can try to play it cool or hastily take his leave, though. He heaves an exaggerated sigh of frustration, like he can’t believe he’s having to explain this.
"It's a quarter of an ounce, Harrington,” Billy tells him, like it’s the most obvious thing in the whole damn world. “Seven grams, seven bags. Don't tell me you smoke enough to need more."
Billy’s tone of voice has Steve bristling again, and he almost snaps at him, almost tells Billy that it isn't his fucking business how much he does or doesn't smoke. Then again, this is the most he's gotten in terms of an explanation, and at least it helps clarify things. Somewhat.
Fifty bucks for a quarter of an ounce still seems like a rip-off, though.
"It’s fine," Steve says tersely, beginning to stuff the baggies into his coat pocket one by one. Maybe now that he actually has some weed, Tommy will do him a solid and explain the rest. Barring that, Steve could just go back to bumming cigarettes and whiskey from his dad's stash. It's not like either of his parents have realized yet, too busy with their respective jobs and everything else to notice when their things go missing.
"Keep that shit in a mason jar and out of the sun." Billy’s voice cuts through his thoughts, and even if he sounds patronizing, he’s giving what seems like reasonable advice.
Steve jerks his head in a sharp nod, then makes the mistake of opening his mouth again.
"Uh, why?" he asks before he can stop himself. He isn’t sure why he’s bothering with the question, or why Billy still hasn’t told him to get out. Or, more importantly, why he hasn’t already left.
Steve has a feeling it’s because he’s kind of lonely, which has to be the most pathetic excuse to keep this conversation going. Spending the night chatting about weed with Billy Hargrove isn’t Steve’s idea of a good time. Nor does it sound like the best way to distract from the fact that Nancy's fucking Jonathan, or that Steve’s parents are gone on some holiday business trip again, or that his only real friend isn’t even old enough to drive.
It’s almost a relief when Billy speaks up again, cutting through Steve’s troubled thoughts like a jackknife.
"’Cause it'll dry out and lose potency faster if you don’t.”
It’s weird that Billy is giving him answers. He must be bored, or he’s having a slow night, or something, because when he’s done blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth and tapping ash out of the window, Billy actually takes the time to elaborate with more than just a snide remark. "And use a decent grinder. Don't just crush it with your fingers, or whatever the hell it is you do."
"Grinder. Right.” Steve hadn’t actually considered how he's going to crumble his weed up. In fact, he isn’t even sure he knows what a grinder is. It’s only because Billy has been unexpectedly helpful so far that Steve ventures to ask: "So... where do I get one of those?"
Billy shrugs his shoulders.
“From a head shop in Los Angeles.”
Steve isn’t sure if he’s going to just leave it at that. It already sounds like Billy’s patience is thin enough to snap, or like Steve’s asked him something exceptionally stupid. Maybe he has. Tommy never used a grinder.
Billy reaches past him and digs into the glove compartment to fish out a round metal tin, showing it off with a totally unnecessary flourish.
“You’re not gonna find any around here, dipshit,” Billy says with a derisive snort. “Small town in the middle of bumfuck nowhere? I’m surprised you even know what weed is.”
Steve can feel his annoyance simmer, but he thinks he does a better job of hiding it, this time.
“What else do you think we do for fun around here?” He rolls his eyes; he’s never considered himself to be much of a country bumpkin, but Billy’s so aggressively city boy it’s kind of ridiculous.
“Anyway, could I—” he gestures toward the silver grinder Billy’s still got in his hand. “I dunno, do you have one I could buy off you, or something?”
"Yeah, ‘cause I have a stash of these along with everything else." Billy has this infuriating way of making everything he says sound like an insult. Steve tenses at his tone, ready to snap something in response when Billy thrusts a hand out towards him.
"Give me one of those bags," he orders, palm open and waiting until Steve catches on and — though he isn’t really sure why — fishes a baggie out of his pocket to hand it over. "Do you even know how to use a grinder, Harrington? Ever rolled a joint before?"
‘No’ is the obvious answer, but Steve doesn’t want to admit it outright.
“You gonna show me?” he asks instead, like he’s issuing a challenge. Maybe it isn’t wise to get all snarky with Billy now, but Steve is too annoyed to help himself. “Bet you Californians do it different.”
Like better, maybe, at least according to Billy; Steve has overheard him countless times during and outside of practices, touting how inferior Hawkins is compared to his hometown back in the sunshine state. It’s gotten stale, honestly.
"Bet you don't even know how to," Billy fires back in that mocking tone of his, but he doesn’t wait for Steve to protest or try to prove him wrong. Instead, he’s opening up the baggie and unscrewing the lid of his grinder to reveal an intersecting pattern of small, metal teeth in the lid and the main chamber. Steve watches with mild interest as Billy carefully pinches off little pieces of the nug, drops them in, sets the lid back on, then gives it a few perfunctory twists.
The whole exercise seems kind of tedious, especially since Steve still doesn't know if Billy has a spare grinder or if he's going to be willing to sell one to him. Clearly money is no object, but Steve wouldn't put it past Billy to be an asshole on principle.
Still, he watches as Billy checks the chamber and retwists the cap a couple more times before, seemingly satisfied, he unscrews a third chamber from the bottom, revealing a small dish full of ground up weed that is much more reminiscent of the stuff that Steve has seen Tommy use. It's way more pungent, though; the smell hits Steve like a ton of bricks, strong enough to make his nose wrinkle in surprise.
"Dunno what kind of shit you get out here," Billy says, apparently noticing Steve's reaction, "but it’s got nothing on Cali kush."
That’s entirely possible, Steve thinks; there’s got to be a reason why the hippies like California so much.
But he doesn’t want to give Billy the satisfaction of agreeing with him, and he isn’t exactly a weed connoisseur, so Steve keeps his mouth shut. He watches Billy quietly, taking mental notes of all the steps he’s taking to roll up a joint. He’s got a cardboard packet of tobacco rolling papers in his hand — those, at least, Steve recognizes — and he’s dumping half the contents of the grinder onto the crease. There’s nothing instructive about it; Billy is going so fast, like this is so easy he could do it in his sleep. With one hand, he’s rolling the paper with his thumb until it forms a tight cylinder, then he’s bringing it to his lips.
Steve isn’t sure why Billy chooses that moment to make eye contact. Or why there’s anything slightly uncomfortable about the way Billy’s tongue licks all the way along the adhesive edge of the paper. Maybe it’s because Billy stares at Steve during, as if he’s challenging him to keep watching. It’s no less weird than all the other times Billy has stuck his stupid tongue out like he can’t keep it in his mouth while maintaing intense eye contact, but Steve still struggles to keep from squirming in his seat.
He manages to resist the urge to roll his eyes and look away, at least, and thankfully the moment ends as quickly as it began.
“There. See? That’s how it’s done,” Billy says, giving the open end of the joint a twist and holding it up demonstratively.
“Great.” Steve doesn’t sound impressed at all. He kind of is, because he doubts he’s going to be able to perfectly replicate with two hands what Billy so easily did with one, but he’s not about to stroke this douchebag’s ego.
With the lesson over, Steve reaches for the joint pinched between Billy’s fingers, only to swipe at thin air when it's pulled out of reach.
“What the hell? I paid for that!”
"Consider it idiot tax," Billy sneers. Before Steve can stretch across the console to snatch the joint back (or maybe punch him, he hasn't decided yet), Billy brings it to his mouth and clicks on a lighter, igniting the tip of the paper with a deep inhale.
Immediately, the potent smell of it permeates the cramped air between them. It's sweet and a little fruity — definitely nothing like the stench of tobacco mixed with skunk that Steve's used to.
Billy holds the smoke in his lungs, purses his lips, and exhales several perfectly-formed smoke rings directly at Steve's face. That’s kind of impressive, too, but Steve’s glower betrays nothing as he flaps his hand through the air in front of him to dissipate the last of the stale puffs of smoke. Billy is grinning at him in that self-satisfied way that never ceases to get on Steve’s nerves. Like Billy thinks he won.
Steve realizes he should take this as his cue to leave, but it turns out he’s still got a wicked competitive streak, and Billy has an uncanny ability to get under his skin.
“Are you gonna at least let me sample the product?” he says, watching irately as the tip of the joint glows bright again. “I gotta make sure you aren’t selling me oregano.”
"Don’t think you'd be able to tell the difference," Billy drawls, but he still offers the blunt to Steve after taking another quick puff. Steve is surprised by that, and by the way Billy doesn’t hold it out of reach when he moves to take the joint from Billy’s outstretched hand. Without quite making eye contact, Steve presses the end between his lips and takes a long hit.
It isn’t until the smoke hits his lungs that Steve realizes, belatedly, that Billy wasn’t exaggerating: this shit is strong.
It burns all the way down when he breathes it in, sitting heavy in his chest and leaving his throat feeling sore and scratchy. When Steve exhales, it's with a hacking cough he can't hold back, tears springing to his eyes as he beats a fist against his chest and tries to catch his breath.
His head is already starting to spin, not just from the lack of air. He can feel the buzz draping over him like a warm blanket, and he’s still coughing by the time he feels Billy take the joint away from him. Steve is pretty sure he’s high already; he’s rocking back and forth a little in the passenger seat as he finally manages to breathe normally again, and the world has gone hazy around the edges.
Billy laughs. It's sharp and mocking in a way that would make Steve's skin crawl with embarrassment and anger if he wasn't busy trying to clear the burn in his throat. Billy takes the blunt back for another hit while Steve sniffs and blinks the tears from his eyes.
"Well, don't fucking cry about it, pussy,” Billy scoffs through a cloud of smoke. Steve's head is swimming and his body feels loose and heavy, but he still manages to scowl at Billy, squinting past the moisture stinging the corners of his eyes. He furiously blinks it away, snatches back the joint from Billy’s loose fingers, then brings it back to his mouth. It’s stupid, because he was just coughing his lungs out, but Steve takes another drag like he’s got something to prove.
If the first hit had knocked him into the atmosphere, the second sends him out of orbit and hurtling to some distant planet — like, Pluto, or something. He feels so fucking high. Kind of too high, honestly. He probably shouldn’t have taken another toke so soon.
Overwhelmed, Steve curls in on himself, elbows braced against his knees, face buried in the crook of his elbow as he breaks down into another coughing fit. His head is spinning. He thinks he hears Billy say something — he’s probably making fun of him — and feels the joint disappear from between his fingers.
It’s either because Steve is stoned or because Billy has turned the volume up, but the quiet backdrop of music gets a little louder. Steve is grateful for it. He needs something to focus on as he tries to level out, chest rattling with an intermittent cough. It feels like he’s there for a while, hunched forward, swaying absently because he can’t stay still.
When he can breathe again, Steve subtly wipes his eyes dry and sits up, sinking back against his seat and listening to the leather creak. He dares to look over at Billy. Steve can’t tell if he’s just really fucking high, or if Billy’s eyes have always been that goddamn blue. The seconds stretch into infinity and neither of them break eye contact, caught in a staring contest that Steve thinks he’s won when Billy finally looks away, peering out the windshield and out over the lake.
They sit like that for a while, without any exchange of words — it’s not like they have anything to actually talk about. That’s fine by Steve, because now that he isn’t hacking he feels kind of good, content to just exist in the moment.
Steve slowly sinks into the music playing through Billy's car radio. It crests over him like a wave and pulls him down deep like an undertow. With his head light and the air thick and soupy, every swell of sound, every crooning vocal, sends pleasant vibrations ringing from the crown of his head to the rest of his body. He’s not usually into rock music — Steve prefers something with a beat, something he can dance to — but he thinks he could listen to anything right now and it would sound amazing
He zones out for some indefinable stretch of time; Steve can’t tell where one song starts and another ends, they all flow into one another as one delirious stretch of thunderous treble and screeching guitar solos. The mix tape — or the radio, Steve isn’t actually sure what Billy's playing — has cut to something slower by the time he tunes in again. He thinks he recognizes the song, or maybe he’s just vibing with the sentiment behind those melancholy vocals.
When the chorus hits, Steve is immediately transported back to last spring’s senior dance. He had taken Nancy, because they were still together at that point. She had done her hair up the same way he’d seen it earlier tonight, all curled and fluffed with hairspray. He remembers vividly just how pretty she looked, staring up at him with a coy smile as they slow-danced to this very same song.
Steve recognizes it, now — I Want To Know What Love Is by Foreigner — and he doesn’t fail to see the irony.
It’s probably just because he’s stoned, but Steve can’t help but crack up. His laugh sounds a little manic, a little out of it, which is really only fitting: Steve feels out of it. He can't shake the feeling that he’s stepped into an alternate reality, or some sort of diverging timeline, and it all started when he first sat down in the passenger seat of Billy Hargrove’s car looking to buy some weed.
If anything, the sense of unreality has grown since then, either spurred by Steve’s stoned mind or by the non-hostile silence that has settled over the two of them.
Billy had kicked the ever-loving shit out of him not two months ago, yet here Steve is, getting high off his ass with him and listening to rock power ballads while he reminisces about Nancy Wheeler.
If there’s a punchline to this joke, Steve doesn’t get it. But that doesn’t stop him from laughing.
Steve’s laugh is apparently contagious, because it isn’t long before Billy’s grinning, then snorting out something that sounds half-amused, half-mad.
“You’re a fucking lightweight, Harrington,” he accuses, like that even matters. Steve is helpless to do anything but laugh again, throwing his head back against the cushion and giggling until he can’t breathe, until every inhale is a struggle and he has to clutch his stomach just to keep himself from coming apart at the seams. He can’t remember the last time he felt this giddy. He hasn’t had a reason to be in a long time — not since his life got thrown on its head two years prior and certainly not since Nancy dumped him.
But right now he can’t stop laughing, tears nearly streaming down his cheeks, with Billy Hargrove to his left and the cab of the Camaro thick with smoke. It stings his eyes a little and makes him fight back another cough. When Steve holds his hand out for the rest of the joint, Billy doesn’t even needle him about it. Maybe he thinks Steve’s reaction to the weed is funny enough on its own without teasing him. Maybe stoned Billy is slightly less of a bastard.
Whatever his reasons, Billy passes the joint over and Steve takes it and sucks in another deep drag. It’s probably a mistake — he’s starting to feel a little untethered, like he might just float out of his body and out of the car and out of Hawkins completely — but it wouldn’t be polite to leave the joint unfinished and he doesn’t want Billy to think he can’t handle his buzz.
Not that it really matters what Billy thinks.
When Steve takes a puff and passes it back, Billy finishes the rest and rolls down the window to toss the filter out. Then he’s sprawling over his seat with his legs spread on either side of the steering wheel and his head tipped back. He looks loose and relaxed in a way Steve has never seen before. It’s weird. And kind of a nice change.
“'S good shit,” Billy says after another long stretch of comfortable silence, like that hasn't already been made abundantly clear by the way Steve is smiling dopily at nothing whatsoever.
Steve bobs his head in silent agreement; it’s hard to argue with how good it is when he feels like he’s a thousand miles away, detached from every problem and every fear he’s ever had. The music washes over him, the smoke makes funny shapes in front of his eyes, and Billy looks the calmest Steve’s ever seen when he peeks over to check on him.
It’s almost amicable between them. As much as it can be, anyway, for two people who aren’t friends and don’t even like each other.
Weed’s one hell of a drug, Steve thinks, letting out another drowsy giggle.
“Is this why everyone in California always looks so happy?” Steve asks, too comfortable to put a filter on the words that leave his lips. He’d been content with the silence, but once he starts talking he has a hard time reigning it back in. “You all just get high on the beach every day?”
Steve wishes that’s where he was right now: somewhere warm and sunny. It doesn’t have to be California, but the morning frost has got him jonesing for the summer heat and some sand between his toes.
He wonders if he’d tan half as well as Billy does. Wonders, for that matter, how Billy has managed to stay tan in cool and overcast Indiana.
Billy takes his time to answer, like he’s actually thinking about the question. When the silence stretches for too long, Steve thinks he might not answer at all.
“They’re happy knowing they aren't in this backwoods shit hole,” is what Billy settles on. Steve gets the impression that it’s not what Billy actually wanted to say.
That doesn’t stop his hackles from raising, even though he’d be the first to admit he doesn’t care much for Hawkins. Not before, when he’d been young and restless and easily bored by the minutiae of a small town, and definitely not now. Not with literal monsters around every corner, nor the constant reminders that the only girl he’s ever loved doesn't love him anymore following him everywhere he goes.
“Then why don’t you go back, if you miss it so damn much?” Steve scoffs. He wonders — not for the first time that night — if Billy’s gonna punch him for it.
He looks ready to, at any rate, even if all he’s doing is sneering over at Steve.
“I’m gonna, dipshit.”
And that’s that, really. Billy doesn’t elaborate and Steve doesn’t ask him how he plans to. Maybe he’ll just drive back to the west coast one of these days — tear out in his Camaro and off into the sunset, never to be seen again.
Steve isn’t sure why the thought sits a little weird in his gut.
Actually, come to think of it, that might just be because his stomach’s growling.
Steve’s abruptly aware of the fact that he’s starving. He’s a little thirsty, too — his mouth feels pasty, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He’s not sure why it’s the first thing that pops into his head, but Steve could really go for chicken nuggets.
Well, shit. Now that he’s thinking about it, he can’t seem to stop.
“It’s not all bad here,” he says; he’s not sure why he does. It feels like his stomach has taken control of his tongue. “At least we’ve got a twenty-four seven McDonald’s.”
Steve peers past Billy through the driver's side window, blinking a few times to clear his vision, only to realize the haze is either in the air or a part of the high. The latter would be really fucking inconvenient, because Steve is suddenly determined to haul himself back to his car and drive himself to the nearest drive-through.
“I’m gonna go get McNuggets," Steve announces to the smoky air of this strange, liminal space he's slipped into. He's not really talking to Billy, he just needs to voice the intention aloud in case that makes it easier to unstick himself from the passenger seat.
"McNuggets," Billy echoes. It sounds like he might not be entirely opposed to the idea, himself.
He seems to mull over it a little longer while Steve musters up the willpower to roll himself out of the car. His limbs feel heavy — everything is leaden, from his arms to his chest — and the very thought of getting out of Billy's car, walking to his own, driving to McDonald's, ordering his food— God, it's too much.
He lets out a frustrated huff and looks over at Billy. It's not his preferred option, but if his body doesn't want to cooperate and his damn car is so far away, then maybe he can convince Billy to take him there.
"Buy you something if you drive?" he offers, because there's nothing else he can think of that might entice Billy enough to take him up on the offer.
Surprisingly, Billy doesn't take long to respond.
"Yeah," he says. Steve tries to keep down a triumphant grin, because he really doesn’t want Billy to change his mind. "Fine. You're paying for everything, though."
“Deal.”
And that’s how Steve ends up driving to the McDonald’s down on Main, riding shotgun in Billy Hargrove’s Camaro, with The Eagles blaring over the radio and a cloud of pot smoke keeping the windows fogged.
He’s not sure if he’s dreamt tonight up or not, but, honestly?
It beats the nightmares.
*
“Yeah, uh,” Billy drawls into the crackling microphone of the drive-through, window rolled down and half his chest hanging out of it so the lone, bored-sounding teenager on the other end can hear him better.
“I think I’ll have—” he glances at the menu, effectively blocking Steve’s view of it while he squints at the items on offer and pretends like he doesn't know exactly what he's going to get.
“—yeah, I’ll have two Big Macs, a quarter pounder with cheese, a large fry, two chocolate chip cookies, and, uh, a strawberry milkshake,” is what he finally settles on. Billy slides back into the Camaro, looking totally pleased with himself, and when the speaker crackles again with an “Anything else?”, he turns to Steve.
“What do you want?”
Steve gapes at him for a few seconds. He’s high, sure. They both still are. But Billy just ordered enough food to feed three people, and Steve’s, like, pretty sure that Billy can’t look the way he looks if he eats that much. So either he’s got a legendary case of the munchies, or Billy is taking full advantage of the fact that this is all on Steve’s dime.
Steve is pretty sure it’s the latter. Even stoned, Billy is still a dick.
But he’s got four more twenties in his wallet, so, whatever.
“I’ll get the twenty piece McNuggets with honey,” Steve says at length, deciding it’s better if he just pretends to be unfazed. He leans forward, trying to peer across Billy at the menu, only to give up when he can’t make out much. He mostly just wants chicken, anyway. “And a diet Coke.”
Billy scoffs immediately, shooting a Steve a side-long sneer. "Diet? Really? Think that's gonna do much for your figure after that twenty piece?"
Steve wants to point out how hypocritical that is, considering how much Billy just ordered, but Billy is already leaning back out the window and putting in his order, laying it on thick and condescending when he asks for a "diet Coke”.
Steve rolls his eyes but keeps his mouth shut, listening to the speaker crackle again. The voice on the other end is tinny and grating.
"Your total's eleven-ten," it says. "Your order will be at the first window."
Billy slips back into the car and rolls the window up, either to try and keep whatever lingers of the smell of weed inside or to pretend like it's not his car that's been hot-boxed, then rolls through to the window and holds out his hand for Steve to pass the cash.
Steve fishes a bill out of his pocket and slaps down a twenty into his waiting palm. He ignores the cocked eyebrow and the serious side-eye this earns him, like somehow Billy’s trying to mock him for having money, or something.
It’s just as likely that he’s devising another way to rip Steve off.
Steve’s too stoned and hungry to care, though, and Billy actually hands him back his change after he’s rolled up to the window to collect three paper bags’ worth of food and two drinks. Billy passes them over one by one. It looks even more excessive than he imagined now that Steve can see it all first-hand, which would have annoyed Steve more if the smell wasn’t so appetizing.
He hardly waits for Billy to exit the drive-through lane before he’s rummaging through one of the bags for his order, not even bothering to take out the box or find the sauce as he shoves a chicken nugget into his mouth like a starving man. Technically, he did skip dinner to help Dustin get ready for the Snow Ball. And he definitely has the munchies.
It doesn’t really excuse the way Steve groans a little when he swallows.
Billy rolls into a parking spot in the meantime, idling under a busted streetlamp while he snatches a bag at random and roots around for some fries.
"Damn," Billy says as he crams a handful into his mouth, licking salt and grease off each finger and glancing side-long at Steve still rapturously chewing on his nugget. “They ain't that good, Harrington."
Still, he peers at Steve with an inscrutable expression as he drops the bag back onto Steve's lap. Billy scrubs the last of the grease off his fingers and onto his jeans before throwing the car into gear.
They continue on in silence for a while, driving back to Lover's Lake and the quiet, unobtrusive stillness there. The beach is as empty as they had left it when they return; the chill of the air or some sort of town-wide malaise seems to be keeping people away, which means they still have their spot under a willow tree that overlooks the oncoming road. Billy parks, and once he's killed the headlights, he snags a bag off Steve's lap again, rooting around for a straw for his shake and one of the burgers he'd ordered.
By now, Steve's already three-quarters of the way finished with his McNuggets. As he watches Billy dig in to the first of his three meals, he wonders if maybe he had the right idea when he ordered all that extra food.
He does still have two bags of warm food on his lap, though. And he did pay for it.
Steve’s also still stoned off his ass, so the smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies is simply too tempting to ignore. He sticks his hand into the bag, grabs the wax paper pouch, and takes one of them for himself before Billy can tell him off for it.
He bought two, so, fair game.
“You’re not seriously gonna eat all this shit, are you?” Steve asks him, not even being intentionally cheeky about it when he takes a huge bite of cookie while he’s waiting for Billy’s answer. Turns out Californian weed makes him unbelievably hungry.
Billy jerks his head up when he hears the rustle of another bag, straw between his teeth and one burger unwrapped in his free hand.
“What the fuck, Harrington? That was mine.” He doesn’t seem to care that Steve paid for it, or that he’s already eaten half; before Steve can react, Billy snatches the cookie clean out of Steve’s hand so that he can cram the rest of it into his mouth without a thought to the crumbs that spill down into his open shirt and litter his fingers.
Steve blinks; the weed’s made him a little slow, and he’s a little too relaxed to feel all that pissed off about it. Still, for a moment he seriously considers taking a bite out of one of Billy’s burgers just to spite him. It’s only because he doesn’t want to get kicked out of his car just yet that he settles instead for reaching for his diet Coke.
“Geez, touchy,” he mutters, watching Billy as he sucks chocolate off his bottom lip and then reaches for his milkshake. It’s an impressive looking thing, all candy pink and topped with a disgusting amount of whipped cream. Billy drags his finger through the mess, licking it off his first knuckle before sticking his straw into the drink and proceeding to take a sip. He hums, apparently pleased by the taste, and leans back in his seat to continue devouring his burger.
“You never answered my question,” Steve says as he watches. He’s not sure why he watches, but Billy’s making a spectacle of himself with the way he downs that milkshake, and Steve’s pretty sure he’s never seen anyone eat food the way Billy does. The way his eyelashes flutter shut when he takes a mouthful of burger, the way his jaw works it when he chews, the pleased sounds Billy’s making — it’s weird, and kind of disturbing.
But also sort of fascinating.
“There’s no way you can actually eat all of this.” It’s not worded like a question, this time, more like an accusation, despite that Billy’s done an impressive job eating half of his first burger already.
“Says who?” Billy asks in response and takes another bite, watching — along with Steve — as a bit of lettuce as it tumbles from his bitten burger and into his lap. He chews and swallows it back with more milkshake, picking up the offending bit of green from where it’s landed on his thigh before, after a beat of contemplative silence, flicking it directly at Steve. “I’ll eat as much of it as I damn want to.”
The lettuce lands on Steve’s jacket; he can’t bring himself to find it annoying, it’s just so ridiculous and he’s just so buzzed that all he manages is a huff of bemused laughter.
“Never said I’d stop you, man,” Steve tells him as he stuffs another McNugget in his mouth, sounding like he’s trying to reassure Billy. He kind of is, if only because Steve has zero interest in harshing tonight’s mellow. Even if he’s sharing that mellow with Billy Hargrove. Actually — especially because that’s who he’s here with.
He wishes it was someone else — someone less prickly and mean, preferably. Sure, his and Billy’s back-and-forth is kind of amusing, or at least not altogether terrible. Steve can thank the weed for that.
“But, y’know, if you need help finishing anything, I’ll gladly take that milkshake off your hands.” He throws Billy a sideways glance, licking the salt off his lips. “Strawberry’s my favorite, so...”
Billy eyes him, straw between his lips and the hollow of his cheeks obscene as he sucks down a few mouthfuls like he's trying to finish the whole thing out of spite. There's the rattling sound of the straw sucking up air before Billy finally pulls off, a bit of the shake dribbling down his bottom lip. He catches it with the tip of his tongue, and Steve can’t help but notice that it's dyed pink from his drink.
“Good to know,” Billy drawls, swirling the cup around in his hand; there’s still some shake left, probably a third of it judging by the sloshing sound. When he takes a final sip and drops the cup in the holder between them, Steve can’t help but think it’s meant to be an invitation.
He isn’t sure how to feel about that, but far be it for him to pass up the opportunity. He sets his Diet Coke in the other holder and reaches for the shake, half-scared that Billy’s gonna tell him that he’d spat in it as he brings the straw in his mouth. That’s stupid, obviously, since he’s been watching Billy this entire time, but Steve still hesitates a second before he drinks.
The milkshake is sweet as hell, and gives him a mild case of brain freeze when he sucks it back too fast. Steve likes it, though. He kind of wishes he’d ordered one for himself.
They’ve lapsed into another bout of silence. Steve tries not to make it obvious that he’s watching Billy eat while he chews contemplatively on his plastic straw. It’s morbidly fascinating, though, seeing Billy start into his second burger like he’s ravenous for it. And, coupled with all the sounds he’s making, like there’s something inherently intimate about stuffing one’s face with burger buns — yeah, it’s mildly uncomfortable to witness, but Steve can’t seem to tear his eyes away.
“I, uh, didn’t think you’d be much of a fast food kind of guy,” he says, if only to fill the quiet with something other than the sounds of Billy eating.
Billy shrugs and has enough decency not to talk with his mouth full, waiting until he's swallowed and thumbed a streak of ketchup from the corner of his mouth before he says anything.
"What's not to like about all-American beef?" he asks, shooting Steve a wide, toothy grin like he's just told a funny joke. There's just a little bit of burger left, a couple of bites that Billy stuffs into his mouth while wadding up the paper with his free hand.
"And anyway—" He sucks his teeth, chasing the burger with a thoughtless sip of Steve's diet Coke stolen right from his hands. “—everything tastes better when you're high."
Steve can’t even pretend to be annoyed about his drink, not when Billy shoves it back at him a moment later.
“Good point,” he admits, and he has to confess that he’s a little bit impressed at how much food Billy is able to put away in such a short timeframe. Especially when he does it with such gusto. “Well, I mean, I could think of a few things that wouldn’t. But cheap fast food isn’t one of them.”
"Yeah?" Billy turns to the rest of his fries, rooting around for a couple of ketchup packets in the meantime. He tears into one with his teeth, squirts a generous dollop onto the four fries he's got pinched between his fingers, then shoves the whole mess in his mouth. It's kind of disgusting, but Steve keeps watching while he contemplates the last burger in the bag and wonders if he can get away with eating it before Billy notices.
"Like what, pretty boy?" Billy's voice cuts through his idle thoughts, dragging him back to reality where Billy's tipping the fry box into his mouth to catch the last of the crumbs, which he proceeds to chase with another stolen gulp of Steve’s Coke.
"I don't think even the munchies could make my mom's cooking edible," Steve says with a snort, throwing another considering glance at Billy's unattended bag of food, where he knows that last burger is tucked away. It’s probably still warm, too.
Distracted and stoned as he is, it takes Steve a moment to register everything Billy just said. One word in particular belatedly jumps out at him, and both of Steve's eyebrows shoot up. "Did you just call me pretty?"
Billy snorts, leaning back against his seat now that he's apparently satisfied with the amount of food he's eaten.
"Pretty stupid," he drawls in that infuriating way of his, shooting Steve a sharp grin that doesn't make it any less obvious that he's deflecting.
And it’s stupid — all of this is stupid. Billy’s stupid. And Steve’s so stupidly high that all he can do is giggle about it.
“That’s the most middle school thing you’ve ever said,” Steve says when finally manages to stop laughing, and since Billy’s being an immature jerk, Steve figures that third burger is fair game. He sticks his hand into the last of the paper bags, stealthily feeling around until he finds the wax paper wrapping, slowly working it open while he talks.
“Also, like, didn’t you get a D on that English paper last week?”
"Didn't you get an F?" Billy shoots back, gaze flicking down to where Steve continues to unsubtly root around in the bag. He doesn't comment on it for whatever reason, but does take Steve's diet Coke back, slurping until the cup is empty save for the rattle of ice. He drops the cup back in the holder, then, and cranks the music up, signaling the end of the conversation as the crooning vocals of Goodbye to Romance carry through the cabin.
It's a strange but ultimately anticlimactic end to a night that's been both bizarre and incredibly, surprisingly uneventful. Because nothing happened, not really, and nothing about his circumstances have changed.
Nothing besides his newly-acquired quarter of weed, anyway.
Yet, when Steve stares out across Lover’s Lake while he helps himself to a burger, his mind doesn’t wander. Not to Nancy. Not to the nightmares, both real and imagined. Not to anywhere, really.
For the first time in a long time, Steve feels relaxed.