Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The feeling begins gradually.

It seems like it starts about a week after the most recent round with the Upside Down; it’s almost like everyone is just content to accept that it’s over, that there’s apparently no chance of the dogs from actual Hell running around and terrorizing them again. Steve kind of feels like he’s going crazy. He’s halfway sure he is, from the consistent lack of sleep. Most of the time when the kids talk about that night, it’s with an exhilarated breath. Like they had honest-to-God fun. Like it wasn’t one of the scariest moments of his life.

The feeling itself isn’t anything really insidious. Just an off feeling. Like it’s hard to care about anything at all, especially when it’s boiled down to comparing the mundane activities of life with everything he’s seen for the last two years. It was as if the veil was finally lifting, and he couldn’t pretend anymore; whether it was the fact that his relationship had probably been failing for the better half of a year or the fact that everything really wasn’t okay. And suddenly it was like he was getting left behind in the dust; while everyone was starting to adjust and get over it, it was like he was going through it for the first time again.

It was kind of startling how much of a difference it was compared to how he’d been living the past year, practically submerging himself so deep into the fantasy of a “normal life,” that he hadn’t even been able to realize exactly when his relationship started crumbling. That maybe the increasing sleepless nights and fidgeting during the days weren’t signs of school-related stress, but something different. Coupled with the realization that maybe he was more avoidant than he thought—and with hindsight delivered by Nancy in his back pocket—and suddenly he was starting to register that maybe things weren’t all okay. And that they hadn’t been okay for a while, no matter how much he wanted to paste a smile over the problem.

It felt shitty to bring it up to any of the kids, because even if he thought they were over it, he was too afraid to make a misstep somewhere and actually make it worse just in case they weren’t. He didn’t want to bring it up with Jonathan or Nancy either, even if they were the only people he was really hanging out with these days—feeling like most of the time he was just the random add-on that neither of them seemed capable of shaking for good, mostly tolerating him out of pity. Joyce and Hopper were there, sure, but he’d never really talked to them before. It’d just be weird to show up on either of their doorsteps, a couple of weeks too late trying to rehash old stressors.

School was difficult to focus on before any of this, but after November it felt downright impossible to keep his head screwed on in class. By the first week of December he’s already given up hope on his exams. He can barely get through the daily worksheets, let alone any test that’ll take him longer than half an hour. None of the information seems to stick anyway, just rolls right off him at the end of every class period.

So a week passes by like that, and then another week, and then another, and then suddenly it’s the end of winter break and he feels like he’s just blinked through the second half of his semester. Like he’s just been going through the motions and sleepwalking through his day. For the first time in a while, he decides to get a grip, and tries to get back into the land of the living. Funnily enough, it’s Dustin that starts the whole thing, over fries at the diner a week or so into the new school year.

“A new hobby?” he’d asked, wrinkling his nose and playing with the idea Dustin just broached. “And what would that do?”

Dustin rolled his eyes. “C’mon, Steve. When’s the last time you did something you wanted to do for fun? Something that wasn’t just laying around your house all day or watching movies every night.”

“You basically do the exact same thing,” he narrowed his eyes. It didn’t exactly feel good being judged by a thirteen-year-old, especially when it was in response to his social life.

“But I do it with friends,” Dustin responded, not unkindly, reaching over to pat the top of Steve’s hand consolingly. “You need to get out, talk to people, get your blood pumping or something.”

“Hm.” He chewed on that for a second, ignoring the sting of the comment and drumming his fingers on the linoleum as Dustin watched him patiently. The kid wasn’t exactly wrong, which was kind of the worst thing about the situation. “I guess you could be right,” he admitted ruefully.

“I’m always right,” he scoffed, “Why don’t you join a club or something? Maybe a sport? Didn’t basketball season end already?”

“No way,” Steve denied immediately, “I’m not going anywhere near another Hawkins’ High team.” And that was something he wasn’t budging on. Tommy and the other guys gave him enough shit since the whole Nancy thing, and there was no way he was gonna willingly put himself directly in the line of fire for those meatheads. Another anxious thought popped up: the sudden, visceral memory of Hargrove slapping his naked back in the showers. He repressed a shiver. “No fucking way.”

Dustin gave him one of his patented Steve, really? looks. “You don’t have to do a sport with the high school. Why don’t you sign up for one of the amateur leagues at the rec center? Or maybe there’s a bigger one a couple of towns over. You just gotta look for it.”

It was actually a surprisingly promising idea. “Okay,” he said, testing it out loud, “But what sport would I do?”

“Do I have to do everything for you, Steve?” he got in response, “Pass the ketchup, you’re hogging it.”

He’d waited until the weekend to check out the rec center. He hadn’t been there in years, not since his parents had signed him and Tommy up for racquetball lessons in the sixth grade (just as horrible of an experience as it sounded), but from what he remembered it hadn’t changed much. Still looked just as dinky then as it did now, which was both comforting and slightly concerning.

And sure enough, his concerns weren’t unfounded. There wasn’t much that the rec center was offering directly in Hawkins, unless he wanted to suddenly start Senior Sunday water aerobics, but further down on the cork boards he found something slightly promising. A flyer, still bright and fresh enough that he knew it couldn’t have been pinned there for too long, advertising an amateur teen lacrosse league.

He’d heard of lacrosse in passing a couple of times: some from the guys at the rival high schools talking about their own teams, and a good handful of times from Billy Hargrove himself. He’d waxed on and on about it to some of the guys after practice a couple of times; Steve had made it a habit to automatically tune Hargrove out, but he couldn’t help regretting that a little bit as he stood in front of the poster. At least he would’ve had a little bit more to go off of. He knew there was, like, a stick, and you shot shit into goals. Seemed pretty straightforward, although knowing Steve he'd find some way to complicate it.

The team meeting itself wasn’t in Hawkins, was actually a town over, but it invited everyone that was in the county. There was a bit of a cover fee, but that wasn’t any issue for him, especially if it meant that the practice equipment was already supplied. All it would take was one long distance call to his mom and he’d have a check within the week. Usually he resented the whole “throw money at Steve so he’ll forget how shitty parents we are” thing, but this time it would at least work in his favor.

So, without a second thought, he tore a scrap of paper off one of the older flyers (darting a look around to make sure no one had seen) before writing down the time and place. The meeting was set for about two weeks from now, and he made sure to stick the scrap in his wallet so he could remember to write it on his calendar when he got home.

Later, when he was driving back, his mind began to pick away at all the reasons why it wouldn’t work. First, and probably most important, he’d never even played lacrosse before. While he’d been confident before that he’d be able to ace it, he was beginning to have doubts. What if he totally sucked and it was a waste of time? Or, like, he broke his face or something? It probably wasn’t likely—breaking his face—but you could never be sure. Secondly, it was around a half hour drive. Kind of out of the way, especially since the practices were in the evening. It didn’t matter that his dad paid for his gas, it was still a drive. Third, he wouldn’t know anyone there, and that was seriously gonna suck. When he told this all to Dustin a couple of nights later, he was immediately shot down.

“You’re joking, right?” Dustin gave him a flat look, “Why are you trying to wimp out?”

“I’m not trying to wimp out!” he protested, “I’m just… y’know, trying to—”

“Hinder yourself?” he raised his eyebrows, making them disappear under his curly hair, “Completely and totally back out because you don’t wanna step outside of your comfort zone?”

“I don’t even know how to play!” Steve said desperately, a last hail Mary, “They’re all probably gonna have experience, and I’m just gonna be the loser who doesn’t know how to hold a stick—”

“Hey! You know it’s called a stick!” Dustin cut in brightly. Steve shot him a look. “Steve, come on. It’s only open to highschoolers, right? There’s no one there who’s gonna be a, like, lacrosse legend. Or they’d be on an actual lacrosse team. Listen, you’ve gotta give some to get some, right? Just give it a try, at least.”

He had a point. “Well, I guess I can’t fault your logic there,” he admitted, nervously tightening his grip on the steering wheel. He really had no excuse, and he’d only be proving Dustin correct if he kept fighting it.

“Just do it, Steve, you’ll probably have a lot of fun!”

Famous last words.

And so now here he was, pulling up to the rec center over in Bedford a little over 20 minutes out of Hawkins. He’d only ever been to their high school for the basketball away games and had distinctly remembered their gym was way better than the Hawkins’ High one.

Their rec center was nothing to play about, as well. The whole thing was about twice as big as the one back home and was lit up brightly from the outside and the inside. It took a couple seconds for him to swallow away all his apprehension, before deciding to just say fuck it and threw the car door open. He pretended like he was King Steve again and slipped on that second easy skin; sure in his gait and not like he was actually quaking with every step that took him closer to the building.

It was even brighter on the inside, and pretty packed comparatively. Luckily, there were flyers attached to the big bulletin board on the wall, and within a couple seconds he was able to see the directions for the lacrosse meeting and shoulder past enough people that he could get to the fluorescent lit hallway alone.

The meeting room itself wasn’t really a room, but actually the field out back. It was almost seven o’clock, so it was starting to get just a little bit dusky, but the spring day was still making it bright enough that he could see the handful of people already gathered on the wooden bleachers on the side of the field. Heart in his throat, he ignored the sweating in his palms and just made his way over to them; glancing down at what they were wearing and relieved to see they had all come dressed in the same loose, casual sportswear that he had chosen. It was still too brisk outside to be wearing anything other than a long-sleeved shirt, but he figured if they were moving around a lot the athletic shorts would be okay.

As he got closer, he was able to recognize a couple of the other guys; some of them were guys from the other high schools they’d played in basketball before, and a couple of others were ones that he recognized from the country club his parents dragged him to reluctantly every so often. He could see them recognize him, and he returned their greeting nods with only a little bit of a grimace on his face, wondering if this was who he was going to have to be friends with the next couple of weeks, before he looked past them and nearly tripped over his feet.

In the back row, arms resting on his spread legs and looking like the cat that got the canary, was Billy Hargrove.

Dressed like the rest of them, in loose sports clothes. For some reason, his mind was unhelpfully stuck on that part. Like even though he’d seen him in basketball practice, it was still weird to see Billy Hargrove in anything other than his boots and tight jeans and denim jacket. His eyes were pinned on Steve, no surprises there, and an overconfident grin was already resting on his lips. Steve felt himself heave an inward sigh as he began inching forward again, now hunching in on himself as if that would somehow make Billy forget he’d just seen him.

At least things between them weren’t as bad as they’d been before. Not that they were about to make each other friendship bracelets, or anything, but at least it was way less hostile than it had been whenever Hargrove had first rolled into town. After that night at the Byers, Billy had done a complete 180 and stopped talking to Steve completely, not acknowledging him on the court, in the locker rooms, or even the hallways. There were no more shoves, no more plant your feet, Harrington’s, and no more weirdly loaded interactions that kind of made his head spin the more he thought about them. He’d seen Hargrove at a couple of house parties over the break, but any time they had caught each other’s eye it had been fleeting and broken off by Billy looking away almost immediately.

It had kind of thrown Steve through a loop; the way he went from apparently hating his guts one day to suddenly acting like Steve was invisible the next. He wasn’t complaining, though; not when it meant that he no longer had to worry about any right hooks or stray dinner plates. Although it looked like all of that was coming to an end, now, since Hargrove was evidently willing to look him in the eye again. At least Steve knew he had to tread with caution this time.

It felt like a march of death, just walking closer and closer even though he knew there was danger in front of him. Someone dangerous. But Hargrove didn’t look like he was fiending for a fight right now, and Steve figured even he wouldn’t be bloodthirsty enough to start something out here in the middle of a group of people. Instead of turning back around, like a big part of him wanted to, he decided to just brace himself and stick it out.

“Steve Harrington,” Hargrove drawled when he was within earshot, “Just what are you doing here?”

“Playing lacrosse, dipshit,” he muttered, still loud enough for Billy to hear, wavering a little bit before reluctantly veering off towards where Billy was slouched. The guys from the country club were major dicks, and at least there was only one Billy compared to their little posse. Better the devil you knew, even if a part of him wanted to make sure there was at least a foot between them at all times. “Why else would I be here?”

Hargrove raised his brows, shifting down only half an inch for Steve to sit. He snickered and scooted down a little further when Steve made an exasperated face. “Didn’t peg you for a lax rat.”

“A what?” he furrowed his brow, only getting more confused when Billy’s grin just got wider. “Whatever, man. Speak in riddles, I guess.”

“Jeez, amigo, take a pill. Was just messing with you,” Billy rolled his eyes. “Seriously, though, didn’t know you played lacrosse.”

“Well,” he scratched the back of his neck sheepishly, going a little warm. “I don’t really. Play it, I mean.”

That earned him an incredulous look. “So why’re you here?”

It sounded stupid to say I don’t know, or I figured I should try something new, or I needed something to wake me up; so instead he settled on shrugging and saying, “I didn’t wanna join the baseball team.”

Which wasn’t entirely false. Hawkins’ baseball team was notorious for their cursed losing streak. It would’ve been even further social suicide. He didn’t even know why he was telling Hargrove in the first place, could’ve just as easily told him to fuck off or something. But it didn’t seem like Billy was really trying to rile him up, even if he was being kind of a dick.

Billy took it with a snort, at least, and didn’t seem to feel the need to press him further. That was just fine in his book, because Steve didn’t want to try to justify his newfound interest in a sport he didn’t really understand. At this point, he wasn’t even sure if he’d come back after this first meeting. It seemed like it would be bad luck to willingly subject himself to anything that Billy Hargrove was even remotely interested in. He was thankful for the resulting blanket of silence that had enveloped them after that weird exchange.

When the guy who was supposed to be leading the team showed up—after he’d barked at them to call him “Coach Turner and nothing else, unless you want an ass kicking for dinner,”—he sat up a little higher in his seat. It took nearly all of his concentration to focus on what he was saying; half his mind trying to desperately grasp onto the basics of lacrosse and what the training would be like, while the other half was constantly aware of Hargrove’s incessant twitching at his side. The guy just couldn’t stay still, and it was enough to break Steve’s own concentration a couple of times. When they were finally let onto the field to run through some plays, he was relieved to actually begin and try to see if he could get a handle on it that way. He’d always been able to understand things if he just tried it out at first: instructions given verbally or in writing seemed to give him a headache.

Coach Turner had them begin with some simple stretches and lunges for warm up. It was easy to sink into the monotony of following orders and going through the motions of stretching and getting ready for practice, and it was a pleasant change from just lying on his couch or walking through the empty hallways in his house. It’d been so long since he’d done something physical, gotten the blood really pumping, and he was trying to discreetly pant through his mouth. Steve mostly kept his chin up and his eyes straight ahead—no need to look at anyone else and acknowledge just how awkward they all looked.

It was hard to care about that, though, when Coach had them begin some actual lacrosse warmups. Suddenly the lunges were deeper, longer, and he could feel the telling pull in his hamstrings from the effort. He didn’t complain, however, just gritted his teeth and blew a puff of air up the front of his face so the stray sweaty locks of hair wouldn’t fall into his eyes. He kept taking big breaths; ignoring, and ignoring, and ignoring the strain in his muscles.

They began all the “basic” exercises that were apparently the norm for lacrosse; exercises he had never even heard of but were consistently a thousand times worse than how they sounded. On one of the drills he’d nearly twisted his ankle like three times—only able to stop himself at the last minute every time with a quick save. Steve was still doing better than some of the others in the group, though, which was at least a little comforting to know he wasn’t the most out of shape out of the bunch.

Almost everyone was pouring sweat by the time Coach Turner called for a water break, and Steve was thankful for the time to take a couple of stabilizing breaths while he rested his palms on his knees. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a water bottle appear. When his vision traveled up the sweaty arm attached to it, he was surprised to find Hargrove on the other end.

The water dangled in front of him, Hargrove shaking it a little after a couple of seconds. He eyed the bottle distrustfully for a moment before the sandpaper feeling in his throat won out and he accepted what seemed like a peace offering. The first swig was like ambrosia; sweet, cold relief sluicing down the back of his throat. A couple of gulps later and he felt like a functioning human again.

“Thanks,” he panted a little, manners practically ingrained in him, some of the exhaustion and aches catching up with him now that he was no longer moving.

“No problem,” Hargrove said easily, like he’d offered water over a dozen times to Steve in the past, pausing to guzzle from his own bottle. He wasn’t nearly as sweaty as everyone else, Steve noticed, and he’d been at the front of the pack for most of the practice.

“How are you not, like, dying right now?” Steve asked, right as someone gave a retching noise—like it was on cue.

They both looked in the direction of the retcher—one of the lanky guys in the back who looked like he was only about sixteen—pulling twin looks of mild disgust, before Billy turned back to him and shrugged. “Lacrosse is big back in Cali. Practically bigger than football if you’re in NorCal. Was surprised there was any sort of league out here, to be honest.”

“Well, to be fair, this doesn’t really look like much of a league,” Steve admitted, casting a gaze around the field at the rest of the guys.

The country club guys were still doing pretty okay, and so were the guys from the rival high school he’d seen. The rest were so-so, with a large group of what looked like Sophomores huffing and puffing their way through the water break. Not really the most cohesive bunch, that was for sure. When he looked back at Hargrove, he only gave a snort in reply. Before he could say anything else, Coach was blowing his whistle and then it was time to start again.

At the end of practice he felt good and thoroughly exhausted, almost every muscle screaming out in pain from sudden use after basically not working out for months. It took him a while to hear anything over the sounds of his own panting. It didn’t sound like anything too important, just Coach explaining how and why they needed the warmups. They were supposed to meet again on Thursday, just two days from now. When they all got the go-ahead to leave, Steve gave a final stretch before loping his way across the field and back to the parking lot. A couple of the guys stayed back to shower off at the rec center, but Steve didn’t want to stick around for too much longer, especially when it was showering with a bunch of strangers he’d just met. After walking a couple of paces, he heard the sound of footsteps in the grass thundering closer.

“Hey, Harrington,” Hargrove appeared suddenly at his side. Steve used all of the willpower he had left to suppress the instinct to flinch back. Billy seemed to have noticed, at least a little bit, because he faltered for a split-second before backing off marginally. “Um, good game.”

“Thanks,” Steve said, even though they technically hadn’t even played yet. But it felt unwise to ignore Billy Hargrove, especially when he was paying him what seemed to be a sincere compliment. “Uh, you too,” he said, and meant it. There was no pretending that Billy wasn’t good.

Billy just nodded, before looking like he was bracing himself for something. “You coming back on Thursday?”

Steve shrugged. “Maybe. I dunno,” he offered, non-committal. He had appreciated the workout, that was for sure, but he was still having a tough time picturing himself actually playing lacrosse, let alone enjoying it. He also didn’t want to voice all these concerns aloud to Hargrove, so he just left it there and hoped the other boy would take the hint.

“You should. Come back, I mean,” Hargrove surprised him by saying. When Steve turned to look at him, eyebrows raised, he almost looked kind of embarrassed—a look that Steve had a hard time reconciling with his image of Billy Hargrove, someone who seemed like they never second-guessed any move they made. “You were pretty good out there with the footwork. And I know your hand-eye ain’t half-bad either. Just think about it.”

And with that, he jogged away. Like he hadn’t just thrown Steve through a loop. Hargrove complimenting him? On his athletic ability? Surely it was some kind of a joke. Surely Hell was about to open up and freeze over.

But Billy didn’t sneer over his shoulder, or anything like that. And some massive crater-portal to the Upside Down never showed up either—so he figured it was probably just the fluke of the century in the form of Billy Hargrove being nice. Steve tried to shake off the whole incident, even as he warily eyed Billy’s retreating figure get smaller in the distance ahead.

By the time he’d driven back home, showered, and changed he was feeling well and truly tired. Where usually he’d have to mess with all the lights in his house, turn on his white noise machine, and obsessively fluff all the pillows, he diverted from his usual routine; instead, he shuffled over to his bed and collapsed on it face-first, only moving to half-heartedly tug the quilt over his bottom half. Before he knew it, his eyes were slipping shut.

When his eyes cracked open again the next morning, he was surprised to see actual light filtering in through the window. So, he hadn’t woken up in the middle of the night like he usually did. When he glanced at his bedside clock next, his eyes nearly bugged out at the time flashing in red numbers.

“Shit,” he cursed, throwing the blanket back hurriedly. “Shit, shit, shit.” He only had about five minutes before he was supposed to leave for Dustin’s, and that entire five minutes was used in some kind of speed-race version of getting dressed and running a toothbrush over his teeth quickly. Even though he had to rush, though, he still felt substantially better than he had any morning the whole week before. There was kind of an ache in his arms and legs as he tugged his backpack on while going down the stairs, but he figured it was due after a workout like the one he’d had last night.

He made it there just in time, pulling up to the curb where Dustin was standing expectantly, both hands fastened onto his backpack straps. When he crawled into the Beamer, he gave Steve an appraising look. “Your hair… is…”

“Yeah, I know,” he ran a hand through it, tugging the bangs back and trying to get it back under control, “I overslept and didn’t have any time to fix it this morning.”

“Overslept?” Dustin raised his eyebrows, reaching over to elbow Steve, “Hey, good job! That’s awesome!”

Steve cheeks went warm. “It’s whatever,” he mumbled, not looking back and dodging Dustin’s elbow, “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Of course it is! You haven’t had a good nights’ sleep in, like, forever!”

“Not forever, but yeah, it has been a while,” he admitted. “I hit my bed pretty hard last night after practice.”

“Practice! I almost forgot!” Dustin nearly broke the sound barrier with his excitement, “How’d it go?”

“It was alright,” he hemmed and hawed, “I don’t know if I’ll do it again, I’m still kind of debating.”

“Why not?”

Steve shrugged away Dustin’s demand. “I dunno. The warm-up was fine, but I don’t know if I could actually see myself doing that every week.”

He was met with silence. When a couple minutes passed, he looked over to Dustin, who was chewing his lip while he looked on contemplatively. “What?” he asked, guarded.

Dustin still seemed to chew on his thoughts for a couple seconds before finally deciding to speak. “I think you should give it another chance. You never know, you could end up liking it a lot. Besides, if it wears you out and helps you go to sleep at night at least a couple of nights a week, don’t you think it’s worth it?”

“I—I guess,” he accepted. He wisely left the part out about Billy Hargrove being in the group, afraid that if Dustin heard he might have a conniption. “I’ll try it out again,” he promised when he got the full force of Dustin’s puppy dog eyes, smiling only a little bit when Dustin let out a whoop! afterwards.

~

True to his word, Steve went back to the next practice the following Thursday. It was just as exhausting as the first one, but this time the Coach at least let them hold the sticks—crosse’s—to get a feel for them. The weight of the wooden base felt eerily familiar to that of his nail bat, and the first time he picked one up he kind of lost concentration for a second, thrown back into November and its terrifying memories. But the moment passed just as quickly as it’d come, and he twirled the crosse in his hands a couple times to understand how to work it, and it felt marginally better.

It was way different in dimension than the nail bait, that was for sure. It was longer, and thinner, and took more hand-eye coordination than he thought to swing it and get a good arc going, one that would be powerful enough to throw or catch the balls in the little net attached at the end. After a couple goes with it, though, he found it wasn’t that difficult to maneuver. In fact, it almost felt a little more natural with that light weight in his hands than it ever did swinging that damn bat in the Byers’ house and the junkyard.

It took them a couple more weeks of practices before everyone got the swing of things and began to rotate positions. The guys from the country club Steve had met briefly before—Carter, Coyne, and Brooks—were pretty decent, enough that he could tell they’d definitely played once or twice. The random high schoolers that looked to be about a grade or two under him—Nelson, Cameron, and Manning—weren’t as decent, and he could see the twist on Coach Turner’s mouth every time one of them stumbled out onto the field. Manning had nearly brained himself with the stick twice in one afternoon.

It was the guys from the rival high school that were the most aggressive, and that seemed to apply to on and off the field. The guys—Johnson, Stone, and Edwards—seemed to be at the same skill level as him, except, like, a thousand times more hostile than how he played. He found himself tightening his grip and planting his feet every time he had to face off against one of them, and it seemed like they all had some kind of vendetta against him from the way they frequently shoulder checked him through practice. He shook it off every time, though, and just focused on running his drills and trying to keep up. Overall, he felt like he was doing a fairly decent job; Coach had given him a couple of positive comments during practices about his form.

It was nothing compared to Billy, though. Any skill any of them had, combined—and doubled, honestly—probably still fell short when compared to Hargrove. He was good at every position interchangeably, was always at the front of the pack during exercises and drills, and was relentless in practice from beginning to end. He could tell that Hargrove actually enjoyed this game—more like lived and breathed it—just by the intensity on his face every time he got the ball into the pocket of the mesh. It wasn’t anything like what he’d seen in basketball; the cocky showboating and flashy moves. No, instead it was the single-minded focus and tunnel vision that he hadn’t ever seen on Hargrove before, a tenacity that was honestly pretty impressive when he saw how well he wielded it on the field.

He was a surprisingly good team player most of the time, too, which also came as a shock to Steve. It was night and day from the Hargrove who would hoard the basketball all game, and Steve had nearly gaped when Billy had actually corrected his grip on the stick without sounding like a condescending asshole. Reluctantly, Steve was beginning to not hate Hargrove as much. Sure, the guy still annoyed the shit out of him sometimes, but he really wasn’t all that bad at the end of the day. He was pretty much a breath of fresh air when it came to Edwards—the guy who seemed to have an intense dislike the most for Steve.

They’d probably played each other in basketball, forever ago, and Hawkins had probably won a game that Steve honestly had no recollection of playing. It was the only thing that explained Edwards’ hostility towards him, although Steve didn’t know how being a sore loser could really make someone that much of a douchebag. He constantly had something to say about Steve’s form, his weak spots, even the fucking shoes on his feet every time he showed up for practice.

Steve just took it in stride, barely paying him any attention—even though it was really starting to rankle his nerves. Not even Hargrove had been this antagonistic towards him in basketball, and most of the time he found himself biting his tongue or schooling his face so it wouldn’t escalate. He never thought he’d wish for the day that Billy Hargrove was his biggest problem again, but Edwards was pushing him towards his limit.

Edwards pulled a lot of cheap shots too—always rougher on Steve during the drills, shoulder-checks that were barely legal constantly on the field, and one time Steve swore he saw the guy try to trip him as he ran by. It was just immature, grade-school bullying. But it still got to him. This was supposed to be a way to let go; maybe not relax, per se, but something to take his mind off… well, everything. And having Edwards and his shenanigans to look forward to twice a week definitely wasn’t helping.

Today was especially bad. Edwards had stomped onto the field, clearly in a mood, and without any second thought had roughly shoved by Steve to get to the sticks. Steve just went with the hit—per usual—but he was stupefied when Hargrove suddenly appeared at his side.

“The fuck’s his problem?” Billy groused, glaring after the other boy stalking away. “Guy always seems to have it in for you.”

Steve shrugged. He was honestly kind of surprised Hargrove had even noticed. He was even more surprised Hargrove was talking to him about it. “Don’t know. I think we beat him in a basketball game, or something.”

Billy snorted, turning to him. “So he’s acting like a little bitch about it? Cry me a river.”

He couldn’t help but let out a little puff of air through his nose, amused. “Yeah, well. Can’t win ‘em all.”

“Apparently not.” Billy rolled his eyes. “Basketball team must’ve sucked ass if Hawkins’ was able to beat them.”

“Guess so,” Steve remarked drily, watching Edwards look up and make eye contact—receiving a snotty look in return. “Whatever, he can have all the attitude he wants.” And Steve would let him. He figured there was no point raising a fuss over something that was so insignificant—especially when he knew that saying something in this case would only make it worse.

Billy just hummed and narrowed his eyes, still watching after Edwards.

That day in practice, when Coach had them split off to work on drills, Steve was trying to keep his head in the game as much as possible, but he kept getting distracted by the rough shoves and little hits that Edwards got in without Coach Turner seeing. It was enough to make Steve almost grind through his back molars, suppressing the urge to snap at the guy, but he just stuck to his usual routine: ignore, ignore, ignore.

Only, Edwards was really starting to make it difficult. It was during one of the exercises, practicing passing and defense, that Edwards had “accidentally” smacked the back of Steve’s head with the hard net end of his stick, a surprising force that temporarily had him seeing stars and stumbling forward a couple of steps in the grass. The back of his head ached like a bitch, but that feeling was nothing in comparison to seeing Edwards’ smug grin when he clearly thought he had gotten away with something. The next play started, and Steve begrudgingly readied himself for another blindside.

Only, it didn’t happen to him.

He watched in a kind of sick glee as Edwards attempted to catch and pass one of the balls—tongue poking out in concentration—when Billy absolutely slammed into him from the side, knocking him into one of his buddies before they both fell down in an ungraceful heap.

“Fuck, sorry man,” Billy sounded anything but, bouncing his crosse on his knee with a mean smile, closer to a sneer, “Didn’t realize I was coming at you that hard.”

“Sure, whatever,” Edwards muttered; looking like he didn’t believe it at all, but way too afraid to call Billy out on his shit. “No problem.”

The next round, when Edwards had the ball again, Billy slammed into him just as hard. And the round after that. And the round after that. Steve could only watch in poorly contained amusement, unable to keep the grin off his face. Finally, after the fourth time of eating grass, Edwards got the courage to say something.

“What the fuck, man?” he fumed, shoving himself up after another forceful topple from Billy, “You’re doing that shit on purpose, I should—”

“What?” Billy asked frankly, stopping in his tracks and looming over him. His eyebrows were raised, and he looked almost tickled. “You should what, Edwards? Go ahead and finish that sentence for me.”

Edwards went red in the face, eyes darting around the little group that was beginning to gather around them, eager to see some bloodshed. “I should—”

“What you should be doing is focusing on your own shitty form instead of trying to mow down Harrington,” Billy said. Steve felt a ripple of shock at his name, mouth opening a little before he could stop it and watching the exchange with wide eyes. “Keep pulling that over-defensive shit and I’m just gonna dish it right back. Don’t fucking try me. I can get real unsportsmanlike.”

There was a prolonged silence, with Billy raising his eyebrows expectantly, before Edwards just answered by reluctantly nodding after a moment. Stunned, Steve just watched as the rest of the guys walked off to the bleachers, disappointed that the show was over and no one even fought. Steve was still reeling over the fact that Billy Hargrove had come to his defense, both physically and metaphorically.

“Hey,” Billy’s voice came at his side, startling him out of the shock he was still experiencing. “You good?”

“Um, yeah,” Steve finally unstuck his voice from his throat, nodding quickly. “Thanks—for that. I really appreciate it.” It felt lame to say, but he was grateful that someone had done something. It had been so long since he felt like someone was on his side—combine that with the double shock of it being Billy Hargrove, of all people, and he was still kind of reeling over it.

This time Billy looked a little unsure, giving a one shouldered shrug. “It’s cool. Guy’s a douche, anyways.” He seemed to hesitate for a moment, like he was carefully picking his words, before he told Steve, “You do need to plant your feet more, though. There’s guys twice his size who’ll send you flying across the field if you don’t dig your feet in right.”

“Right,” Steve deflated, thinking of the amount of times Edwards had knocked him off his feet. A couple of weeks into training and he still wasn’t the most confident about his lacrosse-playing abilities. The looming thought of this was all a mistake, what a waste of time lingered over his head dangerously.

Like Billy could tell what he was thinking, he was quick to rush in. “Harrington, you’re better than at least half the guys here, don’t get it twisted. All you need is a little work, just tightening your form and feeling more confident. Half of it is your attitude on the field.”

“And the other half is skill, though,” Steve rubbed a palm on the back of his neck bashfully, feeling kind of overwhelmed with the surprising amount of praise. “I still can’t shoot for shit.”

Silence. Steve expected a snarky quip, or maybe something teasing, but instead he got Hargrove acting all nervous again, shifting from foot to foot. “I could… help you. Um, practice. I’m a pretty good shot.”

He didn’t know what to say, didn’t even know what to do other than stare at Hargrove like he was the crazy one. Hargrove—Billy Hargrove—was offering to help him practice? Willingly? Like, actually offering to do something… nice for him? He hadn’t realized how long he was stood there, gaping like a fish, before Billy turned red and cleared his throat.

“Forget I offered,” he bit out, shoulder hunched and turning away.

“Wait!” before he could think about what he was doing, he was grabbing Hargrove’s sleeve and saying, “Yeah, I mean, if you want to. I need all the help I can get.”

It looked like Hargrove hadn’t expected him to accept, even if he had made the offer. He seemed to stutter over his words just as much as Steve did. “Oh, uh, okay.” He seemed to shake himself out of whatever funk he had momentarily been suspended in, because the expression he wore was closer to how he usually looked. “How about Saturday? The football field at the high school should be free.”

“Okay, sounds good.” Steve agreed, abruptly letting go of Billy’s sleeve like it had burned him. He was kind of still processing the fact that he was about to voluntarily spend more time with Billy Hargrove. It sounded like some kind of a sick joke. But he still agreed.

He thought about it on the entire drive back. Why had he agreed? Hargrove had been right; he was better than like half the guys on the team. Yes, he definitely needed to fine-tune his skills, but he wasn’t abysmal. Last semester there was no way he would’ve gone near Hargrove within a six-foot radius. And now he was agreeing to extra practice sessions, like it was no big deal.

But when he thought about it, really thought about it, Hargrove hadn’t been horrible to him lately. Had actually been… pretty okay if Steve was being completely honest. It was nothing like how basketball had been; the undercurrent of tension that always seemed to fizzle through the air whenever they were around each other. No, it was way different than that. Maybe it was the fresh air, or all the running around or something, but it felt miles different than it had before. And after the thing with Edwards today, he felt more confident that things weren’t still weird or hostile between them.

He almost wanted to say that that was the reason he had agreed; some kind of favor in return for Billy defending him today, but even that explanation didn’t sit right. The fact of the matter was: when Billy offered to help him practice, he had wanted to say yes.

Against his better judgement, of course, but it was still true. He hadn’t hung out with someone his own age in God knows how long, and even though he was willingly subjecting himself to what was sure to be an afternoon of intense physical activity, it was still something to do that wasn’t carpooling the kids around town or sitting through another one of those weird, artsy movies that Jonathan and Nancy seemed to like so much.

Yeah, okay, it was with Billy Hargrove, but he felt pretty confident that he wasn’t about to beat his face in again. To be safe, though, he wasn’t gonna mention anything to Dustin. God knows the kid would probably talk his ear off until Saturday talking about how dangerous it was gonna be. And maybe it would be… but Steve was kind of doubting it. He wouldn’t know for sure, though, for a couple of days.

The rest of the week passed by, with another Thursday practice that had him well and truly exhausted again, and suddenly Saturday morning was hanging over him. At the last practice Billy had said they could meet some time around noon, when the sun was supposed to be high and bright enough that they wouldn’t be too chilly. It was… almost kind of nice, Billy thinking ahead for them like that. It was a weird thought to ruminate on, though, so he made a point to put it out of his head.

He found himself driving to the football stadium with sweaty palms and the odd sensation of nerves climbing up his throat, although he didn’t know why he was being so weird. Steve had to take a deep breath, steeling himself, before he turned the key in the ignition and parked.

Billy was already messing around by the time he got there and crossed the field, practicing with a crosse while another one lay right next to him on the ground. He looked good out here, Steve had to admit. Basking in the sun like it was his natural state of being—was everyone in California that tan?

“Did you borrow those from Coach?” Steve asked as he walked up. Though once he got closer, he could see they looked a little different, not at all like the secondhand ones Coach had been letting them use every practice.

“Nah, these are mine,” Billy said, confirming his suspicions. “Theirs are way shittier, compared.” He bent forward and picked up the other stick, handing it out to Steve to inspect.

It was a bit longer, and instead of plain brown paint it was a smooth and shiny maroon and white combination. On the side of the shaft he could see “Property of Crescentia Valley High School,” he lifted it up and raised his brows, an unspoken question hanging in the air.

“Yeah, I jacked them from my last school,” Billy admitted with a grin, “I’m sure they’ve replaced them by now, though.”

Steve just snorted, testing the weight in his palms. “This is… one of the long ones, right? It’s different from the others.”

“Yeah, it’s the long stick for the middies and attackers,” Billy took the crosse from him gingerly, showing him the difference in length, “You always want at least one midfielder to have one of these for extra defense. I don’t have a goalie crosse, but these should be fine. If you can learn how to shoot with one of these then you’ll be able to make any shot with one of the regular ones. You wanted to practice your shots, right?” He handed the stick back to Steve, reaching over to grab his smaller one off the ground.

“Sure, that sounds good,” he watched as Billy meandered his way over to one of the goal posts, all the while thinking how crazy it was that he was even there in the first place. He was becoming more and more surprised by the moment; shocked in how prepared Billy came to the practice session and how he apparently wasn’t gonna half-ass it. Not that he had expected Billy to completely drop the ball—he’d been the one to offer the session, after all—but it still perplexed him to see how much thought he’d actually put into it.

When Billy got to the middle of the goal, he widened his stance and tightened the grip on his stick, Steve could see it even from here. He swallowed down the nervous apprehension, gripping the longer stick and scooping up the ball before his nerves could get the best of him. Weirdly, he was most freaked about hitting Billy in the face or something since they didn’t have any protective gear. He tried not to look into the thought too deep, aware that he was worrying about Billy Hargrove of all people and how ironic that was in the first place.

It turns out he had nothing to really be scared for; the ball was shooting up higher than it should have been, a not so graceful arc, sailing through the air before Billy was able to snag it easily mid-flight with his own crosse. He lobbed the ball back at Steve smoothly, looking as easy as breathing.

Steve bent over and scooped the ball up again, taking an extra deep breath to ground himself (and for patience) before he tossed it again; this time it didn’t sail quite as high, but it cut too wide for the goal post. Billy still caught it pretty easily, though, jumping a little to snag it out of the air before it could fly back even further.

“Okay, Harrington,” he said, walking over, “Your arm’s way off. You’re going for an over-the shoulder, but really all you need is an overhand. There’s too much force behind your swing, you can’t be as heavy with it.”

It all kind of made sense, but Billy must have seen the wisps of confusion on his face because he fell in line next to Steve, lining them up so they almost matched. “Pull back like you’re about to throw,” he instructed, and Steve followed, winding his arm back. “Now hold the dominant hand a little over the other one, so you can get the right amount of force. Then you’re gonna hold it up a little high—not that high—and then—” he made a throwing gesture with his arm. He motioned to Steve. “Try it out.”

Steve got in formation, bending his arm back, until Billy’s hand wrapped around his forearm, startling him. He didn’t flinch, per se, but he definitely started a little, twitching under Billy’s hand. Billy took it in stride, at least; just giving a little uncomfortable cough while he waited for Steve to unclench, grabbing his bicep not as tight this time. He slowly adjusted Steve’s angle, and even though he knew he should be paying attention to the technique, he still couldn’t quite get over the shock of having Billy’s hand on his bicep. It was warm, crazy warm, like he was a furnace, and the grip was firm.

“Harrington?”

He jerked out of his thoughts. “What?”

Billy just looked at him like he was loony. “The shot. You wanna try to take it?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” he said, like he’d only just noticed he was already in position. He planted his feet a little firmer into the ground, heeding Billy’s previous advice, and took one last steadying breath before launching it.

It sailed, directly into the net of the goal post. It wasn’t the cleanest shot and was definitely skewed towards the top rather than the middle, but it was the best one he’d done so far. He found himself grinning and turning to see Hargrove, a little surprised to see he was also smiling a little and staring right back at him already. “Good job. Now let’s see if you can make that with someone actually in the goal.”

He jogged back over while Steve readied his stance again, winding his arm back so it was at the same angle Billy had moved him to. He shot again with the same force and was gratified to see Billy reaching to get it; even though he hadn’t been able to score the point, it was still better than what he was doing before.

They practiced like that for a while, Steve throwing the balls while every so often Billy would come over and adjust his arm to get the right amount of power behind it. He walked Steve through the other types of throws, too, some that Coach Turner hadn’t even mentioned yet. They also ran drills—Billy making sure he knew how to effectively plant his feet so he wouldn’t get blindsided by any defenders.

It had felt like barely any time had passed, even though the sun was starting to creep towards the horizon, setting into late afternoon without either of them noticing. It was only when it started get dusky out there that Steve stopped, catching his breath, and wiping the sweat off his forehead. He tried to ignore how badly his shirt was sticking to his chest from how much he’d sweated right through it, but other than that gross sensation he was feeling pretty good; he could say without a doubt he was already leagues better than he had been before, and that was after only a couple of hours with Billy.

“Thanks, man, I think I actually can manage a shot, now,” Steve said truthfully. Towards the end he’d been able to sink a couple balls past Billy into the net, something he thought he’d never be able to do.

“It’s cool,” Billy said, waving it off like it was just every day that he offered to help Steve out. “Um, if you want, we could do it again—practice out here.”

“Oh,” Steve said, surprised. He’d kind of thought this was gonna be a one-time thing and was a little jolted from the offer. The most sensible part of him—which suspiciously sounded like Dustin—said it was a bad idea. But this afternoon hadn’t gone too bad; in fact, it wasn’t bad at all. Was actually pretty… decent, if he was being honest. So even though all logic pointed to him calling this a one-time thing, he found himself nodding instead. “Yeah, that sounds good. Same time and place next week?”

Billy looked, again, like he hadn’t been expecting Steve to agree, almost kind of taken aback. He recovered quicker than Steve had, though, tossing a nonchalant shrug and saying, “Cool. See you Tuesday, then.”

Practicing with Billy paid off in more ways than one. Coach almost immediately noticed the remarkable improvement in his technique and commented a couple of times about how he thought Steve would be a good midfielder. He was a little surprised at that, since all the midfielders were supposed to be good at basically everything and he still felt like a fish out of water. But Coach was adamant, though, and insisted on using him in that position for practice. Coach was having Billy be a midfielder too, so at least he wasn’t gonna be completely left out to dry.

That was another benefit of the weekly practices with Billy. The more they moved through everything, not just working on throwing and catching but actual passing and shooting, as well as taking some trips around the track, the more he found them to be a cohesive unit. The second he scooped up —never rake it, Harrington, just scoop, Billy’s voice rang crystal clear in his head— the ball with his crosse his eyes were darting around, trying to find Billy so they could make a seamless pass across the field.

Billy was good at lacrosse, he already knew that, but seeing the way he played up close and personal was kind of dizzying to Steve. He chalked it up to being on the other end for so long that he didn’t know how to deal when Billy was actually on his side. Where he thought Billy had just been good before, he could see that didn’t even cover the half of it; Billy was amazing at lacrosse. He could tell the Coach was having a difficult time choosing his position, since he was good for basically every single one, and Steve felt pretty thankful that for the time being they were at least both midfielders.

All the extra practice time had also made things a little easier between them, edging out some of the previous tension and instead replacing it with something lighter, making it easier to breathe and actually enjoy himself most of the time, not wondering any more if Billy was gonna lose his temper and snap. Where before Steve would usually be one of the first to leave once practice was over, now he found himself lingering behind to leisurely walk with Billy back to their cars while they shot the shit. Neither of them ever went back to the showers with the other guys, choosing instead to leave together once all the equipment was packed up at the end of practice.

It was easier at school, too, where he no longer had to watch his back for Tommy and his cronies to say something or give him shit in between classes. He’d been walking past Tommy a week or so ago, and when he’d gone past he could see Tommy take a step forward, smirk starting to curl on the edges of his mouth. He wasn’t able to get further than that step, though, because not even a half-second later Steve had seen Billy’s hand shoot out and grab him by the collar; yanking him back so roughly that Steve had a tough time forgetting the look of shock on his face. It was pretty fucking funny, and especially more so when he saw Billy give a little commiserating eye roll over the top of Tommy’s head.

Having Billy as an ally was a hell of a lot better than having him as an enemy, and Steve was beginning to realize they were quickly approaching what might be considered “friends” territory. Where last semester that might’ve seemed impossible to him, and something he didn’t really even want in the first place, now it didn’t seem so bad. In fact, if he was being honest, he was kind of alright with it. It made his life a hell of a lot easier—and it was nice feeling like things were staring to shift back towards some semblance of normalcy. Or at least a normalcy that made it possible for him and Billy to get along.

~

It felt like one moment they were all still running over the basics, and then the next Coach was suddenly telling them they were a week out from their first scrimmage. It wasn’t supposed to be anything major, just against another amateur intramural team that was about forty-five minutes out from them. They were probably at the same skill level, and probably didn’t have a star player like Hargrove on their team. But it still made Steve anxious, and it still sent his nerves going in all directions on Tuesday’s practice. The thought at failing the thing that he’d been enjoying a lot up until this point hung over him like a dark storm cloud.

Coach was adamant that he play as a midfielder, and while before he’d been pretty flattered at the prospect—now he was starting to doubt. He was in his head the whole practice on the Tuesday, trying and failing to keep up with the rest of the guys. By the end of it he felt pretty shitty, ignoring the look from Coach, and instead focused on putting his crosse back in the bin—as if that required all his attention. He was jerked out of his concentration when he felt a shoulder knock into him lightly from behind. Whirling around, he was about to open his mouth to snap at whoever did it, thinking it was fucking Edwards again, but deflated when he saw Billy instead.

“Hey,” he said dully, turning back around and leaning down to tighten his shoelaces.

Billy waited patiently for him to finish, quirking a brow at him when he finally stood back up. “Who pissed in your cornflakes this morning?” he asked, a smirk on the edge of his lips.

Steve gave a dry snort. Always so eloquent, Billy was. He wasn’t surprised Billy had noticed his bad mood, though. He seemed to notice way more than Steve originally gave him credit for. “No one ‘pissed in my cornflakes’ this morning, thanks.” He started walking back towards the parking lot, trying to will Hargrove to drop it for now.

No such luck. Billy immediately followed after him, trailing about a half-step behind. “O-kay, so then what’s your damage?”

“There’s no damage,” Steve shot back irritably, still not letting Billy catch up with him and speeding up his pace a little bit, “Just, y’know, trying to keep my head in the game, or whatever.”

“Yeah, right,” Billy remarked dryly, somehow pulling forward and falling in line with him, “Your head was in the clouds almost the entire practice.”

“Just fuck off, okay?” Steve snapped, feeling his nerves and frustration finally boiling over and getting the best of him. He didn’t even care that he was tempting fate by being a dick to Billy, too subsumed in his own harried thoughts over the impending game.

Instead of getting angry and snapping back like he expected, though, Billy just fell back a half-step. “Okay, Harrington,” he said, the words coming out a little stilted and awkward, “Will do,” he pushed past Steve, making pains not to even brush his shoulder, and Steve felt the steady trickle of guilt spread through him, feeling like a colossal asshole for being rude when it seemed like Billy was actually trying to be nice. No one else had asked him why he was in such a shitty mood—and here he was being a dickwad to the only person that had. He didn’t even think too hard on the fact that he was rushing to tell Billy that he wasn’t mad at him.

“Hey, wait,” he jogged to catch up to Billy, who was now determinedly marching down the field like his life depended on it. When Steve finally caught up to him, he reached out and closed a hand around his arm, a little surprised when Billy abruptly flinched back. He dropped his hand, feeling out of place, before running it through his hair and trying to start over again. “Hey, listen, I’m just stressed—”

“It’s no biggie,” Billy cut in, not even looking at him.

It only made Steve feel shittier, and he suppressed a groan. “No, man, it’s not you or anything. It’s just…” he sighed, not wanting to admit it, “It’s just the game on Saturday.” He finished lamely.

“The game?” Billy’s forehead wrinkled; it looked like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him that that would be the reason Steve was in a funk—like Steve being a dick to him out of nowhere could have been completely expected. It took the last of the wind out of his sails.

“Yeah,” he admitted with a sigh, looking off somewhere in the middle distance and ignoring the way he could tell Billy was watching his face now. “I just… I don’t think I should be a midfielder. I don’t think I’m good enough.”

The bray of laughter Billy let out was enough to startle him, staring back at the other boy with wide eyes. Billy looked like he was honest to God about to clutch his stomach, the way he looked so amused. “Harrington. You’re worried about the scrimmage? And if you’ll be able to play middie?”

Steve shrugged, a little put off that Billy apparently found his apprehension funny. “Whatever, I just—”

“Harrington,” Billy cut him off, and Steve only stopped because of how oddly sincere he looked, something in his eyes that Steve hadn’t seen before, not even after things got better between them, “You shouldn’t worry about that, okay? You’re a good midfielder. Honest. And there’s no one on the team that could take your place, or else you know Coach would have subbed them in after the shit you pulled today.”

It all sounded well and good, but there was still a tiny part at the back of his head sowing doubt. “I mean, okay sure, but—”

“But nothing,” Billy said firmly, looking at him in a way that had Steve’s words unceremoniously dying on his lips, too caught up in the sudden assault of steady eye contact from Billy’s light blue eyes. “You’re good, okay? I wouldn’t tell you that if you weren’t. And don’t worry about the scrimmage on Saturday, it’s just the first one. Even if we lose, at least we’ll know what to do for the next one.”

It was pretty shocking, hearing that from Billy. He thought that the other boy would definitely have a serious problem with losing, just after what he’d seen in basketball. But he was beginning to learn that he really didn’t have a good grasp on who Billy Hargrove really was.

There was still a part of him that wanted to disagree—sow the doubt in his head even more, but something about Billy’s look made him hold his tongue, eyes tracing over Billy’s face and searching for any sign of deceit. There was none, as far as he could tell anyway; just Billy Hargrove with an open look on his face, probably the most vulnerable Steve had ever seen him. And it was all just to assure him that he wasn’t gonna play shitty this weekend.

An odd feeling of warmth bubbled up from his stomach to his chest, and he found himself reluctantly smiling back at Billy, the crappy mood from earlier miraculously dropping like it hadn’t been hanging over him all afternoon.

“If you say so,” he finally said at last, starting to steadily resume the walk back to the car, relieved when Billy joined him rather than rushing ahead again. “I just… what if I freeze? Or I completely forget all the rules in the moment, or something.”

“You’re not gonna,” Billy said confidently, still taking strides by his side, “First of all: you’ve played in games before. You’re not gonna forget anything, alright? Second of all: you’ve got me as one of the other middies. Cameron probably won’t be a lot of help,” he shrugged, truthfully, “but I’ll be there, too. And I bet we won’t need him anyway. You’ve just gotta have confidence, Steve.”

The use of his first name had him starting back a little, since up until this point he’d been “Harrington” the entire time. For some reason, just hearing it out of Billy’s mouth set his nerves alight again, a deep flush blooming over his cheeks without him even knowing why. “Well, thanks,” he said after a moment, realizing he’d kind of been walking and smiling and staring off into the parking lot, “We’ll see on Saturday, I guess.”

Billy waved a hand. “You just gotta loosen up a little, man. We’ll be just fine.”

Steve kept repeating that phrase in his head for the rest of the week; calling upon Billy’s words whenever his anxiety was beginning to mount again. It didn’t fully get rid of the jitters, but it was effective enough to have him more focused on Thursday’s practice, and by the time Saturday rolled around he was feeling marginally better than he would have before without the pep talk.

The scrimmage itself was being held at the rec center, so at least they had a home turf advantage. It still didn’t stop him from sizing up the other team, warily looking at the other players gathered on the opposite end of the field and trying to figure out what kind of competition they’d be. He felt like half his concentration was torn on watching them, while the other half went through the motions of suiting up and putting all his pads on. Under the weight of everything it felt heavier than it had in practice, but he chalked it up to the anxious throb that was still running through his mind.

Billy appeared at his side, bouncing his stick on his ankle. He jerked his head towards the other players. “Don’t think about them,” he instructed, a final kernel of advice, “Just pretend we’re back in practice. Or we’re on the Hawkins’ field, running drills.”

It helped a little bit, taking himself out of the moment and kind of grounding him to reality. “Thanks,” he smiled at Billy, gratified when he gave a smile of his own back, “We’ll knock ‘em dead,” he added, trying to tap into that endless well of confidence that Billy seemed to carry around him. Sometimes it felt like if you even stood next to the guy long enough, it would rub off on you.

“Hell yeah,” Billy laughed, before clapping a hand on his shoulder and jogging off to join their team gathered by one of the sets of bleachers. Steve jogged after him; focusing on the steady thrum of his footsteps against the grass instead of how anxious he was for the scrimmage to start.

He couldn’t even tell you what they said in the group huddle before the game; only that everyone (except for Billy) seemed to have the same expression of wariness, eyes shifting around at each other like they were all trying to catalogue how nervous everyone else was. Billy was the only one who really kept his eyes on Coach, and he was the first one to give a big whoop! when they broke their huddle. Steve gripped his crosse tightly in his hands as he walked down to his position, trying not to look at the other guys on the fields as much.

Steve was on the right-hand side of the field, and Cameron was on the left—hands gripping his stick just like Steve and looking just as determined. Billy was stood right in the middle of the field, waiting for the referee to set the ball. He was supposed to be the one who started the game at the face off; a position that probably only Billy Hargrove would’ve been able to do. They were the ones that began the game, trying to get control of the ball before the opposing side could, making the first move to determine the tides of the game.

It took a certain level of tenacity that basically no one on the team possessed—except for the obvious. He could see Billy crouched a little, looking intense and staring directly at the guy from the other team. He had a grin on his face though, a mean one, and from here Steve could see his mouth moving. Talking smack, most likely, which was such a Billy thing to do that it made him snort and roll his eyes from where he was stood, a temporary reprieve from the nerves.

He only had about half a second to think this is it before the whistle was being blown and madness descended upon the field. Sure enough, Billy shot his stick faster than the guy from the opposing team, and he realized with a breathless rush of excitement that Billy had sent the ball careening his way. Without another thought, he ran to scoop the ball, shoulder checking one of the other middies on the way to do so. It was like his brain was in the survival mode it usually went to whenever he dealt with the Upside Down: the absolute singlemindedness to get things done being his only driving force. He felt both present and non-present as he watched himself scoop the ball into the mesh, legs moving faster than he thought was possible as he raced down the field.

Billy and Cameron were there at either side, but Cameron was blocked by the defenders, so without any hesitation he swung the crosse towards Billy, sending the ball shooting out and heading in his direction. It sailed through the air in a clean arc that he wouldn’t have been able to do without all the extra practice, and he was satisfied to see Billy catching it seamlessly with his mesh, before darting a couple paces and sending it off to one of their attackers. When they passed by each other, a momentary lapse in movement since everyone was heading toward the other end of the field, they exchanged easy grins; so far everything was flowing like melted butter.

It continued that way for most of the game; Steve realized that they had been better off than he thought, and there really was no point in the major freak out he’d been having beforehand. He forgot that it was just a game, and even though it was intense and felt like life-or-death in the moment, it was still just a game. Nothing actually life ending or resulting in real-world consequences. He felt another rush of exhilaration running up and down the field, working the air through his lungs and pushing himself to run faster than he ever had in basketball.

When they broke for a huddle, Coach didn’t seem concerned at all. In fact, he looked just as elated as Steve felt. “Great job on the field, boys,” he said earnestly, making sure to give each of them a brief moment of eye contact. He stopped on where he and Billy were stood next to each other, addressing them head on. “Hey, you two, good work out there. The only way we’re gonna win any game is through teamwork, alright?”

They broke the huddle after a course of yes, Coach and a brief summary of what the game plan was for the second half. On the walk back to his position on the field, Billy nudged his shoulder. “I told you to chill, didn’t I?” he cast a roguish grin that had Steve tripping over his feet unexpectedly, “We’re fine. Just keep giving me those clean passes and we’ll be good to go.”

“Will do,” Steve snorted back, eyes lingering for a moment as Billy marched back to his position in the center.

The third quarter passed by quickly, and the other team did better than they had in the first two. They weren’t near enough to do a tie, yet, but they were getting close. He knew that it wasn’t the end of the world if they lost, or anything, but Steve still wanted to win, desperately. He wanted that unshakeable euphoria of victory. To finally fucking win, after he felt like he’d been losing for so long. Hell, even to see the look on his teammates’ faces when they won. To see the look on Billy’s face.

Abruptly, he shot that thought process down before it could get a mind of its own and he’d be stuck in a spiral. Where in the hell had that come from? Before he could ruminate any further, the high-pitched screech of the whistle jarred him back into the moment, back into the game.

The fourth quarter was the most difficult one yet, especially when they were getting towards the end. It looked like the other team was finally getting on with the program, because this time around they made sure to swarm Billy with their middies, descending on him almost immediately after they restarted for the play. It was in the last minute or so of the game that things got especially hairy. Billy looked like he desperately wanted to do more than shoulder check them, practically snarling in some of the guys’ faces. He was still able to catch a pass from Cameron, though, standing on his tiptoes and extending his arm as far as it would go to catch the ball with his crosse.

“Harrington!” Billy called, and they locked eyes over the heads of the opposing players still gathered around. He braced his stick and Steve shifted immediately, gearing up for the pass that he innately knew was coming his way. He stretched, and there was a brief terrifying moment that he thought he may have missed it, before the satisfying weight of the ball sank into the cradle of the mesh, relief running through him like a train.

He looked down the field, searching for someone who was open to take the shot, though he could see their attackers were busy, and the other teams’ defenders were quickly closing in—there was a burly guy heading his way that looked like he was practically salivating to check Steve. There was a brief moment of panic where he thought what do I do what do I do before he tuned into the voice practically roaring at him from across the field, Billy screaming out, “Take the shot!”

He swallowed and suppressed the instinct to screw his eyes shut; instead, watching the goal and sending the ball in an overhand throw he’d practiced a million times in those Saturday practice sessions. It was crazy, the way it felt like everything slowed down and then sped up all at once. The ball almost floated through the air, before suddenly slamming into the net—coincidentally, the same time that defender slammed into him, going for the gut.

It definitely was an illegal move, a desperate one too, and it nearly sent him sprawling and took the breath right out of his chest. But he couldn’t find it in himself to care at all when his team was swarming him immediately; hooting and hollering in a near-deafening cacophony of noise.

“Fuck yes, Harrington!” Billy screamed in his ear, and Steve didn’t even mind that it sent his ear drum ringing, too overwhelmed by the jubilation of the win. He felt the other guys slap his back in congratulations, but the stinging weight on his back and shoulders just added to the excitement, if that was possible. It took another ten minutes for the guys to calm down a little so they could go give the opposing team some handshakes, and Steve took a particular delight in not flinching from that burly defender’s death grip. His stomach felt like it was in knots—but the good kind, not what he’d been experiencing earlier. He couldn’t keep the manic grin off his face, even when Coach told them not to “Get too cocky, it was just your first game, boys,”

He was just standing back up after packing his bag, startled to see Billy suddenly standing in front of him. “Hey,” he said easily, still riding on that high of making the goal.

“Hey,” Billy smirked back, before it morphed into something a little nicer. “You going to Emma’s tonight?”

“Oh, uh, I don’t know,” Steve hedged. He knew there was a party tonight, but he was still kind of skirting on the edges of social pariah status, so that meant that he wasn’t technically invited. He could show up, sure, but he didn’t exactly want to get gawked at.

Billy seemed to pick up on his hesitation and where it might stem from. “It’s okay, Harrington,” he assured, waving his hand. “Let me deal with them. You should come, man, celebrate the win.”

Steve dithered; sorely tempted but still kind of on the fence when it seemed like the only person who really wanted him there was Billy. Which, surprise of the millennium, but he was slowly getting more used to it. “Well—”

“Steve,” Billy cut him off, and he was so shocked by the use of his first name again that he let him, “Just come on. It’ll be fun. And the subjects need to see their King, they haven’t had a viewing in a while,” he finished with a grin.

He rolled his eyes even as his face heated up a little at the use of the nickname. “Alright, yeah, whatever,” he agreed, surprising himself a little. He hadn’t been to a party in a while, he reasoned internally, and he was due for some regular teenage fun. Besides, he couldn’t say no when Billy looked so earnest like that, when he looked like he actually wanted Steve to go. There was no explaining the weird bubbling in his stomach, but he figured he could valiantly ignore that and save it for later—when he was in the middle of one of his spirals.

Billy grinned and smacked a hand on his shoulder. “Rad, we’re going in my car.”

“Oh,” Steve blinked, momentarily taken aback, “I mean, I don’t mind taking my own car or anything, I—”

“Harrington,” Billy rolled his eyes, “Let me drive you. I swear your car will be fine here, I’ll take you back later. Come on, we gotta make a big splash.”

“Oh, um, okay,” he stuttered out, feeling like a plum fool for acting so weird when Billy wasn’t even being unreasonable or anything. Actually, on the walk to the Camaro, Steve thought about how it was going to at least be a little easier showing up to the party with someone rather than by himself—especially when that someone was Billy. It made him feel a little more assured, like he wasn’t about to walk into the party and get blindsided or booed out or something.

He slowed a little as they reached the Camaro, almost stumbling over his feet when he was hit with the visceral memory of waking up in the back of Billy’s car, sunken into the scooped back seats, uncomfortable plastic divide digging into his spine while his face throbbed. He had no clue if Max had ever told him about her little joyride, but he figured Billy had to know some antics had come up with his car, since it had been pretty dinged up by the time she was through with it. There was no way he was about to bring it up and risk Billy’s ire, though, even if he felt a little weird opening the door to sit in the passenger’s side this time.

He hadn’t really been able to catch it that night (see: his concussion) but sitting there now he noticed how much of Billy’s scent permeated through the car. It wasn’t bad, or anything; on the contrary, it was… kind of pleasant. The smokey combination of the Marlboro Reds he was sure Billy chain-smoked in here and the heady masculine scent of his cologne formed an almost intoxicating duo. Sometimes Steve caught whiffs during practice, but it was nothing like how it was concentrated here. It was enough to get his head spinning, and he surreptitiously cracked a window to let some air in.

“Oh, I’m sure we reek,” Billy snickered, checking over his shoulder before pulling out of the parking lot. “Probably should’ve showered off before we left.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed quickly, even though that hadn’t been the reason at all why he’d rolled down the window, “I don’t need to make things harder on myself than showing up to Emma’s in some ratty gym clothes and smelling like B.O.”

Billy cast an askance glance his way. “Trust me, you look fine,” he said roughly, before giving a little cough.

“Um, thanks,” he replied, struck by the comment and if he was being weird thinking that it was weird. Was he being weird?

Without another word, Billy reached over him to get to the glove compartment, popping it open to reveal the collection of mixtapes—sliding over each other with the clacking sound of plastic. He was more preoccupied with how much Billy had leaned into his space, though, and the arm extended right in front of him. He’d made note about it a couple times, sure, but up close he could really tell how much Billy worked out compared to all the other guys on their team. Hell, their school. “You can choose,” Billy said.

“Huh?” he tore his gaze away from the strangely arresting sight of fine blond hair dusting over Billy’s arm, “What?”

“The music?” Billy quirked an eyebrow back at him, gesturing to the glovebox. “Pick a mixtape.”

“Oh, right, yeah,” he ignored Billy’s look, choosing instead to rifle through the pretty impressive mixtape collection. It was surprisingly more diverse than he had expected—nothing even resembling a semblance of country or folk, but a couple of pop and disco mixtapes that immediately caught his eye. When he held up the Boney M. one, Billy just rolled his eyes.

“Those are for Max,” he clarified, smirk dragging up a corner of his lips, “Pick something I can actually stomach.”

Steve snorted but didn’t call him out on what was sure to be a lie. Instead he dug a little further, letting out an involuntary noise of delight as he pulled out an ELO tape, popping it into the player and immediately switching to track two. When the grand piano came on, Billy barked out a laugh.

“Interesting choice,” he said over the music, “You still got a bone to pick with Wheeler?”

Rather than taking it to heart and getting defensive like he would have done a couple of months ago when it was still relatively fresh, Steve just rolled his eyes and smacked Billy in the shoulder—not even questioning whether it was safe to do so. Billy rolled with it, though, sending a lopsided grin his way. “Fuck off,” Steve said without any heat, “It’s a good song!”

“You’re right, you’re right,” Billy grinned back, conceding, before darting his eyes Steve’s way again, “Even if you’re singing those lyrics a little too passionately.”

This time when Steve went for his shoulder, he just cackled and jerked the steering wheel, sending them in a set of choppy zigzags on the road that had Steve trying to jerk the steering wheel back in retaliation—crowing with laughter the entire time

The rest of the drive was easy after that, so easy in fact that he couldn’t even remember why he’d been so nervous to come in the first place. When they went to pull up in front of Emma’s, though, he remembered his hesitation.

Billy didn’t let him stew in it for one second. “C’mon,” he said forcefully, jerking his head in the direction of the house as he climbed out of the car, “We got some simple-minded hicks to impress,” he shot a grin over his shoulder as Steve made a noise in protest, stumbling over himself to get out of the car, too. The momentum carried him across the lawn all the way to the front door before some of the bravado seemed to have petered out. Billy just clapped his hands on Steve’s shoulders, ignoring the startled look he tossed over his shoulder, and pushed him forward through the open door, making him front and center to face the parting crowd.

“Get a drink for my man Harrington, here,” Billy ordered broadly into the house, exuding that unshakeable confidence that someone was gonna do what he said—without a doubt in his mind. “The guy deserves it. Chop chop!”

Within a couple seconds someone was pushing some red solo cups Billy’s way, and he handed one off to Steve while he downed the other in three deep gulps. Steve stared at him for a moment, in breathless fascination, before he caught up with the program and downed his own cup too. It was jungle juice, and it burned going down—he was almost out of practice, but the muscle memory of partying in the past had him keeping down his liquor.

Billy pushed him even further back into the house, where it wasn’t so congregated and crowded. Unfortunately, this only opened him in the line of sight for Tommy and some of the other guys from the basketball team, and suddenly Steve wished he hadn’t drowned that drink so quickly.

“What’re you doing with him?” Tommy practically sneered; eyeing Billy’s hands still clasped on his shoulders with something almost like betrayal.

“Calm down, Hagan,” Billy ordered, finally letting go and grabbing another couple of drinks from someone passing by, handing one off to Steve again. It felt like the imprint of his hands were still there, though, a reverberation of warmth he wouldn’t admit to himself that was kind of nice. He clapped a hand on Steve’s back, the force of it almost making him stumble forward. “King Steve here just scored the winning goal for our lacrosse game. I think that warrants a couple of free drinks, don’t you?”

The last part was said with a little bit of an edge to it, like Billy was just daring Tommy to question his judgement. Tommy’s eyes slid nervously between Steve and Billy, taking a visible moment to mull it over before shrugging and saying, “Whatever,” like he never cared in the first place.

“Great,” Billy flashed a smile at him, something about his teeth glinting making it shark-like. “Glad we’re able to come to that agreement.”

“You play lacrosse, Harrington?” one of the guys from the basketball team piped up in the ensuing silence, cutting through the air that had been growing charged with tension. “I didn’t know you were a part of the team,”

He glanced around a little, kind of shocked that it had blown over so quickly and there wasn’t any more conflict. He caught Billy’s eyes, silently urging him on. “Uh, yeah,” he replied, turning to him, “I joined the league a while ago.”

“Sick,” he said easily, clutching a beer bottle. Steve desperately tried to remember his name. “You any good?”

Before he could answer, give some kind of a half-hearted well, Billy was already looping an arm around his shoulders, drawing him in close. He was suddenly hit with a wave of Billy’s cologne, still somehow carrying over from the game, and tried to blink past the blood rushing in his ears. “Harrington here scored the winning goal for our game tonight, shot the ball from practically halfway across the field.”

“For real?”

It was a complete exaggeration; the goal hadn’t been the winning goal, but rather the last one before the whistle was blown. And he didn’t exactly shoot it from halfway across the field, even if that’s what it felt like. But Billy was throwing him a bone here, giving him something to work with and trying to make it easier on him. So instead of owning up, he decided to run with it.

“Well, you know,” he said with an air of indifference, like it really hadn’t been that much effort anyway, “Their defense was full of a bunch of pussies. Made it easy on me.”

The gathering semi-circle around them laughed. He snuck a glance towards Billy, loosening up when he saw the growing grin on Billy’s face. He looked pleased that Steve was taking the bait, making it easier on himself. When the others turned to Billy for confirmation, he shifted back to them easily.

“You guys shoulda seen it; it’s the last minute and this tank practically barrels towards him. He takes the winning shot, and then boom! Too late for them, though.”

“No way,” some girl at his side said, and he had to twist to see her. Her eyes were wide when she looked at him, hand hovering over his side. “Did it hurt a lot?”

“Knocked the wind outta me,” he admitted, caught off guard by having all the attention on him—especially the fact that it was good attention. It’d been so long since the King Steve days that he felt a little rusty putting on the old crown.

“He took it like a champ, though,” Billy asserted one last time, loosening his hold around Steve before looking at the group gathered around them expectantly. “Now can we get some more drinks for the winners?”

Steve rolled his eyes, halfway expecting that line not to work, and watched in wonder as the group slowly dispersed around them, finished with the show now that the initial introduction was over. Someone still appeared over his shoulder for two drinks, and they were gone before Steve could even think to say thanks. He shook his head in wonder, staring at the empty places where everyone had been before they’d gotten their fill. He expected a little blowback, maybe some resistance to his presence since he’d been absent from the popular scene for a while, but there was none of that. Just a couple words from Billy and they were appeased, simple as that.

Billy must’ve seen the look on his face because he just let out a laugh next to him. “I’m telling you, Harrington, these people are easy,” he said sagely, leaning forward like he was giving worthwhile advice. “Just give ‘em what they want, and the rest is taken care of.”

“And what do they want?” he quirked an eyebrow, leaning forward too. It felt kind of exhilarating, like they were in on some big secret no one else was.

“Attention,” Billy shrugged, looking out into the sea of bodies around them. He turned back to Steve. “Why do you think your little disappearing act made you so unpopular? You’ve gotta at least pretend to be interested to get anywhere with these people.”

“Oh yeah?” he asked, watching Billy instead of the crowd. The question came unbidden into his mind, and he was asking it before he could stop himself. “Is that what you do, then? Pretend to be interested?”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Billy said dryly, sending him a look before draining half his cup. “In fact, it works wonders as a survival tactic.”

Steve couldn’t help but let out a snort. “Hawkins isn’t exactly that difficult to survive.” The social aspect, anyways. He wasn’t going to comment on the aspect concerning supernatural problems, though.

“To you, maybe. Some of us got dropped here in the middle of the first semester.” Billy polished off the last of his drink, unceremoniously crushing the red plastic cup and tossing it off to the side. He nodded towards the drink still in Steve’s hands. “C’mon, drink up. Guarantee you’re gonna need some liquor in your veins for this next part.”

Without any warning, he grabbed Steve’s arm and began dragging him into the throng of people, obviously intent on them to make their way around the party. He drained his drink quickly, ignoring the tart taste and the mild burn of vodka it left in its wake as he stumbled along.

It made sense, what Billy said about survival tactics. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Billy was the new guy, and that he hadn’t grown up with the rest of them. He had just inserted himself into the scene so seamlessly that it was like he had always been there, almost. But he hadn’t; he was transplanted all the way from somewhere halfway across the country, something that was jarring to think about. Maybe if he was in the peak of his King Steve days he would’ve been able to adjust—maybe—but he knew that if his parents tried to move them right now, he’d have a complete mental breakdown. There was no way he’d adapt as well as Billy, who seemed to navigate a crowd of what was practically strangers with relative ease.

Steve let himself be guided even though he already knew the layout of the house; he was thankful someone was taking the lead so he wouldn’t have to keep explaining himself. Billy was like a human shield of popularity, quelling any disagreements or dirty looks cast towards Steve with just one menacing glare. When he finally let go, after dragging them to the room with beer pong, he tried not to read too much into the disappointment he felt at the sudden absence of Billy’s warm hand on his arm. Billy folded the both of them into the fray, and Steve let himself go with the flow.

From then on, he was able to jump back into the easy rhythm of things: accept a drink, hold a meaningless conversation with another drunk person, and play a game of beer pong or two. The hardest part had been coming in, and Billy had basically taken care of that for him. A couple more people asked about the game, ostensibly having overheard them talking about it in the kitchen, and Steve found himself the center of attention once again as he regaled them with the details. He may have over-exaggerated a couple of parts, but Billy never said anything; just gave him an encouraging smile from where he seemed to be hanging on the outskirts.

He broke from the wave of people, stumbling over to Billy and finding himself way more drunk than he initially thought. It’d been a while since he drank, though, and everyone had kept passing him cup after cup to celebrate the “big win”—even though they never would have known about it in the first place if it wasn’t for Billy.

“Having fun?” Billy asked when he was finally able to break free, nearly falling over his feet and smacking into him. Billy stuck out a hand to steady him, and when he let go of Steve’s bicep it was met with that same pang of disappointment. “Woah there, ese. I think you need a little break from the punch.”

“Yeah, probably,” Steve agreed easily, letting out a burp only seconds later that felt hot and probably smelled rancid. Billy didn’t say anything, though, just made a face. “You wanna get some air?” he asked, suddenly struck with the idea. It was hot and muggy in the room, probably from all the bodies, and the thought of the brisk air outside seemed promising.

Billy was already starting to shake a cigarette out of its carton. He jerked his head over his shoulder. “Yeah, c’mon.”

They spilled out from the doorway into the side of the house, and the sudden chilly air felt good on Steve’s warm cheeks as he tried to get his bearings together. He was definitely way more drunk than he initially thought, and when he looked up at Billy, he seemed to be holding back laughter. “Oh, shut up,” he mumbled, waving a hand haphazardly while he went to lean up against the side of the house.

“You doing okay over there?” Billy asked, blowing air out of the side of his mouth. He didn’t seem bummed at all that he was basically babysitting Steve, though, just smoked his cigarette easily like he didn’t wanna be anywhere else in the world.

“Gimme,” Steve said, nodding towards the cigarette, feeling like he needed something to tether him back to the moment.

Billy didn’t protest, just rolled his eyes and handed it over. Steve took a big pull, holding it in for only about half a second before he hacked up a lung, trying to wipe the taste off his mouth while Billy just cackled right next to him. “Fuck,” he cursed, feeling his stomach start to churn. Sometimes it felt so good to have a quick smoke when he was drunk, but he’d been out of the practice of either of them for so long that now it just made him nauseated as hell.

“You okay?” Billy asked again after a moment, snorting a little. Steve fought past the pounding in his head to look at him, but he didn’t seem like he was poking fun.

“Yeah,” he said, even though it wasn’t all the way true. He just didn’t want to bring down the vibe by admitting that if he took another drag, he probably would upchuck over both their shoes. Billy was still staring at him when the tide of warmth washed over him. He was just drunk enough to go with it, carried by the tide of good feelings. “Hey, thanks,” he said after a minute.

“For what?” Billy asked with a wry grin, “Almost making you puke in the bushes?”

“No,” he rolled his eyes, swatting halfheartedly in his direction. He hesitated, trying to find the right words while also trying to not drunkenly word-vomit on Billy. He always talked way too much, and for way too long when he drank too much. “I mean, thanks for the party. And everything. I wouldn’t’ve come on my own, I’m pretty sure no one even wanted me here before… well, you know.” The before you brought me here remained in the air, unspoken.

Instead of giving another quip with a smirk, Billy’s face dropped, and he stubbed out his cigarette, even though it was only half smoked. He straightened up, facing Steve, and he was suddenly aware that the air around them had grown charged. He straightened up too, watching Billy as carefully as he could through his haze, eyes starting to go half-lidded.

“Listen, Harrington—” Billy began.

“Steve,” he replied quickly, cutting him off. He was kind of sick of the whole last name thing, especially when no one else called him Harrington, anyway.

“Steve,” Billy amended, before going on. “I… wanna say I’m sorry, alright? For that night, back in November.”

He reeled back a little bit. “Oh,” was all he could say. It was probably the last thing Steve had been expecting.

“It was really fucked up of me to go in on you like that,” Billy said baldly, like he was determined to get the words out before Steve could interrupt again, “I wasn’t really…” he cut himself off with an aggravated sigh, looking off into the dark lawn before turning back to Steve again. “It wasn’t really you I was fucking up, if that makes sense. You were just… there. Not that it makes it any better, or whatever, but…” he trailed off, shrugging self-consciously. “Either way, it was still messed up. And I’m sorry.”

“Um, okay,” he replied, stuttering a little and completely caught off guard by, well, everything. “Well... I’m sorry, too.”

“For what?” Billy’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead in shock.

Steve shrugged, embarrassed. He’d talked about it afterwards with Nancy and Jonathan, a somewhat uncomfortable conversation that covered basically everything concerning that night and the events leading up to it, and while Jonathan had been firmly in the fuck Billy Hargrove camp, Nancy had objectively pointed some things out that made sense looking back on things. “I shouldn’t have lied about Max,” he said, not quite able to make eye contact, “I know it probably looked bad, since it was just her with me and a bunch of guys in the middle of the woods. But I swear nothing weird was happening, it was all just… some stupid misunderstanding.”

“Yeah, not gonna lie, that part was pretty fucked,” Billy agreed, shifting to face him fully. He didn’t look tense anymore, though, just mildly curious. “You ever gonna tell me what really happened that night?”

Steve shifted on his feet. He didn’t want to outright lie again, seeing as that obviously hadn’t worked out in his favor last time, but there was nothing he could tell Billy that was even near the truth. And he was way too drunk to come up with a believable enough lie on the spot. “Um, would it sound totally lame if I told you it was top-secret? And that I swore on Dungeons and Dragons that I wouldn’t tell?”

Instead of getting angry, Billy just huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, that makes sense,” he said, looking back out into the dark lawn before turning to look at Steve again. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “You know… you really take that whole ‘babysitter’ thing seriously, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Steve huffed, wincing a little when he realized just how lame he sounded. “I mean—”

“No, it’s cool,” Billy cut in now, grinning, “I mean, I wish I knew what your rates were before I agreed to watch Max on Sunday, but—” he laughed when Steve shoved him in the shoulder, moving with it easily and turning his back on the wall.

They shot the shit for while after that; Billy lighting up another cigarette (this time refusing to give Steve a drag when he inevitably begged for it again), and the both of them seemingly not noticing the bracing air around them steadily dropping in temperature as the night wore on. It was easier, talking out here one on one than being inside, even if there were more people. He kind of felt burnt out and standing outside talking to Billy was surprisingly the balm he needed after being exposed for too long around his classmates. At one point it really got frigid, and they headed back inside, but they stayed together rather than splitting up like they had done earlier, to which Steve was grateful. He had about a cup and a half more of the mystery punch before he called it quits, stomach churning uncomfortably towards the end of the night.

“You ready to go?” Billy clapped a hand on his shoulder, steadying Steve when he started wavering a little bit. He moved them easily past the front door, and out onto the lawn.

“I think I’m gonna puke,” Steve told him instead, and promptly swiveled around to throw up in the bushes by the walkway.

He heard Billy mutter a “Jesus Christ,” from just above his head, before a hand tentatively came down on his back and thumped it lightly. It helped him heave the last bit out, and he felt Billy’s fingers clench in the back of his shirt when he started to cant forward accidentally, nearly faceplanting himself right into where he’d puked. Billy hauled him up by his shirt a couple moments later, almost making him dizzy enough to go another round.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Billy said, catching the way his mouth twisted, “This is a no-puke zone. If you gotta ralph, you’re keeping that shit to the bushes.”

Steve breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, willing the vertigo down. He felt better after puking, sure, but the spins were still messing with his head. “Huh?” he said, not sure if Billy was still saying something to him.

“C’mon, let’s go,’ Billy said, grabbing him by the shoulders and steering him towards the Camaro, “I’m taking you home. We’ll get your car later, there’s no way you can drive right now.”

He didn’t bother protesting, just let himself be manhandled in the direction of Billy’s car. He stumbled along valiantly, tripping over every other step when his feet got too clunky to move right. Billy kept him steady the whole way, though, not letting Steve veer off or hobble off the sidewalk like he kept trying to do. It felt like no time at all had passed between their first talk outside and Billy buckling him into the passenger seat, even though he knew that it had. He was out before Billy had even finished turning the key to the ignition, the instructions on how to get to his house dying on his lips as he dropped off into unconsciousness.

He came to a couple of times, like when they were turning on his street or when it was finally time to get out of the car. He was too far gone at that point, though, and could only moan in pain as his stomach jostled around and the spins came back in full force. Billy was by his side to help him out of the car, and he was so dizzy and nauseated that he didn’t even think twice about sinking his fingers into the soft sleeve of Billy’s jacket, holding on for dear life while the other boy got him up the porch steps. He was too far gone to even be embarrassed about the fact that he was stumbling around like a freshman who’d just drank for the first time, too focused on putting one foot in front of the other and making sure he didn’t flop face-down into the carpet by the front door.

The last clear memory he had was Billy helping him blearily stumble to the couch, making sure he was situated before gingerly unfolding a plaid fleece off the back of a nearby chair and draping it over him. He wanted to comment on it, maybe say thank you, maybe say how crazy it was that Billy was practically tucking him in, but it felt like his tongue had gotten glued to the roof of his mouth and he was already having a hard time cracking his eyes open, so he just drifted off without another word. Steve barely caught the sound of the front door shutting lightly behind Billy as he left, and his last thought was that he wished he could’ve stayed awake for it.