Work Text:
Tommy's weekly poker night had always been an act of contrition, a way for Billy to appease Tommy's shitty friends while drinking Tommy's shitty beer. It was an excuse to leave his crappy apartment above the convenience store for something other than work or cigarettes. The company wasn't great but it was better than no company, and after two years of Hawkins Billy had given up on any of the locals becoming interesting.
So wasn't he fucking surprised when Steve Harrington showed up at poker one night, smile tentative as he jostled Tommy’s arm in the kitchen and set a six-pack on Carol’s polished Formica countertop. That tentative smile became a poorly concealed scowl when he glanced through the archway into the dining room and spotted who was at the table.
“You didn’t say he’d be–” Steve started under his breath.
“I didn’t think I needed to. We’re all adults here, Steve,” Tommy said, shoving a cold one into his hand.
“Yeah, but you know he–”
“What, kicked the snot out of you? I’ve kicked the snot out of you. You’ve kicked the snot out of me . That’s what being kids was all about. Now we’re not kids, so–”
“I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for Carol.”
Tommy looked like he wanted to say something, like his stupid tongue was going to roll out a red carpet for Steve to stomp all over, but he held it at the last second, instead said, “Just sit down and shut up or go hang out with her. If you want to be a bridesmaid instead of a groomsman I’m sure you’d look great in pink frills.”
“Shut up.”
From what Billy could recall, Steve wasn't very good at losing.
Like, was a loser, a total loser, but that didn't mean he was good at it. When they lost basketball games in high school Billy would be pissed, but Steve was always furious, one step away from kicking cans in the parking lot and shouting at Tommy for how he fucking fumbled that . It almost made Billy want to lose, just a little, to see Saint Harrington's chain rattled. To see if he’d actually snap for once.
What Steve was good at, apparently, was poker. Within three hands that was obvious, the stack of plastic chips in front of him inching higher every time.
"Beginner's luck," Dickie said, and Steve simply shrugged and took a sip from his beer. But there was something in his eyes, something smug. Something that didn’t come across when he glanced at his cards or tossed a chip onto the table. With cards in his hand, Steve was a practiced liar.
The next three rounds went the same as the first, groans rolling around the room while Steve grinned. Then Steve lost a hand. His cheek muscles twitched. He tossed his cards on the table and said, "I'm getting a beer."
The words came out half-right, somewhere between nonchalance and venom, and Billy's blood thumped. There it was. Maybe shit-heels like Dickie wouldn't spot it, but that was some genuine grade-A Harrington rage. Dickie, with his royal flush of dumb luck, was too stupid to see the warning signs out ahead. Tommy, Vince and Sam were too busy counting out their chips to care.
Since high school, Steve had clearly gotten better at keeping himself in check. He definitely wasn’t a good liar when Billy had been prodding him at school, both of their cards easy to read, hands bleeding. Something had changed.
Billy tapped a plastic chip against his chin and turned his beer bottle on the table. He needed to learn how to count cards.
-
Mac at the auto shop was no savant, but he bragged about his trips to the local casino often enough that it was clear he was up to something. Gullible idiots, casino people , he’d say, all snake-oil salesman smiles, like he didn’t fix rusty bumpers for a living. Like he was some kind of fucking magician.
The truth was, Mac was a pretty easy guy to get talking once his ego had been fluffed. It only took Billy about ten minutes into his work day to get Mac on a roll. Billy wasn’t about to start taking notes or anything, he had shit to do, things to fix, but he listened carefully as he worked, filed away what he could.
Counting the cards was only half of Billy’s game, anyway. The other half he didn’t need advice on. He grew up playing dirty.
-
“Ladies, settle down,” Billy said, taking his seat at Tommy’s dining room table, cigarette hanging from his lips.
“Go fuck yourself, Hargrove. This is serious shit.”
“Vince, sweet Vince,” Billy said. “No one gives a fuck if you wanted to be best man. It’s a whole hassle, anyway.”
“Steve and Tommy aren’t even friends ,” Vince snarled. The pizza sauce smeared on his top lip was very threatening.
“So? It doesn’t fucking matter. You don’t want to really do all that shit anyway. It’s a lot of planning and schmoozing and giving speeches. You broke out in hives the one time you tried to give a presentation in English class. Just cool it and let it happen. You still get to go. You still get to do the whole suit and tie thing.”
“I just thought that if I was going to be upstaged it would at least be because he picked you.”
Dickie cleared his throat like maybe they had forgotten he was a viable candidate. They hadn’t.
“I would have said no,” Billy said. “I’m a busy guy. You’re lucky you get me once a week already. Besides, you know this is Carol calling the shots, so just go with it. If she wants her dream childhood wedding then she’ll have it or she’ll blow a gasket.”
“It’s all dumb, anyway,” Sam said, stuffing pizza into his mouth before continuing, mouth half-full, “Weddings are for girls.”
Tommy came down the stairs with his suitcase of poker chips, scowling. “I can fucking hear, you know. You won’t be thinking that when it’s your turn. Are you guys done gossiping, or are we going to play?”
“Are we starting without your best man ?” Vince asked.
As if on cue, the back door slammed open, wind carrying Steve and mid-winter snow into the kitchen. “Fuck,” he said, scrabbling at the door handle to get it shut. Then, “Fuck, sorry, I didn’t realize how late it was.”
His cheeks were chapped pink from the cold, lips shiny with spit and something else, hair fucked up from the wind. Even with his Family Video vest still on under his bomber jacket he looked like the hottest ass in town.
Billy wanted to destroy him.
“It’s fine,” Tommy said. “We’re just setting up. Get your shit off and grab some pizza.”
Steve did. He was wedged in next to Sam, across from Billy, by the time the cards were shuffled. Billy had mostly kept quiet the last game, trying to get a read of the room – trying to get a read on Steve – but that hadn’t stopped the way Steve looked at him. Suspicious. Jovial but unwaveringly insincere.
Without even trying, Billy was already on thin fucking ice. Cracking it was going to be a piece of cake.
The first hand went to Sam, the product of a lucky draw and Steve’s attention consumed by pizza. The next four went to Steve.
“How is this even possible?” Dickie said. “You have to be cheating.”
“I’m not. Scouts honour,” Steve said, spreading his empty hands wide.
“We only did Boy Scouts for two years,” Tommy grumbled.
“And I was honest for all two of them. I think it really gave me a sense of responsibility.”
“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Tommy said. Steve just beamed.
It was time. Billy had been focused on the cards before, trying to remember what Mac said without putting it into play, trying to get the swing of it. If the others noticed him holding his tongue they hadn’t said anything.
Actually, it was very possible that Tommy thought he was behaving for Carol. What a concept. So much misplaced faith.
“Are we playing another round, or does everyone want to keep crying at mean King Stevie?” Billy asked. “Come on, dealer. Hit me.”
That earned him a glare, but not nearly the one he got when he won. “What? All’s fair in love and war,” Billy said, dragging his winnings across the table.
Tommy stuck his tongue out, nose scrunched. “You better not do either of those things in my living room.”
It wasn’t what Billy meant, but the way Steve slammed his beer back down on the table went right to his cock anyway. Just when he thought he’d scrubbed every thought of that out of his gut with his father’s soap.
“Don’t be an dick.” Steve wiped froth from his lower lip with his thumb. “Next hand.”
Steve won again. Then halfway through the next, Billy overreached to put out a chip and knocked Steve’s beer into his lap.
“Shit, sorry–” Billy grinned.
“You fucking asshole–”
Vince won that round, the fortunate bastard. But the real prize was watching Steve pat paper towels against his Levi’s, teeth grit, while Tommy scrambled to save the carpet.
-
After that, winning was child’s play. Billy had a system. Two poker nights in a row he let Steve win enough times to get cocky, then he fucked him over in the last few hands, really gave him something to steam over on his drive home. He let the tension build, tried to knock Steve off his game.
It was working beautifully. Artfully, even.
On Steve’s fifth poker night he came in early and was already burning holes in the back of Billy’s neck before they’d even cracked drinks. Tommy was upstairs talking to Carol and the others were out getting the pizza, which left Steve glowering from the table and Billy leaning against the counter, wolfish grin threatening at any moment as he opened a beer.
“You alright, Harrington? You seem a little tense.”
“I just had a shitty day.”
Right. Okay. Billy took a sip from his drink, watched the light snow outside tumble under the porch lamp. “Do you even want to be here?”
“Do you?”
Billy shrugged. “I’m normally here. You’re not.”
Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair as Billy turned to look his way. He did look tired, but he also looked sour, eager. Itchy. “I’ve been coming for over a month. Doesn’t that make me part of the usual crowd? Do I need to sign a contract? Do I need a club badge or something?”
“Yeah. They’re going to say Poker Fuckers. You’re not getting one.”
“Jesus, that’s the worst fucking joke,” Steve said, snorting a laugh and rubbing his face. “That’s not even funny.”
“And yet, you’re laughing.”
“Shut up. Pass me a beer.”
And Billy wasn’t a total dick, so he did as asked. He even opened the damn thing first.
-
“Stop looking at me.”
“I’m not looking at you.”
“It’s fucking unsettling, man, stop that.”
“I’m not doing anything, pretty boy.”
“Mom, he’s touching me,” Tommy cut in, voice high-pitched and snotty. “Jesus, both of you shut up and play.”
They were three hands in, half their pizza gone. Dickie had won the first hand and was positively glowing, counting and hoarding his little stack of chips like a paranoid dragon. As if someone was going to reach across the table and snatch the whole pile out from under his nose without him even catching a whiff of danger. It was fair. Steve had won the last two hands.
“Then tell him to stop looking at me like that,” Steve said.
“Apologies, princess, I’ll go sit in the other room while you take your turn.”
Steve grimaced and threw a chip down on the table to raise his bet, took a sip from his beer. “If I’ve got you whipped just say so.”
“Oooh!” Sam crowed. Geniuses, the lot of them. Comedians.
Steve still won the hand, smug about it as he took his winnings, smile stinging Billy’s edges. It wasn’t luck, either. Steve’s hand was one step away from garbage, but he got them all to fold like umbrellas collapsing in a strong breeze. Billy had been too distracted to count, too cocksure. Too busy watching Steve’s shiny bottom lip and strong cheekbones.
He wasn’t whipped. That was stupid.
He made sure to win the next hand, though.
Steve’s jaw flexed, just a moment. “You know, I’m tired. I think I’m going to head home early.”
“What?” Tommy asked. “We just started.”
“Don’t be a sore loser,” Sam said.
Steve stood abruptly, nearly knocking his chair over. “I’m not . I’m just tired. I worked all day. Give me a break.”
And that right there made it all worth it.
-
“You’re doing this on purpose,” Steve said, standing a little too close while Billy scrubbed a dish in the kitchen sink. It was a week later. They were six hands in when Carol came in with a bone to pick with Tommy about always having to clean up after his stupid game nights, and Billy was a good friend, alright? Or at least a half-decent friend. He’d won five of six hands. He was in a good mood.
Steve was not in a good mood.
“Winning? People do usually do that on purpose.”
“Not winning,” Steve hissed. “All the other shit. You’re cheating.”
“I’m not. Scout’s honour and all that. If you’re going to get up in my ass could you at least dry?”
Steve yanked a dishtowel from the bar on the counter hard enough that the plates rattled in the drying rack. “I really doubt you were a Boy Scout.”
“I was, actually. Six years. Three times as long as you. My dad thought it would be character building.”
“You definitely became a character,” Steve said, words more bite than bark.
Billy grinned. “Shucks, that almost sounds like you like me.”
For a second, it seemed like Steve was contemplating the plate in his hand, trying to decide if he should return the favour Billy gave him a few years back. A ceramic plate over the head, courtesy of King Steve. What a treat.
“I’m putting up with you,” he said, slow, “Because Carol wants me to fix my relationship with Tommy. And I like Carol.”
“I’ll let you win when we go back to the table. Would that help?” Billy said, looking up from the sink. Steve’s eyes were narrowed but his cheeks were pink, something complicated in the pinch of his eyebrows.
He sneered, said, “It’s not winning if no one else is trying to.”
“Are you guys coming back?” Tommy called. “I’m going to wipe the floor with all of you.”
Interesting. Billy raised his eyebrows, voice low smoke as he said, “Am I your only competition?”
Steve wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Go back to the table. I’ll finish drying these.”
-
Next week, they were drunk.
Well, Billy was drunk. One beer had rolled into another and into another. He didn’t mean for it to go this way. It wouldn’t be good for his plans. He couldn’t count like this. He could hardly pull a trick on anyone, even. But work had fucking sucked. His dad of all people had needed an oil change, and instead of fucking off like most people did while the car was in the shop, Neil Hargrove had decided it had been too long since he had checked in on his son.
Billy should have moved back to California, Max and Susan be damned. He should have done a lot of things.
He probably should not have come to poker night.
“Are you too chickenshit to up the ante?” he asked the group. “I’m putting more down. I have a great hand.”
“You probably have a shit hand,” Vince said.
“You haven’t won all night,” Sam added.
“This could be my time, though. I always win. Me or princess Stevie.”
“I win sometimes,” Dickie said.
Steve ignored him, eyes locked on Billy, alligator-grin splitting his cheeks. “You’ve got no game tonight, buddy. Are you sure you shouldn’t be sitting this one out?”
“Why, are you scared?” Billy asked, elbows on the table as he leaned forward, cards pressed to the open v of his button-up. His words were slurred, nearly a purr, more bedroom than back-alley. “I thought I was your competition.”
Someone kicked him under the table. Maybe Steve, maybe Tommy. He didn’t care, didn’t reel in his leer. He could feel his lure catching on something, hook, line, and sinker. “I’m not afraid of anything,” Billy said. “I want to tango.”
“I’m not sure you can walk in a straight line,” Steve said. “Maybe you should fold before your hand starts bleeding.”
“You’d like that.”
“I think I’ve already won this round.”
“Put your bet down then, baby. Let me see those cards.”
Someone kicked him under the table again. Definitely Tommy.
Steve pushed more chips forward, more chips than he might usually, smugness already seeping into the edges of his artifice. “Fine.” He slapped his cards on the table, face up.
Billy whooped . “Read ‘em and weep, shitrags.” He tossed his own down, a straight flush. Better than Steve’s hand, but by inches rather than miles. He was lucky . He was victorious.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” Steve said, or shouted really.
“Uh-uh, you put all those chips down yourself.”
“Because I thought you were lying! I thought you were just being a huge dick!”
“I do have a huge dick. Thank you for noticing.” Billy winked as he grabbed his small fortune, plastic pieces clinking together as he dragged them over the tablecloth.
Steve grit his teeth. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“And you know how this game is played. Lying is the whole point of it. I just beat you, sugar.”
“Lying is not the same thing as cheating–”
“Guys!” Tommy slapped both his hands on the table. “Jesus Christ, both of you fucking go outside and chill. If you’ve got to duke it out, don’t do it in here.”
“Fine. It’s too hot in here anyway,” Steve said, pushing away from the table and grabbing his coat off a kitchen chair before slamming out the back door.
“You’re making a big deal–” Billy said, jerking back when Tommy kicked him again, harder this time. “Fuck, fine, mom.”
He grabbed his leather jacket on his way out, not even bothering to zip it as he leaned against the side of the house and took out a cigarette. Winter was creeping towards spring but it was still cold as balls, slushy snow cocooning the ground while it was growing balmy down south.
Steve was walking in circles on the back porch, chin tipped up towards the moon as he flexed and balled his fists. When he sighed, hot air plumed into the night. He asked, “Do you have a problem with me?”
Billy laughed, lighting up.
“It’s a serious fucking question, man.”
“No, it’s not. I didn’t fucking do anything tonight. You just lost and you can’t fucking take it.”
“I can totally take it–”
“No, you can’t. You can’t. Steam starts coming out of your ears the second someone else wins anything. You’re the sloppiest loser I have ever met in my entire life," Billy yelled, but he wasn’t sure why he was yelling, felt keyed up, edging towards something dangerous, unable to get any lay of the land.
He just knew that Steve was stepping closer, chin down now, fists stuffed tightly into his jacket pockets. “And so what, you’re pushing me?”
Billy took a drag, nearly choked on a laugh, nerves jangling. “Do you feel pushed?”
“I feel like I'm going to push you.” Steve said, words getting louder with each statement, growl building in his ribs.
“Then do it. Just fucking do it. Let me see King Steve’s great left hook again.”
Steve threw his arms up. “Go fuck yourself.”
“I'm trying!”
“What the fuck does that even mean? You want me to hit you?” Steve shouted back, hot air ghosting Billy's ear. “Why do you have to be such an ass all the fucking time?”
“Because–” Billy roared, turning sharp, elbow almost smashing against Steve's ribs. He hadn't realized that Steve was so close, nearly on his heels. Close enough to kiss. "Because," he continued, lower, teeth grit, "You're so fucking pretty when you're mad."
It was supposed to be an insult.
It didn't sound like an insult.
It sounded cracked open, honest, feral. It brought Steve's momentum to a halt, mouth slightly parted, fire cooling on his tongue as he tried to parse it. The longer he stared, the more his eyebrows knit.
He'd been right earlier. Billy should have folded before he even arrived. His hand was bleeding.
“You–”
“Whatever stupid thing you're thinking, stop fucking thinking it," Billy said, stomping off the porch. “You're a buzzkill. I'm going home.”
Steve's boots clunked on the wooden porch steps. “You're hammered. You're not driving–”
“Then I'll walk, Jesus Christ!”
The back door slammed when Billy was halfway around the house. No one stopped him from cranking up Judas Priest as he drove away.
-
Next week, it was Steve’s turn to watch Billy. Or maybe Billy just felt like he was being watched, sobriety parching his tongue and skin, lips split from working in a dry auto shop in a frozen March. Billy was a zoo animal, an experiment in patience, some scaly and unruly thing.
He couldn’t be sloppy again, not so soon. With the hand he had there was too much on the line. Not that he had anything to hide.
Billy was going to win every round tonight. He was going to make poker his bitch.
Sam scrutinized his cards like they were written in hieroglyphs while Dickie rubbed his scraggly chin pubes. Steve hardly looked at his cards longer than a glance before tossing down chips. When he lost the first two hands his jaw tightened, but he hardly made a peep.
Top forty played while rain rattled the windows, icy streets surely forecasted to follow. Billy took a drag from his cigarette, tapped it on the ashtray.
“Looks like I win again,” he said, showing his hand. “Harrington, someone shit in your cereal? Seems like you’re hardly trying tonight.”
“I haven’t had good hands,” Steve said, tone flippant, easy. If Billy didn’t know better, he’d think Steve was cooking something behind those brown foal eyes. Having a bad hand had never stopped Steve from cleaning house before.
-
The game broke to take shits and stretch legs. Billy was the first one back at the table, a second cigarette between his lips as sweat rolled down his can of Coke. He shuffled the deck between puffs, something to do with his hands and narrow his focus.
“Are you fixing the deck?” Steve asked, pulling out the chair next to him and taking a seat. Like that was normal.
Billy widened his eyes and glanced around the empty chairs, slack-jawed and offended as he blew smoke in Steve’s face. “Are you trying to peek at my cards?”
“Shit, do you think that’s why Vince always sits next to you?”
It had occurred to Billy. Not that it had proven Vince any good.
“What do you want?”
“I don’t want anything,” Steve said, shrugging.
Heat crept up Billy’s neck and into his throat, some ancient anger seeping into his voice. “Then why the fuck are you sitting next to me? I thought you didn’t want me to push you.”
Steve’s smile was loose, smug even, but his eyes were strangely steel. “Tommy wants us to get along. This can be us getting along.”
He said it like that would be easy, like he had some kind of fucking amnesia about the week before, like he’d forgotten what Billy said or never processed it in the first place. Maybe he hadn’t gotten it. Maybe Steve was still as dumb as he was in high school, couldn’t tell when someone was pulling his pigtails.
The others sat back down, pushing and shoving each other to figure out their seats. Tommy squinted between Steve and Billy as Vince moaned about having to sit somewhere else, but Steve didn’t budge. “It’s cooler by the window and I’m sweating balls,” he said.
“Maybe that’s why I sit next to the window,” Vince said.
Tommy rolled his eyes. “Would you just shut up and sit down?”
The first hand went as expected, Steve silent again as he took his cards and raised his bets, eyes shifting between Billy’s face and the table, never quite trying to see his cards. Billy held them away from Steve anyway, kept them titled slightly towards Dickie in a way that was stupid and unintentional. He didn’t even notice until Dickie won the hand.
Steve didn’t need to cheat. Just being in Billy’s space made Billy paranoid.
On the next hand, Steve lied his ass off and Billy ate it up like hot spaghetti.
Someone made poker their bitch that night, but it wasn’t Billy.
-
The next week, Billy was prepared. He had a game plan. He’d sit on the other side of the table next to Sam before Steve could even get there. He’d play his usual tricks, count cards, let Steve win a little before pushing his way in. He’d have a beer or two and reclaim the court.
That did not happen. That didn’t even come close to happening.
Steve took the seat next to him before Sam could sit down, completely ignoring Billy’s glare as he chatted with Tommy and stuffed pizza into his mouth. It was all downhill from there.
“Did you make a deal with the devil or something?” Steve asked into their fourth hand, Dickie’s magical mystery tour of good fortune slowly coaxing the dragon out of Steve’s shell.
“I don’t know why everyone acts like I’m bad at this,” Dickie said, grabbing his winnings. “You all think I’m the underdog. You never see me coming.”
On the fifth hand, Sam started grinning like a loon. “Your luck’s about to turn, Dickie,” he said, tossing down a stack of chips like he was a high roller and not a dweeb being shaken down for his lunch money.
“I wouldn’t get so cocky yet,” Billy said, tossing down a pretty big pile of his own, talking with his money in the place of his mouth. He didn’t need to use luck, anyway. He’d counted and he was pretty sure he was the only one who wasn’t full of shit.
Steve held his cards up and hummed, tapped a chip against the table, considering. “I don’t know. I think I probably have the highest number,” he said, shifting back in his seat, knees falling wider until one of them rested firmly against Billy’s. For a moment, Billy thought it must be a mistake. Then Steve’s foot wrapped loosely around his ankle.
Billy’s mind blanked out, any card count slipping out of his startled, half-open jaw and onto the floor. Steve knew exactly what he was doing. He was mocking Billy. He was cheating.
Billy stomped on Steve's foot, earning him a grin even as Steve winced.
“Something wrong?” Steve asked, sweet like honeyed wine, kicking Billy in the shin.
Steam burned up Billy's throat from the acid boiling in his gut. He kicked Steve in return, harder. “Go fuck yourself.”
From the other side of the table, Tommy nailed him in the knee, like he thought Billy was the fucking problem here.
Sam whistled, tossed his cards on the table, and said, “Shit, I fold.”
“I thought you said my luck was going to turn?” Dickie said.
“It is.” Sam leaned forward, elbow on the table, and pointed at Billy. “If he looks like that then none of us have a fucking hope.”
“You’re paranoid,” Vince said. “But your loss, I guess. Dealer, hit me.”
Billy licked his lips, tried to get his breathing under control. What had he counted again? Even with more cards going out, there couldn’t be that many opportunities. So he held. And he held. And when they finally revealed their cards, Steve beat him by a landslide.
Dickie sighed. “So much for riding the river.”
“I’m not sure that’s how that phrase is used,” Steve said as he plucked up his winnings chip-by-chip.
Billy certainly felt a little like a tipped-over boat, like a fuming fisherman cursed with a shitty canoe. He had to get his shit together. If Steve was playing dirty, he had to play dirty.
“Next hand,” he said. No preamble. No bullshit.
That round went to Billy easy, mostly dumb luck. He had better cards from the start, and elbowing Steve halfway through the round by accident didn’t hurt his chances. Even with Steve considering his cards with his lip between his teeth, casting Billy glances through half-mast eyes.
Two more wins in, Steve’s knee bumping him was hardly a distraction anymore. He’d think about it later, he was sure, heat blooming from each brush of denim, but for the duration of the game he could tune it out. He wanted to punch Steve’s face in, but he could hold on to it.
He could flip tables when he got home. He could hate himself when he got home. He could worry about it then.
For now, he drank his beer and tried to count cards, cracked his knee against Steve’s when he got too close.
“I’m holding,” he said, carefully dropping a tower of chips into the pot. It was going to be another easy win. Then he jolted, ramrod straight, nearly noosed by his own tongue as Steve’s thick fingers dug into his thigh and pressed over his cock.
In one movement, he stood and shoved Steve out of his chair.
“What the fuck–” Tommy said, getting to his own feet.
“What is your fucking problem?” Billy roared, knocking Steve’s chair out of the way as he towered over him.
“He didn’t do anything,” Sam said, standing as well.
Steve sneered from the floor, teeth bared with his arms bracing him up from behind. He was wide open, begging for Billy to plant a foot between his ribs. “It’s just a fucking game,” he said.
Billy hauled him off the floor by the front of his sweater and shoved him towards the door. “Outside.”
“What–” Tommy said.
“Whatever, Jesus,” Steve said, tripping over his feet. He tumbled onto the back porch in his socks, Billy slamming the heavy door behind both of them before anyone else could try to follow.
“I don’t know what you think you fucking know–”
“You know,” Steve snapped, before simmering down to a rushed hiss. “And if you don’t want everyone in there to know, you’ll calm the fuck down.”
Which was the crux of it, the anvil hanging by a thread. “Tell them and you’re dead,” Billy said. “Dead, you hear me?”
“You’re the one making a big deal about this.”
“You know exactly what you’re doing.”
They were almost chest to chest, Billy’s every muscle coiled tight to strike. Steve leaned so close their noses almost touched. “It’s a game , Hargrove.”
Billy pushed him, hard. “Have fun playing by yourself.”
-
Hawkins only had three bars, four if you counted the family restaurant on Mulberry, which nobody did. For Tommy’s bachelor party, Steve had picked the one on the edge of town, the one most washed-up dads avoided after their nine to five, too many rowdy teenagers in the mix. It was a sad pick. It had terrible music and a stellar lack of strippers.
Billy was surprised he was still invited. If he was being honest, he was surprised he was even still part of the wedding party, although that probably had something to do with actually being Tommy’s friend, unlike the man of the hour, the man with a plan. Whatever the fucking role was that the best man was supposed to play at a bachelor party.
They’d been at the bar an hour and Billy was already wasted, drinks helping him meld in with dancing, eager girls. Somewhere, Tommy, Vince, and Sam were playing pool. Billy thought he’d seen Dickie hanging over the bar, trying to see down the bartender’s blouse.
He didn’t know where Steve was. Maybe he was with Tommy and the others. Billy didn’t care. He didn’t want to know.
In high school, he’d always felt tuned into Steve like a radio with a garbage receiver. There was always a crackle of Steve playing over what he wanted, on the court or in the back of his classroom or in the halls. King Steve was no longer king, but he still came through loud and clear.
Tonight, Billy made dark, playful eyes at the redheaded girl in front of him, syrup promises on his serpent tongue, and pretended Steve didn’t exist.
“I’ve gotta get some air, sweetheart,” he said, lips brushing her ear as he held up his pack of cigarettes. It was an opening, but she didn’t take it.
“I’m going to see where my friends went. Find me later?” she said. He nodded like he would. Fully intended to, in fact.
Outside, spring was finally starting to peek out from the heavy cloak of winter, wind sharp but the earth turning green. The back door of the bar was propped open but little more was spilling out than music and chatter. He leaned against the bricks as he lit up and tried to see past the halo of piss-yellow light. Hawkins was nothing but forest and corn fields, deep roots and mouldering crops.
Maybe he should have moved.
“Fuck, there you are,” Steve said, stepping into the night, acting casual, normal. “Tommy’s been looking for you. He wants you in the next round.”
“Does it look like I want to play?” Billy asked, smoke souring on his tongue. “Fuck off. Plenty of bitches in there that could fill my place.”
“You do realize this is a party? Like, we’re here as a party to hang out together. Tommy wants you in the game.”
“And why do you care? You need someone to beat, or are you trying to suck his dick?”
Steve’s eyebrows bent, teeth sharp. “I don’t care if you play, but this isn’t fucking about me. I’m winning either way.”
“Then go ask some of the cows in there,” Billy said, hand cupping his cigarette to block it from the wind. “You’ll have more fun groping them.”
“That’s what this is about?”
“What else could it be about, numbnuts? You think I bashed my brains in?”
“I thought I didn’t know anything and you didn’t want to talk about the thing I don’t fucking know about.”
“Christ, I’m too fucking drunk to understand what you just said. Just. Fuck off, man. I don’t need your bullshit. And I am going to ruin this party by kicking the shit out of you if you don’t go inside.”
It was gruff, but not nearly as menacing as he’d hoped for, a growl just shy of whining. He didn’t want to wreck Tommy’s party. He didn’t actually want to be the worst fucking friend on the planet, but Steve and the universe were making it real fucking hard to behave.
Steve must have weighed his odds with the lord because he didn’t go inside. He walked closer, stopped a step away from pinning Billy to the wall, and said, “Do you think I’m fucking with you?”
“I know you’re fucking with me. That was the whole point. Cheating.”
“No–” Steve said, stalled, balled his fists. Voice low, tone short. “Do you think I go around grabbing dicks?”
“If it gets you what you want. And a laugh, while you’re at it.”
“You’re a moron.”
“Says the guy–”
But then Steve was in Billy’s space, liquor on his breath, chilled hands pressing him into the bricks. “You think I’m the kind of guy–”
Billy dropped his cigarette to grab Steve’s waist instead, unsure what his goal was. “Don’t use your smooth-talking boy next door shit with me.”
“You’re making me out to be so mean,” Steve murmured, bottom lip out as he leaned closer. “That’s your schtick. I’m a gentleman.”
Maybe Billy was reading this wrong. Maybe he had bashed his brains in. “Either kiss me or get the fuck off me,” He said, curling in his nails.
Steve took the first option, a tentative press of lips, chaste, no follow through. “I’m trying to tell you–”
Fuck that. Billy yanked him closer, their noses bumping as he burned their mouths together. Steve tasted like beer and tequila and kissed like he was hungry, needy. He grabbed Billy by the jaw like he wanted him to stay.
Steve tangled his fingers in Billy’s hair, hips pulling closer by the second until he was flush with Billy’s body, denim-trapped, hardening cock pressed into his hip. In return, Billy roamed his hands over Steve’s ribs and up his spine, held him tight enough to bruise. The girl in the bar would have paled in comparison to this, to Steve fucking Harrington riding him like a mechanical bull.
They were sloppy, overzealous and rushed. Chests tight, breath hot, and lungs aching. Billy tugged Steve’s pout with his teeth as he slid his hands down, fingers dipping between Steve’s tucked-in shirt and jeans to ruck up the fabric, get at some skin. They were in public, but they were alone enough, and the number of times Billy had jerked off to fucking Steve on Tommy’s back porch has blurred together to look a whole lot like this.
“Billy–” Steve said, first attempt to speak getting swallowed by another kiss. “Billy,” he tried again. He pushed Billy’s shoulder with one hand and muzzled his chin with the other, although their lips stayed nearly brushing, a weak conviction. “I’m going home with you,” he said, “But right now we’re going to go play some pool before Tommy finds us with our pants down, alright?”
“Cool, just let me get your pants down first,” Billy said, Steve’s fingers sinking into his hollow cheeks with every syllable. He pushed forward enough to lick his lower lip, suck him into one languid kiss. For a moment, it worked.
Steve leaned into him again, soft sound escaping the back of his throat as he rolled their hips together. Then he pulled back, eyebrows knit. “Nice try. Seriously. We’ve got to go back. And he is going to come looking. You want him to find us?”
Billy’s blood slurred a hazy yes. He had to recalibrate, wind back time, remember what his plans were before he’d tasted god.
“You’re a buzzkill,” he said, not letting go.
“And you’re a killjoy.” Steve kissed him, sweet. Then said, soft, “I’m not fucking with you. Just to be clear. I promise.”
Billy snorted, dug his fingers into Steve’s hips. “Yeah, I got that from you nearly creaming yourself. You wanna talk about it later? Then we can braid our hair and paint our nails?”
Steve rolled his eyes and shoved him off, but the corner of his mouth twisted into something pleased. He adjusted his jeans and took a deep breath, looking as wound up as Billy felt. It was going to be too long before Steve was in his bed. It was going to be a long, agonizing night.
-
The way Steve kept sticking his ass in the air and winking at girls while they played pool didn’t help. The fucking asshole was cheating.
Billy grabbed his waist from behind while the others were turned to watch Dickie almost stab himself in the eye with his pool cue, spoke low into his ear. “You keep that up and we’re not making it home.”
Steve elbowed Billy in the ribs, said under his breath, “It’s a game, sweetheart. Don’t play if you’re not here to win.”