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This was all routine by now. Steve would slam into the lockers, hands fisted to make it sound louder than it would have been if just his ass hit the metal. Billy would sneer, lean in, and growl into his ear, “You made it look real good, sweetheart.”
Steve would swallow hard, not out of fear, but because he was trying not to wrestle Billy to the floor and pound him into the tile.
They’d gotten so good at hating one another in public that their time in private was raw and heavy. They didn’t even waste time with greetings. It was just lips on lips, teeth clashing, bent noses, pants shucking off, skin on skin, and sweat-slicked hair. There was never enough time. Usually they’d have an hour at the quarry, or five minutes in a bathroom stall. It was always just enough time for Billy to get Steve off, or vice versa, but never enough time to just be together.
It didn’t mean Steve didn’t know how Billy felt about him. Sometimes when they were walking into the arcade behind the rugrats, Billy’s fingers would tangle with his, just for a second or two. When they were alone in the lockers Billy would corner him against the shower wall and kiss him breathless.
“I love you I love you I love you.”
They’d only been doing “this” for a few weeks when those words danced across their lips, hands clutching each other’s across the center console of Billy’s Camaro.
It’s not until they’re in month three that shit hits the fan. Billy comes busting through the front door out of breath. His eyes wide like a deer staring down an eighteen-wheeler.
“I think Max knows,” he pants.
“How?”
“Because I said something to her about keeping Lucas away from Neil and she just smirked and- I think she knows.”
The room feels like it’s spinning.
No one can know.
No one can know that every time Billy wags his ass during gym, like a cat stalking his prey, it’s because Steve loves the way his butt looks in his little shorts.
No one can know why Steve’s always slipping off to the bathrooms at the pool when Billy’s on break, or why Billy’s hair looks a little flatter when he gets back into the chair.
No one can know that Billy’s newest tattoo is a tiny, upside-down, S.H. in a heart. (Eddie’s not one to tattle, especially since he’s been fucking around with Chrissy right under Carver’s nose.)
“What do you want to do?” Steve’s hands fist at the hem of his sweater.
“I want to run away,” Billy shakes his head, “But I can’t, we can’t.”
“I know.”
“I think we have to stop,” Billy’s voice cracks.
“I don’t want to,” Steve closes the distance between them.
“I don’t want to either,” Billy murmurs, “But I can’t let anyone hurt you.”
“What if it was you?” Steve strokes his thumb along Billy’s stubbled jaw.
“I’d never hurt you,” Billy starts to say.
“What if you made it look really good for me, sweetheart,” Steve pecks him on the lips, “Get me all nice and battered, keep them off our trail. Then you can kiss it and make it better in private.”
“I can’t, Stevie, I-”
“It wouldn’t be for real, baby,” Steve shushes him, “You’re not your dad, babe. You’re not Neil, you’re Billy. Sweet, gentle, annoying as fuck. You could never truly hurt me. I trust you, Billy.”
“I don’t want to,” he sobs, burying his face in Steve’s sweater.
“I don’t think there’s another way.”
When the plate smashes over his head, he’s holding direct eye contact with Billy. Anyone else would see a fiery rage in the other man's steely blue gaze, but not Steve. Steve just sees fear.
Fear that he hit too hard, or that one swing would turn him into his deadbeat father, or that he’ll end up in jail for a charade.
There’s too much chaos after that for Steve to get a message to his love, but he hopes Billy can feel it.
Later that night, when the rest of the world is asleep, Steve’s window shimmies open and Billy appears.
He doesn’t say a word, he just crawls into bed next to Steve and holds him close.
The next morning when Steve wakes up alone, he finds a message scribbled on the back of a math test.
I love you, I love you, I love you.