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Steve didn’t want to be at this party.
He didn’t want to be anywhere, actually. His bed sounded better than the sea of drunk teenagers currently ransacking his house like raccoons.
Some freshman had run their mouth about Steve’s place being free on Friday, and suddenly the whole school decided to show up. He hadn’t even been invited to his own house.
The living room was packed shoulder to shoulder. The kitchen counters were sticky with spilled punch that definitely had something illegal in it. Empty beer cans rolled across the tile every time someone bumped the counter. Someone dragged a whole keg onto his pool deck without asking if it would scratch the wood.
Assholes.
Still he played his role. Steve Harrington, accidental host. Checking on people. Turning the music up. Killing lights. Dancing when he had to. His sunglasses stayed glued to the bridge of his nose.
Half because he thought they made him look cool. Half because his black eye still hadn’t faded.
Ever since Billy fucking Hargrove moved to Hawkins, Steve had been dealing with… whatever the hell that was. Billy took issue with everything Steve did: how he dressed, what he smoked, the way he talked, the way he breathed.
Steve told himself he didn’t care. And he could hold his own, he’d proved that once already. But it was getting old. Fast.
He was halfway across the backyard, picking up half crushed solo cups, when he saw him.
Billy. Smoking a Marlboro and leaning against Steve’s pool shed like he owned the place.
Of course he was here. Someone probably invited him just to watch them fight.
He was in those stupid flared jeans and that stupid red button down, the one he never buttoned enough because he liked showing off.
He lurked like a creep. Moved like a predator. Steve’s jaw clenched just being near him.
“Harrington.” Billy half yelled, flicking two fingers at him like he was calling over a dog.
Fuck this guy.
Steve turned, trash bag hanging limp at his side. “What?” he snapped, brow furrowing.
“Come here a sec.”
Steve stared. Considered walking the other direction. Shifting on his feet.
Then he dropped the bag with a sigh and walked over. He didn’t say a word when he reached him.
Billy took a long drag, exhaling smoke like he was bored. “Your party’s shit.”
“It’s not my party,” Steve muttered. Stupid fucking Marlboros. Newport menthols were ten times better.
“It’s at your house. I assumed.”
“I didn’t even know it was happening until fifth period today.” Steve crossed his arms, defensive.
Billy watched him for a second like he was trying to read something on Steve’s face. Then he tipped his chin up a little, eyes flicking to Steve’s sunglasses.
“You look like shit, Harrington.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “Cool. Thanks.”
Billy pushed off the shed and walked toward him. Casual. Purposeful. Like he had nothing better to do than annoy him. Steve stayed where he was, even though something in his stomach tightened. He refused to give an inch. That would feel like losing.
Billy stopped right in front of him. Close enough that Steve could smell whatever cologne Billy drowned himself in.
“Relax,” Billy said around a drag. “Didn’t say it was a bad look. Bruises suit you.”
Steve clenched his jaw. He could feel his face heating, and he hated that even more. “Yeah? Congratulations. You did that.”
Billy flicked ash on Steve’s deck like a dick. “Still pissed about last time?”
“You sucker-punched me.”
Billy shrugged like it didn’t matter. “You should’ve moved faster.”
Steve’s fists curled. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t even nervous. Just… pissed off. Billy always had this way of getting under his skin, like he knew exactly which buttons to push and in what order.
Steve pushed him. Not hard. Just enough to make a point.
Billy stepped back, barely, then immediately came forward again.
“There he is,” Billy said, smirking.
“I’m not scared of you and I’m not doing this tonight,” Steve muttered. His heart was pounding, and it annoyed the hell out of him. He didn’t like being crowded. He didn’t like that Billy was always warm, always too close, always looking at him like he knew something Steve didn’t.
“You sure?” Billy asked. “You keep looking at me.”
“No, I don’t.”
Billy shoved him this time, sharp, a quick hit to the chest meant to knock him off balance.
Steve didn’t move. He planted his feet without thinking, shoulders stiff, jaw locked.
Billy’s eyebrows lifted. “You remembered to plant your feet. Nice.”
Something stupid sparked in Steve’s chest. Not pride. Not satisfaction.
“Get out of my yard,” Steve snapped.
Billy stepped closer, like the words were an invitation. “Make me.”
Steve shoved him back again harder this time.
Billy didn’t budge. He just smiled, slow and mean.
“You wanna hit me?” Billy asked. “Go on.”
Steve’s pulse kicked. His palms felt hot. He hated Billy. Hated his stupid smirk. Hated how he stood, how he talked, how he looked. Hated the way Billy’s voice dropped low like they were sharing something.
He didn’t even realize he was going to swing until he already had.
He stepped forward and shoved Billy again, but this time his fist came with it, slamming into Billy’s jaw in a messy, angry punch. Not clean, not pretty, just pure frustration finally getting a place to land.
Billy’s head snapped to the side. He laughed. Not loud. Just a short, sharp sound like Steve had confirmed something for him.
“Finally,” Billy muttered, wiping his lip with the back of his hand.
Then he hit him back.
The punch caught Steve in the cheekbone, same damn spot that was already bruised. His sunglasses flew off as pain flashed hot and immediate. Steve staggered, caught himself, lunged again.
He grabbed Billy’s shirt, shoved him into the side of the pool shed, wood rattling behind them. Billy grinned through gritted teeth and kneed Steve in the thigh, making him stumble. Steve swung again, knuckles slamming into Billy’s shoulder, then his ribs.
It devolved fast. Hands, shoves, fists, breathless cursing.
Billy kept crowding him, forcing him backward, then dragging him forward again, like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted distance or closeness. Like the fight itself was the point.
Steve hated how hot his blood felt.
Hated how close they kept getting.
Hated how Billy looked right before he swung, focused, sharp, almost excited.
Billy grabbed the front of Steve’s shirt and yanked him forward, slamming him into the shed.
“Come on,” Billy growled. “Hit me like you mean it.”
Steve did.
Fist right to Billy’s stomach. Billy folded slightly with a grunt, then surged back up and slammed his forearm across Steve’s chest, pinning him.
They were too close now. Breathing hard. Sweaty. Angry.
Billy’s hand twisted into Steve’s shirt. His nose brushed Steve’s cheek. It wasn’t intentional. Or maybe it was. Steve didn’t know. Didn’t care. He just wanted him off.
“Let go,” Steve snapped.
Billy didn’t.
Instead, he paused, just a second, just long enough for Steve to feel the way Billy’s stare dropped to his mouth and back up again.
Steve froze.
Not out of fear. Out of confusion. Out of what the fuck is happening.
Billy laughed under his breath.
“Thought so.”
“Thought what?” Steve spit back.
Billy didn’t answer.
He just yanked Steve forward and kissed him.
Hard. Angry. Like another punch.
Billy’s mouth was hot and rough and all teeth. The kiss wasn’t soft or slow, it was like Billy was trying to shut him up, like this was another way to win.
Steve made a noise, surprise, anger, something, and Billy pushed in harder, pinning him fully to the shed now, chest pressed against chest.
It was violent.
It was wrong.
It was nothing Steve wanted.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
Steve’s hands flew up, pushing Billy’s shoulders.
His heart was slamming against his ribs. His breath caught somewhere in his throat.
“What the fuck?!” Steve wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked down at it, spit and blood mixing.
“Thought you’d shut up better this way,” Billy said as he stood less than a foot away.
Steve stared at him, chest heaving, confused and furious and something else he refused to name.
“Fuck you,” Steve muttered.
Billy smirked. “That’s the idea.”
He didn’t back up, but he should’ve. The kiss should’ve been the end of it, the moment where everything spiraled and snapped and both of them walked away before something worse happened.
Instead he lingered, head tilted, eyes burning like he was waiting for Steve to move first.
Steve didn’t. Couldn’t. His pulse was still tripping over itself, his breath ragged, adrenaline turning everything sharp around the edges.
Billy took one slow step back toward him.
Steve’s spine locked up. “Don’t,” he warned, even though it sounded like a question.
Billy’s mouth curled. “Thought you weren’t scared.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why’re you shaking?” Billy asked quietly.
Steve hadn’t even noticed he was. Not fear, just nerves and rage twisted too tight together to pull apart.
“Back off,” Steve muttered.
Billy didn’t.
He hooked a finger into the collar of Steve’s shirt and yanked him forward, slamming their bodies together again. Steve shoved him back instantly, but it wasn’t enough force. Billy came right back, like the fight was gravity.
They crashed into each other, fists in shirts, shoulders hitting wood, knuckles connecting, breath hot and angry. Not a clean fight. Not even a real one. Just two idiots pushing until something gave.
Billy landed a hit to Steve’s ribs, Steve grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. Billy swore and drove him against the shed again.
“Thought you were done,” Billy said, voice ragged. His nose brushed his again. Too close. Again.
Steve should’ve shoved him away. He didn’t.
Billy’s hand slid from Steve’s shirt down to his hip, gripping him there like he had some right.
Steve froze for half a second. Long enough for Billy to feel it.
Billy’s voice dropped. “There it is.”
“Shut up,” Steve whispered, but it came out nothing like a threat.
Billy’s fingers dug in harder, “You gonna hit me again?”
Steve didn’t know.
Didn’t care.
Didn’t think.
Billy’s breath caught. Just once. A slip.
Steve felt it.
They stared at each other, chests heaving, hands still fists against each other’s bodies, but neither of them moving.
The kind of pause that wasn’t a break.
It was a decision.
Billy swallowed, eyes dropping for a fraction of a second, lower than Steve’s mouth this time. His hand traveled slow, deliberate, down Steve’s side, stopping just above the waistband of his jeans. His thumb brushed skin.
Steve’s breath stuttered.
Billy’s lips barely moved, “You want this to stop?”
Steve didn’t say anything. Because he didn’t know the answer.
Billy’s fingers hooked into the belt loop of Steve’s jeans.
Steve grabbed Billy’s wrist, tight, but not to pull it away.
Just to feel it.
Billy’s other hand landed at Steve’s waist, tugging him in.
Steve muttered something that might’ve been “fuck,” might’ve been nothing.
Billy’s voice was rough. “Say it.”
But Steve couldn’t. And Billy didn’t wait.
He reached for Steve’s belt. Steve didn’t stop him.
"Is this what you wanted, Harrington?"
Billy’s voice was a low, rasping thing against his neck, pulling his hips flush against his own.
Steve’s breath hitched, a sharp, involuntary sound that was lost in the thumping bass from the house.
He should’ve kneed him. He should’ve shoved him off and ended this insane, fucked up joke. But his body refused the command. His hands, which had been curled into fists, loosened against Billy’s shoulders, the fight bleeding out of him.
Billy’s hands were on his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a soft, deliberate shhhck. The question hung in the air, thick and heavy.
Steve couldn’t form the word ‘yes’. It was a betrayal of everything he thought he was. But his body answered for him, a low groan escaping his lips as Billy’s knuckles brushed against the fly of his jeans, a jolt of pure, undiluted want shocking his system.
A slow, triumphant smirk spread across Billy’s face. He’d gotten his answer. He yanked the belt open, the buckle clattering softly, and then his hands were on the button of Steve’s jeans, then the zipper.
The sound was obscenely loud. The denim gave way, and Billy’s rough, calloused palm slid down, past the waistband of his briefs, and wrapped around him.
Steve’s head slammed back against the wood of the shed, a choked gasp tearing from his throat. “Oh, god.” The contact was a live wire. Billy’s hand was hot, his grip firm and knowing, a slow, deliberate stroke that made Steve’s knees go weak. He was hard, so hard it was almost painful, and every nerve ending was screaming.
“Fuck,” Steve breathed, the word barely audible.
Billy leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Steve’s ear. His voice was dark, “Knew you were wound tight. All that fucking posturing. All that… tension.” He punctuated the word with another agonizingly slow stroke, his thumb swiping over the sensitive head.
A shudder wracked Steve’s entire body. He was melting. His own hands came up, not to fight, but to grip Billy’s hips, his fingers digging into the tight muscle beneath the stupid flared jeans, holding on for dear life.
“You gonna be quiet, pretty boy?” Billy murmured, his breath hot against Steve’s skin. “Or you wanna give the whole party a show?”
Steve could only shake his head, his eyes squeezed shut, lost in the sensation.
Billy’s free hand came up, tangling in Steve’s hair, pulling his head back to force eye contact. His gaze was intense, hungry.
“Look at me.”
Steve’s eyes opened. Seeing Billy like this, so close, so focused entirely on him, on his pleasure, was almost too much. It was a different kind of dominance, one that didn’t leave bruises on his face.
Billy’s rhythm changed, his hand moving faster, tighter, a friction that coiled the heat in Steve’s stomach into an impossibly tight spring. He could feel every ridge of Billy’s palm, every shift of his wrist. His own hips began to move on their own, a frantic rhythm against Billy’s hand, seeking more.
“That’s it,” Billy coaxed, his voice rough with his own desire. His own breathing was ragged now, his body pressed hard against Steve’s, pinning him to the shed. Steve could feel the solid evidence of Billy’s arousal against his thigh, and the knowledge that he was doing this to him, that he was pulling these ragged sounds from Billy’s throat too, sent a fresh wave of heat through him.
The noises falling from Steve’s lips were no longer attempts at words. They were raw, guttural sounds, stifled by his own teeth biting into his bottom lip. The party was a distant hum. There was only the rough wood at his back, the night air on his feverish skin, and Billy.
His fingers clawed at Billy’s shirt, fisting the soft fabric. He was nearing toward the edge, the coil ready to snap. His whole body was tight.
“Billy…” It was a warning.
Billy’s eyes flashed, a predator seeing his prize. He buried his face in the crook of Steve’s neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. His hand worked him mercilessly.
“Come on, Steve,” he growled against his skin, the use of his name a final, devastating blow. “Let go.”
The command shattered him. The tension broke, and Steve came apart with a choked, gasping cry, his entire body seizing as waves of intense pleasure rolled through him. He trembled.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their heavy breathing. Steve slumped against the wood, spent and boneless, trying to remember how to form a coherent thought.
Billy slowly withdrew his hand, and Steve winced at the sudden sensitivity. He expected Billy to step back, to make a crude joke, to reclaim his anger. But he didn’t.
Instead, Billy brought his fingers to his own mouth, his eyes locked on Steve’s, and slowly, deliberately, licked them clean.
The act was so shockingly intimate, so blatantly sexual, that Steve felt a fresh jolt of desire. He was still reeling, completely exposed, his jeans and briefs open.
Steve yanked his pants and boxers back up fast, fingers clumsy, breath still uneven. His pulse hadn’t settled. His head hadn’t either.
He wanted to say something.
He had no idea what.
An apology? A question?
But Billy just leaned his shoulder against the shed and lit another cigarette with steady hands. Smoke curled around his face. He didn’t look at Steve.
Steve wiped a shaky hand across his forehead. Sweat. Dirt. Maybe blood. He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know.
He reached out. Reflex. Stupid instinct. Needing something to hold on to that wasn’t himself.
Billy’s eyes flicked to his hand, then to his face, quick, unreadable. He passed the cigarette over anyway.
“Thought you only liked your pussy Newports,” Billy said, voice low, like nothing rattled him even though it did. Steve could feel it. The air between them was still humming.
Steve took a drag, coughed once, exhaled smoke that trembled just a bit. “I’ll take what I can get.”
Billy smirked. “Yeah. I bet you will.”
They stood there longer than either of them intended, passing the cigarette back and forth, The shed behind them creaked in the breeze. The party noise drifted in and out.
Steve felt the words building in his throat.
Billy. We-
Billy. What was-
Billy. Are you-
“Billy…” Steve tried.
Billy didn’t let him finish. He dropped the cigarette, stomped it out with an almost violent twist of his boot.
“Don’t,” Billy said. Not loud. Just final.
Steve froze, caught mid breath.
Billy started walking away without looking back, hands shoved in his pockets like Steve was just another stupid mistake he refused to acknowledge.
“See you later, princess,” he threw over his shoulder.
And he disappeared into the dark, leaving Steve alone behind the shed, mouth dry and his head pounding. The bruises finally started to ache.
“What the fuck.”