Work Text:
The final bell of the last day before winter break rang through the halls of Hawkins High, unleashing a flood of excited teenagers into the corridors. Steve Harrington stood at his locker, watching the chaos with a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Around him, everyone buzzed about family gatherings, ski trips, and holiday plans.
"My dad's taking us to my grandparents' cabin in Michigan," Tommy H. was telling anyone who would listen. "Two weeks of snowmobiling and hot chocolate."
Carol chimed in about her family's trip to Florida, and others joined the chorus of holiday excitement. Steve nodded along, offering the occasional "sounds cool" while packing his backpack with textbooks he probably wouldn't open until January.
The crowd parted slightly as Billy Hargrove stalked through the hallway, his presence commanding attention as always. His denim jacket was inadequate for the December cold, but he seemed unbothered, a cigarette already tucked behind his ear in anticipation of the moment he'd clear the school doors.
"What about you, Hargrove?" Tommy called out, perhaps feeling brave in the festive atmosphere. "Going back to California for Christmas?"
Billy's eyes flashed dangerously, but he masked it quickly with his trademark smirk. "Christmas is for little kids and suckers who like spending money they don't have on people they don't like," he drawled, leaning against a nearby locker. "I've got better things to do than sing carols and drink eggnog."
The hallway grew quieter. Billy had that effect—his cynicism cutting through cheerfulness like a knife.
"Like what? Being an asshole is a full-time job?" someone muttered, not quite under their breath.
Billy's gaze swept the crowd, daring the speaker to identify themselves, but no one did. With a dismissive snort, he pushed off the locker and continued down the hall, students instinctively moving out of his path.
Steve watched him go, a slight frown creasing his forehead. There had been something beneath Billy's usual hostility—something that resonated with a feeling Steve knew all too well.
---
Hours later, the school parking lot was nearly empty, most students long gone to start their vacations. Steve had stayed late, helping decorate the gym for the winter formal that would take place after break—volunteer work that looked good on college applications, according to his guidance counselor.
As he trudged toward his BMW, keys jingling in his hand, he noticed the blue Camaro still parked under one of the lot's dim lights. The car was running, exhaust creating wispy clouds in the cold air, but it hadn't moved.
Steve hesitated. His relationship with Billy Hargrove was complicated at best, hostile at worst. Since their fight at the Byers' house last year, they'd maintained an uneasy peace, occasionally nodding in the hallways but never actually speaking unless forced to during basketball practice.
Still, something pulled Steve toward the Camaro. Maybe it was the holiday spirit everyone kept talking about, or maybe it was simple curiosity.
Through the frosted window, he could make out Billy's silhouette, head tipped back against the headrest, eyes closed. Music played faintly—not Billy's usual heavy metal, but something softer, almost melancholy. Steve tapped lightly on the passenger window.
Billy's eyes snapped open, his body tensing before he registered who it was. His expression shifted from surprise to annoyance as he cranked down the window a few inches.
"What do you want, Harrington?" His voice carried the usual edge, but lacked energy.
"You've been sitting here for hours," Steve said, immediately feeling stupid for stating the obvious. "Everything okay?"
Billy stared at him for a long moment, blue eyes narrowed with suspicion. Then he laughed, the sound sharp in the quiet parking lot. "Since when do you care, King Steve?"
Steve shrugged, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. The temperature was dropping rapidly as evening set in, and his breath formed white clouds between them. "Just asking. It's freezing out here."
"Astute observation." Billy took a drag from a cigarette Steve hadn't noticed before, the amber tip glowing brighter in the dimness. After a moment of apparent internal debate, he unlocked the passenger door with a sigh. "Get in if you're gonna keep talking. You're letting all the heat out."
Surprised, Steve hesitated before opening the door and sliding into the passenger seat. The car's interior was warm, filled with the familiar scent of cigarettes and Billy's cologne. Quiet music continued to play from the tape deck—Elvis, Steve realized with mild surprise.
They sat in awkward silence, Steve suddenly unsure why he'd put himself in this situation. Billy continued smoking, gazing out the windshield at nothing in particular.
"So," Steve ventured, "no big Christmas plans?"
Billy's jaw tightened. "Didn't you hear me in the hallway? Christmas is bullshit."
"Yeah, but..." Steve trailed off, trying to find the right words. "That sounded like something you say to an audience. I'm just asking you."
Billy turned to look at him, genuine surprise flickering across his features before his mask of indifference returned. He tapped ashes into a makeshift aluminum foil ashtray on the dashboard before answering.
"Susan and my dad are going to California," he said finally. "Visiting her sister or some shit. Max is going with them." A muscle in his jaw worked. "They didn't bother asking if I wanted to come."
The words hung in the air between them. Steve felt a twinge of something—pity, maybe, or recognition.
"What about you, Harrington? Big fancy Harrington family Christmas with presents stacked to the ceiling?" Billy's tone was mocking, but there was genuine curiosity underneath.
Steve gave a short laugh. "My parents are hosting their annual Christmas party. Which means the house will be full of their business associates getting drunk on expensive champagne while discussing tax brackets." He shrugged. "They'll put presents under the tree for show, but we won't open them until they remember, which could be anywhere from Christmas morning to New Year's, depending on their schedule."
Billy studied him, a flicker of understanding passing between them. "Sounds real Norman Rockwell," he said dryly.
"Yeah, well." Steve picked at a loose thread on his jacket. "At least the fridge will be stocked."
Another silence fell, less awkward this time. Outside, snow had started to fall, delicate flakes drifting lazily through the cone of light cast by the parking lot lamp.
Steve surprised himself with what he said next. "You could come to my place for Christmas."
Billy's head snapped toward him, genuine shock evident on his face. "What?"
"For Christmas," Steve repeated, suddenly feeling committed to the idea. "My parents won't care. They'll probably be too busy networking to notice an extra person, and like I said, there's plenty of food." He shrugged, aiming for casual. "It's better than being alone, right?"
Billy stared at him, suspicion written across his features. "Why would you offer that?"
It was a fair question. Steve wasn't entirely sure of the answer himself. "I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe I don't want to face another Christmas dinner making small talk with my dad's golf buddies by myself." He met Billy's eyes. "Or maybe no one should be alone on Christmas."
Billy looked away, taking a final drag of his cigarette before crushing it in the makeshift ashtray. The car was silent except for the soft strains of "Blue Christmas" playing from the speakers.
"I don't need your pity, Harrington," Billy said finally, his voice low.
"It's not pity," Steve insisted, though he wasn't entirely sure that was true. "Think of it as... a truce. For the holidays."
Billy's fingers drummed against the steering wheel, his rings catching the dim light. Steve waited, already regretting the impulse that had led to this uncomfortable situation.
"Christmas Eve or Christmas Day?" Billy asked suddenly, his voice neutral.
Steve blinked in surprise. "Uh, both? Come over Christmas Eve. We do dinner around seven. You can crash in one of the guest rooms if you want."
Billy didn't answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the snowflakes accumulating on the windshield. When he finally looked at Steve, his expression was guarded but not hostile.
"I'll think about it," he said, which wasn't a no.
Steve nodded, recognizing it was the best he was going to get. He reached for the door handle. "Address is 2530 Loch Nora Way. The big white house with the columns."
"Of course it is," Billy muttered, but there was less bite in it than usual.
Steve stepped out into the cold, the snow immediately catching in his hair. He closed the door and offered a small wave, which Billy acknowledged with the barest nod before shifting the Camaro into reverse.
As he watched the blue car disappear into the snowy night, Steve wondered what exactly he'd just set in motion.
---
On Christmas Eve, Steve found himself glancing at the clock more often than usual. His mother had been directing the staff all day, ensuring everything was perfect for their annual party. The house smelled of pine, cinnamon, and the roast their housekeeper had been preparing since morning.
"Steven, darling," his mother called from the foyer, her voice carrying the slight tension it always held before entertaining. "Make sure you wear the navy blazer tonight, not that brown one. The photographer from the society page might stop by."
"Sure, Mom," he called back, not bothering to point out that the Hawkins Post's idea of a society page was a far cry from what she was used to in Chicago.
By six-thirty, the house was transformed. A massive Christmas tree dominated the living room, decorated in silver and blue—"Winter wonderland theme this year," his mother had explained, as if it mattered. Caterers moved efficiently through the kitchen, arranging hors d'oeuvres on silver platters. His father was in his study, making last-minute business calls before guests arrived.
At six forty-five, the doorbell rang. Steve, already dressed in the requested navy blazer, hurried to answer it before the housekeeper could, suddenly nervous about the impulsive invitation he'd extended.
Billy stood on the porch, snowflakes caught in his curls, looking distinctly uncomfortable. He'd made an effort, Steve realized with surprise. His usual denim and leather were replaced with dark jeans and a button-down shirt under a borrowed-looking blazer. In his hands was a small, awkwardly wrapped package.
"You came," Steve said, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.
Billy shifted his weight, glancing past Steve into the brightly lit foyer. "Said I would, didn't I?" His breath fogged in the cold air. "You gonna let me in, or should I stand out here all night?"
"Right, sorry." Steve stepped back, holding the door wider. "Come in."
Billy entered cautiously, taking in the crystal chandelier, the marble flooring, the expensive holiday decorations. His expression remained carefully neutral, but Steve could see him cataloging everything, making calculations.
"Your house is exactly what I expected," Billy said finally. "Rich as fuck."
Steve laughed, the tension breaking slightly. "Yeah, well. My parents like to show off."
"Steven?" His mother's voice called from the living room. "Who's at the door?"
"A friend from school," Steve called back, motioning for Billy to follow him.
They found his mother adjusting a flower arrangement, elegant in a black cocktail dress and pearls. She looked up, her practiced smile firmly in place as she assessed Billy.
"Mom, this is Billy Hargrove. Billy, my mother, Catherine Harrington."
"Mrs. Harrington," Billy said, his voice taking on a politeness Steve had never heard before. "Thank you for having me. Sorry for the short notice."
Steve's mother blinked, clearly not having expected such manners from someone with Billy's appearance, despite his more formal attire. "Not at all," she recovered quickly. "Any friend of Steven's is welcome." She glanced at the small package in Billy's hands. "Is that for us? How thoughtful."
Billy hesitated, then extended the gift. "Just something small. For the invitation."
Catherine accepted it with a smile that almost reached her eyes. "I'll put it under the tree. The guests will be arriving soon. Steven, why don't you show Billy around?"
As she walked away, Billy let out a low whistle. "Your mom's intense."
"You have no idea," Steve muttered. "Come on, I'll give you the tour before this place is crawling with my dad's business associates."
He led Billy through the house, watching as the other boy took in the swimming pool visible through the French doors ("Covered for winter, obviously"), the game room with its pool table and pinball machine, the formal dining room set for twenty, and finally, the kitchen where staff bustled around preparing for the party.
"Jesus, Harrington," Billy said when they were back in the foyer. "You really are loaded."
Steve shrugged uncomfortably. He'd grown up with wealth and had never thought much about it until he started spending time with people who hadn't. "It's my parents' money, not mine."
Billy gave him a look that said he didn't quite buy the distinction, but before he could comment, the doorbell rang again, signaling the arrival of the first guests.
"And so it begins," Steve sighed.
---
The party progressed as it did every year—men in expensive suits discussing business ventures, women in cocktail dresses exchanging gossip over champagne flutes, everyone laughing a little too loudly at jokes that weren't particularly funny. Steve played his part, the dutiful son circulating among his parents' friends, accepting compliments on how tall he'd grown and deflecting questions about college plans.
He kept an eye on Billy, who surprised him by adapting remarkably well. The rougher edges of his personality were sanded down for the evening, his natural charisma allowing him to charm several of his mother's friends. From across the room, Steve watched as Billy refilled an older woman's champagne glass, making her laugh with some comment Steve couldn't hear.
"Your friend is quite the social butterfly," his father commented, appearing at Steve's elbow with a glass of scotch. Robert Harrington observed Billy with the assessing gaze he usually reserved for potential investments. "I don't believe you've mentioned him before."
"We play basketball together," Steve said, keeping it simple.
His father nodded absently. "Well, he seems to be making quite an impression on Margaret Holloway. If he can charm that old battle-ax, he might have a future in sales." With that dubious compliment, he moved away to greet a new arrival.
By ten o'clock, the party was in full swing, the noise level rising with each empty champagne bottle. Steve found Billy in the relative quiet of the kitchen, helping himself to a plate of food from the caterer's spread.
"Having fun?" Steve asked, grabbing a plate for himself.
Billy shrugged, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Your mom's friend Margaret invited me to her New Year's party. Apparently, her grandson is visiting from New York and she thinks we'd 'get along famously.'" He mimicked the woman's high-society accent perfectly.
Steve snorted. "Margaret tries to set me up with someone new every year. Last Christmas it was the daughter of her bridge partner."
They ate standing by the kitchen island, watching the staff efficiently clean dishes and prepare more appetizers.
"You do this every year?" Billy asked after a while.
"Pretty much. Different people sometimes, but same idea."
Billy nodded thoughtfully. "It's not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Something like the movies, I guess. Family stuff. Presents and carols around the fireplace."
Steve laughed, but it came out hollower than he intended. "Yeah, well. This is the Harrington family tradition. All for show." He set down his plate. "Come on, let's get out of here for a bit."
He led Billy upstairs to his bedroom, closing the door behind them. The sounds of the party became muted, a dull hum of conversation and clinking glasses from below.
Billy wandered around the room, taking in the basketball trophies, the record collection, the school pennant on the wall. "So this is where King Steve holds court," he mused.
Steve flopped onto his bed, loosening his tie. "Not much of a king these days."
Billy picked up a framed photo from the desk—Steve with Nancy and Barb from the previous year. "You still hung up on Wheeler?"
Steve considered the question. "Not really. Not anymore." He was surprised to find it was true. "We wanted different things."
Billy set the photo down and continued his inspection, pausing at a shelf of vinyl records. "Not bad, Harrington. Didn't know you had taste." He pulled out a Springsteen album, examining the cover.
"There's a stereo in the corner," Steve offered. "If you want to play something."
Billy selected a record—not Springsteen, but Tom Petty's "Southern Accents." The opening notes of "Rebels" filled the room as Billy settled into Steve's desk chair, stretching his legs out in front of him.
They sat in companionable silence for a while, listening to the music, the party continuing without them downstairs.
"So," Steve said eventually, "what was in the package?"
Billy's expression closed slightly. "Nothing special. Just some California almonds and a bottle opener shaped like a surfboard. Found them at the general store."
"That's actually... really thoughtful."
Billy shrugged, looking uncomfortable with the praise. "It's nothing. Your mom probably won't even open it."
"I will," Steve promised. He hesitated, then asked the question that had been on his mind. "Why did you come tonight? Really?"
Billy was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on something outside the window. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than Steve had ever heard it.
"The house was too quiet. After Max left with Susan and my dad..." He trailed off, then tried again. "It didn't feel right, being there alone on Christmas Eve."
The admission hung in the air between them, Billy's vulnerability a rare gift more meaningful than any wrapped package.
"I'm glad you came," Steve said simply.
Billy nodded, not meeting his eyes. "Your parents are leaving," he said suddenly, looking out the window.
Steve joined him at the window. Sure enough, his parents were getting into their Mercedes, his mother laughing at something his father said. Several other guests were departing at the same time.
"They're going to the Murdochs' after-party," Steve explained. "They won't be back until after two."
"So we have the house to ourselves?" A familiar mischievous glint appeared in Billy's eyes. "Please tell me your dad has a liquor cabinet."
Steve grinned. "Better. I know where he hides the good stuff."
---
An hour later, they were sprawled in front of the living room fireplace, the Christmas tree lights casting a soft glow over the now-empty house. The staff had cleaned up and departed, leaving behind a spotless home and a refrigerator full of leftovers. On the coffee table between them sat a half-empty bottle of expensive bourbon and two crystal tumblers.
"And then," Billy was saying, gesturing with his glass, "the lifeguard tells me I can't bring the surfboard out because the waves are too high. Too high! That's the whole point!" He laughed, the sound more genuine than his usual sharp bark. The alcohol had softened him, bringing out a side of Billy that Steve suspected few people ever saw.
"So what did you do?" Steve asked, refilling their glasses.
"Waited till his shift change, then went out anyway." Billy smiled at the memory. "Best waves of the summer."
Steve shook his head, amused. "You've always been a rule-breaker, huh?"
"Life's more interesting that way." Billy took a sip of bourbon, then fixed Steve with a curious look. "What about you? Ever break any rules, King Steve?"
"A few," Steve admitted, thinking of parties held in this very house when his parents were away, of beers stolen from his father's fridge, of late nights with Nancy when her parents thought she was at Barb's.
Billy snorted. "Let me guess. Drinking your dad's booze? Having a party? Amateur hour, Harrington."
"Not all of us had your level of dedication to delinquency, Hargrove."
Billy laughed again, raising his glass in a mock toast. "To delinquency, then."
They clinked glasses, the crystal making a pure, clear sound in the quiet room.
"Can I ask you something?" Steve said after a moment. "What was Christmas like? Before?"
Billy didn't need to ask what he meant by "before." His expression grew distant, gaze fixed on the dancing flames in the fireplace.
"Different," he said finally. "My mom liked Christmas. She'd make a big deal out of it—decorating the house, baking cookies, the whole thing." A faint smile played at his lips. "We had this tradition where we'd drive around looking at Christmas lights on Christmas Eve. Just the two of us."
Steve nodded, recognizing the significance of the shared memory.
"After she left..." Billy's voice hardened. "Well, my dad's not exactly the holiday type."
"And then you moved to Hawkins," Steve finished, understanding more now about Billy's initial disdain for the town.
"Yeah. From sunny California to this frozen wasteland." Billy gestured toward the window, where snow continued to fall steadily. "Not exactly an upgrade."
"It has its moments," Steve defended mildly.
Billy looked around the room, at the tree, the embers glowing in the fireplace, the remnants of the evening's celebration. "Yeah," he conceded, "I guess it does."
A comfortable silence fell between them, broken only by the occasional crack from the fire. Outside, the snow continued its silent descent, covering Hawkins in a clean white blanket.
"Want to see something cool?" Steve asked suddenly, setting down his glass and standing up. The bourbon had left him pleasantly warm, lowering his inhibitions just enough to act on impulse.
Billy raised an eyebrow but followed Steve to the back door. They grabbed their coats from the hall closet, and Steve led them out onto the patio. The snow was falling more heavily now, large flakes drifting lazily from the night sky.
"What exactly am I looking at, Harrington?" Billy asked, huddling deeper into his jacket.
Steve grinned, scooping up a handful of fresh snow. "This," he said, and threw the snowball, hitting Billy squarely in the chest.
Billy's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed dangerously. "You did not just do that."
"What are you gonna do about it?" Steve taunted, already backing away.
With surprising speed, Billy gathered his own snowball and launched it, missing Steve's head by inches. "Oh, it's on, pretty boy!"
What followed was the most intense snowball fight Steve had participated in since elementary school. They chased each other around the Harrington backyard, ducking behind trees and garden furniture, launching snowy projectiles with increasing accuracy. Billy was quick, but Steve knew the terrain, using it to his advantage.
At one point, Billy tackled him into a snowdrift, both of them laughing too hard to continue fighting. They lay there for a moment, catching their breath, snowflakes settling on their eyelashes and cheeks.
"Truce?" Steve gasped.
Billy rolled onto his back beside him, chest heaving. "For now."
They stared up at the sky, watching the snow fall through the ambient light from the house. Steve couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so present, so alive in a moment.
"We should go in," he said eventually. "Before we freeze to death."
They stumbled back inside, brushing snow from their clothes and hair, cheeks flushed from cold and exertion. In the kitchen, Steve made hot chocolate—the real kind, with melted chocolate and milk, not the powdered mix.
"My grandmother's recipe," he explained, handing Billy a steaming mug. "The secret is a pinch of salt and a dash of cinnamon."
Billy took a cautious sip, then nodded in approval. "Not bad, Harrington."
They returned to the living room, settling back in front of the fire with their hot chocolate. The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed midnight.
"Merry Christmas," Steve said quietly.
Billy glanced at him, then at the Christmas tree with its twinkling lights and the small wrapped package nestled among larger, more elaborate gifts. "Yeah," he said softly. "Merry Christmas."
---
Steve woke to sunlight streaming through his bedroom window, momentarily disoriented. He'd dreamed of snowball fights and firelight conversations, of a side of Billy Hargrove he'd never seen before.
Then he remembered it hadn't been a dream.
After hot chocolate and more conversation that had stretched into the early morning hours, they'd finally succumbed to exhaustion. Steve had shown Billy to one of the guest rooms, lending him a t-shirt and sweatpants to sleep in.
Rolling out of bed, Steve pulled on a sweatshirt and padded down the hallway. The guest room door was open, the bed neatly made. Panic flickered briefly—had Billy left?—before the smell of coffee and the sound of movement from downstairs reassured him.
He found Billy in the kitchen, fully dressed in yesterday's clothes, a cup of coffee in his hand. The countertop held evidence of breakfast preparations—a carton of eggs, bread, a frying pan on the stove.
"Morning," Billy said, oddly awkward in the daylight. "Hope you don't mind. I made coffee."
"No, that's... that's great." Steve ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. "You didn't have to make breakfast, though."
Billy shrugged. "Figured it was the least I could do." He hesitated, then added, "I should probably get going soon."
"It's Christmas morning," Steve protested. "Stay for breakfast at least."
After a moment's consideration, Billy nodded. "Alright."
They worked together in companionable silence, Billy scrambling eggs while Steve made toast and poured orange juice. It was strangely domestic, and Steve found himself enjoying the simple routine of it.
His parents still hadn't returned, though Steve wasn't surprised. They often stayed overnight at friends' homes after parties, returning late on Christmas Day, hungover and irritable.
They ate at the kitchen island, the formal dining room feeling too grandiose for just the two of them. Sunlight streamed through the windows, reflecting off the snow outside and filling the room with a bright, clean light.
"This is good," Steve said, gesturing to his plate. "Where'd you learn to cook?"
Billy gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Had to feed myself and Max a lot. Susan works late sometimes, and my dad..." He didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't need to.
After breakfast, they moved to the living room, where the Christmas tree stood in its corner, still lit from the night before.
"We should open that," Steve said, nodding to the small package Billy had brought. "It's tradition to open presents on Christmas morning."
Billy looked uncomfortable. "It's nothing special," he muttered.
Steve retrieved the package from under the tree, unwrapping it carefully. Inside was exactly what Billy had described—a small bag of California almonds and a metal bottle opener shaped like a surfboard, the word "California" emblazoned across it in bright letters.
"This is cool," Steve said, genuinely pleased with the simple gift. "Thanks, Billy."
Billy nodded, looking relieved. "Like I said, nothing fancy."
"Wait here," Steve said suddenly, heading back upstairs. He returned moments later with a hastily wrapped package of his own. "It's not much either," he said, handing it to Billy. "Just something I had around."
Billy looked genuinely surprised as he accepted the gift. "You didn't have to get me anything."
"I didn't, exactly," Steve admitted. "But I want you to have it."
Billy unwrapped the package carefully, revealing a well-loved copy of Bruce Springsteen's "Born to Run" album.
"I noticed you looking at it last night," Steve explained. "It's one of my favorites, but I've got it on cassette now too, so..." He trailed off, suddenly uncertain.
Billy ran his fingers over the album cover, his expression unreadable. "Thanks," he said finally, his voice gruff. "I'll take good care of it."
They sat in silence for a moment, the simple exchange of gifts somehow more meaningful than all the expensive packages still waiting under the tree.
"I should get going," Billy said eventually, though he made no move to stand.
"Yeah," Steve agreed, equally still.
Outside, the world was transformed by the night's snowfall, pristine white covering every surface, the sky a clear, perfect blue. Inside, something had shifted between them—not friendship, exactly, but the possibility of it. An understanding.
"Next year," Steve found himself saying, "we could do this again. If you want."
Billy looked at him, surprise evident in his blue eyes. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spread across his face—not his usual sardonic smirk, but something real and unguarded.
"Yeah," he said. "Maybe we could."
It wasn't a promise, exactly. But as Billy stood to leave, the Springsteen album tucked carefully under his arm, it felt like the beginning of one.