Chapter Text
Steve Harrington learns early that his body listens faster than he does.
He’s sixteen in the locker room. Junior year. Varsity. Everything loud and wet and echoing, the air sharp with chlorine and deodorant and noise. Towels snapping. Someone shoving someone else into a locker hard enough to make it ring. Steve’s already grinning before anything happens, already loose, already part of it.
Ryan Walker clips him from behind, shoulder-first, just enough to knock him forward. Jason’s a senior. Big. Loud. Everybody likes him. Steve stumbles, swears, laughs it off because that’s what you do.
“Watch it, Harrington,” Ryan says, close enough that Steve feels the breath at his ear. Fuck.
A hand lands between Steve’s shoulder blades. Flat. Heavy. It’s not painful. Not really. Just firm. Holding him there while Ryan laughs and somebody else says something about Steve’s ass, like it’s a joke, like it’s not even worth reacting to.
Heat crawls up Steve’s neck. His face goes warm. He freezes without meaning to, breath catching just slightly. His body locks in place, like it’s waiting for instruction.
The actual hand stays. Not long. Long enough. The memory of it, though? That lingers.
Steve doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t lean back. He stands there, aware of the pressure, aware of himself under it. It’s sharp and dizzy, the feeling of being pinned exactly where he is. Of being noticed in a way that doesn’t require him to do anything at all.
Then Ryan lets go.
Someone shoves Steve again, harder this time, and Steve laughs too loud and shoves back, harder than he needs to. The moment dissolves into noise and movement and relief. It’s over. It doesn’t mean anything.
Later, when someone crowds his space, when a hand lands heavy on his shoulder or his back, Steve’s body does the same stupid thing before he even has time to think. Lights up. Tightens. He hates it. He ignores it. He learns to smile through it and keep moving.
He treats it the same way he treats everything else that doesn’t fit. He laughs, he moves, he keeps going. Whatever his body is doing, it settles if he doesn’t argue with it.
Sometimes older memories surface instead, uninvited. His parents’ house before it went quiet and hollow. Before the business trips turned into absences. Alison, the nanny they had for a while, the one with the short hair and the soft jumpers. Who would ask him to call her Al rather than Ms Kron. She was built like a truck but smelled like soap and stood too close when she corrected him.
She never yelled. That was the thing. She’d just say his name, low and firm, and put a hand on his wrist or the back of his leg and wait until he stopped moving. Steve remembers laughing when it happened, breathless and stupid, like he’d been caught doing something funny instead of wrong. He remembers feeling hot and restless afterward, like he needed to run it off.
His mom ended up letting her go. He overheard her telling a friend she didn’t have the right presence for a nanny. Whatever that meant. Sometimes that thing with Jason would fragment in his memory with memories of Al’s punishment and it would get confusing. But that was just normal confusing teenage thoughts, right? Confusing thoughts that return when Billy Hargrove arrives in Hawkins.
Billy arrives like he’s already mid-conflict. All elbows and teeth and heat, loud in the halls, fast with his mouth, already infamous before the end of the first week. He’s already got a rep by Friday. Someone says he punched a locker so hard it bent. Someone else says he threw a chair in maths and laughed when it skidded. Steve doesn’t know which version’s true. He just knows Billy moves like he’s always one bad second away from doing something stupid, and people give him room because of it.
He takes up space like it’s a challenge. He bumps into Steve in the hallway on purpose. Doesn’t apologise. Lets his shoulder linger when he passes, like he’s checking something.
“Watch it, Harrington,” Billy says once, breath hot and close, hand brushing Steve’s arm like an accident that isn’t.
Steve snaps back automatically. It’s reflex. But he notices. He always notices.
On the basketball court, Billy trips him during drills. A clean hook of the foot, perfectly timed. Steve goes down hard, skin scraping, the air punched out of him. Laughter from the sidelines.
Billy’s there instantly. Hand on Steve’s forearm, hauling him up like it’s nothing, like it’s just how things go.
“You need to plant your feet, pretty boy,” Billy says, low. Almost amused.
Their eyes catch. Something sharp passes between them. Billy’s grip tightens for half a second before he lets go.
Someone snorts from the sidelines. Billy grins and then, out of nowhere, whips the ball at the wall hard enough that it cracks back into his hands. Coach yells. Billy doesn’t even look sorry. Steve’s heart jumps and he hates that it does. Fucking idiot, he tells himself. It’s just noise.
Steve’s pulse is loud in his ears. His body feels wrong. Charged. He shakes it off, tells himself Billy’s just an asshole, tells himself that’s all this is.
The tension never goes away.
It only settles. Low and constant. Like a bad habit Steve doesn’t remember picking up.
Today, the day thins out somewhere after fourth period pulled too tight, like it might snap if anyone leans on it too hard. School slides past without ever really landing. Lockers slamming. Bells ringing. Someone shouting down the corridor. Tommy walks backwards in front of Steve, talking about the party like it’s urgent, like it hasn’t been happening every weekend since forever.
Steve nods. Laughs in the right places. Says yeah when he’s supposed to. He’s good at that part.
Billy passes him in the hall without looking, close enough that Steve has to angle his shoulder to avoid brushing him.
That shouldn’t matter. It does.
Billy usually looks. Not friendly. Not neutral. Just enough that Steve feels it later, after.
Billy looks like he’s clocking exits, angles, weak points. Last year he used to slow down just enough to crowd Steve’s space, shoulder brushing, eyes flicking over him like he was checking alignment. Once, by the trophy case, Billy stopped short in front of him. Steve froze instead of crashing into him. Billy smirked like he’d expected that.
Today, nothing.
Billy walks past like Steve isn’t even worth the effort, jacket slung over his shoulder, jaw tight, earbuds in. Steve turns without meaning to, watches him go, catches himself doing it and feels stupid.
Get a grip.
He makes it through the rest of the day by not thinking too hard. Drives home with the radio loud enough to rattle the doors. Drake comes on. Or Post Malone. Something he knows the words to without knowing why. The house is empty when he gets there. Again. Quiet in that expensive way his parents like.
He showers longer than he needs to. Stands under the water until the mirror fogs over completely, until his face disappears. That part helps. He dries off, pulls on clean clothes, opens the fridge and stares at it like it might offer guidance. Grabs a beer. Drinks it standing up, leaning against the counter.
He’s not trying to get drunk. He just wants to feel loose enough. A little buzzed but still sharp enough. Everything still registers. He’s still here.
He ends up on the sofa with his phone in his hand without really deciding to. Thumb scrolling. Instagram. The usual parade of faces he knows too well. Tommy flexing in a bathroom mirror. Carol posting something vague about living her best life. Someone’s dog. Someone else’s car.
Then Nancy.
She’s tagged in Jonathan’s photo. Not posed. Caught mid-laugh, hair falling in her face, Jonathan looking at her like she’s the only thing in the frame. Steve stops scrolling. Stares longer than he means to.
Steve’s thumb hovers. He doesn’t tap the heart. Scrolls past too fast.
He clicks into Billy’s profile without thinking about it. Half the photos are cars. Engines. Smoke. A couple of blurry party shots where Billy’s half out of frame, mouth open mid-sentence, eyes sharp even when he’s laughing. Steve doesn’t like any of them. He doesn’t not look, either.
He locks his phone and tosses it onto the cushion next to him. Takes another sip of his beer. Laughs once, under his breath, for no real reason. Whatever. Gets up and moves into the kitchen, like motion alone might settle whatever his body is doing.
It usually does.
By the time he leaves for the party, the beer’s settled warm in his chest. Loose but sharp. Everything still registers.
The party is loud when he gets there. Music rattling the walls. Someone yelling his name from the other side of the room. A hand on his shoulder, then a drink pressed into his palm before he’s even fully inside.
Steve smiles without thinking. Wide, easy. King Steve. He’s good at this part.
Someone’s playlist jumps from Kendrick to Rihanna to something that sounds like it came out last summer but everyone already knows the words. Phones out. Someone filming the kitchen for no reason. Someone spilling beer on the floor and not bothering to clean it up. There’s a shout from the hallway. Steve doesn’t see what happens, just hears the thud and the whoa, shit from a couple of voices. Billy’s name gets said like a warning and a joke at the same time. Someone laughs. Someone else says he deserved it. Steve feels it in his chest anyway, a quick, dumb spike of adrenaline.
Billy isn’t in the living room.
Steve keeps moving. Circles the room. Talks to people. Someone tells him a story he’s already heard and he laughs in the right place anyway. He checks his phone, pockets it, pulls it back out. Nothing new. He downs half the drink and swaps it for another one someone hands him without asking.
Why is he even looking for Billy anyway? It’s not Billy he’s looking for. Not exactly. He’s looking for… anything.
It’s been almost a year since things ended with Nancy. That thought comes out of nowhere, like it always does. A year feels long when he says it in his head. Longer when he doesn’t. He hadn’t realised how much of his life had come with instructions until they were gone. Where to stand. Who to sit with. What he was supposed to be doing next.
He’s been single longer than he ever has been. He tells people it’s on purpose. He tells himself that too.
He ends up near the kitchen without remembering deciding to go there.
Billy’s there, leaning back against the counter, arm slung around Carol’s shoulders like it’s always been there. Beer dangling loose from his fingers. Billy’s smiling wide, sharp and easy, like he’s not thinking about it at all. He’s saying something Steve can’t hear that still makes Carol laugh too loud. She leans into him, chin tipped up, eyes bright.
Billy looks like he’s having a good time. Like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.
Steve watches the way Billy lets Carol touch him, the way people shift to make space for him without being asked. Billy doesn’t move much. Other people do it for him. Carol looks pleased. Chosen.
Steve looks away. Looks back again. Shit.
Someone bumps into him. Someone asks if he’s okay. He nods, laughs, takes another sip. The cup’s empty again before he realises it.
“Hey,” someone says near his ear.
It’s Stacy. The one with the mouth and the reputation and the story she likes telling. Steve went to second base with her once in middle-school and she likes to think that makes him her ex. Whatever.
“You look good,” she says. “You hiding from me?”
“Something like that,” Steve says, already smiling.
She steps closer, presses in like it’s obvious. This is normal. This is what usually happens. He lets her talk, lets her laugh, lets her body fit against his. It’s fine. Comfortable. He doesn’t have to work at it.
His eyes keep sliding back to the kitchen.
Billy laughs and Steve hears it over everything else. Billy’s hand shifts on Carol’s shoulder, not tight, just there. Steve swallows and shifts his weight without meaning to. Takes another drink. It doesn’t do anything.
“You okay?” Stacy asks, noticing his attention drift.
“Yeah,” Steve says. “Just tired.”
She studies him for a second, then grins. “We could fix that.”
She says upstairs like it’s already decided. Like it’s the next step and he just needs to keep up.
Steve laughs, quick and breathy. His chest feels tight, but not in the way it’s supposed to. A half-formed memory flickers and he shoves it away before it finishes. Being held in place. Not moving because moving felt worse. Billy standing too close last year and Steve staying put.
“Maybe later,” he says.
Stacy shrugs, already gone, already fine. “Your loss.”
Steve exhales. Stays where he is. Takes another drink he doesn’t remember asking for. Laughs at something someone says even though he didn’t hear it. Keeps one eye on the kitchen without admitting that’s what he’s doing.
When Steve looks back to the kitchen, Billy isn’t there.
He checks again a minute later, like it might’ve been a mistake. Same counter. Same people. Carol laughing with someone else now, hair falling in her face. Billy gone.
Steve takes a drink. It doesn’t do anything.
He drifts. Ends up in conversations without remembering how he got into them. Someone tells him about a class they’re failing. Someone asks him about basketball. Someone hands him a joint on the stairs and he takes it because it’s already there, because saying no would mean stopping.
He smokes. Coughs. Laughs at himself. Takes another pull anyway.
Time stretches, then snaps back. Songs blur together. The living room empties out and fills up again with different faces. Someone throws up in the bathroom. Someone posts it. Steve scrolls through his phone, then pockets it, then pulls it back out. No notifications he wants.
He keeps checking the kitchen. Keeps not finding Billy.
It’s annoying. That’s the closest he gets to naming it. Like a song he doesn’t like stuck in his head. Like he’s waiting for something he forgot he agreed to.
Another drink appears in his hand. He finishes it without noticing. Someone bumps into him and apologises and Steve laughs like it’s fine. He laughs a lot tonight. Keeps moving.
At some point he ends up on the back porch. He doesn’t remember deciding to go there. It’s quieter. Cooler. Smoke hanging low in the air. A couple of people talking in low voices by the railing. Someone sitting on the steps with their head tipped back, eyes closed.
Steve leans against the wall and breathes. Lets the night air hit his face. The house hums behind him, bass bleeding through the glass.
There’s a sharp crack somewhere inside the house. Glass or a door or something getting slammed. Steve jerks before he can stop himself, heart kicking. Fuck. He drags a hand down his face and tells himself he’s fine.
“Didn’t think you were the type to hide out here.”
Steve startles. Laughs immediately, too loud for how close the voice is. Fucking idiot.
Billy’s leaning against the porch post, half in shadow. Jacket off. Shirt clinging a little at the collar. He smells like smoke and beer and something sharper underneath. Steve didn’t hear him come out. There’s a fresh scrape across Billy’s knuckles, skin split and red like he didn’t bother with ice. Steve’s eyes catch on it and stick there for half a second too long. Billy notices and smiles like he knows exactly what Steve’s thinking. Or not thinking. Hard to tell.
“I’m not hiding,” Steve says. “Just needed air.”
Billy hums, like he’s thinking it over, like Steve’s said something interesting by accident. He shifts closer and Steve doesn’t realise it’s happening until the space gets weird—too warm, too tight, Billy’s shoulder almost brushing his chest.
Steve’s brain stutters. There’s a split second where he thinks he should move, joke it off, do literally anything, but his feet don’t listen. It’s the same stupid freeze he’s had since forever, like his body’s waiting for instructions that never come.
Billy’s close enough now that Steve can count the freckles on his cheek, can feel the heat coming off him, can’t remember what he was about to say. His heart’s going fast, which is annoying, because nothing is actually happening. Nothing bad. Nothing good either. Just… this.
Billy watches him like he’s noticed all of it. Like that was the point.
He turns suddenly and Steve flinches, just a little. It’s stupid. Billy didn’t even touch him. But Billy moves fast, always has, and Steve’s brain fills in the rest before he can stop it. Shit, he thinks, embarrassed, already laughing like that’ll smooth it over.
Steve’s brain stutters. He thinks he should move. He thinks he should say something. The moment stretches and his body does what it always does, locks up and waits it out. He hates that. He laughs, breathy and useless, like that might cover it.
Billy notices.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just the pause where Steve doesn’t step back. The laugh that comes a second too late. Billy’s mouth tilts, barely there, and he stays exactly where he is.
“Relax,” Billy says, low. Amused. Like he’s not talking Steve down so much as pointing something out. “You look like I’m about to hit you.”
Steve scoffs too loudly. “Please. You’d have to catch me first.”
Billy’s eyes flick down and back up, slow enough that Steve feels it everywhere. There’s a beat where Billy doesn’t say anything, just watches him, like he’s filed something away.
“Careful,” Billy says. “You might like it.”
The words land and Steve’s body betrays him instantly. Breath gone. Skin buzzing. He shifts without meaning to, heart tripping over itself, and hates that Billy can probably see all of it.
Billy steps back like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just crowd Steve’s space. Like he didn’t know exactly what that would do.
“See you around, Harrington,” Billy says, already turning away, already moving back into the light.
Steve stays where he is. Heart racing. Hands empty and useless at his sides. The night air feels colder than it did a second ago. He laughs once, under his breath, because that’s what he does when things don’t make sense.
He tells himself it’s nothing.
He’s always been good at that.