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Billy has very low expectations for Hawkins, Indiana. California is a speck in the rearview, a sore memory of when he’d had some freedom, less oversight from Neil . Neil and Susan hadn't had the courtesy to move them before the start of the school year, so now he’s having to start senior year of high school again, two months into the year.
To top it all off he’s stuck in a shitty, podunk town full of losers.
The drive to school for their first morning is tense and fraught. Max fidgets in the passenger seat, bitching and moaning about Billy and his music as if Billy is the one at fault. Billy doesn't have much restraint on a good day, and he’s doing everything he can to not lose it all before 8am.
He swings the camaro into the parking lot of Hawkins High with prowess, one hand flat on the wheel, the other hanging out the window. Billy’s trying to drown out Max’s complaining and the nerves in his stomach with the Scorpions and it’s only half-working.
Billy parks his car smoothly, closing his eyes when he stops to gather himself before stepping out into the cool bright sun of mid-October. The door swings shut with a quiet click behind him, but he’s not paying attention to that.
A small group across the parking lot catches his eye. There are four of them, ragtag and mismatched;
His eyes skim bored and uninterested over the first couple. The guy is a greasy loser with limp hair cut shaggy, bags under his eyes and a battered camera hanging around his neck. He’s got his arm around his girlfriend – at least as far as Billy can assume; a goody two-shoes standing there in her neat sweater and turtleneck, with her curls all artfully arranged. There’s a pile of books stacked neatly on the beat-up beemer they’re leaning against that are undoubtedly hers.
The other couple catch his eye, drawing his attention their way. They’re so painfully disparate it’s a wonder they have anything to say to each other. She looks like a typical band geek, boring but looking like those girls he’d known back in Cali – the ones who didn't date guys. The guy she’s with, the final one, is an enigma, sticking out like a sore thumb in comparison to the three he’s with – dark and rebellious to their bright and preppy.
Jealousy hits him – abrupt and unexpected – why does a mousey little band loser get to have him ?
Billy’s supposed to be hiding how queer he is, shoving it down deep and not letting anyone see it. That had been the plan at least. Except five minutes into his first day a goddamn punk has caught his attention; has him all starry-eyed, stomach tied in knots.
He’s a wet dream; floppy mohawk, piercings in his ears (and bottom lip which has Billy imagining sinking his teeth into the plush flesh instead), and a studded collar around his throat. His leather jacket is covered in spikes and badges, and the jeans he’s wearing accentuate his thick thighs when he leans back against the beemer.
Billy’s mouth is dry and he swallows thickly, willing away an embarrassed flush when he meets the punk’s eyes through the haze of smoke that’s rising from the cigarette dangling from his lips.
The guy smirks, winks, and turns away to talk to band girl.
Max’s door closes quietly as she clambers out of the car. She flashes a knowing, smug look at him over the roof, “you could try being a little less obvious, Billy.”
He rolls his eyes, turning his back to the fascinating boy who had caught his attention so thoroughly. He flicks his cigarette onto the ground, still burning, and ignores the eyes on him as he walks away.
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Steve allows Nancy’s prodding and Robin’s scowling to convince him to attend Tina’s party with them. It’s supposedly ‘ the Halloween party of the year ’ – or that’s how Tina had eagerly announced it to the whole fucking school, bouncing on the balls of her feet, standing on the tables at lunch.
It’s nothing like the parties he’s used to, the ones he’d go to in abandoned factories and warehouses around Chelsea and Belgravia. The cookie cutter American dream is a mystery to him, a farce he was disillusioned of years ago, and these high school parties with lukewarm beer and crappy music do nothing except make him miss the punks back home in London who’d practically raised him.
But his friends want him to come, so he agrees. Steve draws the line at getting dressed up for Halloween though, there’s no way he’s going to remove the armor that's become a part of him over the years.
He threads safety pins through his ears in the car, runs a hand through his hair, flipping the mohawk from one side to the other.
“Stop fussing, Steve,” Robin goads, dancing out of the way of Steve’s resulting prodding finger, cackling when he scowls at her.
“I’m not fussing ,” Steve insists, but it’s useless, she’s dragging him after her towards the noisy, teenage-filled house.
“You’re the fusser, Steve,” she giggles, raising an eyebrow at him when he grunts in annoyance, “oh come on, I know how soft you are under that exterior, Harrington.”
“You better not tell anyone else,” he threatens, slinging his arm around her shoulder. He drags her close so he can talk into her ear and be heard over the screeching of Madonna playing from the boombox in the corner as they walk through the front door.
The party is already a haze of cigarette smoke and shouting, there’s drunk teenagers everywhere, dancing and weaving between the shitty toilet paper streamers hanging from the ceiling.
“This party is rubbish,” Steve sighs, licking his lips as he sends Robin a glance to gauge her thoughts. She’s not paying him any attention, focus on the scantily clad Heather Holloway across the room.
“Hmm?” Robin hums, distracted.
Steve smirks, scratching idly at his nose with his thumb. He leans closer, lowering his voice, “ you’ve found something interesting though, huh?”
“What?” Robin flicks her gaze back up at him, turning her head and recoiling when she sees how close he is, “what?!” She flicks him on the tip of his nose like he’s a bad dog, “why are you so close?”
“You should go talk to her,” Steve encourages, sending a pointed look that way, “what’s the worst that could happen?” Robin raises an eyebrow, but doesn't bother saying anything – she knows he knows the answer to that question, “go on. You don't need to babysit me.”
Robin scoffs, but her gaze drifts away back towards Heather, and a small grin tilts her pink painted lips, “fine. Later, Harrington.”
Steve lets out a quiet laugh, adjusting the sit of his leather jacket on his shoulders with a casual shrug as he heads for the cheap alcohol. It’s far from the quality of the shit he’s stolen from his dad’s cabinet over the years, but it’ll do the job to give him a nice buzz.
The room is stifling and hot, drunk teenagers dancing to music he wouldn’t be caught dead listening to, grinding and singing. Steve’s already over it and he’s been there for less than ten minutes. He grabs a half-empty bottle of dark rum as he passes the table, carrying it outside.
It’s nearly as busy in the large backyard as it is inside; there’s a large group on the well-lit patio, crowded around as idiots do keg stands one after the other.
His eyes catch on the new kid – Hargrove? – as he drops back down, spitting beer into the air. His chest is exposed between the open lapels of his leather jacket, glistening with sweat and beer in the low light coming from the doorway.
Steve is unsure about him, has barely interacted with him, but he seems like every other jock Steve’s ever met except he listens to half-decent metal music – it’s better than the pop crap coming from inside, but still not good .
He leans back in the shadows of the house, resting one thick-booted foot against the wall behind him. Steve tilts his head back to look at the sky, dark eyes taking in the few stars smattered against the vast backdrop. From the corner of his eye he watches Hargrove take a lit cigarette from Hagan, blowing the smoke into the air as he lets out a triumphant shout.
Steve finishes off the rum, taking a long swallow from the bottle in his hand, the cheap alcohol goes down burning and bitter. He chucks the bottle to the side to lay abandoned in the dew-wet grass. He sees Hargrove notice him from the corner of his eye, and hides the smirk that wants to come to his lips when he beelines in Steve’s direction, waving off his cronies as he does.
Hargrove comes to a stop standing in front of Steve, the cigarette burning to the base between his plush lips. He stares silently, trying to appear menacing, or intimidate Steve into speaking first, or something.
Steve just raises an eyebrow, refusing to be intimidated by some popularity-obsessed metalhead.
“So you were the keg king before, huh?” Hargrove returns Steve’s raised eyebrow, deciding the stare-off isn't worth the wait. He looks Steve over, judging the studs and badges that adorn his jacket and the belts hanging around his waist and hips, “how’d you manage that?”
“It wasn't exactly hard,” Steve shrugs, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket, and leaning in to light it from the burning remnants of Hargrove’s hanging from his lips. Hargrove’s eyes widen and Steve notes the way he swallows nervously and shifts – it’s not the reaction of someone who isn't interested, that's for sure.
The orange glow of the cherry lights the contours of Hargrove’s face, reflecting in his light eyes.
“Holding a keg stand wasn't hard?” Hargrove is incredulous, eyes scanning over Steve’s form like he’s going to critique it.
“Not when there’s free beer,” Steve tongue flicks out as he surveys Hargrove, eyes hooded, smirk tilting his lips. Hargrove tosses away his burnt out cigarette, the butt landing on the ground near the empty rum bottle.
Hargrove hums quietly, eyes fixated on Steve’s lips.
“You wanna bum one?” Steve mumbles, enjoying the flush that flares up Hargrove’s cheeks.
“What?” He blurts, clearly shocked, eye’s snapping to Steve’s, “what did you say?”
“You wanna bum a fag?” Steve drawls, letting his London accent slip out. He admires the blush crawling down Hargrove’s chest, “or you can just have some of mine.”
“Bum a…? What the fuck?” Hargrove twitches, swaying away and back like Steve’s a magnet pulling him into his orbit.
Steve smirks and considers letting Hargrove stew in confusion for longer, but he’s impatient. He holds his cigarette out to the younger boy between long fingers, “wanna have a toke of my fag?”
Hargrove’s eyes darken, flickering between Steve’s fingers and his mouth. He snatches the fag from him, taking a long pull and blowing the silvery smoke up into the dark sky.
Steve admires him, not bothering to turn his eyes away when Hargrove looks back down. Being queer may be taboo here, but it hadn't been in the circles he’d grown up in in London. Steve isn't afraid to admit anything, he doesn't believe in lying to himself.
“Where’s your girlfriend ?”
Hargrove, it seems, is afraid to admit anything.
Steve takes the fag back, taking a long drag and putting it out against the wall behind him as he speaks, “she’s not my girlfriend.”
Steve rolls his eyes. He’s not dealing with this when he knows what he wants, and he’s pretty sure Hargrove wants it too.
He grabs the lapels of Billy’s leather jacket, pulling him into the shadows of the house, and against his body. There’s a breath of air between their lips when he murmurs, “make a move, Hargrove.”
Hargrove grunts, closing the gap between them, pressing his plush lips to Steve’s chapped. Steve cups Billy’s stubbled cheeks between his palms, tugging gently on the earring that bumps against his fingers.
Steve opens his mouth to Billy’s questing tongue when he moves to deepen the kiss, groaning when Billy tangles his hands in his ‘hawk, fingertips drawing circles over the exposed and sensitive shaved skin.
Billy moans, pressing his body fully against Steve’s as he slows the kiss until their lips are gently brushing. Steve shivers.
“No girlfriend then?” Billy breathes against Steve’s tingling lips.
“No girlfriend.”