Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Welcome to Family Video, how can I help you?"

The girl is standing beside the romantic comedies section, her leopard-print purse clutched tight to her side. She's young, maybe your age, her hair curled into an attractive blonde fluff that reminds you of Sandra Dee from Grease, her eyes circled with blue eyeshadow and doll-like lashes that must have taken an hour to perfect.

Obviously, she's not here to see you. 

"Does, um, Billy work here?" She asks, smiling shyly. 

You sigh. Deeply. 

Just to screw with her, you begin, "Billy…?"
Her face falls.

You take mercy on her. "Billy Hargrove?"

She brightens, "Yes, him!"
"Yeah, well, he's stocking behind the red curtain," you wave vaguely behind you, towards the silky red curtain that separates the, ahem, adult movies from the main lobby. "I'd be careful though, he's got his panties in a bunch today."
She gives you a startled look, either because you said the word panties casually or because perhaps she's disillusioned herself into thinking that Billy Hargrove is a pleasant person. She gives you a glossy smile as thanks and makes her move, slipping behind that red curtain with a trilling, "Hi, Billy!"
You feel sorry for her, just like how you've felt sorry for the poor souls that have been approaching Billy at Family Video for the past six months, all of them dolled up and fresh from college, looking for the smooth-talking charmer that they knew through their school years. You remembered when he first rolled into Hawkins, an egotistical jackass with a chip the size of Jupiter in his shoulder and a face too pretty for his own good—but he's different now (not necessarily less egotistical or pretty,) but…different.

You hadn't liked him then and you certainly don't like him now, not with how many times middle aged moms come in here with necklines lower than their standards, asking Billy in low, sultry voices what he thinks they should watch. He always passes them off to you like diseases and you would be the one to have to deal with disappointed, sulky women that always pick Valley Girl or Dirty Dancing to rent, their eyes glaring watery holes through you as if it was your fault they weren't getting laid tonight.

Sure enough, the Sandra Dee lookalike storms from the red curtain with her face crumpled like a newspaper, her mouth screwing up as if she were about to cry. "How do you deal with him?" She demands on her way to the door. "He's such an ass!"
You shrug and watch her leave, her lovely pink heels carrying her into a car and out of view, something you have wanted to do since eight this morning. 

"Really?" You say loudly, glancing towards the curtain. "She was sweet—you didn't have to make her cry."

His voice echoes from the curtain, deep and irritated. "Fuck off, kid."
You flip off the curtain, though you know he can't see it. "Ditto, jackass."
His tone sharpens."What did you say?"
"You heard me," you respond sweetly, picking up a box of returns that have to be put back in their proper places on the shelves. You set it on a nearby cart and begin filing the movies away, genre by genre—you know most of them by name now, since you were prone to taking a handful home every week and working your way through them. You've loved movies since you were little, which is what made you apply here six months ago when you wanted an after-school gig for your senior year. 

Family Video isn't the worst job in the world, but it's boring and summer is right around the corner—all you want to do today is climb into a swimsuit and float in the blowup pool in your backyard, drinking red Kool-aide and reveling in the heat and harsh sun. Homework can be damned tonight, you'll play catch-up over the weekend when the sun has set.

"Hey."
You don't look up, too focused on shoving The Breakfast Club between Sixteen Candles and Pretty in Pink, Molly Ringwald's pretty, round face smiling up at you from the plastic covers. 

"Hey, kid." A foot nudges your knee. 

You look up into Billy Hargrove's frowning face, his arms crossed over his chest—somehow, he had intimidated the boss into allowing him not to wear the customary Family Video uniform, just a simple name tag in his Led Zeppelin shirt, his worn jeans slung low on his hips. 

You hadn't been so lucky—it had been hard to find pants that would go over your large hips, much less a dress shirt that would button without gaping over your chest, so you ended up with a baggy Family Video shirt, jeans, and the ugly green vest. 

"What, Billy?" You sigh, pushing your hair out of your face. 

His frown deepens—you don't think he's quite gotten used to a girl that doesn't want him, especially an eighteen-year old virgin that's twice the size of the women he dates. "What time did the head honcho say to close tonight?"
"Eight," you answer shortly, pushing yourself to your feet. Billy isn't the tallest man in the world but he's certainly taller than you, which makes any glare you try to give him ineffective. "By the way, if Janice Carver comes in here just before closing again, you're going to be the one "assisting" her this time. I'm tired of middle-aged women looking at me like I'm getting in the way of their hot date."
"I think not, sweetheart, I have shit to do," Billy says briskly, pushing past you to pluck Lethal Weapon off the shelf. "My shithead sister Max needs a ride home tonight, I can't stay past closing."
"Isn't that convenient?" You say dryly, moving back to the register to pull yourself up on the counter as you watch him scrutinize Mel Gibson's square-jawed heroism, his hand tapping his rings against the metal shelf. He's not the same boy he was, not with those endless purple circles under his eyes, or the hollow look to his cheeks. 

Something happened to him last year—maybe a relative died, or a girlfriend broke up with him, but whatever it was did a serious number on Billy. 

"What did you tell that girl to make her cry?" You ask suddenly. 

Billy looks up, eyebrows raised. The two of you have operated on a don't-ask-don't-tell basis for the past several months of working with each other, neither of you exactly interested in the gooey details of each other's lives. 

"What do you care?" He asks. It comes out more hostile than you had been expecting. 

You shrug. "I don't. I'm just bored."
Billy looks at you for a long moment, his blue eyes dull and tired. "Kid, I didn't even know who she fuckin' was. Maybe I screwed her, maybe I didn't. It doesn't matter anymore."

"Why?"
"Why, what?" He snaps impatiently, ready to be done with the conversation. 

"Why doesn't it matter anymore?"
That makes him pause, the clinking noise of his rings against the shelves pausing. Your skin prickles at the empty, blank look to his eyes, the way his mouth tips up into a sharp grin that doesn't disturb the rest of his face. "It just doesn't, sweetheart. Now piss off."
This is what you get for trying to talk to Billy Hargrove. You roll your eyes and bury yourself in the latest film magazine, taking your lunch break outside on a bench so you wouldn't have to feel his eyes on you—but it doesn't work, you still feel watched even with bowl of chicken salad. 

It's almost creepy. In fact, you have half a mind to grab a newspaper and peruse the job offer section, just to get away from this strange man that acts like he's relearning how to be a human. 

But, you've always had an overactive imagination—and where else would you get your free movies? 

In fifteen minutes, lunch break is over and you're stuffing your brown lunch bag into the trash, another four hours of keeping pubescent boys from ducking under the red curtain and smiling at couples choosing a movie for their date ahead of you.

You watch a boy in a jersey throw his arm around a freckled redheaded girl as they walk through the door—they're younger than you by a few years, but the girl seems to recognize you, her mouth stretching into a reserved smile. "Hi, is Billy still here?"

You sigh once more, if only you had a dollar every time someone said that to you…

"Yeah, let me go get him real quick," you say reluctantly, slipping into the backroom where he likes to smoke when he thinks you're not looking, the door closing shut softly behind you.
"Billy?" You say, switching on the weak, yellowing light. Shelves of broken or old tapes line the walls, the distinct stench of cigarettes in the air; your hand brushes an old movie reel and a cloud of dust erupts, curling into the dim light. "God, Billy, why are you so fucking creepy?"
"Go away."
Billy is against the wall, his palms pressed into his eyes as if the light was hurting him. He's hunched into himself, his skin slick with sweat as his body shakes, his eyes glinting up at you between his fingers hatefully as if you were causing this unknown hurt. 

"Billy," you whisper softly.

"Leave me the fuck alone." He bares his teeth but it has no venom, his face paling as he slumps farther against the wall.
"Holy shit, Billy, you've got to get to a hospital." You kneel beside him and reach for his forehead to feel his temperature, but his hand snatches yours out of the air, his fingers so tight around your wrist you have to bite back a yelp. 

"You don't know what you're dealing with," Billy hisses through clenched teeth, his eyes boring into yours. "I could hurt you."

You ignore him, craning to look into his pale, bloodshot eyes. "There's a girl and her boyfriend here to see you—do they know about whatever this is? Can they help you?"

He shakes his head, his fingers tightening on my wrist painfully. "No, no, tell Max I'm not here. She can't  see this, she wouldn't understand."

"Your sister? But-"
Billy yanks your wrist, pulling you closer so you were face to face him. His face is pale and bloodless, his blue eyes eerily bright as his cracked lips mouth the word: "Please."
He doesn't say please often. You swallow hard, fear slipping into your gut like ice. 

"Please," he repeats, eyes boring into yours. 

"Okay," you whisper. "Okay. Let go of me."

Billy blinks, looking down at his hand around your wrist as if he hadn't realized it was there. He lets go, leaving clear purpling imprints of his fingers on your soft skin. 

You compose yourself at the door and walk out in the lobby casually, slipping your bruised wrist into your pocket. "I couldn't find him. He must still be out on break."
Max tilts her head at you, pale eyes scanning your face. For a moment, you think she knows you're lying, but then she sighs and pushes her red curls out of her face. "Shit. Well, could you tell him I won't need a ride home tonight? Mom said she wants me to stay over at her house."

You force a smile, "Yeah, I'll tell him when I see him."
"Thanks." Max takes her boyfriend's hand, yanking him away from the Action/Adventure section. "Let's go Lucas, Dustin will be pissed if we're late."

You wait until she's completely out of sight before dashing back into the backroom, finding Billy pushed up on a chair, his curly head placed between his knees as his nails dig ruts into the green shag carpet. 

"Are you okay?" You ask cautiously, holding out a water bottle leftover from your lunch.

"Do I fuckin' look like it?" But he raises his head and accepts the water, draining half of it in one gulp. He wipes his mouth, squinting up at you in a tired, pissed-off way. "You're being pretty goddamn nice for someone who doesn't like me."
"I don't have to like you to not want you to die," you say, digging out a bottle of Tylenol. "I wouldn't want that on my conscious. Here, take these."
Billy's mouth twists as if he wants to laugh, surprisingly docile as he accepts the painkillers. He already looks better, the blood returning to his cheeks, the sweat drying on his skin. 

"Did you have a seizure or something?" You ask, taking a seat beside him. "My aunt used to have bad migraines, sometimes it made her like this."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, sweetheart," Billy says, sounding more and more like himself. He slips a cigarette from his pocket but his hands are shaking too badly for him to light it. 

"Would you mind?"
"These will kill you," you say, but you light it anyway.
"Trust me, I'll die long before lung cancer catches up with me." Billy pushes himself on his feet, swaying slightly. "What did Max want?"
"She said she doesn't need a ride tonight, something about her mom wanting her to stay with her for the night. Are you sure you're okay, Hargrove?"
"Goddamnit, Susan," Billy sighs, rubbing his eyes with his palms. In typical Billy fashion, he ignores your question and disappears into the bathroom—you wince as you hear his heaves, the distinct sound of someone vomiting their guts up making you a little nauseous yourself.

What could that have been? You've never seen a seizure but that seemed different, it was almost as if he was having a nightmare—a nightmare while wide awake. 

"Christ," you whisper to yourself. You drift back behind the register desk, your head buzzing with the beginning stages of a headache.

Billy doesn't say another word for the rest of the shift. The minute the sign flips, he yanks his denim jacket over his shoulders and slams the door behind him, leaving you alone in the darkening shop, the shelves seeming to grow long, creeping shadows in his absence. 

There is something wrong there—but is it any of your business? Is it really your problem if he doesn't want help?
No, it's not. That doesn't stop you from thinking about it on the way home. 

Chapter Text

Saturday morning, you sleep in until ten and clean every dirty dish in the bottom of the kitchen sink. 

You take out the trash and do the laundry and cook yourself lunch, drifting around the house while your parents live their own lives—they have errands to run and friends to see, it seems in their minds you're already in the past somehow, an adult with a life of your own.

And you suppose that's true. You have work again tonight, and you're supposed to meet up with Steve and Robin afterwards for pizza.

Billy is more talkative after the events of last week—he'll sit beside you during lunch break now, smoking a cigarette as you eat a salad or sandwich, seeming to have gained back some of his old charm as he asks you occasional questions. 

The conversations always seem to go like this:
"How old are you?" He asked one day, fiddling with his lighter. He lets his fingers dance in the flame just long enough for them not to burn, eyes focused on the nothing ahead of him.
You take a bite of your turkey sandwich. "Eighteen."
His eyebrow raises slightly. "Shit. I thought you were older."

"That's what everyone says," you say, returning to your magazine. The conversation dies from there, which seems to bother him, his blue eyes flicking to you with frustration. 

Billy doesn't know how to talk to you—which is odd considering how many of Hawkin's women he's had under his spell—but for whatever reason, he forces himself to start a conversation with you once or twice a shift, a change from the quiet you'd grown accustomed to. He has his "migraines" from time to time and you bring him water and aspirin in the backroom, silently watching him sweat and shiver. 

It's an odd routine, you think, but it's better than being enemies. Small kindnesses don't cost anything to give.

You use the rest of the day to catch up on homework and shower, packing a pretty white skirt and acid-washed Star Wars shirt into your purse so you can change after work. Steve and Robin have been your friends for about a year now, since you worked with them at the ice cream shop in the old Hawkins mall—which abruptly ended when the place burned to the ground. The three of you all grew closer after that, though Robin and Steve have a bond that you couldn't truly compete with—they're like platonic soulmates, always operating on the same frequency. 

One of your favorite activities is watching shitty horror movies in their shared apartment, pizza boxes piled on the floor as you all pass around a bottle of even shittier strawberry wine. Robin and Steve will drool over the main girl and you will end up between them, laughing until your ribs ache and teasing Robin for the blush on her freckly cheeks. 

You and Steve had thought about dating—but it seemed wrong to ruin what the three of you had, this easy, simple connection without all the complicated feelings of love. 

Besides, he's not your type and you're not his.

His type is Nancy, and will forever be Nancy, and your type is…well, you don't actually know yet.

You daub red lipstick onto your mouth, wanting to feel pretty for tonight, for letting this week roll off your shoulders and allowing yourself to relax on Robin's patchwork couch that smells like cigarettes and burgers while Steve passes out paper towels for everyone's slices of pizza.

Of course, that means when you walk into work, you immediately hear-

"Hey sweetheart, you got a hot date tonight?"

Billy grins at you from behind the register, some of his old flare back in his pretty blue eyes. He must be in a good mood.

Just to throw him off, you reply nonchalantly, "I do, actually, you'll have to lock up tonight."

Billy drops the shiny new copy of Predator in surprise, his eyebrows arching into his curly hairline. 

"You don't have to act so surprised, Hargrove," you say, placing your purse under the counter. "It's a little insulting." Especially since you don't actually have a date. 

"Who?" Is the first word that fall out of his mouth, his head tilting in that odd, almost predatory way that you still haven't gotten used to. He must have primped this morning, his hair has the faint scent of hairspray and his mustache is trimmed, the heavy tang of his cologne settling on your tongue. 

"None of your business." You're enjoying this way more than you should. "Did that new shipment come in this morning?"

But he's not listening—Billy ignores your question to reach over your purse and lift up your wrist, his fingerprints still stained on your skin in bursts of yellowing purple. He looks contemplative, his hand surprisingly gentle around yours. 

"I didn't mean to," he says quietly, running the rough pads of his fingers over the bruises. "I've been trying to pay for my sins, you know, pull my head out of my ass and not be such a shitstick, but it just comes out of me like a goddamn disease."
You stare at him wordlessly, this moment feeling delicate as if a butterfly landed on your finger—you have to be still and quiet so it won't startle and ruin the precious seconds you can stare at the blue, blue underside of the butterfly, it's antennas twitching gently against your skin. 

"I don't know who I am anymore," Billy says, grinning in an absent sort of way. "I don't know who's thoughts are who's, you know?"  

"Billy," you say carefully. "Are you okay?"

The butterfly is startled. Billy drops your hand and you can breathe again. 

"Customers," he says as the front door opens, dark blue eyes boring into yours. "That's your cue, sweetheart."

You walk away first, your heart beating a little too fast—are you scared or attracted to him?

Honestly, you can't tell anymore.

"I'm going into the bathroom to change, Hargrove—take care of the register for a sec, okay?" You announce, digging your clothes out of your purse. The shift seemed to crawl by with bland customers and Billy's awkward attempts at conversation, but finally the clock reads nine pm and you can finally ditch this day. 

You tug your shirt over your head and shiver as the cool bathroom air hits your bare skin, goosebumps pebbling on your skin. The harsh bathroom light does nothing for your ego, seeming to only be interested in illuminating the stretch marks between your sizable breasts and the way your jeans hug your hips too tight. You've spent most of your life trying not to be self-conscious of your body, and you'll probably spend the rest of it doing the same thing—after all, who doesn't?

Who is truly happy with themselves?

Even Billy, who has always treated his looks like a weapon with his cologne and hair spray and pretty eyes, has problems with himself—though to be fair, most of it is internal. Crazy seems to suit him just as well as blue jeans and tank tops. 

"Prince Charming must be a shitty date if he's not picking you up at work," Billy says from the register, his back to you. He's smoking, something he's very much not allowed to do in plain sight of customers.

"You know you're not supposed to do that," you comment, pulling the ponytail out of your hair so it falls loose over your shoulders. 

Billy turns, grinning through a cloud of grey smoke, but he pauses when he sees you, eyebrows raising at the short skirt.

"Shut up," you snap before he can say a word. "You're acting like a catholic school teacher that thinks red lipstick and skirts is the downfall of mankind."

Billy shrugs, "I think downfall of man sounds so much better, sweetheart. You look too good for this asshole—who's the lucky guy?"
"None of your business," you repeat for the third time of the day, punching in your time card. "You know how to close up, don't you? It's been about three months since you haven't just walked out and left me to deal with it."
"I don't forget things," he says, stubbing out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. "It's a blessing and a curse."

At that precise moment, Steve decides to pull up, flashing his headlights at the Family Video windows, his slick head of hair visible even from here. You grin and sling your purse over your shoulder, "Adios, Hargrove, I'll see you next week-"
"Fuckin' Harrington. Really?"
Billy has his lip curled in disgust at the man waiting outside, his eyes suddenly seeming so much darker than before. 

"You two know each other?" You ask, caught off guard.
"Better than you know, sweetheart." Billy looks at you, his lower lip caught between his teeth. "I…I could take you home, you know, stop for milkshakes and make a night of it. I'll even let you make me watch one of those shitty girl movies you like so much."

You laugh, thinking he's joking. "Billy, you don't mean that." 

"Why wouldn't I?" 

For once, he's not smiling. He's not trying to charm you into his will, he's simply asking, his mouth soft and vulnerable—it's that mouth that tempts you, the chance that he just might be sincere. But all of those other girls thought he was sincere, didn't they? Sandra Dee didn't think he was going to turn her down, and neither did any of those sexually frustrated middle-aged mothers. 

You don't even look like any of those other girls. 

"We're not exactly each other's type, Billy," you say wryly. "You're lonely and you have some alpha-male thing going on with Steve, I get it, but…it's not a good idea. I'm not a one night stand kind of girl."
You don't give him a chance to respond, letting the door slam closed behind you. 

"What the hell was that?" Steve asks as you slide into his car. "I don't think I've ever seen that asshole look at someone like that."

"I don't want to talk about it," you sigh, leaning over to plant a fond kiss on his cheek. "Where's Robin?"
"Divide and conquer, baby. She's ordering the pizza while I pick you up," Steve grins at you, all teeth and sincere brotherliness, "You got the goods?"

You hold up Night of The Living Dead, "Of course. And then Sixteen Candles for later."

Steve groans. "Ugh, seriously? Again?"
"Robin likes it too," you say defensively.
"Robin wants to marry Molly Ringwald. Also there's boobies in the beginning."
"Ew, Steve!" You shake your head. "Boobies is such a twelve year old thing to say."

"What would you prefer? Breasts?" Steve asks dryly, pulling out of the parking lot. "Breasts makes me think about chicken. I don't think any girl wants their guy to be thinking about chicken when he sees her boobies."

You can't help but laugh, rolling your eyes as you glance back at Family Video. Billy is still visible behind the counter, his eyes still on you as Steve drives away into the night. 

Chapter Text

Part three:

Billy has never needed anyone. 

When Billy was younger, Neil wasn't too bad of a father, seeming to have more patience with a small, vulnerable boy than he does with a full grown man that reminds him of himself. They would play catch in the backyard every once in a while and Neil would go to all of his basketball games—whenever Billy made a point or left some other boy crying behind the bleachers, he would put a heavy hand on Billy's shoulder and whisper the words that he loved more than life: "Billy, I'm proud of you."

Then Billy got bigger, meaner, and those words stopped coming from his father's mouth. His mother became more erratic—instead of cereal for breakfast, she would start to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, forget what she was doing, and paste mustard over the peanut butter. She would forget how to tie her shoes, so Billy would tie them for her, her eyes staring down at him distantly as if she couldn't quite remember who he was. 

One night, while Billy was curled up in bed, Neil pushed her up against the fridge and began to slap her so hard that blood was spattered to each end of the kitchen. Billy proceeded to take one of the kitchen knives off the counter and slice a chunk out of Neil's arm, which ended the night with Billy and his bruised mother sitting at the ER in silence while a nurse sewed up a humiliated and pissed off Neil. Billy had never felt so angry in his life, staring at his father's blood still crusted under his fingernails and wishing that he had cut deeper, wishing that he had hurt him more.

Mom left two days after that. 

She packed up her soft cotton dresses and her grandmother's jewelry and left while Billy was still asleep, a Post-It note stuck to the end of his bed saying I'M SORRY. No explanation, no I-love-you, just…I'M SORRY.

He still needed her then—he tried to find her, of course, but Gladys Hargrove seemed to disappear into thin air. For whatever reason, Billy had always imagined her in her favorite white sun dress, her hair loose around her shoulders and her tired face smiling as she walks into the ocean, swallowed up by blue and never to be seen again.

By the time Neil married remarried, Billy didn't need a mother either, and certainly not one that came in the form of Susan, Max's mother. 

He hated those two almost as much as his father because they meant that his mother isn't coming back, that even if she did, she wouldn't have a home to come back to. Neil moved them all to Hawkins and Billy felt like he could set the entire town on fire with his anger.

Of course, you know what happens from there. The Upside Down and possession and malls burned to the ground—Billy survived because he did the first decent thing he had ever done in his life and tried to save Max, because he hadn't been able to save all those other girls he gave to the Mind Flayer, because deep down, she was the closest thing to family he had and he loved her.

Max saved him in return, managing to whirl him into a hospital before he bled out completely. He's spent the last year convinced that she should have just let him bleed, let him lie there and die without all of the guilt and anger and confusion circling in his mind like sharks.

The first day out of the hospital he took the settlement the Starcourt Mall gave him for nearly killing him in a "fire" and moved out of Neil's house, taking Max with him.

Max and the kids trust him now, thinking the Mind Flayer is long dead. Max moved in with him when he asked, into a rickety little trailer house with shitty A/C and peeling paint but no Neil, which makes it the best house he's ever had. 

But Billy has nightmares, even in the day. Sometimes, he catches himself thinking bad things, especially about her, his coworker for God's sake—it started long before that day in the backroom, in fact, it started his second day, when she offered half of her lunch because he was fucking stupid and forgot to bring his. She didn't want to get into his pants, hell, she didn't even want to speak to him—she was nice because she could be nice. Because it didn't cost her anything to be nice.

Billy's libido dropped around the time he was nearly killed by a creature from another dimension, understandably, but it began to bother him when six months later he couldn't look at Mrs. Wheeler's curves without thinking of Heather and the way she had screamed when he held her down—which made the guilt and anger come back and pretty much kill any lust he could muster.

Billy used to love sex, he loved how it made him feel, how it satisfied that gnawing itch inside of him that craved intimacy and warmth. But the want was gone, and suddenly he had too much time on his hands in the shower.
Until a coworker gave him half of her sandwich. 

(Y/N) wouldn't have been someone Billy would've looked at before—she was too smart, too sarcastic, too soft for his tastes, at least he thought until he found himself staring at the line in her jeans where her hips met her thighs. Even the dark part of him liked her, the part leftover from the Upside Down—his nightmares started including her, her beneath him in Heather's place in that dark warehouse, her noises soft and sweet instead of terrified, his hand wrapped around her throat like a necklace.

It was better than waking up screaming, the taste of blood in his mouth. He could jerk off in the shower and fall back in bed, sleeping better than he has in months.

Billy would've dropped the job at Family Video for something a little more exciting and better paying if it hadn't been for you—it wasn't like he wants to date her or even fuck her (which are both lies he tells himself daily) but it was the fact she made him feel like himself again. He cared what he wore around her, he cared what his hair looked like, what he smelled like—even Max noticed the difference, her pale eyebrows raising from across their crappy little kitchen as he tucked and untucked his shirt into his jeans, unable to decide which made him feel more like Mel Gibson from Lethal Weapon. She had hid her smile behind her cereal bowl but he still caught it.

It felt good for Billy to want something for himself again.

The only problem is that she doesn't want him.
Like he said, she's too smart. 

"Is everything okay?" Max asks when he storms into the house, slamming the rickety screen door shut behind him. She's doing homework at the kitchen table, eating a dinner consisting of a grilled cheese and chocolate pudding.

Billy opens his mouth to snap at her but her paling face and wide eyes reminds him that he can't be his father anymore. "Yeah," he says, his voice a soft rasp. "Yeah. Just a long day."
Max relaxes slightly. "Did something happen with that girl?"
Billy stiffens. "What girl?"

She rolls her eyes. "Billy, I'm young, not stupid. There's no way you would have kept that job for this long if there wasn't something keeping you there."

If you had told him a year ago, he would be discussing girls with Max, the sister he had never wanted, he would've laughed. But now…

Billy pulls a beer out of the fridge and takes a seat at their kitchen table. "She's on a date with fuckin' Harrington."
Max spits pudding. "Steve?! Our Steve?!"
Before today, Billy didn't have much against Steve anymore. Steve took care of Max while Billy was in the hospital, letting her and some of the other kids crash with him and Robin on the nights when no one could sleep—Steve is the protector type, all fucking heroic and shit, a genuinely good guy.
Billy isn't a good guy, he knows it—he's selfish and narcissistic and possessive and he wants to feed Steve Harrington and all of his goddamn good intentions to an Upside Down monster just for making her laugh, just for taking away the one thing that has made him feel human.

"Don't fight him," Max says, pointing a half-eaten grilled cheese at him. "Promise me."
"No."
"Billy."
Billy rolls his eyes. "Fine, I won't put a crater in precious Stevie's face."

Max laughs unexpectedly, shaking her head. "You're jealous. Like, really jealous."
"Fuck you," he tells her, but it lacks venom. 

She grins at him in reply, freckles stretching across her nose. She still looks so much like a kid, somehow, and sometimes Billy thinks she looks a little like his mom—which is stupid, he knows, but it used to make that anger inside of him rise to the surface, just that very slight resemblance. Now it reminds him that he's glad he didn't die in that fucking mall, that he could make amends to this girl who has all the reasons in the world to hate his guts.

"How's the kid, Lucas?" He asks, and she smiles a secret smile. He knows that secret smile means: young love, the innocent part before it all becomes about fucking—not that he would know, he simply jumped straight to the fucking part.

Max sits there a few more minutes to talk about her life, school and Lucas and the pack of nerds she likes so much, and then she retreats back into her room, leaving him alone in the kitchen with nothing but a cigarette for company.

He lights up. Closes his eyes. 

(Y/n) thought about his offer. Billy saw it in her eyes—she thought about it for a split second, ditching Harrington and spending the night with him. She's a smart girl though, she knows his reputation and told him she wasn't up for one night stands, her smile a little sad, her eyes flicking away from him as if she had already made her mind up.

But for once, Billy hadn't wanted sex. Or just sex. 

He meant what he said—he wanted her pretty mouth around a milkshake straw, her warmth beside him on the couch while they watched whatever girly shit she picked out, her laugh in his ear. And yeah, maybe he would be thinking about his hand up her pretty white skirt most of the time, but he would've waited until the third date, when he would be dropping her off at her house late at night with his hand on her soft thigh.

She would kiss him first, pushing up against him with her mouth curled up in a smile, her hand gentle around his jaw. 

Billy sucks in a hard breath, his pants tightening in an instant. 

He pushes himself up from the table and locks himself in his room, turning some music on so Max wouldn't question any…questionable sound coming from his walls.

She would want him. Not like how all those other girls did, but all of him, the insides and the outsides, her fingers slipping under his shirt to trace his scars as she kisses sweetly, her tongue hot and slick against his. 

Billy tugs his shirt off, then his jeans, sliding into bed with a towel and a bulge. 

God, it feels good to want again. 

To need again.

He'll have her one day, Harrington be damned. 

She'll lean over his console and press her hand against his stomach. Billy feels her body against him, plush and warm, his hand sliding to cup her throat gently as he bites her lip, her soft laugh huffing against his mouth. 

Billy trails his own hand down his belly and under his boxer's waistband, gripping himself with a groan.

In his daydream, he drags her over the console and into his lap, so he can feel what's underneath that little skirt of hers, her core warm and wet against the crotch of his jeans. She rolls her hips slowly to the rhythm of their mouths, sighing as his fingers slip under her skirt to slide aside her underwear.

His hips jump at the thought, sinking to the knuckle inside of her with her pretty little moans in his ears—before, fingering had been this mandatory step before the real deal, something he had to deal with, but now? 

Billy is inside her, feeling her tight warmth stretching around his fingers.

That's enough to make him come, shuddering with a helpless groan as he fumbles for the towel.

Christ. 

Billy stares up at the ceiling, his heart racing. 

Billy has never needed anyone. 

But God, he needs her. 

***

Billy wakes up that same night screaming. It's worse this time—its Mom in place of Heather and she's screaming and bleeding and clawing at his shoulders to stop this, Billy, what are you doing?
Max is already in the room, trying to touch him, but he keeps her away, shaking so badly his teeth are chattering in his skull.
He doesn't come out of it like he usually does—if he closes his eyes he can see Mom, and when he opens them the lights are too bright and the noises are too loud and suddenly he's telling Max to call someone, to call her, because with her, he remembers he's human. 

Then Max disappears too, and Billy is curled up on the floor with his knees to his chest, his mind seizing on nothing, his scars aching as if he somehow tore them back open. 

It's just a dream, he thinks. But he thought the Upside Down was a dream, with Heather and all the other bodies he fed to the Mind Flayer—for all he knows this could be real. 

Chapter Text

Part four:

Somewhere between midnight and morning, you had fallen asleep on Robin's bony shoulder, her bowl of popcorn spilling on your lap.

You blink awake, the half-light of tv illuminating Steve passed out on the floor and Robin with her face tucked into a pillow, their snores nearly hiding the sound of the phone ringing.

You stumble to your feet and make your way to the kitchen, stepping over Steve and an empty liquor bottle, the ringing phone making your head ache.
"Hello?" You say groggily into the receiver, leaning against the wall to get your bearings. 

"Where's Steve?" A girl's voice demands, her tone high-pitched and panicky.
"He's asleep, should I go get him and Robin?" You ask, suddenly more awake.
"(Your name)?"
"Uh, yeah? Do I know you?"
"We met the other day at the movie store, remember? I came to check on Billy?"
"Max? Uh, what can I do for you?"

"He needs you," Max says simply. "He-he's on the ground, and he's shaking and he won't come out of it. He's never not come out of it before, it's like…god, just please come. He kept saying your name."

Billy? Why would your coworker ask for you at three in the morning?

"I know this sounds crazy, okay? But…I don't know what else to do. Please."
You put your hand against the wall, steadying yourself. "Okay. Where do you live?"
You write down the address on the back of your hand—it's that old trailer park in the woods, where Eddie Munson lives. You had been friends with Eddie back in middle school, and while the relationship faded when he went into high school and stayed in high school, you could still remember the route to his house, peddling away on your bike.

"Steve?" You shake Steve awake. "Steve? I need you to drive me to Billy Hargrove's house."
Steve blinks up at you blearily, "What?"

"Max called," you say, "He needs my help, Steve, please drive me."
Steve looks at you for a long moment, processing your words. He sighs and holds up a hand for you to help him up off the floor. "Grab my keys, kid, they're on the dresser."
Robin is awake now, asking questions, but you don't hear them. Steve opens the passenger door for you and you sit without a word, your heart doing a funny little dance in your chest that you don't recognize. 

Robin leans forward from the backseat, setting her bony chin on your shoulder. "Do you have something to tell us, dude? Are you and Hargrove…" She trails off suggestively.

"Jesus, no," you say, wrinkling your nose. "He's a…friend. He has these weird episodes at work sometimes and I sit there with him until it's over. Maybe he thinks I help to bring him out of it or something."

Robin and Steve share a look—a knowing look. "You two knew about this?"

Steve shrugs, "I babysit Max, his little sister, sometimes with her friends. I've heard a thing or two."
It's deeper than that, but Steve and Robin have always had secrets. You have bigger things to worry about tonight.

Steve reaches over the console and grips your hand, "Hey, you're doing a good thing. A weird thing, but good. Hargrove isn't…what he used to be."
"Yeah, they both bashed each other's faces in once," Robin quips. 

"Really?" You say as Steve rolls his eyes. "That's what this alpha male thing is between you? Some fight two years ago?"
"We're over it," Steve lies, "I won anyway."
Somehow, you have trouble picturing that. 

Steve parks you in front of a white trailer house with a built-on porch, a collection of lifting weights hidden in the corner. There's no curtains, no extra chairs, or welcome mats—definitely Billy Hargrove's house, it hadn't occurred to him to nest.

You knock on the screen door hesitantly, but instead of Max, Dustin Henderson greets you, his usually cheerful face pale and unsmiling. "Hey," he says, "C'mon in. You work at the Family Video, don't you?"
"Yeah," you say, Steve and Robin flanking you. Dustin lights up at the sight of Steve, holding his fist out for a boyish fist-bump.
"You came," Max says from the kitchen, her tense face relaxing slightly with relief. "Uh, Billy's in his room if you want to see him. He's not…he's not in good shape, okay? If something goes wrong, just shout and we'll be there."
"She's going in by herself?" Steve says, raising his brows.

"He doesn't want anyone else. It's like he's back in there," Max's voice drops to a whisper, "You know, like the Mind-flayer still has him."

You step hesitantly to a closed bedroom door, unknowing of what you will find in there. You open the door carefully, wincing as the hinges squeak.

"Jesus, Billy."
Billy is on the ground, curled into himself with his pretty curls slick with sweat and blood. He must have bit through his lip, blood dribbling down his chin and onto the carpet, his eyes blank and unseeing.

You reach out hesitantly to brush his shoulder, his skin hot to the touch, his skin shuddering at the feeling of your palm.
"(Your name)?"

"Yeah, Hargrove, it's me." You sit beside him, your knee brushing against his elbow. "Max called me."
Billy looks up at you, his eyes dark, dark blue. "I'm tired, sweetheart. I just want to sleep." He sounds like himself, even if there's an undercurrent of something else behind his words.
"Okay." You reach for a pillow from the bed, setting it on your lap for his head. "Hargrove, move your head. You can sleep here."

Billy's head falls into your lap with a sigh, his hand curling around your ankle in a painfully tight grip. "Am I human?" He asks softly, hot gaze devouring your face. 

"I don't know what else you would be," you say, brushing sweaty curls out of his face. "Go to sleep, Billy, I'm right here."
His grip tightens as his eyes close, as if he was terrified you would sneak out on him. You reach for a nearby shirt and wipe the blood off his mouth, revealing a mess of a lower lip. 

Max stands in the doorway, her arms crossed. "Thank you."
You shrug, "Yeah, I mean, what is this? Some kind of ptsd episode? A seizure?"

"I guess ptsd is the best way to describe it," Max says. "Uh, his mom left him when his was a kid, and his dad was an abusive piece of shit. He got in a car accident last year and hit his head—he's been like this ever since."

"Damn," you say, "That's a hell of a childhood."
Max laughs and slides down to sit cross-legged on the carpet like you, her eyes on her brother. "Yeah. You know he used to hate me? He was horrible for a long time, it was so bad it was unforgivable."
"What changed?"
"Billy…well, he tried to give his life for mine. And he took me out of his father's batshit house and gave me a place to stay—I tried to get a job after school, so we could share rent, but he told me to focus on school, he would take care of this rest." Max shakes her head. "Don't get me wrong, he's still an ass sometimes, but…I've never had a real father. But Billy came pretty damn close to making me feel like I do this year."

You reach for her small, pale hand, gripping it gently. Her mouth twitches into a half smile, seeming to be relieved that Billy isn't just on her shoulders anymore.
"He didn't want you to know," you say, "He has these episodes sometimes at work, but none of them like this."
Max nods. "Yeah, he thinks he's invincible. I've never heard him ask for anyone before, though, are you, uh, his girlfriend or something? Billy mentioned something about you going out with Steve."

You snort. "No to both. Steve and Robin are my friends and Billy is my coworker. I don't think I ever held an actual conversation with Billy until about a month ago."

Steve appears above Max, his brows raising even higher at the sight of big, bad, Billy Hargrove curled up in a girl's lap like a child. "Shit. You think we should get him to a couch or something?"
You glance at his bed—the sheets are slick with sweat and blood from his lip. "Yeah, the couch might be better."
Amazingly, Billy stays asleep while you, Steve, and Mike Wheeler carry him to the couch. "Jeez, he's heavier than he used to be," Mike grumbles, stumbling over a gap in the rug. Lucas Sinclair gives Billy a disdainful look and moves to stand beside Max, his arm curling around her shoulders comfortingly. 

You sit beside Billy out of obligation, letting his arm curl around your waist as his head lands back in your lap. "I can watch him 'till morning," you say to the room, "If everyone wants to get some sleep."
The group of kids and adults glance at each other. 

"Robin and I can come pick you back up in the morning," Steve offers. "It's Saturday, right? No work?"
"Yeah, that's good. I'll try and sleep as much as I can until he wakes up."
The group of kids all glance at Max, obviously not wanting to leave her. "We can sleep at Eddie's," Dustin offers, "That way we're close if he…if Max needs us."
Max nods, glancing at you. "You can probably leave, you know, he's calmed down."
You look at Billy's mauled lip. "I'll stay. That way you're not alone."
Max smiles at you, relieved. "Thanks."
Everyone fades away after another hour, Max finally retreating back to her room after nodding off in the rickety recliner. Billy stirs at the sound of her door closing shut, his eyes still as dark as the night when he looks up at you.

"Hey," you say softly, but he doesn't seem interested in talking. Instead, his hand reaches up to slide through your hair, yanking you down to crush his ruined mouth against yours.

You open your mouth to speak, but his tongue fills it, the metallic tang of blood coming with it. He's strong, pulling you down with him so suddenly he was on top, his sharp hips pressing into yours. 

"What are you doing?" You yelp when Billy breaks away from your mouth to trail kisses down your throat, nipping at your pounding pulse. You can't bring yourself to push him away, not with the way heat is spreading through your stomach, your hands shaking as they curl into his shirt.
"Do you want me?" He whispers against your throat, his hips shoving themselves against yours so you can feel his hardness through his sweats. 

"Billy," you say, cupping his jaw. "Billy. Look at me."
He does. His eyes are a mixture of blue and black, and for a moment you feel like a rabbit pinned under a fox, his hair spilling over his shoulders, tickling your skin. 

"What's going on?" You ask. "Billy, last night you were just my coworker, and now I'm under you on your couch."

"Forget Harrington," Billy says, sliding his tongue under your jaw. "I'll do whatever you fuckin' want if you just pick me instead. Please."
You've never had a boy desperate for you, his fingers digging bruises in your hips, his teeth biting at your shoulder. You've spent the last six months shoving whatever attraction you've felt towards Billy aside, and now it's all rising to the surface—but this is wrong, five minutes ago he was spazzing out in some kind of abuse-triggered memory and now he's rocking his hips against your core, grinding like he was already inside of you. 

"It wasn't a date," you gasp. "I was teasing you, I'm not dating Steve."

He sinks his teeth into your lower lip, then soothes the sting with his tongue. "Shit, honey, you had me goin' there for a sec. Did you want me to be jealous, huh? Is that what you wanted?"
You shake your head, forcing his mouth off of yours. "Billy, we shouldn't be doing this. You were just delirious on the floor an hour ago, you need rest and maybe a trip to the hospital-"
Billy laughs, nuzzling into your jaw like a cat. "All I need is you, baby."

God, that line is cheesy enough to bring you to your senses. You push gently against his chest and he sits  up, looking at your like a pouting five year old told he can't have anymore cookies. 

"Billy, we can continue this conversation later, this is so not the right time," you tell him sternly. 

"Sweetheart, I'll make you feel real good," he says, leaning into you to steal another kiss.
"God, I'm a virgin, Billy, I don't need anything sexual happening on a random couch with a fifteen year old girl is sleeping in the other room."

Billy blinks, taken aback. "You're a virgin?"

"That's what you're shocked about? Really?"
He slips off of you, sitting back as he looks at you with a new gleam to his eyes. "Have you ever had a boyfriend?"
"No," you say, "It's not exactly like boys are lining up to date me, Hargrove, not everyone is born with charm and looks."

Billy looks at you, tilting his head at the curve of your breasts under your shirt, the soft plushness of your thighs, your mouth slick with his saliva. "You're the prettiest goddamn thing I've ever seen, girl."
You roll your eyes. "Go to sleep, Billy. We're both tired."
Billy smiles at you, elastic and amiable, the gap in his teeth surprisingly adorable. "Sleep with me. I don't want to be alone."
He's serious—he's not trying to get in your pants, just afraid that the monsters will come back if you don't stay. You sigh and turn to your side, wordlessly allowing him to wrap his arms around your waist and bury his face in your hair.

"Thank you," Billy says softly. 

You don't think you've ever heard him say that before.

Chapter Text

In a different world, you would have stayed on that couch until Billy was awake.

Instead, you sneak out before dawn, leaving a note on the pillow that gives some bullshit excuse about parents and curfews. His blood is still in your mouth—it takes you walking to a gas station and washing your mouth out with bitter coffee to make it disappear as you dial up Steve's number on the public phone, dumping your excess quarters into your skirt pocket.

There's just something about Billy that's dangerous. It's something in the way his hand held your throat gently as he kissed you, the way his hips pinned yours to the couch, he likes control, and you like giving it. You like it too much, especially when you know better than most that a girl simply just doesn't date Billy Hargrove—he chases you, makes you feel special, and then he gets what he wants: sex. 

He becomes disinterested and leaves you crying in the middle of a Family Video, just like all those other girls. You refuse to fall into the trap of thinking that maybe you're special, that maybe you'll change him, maybe you'll be the one to tame Billy Hargrove. 

You have more respect for yourself than that—you have no desire to change anyone. 

"Robin and Steve residence," Steve says groggily. "Who is this?"
"It's me," you say, "You mind picking me up? I'm at the gas station across from the trailer park."
"Uh, yeah. Everything okay?"
"Yeah, of course. I just didn't want to wake everyone up."
"Other than us, right?" Steve says dryly.
"I'll make it up to you. Breakfast at the diner? It's on me."

Steve is silent for a moment."We'll be there in fifteen."
"Thank youu," you sing into the receiver. He makes a noncommittal noise, hanging up with a soft click.

You buy yourself breakfast in the form of a towering cup of coffee and sit on the bench outside, shivering in your thin skirt and shirt. It's peaceful out here, quiet compared to the bustle of town—by this time on a Saturday morning, suburban fathers would be already starting their lawnmowers—you can see Billy liking this place, the tall, dark trees and twisted, winding roads meant for speed. He seems to have changed so much from the sun kissed jackass from California. 

"So, you were just going to leave?"
Billy takes a seat beside you, freshly dressed in jeans and lined denim jacket. He had cleaned himself up, ran a comb through his hair, scrubbed the blood from his face. The scab along his lip is going to scar, but he shouldn't worry—it will only add to his appeal.

"I have to get home sometime," you say, offering the cup of coffee. After all, he had just kissed you through his own blood a few hours ago, what's sharing a drink?

Billy accepts, giving you a dry look as he takes a sip, scarred eyebrow raised. That wasn't what he was asking, and you know it. 

"I don't know what you want from me, Billy," you say finally. 

Billy shrugs, suddenly looking like an angry little boy with his hands stuffed in his pockets, a dark blush coloring his stubbly cheeks. "Fuck, I don't know. I just…I really like you."

"You don't even know me."

"I could, if you wanted me to."

"Is this is what you say to all the girls?" You ask, half-laughing. "I mean, no offense, Billy, but I've lived in this town my whole life. I know what you do to women, and I'm not stupid enough to think that I can ever change you."

"I'm already changed, babe," Billy says, cocking his head like a dog sizing up a rabbit. "I haven't fucked anyone in over a year—hell, I wasn't even interested until you. You make me feel good for the first time in a fuckin' while, and I don't want it to end." His hands are shaking. He lights a cigarette to soothe himself, pointedly not looking at you. 

You sigh. 

You reach for his free hand and lace your fingers through his, his palm gritty and callused against yours. "Billy."
He looks at you, his hard blue eyes softened but still dark, still tainted. You like him, you pity him, you want to take him home with you and put bandaids over his cut lip. 

"Pick me up at eight. We're going to the movies to watch Pretty in Pink and it's a…maybe date. To see if we can really do this." If you were smarter, you wouldn't be doing this—you can almost taste the heartbreak.

He blinks, his hand gripped tight around yours. Then he recovers, his Billy smirk curling around his lip. "Are you asking me out, sweetheart?"
"Yeah, yeah, don't let it get to your head." You stand, brushing off your bare thighs. "Remember, eight o'clock. Being late is a strike."

"A strike, huh?" Billy leans in, twinkling his blue eyes at you, "And what does being early get me?"
"Points with my mother," you say dryly. 

His grin widens. "Already introducing me to the parents? I feel special."
"Oh please, even Steve is on first name basis with my parents." You crane to see the car speeding down the road—a short, plum BMW that's beginning to look a little worse from wear from both Steve and Robin use. "Speaking of the devil. There he is."
Billy rolls his eyes, his look practically green with jealousy. It can't possibly all be over you, there's something deeper there, maybe Steve's rich parents, or good relationship with the kids. You like to consider Billy's newfound interest in you as an anomaly, a blip in the multiverse, something that will fade when he actually has you—when he steps into your room and sees your Star Wars and Battlestar Galactica posters and frilly pink bedspread that just screams virgin. 

Billy grips your wrist in his hand and presses a kiss to your pulse point, nipping at the dark blue veins beneath your palm. It makes you blush, though you roll your eyes and pretend to wipe your hand on your jeans as Steve and Robin pull up to the curb. 

It's not going to last—but it's guaranteed to be fun. A rollercoaster that will leave you stumbling when it's over. 

***

"You're telling me you said yes? To Hargrove? Are you kidding me?"
Steve leans over his plate of chocolate chip pancakes, pointing his syrupy fork at you in accusation. "Do you realize how badly-"
"-It's going to end?" You finish for him, taking a sip of your third cup of coffee. "Yeah, I do. But it might be fun."
Steve gapes. 

Robin, on the other hand, nods thoughtfully. "He's like a trail run, you know? Like the guy who takes you on movie dates and teaches you how to french kiss, the puppy love guy."

"Oh please, how would you know? You're-" he cuts himself off quickly, glancing over at the booth behind the three of you. "You, uh, you don't date."

"That doesn't mean I haven't," Robin argues. "Almost everyone has someone that was just…practice."

"Yeah," you echo. "Practice." You slice a fried egg neatly in half, the fat yellow yolk bleeding onto the plate.

"He's going to snap your heart in half like a goddamn toothpick, babe," Steve sighs, shaking his head. "I just hope you break his first."

"Do you regret Nancy?" You ask, meeting his dark eyes. 

Steve goes pale. "That's not the same."
"Steve."
"No, I would never regret Nancy. I would let her do it all over again if she wanted to, but I love her. You don't love Billy."
"No, but I'm tired of choosing things that are good for me." You smile and steal a bite of Steve's pancake, syrup and butter melting on your tongue. "I'm ready for my Nancy. I'm ready to ruin what's left of my innocence."

"God, this is such a bad idea," Steve groans.
"Yes, it is," you agree. "Robin understands, though, don't you?"
"If a female version of Billy Hargrove existed, there is no way I would pass up that opportunity," Robin says. "In fact, any woman with hair like that would probably have a fifty/fifty chance with me."

"You're useless," Steve tells her, "We're supposed to be parenting her."
"Remember when you were the bad boy that all the girls wanted, Stevie? Yeah, you're the pot calling the kettle black, you might as well quit while you're ahead."
Steve sticks his tongue out at Robin like a child and she rolls her eyes in reply, shoving a forkful of waffle into her mouth. "Besides, she's the only one between the two of us that likes men. No one is going to be good enough for her, much less dear old Billy."

Chapter Text

"You're two hours early," you say wryly from your front porch. 

Billy is standing in your driveway, grinning like a vandal with his hands shoved in his pockets. "I didn't want to wait."
"You're going to have to wait anyways," You say, gesturing to your wet hair and baggy Elvis shirt. "I just woke up about an hour ago." His eyes drop to your bare thighs, mouth curling at the freshly shaven skin, and you roll your eyes. 

"Where's the parents?" Billy asks, glancing at the empty driveway.
"Dinner party with their friends," you answer, stepping back into the house and leaving the front door open behind you. Billy takes the hint, following you into the empty house with a shrug. 

"Are you hungry?" You ask out of politeness. "You want a drink?"
"In a minute." Billy eyes your house with interest, the repainted cabinets and second-hand furniture, your baby pictures hung over the mantle. He takes one down to inspect, you in your sophomore year of high school, dressed in a jersey from your boyfriend at the time with your back against your parent's truck.

"I'm in this picture," he says, passing you the frame, "Look."
Sure enough, his Camaro is parked in the very corner of the frame, his denim-clad back just barely visible through the blurriness of the camera. "Look at that," you say, "I never noticed."
He takes the picture and sets it back on the mantle. "I never knew you dated Smith."
"The jersey?" You laugh. "Yeah it lasted a whole month. I dumped him at that Halloween party, I think you had just came into town."

"Remember when I came into town, do you?" Billy asks, his eyes still on that picture. 

"Of course, everyone does. You were the most exciting thing to happen in Hawkins High since Jerry Jones accidentally set fire to the chem teacher." You head into the kitchen to pour yourself and Billy a glass of Kool-aide from the pitcher on the counter. "I'm going to have to get dressed before we go to the movies, you know."

But Billy isn't paying attention—he's too busy pushing open the door to your room. He grins at the fluffy pink bedspread, the piles of books, the embarrassingly large poster of Johnny Depp in the corner. You have pictures tucked into your mirror frame, Steve and Robin grinning beside you in most, the three of you squeezed into the same picture booth. 

"Cute," Billy says, brushing his fingers against a picture of you sunbathing in a skimpy swimsuit. 

"I feel like a zoo exhibit," you say as he snoops around your room, his scarred eyebrow raising at one of Steve's sweaters lying forgotten on your desk chair. 

Billy takes a seat on your bed, sprawling out as if he belongs there, his shirt riding up his stomach to reveal hard stomach and a blonde happy trail. "Nice bed, the springs don't even squeak." There's a double meaning there, his blue eyes dark and languid as they return to the bare flesh of your thighs.

"Oh stop," you say, making a face. "You're getting horny teenage boy all over my room." You reach into your closet for the dress you were planning to wear tonight, a short floral number with sweeping hippie sleeves and a daring neckline. 

Billy whistles, admiring the dress with a tilt of his curly head. "I ain't a teenager anymore, babe."
You laugh. "That's even worse." 

***

Billy's POV

Billy is laying on a bed the color of Pepto Bismol, the fabric soft enough to make him want to close his eyes, her smell filling up his nose like the best kind of drug. He had taken off his jacket and left it on her desk, a reminder to both her and Steve that he had been here.

She hums softly from the bathroom as she dresses—if he listens carefully, he can almost hear the fabric sliding against her skin, his stomach filling with heat. Fuck, this room, it was so much better than he could've imagined.

Billy has never been early for a date before, but he couldn't seem to wait. He had done all the things he used to do before a date, showering and slicking his hair with hair gel—he spent fifteen minutes debating between his silky red button up and a plain white shirt before finally deciding she would like the white better, dabbing cologne on his throat, his wrists, below his belt. He took his time, enjoying the anticipation, the nervousness curling in his stomach. It felt like his first time, like he was fifteen again and twitchy with want, with excitement. 

But there was still two and a half hours left, and Billy ran out of cigarettes shortly after he got out of the shower. Fuck it. 

He likes her house, the childhood pictures on the fireplace, the yellow kitchen, the fact that her parents are nowhere to be seen. There's more books in her room than he's ever read in his life, and enough movie posters to wallpaper a small house, but he likes her room—specifically, he likes imagining her in it, showering and changing and reading under her pretty pink covers, wearing only a baggy shirt and panties that make him want to sink his teeth into her plush thighs. 

"Are you behaving in there?" She asks, her voice muffled by the bathroom door. 

Billy grins at the ceiling. "I always behave, sweetheart."
"Liar."

Billy looks towards the bathroom door, the leftover steam from her shower still curling into the air. Before the Mindflayer, they would have never even made it to the goddamn movies, not with this empty house and soft bed. He likes to think he would've called her the next day, but honestly, he's always been a fucking asshole when it comes to women.

He liked being an asshole, he liked leaving just because he could. He liked not feeling anything for any of those girls—screwing his way through Hawkin's High was a fun pastime, leaving little cheerleaders crying in the parking lot.

That Billy would have laughed himself fucking sick if he could see him now, sprawled out on a girl's bed with a hard-on just from sniffing her pillows. He couldn't imagine leaving, he couldn't imagine not wanting more.

God, what did the Mindflayer do to him?
The next few hours go by in a blur, movie theaters and popcorn, his hand sliding to her lower back when they took their seats in the theater. Just that small movement made his chest hurt, his hands clenching against his seat possessively. 

The movie is boring, the girl wants the rich guy, the best friend wants the girl, and the rich guy is a dickhead—a love triangle, she explains to him in a whisper, I hope she ends up with Duckie. That distracts him to the curve of her breasts in her low neckline, her softness that makes his mouth water. 

The Molly Ringwald chick doesn't end up with Duckie, which pisses him off for some reason. The rich guy doesn't know what he wants, he's unsure and helpless and doesn't understand her, yet somehow he still got the girl. It's bullshit, and that's what he tells her on their way out of the theater, his hand tucked in her back pocket like a claim.

She shrugs, "Sometimes girls are stupid, you know? What's best for us isn't usually what we want."

"Are you talking about me?"
She grins, "I don't know, do you think I want you?"
"You wouldn't be here if you didn't," Billy says wryly, leading them to his car. "Are you ready to go home or…do something else?"
She leans against his Camaro as he opens the door for her, looking at him in that contemplative way again. "What's something else?"
"We could go back to my house."
Her face winces, and he quickly adds, "To kiss and shit, not fuck. I'm just not ready to bring you home."
She thinks about it, he can see her pretty cogs turn. "Okay."
"Okay?" Billy asks, taken off guard. 

"Okay."