Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“She was really pretty,” she says to him, hand cradling his cheek like he’s something precious.

He’s not.

“She was really pretty, Billy.”

Billy Hargrove is not dead.

No, right now, at this very moment, Billy Hargrove is spitting blood onto the tiled floor, back braced against the corner of the bathroom.

“Do you understand me, Billy?” Neil is hissing, fist held up in the air between them. Billy’s not looking at that, though, eyes glued to the red seeping into the grout.

That’ll be hard to clean out, he thinks, detached and numb but also feeling every little thing all at once.

Because he’s supposed to be dead.

“Boy, speak when I’m talking to you!” and Billy’s head snaps up, the bones in his neck cracking from the speed of it.

“Yes, sir. I understand, sir,” he defers, automatic. His hands are shaking where they’re holding him up on both walls, so he stands upright and hides them behind his back.

His father stares at him for a long, long moment, and Billy can feel the sweat pooling in the small of his back. He fists his hands into the denim of his jacket.

“Good,” Neil finally settles on, and then wipes his knuckles on one of their hand towels before throwing it in the sink. “Clean yourself up, and don’t be late taking Maxine to school.”

He leaves the bathroom, quiet in his wake like a hurricane, and Billy stumbles to the edge of the tub, sitting himself down and running a hand through his hair. He ignores the faint tremor in his fingers as he does so.

It’s good he’s sitting down because, in the moments following, a sudden onslaught of images hits him. His head drops into his hands, then. Staring at the floor and ignoring the blood seeping through his fingers.

No, not images.

Like the projector in one of his classes, the teacher replacing the slides one after another. It’s not smooth, not at all, intermittent pauses in between and choppy transitions, but—

Memories.

Billy finds himself above the sink, his body obeying Neil’s instructions in spite of the blood rushing through his ears and the ache behind his temples. He bunches up a small corner of the towel, letting it run under the faucet for a little bit to get it damp.

Holding it to his face, he starts dabbing away the excess blood. He hisses at the sting and looks in the mirror. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, now.

It scars. He knows that it scars.

Because this happened.

This has happened.

What the fuck, he thinks.

“What the fuck,” he rasps, out loud.

Billy puts a cigarette in his mouth, not bothering to light it. He doesn’t even think he can, with the way his hands are still shaking. He stuffs them underneath his armpits instead, the thin denim doing nothing to keep in the heat.

Max brushes past him on the way out the door, and he, well. He pauses, her faded screams haunting his thoughts, and puts a hand on the doorframe so he doesn’t trip. Breathes deep into his fist for a moment.

It didn’t happen.

(It hasn’t happened.)

Just go to the Camaro.

Go. God damnit. GO.

One foot after another.

He keeps walking forward, down the crumbled steps in front of the entrance and stepping foot on the mud. Wet and cold and sinking slowly back into the earth, like quicksand in the morning. His boots almost get sucked in, every step heavy and taking just the slightest bit of effort. He focuses on that, on the ground and on the dirt and on the cracked concrete of ol’ Cherry Lane.

Focuses on the real, the now, not whatever fucked up visions (memories, his mind supplies again, persistent) are being thrown at him.

Focuses on the wind whipping at him, unrelenting and tugging. Sneaking into all the vulnerable little places underneath his jacket and giving him goosebumps, his fingers numb with it, and Hawkins is always fucking cold, sure, but there’s this prickling sensation like pins and needles running up and up his lower back, and—

Billy’s feet stop mid stride and his head snaps toward the forest beyond their house. Trees swaying in a sudden gust, the distant far-off sounds of birds and bugs, and then the humming.

He sticks a finger in his ear, digging it in deep but still hearing that same humming sound. Like cicadas in the summer, or the buzz of the refrigerator when left open for too long. The hair on the back of his neck, slow to react at first, is now all standing on end.

Something is watching, it whispers.

It doesn’t have a voice, it’s not even in English, for fuck’s sake, but Billy can understand it all the same. Like water dripping through a faucet and anticipating the plop as it bounces off of the ceramic. Some sort of sense, primal and in his gut.

Instinct.

He can’t help jumping almost a foot in the air when a horn shatters the atmosphere, loud and out of place.

Well— and he turns reluctantly to see Max inside the Camaro, leaning over her side of the seat to punch at the horn again and again— maybe not so much out of place.

She looks funny like this. Hair sticking out from her ponytail and cheeks red from the cold morning air.

“Billy, Billy, get up, please. Billy, get up, please, please!”

He slams the door to the Camaro, ignoring the sudden breathlessness in his chest. Max throws him a sidelong glance, eyes lingering on the cut on his eyebrow. It’s still bleeding, sluggish as it is.

She doesn’t say anything about it though.

Billy ignores that, too.

He jams the key into the ignition, flinching at the radio turning on with the engine, the beginning chords of a familiar sounding song blaring to life in the small space. In the background, just like the bass, the humming. Calling to him, almost.

“We’re going to be late,” Max tells him, staring at herself in the side mirror and trying to tuck the flyaway strands around her face closer to her scalp.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” he grunts.

It comes off quieter than he’d meant. Half-hearted. He grimaces at himself.

He still feels so fucking off. Like the world’s been tilted on its axis, coordinate planes going off grid. He’s trying to keep balance, trying so fucking hard, right now, the cigarette in his mouth crushed between his teeth, and there’s a pressure building just behind his eyes, and, the goddamn humming underneath it all—

Billy’s in the midst of backing out onto the road when he can’t take it anymore, hand snapping up to the radio and twisting the dial all the way to one side with so much unnecessary force, he can feel the plastic creaking in protest beneath his fingers.

It’s quiet except for the purr of the engine, now, and he’s not breathing so hard anymore, but his hands. They’re still trembling, just the slightest bit. He lets out a harsh breath through his nose before glancing to the side.

“Do you feel safe?” he asks, sudden. Max is silent next to him, eyebrows almost at her hairline, so Billy prompts again, this time more impatient. “Well, Maxine?”

She’s licking her lips, like she’s thinking of what to say, before it occurs to him.

He’s going off script.

This hasn’t happened before, of course it hasn’t. But still, since then, since that fateful fucking night.

Billy can still feel a simmering anger in his stomach at her. Can see that same anger in Max, reflected back at him, but. There’s guilt there, too. Because she knows, now. And the both of them, well. The both of them didn’t know— don’t know— how to act any other way. It’s not in their blood, as unrelated as they may be.

(How to be understanding.)

So, they’ve been tiptoeing around each other. Their insults more careful, their dialogue more stiff. Playing up the act of step siblings brought together under one roof, sure, and underneath it all, trying to find some semblance of normality. Both of them trying to ignore the big, glaring red flag in their home.

That kind of red flag that punches and spits on and hits their own son.

“Of course not,” she ends up saying after a moment, crossing her arms and glaring at him. “I’m in a car. With you. What kind of stupid ass question is that?”

Billy sighs, frustrated and all sorts of pent up, tries to ignore Max going still before slumping her shoulders, trying to go for unaffected. She’s so easy to read, he thinks, her tells so obvious. Clinging to stubbornness like a bull. She’s too much like him.

“No— ” and he almost says shitbird, does his best to go around it instead, “ —dipshit. I mean, in general?”

“What does that even mean, Billy?”

Billy pauses, tapping his fingers on the wheel as they turn a corner, going way below the speed limit than usual. Max seems to notice, too, going by the way she’s eyeing the outside view of the passenger window like it’s foreign to her.

“In Hawkins,” he starts, sure to keep his face aimed toward the road but making small, discreet glances to the side when he’s sure she won’t notice. “Do you feel safe, here?”

“… it’s just like you said before,” she says, sidestepping the question entirely and just confirming what Billy’s thought this morning, since the bathroom. “Nothing ever happens here.”

So, she knows.

(Another voice, quieter, whispers, “So, it’s real? All of it?” He shuts that one up real fast. Get with the program, Hargrove.)

Billy wants to drop his foot on the accelerator like a ton of bricks and watch the Camaro go flying off the road, himself in it.

Max, though. He doesn’t do it because Max would get hurt, probably. Little red-haired bitch, he thinks, seething and afraid at the same time. She’d break her bones like a small bird and die.

Billy eases on the pedal. Breathes in, then out.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, hesitant. Her fingers are gripping her arms, now, knuckles white from the strain. If Billy really wants to look too much into it, he might even think that she’s worried.

For him. Ha, what a load of crap.

“Yeah,” he replies, robotic. He turns the radio back on despite his sudden throbbing headache.

You’re lying to me, he wants to say. Wants to scream, actually, but holds himself back. Monsters are real and you can be in danger and you’re fucking lying to me.

They continue the drive to school in silence.

The humming’s gotten louder since nightfall.

Cicadas, he’d thought earlier, but now the image of flies buzzing around a corpse hangs in his mind. His skin is tingling, fingers and toes gone numb with it, and he has to do something.

So, in the god forsaken hours of midnight turned morning, against all common sense, Billy silently sneaks out of the window in his room.

In worn sneakers instead of his usual boots so he doesn’t make a sound, he circles the perimeter of their property slowly. It’s small— everything on Cherry Lane is— but it feels enormous, all of a sudden.

He stares off into the distance, into the dark blur of trees beyond the overgrown grass. Waiting for something, anything. He doesn’t know what though, exactly, and the thought pisses him off. Makes him want to hit something or ride the Camaro until she’s empty, just anything to get the tingling to goddamn stop.

So Billy stays there, for hours or minutes, who knows, just watching, and at some point, he starts seeing his own breath fog up the air in front of him.

He zips his leather jacket all the way up, digging his hands into the pockets and burrowing the lower half of his face into the collar for warmth. It works, somewhat, the heat of his own breath curling around his chin. Slumping against the wall, he folds his shoulders in, and he thinks.

He’s had trips, before. Bad, bad trips. Hallucinations so real, it was like he was back on that beach, her hand carding through his hair. Salt in the air and on his tongue, her laughter— their laughter— real and in his ears.

And the way the sway of the ocean would stay with him, hours after. Lying in bed and feeling the sheets underneath rock back and forth.

So, yeah. He knows what that’s like, dreaming something that’s not real. He’s had too much experience waking up, bitter nostalgia slipping through his fingers like sand and memories going faded again, and this?

This is different. Billy knows it deep in his bones, the images too sharp and cutting to be anything but memories.

It’d been hard, too, during classes. Memories upon memories layering on top of one another, echoes of familiar conversations and drama filtering in through one ear and then out the other while he walked the school halls. He was there, but he also wasn’t, watching himself through someone else's eyes, more like, and then.

Then Harrington.

Because that's the other thing— Harrington wasn’t there, at all.

See, Billy’s got a sense for the other teen, now. Like a shark smelling blood in the water, or something like that. But instead of going in for the kill, Billy runs in the other direction. Ignores him, as best he can. Something sick in his stomach that he doesn’t want to acknowledge whenever they happen to cross paths.

But something’s up. Billy just knows it.

Like the humming (like his death, his fucking death), something about Harrington’s absence just has his hair standing on end. He doesn’t know why, or rather how, for that matter, but.

He fists his hands in his pockets, playing with the lint. Decides that he’s got enough on his mind to think about and knocks his head back on the wall, looking out.

Billy stands vigil the entire night. Until the horizon starts going purple at the edges and the sun’s over the line of trees behind their house. He doesn’t know why, but he feels like he’s just witnessed the end of something. Feels the hair on his nape winding down just the tiniest bit.

Only then does he climb back into his room, fingers cold and turning blue at the tips because Hawkins-fucking-Indiana sucks ass and their winters are freezing.

He lands on his bed with an oomph, the adrenaline rushing out of him all at once. Face smushed to the sheets, he sighs, releasing all the tension in his body.

The humming has stopped.

Billy has made the executive and strategically smart decision to just not go to basketball practice today.

Strategically smart because, if put in close quarters with Harrington, he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from blowing a gasket and beating the other teen up until, well.

If he gets a nickel for every time he’s beaten Harrington black and blue, he’d have one nickel, and he’d like to keep it that way.

Neil pushing him up against the door, Susan holding both hands to her mouth and Max looking on, horrified.

“So, Billy,” his father spits, face blotchy red from anger. “Would you like to explain to me why the chief of police— Hopper, did you know that, did you know his name’s Hopper?— just called me from the hospital? About some boy named Harrington?”

He gulps. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Susan holding Max back. It makes him shrink, her seeing him like this.

“Son,” Neil snaps, shaking him like a rag doll. “You better have a good excuse for me.”

And Billy? He just closes his eyes, because he knows how this is going to end.

Yeah, he’d very much like to avoid all of that.

There’s something about Harrington, though, that has his instincts going haywire.

Right from the get go, the moment Billy had come up to the school parking lot, Camaro roaring like usual and that stupid ass Beemer already at the front, all of his instincts had honed in on the other teen sitting in his car.

From a short distance. Talking into a fucking walkie talkie, of all things. Hand running through his hair again and again.

Just something. Something about seeing him had all that humming from last night turned up to one hundred. His mind going fucking blank and then rebooting like one of the computers in the school library. Has his feet set shoulder width apart and muscles tensing, as if going to run.

And why is that even an option he’s thinking of? He’s beaten Harrington’s ass before, can do it again. No meddling kids in the way this time. No Max, no Sinclair, no nailed bat. But for some reason, he’s—

hesitant.

(Scared.)

(No, he’s fucking not.)

So Billy, knowing what’s best for him, for them both, really, skips fourth period PE, and heads straight to the bleachers outside for an early lunch. Or a smoke break. Same thing. It’s not like the teachers here have the balls to say something to him about it, anyway.

His fingers are trembling as he attempts to light one up and, after a couple tries, he gives up. He’ll end up wasting all his cigs at this point, can feel his frustration building and building.

He resorts to crushing the paper between his teeth. Inhales hard through his nose and feels the air hiss as he breathes out.

Logically, Billy knows Harrington’s not a threat despite all the warning signs his body is apparently trying to drill into him. Like a neon light pointed straight at the other teen, blinding like those big ass lit up signs at the casinos, all huge and distracting.

No, Billy’s pretty fucking sure he remembers Harrington being there at the mall. Throwing fireworks at the— he stuffs his hands in his pockets, crushing his Marlboros— monster from the second floor.

So, he’s not one of them. That’s for sure.

But it doesn’t explain why Harrington has his fight or flight going off, a klaxon horn in his hindbrain telling him that there’s something really, really off about Harrington.

Off in the distance, the school bell rings.

Billy spits out the cigarette in his mouth, stomping on it. He digs his heel into the dirt for a moment, thinking, before standing up.

He’s not angry, per se, but see, he’s so fucking tired of this. Of being out of the loop, and being lied to, and not having all of the pieces to this shit stain of a puzzle. He was the one possessed, god fucking dammit— even if it hasn’t happened (yet, something like his own voice whispers, cruel and mean) but still he can feel a fire simmering just under his skin.

Fuck the kids, and fuck Harrington, and fuck them all, he decides. Kicking off the bleachers, he heads back inside for lunch, the forest quiet behind him.

“Isn’t he such a fucking weirdo?” Tommy laughs, smacking the table. Billy tries to hide his wince, smiling with all his teeth and slinging an arm around the other teen’s shoulder. “Walking around in the middle of the night like some creeper? What do you think, he can’t sleep?”

“Yeah. Paranoid, more like it,” Billy replies, absorbing all the gossip he’s managed to wring out of one Tommy Hagan.

Not like it was hard. Tommy practically has a hard-on for Harrington, and also seems totally blind to it. So does his girlfriend, for that matter, as she leans across the table.

“Paranoid? This is Hawkins, baby. The current scoop is the pumpkin feud between those farmers,” Carol scoffs, then, checking out her nails and going a bit quiet, “and also that chemical thing with Barb, I guess.”

Billy’s glad for the loud backdrop of the cafeteria and the glaring absence of one Steve Harrington, because talking about the death of one of their classmates all nonchalant like this—

Heather brings a wine glass up to his, clinking them together, before taking a small sip. Billy goes to do the same, but hesitates.

He looks into the glass, fingers twitching imperceptibly.

It’s not wine.

She motions at the bodies still on the floor with her free hand. Soon, they’ll need to tie them up and throw them into the trunk of his Camaro.

Not the backseats. The blood will stain, and it’s hard to get blood out of leather. He knows this.

“To building,” she says, cheery disposition despite her monotone delivery. A perfect puppet, he thinks, sad and afraid and angry all at once.

For her, for himself, for all of them.

He sips at his own pace, smiling despite the inner turmoil deep in his stomach. “To building,” he repeats, quieter.

So, yeah. The chemical bullshit is some sort of cover up. Hitting a bit too close to home, though, he thinks, the taste of bleach a phantom on his tongue and in the back of his throat.

“When did that happen?”

Tommy jumps in, all eager like a dog. “Last year, man. But Steve? He keeps blaming himself for it, which doesn’t make fucking sense. It’s not like it’s his fault some girl died.”

“So that’s why he goes walking around the forest at night? Guilt?” Billy asks, tilting his head to the side like he’s bored and not all that interested.

“Who knows what goes on in his head, it’s not like he talks to us about it,” Carol adds, bitter. “Tina, though. She’s not rich rich, you know, but her house is pretty close to Loch Nora, and she said she’s seen him driving around at ungodly hours of night, so.”

Billy hums, eyes going back and forth across the table. Not for the first time, he feels as if he’s being seen as some sort of replacement. He didn’t mind it at all, before, but now, well.

Turns out a dethroned king still has some subjects, after all. They’re not loyal, not at fucking all, but they were his friends before they were Billy’s, and there are times— times when Billy isn’t sure whether Tommy wants to either kiss the ground he walks on or punch him in the teeth for talking shit about Harrington.

He drops his hand from the other teen’s shoulder, feeling burned all of a sudden.

At the very least, he was able to get some insider information about Harrington. He’s been patrolling the forest like some sort of social pariah for the past year. Misplaced guilt, sure, but Billy’s willing to bet there’s more to it than that.

He looks to the side of the cafeteria, to the windows high up on the walls facing toward the track, and beyond that, the line of trees bordering the school grounds. Tall and thin, their shadows growing longer and longer.

Billy rubs his neck, on edge again, before turning back around, smiling all shark-like at Tommy, Carol, and the rest of the occupants at the table.

“So,” he starts, loud and unaffected. Changing the topic like it’s no big deal with a metaphorical snap of his fingers, and their heads all turn to him in sync. “You see this, right here?” and he points to the scabbing cut above his right eye. “Want to know how I got it?”

They all lean in, stars in their eyes and gasps held, and he takes it all in for just a moment. This is something no one can take away from him. Something all his own, a king of his own making.

He takes a deep breath in, and he lies out of his fucking ass. Because the truth’s shit and nobody tells him anything real, anyway. So why should he?

Earlier that morning

He runs a hand through his hair, gripping the strands at the base once he reaches all the way past his scalp, and just pulls. Tugs on it with all his strength, because god forbid Steve starts going off on the kid.

But Henderson is seriously pushing his limits today, and that’s saying something, since it’s Henderson. That should be explanation enough, he thinks.

“Jesus, can you please let up?” he sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I’m dying over here, Henderson.”

The walkie in his hand goes quiet for a moment before crackling back to life. He leans his head back on the seat rest and feels his whole body sagging with the movement.

“Steven, please,” Henderson starts, and Steve can almost imagine the palm being held out in front of him telling him to please shut up. “Listen. Listen. I’m just trying to get the whole picture here, see. A demodog? As in, just one? And I need you to specify the exact location this time! Saying ‘in the forest’ isn’t good enough! Over.”

“Okay, first off, it’s Steve— and I know you know this, Henderson. And god damn, kid, I need you to breathe in between sentences, you’re gonna pass out at this rate.”

“That’s not how that works, and also, it’s Steven until you start adhering to the rules of our sacred communication hub. Over.”

“Oh my god,” Steve groans. “Okay, okay, Christ. There was one demodog last night, Henderson. Just the one. I found it prowling around, uh. A couple miles off of Loch Nora,” he squints his eyes up at the roof of his car, “near Cherry, actually. Has Max mentioned anything?”

“No, but I’ll make sure to bring it up with her and the rest of the Party during recess. Concerning, though, hm. They’re starting to branch out into other areas in Hawkins. Over.”

“How’s the Chief, anyway? Did he find anything?” he asks, sitting up a bit straighter in concern. “They didn’t come across any demodogs their way, did they?”

“He went to go check on the pumpkin fields since, you know, the tunnels.” Steve makes a face at that, remembering the smell of rot and something unnatural in the air. He grips the walkie tighter for just a moment. “Seems clear, though, so that’s good. Over.”

He sighs, feeling tired but still so high strung. “And his kid? Is she okay? No more updates, or anything?”

“El? Yeah, she’s fine. Said she hasn’t felt anything since yesterday,” and there’s some shuffling coming from his side, like Henderson’s looking through papers or something, before it stops. “I’m just— ”

And then the kid goes quiet on him.

Steve, though. He understands.

“Me too, Henderson. Me too.”

Monsters. Gates. Nightmares come true. It’s the start of December, hasn’t even been a full month, yet, and here they are, thrown back into the ring. Bodies running on empty, but still, they’re in the corner and it’s their turn again to fight. It’s not fair.

It’s just not fair.

To them. To the kids.

He can’t imagine what they’re going through, right now. What they’re thinking. But Steve? He hasn’t had a regular sleep schedule since that night at the pool.

Hasn’t slept much at all, actually, months and months of guilt piling up on his shoulders. And it’s all so, so heavy, the weight more than just emotional, now, and then Nancy—

Well. When they asked him yesterday if he could patrol the surrounding forest behind his house to check off all their boxes, just in case, of course he’d agreed.

Left out the part where he’s been doing just that for the past year, that he’s been sleeping curled around his bat like some idiot gone mental, but. Not like they really needed to know all that, so.

There’s a pause, and then, smaller but no less concerned, “You’re not really dying, are you, Steve?”

Steve bites his lip. His ribs are bruised, he thinks, and he’s got some suspicious looking scratches spanning all across his back that he’s not quite sure how to explain, if anyone from practice asks.

But the demodog’s dead, and they’re safe. For now. In the grand scheme of things, that’s all that really matters to him.

“Nah,” he reassures, drumming idly at the wheel, “I’m fine, Henderson. Some scratches here and there, but I’ll live. Not my first rodeo, you know, so.” He hesitates, and then, letting out a big sigh, “Over.”

Henderson whoops across the line. Steve hides a laugh into his shoulder even though it’s not like the kid’s there in person to catch him.

“Okay. Okay, yeah, you’re right. But tell us when you come across another demodog? The Party helps their own, and you’re one of us. We’ll help you this time, Steve. Over.”

He sounds hopeful, like he’s looking forward to it, even, and Steve can’t help but swallow back the dark thing crawling up his throat all of a sudden.

Steve thinks of Barbara and of dinners spent with her family. He thinks of having to do the same for one of the kids. Settled at a table, hands folded politely over his lap, the truth sitting stale on his tongue as he listens to another pair of parents mourn their missing— dead— child.

He hesitates for a moment, clearing his throat, and then, pressing the push-to-talk button,

“Yeah, I’ll tell you. Promise,” he lies. “Over.”

Chapter Text

They’re parked right in front of the arcade, Billy’s arm hanging off of the window and sunglasses perched on his nose. He taps his cigarette on the outside of the car, ashes floating to the ground, and grunts. “Okay. You keep staring. What is it?”

“You’re acting weird,” Max says, blunt, and waves away the smoke he blows in her face with a grossed out look. “Stop doing that.”

“Then get out,” Billy tells her, fingers of his other hand drumming on the steering wheel impatiently. His eyes slide across the parking lot, quick and measured, something he’s been doing over and over again ever since they’ve pulled up.

“See? You keep doing that,” she points out, before turning around and pressing her face up close to the window until it’s fogging up the glass. “What are you looking for?”

Billy rolls his head back onto the headrest, fed up and already feeling like he’s about to blow his top. He breathes harsh through his nose, holding the cig close to his lips.

“Nothing,” he rumbles, and then, “besides, weren’t you the one telling me to hurry up ‘cause of your little nerd gang?”

Max mumbles something under her breath, side eyeing him, then, louder, “Did something happen— ”

The sound of static interrupts her, the both of them flinching hard in their seats. Billy almost chokes inhaling another smoke, hand grasping at his nape, tight and unrelenting. Both feet set as far apart in the footwell as possible, fight or flight kicking in.

Max is cursing, grabbing her backpack and digging both hands into it. He sees what looks like a long range antenna before the sound cuts out and she pushes it back to the bottom.

The sudden quiet has them both on edge. Billy lowers his hand, slow as molasses, and narrows his eyes at the side of Max’s face.

She’s not looking at him, though. Staring straight ahead, hands still deep inside her backpack, like if she’s not moving, Billy won’t question her on why the hell she has a walkie talkie of all things.

See, Neil keeps the both of them on a tight leash. Likes to make sure he knows who they’re talking to, what kind of people they’re hanging out with on a daily basis. Overprotectiveness, some might call it. He’d scoff. Supervision is the word he’d use.

Did she always have one? he thinks, cycling through his recent and not so recent memories. The ones from his… past life.

Oh, and isn’t that just hilarious. The fact that he’s even thinking of his life in terms of before and after his death. His death. Yeah, ‘cause that’s a thing. Tentacles piercing him and a burning pain shooting up all along his sides—

(Don’t think about it, don’t think about it. Don’t be a goddamn pussy now of all times, Hargrove.)

So, no, he doesn’t remember her having a walkie. Or rather, he doesn’t remember knowing if she did. Which makes all the difference. Because, if she did.

That means it’s connected. They’re all connected. Max, the little shits she hangs around with, and good ol’ Steve Harrington.

He’d only speculated earlier that they were in cahoots way before shit hit the fan in the summer, was only going off of Max’s “Nothing ever happens here” bullshit and inability to lie to save her ass.

But now he knows for fucking sure. And the icing on the cake to top it off, to wrap it up in a neat little bow? The fact that they were all together that night.

Billy still doesn’t know how that happened. Doesn’t know the circumstances leading to his dear step-sister getting involved with whatever the fuck loony bin shit was going on. But Harrington has a walkie, and, surprise surprise, Max secretly has one, too. Not that much of a stretch to bet that the rest of the Ghostbuster wannabes have their own ways of communicating as well.

For all he pretends to not focus in class, he’s not an idiot. There’s a good reason he sits in the back of a fair amount of honors classes.

They’re all keeping in touch. Have been for a while, it seems.

He wants to ask, but he knows with utmost certainty that she’s going to lie straight to his face again, and he’s already pissed just thinking about it. He flicks the cig out the window before resting both hands on the dash, fingers pressing tight onto the surface.

“Neil asked me to help Susan out with something after school,” he reminds her, pretending he didn’t see anything. “So. Get out.”

Max turns and stares at the side of his face, lines on her forehead from how high her eyebrows are arched. “… you’re not gonna say something?”

Billy really has been patient with her this afternoon. Too patient. Out of character, really, but that could be blamed on the static ramping up in his ears because he just knows Harrington’s coming, and coming soon.

(And that’s a subject he doesn’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole. No, thank you. He’s got enough on his fucking plate as it is.)

He grits his teeth, doesn’t even bother looking in her direction, and hisses, “I don’t care right now. Get out of the car, and I’ll pick you up later. On the fucking dot.”

Max blinks at him, mouth hanging open. Then she promptly shuts it, probably knowing how stupid it makes her look. Zipping her backpack closed, she hoists it on and shoulders the car door open before stepping out.

She hesitates outside, though, hand coming up to rest on the frame and turning back to him. “Billy— ” she starts, but then startles as the car jumps forward. She takes her hand off as if burned, face turning red.

“I got places to be, Maxine!” he yells at her over the rumble of the engine.

“You’re so full of bullshit,” she spits, but it’s not as heated as it could be. She still has that gobsmacked stupid look about her.

“Yeah, well, so are you,” he snaps back, acidic and seething. He reaches over to slam the door closed on her.

Just in time, too. Because the Beemer is sliding into a parking space on the opposite side of the lot, doors open before it’s even fully stopped. The little shits pile out all at once, climbing over each other like a circus act. The car shakes with it, too, like clowns getting out of a clown car. Shouting carries across the short distance.

Billy’s hand is already on the gearshift, maneuvering the Camaro out of its parking space at the speed of lightning. Right as he’s about to turn the corner, though, he sneaks a glance at the rearview mirror, ignoring the bags he can see behind his shades.

Max lingers on the curb. Even with the growing distance between them, the frown on her face is big and obvious. Sinclair approaches her, backpack on his shoulder, the rest of the nerds congregating around them at the entrance.

Billy’s eyes stray to the side without his permission.

There he is.

Harrington, sitting idle with the windows down. He turns, then, looking in Billy’s direction, brown eyes catching his in the mirror for a brief second.

Billy pushes down on the accelerator, engine growling and wheels squealing on the concrete as he hightails it the fuck out of there.

He drops his keys onto the mantle of the fireplace. Not like it actually works, is more for show than anything else. Susan’s placed a glass jar of seashells on it, though, as decoration. A reminder of the beaches back in California, she’d said at the time.

Sometimes, he wants to pick it up and throw it at the wall. Watch as the shards scatter across the floorboards, maybe crush them underneath his heel while he’s at it.

Billy ignores his reflection in the glass as he walks past, stepping foot into the small kitchen. He lingers for a moment, watching as Susan meticulously scrubs at something in the sink, before clearing his throat.

She flinches in place before turning around.

“Oh, Billy! It’s a good thing you’re back,” Susan tells him, drying both hands off with a hand towel. “Oh,” and she pauses, “is Maxine not with you?”

Billy shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “No,” he replies, hesitant. “Dropped her off at the arcade. Hope that’s okay, I’ll pick her up before Neil gets back.”

“Oh, no, no, don’t worry about that,” she rushes to say, hands held together delicately in front of her. “As you said, before Neil comes back home. Then it’s perfectly fine.”

She smiles at him, forced pleasantry, and Billy nods. He wipes his hands on his jeans, brushing away at some imaginary dirt. When the moment stretches on for too long, he sighs, looking to the side.

“So, what did you need help with?”

“Oh, yes, that’s right,” she says, as if she’d forgotten in the sparse few seconds of their conversation. She flutters in place for a moment before leading him to the back of the house and opening the screen door.

“Unloading the rest of the boxes?” Billy guesses, leaning on the railing.

“That’s right,” Susan confirms, hands bunched in the folds of her dress. “It’s been over a month since we’ve settled, and Neil mentioned that we should clear out the garage so his pickup truck can fit.”

“Okay, I got it.” He doesn’t miss out on the fact that she didn’t mention the Camaro. “Want me to bring it all in the house, or?”

“Yes, please. Oh, but if it’s something we don’t need anymore, feel free to put it out front. We can recycle, maybe sell, some of it?”

Billy grunts. Susan takes that as her cue to leave, lingering at his side before closing the door behind her.

He takes his time going down the steps, trailing his fingers over Susan’s railing planters, flowers inside all but dead. It’s the first time in a long time that his head feels, well, not quite empty, but close enough to it. He’ll take what he can get, though.

Stepping into the garage, he looks at the array of boxes in front of him. Tape still intact and stacked one on top of the other, dust collecting on the surface. He tugs his jacket off, putting it off to the side as he starts reading the labels on them, deciding where to start.

A lot of them are decorations. More than can fit in the house, really. Ornaments and lame knick-knacks, ones that he remembers seeing in their place back in California that he’s surprised made it all the way over here. They’re wrapped in brown paper, glass parts clinking together at the slightest touch.

At least they’re not seashells, he thinks. Doesn’t mean that he doesn’t feel the urge to drop them onto the ground and watch them all shatter into pieces.

See, Susan had been expecting something bigger. White picket fence and all that. Space to put all of their family pictures, framed smiles and pretty little outfits. He still remembers the disappointed, almost sad look on her when she’d first laid eyes on Cherry Lane.

Billy, though. He knows better than to have expectations, especially when it comes to Neil.

He chooses a box at random to start off with, slightly bigger than the others labeled Living/Family Room, prying the tape apart with his bare hands and opening the flaps. No brown paper this time, or god forbid packing peanuts, but he raises a brow at the line of fire pokers that greet him.

Tough shit. The fireplace here is a dud. He’ll have to put them out front. But he picks one up, staring at it for a moment.

It’s long, the metal split at the end where it’s meant to go into the fire. One part curling off to the side, reminding him almost of a hook, the rest of it straight and tapering off into a fine point.

He tests the weight of it in his hand. For some odd and morbid reason, he has the random stray thought that it’d probably be real painful if someone (something) got stabbed with it. The hooked end would be a bitch to pull out.

Kind of like a baseball bat with nails in it.

Billy sits back on his haunches, considering.

“Huh,” he says to himself.

The rest of the afternoon goes by, boxes gone through one by one, and he’s still thinking about it. Picks up Max without a fuss, ignoring her heated glares and questioning silence.

He thinks about it all throughout dinner, too, and gets slapped in the face for not responding to Neil because he wasn’t paying attention. Even thinks about it while he’s helping Susan clean the dishes despite Neil complaining about it being a woman’s job because not helping her would also mean getting another hit.

Because there’s a feeling deep in his stomach. Like swimming in the ocean and seeing a wave looming over you. Knowing that it’s coming, and preparing yourself to go under so you don’t drown.

Billy raises the sink stopper and watches as the dirty water goes draining down the pipes.

He doesn’t want to drown.

He’s sitting on a bed, sweat pooling in the hollow of his collarbones and staring straight ahead at the wall across from him. It’s not his bed, though. It’s not his bedroom. Billy furrows his brows and looks down at his hands.

They’re not his hands, either.

Pale fingers. Thin like he hasn’t grown into them just yet.

Someone settles down next to him and Billy startles, wants to turn and ask them what the hell is going on, but he can’t move. He’s— is it really him, though?— breathing harder, now.

“And the more he spreads, the more connected to him I feel.” The voice, it’s coming out of him. Out of his mouth. But Billy feels more like a spectator than anything, trapped in this too small body, too fragile and young to really be him.

The other person, a boy of similar height and build, shuffles closer, hands fidgeting where Billy can see him from out of the corner of his vision.

“And the more you see these now-memories,” the boy says. It’s not a question, sounds more like a confirmation.

Now-memories? Billy thinks, but then his mouth, the mouth that isn’t really his, starts talking again.

“At first, I just felt it in the back of my head.” His— their— hand comes up, rubbing at the skin of their nape. “I didn't even really know it was there. It's like when you have a dream and you can't remember it unless you think really hard. It was like that.”

The boy next to them looks down, biting his lip. He’s familiar, in some roundabout way. Chin too sharp and freckles across his nose. And then, like the knowledge has always been there but behind a closed door, a name ghosts across his mind.

Mike. Mike Wheeler. Nancy Wheeler’s little brother. He’s my best friend.

No the fuck he’s not? What the hell. Where is this even coming from? If Billy could, he’d put a knee up on the bed and loom over the other boy, shake his shoulders and ask him what the hell is going on.

But he can’t and, for some reason, tears are trailing down both cheeks now.

“But now, it's like... Now, I remember. I remember all the time.”

“Maybe… maybe that’s good?”

“Good?”

“Just think about it, Will. You’re like a spy now. A superspy.” Wheeler takes both of his hands— no, their hands. Will’s hands. And who the fuck is Will, anyway? “Spying on the shadow monster.”

“The shadow monster?” he asks, and is surprised he can actually talk this time. His voice is too high-pitched though. Frail sounding. He hates it.

“The shadow monster,” Wheeler repeats, looking him straight in the eyes, and Billy— he feels seen all of a sudden, like his ribs have been torn apart and he’s being dissected.

There’s a small vibration building up in both of his ears, now, and slowly reaching the back of his throat.

(Cicadas in the summer. Flies hanging around a corpse.)

“There’s one outside. One of us. It’s near. It doesn’t know who you are, not yet.” This doesn’t sound like a middle schooler. Whoever’s talking to him now, Billy knows for fucking sure it isn’t junior here behind the wheel.

In fact, Billy has the suspicion that they’re departing way off course. Off course from what, he’s not sure, but the feeling is too strong to ignore. A memory? Could be. But not one of his. But when did this happen? And why is it happening to him?

Billy wants to scream, feeling off balance and aching, the confusion only adding to his simmering anger. He wants answers and he wants them now, god damnit, but then Wheeler is squeezing their hands together.

“If it finds you, it will kill you,” he says, solemn.

“Kill me? But I’ve already died,” Billy replies, desperate, Will’s voice cracking at the end. Wheeler shakes his head at him, their hands clasped so tight that it hurts.

The bedroom has faded, everything gone. It’s all black, just the two of them sitting on the bed.

“Now, Billy Hargrove. Open your eyes.”

He gasps awake, chest heaving and heart beating like he’s just run a marathon. The ceiling of his bedroom— his bedroom, his bedroom— is swimming before him, vision blurry and senses muffled like he’s just come up from underwater.

His upper body is sweating buckets, hair sticking to the sides of his face and back of his neck uncomfortably. Legs tangled in his threadbare blanket, he kicks it off before grabbing at his face. Wiping away nonexistent tears— not his tears, he reminds himself— he takes a good long moment to focus on his hands.

Familiar callouses. The same faded scars. Billy rubs at them, from his fingers down to his palms, digging deep into the meat, and releases a deep breath when he can both see and feel the almost pain of his fingernails catching on flesh.

He’s here.

He’s really, really here.

Billy drops his arms to the bed, staring unseeingly at the water stains on his ceiling. He doesn’t close his eyes for longer than a second, blinking in spaced increments. Hesitant of being trapped again. Of being forced into someone else’s body, feeling their feelings and seeing what they see—

Well, fuck that.

He digs the heel of both palms into his eyes. Hard enough until he starts seeing a kaleidoscope of colors in the darkness.

He’s gone insane. He’s abso-fucking-lutely bonkers. Billy would laugh if he was sure it wouldn’t end up with him probably throwing up his guts all over the bed.

But no. He can’t wallow in peace, apparently, because hardy har har. Billy actually laughs out loud this time, the hairs on the back of his neck standing, because there it is again.

The humming.

Pushing his hair back with both hands, tired but pent up all the same, he turns his head to the side until he can see the clock on his nightstand.

Just shy of one in the morning. He must have passed out sometime after escaping to his room last night.

Turning his head that much further, he sees a glint of metal. Pushed into the corner of his room like a badly kept secret, flaps closed but leaving just enough room for him to see what’s inside from his position on the bed.

Billy stares, his thoughts from earlier cropping up.

It’s still night time, and he’s got a good couple of hours until sunrise. He closes his eyes, feeling the sweat on his skin starting to cool and shivering in the sudden cold of his bedroom.

He can’t catch a fucking break, huh.

His sneakers make a quiet sound when he lands on the dirt, hand braced on the wall for balance. The fire poker feels like a solid line of heat where it’s pressed up against his side.

The uncut grass of the backyard looks ominous from where he stands, lit up by waning moonlight and the bare minimum of street lamps outlining the road.

Beyond that, the trees sway in the barely there wind. Calling to him, like yesterday morning.

Billy tugs his jacket close, breath ghosting in front of his face. He takes slow steps forward, and keeps looking back over his shoulder just in case. But it’s just him awake at this god forsaken hour, creeping into the woods like some kind of psychopath because of Wheeler Junior and his cryptic fucking message.

It doesn’t know who you are, not yet.

The shadow monster, he’d said.

Billy shudders at the thought, gripping the fire poker tight as the shade of the trees overtakes him and everything gets that much darker. Like stepping into a portal to another world, where all the colors have been sucked out of everything and the air feels like it’s suffocating him.

He doesn’t know how long he walks for, but he makes sure to keep in a straight line and count his steps. The rustle of duff and underbrush underneath his feet sounds as loud as bombs, and it’s not until he comes to a stop that it occurs to him.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

He holds his breath, hearing nothing but the rush of blood through his ears and the static that’s been on a nonstop rising crescendo in the back of his mind. Hair on end, hands sweaty all of a sudden, he stands still.

There.

He turns, careful, somewhere off to his right. Billy can’t see a fucking thing, moonlight shining in sparse spots throughout the trees, but he knows with absolutely certainty he’s looking straight at it.

It doesn’t know he’s there yet, and if he focuses hard enough, he can hear the soft thud-thud-thud of its footfalls on the forest ground.

He quietly readjusts his hold on the metal, sliding it down a couple of inches so his grip is closer to the bottom of its length. His fingers curl around it tight. His other hand goes to his chest, hovering over his medallion where it’s safely tucked beneath his shirt.

Billy can just barely parse out its outline, and then— there. Highlighted by a dull beam in a small clearing, he sees it.

He can’t help the locking of his bones, the way his feet have turned into dumbbells, weighing him down and keeping him glued to the ground. Memories rise to the surface, unbidden, and he can’t help the gush of air that squeezes itself out of his lungs.

Which was a bad, bad move.

Its face whips towards him, if one could even call it that, split into sections as it is, teeth bared and glinting all menacingly at him. The thing’s shaped like a dog, too, all four limbs on the ground, and it doesn’t have eyes.

Billy doesn’t know why he’s decided to focus on that part in particular, but. Mouth spreading wider and wider, it stalks toward him, the smell of rot encroaching upon all of his senses at once.

He knows it’s no use escaping. Not from something like this. He’ll be outrun.

Billy forces his body to unfreeze, to cooperate, joints creaking as he compels all of his muscles to take a fucking step to the side. And he does, after a gargantuan effort that has sweat collecting in the small of his back.

He watches intently as the dog copies him, a familiar dance between prey and predator that even monsters seem to follow. They’re circling each other now, slow and steady.

He plants his feet, and the both of them come to a standstill. Like bugs buzzing in his ears, getting louder and louder, and then— instinct.

It’s going to jump at me.

He doesn’t know where the thought comes from, but then the dog’s rearing back on its haunches and Billy just drops on all fours, his chest all but touching the ground.

It flies through the air above him, right where he’d just been standing, and he stares incredulously as it lands a couple of feet away, dirt kicking up from its landing.

He turns back over so he’s on his ass, now, keeping his focus on it. Fire poker still in hand, he scrambles backwards, the sharp underbrush stinging his bare palms. The dog freezes at the sound, reorienting itself before its face is whipping toward him again, rumbling coming from deep inside its throat.

And there it is again, that humming-buzzing-static, that white god damn noise, increasing in pitch. Higher and higher until something just clicks in the back of Billy’s head. Like flipping a cassette to the other side and reading off the list of songs, knowing what’s going to come next.

Now-memories, he thinks, hysterical. The term sucks ass, sounds like some sort of cheesy sci-fi fantasy shit, but Billy thinks it’s pretty fucking on point.

It’s going to come at me on the left.

He rolls to the right, getting up off his knees and using the fire poker as support to pull himself up faster. Too late, though, and he grunts as claws slice through his back, through layers of denim and fabric, and peeling ribbons of flesh off. He can’t see but he can for sure feel it, the pain blossoming bright in his mind’s eye.

Billy can’t focus on that though, because then the thing’s bulldozing him over, throwing him onto his front, and he lands with a pained wheeze.

“Son of a bitch!” He scratches at the ground, weapon out of reach, bursts of pain erupting from his back as a heavy pressure settles on top of him, pressing him down, down, down into the dirt and rock.

It’s going to eat me.

Billy swears he can almost see what it sees. The back of his own head, his blood oozing through his torn jacket and shirt. His struggling.

It’s going to eat me and I’m going to die.

Forearms pushing up off the ground, he grits his teeth, jaw clenching so hard that he can hear his molars grinding. He throws his elbow back as far as it can go, a burning hot anger fueling his movements that helps to ignore the dig of teeth he can feel in the meat of his arm.

The dog lets out a whine, falling back just a couple of feet, and Billy pushes back at it until he’s free, hands scrabbling for the fire poker until it’s within his grasp.

Heated, he climbs to a standing position, feet set shoulder width apart.

“Doesn’t fucking know who I am, he says— ” and he turns around fully, now, heels dug deep into the soil, and throws the fire poker straight at the dog launching itself at him, arm aching with the force of it.

Caught right in its mouth, the long piece of metal holds the rows upon rows of teeth apart like some fucked up dentist tool. It starts struggling, spittle flying everywhere from where it’s writhing on the ground like some worm.

Billy kicks at its chest until it’s on its back, and then he just. Jams a hand straight into its mouth, grabbing a hold of the fire poker. It gargles, claws scratching at him, but he ignores it, straddling the thing instead.

“ —well, now you do,” and then he twists the metal, right up against all those pearly whites, the hooked end making it difficult but he keeps going and going until he hears it.

Crack.

Something wet splatters across his cheeks, the sensation akin to that of burning hot oil in the cold. Billy blinks, hands loose, and feels the body beneath him go limp.

The humming has gone quiet. Still there in the background, like a radio put on the lowest volume, but not so much in his face anymore. He looks down.

It’s dead.

It’s dead, and he doesn’t know how to feel.

He should be happy, right? This thing is the reason why he’s been so restless. It’s the reason for a lot of things, really.

But he just keeps looking at it, head splayed wide open on the ground like a flower blooming.

Billy breathes in sharp, cold air hitting the back of his throat. His hair is framing his face and it’s like tunnel vision because all he can see is the body underneath him, still faintly warm.

“It’ll be over soon,” he’s telling her, the back of his hand brushing her cheek.

Heather whimpers, sad and pitiful, shaking her head up at him. Blinking fast, tears track down the sides of her face.

Her pleas are muffled behind the gag.

“Just stay very still.”

Billy’s legs have gone numb, coldness and mud seeping through the denim. His hands clench and unclench around nothing.

This isn’t the same. This isn’t the fucking same.

He wants to drop his head into his hands, bite his skin right off, but there’s black gunk all under his nails and on his face and in his blood and he doesn’t want to put all that in his mouth, he doesn’t want it anywhere near or inside his body, not again, not again not again, and then—

and then a rustle.

Between the trees, far off but getting closer.

Billy’s head snaps up to look in its direction, his neck hurting with the whiplash. It’s not another one, he knows (still doesn’t know how he knows), but he still scrambles up off his knees, shoes almost slipping on the dirt.

The fire poker comes free with a harsh tug and a gross sounding squelch, something he’ll probably hear in his nightmares for a long, long time, and he runs.

Moments later, someone stumbles into the clearing, breathing hard like they’ve just been running. Hair askew and wielding a bat in one hand, they shine a flashlight toward the ground.

There’s a pause, and then, “Oh shit.”