Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Billy steps out the Camaro, it’s all eyes on him. It prickles against his skin, makes him want to bare his teeth and snap on instinct.

Instead he takes a drag of his cigarette. He holds the smoke deep in his chest, feels the burn and relishes the taste of it in the back of his throat.

Christ. What fucking losers. They’re staring as if he’s some kind of meat, and it's really fucking pissing him off.

It’s as if they’ve never seen an Alpha before – though Billy can’t imagine there’s many around here. It’s probably an entire school of Betas.

He exhales in a gust, drops his cigarette and stabs it out on the concrete with his boot heel.

Max gets out without a word. She slams the door and skates away.

Billy huffs. He watches her red hair float around a corner before he kicks up off the side of the car and walks into Hawkins High.

There’s an itch all over his body, the eyes of everyone on him, but he ignores it the best he can.

Still, something compels him to glance to his side. There’s a pair of eyes that feel particularly intense. Billy can’t ignore the pull to look any longer.

He glances over.

A boy ducks back into his car. He gathers some books from the dashboard, holds them all up to his chest and gets out. He’s wearing a sweater over a polo-shirt, all square and prim looking.

He’s cute.

Sure in the preppy, Ivy League kind of way, but it’s undeniable. Floppy brown hair tuffed up at the front and tucked around ears at the side. Sloping nose. He’s a pretty boy alright.

Billy doesn’t exactly know why he’s surprised. It’s not as if California isn’t crawling with them. Maybe it’s the shock of finding one in Nowhere Town, Indiana.

Or maybe it’s the force of the glare Billy had felt over the hood of his car before the guy had turned away.

Billy feels his eyebrows tick up.

He watches Pretty Boy walk off with a girl under his arm, typical poster child for every success in life.

It sets Billy’s teeth on edge. For some reason the sight of them – somebody he doesn’t know, has never met, is nobody to Billy – with their arm around a girl wriggles under his ribcage and sits wrong with him.

Billy ignores it. Carries on with his day, gets himself registered, flirts a little with the office ladies, and heads to class.

As soon as he’s assigned a seat, he spots Pretty Boy up front scribbling notes.

Billy chews his gum all obnoxious, studies the tense line of Pretty’s Boy’s shoulders, and kicks back in his seat.

He waits, and waits, and sure enough –

“Steve Harrington?”

“Here.” Pretty Boy – Steve – calls out, distracted and absent-minded.

His voice has that midwestern lilt, all soft and twanging. Billy would be lying if he said it didn’t send a little thrill up his spine, raise the hairs along his forearms.

He levels a stare at the side of Harrington’s head, wills him to turn and meet Billy’s challenge.

Pretty Boy doesn’t seem to notice.

But Billy’s skin is itching something awful, a familiar restlessness prowling underneath him, as if he needs to run fifty laps or punch a wall. He strums his fingers along the table and sneaks glances at Harrington whenever he can, hoping he’ll catch Harrington’s eye at some point.

Harrington doesn’t look over once.

Billy looks away when it becomes too long and the teacher gives him a pointed eyebrow. Billy starts doing the questions on the board and feels an answering pair of eyes along his nape.

When he checks back in, Harrington is in the same position as before.

*

Five Years Ago

Billy’s thirteen when he learns about something called a sports scholarship.

“Hold up.” He says to his friend Noah. It’s a hot day in California, and they’re on the bench in shorts and t-shirts watching soccer practise pass them by. “You mean they pay for everything?”

“Everything, dude.” Noah’s eyes are alight. Billy doesn’t even know how his look, wide and awed and open. “Tuition fees, room board, even some of the textbooks man.”

“Holy shit.” Billy says. Because Holy Shit. “How did you even hear about this?”

“Coach just told me.” Noah waves over to the field where coach is, yelling no doubt.

Billy feels a sharp spike of jealousy at that. It squirms underneath his ribcage and stays there.

He told Noah. He didn’t tell Billy.

“But he also said, like, 2% of highschool athletes actually get one.” Noah carries on. “It’s super difficult, man. Insane difficult. You have to be pro-level by the time highschool ends to even be considered. And I think you get scouted by the top coaches all over the country. So even if our coach thinks we’re good, that still won’t cut it. Plus it’s mostly Alpha’s that get picked anyways.”

Billy looks down at where they’re both sat, on the side-lines while practise goes on without them.

Coach clearly doesn’t think they’re all that good. They do well when they’re actually on the pitch, but that’s if they’re actually put on the pitch.

They’re good, but everyone else is better.

And they both haven’t hit puberty yet to know whether they’d even be genetically advantaged. No fucking way if either of them turns out to be Omega they’ve got a shot in hell.

Not that there aren’t Omegas in the big leagues, just that they’d need to have worked a lot harder and a lot longer than Billy’s ever done.

And fuck, Billy’s been thinking about this as some spare-time hobby. He loves basketball sure, and soccer is alright, but Billy spends most of his time reading Franz Kafka and Kurt Vonnegut. He spends most of his time studying for tests and rewriting essays in advance.

He’s been going about this all backwards.

Because he could get out. He can get out. He can get out and it won’t even cost any money.

Forget his ideas about selling his soul, getting a job the morning he’s sixteen and working himself to the bone. He can get it all, everything, for fucking free.

All he needs to do is put in the work now.

“You’ve got a weird look on your face.” Noah says. “Like you wanna punch something.”

Noah isn't unfamiliar with Billy’s outbursts. Who the fuck isn’t? He’s got two parents at home who have screaming matches along with the help of a few plates, while Billy clamps hands around his ears and pretends he’s somewhere else.

“Just thinking.” Billy assures. His leg bounces as he considers it. He’d have to set up some kind of regimen. And do a lot more work in gym, probably start lifting weights. And eat a hell of a lot cleaner.

So just like that, Billy does.

He hits it too hard the first couple days, and has to stop after the fifth lap of the track to bend and throw up. Rookie mistake.

Only that also happens after 100 sit-ups in a row.

Billy admits defeat and heads to the library.

He scans and health and exercise section, skims his fingers along their hard spines before eventually taking them all out. The librarian gives him a tight grin when she sees him coming. Billy just leaves with a tip of his head and an armful of books.

Noah drops off after a month.

“I’m exhausted.” He says, simple, and sits down on the spot. “I quit.”

“What?” Billy blinks, frowns down at the track and looks back. “We’ve not even done one lap.”

“Billy, do we need to it every day? Can’t we take a day off? My stomach is killing me.” Noah clutches his sides, peering up at Billy from under his bangs.

“Yeah we gotta do it every day, we need to be better –”

Noah waves a hand, stands up, and starts walking.

“Where are you going?” Billy calls.

“Getting fries!”

“But the book said –” Billy starts.

Noah is already too far away to hear.

Billy huffs, chews on his lip, shakes his head, and starts running.

Two months in and Billy is hungry all the fucking time. Salad and potatoes just don’t cut it the same.

Two months in and all his friends and grinning and rubbing their bellies as they shove burgers in their mouths.

Two months in and Billy can see a little definition on his stomach.

Three months in and he’s a regular on the soccer pitch. He waves at Noah on the bench, who waves back and gives two thumbs up.

Three months in and his mom pinches his side and notes how much taller he looks, how much bigger.

She’s got tired bags around her eyes. Billy still beams.

Four months in and Billy makes point guard in the basketball team. Point guard. He bounces on his way home and receives a ruffle of his hair from his mom, a stiff nod from his dad.

Four months in and Billy barely breaks a sweat around the track. Four months in and Coach’s eyebrows rise as Billy trots up to the finish line and smile wide, miles in front of the team.

It takes half a year for Billy to see results. He wakes up before the sun’s risen, goes to sleep while it’s still light.

Most of the time though, Billy lies awake and catalogues the pros and cons of each college on his Top List. The world opens up in front of him like a long, long track of asphalt, stretching endlessly and ever wider.

Then he finally, finally freaking hits puberty. Alpha. He's an Alpha. The world is on his side for once.

So of course that’s when mom packs up her bags and leaves.

Of course that’s when dad starts getting blind drunk most days, and Billy starts calling him ‘Sir’ out loud and Neil inside his own head. Of course that’s when clicked fingers at a snarky comment from Billy turn into being shoved against a wall.

Of course that’s when three years of his life wash down a drainpipe like murky water, before Neil meets Susan and they move to the small shitty town of Hawkins, Indiana.

*

It doesn’t take long for Hawkins High to notice. That Billy is insanely jacked: that at the ripe age of 17 he’s freakishly built like an athlete and one in their prime at that.

That Billy looks more like a man than a boy. That Billy, in all honesty, looks like something fresh out a fucking magazine.

It starts in the locker room, as it always does. A few heads swivelled his way as he’s getting dressed for basketball. Billy seriously can’t wait to see what they have on him in terms of skill and experience.

He seriously can’t wait to fucking pummel this entire school to the ground.

Billy’s always looked like this, and he’s always been looked at like this. He hit the gym, then puberty, then his body took it from there.

The looks never stopped.

All their eyes all slide off him; curious, appreciative, surprised, cataloguing. Billy even senses some lingering ones as well, the scent of arousal that trickles into the air.

Being an Alpha gives a heightened consciousness to a certain type of reception, if he can put it delicately. And that reception is always pretty much unmistakeable.

It doesn’t exactly surprise him. There’s always a few queers in any school. Billy should know: he is one. One big fat beautiful queer.

Doesn’t bother him most days. He keeps that shit private. He’s not got time for that shit anyway: training is his life.

He’ll be long gone from Hawkins, and a speck of dust in the horizon of Neil Hargrove's motherfucking eyes, before he does anything about it.

Everyone in this room is a Beta. No Omegas. No Alphas.

Billy supposes it’s because of all the inbreeding. It’s a small town, after all, and there’s probably not much else to do. Especially for all those stay at home suburban wives.

Nothing wrong with being Beta. It’s not as if it matters, either. Just means Billy is going to have one hell of a time trying to explain a rut to a school that probably never bothered to add it to the syllabus during sex-ed.

And also have a shitty time asking for the week off because of it.

Then Steve Harrington walks in.

Billy perks up immediately. That same strange awareness claws at his skin and invades his nostrils, invades his goddamn mind. Billy would need to be a hell of a lot closer to the door get a good whiff of the guy, but for some reason he knows it’s Steve.

Somehow, Billy knows it’ll be Steve before he comes in.

He knows, and he looks up, and Steve Harrington walks into the locker room.

Steve’s eyes fall directly on Billy, as though they were already focused there before he even knew that's where Billy was standing.

A static shock goes through him when their eyes meet. Billy actually jolts upright as it travels along his entire body. He sees Steve do the same, pause at the doorway. His eyes are brown. Light brown. There’s a buzzing in Billy’s head.

He takes a step towards Steve, his foot lifting without any conscious thought. He’s barely conscious of moving.

“Woah.” Tommy Hagan whistles low and steps between them. “Is this an Alpha Face-Off?”

Billy blinks. The buzzing fades a little. He looks at Steve, forces his foot to stop. “You’re Alpha?” His voice sounds like rough gravel being put through a blender.

Steve looks from Tommy to Billy. He wets his bottom lip, the skin glistening pink. He nods.

Billy pushes around Tommy and takes another step closer.

Tommy holds his hands up and gives them a wide berth. His grin is a mile wide, clearly anticipating a show-down.

But everyone in the locker room is watching now as Billy, bare-chested and halfway dressed in gym shorts, steps up to Steve, whose backpack strap is clutched in a white-knuckled grip.

Then Billy gets a whiff of him.

He rears back on instinct, features crumpling. “Jeez, you stink.”

It’s true. The smell is fucking awful. Steve reeks of it. The smell is on him, all over him, on his clothes and in his hair and -

Steve blinks, expression slack in shock.

The scent thickens.

Rage, sudden and swift, explodes in Billy’s chest. It makes no sense but Billy isn’t thinking sense. He’s thinking the way Steve smells is the worst thing he’s experienced and he needs to get rid of it. A growl builds in the base of Billy’s throat. He clenches his jaw to keep it in, but it’s such an effort to hold between his teeth that it keeps Billy’s feet planted to the floor. Billy’s fingers twitch – the itch to claw the smell off Steve, to get it the fuck off him, crawls it’s way along his arms.

Steve does the total opposite.

He takes a step closer, tentative. And then his face shifts and suddenly he’s walking right on up to Billy. Steve towers over him, a good couple inches taller, before he presses their foreheads together with his nostrils flared.

Billy wraps a hand around his throat.

Steve’s eyes widen.

Billy presses down with his fingertips and feels the rush of life flowing through Steve. He feels the throb of Steve’s pulse. Billy revels in the sensation, squeezing down a little. The pulse answers him. It beats against Billy’s skin in a staccato rhythm, soothes every instinct that makes Billy wants to scream his lungs out.

Then Steve swallows. Billy feels the movement of Steve’s oesophagus on his palm.

Somehow, the explosion bubbling under the surface of Billy's skin evaporates like dust. That act makes the anger dissolve.

Steve’s cheeks are flushed, eyes steady on Billy. But his hands are by his side. His posture is open, relaxed, breathing steady. He makes no attempt to remove Billy’s grip. Yes. Yes. Because he knows Billy’s hand should be here, he knows he smells wrong and he needs–

Clapping erupts in the locker-room, sudden and abrupt. It cuts through the haze. Billy’s hand jerks back, and then he jumps at the hands that fall on his shoulders.

“Yeah! Looks like we’ve got a new King of Hawkins!” Tommy shouts in his ear, oblivious to Billy’s rough shove to get him off.

“Sorry Steve, you’ve been dethroned!” Someone else shouts.

“We’ve got another Alpha now, and he just handed you your ass.”

There’s more laughter, easy and carefree.

Billy blinks, brain fuzzy. He looks around at the grinning faces. He realises he just tried to choke somebody he's never met, and looks down at his open hand. It trembles a little.

Is that what just happened? Some kind of Alpha instinct?

Everyone in the room seems to think Billy and Steve just had a Face-Off for the title of King, because he’s guessing they’re the only two Alpha’s at Hawkins High and it seems like a logical explanation.

But Billy’s been around plenty of Alpha’s before. Alpha’s who he’s walked past no problem, Alpha’s who he’s been friends with, Alpha’s who he’s ruffled hair and slapped backs with.

He’s never felt anything close to how he felt when Steve walked in.

Even now, when Steve ducks past everyone and starts getting changed, Billy still feels an awareness of him.

He knows exactly where Steve is, which corner of the room, which piece of clothing he’s putting on, how hard his heart is beating. He can practically taste Steve's pulse. Even after Billy leaves the locker-room and heads out onto the court.

There’s an itching everywhere and it only really abated when he had his hand around Steve’s neck. He knows he could scent the air to try and get a feel of what Steve's thinking, but the thought of inhaling that putrid stink is enough to make Billy gag.

Right. Okay. Billy is pretty fucking rattled about this development, but he forces himself to inhale slow and take stock.

Bared throat means submission. Clearly all Billy wanted was submission from Steve.

Biggest but: why the fuck? 

Billy’s never wanted submission off an Alpha before, not even an Omega for that matter. Billy’s not a fucking corpse, plenty people have turned his head and gotten him hot under the collar. But he’s never wanted any of them to submit.

And Billy had never fucking felt so furious in his goddamn life.

Not even when Neil starting throwing back-handed slaps and dropping insults at the dinner table. Not even when Billy started getting into scuffles that devolved into fist-fights and another scorch-mark on his pristine academic record. Not even when his mom left without a second glance and left Billy to his shitty dad, his shitty life, this shitty feeling inside him that never goes away.

Steve’s scent personally fucking offended him, clawed underneath his flesh and buried itself in like a parasite and Billy needed it off, off, off.

He needed to erase it from Steve, erase it from the motherfucking Earth, needed –

– needed to rub it off with his own scent, needed to cover Steve and blanket his body with Billy’s body and shove his nose jaw chin into the crook of Steve’s neck and scrape it away –

The whistle sounds.

Billy slaps his face with a resounding smack so loud a couple guys turn.

“Woo!” He cries, jumps up once, and throws himself into the game.

Billy stays at the other end of the court. Stays away from where he senses – knows – Steve is.

It’s a full fucking effort, that’s all Billy will say. And he still pummels everyone on the court. Though Billy and Steve are on the same team.

They don’t pass to each other once.

At one point, when Billy is the only one open, Steve glances around and takes the shot despite having no chance of making it.

They win, of course, but that dumb as fuck move still makes them lose a point.

Billy makes sure to ram right into Steve’s shoulder as he’s walking past, and Steve stumbles heavily.

The glow of satisfaction heats Billy all the way down to the pads of his fingers.

It only lasts as long as it takes Billy to notice that Steve is ignoring him. Billy is getting dressed, enduring the celebratory slaps of some of the team as well as their wandering eyes, when he chances a look over at Steve and.

Nothing.

Steve’s back is turned to him, towelling his wet hair and drying off his body.

Billy feels his tongue grow fat and puffy inside his mouth as he watches Steve pull his shirt over his head, his lean arms flexing, his flat chest –

Billy looks away.

Looks back.

Steve’s dressed, head lowered, already finished after some kind of one second shower.

Billy hasn’t even started on a shirt. Steve’s eyes don’t land on him once.

He’s not looking at Billy.

He’s so focused on getting out as fast as possible that he hasn’t even glanced over, not even in curiosity.

Billy is literally the most physically attractive person in Hawkins. He’s in the best shape of his life and certainly in better shape than anyone in this shitty town, and Steve can’t even be bothered to check him out.

Not even in mild interest. Not even by accident.

Steve is studiously ignoring Billy. And he’s fucking succeeding. There’s not one slip up, because Billy would know. He would feel Steve’s eyes on him and he would know.

Steve leaves quietly. He brushes past everyone with his head down and leaves through the door and Billy stares after him the whole time.

What the fuck? What? The fuck? The fucking fuck?

Steve’s not even a little intrigued by Billy? Not even a split second of curiosity for the New Kid? Not even one momentary lapse?

Billy, who everyone looks at. Middle aged women and pencil-straight jocks, everyone. Isn’t good enough for Mr. Perfect? Mr. Sweater Vests and Wholesome Pie?

He's not about to throw a tantrum, but why the fuck didn’t Steve look at Billy? Billy's a fucking Greek God. He’s practically made out of marble at this point. He warrents some freaking attention. A frustration swells up inside him, rises in his throat: a petulance he can barely remember feeling since he was five years old.

It feels as if all his organs have been wrung out and laid to dry. Fucking hell. He hates Harrington, now he wants his attention? He’s disgusted by his scent and now that it’s gone he wants it back? He's furious at Harrington's existance but insulted at being ignored?

“Christ, Hargrove, pick a feeling.” Billy scrubs a hand across his face.

What the fuck is going on?

“Huh?” Tommy asks.

Billy ignores him. He heads out into the corridor towards his locker, opens it up, and inhales the musty stale air of the tin-can.

It clears his head a little. It still feels as if Steve’s scent is all over him, seeping into him, and Billy wants to rip the fucking feeling off. Wants to tear at his clothes and his skin and have a shower for a freaking year. 

Nothing makes sense. Not one fucking thing, and the sooner this day ends the better. Billy unloads a couple books and his gym clothes, closes the door, and then –

His head snaps around. 

That scent. That acrid fucking smell. It offends every single one of his senses worse than sewage, and it’s stronger than it was in the locker room. It's stronger than Steve Harrington's scent.

Billy follows it all the way to a girl. She leans against her locker, collects some books and stuffs them into her bag.

It’s the girl Billy saw Steve walk off with under his arm.

It’s her. Her smell that’s all over Steve. Her scent that’s on Steve’s skin.

Her scent is on Steve’s bare skin, and it radiates off him so thickly it’s as though he’s absorbed it.

Billy freezes on the spot. And then a soft wash of outrage comes down on him like a monsoon, and Billy isn’t aware of his body, of his mind, only that he needs to–

“Woah!”

Fucking Tommy Hagan.

Tommy jerks back when Billy spins around with a mouth full of bared teeth.

“Jeez, the fuck is your problem?” Tommy staggers back.

“Who is that?” Billy grips Tommy’s front, yanks him around, and points to the girl. People are glancing over: he doesn’t care. “Is she Alpha too?”

“What, no!” Tommy laughs. “Wheeler? Nancy Wheeler? She’s Beta dude.”

Billy looks over quick and finds her retreating back, oblivious to the scene they're causing. He feels a wave of anger and desperation and fear so strong it stings his throat because he needs to get to her, to tell her, to explain to her that no, she can't smell like that –

“No way to assert the dominance like stealing the King’s girl, huh?” Tommy laughs low. “I’m kinda fucking impressed, Hargrove.”

Billy spares Tommy a glance. “What?”

“Nancy.” Tommy nods to where she left. “That’s Steve’s girlfriend. This what's got you so interested?”

Billy stares. His fingers, lifeless, release Tommy in a limp movement.

“Hargrove? Yo, Earth to Billy?” Tommy waves a hand in front of his face, an awkward chuckle forcing its way up his throat. He glances around at the eyes on them and turns back to Billy, expression caught in a stilted smile.

It doesn’t make sense. Billy doesn’t know Steve Harrington. He’s never met the guy before today, could hardly point him out in a crowd. He knows nothing about Harrington: not his hobbies, not his future plans, not even his fucking ice cream preference.

But Billy’s gut sinks to the soles of his boots. It's as though he's been sucker-punched with a fist.

He realises he’s motionless, open-mouthed, and only manages to gather his wits enough to stalk out the front doors of Hawkins High toward the Camaro.

He’s halfway there when he realises he can’t leave. He needs to wait for Max. He needs to take her home.

Billy does a U-Turn and strides across the parking lot. He probably looks like a complete idiot.

But he keeps walking, no clue where he’s going, only that there’s an energy that’s about to explode out of him.

Steve Harrington has a girlfriend. He’s got a girlfriend. A serious enough girlfriend to have scent-marked, and to be scent-marked by.

That's what the smell is. It's not Steve. It's his fucking girlfriend's. It probably smells like nothing, smells like simple Beta or coconut or apple shampoo or cheap perfume or clean, normal skin.

It only smells fucking awful to Billy because Steve - because Steve is - because Billy -

Billy stops. He bends with hands on his knees, stares at the concrete beneath his feet. The edges of his vision grow fuzzy the longer he stares, spots of grey popping whenever he blinks.

It’s not. It’s not. It’s not.

Billy swallows down bile. He closes his eyes and takes a slow breath. He begs himself not to know it, to ignore it, push it down and deny it, just shove it down down deep down and away.

But he can't. 

He thought it would be different. Isn't it meant to be different? He's heard the stories, but Billy never thought any of them would happen to him. Sure it's not exactly rare for Alpha's to find one, but Billy never exactly factored it into the five year plan.

And isn’t it meant to be Alpha's and Omega's this shit happens to?

Since when does this happen between two Alpha's?

The stories paint it as wonderful, beautiful, a moment of recognition and peace and understanding. 

But no. Billy nearly chokes his mate to death on their first meeting.

Because of course Billy would meet his mate here, now: when he’s eight months away from finishing high school and needs to give the best perfomance of his life, on the court and in the classroom, to get back to California.

And of course Steve’s taken. Of course he’s not interested. Story of his life. Billy’s never gotten anything he wanted, so why should the apparent love of his fucking life be any different?

Chapter Text

Billy thinks he does a pretty good job of ignoring Steve Harrington after that.

Well. If a good job can be classed as goading, prodding, and taunting Harrington at every chance he gets.

It’s not Billy’s fault. Steve – Harrington, it’s Harrington now – just reacts so beautifully that he practically invites the torrent of abuse.

Billy wouldn’t exactly call it abuse, either. It’s more friendly teasing.

It just takes a little while to really rile him up. Takes a good few attempts; he won’t do anything after the first, second, or third prod.

But if Billy keeps pressing, keeps pushing his buttons, a flush will slowly steal its way over his face. The colour will drip down his chest and spill over his ears and his nose until he’s sat, purple-faced, vibrating in his seat, and studiously ignoring Billy.

Billy: who’s either flicking wads of balled up paper into his shirt collar, pushing off Harrington’s chair with one leg and balancing practically mid-air, turning off Harrington’s gym shower-tap every time Harrington turns it on, pressing himself up against Harrington’s back as Harrington dribbles the ball, or doing anything and everything Billy can think of that just might fucking annoy him.

The problem is that Harrington doesn’t even look at him. Not once. He doesn’t give Billy a second of his attention, as though Billy’s so far beneath it that Harrington can barely haul his eyes down to give him a glance.

And it pisses Billy off.

It wriggles right under his skin and squirms, squirms all fucking day until Billy feels like he’ll explode if he doesn’t punch something or scream or make Harrington look at him.

Billy gets it. He does. He got the message loud and clear and in neon writing; Steve Harrington is not interested. Steve Harrington is taken.

And sure, did Billy think they might have a fucking civil discussion about being ‘mates’? Whatever the fuck that word entails.

Did he think Harrington might have the common decency to let him down like a gentleman, to discuss the ins and outs of how this might work – being mates and going to the same school and seeing each other every day apart from the weekends and, what, it being hard? It being really fucking painful for Billy?

Nah. Fuck that. Billy will be fine. Screw that guy, right? That’s what Harrington is effectively saying when he ignores Billy all day. When he slings an arm around Wheeler’s shoulder all casual and familiar.

Because Billy knows that Steve knows. He just does.

He knows that Steve felt that same awareness the first day in locker-room, knows that Steve recognised what it was instantly. It might have took a second for Billy to catch up – because Steve was lathered in Nancy Wheeler’s fucking scent – and it didn’t make sense, it didn’t immediately trip the wire in his brain what was going on.

But Steve must have known instantly.

He must have scented Billy, unadulterated and pure, scented that Billy was his mate – and known intrinsically, inexplicably, that this person he’d known for three seconds was the person meant for him, the person his instincts screamed out for, clawed him apart at the seams to stake a claim to.

How could he have not?

There’s no possible way he didn’t feel it.

Billy felt it even while Steve was so scent-marked, it was like two sticks of cinnamon shoved up Billy’s nose and lodged into his brain tissue. Billy still feels it even now, while Steve ignores him and brushes him off and acts as though Billy is dirty gum on the sidewalk.

So Steve must fucking feel it, with the way Billy is throwing himself at Steve at every turn and forcing Steve to acknowledge it, just fucking acknowledge Billy as his mate.

Billy saw it in that split-second recognition in Steve’s eyes. He saw it in the way Steve marched up and pressed the weight of his head against Billy’s, nostrils large, expression dark.

Then it was gone, quick as that. Steve avoids looking anywhere near him, keeps his head bowed and lowered whenever Billy is in the vicinity. Keeps his jaw clenched, tongue bitten and expression clean as Billy pokes at him every which way.

Billy doesn’t think he would mind a rejection. He could respect a rejection. He would understand it, find closure in in, say alright cool you had the balls to reject me, fair play.

But this cold shoulder? This complete silent treatment, as if Billy doesn’t even exist? That lights a fire right inside Billy and it burns him up.

To be ignored by his own fucking mate. Yeah, that stings.

Billy is popular, smart, ambitious, and hot as hell. Still it didn’t make a difference. Still it didn’t dent the opinion of the one person who is meant to accept him and want him above anyone else.

And Billy can understand it. He understands. Steve’s mate is a guy and an Alpha? There’s pretty much nothing more abhorrent or unnatural.

Usually these situations happen predominantly between Alpha’s and Omega’s. Sure there might be the odd same-sex couple thrown in for good measure who get a few glances, who might not get served a milkshake at a specific diner, but are otherwise accepted as being mates. Irrefutable. Indisputable. Alpha and Omega.

Even if the whole reproduction thing is made harder, there are surrogates and ways to go about it. Because Alpha’s and Omega’s have the best combination of DNA, produce the healthiest of babies with the healthiest set of genes.

The odd ones are anything in-between that. Most people don’t even believe them.

An Omega with an Omega? The ever loving fuck are they meant to do during a heat? There’s barely one braincell left to share between them once the frenzy kicks in.

And a Beta and an Omega? A Beta and an Alpha? How on Earth can they be mates if Betas don’t even experience a mating cycle at all? Just plain old normal sex, lights off when someone’s feeling frisky and it’s all over in ten seconds? How are they meant to last a bare minimum of three whole days?

An Alpha and an Alpha. That’s unnatural. It’s impure.

Alpha’s are meant to settle down with Omega’s and raise children in a loving, balanced household. Even if they couple are same-sex, at least their natures are different: at least their natures are there to show kids a healthy, normal relationship.

And an Alpha with an Alpha has got to be the worst out a bad bunch. Even if it were man and woman, wedded in holy matrimony and all that shit, if they were both Alpha’s – well, it would take a lot of convincing for anyone to take them seriously.

There’s scent-marking, of course, and then the bond that naturally occurs after a heat-cycle spent together between mates. A bond that’s been studied and examined and theorised over. A mind-link, some people call it. A shared awareness of emotion and thought. It’s easily identifiable through a quick run of the mill brain-scan and questionnaire to match up answers. What are they thinking right now? We are going to show them a picture, can you see it?

So Billy gets it. The options aren’t exactly appealing. Ignore Billy and hope he goes away; or accept Billy as his mate and deal with the ramifications, social stigma, rigmarole of proving their relationship, the blood tests and invasive examinations, all just to be sneered at by middle-aged white ladies for the rest of his life?

Yeah. Billy knows the one he would pick.

Only – it’s not the one that Billy has actually picked.

Because as Billy lies awake at night, staring at the white wallpaper peeling off the ceiling, he realises that he would rather know love even if it was hard than to not know love at all.

He realises that’s the option he would always pick. In Steve Harrington’s shoes, even if it were new and terrifying and Billy had never thought about a guy that way or imagined his life having an additional layer of added bullshit to it, Billy would still find a way to explain to Wheeler and to talk to Steve. He would just find a way.

Steve Harrington is a fucking coward, Billy thinks with venom when Steve avoids his gaze for a full week. He’s a coward and it eats Billy up inside. And the thing that eats him up is the simple fact that it does eat at him, while Harrington seems to manage on just fine.

And maybe this is just because Billy is the scorned party in this scenario. Maybe if Billy actually were in Steve’s position, going about his small Suburban life with his perfect little girlfriend until Steve Harrington rocked up and unsettled the very foundations he had laid his whole life. Maybe he’d feel different.

Yeah. Billy can sometimes see it from Steve’s Harrington’s perspective.

Because sometimes Billy gets the feeling that Harrington isn’t exactly managing fine. Sometimes, Billy gets the feeling that he’s grappling at straws just as much as him, that his tight shoulders and stiff posture whenever Billy’s around is a little more than annoyance, his blood-red flush across his whole chest something more than irritation.

But what exactly, Billy has no goddamn clue. And Christ, to have no contact at all? To studiously and utterly ignore Billy the entire time they’ve got left at high-school?

Couldn’t they at least try for friends? Billy’s heard of platonic mate-bonds. Maybe they aren’t as common or as strong as the romantic ones but they work just as well. Some people’s soulmates are their friends: some people are meant to be together throughout their lives in different ways. Some people just click, work together, understand one another without the need for words.

They might make good friends. If Harrington doesn’t want the whole hassle that comes with a romantic bond, wouldn’t a platonic bond be the next best bet?

Why does it immediately have to jump to fucking radio silence?

Billy would take a platonic bond. Better than nothing.

So what if Billy’s – fucking reluctantly – attracted to Harrington? What the fuck does that matter? Surely some platonic mate-bonds have an element of attraction to them. At least a modicum of some kind of interest has gotta be there. Doesn’t everyone think about that sort of shit with their friends at least once, even out of pure and simple curiosity?

Christ, is Billy really supposed to believe that these platonic mates haven’t ever even thought about it? The idea never once popped into their head? He calls bullshit.

And Billy could handle it. The attraction, that is. Steve Harrington isn’t fucking irresistible. He’s good looking: that’s it. So Harrington would have Wheeler and Billy would have. Something, somewhere down the line. And they wouldn’t have to fight their instincts every day, instincts that scream at Billy and must, must, must scream at Steve for them to acknowledge whatever the fuck is going on.

Well. The answer is evidently no in Harrington’s eyes. To any of it. Because after a week he’s still ignoring Billy as much as the first day they met.

Billy has pretty much exhausted every way to piss him off, and in turn that pisses Billy off, so he shoves Harrington in the hallways and starts ignoring him back.

A heavy silence descends over them both.

A silence that Billy will be damned if he breaks first.

So of course there’s a Halloween party at somebody called Tina’s house, who Billy has never met and hopes it stays that way. Billy’s only going because there’s absolutely nothing else to do. At least in California there were options.

Nope: Hawkins seems to have a set schedule of one event every weekend. House party, house party, house party. He’s almost sure they have a rota.

He puts the barest minimum effort into a costume, throws a leather jacket on and calls himself someone from Grease. It’s not as if Billy actually cares about this dumb hick town and its hick little residents. He’s not about to fork out any cash.

He walks because he feels like it, even though it is in fact the 31^st of freaking October. His breath blows out in plumes, the tip of his nose grows numb, and the rough, dry sound of his hands rubbing together cracks in the air like a gunshot.

Billy arrives cold, hungry, and pretty pissed off. What the fuck is new.

He finds the punch easily, doesn’t use the scoop as he grabs a cup and dips it in. There’s a girl watching him. Billy takes a long swig before he gives her a grin, crunching on ice. The punch drips over his fingers and down his wrist.

She blinks, flips her hair to her back and turns around.

Billy laughs, bright and loud and a little over the top. She ignores him, but Billy can smell her interest a mile away. She’s practically projecting. Hawkins and their poor repressed little lives. She’ll never know what it feels like to flirt a little, to be a bit fucking daring and brave and wild. Just fucking WILD for the sake of it.

And she’ll never know that Billy knows: too used to Beta’s and their useless noses. Now that’s just the icing on the cake.

“Billy!” A voice booms in his ear, and then Tommy slaps his back in one sharp movement, too quick for Billy to grip his wrist and bend all four fingers back.

Billy whips around, ready to crack his knuckles on Tommy’s jaw, until he sees the group gathered behind Tommy.

He twists his mouth up into a smile.

“Hey!” He barks, a little too hard to sound genuine. They all seem none the wiser. Billy counts four extra heads alongside Tommy, all staring at him with wide eyes as though Billy is some exotic new animal at the zoo.

It rankles right under his ribcage and sits there, undigested. Billy hates these stares. He hates every single fucking thing about Hawkins, but he hates these stares the most.

Billy has never hated being the only Alpha in a room until the room acted as though that fact was the most freakishly weird thing to ever fucking occur. It’s as if a bolt of lightening has struck right at everyone’s feet sixteen times. Billy would have thought the slack jaws were overkill if he couldn’t also smell the sheer shock and fascination.

It prickles the nape of his neck like a constant itch there’s no scratch for.

But Billy keeps the grin in place, because even if Tommy is showing Billy off like some prize chicken at the farm, he’s still managed to gather quite an audience here.

And Billy needs to work on a little something called his popularity. If he’s staying here in this shit hole for an indeterminate amount of time, he should probably start settling in.

As much as Billy might fucking resent it, having people to sit with in the canteen would make life a bit easier. As easy as life in Hawkins is going to get.

“Are you gonna do the keg stand?” Tommy asks, eyes bright. “Harrington’s the current record holder, but I figure you could beat him easy.”

Now that.

That perks Billy’s attention right on up.

“Huh.” He says, mouth pursed. “Huh. Whereabouts is this thing?”

“Outside.” Tommy tips his head backwards. “Harrington’s best is forty seconds. Think you can do it?” There’s a mean glint in Tommy’s eyes, anticipatory and spiteful. Billy thinks there’s probably a personal reason for his obsession with beating Steve Harrington, but he can’t really care right now.

Because Billy really fucking needs to beat Steve Harrington.

So in response, Billy shoves his cup at Tommy chest and barges past him into the backyard.

Sure enough there’s a keg stand, and someone being gentled down from a handstand with a vaguely green look about them.

Billy grins wide, rolls his shoulders, and starts forward.

He lasts forty-two.

Tommy’s screeching right in his goddamn eardrum and another guy is tapping his watch frantically in his face, but Billy keeps going. His shirt falls down so far that it bunches around his throat and exposes his whole abdomen, which gets a cheer of catcalls and whistles.

So Billy lifts one hand off the wet ground and undoes all the buttons. The cheering gets louder. He puts both hands back on the ground and does a push-up, really fucking showing off, really milking it at this point, until a sudden rush of light-headedness hits him and somebody shouts, “Forty-two!”

Billy swings his legs down and throws his hair back in a wet arc with a manic grin, every row of teeth on display. The cheering and whistles practically shake the ground, and Billy throws a fist in the air with a holler of, “WOO!”

Pride glows in his gut because he beat him, he beat Steve Harrington, he fucking proved himself. Billy shoves his jacket and then his shirt off, soaked through his beer. The ladies all squeal and laugh into one another, so Billy drops them a wink and makes them giggle louder.

Tommy hands him a cigarette; Billy bites it off his fingers and waits until he holds up the lighter up for Billy. Tommy’s beaming, bright and flush-faced, cupping the flame close to his mouth. Billy sniffs the air a little, but he only finds beer and smoke and drunken happiness coming off him.

Billy’s about the last person in the world that would have a problem with a guy being into him, and he’s certainly fucking used to it by now, but for some reason he finds himself relieved.

It’s fine when it’s girls. It’s easy, and familiar, and Billy can take them for dates and half-ass them the entire time and somehow make them like Billy even more, as if he’s a wounded animal in need of healing. But it’s always fine because nothing happens and no feelings are involved and Billy maintains his image while they maintain the fucking honour of getting a date with him.

It gets messy with guys. Firstly it’s not fucking allowed: in school, at the movie theatre, at a diner, at the park, at any public venue. Sure it can be played off as friends, but the glances and the whispers and the clipped responses from the waiter always bleed in eventually. The cogs start whirring, start snapping into place.

It gets messy because feelings always get involved, somehow, in every situation. It’s never as easy as a kiss behind the bleachers and a casual nod in the hallway. It always hurts someone; somewhere along the line. Someone always either wants to take it that step forward and go on a date or they want to cut ties entirely, and there’s no in-between. There’s only Billy, caught in the fucking middle of this fucking ultimatum, all the time.

And that was California.

Billy is willing to make a bet that Hawkins would take a pitchfork to anyone they so much as think is homosexual.

The other problem is that Billy’s dad is a raging homophobe. In addition to being a general and all round piece of shit.

It’s 1985. It’s not illegal. Be the change you want to see in the world and all that bullshit. Don’t be a coward. Don’t be a bitch. Stand up to him. Stand up for fucking something.

Billy’s heard it all. And maybe he would have, if the guy saying it was a good enough reason to give up everything.

But Billy can’t give Neil Hargrove the satisfaction. He can’t give Neil the fight he’s been looking for his whole life, and the excuse to do a little more than dirty up his face.

He’d rather die than allow it.

Neil will be long dead and Billy will be at least ten states away from his grave before he takes a guy out on a date. Before he stops feeling that every little passing attraction, every stupid little crush, just confirms Neil’s worst assumptions and so maybe everything else he said about Billy was right too.

Billy stiffens. Something zaps along his spine.

Steve’s here.

Billy can’t scent anything. He’s covered in beer and he’s smoking a cigarette and he’s surrounded by half the house party, but he knows it.

Somehow, Billy knows Steve is here.

He starts back towards the house, Tommy hot on his heels. People clap his back and shake his shoulders as he passes but he barely notices, too intent on finding Steve. The alcohol has made him stupid, lowered his guards, and all he wants is Steve.

The same scent – strange and wrong, like the sensation of anaesthesia at the back of his throat – makes itself known the closer Billy gets. It sinks its nails into Billy’s brain even while he wants, he needs, to be closer to it. It makes no goddamn sense and the alcohol and the headrush have mingled in his brain to make his vision fuzzy at the edges.

Billy is inside, finally, and he whips his head around–

There.

Steve’s stood with a plastic cup, shoulders slouched, in a dark sweater and a pair of sunglasses. Who the fuck is he meant to be? He looks hot and rakish and devil-may-care. His hair is perfect. Fuck him.

Nancy Wheeler stands beside him. They both look utterly miserable, as though they would rather be anywhere else.

But Billy can’t detect anything from him.

For some reason, that fact sticks in his head. If Billy really wanted he could scent everyone in this entire room. He could scent their state of drunkenness and if they’ve taken weed or what deodorant they use and probably their current emotional state if he concentrated hard enough.

And Steve is Billy’s mate. Steve Harrington is Billy’s mate and he’s got no other proof other than he knows it, knows it to be true, deep down in his bones and in the marrow of them as well he’s fucking sure of it. He’s heard the stories, and they all paint the same picture, and it’s the same picture Billy is slapped in the face with every day.

But he can’t scent Steve.

There’s still that Wheeler smell, her scent all over his clothes, but there’s no Steve underneath. It’s as if Steve doesn’t have a scent.

But that can’t be right. It just can’t be right. He needs to be closer.

Billy starts to make his way over. He bumps into people along the way, drunk and clumsy, steps on the sofa and over the lap of a couple making out, jumps off the sofa and finally, finally –

“Looks like we have a new Keg King, Harrington!” Tommy crows, right up against Billy’s back.

Billy doesn’t pay him any attention. He crowds up as close as he physically can without looking overeager, takes the cigarette out his mouth and juts his chin out to scent the air – he’s assaulted with Wheeler’s perfume, her laundry detergent, her powdery lipstick clinging to the corner of Steve’s mouth.

A pit of furious anger opens up in Billy’s gut, replaces the swell of pride and fills him up to his toes until he’s drowning in it.

Steve flips his sunglasses down and sizes Billy up.

Billy stands, frozen, because Steve has barely so much as looked at him the whole week he’s been here. His eyes are darker in the harsh kitchen light. They’re almost black. He blinks lazily like a cat as he brings his gaze up from Billy’s stomach to meet Billy’s eyes.

Billy is stiff, still, caught in Steve’s stare. His eyes are hard and focused and tense. They’ve got a hold of him and Billy can’t move.

Nancy huffs, tosses her hair and leaves.

Billy barely notices her go, until Steve tears his gaze away and his shoulders slouch further as he notices her retreating figure. “Nance!” He calls out, already going after her.

Billy blinks, dispelling the moment. He watches Steve Harrington’s back fade into the crush of people to comfort his girlfriend.

Billy feels fucking pathetic. He swallows the bitter, ashy rejection. Then he grabs a cup and starts drinking with the intent to black out.

*

The next time Billy comes to, he’s flat-out on his back in the yard, arms and legs star-fished. He blinks, the haze clears from his eyes, awareness rushes back in, and Billy thinks oh. This is where I am.

Billy tries to lift his head up to little success. So he does the next best thing: he fishes a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out his pocket. He’s just clicked the flame on with unfeeling fingers when he hears a voice.

“Fucking hell, there you are.”

It sounds angry, low and half-muttered. Billy rolls his eyes up. Steve Harrington is upside down, hands on hips, glaring at him.

“Nnh?” Billy tries.

“Come on, you’ll set yourself on fire.” Steve reaches down and grabs his lighter out his numb fingers. He puts it in his own pocket.

“Ey!” Billy slurs. “S’ mine.” He tries to get up but only manages to roll onto his side and push around into a sitting position. Once achieved, Billy holds out an open palm.

Steve just raises a brow at him. “No. Come on, we’re going home. Been looking for you for the past hour.”

Billy feels his own eyebrows rise, his features slackening in surprise. “Yeh?” He asks. He tries to ignore how obviously warm his voice sounds. It’s nothing. It’s whatever, Steve won’t notice.

Steve huffs and looks off to the side. He taps his foot on the grass. It’s so familiar to Billy that it comes as a shock to realise Steve is actually talking to him, initiating conversation, looking at him.

And Billy’s currently too fucking drunk to appreciate it.

Billy squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head so hard his earrings whack his chin, then gets to his feet. He’s on the way back down when a hand shoots out and grabs his jacket.

Billy blinks. Steve’s clutching him close. His fingers are fisted tight in the leather, strong and steady.

Billy can’t form a response.

“You’re drunk.” Steve decides.

Well fucking done, Billy wants to say.

Instead, Billy closes a hand around Steve’s wrist. He feels Steve’s pulse beat against his fingertips, the same way he did the first day they met. His pulse is racing.

“Billy?” Steve gives him a little shake. “Come on, party’s over. I’m taking you home.”

Billy blinks again, fuzzy, feels his expression furrow. “Huh?” He tries to focus on Steve’s face but it blurs in front of him no matter how much he clears his vision. That scent, that terrible smell, begins to permeate the air.

Billy lifts a hand to scrub his eyes, dislodging Steve’s hand in the process.

Steve’s hand falls to his side, listless.

“I.” Billy starts, then exhales in an explosive gust as he rubs his face. “God, I fuckin’ hate the way you smell, Harrington.”

“What the fuck!” Steve shouts. “Seriously? With this, again?”

Billy looks up, frowns. “What?”

“Look, you’ve made it pretty clear you’re not my biggest fan this whole week, Billy.” Steve crosses his arms over his chest. “I get it. Okay?”

Billy gapes. In a flash, he realises how this whole week might have looked from Steve’s perspective. The pushes, the shoves, the taunts, the snide remarks. They all look like rejection.

It looks as if Billy is loudly and obviously shouting: I don’t like you. I don’t want you.

I don’t accept you as my mate.

“No, I – that’s not it.” Billy takes a step forward, even though he’s close enough to Steve that Steve needs to take a step back, eyes widening at Billy’s sudden change.

Billy doesn’t care, a frantic desperation swelling up in his throat at the thought that it’s been Billy’s fault this entire time, that Billy’s the one who fucked this whole up.

“I – I didn’t – I’ve not – no, you don’t get it –” Billy tries, but his tongue feels fat and heavy and he can’t push the words out, he can form them together to make his point, his hands are clumsy as they reach out.

“Okay.” Steve puts both hands on his shoulder and steadies him. “I think you’re drunk.”

“I’m not, it’s not – I don’t not like you.” Billy manages to get out. Did that make any sense? “That’s not it, Steve, I just can’t stand the smell of–”

He's about to finish, of Wheeler, but Steve beats him to it.

“I don’t smell like anything!” Steve explodes. He holds his arm up to his nose and takes a loud sniff. “See? I don’t even sweat, that’s the point!”

Billy pauses, stumped. The air shifts, somehow: grows serious.

There’s a beat.

“The point of what?” Billy’s words are clear this time, voice low and husky.

Steve looks away. He doesn’t glance off to the side, though. He looks at their feet. “The – blockers, or whatever.” He waves a hand around.

Billy stares. “You take blockers?” Something starts to shrivel inside his stomach, because people who take blockers are sick. 

Steve nods. He looks up at Billy quick before blinking away.

“Are you.” Billy can barely finish. He feels cold.

“Huh? Oh, nothing’s wrong.” Steve is quick to assure; Billy is guessing because of the look on his face. “I just take them.” He gives a shrug. "I want to."

Which. Great.

Because this most definitely means that Steve can’t smell him, or anyone, and has no clue why Billy’s been acting the way he has for the past week. And this most definiteley the reason for the strange, wrong, medicated smell that rubs against the back of Billy's throat whenever Steve is near.

And this also means Steve has no clue that they’re mates.

Chapter Text

Billy had a plan, and it was a good plan. It was a fucking great plan. He had a list. He's had a list since he was thirteen, and he’s practically ticked everything off on it.

Become an Alpha. Become stronger. Become better.

There were more specific stages than that, sure. But those three have pretty much been the gist of it his whole life.

When Billy was thirteen, the motivation for that plan was to move out his shitstorm of a house and take his mom with him.

To get them a place, nothing fancy, nothing big. Just a place near his college, so with his scholarship money he could get a part time job and his mom could find work and they’d pool together their small fortune and they’d get by. That’s all.

It wasn’t some grand scheme, some idea of fame and fortune. Billy didn’t particularly want to be the next star basketball player. He didn’t want to be a teacher or a scientist or a writer or an accountant or a lawyer or a doctor. He didn’t want anything. He just wanted that little apartment building near his college, maybe a couple friends to sit with in lectures, and to come home knowing his mom was safe.

Knowing she was free, and happy, and safe. He figured the rest would come eventually. If he had that, nothing else mattered.

Now, though, the motivation is different.

Now, it’s to get as far away as fucking humanly possible from Neil Hargrove and everything associated with him.

The college doesn’t matter. The job doesn’t matter.

Billy’s got no hobbies squeezed into the soul-sucking schedule that is eatsleephomeworkpractise. Even the fucking food he eats can’t be classed as enjoyable. Eating is a job. Dry fucking chicken and rice, tasteless fucking vegetables, day in day out. Billy needs to look away most days when he sees people stuffing their faces with burgers and fries. His mouth floods with saliva before he swallows the thick paste down.

Billy's quickly realised that if he wants to rise to the top of his school, and then every school in America, he needs to look the part as well as play it.

The scout would have to take one look at him in a line-up and see that he was different: see the physical evidence of how superior he was, how hard he’d trained, how much more committed, more determined – how much fucking better Billy was.

Sure, food is fuel and energy. It’s protein, nutrition, vitamins, minerals, and everything else. Sure, if Billy tailors it just right, he can feel the difference of an energy bar or a protein shake while he’s working out.

But in fitness it’s also a diet, and a strict fucking one at that. And diets are pretty much used for one thing and one thing only: appearances. Either people want to lose weight or pack on muscle. There’s no in-between.

It’s in every goddamn book Billy takes out the library — browsing the aisles along with middle-aged women and pot-bellied men, who give him glances up and down as if he’s either lost or insane.

Everyone wants to look different. Everyone wants to escape that reflection in the mirror. 

But Billy can’t afford a personal trainer or a gym membership, or pretty much anything other than crappy dumbbells and fresh groceries still caked in dirt from any little food stalls he can find.

So, libraries it fucking is. Billy doesn’t have the dough to buy the books, and it’s not as though he could go home with them anyways, sit with his legs crossed and Best Recipes for Fitness or The Good Gut Diet or some of the worse titles like How to Get That Perfect Body perched on his knee.

Other than the slight issue of it being motherfucking mortifying, Neil’s sure to ask questions. Sure to shove his nose right in. Sure to scoff, find new ways to mock, invent new insults and pick pick pick like an old scab until he got to the root of it.

Billy’s been flying under the radar for the last five years. Doing weights when Neil is at work. Spending his lunch-break on the track or on the court. Going to after school study and calling it detention, which – to everybody’s fucking surprise – Neil actually prefers. Billy’s tried it both ways.

Hiding every award underneath the bed in a shoebox and below a stack of cassette tapes. Updating the landline in his school records with a new pizzeria every time they told him they’d called and the number was wrong. Fucking up the Parent’s Night date and suffering the rant and the backhand for it. Waving off the teachers and their invites to galas and literature festivals and science fairs.

So he’s not about to give everything away with some misplaced cookbook.

Now, the one little problem, the one little hitch in his ironed out wrinkle free plan, is Steve Harrington.

The day after Billy meets Steve — and subsequently a couple hours after Billy realises he both has a mate and his mate is fucking unavailable and uninterested — Billy works out some of his anger with a basketball and an old hoop in his shitty new backyard.

He pummels it against the hard earth, again and again and again, shoots it through the ring endlessly and tirelessly until he just tosses it over his shoulder and goes for a run.

The restlessness crawls up his spine and tries to split it apart. It shivers up his hairline and buzzes every single nerve until Billy barely feels the wind rush past, barely feels the numbness of his nose and ears and fingers and feet, barely feels goddamn anything other than this desperation clawing at every single part of him.

He runs straight down the middle of some empty road that curves around the thick forests of Hawkins; a long, stretched grey asphalt like an elastic ring around the town. Mist floats in the distance, and Billy aims for somewhere inside the mist, his eyes glazed and unseeing.

He hears the car before he sees it. The roar of an engine behind him, swerving just in time for the blare of a horn.

Billy staggers to a halt. Then he barks out a laugh. His heartbeat is fast and pounding against the inside of his throat, metallic and harsh. But he throws up the middle finger as some old rust-bucket shakes unevenly as it tries to find its feet.

Then the hilarity of it all really hits Billy, and it's not funny at all but that’s what's so hilarious.

Billy bends over, hands on his knees, and laughs with some kind of wild-hyena glee.

Because of course he gets to this tiny town in his last year of high-school, a town that maybe 2 scouts visit – which means Billy basically needs to make local fucking news to be anything of interest to the big leagues.

Only not just that, to top it all off, to place the pristine little cherry right in the fucking centre, his mate – a thing he’s never wanted, never imagined, never fantasised about or made space for in his life – lives here and doesn’t want shit to do with him.

Not to give Billy something to focus on other than escape from Neil, or offer a bright spot in the dark and gnarled mess that’s become his life. Nope.

Just to rub it in that Billy is unwanted while he’s already going through a real, real shitty time.

There’s just a beautiful kind of irony there. A poetic sense of injustice to it all.

Billy's never once entertained the idea of having a mate, could have gone his entire life without sparing it a thought.

But now, if the topic ever so much as comes up in conversation, plus once every three months when his rut kicks in, all that will flood Billy’s mind is Steve’s face.

Tears come hot to his eyes and sting the roof of his mouth.

Then Billy shakes his head and thinks fuck this.

It's the same thought he has when his legs are jelly and he can barely crawl out of bed, when shitting hurts so bad he needs to hold his sides and fold in half, when he smells fresh popcorn at the movie theatre and feels as if he could ravage the whole place like a damn werewolf.

It's a determination: a real, concrete strength. Because Billy's made it this far. He's done it this long. Only a little longer to go. Only a little more. He's nearly there.

Billy starts running again. He manages to pick up the pace despite his frozen-stiff legs, his toes now individual icicles in his shoes.

He makes it home and collapses in a heap on his bed.

That night, Billy tells himself meeting Steve Harrington is a good thing. Billy will force it to become a good thing.

It will give him resolve. It will give him a fucking reason. It will push him to be better, to prove himself, to be the best mate anyone could ever want so it doesn't matter that Steve apparently doesn't when everyone else does.

He’ll shoot to the fucking top of Hawkins High, of Hawkins itself, of the fucking U.S. of A.

Because it does feel as if he lost his reason along the way a little. Lost any passion and hope and happiness in the idea of college after his mom left; all that remained was cold, hard determination without any joy to go with it.

Its been so long since he's actually experienced freedom in any kind, that the notion of being free, utterly and completely free, grows obscure and too hard to imagine.

It's so far away now, it's like imagining an alien planet.

But he can't allow it to. Billy focuses on something a little more believable – packing his bags. Loading them into the Camaro. Spitting dust in Neil’s face and flipping him the finger as he speeds off.

Nothing about the image is happy. But Billy burns for it, and that’s all that matters.

This being, of course, until Steve Harrington takes Billy home from Tina’s Halloween Party.

*

As soon as Steve says he’s on blockers, Billy is too stumped to do anything.

Steve sighs, comes up close, and hauls Billy’s arm around his shoulders to drag him off on clumsy feet.

To where, Billy doesn’t fucking know. At this point it’s becoming real damn difficult to hold his head up, so it lolls around uselessly and bumps Steve’s ear a couple times. His eyes are focused on the sky as Steve carries him away. His neck is tilted so far back that the stars are all he can see, the only thing that fills his line of vision.

Billy gets a sense of both how far away the stars are, the sense that there is billions and billions of miles of endless space between them, but also how massive the universe is.

He lifts a hand and holds a thumb-pad over one, but in the end it’s Billy who feels small. The empty air between them is unbreachable.

“The hell are you doing?” Steve sounds amused.

“You don’t see the stars in California.” Billy murmurs softly. “They’re.” His mouth hangs open, dumb and speechless. “Beautiful.” 

Billy would have the good grace to feel embarrassed if he were less drunk. As it stands, all he can do is gape uselessly at the sky.

“Come on, Stargazer.” Steve has stopped for a second, Billy realises. Because then they’re moving again and everything is sloshing uncomfortably inside him. Billy feels as if his organs have all hitched a ride on a fucking carnival without him.

“Uh oh.” Steve stops. “I don’t like the look of that face.”

Billy holds up a finger. Then he throws up on the wet grass.

Distantly, Billy can barely fucking believe that Steve missed him on the keg-stand being cool as fuck, but he’s present for this.

Once Billy’s done heaving his guts up, Billy straightens. He wipes the back of his mouth with his jacket sleeve. Knows he’ll regret that in the morning but can’t care now. His vomit is yellow and thin and, when Billy looks down, only lightly splattered across both his boots.

Nowhere near Steve.

“Good?” Steve peers at him cautiously. Because he’s still underneath Billy’s arm and pressed to his side.

Billy nods slowly: once. Then he pulls himself out of Steve’s hold and takes a breath.

“Come on.” Steve tips his head in a forward direction. “My house is just up there. You can go home after a glass of water. I doubt you’d make it to your own if I just left you here.”

Billy meets Steve’s gaze. “Why you being so damn nice to me?” He tries to ignore the way the world is still spinning on its axis.

Steve swallows. Shrugs. Runs a hand through his hair and tosses it around a bit. “Beats me, man. Feeling charitable tonight. That good enough?” He raises his brows at Billy.

Billy want to say, I’m not a charity case. Wants to say, fuck off. But the alcohol is still buzzing in his veins, and curiosity gets the better of him. It overtakes any bite he might have had.

He wants to know where Steve lives. He wants to see inside Steve’s house.

So Steve walks them down a road and through a patch of trees and Billy’s feet catch on twisted roots twice and makes him look like a stumbling idiot. He’s huffing and cold and irritated and snappish by the time they come through to a clearing and Billy realises no, not a clearing – it’s a fucking backyard.

It’s Steve’s backyard. Billy watches Steve make his way past the illuminated neon pool to slide the backdoor open, easy at that.

This is Steve’s house. Billy throws his eyes up to it. It looks more like a goddamn mansion.

Steve holds out a hand like a butler.

Billy follows in some kind of trace.

As soon as he steps foot in Steve Harrington’s house, Billy realises what he was hoping for. What he was expecting.

Why he agreed to come in the first place.

Because he scents the air immediately – a familiar habit picked up from a lifetime of being an Alpha, from being invited to somebody’s house and scenting the air on arrival, from being able to sense every little emotion ten times better because of it, from being able to comfortably relax after scenting a friend and their family and their belongings and know that he was in their house – and finds nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Steve’s home smells sterile and clean. It smells of dust and leather and wood. There’s absolutely no scent.

“This is too weird.” Billy stops at the threshold of Steve’s kitchen.

Because Billy knows Steve is an Alpha. He does. He can’t explain it but he knows it. There’s this surety in his chest, this feeling that Steve radiates dominance and power and Alpha.

But Billy’s always associated that feeling with an Alpha’s scent, and without it his instincts are scrambling. They want to tear this whole house down to find some evidence of what his brain is telling him. They want to shove against Steve and hope to find an answer there too. Billy needs to curl his nails into his palm to resist the urge.

“Fuck.” Billy scrubs hands over his face. “This is just too fuckin’ weird.”

His nose decides that Steve is Beta, while everything else screams Steve is an Alpha.

That Steve is Billy’s Alpha, even when Billy is already an Alpha and shouldn’t think of another one as his. Shouldn’t want another one to be his.

Everything is fucked up.

“What?” Steve asks, glancing around. The moonlight coming in from the open door throws all his features into high-relief. It throws him into a stark kind of beauty that Billy needs to look away from when it abruptly stings the base of his throat.

“This!” Billy waves a hand around and focuses his gaze on the bare, empty kitchen to avoid Steve’s ethereal figure at the doorway. “There’s no scent. Nothing is fucking scent-marked. It doesn’t feel like your house; it feels like we’re trespassing on two Betas.”

Two really stuffy Betas, who wipe every single surface down and spritz the air with Febreze every ten seconds.

“Uh.” Billy sees Steve rubs the back of his neck in his periphery, looking around in confusion. “I guess I wouldn’t exactly know.” He poses it as a question but he doesn’t sound unsure.

Instead he sounds – sad.

Billy turns to look at him fully. He finds Steve’s eyes thoughtfully passing over everything: the kitchen counters, the shelf in the corner full of ornamental crockery, the long dining table set with a tablecloth. His head is tilted, posture loose and vulnerable. His face is full of longing.

Billy throat goes suddenly tight, even though the sensation makes no sense.

“You’d know what I mean if you didn’t take blockers.” Billy states.

Then Steve’s expression shuts down: closes up shop. “Yeah.”

Billy swallows. “Why –”

“Sofa is over there, you take a seat and I’ll grab some water.” Steve waves a hand.

Billy, for reasons still unbeknownst to him, obeys instantly. His feet pull him in the direction Steve vaguely gestured to without a second thought.

He catches sight of the clock in the living room; 12:23 AM. He relaxes. 12AM is fine. 1 AM is pushing it, and 2 AM is a busted lip.

He sinks into the plush leather and listens to Steve in the kitchen. Billy feels warmth begin to suffuse the very corners of him at the thought that Steve is filling up a glass of water for him.

He’s taking care of Billy. He’s worried about Billy. He’s acting – maybe subconsciously – like a mate does. Fucking finally.

Little does he know, Billy isn’t drunk anymore and hasn’t been since he threw up at Steve’s feet. He rests his head back to try and appear a bit more inebriated, and then takes the glass that Steve passes him clumsily when he comes in.

Steve sits beside him with a juice box, as if he’s quite literally three years old. It’s not cute. It’s not.

He bites the straw and starts to drink, so Billy does the same. He finds the ashy, bitter taste of vomit easily, gargles the water around in his mouth to chase the stuff out his teeth, then swallows it all with a loud gulp.

“Gross.” Steve comments once Billy is done. He's holding his juice aloft like a wine glass.

Billy flashes him a prize-winning grin, all teeth.

“You done?” Steve asks.

“You’re the one that invited me to your freakin’ house, Harrington.” Billy reminds him.

“Starting to regret the decision, don’t worry.” Steve rubs his forehead with thumb and forefinger, as if Billy’s just once big headache.

Billy laughs loud and fake, just to be an ass. He hopes it wakes up Steve’s prissy parents.

“Much as it pains me to admit, Hargrove – because my heart is well and truly broken – you’re pretty popular now.” Steve explains, flat and sarcastic. “I’m just kinda hoping you’ll give me a break. You know, one act of human decency sparks another.” He swivels a hand, something he does a lot.

Billy blinks. Right. Sure.

He’s not worried about Billy. Of course he’s not worried about Billy.

Because Billy is a goddamn idiot.

Billy swallows the sting with a harsh sneer. “The fuck’s this then? A bribe?” He lifts his glass of water. “Shitty fucking –”

“Huh? No.” Steve frowns. “I – okay. I’m going through a bit of a rough patch with everything, and right now,” Steve clears his throat, “Well. My girlfriend is kinda the only person talking to me. Even then, I get the feeling she doesn’t exactly enjoy it.”

That stumps Billy. That really silences the fuck out of him.

“So. Yeah.” Steve finishes lamely, looks down at his carton. “I guess you’d be doing me a solid if you back up with the trash talk. Maybe cut me some slack in the hallways, maybe people see that and …” Steve shrugs. “I dunno. This was fucking stupid.”

Billy studies Steve for a beat. Studies the defeated line of his body, slumped into the sofa.

“Sure.” Billy decides.

Steve blinks. He looks at Billy. “Sure?”

“Yeah, sure. Got any gum?”

Steve blinks at the sudden 180-degree change in conversation, but fishes some out his pocket and offers it to Billy. Billy pops it in; cracks the hard shell and grins all obnoxious as Steve watches. Steve’s eyes stray to Billy’s mouth for a second before they snap up to his face.

“Yeah?” Steve aims for a smile: it falls a little flat with uncertainty but the sentiment warms Billy all the fucking same.

“Ya, why not?” Billy reaches over and does something he’s wanted to do since he saw Steve Harrington’s Perfect Face.

He fists a hand in Steve’s thick hair and tugs. Just a little. Just gently. But hard enough that Steve feels it.

Steve splutters, face bursting with colour. He bats Billy’s hand away. “The hell?” Steve smoothes his hair back.

The after-shocks of it all in Billy’s hand tingles against his skin. It’s as soft as it looks.

“Hey, if people saw me do that in the hallway, you’d be golden.” Billy pokes his tongue out the side of his mouth with a smile.

It’s a weak excuse, if anything, but Billy couldn’t go a second longer without doing it. Not when such a pristine opportunity presents itself like that. Not when Steve is sat inches away on the sofa, asking Billy to be nice to him, of all fucking things.

It’s sweet enough to stick a dagger right through Billy’s chest and out the other side. It’s just the right amount of vulnerable and still cocky somehow. Billy doesn’t even think Steve does it on purpose; doesn’t even think Steve’s aware that he’s doing it.

But the barely hopeful shine in his dark eyes, the soft smile that played at the edges of his mouth just there, the whole ‘this is fucking stupid’ – yeah, come bulldoze Billy over with a truck and he’d probably tell you he preferred it to this.

“If you do that in the hallways, everyone’ll think I’m another one of your lackeys.” Steve snorts.

“Hey.” Billy twists his torso around to better look at Steve. “What’s so bad about that?”

Steve gives him a deadpan look. “Come on Billy. You know they’re your little lap dogs, they come running if you so much as snap your fingers.”

Billy leans closer, face deadly serious. “Yeah? You above that?”

Steve falls quiet as Billy breathes centimetres away from his face.

“You too good for anybody’s lap?” Billy cocks a brow.

Steve swallows, the long line of his throat moving. “I’m.” His voice is a rasp, his eyes like velvet in the dark as they caress Billy’s face.

Billy leans back with a barked laugh, hoping to mask the pounding of his heart and the way it makes his hands tremble.

Getting up close and personal to Steve Harrington is its own drug: it should come with a health warning.

But he doesn’t want to disturb the tentative peace that’s sprung between them. Especially not by bridging the gap and mashing their mouths together, yanking Steve into his lap and showing Steve exactly what he means. Getting close is stupid enough.

“How – how’d you do that?”

Billy pauses in fluffing up his own hair. “Huh?”

Steve’s face is beetroot again, the way it goes when they’re in school and Billy is teasing him. Billy can see the racing of Steve’s pulse as it beats against the side of his throat. He wants to feel it underneath his tongue.

“Do – like that.” Steve flaps a hand towards Billy.

Billy stares, uncomprehending. “Do what?”

Steve huffs in frustration. “Come on, Billy. You know what I’m talking about. Is it an Alpha thing?”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“When you get all in someone’s personal space, make them go all light-headed and shit.”

Billy feels his eyes bug. “Light-headed?”

Absolute, complete joy pops in his chest like a bottle of champagne.

Steve’s face is only growing redder. “I – you know what I mean, it makes you go all weak and you can’t move and it’s like a trance, right?”

Billy face splits apart in some open-mouthed beam. He’s gaping while grinning. He’s never made this face before in his life. Then he makes a noise, a startled kind of squawk. It comes out totally unbidden.

“Are you – are you for real?” Billy manages to force through the beam.

“This is a thing! I’ve seen Alphas do it!” Steve sits up knife-straight and balls his hands.

Here’s the snag: it sort of is a thing. Billy does it all the time, and sometimes he does it without even meaning to. He uses his body to tower over people, to posture and pose and demonstrate to another Alpha that he’s stronger in mind and body. To illustrate to Betas why he’s so far superior. To entice an Omega with the promise of security and strength.

He’s pretty sure he tried it on Steve at Tina’s party.

But it wouldn’t work on somebody who’s taking blockers. He didn’t know Steve was on them at the time, but now he knows it makes this all the sweeter.

Because nobody describes it as a trace. Nobody calls it light-headedness. People call it a forceful submission, a battle of the wills, a frustrating defeat to unwillingly submit to another Alpha, or to challenge as a Beta and be thoroughly taken out.

And if Billy didn’t know any better, if Billy really has sunk right into one of his wildest dreams, he’d almost say that it sounds like Steve likes it. As though Steve has some kind of Omega reaction to it.

“You’re serious?” Billy leans forward, one hand going behind Steve’s shoulder to grip the sofa.

Steve leans away obviously. “I know you’re doing it, cut it out.” His throat bobs.

Billy licks his teeth and wets his lips. “I ain’t doing anything. Hey, how long you been on blockers?”

Steve’s eyes dart every which way. “Three years, why?”

Billy.

Billy blinks. “You what?”

He expected Steve to say a couple months. They’re not made to be on for that long. They’re a temporary fix for a couple health problems.

Nobody takes them voluntarily. Nobody takes them for years.

“Yeah, since I hit puberty and became Alpha.”

“What the fuck?” Billy barks. “What do you do during your ruts? Stop them?”

“What?” Steve asks.

“What do you do during ruts?” Billy repeats.

“What’s a rut?”

Steve’s face is open and expectant.

Billy laughs loud. “Ha!”

Steve’s gaze is even and steady.

Billy feels the smile drop off his mouth. “Steve.”

“What?” Steve asks.

“That’s a joke.” Billy states.

“What is?” Steve frowns. His eyes cloud with confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You … you know what a rut is.” Billy says slowly.

“No I don’t.”

Billy stares some more. “Can you stop fuckin’ around.”

“I’m not! I don’t know what you’re talking about! What the fuck is a rut?” Steve throws an arm out.

“I am not about to believe that you don’t have a clue what a rut is.” Billy tells him, matter-of-fact. “A rut. An Alpha’s rut. Every six months like fucking clockwork. An Alpha has a rut, an Omega has a heat.”

Steve’s eyes are wide, white. “Billy, please explain what the fuck you’re talking about because –”

“Oh my God.” Billy stands up. “Oh my God.” He shoves hands into his hair because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“Is this a big deal? Is it like a period? I don’t want a period Billy, please God –” Steve looks grey around the edges, as if he’s about to cry or throw up or both.

“Jesus Fuck!” Billy shouts. “Hawkins is fucked up! How can they not have told you about this! Christ, Steve, you must have read it in a book or heard it on TV –”

“Billy.” Steve stands up as well. “Explain or I’m gonna.” He searches around, clearly doesn’t find anything, and settles for throwing helplessly lost-puppy eyes at Billy.

“Okay. Okay.” Billy starts, nonsensical. He walks a few paces. “Okay okay okay. It’s. Okay. Don’t freak out.”

“What?” Steve whines. “You can’t just say that before you’ve told me –”

“It’s your mating cycle.” Billy blurts. “It’s just part of a normal, totally normal, totally healthy, mating cycle.”

Steve still looks utterly clueless.

“Steve, Jesus, help me out here.” Billy deflates, scrubs his face. “It’s nothing serious, right, it’s. It’s five or six days where you’re horny. Got it?”

Steve blinks. “That’s it?”

“Steve.” Billy states, finally meets Steve’s eyes. “I’ve been having them since I was fourteen. They’re no piece of fucking cake, okay? They’re meant to help find your mate and I’m guessing – pass on your genes and make babies and continue on the Alpha line. But to do that it’s gotta get you real fuckin’ motivated. First couple days aren’t so bad, you just feel kinda restless and like being touched is nails down a chalkboard and everyone is in your space. Then the last couple days hit like a freight train and you just gotta curl up in bed and ride it out.”

Steve’s eyes are wide, face white.

“Look.” Billy tries. “It happens the start of spring then again in winter, twice a year and that’s it. It’s not as bad at it sounds. It’s not as bad when you’re fucking used to it.”

“Sounds pretty shit, I think I’ll stick to not knowing anything about it.” Steve states.

“Woah, woah, woah.” Billy holds up a hand, takes a step closer. “Hold up. You don’t seriously – Steve, you need to have one.”

Steve blinks with such a force Billy can almost hear his freaking eyelids. “Come again?”

“I’m just gonna go ahead and suppose you’ve been having some difficulties in the bedroom.” Billy says with a cocked brow.

Steve’s head becomes a sun-dried tomato. “Wh – that’s the blockers, the dampen – you know, actually, I’m not talking to you about this.” He turns around and crosses his arms like a little kid.

“Steve,” Billy barks a laugh, “Forgetting bout the fact that you need to be in a rut to have kids – just so you know, if you want any then it’ll be impossible without one – you can’t stay on blockers forever. And you’re sure as hell not meant to be on them for fucking years."

Steve turns back and looks at him.

"It not normal to stop your ruts." Billy continues. "It’s not freakin’ healthy. You’re insides are gonna get all screwed up. And you’re not a Beta. Sure they can fuck each other every day of the year, but you’re an Alpha. Any Alpha would tell you, that unless they’re in rut, they’re not all that interested. Which I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you can relate to.”

Steve stares at Billy. Just stares, unmoving.

“Might wanna buckle up, Amigo.” Billy steps closer and slaps Steve’s arm quick. “Cause I dunno which doctor you’ve been seeing, but they sure as shit don’t know anything about Alphas. I’d flush those blockers down the toilet soon, if I were you.”

Steve’s mouth drops open, just a little, his front teeth visible as his eyes rove over Billy’s face; no doubt looking for any trace of a lie.

“I better be off.” Billy says, and crosses over to the door. He turns around and gives Steve a two-fingered salute. “Good luck.”

And Billy walks home with a grin and his blood thrumming in every single one of his veins, because he’s pretty sure he just convinced Steve to come off his medication. Which means that terrible, god-awful smell will stop. Which means that Steve will smell like Alpha; will be able to smell other Alphas. Will be able to smell Billy.

Chapter Text

Billy sneaks in the way he always does, through the open window and into an empty room.

His bedsheets could’ve been put in the freezer for an hour and still wouldn’t be as stiff and cold as they are when Billy slides in-between them.

His teeth chitter, skin coming up in gooseflesh so bad all the hairs on his legs stand to attention like tiny little soldiers.

Billy rubs his thighs and his forearms and curses the fact that he won’t get the recommended eight hours sleep – which is bare fucking minimum – and will probably pay for it with some dumb cursed luck like tripping in practise tomorrow or losing an eighth of an inch of growth for the rest of his life.

Yeah. Billy fucking thinks about these things.

He closes his eyes to the memory of Steve Harrington’s face, feels it warm him from behind his eyelids.

Billy falls sleep instantly, a hard-wired habit he’s trained into himself, and wakes up with a forceful jerk at the first rays of sunlight.

His head feels like a leaden weight and has developed its own heartbeat. His mouth tastes like ash and garbage juice.

Billy groans, peels his eyes open, and then frowns down at himself. Frowns at his leather jacket over a half-buttoned skirt and Levi jeans.

He’s not even unlaced his boots.

And then Billy grimaces at the smell emanating from somewhere in his room, before he sniffs his collar and realises its him. He’s emanating a smell.

It’s vomit. He smells like vomit. Fucking vomit.

What the fuck happened?

Billy strips everything off and finds the source: tragically, turns out to be his fucking jacket and boots. He clearly threw up on them.

Billy rolls all his clothes up in a little ball and walks to the bathroom with them held over his privates – because despite it being ass o’clock in the morning, Billy has made the same mistake one too many times of assuming nobody is awake.

He drops the ball on the floor, switches on the shower and steps in instantly while the water is still ice.

He holds his head under the stream so his hair hangs down, closes his eyes against the pounding of his skull, and wonders why the fuck he drank so much last night.

He only planned to go for an hour. Have a couple drinks, make a couple more friends. It wasn’t even that freakin’ interesting –

Steve.

Billy’s eyes pop open.

Steve was at the party. Steve found Billy flat out in the backyard. Steve took Billy back to his place, and gave him water, because – fuck.

Because Billy threw up at Steve’s feet.

Steve …

Billy squints. Something happened with Steve. They talked. Steve told him something …

Billy stands stiff for a few moments, before he decides it’s way too fucking early for this. He tips his head back, pushes all his hair away and lets the water hit his face. He gargles some around his rotten mouth, spits it out, and then gets to scrubbing the smell of garbage off his skin.

Billy dresses in sweatpants and an old t-shirt, pads downstairs and finds his protein powder on the top shelf. He towels his hair dry and makes it up with tap water, gives it a shake, and heads out the door.

Hawkins is butt-fuck cold. Billy can only do a light jog otherwise risk spraining something that’s not properly warmed up. He gulps down his shitty tasting drink like he does every morning, quick and practised, and he’s halfway around the town before he wakes up.

He blinks, suddenly awake, and takes a sharp inhale of Hawkins air.

Steve’s never had a rut.

He doesn’t even know what a rut is. He’s been on blockers for three years.

Three fucking years.

Billy stops in the middle of the street. It’s maybe six in the morning, because nothing is open and his breath blows white clouds in front of his face. He’s abruptly glad of it, because Billy is stood still and staring at a spot on the concrete pavement.

What kind of shitty, fucked-up place lets an Alpha stay on blockers for three years? No pauses in-between, no breaks for a rut?

Better yet: what kind of psychotically unstable town lets an Alpha believe there’s no such thing as a rut?

Unless … unless nobody in Hawkins knows about ruts, because Steve is the only Alpha.

Which would be pretty fucking rare, but not completely impossible. In California, Alphas aren’t exactly dime a dozen but there’s still at least a handful in every high school. Omegas are probably a little less common, but they still exist.

To think that Steve’s the first Alpha to be born here, that there’s only ever been Betas before, that nobody every bothered to update the sex-ed leaflets and just tailored everything to their knowledge on what suited them – it just. It can’t be. It’s too impossible.

But it’s the only explanation.

A sudden, foreign anger seeps inside Billy. It’s an anger at Hawkins for letting Steve scramble around on blockers with no clue about the long term effects, letting him believe whatever the fuck because it doesn’t matter to them.

The image of his face flashes in Billy’s mind, his expression when Billy said, ‘if you want kids, you need a rut’. His wide-eyed stare that spoke of total ignorance and fear.

His flush-faced embarrassment and the way he said, ‘the blockers dampen your – you know, I’m not talking about this with you’.

He wonders how often Steve’s asked a question or queried something about his instincts and been totally shut down.

Wonders if Steve is so familiar with avoiding the topic that he just automatically clamps up about it whenever anyone asks.

The low simmering anger floats just out of reach; Billy breathes through it as he jogs. Eventually it fades to a dull sensation, one that Billy can shove aside for now.

He can’t use it now. He’ll see Steve at school, they’ll talk about it then. He can use it then, he can show Steve just how fucked up everything is.

Billy comes full circle in his run, gets home to find Max munching on some cereal and slouched on the sofa.

Billy reaches over and yanks her ponytail hard on his way past. She chokes on her cereal and retaliates by flicking some milk at him with a spoon. Billy dodges easily and holds the middle finger up over his shoulder.

They’re not great, yeah. But they’re not awful either.

They were forced together three years ago when Billy was a scrawny, pimply fourteen year old and Max was a literal child. There’s not much they have in common, and not many opportunities for them to figure out the shit that they do.

The only ways Billy sees Max is dropping her off and picking her up at school, as well as the fifteen minutes of awkward silence over the cramped dinner table where neither of them speak.

But Billy isn’t Neil. He will never be Neil.

Because of course they fight and of course they bitch and of course Billy cranks up the radio to a deafening pitch when Max is late; of course she retaliates by slamming the car door so hard his Camaro rattles.

Of course Billy points the butt of his cigarette in her face whenever he wants to drive his message home; of course Max huffs and rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest.

Because she doesn’t lower her gaze or nod and call him ‘Sir’. She doesn’t submit to him; he doesn’t make her.

Because she bites back and she argues and she shouts.

Because she knows she can.

It’s not ideal, and it never will be. They’ll never be brother and sister, and that’s just the way it goes. Billy never wanted extra baggage added onto his already shitty family – planned on getting out of it and finding one of his own eventually.

And Max has made it perfectly clear she feels the same. So there's nothing much else to say on the matter.

Billy strips out of his workout clothes, lays them over his open windowsill and lets the air dry them as he heads for another shower.

He makes this one quick: can already feel the accusation swing his way for the water bill. He brushes his teeth and finger-combs his wet hair, manages to dig out some clean jeans and a shirt, and is dressed and ready within twenty minutes.

Hunger gnaws on his insides: Billy ignores it and cranks up the heat in the Camaro. He kicks his feet up and waits for Max outside.

He’s long learned that Neil Hargrove isn’t a morning person, and if he doesn’t see Billy’s face for the entirety of it then it’s usually better for everyone involved.

He’ll catch Billy after school, though: pause him with a hand on his chest and a, ‘What time you get in last night?’

Billy will answer with an honest, ‘It was a quarter to one, Sir.’

Because Neil holds eye-contact for ten seconds and Billy will lower his gaze if he’s lying. Because though Neil is a Beta, Billy’s instincts scream for him to back down.

He smokes in the Camaro to dull the sharp bite of hunger, reads a little more of Jane Eyre for English. He only just got to the good shit before the passenger door opens and Max throws herself inside.

“Jeez, it stinks in here.” She says instantly.

Billy dogears his page and shoves it in the glove compartment. “Oh my, whatever shall I do?” He starts in a high, nasally voice. “Miss Maxine isn’t partial to her horse and carriage today.”

Max just rolls the window down and ignores him.

*

Steve isn’t at school. Billy thinks, okay, alright, this is fine. It’s first period. He’ll come.

By lunch, it’s clear that Steve isn’t coming.

“The fuck are you eating?” Tommy asks.

Billy glances up from his Tupperware dish of brown rice and dry chicken. “The fuck does it look like?” Billy tilts his plastic container to give a better view.

It fills a hole, sure, but it barely tastes of anything. He’s been eating it too many years in a row now. Billy is pretty sure somebody could be shovelling this into his mouth when he’s asleep and he wouldn’t so much as bat an eyelid; just chew and swallow, rinse and repeat.

“Do you make it?” Carol scrunches her face up. “Why not just eat at the canteen?”

Sometimes, their idiocy makes Billy want to pinch the bridge of his nose and close his eyes.

“Because the food here sucks.” Billy manages get those words out as politely as he can, somehow resisting the urge to both close his eyes and rub his temples.

They’re useful, he tells himself. He needs them. He needs someone to sit at lunch with. He can’t exactly sit by himself and then pummel everyone when it comes gym class. He’d be resented. People would talk. Teachers would talk; then coaches would notice.

And then when the scouts come he’d be shoved to the side-lines and all his hard work sabotaged because he wasn’t a team player and the Coach didn’t like the fact that Billy took all the spotlight from their favourite students.

No. Billy needs to make nice. Billy needs to prove himself part of this school: representative of this school.

Much as it fucking pains him, because Tommy and Carol seem to be the only ones who can stomach a big bad Alpha from the city without pissing their pants.

Billy gets looks in the hallway as if he gobbles kids for dinner.

He wonders what Steve eats at the canteen.

He wonders who Steve sits with nowadays.

“Do you need some special diet?” Carol asks, and pops some bubble-gum. “You know, for being an athlete. No carbs no sugar?”

Billy blinks. He looks her up and down. “Yeah.”

Carol purses her mouth. “That’s shit.”

Billy gives her a close-mouthed smile. “Kinda fucking is, yup.”

*

Steve doesn’t come to school the next day. Or the day after that.

It’s Thursday before he rocks up. A full four days later.

Billy is climbing out the Camaro when he senses Steve, senses the prickle on the nape of his neck and the awareness that tells him Steve’s here.

He whips his head around to find Steve barging past the morning crowd towards Billy.

Billy closes his car door slowly, leans against it with a devil-may-care attitude, even though his pulse his racing and his blood is singing SteveSteveSteve with every step he takes.

Billy grins wide. “Am I dreaming, or is that –”

“Billy.” Steve charges right on up to him and stops about an inch away. “You were right. About everything. Fucking everything.”

“Uh.” Billy blinks; Steve’s proximity is kind of turning him loopy.

Thankfully, Steve turns away and shoves both hands into his hair. He’s a mirror of Billy’s pose, when Steve very seriously and very genuinely told Billy he had no idea what a rut was.

Max gets out the Camaro without a word. She eyes them up for a beat, eyebrows sky-high.

Billy shoes her away with his cigarette and she gets on her board and skates off.

Which leaves them alone in the parking lot.

Billy watches Steve pace in a small circle, his eyes flitting every which way, clearly trying and failing to articulate his thoughts.

“Hey.” Billy kicks off the Camaro and opens the door. “You wanna skip class?”

Steve finally stops pacing and looks at Billy. Then, without a word, he goes around to the passenger side and climbs in.

*

Billy drives with the hum of the radio spitting out some rock music and Steve’s leg bouncing dangerously close to his, until Steve says, “Take a left here.”

Billy does.

They rumble around some gravel track before a quarry opens up before them, and Billy cuts the engine.

Steve gets out in silence.

Billy blinks and follows him, only to find Steve sat on the hood of his Camaro, looking out at the empty water.

Billy sidles on up and crosses his arms, leaning back against his hood as well.

“Can you believe.” Steve snorts, the sound harsh. “My fucking parents.”

He stops there though, exhales a hard gust of air.

Billy is quiet. He can feel the tension radiating off Steve, feel the way that Steve needs silence to think.

“They. They were going to tell me on my 18^th birthday. Had it all figured out. Oh, hey, Steve, you know those meds we’ve been feeding you your whole life? Yeah, you need to stop them now. And have a rut. But don’t worry, we’ve got a nice little Omega lined up for you. Comes from a nice family. Sure you’ll get along swell.”

Billy feels sick. He turns his head to stare at Steve. Steve, whose shoulders are tight and his teeth gritted.

“Sure it’ll be a fucking mutually beneficial alliance. Sure it’ll be fine you’ve never had a rut before. Sure it’s not totally unhealthy you were meant to start having them fourteen years old. Sure there’s nothing!” Steve stands up and kicks the dirt. “Fucking! Bad! About that!” He reaches down, grabs a fistful of gravel and throws it.

Billy watches in silence. He swallows, but his saliva is gum.

“Steve –” He tries.

“I went to the doctor myself. I explained everything. And yeah, it’s bad.”

Terror grips Billy like a tight fist around his throat. “What –”

“I might not be able to have a rut.” Steve says, his back to Billy. “I might not be able to have kids.”

“Steve.” Billy steps close and turns him around with hands on his shoulders. “Jesus Christ. Stop taking them. Just stop taking them!”

He knows Steve still is, because that strange, anaesthetic, wrong smell that follows Steve is still all over him. Nancy barely covers it anymore – and Billy realises why Steve lathers himself in her scent, because it’s probably better than smelling that on yourself.

Steve laughs, hollow, his eyes everywhere but Billy’s. “I can’t just stop cold turkey. I need to reduce them, or whatever. But don’t worry, I’m not staying on them a second longer than I need to.”

“Why were you on them in the first place?” Billy barks.

Steve meets Billy’s eyes. He opens his mouth, and then shrugs Billy’s hands off him and scrubs his face.

Billy blinks, until Steve goes to sit on the Camaro again. He looks at Steve, both hands splayed on the hood, head tipped back. After a second he follows.

“My parents are both Betas.” Steve starts, voice soft. Despite the sunlight that plays across Steve’s face, touching his hair and his nose, it’s still chilly. Billy wraps his jacket tighter around himself. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be used to Hawkins’ shitty weather.

Steve’s just wearing a sweater, all fluffy cashmere, a pair of Levi’s and some sneakers. He’s not wearing anything underneath the sweater; Billy catches sight of the hollow of his throat as he swallows.

Billy curls his hands tighter around his lapels.

“When I hit puberty and you know, got assigned Alpha, they just.” Steve waves a hand. “I don’t think they knew what to do. I don’t think they were exactly pleased, you could say.”

“What’s not to like?” Billy grunts. 

Steve glances at him with the barest hint of a smile, just a tug at the edge of his mouth.

Pride still glows in Billy’s chest, strong and steady and more rewarding than anything.

Billy is about to smile back when Steve looks away.

“Well.” Steve huffs at the quarry. “They didn’t see it that way. It was … weird. I was getting a lot of attention – people would stare and stuff. There’s not exactly many Alphas around Hawkins. And.”

Steve pauses and itches at his chin. There’s some wispy hair there he must have missed shaving. But he clears his throat, hesitant.

“What?” Billy frowns.

“I’m.” Steve tosses his fringe with his fingers, a nervous gesture. He glances up at Billy. “Look, don’t laugh.”

Billy raises a brow.

“I’m …” Steve rubs at his nape. “Kind of a powerful Alpha.”

Billy stares. He waits for the punchline, but nothing comes. “You what?”

Steve’s face is glowing red, that familiar warmth to his cheeks. “I’m a pretty powerful Alpha, okay? I’m not a normal one. It’s a thing, or something. I don't know. Doctors said it was fine, it wasn’t anything bad, but. I could pretty much do or say or – get anything I wanted. After I made my dad submit, well. They thought blockers were the best way to go.”

That whole fucking sentence would take a week to unpack, but something pulls Billy up short. “Wait. You made your dad submit?”

Steve’s flush gets darker. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I wanted another cookie.” Steve says.

Billy stares. And then he howls, bent-double with it, absolutely buckled at the notion that a baby-faced Steve Harrington made his own father submit to him.

Over a cookie.

He hears Steve join in with a light chuckle, louder and louder until he’s just as affected, until he slaps his thigh with a wheeze.

“And that’s why – that’s the reason –” Billy manages to choke.

“This was after a long series of events.” Steve hiccups through laughter. “I was basically running the house. I didn’t even have a bedtime.”

And that just sets Billy off even more, into another round of roaring laughter that hurts his throat, his cheeks, the back of his goddamn skull. It feels like his abs are going to break. He clutches his sides and gasps brokenly when it gets too much. Billy literally feels his vision start to blur. He doesn’t think he’s ever laughed this hard in his life.

He leans against the Camaro to catch his breath, hears Steve’s laughter start to soften as well until they’re just panting next to one another.

“That.” Billy wipes his eye. “Is the goddamn funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Steve laughs again, broad and big-humoured. It sets Billy alight all over.

“Wasn’t at the time, trust me.” Steve states, but there’s a grin on his face now and that’s all that matters.

Billy lets himself grin back. Steve’s expression softens so much that Billy digs in his jeans around for a lighter and a pack of smokes for the excuse to stop looking at him.

“So, the doctors never mentioned a rut or anything when you started blockers?” Billy asks while he’s digging, so it doesn’t seem odd. “Seems pretty shitty, if you ask me.”

“Uh. Not exactly.” Steve rubs his neck. “Turns out my parents asked them not to say. About the ruts. Or anything. They wanted to tell me when I turned eighteen. Had this whole plan or something, set me up with some respectable girl. I guess they just didn’t want to deal with me in rut, when regular me could make them do anything anyway. Supposedly, it doesn’t cause that much damage if you don’t have one till you’re eighteen. Well.” Steve’s hand falls into his lap. “Maybe that would’ve been the case. But I needed twice the dose, cause normal blockers didn’t cut it.”

Billy had been in the middle of lighting a cigarette, but he stops to stare at Steve.

Steve catches his look and sighs. “Look. My mom’s pretty torn up about it. She’s been crying for two days. And my dad is threatening some lawsuit against the physician. They didn’t – none of us knew.”

“Didn’t they check before they gave you a freakin’ double dose?” Billy barks.

Steve grimaces. “Uh. No. we just kept upping the tablets.”

Billy slumps against his Camaro. The weight of the situation begins to settle.

“So.” Billy closes his eyes and holds up a hand. “Just to get this straight. They knew they were suppressing your rut, but thought when you turned 18 you’d be fine to have one anyway? Just, flick the light switch and the rut’s back on?”

Steve sighs, long and slow. “I guess. I went to the doctor a couple days ago and they did some tests. All my levels are fine, I should be alright to have a rut. It’s just a possibility, that everything might not be. That ... I might not be able to. And we won’t know until I’m off the blockers for good.”

Billy just sits, stumped.

“Look.” Steve turns to him this time, but there’s a new edge to his voice, a little frayed. “Billy, you need to help me. The doctor had to bring out a fucking manual when I told her. I just sat there for ten minutes while she read about it all. There’s no Alphas here. Nobody knows anything. You need to help me.”

“What you want me to do?” Billy asks, but not to be snide or sarcastic. He genuinely has no idea what Steve wants him to do.

“Just – explain it to me! Tell me what the fuck I’m meant to do during a rut. Tell me what I’m meant to do during the lead-up to a rut. Tell me how to control everything when I’m an Alpha again, how to stop making people submit to me or stare at me. Just – please.” Steve’s eyes are wide and frantic.

Billy lifts his cigarette and takes a drag. He sucks slow and exhales when he feels like it. “And what’s in it for me, Stevie?” He asks eventually. 

Steve blinks. Then he clicks his fingers of one hand and makes a gun, like a true dork. “Money. I have money.”

Billy grimaces. Taking cash off his mate would leave a bad taste in his mouth for a decade. Not that Billy would have thought twice about doing that before; not that he would have even cared where money came before he met them.

But he has met them. He knows he has now. He knows Steve now.

“Nah. I mean what can you do for me, Steve?” Billy leans close, holds his cigarette away from his lips and gives Steve a slow smile. Surely Steve can't misunderstand him now. Surely this is Level 1 flirting. 

Steve frowns, confused. He chews on his thumbnail. “Oh! I could tutor you!” He flashes another smile, as though this is the answer.

Jesus Christ.

He's not getting it.

Billy tries very hard to school his expression and not groan in complete frustration. And then he hears what Steve just said, and realises tutoring might be even better.

“Yeah? What in?” He asks.

Steve’s expression dims. Clearly he hadn’t thought about that. “Well I kinda suck at math. I’m not bad at biology. English?” He tries hopefully. “I can do English.”

Billy can do English. Billy has absolutely no trouble doing English. But he tilts his head, as if considering it, and then sticks out a palm. “Deal.”

The beam Steve aims at him is worth it.

And Billy has just doubled his time with his mate. It is, for the first time in his life, a win-win.

Chapter Text

“I’ve just gotta ask.” Billy starts, before they leave the quarry and head back to school. “How come it never cropped up in conversation once? How come you never heard the word ‘rut’ or ‘heat’ or – freaking ‘cycle’ for that matter?” Billy flicks his cigarette away and raises his eyebrows. “Once?”

“Honestly, I have no idea.” Steve states, plain and simple. “I think everyone just skirted around the topic cause they figured I knew. I mean, sure, one time Hopper asked how I was doing cause it was ‘that time of the year’.”

“Hopper?” Billy asks. “The Chief?”

“The very one.”

“Asked you how your rut went?” Now that shit doesn’t sit right with Billy. That doesn’t sit right at all.

“I just thought he was talking about exam season!” Steve windmills his arms again. “I think I said it coulda went better, and he –”

Steve stops: meets Billy’s wide eyes, and then his own widen. “Ohhhh.”

“What did he do?” Billy can feel the grin of his life forming.

“He said he knew people that could help, and I … told him I already had a private tutor.”

Steve covers his face with his hands while Billy throws his head back with a laugh. Steve separates his fingers to peer at Billy through them. It’s too cute. It really is too motherfucking cute, Billy draws the line at that.

He shoves Steve for an excuse to touch him; Steve’s arms windmill like a cartoon before he steadies himself and kicks Billy’s shin.

“It’s not my fault!” Steve barks. “Nobody just comes out and says it in Hawkins! Christ!”

“Nobody should need to!” Billy counters. “It’s like somebody saying, ‘Hey, you know the sky is blue, right?’” Billy points a finger up. “’Just wanted to check!’”

Steve groans and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I’m the biggest dumbass on Earth.”

Billy laughs lightly and jostles their shoulders together. “Anyway, who the fuck would Chief know that could help?”

“I think he meant a doctor.” Steve says, and then bites his lip. “I hope he meant a doctor.”

They laugh again. It feels easy, natural.

It feels right.

It hasn’t escaped Billy’s notice that something suspiciously like friendship is blossoming between them, and while Billy mostly relishes in it, he realises he’ll need to rein it in at some point if he wants a chance with Steve.

It won’t do any good if Steve starts to see him as some Alpha comrade in arms. If Billy’s firmly and neatly slotted into the position of ‘helpful and platonic friend’.

And yes, Billy refuses to acknowledge the fact that his sole focus for the past four years of his life has been his training and his grades and being so good – so unfathomably, indisputably good at everything – that it would earn him a small fortune to begin a new life with.

Refuses to acknowledge that trying to squeeze a new goal in-between all that is probably a disaster waiting to happen.

He’s read the books. He’s watched the interviews of athletes who scored with the big leagues. He’s done the research, he’s put in the work. He’s had the early mornings and the early nights, he’s sacrificed his appetite and his spare time and his body and his mind and anything else that he could possibly fucking offer.

Steve Harrington should terrify him. Steve Harrington stands to destroy everything Billy has built just by his mere existence. Steve is Billy’s ruin.

Because Billy is barely aware of the point in this conversation where he went from thinking, ‘don’t let Harrington make you lose focus on the goal, come on Hargrove’, to, ‘it wouldn’t be that bad, helping Steve with this, it wouldn’t take up too much time.’

Because some treacherous, self-destructive thing inside Billy tells him that he could have both. If plays his cards right, he could have Steve and he could have his scholarship.

If he puts in a little extra effort, gave up an hour or two or sleep, he could spend time with Steve: enough time for Steve to slowly realise that they could be mates before he stops his blockers and is faced with the reality of that.

Billy can just push training back a little later.

A small part of Billy tells him he’s utterly fucked. Because as soon as the seed is planted in his head, it takes root and starts growing.

Billy could have both.

And then, just like that, he wants both. Painfully, agonisingly, Billy wants them both.

“You do know a little more about it now, though?” Billy asks with a teasing smirk. “The birds and the bees?” He knocks his knee against Steve’s where they’re both leaning on the Camaro.

Steve goes deadly quiet.

“Steve?” Billy tilts his neck down.

“I couldn’t find a book in the library that wasn’t some sort of erotic novel …” Steve begins.

And Billy really needs to laugh again, loud and sharp.

Jesus Christ, Steve Harrington’s life is a sit-com.

Billy never thought about his mate. Not once. He wasn’t going to spend pointless years in search of something there was a massive probability of never finding. He knew people that killed themselves over that shit.

Didn’t particularly feel like adding to the growing list of things he wished he had, as well.

But if the topic was ever brought into conversation, was mentioned on TV, Billy always imagined his mate would be like him. Self-assured and smart and capable.

Figured they would be going about their life, happy and healthy and carefree.

It helped when Billy did that. When he imagined that they were fine, and would be fine without him.

And when Billy thought about his type, the sort of person he was usually attracted to, they were more or less like Billy as well. Maybe they had a couple piercings, wore a bit of leather. They liked the same music, had the same kind of attitude.

Now, when Billy thinks of his mate, it’s the image of preppy, helpless, dorky, and shockingly innocent Steve Harrington, searching the spines of books in the library for an insight into what a rut is, picking up an erotica and then scrambling to put it back as if it was hot.

That’s all that comes to mind.

Billy doesn’t know why it’s so much better. It just is.

“Seems I’m gonna have to deflower ya, Harrington.” Billy grins wide, watches that tell-tale flush work its way up Steve’s throat, even as he rolls his eyes and huffs.

“Whatever you wanna call it, Hargrove.” Steve walks off and throws the Camaro door open.

*

After that, Billy drives them to school.

He parks a little awkwardly and there’s a beat of silence before Steve fluffs his hair, takes a breath, slaps his thighs and says, “Well, guess I’ll see you later.”

He’s out the car faster than Billy can even reply.

Billy feels his eyebrows tick, watches Steve practically race into Hawkins High. Some sort of feeling bubbles up in Billy’s chest before he squashes it down and climbs out after him.

The day passes pretty uneventfully. And then Billy catches sight of Steve in English, sat in his usual seat, only this time he’s not lazily flicking through pages.

He’s scribbling notes as if this is an exam and his life depends on it. His tongue pokes out the side of his mouth in concentration, eyebrows scrunched, gaze flicking from the questions on the board to the book periodically.

Billy studies him for a beat.

And then he wonders if Steve is suddenly frantically interested in English because he said he’d tutor Billy.

And damn, doesn’t that make Billy feel nice and warm. Doesn’t that make Billy start to smile so strong he needs to bite his lip to curb it.

Steve doesn’t glance to Billy once. But this time, Billy doesn’t mind all that much.

That is until basketball practise.

Billy decides to cut Steve the slack he promised, nods to Steve across the court and receives a relieved nod in return.

So Billy tosses to Steve at the first chance he gets.

And then Billy finds out that actually, interestingly, Steve Harrington can play. He moves around too much, doesn’t seem to have any technique whatsoever, but the raw skill is there. It just needs moulded.

And then Billy starts his own little fantasy of training Steve up. Maybe Steve gets a scholarship right alongside Billy, and maybe they’d go to the same college and they’d decide to room together because they’re already friends, they know each other and it’s easier, and one thing leads to another and late nights studying all add up and they’re both unsure at first, that's only normal, but then Steve leans close and Billy carries him off to bed –

“Hey! Hargrove!” Tommy yells, and that’s all the warning Billy gets before a ball smacks into his chest.

Billy catches it easily. Looks down and realises that Tommy aimed for his chest. He aimed to take Billy out.

To take him unawares and hit him with a fucking basketball.

“The fuck you think you’re playing at?” Billy barks, strides over to a white-faced Tommy. “Huh? You think that’s funny?”

He lifts Tommy up by his shirt-front and holds him in the air. Tommy’s sneakers screech against the gym hall floor in search of purchase, fingertips digging into Billy’s wrist.

“I – I just –”

The whistle blows.

“Hargrove, out.” Coach states.

Billy stares, bug-eyed. “But he just –”

“Out.” Coach states, no nonsense.

Billy lets Tommy go with a rough shove.

So of course Tommy stumbles right on down to the fucking floor just to make Billy look twenty times worse. Some guy even rushes over to help him up, and they both stare at Billy as if he’s an animal, a monster, some ugly hulking beast.

His shadow spills over them and seems to elongate, seems to pour right up the side of the wall and up the ceiling.

Hatred burns the inside of Billy’s throat at the sight of the cast he creates, the sight of it falling across somebody like some disfigured, distorted creature.

So he scoffs and stalks off the court. He’s halfway there when –

“Steve.” A voice calls out.

Billy glances over.

He sees Nancy Wheeler stood at the doorway, one hand on her bag strap.  Even from here, she stinks of nerves and sweat. She still holds the faint scent of Steve, as though they hugged this morning.

Billy has no right to be angry. Even less right to feel betrayed.

He looks for Steve, finds him with that adorable head-tilt like a puppy. “Nance?”

Then Steve walks across, game forgotten, Billy forgotten, and follows her out.

Billy watches in shock. Steve didn’t even look at him. He didn’t even seem to notice that Billy’s being unfairly picked on and subjected to Coach’s shitty favouritism.

And my fucking God, why should Billy care? Why should Steve have turned to look at him?

Because you would, Billy’s mind supplies.

Billy would care. Billy would have looked back.

And fuck, it’s been one day and Steve is already messing with his head and screwing up his chances at a new life. He’s already wormed his way right underneath Billy’s skin and started to pick at Billy’s carefully constructed image.

No. Fuck that. It’s not happening.

Billy swallows every last bit of his pride – the way he’s taught himself his whole life – and sidles on over to Coach. He links his arms behind his back: every bit docile and unthreatening Alpha.

“Look, Coach, I never meant any harm –” Billy begins gently.

“I saw what happened.” Coach cuts him off, his eyes still on the game. “Don’t think I didn’t. But it wasn’t the attack you took it for. You need to learn to be a team player, Hargrove.”

Billy grits his teeth. Right. This again.

Coach turns to meet his eye. “Basketball’s a team sport. It takes five other players including you. And you’re brilliant at it. You’re probably one of the best we’ve ever seen. But you won’t amount to anything in the sport, kid, until you realise that.”

Billy doesn’t exactly have a reply for that. Righteous anger burns inside his chest, but only because of the truth in those words. It’s a directionless anger; Billy has nowhere to direct it to, nobody to direct it at.

He settles for a curt nod, curls his first and sits himself down on the side-lines.

He bounces his leg, bites his thumbnail, and for lack of anything better, focuses his eyes on the door Steve left through.

He resolves that when Steve walks back through them, Billy will ignore him for a week. A full week.

He can’t tear his eyes off the fucking door, though.

And then Steve does walk through, his hair a mess, his eyes all blotchy, every line of him tense.

Billy’s heart kicks against his ribs so hard he tastes blood.

He’s barely aware of what he’s doing, but he feels himself stand up so suddenly he gets headrush.

Steve looks over and catches his eye. His feet pause. He frowns.

Billy sits back down. He feels like an idiot. He doesn’t know why he stood up. He doesn’t know what he thought that would do. Embarrassment is a hot iron on the back of his neck.

Steve turns away and walks onto the court.

And throws himself into the game.

Billy can only watch in awe. Steve moves with speed, with grace, all his long limbs unfolding, every single one working to his advantage.

Billy feels his heartbeat quicken as he realises Steve would be a challenge to play against like this, he’d be difficult to beat. Billy’s breathing is uneven and his skin is hot, and fuck, Billy doesn’t feel this way outside of his rut. Ever.

No Alpha gets riled up when they’re not in rut. It’s biology, it’s evolution.

It’s the whole fucking reason for a rut.

Sure maybe the occasional tryst or whatever works its way in there, and sure an Alpha might occasionally feel like it, but those Alphas are usually mated. The purpose of a rut is to find a suitable mate, to be hyper-aware of any possible mates within the vicinity. After that, arousal comes easy 365 days a year.

Before that, though, its near impossible to get an unmated Alpha interested in anything casual and fun.

But Steve dribbles the ball like it’s an extension of him, spins and twirls on the court, runs rings around the rest of his team and barely needs any help to score.

And Billy’s tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth.

This is what Billy has always pictured a scout would see when watching him. But now there’s Steve Harrington, and they’d both be unstoppable on the court, they’d both shine like motherfucking diamonds.

Billy has to look at the floor and take a couple deep breaths after the game is over and Coach blows the whistle.

He wills his pulse to slow, flexes his fists for a moment. Then he heads towards the locker-room.

It’s mostly empty now. He finds Tommy and Steve are the last ones at the showers, and Steve’s shoulders are slumped, scrubbing at his hair with force.

Billy opens his mouth, is about to say, you were on fire there amigo, and, where you been hiding that from us, huh?

But, as fucking usual, Tommy Hagan beats him to it.

“Come on Steve, don’t take it too hard.” Tommy says. There’s a little too much satisfaction in his voice for Billy’s liking.

Billy strips quick. He leaves his clothes on the floor and comes over, grabs a bar of soap and pretends he’s not actively listening to this conversation.

“Princess dumps you for one day and already she’s off with The Freak’s brother. Saw them skipping class together.” Tommy laughs, inadvertently answering Billy despite his attention being on Steve. “It’s just not your week, man.”

That pulls Billy up short. He turns on his shower and dips under the water, his eyes on Steve, who ignores the scrutiny on all sides.

But Billy’s heartbeat has picked up again. Steve’s single. Steve’s available.

Finally.

Finally.

Almost as if he needed the permission – as if Steve was so thoroughly scent-marked that the idea left a bad taste in his mouth before – Billy finds his eyes sliding lower of their own accord.

Almost unconsciously, he catches himself gazing at the width of Steve’s shoulders. At his strong arms and his long-fingered hands running through his thick hair, his bare chest lightly dusted with hair, his soft abdomen that bulges out a little, tapers down along the line of his sharp hipbone and an even thicker thatch of dark hair –

Billy snaps his gaze up when he realises he’s not said anything, and more importantly that Tommy can see him.

That Tommy’s watching Billy, clearly awaiting his reaction.

“Ah, don’t sweat it Harrington.” Billy grins wide and sharp, swings close and slaps Steve’s wet shoulder. His palm sings with the contact: his insides gnaw at him for more. Maybe it’s that that makes him risk saying: “Pretty boy like you has got nothing to worry about. Plenty a’ bitches in the sea.”

He leans as close as he can without touching. There are centimetres between them, his breath soft and gentle, eyes focused on Steve’s head. He hopes Steve looks at him and sees Billy’s gaze and realises the double meaning of Billy’s words – there’s plenty people out here ripe for the picking. Plenty of people who’d lay down at your feet for a chance with such a pretty thing.

But Steve ignores Billy as if he didn’t hear him. Can’t hear him. Can’t see him.

The sting of that rejection burns like acid.

Billy flips Steve’s tap off just to be petty.

It’s an echo of their first week together, before they spoke and Billy found out Steve takes blockers and Steve realised that was a bad idea and they struck up their deal of English lessons for Alpha lessons.

It’s an echo of when Steve pretended ignorance towards Billy’s fucking existence, and it infuriated him the way it infuriates him right now, sinks claws into his skin and starts to drag down. It’s a full-bodied feeling, in his gums and the soles of his feet. Fucking everywhere.

Billy flings a towel around his shoulders and clenches his jaw, picks up his discarded gym clothes and throws them into his locker hard. Billy starts tugging on a pair of jeans commando, hears Steve slap his tap back on and start scrubbing again, despite the fact he’s been under the water going on ten minutes.

Tommy chuckles and follows after Billy, starts getting dressed right along with him.

And Jesus, Billy gets what Steve meant about lackeys now, because Billy could click a finger and Tommy would bounce over. Actually, maybe he wouldn’t even need to do anything. Seems like Tommy’s picked up the habits of a stray dog without any help.

Billy wants to snap at Tommy to get lost, but he realises their tentative little whatever the fuck has been sorely tested today already.

Tommy seems to be gracious enough to move on without any confrontation about it, although Billy can admit to himself he probably overreacted. It just gets hard being surrounded by Betas and being utterly unable to tell where he stands with them. With Alphas and Omegas it pours off them, but Betas can be snide and they can be challenging and Billy doesn’t fucking know.

So he allows Tommy to trot out hot on Billy’s heels; waits until they’re the only ones in the hallway before he stops dead.

“Hey.” Billy crooks a finger inwards, as if he’s about to impart a secret.

Tommy shuffles up close, eyes wide and hopeful. He’s stinking up the corridor with his nervous sweats.

“Thanks for being cool back there on the court.” Billy slaps Tommy’s shoulder the way he did Steve’s, but the feeling rubs the roof of his mouth wrongly. His instincts hate it for some unfathomable reason.

But Billy hasn’t been able to fathom anything since moving to Hawkins. So nothing much else is new there.

“Oh.” The scent grows stronger along with Tommy’s smile. It’s not attraction, but something similar. It takes Billy a second to parse it because he’s never smelled it directed at him before.

Admiration.

Tommy idolises him. Jesus, Tommy worships him. Tommy sees him as some sort of God among men.

Honestly, Billy’s freaking touched.

“No problem, man.” Tommy rushes. “It was nothing.”

“Adrenaline’s running high, ya know, just an Alpha thing.” Billy waves a hand.

“Sure, sure.” Tommy nods so fast Billy might be worried his neck will snap.

“Just don’t do it again and we’re gold.” Billy flashes a bit of teeth in something like a smile.

Tommy just keeps nodding. “You got it.”

“So.” Billy leans back, his work here done. “You think you can ask Coach to loosen up a little? Huh?”

“Course, course.” Tommy beams. “He’s such a hard ass, I feel you man.”

Billy grins back.

*

So Steve and Nancy have broken up.

And clearly it’s left Steve in some type of foul fucking mood.

Billy has no clue where they stand: had planned on finding Steve after school to ask when he wanted to begin their lessons, but after the cold shoulder from Steve all day Billy doesn’t exactly feel like getting shot down again.

Steve Harrington seems fucking fluent in the language of rejecting Billy.

So Billy waits for Max and just takes them home. He finds some food and puts together something relatively nutritious, scoffing it down and heading out for another run.

His legs barely want to co-operate, leaden and heavy after practise.

Billy pushes against the burn, too distracted to notice where he’s going and winds up somewhere different. He slows his pace down to a gentle trot and comes to at the edge of what looks like an abandoned train track.

It snakes around the forest, lined by trees on either side.

Billy’s pretty sure he’ll hear a fucking train in time, so he decides to follow it. There doesn’t seem to be any better running routes in Hawkins, anyway.

He hears them before he sees them.

“So when it’s damp, it’s not wet, it’s damp. Four puffs. You got it?”

Billy knows that voice. He definitely knows that voice; barely needs one word of it to recognise who it is. Would recognise it a thousand miles away.

“The Farrah Fawcett spray?” A child says back, their voice high-pitched and nasal. “Are you for real?”

Billy rounds a corner in the track and spots them easy.

Steve’s wearing a backpack with some type of nail-bat sticking out the unzipped end, holding a bucket of what looks like meat and– Jesus, Billy realises they’ve been scattering it in a trail along the tracks. What the fuck.

He kicks up his feet to check the soles, but thankfully he’s managed to miss it.

There’s a kid with him, barely even half his height, wearing a baseball cap and some kind of wireless mic.

They’ve both got a pair of yellow rubber gloves on.

They’re both clearly engaged in some weird fucking activity.

“And if you tell anyone, your ass is grass.” Steve states, stops and puts a hand on his hip. His voice gets so midwestern when he’s serious. All over-enunciating his words and everything. “Your dead, Henderson. I mean it.”

Billy can’t take it any longer. He claps his hands and startles them both.

They whip around in an eerily identical manner.

“Well, well, well.” He grins wide as he saunters over. “This is what King Steve gets up to on his free time.”

“Billy.” Steve’s eyes are wide. “Wuh, what are you doing here?” He’s seriously trying to hide the bucket behind his back.

As if Billy can’t see the literal meat he’s been scattering.

“You know the Alpha?” Henderson, Billy takes it, turns to gape at him. “The one from California?”

“Yeah, yeah, believe me the interest wears off pretty quick.” And Steve shoots Billy a dirty look, as if they didn’t spend all morning laughing up at the quarry.

And that.

That pisses Billy off a little bit.

“Oh really?” He starts, moving closer. “See I thought you wanted–”  Billy steps in a chunk of beef, looks down, and looks back up. “What.” He sighs. “What the fuck are you guys doing?”

“Luring a racoon. None of your business. Steve, run!” The kid makes as if to leg it, but doesn’t budge an inch, clearly waiting for Steve to take the reins.

“Dustin, it’s pointless. We may as well tell him.” Steve exhales.

“What – this guy?” Dustin throws his bucket out toward Billy. “Are you serious? How could he help?”

“Well obviously he can’t, but he’s found us doing this shit and I can’t think of a better explanation right now–”

“Hey, you don’t know what I can do.” Billy interjects.

“We don’t have to explain ourselves, we can just go –” Dustin

“What age are you, anyway, like ten?” Billy muses.

Dustin stops. Turns to him. “Ten? You’re sticking with that?”

“Enlighten me, then.” Billy twirls a hand in mock grace.

“Fourteen.” Dustin states.

“Is there even a difference?”

“Mathematically, yes.”

“Okay, okay, okay!” Steve shouts, spreading his yellow-rubbered hands. “Jesus. Billy, we’re trying to catch a … slug.” He finishes with a grimace.

Billy looks down at the meat and looks back up. “A slug?”

“It’s a big slug.”

“You seriously expect me to believe –”

“Dustin, can you explain!” Steve gesticulates his arms. “You’ve seen it!”

“It’s more like a lizard at this point.” Dustin says.

Which – gross. Billy’s face is making a face just thinking about that.

“The fuck kinda slug-lizard eats meat?” Billy grimaces. “And why the fuck are you trying to catch it anyways?”

“Because you’re an asshole, okay.” Steve states. “You said you would lay off and you didn’t.”

Billy gapes. “This is why you’re mad?”

“I don’t know what’s happening.” Dustin adds.

“Yeah, I’m mad Billy!” Steve shouts, and finally looks at him for the first time. “You just joined in with Tommy giving me shit about Nance, so thank you very fucking much –”

“I joined in?” Billy barks. “Jesus, Steve, did you even hear me? I said you’ll be alright, there’s plenty girls in Hawkins dying to date King Steve.”

“You were smirking!”

“I literally used the words, ‘pretty boy like you ain't got nothing to worry about.’ Nu-thing to worry about.” Billy emphasises with air-quotes. It’s pretty lame, but it drives the point home.

Steve’s jaw works around for a moment. After a second, it snaps shit.

“Are we done?” Dustin asks.

Steve whips around and stalks a few paces. When neither Dustin nor Billy do anything, he stops and looks back.

“Are you guys coming or what?” He huffs.

Dustin practically trips up to follow Steve.

When Billy still does nothing, Steve stops once more.

He glares at a tree, his foot tapping the forest floor in that familiar way. Both hands on hips.

Waiting.

Billy grins. He catches up easily.

“You know I’m not touching that shit.” Billy nods to the buckets.

“Then what’s the point of even coming along?” Dustin’s lisp becomes more pronounced in his utter confusion.

“He can be a witness.” Steve states, still walking. “For when I kill you after we kill this thing.”

Billy sticks his tongue between his teeth and beams at the kid.

“And you said ‘bitches’.” Steve adds. “That’s derogatory to women.”

Billy blinks. He falls into step alongside Steve. “Jesus. I’ll try to rein in my sexism then, Mr. Perfect.”

He looks back and raises a brow to Dustin, who gives a helpless shrug.

Turned a new leaf, Dustin mouths with a pantomimed action to Steve’s back.

“You know, some chicks dig that talk.” Billy knocks his shoulder with Steve’s.

Steve cuts him a glare, but there’s a snort from behind them.

Billy’s lips tug upwards.

*

They walk for so long Billy’s beginning to worry about the time. He invents an excuse for cutting their expedition short in order to sprint back home for dinner, until the air chills down to a bone-cold and Billy’s teeth clatter against each other.

“J-jesus, it’s free z-zing.” Billy rubs at his bare biceps in his ridiculously thin, short, and frayed workout top. He cut the sleeves off to look metal, and now realises he just looks ridiculous.

There’s a beat, nobody answers, until something warm and distinctly fabric settles over his shoulders.

Billy turns, stunned, to find –

Steve giving Billy his coat.

Steve is giving Billy his coat.

It really does smell bad. Billy cannot overestimate right now how bad the smell still is.

Being in Steve’s presence somewhat anaesthetises it a little, somewhat helps to desensitise the nose, but being cloaked in it like this – it smells terrible.

It smells like the fuzzy sensation of numbness on the tongue, like the sterile, stale smell of a hospital and sickness.

It smells like blockers, and Billy has no idea why he never clued in at first – it’s such a distinctive scent to blockers, made specifically to both nullify any pheromones from the person and also alert everyone in the vicinity that this person is blocking.

But Billy didn’t understand, because his instincts were screaming Alpha and mate and mine while his nose screamed wrong and off and blocked and so his head turned into one big mess.

Because the smell of Nancy Wheeler also covered it all up, covered Steve like a claim, and Billy’s instincts told him taken, taken, taken, while they also shouted no, no, no.

Nancy’s scent doesn’t cover Steve anymore. The winds have carried it all off – now, all that’s left is Steve’s unadulterated scent.

Despite it still being terrible, still rubbing the back of Billy’s throat and wanting to activate his gag reflex with how wrong it is, Billy takes the coat from Steve and slides his arms through.

Steve’s got one hand holding the bucket, the other attempting to place his jacket over Billy’s shoulders, so Billy turns his head and smiles at Steve.

Smiles small and grateful, his cheeks warm and most likely red. “Thanks.” Billy murmurs and pulls it around himself, every display of acceptance he can show.

Steve’s face is hot too, noticeable even in the dying light of dusk, but he just nods and avoids Billy’s eyes. “It’s fine. I’ve got a sweater on, anyway.”

It’s a long-sleeved one too, all soft-knit and touchable. Billy nods back and turns away.

Steve’s jacket holds other scents as well. The faint lingering scent of smoke, the spiciness of his cologne, the warmer floral smell of laundry detergent and a pleasant, fruity, almost industrial smell which Billy guesses is the combination of a million and one hair products.

He searches further; sweat, the barest hint of it, and beneath that is skin. That unique, almost nothing smell of human skin. Salt and earth and soap.

It’s still warm from Steve’s body-heat.

Billy tucks his nose into the collar where it’s most concentrated, where the material rests against Steve’s bare throat all day, every day.

“Almost here.” Dustin calls out.

Billy blinks back to awareness to find they’re arrived at some … abandoned school bus?

“The hell?” Billy tilts his head.

“So we lure it in there, then shut the door once its in.” Steve instructs, voice firm and serious. “Plain and simple. No pss pss pss. It’s not a cat, Dustin.” He waggles a finger in Dustin’s face, who admittedly looks a bit shame-faced.

“Yeah, yeah.” Dustin agrees. “It ate mine, I got it.”

The fuck, Billy mouths after them both, but neither of them are paying attention.

They make a pile of meat beside the door to the bus, climb up on top of the roof, settle down and wait. And wait.

And wait.

“Any chance –” Billy has just started.

There’s a growl, low and dangerous. They all freeze.

It’s hulked down like a dog but it’s stance is all off, it’s unnatural, not natural. The hairs on the nape of Billy’s neck raise, unnatural, unnatural.

“Fuck, oh fuck, it’s not a lizard anymore.” Dustin grips one of Steve and Billy’s arms. “It grew, shit Steve, it grew –”

“Okay, okay, shh.” Steve hisses. “It still might take the bait.”

It doesn’t take the bait.

It waits there, watching them. Taunting them. It knows they’re hiding. Billy can feel it.

“What the fuck is that thing.” Billy’s voice is deadly calm and deadly slow.

“It’s.” Steve tries, sighs and inhales a deep breath. “Hawkins’ own wildlife.” He finishes.

“That’s a spawn of fucking Satan.” Billy states. “Look, I know I’ve got one blocked Alpha and another pre-pubescent kid here, so none of you can exactly scent anything, but believe me when I say this thing wants to tear us apart just for the fun of it.”

There’s silence.

“D'Art?” Dustin whispers, betrayed.

“You can smell that.” Steve asks, aghast.

“Yeah, I can smell that.” Billy says flatly, trying to cover the slight shake in his voice. “And this thing also doesn’t smell like a lizard slug. Okay, I don’t know what this is, but it’s seriously out of our mother-fucking league. All the signals I’m getting are sadistically violent, and my instincts are screaming at me to run. So.”

Billy takes a breath. “I’ll distract it, make a lot of noise, you two sprint for your goddamn life –”

“Woah!” Steve shouts, hands up. “No way! I’ll distract it –”

“What are you gonna do, Steve, yell at it until it leaves –”

Steve stands up and rolls his shoulders.

“Steve.” Billy whispers, stock-still.

Then Steve jumps down off the bus.

Billy’s heart leaps up his throat and out his goddamn mouth. “Steve!” He shouts.

But Steve is already pulling his nailed back out from behind him, swivelling it in arc as if he’s got a fucking clue what he’s doing.

“Goddamn brave son of a bitch.” Billy hisses before jumping down after him.

Dustin makes an inarticulate noise.

Billy points a finger up to him. “Don’t move. Don’t breathe. You do, and you’ve got me to answer to.”

And then he turns around and prepares to fight a fucking monster, apparently.

Steve is creeping forward slowly, bat held in front of him. The creature-lizard-slug growls and hunches down, preparing to leap.

“Steve!” Billy lunges forward; grabs Steve and pushes him behind Billy. They’ve only just skidded around when the thing flies and misses them by an inch, rolling about a metre away.

“Billy, what the fuck are you doing!” Steve shouts, scrambling to move in front while Billy scrambles to keep him behind, and then they’re just slapping at each other with a literal fucking monster about to kill them.

“Would you –” Billy elbows Steve’s chest while Steve shoves at his jaw with a palm.

“Jesus, just! Link your arms through mine.” Steve huffs, presses his bony-shouldered back to Billy’s, and then attempts to do just that.

“The hell is that gonna do?” Billy shouts, whipping his head every which way to try and find Steve.

“I don’t know! I saw it in a movie once!” Steve cries.

“You’re – the – biggest – dumbass –” Billy disentangles himself and tries to turn.

“Duck!” Steve screeches, loud and piercing and right in his ear, but it works.

Billy ducks his head, only for Steve to swing his bat right over the top of it.

There’s a crunch, wet and wrong, a whimper until the monster staggers back.

“How did you see –” Billy gapes.

“Billy!”

That’s all the warning he gets.

Something large and solid slams into his side with all the force of a small comet. It throws him into a tree within seconds, as if Billy’s nothing but a wet towel.

Billy lands hard, winded. The air gets knocked clean out his lungs, gone in an instant. He chokes out a ragged, painful gasp, scrambles against the dirt and mud underneath his hands: against his face, inside his mouth, on his tongue, pressed to his teeth where he tries to inhale. He can barely lift his neck, bent at an awkward angle and reeling from the whiplash.

Then he hears the distinctive cry of Steve, followed by some strange, unnatural shriek of the monster.

That sound overrides the pain. That gives Billy the strength to push up off the ground and turn around.

Until he feels the hot breath of the monster on his face.

Billy looks up with white, wide eyes, at the face of a creature he’s never seen before. It’s too dark to make anything out, but every single hair on his body lifts, every single nerve ending revolts. Bile twists in his stomach and burns his throat, even while Billy freezes all over.

His muscles just sieze and lock up. His body is paralysed.

Then it yelps in pain and jerks around.

Bat mid-air, hair in disarray, lip cut and bleeding and a pair of claw-marks torn into his shoulder, Steve growls back and swings the bat into his face.

The monster drops.

Then Steve stands over it and drives the bat back down.

It makes a horrific noise. It’s the noise of bone breaking, snapping, cracking open. Of flesh and sinew being torn apart. And then Steve does it again, and again.

He’s about to do it for a fourth time until Dustin appears.

“Code Red, we have a Code –” Dustin cries as he runs over, walkie-talkie pressed to his mouth, and then he stops. He gapes at Steve and Billy.

“I’m gonna get help.” Dustin says finally, then sprints off in the opposite direction.

Billy had only half raised himself, but he falls back against the tree and sinks down to the ground.

That gets Steve’s attention. He drops the bat with an almost comical suddenness, scrambling to crouch at Billy’s side.

“Billy, Billy, are you okay?” Steve’s voice is thin and worried, his hands all over Billy instantly, quick-fingered and panicked.

Billy tips his head back against the tree and submits himself to it. Steve’s hands feel nice on him. Billy is barely conscious enough to appreciate it, but Steve's frantic touch soothes something deep inside him.

There’s nothing to find other than a couple cracked ribs, maybe a slight fracture to the spine. Some cuts and scrapes on his hands and face. A split lip. Maybe he dislocated a shoulder somewhere, maybe not if he's lucky.

Right now, Billy is in too much pain to really think about what this means for his scholarship. Right now, a college scholarship is the furthest thing from his fucking mind.

Because apparently monsters exist, and apperently Steve Harrington hunts them.

Eventually, it seems Steve is satisfied. His hands smooth across Billy’s shoulders before they drop away, exhausted.

Then he shuffles up and sits beside Billy against the tree. The lengths of their shoulders press together. Their thighs line up. Billy breathes a little easier, feeling Steve’s breaths against him.

“I don’t know how or why, Hargrove.” Steve begins, his voice light despite the circumstances, even though Billy can hear the rasp in it. “But we make a pretty good team.”

“We make an awful team.” Billy croaks drily.

“Oh yeah.” Steve agrees. “Completely terrible.”

And Billy laughs.

Chapter Text

So they walk all the way back to Steve’s mansion while hauling this dead thing they keep calling a demo-dog, because apparently this version of the monster is still a pup. The fully grown ones are called Demogorgons.

Which is not horrifying at all. Billy doesn't know what that is and doesn't want to know.

“This is not even fully grown?” Billy wheezes, because he’s got the legs of some one hundred pound creature. And he was thrown against a tree by it.

“Alright, I’ll take over, Dustin you keep leading the way.” Steve yanks the legs from Billy’s grip, stops, and then gathers the thing under both arms.

“Well ain’t that romantic.” Billy grins at Steve holding a monster, bridal-style.

“Shut up, I’m doing this for you.” Steve grunts.

Billy obediently shuts up. Sometimes Steve is a brat, and then he gets so unexpectedly sweet it leaves Billy reeling from it.

“Yes, Dart's not fully grown. They can grow up to ten feet.” Dustin answers eventually, distracted as he points his torch every which way.

Billy stops in his tracks. “Ten feet?”

Dustin turns and opens his mouth.

Billy holds up a hand. “I still don’t want to know. Tomorrow. You can give me all the gory details tomorrow. This is enough to deal with.”

“Suit yourself.” Dustin states.

“I thought you were meant to go fetch help.“ Steve grunts to Dustin, staggering a little with the weight of the — dog thing?

“Well doesn't seem like anyone is awake, unfortunately.” Dustin snipes back, and then they have a strange silent moment of communication while walking. Mainly through eyebrow twitches and narrowed eyes.

Billy also doesn’t need to know who else is involved in this entire charade. He ignores them and keeps on ahead.

So they finally manage to find Steve’s fancy ass BMW left at the bottom of the train tracks. Steve flings the thing in the boot while Dustin and Billy both go for the passenger seat.

They stop. They look at one another.

“I’m in the front.” They say at the exact same time.

Dustin stares at him. Billy stares back.

Then the sharp, throbbing pain along his spine rises to a fever pitch. Billy grits his teeth before he admits defeat and yanks the door to the back open.

Dustin climbs in happily, and turns to give him a smug smile.

“Thin ice, kid.” Billy growls.

Dustin whips back around.

Steve makes it around to the driver’s side. He slaps his hands onto the steering wheel. “Let’s go!”

The make a detour on their way back to drop Dustin off at his house, and Steve jumps out to explain to Mrs. Henderson where Dustin has been for the past five hours.

Billy lets Steve handle that one. Seems like the right thing to do.

He hangs back with a hand wrapped around his middle and his feet kicked up on the front seat, waves with a grin from the car when Mrs. Henderson stops to squint at him in the darkness – in-between yelling at Steve at Dustin.

Then Steve climbs back in.

“You want dropped off too?” Steve twisted to give him a smile.

Billy imagines going home.

He’d already missed dinner, the clean-up, the chores, and the meal prep for everyone tomorrow. There’s no way in hell he isn’t facing some kind of astronomical punishment.

But one the one hand, if Billy came back this bruised and beaten and explained that he’d helped an old lady whose purse was being stolen, there was hardly a lot Neil could do.

If he roughed Billy up any further, then he stood to do some damage. And Billy knows that Neil hates nothing more than when Billy bleeds.

Sure he’ll push Billy up against a wall, backhand him across the face or grip his hair painfully tight. But if it goes any further than that and he’s forced to God forbid punch Billy, he’ll scowl at the mark across Billy’s cheek as if it only appeared to personally offend him.

He’ll huff at the stain on his knuckles as if Billy were the one to put it there.

And Billy can’t imagine Neil finding much interest in laying into Billy tonight. He’s probably sleeping by now. He’ll probably do it in the morning.

So really, Billy is actually pretty safe to go home.

On the other hand, though. If Billy milked this for everything he could, crashed at Steve’s house and asked Steve to come with him tomorrow: asked Steve to make up some bullshit explanation of them both getting mugged or some shit. To help him out the way Billy helped Steve today.

It could work.

It might work.

“Can I just crash at yours, Pretty Boy?” Billy asks with a wide smile, the name coming familiar to his tongue.

“Huh?” Steve blinked and turned to him in the backseat, his face red-hot in a second. Then it seemed to click. “Oh. Oh sure. Yeah, sure.” Steve seemed a little inarticulate, his head bobbing up and down with a nod.

Then he turned the keys.

The car gave a whine, a stutter, and died.

“You have got to be kidding.” Billy said.

Steve turned with a grimace. “Yup. Looks like its dead. Come on, it’s not that far.”

So they started down the street; Billy hobbling after Steve’s quick-footed pace until Steve pauses and watches Billy shuffle on up to him.

“Here. I’ll help.” Steve ducks underneath Billy’s arm again, the same way he did after Tina’s party.

He settles an arm around Billy’s waist too fast for Billy to react.

Billy hisses hard and flinches back.

“Oh, sorry, sorry.” Steve babbles, his hand fluttering uselessly over Billy’s side before it settles around him tentatively.

His touch is achingly careful. All his fingertips just ghost lightly over Billy’s waist.

Billy’s throat stings, quickly and abruptly set on fire.

“Thanks.” He manages to choke out.

“You really got thrown pretty bad.” Steve murmurs. “I – when I saw you, I.” He stops, and his throat clicks as he swallows. He shakes his head.

“What?” Billy frowns.

“I was worried, man. Seriously.” Steve tries for a light chuckle, but it falls flat after a second.

“I mean, pretty sure any creature that wants to eat you alive is enough to worry about.” Billy intones.

Steve laughs for real this time. Billy feels where it makes Steve’s midriff shake, where he laughs right from his belly.

“You’re pretty funny, Hargrove.” Steve tells him. 

Billy’s insides all light up like an artificial neon sign. He coughs to cover up any reaction those words might cause. Like the dopiest beam he’s capable of.

So they hobble together a little. Billy clenches his teeth against the pained noises and huffs that make their way out, and they stop periodically to let Billy breathe and gather strength to keep going.

Then Steve snickers softly, once. It’s quiet and small.

Billy is about to ask, until he lets out a full-throated laugh.

“What?” Billy demands, stops where they stand.

“You were trying to cheer me up. At the showers.” Steve laughs again.

Billy tips his head up to the inky sky and calls out to the Gods: “He finally gets it!”

Steve is silent, but when Billy rolls his head down he finds Steve smiling at him. Billy’s face heats, but he can’t help but smile back.

“Hey, are we friends?” Steve asks.

“After tonight?” Billy raises his eyebrows.

Steve laughs again. It’s only after they’ve reached his front door and Steve is opening up that he pauses, turns around with his house key out.

“That meant yes, right?” Steve asks.

*

They enter Steve’s massive manor silently, Steve letting Billy go in first and closing the door with a gentle snick behind him.

Billy creeps in slowly.

He glances around, expecting to find Steve’s parents sat on the sofa, expecting the stiff-shoulders and the crossed arms and the accusations thrown Billy’s way.

It’s not that late, around 8 or 9pm, and Billy’s pretty sure that Steve Harrington’s parents are the type to wait up.

There’s nobody. He finds nobody.

The lights are all out. The house is empty.

Billy stops in the hallway. “Where’s the folks?”

“Ah, they’re.” Steve waves a hand, scratches at his head. “They’re out of town.”

Billy blinks. “I thought you said you spoke to them? About the blockers?”

“Uh. Yeah, over the phone. I called them. And they were gonna get a flight out, but – it got delayed or something. They’ll be back soon anyway.”

Billy can clearly tell this conversation is making Steve uncomfortable. Not from his scent, but from his body language and posture and expression and everything else that screams I don’t want to talk about this.

His eyes are focused on the wall behind Billy’s head.

“Well, cool.” Billy says simply. He’s trampled upon something sensitive, so he intends to get the hell out of it. “More room for me then. Just let me know where you want me to crash. Couch good?”

The floor is fine for Billy.

He’ll take anything as long as he wakes up with Steve in the morning, who can hopefully explain this whole situation to Neil.

And, you know. As long as he gets at least a little time with Steve.

He’s a fucking loser. Sue him.

Steve meets his eyes in surprise. “No, dude, I have guest rooms. But don’t worry, you can clean up in the bathroom and then use the phone, let your family know where you are.”

Billy scoffs at the mere thought.

Steve looks at him in confusion.

“Trust me, they won’t be worried.” Billy explains. “They’re probably asleep, the punishment cooked up like some mouse trap for when I get back.” His top lip curls at the thought.

Right now, his blood hot enough with hatred and adrenaline to think bring it on.

It hides the undercurrent of fear running through his veins. The fear he should be ashamed of as an Alpha.

“That’s shit.” Steve states.

Billy feels the burn of his focus, and avoids it the best he can. “Yup.”

But then he realises that maybe Steve means it. He’s not just saying it to say it. Maybe his parents are shit too.

But when he looks at Steve, he sees Steve drop his eyes.

“Well, the bathrooms free if you wanna wash up. I’ll order us some pizza.”

“Uh, I don’t –” Billy starts.

“Don’t worry, I got it. You can pay me back later.” Steve holds his hand up, already heading toward the living room.

“Um.” Billy tries again.

But he’s too exhausted, and in too much pain, to explain. He’ll find something in Steve’s kitchen before the pizza comes.

Scratch that: too weird and unexplainable. He’ll just feign that he’s not hungry. No appetite due to the injuries. Easy.

Billy hoists himself up the stairs one step at a time. And then he’s faced with about a million different options for rooms.

He finds the bathroom after an excruciatingly slow search down a never-ending corridor.

Billy flips the light-switch on.

The swankiest bathroom he’s ever seen beams into existence. Billy feels his brows rise to his hairline. There’s what looks like a jacuzzi in the corner of the room, alongside a walk-in shower in the other corner. Even the taps look fancy, somehow. The sink has a design. It’s not just a basin with faucets attached. It’s marble.

Jesus, Steve Harrington must be some old money type.

Billy limps over to the bathtub, sits on the edge, and peels his shirt off.

It’s actually not too bad. The bruising is swollen red, not yet an assortment of rainbow colours it’s sure to be tomorrow. He feels it gingerly with the pads of his fingertips, but after a thorough examination decides nothing is broken. His ribs are probably cracked, but his spine and shoulder unstiffen after a few pained stretches.

Half the pain seems to have been the shock of it.

The element of surprise has disappeared, and the edges of the pain become real and concrete. In a weird way, it’s better.

Earlier the pain was fuzzy and indistinct, everywhere and frightening. Now, it’s specific and thankfully only throbs in localised areas. It’s no worse than a particularly rough night with Neil and a bottle of whisky, or a gruelling injury from basketball and a three week rest period.

This, Billy can deal with.

No breaks. No dislocations. A few minor injuries that should be fully healed in about six weeks. The ribs are his biggest problem, but Billy can still train with them. He’ll be fine. He forces the rising panic welling up in his throat down, tells himself that this is fine.

He can explain to Coach, get Tommy to back him up. The scouts aren’t set to come around until the winter anyway. It’s still early October.

Billy wets the edge of a towel and starts on the cuts and scrapes; the most prominent being the ones on his face.

He’s dabbing at his lip in the mirror when Steve suddenly barges in.

“Hey, I – oh. Oh, sorry.” Steve’s face goes beetroot, hands spread in front of him and eyes closed. “Sorry.”

Billy turns to face Steve. He raises his brows at Steve’s total overreaction, and feels a grin take over his face. “Steve, it’s fine. You didn’t offend my innocent dignity or whatever. It’s your bathroom.”

Not to mention that Billy has very much been full-on naked in Steve’s presence, but he’s beginning to realise that this might possibly be the first time Steve has seen him shirtless – because his eyes are always focused anywhere else other than Billy in the locker room.

Steve opens his eyes. His face is brilliantly red. It’s sweet. “Right. Of course.” He ambles over and starts opening the cabinet which Billy had been using as a mirror.

Billy never even realised it was a cabinet. He blinks in surprise, takes a step back to sits back on the edge of the bathtub a bit numbly.

How rich can one person be?

Finally, Steve fishes out a first aid kit.

“Aha!” He brandishes it in victory. Then he turns to Billy. “Here, I’ll clean your cuts.”

Billy waves him off. “Nah, it’s fine. They’re pretty small.” He points to his lip.

Steve stares at him. “You’ve not seen your back, have you?”

Billy blinks. “No. Why?”

“You have a massive gash all down your back, dude. It looks painful as fuck.”

“Oh.” Billy says. “Damn, that must be what hurts.” He rolls his shoulders but finds them as loose as before. Then he flexes his spine and, despite the throb of pain, is still able to physically do it.

Billy figured that meant he was fine. Pain is pretty normal for what has just happened to him. And everyday life, actually.

“Turn around.” Steve instructs. “It needs cleaned, otherwise it’ll get infected.”

Billy does as he’s told without a thought; plants his both feet in the empty bathtub and grips the edge. Then he realises what he just did and feels his eyebrows lift in surprise.

He really just obeyed in seconds.

Steve must have been telling the truth about being some Super Alpha. Even on blockers, he’s unchallengeable.

Billy tries to ignore the heat working up his throat and across his face over it. He’s not analysing that at all.

He hears the soft sounds of Steve gathering things from his little box, rifling through them one by one. And then something cold and wet touches Billy’s shoulder.

Billy flinches on instinct.

“Sorry. It’s just water. This isn’t the worst part I’m afraid.” Steve murmurs. “I’m just getting the blood off before I disinfect.”

Billy swallows and nods, silent.

“I’m guessing you wanna know what the fuck did this to you–” Steve tries.

“So what happened with Nancy?” Billy cuts Steve off.

He’s still not mentally prepared for the conversation of whatever the fuck those things were. Doesn’t think his brain will be able to absorb the information without exploding.

At least not tonight.

“Oh.” Steve says, soft and punched.

There’s a beat of silence.

“You know.” Steve begins, voice low, still gently dabbing. “Nancy was the only one who ever called me out on my bullshit. Before her, nobody ever did that. I never even noticed that nobody else did that. Isn’t that weird? Everybody else just went along with whatever I said. Whatever I did.” His fingers are soft and careful in their swipes.

Billy is quiet, listening.

“And after I did notice, it’s like I couldn’t un-notice it. I just woke up one day and the goggles were off. Everyone was just … fake. I could see it all so clear, man. But not Nance. And Jesus, I didn’t give a shit that she was the only person I hung out with. She was real, you know? I just didn’t care what people thought anymore.”

The base of Billy’s throat hurts. He wants to swallow and finds he can’t. The unmasked affection in Steve’s voice is almost too much to bear.

“So I had no friends. Big deal.” Steve says, and Billy somehow senses him shrug. “I mean I thought to myself, did I even have any to start with? Who the fuck have I lost? And I loved her.” His voice goes hard. “I mean. I actually loved her.”

Billy squeezes his eyes shut tight.

“But, turns out she was just pretending like everyone else.” Steve murmurs. “I don’t even know when she started. That’s the worst part. I don’t even know anymore.”

Steve’s hand falls away. There’s silence.

“She said that?” Billy manages to get out.

He doesn’t want to talk about this. Doesn’t want to hear anything about Steve’s epic love and devotion for Nancy Wheeler.

But something compels him to say it, because he knows Steve wants to talk about this. Steve wouldn’t have said all that if he didn’t want to unload on somebody.

Billy can be that somebody.

“She was drunk.” Steve confesses. “It was at Tina’s. I don’t think she knew what she was saying, but. She said everything we had was total bullshit. And the thing is, when I think back, I realise she stopped telling me she loved me months ago. I just ignored it. I ignored her. Plus It was my idea to go to the party; she didn’t want to. And the more I think about it, the more I see what a dumbass idiot I’ve been.”

“Hey.” Billy says before he can stop himself. He turns a little.

Steve’s eyes are squinted and bloodshot, his expression strained. He’s clearly holding back tears.

“We can all be fucking idiots, man.” Billy says, even though he hasn’t the faintest clue. “We don’t wanna see the signs. But maybe give her some space, maybe she’ll come back.”

The idea tastes rotten in his mouth, but Steve just shakes his head.

“Nah, man. It’s Jonathan. It was always Jonathan.” He blinks but some of the tears drip out; Steve scrubs them off his cheek lightning-fast. He gives a shaky laugh, awkward and pained.

Billy hates this. He hates seeing Steve like this. He hates seeing Steve in pain.

But mostly Billy hates Nancy fucking Wheeler for giving Steve a complex that is going to take years to undo. Hates everything about this entire shitty situation and the fact that Steve doesn’t feel good enough, or somewhat to blame, or guilty about any of it.

As if this is somehow his fault.

If Billy could somehow convince Wheeler to take Steve back, he’d do it in a fucking heartbeat. Even if it hurt like all seven levels of hell.

To erase the look on Steve’s face right now, he’d do pretty much anything.

“Jonathan Byers?” Billy tries instead, aiming for a smile however small. “Man, maybe she needs her eyes checked.”

But it works. Steve hacks out a wet laugh and sniffs loudly.

“For real Steve, she wear contacts or something? I can’t wrap my head around that. She gives you up for Byers? Byers is the kinda guy you avoid at the supermarket. He’s the kinda guy you settle with at forty.”

Steve laughs again, his face crinkling up, some joy working its way back into his features.

“Seriously, he’s got a real shifty look about it.” Billy keeps going. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we see him in the news in ten years, local guy collects animal innards for fun. With that camera the whole time? Nobody needs a damn camera every second of the day. You see something pretty, you take a picture of it. Simple as. You don’t need to wear it like a necklace. Use that thing as a goddamn weapon, is what I’m thinking –”

“Okay!” Steve laughs, his voice still rough but his eyes are shining. “I get it. Jonathan and Nance are better suited anyway–”

“Okay, permission to punch you every time you say your cheating ex and her bastard new boyfriend are sweet and innocent people.” Billy states, points a finger. “I’m not asking, I’m telling, pal.”

Steve studies him with a smile, his eyes warm. “She didn’t cheat.”

“She may as well have.” Billy decides, and turns back around with finality. “Cheating is cheating in my books. Even in the fucking mind.”

Steve goes back to cleaning. And then he says, “You ever been cheated on?”

Would it make Steve happier?

Would it actually make him happier?

“Hell yeah.” Billy lies. “You know parties in LA, all the shit that goes down there. It happens. And it cuts you up inside, you know. Makes you feel like garbage. But here’s the thing.” Billy turns to look at Steve. “Would you ever cheat?”

Steve frowns. “Fuck no.”

“Exactly.” Billy turns back around. “Takes a certain type of person, my man. I know you think Wheeler is Mrs Perfect, but we all got flaws. Takes two to end a relationship. It wasn’t just you, Steve.”

Steve is quiet again.

“You ever been in love?” He asks.

Billy swallows down at his feet. “Um. Nah. Never been in love.”

There’s things Billy will lie about, and things he won’t.

Steve doesn’t respond.

“But I feel you, Steve.” Billy murmurs after a moment. “When someone you care about … doesn’t feel the same. I get that. I’ve been there.”

Steve rests his hand on Billy’s shoulder and squeezes. The touch is warm and grounding.

And then he starts on the antiseptic.

“Motherfucker!” Billy cries when the first sharp sting lances up his spine like a bolt.

“Has to be done.” Steve states, ignoring Billy’s hisses and gasps in favour of getting on with it.

“Goddamn– you fucking did– is that – ! Ah! – Christ!” Billy shouts out at intervals.

“There!”

And then Steve is leaning closer, as close as they’ve ever been, and winding a bandage around his middle. He pulls the material around Billy’s front, puts his breath on the back of Billy’s neck, his nose close to Billy’s ear.

“Sorry – two seconds –” Steve murmurs, his voice right next to Billy’s cheek.

Billy shivers. His skin is all gooseflesh, lighting up at Steve’s touch, at the barest brush of his hands on the non-injured parts of his body.

Warmth begins to pool in his belly, familiar and terrifying because Billy knows what that means, because it tingles pleasantly and itches for more and fuck, Billy is definitely getting an–

“All done.” Steve says at last, and pulls back.

Billy takes a couple long, calming breaths.

“You can get up.” Steve tells him.

Billy does, a little unsteadily, and steps out the tub.

Steve is standing there, looking torn, lip between his teeth.

“What?” Billy asks, suddenly stricken with the idea that everything he’s feeling is all over his face.

“I’m gonna do something.” He announces, hands splayed. “Don’t freak the fuck out.”

“Uh.” Billy blinks.

Steve bridges the space between them and –

Hugs him.

He hugs Billy. He wraps his arms around Billy’s shoulders tight, squeezing Billy to his body.

Billy wastes no time; wraps his arms around Steve right back. “What’s this?” He still asks, just to disguise his own eagerness.

He tries to let up his grasp, but can’t seem to make his arms cooperate.

“Thanks.” Steve says. And then he pulls away and holds Billy at arm’s length. The hug lasted less than two seconds. “For just there.” Then he grins. “You wanna eat pizza and get high on pain meds?”

Billy frowns. “What about you? Didn’t you get hit pretty bad on the shoulder?”

Not that Billy was all paying attention or whatever.

“Aw, I did them in the kitchen.” Steve shakes his head. “We have a kit in there too, in case anybody chops a finger off cooking.” He grins at that and wriggles a finger up and down, like a nerd.

“But.” Billy starts. He frowns, tilts his head. “So you came in to check up on how I was doing?”

“Yeah.” Steve answers, bright and truthful. “How were you supposed to reach your back?”

And it’s stupid, it really is.

But that small thing just makes Billy warm all over. He reaches out and squeezes Steve’s shoulder back.

Steve’s smile widens.

*

The settle on the sofa to wait on the pizza, flick the TV on just for some noise while Billy finds his eyes dropping shut every ten seconds.

Steve doesn’t seem to be faring up any better. The adrenaline has washed right out their systems, and they’re left sagging on the couch and desperately fighting to stay awake. Eventually the doorbell goes.

Steve lifts himself up and goes over to the door.

“Oh! Steve!” A voice says, bright and cheery.

Billy peers around the hallway to see the pizza delivery guy stood with a little cap on and a wide smile. “I thought this was your address. What’s with all the pizza? Aren’t your parents away?”

“Ah, hey, Rony.” Steve chuckles a little awkwardly, scratches his neck.

Rony opens his mouth, and then catches sight of Billy in the hallway.

Still shirtless, lip busted, and bruises already forming over pretty much every inch of his body.

Rony’s whole face goes slack.

Billy gives a slow smile and a two-fingered salute.

“Uh, Steve?”

“I’ll pay you at school. With tips!” Steve says, and closes the door with a foot.

He stands there with all three boxes of pizza and an unimpressed expression. “You had to make that worse, didn’t you.”

There’s a knock on the door.

Billy and Steve freeze.

Steve opens the door.

“Uh, my boss is kind of strict dude –” Rony tries.

“Tomorrow, Rony.” Steve tells him, his voice dark and strong. Billy’s arm-hair lifts.

Rony flees.

“With tips!” Steve shouts after his retreating figure.

Rony just keeps running

“Well.” Steve says slowly, turns to look at Billy. “That went well. I’m one hundred percent sure there won’t be any wild rumours circulating around tomorrow.”

Billy grins. “Thought you didn’t care anymore?”

“You know.” Steve tilts his head. “There’s some extremely improbable situations I’ll admit I would care about people knowing. This.” And Steve waves a hand to Billy’s general person. “Situation happens to be one of them.”

Billy snorts and rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Hey, can I check your kitchen?”

Steve blinks. “What for?”

“I – just for food.” Billy gives a lame shrug.

Steve stares. “Billy, I bought three pizzas. They’re right here.” He lifts his arms, as if to prove it.

Lord, does Billy know. The whole room is filling with the smell of them. Hot melted cheese, fresh tomatoes, mushrooms and onions and peppers and salt and dough–

“I’m. I’m not really a fan of pizza.” He tries.

Then, Billy’s stomach chooses that exact moment to gurgle violently. He actually needs to place a hand over his abdomen and press down, it’s that strong. Almost bends him in fucking half.

Steve frowns. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Nothing, I just –” Another gurgle passes over him, and Billy clenches his jaw against the pang of hunger.

Steve’s face flatlines. He moves the pizza boxes to one hand, a hip pops out, and his other hand falls onto it.

Billy sighs. The truth wriggles inside his mouth and presses against his teeth. Somehow, Steve just makes Billy want to spill.

Despite every effort, Billy finds it coming out in stuttered chokes.

“I’m not. I don’t really. Eat carbs.” Billy states. “Because of basketball.”

Steve’s head tilts. “The hell does pizza have to do with it?”

Sweet Steve. Innocent Steve. “Steve, carbs are evil.” Billy states. “Sure they taste good, but they’re totally shit for performance and nutrition. It’s just dough and oil and fat. It does nothing for you.”

“What, you read that in some insane lifestyle magazine? How to look like a Hollywood actor, who only looks that way for 6 months until they finish filming?” Steve asks. “Come on Billy, food doesn’t have to always be healthy. It doesn’t always have to give you some nutrient. What, so you just don’t eat any carbs or sugar or salt? Whatsoever?”

Billy nods. “Pretty much, yeah.”

Steve stands with his mouth slightly parted for a long moment. Then resolve comes over his features. “Billy, you’re eating this pizza.”

Billy really does not have the energy to fight about this.

How much harm can it do? He’s pretty sure he could train it off tomorrow.

Billy rolls his eyes. “Fine. A slice, Harrington.”

“No. This full pizza.”

“Look, Steve, I get what you’re tryna do but you don’t understand, I need the diet of an athlete if I –” Billy ruffles his curls, and then he blows out a sigh from his nose. “If I wanna score a sports scholarship, alright? This is just how athletes eat. This is just how I gotta eat. Scouts check everything, and your diet and weight is one of them.”

Jesus, Billy’s never even told anyone about it. His heart hammers against his ribs.

Steve cocks a hip, considering. “Alright. Then I’ll race you. If I’m faster, you eat this full pizza and admit I’m right and food doesn’t have to be healthy all the time for you to stay fit. If I lose, you eat a slice and I’ll spend all night trying to convince you to eat more.”

Billy chuckles. He holds his hands up. “Alright. I’m game. Where?”

“Backyard.” Steve sets the pizza boxes down and opens the door.

Billy rolls his shoulders and walks over. Steve stops him with a hand on his chest, and Billy freezes instantly, hopes his face doesn’t instantly flood with colour. He’s still shirtless, found it too hard to raise his arms and so just settled for nothing.

“Do we have a deal?” Steve holds a hand out.

Billy takes it and shakes it hard.

So they make their way to the backyard. It’s still freezing balls, and Billy bounces on the spot to stay warm. Steve marks a little finish line with his foot in the mud, then walks three feet and stops.

“Here. From here to there.”

“Easy. Bring it.” Billy cracks his knuckles and lines up with Steve.

“On the word ‘go’. Okay?”

Billy nods.

“Go!”

Steve is off like a shot. Billy is close, but he can’t manage to bridge the gap. Steve just about edges it.

He wins.

“Woohoo!” Steve shouts, arms up. “That’s right!” He jumps around on his feet, skipping the length of the yard, happy as a little kid.

Billy bends over to pant. He tastes copper in his mouth, every single muscle in his body protesting.

“Damnit.” He hisses, and spits out some saliva.

Steve stops and turns to Billy. “Let’s eat.”  His teeth gleam in the dark.

“That was a fluke. I’m injured, asshole.” Billy runs a hand under his nose.

“So am I.” Steve points to his shoulder, and his tongue pokes out the side of his mouth between his teeth as he grins.

Which is Billy’s thing, which means he’s consciously (or otherwise) mirroring him.

The pizzas are still hot by the time they make it back and settle down on the couch to eat. Billy finds his shirt and throws it on; too cold to care about the fact it hurts every single muscle in his back to do, and too cold to pretend like he's not cold as well. Steve opens his mouth, seems about to offer, but Billy has already pulled it over his head and sat down.

He sits on the sofa with Steve, their pizzas spread between them. Billy opens the lid of the paper box. His mouth goes hot and wet from the sight of the pizza, but then his heart rackets up a notch. Anxiety is a bag of live worms in his gut, all squirming for escape.

“Steve.” Billy tries.

And then Steve takes a slice from his own box and shoves it in Billy’s open mouth.

The flavour explodes on his tongue. Salty sweet, greasy, rich, sharp, cheese. Billy’s eyes close, a noise from deep within his chest escaping. A noise he barely knew he was capable of making – a long, drawn-out moan.

“Eat.” Steve commands.

Billy chews like a man on the brink of death, like he’s been starving for the last three years because fucking hell he has. Literal tears sting behind his eyelids as he swallows, and he grabs Steve’s wrist tight and crushing to make sure Steve feeds him the rest of the slice.

Then the pads of Steve’s fingertips meet Billy’s lips, and something comes over Billy, and he takes them into his mouth and sucks.

They’re salty and greasy and perfect. The taste of Steve’s skin is better than anything Billy has had in his mouth.

“Ah – Billy –” Steve gasps, cut-off and choked.

Billy’s eyes fly open.

He drops Steve’s hand instantly. He stares, struck, at the realisation of what he’s done.

But Steve laughs loud, grabs some pizza for himself and almost swallows it whole. He uses the same hand Billy had in his mouth.

Billy laughs back, wild and crazy and just that little bit unhinged. He can feel the grin split his cheeks in half, feel his heartbeat pulsate in his throat a mile a second, feels heat boil inside his belly, but Steve carries on eating as though nothing happened.

So Billy grabs a slice of pizza and stuffs it in his mouth.

It keeps getting better somehow, if such a thing is possible, if food can somehow taste even more mouth-watering the more it’s eaten. His appetite doesn’t subside immediately, but the hunger doesn’t hurt – all that Billy feels is good. All he feels is the warm dough filling him up from his very toes, sliding down his throat into his stomach and igniting every single one of his nerve endings. It’s better than sex, better than anything Billy’s ever felt in his life.

He eats like a maniac, like a complete animal: tears at it with his teeth and clutches it with both hands. Steve only copies him though, so Billy feels no sense of self-conscious at the fact he’s eating like a total mad-man.

Soon, they’re done with their boxes. They seem to finish at the exact same time, their eyes meeting over the open lids splayed out between them on the sofa.

Billy doesn’t know who moves first. All he knows is that they’re both diving for the last box on the floor, ripping the lid up, tearing into it, pulling the pizza apart with no finesse and not even attempting to follow the pre-cut lines.

Billy pulls chunks of the pizza off and his hands are covered in grease and tomato sauce, but it doesn’t matter, none of it matters, because it tastes so fucking good that Billy realises this is what food should be, fun, enjoyable, fulfilling, satisfying.

That’s the fucking point.

If it’s not, then what actually is? What’s the point of eating to not get any of this? What’s the point on missing out on all of this?

Billy and Steve’s hands meet several times, sometimes just brushing over each other, other times latching onto the same piece and tearing it in half between them.

But after just a couple minutes, they’ve completely decimated the whole box, and Steve catches the last slice with quick fingers before Billy snaps a hand around his wrist.

Steve meets his eyes. They’re dancing, playful, challenging. Billy starts to grin, tugs on Steve’s wrist a little.

Steve yanks his wrist out and pulls the pizza towards his open mouth.

Only Billy tackles him to the floor.

They land with a thud onto the space between the sofa and the coffee table, with a yelp and a laugh.

Steve throws his hand above his head and out of reach, his other hand going to Billy’s hip in an attempt to heave him off. But Billy is just as fast, catches the hand on his hip and presses it to the floor, pushes the rest of his body up towards Steve’s hand.

The only problem being that it lines up Billy and Steve’s faces.

Billy is directly above Steve; they’re still laughing, scrambling, wrestling around. Until Billy feels Steve’s hot breath against the underside of his neck and glances down.

Billy stops.

Steve’s cheeks are flushed, his mouth pink and smiling, white teeth exposed, brown eyes bright with happiness, head tilted up towards his hand where the prize awaits.

But then Steve must feel the change that suddenly comes over Billy.

He looks up.

Their eyes meet, and then hold. Billy doesn’t know what his expression looks like. He wants to pull up his familiar sneer or smirk or even a lip-curl, but his face feels numb. He can’t look away. He can’t make his body move.

Steve’s features go lax. His smile falls away, dark brown eyes focused on Billy’s face. Billy feels the tingle of heat of the back of his neck and the tips of his ears.

Is Steve’s face growing closer? His breath smells like cheese and tomato sauce. It smells sweet and a little sour. Billy can taste it in the roof of his mouth. He feels his head begin to lower, drawn like the tide towards Steve, pulled by some gravitational force he’s not even aware of.

But then he catches the way Steve’s eyes widen the slightest fraction.

That snaps Billy out of it.

Billy throws his head forward and takes a bite of the pizza right out Steve’s hand. Steve yelps and scrambles beneath him in outrage, but it’s a lost cause: Billy has it in his mouth.

So Steve pulls the slice toward him and bites down on the other end.

Now their faces are even closer now. Their noses are touching. Their mouths could only be centimetres apart.

Billy’s heart jolts in his chest at the proximity. At the soft smattering of freckles over Steve’s face. At the beautiful shinning life in his challenging eyes. At the phantom feeling of Steve’s mouth on his: so close that Billy’s own lips are imagining the sensation.

Billy doesn’t know how long they stay like that. Seconds, maybe, or hours. He sees the challenge slowly fade in Steve’s eyes, replaced with something else, something Billy can’t name.

Billy pulls back, tearing his bite off in the process. He chews with unfeeling teeth and watches Steve do the same, their eyes holding onto the contact.

Then Billy realises he’s lying on top of Steve. That he’s holding Steve’s wrist down onto the carpet. That he’s pushing Steve to the ground.

Billy sits up so fast he’s almost dizzy. That somehow makes it worse: Steve is splayed out underneath his lap, Billy’s thighs bracketing Steve’s hips, as if they’re –

Billy jumps up onto his feet.

Steve looks stunned, his eyes a little unfocused, the pizza slice held in a limp grip.

Billy holds out a hand out. He’s still flushed and breathless, but to leave Steve on the flood seems a little unfair. And probably suspect too.

Steve blinks before he takes it.

Billy pulls Steve to his feet.

They’re pushed close again, Steve’s chest pressed to Billy’s front.

It’s a split second before Steve hastily steps back, brushes his legs with one hand, and then splits the rest of the pizza slice.

He holds out half to Billy. His face is expectant.

Billy looks at it.

Happiness – not amusement, not pleasure, not pride – but pure happiness bubbles up within him. Billy doesn’t think he’s ever felt it. It’s utterly foreign.

Because it’s pure and untainted. It’s not sarcastic or sharp or temporary, it’s not a short rush that fades in seconds.

It’s full. It’s so full that Billy’s entire body feels whole and unified. As if the parts of his lungs and his kidneys and his bowels that he couldn’t feel before are bursting at the seams with it. As if he didn’t know what it meant to have a body before this moment.

The sight of Steve Harrington, ruffled and flushed and holding out half a slice of pizza to Billy. Sauce smeared all around his mouth, his ears red, his shirt rumpled.

If anyone told Billy that sight would make him feel like this, Billy would have snorted at them.

But it does make him feel this way. Billy feels a beam crack his face open like a jar of pickles. The happiness must just shine out the crevices it makes, from his eyes and his cheeks and in-between his teeth, as though he’s some insane lit-up lantern. It makes him want to laugh from the sheer joy of it. So Billy does laugh, deeper and warmer than he’s ever laughed in his life, ever dared to laugh, ever been made to laugh.

Steve blinks, thrown. His own version of a beam begins across his face as he watches Billy. It’s uneven, massively wide, crooked to one side and so totally genuine it almost looks painful. He starts to laugh, higher than Billy’s, lighter than Billy’s, but somehow complimenting Billy’s darkly hoarse voice.

Steve presses a hand to his stomach, his whole body shaking with it. Billy follows suit as he bends with a hand on one knee. And they laugh like that, over absolutely nothing, until Steve stuffs his half of the pizza in his mouth in one swift move.

He looks expectantly at Billy, cheeks bunched, shakes the bit of pizza left.

Billy takes the offered half and eats it in one bite.

After that they find the pain meds in one of the kitchen cupboards. And they take two each.

“There’s a science to it.” Steve instructs. “After an hour we take another one. You won’t feel it now, but you will.” He grins.

So in the meantime they find some beer cans and crack them open. Shot-gun it as it runs all over their hands and down their arms while they splutter and laugh and lick it off.

They make a blanket fort in front of the TV and put on some old Star Wars. Shout their opinions about which one is the best and why the one they’re watching isn’t. The painkillers mingle with the beer in Billy’s gut and give him a pleasant buzz, makes the ends of his fingers tingle, makes his tongue feel fuzzy and large.

It’s enough of a buzz to flop down onto his elbows beside a cross-legged Steve. Shuffle a little closer. Roll over and put his head in Steve’s lap.

Steve doesn’t stiffen or startle. He doesn’t even blink. After a minute, a hand falls on top of Billy’s head.

Billy relaxes, all his muscles going loose. He nudges Steve’s thigh with his nose until Steve starts to card his fingers through Billy’s hair.

“Thanks.” Billy murmurs. Not just for this. For everything. For tonight. For the best and weirdest day of my life.

“You too.” Steve murmurs back, his eyes on the screen. His focus is unwavering, but his expression is soft. He doesn’t explain what he means.

His fingers are gentle as they stroke Billy’s scalp. The sensation lulls Billy into a half-sleep, enough to feel Steve lie down above him and stretch out, his hand still stroking in Billy’s hair.

Eventually, Steve stops.

Billy forces himself awake. He peels his eyes open and looks up to where Steve lies. His mouth is open, breathing deep. Billy concentrates: Steve’s heartbeat is a slow, quiet thump.

He’s out cold.

Billy pulls the hand in his hair out and presses it to his mouth gently. Steve doesn't move. Billy lets it go and places it on Steve's chest.

Then he shuffles up in an army-crawl and lies down very, very slowly beside Steve. He watches Steve sleep until he can’t fight the exhaustion anymore.

But before he drops off, Billy realises he’s made a massive mistake.

Because yeah, he and Steve are friends.

Chapter Text

Billy has always been kinda fascinated with the body’s propensity to heal.

Always sort of liked that it does it without question, without ask. That you wake up one day and it’s easier to move than it was yesterday.

He’s doing leg stretches, because shin splits are currently the absolute bane of his life. So he’s laid out all across the floor with one leg bent underneath him, arms flat on the ground above his head, because he saw it in some book – and he should probably use a personal trainer for how much he exercises, but screw it. DIY is fine.

Until Billy lifts his head and sees the fading yellow line of a bruise on his bicep is down to just a needle-point.

Three days ago, Neil held him in place with a crushing grip around his arm and lectured Billy on being responsible, respectful, etcetera, etcetera.

Billy seriously doesn’t have a clue how he’s not bored of that lecture yet.

And Billy’s not exactly a peach either, but the finger-marks around his arm had come up in ugly purples and blues. It hurt to lift his arm in basketball a little. Just a faint lancing sting; just the reminder of it.

Billy’s no masochist as well – though he’s almost sure it would make his life a hell of a lot easier. Sadly, he prefers his pleasure without a side order of pain.

So he hissed air through his teeth and carried on.

But Billy has practically conditioned his body to be a fast healer. Neil gave him the bruise on Monday, and by Thursday it’s almost gone.

Now, Billy lifts a hand and presses a thumb into the mark. Even though there’s still a little bit of colour there, it doesn’t hurt. There’s no feeling to it at all.

Billy knows that when he moves to college, any evidence of his life with Neil will be washed away like a rinsed paint palette. All the colours will just run down the sink and away into the ocean, leaving behind a spotlessly clean slate.

Billy knows his body will never hold anything from his childhood: he’s made sure to keep it that way. He’s made himself so submissive and small in order to ensure that none of Neil’s lessons scar.

Even if it goes against his entire nature to do it.

Billy flexes his arm, smiles at the ease with which he can. It feels like a reward for his submission: for standing there and accepting Neil’s treatment. He goes outside and shoots some hoops. Cheers when he scores. Kisses the spot where the bruise had been with a loud smack.

Billy’s mind is nothing like his body, though. It doesn’t wash clean.

Everything stains, even if Billy scrubs at a spot until it’s raw. Even if he gnaws at his lip until it’s bloody, even if he presses nails into his palm until the cut into his skin, the tears escape eventually.

Billy screws his face up, slaps his cheeks, kicks the wall, but nothing works.

Even if his body has separated Neil Hargrove into just another object like a stray ball or the corner of a table, even if it heals just the same from all those things, Billy’s mind hasn’t done the work yet.

When Billy wakes up in the morning, it’s to the sight of Steve’s face half-pressed to the ground. They must have fallen asleep facing one another; their noses are still close.

Billy can feel a little of Steve’s breath. Not much, just barely. His mouth is open and drooling a little puddle onto the carpet, features slack with unconsciousness. It’s not gross but it’s not exactly attractive either. Something about it is calming, to see Steve in his not-attractive state. As his natural self. They fell asleep right on the floor of the living room inside their blanket fort. Steve is twisted into what is sure to be an uncomfortable position, still in his jeans and sweater, face-down on his stomach with one knee up.

The TV is still on, even though the movie must have ended hours ago. It’s just the options screen now.

It washes Steve in colour. His body looks like one long bruise, cheeks dusted in blues and greens. His hand is resting close to his face, fingers curled up. They look gentle somehow, as if they’re holding something in sleep.

Billy moves a hand over, slowly, so slow. His arm turns blue from the light. As though getting close to Steve hurts.

Billy won’t wash this away, though. The memory of it will live inside his skin. He wants to touch everything. The lone strand of hair curled over Steve’s forehead, the sharp curve of his jaw, the smooth back of his hand.

But Billy can’t decide which would be more inconspicuous, and settles for stopping lamely at Steve’s bent elbow. He touches it with the tip of his finger. It feels like nothing. It’s an elbow.

Jesus, he’s pathetic. He is the word loser personified. The fact that somebody can reduce Billy Hargrove, resident Alpha celebrity in Hawkins and practically a pro athlete at this point, to this level of pitiful is beyond him. Even if this is his mate. There should be a goddamn limit.

Steve doesn’t move. He doesn’t feel it.

Obviously.

Billy gets a little bolder and moves his hand up.

At that exact moment, his gut clenches painfully.

Billy grimaces in confusion. The fuck? It happens again: the very distinctive, signature pain of an oncoming shit.

And then he remembers he ate two entire pizzas and washed it down with alcohol and a bunch of painkillers.

Yeah. His stomach hasn’t had to digest anything other than dry meat and vegetables for three years, the occasional beer thrown in at the weekend.

So it’s about to remind him of its existence, it seems.

He scrambles up, doubles over with a gasp as the new position seems to realign his intestines. Everything is heading south.

Then Billy straightens, and his back makes something of a whip-crack noise.

Billy gasps louder as pain comes alive, singing in the wounds he forgot he’d managed to get last night.

“Billy?” Steve murmurs, sleepy and confused. He hoists up onto his elbows, glances at Billy and blinks fuzzily. His head is tilted at an adorable angle.

“Uh. I’m about to shit myself.” Billy states.

Which, he thinks, is possibly the least attractive thing that a person could ever say.

Let’s just make that the least attractive.

Steve looks alarmed. He sits up fully.

Billy points a finger. “Don’t follow me or you’re dead.”

And then he runs up the stairs and finds the nearest bathroom.

Afterwards, as Billy is bent over his legs on the toilet and staring at the toes of his mud-stained boots, he heaves a tortured groan over the last five minutes.

“Great.” Billy mutters.

Because great. He just told Steve Harrington he was about to shit himself. Really no better way to start the day.

Billy creeps down the stairs to find Steve crouched around his garbage can. He shudders with a retch before he pulls his head out to look at Billy.

“Ugh.” Steve manages. He looks faintly green around the edges.

“Throwing up is better than almost shitting your pants.” Billy informs him gravely. He leans against the kitchen counter for support. His knees could still give out at any minute.

“I think they’re pretty much the same thing.” Steve rasps.

Billy laughs, and then Steve laughs, and it feels as if somebody stabs him through both eyeballs.

“Ah. Don’t laugh. No laugh.” Billy closes his eyes and holds a hand out.

“You laughed.” Steve groans, in just as much pain. “Jesus. What’s happening to us?”

“You’re not meant to eat cheese late at night.” Billy croaks back. “And we practically inhaled a factory.”

“Gosh, you sound like a mom.”

“You just said gosh.”

They have one second of laughter before the both of them cut it off with a quick inhale and a wordless agreement never to do that again.

“I don’t wanna die, Billy.” Steve croaks, then spits some saliva into the trash.

“Come on.” Billy ambles over and hauls Steve to his feet. He wraps an arm around his waist like Steve did with him and drags him to the couch.

“I don’t think the pain meds helped.” Steve mumbles into his neck.

“You think?” Billy manages a laugh, which he thinks is pretty good considering Steve’s mouth is dangerously close to his pulse.

“Or the beer. Fuck. Is this a hangover? We weren’t even drunk.”

“Were we?” Billy asks.

“Stop answering me with more questions.” Steve huffs.

So, alright. He’s not doing as well as he thought.

“I wasn’t drunk.” Billy manages to formulate. “But I also haven’t had cheese in a couple years. I think my system just kinda rejected it.”

“You and me both.” Steve sighs as he flops back down onto the sofa, his eyes closing. And then one blinks open to squint at him. “Wait. A couple years?”

Billy nods.

Steve’s head drops back. “I’m too hungover for that.”

Billy laughs. Steve doesn’t reply.

There’s nothing much to do while Steve sprawls across the sofa, so Billy switches on the TV and starts flicking through. He sits on the edge of the sofa-arm where half of Steve’s head rests, careful not to touch.

After a beat, Billy clears his throat and looks down.

“Hey.” Billy starts.

Steve opens his eyes and looks up at Billy.

“Are you good to take me home?” Billy asks. Because he realises he didn’t exactly give Steve his master plan yesterday. “And, you know. Tell my folks why I stayed over? Just make up some bullshit reason. Would really help me out a lot.” He chuckles awkwardly.

“Sure thing.” Steve throws a hand up blindly, manages to smack Billy’s chest before it falls back down. “Just gimme ten. Okay twenty.”

Billy smiles for real. “Great. Thanks.”

Steve nods. “Twenty.” He assures.

*

When Steve was younger, his parents used to take him to showrooms at the weekend. Cars, bathtubs, microwaves, sofas, lamps, marble worktops.

Name an object, and Steve has probably been to a store dedicated to it.

The smell of newness, of bubble-wrap and plastic film permeate his memories. Of new carpet, new curtain, new rug. It’s an immediately distinctive smell, one that Steve is instantly awake to whenever he catches a whiff of it at the mall. One he wrinkles his nose at and quickly avoids.

Every Saturday for a large portion of his childhood, Steve was dragged along with his parents while his dad cruised the furniture section, both arms crossed and mouth pursed, and his mom flipped through the carpet samples and stroked the tile selections.

Most of the time they never bought of anything. It was, in their words, just to have a look.

It was their hobby.

It was the most sinfully boring couple of hours of Steve’s life and he had to repeat them every single week.

No amount of investigations into every nook and cranny of the place, or time spent in front of a silent television while it played the middle of a movie Steve never got to finish anyways, was enough to detract from the mind-numbing, soul-sucking activity that is interior design shopping with his parents.

He’d only manage half an hour of freedom as well. Then his mom yanked him out of whatever crevice he’d snuck inside with a tug on his ear.

After that, it was a period of morosely following them: head hung low and feet dragging behind him until the store clerk chuckled about how there were ‘plenty of better ways to spend the weekend, aren’t there, kid?’

He’d never be allowed to stay at home. And on the car ride over to some hick little warehouse, Steve would press his nose to the window and yell every time they passed a park, a carnival, a garden centre, a shopping mall.

“Please, please, twenty minutes!” Steve cried.

“No.” His dad said, final.

“Look! Look it does ice-cream! Can we just pick up some ice-cream?”

“No.”

“Please, please –”

“Steve.” Dad said, with that familiar baritone that meant business.

Steve’s mouth snapped shut. But he simmered with rage at his own body’s betrayal, at the fact he couldn’t kick up a fuss for longer than a minute.

He couldn’t stand up to a Beta, not when he didn’t have any instincts to fight back with.

He slumped so low his knees dug into his dad’s seat.

Then Steve hit puberty.

Sure, he went through all the usual phases; a cracked voice and an embarrassing boner here and there.

But while everyone was busy presenting, while Tommy was glowing at school because I’m a Beta just like everybody else, Steve, man I was so freaked I’d be something weird, or not present at all, Steve got nothing.

It’ll happen, his friends would say. Some people are just late.

His parents took him to the doctors.

Steve didn’t want to go.

“Do we need to?” He croaked, because his voice was still going through some major updates. “This is so embarrassing. What am I meant to say?”

“You’re going, Steven, and that’s it.” His mom said.

So Steve quietly stewed in the waiting room while the receptionists gave him quick glances and murmured among themselves.

Steve barely noticed, so entirely mortified that he was going to the doctor about this and not just waking up with instincts the same as everybody.

The room smelled funny. His nose itched, but no amount of scratching and rubbing helped the irritation. The hairs in his nostrils seemed to buzz. The room smelled of sickness and stale death.

Then they all walked into the doctor’s office and the doctor stood up.

She blinked at Steve, wide-eyed.

Steve just marched over to the examination table and jumped up.

“Let’s get this over with.” He sighed.

His parents sat down on the chairs opposite, folding their hands and waiting patiently.

“What appears to be the problem?” The doctor asked, still standing.

“Well, he’s not presented yet and he started puberty a few weeks ago –” Mom began.

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” The doctor put up her hand with a gentle smile. “What do you mean not presented? Your son is an Alpha.”

Everyone in the room blinked.

“What?” Steve asked.

“You’re an Alpha, Steve.” She explained to him. “You’ve presented. Maybe in the last couple minutes, even.”

They went home in silence.

Steve retreated to his room because he could tell they wanted to talk about him without him there. When the first murmured words began, Steve tiptoed out and over to the top of the stair-case.

He could only hear the faint snatches of conversation.

“Never had an Alpha in the family…” His mom said before her voice grew indistinct, clearly trying to be quiet.

“…Will have to just keep it to ourselves for now, until we understand a little more.” His dad said. There was worry in his voice, only distinguishable to Steve for how foreign it was.

Steve lay back down on top of his bed. Confusion churned in his stomach. What was the problem? He’d presented as something, at least.

Then the weekend rolled around.

“There’s a nice little woodware store, just a couple hours away. Steve we’ll be leaving just after lunch –”

“Do I have to come?” Steve moaned, already comfortable in front of the TV.

“Yes, Steve, you can’t stay home by yourself –”

“I can.” Steve persisted. “I’ll be fine. I can be by damn myself for four hours.” His voice hardened.

It wasn’t anything new on his usual complaints.

But for some reason his mom fell silent.

Steve turned his head to look at her at the dining table, having breakfast with a mug of coffee and a plate of toast.

“Well, if you think you’ll be alright.” Mom said eventually, leafing through the newspaper. She didn’t look up once.

Steve’s mouth fell open. He stared at her for a beat, just to check that she wasn’t joking.

“I will be.” Steve rushed when she didn’t say anything. “I’ll watch some TV, get some homework done.” Hope was rising fast.

“Mm.” Mom nodded, disinterested. “Okay.”

And then they were putting on their coats. Steve was still sat in the exact same position he’d been in an hour ago, but they were none the wiser, as if Steve didn’t exist.

Steve could barely believe his luck.

“See you in a few hours!” Mom called at the doorway.

“If you need us, just give us a call.” Dad added, gruff.

And then Steve watched them leave the house.

“Oh my God.” Steve grinned wide.

Finally.

Finally they listened to him. Finally they paid attention to him. Finally they realised he was old enough to be trusted by himself for a few hours.

Steve heated up some soup, ate it in front of his favourite cartoons, floated around his pool for a little while, and did some math equations.

It was bliss.

And then it kept happening.

At first, Steve didn’t realise that it was him. He just thought they were in a good mood. They were starting to trust him. They didn’t feel like putting up a fight today. They were tired from work.

Then it got weird.

It got that he could eat anything he liked, which could be takeout for a straight week. It got that he could go to bed whenever he liked, which he tested every night and passed out at 5 in the morning before waking at 7 for school.

Then it got that everyone at school stared at him, worshipped the ground he walked on, did anything he said and anything he wanted. Agreed with all his ideas. Laughed at all his jokes. Hung on his every word he said until Steve realised nobody else had spoken for half an hour while Steve tried to carry the conversation.

It got that every girl in class had a crush on him and he’d broken up three relationships because of it. It got that guys would grit their teeth at him, but when Steve opened his mouth to explain they’d scatter.

It got that Steve was eating like shit, sleeping like shit, and feeling like shit.

Until he made his dad submit.

He’d had a real bad day of people climbing over themselves for him. His teacher bumped up his grades for no apparent reason: not just in one class, no, in all of them. He was called to the Principal’s office to go over it, until the Principal took one look at him, waved him away, and told Steve he’d clearly improved.

Steve tried to deny it – if anything, he was getting less work done. His grades were total shit. But the Principal just smiled and called him ‘modest’. His friends, by comparison, were practically fighting amongst themselves over who got to hold his stuff or collect his lunch. It was nice at first: after two weeks, it was infuriating beyond belief.

So Steve wanted to park himself in front of the TV, eat an entire box of cookies and keep going.

“Steve.” Dad tried. “I think you’ve had quite enough. We’ve just bought them, they’ll be finished before we’ve had one.” He held out a hand.

“No.”

“That’s enough.” Dad stated, and some of his usual business tone crept in.

“I said no.” Steve growled.

Dad’s hand dropped; he took a step back.

The rush of victory swept over Steve.

Mom gasped as she walked into the room. “Steve!” She shouted. “How dare you make your father to submit to you!”

Dad recovered in seconds. He stood to his full height. His eyes were hard, but with something like disbelief in them too.

He wasn’t aware he’d submitted. Neither of them were aware of it. But Steve’s attention hadn’t been focused on his mom and dad like he usually was. He had just been looking at his dad.

Has he been making them submit this whole time and they all didn’t know?

“I –” Steve gaped, cookie held in numb fingers. “I didn’t – I wasn’t –”

“Your room. Now.” Dad commanded.

Steve obeyed instantly.

Fear coiled heavy in his gut and wound him up tight.

He had forced his dad to agree with him, somehow. If mom hadn’t been there to see, Steve wouldn’t have even known. Dad wouldn’t have even known.

Had Steve done that with everyone else too and nobody had even noticed?

“So you’re something we’ve termed a Super Alpha, or Hyper Alpha.” The doctor explained, her fingers steepled calmly in front of her. “All it means is that within your average Alphas, you would be the most dominant. An Alpha among Alphas, if you will.”

She tries for a smile: nobody else reacts.

“They aren’t rare in and of themselves.” She recovers. “In a large city, if you came across other Alphas, your instincts would eventually settle as you’d begin to understand where you stood. But, because there’s no other Alphas in Hawkins, your nature is … testing itself. It needs to find a boundary and it hasn’t yet.”

Steve realised that was exactly the case.

Realised that he was testing his parents, pushing at the rules he’d grown up with his whole life.

Because he wanted to find something, anything, that just for a second pushed back.

“Can anything be done?” Mom asked, as though it could be surgically removed.

And that’s how Steve was introduced to blockers.

He stared at the little pill in his hand. “I’m not sick, though.”

“It’s just something that has to be done, Steve.” Dad said, and placed his hand on Steve’s knee in an uncharacteristic show of affection. “We’re not happy about this either. But you’re fourteen years old. You can’t parent yourself. You can’t pick your own bedtime and what to eat for dinner. We’re doing this for you.” His voice was calm, but firm.

Steve just kept his eyes on the pill.

“Sweetheart.” Mom sat beside him too, stroked his cheek. “Do you really want everything to stay the way it is right now? You want to make everybody around you do whatever you say, even if you’re not trying to?”

Steve glanced up. He shook his head, and swallowed the pill.

*

Steve waits until Billy steps into the Beamer and takes a breath.

“So.” Steve starts.

Billy turns to look at him while he’s buckling up, the full focus of that blue-eyed, mega-watt stare on Steve.

Because Christ, Steve finally knows how everyone felt when he looked at them off blockers.

When Billy looks at him, Steve feels light-headed. He feels as if his bones go weak and they’re hard to hold up. It doesn’t make sense what so freaking ever, but here Steve is.

“What’s the plan? What’s the story?” Steve continues, once he’s regained his senses and blinked a couple times.

Billy bites his bottom lip. The skin goes white from the pressure. He releases it redder than before, and it’s a little damp with saliva. Steve swallows.

“Um.” Billy starts. “Kinda hoped you could do your witchery doo-da, if you know what I mean.” He waggles his fingers as if to demonstrate.

“My witch – wait, what?” Steve barks.

Billy gives him a flat look. “Come on Steve. That thing you do where you tell somebody to do something and they do it.”

Steve stared for a long, long moment.

Billy’s brow starts to furrow.

“Is that what’s happened here?” Steve manages to get out, rough and dry. “Did I do that to you?”

“What, no, of course –” Billy’s face scrunches up, and then it smoothes out as he looks at Steve. “Hold up. Do you mean to say you don’t notice when you’re doing it?”

Steve attempts a smile, but it’s tight and constricted and just the side of readytocombust. “Kind of the whole reason I went on blockers, Billy, was because I didn’t notice when I did this shit, but I guess it was entirely pointless if my whole life I’ve just been making people go along –”

“No, no, no, no.” Billy babbles, waves a hand in Steve’s face.

Granted, Steve shuts up.

“No, Steve.” Billy states, wide-eyed, and drops his hand. “The blockers work. You’re not an Alpha. You’re a nothing. I swear, I can’t scent anything from you.”

Steve studies Billy, but he feels himself release the tension he’d suddenly gathered. “Right.”

“What I mean is – half of dominance is just tone of voice and posture. Your instincts fill out the other fifty, but it’s not the whole shebang.” Billy explains. “It’s not as if you could challenge another Alpha. But you can dominate people.”

Steve gapes.

“You don’t do it a lot!” Billy assures, or at least tries to. “You’ve done it I think twice since I got to Hawkins.”

Steve tries to process this information without opening his car door and screaming up at the sky. “Alright.” He says slowly. “When did I do it?”

“Last night. When you cleaned my wound. And then when you told that pizza kid to get lost.”

Steve stares. “So the two times I’ve done it have all been yesterday? That means I could be doing it every day and you wouldn’t even know and I wouldn’t even know–”

“Steve, Steve, relax.” Billy grabs his shoulder, squeezes it hard and gives it a shake. “It’s not as bad as you think. It’s not some kind of sorcery. I know I called it that, but it was a joke. Everyone does it every day. I promise, I promise Steve I could point out people doing it. It’s natural. It’s totally normal.”

Steve searches his brain, tries to find anything with Nancy, or with Jonathan, Tommy. H, Carol, or –

“Steve.” Billy states. “Tell me to get out the car.”

Steve looks at Billy, sees his serious expression. “What –”

“Just do it.” Billy nods, as if encouraging him.

“Get out the car.” Steve says simply.

Billy smiles. “No.”

But Steve twists a little in his seat. He needs to know.

“Can you please get out the car?” Steve asks politely.

Billy shakes his head, still grinning.

Steve sighs. He knows what it is.

“Get out the car right now.” Steve states, his voice dark.

Billy’s hand flies to the handle door before he realises what he’s doing. He stares at his hand, then whips his eyes up to Steve.

Steve drops his forehead onto the steering wheel. “Fuck. I have been doing it.”

“That.” Billy tries shakily.

“It’s okay.” Steve replies, utterly miserable, eyes closed. “You’re right. I don’t do it every day, probably don’t even do it every week. But I have been doing it. Not with … friends or Nancy or anyone. But with … you know, a retail assistant. Or my mom. Fuck.” Steve whips his head up. “I can’t believe I never noticed this before.”

Steve’s life has been cherry pie in the sky easy until the last couple months, when his girlfriend cheated on him, broke up with him, and inter-dimensional alien life somehow rolled its way into his miniscule hometown.

Why did he never fucking question that? Why did he never wonder at every opportunity landing at his feet, every friend kissing the ground he walked on, every girl liking him back?

How much of that was his Alpha nature? How much of any of it was just Steve?

“It’s not something you really notice.” Billy states. “It’s easy. It’s natural. It’s just instinct, to try to speed up the process. Steve, it’s nothing to feel guilty about. Every damn Alpha, Omega and Beta does it in some way or another. Even the blocked ones.”

Steve turns to look at him. “But how? Isn’t the whole fucking point of blockers to supress your instincts?”

“Steve. Goddamn.” Billy closes his eyes sighs through his nose, in the way he does before he imparts some worldly wisdom to Steve’s innocent little mind. It’s happened too many times now for Steve’s liking.

“Blockers are basically just contraceptives.” Billy continues. Which. Oh. “They supress your cycle, not your fucking instincts. I mean, I dunno with the amount you’ve been taking, but people on blockers can still use their instincts just fine.”

“But I can’t scent anything.” Steve says. “And –”

“No, I mean.” Billy sighs. “Look. We can do this after school? I’ll explain everything. But I’ve got a storm waitin’ for me at home and I’d kinda like to face it.”

“Oh.” Steve remembered. “Right.”

So he reverses them and drives to Billy’s house.

“Did we decide on a plan?” Billy breaks the silence halfway there. If Steve weren’t mistaken, he would almost detect a hint of anxiety in Billy’s voice.

But Steve is mistaken, because nothing in Billy’s body or tone gives anything away. It’s just a hunch. Sudden and random.

And probably because Steve himself would be anxious to go home after more than twelve hours of radio silence.

Steve bites his lip. “Wing it?”

Billy looks at him. “You any good at that?”

“Been doing it my whole life.” Steve replies.

Billy nods and turns away. “Wing it.”

Steve smiles at Billy’s profile. At the hard set of his mouth, the quiet strength of his shoulders. It really does look like Billy is rearing up for battle.

Steve admires that. He’s not asking Steve to take the blame – even though Steve can guess from his entire demeanour that he is, indeed, heading towards a storm.

He’s accepted that Steve has no fucking clue what to do, that it’s pretty unlikely Steve will fix this situation. He knows he’s in the shit.

Steve watches bravery happen in real-time. Watches it form in Billy’s posture, in his eyes.

When Steve first saw Billy, it lit something up inside him that must have asleep his entire life.

He saw Billy’s boot-clad foot impact the ground of Hawkins High and stood still, entranced, as Billy hip-checked his car door shut and pulled out a cigarette.

Something about the way he held himself was different to anyone Steve had ever saw. It was regal, aristocratic, even with the double denim and the pierced ears. He held himself like he knew how to. And Steve let his eyes follow Billy’s walk into Hawkins High, purposeful and self-assured, before he forced his gaze away and back to Nancy.

Then Billy was in Steve’s English class. He took up all the available space in the room, his presence large and demanding. Steve curled himself small to avoid looking over like the rest of the entire school.

They ran into one another for a final time in the locker-room.

Steve still isn’t sure what came over him when their eyes met. Doesn’t know what compelled him, why he needed to be closer, he needed to be closer. This desperate, clawing, frantic need pushed him forward and into Billy’s space, pushed their heads together and pressed hard.

Steve towered over Billy, discovered he was surprisingly short and stocky like a bull. His nostrils flared like one, large and curved. There was something wild and a little deranged in his eyes, as if a red flag had been waved.

Steve wanted to reach out.

Billy bet him to it.

His hand fit around Steve’s throat like a glove. And there was intention in it, there was a threat.

But for some insane reason, Steve relaxed. He felt his muscles lose their tension without consciousness of it. Something settled inside him; a raging whirlpool whipped up in his very core abruptly fell away. Dissipated.

Then there was laughter, cheering, and Billy laughed back.

Submission.

“He just made you his bitch, Harrington! You submitted like a damn Omega in heat!”

Is that how submission felt?

Did it feel that way for everyone?

Peace. Calm. Steve wasn’t forced to submit to Billy. Billy didn’t make him submit.

Steve … wanted to.

He thought back to his first weeks as a new Alpha, making people submit left right and centre without even knowing it. He remembered their wide smiles, the shine in their eyes as they did whatever Steve wanted.

“We got a new Alpha in town!” The guys in the locker-room crowed.

And Billy was an Alpha. Steve never really knew what the word meant until he looked at Billy.

Billy, shirtless and glistening, radiating energy and dominance on the court. Radiating strength. Giving off heat like a small sun, like a comet crashed down on them with its own gravitational pull. He yanked everybody into his orbit. Once there they floated in Billy’s sphere. They spun around and around and never got close to touching.

Steve thought about the sensation of Billy’s hand wrapped around his throat. Strong. Firm. A slight pressure to the fingertips in warning. Something inside Steve gave way, caved inwards at the memory. He wanted it again. For some unknown reason, Steve wanted Billy to do that to him again.

This is why everybody worshipped the ground I walked on, Steve thought. If it felt like this. Rewarding. Addictive.

But then Billy turned out to be a massive asshole who relished in the attention and praise, sought it out, sunk his claws in and tried to force it from Steve.

Steve wasn’t about to give Billy the satisfaction. Didn’t plan on becoming one of his many fans, one of his starry-eyed victims.

He burned to, though. Every cell in his body screamed for it. For the bliss of submission.

Some fucking Hyper Alpha Steve made. One whiff of another Alpha in the vicinity and he’s putty in their hands.

He knows Billy a little better now, of course. Still doesn’t know the reason for the terrible week of hell, but knows Billy is actually a genuine guy. More than that, Steve knows Billy is funny, clever, sharp. Knows Billy laughs in a strange shout, a burst of noise that splits his face apart. Knows that Billy is fiercely competitive in everything he does, recklessly bold too, and independent to a point far past stubborn.

Knows Billy has freckles that dust across his cheeks. Knows the heat of his body grows stronger the closer the proximity to it. Knows it carries the faint scent of smoky cologne and forest air. Knows that Billy has an energy so palpable Steve could probably drink it.

He knows that Billy is a good listener. He knows that Billy has experienced heartache, same as anybody. Knows it makes him a little more human, discovering that, but no less dangerous.

Billy emanates a very real sense of danger, in every movement he makes, in every expression that passes across his face. Steve can’t really explain it; he figures it must be another Alpha trick Billy managed to learn that Steve didn’t.

Steve could imagine Billy’s life up until this point. Could imagine the power he’s held since he hit puberty, could imagine the doors he’s kicked down and the records he’s beat, the awards he’s won, the steady rise to fame that isn’t slowing anytime soon. Steve can understand Tommy’s worship – not just because Billy is an Alpha, but because Billy is a Billy, the only one of his kind.

Steve can share in that worship. Already does, a little bit. He knows in twenty years after Billy has moved on from Hawkins, when Steve catches him on the TV or in the newspaper, he won’t be surprised.

The thought makes Steve ache, oddly. It’s a strange emotion. Steve isn’t sure what to call it.

“Just here is fine.” Billy points to a small driveaway, in front of an even smaller house.

Steve feels his eyebrows rise. He hadn’t meant to assume anything, but – with the way Billy acts, the constant wardrobe of shirts he parades, Steve would’ve thought Billy was – he was sure Billy was … a little better off.

And Jesus, now he feels like a Grade A Asshole. What the fuck does it matter?

Why Steve had assumed Billy was rich is a better question.

“Right.” Billy rolls his shoulders and steps out.

Steve is hot on his tail, and skips around in front of him with a hand out. “Hey. I’m doing this.”

Billy blinks those mega-watt eyes at him. He nods.

Steve strolls on up and knocks on the door. After a beat, a man opens up.

He must be Billy’s father, though there’s absolutely no resemblance. He looks at Steve, curious, and then his face goes cold when he catches sight of Billy.

Steve stills.

The pre-rehearsed speech of being oh so sorry to return your son so late, sir, we were simply caught up with something or other, flies right out the window when Steve sees how the man looks at Billy.

There’s no happiness, no relief, no emotion. There’s just cold.

“Sir.” Steve starts, voice hard and commanding. “Please accept my apologises. You see, I hit your son with my car.”

Billy splutters on his own saliva behind him, and tries to recover in an odd clearing of his throat.

The man returns his gaze to Steve, shocked.

“Terrible accident, all my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going at all. And at the traffic light as well!” Steve shakes his head, shamed. “I only clipped him, but I couldn’t live with myself if I let your son go home. I let him stay at mine to sleep off his injuries. He’s still a little concussed, I would assume, though he’s adamant about not going to the hospital. If he decides to, please let me pick up the bill.”

The man stares at Steve for a moment, stunned. Then he turns to Billy. “Right. Billy, is this true?”

Steve looks behind him. Billy nods, silent.

“Well then.” The man says.

Steve takes a step closer, up onto the porch until he’s stood in front of Billy’s father. “Please don’t go too hard on him, Sir.” Steve lowers his voice. “He barely knew who he was until a few hours ago. Hit his head rather badly. If you’re wondering why he didn’t call, he really wasn’t able to, and I didn’t feel comfortable letting him attempt to make his way home in that state.”

The man looks at Steve, nods dumbly. It’s working. It’s working.

Steve lays a hand on his shoulder. “Really.” He states, and his voice is hard. “Let Billy have some rest. I can imagine you’re keen to tell him how worried you all were, but I doubt it would do much good right now. Yes?” He squeezes down.

The man nods again. “Yes. Yes.”

Steve lets go. “Perfect.” He steps down from the porch, catches sight of Billy’s stunned face, and smiles at him before he adopts his serious face and turns around again.

“Oh, and Sir?” He calls, as if he’s forgotten something on the way back to his car. “I’ll take Billy to school tomorrow if he decides to go. I couldn’t let him drive after a bang to the head. I’ll be here to check up in the morning.”

He holds eye contact when he says that.

The man nods, and looks at Billy. “Billy? Come inside. You’re off chores tonight.”

Billy takes an uncertain step, then another. Once Billy’s reached him on the porch, the man lifts a hand and pats Billy’s arm, once, before it drops away. He nods with finality, and walks back into the house.

Billy whips around to Steve.

Steve is half-way to his car already, but he waited to see Billy inside. He grins when Billy throws an open mouth and bug-eyes at him.

Steve throws him a thumbs up back, excited their plan worked.

Billy grins too. He pops a thumb out at his side, discreet. Then steps through his doorway and shuts the door.

Steve watches for a moment.

He can’t see through the curtained window, can only make out vague shapes as one of them goes to the sofa, and the other one enters the room. Billy. Two other shapes standing up to greet him. Nobody touches one another.

Steve drives home slowly. He’s still got another hour before school, doesn’t feel like eating anything for a year, and can’t seem to get the image of Billy’s father out of his head.

The way his eyes settled on Billy. The way nothing lit inside them; no recognition, no relief. Nothing. Emptiness. Steve’s never seen that happen before. It sits heavy in Steve’s gut like old milk.

His attention is only on the road ahead of him, until he sees something blur in his periphery and he turns his head.

“What – !” Steve almost chokes on his tongue.

Billy is running at the side of his car.

He’s sprinting, his arms working along with his legs, and when he catches Steve’s eye he beams wide and waves a wild hand.

Steve breaks in seconds.

Billy carries on forward for a little while, staggering to a stop, wind-milling his arms in the most graceless act Steve has ever seen Billy make.

Steve jumps out his car.

“What –” He barks.

Billy doesn’t answer. He rushes up, grabs his face, and smacks a hard kiss onto Steve’s head.

“You’re fucking brilliant, Steve Harrington!” Billy shouts, eyes wild, hair blown all over.

And then he releases his grip with a little shove and starts running away.

Steve trips back against his car, uses it to steady himself. He watches, aghast, as Billy jogs back with all the ease and elegance of an athlete – despite being thrown against a tree not twelve hours ago.

Steve feels his mouth stretch, wide and involuntary. Billy’s just a spot in the horizon when Steve laughs.

Chapter Text

“Are you ready?” Steve asks.

Billy cracks his knuckles with a nod and braces for impact.

Steve pulls out all his English textbooks from his backpack and lays them across the coffee table.

Billy stares. Some of them have the word ‘beginner’ across the front cover. This may or may not be a colossal waste of his time.

See, Billy had a plan. He always does. But this one was pretty much to get closer to Steve through any means possible.

Tutoring? Check. That’s pretty plausible for a new kid in town. Plus, Steve was the one who offered it in the first place.

Billy doesn’t exactly fall into the ‘nerd’ prototype, thinks he could pretty easily float through Hawkins High as the jock meathead without any complications. It makes perfect sense, and makes his life a little easier. He doesn’t get pestered by the teachers to come to debate club or snide looks from the rest of the class because of it.

Tutoring is also a sure-fire way to get close to somebody. Billy’s seen the movies; he knows what happens.

So, Billy planned to chat a little about being an Alpha, then Steve could talk to him about English, and Billy could pretend it was a mutually beneficial situation for both of them.

He could pretend that he a) wasn’t randomly dedicating a large portion of his time to helping Steve with this Alpha thing, or as Billy likes to call that – standing with a megaphone by Steve’s ear and shouting I have a crush on you!

In addition, he could b) get more time with Steve.

The only problem, the only small snag, is that Steve opens up like a damn flower or a stray puppy you throw bread at in the street one time and it follows you home.

Billy doesn’t need more time with Steve.

He already has all the time in the world.

Because Steve firmly and quickly attaches himself to Billy’s side after Billy crashes at his place.

Then after that: after Steve bamboozles Neil into being – by some twist of fate – nice to Billy, after Billy sits on his bed for eleven seconds before sprinting out the door and down the road and kissing Steve’s head, Billy realises for the first time in his life he could either skip school or go in.

His choice.

Up to him.

Billy isn’t sure how long Steve’s spell is meant to last, if it has a timeframe or if it even wears off at all, but he doesn’t fancy pushing it. His back, however, hurts like some godawful motherfucker. Billy figures one day is safe. One day off.

So, he crawls into bed and doesn’t move until that night.

The next day, as promised, Billy steps out into the brisk grey of the November morning air and pulls his Camaro door open–

Only to watch Steve Harrington pull into his driveway.

Billy stands, paralysed, as Steve parks his Beamer and gets out.

They stare at each other with identical expressions of confusion.

“What are you doing here –” Billy starts.

“Why the hell are you ready right now?” Steve carries on over him, blinking at Billy. “I’m early.”

“I’m dropping Max off.” Billy explains.

“I’m taking you to school.” Steve’s frown deepens. “Remember?”

“I thought.” Billy glances around, leans a little closer and lowers his voice. “I thought that was, you know. For show?”

Steve widened his eyes with a nod. “Uh, yeah. What kinda show would it be if we didn’t give it?”

Billy stops in his tracks. He huffs a smile, shakes his head, and walks over to Steve’s car.

Billy hadn’t been in the front when Steve drove him and Dustin home, and it was too dark to see much. So he doesn’t really remember anything about Steve’s car, what with still reeling from the memory of that freakish, unnatural creature and the fact Steve straight up killed it.

With a bat.

Climbing into Steve’s car, Billy sees first-hand how clean it is. There’s not one inch of clutter – not even a stray water bottle, a wrapper off a granola bar.

It smells like air-freshener and that strange, synthetic scent of emptiness. Billy’s still not used to it. He’s constantly reminded that Steve is on blockers, continually rediscovers that the ways Billy communicates and is used to communicating are not possible.

Whereas Billy is used to stepping into a friend’s car and scenting the air, feeling a certain sense of kinship and the discovery of a myriad of little scents that make up them, Billy can’t have that with Steve.

At least not yet.

“Why you out so early?” Steve turns to him as he’s buckling. “Aren’t we dropping off Max?”

We.

Steve really fucking commits. Billy ignores the way it makes his chest warm.

He waves a hand as he settles back. “I usually just wait in the car in the morning. It’s nice to get out the house. I smoke some fags, read a bit of–”

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck.

Billy catches himself just in time. I’m not meant to read in my spare time, he thinks wildly. This is the one thing I’m meant to be bad at.

“Uh. Porn.” He finishes.

He freezes.

He stares at his knees with wide eyes.

Porn?

Fucking porn? Could he think of nothing else?

Nothing but mother-fucking porn?

There's silence.

“Uh.” Steve tries.

Billy flushes in one hot second. All the blood in his body rushes to his head as if he’s been tipped upside down.

For lack of anything better, he clears his throat and glances out the window.

“Damn.” Steve laughs. “That set you up for the day or something? No wonder you’re like a jack in the box during basketball.” He laughs again, light and breezy.

Billy turns, shocked, and breaks into a grin at Steve’s face. He's pink-cheeked and amused: teasing.

 “Dunno what to tell you, amigo.” Billy shrugs, all casual. “Should try it. Really wakes you up.”

Steve laughs a little louder, bubbly and bright. Billy’s voice is still rough in the morning, but he joins in anyway.

“Man, Nancy really hated that shit.” Steve sighs happily. “She’d be all, ‘it teaches men to look at us in a negative way’ and whatnot. But you know the models get paid for it!” He defends. “I’m sure they probably enjoy it, too.”

“Fuck Nancy Wheeler.” Billy states, with a little more venom that Steve’s comment necessities. At Steve’s raised eyebrows, he tacks on, “It’s a damn career like any other. And I don’t know ‘bout you, but I can tell the difference between porn and real life.”

“Exactly.” Steve waves a hand, and then he flushes a little darker. “I mean. Not that I –”

Billy chuckles, low and dark. “Don’t worry, Pretty Boy. I ain’t Wheeler. I’m not about to castrate you if you tell me you read porn mags.”

Steve gives him a funny little look, all considering like. “Pretty Boy? Still going with that?”

Billy realises the word just slipped out. He hadn’t even meant for it to.

Steve’s gaze is calculating, as if he thinks he’s figured something out.

“It’s a joke.” Billy states. His voice is hard and not a little bitter. “You forget what a joke is?” He needs to move his hands; starts pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and his lighter from the other.

“Nope.” Steve pops. He waits a beat, then just as Billy’s lit up he says, “You ever read the gay ones?”

Billy chokes. He drops his cigarette onto his lap. “Fuck fuck fuck –” He hisses in pain, tears stinging his eyes as he picks it up with quick fingers.

“Sorry!” Steve yelps, even though he did nothing.

There’s ash on his jeans, but thankfully no hole. Billy brushes it off quickly, waves a hand to Steve as if no problem, amigo even though his pulse is racing a mile a minute. He sticks the cig back in, sucks in a shaky drag.

Jesus fucking Christ, is all his brain is running with right now.

Billy had hoped – maybe even assumed, fantasised, that Steve must be a little something, what with them being mates and, well. Billy certainly being queer.

He thought that maybe Steve’s not queer; not yet.

He didn’t expect this.

“You.” Billy’s voice comes out in a thin, dry rasp, like an eighty-year-old. He clears his throat. “You. You read gay porn?”

Steve shrugs, though there’s a tell-tale heat working up his throat. He glances away. “Sometimes, ya know, just for fun. Keeps life interesting, a bit of both.” He doesn’t meet Billy’s eyes, though. “Human curiosity, isn’t it?”

Damn. Maybe Hawkins is a little more progressive than Billy first thought.

“Hear, hear.” Billy nods, though his voice is still sounding about sixty years older than it is. “Couldn’t agree more.”

Billy, actually, couldn’t agree any fucking less. Coupled with the fact that Billy’s never owned a porn mag in his life is the fact that Billy certainly doesn’t find both interesting.

As they’ve established, he’s as queer as they come.

This situation is spiralling out of fucking control. Billy can feel an oncoming hernia.

“Yeah?” Steve looks not a little bit relieved. Looks a whole lot relieved, if Billy is guessing right.

Billy really can hardly believe they’re having this conversation. That he is literally exchanging these words with Steve Harrington.

“So—” Steve starts.

There’s a rap on the window.

Billy and Steve both startle, whip around to find Max with a backpack slung over her shoulder and her arms crossed.

“What the hell is going on?” She asks, muffled through the windshield.

Steve gapes like a fish.

“Harrington’s taking us to school.” Billy grins widely.

She eyes them both distrustfully. “Since when?”

“Since now.” Billy replies, simple.

Max huffs and climbs into the back. “Hi, Steve.” She says absent-mindedly.

Billy raises his brows, turns from Steve to Max and back again.

Max speaks first, shrugging. “He hangs out with Dustin, Mike, Lucas and Will.”

“And they’re all …” Billy tries.

“In my class.” Max answers.

Billy raises his brows at Steve. “We need to get you better friends, Stevie.”

Steve huffs, turns his keys, and reverses them out.

So that’s how Steve Harrington drives Billy and Max to school.

After Steve drops them off, Billy gets a few curious glances thrown his way over the fact he’s not stepping out his signature Camaro.

Maybe it’s also because Steve also comes around to his side, claps his shoulder with, ‘See ya!’ And carries on his merry way.

The whole parking lot stares.

The most interested party being, of course, Tommy and Carol.

“Hey.” Tommy barks out to Billy when they fall in step on their way inside, Carol close behind. “You hang out with Harrington now?”

“Maybe.” Billy answers, turns the corners of his mouth down casually.

Tommy radiates frustration and confusion and, oddly, betrayal.

Billy never thought they were all that close — both Tommy and him, or Steve and Tommy. So he’s no clue where the betrayal is being directed, but he sure as hell hopes it’s not at him. He’s got a funny fucking feeling that it is, though.

“What’s the issue with you and Harrington?” Billy asks. Mostly because he’s curious.

“He’s using you, you know.” Tommy answers instead, tight with irritation.

Now that, Billy just didn’t expect.

He slows down to turn his head, stares at Tommy and his skittish gaze, his awkward shift of foot.

Billy opens his mouth. He would say, no he’s not.

He would say, Steve barely knows the meaning of the word. You’d only need to spend about five minutes with him to realise that. Underneath all that fucking bravado and charm, he’s as naive as they come and dorky enough to still be hot. There’s nothing else there.

Steve dropped that bravado a while back. That’s why he’s in the shit he’s in; with no friends, no girlfriend, no crown, no reputation, nothing. How blind as a fucking bat are you?

But something about the way Tommy says it, the insinuation in his voice — as though using people is something so beneath him — pulls Billy up short.

“Yeah?” Billy raises one brow this time. “Aren’t you doing that too?”

Tommy rears back as though he’s been slapped. “No.” He says. “I thought you were cool, man.” He frowns. “I thought we were cool.”

Ridiculously, he’s telling the truth. It pours off of him in waves.

Billy isn’t exactly familiar with the feeling of regret. He recognises it easily, though. It’s instantaneous, hot and squirming and a lot stronger than Billy would’ve expected for this situation.

Tommy Hagan isn’t anything special, they barely have anything in common, and Billy is leaving this godforsaken town in a couple short months.

But there’s nothing other than the truth coming out his mouth. Steady-pulsed, earnest-gazed, truth.

All Tommy has ever wanted from Billy is friendship. There’s never been an ulterior motive.

Billy feels like shit. He wonders what happened between him and Steve. Wonders if Tommy is different to all the slack-jawed idiots around here, and that’s why him and Steve were even friends in the first place.

Tommy took Billy under his wing the first day — Billy had figured that was to benefit himself and his own image, but now he thinks he might be wrong. He thinks Tommy did it because in his head, it would benefit Billy.

Billy reaches out and clips his round the head. “Me too!” He laughs. “Jeez, loosen up.”

The scent of relief explodes off Tommy, until Billy says, “But I pick my own friends, got it?”

Tommy’s scent sours, an annoyance he quickly buries deep and nods quick.

Billy will wrangle it out of Steve, somehow. If Tommy is this cut up about Billy being friends with him, there’s a reason. It’s bigger than high-school popularity politics.

They walk into Hawkins High together, same as usual, but Billy means it this time when he says he’ll see them at lunch. And Tommy and Carol walk off hand-in-hand, a wave each as they go. Maybe they’re good company to keep.

But when the day is over and Billy is done playing nice with the teachers and the lunch ladies and the pretty girls, he exhales a slow breath as he walks over to Steve’s car, already anticipating the way the sight of Steve will wash away all of today’s frustrations.

Only to see Dustin, Max, and two other kids all leaning against Steve’s car. He’s guessing these two are some variation of Mike/Will/Lucas.

Billy slows to a stop.

“He’s not taking you all home.” Billy states. Because he’s not.

“Uh.” A voice says from behind him.

Billy turns to find Steve with a sheepish expression. “Are you serious?”

At the very least, Billy still gets the front.

“Why does he get the front?” Dustin complains, squashed between Max and another kid. His face is red, and his eyes keep darting to Max.

So do the two other boys, Billy notes. He glares at them in the rear-view mirror, and they gulp like cartoons whenever they notice.

“Cause I say so.” Steve says, bright and cheery.

Billy watches their back and forth. It’s easy and natural as it was that night when they all hunted the nightmare thing.

A ‘lizard slug’, Dustin called it. He hadn’t even been fucking sure. And they’d trekked into the woods with two buckets of meat and a bat. No Plan B.

Hawkins is a lot weirder than Billy expected. A lot fucking weirder.

He’s not going to think about the creature. He's adamant about that. If it’s some species native to Hawkins that the townspeople have to routinely curb in numbers, Billy thinks he might be happier not knowing. And he means that in all seriousness.

If he’s here any longer, he might just find a bag thrown over his head and wake in the middle of the woods to some initiation into a satanic monster-hunting cult.

So, for now, he’ll live in ignorant bliss until that day.

And at least he can attempt to bury the strange exhilaration he felt in watching Steve stand over the creature, a snarl on his face, a wild glint in his eyes as he brought his bat down.

If Steve Harrington turns out to be a lot crazier than Billy expected, he doesn’t want to think about how much deeper he’s going to sink because of it.

Dustin grumbles. But then they’re pulling up outside his house and all the boys are scrambling out the car as though it’s on fire. They fall on top of one another to get away from Max.

Billy holds up a finger to Steve, and then neatly exits the car.

He crosses his arms over his chest as the waits for them all to assemble. When they do, the three of them freeze up at seeing Billy.

“Any of you touch her.” Billy states sweetly. “I’ll kill you.”

The black kid gulps. Dustin just blinks.

The other one, the scrawny little thing, hardens all over.

“Is this you being protective or controlling?” He spits. “She doesn’t even like you, you know.”

Billy knows this. Of course he does. He doesn’t like Max either. And he’d say as much to her face.

She would say it back.

But hearing it from somebody else – knowing Max said it to somebody other than him – feels a bit like a punch to the jaw.

He doesn’t know why; it doesn’t make much sense. He never imagined Max would talk rainbows and sunshine about him. He knew that if Max made friends, she’d tell them all about her big bad asshole Alpha stepbrother.

So why this? Why this feeling like it’s come as a shock?

Something of his surprise must show, because the scrawny one eases up. He gives a huff, grabs his friends, and drags them into the house.

Is this you being protective or controlling?

Everything I do, Billy, I do for your own good. Remember that.

There’s a tap.

Billy jerks to see Steve stretched over the passenger seat rapping on his window. “Coming?”

Billy climbs back in.

Max is sullen and silent in the back. Billy glances at her in the mirror, swallows and glances away.

He’s never hurt her. He’s never raised a hand.

She doesn’t even like you.

Obviously. Why should she? This isn’t new information.

Steve pulls up outside his place.

“Thanks, Steve.” Max manages a flash of a smile, and then her gaze settles on Billy and it disappears.

She climbs out and doesn’t glance back to see if Billy follows or not.

“Billy?”

Billy blinks and turns to look at Steve.

Steve’s face is soft, open, as if he knows.

Billy clears his throat. “Well, thanks for the ride. I’m sure this’ll really solidify our story.”

“I am nothing if not thorough.” Steve remarks, and Billy snorts.

“Yeah?” Billy asks. “What’d you do with that freaky little thing you killed, then?”

He didn’t mean to just come out with it; needed a distraction and used that. But Steve’s expression changes. The light in his eyes dims instantly. “What we usually do. Bury it and hope it doesn’t come back.”

They can come back?

Billy opens his mouth, eyes wide.

“Look.” Steve runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not exactly allowed to give you the fully story. And by that, I mean I was outvoted by a landslide. I can give you the abridged version, but.” Steve swallows, looks at Billy. “Well. If you really want to know all the gory details, you might want to win over the kids.”

Billy stares, aghast. “The — the fuckin’ kids?”

Steve nods solemnly. “Yup.”

Billy stares for a little longer. “Steve.” He states, hard and fast. “I’m not really planning on sticking around Hawkins for long. I just need to know if they’re going to be a problem, or if the town has it under control.”

Steve bites his lip. “Can I get back to you on that one?”

Billy stares at him, flat.

“I’m serious.” Steve says. “I genuinely don’t have an answer. Ask me in a week.” And then, absurdly, Steve exhales and starts driving them out. “Well, at least —”

“Hey, woah.” Billy scrambles in his seat. “Where we going?”

Steve gives him a look, confused. “My place? Remember? English lessons for Alpha lessons?”

“Steve.” Billy says slowly. “I can’t really be out two nights in a row. Just drop me off.”

Steve keeps driving. “It’ll be fine. I know what to do.” He says, all casual, like his hypnosis is a normal thing. “Plus, you promised me two days ago that you’d explain why I can still – do stuff to people. So I’m cashing in.”

Which is how Billy finds himself surrounded by English textbooks, Steve bent in half over one as he chews on his bottom lip.

“Themes of the gothic … which was becoming popular in the Victorian Era …” Steve glances up to Billy from his lap. “Is Jane Eyre a horror?” His face convulses with a frown. “Did you get that?”

Billy curbs his tongue on, yes, Steve, I got that from a novel about a man keeping his wife in the attic who attacks people at night.

“Haven’t exactly got that far.” Billy lies. “I think the chick just met him, or something.”

After Billy says that, though, he remembers they meet quite far into the novel – once Jane’s whole shit of a childhood is over with. Billy should have gone with something a bit dumber, but how dumb is dumb?

God, he’s not fucking smart, is he? Maybe in Hawkins he is.

He hopes only in Hawkins he is.

“But isn’t it a romance …” Steve’s eyes scan the page. It’s clear he’s never picked up a textbook in his life. Maybe he hasn’t even picked up the book.

He’s too goddamn spoiled; he needs some sense kicked up his ass. How the fuck has he gotten by this long on not even reading the book? The essay is due next week.

Billy seriously needs to curb the urge to tutor Steve.

“Would you rather do this later?” Billy asks. “Get all your Alpha questions out, then we can do this.” He waves to the textbooks.

“But I need to hold up my end of the bargain.” Steve reasons, blinks those wide eyes at him. “Otherwise it’s not fair, right?”

“Steve.” Billy says. “We can do questions first. Jane Eyre later.”

Steve closes his textbook gently, lays it flat atop the coffee table. He looks nervous all of a sudden. “Okay. Um. Questions. Right.”

Billy waits.

“Right. Yeah.” Steve drums his fingers restless on his knee.

“I’ll start.” Billy says. “You wanted to know why you can still dominate people even though you’re on blockers?”

Steve blinks, and then he nods.

“It’s because your instincts don’t have all that much to do with your cycle.” Billy states. “There’s no way to totally remove the Alpha in you. If I went on blockers, I’m guessing I wouldn’t be able to do as much as I can now, but I could still use my instincts. They’re there, just harder to find.” He exhales from his nose. “So, you’re working at about 50% capacity right now with them.”

Steve nods. “Okay. Alright. And it’s normal?”

“Totally fucking normal.” Billy assures.

“I mean, I am on pretty strong blockers.” Steve murmurs.

Billy bites his tongue on asking, yeah, but when can you stop them? When are you off them for good? When will you even know?

“So, I guess everybody on blockers can still use their instincts. It’s not a bad thing.” Steve seems to be talking to himself, eyes darting every which way.

“Steve.” Billy starts, gently. He has to curl his fingers to resist reaching out. “It’s never a goddamn bad thing. You’re an Alpha. Sooner or later you’ll need to face the music. You can’t run from it.”

“I don’t want –” Steve starts, but cuts himself off with a huff. “I don’t even know what it means to be an Alpha. I don’t know any of this.” He gives another frustrated burst of breath, jaw clenched.

“You will.” Billy replies. “I’ll teach you. Talk you through the basics. Scenting, cycle, you name it.”

Steve peers at him curiously. “Scenting?”

Billy swallows the lump that forms in his throat. “Yup. It’s what pack do. Families. Couples. Even friends, sometimes.”

Billy isn’t speaking from experience right now, but it’s not as though Steve will know. He can’t even imagine his scent on somebody else, or how that would feel. Comforting. Soothing. Or so he hears.

“I’m guessing you don’t … pee on them.” Steve grimaces.

Billy can’t help it. He bursts out laughing.

“God, what fuckin’ books you been reading?” He howls.

Steve flushes like a tomato. “I don’t know! Isn’t scent marking something dogs do?”

“Jesus, Steve, nobody’s gonna fucking pee on you.” He giggles high like a little kid, because Steve really cracks him up sometimes.

“I didn’t –” Steve starts.

“Look, when I first met you, you were scent-marked by Wheeler.” Billy carries on, before Steve can make this any more ridiculous.

That pulls Steve up short. “I was?”

Billy nods. “Yeah. Just enough to know you spent a lot of time together. That you guys were close, you know. Physically.” He clears his throat on that, uncomfortable.

Steve’s face is soft and open.

It hurts a little to look at, but Billy forces himself to.

“She scent-marked me.” Steve murmurs.

“Yeah.” Billy repeats, stupidly, and tries to think of something to add. “It’s like a show of affection. Like sharing clothes.”

And then Billy abruptly remember that monster hunt.

Steve offered Billy his jacket, draped it around his shoulders before he could so much as protest. Is that a bad example? Or does sharing clothes mean something different to Billy than it does to Steve?

Or does …

Steve smiles, soft. “I get it. It’s nice. I wish I knew what it was like. You know, to be able to scent all that.”

“You will.” Billy states, a little hard. He wants it for Steve, wants it when he sees the longing caught up in Steve’s expression. “You will, Steve.”

Steve snorts. “If only it didn’t come with an added period.”

Billy wrinkles his nose. “Quit calling it a period. Betas have periods. Alphas have ruts and they’re fine. Omegas have heats. Circle of life and all that shit. Nobody gets through intact.”

Steve gazes at him, swallows. “So you. You have a rut, right?”

Billy flashes some teeth. “Yup. Same as every other Alpha up and down the country. It’s at the end of the month for me.”

Steve blinks, surprised. “But. What’s your plan? Isn’t that really soon?”

Billy frowns. “Same as always. Hole up in my room and wait for it to be over.”

“But is it not …” Steve searches for the words. “Painful?”

The look on his face has Billy wondering if Steve’s built it up into this terrible awful thing in his head – which may or may not be Billy’s entire fault.

“It’s a little uncomfortable, Steve, yeah.” Billy says, slow and even. “But you don’t need to do anything other than get through it. There’s no, ya’ know.” He waves a hand to his general person. “Threat to my health or nothing.”

Steve worries his lip between his teeth as he digests the information. He avoids Billy’s gaze. “What does it feel like?” He finally asks, eyes on his ground, picking a thread in his sock. “What. What’s uncomfortable about it?”

Billy kind of expected this question, sure.

He still finds himself heating all over at having to answer it.

“It’s like. Uh. This – kinda terrible itch everywhere.” Billy stutters out. He clears his throat and starts again. “Working out or – or jerking off or scratching yourself does nothing.” He’s definitely flushed over his whole face now. “It’s like your body doesn’t know what it wants. It’s like it’s not even your body anymore, it doesn’t belong to you. Because all you can think about day and night is going out and searching the ends of the Earth for. You know.”

Steve leans a little forward, encouraging.

“Your mate.” Billy finishes lamely.

He feels like a fraud, like a liar, saying this to Steve when he knows his own mate is sat right across from him, eyes wide and posture open.

He’s not lying, he’s not, but the words that should be coming out his mouth is, ‘search the ends of the earth for you.’

“Your what?” Steve asks.

Christ.

Billy shouldn’t be surprised.

At this point, he really shouldn’t.

“You’ve never heard of it?” He asks slowly, patiently, just to make sure.

Steve shakes his head.

“It’s like.” Billy inflates his chest on an inhale, let’s go of it slowly. “It’s the perfect complement to you. A soulmate, if you will.”

Steve’s mouth pops open. “We have a soulmate?”

Billy’s throat is tight, constricting. Yes. It’s me. I’m yours. You’re mine.

“Yes.” His voice comes out like he’s being strangled.

“Does everyone? Is it just Alphas? How do we find them? Where do we find them? What age does–”

“Steve.” Billy holds his hand up. “I’m gonna cut you off right there. Mates are pretty hard to track down, and most people don’t really imagine they’ll find theirs, never mind freaking plan to.” It’s still the truth, even if it does taste bitter because it’s not exactly the truth for Steve.

Because Billy is right fucking here.

“Everybody has one, sure, but the world’s a big place.” Billy continues, a little throaty now. “Truth of the matter is they’re not all that common.”

He hopes Steve doesn’t notice how weak the words sound.

Because it’s the truth. It is.

It just feels like such a lie.

Steve deflates in seconds. “But … but if you’re always going to be searching –”

“Oh.” Billy understands Steve’s sudden dejection and waves a hand. “Nah, after you spend a cycle with somebody your instincts calm down.” It’s always been known to happen; it’s what everybody says happens. You’ll only search for your mate as long as you want to. If you fall in love, regardless of who with, all that shit falls away.

Wouldn’t be fair on anyone if it didn’t.

“You can bond to anyone no problem.” Billy carries on. “It’s only like that for un-bonded Alphas and Omegas cause our instincts are all over the place. But once you bond, or at least find somebody you want to bond with, you’re golden.”

“Are you …” Steve starts.

“Bonded?” Billy laughs. “No. Not anytime soon.”

Not unless you realise what’s right in front of you in a month’s time, he doesn’t add.

It’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. This rut will be fine. It’ll just like all the others.

He’ll lock his door, stock up on food, try and read some books, and do 100 press-ups every day.

It won’t be the end of the world. It’ll be a regular fucking week.

He’s not going to tear down Hawkins looking for Steve. That’s one thing he’s not going to do.

“But I’m kinda lost here.” Steve says with a scratch to his head. “If our instincts settle when we bond, how do we know that person isn’t our mate?”

Right.

“Because.” Billy tries. He has to swallow, throat gone suddenly tight. “It’s a specific feeling, when you meet them.” He coughs. “Sure, I mean I could pick up any random person off the street, and if they were up for it, we could try to bond. Not to say it would always be successful, cause sometimes it fails, but it usually works. Uh.” He coughs again, aware he’s rambling like an idiot. “With your mate, you.” Billy has to pause for a moment, remembering the locker room; the heat, the prickling all over. “As soon as you meet them, you know.” He murmurs. His voice deepens, a rough croak. “It’s different for everybody, obviously. But most people always talk about the need to be closer to them, and the knowledge that the person you’ve just met is your mate. You just … know.” Billy’s fists curl, and he swallows and relaxes them. “There’s no way to prove it, but you don’t need proof. You know.”

Steve looks at him in wonder. “Isn’t that like when we met?”

Billy’s whole chest lurches.

He near chokes on his tongue.

“What?” He thumps a hand over his ribcage.

“No?” Steve looked panicked. “Just – I figured it was an Alpha thing, because I’d never met another Alpha, and as soon as I saw you it was like I knew you, I wanted to be closer to you, it was like there was this insane itch in my bones that I’d never felt that–”

Steve cuts himself off.

He stares, wide-eyed, at a distant point behind Billy’s head.

Billy stares. “Steve?”

“We’re mates.” Steve says. His eyes zero in on Billy with unwavering focus.

Billy freezes over.

His heart leaps up his throat to pound the roof of this mouth.

“We are.” Steve repeats, surer this time.

Billy does nothing. He can’t move.

“Did you know as well?” Steve asks. His voice is curiously calm and flat.

“Steve.” Billy rasps, totally stiff. “I can’t be sure, okay? You’re on blockers. I don’t even know if we are right now.” He wants to reach out, to touch Steve, to comfort him in some way, but he’s paralysed.

“But … what does this mean?” Steve’s face is gradually growing redder and redder until it basically resembles a plum, eyes wide and stark with shock. “We’re mates. You just said that’s basically like having a soulmate.”

Billy never imagined he would hear Steve Harrington say those words, especially not on a Tuesday afternoon sat on his living room floor across English textbooks.  

“It doesn’t have to mean anything.” Billy rushes out. The words come out like sludge in a dream, come out like garbled nonsense over the pounding in Billy’s head.

He needs to yank up his defences; needs to make it clear to Steve that everything he’s done and said isn’t because Billy madly and insanely wants them to be mates. Needs to cover up every little incriminating detail he left behind him like breadcrumbs.

Because Steve, right fucking now, isn’t exactly looking overjoyed at the prospect.

He’s looking shell-shocked, and for some reason absolutely mortified.

“What?” Steve’s face crumples in confusion, still beetroot. “It doesn’t have to mean anything? What are you talking about?”

“There are platonic mate bonds.” Billy explains, trying to salvage this, trying to come up with something, anything, to salvage at least the friendship he has with Steve.

He’ll take that, just until he leaves for California.

Maybe it’s a one-sided bond. They must have happened throughout history. There can’t be something that has just never happened before. Knowing Billy’s goddamn luck, maybe he’ll be the fucking first.

“I thought you said I’d need you during my rut.” Steve’s voice is hard, like he’s picking holes in all of Billy’s excuses. “That I would look for you like crazy or something.”

Even the thought of being with Steve during his rut. Even the entire whole sentence that Steve just said.

Jesus Christ, Billy might just pass out.

“Not if we’re a platonic bond.” Billy scrambles, unticks his tongue enough to speak despite the fact he knows his whole head is hot and projecting heat. “I can be there to help, to settle your instincts, but that could mean just being in the same house. And even then, you might not need me there. Us meeting each other might have been enough; it usually is for platonic mates.” Billy knows he’s rambling but he’s no clue how to stop.

“Wait.” Steve cuts him off sharp. “You think it’s a platonic bond?”

“I – I think.” Billy tries, but his throat won’t let the words out. “I can’t be sure.” He admits, soft and punched out of him.

He’s unable to say yes. He’s unable to lie.

“I don’t believe this.” Steve stands up. He starts to pace the room, two steps forward, another two back around. “You knew the whole time and never said anything? Were you ever going to say anything?” He throws his eyes to Billy, hard and cold as flint.

Billy stands up too, some desperate urge to fix this coming over him. He grits his teeth and exhales through his nose, trying to calm down.

“I was going to say when you stopped the blockers.” He manages.

Because Billy had this whole romantic notion in his head.

This whole fantasy he’d see Steve the day Steve is finally off blockers.

Billy would be able to scent him, scent him miles away, and they would both just know, instantly; they would make their way towards each other and there wouldn’t need to be words. They’d experience the same euphoric rush of relief and discovery that everybody else describes. They’d be mates, finally.

If Steve ever asked, Billy could tell him that was the moment he found out about their bond as well.

Now everything is mother fucked.

He never imagined Steve felt the exact same way that Billy did the first day they met. Never imagined Steve somehow needed to be closer to Billy that day in the locker-room as well, never envisioned that was the reason for him striding over and pressing close. He thought, at the time, it was some Alpha instinct, and coupled with his strange amalgamation of scents Steve was giving off, Billy never put two and two anywhere close to together.

He also never imagined Steve would react like this to being told.

As if it’s the weirdest revelation on planet Earth, as if he needs to up and actually pace at the goddamn news.

“But you must have felt it too.” Steve carries on, pausing. “That day we first met, in the locker room.” His eyes pierce Billy. “You must have felt that need to be close too. That there was something different happening, something you’d never felt.”

Billy flushes so hot it’s painful, hearing Steve say these words. Everything in him wants to believe Steve might be suggesting their bond is romantic, might be describing the sensations that other bonded couples have before, but Steve’s entire body language – taut, rigid, red-faced, is screaming the opposite.

He’s not exactly screaming disgust, but it’s a near thing.

Billy doesn’t know where to begin.

“I just – I couldn’t be sure.” Billy croaks. “You're on blockers, you were scent-marked by Wheeler. My instincts, they were all –” He waves a hand. “Fuckin' scrambled. I just had no goddamn clue Steve.”

That, at least, is the truth. For the first hour after they met.

Steve stares at Billy. Just stares, long and hard and processing. “Okay.”

Billy blinks. “Okay?”

Steve nods. “Okay. We wait until I’m off the blockers for good. It should be seven weeks from now, I think the doctor said. Then you'll know. We’ll know.”

Billy feels as if he’s been struck in the ribcage. He’s breathless, reeling. He gives the barest nod, and his voice comes out in a croak. “Then we’ll know.”

Chapter Text

Things, absurdly enough, begin to settle down after that.

It’s still November. Still cold as shit and especially in the morning. Billy still goes a run at 6am, still lifts weights whenever Neil isn’t around, and still trains his ass off on the court.

He’s only biding his time until the scouts start filtering in, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t need to give it his all right now.

He still avoids as much dairy, carbs, and sugar as humanly possible. Billy doesn’t exactly feel like a repeat of almost shitting himself at Steve’s house, plus it took about 50 miles in total to work off all the calories.

He didn’t put on weight.

(He didn’t exactly need to check that, but he still did).

Billy’s still hanging with Tommy and Carol too, who are less of a pain now and almost seem – tolerable. Funny. Assholes, but in a good way.

Not something Billy ever imagined he’d say, but there it is.

He hasn’t wriggled the truth from them yet, but he will. He’ll slip Steve into conversation, and it’ll only take a couple tries before one of them blows their lid on it.

After the day at Steve’s house, they’d tried to read some more of Jane Eyre. It was a total no-go. Billy could barely see the words on the page. He almost felt like Steve could hear his heartbeat, taste the blood at the back of his throat.

Eventually Steve called quits.

Billy figured that was his cue to leave: he stood up.

“What do you want to do?” Steve asked, expectant. He shut his book with a slap and glanced up at Billy.

Billy blinked, thrown. “Steve, I – I really gotta get back. It’s late. I can’t stay out forever.”

Steve’s face dropped. The movement was loud and obvious as hell. Billy’s heart gave some kind of medical lurch at the sight. At Steve visibly not wanting him to go.

Still, Steve drove Billy back just as it was growing dark. It wasn’t yet dinnertime; Billy could still make it back before anybody noticed.

He doubted anybody had noticed.

Billy gazed out the window wondered if Max noticed. He wondered she’d seen that he stayed in the car, if she’d turned around and seen that he hadn’t come in with her, or if she locked herself in her room the minute she’d stepped inside.

It’s what Billy does when he gets home.

It’s what they both do.

Steve pulled into the driveway slowly. Billy went to leave, but Steve caught his arm.

Billy stilled, pulse beating in the back of his throat.

He thought Steve was going to say something about what happened, about them maybe or maybe not being mates, about what it meant. He was going to ask how Billy felt, what Billy felt, and Billy would be powerless to –

Steve’s face grew serious. “Billy.” He said. “I don’t know what the deal is, but I don’t like your dad.” He frowned, paused. “Uh. Stepdad?”

Billy swallowed; it took a few tries. “Dad.” He confirmed.

Steve nodded. “Okay. Look. If you need me.” And his grip tightened – only slightly, imperceptibly. “I’m here.”

Billy couldn’t speak. All he could do was nod and get out the car on shaky legs.

He felt Steve’s eyes on him all the way to the front door.

In the space of possibly five full minutes the other day, Steve managed to piece together more than any teacher, friend, girlfriend or living adult had in Billy’s life.

It almost hurt, but in a strangely good way. To be known. To be seen. As if Billy had been picked apart, but only to get rid of the rotten.

It felt good. Billy felt clean.

When he entered the living room, Neil was at in front of the TV. Billy braced for impact – all the tendons of his shoulders and legs tensed, all his teeth came together for a fight.

“Billy.” Neil said, neutral. “You’re back.” His eyes didn’t stray from the screen.

Billy stared in disbelief.

It hadn’t been a fluke.

Steve really was a fucking sorcerer.

“You can take out the trash and get started on dinner.” Neil carried on.

Alright. So not totally transformed.

But not exactly an ugly duckling, either.

Billy could live with this. Billy could do more than live; he could freaking thrive. He could do everything that he’s been half-assing for the past three years. He could practise at more convenient times; he could stay out later– fuck, he could see Steve whenever he so much as fucking pleased.

He could have a life.

Billy bounced over to the kitchen and started pulling out pasta. Simple enough. Maybe he’d ask Max how school was. She liked pasta. He’ll make her favourite.

There was a flash at the front window. Headlights being turned off and on. Billy turned but he couldn’t see anything, could only hear the sound of tires rolling over gravel. Of Steve leaving.

I’m here.

Steve hadn’t meant that metaphorically. He’d meant I am literally and physically here.

He’d waited.

Fuck, Billy is screwed.

*

They don’t talk about it much. They don’t actually talk about it at all. Why should they? There’s nothing to talk about.

They’re both waiting. They both don’t know for sure. They both had totally different reactions to meeting one another. And there’s no way to know for certain, no way to even prove it. There’s only a vague sense, a story fed to them from books growing up, from gossip and hearsay and folklore and shitty romcoms.

Steve doesn’t seem up for discussing it, even though everything in Billy burns to ask, just to hear it one more time. Steve wanted to be closer to him. He’d felt a pull: some kind of pull.

He’d felt like he knew Billy. He felt something the moment their eyes met, and Billy is half terrified at this point that he just fucking dreamed up hearing that information.

But Steve doesn’t bring it up, shuts down any subtle attempts from Billy to. He’ll change the conversation as fast as he can take another breath, then smile wide when Billy gives him a look like he knows what Steve is doing.

Billy caught Steve struggling to fit three extra books into his locker. He figured it was this English tutoring nonsense again and stomped over to help, to tell Steve firmly and gently that Billy really, seriously did not need a tutor. That he’s probably the last person in this sorry place that does.

Only he caught sight of one of the covers, the phenomenon of the mate bond, before Steve yelped and scrambled to press his back to it.

“Hey.” Steve gasped, unconvincing. “What’s up?”

Billy felt like his tongue was caught in a cheese grater. He stared, owlish and dumb. “What –”

“Anyway, are you coming!” Steve said as though they were already in the middle of a conversation. He slammed his locker shut, gave it a look, and plastered on a grin. “Let’s go!” Then he slapped Billy’s arm and started walking.

Billy got the message loud and clear. One shalt not ask Steve Harrington about possibly being mates with him.

And Billy gets it. He does. He knows if he randomly found out one day that some dude might just be his soulmate; he’d have a minor freak-out.

Especially if he wasn’t attracted to the guy and was reading books about the distinct certainty that he was.

Platonic mate bonds are rarer than romantic ones. And really, not all that necessary either. Why bond with a friend when you could with a lover?

They only sprung about as a result of a myriad of different factors, sexualities, environments and cosmic fate. They’re not exactly extinct yet, but they’re less and less common nowadays.

Steve must know they’re more likely to be romantic mates than anything.

He must.

But it’s fine. Steve is wrapping his head around it. Billy isn’t about to push, to shatter this tentative peace with some ill-timed quip that’s sure to land like an atomic bomb.

He can give Steve this time, this space, to figure out how he feels about the possibility of Billy being his mate. Because there’s no proof: no way to really know.

Billy gets it.

Even though he already knows, has known since that first day when the scent of somebody else on Steve crawled up his nose and died, when he realised Steve was on blockers and instantly the warring instincts to shove close to Steve and tear his own hair out made perfect sense.

He’s known since the Halloween party, since the time up at the quarry, since the hunt, since the sleepover afterwards. He’s known and known and known and will keep knowing until the end of time.

But it takes two to tango.

He needs to wait for Steve. Whatever the decision may be.

*

“Steve, I’m serious.” Billy starts halfway to class. “You can’t keep hanging around with those kids 24/7. People are gonna talk.”

Steve turns to gape in that guilelessly dumbstruck way – which should look stupid, but instead it just comes across as kind of sweetly naïve. His feet slow of their own accord. “Huh? What are people saying? Have you heard what people are saying?”

“Relax.” Billy assures. “Nothing yet. But I do get asked by Tommy ‘bout a million times a day who you’re friends with now.”

Steve’s face goes hard and sour. “Tommy Hagan. He’s a dick.”

Billy lifts a perfectly poised eyebrow; only lightly interested to the rest of the world. “Oh yeah? How so?”

“How so?” Steve explodes. “He’s – he totally ruined me and Nancy’s relationship – I mean, we got back together afterwards and then we broke up again last week …” Steve trails off, his feet at an almost stop now as he frowns. “And … he said some mean shit …” But Steve sounds less and less convinced the longer he goes on.

Billy doesn’t really need the rest of the story to get the picture.

Tommy gave Steve some hard truths, tried to warn him against Wheeler, and it backfired big time.

Steve’s just been too sore and sensitive to realise it.

“Have lunch with us.” Billy punches Steve’s arm as he turns to go to class. “We’ll save you a seat.”

He leaves Steve still frowning at the floor.

Sure enough, lunch rolls around. Tommy is pulling some spectacular impression of Mrs Brown and Billy is snorting broccoli soup up his nose – the only thing he’s deemed relatively safe to eat from the canteen, because seriously pre-made lunches are a goddamn pain – when there’s a quiet cough at his shoulder.

Billy turns.

Steve is standing with a tray in both hands and a sheepish expression.

“Hey. Mind if I join?”

Tommy and Carol stare, speechless. Tommy drops the fry he’d been gesturing with.

“Yeah.” Billy beams wide and scoots over. Steve settles himself in by Billy’s side, a warm and familiar presence.

Steve smiles at him, which dims a little when he focuses on Tommy.

Tommy blinks. Then he huffs and looks across the canteen.

There’s a beat where neither Billy nor Carol know what the fuck to do. They’re definitely playing the role of the new partner at a family gathering, but the family haven’t spoken in years.

“So –” Carol starts.

Steve slides a pot of something across the table towards Tommy.

Tommy looks down, then looks up at Steve. He rolls his eyes and picks it up, ripping the lid.

Steve grins. After a second Tommy joins him.

Billy knows nobody at the table is able to scent the kinds of feelings they’re giving off, but somehow, it’s nice. He’s been around enough Alphas in California to be familiar with repressing his, and with people repressing their own. It’s weird to allow them to broadcast so loud. It’s a little like laughing at nothing or crying in public. Just a touch too personal.

Supressing the pheromones you give off is a strange mental process that clearly nobody in Hawkins learned.

Because Carol is relief tampered with a little frustration, and Tommy is pure happiness. It’s so strong its sticks to the hairs up Billy’s nose.

“You and Wheeler done then?” Tommy asks, gruff, shoulders at his ears. If Steve weren’t on blockers, he’d see through the façade like glass. Billy suspects he already does, though.

“Yup.” Steve pops the word. He starts on his own lunch. “She dumped my ass. Probably for Jonathan. Never said as much, but I can put two and two together.” He grimaces. “I mean, I didn’t exactly help things.”

“Jesus, Steve, stop defending her for five fucking minutes.” Tommy leans forward in his seat. “The whole school knows what happened already, we’re just waiting for your say so before we really –”

Steve holds up a hand. “Tommy, man. Much as I appreciate it, it’s not gonna change anything. Just let her be.”

Tommy settles back, irritated.

He’s angry, but not at Steve – for Steve. There’s sadness, or more like pity, sympathy, and a restless desire to act on the injustice.

And Billy gets it. He understands.

Nothing that Billy’s scenting, however, can’t also be seen from Tommy’s entire body.

“I say to hell with Wheeler.” Billy announces, lifts his milk up in a toast. “Her loss.”

Steve blinks, surprised. Then he huffs a breath of a laugh.

“I agree.” Carol chimes in, propping her chin on a fist. “I’ll never see how Byers is an upgrade.”

“Right!” Billy throws a hand up. “That’s what I’ve been saying!”

Steve snorts a little louder. “Come on guys, I’m sure he’s nice enough –”

“Maybe he’s dying.” Tommy pipes up. “Maybe that’s what this is. One man’s dying wish, and she’s been sworn to secrecy.”

Steve falls away into a fit of laughter at that, and then conversation runs on easy.

Billy is loading up his locker when there’s a touch to his back, just a little above the base of his spine.

He turns quick.

“Hey.” Steve smiles. “Thanks.”

Billy grins. “What I’m here for.” He holds both arms open.

He expects Steve to grin wider, not frown and pull his hand away as if burnt. “Was that because of the bond or something –”

Billy frowns right along with him. “Huh? No, no, no, I meant.” He steps closer, clears his throat and glances around. “I meant.” Billy holds Steve’s eye. “I’m here, Steve.”

Steve is still frowning. “I don’t –”

Billy catches his wrist. “Why’d you stay in the car after you dropped me off?”

Steve goes mute.

Billy gives him a little shake. “See? I get it. Same goes. I’m here Steve. Doesn’t matter when – we’re friends. Yeah?”

Understanding dawns, lights up Steve’s face. “Oh.”

“So, I’m gonna be on your ass twenty-four-seven.” Billy adds.

Steve laughs again. “Well.” He rubs at the nape of his neck, sheepish. “Thanks then. For that.” He tips his head as if gesturing back in time, and then he blinks. “And for what you said when you crashed at my place.” He smiles, sudden. “You kinda have a knack for cheering me up, dude.” He bumps their shoulders with a laugh.

Billy’s cheeks heat, but he coughs and turns around to hide it. “Anytime, Harrington.”

“Is that part of the bond?” Steve asks, soft.

Billy freezes.

Steve hasn’t brought it up. Not once. Not even a casual inquiry. And Billy can tell how much it’s been eating at Steve to hold it inside.

Still. No matter what happens when Steve comes off the blockers, however Steve reacts to their bond, Billy needs him to know something.

He turns to look Steve square in the eye. “We don’t have a bond, Steve. If we did, we would know about it. There’s just the possibility we might have one.” He swallows. “So all this?” He waves a hand between them. “This has nothing to do with our instincts. I’m not being forced to feel some type of way. Okay? I want to be friends.”

Steve looks a little stunned for a moment, mouth partway open. And then he snaps it shuts and beams at Billy. “Right.”

“Hey, idiots!” Tommy calls, and they both turn.

“Party tonight! You guys coming or what?”

Steve looks at billy, tilts his head like a question.

“Hell yeah!” Billy fist-pumps.

Steve laughs.

And Billy’s not about to get all overconfident here, not one to really toot his own horn.

But if he had to guess, he’d say Steve looked the happiest Billy’s seen him since he got to Hawkins.

*

Billy tries not to freak the fuck out about getting ready. He doesn’t want to put too much effort in; it’s just a regular Friday night, nothing big, nothing new. And then it’ll be obvious he put a lot of effort in, and Steve will be able to scent his crush a mile away.

And then everything is fucked. Their friendship, Billy’s plans, everything.

Still, Steve hasn’t seen him at a party since the epic fail that was Tina’s Halloween thing, when Billy passed out in the garden, got woken up by Steve, and puked at his feet.

Literally no worse way that night could’ve gone.

He wants – no, he needs Steve to see the Billy before that. Cool, popular, loved.

If he sees that, maybe this whole bond will start to look up. Maybe he’ll think, hey, no matter what happens, if this guy turns out to be my mate, maybe it’s not so bad. He seems cool, fun, liked.

Maybe Steve will even be able to see him in a different light, maybe some different setting is just the thing that Steve needs to consider Billy that way –

And Jesus Christ, he’s pathetic. It’s not like he can force it. It’ll happen if it happens. It needs to be natural, organic. Whichever way Steve decides to accept the bond, it needs to come from him.

Either way, Billy opts for his blood-red shirt, only the very lower buttons done-up and the rest left open, with a leather jacket and jeans. It’s his signature I’m trying not to care, can you see me not caring?

He literally doesn’t own any nicer clothes. But unless somebody has physically seen inside his wardrobe, they’re not going to know that.

One of the good things about being an Alpha, of that there are fucking many, is that it’s pretty easy to pack on muscle. This is why most Alphas gravitate to sports, why they’re statistically taller (not exactly including Billy, but you can’t win ‘em all), why they’re goddamn anything – more confident, more dominating.

And when it’s easier to gain inches and pounds on your peers, it comes with a certain sense of leverage.

Billy’s always kind of enjoyed that. He likes that if nothing, he has something over the average person walking down the street. Even if it is just something as simple as good DNA.

It’s not as though Betas and Omegas are less, just different. Where Alphas are naturally gifted in the field, most Betas are gifted in the classroom, Omegas in the arts. Everybody has their strengths and weakness.

The good thing about Billy’s strengths is that it just makes everything go a little smoother. The douchebag act, the false charm, the performance in gym.

He might have been able to skate by on grades alone, might have worked his entire ass off for an academic scholarship, but even then – the kids that get those have been in private lessons since diapers, and Billy doesn’t stand a single chance. 

No. Being an Alpha is a gift from the gods, is a heaven-sent little package sent directly to Billy’s fucking future.

The only one drawback, the only slight negative, is this.

Billy rocks up to the party only to discover it’s at Tommy’s house. He’s welcomed with open arms and loud cheers: Tommy shoves an entire crate of beer at his chest, beams wide and sloppy and drunk, and drags him into the kitchen where half the party seem to be.

He’s arranged this whole thing because of lunch. Because he’s friends with Steve again. He’s bought an entire liquor store and invited the whole school in celebration, basically.

Jesus Christ. Not that Billy ever imagined he’d say this, but Tommy Hagan is one son of a bitch you don’t want to lose as a friend.

But Steve isn’t here yet.

And Billy’s the only Alpha in this tiny little town.

“But what’s it like?” Tommy insists, while some other guy who might be Chris or might be Daniel drapes an arm along Billy’s shoulders, leering close.

“Come on, you’ve got to tell us.” The guy states. “We all get taken out during The Talk. Not fair, if you ask me.”

Oh yeah? Billy wants to snarl. You say that about the menstrual one too?

“Ah, I dunno.” Billy laughs, the sound weak, and tries to shrug them off. “It’s whatever, man.”

“Aw, please!” Some other stranger yells.

“Are you seriously mad horny?” Tommy presses. “You feel like you’re gonna blow up or something?”

“How many times you gotta go?”

“What if you break it?”

Billy is grinding his teeth into dust inside his mouth to avoid breaking everyone here, but then Tommy is wasted, and he threw this party for Steve, and he’s alright, deep down, somewhere deep fucking down, so Billy won’t.

“Yeah, man.” Billy plays along. “It’s insane levels of riled up. Nothing helps. You just gotta ride it out.”

Three faces all gape at him with identical fish-eyed, blown up shock, because Billy just handed them exactly what they wanted.

He doesn’t feel like getting into the truth of it, though.

That a rut isn’t like that, not at all. That being horny isn’t the worst part – isn’t even close to the worst part. Comes somewhere under the sleeplessness and the hunger and the irritability.

No. It’s the mother-fucking ache.

The ache to find them. To have them close. To howl your fucking lungs out for them. To tear up every surface on the goddamn planet to find them.

It comes back around just as strong every single time, and every single Billy has convinced himself that he’s imagined it was that bad the last time; he’s remembering it differently. That this time he’ll be better. That this time he’ll manage through it.

And then it hits the same, every single time. It never feels any different, but somehow it always comes as a shock that it can still be this bad, even after almost four years of having ruts.

Since he was thirteen. He’s felt that way since he was thirteen.

In some ways Billy is happy Steve has never had one; happy he’s never had to spend a week clawing at his own skin and gnawing through a pillow.

Betas have a period, but only the females. The guys get off with absolutely nothing. Omegas have a heat, sure, but that’s mostly composed of nesting and napping and suffering through waiting for your mate to come.

It’s been long said that Alphas draw the shortest straw. For all the advantages they get in life, all the biological perks – Alphas have a rut, and that’s composed of needing to go out and find your mate.

Nothing suffices. Not bouncing up and down or punching yourself or downing a bottle of drugs or jerking off. Nothing scratches the instinct to go search. Alphas get lost up all over the world during rut season, get found in the woods or naked at the fucking convivence store. It’s the worst.

And everybody knows that even despite the terrible urge, it’s best to let them suffer through it than let them run amok.

It seems crueller, maybe, but it’s better to lock an Alpha in their room rather than allow them to try and find their mate. The chances are too slim, the world is too big. There’s no point.

And Billy’s always thought that. He’s always accepted that, easy as pie, no questions asked. He’s always known that even though it’s going to suck like a motherfucker, Neil will lock him in his room when it’s time and it’s better than going stark raving mad and searching every house, street, country, and continent on the damn Earth.

It’s not as though it’s Neil’s fucking favourite time either. Not as if he’s particularly forthcoming with food and water and sympathy at the door. He acts as if it’s this big issue that Billy is undertaking, not some biological process he can’t stop.

But still, even Neil seems to know when to pick his fucking times. Because he’s always kept Billy in his room. He’s always silently and stoically ignored Billy’s shouts, his screams, his pleads to be let out, his pounding against the walls.

Of course, the bathroom is a whole other issue. Neil or Susan will reluctantly let him out at that point, a two-metre distance at all times as if he’s a bomb about to go off, but they’ll ward the bathroom door and usher him back to his room.

Billy tried, once. Just when he was fifteen and it was only Susan in the house. Tried to escape. Pushed past when he saw the chance and sprinted for dear life. Tasted blood in the roof of his mouth, in shorts and a t-shirt, no shoes, no nothing.

He made it as far as the end of the neighbourhood before Susan called Neil from work.

The beating Billy got for that managed to whack the instinct right out of him.

Now, even if it is only Billy and Susan in the house during his rut, Billy still retains enough good sense to keep his eyes down and avoid any sudden movements. He knows Susan isn’t scared of him. He knows she’s scared of Neil. It doesn’t make their eye-contact any easier to swallow, still sticks to the back of his throat.

Mostly Billy keeps to his room. Only calls down to be let out when he can’t hold it in any longer, or he needs a shower because he’s sweated through his entire wardrobe. He doesn’t plead anymore. He doesn’t beg. He’s past that. He was a kid, and now he’s not. So, he shoves a sock in his mouth and rides right on through it.

It’s just something that’s always been. Billy never imagined in a million years he’d find them. He never intended to wait, to search them out, to try like most Alphas all over the world. He was always content to find somebody, somewhere down the line, settle with them and let the instinct die.

Now his rut is coming up and his mate is a couple blocks down the street. Billy really doesn’t want to be fucking discussing this, especially with half the school.

“You’ve got to have more than that!” Tommy keeps going. “I mean, a full week? What the – Harrington!”

Billy spins around at the same time as Tommy.

And there’s Steve, parting the crowds like a beacon of light, his face relaxed and easy and – happy. Even from here Billy can tell Steve is happy.

He’s got that big, dumb smile on his face that makes Billy feel about a thousand degrees hot, and he’s coming their way, pushing through shoulders and arms to get to them.

“Hey guys.” Steve smiles, eyes flitting between them as if he wants to be in on the conversation and he’s waiting until they notice. “What’s up?”

“We’re asking Hargrove about rut season.” Tommy announces, then waggles his eyebrows ridiculously.

Steve’s face goes stuttered and closed-off. It does that when this topic comes up unexpectedly and he’s not prepared for it.

Billy opens his mouth.

“It’s killing us!” That guy – Daniel, Billy’s just gonna go with – shouts. “We know you don’t get them because of those blocking things, but Billy’s actually had one! He can finally answer our questions!”

They’re gathering something of a crowd; the collar of Billy’s shirt is starting to feel tight around his neck, his grin harder and harder to hold.

“It’s seriously not –” Billy starts.

“I don’t think Billy really wants to talk about this.” Steve states.

“Aw, but he’s –”

“He doesn’t want to talk about it.” Steve states, voice going low. It holds a quiet power; the guys stop.

And then Steve cracks a smile, pulls it out as if from the pantry. “He wants a drink! Let’s go!” He fist-pumps like a dork – but it works.

“Fuck yeah!” Cheers ring out, and then Tommy detangles himself from Billy to fetch him a drink. The others follow, and Billy never really noticed that before: that Tommy has his own little entourage, small as it might be.

Billy’s almost … proud. Jesus.

Until he turns away and finds Steve smiling at him.

Billy smiles back, slow and secret. “You did that on purpose.”

Steve purses his mouth, holds up two pinched fingers. “Little bit.”

Billy huffs a breathless something, knows he’s blushing right now but also knows there’s not much he can do about it at this point. “You better watch that. It’s like a goddamn weapon.”

Steve throws his eyes around the room innocently, giving a, who, me?

Billy laughs. Steve’s gaze resettles on Billy and he grins again, and they’re just stood grinning inches away from each other, and Billy never even noticed that they’d gravitated in the span of a couple seconds –

Because then there’s a cup in his face and Tommy inserting himself between them.

“Drink up! Let’s get this thing started!”

Billy feels one side of his face scrunch as Tommy quite literally screams that in his ear. He resists the urge to roll his eyes at the cliché lines and tosses it back. It’s not bad, some kind of punch again, and then there’s a can of beer being shoved at him, and Billy throws that back too.

He squints his eyes enough to see Steve doing the same. They finish at the same time; wrinkling their noses and grimacing. Steve laughs, and Billy joins in, and then that’s that.

Everything is better with Steve.

Music sounds better, jokes are funnier, alcohol is sweeter. Life is just fucking more. More exciting, vibrant, more every fucking thing. It’s as if Steve puts 3D glasses over Billy’s eyes whenever he’s around.

Billy’s seeing things how they actually should be, instead of some flat colourless version.

He wants Steve around all the time – wants his own personal pocket version to carry with him and make the world this good always.

They’re attached at the hip the whole night. Even if Billy is pulled away, or goes for a piss, or is just jostled to someplace else in the house, he’ll find Steve by this elbow in a matter of seconds. He’s a steady, solid presence, a warm heat, a comfort.

They make it back into the kitchen at some point, and they’re talking about nothing, really. Sipping beer and leaning on the counter and watching the party pass them by.

Steve doesn’t seem particularly inclined to join in the buzz, content to sit on the side-lines, and Billy is content to do pretty much anything that involves Steve.

He’s whipped. Bad. He’s bound and gagged.

It’s not as if Billy doesn’t have enough goddamn sense to know that, or self-awareness to be able to see himself acting like a lovesick puppy.

Sadly, he’s still got both. And he knows.

But he’s pleasantly drunk, half-resting on the counter as he watches Steve run his mouth about something or other, their arms pressed together just a little, just enough. Billy hasn’t said anything for a solid three minutes as he beams sloppily up at Steve, all his attention rapt.

That’s why he doesn’t hear, at first.

It’s Steve who turns with a raised brow, a curious expression on his face.

“Huh?” Billy says.

“That thing!” Tommy waves a hand between them, staggering at the doorway. “That thing Alphas do where they dominate somebody, you know. Can you do it to each other?”

Billy blinks from Tommy to Steve, totally lost.

“Can we do that to each other?” Steve points a finger between him and Billy. “Or can Alphas do it to other Alphas?”

“Oh!” Tommy’s eyes light up. “Can you guys do that? For real?”

He’s clearly too drunk to remember that Billy already did – or at least, he thinks he did. He’s pretty sure he did. Billy’s drunk too. He’s not really got a clue what happened that first time he and Steve met; everything was a mess. It wasn’t a submission he got from Steve, it wasn’t a bared throat or a lowered gaze.

But it was dominance Billy’s whole body screamed for.

Steve still radiates that terrible blocker scent, but it’s duller now, it’s muted, or maybe Billy is just used to it. At the time, it was a raging storm inside Billy’s head that he needed to erase. That’s why he lifted his hand.

But whether that was a fluke or whether Billy could do it again is another question.

“How do you even dominate people?” Steve laughs, looking to Billy for back-up.

And Billy, well.

He’s freaking curious.

He doesn’t know many Alphas that dominate each other, only in the odd challenge on the court or squabble over some Omega. It’s not really the done deal.

They’re a bit ridiculous to watch, really, all snarling teeth and snapping jaws. On the outside, it’s probably like watching two dogs barking at each other from across the street.

It’s not exactly done for fun, or for show. Still.

Billy squares up and straightens tall. Steve’s eyebrows lift. He blinks, surprised.

“Wanna try it?” Billy licks his teeth and crowds close, grinning.

Steve is stiff, frozen. “Go ahead.” He murmurs.

Billy’s never really done this when he hasn’t wanted to. He’s done it when he’s pissed off, feeling cornered, feeling threatened. He’s done it to make himself bigger. It’s a fight or flight response, it’s a knee-jerk reaction. Bare your teeth. Stand your ground.

But Steve’s posture is open, waves of calm and security and strength coming off him despite there being no scent. Billy doesn’t want to fight. He wants to surround himself in that. He wants to put his head up Steve’s sweater and have Steve’s arms come around him.

Steve’s eyes are dark and serious and focused on Billy’s face.

At a test, Billy reaches up and pushes gently fingers into Steve’s shoulder, just a little, and curls his upper lip in an approximation of a snarl.

It feels wrong. It feels fake. Billy doesn’t like it, fucking hates it, feels the sensation like his own fingernails down a chalkboard.

Steve laughs, sudden and bright. “You look like you swallowed something awful.”

Before Billy can even reply, Steve snatches his wrist. He lifts up off the counter a little and towers over Billy.

Billy’s heartbeat kicks into his ribs.

He can’t move his arm; it’s caught in Steve’s grip. He can’t look away.

“Isn’t it more like this?” Steve asks, soft and gentle and close to his face. Billy’s fucking light-headed. He reaches out and takes Steve’s wrist where Steve is holding him; instantly the wash of satisfaction and pure pleasure has Billy curling his toes in his boots.

No; he doesn’t want to push Steve away. He wants to pull him closer.

“Yeah, but who’s winning?” Tommy says, distantly. “How do you even know?”

Billy can’t reply; feels like his tongue is glued down and his brain is fuzzy.

Steve cocks a brow. “Whoever pins the other?”

Everything kinda flies out Billy’s ears after that.

Because then Steve is pressing in close, a new intent behind his grasp on Billy’s arm, trying to push him back against the kitchen counter. Billy can’t let that happen; he needs to show Steve that he’s strong too, capable, worthy. He pushes back, pushes until their chests are practically flush and their hands are trapped between them.

Billy’s breath is coming fast, he can hear it panting out, can feel the thunderous rhythm of his pulse in his throat and his ears and his chest.

Steve’s mouth is open too, his cheeks flushed, maybe with the exertion, maybe from their proximity, but then Billy is somehow fucking blinded because before he knows it, Steve uses the little leverage he has to force Billy to spin, yanks his arm behind his back and shoves him against the worktop.

It thrusts Steve’s hips snug against Billy’s ass, forces Billy to bend over just a little bit, and Billy can feel Steve’s fingertips where they’re pressing into his spine, where they’re holding him down, and fuckfuckfuck–

Billy’s hard, instantly, dizzyingly, not even a semi but full-on rock hard. His breath punches out in a noise that whines from within his nose, quick and involuntary and totally inescapable. Everyone must hear.

Steve’s solid weight bears down on his shoulder-blades; not enough to hurt, but just enough to feel it, to taste the slight twinge of the forced position. His hips are trapping Billy into the counter, his thighs pelvis stomach all pressed along Billy’s back, and Billy can hardly see anything, spots of grey dancing in the sides of his vision until Steve (mercifully, agonisingly) lets up.

“Gotcha!” Steve crows.

“It was still close, though!” Tommy is still fucking here, somehow. “You’ve got to hand it to Billy, that was pretty close.”

“Yeah, yeah, fine.” Steve rolls his eyes and holds his hands up, grin wide, eyes sparkling and fixed on Billy as if Billy is a part of this, as if he’s not just struck dumb and stood there gaping, hands splayed on the counter, for all intents and purposes open to the taking.

“Billy?” Steve tries, a little unsure, because Billy hasn’t said or done anything for almost a minute.

“Jesus.” He croaks out a rough laugh, pushes off the counter. “Just took me by damn surprise, Harrington!” Billy barks. “Looks like you got a little fire in ya after all!”

Tommy laughs, but Billy needs to leave this room right fucking now, is barely covering his hips as it is and can’t exactly do anything about the situation in his pants other than hide it.

He’s got about three minutes left before this situation turns real goddamn weird – either because Billy turns around and shows them, or because he doesn’t turn around at all. Neither one is normal.

He does the only thing he can think of.

He picks up a beer on the worktop, downs it in one, and smacks his lips. “Alright boys, I gotta piss.” Billy doesn’t look at either Tommy or Steve as he sidles out in two strides, keeps his head down and his steps purposeful.

He makes it to the bathroom in a matter of seconds.

He gives it one hard knock. Nothing.

Billy kicks inside and slams the door shut. He doesn’t even bother to unbuckle anything; just leans against the door, shoves a hand down his jeans and squeezes himself.

The relief is instantaneous, a hot flood of adrenaline to the veins.

His wrist is cramped and uncomfortable, trapped behind his belt, but it doesn’t matter because he won’t last, can’t last. The memory of Steve and the heat of him pressed to Billy’s back, the delicious pressure of his fingertips on Billy’s spine, is still close, so close. Hee curls his toes in his boots and jerks himself hard and fast until the pressure in his belly mounts up.

Billy bites hard on his lower lip, flicks his wrist and comes with a grunt. The sensation is a swift kick to the gut. His spine curves, head thrown back, as the rush flows through him.

And then it passes, and he’s left with a sticky hand and cramp all along his arm.

Billy sighs. He yanks his wrist out and goes over to the sink. He’s washing up when there’s a knock to the door.

“Gimme minute!” Billy barks.

“Billy?” Steve asks, voice a little muffled. “You okay?”

Fuck. Oh fuck. If Billy opens this door, Steve will smell everything, the arousal and the sweat and the semen, he’ll know –

It hits him.

Blockers. Jesus, Billy’s an idiot. All the tension and the terror dissipates right out of him.

Then Billy frowns. Why is Steve banging on the bathroom door?

“Yeah!” Billy calls back, voice coloured with confusion. He’s only been a couple minutes, surely. It didn’t exactly feel that long to him.

Billy dries his hands, makes sure he’s presentable, straightens his shirt and tucks everything back in before he opens the door.

Steve appears, eyes bright, face is a little red.

“You alright?” They both ask at the same time.

And then Steve laughs, and Billy chuckles back.

“You just ran away there, I thought.” Steve explains, and leans against the doorframe with a shrug. “I dunno. Something was up.”

Perceptive piece of shit, Billy thinks. Steve Harrington notices things when he wants to.

“Nope, I’m good.” Billy beams with his teeth.

“Good.” Steve gives him a once-over, quick as a flash, and then tilts his head. “You ready to go?”

Billy frowns. “What – leave?”

Steve stretches with a little sigh, pushes his shoulders back. “Yeah, man. I’m beat.” And then he peers at Billy oddly. “You can stay, if you want.”

“Nah, I’ll come with you.” Billy says instinctively.

Steve smiles slow. “Yeah? Nobody really catch your eye?”

Billy blinks in surprise, thrown.

He can’t remember ever talking to Steve about this, doing the whole typical locker-room chat. He doesn’t even know what brought it on – if he somehow suggested during the party that he was looking for somebody, that he was in any way interested whatsoever.

“What, while I was spending all my time with you?” Billy laughs, a little confused. He doesn’t know what Steve means. What he’s asking. What he’s saying.

But then Steve’s cheeks darken, his eyes going all soft and warm. “Yeah?”

Billy frowns harder. “Yeah, idiot.”

Steve smiles, reaches up to flick Billy’s chest with his fingers. It’s against the bare skin there, makes Billy’s blood sing.

“Good.” He states, and then he turns to go. When Billy does nothing, Steve waits a couple metres away.

“Coming?”

Billy takes the hint and trots on over. He stops beside Steve, though, because Steve hasn’t started walking again.

He’s just stood there, smiling at Billy.

“What?” Billy asks warily and looks down at himself. He feels exposed, for some reason. Transparent. As if Steve is seeing something Billy isn’t.

“Nothing.” Steve says, still with a smile. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

So, Billy and Steve hang out. They’re friends; real good friends. Billy probably spends more time with Steve Harrington than anybody else.

Including his own goddamn family.

Step One of his plan has been, in Billy’s humble opinion, a resounding success.

They have something of a routine, actually. Billy goes to Steve’s after school, they’ll shoot the shit and maybe do some English homework because Steve is persistent and stubborn and may also be harbouring under the assumption Billy needs it.

And who is Billy to disagree? Maybe he fucking needs it. He’s not Shakespeare.

Neither is Steve, but that’s beside the point.

Sometimes they’ll order food in. One time, Billy decided he’d make them something for dinner, until he opened up the cupboards and found shockingly little. Shockingly fucking nothing.

He dragged a shame-faced Steve Harrington over to the grocery store. He picked up all fresh ingredients, even some of the shit he doesn’t usually work with just because it was all going on Steve’s card anyways.

Steve held an aubergine in his hand for an absurd amount of time. Billy almost got worried. But then he tailed after Billy like an overeager puppy and whistled the tune of The Jungle Book’s ‘I Wanna Be Like You-Oh-Oh’ until Billy turned around and elbowed him in the side with a laugh.

They made a stir-fry; which Billy hasn’t made in fucking forever. Steve groaned on the first bite as his eyelids fluttered. Billy felt such a visceral pulse of pride at that he had to squirm on the sofa and draw his knees up.

Christ, his rut is coming. Soon.

Billy can practically taste it.

Steve told him to stay over. Billy didn’t want to leave anyways, so he stayed.

They washed their dishes together. Steve played some godawful country music that Billy yelled over the whole time while Steve pretended not to hear as he danced in his socks on the kitchen floor.

He kept edging closer and closer and Billy didn’t give in, he fucking swears he didn’t, but Steve was freaking funny. He grabbed Billy’s wrist and spun him around. It made Billy laugh, literally once, but that seemed to be enough to encourage Steve, because he kept doing it.

Billy will never admit to dancing to country. Never.

The took the living room floor again and passed out somewhere between midnight and four AM.

Steve crashed on one of the living room sofas while Billy took the opposite. There were perfectly good guest beds upstairs, but this way Billy thinks they don’t really need to acknowledge the fact that Billy is staying over when there’s not a single damn reason for him to stay over.

They can pretend that they’ve just passed out watching TV, that it’s this casual arrangement that doesn’t need discussion, it’s just this spontaneous thing and not something Billy hopes Steve will ask for every time he comes over.

Anyways, Steve is still playing chauffeur-babysitter for the entirety of Hawkins under the age of fifteen, and Billy is somehow embroiled in it too. He’s given up questioning it.

Steve tightens up like a clam whenever Billy makes a joke, flippant and careless, and then Billy will wake up with a start at night because yeah, there are motherfucking monsters in Hawkins. With everything else going on, that fact managed to slip Billy’s mind.

Steve’s Daytime Delivery Service makes a lot more sense after that.

He wants to ask, sometimes. When he sees the terse line of Steve’s shoulders after the sun goes down, the quick dart of his eyes at some sudden movement in class, the flinch during basketball practise when one of the guys slaps him on the shoulder.

How long have you been doing this? Billy wants to ask. How long has life been like this?

He wants to know. And not because of how freakish those things were, some mutilated version of a dog or a cat or an overgrown something. And not because Steve seemed to instinctively know what to do with them and brought a freaking fourteen-year-old along for the ride, and can’t tell Billy because of some consensus with a group of more fourteen-year-olds.

He wants to know how long Steve’s been dealing with this. How long he’s been what looks like the only responsible adult in this situation. How long he’s been shouldering the burden alone.

But Billy also wants to know if Steve’s trusted somebody else with this, if Steve’s let anybody else come along on his hunting trips, if Tommy or Carol are in on it, if Steve has fucking anybody. One single person.

Billy doesn’t exactly care how many people in Hawkins know about the creatures. Doesn’t care how they townspeople deal with them, how the police department keep it under wraps, what the kids at Hawkins fucking High think.

He cares about what Steve thinks.

And he’s going to ask. He’s going to bring it up, somehow. Gentler this time, probably. He’ll get it out of Steve, it won’t be hard. He’ll let Steve know that Billy is here.

That he doesn’t need to do this shit alone anymore.

That is until Lucas, Dustin and Max all climb into the back of Steve’s Beemer, with Billy sprawled out in the front smug as a cat, and Dustin turns to whisper,

“Anyways, it’s not as if we have El around to ask about D’Art and if he’s as bad as a Demogorgon, or if he’s going to become a Demogorgon –”

“Can’t you guys just contact her?” Max asks. “Somehow? There’s gotta be a way she’ll know, and she can help, plus it seems pretty likely it’ll become a Demogorgon, Dustin, if it –”

It takes Billy a full minute.

One full minute.

But when Dustin opens his mouth to reply, Billy sits up and whips around.

“Hold the shit.” Billy states, which doesn’t make sense, but not the point. “How the fuck do you know about the Demogorgons?”

Max gapes at him, as if she’s just seen him. “How do you?”

Everyone in the car is silent.

“Should I.” Steve tries, one foot on the gas.

Billy and Max have a stare off.

He’s not breaking it. He’s not going to break it. He’s not.

Max’s stare is level and hard.

“She’s our newest member.” Dustin fills in, when the silence stretches past the point of uncomfortable.

Which.

Billy swivels his head and looks at Steve.

Steve grimaces. “They just … kind of decided –”

“So,” Billy starts. “Just to get this straight. My fourteen-year-old stepsister somehow qualifies to be in on Hawkins’ Freaky Shit, but me, who got thrown against a tree by said Freaky Shit, doesn’t?”

There’s a beat.

Steve bites his bottom lip. “Well.”

Billy throws his hands up. “You have got to be kidding me!”

“We’re still scoping you out!” Lucas tries.

“The fuck is there to scope?” Billy twists to glare at him.

Three kids stare at him, wide-eyed.

“You’re … pretty scary, dude.” Lucas adds.

Billy crosses his arms over his chest. He looks at Steve again.

Steve holds his hands up. “Look, I’m not the executive decision-maker. I’m not even second in command.”

“Among a bunch of fourteen-year olds?” Billy asks, because it really does need stressed.

“Are we ever going to move?” Max snaps from the backseat.

Billy turns, eyebrows up. She’s glaring out the window.                                

Steve starts the car.

“I swear.” Billy mutters. “If it turns out to be some lame-ass story, like some pigs fell in toxic waste or some shit –”

Steve snorts.

Lucas does one better; he laughs. “If only it were that, dude.” He chuckles, until he hisses sharp. “Jeez, it was funny.”

Billy looks at them through the rear-view. Lucas is rubbing his side; Max is turned away from him.

Billy bites his cheek on a grin.

As soon as Steve parks in front of their house, Max gets out without a word and slams the door.

“Hey! Watch it!” Steve calls after her, because he is a literal mom.

Billy steps out after her. He turns to say bye, and Steve blinks owlishly at him.

“You not coming to mine?” He asks.

Warmth tingles the very tips of his fingers. Billy is still pretending to be mad, though.

“What, non-members still allowed in your house?” He quips.

Steve’s face scrunches up in a frown, before he realises and opens his mouth just as Billy turns away.

Billy is halfway up the stairs when he realises Max is waiting at his door for him, arms crossed, tensed all over.

Billy pauses halfway up and cocks an eyebrow.

“Stop stealing all my friends.” She states.

Billy can’t help it; he laughs out loud. God, but she really is fourteen.

“Stop stealing all my friends.” He parrots back, just to be childish.

“What – they were mine first!” Max takes a step forward, her arms falling to her sides. “And they’re not even your age!”

“Max.” Billy states, because it’s dawning on him now. “You seriously cannot think that I care about your little ragtag band of weirdos.”

Max just stares at him. “Um, yeah, because you’re really desperate to get in on the secret so you can screw it up somehow. Like you always do.”

Billy grins wide and hard. “Ouch.” He’s kind of impressed, actually.

He’s also kind of trying to remember everything he’s screwed up, being pretty vigilant his whole life in not doing that.

But then he’s guessing maybe his perception of himself and Max’s perception are pretty damn different.

Max blinks. She tilts her head ironically. “What, you don’t care about it? This big massive secret Hawkins is hiding?”

Billy realises she’s about to get real close to the truth real soon if he isn’t careful. So he just snorts and pushes past her. “Sure, Max.” Is all he says, suddenly tired. Suddenly exhausted, for no apparent reason. Fighting with Max doesn’t hold the same fun, anymore.

Max gives him a once-over, scrutinising. “So there’s some other reason that you’re riding around with Steve –” She says, and then stops.

Billy turns around. “What?” He sighs.

Max doesn’t say anything.

He waits, eyebrows raised.

“You’re need to get them to trust you.” She says at random. “I don’t know how I did, but you can’t just demand to know everything and expect results.”

Billy takes a long breath in, rests a hand on his door handle. “Anything else?”

Max studies him for a beat. “Nope.” And then she finally goes into her own room.

Billy rolls his eyes. When he closes his door, he finds himself smiling. It’s small, though, and he frowns it away.

*

The next day, before Billy’s even stepped a single foot in school, Steve is falling into step with him.

“Okay, you want to know about it, I’ll tell you about it, but a very abridged version that under no circumstances you can say I told you, okay?”

Damn. That was easy.

Billy smiles, big and pleased. “Sure. Go.”

Steve looks downright scandalised, which is the most dramatic. “Not now. Jesus, Billy. Later.”

Billy snickers. “You’d think it was some government secret, Steve.”

Steve goes suspiciously quiet.

“Seriously?” Billy asks. “Awesome.”

Steve scrubs his face, but he’s smiling behind his hands. Billy can tell: his whole body perks up when he grins. He’s like a cartoon, and Billy fucking loves it.

“My place.” Steve says finally. His hands drop, and he fixes Billy a serious face.

Billy flicks his nose; Steve slaps at his hand and shoves at his shoulder.

They part ways laughing.

*

Then Steve tells him.

Billy sits on the sofa, stumped.

“Uh.” He tries.

Steve waits.

“Not. What I was expecting.” Billy manages. And then, “A parallel universe?”

Steve nods.

Billy waves a spread hand in a circle. “Like sci-fi, different dimension, fantasy made-up shit?”

Steve nods. Then he hands Billy a beer.

*

“And then, then, I swear –” Steve is saying, brandishing a bottle of vodka while Billy is flat on his back in the living room, howling.

They progressed to the hard liquor at some point during a discussion about what qualifies an alien, because Billy is still not convinced.

Because. An alien.

They’re not aliens. They’re freaky, for sure. But Billy draws the line at alien.

“I can’t believe you got beat up by Jonathan Byers –” Billy wheezes, slapping the floor at his side.

“Not! Even the worst thing to happen that night!” Steve shouts, his voice loud just for the sake of it, shouting because he wants to.

“What the fuck could be worse?” Billy cries back.

“Uh, how about driving over to Byers’ to apologise, finding Nancy, and then being attacked by. A Demogorgon.” Steve finishes with a little bow, twirls his hand all gentlemanly.

Billy lifts his head off the floor to look at him. “That is a rough goddamn night.” He agrees.

Steve throws his head back to laugh like some movie-star, and then he comes over and tries to pass the vodka to Billy.

He miscalculates, somehow, and trips up on his way over, spills a little out the neck of the bottle and lands next to Billy on the floor.

“Whoops.” Steve laughs. His voice is all croaky and hoarse as he lifts the bottle and passes it to Billy. Billy takes it from him, but Steve’s fingers are a little slippery, and they brush and fumble against one another until Billy has a good grip.

His cheeks aren’t hot from it; he’s not fucking twelve. He’s drunk, that’s all.

Billy takes a long swig and grimaces up his entire face; Steve laughs again until he stops and frowns.

“Hey. How’d we end up on the floor?”

Billy looks down at himself, as if he’ll find the answer there.

Steve laughs again, bumps Billy’s chest with the backs of his knuckles, friendly and teasing but for the way it makes Billy’s heart jerk to life like a fish out of water.

He’s always so close to Steve, doesn’t even know how it happened, doesn’t really know how anything happens when it comes to Steve – he just finds gravitating further and further inside Steve’s space whenever they’re near.

“It doesn’t matter.” Steve decides, and lets out a breath in a happy sigh. He flops his head back down against the floor, gazes up at the ceiling.

Billy turns to him. “Hey. What are we gonna do?” He murmurs. 

He doesn’t exactly need to finish. And Billy knows Steve needed this, to laugh about it all, to just get it out, but he also knows Steve needs to talk like this as well.

Because a bunch of kids, an ex-girlfriend and her new beau aren’t exactly prime chatting material.

Steve looks right back at him. “I don’t have a single fucking clue.” He admits. “Not one. Fucking. Iota.”

Billy holds his gaze. “You don’t need to, Steve. This isn’t your fucking job.”

Steve rubs his face with both hands. “Except that it is, now. It’s everybody’s job. Everyone that knows.”

“What, is it my job now?” Billy asks. “Now that I know?”

“That’s different.” Steve says, blows out a breath. “You’re not obligated to help, you know, same with the kids. Me, Nance, Hop, Joyce. We’re the fucking adults in this. We’re the ones that need to stop it. Because – we’re the only ones we can fucking trust. The government and the whole rest of the world – they’re trying to bury it, the experiments, the deaths–”

Billy sits up. “The deaths?”

Steve looks at him. His eyes are blank. “There was this girl.” He says. “Barb. She was.” He pauses. “She was our friend.”

Billy is silent.

“One of them got her.” He finishes.

Billy doesn’t reply. He swallows, quietly, but he doesn’t say anything.

“When I saw that thing throw you.” Steve murmurs. “I thought – I just saw.” He cuts off, breath heavy.

Billy waits.

“And then I kept thinking.” Steve carries on. “I just kept on thinking if that’s what it was like for her. If she … If she suffered, you know?” His voice goes quiet and low. “Or if it was quick.”

There’s a pause.

“I hope it was quick.” Steve whispers.

Billy does the only thing he can think of; he reaches out and touches Steve.

Steve jerks a little, an unconscious action, but he turns his eyes up to look at Billy, wide and open. Billy squeezes Steve’s wrist; not quite holding his hand, not quite doing something else. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, to be honest.

But they don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say. There’s just a moment, a quiet breathing, and this point of contact between them. Billy’s grip is firm and secure, not tight, not gentle either.

Steve turns his wrist up, slides his hand into Billy’s. Their fingers aren’t linked, but Steve’s palm is warm and rough and strong. It enfolds Billy’s, his long fingers wrapping around easily.

Billy feels a little light-headed, his head turned to look at Steve a couple centimetres away from him on the floor.

It doesn’t seem like Steve’s going to say anything, his mouth closed and eyes wide, until Billy licks his lips unconsciously.

Steve tracks the movement.

“I need to do something about them. The Demogorgons.” Steve murmurs, brings his eyes up from Billy’s mouth to Billy’s eyes. “Okay? I need to. Otherwise they’ll destroy every good thing I have. They nearly did once.”

Billy’s throat is tight and narrow. The conviction in Steve’s voice is difficult to listen to.

“What’s the plan?” He croaks.

Steve holds his gaze. “Hunt them. Kill them. As many as I can.” 

“With that nail-bat and the good grace of your own ass?” Billy asks.

“With that bat.” Steve agrees. “And the grace of my ass.”

Billy laughs. “Okay.” He says. “I’m in.”

*

Walking into Joyce Byers’ house is not something Billy ever expected he’d be doing on a Sunday afternoon, but here he is.

Steve walks in first, and then he stops in front of a little crowd gathered around the dining table. It's Joyce, Hopper, that kid Billy now knows has been to some other dimension, which once again, what the shit, Jonathan, and none other than the precious Nancy Wheeler.

Everybody stops when Steve comes in. They straighten up and open their mouths.

Until they catch sight of Billy behind Steve.

All their mouths promptly shut.

“Hey.” Steve says it like it’s a fact, crosses his arms and pulls himself to his full height. “Billy’s a part of this now.”

Billy turns from all the faces staring at him to give an appraising glance at Steve’s set of shoulders.

That’s a long fucking way from I’m not even second in command. Which was also a mere couple days ago.

There’s a beat.

“Okay sweetie.” Joyce says with a smile. “If you want.”

Steve waits, looks over at Hopper.

Hopper holds his hands palm-up. “You seem to know what you’re doing.”

Steve’s spine seems to gain an inch. He grins wide. “Cool.” And then he turns to Billy with said grin.

Billy flashes two thumbs up, midriff level so nobody else sees. “So.” He starts, steps closer and looks down at the maps strewn across the table. He positions himself in the middle of Nancy and Jonathan, radiates Alpha energy so hard he’s pretty sure a little pee comes out.

Jonathan scampers back quick. Worth it.

Billy claps his hands and grins with all his teeth. “What we got going on here?”

*

So. Billy’s a member of The Party.

He tries not to gloat too hard over dinner, but Max spears her broccoli with such force it’s hard not to snicker around his fork.

Then, the thing that Billy worried might happen actually happens.

He starts to slack in training.

It’s not noticeable at first. Even when it does become noticeable it’s only by a miniscule amount.

It’s a slight change in stamina, his pace being just a little off his usual for the last couple metres of a run. Nothing massive. Nothing that still isn’t better than everyone in this whole town.

But when Billy does notice, it comes like a slap.

He’s been such a fucking idiot.

He slums it with Steve every single day, all day, and expects to still stay at his peak?

Billy does the only thing he can think of. Punishment.

He’ll get Steve when he’s back on top form. For now, Steve is a reward he clearly doesn’t deserve.

“So, what time you com–” Steve starts.

“Can’t tonight, Stevie.” Billy slaps the hood of Steve’s car as he leans into the window, at the driver’s side where Steve sits with a smile and three kids stuffed in the back.

Steve blinks, thrown. “Huh?”

“Sorry, b – buddy,” Billy manages, because Christ he was about to say baby. This is a massive motherfucking problem. “Too much to do.”

Steve’s shoulders drop, but his smile remains. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It’s one day.

It’s one day.

“Yeah.” Billy grins, all teeth, and turns away to the Camaro. He throws himself inside and curls his fists tight. They’re shaking. This is ridiculous. It’s one fucking day. Billy feels as if his skin is falling off. The restlessness, the strange crawling sensation over his skin, has already started.

His rut is careening towards him, hard and fast as an overturned train. It’s about to slam into Billy with all the force of a comet.

Shit.

Max climbs in the passenger side and eyes him suspiciously. “No Steve? He said you had stuff to do.”

Billy turns the keys. “No Steve.” He replies.

*

He runs a 20K that night, comes back and shoots hoops until his wrists ache. Then he collapses on top of his bed and doesn’t move a muscle for an hour. And then, he does some free weights and cooks up roast chicken and vegetables for dinner.

And it’s halfway through dinner that Billy comes to a realisation.

His life is goddamn bleak. Depressing. Empty.

This life, that is. This one he’s forcing himself to live. This routine of exercise and training and dieting, all for some organisation to decide that he’s good enough to keep doing it for four years throughout college.

At first it was a goal, a dream. Then it was a distraction, a hope for escape. Now it’s a prison.

Because why is he doing this? Does he even want it anymore?

Does he want this life for himself in California, pushing himself through a sports scholarship and maintaining this level of training, probably more than this level, working with athletes and rising stars even when he doesn’t want to join them in the ranks?

Eating like this and exercising like this for four entire fucking years just so he doesn’t have to pay anything for it? Just so he can get out of Neil Hargrove’s orbit and get his own place, his own chores, his own freedom?

What’s all that? What is any of that? That’s not happiness. That’s shit. There’s no Steve.

It’s as if a wall of despair comes down over Billy. His fork is halfway to his lips, but his whole mouth is dry and ashy. He puts it down slowly and stares at his plate.

He’s at the last stretch and he doesn’t want it anymore.

What kind of cosmic bullshit is that?

Because he wants this life. These small-town people, these friendships, these ridiculous kids, this weird babysitter routine, Steve. He wants Steve, he wants what they have, even as it is right now. He wants anything he can get.

Five years. Five years of work down the drain.

It can’t be. It won’t be.

He’ll convince Steve to come with him. To join him in California. To go to college with Billy and split the cost of rent. They’ll make friends over there and Billy will have both. He needs both.

He’s not giving up one.

*

Billy lasts about two days of No Steve before Steve comes knocking. Or, better yet, comes storming over to Billy at his locker.

“Hey, what’s the deal?” He starts, arms crossed, although with the way his hands are gripping his biceps it looks more like he’s hugging himself.

Billy blinks. “Huh?”

Steve frowns. “I let you in on the whole – thing, and you go and bail man. What’s the deal?”

Oh.

Billy sighs. “Steve.” He closes his locker and leans against it. “I didn’t bail, I just.” And goddamn it, this is embarrassing. “I need to train, for. You know.” He ruffles the hair at the nape of his neck. “The sports scholar –”

Steve’s arms fall uncrossed, his posture loosening. “This again? That whole crazy training thing?”

Billy purses his mouth. “Yup. The whole crazy training thing. I can’t start slacking, Steve, not when I’m so close.”

He’s about to say more, about to say, but it’s not so hard, if you get into a routine, but Steve beats him to it.

“What, so you need to go home to – train?” Steve asks, brow furrowed.

“Train, practise basketball, do weights.” Billy explains. “Kinda been slacking, as ya’ can imagine, what with all the inter-terrestrial shit.”

“Inter-dimensional.” Steve corrects, but he’s smiling.

“See? It’s a fucking lot.” Billy says.

Steve’s grin stretches even further.

“Either way, it’s cutting into my free time, Stevie.” Billy adds, really driving it in, really hoping Steve catches the hint. “Have to squeeze it in somewhere.”

Steve bites his lip. “Why don’t we just train together? I mean, I have a hoop at my place, it’s pretty decent.”

Billy tries not to glow.

Because hook, line, and sinker.

Success.

“Yeah?” Billy says instead, only mildly interested.

Steve nods, eyes bright. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” Billy says. “I’ll get you after school.”

*

Steve gets him after school; smiles when Billy climbs in, drops all the kids off and then takes Billy to the Harrington Palace, which Billy may or may not have spent longer in this week than his own house.

Steve goes to change in his room while Billy takes the bathroom; throws on his gym stuff and finds Steve out in his massive garden bouncing a ball.

“Ready?” Steve asks, his eyes excited, eager.

Billy just responds with a feint toward the ball. Steve laughs, and they start.

It’s fun. It’s hard. Steve is good, but Billy is better. Steve knows Billy is better, though, and uses his height and his speed to his advantage, balances out their clear difference in skill.

It’s good practise, it’s useful. Even though Billy can imagine Steve has a small empire to his name, he also can’t help but think Steve would have a chance at a scholarship too. If he put in the work starting now, by next summer he’d be up to scratch.

And it would look awesome on his CV, obviously. Billy knows Steve’s grades aren’t the best, just by common sense, but Steve has a chance with some of the top colleges if he goes down the sports route. He’s got the raw athleticism; he just needs to refine it.

He’s an Alpha too, or at least he will be one by the time the scouts come. He’s a fucking super Alpha. Any college would love one of those in the ranks. Especially on their goddamn basketball team.

Everything is coming together, slotting neatly in place in Billy’s head, the future bright and promising and wide open.

It fills him with excitement, with goddamn anticipation. Billy is all over Steve; hip-checking him out the way, pressing up against his back, propping his chin over his shoulder, hands hovering above his waist. He can’t stay away.

Steve makes hilariously indignant noises and shouts every ten seconds, “Um, foul! Sorry, you can’t –! Billy!”

But Billy just shifts Steve out the way, laughs loud and sharp, throws the ball up and doesn’t even look as it floats in.

“Ugh!” Steve groans, but he’s grinning.

And then he lifts his arm and wipes his forehead with the crease of his elbow.

Billy freezes where he’s stood.

It’s caught on the very fringes of his senses, not so much a scent as a – sensation.

Billy can’t put it into words. It’s like nothing he’s ever scented before. It feels like warmth and sunlight, a balm across his whole body, a fresh breeze of Californian air and the salt of the ocean, the hit of coffee from the diner that his mom used to take him to after surfing, the smell of the upholstery when they’d sit on the sofa together, the sensation of her hand on his face, the promise of comfort and safety and home.

Billy’s hands spasm. Mine. This is mine.

“Billy?” Steve frowns, lowers his arm slowly.

Billy tries to speak; his throat is constricted. “You.” He manages, gravelly and thick. “You have a scent.”

Steve’s eyes widen comically large. “Huh?”

Billy gives swallowing another attempt, even though his throat is dry as sandpaper. He can’t seem to make any saliva. He licks his mouth with a dry tongue.

“It’s – faint.” He croaks. “But. I can smell you.”

Steve’s whole face brightens. “Really? That’s great!” He lifts his arm again, sniffs at his armpit. “I don’t smell anything. Do you think it’s the sweat?” He looks at Billy.

Billy is fucking monosyllabic at this point, struck dumb and mute. He can’t even scent anything and already he’s lost his entire mind.

“Billy?” Steve prompts.

“I.” Billy rasps. “I’d. Need to be closer.”

It’s the truth – from this far away, with it being so faint, Billy can’t really get a proper scent. It won’t solidify, as if Steve is miles away and not just a couple metres.

Billy’s guessing Steve’s scent has only just broken through, there’s not enough of it on his skin to even permeate in the air.

But Steve doesn’t ask.

He just steps up instantly and into Billy’s personal space. He puts himself inches away from Billy, chin up and tilted just a little to the side, body-heat rolling across to Billy in waves.

It smacks Billy across the face.

It’s not so much an assault as it is a rush of feeling: of every good thing in Billy’s life, every good moment and minute and second rolled into one. Of happinesscontentmentjoydelight, of something that’s been missing finally sliding into place.

Billy never even realised that this is what’s been missing the whole time – this is what his instincts have been fighting against, been protesting the whole time – not being able to scent this.

It’s not a full scent, it’s muted and dulled somehow, as if on the dimmest setting possible. But even the whiff that Billy catches sinks into his brain and melts it clean out his ears.

Because clearly Billy is the biggest idiot alive to think that Steve’s blocker-scent just didn’t bother him anymore, when clearly it was because Steve’s blocker-scent was gone, and his natural one was coming through, and Billy never even noticed until now – until it was literally shoved under his nose.

And even still he wants more of it, needs to be closer to it, pressed against it, to touch and taste and feel and mark Steve as his–

Billy staggers back.

“What –” Steve starts, confused.

“I gotta go.” Billy stalks across the garden and around to Steve’s driveway.

“Why? What is it?” Steve jogs to keep up. “Is it bad? I thought – Billy, just wait a minute, I’ll drop you off!”

Billy isn’t listening, needs to get away, needs to be away, because – because shitshitshit –

“Billy, is it really that bad?” Steve pants, working to match Billy’s pace. “I don’t get it – isn’t this a good thing?”

“It is good!” Billy calls back and hopes his voice isn’t too destroyed. “It’s great Steve! I just gotta go!”

“What –” He hears, but Billy is basically running at this point, and there’s no fucking way Steve hasn’t clued into the fact that the slightest whiff of his scent has pushed Billy into a primal frenzy, there’s no fucking way he doesn’t know whatsoever, he’s got to know, he’s got to know that –

Fuck.

Billy’s rut has started.

*

Billy doesn’t really know how he makes it home.

He thunders up the stairs and closes the door, jams his chair against it and runs hands through his hair. Then he starts to pace.

He needs to be moving. He needs to keep moving. He’s shaking all over, but it feels like if he stops moving he’ll fly apart. There’s a crawling itch all along his body, the shifting kind that travels every time Billy tries to find it to scratch at, a desperation welling up somewhere deep from within him, somewhere Billy didn’t even know fucking existed.

He makes for the door and then spins around, curls his fists tight and breathes hard through his nose. No. No. He can do this. He knows he can do this. He needs to do this. There’s no other option.

Because what, go to Steve and say, hey, you’ve brought my rut on early, and I don’t know how you feel about me just yet and I know this is all new, but would you mind awfully if we mate for life?

Fuck.

It’s not bad. Not just yet. It’s not fully set in. This is the irritable, restless, could crawl into a hole and scream/die stage. It’s not the delirium just yet.

This is manageable.

Billy doesn’t do this. He’s never done this. It’s really fucking stupid and all Alphas know it.

But he pushes the chair aside and throws himself down the stairs. Storms into the kitchen, opens the cupboard, and downs three painkillers whole.

He waits. Bounces on the soles of his feet. Scratches at his throat and his face and his chest.

It’s not working.

“Fuck.” Billy hisses.

He checks the living room. Max must be in her room; it’s just Neil and Susan sat in there.

Billy hates this part. Hates it with a motherfucking passion.

Hates that he has to timidly creep up, hands behind his back, and murmur out, so my rut’s here, I need to stay in my room again.

Hates the looks he get, hates the frustrated little huffs as if he can’t hear them.

Billy chews on his thumbnail. No. He’ll pace it out upstairs and maybe pass out for a little while. It’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.

* 

Everything gets a little blurry after that.

The gist of it is that Billy wakes up in the middle of a road.

Drugs = a bad idea.

He blinks, and then blinks harder, because it’s still dark as if he’s not opened his eyes. It’s then that the sensation of wetness against his cheek makes itself known.

He feels beneath him, frowns when he finds rough, hard pavement soaked in rain and dirt.

Is he outside?

Is he in the fucking street?

Billy jerks up with a sharp inhale.

He’s not wearing a shirt. His feet are bare. He’s fucking freezing. And he needs – he needs something, he needs it, he can’t live without, he’ll die without it, he was looking for it, he remembers now, fuck it was Steve. He needs Steve. He needs to find Steve.

Chapter Text

Everything is hazy, unfocused. Billy can’t focus.

He can’t think.

Then the feeling shoots through Billy like a spear, and he jolts up, breath hard and quick.

Billy scrambles to his feet. He whips around this way and that, trying to figure out where the fuck he is. The confusion he felt on first waking up is gone: all Billy feels now is desperate.

The kind of desperate that only comes on from a sudden leg-cramp or the hunger of a post-marathon. The kind of desperate that’s immediate, present, all-consuming.

Because he’s close; he’s close. Steve is close. Steve is here. Billy knows it. Something in his bones is telling him Steve is near, he’s within reach, he’s a tantalising presence and its fuelling a kind of fucking frenzy in him. He has enough sense left to know that – but it’s fading fast, Billy can feel it.

Consciousness is slipping like water through his fingers, shapeless and without form. He won’t be able to think soon.

This isn’t his usual rut.

This isn’t the storm of restless, frustrated longing whipped all up inside him, nowhere to go. It’s not clawing at the walls, itching at his skin and this nameless, faceless thing that Billy wants.

Every single part of Billy knows what he wants. Knows who he wants. He can barely fathom never mind remember having a rut and pining away for some unknown stranger: some biological instinct hardwired into his brain aching for a mate he’s never met.

He barely remembers pacing his room with that feeling, knowing there’s no solution, no cure, nothing he can do but just ride it out.

Because everything inside him screams for Steve. Everything inside him knows Steve is his mate, knows Steve will end this feverish, frantic feeling, knows that once he finds Steve everything will be alright, everything will be wonderful in the world.

It’s not an itch, not a buzzing sensation all over his skin.

It’s a surety. It’s a bone-deep certainty that he needs to find Steve, that he needs to have Steve in his arms, that Steve is his and he is Steve’s and Billy needs to confirm it every way possible. His Alpha instincts are propelling him on, pushing him to find Steve, claim him, mark him, mate him.

Everything is cloudy and indistinct, Billy can’t really feel his fingertips, but the sense of purpose fills him from the toes up.

He starts to walk.

As he does, flashes of memory come to him: Steve’s boyish smile, quick and unabashed whenever Billy tells a joke. Steve’s nose-crinkle when he’s disgusted or amused by something, like when Billy gargles beer.

Steve’s strong hands, capable and sure when he handles the basketball, when he writes in that messy scrawl, when he touches Billy briefly in passing, and the contact lingers on Billy’s skin even over clothes.

Steve’s long strides and the way his legs eat up the ground, confident and focussed. Steve’s broad shoulders, the way the muscles of his back ripple in the locker-room, the way his shoulder-blades shift and the arc of his spine curves as he bends.

Steve’s body in any capacity, large and vast and unexplored; the way Billy dies a little on the inside when Steve is close, and his heat and his presence are all within touching distance.

The way his smile shines from his eyes when they’re watching TV, and Billy feels the burn a gaze on his face, turns to see Steve expressionless all for this bright, soft, secretive look in his eyes that Billy somehow knows is a smile. The way Steve blinks at that, as if coming up from underwater, as if unaware of why he was doing it.

Steve’s inherent goodness. Steve’s cocksure little eyebrow raise when he knows he’s right. Steve’s big laugh and the way it fills any space he’s in. Steve’s unimpressed huff, the two hands on hips, that tip-tapping little foot.

Steve’s unerring loyalty to the people he loves, even when they’ve done him wrong. Steve’s self-conscious duck of the head, the way it makes a lock of hair fall over his forehead. Steve. Steve.

“Steve.” Billy murmurs, mindless. He wraps arms around himself, clutches at his biceps with numb fingers.

He doesn’t know how or why he lost his shirt, doesn’t know anything, doesn’t particularly care. His feet are sore and wet and aching. Every muscle hurts. He’s only wearing long flannel pants, nothing else. The road isn’t ending.

But he needs to keep going; he needs to get to Steve. Soon he’ll be with Steve, soon Steve’s arms will come around him, soon Billy will feel the warmth of his embrace, and nothing else will matter. It’ll all be over.

All the waiting, all the pain, all the lonely nights. They’ll all be over. Billy will have Steve.

It’s dark: pitch-black. Billy doesn’t know how long he’s been outside. He must have passed out from the drugs, made it halfway to Steve’s house and somehow got lost along the way.

He has vague memories of tearing at his clothes in frustrated restlessness, scratching nails down his chest, fighting the urge to run to Steve’s place. Drumming fists on the sides of his head to stop, stop, stop it.

Don’t go to Steve. Don’t go to Steve.

But why? Why wouldn’t he go to Steve? Steve is his mate. Steve will make everything better. Steve will take care of him.

Billy remembers getting changed into pyjamas, forcing himself to lie down, waiting for the drugs to kick in and willing himself to sleep. Sinking into some restless state of semi-consciousness, dreaming of Steve’s face and the scent that poured off him, the scent that Billy still had up his nose a little, that he could smell with his eyes closed, inside his mind, seared into his brain.

Then waking up in a sudden hot, clammy sweat, frantic and desperate, throwing the covers off and rushing to the door. It was locked; Billy rattled at it. Shouted for Neil.

Help! Help!

The door opened in seconds, and Billy didn’t wait. Didn’t care. Shoved past and sprinted for dear life. Didn’t stop for shoes, jacket, shirt, nothing. Just started running and didn’t look back.

How long ago was that? It couldn’t have been too long ago if Billy had fallen asleep and woke up. But everything is unfamiliar, and Billy’s teeth chatter together in a continuous noise. His eyes are grainy and swollen, hard to hold open, and he squints down the road but it’s all hazy and unclear.

Maybe he could cut through the forest. That’s a good idea. Billy ducks into the side of the road, through a gap in the trees. The soft soil is a blessed relief on his feet, the trees an escape from the harsh winter air. It’s darker in here, though. Billy needs to hold out both hands in front of him to walk, feel the air to make sure he doesn’t walk into a tree.

Through the desperation to find Steve comes his old and worn self-preservation, a familiar friend. It’s telling Billy that he’s acting like a fucking idiot. That he needs to turn back the way he came, that he’s got a better chance of making it home than he does finding Steve.

But he’s so close. He’s so close to it all being over. His Alpha instincts have taken control, can sense his mate is nearby, have caught Steve’s scent and can’t let it go now. Billy is powerless.

Still, he’s so cold. He’s past cold and gone numb. His skin is unfeeling, his feet as heavy as leaden weights. His movements are slow, sluggish.

And then he hears a voice.

Billy pauses. Frowns.

‘Lay!’ He catches, faraway and indistinct.

Billy stops moving. His heart kicks in his chest. He waits, listens harder.

“Billy!” Dustin shouts.

Billy’s head whips up.

“Here!” He calls back, though his voice is scratchy and thin.

There’s a sharp silence, as if Dustin has stopped.

“I’m here!” Billy tries again, before coughs wrack his body. He bends over to wheeze. His chest feels tight, his mouth coppery with salt and blood.

“BILLY!” Steve’s voice booms. It echoes around the whole forest.

Billy’s instincts surge to violent life.

He starts to run, stumbles a little, trips on a root but pulls himself back up.

“Steve!” He cries.

“Billy, we’re coming!” Steve’s voice is hoarse and brittle, as though it’s been shouting for hours. “Keep shouting!”

“I’m!” Billy starts, and then it hits him.

Steve’s scent has broken through.

It permeates the air around them. It’s sharp and astringent with a cold-sweated terror.

It’s a punch to the gut: it’s his mate, his mate, and Billy wants to erase the scent of those pheromones from the face of the Earth, because underneath the distress is that wonderful feeling, that feeling that Billy has missed his whole life, that feeling that finally, finally I’ve found you.

He’s close, he’s close, and then Billy catches a flash of light to his left.

He bolts towards it.

“Billy, keep talking!” Steve shouts, panicked. “Where are you!”

The light grows larger, and larger, and then –

Steve is throwing a torch around with frantic gestures, hair a mess, face blotchy, wearing jeans and this ugly sweater Billy’s never seen in his life, something he must have thrown together.

Joy surges in an ocean up Billy’s throat in its purest form, a full-bodied happiness he’s never experienced before.

“Steve!” Billy laughs, bright and hysterical.

Steve whips himself towards the sound –

His mouth drops open, eyes wide and red-rimmed, and then he’s stumbling forward, he’s –

The scent smacks Billy at first, a relief so strong it coats his whole mouth, his gums, teeth, everything. Then that feeling again, stronger, that sense of place and home and belonging.

Billy flies into Steve.

Steve drops the torch, gathers Billy into his arms instantly, gathers him up in his strong hold, and Billy shoves his nose into the crook of Steve’s neck and inhales hard.

A million sensations rush him at once. The smell of Steve’s salty skin, his sweat, the hint of his deodorant.

But stronger than any of that is Steve’s natural scent – something earthy and warm, like the impression of sunlight. It touches every part of Billy, heats him from the inside, the smell of a summer day and the washing line in the garden of his old home, the fresh laundry that Billy ran through while his mom chased him.

The longer Billy smells, the more he unearths: the smell of that night November 2^nd when Neil and mom took him to the fair and Billy tried candyfloss for the first time, the smell of his pillow after a hard training session, the smell of a hard-won victory over another basketball team, the smell of that day up at the quarry, the way Steve’s body curved inwards as Billy made him laugh, the way they sat close on the hood of Steve’s Beemer and Steve smiled at Billy for the first time and the sense of triumph washed over him.

“Billy.” Steve gasps, his nose mashed into Billy’s shoulder, his hands clutching Billy’s bare back.

Billy pulls back to press their foreheads together.

Steve’s face is tear-streaked, eyes red-raw. He’s shaking.

“I thought.” Steve rasps, choked. “Where. Where the fuck have you been?”

And then he pushes Billy away.

Billy staggers on his feet.

Steve shoves at his chest. “I fucking– what the fuck!” He cries, eyes wide, wild. His scent changes: anger rolls off him, tinged with fear and pain. “We’ve been searching for you for four hours! We thought you’d run into a fucking Demogorgon! We thought you – we almost – do you fucking realise how worried everyone was! Your dad has the whole town out looking for you! He said you ran away! You fucking ran away, nobody could find you, and I thought – I thought you were dead, Billy!” Steve cuts off with an odd sob, like an inhale gone wrong.

Billy steps forward instantly.

“Steve.” He reaches out and cups Steve’s jaw.

Steve stops. He blinks wet eyes at Billy, stunned silent.

“I can’t believe I found you.” Billy says. He lifts his other hand so he’s holding Steve’s face. It’s small in his hands, protected and safe. Billy rubs a thumb along Steve’s cheek. “I didn’t think I would. I thought I would have to give up. But I found you.”

And Billy isn’t just talking about tonight. He thought he would give up, the same as everybody. He resigned himself to loving somebody but never experiencing the soul bond of a mate, never knowing the strength of that emotion.

But he found Steve. By some miracle, he found Steve.

“Billy?” Steve runs his own hand up Billy’s wrist and places his hand over Billy’s knuckles. He holds Billy’s hand against his face. His voice is quiet, eyes roving over Billy’s face. “What are you –”

“Where the hell did you two idiots go!” Dustin cries.

Steve jolts and turns around, dislodging Billy’s hands from his face.

“I’ve been wandering around the same tree for ten minutes!” Dustin carries on. “You couldn’t have shouted over that you’d found him?”

“Sorry.” Steve says, breathless.

“Is he okay?” Dustin asks, even though Billy is right here.

“Yeah.” Steve nods. “He’s not hurt. We’re just coming.”

“Then let’s go. The whole of Hawkins is out looking!” Dustin marches off.

Steve glances at Billy, reaches over to squeeze Billy’s wrist, and then he follows.

Billy takes a step to go after them.

That’s as far as he gets. The creeping darkness in the sides of his vision enfolds him; Billy doesn’t remember anything after that.

*

When Billy wakes this time, he’s warm and comfortable. He peels his eyes open sluggishly, blinks at his surroundings.

It’s a room he’s never seen before, but instantly he knows Steve is in it.

He can feel Steve’s presence, his heat, his smell. Everything is fine. Everything is okay. Steve is close by.

Billy lets out a gentle exhale and settles back into the soft material he’s on.

The instincts that drove him out into Hawkins in the middle of the night in nothing but a pair of flannels have simmered down into a quiet hum inside him.

He still wants Steve – wants to touch him, scent him, hold him – but his body needs the rest. His instincts have been overridden by plain old, bone deep exhaustion.

Weirdest rut of his goddamn life. By this stage Billy would be climbing the walls. In a very literal sense.

Normally, Billy would have clawed, bitten and pinched at every available inch of himself, would be tearing his fucking mullet out in mindless rage.

The itch to find his mate would have turned into a full-bodied hunger, a gaping hole in the pit of his stomach that nothing could fill, a rash across his entire skin that nothing could soothe.

For four days. 96 hours. 24/7. It wouldn’t stop, not even for a single second.

But Billy found his mate. He’ll never feel that way again.

Every rut from now until the end of time will feel like this.

He’s safe, content. Steve’s scent surrounds him. Billy can pick up worry still, a bitter aftertaste in the roof of his mouth, but it’s mostly washed away by an overwhelming gladness, so strong it’s almost indescribable, it’s almost something else, something bigger, stronger, more.

Billy floats in it, knows the feeling exists because of him, knows that Steve is radiating such a sense of – not pride or joy, but something that falls in-between, and it’s all because of Billy.

It’s hard to explain how Billy knows Steve feels this way because of him. It’s the same as trying to explain how Billy knows what Steve is feeling at all, how he can distinguish between the emotions, tell the difference between happiness and anger and fear.

It’s the smallest things, the slightest change in the sourness to Steve’s scent, the slightest increase of sweetness. Billy’s nose picks it up and instantly it translates as terror, or relief, or frustration.

There’s a little frustration creeping in, and Billy frowns, turns his head and tries to open his eyes to find the source. He can hear snatches of conversation, muddy and indistinct –

“Ever even been around an Alpha during one –” A voice says.

“No, but I’m telling you he’ll be fine with me, we’re not taking him to some specialist –”

Steve.

Billy wakes up a little to tune in.

“Steve, you don’t know how Billy will react, and his family are happy to take him home –”

Billy’s brain recognises Chief Hopper’s voice after a beat, finally connects the dots. He forces himself awake, takes a sharp inhale and tries to sit.

His body is weak and uncooperative, but Billy manages to half rise before there’s a startled gasp.

“The fuck – Billy, lie down, you’ve got hypothermia you idiot.” Steve’s hands are on his shoulders, his chest, pushing him back. Billy is powerless.

He opens his eyes to Steve’s face above him, lines etched into his forehead and around his bloodshot eyes, face ashy pale.

Billy lifts a hand and touches Steve’s cheek.

“Steve.” He manages, but his voice is reedy and broken.

“Don’t talk. Drink. Here.” Steve turns away.

The lip of a glass is pressed to Billy’s mouth and titled up.

Billy gulps down the water greedily, didn’t even realise he was thirsty to begin with. His hands, however, find Steve and clutch at him – one going around his wrist to pull him closer, the other fisting in his t-shirt to make sure he doesn’t get away.

It makes Steve lose his balance, stumble a little before he drops into sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Billy –” Steve tries, still holding the glass albeit a little awkwardly.

Billy finishes and pulls back, tugs on Steve’s t-shirt to try and pull him closer.

“What is it?” Steve asks.

“Can you.” Billy whispers, though he doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t want to articulate it, to put it into words.

He feels like Steve should just know, instinctively, what his mate wants. There must be some instinct, some sense, of what Billy is asking for.

“What?” Steve’s eyes are wide and searching. He sets the glass down on the bedside table and then his hands are free, but they hover over Billy as if afraid to touch. “What, what is it Billy?”

Billy huffs a frustrated sigh through his noise, but it’s Hopper who answers.

“Jesus, Steve, you never said anything about being mates.” Hopper says, staring at them with wide eyes. Billy doesn’t really know what gave it away; maybe Billy’s total lack of aggression towards Steve being so close, maybe his frantic grip to force him closer. And then Hopper gives his wide-eyed look to Steve. “You do know, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course.” Steve replies in frustration, barely even turns around. “It’s platonic, Hop.”

Hopper’s mouth is open.

He looks at Steve, looks at Billy, then back to Steve.

Billy doesn’t meet Hopper’s gaze.

He can’t look at anything but Steve. “What.” His voice is a rasp. He shuffles up on the bed, cold all over. “What do you mean?”

Steve blinks at him. “Billy, we know this. Remember?”

Does he not feel it? Does he not smell Billy? Doesn’t he realise that – that he’s off blockers, that his Alpha nature has broken through, that he’s Billy’s mate?

Unless he’s decided that it’s platonic.

Unless, just like the way they discussed, Steve knows all this but he’s decided that it’s a platonic mate bond anyway. The way they said, then we’ll know for sure.

Steve knows for sure now. He's scented Billy during rut, and he feels nothing.

Despite every single one of Billy’s instincts clamouring to be closer, clamouring to shove his nose into Steve’s throat and mark him, to take Steve into his arms and never let go –

Steve doesn’t feel it.

Billy throws the sheets off and stumbles onto his feet.

“Woah, woah –” Steve reaches for him, but Billy flinches away.

Steve’s arms fall, shocked.

“Go away.” Billy states.

Steve’s scent sharpens instantly, floods with bitter distress. “What?”

“Just go, Steve.” Billy stares at the floor. He never noticed it before, but he’s wearing Steve’s jumper. Steve must have taken it off when Billy passed out, found clothes for himself only after they’d made it back.

The thought hurts Billy’s throat. He doesn’t want reminded of Steve’s kindness when he’s being told that Steve doesn’t feel the same.

“Why? What did I say? What happened?” Steve’s voice is brittle and high, ready to break. “Billy, please.”

For some reason, that’s the thing that snaps something inside Billy. That’s the thing to really put the nail in the coffin. Tears rise up within seconds. Before Billy can even blink them back, they’re streaming down his face in a steady flow.

“It’s.” He swallows, then looks up. He knows his eyes are bloodshot and his cheeks are wet, but it doesn’t matter. He might be a lot of fucking things, but he’s not a coward. “It’s not platonic for me, Steve.”

Steve doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink. His face is empty.

“It’s not for me, either.” Steve says.

Billy blinks. His eyelashes are clumped; he scrubs at them and frowns. “Huh?”

He takes a quick inventory of Steve’s scent. It’s flowering and fresh, full of hope.

 As if Billy really even needed the scent to know that. Steve’s big, shining eyes would have been clue enough. He’s a goddamn Bambi.

“You’re serious?” Billy asks, chokes out a laugh a little, because he feels fucking silly stood here with tears on his face if it’s all for fucking nothing.

“I thought you knew.” Steve’s face breaks apart in a grin. “I thought you knew this whole time.”

“This whole time?” Billy repeats, but he can feel his own answering beam form, feel his own hope burst open in his chest.

Steve laughs, high and a little hysterical. “Yeah! You knew we were mates but you never said anything! So I just thought you knew how I felt about you, you could sense it or something, but you didn’t want me to know about us being basically soulmates.”

Suddenly, Steve’s mortified tomato face makes a lot more sense. His furious pacing, his hands through his hair.

He thought if Billy knew they were mates the whole time, he also knew that Steve had feelings for him.

“As motherfucking if!” Billy booms, mouth agape. “I had no fucking idea!”

“But I freaking – I asked you Billy!” Steve laughs back. “I asked if you felt it too, that day we first met, that need to be close to me too, and you said you ‘weren’t sure’. I thought that was you blowing me off!”

“Fuck no.” Billy states, voice hard. “Fuck no, Steve. That was me being a goddamn idiot and trying to hide how fucking gone I was, how gone I am.”

Steve stares at him.

“Can I kiss you?” He breathes.

Billy’s heart leaps so high, it hits the back of his throat. “I will if you fuckin’ don’t.”

Steve grins manically. He takes a step forward, then looks to his side quickly.

Billy follows his gaze.

Hopper is gone.

Steve turns back to him. His manic grin takes on a new edge, eyes feverish and bright.

Billy meets him halfway, hands already out like a kid in a candy store.

He finds Steve easily, and has just wrapped both arms around Steve’s waist, pulling him close into his chest, when Steve’s mouth falls on his.

It’s the same as that moment in the forest: that same feeling of finally, of I found you, I have you, of belonging andcontentment and peace.

Steve’s mouth is soft; Billy curls a hand around his jaw and tilts him for a better angle, opens his own mouth wide and touches his tongue to Steve’s bottom lip, his teeth, his gums, practically trying to devour him.

Steve’s hands roam across Billy’s back, run through his hair, fist in his jumper and yank him in until they’re pressed all the way flush.

Steve opens his mouth too, bites on the fleshy skin of Billy’s lip, takes a hold of his face and keeps in there as he kisses Billy fucking senseless, kisses him with furious determination, as if dedicated to the act.

Billy’s instincts has been a low hum in the background, but now they’re waking up; they’re taking note of the fact that Billy has his goddamn mate in his arms after all this time and should probably make the most out of this opportunity.

Steve pulls away first, but only to pepper kisses to Billy’s face, eyelids, forehead, cheeks, nose. Billy laughs delightedly, cradles the back of Steve’s head and cards fingers through his hair.

“You fucking,” Steve huffs against the side of face, “Idiot, Hargrove, ‘oh yeah, we’re soulmates but no biggie, everything’s breezy.’”

“I never in my life.” Billy seizes his chance and instantly shoves his nose into Steve’s throat. His scent is concentrated here, happinessarousalexcitement and that same feeling of sunlight. “Said that, Harrington.” Billy takes a deep lungful, hoists Steve up in his arms, squeezes the breath right out of him.

Steve laughs in delight anyways, until Billy pulls back and pants, “Can’t you smell it, Steve?”

Steve tilts his head back to get a better look at Billy. “Smell what?”

“How I’m fucking feeling?” Billy laughs. “And the fact that I’m your mate.”

Steve’s face is curiously blank. “I don’t … I don’t smell anything.”

Billy blinks. “Not ... Nothing?”

Steve shakes his head. “What is it you smell?”

“I can smell … everything, Steve. I can smell how you’re feeling, I can smell how happy you are, I can smell that you're aroused –”

“Damn.” Steve’s cheeks burn hot. “That's freaking embarrassing."

“But.” Billy turns Steve’s chin up to meet his eyes. “I can only scent that because I’m this close, and only really scent so much because we’re mates, Steve. Don’t you – can’t you scent me too?”

Steve’s gaze is searching. “No." His voice is quiet. "I don’t smell anything. You smell normal, Billy. Just, you know. A little sweaty, a little dirty from the forest.”

“You don’t smell – any emotion?" Billy presses. "Anything?”

Steve shakes his head once again, silent.

And once again, it makes sense. Of course it does.

If Steve was searching for him, he would’ve had enough sense to just sniff him out. If Steve could scent Billy’s emotions, he would have known Billy had no clue about Steve’s feelings. He would have known Billy felt the exact same way. He would have felt the happiness that Billy did when he found Steve, would have smelled that day that Billy’s rut came on and the reason why. Would have smelled Billy’s reaction to Steve's scent.

But he didn’t.

“It’s not that big a deal, Steve.” Billy starts, because if Steve is one of the rare Alphas that doesn’t have the ability to scent, then it’s not going to be some type of dealbreaker, it’s not going to affect anything between them, it’s not going to mean anything.

“I don’t – I don’t know if I ever could, even before blockers.” Steve’s eyes dart around the room. “I don’t remember; it was so long ago.”

“Hey.” Billy states, and Steve looks at him.

“It doesn’t matter.” Billy palms Steve’s cheek; swipes a thumb over the skin.

Steve swallows. “What is it like?” He murmurs.

"I don't know how to describe it." Billy replies honestly. "It's just something that's always been."

“I mean, what do I smell like?” Steve's voice goes even quieter.

Billy smiles. “You smell fucking fantastic, Steve.”

Steve laughs in surprise, eyebrows high. “Vast improvement from ‘Jeez, you stink.’”

And Christ, isn't that a million years ago? Billy remembers the sudden and abrupt distaste when he first smelled Steve, warring with the instantaneous instinct to pull him close. 

“Well, you didn’t, those goddamn blockers did.” Billy defends. “You smell like every good thing in the world, Steve. Absolutely every thing. I can’t never get enough. I'd have about died if you weren't on blockers when we met.”

Steve smile softens, his eyes warm. “I wish I could smell you.”

Billy swallows, throat tight. “It doesn’t matter.”

Steve bites the inside of his cheek. “What. I mean what if it does, though? What if we can’t form a bond? What if I’m not able to bond to you, even though we’re mates? Isn't it part of bonding?”

“Then – then fuck it, Steve.” Billy decides. “I don’t give a shit. Nothing is a dealbreaker for me.” He takes Steve’s face and presses their foreheads together. “Nothing, okay? I literally –”

He can’t say it. It’s too soon.

“Do not give a shit.” Billy finishes. “About anything. As long as I have you.”

Steve touches his face, fingertips gentle and tentative. His eyes are dark and serious, set on Billy's face as if trying to commit it to memory. They stay that way for a little while.

Chapter Text

When Billy first comes to awareness again, everything is bathed in light and sunshine; he’s comfortable, warm, and safe.

So – a dream, then.

Billy makes a noise and tries to burrow further into the space between the mattress and the pillow, holding his eyes shut and willing himself to sink back into unconsciousness, no matter how impossible he knows it is.

The scent of peace, of belonging, engulfs him but Billy knows it’ll be gone in a few seconds. That somehow his brain has conjured up the smell of every good moment in his life, but as soon as he so much as blinks it’s over.

Good dreams are a bitch.

Billy hates them with the heat of a thousand suns. He hates them a thousand times more than he ever will the bad ones. Because with the bad dreams, he’s glad to wake up. He’s relieved.

With the good ones, Billy’s got an ache in his gut the size of Texas, and he needs to drag it around with him all the next day. With the good ones, it's like some cosmic middle finger that waves itself in Billy’s face: ‘hey there, yeah you, you know your deepest and darkest desires? Well here’s what it would be like if you actually had them. But not for long! Ha! Hilarious, right?”

It’s like some sick, twisted torture his own brain subjects itself to, imagines up just for the absolute hell of it, projects across his subconsciousness and forces him to live, just for a moment, just so he can get a taste of how good life actually could be if everything wasn’t shit.

So yeah, Billy fucking hates them.

And he’s been getting them a lot fucking more since coming to Hawkins.

As if discovering some alternative alien life isn’t enough to ensure nightmares for the next ten years, no. Billy’s brain has gone and done the complete opposite, of course.

He’s that messed up in the head that despite having a near death experience – encountering what anyone would reasonably call a ‘monster’, and then finding out there’s more of them, a lot more of them, that one girl died and another kid almost did too – it still hasn’t had any effect on the blissful imaginings his brain makes up.

Nope. Nada. None. Doesn’t even seem to brush the torrent of good dreams Billy’s been drowning under the last couple of months.

Some part of him thinks that it’s because he’s been living in survival mode the last five years, that he practically lives with a monster in his house, eats with a monster at the dinner table, and sleeps with a monster snoring down the hall – how much could some ugly looking dog with its skin on inside-out change that? Plus, it’s kind of a relief to know that monsters can look monstrous on the outside too – that they don’t wear human clothes and walk around with a human face and smile and speak and look just like everyone else.

That, at least in Hawkins, monsters and men are pretty separate things.

The bigger part – the biggest part – knows that it’s Steve. Of course it’s Steve. It’s always been Steve.

As soon as Billy met Steve he knew he was gone. Done. He’d never have a good dream that didn’t feature Steve goddamn Harrington.

And Christ, if that isn’t sappy and true at the same time. There’s a lot more sappiness where it came from a well. It’s as if people just have this endless well of sentimental-mush inside, and it just takes the right person to unlock it. Billy’s always been above the roses and the chocolates, always sneered and scoffed, but he’d about melt into a puddle if Steve did any of that.

Seriously, Billy thought this romance shit was a joke or at the very least exaggerated for the movies until he met Steve.

The sex ones aren’t the worst ones, not by a long shot. They just leave Billy frustrated and hard and ready to explode, chasing the last vestiges of a made-up memory where Steve pulled him close, pressed him down, rubbed all over him, against him, inside him.

They leave Billy furiously grinding into sheets, half-mad with lust, but it’s something of a familiar state.

It’s a state he finds himself in every six or seven months. It’s not beautiful, but Mother Nature rarely fucking is. The way she makes life – all that screaming, all the blood, the umbilical cord and the fluids – yeah. Mother Nature has never been pretty.

Billy is pretty sure she exists just to torture them.

Nobody knows that more than Alphas.

Sure, Omegas and Betas don’t get away with nothing – but there are varying levels to it all. Even watching an Alpha in rut – no matter your own inclination or nature – is said to be a pretty pitiful sight.

The good dreams, though. Billy wishes he could surgically remove them from his brain. Cut the tissue out where they’ve embedded into him, sow his skin back up and pretend they never happened.

Because the good dreams linger.

Billy and Steve laughing, in someplace they go often; a real memory, real enough to trick Billy into thinking he’s awake. A soft touch, and then Steve’s lips pressed to his, gentle hands holding him, and Billy wakes up and –

It’s not frustration. It’s not anger.

He wakes up sad. He’s self-aware enough to know the feeling, can admit to it like a big boy. The good dreams hurt because they’re not real, but they’re real enough. They're an echo of real, a close-not-quite, a trying to reach real, trying to stretch the very ends of his fingertips to grab it real.

It’s the fact that Billy falls for it every time. He’s like a little kid that always reacts perfectly no matter how many times the prank is played on him.

Every time, every single dream where Steve kisses him or they’re lying together, Billy’s heart kicks up into overdrive, his palms itch and go clammy, the jolt of elated nervous energy bursts open in his gut – and it’s real.

The dreams might not be, but the feelings are. They don’t just fade away. They don’t just disappear when he opens his eyes.

And when Billy does open his eyes, faced with the reality of his empty pillow, it’s almost the same as Steve rejecting Billy right to his face. The glow of happiness is flushed away like a toilet handle being yanked, and the overwhelming sadness hits.

This time, though.

Billy feels the dream slipping away from him as he gains more consciousness, but the warmth, the peace – it doesn’t leave. It feels as if the scents are growing stronger.

It’s coming back to Billy. But this time Billy doesn’t screw his eyes up against it.

It’s being pieced together slowly: his rut hit and he needed to find Steve, he did find Steve, he could scent Steve finally, and then they talked, and somehow that led to …

Billy’s heart leaps like it’s never leapt before, his pulse a frantic beat as though he’s running for his life.

Because if this is some really extended dream sequence right now, the sadness might actually kill him this time. It’ll be too great a blow, to open his eyes and see the same familiar edge of his pillow. Somehow, for some reason, Billy knows it’s just one time too many. He’ll be confined to this bed chasing back this good dream for the rest of eternity.

“Are you awake?” Comes the croaky whisper of one Steve Harrington.

Everything in Billy freezes. All his muscles lock.

Of all the possible reactions to this moment turning out to be real — Billy never thought it would be nothing.

He's absolutely paralysed.

Stiffly, Billy turns his head and peeks one eye out from underneath the pillow.

Steve is looking down at him, one curl of hair hanging over his forehead. He’s leaning on an elbow, eyes soft and slanted, smile loose and easy. He’s never been this close to Billy before, and who knew beautiful people close up are more beautiful?

They’re not marble statues that reveal the slightest chips and cracks the closer you get. Steve is even better here than he is from a distance. Every detail is magnified and sharpened. His teeth appear in his smile the longer Billy stares, peeking out from behind soft lips.

“You look really cute in the morning.”

Billy inhales sharply, surprised, and then he’s assaulted with Steve’s scent – Steve has a scent – and he can barely catalogue the barrage of information it holds within it: affection at the forefront, almost an alien smell to Billy but for how his brain instantly recognises it, stores the specific warm fuzzy feeling at the back of Billy’s throat as that emotion.

There’s attraction too, a more familiar one, but Billy’s used to it as a passing thing, a quick awareness that comes and goes throughout the day, but dissipates as quickly as it had come.

Steve’s attraction is single-minded and focused. Billy’s feels the heat of it emanate off Steve in rolling waves, even though Steve isn’t looking anywhere but Billy’s face. He feels this strongly attracted to Billy’s face? The sheets are covering the better half of Billy's torso, only really his shoulders available to the eyes. Steve isn’t even seeing any of Billy other than his face.

It’s a specific hot and smoky smell, the undercurrent of spice and the slight tang of salt. Billy swats it away every day like a nuisance, never really bothers to acknowledge it at all, but now.

Now Billy wants to roll around it, bottle it, because it’s coming from Steve.

Jesus, if Billy smelled this off Steve at any point, he’d have a hard time not tackling Steve to the floor. At this very moment, Billy might do that.

He lifts his head out from under the pillow softly, slowly. He keeps his eyes on Steve the whole time – Steve’s wonderfully gentle, creased brown eyes, that small smile over his pink mouth – as though Steve is a spooked animal. Or just an illusion that will disappear when Billy blinks.

Steve watches him, part amusement and part fondness, a heady intoxication to Billy’s already overstimulated senses. Billy goes up onto his elbows too, goes close to Steve’s face, not touching any part of him.

The fullness of his bladder presses into his belly, and the stiffness of his joints aches across his back when he moves, and he must have discarded his t-shirt in the night, bare-chested, with what feel like soft flannel trousers on underneath. Steve’s. They must be Steve’s. He feels everything, the mattress, the discomfort, the heat.

This is real. This is reality.

“Billy?” Steve asks, and a trickle of concern wafts across, before Steve lifts a hand and presses the backs of his fingers to Billy’s forehead.

His touch is gentle and warm, his face close. “You feel okay. Your fever broke sometime in the night I think. You’re luck you’ve got such a crazy jacked immune system from all your training. You could’ve caught pneumonia, idiot.”

Billy feels like if he speaks, it’ll shatter this moment. He’s not exactly sure he’s ready to believe that it all happened – the rut, the forest, finding Steve, confessing to him, hearing Steve say he feels the same. It’s all just a bit too unbelievable at this point. His brain is tricking him into thinking it’s real.

But Steve is here – he’s here, inches away from Billy, a light in his eyes and a softness to his features.

Billy, slowly, slowly, edges closer. He shuffles up until he’s just touching Steve’s nose with his own. He keeps staring at Steve, utterly silent. He’s pretty sure his eyesight is going fuzzy this close to Steve’s face – and he can see those familiar freckles just dusted over Steve’s nose, the specific mottled colour of his eyes, and it’s slowly beginning to sink in.

Steve’s hand falls from his forehead, but instead of dropping away, he slides his palm over Billy’s cheek. Billy turns his cheek and traps Steve’s hand against his shoulder. He closes his eyes again. He opens them, and Steve is still there.

“Billy?” Steve whispers. “Are you feeling okay? Do you need any water?”

Steve must think Billy is delirious. Maybe Billy is.

“Hey.” Billy manages, but he might as well drop the cool and cocksure act with how he’s reacted thus far. Which is pretty telling, he won’t lie. Staring at somebody as though you can't believe they're real ... doesn't really leave much room for debate.

Steve breaks into a beam, relief instantaneous. “I was so worried about you, I barely slept. I literally kept guard like one of those Alphas in the movies.”

Billy feels his own answering beam, feels the way it stretches his face in ways his face has never been stretched. “Yeah?” His voice is husky and dark, a bare rasp, gravelling inside his chest as if he’s not spoken for days.

It’s then he feels how dry his throat is, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, his gums glued to his teeth.

Steve rolls away then, and Billy barely has a chance to blink before he’s back with a glass of water. Billy takes it gratefully, gulps it down even though its almost lukewarm now, clearly sat there all night.

Steve watches him finish it all, and then Billy does finish and he shifts guiltily, still holding the empty glass. “Uh. Did you want some?”

Steve smiles again. “No. Just making sure you’re okay.”

Billy feels himself blush at Steve’s earnest gaze, feels the heat spill down to his chest, but then Steve makes a little noise, a huffed breath.

“Billy, can you just tell me what you’re feeling about all this, I’m going crazy.” He shuffles even closer as he says it, as if to crawl inside Billy and find out for himself.

Billy blinks, thrown. Then he realises Steve isn’t getting the same feedback that Billy is: can’t smell every little emotion permeating the air like Billy can.

Billy can sense Steve’s affection, his hope, but also his anxiety. Steve’s brown eyes are focused on him, following his every twitch and movement, the bob of Billy’s throat and the shift of his shoulders.

It’s a strange sensation; almost as though Billy is privy to something he shouldn’t be.

With other Alphas – hell, with other Omegas and Betas too – Billy’s never been worried he’s somehow invading their private thoughts or personal space. Everyone knows how to project emotion and how to restrain it as well; and everyone knows that emotions are something as easily readable as a facial expression or spoken dialogue. Feelings are as much in the air around people as they is in their words and their posture.

But it’s not that way with Steve. With Steve, he can’t scent Billy: he can’t scent anything, or anyone. And he doesn’t have a clue just how much he’s projecting every single thing he’s feeling.

Billy can’t give Steve the same. He can’t offer up his scent and with it, the raging storm of emotion inside. He can’t gift Steve the ability to scent him either.

Billy swallows thickly, because maybe he can do the next best thing. “Steve.” Billy murmurs. His voice is a little softer, gentler, less of a rasp. “I kind of think I must be dreaming right now. I don’t – I hardly remember much of last night. But I’ve honestly thought about this … every single day since we met.”

There. It’s done.

Billy immediately knows he made the right call.

It turns out that if Billy wants this, which he does more than anything in his life, he’s going to need to learn to be a lot more vocal.

Because happiness floods the roof of his mouth, so strong that Billy can’t fight against the grin it produces. Steve, of course, is an open book – his beam wide, eyes alight, face glowing.

“Yeah?” Steve asks, almost breathless.

It gets underneath Billy’s skin and spreads throughout his entire body: tingles in his very fingertips and toes, pulsates in his belly. 

Billy’s never been subjected to so much stimuli to his senses before. More than that: he’s never been on the receiving end of such direct emotion. Steve’s emotion.

Steve’s emotions for Billy.

But Steve can’t sense any of this. He isn’t getting any of the same feedback from Billy that Billy is getting from him.

It would be so much simpler to just open himself up and let Steve scent all of Billy’s feelings too. But it’s not possible.

Billy needs to communicate.

Of everything Billy ever imagined he’d sacrifice to the Gods for Steve to look his way, he never thought the only thing he’d need to do would be talk.

He inhales deep, preparing himself, and closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at anything while he does this.

Because clearly he needs to do this, going by Steve’s incredulous expression.

“Steve, unless you had some kinda different idea from last night, I was out looking for you. I was out there, in the woods, for you. My rut was coming, and I knew I would … I’d try to find you, because you’re my mate and it’s not. It’s never been a platonic mate bond for me. It’s always been a – a romantic one.” Billy is barely getting these words out; he seriously hopes Steve appreciates this effort, no matter how croaky.

“But then I could scent – I caught a little bit of your scent coming through, at your house, and it threw me into a rut early, that’s why I had to leave when we were playing basketball. I had to get away, so I wouldn’t … I’m seriously in deep, Steve. I nearly fucking froze to death looking for you because I couldn’t ride it out alone when I could feel you so close. Even if that just meant collapsing at your feet.”

There’s gentle breathing, soft and slow. Billy would be crawling out of his mind right out were it not for the fact that he can feel the warm balm of Steve’s joy like sunlight across his face.

“I see.” Steve murmurs. “So you – last night, you were looking for me?”

Billy swallows, and nods. Even with the reassurance of Steve's mutual feelings, it only helps make this a little easier.

“But aren’t you in rut right now?” Steve asks softly. “Has it passed?”

“A rut is only to find a mate.” Billy whispers, and turns his face away to the pillow. “Once you’ve found them, it’s up to you what you do then.”

All cards on the table.

“But doesn't it also make you want to … you know … mate?”

“It doesn’t turn you into an animal, Steve.” Billy says, brows furrowing as he looks up.

Steve’s face floods beetroot. “No, I don’t –”

“I know.” Billy says gently, and braves it – bridges the gap between them and runs his pinkie finger over Steve’s wrist. “I just meant – once you’ve found a mate, and you’ve established that you’re both compatible, the frenzy clears and you can decide where to go from there. Would be pretty difficult if you found your mate in some stranger, and wanted to rip their clothes off before you even got a chance to find out their name.”

“I mean. That makes sense.” Steve confesses. “It’s just – all the books made it seem –”

“It’s there.” Billy assures. “You know, the need. To - to mate. It’ll stay there, until you … cement the bond." Billy's whole face is a freshly roasted tomato. "But the need to find them is gone, and that’s the biggest part of it. After that disappears, you’re free to talk like - you know, like we’re doing now. And sort of ignore the other stuff.”

And it can be ignored, because Billy has never gotten to this stage before, but he's heard about it. That it simmers at a low boil, ready to spill over, but it's something easily suppressed. Billy was almost worried it wasn't true; surely once you've found your mate, that overrides all logical and rational thinking? Surely at that point, only a meteor could stop him?

But it's true. Billy has had enough lessons in suppressing his shit to know that. The heat, the need - he can feel it all, but he can just as easily squash it down.

The overwhelming scent of relief is palpable.

Billy swallows and tries not to broadcast any disappointment back. He knows it would be illogical to expect Steve to immediately want to roll around and cement their mate bond right this second, especially since they’ve only gotten together and are still finding their feet.

But that scent doesn’t do much to reassure.

“It’s not – it doesn’t force anything.” Billy turns and murmurs to the pillow. “The mate has to be receptive, and it only needs to be cemented if it’s not a platonic bond. With a platonic bond, when the search is over the rut is over. So.”

“Billy.” Steve states strongly, and then slides a hand from Billy's face over Billy’s bare back, smoothing down his spine. The sensation is like a warm honey, and Billy’s eyes flutter in bliss. It builds in the base of his back: a low throb that seeps inside, and Billy does his best to contain any noise with a clamped jaw. He can’t help the very minute, very slight shifting of his hips up to meet that touch.

“I’m very receptive.” Steve’s voice is husky. “And it’s really, really not platonic.”

Billy’s breaths come a little harsher, and he turns to stare at Steve, the dark way his eyes have gone.

“I just don’t want to rush.” Steve carries on. “I – I rushed these things, before. You think it’s not important, that it doesn’t mean anything, but it does. This matters to me. I want to do everything right.”

Billy swallows. “It matters to me too, Steve. I never even done anything before. I mean, nothin' more than a fumble at some party that never really ended in much for either one involved.”

Steve gazes at him for a moment, processing. This is Steve’s Processing Face. “Really?”

Billy huffs, exasperated, but not without fondness. “Like I said, Steve, for Alphas and Omegas it’s hard for us to get interested in some passing fun. For Betas it can be no strings, but for us, it’s not that simple. If we’re not in rut, then getting to that stage where we feel like it takes forever. I mean, you’d have to really like the person. And I’ve never felt that way.”

“But what about the person you told me about before?”

Billy blinks, totally thrown.

“That person, when I told you about Nance, and asked if you’d ever been in love. You said no, but you know what it feels like to want somebody who doesn’t want you.”

Billy turns away and stares at his pillow. “I was talking about you, Steve.”

There’s a sharp spike, regret mingled with relief and weirdly – arousal.

“Oh.” Steve breathes, punched out. Billy doesn’t glance up, but Steve’s finger tucks a curl over Billy’s ear. “Good. Because … man, Nance can’t really hold a candle to you. And I’d unfortunately have to hunt down whoever was about to stand in my way.”

Billy’s heart goes all weird and static, like a loose electrical wire. It feels as though he’s been tasered in the chest. “Have you – have you seriously been thinking there’s somebody else this whole time?”

“What can I say, the mind when left to its own devices.” Steve waggles his fingers near his head. “And you have to admit, you gave me a pretty hard puzzle to unlock. How was I meant to figure that out?”

“That was the point. You weren't.” Billy leans in close again; he’s sort of done with talking. He’s sort of done with everything that isn’t touching Steve. They’ve discussed everything he was hoping to discuss, and now Steve Harrington is inches away, and saying all sorts of things Billy is pretty sure he couldn’t have dreamed up if he tried. “What’s this about Wheeler not holding a candle to me?”

Steve grins back, leaning just as close, his nose brushing Billy’s before a hand travels from Billy’s back up along his side to cradle Billy’s jaw again. “Yup. ‘Fraid I realised that the night you slept at mine. I already thought you were hot as the goddamn sun, for sure, but after that it was like a switch went off in my brain. Being with you – it’s just always been so much better than being with anyone else.” He punctuates that thought with a thumb-pad run over Billy’s bottom lip, and Billy can’t really be blamed for making noise then.

It’s a soft exhalation, just a puff of air, but it seems to switch a flip for Steve a second time.

Steve descends on his mouth, teeth and lips and tongue, as if he really is trying to somehow crawl inside. Billy groans aloud at the sudden end to their tentative dance, at the feeling of Steve’s mouth on his, wet and hot and desperate, thinks fuck it and pulls Steve down on top of him.

They’re both only wearing flannel pyjama pants, must have shed the rest of their clothes in the night, and the sensation of their bare chests finally pressed against one another is like motherfucking crack cocaine, Jesus Christ.

Billy feels noises tumble out his mouth and against Steve’s, his hands tightening to claw at Steve’s smooth, flawless back, raking nails down and gripping his hips. Steve is just as responsive, hands roaming everywhere at once, his body moving to slide against Billy’s, one leg slotting in between–

And then Steve suddenly flies back and sits at the edge of the bed.

Billy is so stunned he does nothing for a beat. He just breathes, gasping for air, staring up at the ceiling in shock.

“Sorry.” Steve states, voice rough and low. “I’m sorry. I said we’d go slow.”

Billy lifts his head up. “I … I really don’t mind, Steve.” The matching roughness of his voice should speak for itself. As it is, Billy is achingly hard and knows Steve must know. He’s got to know. Billy himself caught the barest press of Steve’s hips against his thigh before he was gone -

Steve just shakes his head. He’s tense; his shoulders stiff up by his ears, his eyes trained on the floor.

A quick inventory of his scent includes arousal, heady and thick and overpowering everything else, but underneath that is fear. Steve’s … afraid.

Of going any further? Or of Billy?

Billy lifts himself up and crawls to the edge of the bed. When that doesn’t change anything, he very slowly drapes himself along Steve’s bare back and tucks his chin over Steve’s shoulder “Hey. We’ll go slow.”

Steve turns his face, his eyes shining. He lifts a hand to pull Billy’s arm around his waist, to hold him closer. The burning heat in the pit of his belly can’t overwhelm the warmth Billy feels all over at that one simple gesture.

And Billy finally understands. He gets why the passion would need to subside once you’ve found your mate. Because this feeling, this closeness, beats everything else.

*

So, it turns out Hopper left the Cabin to them. It turns out he also stocked the entire fridge and all the cupboards too – turns out he thought that Billy and Steve would be having some wild type of sex right around now.

It’s not a bad assumption. And it’s not exactly wrong, either. It’s just completely mortifying.

All Billy was looking for was some damn water. As it stands, he's stumbled upon the evidence that Hopper thought they'd be near animalistic at this point. There's enough food for weeks.

“Yup. Uh-huh. Thanks Hop. Over.” Steve strolls out the room, fully dressed now. He’s wearing a soft looking cashmere jumper, as though he’s so rich he can just produce cashmere from thin air. He’s still got his pyjama bottoms on underneath, though. He’s holding a walkie-talkie up to his mouth, clearly having a conversation with Hopper.

Which is why Billy can hear the entire other side of the conversation.

“I mean it, Kid.” Hopper’s voice is clear and unmistakeable. “Nothing is too embarrassing. You got that? You need anything, and I mean anything, I’m just a call away. Over.”

Steve’s entire face radiates heat, even from this short distance. He meets Billy’s gaze for a half-second and then wrenches his eyes to the left, fixed on the sink. Billy sips his glass of water.

His throat is tight and dry, even though he’s had a whole litre of water at this point.

“Uh. Sure. Gotta go, Hop. Over.” Steve ends quickly, and puts the walkie down before he glances back up over to Billy. “Uh. Your parents were worried, but Hopper let them know we’d found you last night and that it was better you sleep it off here than we drag you back home. He said it’s up to you, whether you want to go home, or …”

Billy’s heart leaps. “Or?”

“I mean.” Steve rubs the nape of his neck. “I don’t really feel like staying here, when there’s barely any signal –”

Instantly, Billy plummets. Of course. It makes sense. There’s butt fuck all to do here anyways, and it’s probably a good half hour outside of school, and it’s not even the weekend –

“But my place is free, I have loads of spare rooms, we could watch some movies and just call in sick to school –”

Billy blinks. “Wait.”

Steve stops. His cheekbones are pink, sharply defined and beautiful. “Yeah?”

“You want me to come home with you?” Billy repeats, because he needs it confirmed. He needs to know, right this minute, what the fuck Steve is actually saying.

Steve ducks his head, but he steps closer, his body heat like a blanket over Billy’s still bare chest. “I mean, yeah. Just until, you know. Your rut has passed.”

Billy’s mouth is open, but no sound escapes. He manages a strangled grunt, and then, “You mean – passed as in – ”

Steve nods, and shuffles forward so he’s caging Billy against the sink, both hands gripping the counter as Steve breathes close to his face. He’s still avoiding Billy’s eyes, breath hot, but he brushes their noses together and Billy thinks maybe it’s not that Steve won’t meet his gaze, but he just can’t.

Billy knows the feeling.

“We’ll be alone.” Steve whispers, barely audible. “We’ll have time. I want it to be – you know. Special.”

Billy lifts his hands to hold Steve’s face, tilts his face up to meet his eyes. “I want that too.”

Steve kisses him again, softly this time.

*

So of course, that’s basically when everything goes to shit.

Because they pack up their few scant things and take some of the food Hopper stocked up on too. Billy gets dressed in Steve’s jeans and another one of Steve’s sweaters (he suspects Hopper dropped off some clothes in the night), and he’s bathed in Steve’s scent, only now it’s not an awful thing.

It’s not that numbing, anesthetised smell that rubbed up against the back of his throat and made him furious. It’s Steve’s natural scent – some inexplicable mixture of sunshine and cotton, of happiness and home. Billy is drunk on it within seconds.

They pile into Steve’s Beemer with nervous grins and Billy feels – insane. Totally batshit crazy. He’s full, and sated, and hot all over, and trembling, and jumpy, as if he’s just coming down from a high, but also as if he’s just about to head into the best high of his life.

His heart is a ceaseless pound in his chest, and he knows he’s stinking up the space with all his emotion – fear, excitement, nausea, happiness – but Steve is none the wiser, which Billy tries to see as a silver lining.

If he could scent Billy, then he’d know everything Billy was feeling. For some reason, the thought isn’t as abhorrent as it was this morning.

The fact that Steve can’t have this – that they can’t understand each other in this way. It just leaves Billy feeling sad.

That’s not how everything turns to shit, though.

Because they make it back to Steve’s mansion, Steve’s fingers nervous and shaky on his keys until he twists and –

Steve frowns. He pushes the door. “It’s open.” He says.

Inside, Steve’s parents are waiting.

Steve stiffens up as though he’s a deer in the headlights of an oncoming truck. “Uh.”

“Steve.” A woman Billy supposes must be Steve’s mother stands up. “It’s so good to see you. We’ve been so worried.”

Steve blinks, dumbly. Billy does the same – because worried? They’ve been absent the entire time Billy’s known Steve. Which is coming up on a couple months, but still.

The man Billy guesses is Steve’s dad stands up too. “We know you’ve come off your suppressants. We spoke to your doctor, and she thought that was best too.”

Billy tries not to bristle like a porcupine – because best?

Best?

Do they have any idea they damage they’ve done to Steve? He might not even be able to form a mate bond because of this. Because they lied to Steve and let him believe it was perfectly safe to keep taking suppressants for years.

“Why are you here?” Steve states, voice flat. He’s clearly not convinced either.

“We’re here to find you an Omega, Steve.” His mother replies, and smiles. “We’ve talked about it, and we think it’s time.”

Billy goes cold.

Chapter Text

As soon as those words leave Mrs Harrington’s mouth, all the feeling leaves Billy’s fingertips.

He’s stunned silent. Steve gapes at his side.

The impossibility of it all: them, this, everything, settles over Billy. For some reason, the weight is not heavy.

It’s expected.

“Excuse me?” Steve rises to his full height, a simmering anger ready to boil forth already stinking up the clean, empty room with two Beta’s none-the-wiser to it all. “Is this the fucking Victorian Era?”

“Language, Steve.” His Dad warns. “Don’t speak to your mother like that.”

Steve opens his mouth, ready to unleash an avalanche no doubt, and the pheromones building up are enough to take out a small horse.

Billy stops with him a hand on his shoulder.

Steve turns to Billy, mouth still open. But then he sees something in Billy’s eyes – the resignation there, the hollowness – because his mouth closes in an instant.

Billy can read the question in Steve’s eyes. It forms along the small wrinkles that crease along his forehead, what?

But Billy just shakes his head.

It’s a bare second, a barely imperceptible moment of communication, before Billy turns to Steve’s parents.

The two people who form the barrier between what Billy want and what Billy knows is reality. The two people who don’t know that they’re taking away the one shot at happiness Billy knows is actually real for him.

Because it doesn’t matter what happens after this. It doesn’t matter what Billy goes on to achieve later on in life.

If he becomes a star athlete or makes it to California or gets a hundred scholarships. Because this morning, that was it. That was happiness. It tasted like hope come true, like getting the exact thing you wanted, like how you imagine the feeling will be but never actually expecting it to feel that way.

It’s never felt that way before – or maybe Billy’s just never felt true happiness. Because more than anything Billy knows how dangerous the feeling is now. Because it’s not just intoxicating, it’s addictive.

He’d hunt this entire Earth twice over to feel it again.

Before Steve or his parents can speak, Billy plasters on a smile. “Sorry, but I’d probably best get going. I don’t want to interrupt anything here.”

Steve’s parent’s just nod at him, a little thrown, as if only just realising he’s still here and has heard everything they’ve been saying.

“Alright.” Steve’s mother replies, and there’s an awkward silence where it’s obvious she has no idea what his name is.

Billy nods and turns to leave.

“I’ll see you out.” Steve states, determined.

Billy can’t help the little flip in his stomach at something so small at that.

As soon as they’re outside earshot, however, Steve grabs his wrist in the hallway and stops him in his tracks.

“Hey. What’s going on?” He hisses.

Billy shakes his head, but he nods towards the door – outside.

Steve, still frustrated, follows.

As soon as Billy feels like they’re a reliable distance away, he turns and presses himself to Steve’s body, his nose buried into the side of his throat, eyes closed. He doesn’t lift his arms to embrace Steve, but Steve lifts his own all the same.

Billy finds himself in the warm cocoon of that embrace.

“I’m sorry.” Steve starts instantly. “I didn’t know they would be here. And I had no idea they would say all that. I’ll tell them no. I’ll say –”

“Steve.” Billy mumbles, muffled into Steve’s skin. Then he lifts his head and looks into Steve’s eyes. “Don’t.”

Steve frowns, forehead wrinkled. His eyes are that clear, honey brown Billy remembers. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t say no.” Billy says.

Before the hurt that flashes across Steve’s face can really sink in, can imbed its claws, Billy continues.

“Sure, you could do your Super Alpha and convince them. Sure they would buy it. But for how long? They’ll only ask more questions. They’ll only get more persistent. And it’ll just bring attention onto why you don’t want an Omega. No Alpha doesn’t want an Omega, Steve, it’s just not a thing. Not an Alpha that dated a girl for a steady year. And if you tried to explain to them what we are … well, they don’t exactly seem the type to listen. So ... just go along with it.”

Steve stares at Billy in wild, furious confusion. “So you want me to accept the Omega they pick out for me?”

Billy’s hands come up in a spasm, as if without his own knowledge. They latch onto Steve’s waist. “No.” He says, voice rough. “Not that. Just … go along with what your parents want, with meeting the Omegas and all that, and then tell them that you didn’t feel anything for them. They won’t pry, ‘cause you didn’t say no without at least meeting them, you can just explain you’re not that up for anything at the moment, and they won’t try to keep us apart.” Billy gives in to the urge to wrap Steve in his arms, but loosely. “Cause they’ll for sure try to if they know the truth.”

Steve stares at Billy for a beat, eyes roving over Billy’s face, and then he does a quick glance around before he kisses Billy hard and fast, his fingers digging into the meat of Billy’s shoulder, one hand coming up to cup Billy’s face gently.

Billy melts into the feeling, toes tingling with the sensation of Steve’s soft mouth on his, but then Steve pulls back sharp and quick as though he’s already used to the feeling.

Billy doesn’t think he ever will be.

“You’re right.” Steve nods. “Best way to avoid suspicion. But … you were meant to say over. Are you still staying over?”

His eyes are dark as whiskey, focused on Billy and nothing else.

“I …” Billy croaks, his voice lost somewhere in his throat, but he blinks to clear his head. “I can’t. Not while your family are home, Steve. It’d be … you know.” His cheeks sting with heat. “Too hard.”

Steve swallows thickly, his throat moving with the action. He looks down at his feet. “Yeah.” He agrees.

Billy can’t help but feel relieved that he doesn’t need to explain what he means by ‘too hard’, that Steve seems to instantly know what Billy means. That Steve seems to feels the same.

Because the thought of staying in Steve’s house, surrounded by his scent, still in the middle of his rut while his parents eye Billy up as though he’s a stray cat come in from the rain … yeah. Not exactly bearable.

Other than the monumental task of keeping his hands to himself, which is basically already impossible when Steve radiates want and desire and love and everything they’ve barely even exchanged in words yet – having the Omegas hand-selected for Steve’s future paraded under his nose, talked about over dinner … nope.

Billy couldn’t exactly guarantee that he wouldn’t explode. He doesn’t think his restraint has ever been tested this much as it is. Anymore and he’ll do something he knows he’ll regret.

Still, it’s the choice between dealing with Steve’s parents or dealing without Steve at all.

Billy almost wants to shove the words back inside his mouth.

It’s even worse when Steve asks. “So where are you going? Home? While you’re still in rut?”

“It’s … settled.” Billy tries. The words are weak and flimsy to his own ears. “After I found you, I think my instinct sort of … died down.” He grimaces on one side of his face, though, trying to think of a way to word this that doesn’t scream but we need to fuck for my rut to fully go away.

Because if Steve hadn’t taken blockers his entire life, if he could scent Billy right now, he would be in rut too. He would know how this feels, wordlessly, and Billy wouldn’t need to explain the awkward mating-process to him like this is a bad sex education lesson.

He wouldn’t feel the embarrassment basically close his throat over at trying to find a way to speak around the truth.

Because he truth is too embarrassing – that yes the urgent need to find his mate is gone, but replaced with it is the urgent need to …

Billy steps back, letting his hands fall from Steve’s sides. This is why he doesn’t want to get too close.

This isn’t one of those ridiculous pornos, though. Billy can control himself. It’s not as if he’s about to go wild and rip Steve’s clothes off. He might fucking want to – he might really want that more than anything he’s ever wanted in his life, he might be digging his nails deep into his palms and biting the inside of his cheek so the pain will ground him and act as a distraction from the image of just doing that.

But wanting something and doing it and firmly two separate things in Billy’s mind.

They clear as hell always have been.

“I’d better go. Before your parents get worried.” Billy cuts himself off.

Steve blinks and turns back around, as if just remembering their existence. “Oh, right.”

Then he walks down the steps of his house and onto his driveway.

Billy stays where he is, totally bewildered.

“I’ll drop you off.” Steve explains. “Pretty sure your Dad might have something to say about all this.”

Jesus.

Billy completely forgot about that particular detail. This entire morning has been so insane he practically thought he woke up in a different life.

Steve must see the look on his face, though, because his expression grows hard and determined. “Don’t worry. I’ll explain. Neil won't do anything.”

Billy can't exactly remember right now if he ever told Steve the details, or if Steve has just figured it all out. He nods anyway, relieved. Jesus, when did Steve become the Big Bad Alpha in this relationship and Billy the bitch? Seconds ago, it seems.

They both get in the car. The drive is silent and awkward – so unlike this morning, full of possibilities and happiness.

Billy needs to remind himself that all those hopes and expectations are impossible. That if he wants Steve then it will need to be in this way – hidden, secret, away from anyone who could see.

Just until they’re both out of this nightmare of a town, complete with monsters to top it all off, and living free somewhere with sun and space. It’ll feel a lot like this morning did – surreal, barely even believable, but Billy knows now from experience what that feeling is like.

He knows that the impossible can come true, and so why not again?

Why the fuck not, huh?

 Billy rests his head back and lets the fantasy play across his closed eyelids, the window down to allow a breeze in, and jolts when Steve touches his face.

“You were miles away.” Steve smiles, soft, but some part of it also seems sad. They’re parked outside Billy’s house.

Billy can just about make our Neil and Susan from the window.

“I guess so.” Billy rasps, but he turns his face into Steve’s hand and nuzzles it.

“I’ll figure this out, Billy.” Steve murmurs. “And they’ll be gone. They never stick around for long.”

Billy just nuzzles Steve’s palm with his nose, scenting the anxieties that roll off Steve.

Billy can feel himself subconsciously radiate warmth, comfort, calm, even though the affect is lost on the person it’s actually for.

Billy’s instincts are clawing away at him, though, urging him to hold Steve, to mark Steve, to scent him; to fuck, bite, kiss, soothe, protect. It’s almost unbearable knowing that those instincts have nowhere to go, no release valve, they’ll stay pent up underneath Billy’s skin for as long as it takes to do all those things.

Worst fucking timing to ever grace the cosmos: Check.

Because of course they’d figure their shit out and get together the very fucking day that the Harrington’s roll back into town, despite being absent for an entire – Billy doesn’t have the ability to do the math right now, but it’s been a long time since he and Steve became friends. It’s been even longer since they met, and not even so much as a flash of his parents.

And after all that time, all the parties and the late nights and the monster killing and the pizza-eating, they still couldn’t put two and two together?

But Jesus, how the hell was Billy ever meant to put that together? How was he ever meant to realise that Steve liked him the whole time too, practically felt the exact same, without the aid of scenting? He’s relied on it his entire life to tell him how people are feeling, and the one time it matters the most, of course it’s non-existent.

All the time they could have had if Steve had never been on blockers. If Steve’s parents had never made him take them. A new anger at the Harrington’s rises up in Billy’s gut, only compounded onto the anger that already sits in there like undigested raw meat. It’s bulky and fatty and won’t be broken down.

“Billy?” Steve asks. He hasn’t moved his hand, but his eyes are soft and concentrated on Billy’s face.

Billy pulls away. He flares his nostrils and takes in a great lungful of Steve before it’s gone. Maybe it’ll only be for a few hours, a full night at the very worst, but the thought is still a knife to the throat. Especially while he's still on his rut.

“I –” Steve starts, and then his whole head flushes and he clears his throat. “I’ll miss you.”

The scent of nervous energy spreads in the air between them. Billy can almost hear the words that Steve really means, and he wants to say them too, but not like this.

In the end, he only affords himself the briefest of brushes of his knuckles to the side of Steve’s head before he jumps out the car.

Steve follows, of course, but Billy just walks on up to his front door and knocks before Steve is even at his heels.

When Neil answers, Billy shoves past and up the stairs.

Billy can practically feel the storm of anger radiate from Neil, his hand not quick enough to grab Billy on his way past, but then Steve’s voice tumbles out, “So sorry, Sir, we found him up by the woods – that is, Chief Hopper and I, we just felt it best if we slept it off rather than drag him home –”

Billy gets to his room and closes the door before he can hear any more. He can still hear the tone of Steve’s voice, deep and commanding, and it doesn’t sound as though Neil offers up a counter argument, so his Super Alpha Shit must be in full effect.

Billy feels a bolt of irrational anger at nothing shoot through him, and he kicks the side of his bed hard.

Why did it have to happen this way? Why did Billy have to run out into the fucking street last night? Why did the Harrington’s have to come back today? Why didn’t Billy pluck up the balls to tell Steve how he felt weeks – no, months ago? Why the fuck did it happen this way?

Because now all he can think about is the parade of Omega’s Steve is going to be afforded to. The fancy restaurants, the hand-selected crème of the crop, the ones that come from wealthy estates and old money, their pretty blushes and shy smiles and fuck – Steve is kind, and he’s friendly, so of course they’ll get to talking, and of course Steve will probably start to like her.

He won’t have any other choice but to seem interested, and then he’ll become genuinely interested, and he won't be able to stop himself.

There’s no question that she’ll like Steve too, that they’ll all like Steve. He’s gorgeous, funny, charming, everything. And that’s only the objective shit. That’s not even all the shit that Billy knows Steve is deep down. The dorky, the endearing, the dumb.

Billy hisses breaths in through the spaces between his teeth, his lungs rapidly shrinking in his ribcage.

And he’s about to run downstairs, run out the door again, tell Steve to forget everything he just said – to just forget it all, he didn’t mean a thing.

Before he can really think better of it, Billy spins around and starts looking for anything to block the door. He finds his chest of drawers and manages to slide them across. It won’t be much – won’t be anything – if Billy really decides he can’t control it, but just looking at the physical proof his own restraint will help.

He’s not supposed to be able to restrain himself. He’s biologically conditioned to override his ability to put any kind of barrier between himself and his mate.

Just doing this is pretty much an achievement.

He starts to pace. He can still hear Steve’s voice downstairs and shoves two fingers in his ears to drown it out. Steve’s scene still lingers on him; on his clothes, in his hair, and Billy tucks his nose into the collar of his shirt to prolong it.

It’ll fade, of course, but for now it’s helping. Helping with the insane urge to tear down the stairs and –

Billy doesn’t really consider himself someone who underestimates things. But Christ he was sure the ‘mating frenzy’ myth was something romance authors created. This can’t even be real right now. It feels as if his skin is falling off and Steve is still downstairs.

Terror sinks its claws into him, the terror that Steve will leave, his mate will leave, he’ll find his way into the arms of a welcoming, warm Omega and Billy might never be able to find him again, he might never see Steve again –

Billy takes his fingers out his ears to run through his hair, fist it in both hands and give a sharp yank. As soon as he does, he realises he can’t hear Steve’s voice.

Billy goes completely still, willing it to return, but it’s pointless. He’s gone.

Tears threaten to close Billy’s throat over. And it’s so fucking, fucking stupid. He makes a wordless shout of rage and punches his wall. It bursts his knuckles open, and the pain is calming. It centres him. Billy closes his eyes and inhales slowly. The blood drips down his fingers, and he can't make a full fist, but it helps clear his mind.

It’s one night. He can do this. He’ll see Steve in the morning. They can talk about it then. They can establish some ground rules. For now, he can't look like a crazy psycho for the second night running.

On an empty stomach, Billy crawls into bed.

There’s a knock at his door once, and then the sound of something being placed outside. There’s nothing after that. Billy thinks he hears Neil’s feet outside his room, the floorboards creaking underneath his weight.

But then he wakes blearily sometime between evening and night and thinks he must have imagined it.

The hunger helps, too. It blunts the sharp edge of icy panic that overwhelms him at random moments.

Billy has gotten by fine on not eating before – skipping a meal here or there out of sheer exhaustion from training or just genuinely hoping to see results from it. In some ways its familiar. It reminds him of the early days of training, when it felt like a fire lit underneath the soles of his feet and it made Billy feel good, made him feel like he had a purpose.

It’s just not the kind of familiarity he wants.

Still, when Billy closes his eyes, he can pretend that he’s back in bed with Steve, waking up to Steve’s sleepy eyes and gentle fingers. He can pretend that could be his familiar.

*

It’s a fitful, restless sleep: one of jolting awake in sheer terror, sweat soaked all down his back, and not knowing what even caused the fear in the first place but only that something terrible could happen, might happen, if Billy doesn't find Steve.

He’s lucid enough now to recognise that this is the rut; that the drugs he took when his rut started must have knocked him out only to wake him up with this feeling, this horrible panic.

That’s why Billy left. He wasn’t just searching for Steve. He was terrified for Steve. He thought it was some mate-sense that allowed him to know when Steve was in danger.

But no. It’s just another one of Mother Nature’s tricks.

When the terror clears and Billy takes a few deep breaths, he remembers that Steve is fine: he’s at his home, with his parents, safe and sound.

But what if one of those monsters caught him on the way back from Billy’s house?  

What if the Harrington’s left and Steve’s all alone again?

What if those kids call him after a midnight trip to the woods and Steve goes to pick them up?  

What if the Harrington's decide that tonight they'll introduce Steve to an Omega, and before Steve knows it he finds himself starting to like her?

What if Steve wakes up tomorrow and decides all this was some fever-dream and he didn't mean a thing?

Billy pulls the pillow over his head and allows it to suffocate him for a few seconds before he emerges, gasping for breath, his heartbeat in his throat before it recedes back into his chest. Then he repeats the process.

*

When morning rolls around, Billy gets out of bed like a creaky old man and hobbles to the bathroom. He finds some toast left for him on the floor and shoves it down even though it’s cold.

He feels like death: steps into the shower without even glancing at the mirror. The water washes away most of the grime and sweat but not the all-over, raw, scraped-out feeling of his insides.

He soaps up to the best of his crooked, bent-shaped abilities, doesn’t even bother with shampoo, and leaves after two minutes before the water has even turned warm.

All his muscles hurt. Every piece of his body aches. Billy remembers this distinctive feeling at the end of a rut; it’s a few days early, but it’s the same as always. The stresses of rut reason wear on the body, and they seem to collect over the week only to slam into him at the end as a nice after-rut present.

He gets dressed painfully slowly. Pulls on jeans even though the action hurts and slides a t-shirt on, even though the look is so pathetically casual and not something Billy would normally be seen dead in. He’s tempted to pull on a sweater too, but he figures his leather jacket will take care of the worst of the chill.

It’s been a rough week, and the worst rut of his entire life thus far, so making it to school will be an achievement anyway.

Normally, Billy would be given a free ride to skip school when he’s in rut, and normally Billy would grab the opportunity. In fact, Billy doesn’t usually leave his room for a full week during rut season.

But considering the only possible alleviation for all his symptoms is going to be at school right now, he’s got no choice but to shove on clothes and make his way there.

Maybe Steve will skip class with him. Maybe Billy could get sent home with a fever and Steve could be the one to take him. But maybe Billy falls really ill during the trip home and Steve has to stay and look over him. Both their parents are out at work and all, maybe they can just spend the day watching movies, or pressed against each other without an inch of space between them, whichever works. Billy won’t kick up a fuss.

He’s just shambled out of his room, bent crooked like an old lady, when he runs right into Max waiting outside with her arms crossed.

Her face is its typical prissy self, but it softens in seconds when she sees the state Billy’s in. He’s almost glad he ran into her. It makes for a good indication of how much Billy is going to need to pull his shit together before he steps foot in Hawkins High.

“Hey.” She states, gruffly. “So did you like, stay over in Hopper’s cabin last night?”

“Something like that.” Billy agrees. His voice is as rough as stone.

“We were all pretty worried.” Max continues. “We searched for hours. Then Dustin told us over the walkie that you’d been found and we should all just go home.”

“Yep.” Billy closes one of his eyes against an oncoming headache. He’s got no clue why Max has decided to give him a run-down on events that he literally lived through to witness.

“Well it was a little weird, Billy.” Max carries on. “How come Dustin and Steve didn’t take you back here? How come they took you to Hopper? Did one of the Demogorgons get you? Why were you out in the woods anyway? Did you find one? What happened?”

“Max.” Billy says, in probably the softest voice that he has at his disposal. “I dunno what happened. I was pretty wasted. I got high cause of the rut and so I wandered into the woods, like an idiot. Steve didn’t want to take me home and let Neil see me. So they let me rest up at Hopper’s place. The dude wasn’t in. I passed out. Woke up this morning, came home. That’s it.” He presses two fingers into his left eye where the throbbing is the most intense.

Max, however, is looking at him calculatingly. “You told him.”

“What?” Billy squints at her.

“You told Steve. About Neil.”

Billy pries his eyes open. “He figured it out.”

Max doesn’t drop her calculating look. “You two are close.”

“Yup.”

“Okay.” Max settles on. “I guess I thought there was some reason you ran outside when you usually lock yourself in your room, but looks like it was just you being a dumbass as usual.”

Billy knows that comment is meant to rile him, but he just gives her a sarcastic grimace. “Looks like it.”

“Are you alright?” Max blurts, out the blue, her combative attitude dropping in seconds. Her posture, where it had been ready for an argument, now goes slack and her brows come together. She’s too young to give off a scent – all that shit happens during puberty, which is case in point with Billy – but Billy gets the strangest feeling that she might be worried about him.

It straightens his back up, just a little. He blinks at her in surprise. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just the usual shitty rut, kiddo.”

“Then why are you going to school?” Max won’t budge, physically and mentally.

“Punishment.” Billy thinks up on the spot. “From the old man.”

It slots into place for Max, and she gives a terse nod before she’s off in another flash of red hair whipping past.

Billy huffs, but he makes sure she’s in the bathroom before he descends the stairs. He’s aged about ninety years overnight, and his joints won’t bend or move, stiff inside his body. It hurts to walk in any which way.

He doesn’t even check in with Neil and Susan. He doesn’t even grab breakfast. He just heads straight on out the door.

There’s a Beemer in his driveway.

Billy pauses, stunned. He’s sure they don’t own a Beemer.

And then his heart does a little double flip like a gymnast, because sure enough Steve is inside. Head tipped back, arms crossed, asleep.

Billy walks up slowly. The closer he gets, the more the pain begins to melt away. His pulse is doing overtime and his palms sting with sweat: suddenly it’s as if he hasn’t seen Steve in weeks or something. His mouth is dry, he’s got the shakes, everything is pounding inside his body but he stands by the window and gives it a little tap, casual as-you-do.

Steve jolts awake.

He couldn’t have been properly sleeping. He couldn’t have been – surely he hasn’t been outside all night. Why would he have been outside all night?

Steve’s head whips around before he finds Billy and his face splits into a beam. Billy’s face responds in kind before he even gives it permission to, and then Steve unlocks his car and Billy wastes no time sliding into the passenger side.

“What are you –” Is as far as Billy gets before Steve throws himself at Billy.

Billy crushes Steve to his chest while Steve tightens his arms to the point of pain.

Billy just buries his face into Steve’s shoulder and closes his eyes. Steve’s bony little fingers are digging into the meat of Billy’s back, but it feels good, everything feels good – his whole entire body feels like it’s on peak performance, like it’s completely and utterly fired up. He would let out some animal howl of excitement if he could detach himself from Steve’s neck. As it stands, he pushes his nose right into Steve’s throat and inhales.

“I missed you so much, I had to make sure you were alright.” Steve murmurs. “I was halfway home when I just turned around and came back. I was gonna climb in your window but I thought doing that the night after getting together might come off a little strong.”

“You should have done that.” Billy says. “I wish you’d done that. Next time just do that. Or always do that.”

Steve laughs, and it rumbles his chest where he’s pressed to Billy. Billy feels as if that laugh physically infects him, as though it travels through Steve’s body into Billy’s, and then they’re laughing while they cling to one another.

“Is this a rut?” Steve whispers.

That only makes Billy laugh even harder. “Oh, baby, you’ve got no idea. This is just the mate-bond taking hold, I think.” I hope, Billy thinks fervently. “Mates don’t always find each another during the rut reason, so when they do biology helps things along. This is what I would’ve done the first day I met you if you hadn’t been on blockers and marked by Wheeler.”

“This isn’t a rut?” Steve pulls back and blinks wide, honey eyes.

“No.” Billy strokes Steve’s cheek with a smile. “That’s worse. That shit makes you go crazy.”

Makes you throw yourself against the wall and claw at your skin and run around in the woods.

“I’m already going crazy.” Steve exhales, and pushes his face into Billy’s shoulder.

Billy is about to speak, to explain the process of it all, when Steve speaks over him.

“Before you, I’d probably be glad if my parents suggested finding an Omega for me. I’d think what harm could it do? I might have even settled down with one. But now it’s like – the idea disgusts me.”

Billy might have been affected by Steve’s words if he couldn’t already scent everything going on in Steve’s head anyway.

Steve’s nerves are shot to hell, he’s stressed to the brink, and the mingled fear and repulsion he broadcasts while his hands cling to Billy tell him that those emotions aren’t for him.

“I can picture it – meeting them, shaking hands, smiling, having dinner, the whole thing just this one big terrible lie. Counting down the seconds until I could see you. Praying that she doesn’t get the wrong idea.”

Steve pulls back to look Billy in the eye. “I don’t want to say yes.” He whispers. “I don’t want to do it. I just - I can’t.”

Billy takes a hold of Steve’s face gently. “I shouldn’t have asked you to.” He murmurs. “I thought it would be better for everyone. For your parents, for us, for the fucking world. But I was wrong. I hate the idea as much as you, Stevie. Probably more. The idea of you getting close to anyone just fuckin’ kills me. I’d die if you –” Billy’s throat won’t allow the rest of the sentence, and he shakes his head with a harsh breath.

But the scent of relief is palpable, with that undercurrent of fondness and appreciation, all focused on Billy like a bright ray of sunlight.

“I feel the same.” Steve breathes. “Exactly the same.” And then he pushes their foreheads together and they breathe in the same air.

Steve’s lips are close, too close. Billy can feel his warm breath.

He's paralysed by it for some reason. He wants to move, but he knows if he does he might lose himself.

“Billy.” Steve murmurs. “Let’s skip school. My parents have a couple meetings in the afternoon –”

An insistent pounding on the window startles them both, and they fly apart.

“Hey, idiot.” Max climbs into the back. Her eyes are on Billy. “Why didn’t you say Steve was taking us to school?”

Steve and Billy stare at Max. They’re no way she didn’t see. They were practically wrapped around each other.

They were centimetres apart.

Steve looks down at the same time Billy does and they realise they’re still wrapped up in each other, only loosely, and force themselves apart with awkward, halted laughter.

The distance feels completely wrong. Billy hates it in seconds.

But as the only one privy to it in the car, Billy needs to hide a grin when the scent of bitterness mingled with frustration fills the car. There’s only one source for it. Billy sneaks a glance at Steve to find him turning the keys in the engine with unnecessary force.

“Just thought I’d make sure Billy is alright.” Steve bites out. He throws Max a tight smile, strained around the eyes. The frustration is not for Max, it’s for their entire situation, but Billy can still appreciate how hard it is to make nice when everything is shit. “Ready?”

Max matches Steve’s smile with a truly Customer Service level of attitude. “Sure. So how long have you been dating?”

Nobody moves.

“One whole day.” Steve replies, his voice even and calm. “Unless you count the time actually spent together. Then it only totals about eight hours. A lot of those hours we were asleep.”

“Gross.” Max replies.

“Not like –” Steve tries.

“If I were you, I’d try and hide it a bit better. This is your first day and you already failed.” Max talks over him.

“We didn’t exactly expect to get ambushed, Maxine.” Billy grits out.

“Well don’t make out outside your house, William.”

“We weren’t even –” Steve tries for the second time.

“Jesus, enough already, I don’t need all the details! Let’s just go!”

Steve starts the car, huffing and puffing the entire time, but Billy chances another glance at her in the rear-view. She looks completely exasperated, as if she expected all this, arms folded over her chest and eyes out the window.

But she’s not frowning, and she doesn’t look worried anymore.

Billy allows a single, small smile before they make it to school.

Chapter Text

Before Billy met Steve, his life was simple. Not great, not even good, but he could count on simple. 

He did his training, did his diet, got the grades, and that was it. An endless repeating monotonous cycle until summer, when Billy picked up shifts anywhere and everywhere that was hiring: mopped floors and washed dishes for a couple bucks an hour, and the little money he made went into savings for college, which Neil sure as shit wasn’t paying for.

Billy basically relied on getting a scholarship, like most modern Americans today, but he still wanted money to actually do shit when he got there. Buy food. Go out. Might actually be nice, for a change.

The imagined freedom of it all meant Billy didn’t care that he spent what was considered his “free time” and “summer holiday” doing manual labour, serving customers, wiping tabletops, cleaning toilets, taking out the trash, or something equally as unpleasant — like training.

Not that he hates training. It’s a means to an end, but Billy’s never had much passion about doing sixty sets of weights a day.

Mainly it’s boring. 

But Jesus, there are Olympic athletes that do this shit. There are people who want to become the best of the best at lifting weights. There’s got to be something in it for somebody out there. 

He’s just not that somebody.

Basketball, on the other hand, can be fun. Especially playing against good opponents, which only really happened in California. 

There’s this rush, a thrill, that comes with actually playing rather than winning. With having to be quick, having to think on his feet, having to duck and dodge and be smart. The success is nice, but it’s never been the best part.

That’s why Billy’s always known he could never do this competitively. 

Sure he wins when he plays at high school level; but push it up a notch and Billy would probably just dance around the court laughing with the great players, the world class players, rather than try to actually win against them. He’s never had the drive; never been driven about fucking anything other than getting away from Neil.

The best part of the sport, for him, is the interaction: the hard push of bodies, the electric thrum of his pulse.

But that’s probably because Billy is gay as hell. 

Point being is that before Steve, everything was simple. 

And he thought simple meant good. He thought that both those words equated to each other. 

Because who doesn’t want the simple life? Tending to a farm, herding some sheep, growing his own vegetables. The simple shit.

Who can honestly say they've never imagined it?

Billy has never been an ambitious person: the one ambition in his life has just to get as far away from his father as humanly possible.

Anything else after that didn't matter. As long as his stomach was full and his clothes were dry, he'd take anything. As long as he was away from Neil.

He just assumed everything else would fall into place after that. 

The trouble is, Billy is learning that a good life doesn’t necessarily mean a simple one: that life can be good and complicated at the same time, some fucking how.

Because Steve pulls up to school with Billy and Max in tow, parks in his usual spot and turns to them with a grin, Billy has a huge revelation.

“Wait.” He grabs Steve’s wrist before he even has a chance to think about it: catches Max eyeing up the movement but doesn’t even care.

“Steve, you can’t go in there.” He says. “Everyone will know.”

“Everyone will know what — oh.” Steve says. 

Because he’s just presented, and he’s giving off enough pheromones to tranquillise a horse. Not to mention that those pheromones tell everyone exactly how Steve is feeling.

Because to a middle grader like Max who hasn’t even reached puberty? She’s blind to it.

But to everyone past the age of fifteen? Yeah. They’ll know.

They’ll know Steve is a Super Alpha or some weird shit, they’ll know Steve has the hots for Billy, and if anything they’ll know Steve and Billy are mates. 

Billy has been suppressing his pheromone state since puberty; it’s not something that gets taught, it’s just something an Alpha or Omega just naturally picks up. 

It’s just another social skill in the hierarchy of life. 

People who don’t suppress, though: who broadcast their every emotion, are considered weird at best. Pretty invasive at worst.

It’s sort of the equivalent of walking around naked in public. Not really the done deal.

“Uh.” Steve’s eyes are wide, a flush staining his cheeks.

“Why don’t we just go in for first period.” Billy suggests. “We’ll sign in and leave. It’s just so they don’t call the parents. We can come up with something when we’re home.”

Billy almost flushes to his fucking skull at calling Harrington’s place home, as if he’s in any way entitled. But Steve just nods as if Billy is right.

“Yeah, yeah, sounds good.” Steve keeps nodding, his eyes on Billy.

“Uh.” Max says from the backseat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if you keep looking at each other like that it’s game over.”

Right. There’s that too.

“Look, we’re better going in separately.” Billy states. “We can meet back here in an hour but I don’t think we should be seen together.”

Steve clears his throat and glances down. “Okay. Cool.” 

Billy knows that this is not cool because Steve is omitting a lot of stress signals.

“Max.” Billy turns around. “Don’t you have school?”

Max sighs dramatically, but she hauls herself out and storms away. 

“Hey.” Billy starts, dipping his head down to catch Steve’s eye. “What’s up?”

”I know it’s fine.” Steve chuckles, a little dry. “I mean, logically. For some reason, though, my animal brain is just telling me to never let you out of my sight and that something awful will happen if I do. Which, I would totally be inclined to disagree with but monsters do literally exist nowadays, so.” He shrugs, the gesture quick and sharp.

“Uh.” Billy grunts.

Because Christ if he’ll ever admit it, but that shit is fucking touching. Why does Steve need to be so sweet all the goddamn time? Makes this whole ordeal a lot more difficult. That is, the ordeal of leaving him for a full hour. If Billy heard himself a few months ago, he’d seriously consider giving himself a punch. That’s no joke or nothing.

But. Fuck it.

They’re at school, and anyone could see, still Billy just throws himself forward and kisses Steve hard.

He kisses with lips and tongue and teeth, hard and fast, with every feeling he’s ever felt because he can’t put it into words, not the way Steve can, but he hopes this is at least enough; hopes that Steve knows Billy feels the same, exactly the same, and to hear it echoed back it some lightning bolt to his core.

Steve grabs both his shoulders but then gentles his touch, lifts hands to Billy’s face and slows their mouths so they’re just breathing into one another, just the soft press of skin and the closeness of their proximity.

Billy pulls back first, otherwise he’ll forget everything and never stop.

“Sorry.” He rasps. “Nobody really … thinks that way, about me.”

Which is kind of an awkward admission, made more awkward by his delivery but also the fact that’s a weird fucking thing to say, that nobody really feels that way, which maybe to Steve makes sense because he’s worried about being apart from Billy for one full hour, which is nothing. It’s still a weird thing to really put out into the open: hey, yeah, I’ve never had a relationship like this one and of fucking course not because we’re literally mates.

But Billy knows what he means. He means that nobody has ever felt that way, in any capacity, for Billy.

"Okay." Steve murmurs. "I'm not going to lie; nobody's ever felt this important before. And, honestly? I don't think I've ever been this important to somebody else. I don't even think I'd want to be this important to somebody else. We're in this together, Billy." He presses their foreheads together. "We're a team."

Billy closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of Steve; clean cotton and deodorant, sunshine and safety, warmth and affection, affection for Billy. All for Billy. All his.

Billy nods. "Alright. We go in and split up. If people make a comment or look at you weird, play dumb. Pretend you don't know what's going on. After first period, go to the office and tell them you don't feel well. Try to look kind of sick. Word will get out about your scent, because it's really fucking undeniable, and they'll put two and two together that you're off suppressants and that's why you're being weird and don't feel so hot. I'll meet you here."

"What happens if we go in together?"

Billy opens his eyes. Steve meets him: his eyes brown and clear and full of quiet emotion.

"What?" Billy asks.

"What if we go in there together?" Steve asks. "What if we just let people find out, and answer the question honestly if people ask, and just go about our normal lives but don't lie or hide or anything?"

"Uh." Billy laughs. "The whole world fucking blows up? Or some approximation, I think. Steve do you hear yourself?"

"What?" Steve draws back, a look that's almost wounded flashing across his face.

"Steve, we're Alphas. You're some Super Alpha type shit. We'll be fucking freaks."

Steve stares at Billy for what feels like an unnatural beat. "Do you think that?"

"Of course not." Billy says instantly, but somehow the words feel rubbery and wrong, and it shows. "I mean —“ He tries.

Steve pulls all the way back.

"Steve, wait." Billy reaches out and takes both of Steve's hands in his. "Of course I don't fucking think we're freaks, alright? You're the best thing to ever happen to me. But my old man is —“ Billy raps his knuckles against the side of his skull, “— rattling around in here tryna' make noise. And he always will be. I only see things from his perspective. That's how I see things first because that's how I survive. I'm sorry I can't undo that shit. I take it back, okay? We won’t be freaks. We aren’t. We might look like it to anyone who lives with a stick up their ass, but we know we're not." He swallows. "And that's the difference."

Steve studies him, and then he turns his palm up and strokes a thumb along Billy's hand. "So you want to go in together?"

"What about your parents?" Billy frowns.

"Fuck my parents." Steve states, abrupt and decisive. "Billy, how long can we hide this, realistically? We're mates. That's not just something you can hide. That's everything, okay? And this is high-school. It's one year of our lives and then we're out. How do you want to spend that year? Because I want to spend it with you."

Billy stares breathlessly at Steve and feels something like awe sink down into his very bones. He can feel himself start to grin, feel it spread wide across his face. "You are fucking serious."

"I'm fucking serious." Steve confirms.

"You're fucking crazy." Billy amends, but he laughs as he says it.

"I'm fucking crazy!" Steve shouts, and shakes Billy shoulders until Billy grabs Steve's shoulders and shakes him right back. They laugh into one another, at one another, at the total absurdity of the moment.

And then Steve climbs out of his Beemer, comes around to Billy's side and holds a hand out.

There are people in the parking lot. There are a lot of fucking people, now that Billy actually looks. But then Billy looks at Steve and sees the complete conviction there. They're doing this. Steve is doing this. Crazy, kind, brave Steve Harrington. 

Fuck the parents. Fuck the small-town talk. Fuck it all. Billy takes Steve hand.

They walk into school that way.

People are looking. People are definitely looking, and they sure as shit noticing: Steve, then Billy, then the hands.

Then back to Steve. Back to Billy. Back to hands. An endless cycle. Most people scurry on, some people stand and openly gape, but every fucking body looks. 

There won’t be a person in Hawkins who doesn’t know by the end of today. 

For some reason, though, it's not having the type of effect Billy thought it would.

Fear, anxiety, anger: he's waiting for it all to rush in. But with Steve Harrington's hand in his, Billy feels powerful. He feels like a fucking beast. Like a God. 

He grins wide and meets every motherfucking eye that comes his way.

Of course, the first people to actually stop them are Carol and Tommy. 

"Uh." Tommy has his arm slung over Carols's shoulder, and he eyes them up and down as they all come to standstill. "Am I asleep? The fuck is going on?"

"We're a thing." Billy nods to Steve, casual as anything, but he can't keep the stupid smug-as-shit grin off his face.

"We're mates." Steve states, voice hard as he frowns at Billy.

Billy only beams wider. "Ya. That." He leans in and kisses Steve's cheek quick. When he pulls back, Steve is pink-cheeked and a lot happier than before. Thankfully.

Tommy does nothing but stare.

"And you only just noticed?" Carol asks, one perfectly plucked eyebrow lifted.

"I only just came off suppressants." Steve replies, voice even.

"Well, shit." Tommy laughs, but it seems genuine. "That's ... that is, I guess. Congrats, guys." He pats Billy's shoulder sharp, and nods at Steve when Steve bristles at Billy's side. Overprotective idiot. Billy feels as if his veins are glowing neon.

"Yeah." Carol nods. Usually so unruffled, it looks as if she's also genuinely taken-aback.

But that's no bad thing. Billy isn't getting anything bad off either of them. Surprise, trepidation, maybe even a little excitement, probably for the inevitable collapse of society itself, but no disgust. Nothing negative at all really. 

"What are you gonna do?" Tommy asks. "Stroll in there and, what, people accept it or else?"

Billy shrugs. "Basically."

Tommy looks between them, and then he laughs. "Jesus. You guys are ballsy.” He looks them up and down. “I’m serious about that.”

"They'll accept it." Steve states. It would almost sound like a promise but for the unflinching way it comes out, as though it's a fact.

Maybe it is, hell if Billy knows.

"Nice." Carol nods.

“But, I mean…” Tommy starts, and that trepidation creeps back in. “What are you again, Steve?" Hs tilts his head with a frown. "I think I forgot, you've been on blockers so long.”

He’s not forgot. Everyone at Hawkins High knows Steve Harrington is Alpha. Tommy wants it confirmed; wants Steve to have to spit it out, to awkwardly mumble that they’re both Alphas, that they’ll be the most famous circus freaks in all of Indiana. 

"Alpha." Steve answers. Short and sweet. No embarrassment. 

He’s so fucking brave that Billy feels himself stirring in his jeans. Of course his mate would be like this. Who else could Billy ever love? How else would Billy even know this existed if Steve hadn’t embodied everything that Billy finds amazing.  

Tommy blinks, starts to frown a little before his features just go slack as he stares at them and the implication. 

Two betas isn't entirely rare, and two Omega's a little uncommon but still heard of.

Two Alphas is as queer as it gets. No chance of babies, no chance of normality, social rejects.

Gay and more gay. Yeah. Billy looks at Tommy and makes sure Tommy knows that they both catch the fucking meaning.

"Good luck." Carol says.

"We'll be fine." Steve says. "Can't exactly lock us up and throw away the key."

"They can try." Tommy laughs. "Hawkins, dude."

Billy and Steve glance at each other at the same time, both with the same question; are you ready, are you sure?

When Billy sees it echoed in Steve's eyes he can't help but smile, though, knowing they're the same, knowing they want the best for one another.

"Hey, I'm kidding." Tommy cuts in. "I'm happy for you guys, you know? My two buds, workin' it out."

"Shut the fuck up Tommy." Steve says, but he's grinning ear-to-ear.

"I have to say, I kind of had an idea." Carol says, back to her cool as a cucumber act. "One second you hated each other and the next second you were all chummy."

"Uh." Steve clears his throat. "Cool."

"Are we doing this?" Billy asks, and he really hopes Steve hasn't noticed but the hand currently holding his is all damp and fucking gross.

It's not as if Billy can pretend here: put on his tough Alpha bullshit and take Hawkins High by storm. He's never done anything close to this, and despite the pretty gentle reaction from Carol and Tommy, the full weight of the implications are starting to weigh down on him: like when Neil finds out, and what the Harrington's say, and if they'll allow Billy back in their mansion, and what their gang of kiddies will think —

"We're doing this." Steve states. 

So, they fucking do it.

They walk into Hawkins High with their backs set straight and their hands joined together.

The murmurs start almost instantly, but Steve — unconsciously or otherwise — is giving off an extremely protective scent. It’s difficult to explain, it’s pretty much: back off, back the fuck up, and don’t touch either of us.

If Billy was homophobic and he caught sight of that coming his way, yeah, he'd about turn.

They have to split for first period: they barely have any classes together as it is, and they knew that, but Steve still holds fast when Billy tries to leave.

"Are we still leaving after first?" He asks, his eyes a little wild around the edges, his grip tight on Billy’s hand.

"Yeah." Billy nods. "Course. I'll meet you at your car."

Steve sighs, shoulders loosening, but he still sends out a burst of distress and unhappiness when Billy lets go.

"Look." Billy steps close and pushes their foreheads together. The murmuring around them takes on a new fever pitch, bright and furious and quick. “We’ll be fine.”

But Steve relaxes, and that's all that really matters. Billy never cared about his reputation, not really.

He always imagined this moment, this big coming out parade, but in reality it's pretty underwhelming and surreal and just exactly as Billy imagined all at the same time.

People stare, people talk, but nobody does anything; nobody drags him out by his hair, and why would they? They have their opinions, that much is obvious, but that's all it ever can be.

Not everybody in the world is Neil Hargrove. Nobody in the fucking world is Neil Hargrove, actually. 

And even then, Billy is willing to fight for this. Billy is willing to fight just about anything for this. Including his father, and anyone else who gets in the way.

"I'll see you in an hour." Steve murmurs, voice soft. "Please don't be late."

Then he's off, taking long strides through the hallway and not looking back, and Billy even feels a little of this distress flare to life inside him, because his mate his mate is leaving, is out of his sight, and they haven't even bonded yet and what if something happens —

"Fuck." Billy hisses, knuckles his eyes, and goes to class.

It's boring. The full hour drags, and Billy listens to the teacher drone on whilst the murmurs continue around him:

Did you see Harrington and Hargrove this morning?

Yeah I heard they made out right before class

They walked in holding hands like a couple

I heard it's just some stunt 

I heard Steve presented 

I thought Steve was on blockers

I heard they’re mates

I think that’s just a joke they started

"Billy?"

Billy glances up. He frowns. 

Coach is at the door. His gym coach. From gym.

He frowns and glances at the clock. There's five minutes left of class. Why the fuck is Coach out searching for him? Is it against the rules of basketball to be gay or something? News travels fast, but surely it's not gotten to the teachers as well. It's first fucking period.

Their teacher stops in the middle of class to look at Coach as well, and then the whole room goes silent. 

"Billy, can I grab you for a minute?"

Billy looks as the teacher, who nods as if go ahead, so he lifts out of his seat and makes his way over.

Coach closes the door behind them.

"So, I don't know whether or not you heard, but we might be expecting a scout today. Considering the fact we've never had one come to Hawkins, I'd say the rumour is meant to be taken pretty seriously."

Billy's mouth drops open.

"They're here for you, Billy." Coach says, matter of fact. "I heard they've been following your progress, and they'd planned to approach in California before you moved."

Billy feels a little light-headed.

"So I'll see you at practise?" Coach claps him on the shoulder. "Alright? Bring your A-game."

And then he disappears just as the bell rings, loud and piercing and shrill. Billy stands in the corridor with no fucking clue that to do.

Chapter Text

Billy, of course, has a lot of options here. Well, not a lot. But there’s at least a few.

It’s not as if there’s absolutely nothing he can do.

He can easily talk to Steve about this. Explain the whole deal; that the scout has come here, they’ll probably only be here for one day considering it’s fucking Hawkins, that it’s the scout he’s been waiting for since he landed in Hawkins, the one that could change his whole life.

That Billy needs to play, he needs to get away from here, he needs to get out of here, he needs to be as far away from Neil Hargrove as humanly possible.

But he’s not mentioned any of this to Steve. At all. It’s been a bit of a whirlwind fucking romance. He never mentioned any of these plans, and how Steve factors into them at all, in any way shape or form.

Fuck. 

Because Steve is Billy’s plan. He’s Billy’s whole plan now. Life, death, whatever else comes after that: Steve will be Billy’s number one. 

It’ll be fine. It’ll be great. Steve surely can’t want to stick around this deadbeat town with it’s freaky monsters that come and go for the rest of his life. Surely he’ll want to come with Billy.

There’s no way he won’t want to come with Billy. 

The bell rings out and then falls silent, and Billy takes a deep breath and heads on over to where he knows Steve is waiting at his Beemer.

Sure enough, Steve has his arms crossed, his jacket wrapped around his frame in the cold, and he’s leaning against the hood of his car, his neck bent and eyes focused on the sky. He’s lost to the world.

"Whatcha' looking' at?" Billy asks politely, but Steve still startles and whips around.

"Billy." Steve grins when he sees Billy.The way he says Billy’s name makes Billy feel alive inside. As if he’s been asleep his whole life and how he’s truly woke up.

Steve steps up to him, takes Billy’s shoulders and kisses him soundly, a close-mouthed press of lips that Billy chases when it’s gone.

"I told you to be early." Steve huffs when he pulls away, but he doesn't go far; remains in Billy's proximity as if he's breathing Billy in, his hands gentle on either side of Billy’s waist and his forehead against Billy’s forehead. It doesn’t even matter who sees: they’ve decided they can do this now. 

"Sorry." Billy murmurs, and he means it: because he would have been fucking early had the little spanner in the works not ... spun.

"So look, uh." He begins, which isn’t exactly a strong start, but here goes. "Coach has just told me there's a scout coming here today. To watch us practise. And — I mean, I've been - I-I'd planned —“

"Woah." Steve halts him with two hands on his shoulders, squeezes the muscles of any tension. "What's up?"

Billy clears his throat. “I’d kind of planned to be there. At practise. For the scout.”

”There’s a scout!” Steve smiles. “That’s great. Of course, you should go!”

“Just because, you know, I’ve trained so hard Steve, I’ve worked my whole life for this, I’ve been planning for scouts since middle school —”

“Billy.” Steve cuts in. “It’s great news. You can stay here and play for the scout. I’ll just go home. I don’t feel so hot.” He squeezes Billy’s shoulders, though. “I’m totally fine though. Just come over when you’re done. As soon as you’re done, preferably.”

Billy stares at him for a beat. “Why don’t you come with me?”

Steve stares back. “Sorry?”

”Come with me. To practise.” Billy explains. “We could get it together, I know we’re both good enough.”

”Get what?”

“A sports scholarship.” Billy says, because it’s kind of obvious what scouts come for. “We can get one together. We can go anywhere, LA, San Fran, New York, you name it baby.” He grins with the thought of it: with the sheer excitement that rises in his chest.

”Uh, Billy.” Steve frowns. “I’m not — I don’t think I’m going to college.”

Billy gapes. “Huh?”

“I don’t think I’ll go.” Steve reiterates.

”Wh — Steve, you’ve got the money. And even if you don’t, that’s what I’m saying, we can play for the scout today and we might get a scholarship.” Billy tugs on Steve’s sleeve a little, as if to drag him back to school.

”Billy, I don’t really want to go.” Steve replies. “I don’t even know what I’d do there. Plus I need to stay here for the kids.”

Billy really isn’t comprehending the English language at the minute. “Sorry, the kids?”

”Yeah, Billy.” Steve states. “The kids. You know? The kids that almost die every other Tuesday. Remember, from the inter-dimensional aliens that still are afoot and never seem to completely go away no matter how many we fucking kill.”

Billy stares. “Steve, that’s not your fucking problem.”

“Well it kinda fucking is, Billy.” Steve echoes, and pulls back enough so that there’s distance between them. “Who else is dealing with it? A bunch of thirteen year olds? One police chief? Joyce Byers? Some creepy dudes in suits who want to cover it up? I need to stay here. I’m staying in Hawkins.”

”Forever?” Billy asks, aghast.

Steve shrugs. “I don't know. Until we figure out how to close the portal and stop letting them in. Or where the portal is. Or why it is. There’s a lot of things to consider that won’t just go away overnight, Billy. Do you think because we hunted one that they all just magically disappeared? That’s why I was so freaked out when you went missing. They go quiet, then they come back, someone dies, and then they go quiet again. They’re smart. They know how to hide. They’re fucking monsters. And nobody knows about it. And nobody is doing anything about it.”

His cheeks are flushed, his breath quick in his chest.

”Steve, Steve.” Billy places gentle hands on Steve’s shoulders. “How is any of that your responsibility?”

”Because I’ve seen them.” Steve states, eyes dark. “Because I’ve fought them. Because I know people who’ve died because of them.”

“So, what then, Steve?” Billy holds his gaze. “You’re gonna stay in this hick little town forever? Never go to college, never leave, settle down in one of those white-fence suburban mansions and just die in the Hawkins fucking cemetery?”

“Why is this such a big deal?” Steve asks. “What does it matter where I go? What does is change anything?”

“Because I’m not staying here!” Billy barks out. “I’m not staying within ten miles of my fucking dad, Steve.”

“Alright.” Steve replies. “That’s fine. But that’s far into the future —”

“It’s not.” Billy replies. “It’s right now, Steve. In a few months. When we leave high school and decide where to go and what to do with our lives.”

“Okay.” Steve says, but he sounds totally lost.

“So we need to pick places now.” Billy states. “We need to decide where we’re going now.”

“But I’m not going.”

Billy feels the agonising reality of everything swarm up ready to swallow him. “But I am.”

Steve looks at Billy helplessly. The full weight of it seems to settle on him, too.

“Look, long distance —” 

Billy turns away with a harsh scoff, insulted. “Long distance? Oh, long distance? And how many mates you know do long distance?”

“Doesn’t it make it better that we’re mates?” Steve looks desperate. “There’s nobody else, Billy.” 

“You think that’s all that matters?” Billy asks. “You think that’s what I care about? No, Steve, we’ve spent our whole lives apart and now we finally have each other you want to do it again? Isn’t that what you said this morning? Isn’t that why we did what we did?” He waves a hand around, and he knows he’s raising his voice but he can’t help it. “The whole coming out thing? Because it’s going to get out, Steve, and once my dad finds out he’s going to beat the crap out of me but I don’t care, I’ll fucking fight back —”

“He’s not gonna lay a finger on you and I can promise that.” Steve states, firm and serious.

“He fucking will and I don’t care, because I did it for you, I did it for you.” Billy hisses. “Why can’t you do this for me?”

Steve stares at Billy. “Do what? What would I do, Billy? I’ve not got the grades for college —”

“So get a scholarship like me.” Billy states. “Come with me. It’s as simple as that.”

“It’s not!” Steve shouts. “Not when there’s fucking monsters, Billy. I’d love it if it was simple. But it’s not.”

They stare at each other for a beat.

“I need to go.” Billy states, voice hard. “You can go figure out what the fuck you want.”

And then he turns around and storms into school.

Every step away from Steve feels physically wrong. It’s like eating when he feels as if he’s about to throw up. Like the opposite of what he should be doing. Every movement his body makes hurts.

But he does it, because fuck this, even though Steve’s scent is carried away by the harsh wind and Steve’s pain, frustration and anger alongside it. It smells putrid and bitter and somehow Billy wants it back: he wants Steve close and near at all times. Even when he's angry and shouting, even when they're arguing, being with Steve is still better than being without.

Billy forces himself to keep going, though; to walk into school and barge his way to class and sit his ass down and just fucking stew in his anger and frustration at Steve for all of three seconds before he feels absolutely awful.

He shouldn't have shouted. Fuck, he shouldn't have said all that. And he shouldn't have stormed out. God, he’s so stupid. He always knows how to fucking ruin it. He's only had it for two minutes: they've barely even spent a full 12 hours together as a couple, barely had three kisses between them, and now it's all shot to hell.

No. Fuck that. They're mates. They're meant for one another. They're meant to get through shit like this. And they will because Billy wants to. There's nothing he wants more, and he just has to hope Steve feels the same.

Billy manages to sit halfway through class before he can't handle it anymore. He gets up, grabs his bag, and runs outside. 

Steve is gone. His scent has long disappeared in the cold, bitter winter air. Billy tries to find it until he's walking in a circle, and he kicks the building and heads back inside.

At practise, Coach gives them all a speech about performance and opportunities and hints none too fucking subtly about the scout, and everyone is on edge. Tommy is buzzing out his seat, but when he grins at Billy, Billy doesn't respond.

“Hey.” Coach finds him before he leaves the locker-room. “You see Harrington?”

“Nope.” Billy states.

“Right.” Coach nods. “Shame. Out of everyone, I thought you two had the best chance.”

“Yeah.” Billy snorts, humourless. “Me too.”

Thought that he and Steve could take the world by storm, move in someplace together right next to the coast so Billy could teach Steve surfing at the weekends and show off a little bit too. And it would be fun and they’d stay up late shooting the shit and passing a joint between them.

Even before they got together Billy had this whole image in his head. It wouldn’t matter that they were essentially frat bros chumming it out together on some part-time minimum wage job combined with the funding from some elitist organisation that doesn’t really give a shit about passion or talent but just who they can burn out the quickest.

No. None of that would fucking matter because Billy had everything he ever wanted: sure it might not be perfect, he might have to curtail his feelings every now and again and buy chains for the bedpost during his rut, but it would be pretty much perfect to him.

He’d have his mate and he’d have his freedom. But more than that he’d have Steve.

Steve motherfucking Harrington, who nobody could have ever predicted, who Billy couldn’t have ever predicted but now can’t imagine his life without. 

But of course none of that will happen.

What a fucking pipe dream if he ever heard one. He was really smoking the good shit to believe that for a minute.

Coach just gives Billy an odd look at that remark and heads out to the court.

Billy's head isn't in the game. He tosses, gets a couple misses, doesn’t really care all that much. Even though everybody is fired up waiting for the scout to appear at any minute, swing by the door, Billy just isn't feeling it. 

He never could have expected that this moment would come and he'd feel this way. The training, the dieting, the brutal ten mile runs after school, the limiting alcohol carbs sugar and everything but broccoli and steamed chicken. The library cards and the science, perfecting his hoop toss, perfecting his defence, pummelling every other team he’s ever played against.

All for this very moment. And he’s got nothing. Nada. It’s just … bleh. 

Does he really want this? Is he really having an existential crisis about it right now? Right this very second? When it actually matters and he needs to decide whether to give the performance of his life or leave to patch things up with Steve?

But Jesus Christ, what is he even thinking? Would he seriously leave this nothing town of Hawkins, Indiana, when it holds the most important thing in his life? Is he going to go to some dumb college to study some dumb course and play dumb basketball when all he wants is to be with Steve?

But then the thought of living within an inch of Neil makes his skin crawl and his stomach tie itself around his lungs. He can’t, he can’t, live somewhere that Neil Hargrove is. What kind of freedom is that?

It’s alright that his goals have shifted; that happens in life. He never had the ambition to go to college for any other reason that freedom. There’s nothing he wants to do in life: he’d be happy cleaning tables if he wasn’t anywhere near Neil. 

That’s the problem. His one desire to escape his deadbeat dad has never changed. It’s only gotten stronger. The closer the tantalising fantasy has come, the more desperate Billy is to reach for it.

How does he choose? How can he even begin to pick? 

Coach blows the whistle. It’s over. Billy glances around, dazed, as though he’d been in a trance the whole time.

Some of the guys are talking among themselves, some of them seem pretty buzzed about the whole thing, but Coach beckons him over with his fingers.

“She only stayed for a couple minutes.” Coach tells him quietly. “Not a bad sign; I don’t think they stick around to chat unless they’re about to offer a scholarship right that second.” He slaps Billy on the shoulder. “Just wait ‘til the end of the season. They’ll be in touch if they liked what they saw.”

Billy nods, but truthfully couldn’t care less. He gets changed quick and leaves early; doesn’t even bother with a shower. He knows he’ll need to come back for Max, but he can’t just leave things the way they are between him and Steve. It’s not as though he’s royally fucked up: in his humble opinion Steve is still being stupid, but they need to work it out between them.

He completely forgot he didn’t drive today, though, so he has to walk it all the way to the Harrington’s. He runs the risk of freezing his ass off so he starts a jog halfway there, and bounces up the steps of Steve’s huge estate, already excited at the thought of seeing him even in their sorry state of affairs.

He knocks once, and then the woman Billy remembers as Steve’s mother opens the door.

”Hello?” She frowns.

Billy frowns back. “Steve here?”

Steve’s mother raises her brows. “Why would he be here? He’s at school.”

”Oh.” Billy blinks, and then he nods as if he completely forgot that the concept of school existed. “Right. Of course!”

She looks totally unimpressed.

Billy just gives a little wave and takes the steps down two at a time, but worry begins to gnaw at him. Where the fuck did Steve go?

Unless…

He seriously has not gone to Billy’s house. Fuck. Why the fuck would he go to Billy’s house?

Billy really starts to run then.

It takes a solid fifteen minutes even at his full-out pace, but as soon as he sees Steve’s Beemer parked outside his rickety little shithole, Billy fists his hands to stop them from shaking and barges in.

He’s sweating, out of breath and red in the face, his mouth open ready to pour out some excuse … but it’s fine.

There’s nobody home. Susan and Neil are still at work, and they should be for the next half an hour. Just enough time to get Steve out.

”Steve!” Billy calls, but there’s nothing. Really worried now, Billy runs up his stairs and storms into his room.

Oh. Oh. Jesus in Heaven.

His whole room is clouded with a scent sweet and pure and heady and deep. It’s totally addictive. He’s never experienced anything like it before; he’s scented arousal, of fucking course, but he’s never scented this.

It’s all-consuming, overpowering, makes the wires in Billy’s brain come loose, his skin feel tight and his balls fucking pulsate. It’s fucking everywhere all at once. It makes Billy’s mouth water on instinct, so dizzying he’s hard without even feeling it happen. He just blinks and he’s ready, he’s desperate, he’s in fucking agony. 

Then Billy actually sees what’s happening. 

Steve is lying on Billy’s bed with Billy’s pillow pressed to his face and a hand down his jeans, working himself at a fast pace. He’s only just popped the button; he hasn’t even bothered to pull them down. It’s exactly how Billy felt that night Steve dominated him against the kitchen counter. Desperate. Furious, almost.

Steve writhes, his socked toes curling. His shoes are discarded at the foot of Billy’s bed and his mouth is open against Billy’s pillow as if to taste the scent. He’s on his back, his knees spread, but all Billy can see is his hand down his jeans. 

Even then, Billy goes weak. Not even his knees; he’s weak all over. He leans against his door as his belly throbs with hot, pulsing hunger, with a empty hunger that feels like it’ll never be touched, never be filled. He stares at Steve until Steve’s eyes roll down from his head and he snaps his gaze toward Billy.

Steve goes stiff. He stares.

Billy takes one half-step, wobbling and breathless. “S-Steve.” His voice wobbles. “Are you … a-are you alright?”

Steve sits up, his hair mussed, cheeks cherry-red, eyes wild. “No.” He states, and then rushes up and meets Billy halfway. 

Because Billy has already started towards him, and when Steve grabs him Billy shoves his face into the place behind Steve’s ear where his scent is most concentrated.

It all floods in; Steve’s salty sweat, his musk, his heat, but more than that his agony for Billy, to touch Billy taste Billy smell Billy be with Billy. It’s so overwhelming Billy’s vision whites out for a second.

"I can smell you." Steve whispers in his ear, running his nose all over Billy's throat and face. "I can smell everything."

Billy can't believe that it happened. Finally, blessedly, and all it took was Steve to step into Billy's room.

Because he's in rut. And he’s with Billy.

Here’s the thing.

When Billy was younger, he thought rut was what greeted people at the gates of hell. He thought rut was the single most torturous thing a person could go through. Everyone knows it’s a military tactic: there’s even medications now to induce ruts in Betas, either for the fun or the fucking pain of it. 

Everyone knows. And what’s worse is that everyone does know, before and after, what he’s just been through. Something akin to being skinned alive.

The pity and the pain on their faces made him queasy. But also, it made him feel ashamed. 

The physical agony, for sure, is excruciating, but there’s mental torture in it too.

Billy’s never touched drugs, what with knowing that a single high could ruin his entire sports career for the rest of his life, but he’s heard the rut is compared to going cold turkey from drug addiction. 

The shakes, the sweats, the blinding headache, the nausea, and the desperate knowledge that only one thing on planet Earth will make it go away. The desperate craving for it, the desperate desire to find it no matter what.

Sometimes Billy thinks he might have been dangerous, honestly, during his rut. Thinks Neil locked Billy up partly for his own safety as much as Billy’s.

Because Billy is all too familiar with the process afterwards: waking up with blistered, beaten hands and the gut-churning fear that forced bile up his throat, who did he hit, before he saw the claw marks and holes punched along the walls.

He wonders what that must have been like, to listen to your son turn into an animal in the other room. 

Billy sometimes wonders if that’s when the problems started. He vaguely remembers a time when Neil was stiff and stoic but still cared, about his grades and about him finishing dinner. When Neil was something resembling a father. 

Then Billy presented and it was like every one of Neil’s worst fears. The inadequacy, the resentment, it all just piled up.

Billy is the Alpha of the house, he’s got the gene to prove it, and Neil will hate him for it for the rest of his life. 

And for a while Billy leaned into that, became that. Licked blood off his teeth from a scuffle with another Alpha in LA until he came out top dog. Went home and told himself that he could take Neil in a fight, if he wanted to, but Neil was safety and shelter and he would be throwing away his life if he did that. 

But then his ruts came. And Neil obviously didn’t know or didn’t believe in it, but Billy could smell now.

He could smell Neil’s fear. 

It disgusted him, the possibility that he might have been wrong. That Neil didn’t posture and intimate because he hated Billy, no, but because he was scared of him. Because he was scared of what Billy could do now.

It made Billy feel like a monster.

And none of the fights helped anymore, not since he realised the byproduct: that people would begin to see Billy the same way his own father did. 

Then came along Steve Harrington.

Wise-cracking, back-talking Steve Harrington, who never submitted but never threw punches either, who just talked to Billy like he was a real person instead of a conquest to be won or a creature to be feared. 

And by some miracle it’s that same Steve here with him now. Only he’ll never experience a rut the way Billy has. He’ll never have to, and for that Billy is blessedly grateful for the suppressants.

Billy wraps both arms around Steve and takes deep, long lungfuls, his mind a static hum as his senses flood with Steve all around him. 

He’s heard about it, obviously, what happens to mates during a rut. What happens when someone finds their mate during a rut. The rush of euphoric disbelief, the all encompassing happiness like nothing ever experienced before.

But they did it backwards.

Because when Billy found his mate during his rut just a few days ago, Steve had no fucking idea. The lingering affects of the suppressants were still in his bloodstream, and it was just Billy that experienced the euphoria, the bliss, only talked about in legend.

And then they kissed and slept close and his animal instincts died down. He could push them aside and get on with his day, because the itching, feverish, agonising need — the worst part of ruts — was gone for Billy.

It was gone forever.

All it left was buzzing anticipation deep in his gut, the anticipation of grabbing Steve and rutting against him until Billy’s scent has seeped into Steve’s bones.

But Steve wasn’t in rut and nobody has ever died from not having sex. That’s just fucking ridiculous.

All that shit is just to sell erotica novels. Billy could wait. He can wait. 

But now Steve pulls back to look him in the face, his eyes dark and half-lidded, cheeks flushed and breath fast, and Billy realises his wait is over. 

Chapter Text

Steve walks Billy up to the wall and plasters him against it with the fullness of his body: his solid weight bearing down, his undone belt-buckle pressing into Billy’s abdomen, his hands gripping into Billy’s wrists to pin them to the wall, his mouth moving along Billy’s throat as he scents him with hot, blunt teeth and inhales deep. 

“Ah, Steve —“ Billy tries, because he’s desperate to get hands on Steve too. Not just like this, but his bare hands on Steve’s bare skin, to lie with him naked, to kiss him on the mouth, to press their bodies together without clothes, to be with him as mates are.

But when Billy turns his head to kiss Steve back, flexing his arms in Steve’s grip to try and escape, Steve growls. 

It’s a low noise, more instinctual than with any intent, but it still makes Billy writhe as the white-hot arousal in his gut throbs with acute and actual pain.

Suddenly, there’s a hand wrapped around his throat. 

It’s a mirror of their first meeting; only now Billy is completely at Steve’s mercy. The rough pads of Steve’s fingers are spread along Billy’s neck, a thumb to his pulse point, a palm slotted along the column.

Then Steve tightens his grip in a gentle squeeze. It’s not strong enough to hurt, but strong enough to hold Billy in place.

And everything goes quiet.

Billy’s mind falls still like a calm clear ocean, every muscle in his body relaxes, and he yields.

For some reason Billy has been fighting it. He recognises now that he’s been fighting, every minute of every day, this blissful submission. At school, at home, even with Steve. Even right now, during their rut, every limb has been tense, every movement has been an aborted attempt to escape, to hold Steve, to give in to his conditioning and be an Alpha to Steve.

But underneath Steve’s hand Billy yields. 

Steve makes a huffed noise against his throat, lips trailing wetly beneath Billy’s jaw and his own hand, small tremors running through his body.

“Yes. Yes.” He sounds half-drunk and delirious, although he probably is. He very probably is.

This is his first experience of a rut. He’s eighteen. He should have been having these since his puberty started. He should be familiar with the crazed, frenetic energy, the skin-tight itch everywhere, the ache deep in his balls. 

But then again, Billy’s only really experienced those things without a mate.

When he did find his mate, half-mad and frozen to death in Hawkins forest, the euphoria was like nothing else. It blinded him, consumed him, and if he hadn’t been an inch from death Billy knows he would have been a lot more desperate to touch Steve. 

And Steve, glassy-eyed, panting, unsteady on his feet, is definitely feeling euphoria. Only he’s also desperate.

There’s no knowing how hard this is hitting Steve. Billy is being hit hard right now and his rut already fucking started a few days ago; he’s been dealing with this low-level pain fucking constantly. 

Billy has literally been shoving the feelings of his rut deep, deep down and carrying on with life. The worst part was over; the animal search was done, and those instincts instead turned into the animal desire to mate.

But really, how is he going to turn around to Steve and tell him that they need to have sex otherwise Billy is just going to be in pain for the rest of his life.

That’s not a good look. That’s about the worst look their is. Whiney asshole going on about blue balls. Everyone knows that fucking look.

Billy refused to be that look. Even when he got himself off six times a day just to dull the ache. Even when he fantasied about Steve’s bare ass in class and could barely hear the teacher most days. Even when — Jesus, the pain has been intense. A whiff of Steve had Billy stiff in his jeans and trying to hide it from literal children.

Not his finest moments, for sure. 

Now, with both of them feeling it, though, the room is clouded with the scents of them: arousal, anticipation, sweat, happiness, excitement, and the pheromones that Billy is sure only mates give off during a heat or a rut, sweet and primal and heady and agonisingly wonderful.

It combines to create this drug-like effect, one that has Billy’s eyes fluttering and Steve slurring his words.

Billy tries to lift the hand not currently pinned down. He still wants to touch Steve, in some form, but Steve makes another growl in his chest and Billy’s hand drops. 

He presses them both to the wall so he’s not tempted.

“Billy.” Steve whispers, and something of clarity comes back into his voice, although he sounds rushed as though he doesn’t even know when he’ll be clear again. “I need you.”

“I know.” Billy rasps, the lining of his throat practically closed over. “Me too.”

“But I need you.” Steve weeps, opening his mouth against Billy’s throat and pressing his teeth in hard to the skin there. “Need to be in you, need it so so much.”

Billy’s cock is sitting solid and stiff against his zipper, but at those words it jolts as if an electric current goes straight through it.

“Yes. God yes.” Billy pants.

He can’t even be ashamed of how utterly shameless he’s being. A couple months ago he would have been. 

Even if Steve had been into him, had been actually dating him, the open confession would have killed Billy. Keep your cards close, dumbass.

Because vulnerability is weakness, and once somebody knows they have a hold on you, they tend to want to exercise that hold. They want to push the boundaries and stretch the limits of your love. 

Billy learned the hard way; knows love is nothing but a power struggle. 

But now, it’s as though every thought he has flies out his mouth. As though Steve coaxes the words from between his teeth. It’s terrifying, but also exhilarating, that Billy could speak into existence every single thing that’s inside him; he could bare himself, Steve could bare himself. They could be stripped and raw and unprotected, as helpless as when they first entered this fucking world. They could exit it that way too, they could exit it together and return mated: never the same again, never alone. 

Steve nods into Billy, the tip of his nose smashed to Billy’s neck. And then he spins Billy around and presses him front-ways to the wall, hands going around for Billy’s belt —

“Steve, baby.” Billy hisses, because he knows how much a rut can cloud the mind when it first comes on. The first few hours are the worst before it stabilises. And with Steve’s newfound ability to scent: yeah, it’s basically as though he’s experiencing the world for the first time.

Billy feels the same. The same frantic  pain, the same agony for closeness more than closeness for the total binding of them together. But it passed before and it will pass again, and Steve will want to remember this. He won’t want it rushed and dirty. He’ll want to take his time, to go slow, to be gentle, to make love.

Billy knows, instinctively, that Steve wouldn’t want it this way. Painful and unsafe. He would want them both fully comfortable. 

“I’m not ready, baby.” Billy murmurs gently. “I need lube —“

“I’ll get you ready.” Steve rasps against the shell of his ear, pressing Billy’s cheek flat to the wall, and then Billy’s belt is undone and Steve rips Billy’s jeans and briefs down all the way to his ankles. 

Everything swings free. The cold air is a blissful slap to the skin of his dick, only now it’s so much worse. 

Because the little pressure his jeans provided meant he didn’t felt the full impact of his arousal. Now, it’s all he can feel. It’s a localised agony that shoots all the way through him. 

And he’s exposed, truly exposed, in the literal sense of the word. His whole lower half is released and it burns embarrassment into Billy’s stomach that this is how Steve sees his dick for the first time. 

Until Steve bends to his knees in front of Billy’s ass.

“Steve!” Billy yelps, because there’s two hands on the globes of his backside, pulling him apart. “I’m not — fuck, lemme take a shower —“

His mind is flaring to life with all the hygiene issues, all the STI’s and oral thrushes and every fucking thing that could go wrong while Steve inhales deep, his nose buried between Billy’s cheeks.

Billy feels his face flood with heat; some part of him wants to pull away while the biggest part of him wants to push back into Steve’s warm, open mouth, to give into temptation and bliss.

Fuck, though, he’s not showered, and fuck Sex Ed for ranting on about the dangers but he can’t let Steve do this and potentially risk one of the most important things, the most important person —

“Steve, no.” Billy states, and because Steve is so disarmed, so dazed and powerless where he kneels, Billy manages to kick his jeans off around his ankles and sprint to the bathroom.

It probably makes an absurd image: only in socks and his nice silk shirt he wore to school, the rest exposed to the world, but Billy can’t care about that right now.

He runs as fast as his training taught him.

There’s noise behind him: thundering feet, a furious growl that makes his knees go weak, but Billy moves at record speed and slams into the bathroom with Steve hot on his heels. 

He’s just slapped the shower on when Steve crashes into him with the force of a comet.

It’s not a hard fall; probably softened by their tangle of limbs, but then Steve pins Billy by both wrists again, thighs spreading across Billy’s stomach, and leans over him with sharp, panting breaths and a dark scowl.

“No.” He says, one word, but it comes out so deep that Billy goes breathless.

“Just let me —“ Billy tries, a helpless glance towards the now running shower. 

Maybe it’s the look on his face, maybe it’s the fear beginning to permeate the air around them, but Steve quickly pulls back, blinking quickly.

“I — did I hurt you?” He asks, tremulous, and his grip loosens.

“No, no, don’t —“ Billy shakes his head wildly, because Steve looks stricken and Billy really can’t allow that during their mating: something they’ll remember for life, something that will bind them for life.

“I’m scared about ya getting herpes or somethin’, alright.” Billy huffs reasonably. “Despite what some of those god-awful porn books taught you when you went to the damn library for shit about ruts, you can’t just go into an ass straight away. It’s gotta be clean, ya hear?”

Steve is looking at Billy with intent, as if he really wants to believe what Billy is saying. “Clean?”

Billy huffs again, fidgets a little underneath Steve’s hold, and feels a thrill when he realises that despite Steve easing-up there’s still little chance at escape.

He just needs to keep Steve talking. If he can do that, he’ll get through to Steve. And they’ll be able to get back to the stuff that matters. 

“Yes.” He states. “Clean, baby. I promise. I’m just scared that we’ll get carried away and rush in too fast and one of us will get hurt.” He holds Steve’s gaze. “It’s gonna be amazing, okay, but not without a little prep. That’s all.”

Steve leans down to touch the tip of his nose to Billy’s. “I don’t mind if you’re not super clean.” He whispers. “We can clean afterwards. Plus I’m pretty sure you need to be a carrier to pass anything. And we’ve not been with anyone else since we met.”

It’s sweet that Steve thinks that, when the truth is Billy hasn’t let anybody near his ass, period. Hands and mouths are different, and he’s still always vetted any guy he’s taken underneath the bleachers for that shit. But his ass? He's never even considered it.

This. This is different. And Steve’s right. Billy knows Steve is a relationship guy, and he hasn’t been with anyone since prissy, uptight Nancy Wheeler, who wouldn’t be caught dead sleeping around. 

Billy groans and squeezes his eyes shut. “Stevie, baby, you’re killin’ me.”

“Okay.” Steve says gently. “Let’s shower then.”

It seems as though their little conversation, or maybe just the prospect of Billy’s fear, has made Steve lucid. He rises up off Billy, who instantly misses his warm weight and solid heat.

Steve holds a hand out and Billy takes it. Then their faces are close, but the desperation has dulled, which leaves them staring at each other, anticipation rising, until Steve smirks.

“I suppose I should probably even the score.” He says with a pointed nod to Billy’s midriff. 

Then he pulls his jeans off.

Steve wasn’t wearing anything on underneath. His cock is long, bumping up against his stomach in excitement, flushed purple at the head. Billy could stare at it for hours. He’s found a new and completely unhealthy obsession. That cock. 

It peeks out from the foreskin a little, pearly with liquid at the tip, rippled with veins all along the shaft, skin so pale that the blue of them is visible. His thighs are dark and hairy, the muscles tensed underneath, his whole groin one gorgeous display of what masculine beauty truly means. 

Billy stares with an open mouth.

“Uh.” Steve rubs the base of his neck. A bitter hint of nervousness is creeping into his scent thick with lust, agitation, eagerness and pleasure. 

“Damn.” Is all Billy is capable of. His brain has basically short-circuited. Fuck, though, he’s just stood here in his shirt and socks and nothing else. 

His shirt just about covers his own dick, the hem falling over it, but then Steve quirks an eyebrow, a boyish little excited grin on his face, and skims Billy’s bare thigh with his fingers.

“Can I?” 

Billy shivers, nods even though has no idea what Steve is asking, until Steve starts popping the buttons and Billy just stands there, silent and still, as his shirt is opened and falls off his shoulders.

It falls to the floor, too, leaves him stood in just his socks, bare to the world, dick standing tall.

Steve reaches out — only to take Billy’s hand and place it onto his chest.

“You can do me, now.”

Nobody has ever been sexier in the history of the world. How the fuck is Steve so fucking sexy all in the span of an hour — dorky, gentle, goofy and sweet Steve Harrington?

Then again, Steve is a Super Alpha. Maybe he’s just got powers that mere mortals don’t. Mere mortals like Billy Hargrove. 

Billy unbuttons Steve’s shirt slowly, reverently. Uncovers Steve’s bare chest and stomach, the fuzz of hair tapering down into a thick, bushy patch of coarse curls. He’s so hairy everywhere, and Jesus Billy did not think that did it for him. Since when has hair done it for him?

Is it chemical, instinctual, primal? How is every piece of Steve some kind of personal fantasy for Billy, even a fantasy he didn’t know he had?

Because he knew Steve was hairy since day one. That’s fine, that's normal. But now Steve’s chest hair has Billy weak, stomach fluttering, ready to explode deep in his balls with just the barest brush of it against his fingertips.

Now Steve’s dancing eyes — something Billy taught himself to avoid — have Billy’s heart swelling in his chest and his throat tight and his eyes sore. 

Now Steve’s bare midriff has Billy’s mouth wet, desperate to sink teeth into the fleshy skin of his abdomen, to bend to his knees and worship Steve Harrington the way he deserves.

Instead, Billy just about manages to slide Steve's shirt off his shoulders and to the floor. Then they're both stood in just socks before Steve moves into Billy's space and kisses him.

Really kisses him, with teeth and tongue and everything he has, pressing his smooth, hot, hard body to Billy's body, flattening their skin together in one long flush. Billy feels what it means to kiss another person when he kisses Steve: what it means to have their face in his hands, mouth-on-mouth, pulse beating wild, limbs tangling and bodies moving together.

Billy feels as if he might be shaking, he might be coming undone, and the shower is running on behind them but Billy doesn't even notice until Steve walks them backwards into it and the rush of water engulfs them. 

They slip a little as they step inside, their mouths get separated by the spray of the shower, but they laugh about it and quickly come together again, reaching for one another at the exact same time, and Christ what a feeling it is to reach for somebody and have them reach back - to see Billy's eagerness met and joined, to feel as if he's on the same wavelength at another human being, to feel as if he's instantly known.

It's freakishly naked, more naked than being naked. It's being nakedly transparent, as if every thought in his head is visible, or every feeling he's ever had can be felt. But the same goes for Steve; he's so goddamn transparent it's a little painful, like maybe Billy shouldn't be able to smell his eagerness, his arousal and his affection, maybe Billy shouldn't be able to read every little play across his face.

But he can and it's wonderful and a little raw, too, like nothing Billy's ever experienced before in his life. He realises that Steve's scent - that unique smell that brings with it every good memory Billy's got - has been dulled, and now all Billy can scent is the feedback loop of pleasurepleasurepleasure everywhere, every small touch, every rushed breath. He can only scent how Steve responds to him, can only scent this moment of sweat salt skin, and they're tumbling around in the shower and laughing as they do it, and the laughter comes from somewhere deep inside Billy, pulls out every bad feeling he's ever felt and releases it into the open.

He's beaming so wide he's struggling to fucking kiss Steve, and isn't that a trick, grabbing the sides of Steve's face and laughing against his nose as Steve slides around like a dork and grabs Billy back, laughing against Billy's forehead. 

Stupid.

Billy's been so stupid, his whole life. He thought that if he ever mated it would be a crazed, primal moment of passion, over and done as quick as an itch is scratched, nothing special.

How stupid does he get? He ran from this. He told himself he didn't want this. Told himself he didn't need this; he was above needing this.

But that's such bullshit. This is all he's ever wanted. And some part of him knew it would be this way with Steve, some scared little piece of him, despite being so damn desperate for a flash of Steve's bare wrist that he would have walked across hot coals. Billy had to assume he'd feel much the same at a bare flash of Steve's anything. Hungry, agonised, uncontrollable, manic. 

And some mates are like that. Jesus, most mates. It's no secret what happens; it's one of the natural wonders of the world, and (as far Billy he knows) the only way the human race is sustained. Billy's heard the stories, read the books, bought the magazines. Everyone has. And of course it's like that. It's sex. Sex is a means to an end, chasing that end, no matter how it comes.

But that's not sex with Steve.

Sex with Steve Harrington is a hand running along Billy's wet ribs and accidentally making Billy yelp with the giggles. Is a hand doing that again just for the same reaction and pinning Billy to the cold tiles when Billy fights back. Is Steve's face grinning into his when Billy realises he can't move, their chests together, teeth pressed, a thigh in-between Billy's legs making him want to start rutting mindlessly. That grin going slack with want when Billy feels the same hunger create a pit in his stomach, and then both of them going in for the kiss at the same time. That kiss turning sloppy and wet as the water plasters their hair to their face and Billy can't even see.

Steve lifts hands to frame his face, brushes hair back, strokes two thumbs over Billy's eyebrows. 

Billy's struck dumb with the tenderness of that act, and he has to stay completely still for a beat until his body can process the impact of that act, more destructive than a fist. It's more destructive because its effects will last much longer. Billy can make himself forget a fist: he'll never, ever be able to forget this one simple gesture of care. 

And he doesn't even need to explain. That's the best part. He doesn't even need to put it in words. Steve smells it, senses it. He knows. And his face softens with that same kindness, but a kindness that only belongs to Billy. Billy knows what it is.

That's why he's been scared of it, scared of doing this - of cementing their bond and being intimate like this - because Billy knew he would get the confirmation either way. That Steve felt the same or felt different. Even if they were mates, there was no guarantee Steve felt it as strong. It happens, it's not even rare. Some mated couples just love differently.

They took such a roundabout way to getting together, anyways, that nothing was certain.

But some part of Billy still can't admit that he was scared of this. This right here. The confirmation that Steve does feel the same. Because Billy will never know what to do with that. It's too big. 

Love. Billy has all these ideas about it, but he's always know that's all they are. Ideas. He once felt the soul-destroying weight of it, and then his mother left. He knew that to allow himself to love meant the risk of feeling that again.

But Billy has only been thinking about love in terms of a material figure. He's never even pictured love in another form. He knew, before Steve, that loving a mate would a minefield for him, and he'd rather avoid it.

But then Steve did happen, and Billy had to face facts that the soul-crushing process was already in motion before he was conscious of it.

Of course sex with Steve would be like this. Like nothing he's ever imagined or could have ever imagined, and so much better than any of Billy's shitty ideas of it. It's wonderful, but it's terrifying. 

"Okay?" Steve presses their foreheads together, a hand on Billy's jaw, the other one stroking down Billy side. 

Billy nods quick. "Ya." His voice is throaty and thick, overcome. "I just." He shakes his head, closes his eyes, and then two strong arms come around him and Billy's being wrapped in an embrace.

Billy shudders out a breath, his chin over Steve's bare shoulder, his arms winding around Steve's waist. The sense of security, possession, and fondness that all engulf Billy makes him wonder what the fuck he's ever experienced before now. This is what it means to care? This is what it means to love? He should have chased this, instead of some dream of a sports scholarship and a dorm-room at some random college. 

He clings tighter to Steve, peppers kisses along his wet skin up to his throat, and Steve chuckles until he gasps and his neck falls to the side and Billy does it again, opens his mouth until Steve makes these breathy little moans that shoot straight through Billy's dick.

Billy turns them and presses Steve to the tiles now, his teeth latched onto a section that makes Steve shiver apart in his arms, sucking for dear life partly because Steve loves it but also because it'll leave the deepest bruise known to man. Steve is murmuring his name, shifting his hips until he finds Billy's groin and they slide wetly together, and Billy can't help the groan that rumbles out from the sweet, sweet relief against the mounting pressure building in his gut.

Then they're moving together, helplessly, sometimes awkward and bumping into one another and laughing about it at the same time they're moaning, which makes no fucking sense, and other times they hit on a rhythm so perfect, so in tune, that Billy could weep with the beauty of it.

And then Steve's hands fall on Billy's ass and force their cocks together, both of them burning up, the heat and friction all merging into one and Billy really does release a long, drawn-out moan at that.

Steve spins Billy around so his front is to the wall and pulls Billy's back snug against his chest.

"Can I?" He asks, hands palming Billy's globes, an aggressive kind of assertiveness to the touch that makes Billy want to roll over and thrust his hips to the air in an offering.

"Yes, yes." Billy chants, and then a cold bar of soap slides along his skin, his backside, until soapy fingers are entering inbetween his cheeks.

Billy knows that during a rut, all neuro-pathways are short-circuited, all inhibitions are lowered. It's not as though he does this to himself all that often. He's mostly pictured an Omega whenever he gets himself off, the typical submissive kind. But obviously curiosity takes over sometimes, and upon trying it Billy understood instantly what the appeal was. He never wanted to get too attached to the feeling, though, sure it would just disappoint whoever actually decided to be with him.

Now, though, Steve's fingers slide in easy, curling against his walls, and Billy can't contain the noises spilling from him. He bites his lip against them because they're more embarrassing than anything: high-pitched and thin, breathless and reedy.

Steve wraps a hand around his throat, but his grip is loose this time. "Come on baby, want to hear it, let it out."

Billy sobs, pushes back against Steve's third finger now easily accommodated, and they both know he's ready. 

"Okay?" Steve asks, just to be sure, pulling his fingers out slowly and scissoring them in the process.

Billy groans, nods frantically, and then the blunt, hot pressure of something bigger is up against his entrance.

"Steve." Billy gasps, open-mouthed, eyelids fluttering.

Steve begins to push in.

The feeling is ridiculous. It's truly ridiculous. Nothing should feel this good, nothing in the entire world. Billy starts seeing spots in the sides of his vision, he's so hard any touch would make him explode and it's barely been three seconds. This is supposed to hurt, to be at least a little uncomfortable, and sure there's a slight surreality to the sensation, a twinge of pain in his hips and a new fullness inside him, but it only adds to the overall indescribable feeling of being filled by Steve Harrington.

It's not fair. It's not right. It shouldn't be like this, not on the first try. The words amazing and wonderful quite literally pale in comparison to the reality Billy is experiencing. It's the mate-bond. It has to be.

Because Steve's breathing is shuddering and hot against his ear, and he's murmuring, "Christ, Christ, this is insane."

Billy can only nod, opening himself up to more to Steve, and then Steve is fully inside and pressed flush to Billy's back. Billy squeezes around him and Steve groans as if he's dying.

Billy laughs, and Steve jolts as if Billy has literally electrocuted him.

"What?"

"Oh God, don't do that."

"Do what?" Billy laughs again; feels himself going loopy with how good it feels to be filled to the brim with Steve.

"That, please, Billy, babe, I won't last."

"Me neither, Stevie." Billy informs Steve, not even regretfully. He's so blissed out he probably sounds drunk.

Steve shifts a little, just an inch, and Billy gasps sharply at the bright burst of pleasure that one movement creates. Steve must scent it, because he does it again, his hands sliding down to feel Billy's chest and cup his pecs, fingering his nipples.

Billy throws his head back moaning, pushing it onto Steve's shoulder when Steve sucks his earlobe into his mouth and starts a small, shallow thrusting. Billy is being no help, absolutely losing his mind and unfortunately acting like a pillow princess in the process, but there's nothing he can do. 

He has no idea why he didn't expect the pleasure. He pictured the intimacy, the closeness, sure, but never the wave after wave after wave of pleasure boiling in his stomach and rippling across to every nerve ending. 

Steve's hands slide lower, down to Billy's stomach. He feels with his fingertips along Billy's abdomen, and Billy welcomes the exploration until he realises Steve's trying to feel himself inside Billy and comes untouched, with the same suddenness of a gunshot.

Billy's mouth opens on a silent shout, clamping down with every muscle he has around Steve.

Steve's much more vocal. He comes loud and writhing, his hips snapping into overdrive on instinct, and it feels so incredible that it actually improves on Billy's ongoing orgasm. They're both so loud it's as if they're being tortured, but Billy doesn't even care; anyone could come in right now and he'd do nothing, fact everyone on the planet could be watching and still Billy wouldn't stop.

It goes on and on and on, and Billy feels as if he might honestly pass out with it, can barely get a breath into his lungs, and fuck what a way to go out: Steve's cock buried inside him and reeling from the hot-cold flashes of ecstasy that are raining down on him, making his toes flex and his hands grapple at the tiles and his legs vibrate and his throat spasm around a long, continuous hum. 

They come down from it slowly and together. Billy realises that Steve's hands are in his: that they're interlocked, pressed to the wall for leverage, and Steve is panting breathlessly, going soft and small but still inside him.

Billy allows the last vestiges of bliss to float away from him even though he still feels as spongy as cooked noddles. Steve slides out and the loss of it is a pit in Billy's stomach he immediately wants filled again. 

He says nothing, just turns around and kisses Steve full on the mouth, and Steve kisses back instantly, long arms roping around Billy, because there's nothing they can say or do after they've both just experienced the otherworldly experience of melding into one. After a beat they calm enough to hold one another, not kissing, not speaking, just holding.

There's a sudden noise from downstairs. Loud footsteps. Creaking.

"Billy?" Neil calls, gruff and unfriendly, probably looking for a fight.

Both of them stiffen to ice. Steve pulls back and stares with crazed, wide eyes.

Billy has no idea how Neil knows he’s home, until he remembers: right, his Camaro is parked in the driveway. Steve took him to school. But from Neil’s point of view, it looks as if he’s back early. 

Billy holds a finger to his lips.

"Shower!" He calls.

There's no reply, just Neil moving through the house.

"Fuck fuck fuck." Steve starts babbling.

"Stevie." Billy says calmly. "He's Beta. He won't be able to scent anything. He won't know you're here."

Steve relaxes, only minimally.

"Can you ..." Billy murmurs, lowers his eyes, strangely shy to ask after what they've just done.

"What?" Steve's hand cups his jaw, and Billy kisses it.

"Can you go again?" He whispers.

Steve stares at him as though his head has just fallen off. "What, now?"

Billy swallows thickly, because despite the scandal in Steve's tone, he's still perking up at the idea; visibly rising between his legs.

"Well, he knows I'm in here, he's not going to come in." Billy tries. skimming fingers along Steve's thigh-hair.

"How on Earth can we do it while he's in the house?" Steve hisses. "Did you just witness how loud we were?"

Yes. The memory, fresh as it is, makes Billy's mouth dry. He nods.

"Fuck." Steve closes his eyes, because Billy takes Steve into his hand and realises he's not done this yet: feel the solid weight of him, fondle the wrinkled skin, explore this most personal piece of Steve.

Steve reaches out blind and does the same, and Billy goes weak in the knees at Steve's large palm closing over him in a tight fist, pulling upwards, thumb swiping over the head.

"Inside me." Billy requests against Steve's mouth, and feels Steve's lips quirk in response.

They resume position: Billy practically shaking with the anticipation, intent to make this quick and simple, no fanfare. But when Steve slides back inside, easy as that, Billy is overcome with a random wash of emotion; of love and fondness and happiness that this moment is real. Steve tries to move but Billy holds him in place with a hand on his hip.

"No. Just." He doesn't need to continue; Steve noses at the nape of Billy's neck, gentle and loving. Billy pushes himself back into Steve, and Steve gasps quickly.

"Shh." Billy orders.

Steve slides out in seconds. Billy has to stop himself from emitting a motherfucking whine, it's that bad. Then Steve spins Billy around, grabs both of Billy's thighs, and lifts him up on the floor.

Billy really does bite his lip forcefully at that point: Steve's expression is intent, eyes dark, and fuck Billy did not account for the effect of facing Steve while they had sex. Billy manages to wrap his legs tight around Steve's waist and Steve positions himself again and pushes inside.

The new angle creates a totally new sensation. Even through a closed mouth and a clamped jaw, Billy's groans are somehow still audible. Steve closes his teeth around Billy's throat because he's clearly having the same issue.

Then Steve starts moving. These tiny little movements that shower a burst of sparks down Billy's spine, until Steve brushes this spot that makes Billy jolt and spasm with a shocked current of euphoria.

Steve aims for that spot again but Billy grabs his face and shakes his head: no. 

He doesn't have the control for it. He doesn't have the composure. Not today. Not right now. He's unravelling as it is.

Steve nods, slides away from it, but the next time he thrusts back in he brushes it again. Billy can't contain the moan. He turns it into a cough quickly, and then another one. Steve runs his mouth over Billy's cheek, practically delirious, panting, eyes closed. 

Normally he would have found what Billy just did ridiculous, made fun of him for being unable to keep his cool, but all their focus is on silence. Keeping silent. Being silent.

"Close." Billy tells Steve, and Steve pulls back purposefully to look into Billy's face. 

Billy assumes Steve is going to say something until Steve speeds up and Billy understands. No, Steve wants to watch Billy come undone. He wants to see Billy's face.

That does it.

Billy manages to contain any noise, but it means that his face must contort in a million different ways. That seems to do it for Steve, against all reason. He falls forward and buries his face in Billy's chest as he buries his cock in Billy's ass, exploding inside him so hot that Billy feels it burn his walls.

The orgasm lasts the same as the other one: so much longer than jerking off or any fumble with a stranger. Billy never even knew he was capable of having orgasms like this, that a body could actually experience such pleasure. He literally almost blacks out with it eyesight going blurry and knees weak, until Steve goes weak too and Billy kicks himself into gear: placing both feet back onto the floor before they both tumble and crash.

Steve slides out but they both cling to one another once Billy's back standing. Billy slaps the running water off because it's already been on for far too long. He's still got Steve's semen coating the inside of his thighs but in the grossest way possible he doesn't even care: wants it to dry in on his skin and stay there forever.

"Well." Steve whispers, his eyes clear and lucid now. "What the fuck do we do now?"

Chapter Text

Billy is panting, breathless, skin hot despite the slight chill of being wet, sweaty despite the shower he’s just had, hair plastered down across his shoulders, flushed everywhere and vibrating with a tension so strong he can feel it in his teeth. He wants to touch Steve, to take him, to enter inside him, to absolutely annihilate him so he’ll never think about anyone ever again.

The rut is still boiling inside him, but he needs to be smart about this. 

”Um.” He croaks, rough, but lowers his voice because now that the water is off it means they have to be especially quiet. “Sneak into my room?”

Steve closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Billy’s.

They sneak into his room.

Tip-toe over, pause at every creak, their hearts in their mother-fucking mouths.

But then the door closes and Billy realises that this is his life: that Neil isn’t one of those overbearing, protective parents who wants to know why Billy is randomly home early during school hours, who comes to check in to make sure he’s alright.

That’s never been what they’ve done, who they are.

Christ, Billy escaped into the Hawkins fucking woods and Neil barely batted an eyelid. Barely lifted a finger, probably, as well. Billy doesn’t know for sure, but he thinks it must have been Max or Susan who alerted the authorities on that one. Obviously he’s a little fuzzy on the details, what with it being less than 72 hours in total since the ordeal, but his gut knows it wasn’t Neil. It was never Neil. 

Neil wouldn't have even noticed that Billy was gone: the only ones who come to check on him for dinner are Susan, because he's guessing it's a waste of food, and Max, because she's been told to.

Neil probably wouldn’t have cared if he froze out there in the trees unless it somehow reflected badly on him. But in the midst of a rut, the heat of passion, Billy's death might have been chalked up to an accident. Yeah, a pretty bullet proof excuse for Neil there. 

Still, Billy holds a finger over his lips as he walks backwards towards his bed, still dripping wet, small hairs now raising in the cold as goosebumps erupt along his body. He shivers until his back hits the edge and he topples over.

Steve follows. Their skin makes a sharp slapping sound as it connects, and Billy's mouth opens to furiously whisper before Steve covers it with his own.

And then Billy's skin erupts into flames as hands are everywhere, exploring, caressing, and Billy realises how much better everything is on a bed. They can lie together, they can comfortably push their weight into one another, can feel the solidness of the bodies and really actually press their full lengths against one another. Their fronts are facing, Steve's hands in his wet hair, their legs tangled, their hips softly moving, Billy's hands running down Steve's smooth back to grab his ass, and there's really been nothing more perfect in the history of time.

It's true they'll probably get stiff necks, and maybe even the flu, they’ll come down with a fever knowing their luck, but right now with the room clouded in the steam of their mingled scents of love arousal excitement , the sheets all wrapped up around them, their bodies hot, pulsing and sticky-clammy, Billy doesn't care. He’ll never fucking care. He can feel Steve’s everything; skinny kneecaps, hairy balls, blunt fingernails, sharp elbows. All the parts of Steve he’s thought about, dreamt about, but all the things his imagination can't conjure up as well. This is real. It’s real. 

“Billy, baby, I don’t think I can go again.” Steve notes, and presses his soft member to Billy’s leg, almost squished in-between them.

Billy, by contrast, feels himself stiffen at the word baby. At the gentle way Steve says it, reverent and tender, at the way his body moves against Billy’s as if it was made to.

Billy tries to redirect his erection from Steve. “That’s alright, Stevie.” He sifts a hand through the silky hair at the back of Steve’s head, just caressing, not pulling, not ruffling. It feels incredible. 

Billy remembers being in Steve’s house after the Halloween party and grabbing a fistful of his hair; wanting instead to do this, to press their foreheads the way they are now, to breathe in the same air.

So much has changed since then, but Billy’s beginning to think that maybe his feelings haven’t. Maybe he’s always felt this way, from the second his eyes laid on Steve Harrington.

Sometimes that shit is true. All that romantic shit. Sometimes it’s true.

“But.” Steve runs a hand along Billy’s stomach, just teasing fingertips at his groin, and Billy can’t stifle his groan as his eyes fall shut. “You’re …”

Billy stills Steve’s hand. “You don’t need to.”

There’s a heavy, pregnant pause. Billy blinks open his eyes to find Steve staring at him in shock.

”Billy Hargrove.” He states gravely. “You are the single hottest thing in the fucking universe. There’s a need. There’s very much a need.”

Steve takes Billy in a loose grip and Billy bucks upwards, gritting his teeth to be quiet. Steve’s touch is light, just teasing, but it’s pushing Billy to the brink. Especially alongside what he’s murmuring into Billy’s jaw.

”Don’t be fucking stupid.” Billy hisses.

”Who’s being fucking stupid?” Steve hisses back, still mindful to be quiet, and his hand tightens again; pulling the skin of Billy’s shaft up before dragging it down, and Billy is shaking, even from this. 

“The only person I see being stupid right now is you.” Steve continues. “You know what you look like. You’re a Greek God; I’m the one that should be saying you don’t need to do anything.”

That pulls Billy up short. Steve’s thumbpad swipes over his head, but Billy grabs Steve’s wrist in a flash and stops him.

”The fuck you talkin’ bout, Harrington?”

Steve’s caramel-brown eyes are focused on him in the darkness of the bedroom, somehow still bright. “You know what I’m talking about. I look nothing like you.”

Billy scrambles to sit up, sensing something extremely important is happening, even with his dick swinging around. “You’re being real stupid, now. What is that supposed to mean? You ain’t hot?”

Steve glances down, cheeks hot. Embarrassed. He’s actually fucking embarrassed about this. “I dunno. I mean, not like you. Everybody knows it Billy, you’re … out of everyone’s league. You don’t even have a league. Your league is in space, dude.” 

Dude. Billy hates that. It’s so friendly, so distant.

”Okay, and?” Billy prompts. “So what if you think that, it’s good. I’m fucking happy you do. I think that about you too.” 

Steve scoffs. “Sure.”

”Steve.” Billy halts, tilts Steve’s jaw up to meet his gaze, hand gentle cradling his face. “I fucking mean it.”

”Isn’t that just the mate bond, though?” Steve asks, expression open and unwavering, and some of his uncertainty bleeds through the bravado. “Wouldn’t you need to find me attractive no matter what?”

Fuck. Billy’s not explained the mate thing properly.

Or at all. 

“No.” Billy closes his eyes and rests his head against Steve’s for a beat. “It doesn’t work like that. If I didn’t think you were attractive, it would be a platonic bond. Plus you are fucking attractive, you’re the sexiest mother-fucker alive, so I would be insane not to think it. And it goes both ways, baby. I think you’re so hot my eyes almost melt out my head everyday. Even when you were on blockers. This has nothing to do with us being mates. We’re mates because we’re perfect for one another. We’re basically each other’s fucking fantasy.”

Steve’s eyes are wide. “Really? What … like, what about me? Is your fantasy?” 

”Baby.” Billy whispers, presses their noses together. “You can scent it. Just concentrate. You can.” 

Steve frowns. Then he tucks his face into Billy’s throat and sniffs. Then he grabs the nape of Billy’s neck and opens his mouth, blunt teeth on the skin of Billy’s neck. 

“Fuck.” Steve murmurs. “I thought… I didn’t know this was you. But now it makes so much sense.” 

Billy isn’t suppressing anything. He doesn’t even think he could. Being with Steve, naked as they are right now, with so maybe new emotions overwhelming him; there’s no way to hide what he’s feeling. 

Still, he hasn’t articulated any of this to Steve apparently; falling into the trap of assuming because Steve is Alpha that he’ll be able to tell. But that's stupid. Steve isn’t the same as Billy; wasn’t brought up around this knowledge in the most populated city in America. Billy’s been surrounded by it his whole life, so it’s hard not to instinctively expect Steve to get it, but this is where communication is failing them. 

Billy needs to communicate the way Steve knows. 

”I love your fucking face.” Billy informs Steve. “Love … like, your nose and your mouth and all of it. All the fucking expressions you pull.”

It's stupid but Steve giggles into Billy’s neck, buoyant happiness permeating the air. 

“Love your hair. Love how hairy you are everywhere. Your chest and your legs, even that bush at your groin. Fucking wanna bury my face in it.”

Steve hides his own face in Billy’s chest, but he retakes Billy in hand, gently squeezing. Billy inhales sharp at the sensation.

”Love.” Billy struggles to speak. “Your hands. Christ. Those hands. Make a man weep. So big and bony and … goddamn beautiful.”

Steve laughs, really laughs, straight from the belly, even as he presses it into Billy’s chest. It makes Billy laugh too, biting his lip to keep quiet. He’s never laughed while being jacked off, or even jacking off himself. It’s unreal. 

Maybe it’s that. Maybe it’s the laughter, the conversation, the movement of Steve’s hand along his prick, but Billy blurts, “Fucking love you.”

Billy doesn’t really even realise he’s said it.

Steve pauses, still holding Billy in one hand, and then lifts his head and looks into Billy’s eyes. And that’s when Billy realises.

He can’t take it back. It’s out now. It hangs there, visible to all, as if Billy’s just spilled his guts on the table and now he’s slowly bleeding out. 

A huge grin splits Steve’s face. This sensation enters Billy; as if the sun has exploded inside him, a heat so strong and so intense he’s knocked breathless.

”I didn’t want to say it first.” Steve whispers. “I was too scared to say it. But I love you too. Obviously.” 

That sensation doubles, only Billy knows what it is now: a joy like nothing he’s ever felt.

Hearing the words make everything more real, more concrete. They really are mates. Billy has a mate and his mate has just told him he loves him.

“I love you.” Billy whispers, cupping Steve’s check. 

Steve laughs, elated. “Stop saying it first! I love you.” He cups Billy’s face back, and then Billy laughs.

Something happens then. Something truly settles into place, slots through the right way, as if it’s been trying all this time and only just figured out how to.

Billy realises it’s Steve.

It’s Steve. His feelings, thoughts, mood, health, state of being, his overall fucking essense. Billy has no fucking idea why he knows it’s Steve, but he does.

He knows that Steve is happy, excited, nervous, a little aroused, mostly spent, content, warm, healthy, strong, safe.

But then Steve's unfiltered thoughts begin to seep in, a deluge of flashing images of Billy’s face reflected back at him in bed, smile soft, eyes shining, but attached to it is a sense of fondness, adoration, sexual attraction. There's a focus on Billy’s mouth, his bottom lip, curve of his jaw, the mole on his shoulder. There's a pang of heat when the image of Billy’s hard cock surfaces, the memory of Billy’s smile, shirt undone to the waist in school, cigarette between his fingers leaning against the Beemer, laughing that mad hyena laugh where he throws his head back, cool as shit and so hot it could claw the skin off.

The image of Billy eating his salads at lunch, worry, concern, the image of Billy's imperceptible flinch around Neil, anger, fear, the blurry dream-like images of fantasies in class, desire, anticipation, the constant thoughts of leaning in whenever they were alone, the sick nerves churning his gut just do it now, the soul-destroying pain when Billy said I can't be sure, the agony of it like puncture-hole carried around everywhere, the bright hope when Billy did something like let his eyes linger too long or blush up to his ears, the memory of Billy rushing to the bathroom, his stiff walk and his hands over his crotch, pride, victory, excitement, feeling as though they were growing closer until Max's voice, Billy's missing, we've looked everywhere, the hours passing on and on and Billy's cold, lifeless form, Billy's beautiful face mangled by those creatures. Hearing Billy's soft, croaky voice and running, sprinting, because he's safe, he's alive, he's a fucking idiot but I love him, I need him, I can't exist without him.

It's everything that Steve thinks about Billy and everything he’s ever held onto and remembered. Every memory associated with Billy flooding into his brain in seconds, and now Billy feels as if Steve is a part of him.

It’s the bond. Their bond. It’s finally solidified. It wasn’t sex that cemented it, it was their openness, their happiness, their love for one another and them communicating that love.

Billy knows Steve probably knows everything little thing Billy’s ever felt for him now; knows there’s no playing it cool as if that was even possible before, but Steve can probably read his emotions and now his fucking mind. Read the way Billy has been clinically obsessed since Day One, see every little way Billy has agonised over him, and it's annoying that Billy can't see what Steve is experiencing, the same way Billy assumes Steve can't see anything Billy just witnessed. It probably wouldn't work, but still Billy would still appreciate the chance to explain himself.

But in the second it takes for their mate bond to slot into place, the second it takes for their relationship through each other's eyes to flood their mind, Steve gasps as though in spiritual revelation. He stares at Billy with wide, liquid brown eyes, which makes Billy a little wary even as he stares back at Steve, seeing him anew, actually understanding his love for Billy and acutely believing in it. No, not believing it. Knowing. He now knows all the ways Steve loves him and the journey it took for him to get there. There's no way for Billy to unlearn it, to doubt it for a single second, to ever consider that Steve might feel differently.

Billy can feel how Steve feels. Forever.

Steve smashes their mouths together. The kiss is brutal and devouring, Steve's hands coming up to hold his head as he truly tries to crawl inside Billy's skin, and Billy gentles him with a palm to his cheek until he realises that Steve's cheek is wet, that he's trembling.

Billy pulls back. "What's wrong?" He whispers.

"I can't believe you felt all that." Steve manages tremulously. "About me and Nance, and all that stuff with the blockers, and —”

"Hey, hey." Billy shushes, stroking his cheek. "We're here now."

Steve chokes a strange laugh, shakes his head. "No, you don't get it. You felt all that."

Billy frowns, totally lost.

"I'm so fucking happy." Steve explains, still trembling just a little. "You love me so much. You've always loved me so much. I can't believe it. All this time, you've loved me that much."

It's stupid to be embarrassed about it now. And there's a courage in owning it. In facing a collision head-on. Billy is nothing if not a stubborn, brave asshole. 

"Course I did. Course I do." Billy grumbles. "You're my mate, Steve. Love you more than fuckin’ anything."

Fresh, hot tears escape Steve's eyes, and Billy finds his own eyes responding to it: finds his vision blurry at the unabashed wonder Steve's scent gives off. He swipes underneath Steve’s eye where the tears fall and Steve presses Billy’s hand to his nose, taking great lungfuls. 

"I have to say." Billy rasps, clears his throat to speak. "Pretty fucking nice to actually see shit from your eyes. Makes me feel a lot less crazy.”

"Oh, I'm fully crazy." Steve warns, shuffles up in the bed so their foreheads are pressed. "You haven't seen the extent of my crazy, darling."

"Darling?" Billy teases, even with the thrill rushing up his legs.

Steve just retakes Billy in hand and gives a slow, languid stroke, and Billy hisses through gritted teeth.

"Better get used to it." Steve tells him. "You’ve already co-opted baby.”

”Can still use it on me.” Billy gasps, biting the inside of his cheek. Steve did use it on him. But it seems as thought any endearment works on Billy.

”But we need signature pet names. Something only I call you.” Steve replies reasonably, runs a fingertip in a little circle around Billy’s nipple as his other hand keeps stroking, bringing Billy closer and closer to the edge. “What about —“

“Billy!” Neil’s voice booms, his thundering boots making their way up the stairs. “I don’t care why you’re home, you better go get Maxine from school!”

”Fuck.” Billy hisses. Because he forgot. And Neil really will come into his room about this, and he’ll see them lying here naked, and Billy prepares to stand up to his father for the first time in his entire life —

”You’re in rut.” Steve whispers to him softly, presses a hand over his thundering heart, probably sensing the fear and adrenaline coursing through him. “Tell him.”

Of course. What is Billy thinking? Neil would never come in during a rut. Nobody would risk that. Sane or insane. 

“It’s rut!” He shouts.

The footfalls stop. “I thought it was over.” Neil’s voice is low and dangerous. 

“It started three days ago.” Billy replies, trying to sound gruff and tense the way it normally is: not blissed out and happy beyond his wildest dreams. “It’s normally a full week. Thought I would try school but — ah—“ He bucks upwards when Steve squeezes him inside his big fist, and slaps a hand over his mouth as Steve grins wickedly into his throat to stifle any laugher. 

“Uh.” Billy coughs once he’s regained composure. “Don’t feel great.”

”Fine.” Neil huffs. “I’ll call Susan. As soon as this is over, Billy, I expect you to do it.”

Do it yourself, Billy could shout. You’re fucking free, in between jobs and taking it out on the world as per usual. 

“Yes, Sir.” Billy grunts, and Steve frowns, lifts his head up to look at Billy, but Billy just rolls his eyes.

And then, blessedly, his feet retreat, the sound growing quieter and quieter as he reaches the bottom and back into the living room.

Steve and Billy release twin sighs, until Billy slaps his ass (gently, even though the sound jolts through him like static) 

“Idiot!” He whisper-shouts around his grin. “He could’ve caught us!”

”So.” Steve cocks an eyebrow. “I want him to. What’s he going to do? Overpower two Alphas? He’ll have to accept it eventually.”

Billy realises with a quickening heartbeat that Steve is right. Fuck. Fuck. Soon Neil will know; the whole of Hawkins might already know, and news travels fast.

”Hey.” Steve puts a hand on Billy’s face and turns his head towards him. “He will accept it. I’ll make sure of it.”

”You can’t make sure of it forever.” Billy confesses, voice small like a child when he says that, even though it’s the truth. He’ll have Steve’s protection for as long as Steve is physically present, but his dominance will soon wash off and it’ll be back to regularly scheduled viewing. 

Billy doesn’t want to rely on Steve, though. He wants to make Neil accept it by himself. But there’s no way that’ll happen. And even if Billy does rely on Steve for the rest of his life to stand up to his dad, it’ll still never make a difference with Billy. He’ll always be thirteen, always be shoved around, always be a pushover. 

“No.” Steve states, and sounds as if he means it. “He’ll never hurt you again. Never.”

Billy swallows. He feels himself trembling at those words, at the conviction with which Steve says them. He can smell the courage and determination from Steve, but more than that he can feel Steve’s resolve to make the words true, to make Billy believe him.

But Billy thinks he’s finally ready to believe it now. He’s ready to make that belief real. 

”Okay.” Billy whispers.

”Never. Again.” Steve says.

For lack of anything better Billy kisses him.

It gets sloppy fast; Billy can feel Steve beginning to awaken against his thigh and rubs his knee encouragingly in between Steve’s legs. Steve muffles sounds into Billy’s mouth and the feedback loop of arousal and pleasure and desire and satisfaction are all enough to topple Billy over the edge.

As it stands, he lasts several more seconds with Steve’s hand gripped around his cock before his orgasm steals over him. Billy gasps, choked, almost shocked as he spills hotly across Steve’s knuckles in wave after wave of pleasure.

Steve’s hips are moving with some kind of urgency now so Billy gets his hands wrapped around his long, flushed prick and tugs before Steve releases all over Billy’s abdomen like an iron brand. 

They try to stifle their noises, moaning and sighing into each other’s mouths and skin, and Billy lays gasping, sweating, his chest moving quick and sharp as Steve sprawls on top of him.

But his warm weight acts like a blanket, and after some gentle touches along Steve’s bumpy spine while Steve cards hands through his damp hair, Billy is asleep.

*

When Billy wakes, it’s not quite morning: the sun isn’t up yet but it will be soon. Steve is sound asleep beside him, mouth a little open, features all slack on Billy’s pillow.

Billy buries his nose into his bedsheets and smells them together, their sweat their semen their scents, and something settles underneath his skin. It’s a clawing itch he’s never even noticed until now, but it’s always been there, and now it’s gone. Billy feels as if his mind is clear, as if there’s been this constant static buzzing always in his ears until now.

Steve wakes slowly. Stretches, languid was a cat, and shuffles close to Billy as if searching out his heat. He runs his nose along Billy’s collarbone before he opens his eyes. When he does, the action is lazy and blissed out.

”Hello.” His voice is throaty and thick. He’s omitting so many pheromones they’re thick in the base of Billy’s throat: possessiveness, happiness, contentment, security.

It’s enough to roll around inside and bask in its heat.

”Hi.” Billy grins back. The rut, which Billy was sure would have passed by now, still simmers in his gut. Billy can feel it still present, still gently insisting that he claim Steve as his own in every way conceivable.

”You okay?” Steve lifts a hand and runs a finger down his nose.

Billy grins. “Yes. Very. You?”

A trickle of nerves seeps into the room, and Billy frowns.

”We should probably talk.” He murmurs, and Billy feels a spike or fear shoot though his chest.

”No, not like that.” Steve rolls over into him, clearly so receptive to everything Billy’s feeling. He kisses Billy’s jaw and tucks hair behind his ears. “Never like that. I just want to talk about the argument.”

Oh. Right. Billy totally forgot.

That’s why Steve is here in the first place, isn’t it? Why he came all the way to Billy’s house looking for him.

”Okay.” Billy begins warily.

”I think you should do it.” Steve states, resolute.

Billy pulls back to stare.

“I mean it.” Steve responds, eyes liquid dark in the early morning glow coming through Billy’s cheap curtains. “You need to. If you don’t, you’ll always wonder. And you’ll resent me for it.”

”Steve —“ Billy tries, but Steve shushes him with gentle fingers pressed to his lips.

”You deserve everything you want, Billy.” Steve whispers. “You’re talented. You’re so smart. I’d never forgive myself if I held you back.”

”But.” Terror winds around his throat. “You won’t come?”

Steve shakes his head. “I can’t, Billy. I just know I can’t. I want to, I really do want to. But I just know I can’t.”

That’s it. There’s no more discussing it, no more convincing, persuading, compromising, arguing, shouting, pleading. There’s just this. Simple facts. 

”I don’t want to you without you.” Billy confesses, and it’s the truth.

”But you need to.” Steve palms his cheek, and Billy turns his face into it. Imagining not having this hurts like physical pain.

Billy feels tears come hot and fresh and slide down his face.

”Hey.” Steve presses their noses together. “We have this. We’ll always have this.” He splays his palm flat over Billy’s thundering heart and Billy feels it too. Feels their tentative, fragile new mate-bond pulsate with life and feeling.

”Yeah.” Billy croaks. It’s weak even to his ears. “I just … I only just found ya, Harrington. How the fuck do I leave ya?”

”You’re not leaving me.” Steve states. “You can’t. It’s impossible now.”

Billy huffs a soft little laugh, mindful that the whole house is probably asleep.

”I should leave before they wake up.” Steve whispers. “Unless… you want them to know.”

Billy swallows. “Not just now. Soon. Probably today, Hell, if I know how fast the rumour mill fuckin’ spins.”

Steve swallows too. He looks conflicted. “They don’t need to know if you don’t want them to. But I’m telling my parents. Soon as I get home.”

A burst of heat flares in Billy’s stomach. Steve is telling his parents. He’s claiming Billy as his own.

”Christ. For real?” He manages, tremulous and needy, but he can’t help it.

Steve looks at him dead-on. “Yeah. For real. It’s gotta be sooner or later, so I’m betting on sooner.” 

It’s true, is the thing. Steve is right. Sooner or later.

”Fuck it.” Billy says, the same thing he said when Steve took his hand and pulled him into Hawkins High. “Okay. I’ll tell them tonight.”

A corresponding jumble of nerves and excitement explodes in his chest: Steve’s feelings. 

“Sure?”

”As I am gay, baby.” Billy states, and Steve chuckles into Billy’s throat.

”Good. I mean, that is pretty sure.”

”You knows it.” Billy grins and palms Steve’s bare backside, his soft supple cheeks easily squeezable. 

Steve groans. “No. Not when I’m leaving.” 

Billy runs his hands up Steve’s bare back and down again, not quite tickling but teasing. “Not even 10 minutes?”

Steve shakes his head. “We know how long that’ll turn into.”

Then he pulls himself from Billy’s arms and Billy feels a pang of hopeless love sickness that he knows Steve feels because he stumbles and rubs at his chest.

”No.” Steve points a finger. “Unless you want to tell them right this minute, I need to go.”

Does he? Could he?

No. He needs a few more hours to mentally prepare. He needs to know what he’s going to say. And he needs to do it without Steve.

Steve will overpower Neil, will broadcast defensiveness and protectiveness, but no matter how much Super Alpha Power he has, Billy still can’t be sure it won’t end a full out fist fight.

He can’t put Steve in the middle of years of animosity and abuse. He won’t put his mate in front of his dad to fight his fights.

This one he needs to do alone.

”Yeah, okay.” Billy huffs, sullen. “You should go. I’ll figure this out. I’ll see you at school?”

Steve bends and kisses him full on the mouth, warm lips over his, and Billy’s only just reached out when Steve disappears.

”School.” Steve confirms, and starts yanking on the clothes left strewn around the floor. Once he’s dressed, he sends Billy a smile so sweet it pierces Billy’s insides and tiptoes out the door.

Even though they’ve sorted it out, Billy can’t help the pit from opening inside his stomach at the thought of really, truly leaving Hawkins. Leaving Steve.

Even though Billy knows nothing is like it was before, he’s not alone, he’s got a life, he’s got friends, he’s got a mate, his mate is Steve fucking Harrington and he loves Billy beyond all fucking reason, Billy lies in bed and still feels as if everything is going to blow up in his face eventually.

Because before he comes out to his whole family and faces his deadbeat dad, before he goes to college and leaves Steve in this town with fucking monsters, he still has to get up and go to school. 

And won’t that be fun.