Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air shivers with ozone.

Matter ripples and warps, thins and elasticizes. The chatter intensifies. Rushing like static in his ears. Pounding in his head. The heartbeat of the universe.

Staggering through the void, he reaches out and touches something. A tree, solid and rough.

Gravity resumes all at once and he sinks to the forest floor. Limbs fall heavy like lead. Like crawling out onto dry land after all day in the water.

He breathes and blinks. Particles dilate and dance in the air, nauseating. He shuts his eyes.

It’s chilly. Had it been this cold? He tries to remember. July is muggy in the Midwest. Humid and saturated. Goldenrod and pool chlorine. Long orange sunsets. The air ripe with thunderstorms and fireworks and barbecue charcoal.

He inhales again. He tastes the nitrogen. Magnetic fields phase over him like streetlights on a highway. Atoms realign their electrons in his brain. The vectors of the earth act upon his body, air pressure, gravity, helicity. An unending torrent of sensory input that he had been accustomed to from birth is now deafening, unignorable.

He can't bear it. He is going to shake apart. Dissolve away.

For a moment, however long, it seems like crossing the thermocline between worlds might undo him. He can only crumple as the forces of space and time are enacted upon him and he may not survive reentry.

But then the humming of the world quiets. The edges of his mind are reeled back into his body.

Once more he is contained within a single organism.

The silence that is left behind is staggering. Profound and lonely.

He reacquaints himself with breathing. It takes great focus. Every component is clumsy to the task. The marrow of his bones sputters and restarts like an old car engine turning over.

After a moment's rest he rises to his feet, stumbles forward. Forges through the atmosphere. It resists him everywhere the cold night air touches, like wading through sand.

Doubling at the waist, he pauses, wretching, but nothing comes up. Only bilious fluid.

He straightens, tilts his head back, and opens his eyes once more. Infrared flickers in and out. Nets of radio waves echo through the night sky, a colour he has no name for. They fade away as his retinas recalibrate to the visible spectrum. Like cheesy 3D glasses, red-and-blue overlaying just right to make the image pop.

Overhead, trees. Black dendrites against the night sky. The canopy of some forest.

How did he end up here? In the woods? In the middle of the night? What is the last thing he can remember?

The last thing he can remember. Neon and gunpowder. Sand and seawater. A little girl touched the side of his face and told him that he had been happy.

He couldn’t let anything happen to her after that.

The trees. Like the black feelers of that place. That place that is a creature. Black arms of raw matter, they had forced their way inside. In his mouth, in his ears, in his eyes. Colonized his cells. Living dust.

Onward he staggers. A branch snaps beneath his steps in the dark. For the first time he notices that he is wearing shoes. Boots with a leather sole.

With his hands he quickly inspects the rest of his body. Jeans, tank shirt, socks. Around his neck his fingers catch a fine metal chain and from that hangs a small pendant. The feel of it is familiar.

He walks on.

Eventually, after much anonymous forest, his trudging leads him to a break in the treeline. Soil and leaf debris interrupted by an artery of smooth asphalt. Some rural road. Unlit. Deserted.

He picks a direction and keeps walking.

This will take him somewhere. He’s not sure why he’s certain of that, but he is. Roads always go somewhere. And if he can get somewhere, maybe the rest will start to come back to him.

Where is he? What happened to him? Why is he out here in the middle of the night?

What’s the last thing he can remember?

His lungs collapsing. Breathing against vacuum. Tasting his own bone marrow. A little girl crying. The Fourth of July.

Maybe he has been in a car accident. Maybe he was slipped something. But it's starting to come back to him.

No telling how long he walks. Minutes or hours. The road goes on and so does he.

Eventually, behind him, an engine approaches. Headlights fade in, brightness intensifying as they draw close. The nocturnal colouration burns away in the halogen beams.

The tires creak to a slow stop. The driver should get the brake pads cleaned. The vehicle rumbles behind him. The engine sputters and idles. A bored animal.

A car door slams. “Hey, you! Buddy, what the hell are you doing in the middle of the road?”

Are they talking to him? He doesn’t check. Keeps walking.

"Hey, pal," calls the voice, a man's voice, "are you alright? Do you need help?"

“Oh my god.” Another car door slams. “Holy shit. Oh my god.”

“Harrington, get back in the car.”

“Chief, wait. Wait. Holy shit, I think that’s… I think that’s…”

A hand gripes him around the shoulder. Someone puts a flashlight up to his face.

“Billy?”

Is that his name?

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Holy shit. Billy? Is it you?”

That must be his name. It sounds right. Billy.

“Harrington, get back,” comes the first man’s voice.

“Chief! Chief, it’s him! It's him. Holy shit, this... this is Max’s brother. I swear to god. It’s Billy Hargrove.”

Billy blinks. The beam of the flashlight strobes in and out of his vision. The colours of the world stay the same. He tries to focus on the person in front of him. Tries to see their face. It feels like he should know them.

"What do you mean it's him?"

"I mean it's him! He's standing right in front of me!" The guy's voice is hysterical. "Billy? Hey, Billy, do you hear me?"

"Thought you said Billy Hargrove died in the mall fire."

"So did you!"

"Well then what’s he doing wandering down the goddamn street in the middle of the night?"

"Jesus, Hopper, I don't know! I don't know, okay? But this is him! It looks just like him!"

"C'mon, Steve, get away from him."

“Why?”

“We don’t know what this is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at him. He’s not well. He’s not talking. He might be from the lab. He might be a double. I’ve already had the feds swap out a dead kid’s body on me once before. I’m not falling for it again.”

“It’s not a double, Hop, it’s him. It’s not a dummy. He's awake and breathing and everything.”

He struggles to follow their argument. The rumble of the car engine distracts him. Slowly, he looks between them both, vision swimming.

"Billy?! Hey, you with us? Man, say something!"

"Where am I?" Billy croaks.

Neither answer him. Too shocked that he spoke at all. The cool night air stirs along the forest road.

“Shit. Holy shit. This is insane. Hey, hey look at me, man. You recognize me, Hargrove?”

The guy in front of him points the flashlight at his own face. Pouty mouth. Big brown eyes. Outrageous waves of hair. And a spiked baseball bat resting over his shoulder.

“Harrington?” Billy tries.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, this is insane. This is insane. This is crazy. This is friggin' crazy. It’s him, Hop. He knows me.”

“Harrington,” the older man warns.

“We’ve got to radio everyone. We have to get him off the road. The Army can’t find out about this.”

“Harrington! We can’t be sure that it’s him. We don’t know that it’s safe.”

“We can’t just leave him out here, Hop! We… we should take him to the hospital! We have to tell —”

“It’s really Billy.”

They both turn back toward the car. Billy turns as well, squinting against the headlights towards this new voice.

Behind the open car door, a girl hops up on the road.

She’s taller, older. Her hair has been buzzed short to her scalp. She’s wearing a Gap sweatshirt and an old army jacket that swallows her up.

The girl from the Fourth of July.

“It’s really Billy,” she repeats, “I can tell.”

Tears spring to Billy's eyes to look at her. He's not sure why. Only knows that when he looks at her, he wants to sob with gratitude.

"El," the larger, gruff man's voice, "don't get near him."

"He's not dangerous," she insists, stepping closer, "not possessed."

Billy can't take his eyes off of her.

"We still don't know that for sure," argues the big guy.

"Lost," she insists, "not dangerous."

Lost. Hiding somewhere. Something had hurt him and he had hidden himself away. As far away as he could get. And this little girl had found him. How had she done that?

"What happened to me? How did… how did I get out here?" asks Billy, though it's rapidly becoming clear that he will regret asking.

"Hop, c’mon, we can't be standing out here. You and El and now him," Harrington gestures at Billy with the beam of the flashlight. "Someone could drive by any minute. Let's at least get off the road."

The big guy—Hop, Chief—heaves a tremendous sigh. Runs a big hand over his own shaved head. Looks individually at the three kids assembled before him. Doesn't look happy. Billy knows to be afraid of that.

"Son of a bitch," mutters Hop, "in the car. Everyone."

Steve guides him toward the open sedan door. Billy looks right at the girl. She looks right back at him. Matter itself seems to contract between them.

“Hop, you wanna drive?” calls Steve over the roof of the car.

“Only if you sit in the back with him. Don’t want El back there alone with him.”

“I’m okay. I can sit with him,” insists the girl.

“El, no. In the front seat, now.”

She breaks their eye contact and slips into the open front passenger seat. Without her gaze it feels like Billy might collapse.

Steve maneuvers them both into the back bench of the burgundy sedan. Doesn’t remove his grip from Billy’s elbow. Lays his baseball bat spiked with roofing nails across his knees. Billy doesn’t take his eyes off it.

“All set back there?” asks Hop glancing in the rear view.

“Yeah, we’re good,” replies Harrington, “just go slow. Drive careful. Don’t want to get pulled over with El in the car.”

The chief puts the sedan in drive and eases back at a reasonable pace down the road.

Billy is lost. He tries to focus. Tries to dial in on how he came to be here.

Struggling, he scowls. His recollection is patchy, like someone taped over his memory. The mall, he was at the new mall, and it was the Fourth of July. Though, he can’t recall what he had been doing there. And before that it’s precarious; whole days are blank. It had been summer, thick with heat. Sunlight had been making him sick. But chlorine recuperated him. Ammonia lingered on his tongue.

A shadow, wordless, muttering in the back of his mind. Corroding his selfhood to dust.

A hulking shape, as big as a house, smelling like butchered cattle.

That can’t have been real.

“How did I get out here, Harrington?” Billy asks again, shellshocked. “What happened? Nothing makes sense. Last thing I remember, I was… I was at the mall. I was at the mall and there was… there was this… this monster.”

“I know, man. I’m not sure how you ended up out here.”

“You… you know?”

“Yeah, I, uh,” the guy hesitates, sharing a look with Hop in the mirror, “I was at the mall that night, too.”

“You… you were? So you… you saw it? That monster that–”

That calcified flesh, shambling on chitinous limbs as big as a house, connected Billy’s mind to an infinite web of organisms.

Instructed him to build. Instructed him to kill.

“It was real?”

“Yeah, it was real.”

“All those fuckin’ people?”

Harrington winces, says nothing.

“Jesus. Fuck.” Billy’s body kickstarts with delayed terror. “Holy shit.”

“Hey now, take it easy, man.”

“Don’t fucking touch me, Harrington!”

“Hey!” the chief booms from the front seat. “That’s enough shouting. Everybody stays quiet and calm until we’re out of the car. Understand?”

Harrington nods like a chastised schoolchild. Scoots to the far window of the backseat bench. Billy submerges into nausea. Grips his stomach and leans forward. Presses his forehead into the back of the passenger seat in front of him. Heaves with cold sweat.

“It wasn’t real. It wasn't real. It can’t be real. Can’t be real.” Part of him is compelled to deny it out loud. “It wasn’t real.”

That enormous amalgamation of tissue and membranes. Roaring at him with fangs made from dead neighbours. He had betrayed it, at a most crucial moment, and for that it speared him through on appendages of raw flesh.

Billy’s hands fly to his chest. Checking up and down. Even touches his back where the exit wounds should be. But there is nothing. Only healthy unbroken skin. No wounds. No blood. Not even scars.

It isn’t real. See? If it were real he’d have holes in his body. He lost his mind. That’s all. He lost his mind and imagined it all. Had a nervous breakdown or something. There is no monster. It can’t be real. Can’t be.

To his left on the backseat bench, Harrington watches him warily.

A polite hand taps him on the head. Billy looks up. The girl is staring back at him from between the bars of the passenger seat headrest, like a prisoner peering through their cell door.

“It was real,” she tells him, sadly.

And deep down, he knows that.

They turn off the road down a dirt track through the woods, going slow in the dark. Headlights illuminate the forest understory, like the start of a horror movie.

At the end of the dirt path there is a small clearing and a cabin of rough-hewn timber nestled in the trees. The chief rolls the car to a stop twenty yards or so from the cabin even though there’s plenty more room to pull up to the front door.

The engine dies and they are plunged into darkness. Blinking, Billy’s eyes adjust to the nighttime forest clearing. There are no lights on in the cabin, not even a porch lamp. If not for the steam venting from the small boiler flue, it would look twenty-years abandoned.

The big cop steps out of the car with a flashlight. The girl does the same.

Together on the back bench, Steve nudges Billy. “We’re here, man. You need a hand getting up?

“Fuck off, Harrington, I can walk.”

“Okay, then.” Harrington opens his own door, takes up his spiked bat. “Keep your eyes peeled for the tripwires.”

“What?” But the door slams on Billy before there’s any reply.

A knock on the car window by Billy’s head causes him to jump. The beam of a flashlight peers down at him from outside.

“C’mon, kid,” the chief opens the car door and lights the path of Billy. ”The tripwires are hard to see in the dark. Stick with me getting up to the front door. You’ll be fine.”

What the fuck kind of off-the-grid survivalist shit is this?

He keeps on the chief's heels as they wind through the treed area toward the cabin. He’s not sure if they’re bullshitting him with the stuff about tripwires but he’s not about to find out.

They go single file, like ducklings. The chief leading, then Billy and the girl, and Harrington bringing up the rear with his baseball bat.

The cabin has wind chimes hanging from its covered front porch. They clink softly in the dark. It’s all Billy can focus on as the chief retrieves a dense ring of keys and turns four or five different locks before the simple plank door creaks open.

Billy has heard about these sorts of people, even back in California. Crackpots who think the Soviets are gonna come over the pole to rain down ICBMs any day now. They expect the world to be ending, and soon. Their plan to survive nuclear winter is to build bunkers way out in the woods with canned food and well water. Then rebuild society out of twigs and irradiated squirrels.

What the fuck is Harrington doing in the middle of the night with these freaks?

Inside it’s just a regular woodland cabin, like something right out of Field & Stream. Mounted trout and buck’s head on the walls. Dusty braided rug on the bare grain floor. A TV set from the seventies. A radio from the fifties. A hand-built addition with a garret attic bunk. Necessary plumbing divided from the main living space via curtain.

“What is all this?” Billy asks, at a loss to say anything else.

“Hop’s old cabin.” Harrington moves around him to turn on a table lamp. He leans the spiked baseball bat upright against the wall like it’s an umbrella. “It’s sorta been roughed up but it’s pretty off the grid. Generator power. Not even connect to city water. Good hideout.”

“Why are you hiding out in the woods with the chief of police, Harrington?”

“It’s, y’know, kinda a long story, man.”

“Summarize.”

Harrington throws his grey jacket over the back of a chair. “The Army’s after them both. They’re in hiding.” He nods at the big old cop replacing all the deadbolts in the front door. “I have a car, so I bring them groceries. Supplies. Drive Hop if he needs to see Joyce or Murray. The Army hasn’t started tailing me yet.”

Lies. There’s no way. There’s no way Harrington is a step ahead of him on this shit. Pretty rich boy Harrington who’s never had a hand raised to him his whole life before Billy kicked his ass. Bullshit.

“What the fuck is going on?” Billy’s voice quavers.

“That’s also sort of a long story.”

“Well then fucking start talking—”

“Hey!” the chief’s voice bellows off the timber plank walls. Billy flinches. “That’s enough. No time for bickering. We need to figure out what’s happening here.”

Harrington folds his arms, watches Billy cautiously.

“The mall,” offers Billy, “what happened there? What happened after… after… Did everyone get out?”

“Mall’s rubble,” the chief informs him, “got torn down after the fire.”

“The fire?”

“That’s what the feds are calling the monster.”

Hearing someone else say it, someone older, capable, the no-bullshit chief of police, makes Billy feel more insane and not less.

“No, no, no, that can’t be. That doesn’t make sense. How can it be torn down? That thing— it was the size of a goddamn house. The carcass will still be there. People— people will see it. They’ll know. They’ll know what happened. They can’t just pretend it was a fire.”

The chief and Harrington both just look at him. Like his protesting is pathetic in the face of what they know.

“What happened?” Billy repeats.

Neither of them answer as dread pressurizes the air. They’re keeping something from him. They think he’s too weak to handle this. Too stupid.

“What day is it?” demands Billy.

“Hargrove—”

“Tell me what day it is!”

The big guy inspects a calendar on the wall. “It is Tuesday the sixth of May. At least for a few more hours.”

“May?!”

“1986.”

This is some sort of sick joke. Somehow Harrington got the chief of police in on it. Billy’s gonna knock his teeth out.

“This isn’t fucking funny,” he growls.

“Not a joke, kid.”

“No, no, don’t bullshit me, old man,” Billy snarls. “It’s July. It’s the week of the Fourth.”

“Hargrove, hey,” attempts Harrington, “settle down.”

“I said don’t fucking touch me, Harrington.”

“I’m not. Okay? I’m not gonna. But c’mon, try and chill out. No one here’s gonna mess with you. We’re not lying. We know, okay? We know what happened. We believe you. We’re trying to figure it out, too.”

Billy stares at him, breathing hard. Patience is rapidly evaporating.

“Hey, c’mon man,” Harrington offers, nearly as a compromise, “how about this: what’s the last thing you remember?”

Billy’s memory is an unsettled matter. The shadow had invaded and from that moment his recollection began to falter instantly. There are holes in his memory of the week of the Fourth large enough to bury a body in.

But then the mall. Aglow in pink neon with children to hunt. At first his duty had been only to patrol the perimeter, be certain none of them fled.

Then he had been tasked to secure the girl. Just some girl. Max’s friend. The shadow had wanted her more than anything. Had devoted all its swarm of a million million organelles to tracking her down from another world.

Then, instantaneously, he had been eight-years-old on Tourmaline Beach. All day tumbling under resinous sunshine. Tiny limbs caked in sea salt and exhausted but overflowing with joy. Learning to surf. Knees scraped and sand in his hair. So full of delight he could have dissolved into seafoam.

An impossible order of events. But his memory is resolute in those facts. More sure of that than his own name.

“I was… on the beach,” Billy stammers, “the beach off Mission Boulevard.”

“The beach? What beach? What are you talking about?”

“The monster… the monster, it chased them all to the mall. And I was there. I couldn't stop myself. Couldn’t stop it. And it was… they were…”

It comes apart as he tries to envision it. Those terminal moments of consciousness. Flickering plasma on his retina. Starbursts of white magnesium fire ricocheting in his body. The physics of an alien world disassembling matter and reality.

He swallows hard. Dawning horror in his throat. “What happened to me, Harrington?”

Harrington is silent.

“You were at the mall, right? So tell me. Tell me what happened.”

“Billy, you…” Harrington bites his thumbnail, glances at the chief, “you died.”

Billy knows it before it’s said. He still laughs when he hears it.

“What?” Billy breathes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I went to your goddamn funeral, man. Last year.”

Billy bites his lip, hard. Fighting the urge to crumble into hysterics. Shakes his head like a child would to deny an upsetting truth.

“There’s no way. No. No way. How am I here, then? I’m standing right in front of you.”

“Yeah, I know. I know. It’s really, uh, it’s really messing with me, actually.”

“And it’s not fucking May. How… how can I be missing ten months? Bullshit. That doesn’t— you two are fucking lying to me.”

“We’re not,” the chief grumbles.

“Well clearly you fucking are because I’m standing right here!" shouts Billy. "What you’re saying is not fucking possible! Look, I’m even wearing the same clothes. From the mall!”

Had dressing himself been the shadow’s choice, or his? He can’t remember. Just knows in strobing freezeframe memories of that night, this is what he’d been wearing.

Standing in the atrium of the Starcourt Mall, Billy had gazed up lovingly at the shadow’s puppet monster. It had been so sweet to be near the shadow once again. Returning to his kin. His master had soothed him. Put all his guilt and torment at ease. Diaphragm herniated by the high speed impact with the steering wheel, Billy had found that he no longer needed to breathe.

But Billy inhales now, deep and steady. The musculature operates just fine.

Then the monster had skewered him for his failure. Let him slump to the broken glass. And then he lay there gasping, staring up to the night sky and fake indoor plants. Black foam pouring from his mouth.

Then, Max. As clear as sunshine. She had knelt over him, screaming. He had never seen that look on her face.

Then, blackness. A timeless oblivion where seconds and eons had been indistinguishable.

And the next instant, a mere forty minutes ago, the dark forest.

It's insane. This is what it is to be insane.

"What about Maxine?"

The temperature in the cabin drops. Harrington and the chief share a look.

"What happened to Maxine?" Billy repeats with a raised voice.

"She's in the hospital." The chief takes a step toward him. "She's doing well."

"What happened to her?"

"She got hurt, okay? Not at the mall, more recently. The night the cracks in the ground opened up. The earthquake. Something from that place got to her. But she's safe now, okay? She's healing up."

"Take me to her," Billy demands.

"Not gonna happen, kid, not right now."

"Take me to her, now," he roars.

"No one's going anywhere tonight." The chief is using his best police officer voice. Like Billy is a kid he caught drinking out at a party. "It's the middle of the night. You're a mess. Your poor sister has been grieving you for nearly a year. We are not going to go waking her up in the middle of the night and causing a scene in the hospital full of soldiers and injured people. No way. Not gonna happen. You’re not even supposed to be alive."

Billy seethes, outraged. "If you won't take me then I'll fucking walk."

The chief steps in front of him when Billy advances toward the front door. He's a big man, sturdy-looking, even with the scattered grey in his short hair. "I'm not gonna let you do that, kid."

"Yeah?" Billy shouts. "You think you're gonna stop me, old man?"

"Hargrove, don't." Harrington hovers just past his field of vision.

But the chief is unphased. Stares down at him like Billy is a child throwing a tantrum. "I don't have to stop you, kid. Maybe I could, sure but… maybe not. Y’know the kids all still talk about you. Apparently you throw a mean hook. And the ol' ankle here is not what it used to be, since the gulag. But she—" the chief points "—won't even have to raise a finger to stop you. She'll keep you rooted to the spot all night if she has to. And I promise you'll get tired before she does."

So quiet, so small, Billy almost forgot her. Sitting on the couch burrowed in a patterned wool blanket. The girl from the mall. The girl that found him inside his own head, waded through sand and ash to rescue him from the shadow. She had thrown him into the tiled wall of the sauna with her mind. Held him in midair. A phantom grip pushing against gravity with his body, tugging on his viscera.

She looks right at him. Haunted brown eyes stripping him to nothing. To her eyes, he is only particles, only atoms.

Billy looks back to the chief. Then to the front door. Judges how fast the old cop might be.

He bolts. Ready to sucker punch the chief and make a break for it. Reels back his arm to take a swing.

"Billy, don't!"

Harrington gets to him first. Intercepts him. Slings an arm around Billy's chest, keeps him from smashing the chief's nose in.

They struggle. Billy surges and tries to wrest out of Harrington's grip, but can't. Soles squeak on the plank wood floor as they struggle. But Harrington holds him off.

The chief doesn't flinch.

"Fuck you, pig." Billy rages just a few inches away.

"Calm down, kid."

Seeing red, he strains against Harrington. Tries to get his arms out from under his grip. Harrington swears and digs his shoulder in, pushing Billy back a step.

“Sorry, kid,” the chief says, “the angry teenager thing just doesn’t cut it anymore. I’ve been called much worse things by scarier men than you. Shit, my old drill sergeant at basic could make the whole squad of smartass recruits just like you shit their pants just from saying the words ‘incentive training’.”

"No one gives a shit about your war stories, old man."

"Yeah and no one gives a shit about yours either, Hargrove."

Billy blinks. It's like a slap.

"You think you're the only one who's ever been through it?” The chief folds his arms over his wide chest. Observes dispassionately as Harrington grapples with him. “The only one who's ever been angry? Think screaming and stamping your feet is gonna make shit happen for you?"

"What the fuck do you know!?"

"Listen to me. I'm sorry about what happened to you,” the chief tells him like the words are sour in his mouth. “You don’t know how much. I'm sorry no one helped you. We didn't know. We didn’t know that it got to you. We should have been watching the kids that summer and we weren’t. That’s on us. But you have got to get a grip right now."

“Get a grip!? That thing was in my head.” He shoves against Steve. Harrington never used to be this strong. “It made me hurt people. It killed me.”

"I know that, okay? I do.” The chief runs a hand over his bristley head. “Everyone in this room knows that. But even that said, the plain truth is every single person in this room has lived through shit you can't even imagine."

Tears of rage prick the corners of his eyes. "Fuck you! You have no idea! No idea what that thing did to me. What it made me do!"

Harrington relaxes his hold. Billy makes a last feeble attempt to throw him off. He fails.

"I do know, kid. Or at least, I’ve got some idea. I’ve seen it before. We’ve all seen it before. Seen what it does to people. We know. And if you could get a grip and take a look at yourself for a goddamn minute, you'd realize that we're not here to fight you. We’re on your side."

Billy spits at the chief. He misses.

"Give it a rest, Hargrove," mutters Harrington from over his shoulder.

Billy shoves at him, pushing back and releasing himself from Harrington's blockade at last. White hot lead charges through his limbs. He stalks around the boarded up cabin, wanting to put his fist through the planks.

From her perch on the couch, the girl watches him. For some reason, her scrutinizing stare makes him feel somehow ashamed. He shakes it off.

"She is okay."

Billy blinks, swivels to the girl. "Huh?"

"Max. She is okay. I have visited her. At the hospital. She is hurt but she is getting better."

"You've seen her?"

"I was there. When she... when she was hurt."

Those huge pansophical eyes well with tears. Her gaze is so total and revealing that Billy feels the urge to hide from her.

"We tried to protect her," the girl tells him in a steady voice, tears spilling down her cheek, "I wanted to protect her. But I wasn't strong enough."

"El..." The chief's tone has lost all its steel, "c'mon. You know that isn't true."

"Is she really alive?" Billy asks the girl.

"She is alive," the girl, El, assures. "For a long time she wasn't... awake, but she is now. Her arms... and legs... are still hurt."

Billy lets his eyes fall shut as a wave of defeat breaks over him. The last thing he had ever done was stand between Max and the shadow. It had been a decent last act. Didn't make up for everything, but hopefully for enough.

But it had all been for nothing, apparently. In the end, the shadow got to Max anyway.

Suddenly he is so, so exhausted. His vision tunnels and a powerful vertigo staggers through him. He sinks into the old recliner beneath the mounted deer's head and buries his face in his hands.

"What about her mom?" he croaks.

"Her mom's fine. Staying with friends right now," the chief answers.

"And, uh," Billy figures he might as well hear all the bad news at once, "my, uh... my dad?"

There's only silence for a beat, so total Billy can feel it ringing in his ears.

"From what I heard," the chief discloses, "your dad and Max's mom split last year after the mall fire. Seems like he packed up and left town. Sold the house on Old Cherry."

Cold relief washes over him, not altogether comfortable. He sits back and the room spins slightly. They're all watching him, the three of them: the chief, Harrington, and the girl — El — like he's a live grenade that just got tossed into their trench.

“I’ve seen her, too,” pipes up Harrington. “I’ve been to see Max in the hospital. If it matters. She’s doing okay. She’s improving. They’re not lying about that, okay?”

It infuriates Billy to learn that. That Harrington has sat at her bedside. How dare he?

“Listen,” the chief says, “I can set up another bed in El’s room for you. I’m up in the loft bed most of the time. It’s safe so far, out here. In the morning, we’ll get some food. Call some people. Start making a plan.”

Billy hates to beg. But he knows how to appease men in control. "You promise you'll let me see her?"

"We'll figure something out. You have my word, okay? Give me a day or two. I'll get you in to talk to her."

Out of habit, Billy’s fingers reach to toy with his Saint Christopher pendant. Before now, he hadn't realized he was wearing it. "Alright. Fine. I'll stay. Until then."

“Good,” the chief declares.

Billy could probably wait him out. Wait until the big cop inevitably falls asleep and then sneak back out. Try and find the hospital on foot.

If he could make it past the tripwires. And the girl.

No, he’ll wait. There is still the outside chance that this is all a dream. That he’s going to wake up on the back bench of the Camaro hungover and sore and forget any of this ever happened.

But then he looks up at the girl, hair falling in his face, and the look in her sagelike eyes tells him that’s not going to be the case.

Chapter Text

The earthquake, Billy has learned, is a cover story for something much worse.

Something from that sinister otherworld tried to punch through to the other side. This side. Poke enough holes through the membrane between worlds, and eventually it would rend open and the monsters would come spilling over.

And one of those holes it punched had been through Max.

And it had nearly succeeded.

The town is in rough shape. A whole street of houses is rubble. Some are still standing but boarded up and abandoned. Huge rifts run for miles, intersecting at the old library at the centre of town. The National Guard has them taped off and soldiers with machine guns patrol them day and night.

Many people are missing. Many more are hurt. It makes sneaking into the regional hospital pretty easy.

Hopper lends Billy some clothes. The big man dresses like a lumberjack, all flannel and hiking boots, and all of his clothes are too big for Billy. He dresses in a huge plaid flannel shirt and frumpy, dirty jeans with an ancient creased brown leather jacket overtop. On top of everything else, the chief makes Billy tuck his hair into a ballcap so as to not be recognized. A friggin’ LA Dodgers baseball cap.

On the ride over to the hospital, Billy catches his own reflection in the car’s side mirror.

Billy hates it. He looks like his dad.

The hospital room is a horrible mud green colour. Clunky machines are stacked around the bed, their tiny black screens reading out green telemetry. The beige curtains are open but it does little to brighten the dingy space.

The whole cavalry's present for this, apparently. They're all stacked in the small space, Max's friends. Billy guesses they’re her friends. Never knew any of them too well. He recognizes Sinclair, though the kid's grown at least a foot since Billy last saw him. Quickly, Billy looks away.

"Max," Ms. Byers calls softly as she closes the door behind them, "dear, we have someone here to see you."

Billy has to make himself look at the figure in the hospital bed.

She looks so small. White plaster casts around both her legs. A foam neck brace. She's pale, paler than usual; sickly and wane. Worse than they told him. Her red hair in two messy braids, frizzy and unwashed in some time. She looks nearly dead. Billy bites the inside of his cheek hard.

Max opens her eyes. "Why is everyone here? Lucas and Will won’t tell me anything. Who is it?"

Milky eyes search the room.

The girl El shoves right past Billy. Gently takes one of Max's bandaged hands. "A friend," she proclaims.

They're all staring right at him, waiting to see what he'll do. These kids, the chief, Ms. Byers, Nancy Wheeler, Harrington. Watching him like he's a wild animal.

Hands jammed in his jacket pockets, Billy has to compose himself, has to force his voice to speak.

"Hey, Max."

She blinks. Her freckled forehead creases a little, and she tries to look for him. Turns her head in his direction. Frowns. How much can she actually see, he wonders.

"What is this?" she asks, voice like asphalt.

"We picked him up in the woods by the lake a couple nights ago," the chief says. "We're thinking that maybe he came out of one of the rifts in the ground."

"What?"

"He's not sure how he ended up out there. Didn't realize he was missing time. Had to tell him it was May–"

"That's not Billy," interrupts Max.

El squeezes her hand. "It is Billy. I checked."

"No. No, it's not him."

The kids all look at one another nervously. Billy looks out the window.

Sinclair tries, "Max, we know it sounds impossible. But we've all talked to him. We really think—”

"It's not Billy," she yells, silencing the room, "it can't be. Because if that's Billy, then what the fuck is burried out at Roane Hill Cemetary?"

The unanswered question. It rings in the crowded hospital room like a curse. They have all been thinking it. The chief has certainly been thinking it. Billy had seen it in his scrutinizing scowl while they ate breakfast. Whatever had been left of his body after the shadow monster had ripped him apart had been laid to rest in the graveyard on the east side of town. Should still be there, slowly decaying beneath the grass.

The shadow monster had built itself a body once. Out of flesh and biomass, freon and ammonia. Maybe it had built another.

Whatever Billy's body is made of now, it's not the one he had been born in.

"He should have scars," Max insists, "if it were really Billy he'd have scars where the monster killed him."

No one in the room answers her.

"But he doesn't, does he?"

No, he doesn't.

This time it's Harrington who speaks for him. "We tested him, Max. With heat. For a long time. He's not possessed."

"Well, then, I'm sorry that you've all been tricked by it again but whatever that thing is it's not Billy. It's another trap. A puppet or something sent by Vecna."

"Not Vecna..." tries El.

"Really you should turn it over to the Army. Or Dr. Owens or whoever is left. Or just take it out to the quarry and put it out of its misery."

Even the adults are silent at that. Billy thinks it's the best idea any of them have had so far.

"Oh, Max, honey," Ms. Byers and her motherly voice move over to Max's bedside. "We know this is a lot to take in, especially after what you've just been through. And we don't know what’s going to happen now, but Hop and I thought you should know."

Max jerks her head away in refusal. "Get it out of here."

Billy sucks his teeth. Max's judgement is ultimate, final. Always had loudmouth opinions even when she was barely nine. Truly, it's not less than he has coming.

She's a punk shithead with an attitude, but she's hardly ever wrong.

Hurts, though.

"Right," he sniffs, "didn't mean to waste everybody's time."

He shoulders past the chief out the exit. Out the wide hospital room door that a gurney can fit through.

Hands shoved deep in the pockets of the brown hand-me-down leather jacket, ballcap pulled low over his face, Billy stalks down the corridor. He thinks he's heading for the entrance. Doesn't really have a plan for where he's going. Just that he's going somewhere. Somewhere far from this shithole town. Anyway he can. He'll hitchhike. He'll walk.

"Dude! Wait up."

Harrington jogs up and falls into step next to him. Billy doesn't stop.

"Where are you headed, man?"

"The fuck do you care?"

"Listen, man, Max is hurting, okay? And this… this is a lot to drop on her. It's, like, an impossibly heavy thing to drop on her. The time in the hospital has been rough and she can lash out, y'know? But she'll come around."

"Fuck off." They all talk about her the way people used to talk about him.

"C'mon, don't take off. Everything that happened over spring break and last summer... it really affected the kids, man. None of them are handling it well. They’re messed up. They’re scared. Just give her a day or two."

Billy does not want to have to deck Harrington in the face right here in the hallways in front of all these witnesses but it is rapidly coming to that.

He charges out the main entrance; the automatic doors nearly don't slide open in time. Stupid, dauntless Harrington is right on his heels, pursuing him out into the parking lot.

"Billy, c'mon, man."

He reaches out and grabs Billy's elbow like an idiot and Billy rounds on him. Hard.

Pulling up short, Steve only just misses cracking their foreheads together.

"Shit! Okay, sorry, shit, sorry.” Harrington runs a hand through that ridiculous hair of his. Sighs. “Listen. I know that was rough in there, okay? But you can't run off. Don’t blow everything up just because she’s scared and hurting and grieving. She’s just a kid. This last year has been hard, it’s been so hard on her, Billy, even before all the shit over spring break. She took it… she took Starcourt really hard. If you disappear now, after coming back from the fucking dead... you can't do that to her, man."

All these people, so worried about Maxine. Rallying around her. A sour burn roils low in Billy's gut.

"She made her feelings on wanting to see me pretty clear, I'd say," he grits out. His hands tug at the unfamiliar pockets of this new jacket, searching for cigarettes.

"C'mon, man, we can't be standing out here. At least let me drive you back to Hop's cabin."

"You're a slow learner, ain't'cha, Harrington?"

From the back pocket of his jeans, Steve retrieves a crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds. Offers it to Billy. "Doesn't have to be the chief's cabin. Let's just get outta here. Drive around. Take a breather. We don't have to… talk or shit. Just don't… don't cut and run."

Stupid Harrington oughta know that's all people ever end up doing.

But Billy needs a fucking cigarette and he hasn't got a penny to his name.

He swipes the pack from Steve's hand and stomps away.

"Billy!" Harrington stage whispers, trying not to shout his name in a busy parking lot.

"Thanks for the smokes, Harrington."

"Don't do this, man."

Not stopping, Billy stalks away. He pulls out a cigarette and puts it to his lips.

"You're gonna need a lighter, dumbass!"

Fuck. He doesn't have a lighter.

He could always steal one. But honestly, that would probably land him in a federal spook detainment site by sunset.

He turns. Harrington is standing there like a dumbass in the middle of the parking lot. In his outstretched hand he brandishes a Zippo lighter overhead.

Only a couple days back in the world and Billy's been letting himself get talked into all sorts of bad ideas.

He's not staying. Definitely not staying. But if Harrington is going to beg, going to offer free cigarettes and a ride, well, it's not the worst deal Billy's ever been cut.

So he stomps back over. Tries to swipe the lighter from Harrington's outstretched arm.

"Ah-ah," Harrington tisks like an asshole, holding the lighter out of reach, "get in the car, first. Then the whole pack's yours."

"I'm about ready to knee you in the fucking kidneys, Harrington."

"We'll if you do that who's gonna be your ride outta here?" he snipes back, completely unconcerned, like Billy is as threatening as a grumpy puppy.

Someone really ought to put this guy in his place.

“C’mon, we’re parked over here.” Harrington glances around to be sure the coast is clear, like he’s goddamn James Bond or something, then starts off between the rows of parked cars.

Billy doesn’t have to follow him, strictly speaking. Nothing physically pushes him into the car.

And yet, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, he follows.

Let Harrington be his ride while he bums a smoke.

The burgundy BMW sedan is as Billy remembers it, paintjob still pristine, the trim still so polished you can see yourself in it. Harrington opens the driver’s side door but doesn’t get in. He rests his arm on the roof, watching Billy approach on the passenger’s side.

Billy stares right back. “You gonna pat me down or something, pretty boy?”

“Just shut up, man. Get in the car.”

The radio comes on but Harrington shuts it off.

They pull onto the road and take off in silence. Shaggy trees whip by the car window. The white noise of the rumbling engine looms in the discomfort between them.

Steve aims the car south. Familiar farmhouses roll by. Places Billy himself had driven by hundreds of times. He remembers the town, like it was yesterday. The hospital is out by the interstate, penned in by smaller farm lots. Down this road is near to where the mall had gone up. Then the more manicured suburbs with their groomed lawns and ranch houses. Hang a left on Cornwalis and that would take them downtown. The high school, the community pool, Main Street, Melvald’s, the movie theatre.

If he has been missing for a year, why does he still remember the layout of the town like it was yesterday?

Good to his word, Harrington tosses the pack of Marlboros into Billy's lap. Then fishes the lighter out of his front pocket and lobs that as well.

Billy catches it. Picks a cigarette out of the pack with his teeth. The woody, earthy scent of tobacco fills his throat, even unlit.

Flicking the Zippo, Billy lights his cigarette. Inhales.

The familiar burn in his chest soothes him like nothing else has since that first day. Billy has smoked nearly every day of his life since he turned twelve. But on this first inhale it slakes a craving he didn't realize he had been fighting.

He holds it. Three, four seconds. Then exhales.

“C'mon, dude, crack the window at least.”

Billy takes another inhale, blows smoke. Grins all sinister at Harrington.

“Jackass,” mutters Harrington.

Billy chuckles. Rankling Harrington always gives him a thrill.

“I'm trying to be nice, y'know?” Harrington grumbles as they turn onto Mount Sinai Road. “With the cigarettes and the free ride and the no talking. Think maybe you repay the favour? Seeing as maybe you kinda owe me?”

“Owe you?”

“For the fucking concussion you gave me November of senior year!”

“Oh boo-hoo, Harrington. First time getting your ass kicked? Maybe don’t start fights you can’t finish.”

“Look, it doesn’t matter. Stupid me, right? Just hoping we could leave the past in the past and act like adults.”

“I’m not going to apologize for beating your face in.” Billy cracks the window and exhales a cloud of smoke into the wind. “You deserved it. And you swung first.”

“Well, you fought dirty.”

“No such thing.”

“Man, still not cured of being an asshole, I see,” grumbles Harrington like a bitch.

“You were alone with my 13-year-old stepsister and a bunch of other middle schoolers in the middle of the night. What was I supposed to think?”

“Okay, no. No, you were going to pummel one of those middle schoolers just because he wanted to be friends with Max. Don’t think I forgot. You were a fucking grown man terrorizing kids.”

“You lied to my face about her being there!”

“Shit, yeah, okay, I know,” Harrington whines, “I’ll concede that that looked… bad. That looked skeezy. But then you went and took it out on Sinclair. He was just a kid. That was fucked up, Hargrove.”

“I was right to be mad!” Billy shouts, not bothering to exhale out of the window this time. “He got her involved in all this shit and now she’s blind and crippled in the fucking hospital!”

Harrington’s shoulders sag. “Don’t blame that on Sinclair, man.”

“I don’t. I fucking blame that on you, Harrington.”

Billy means that with all his heart.

He watches as Harrington grinds his teeth, pretends to be extra focused on the rural county road with no traffic. The last year hasn’t changed him much. Still has that same pouty mouth. Still has his outrageous waves of hair sweeping over his still handsome face. Still as pretty as ever.

Billy’s such a fucking cliche.

“Why did you even care so much what she was up to?” mumbles Harrington, now suitably humbled. “You don’t seem to even like her that much.”

“I don’t care,” snarls Billy, kicking his boot up on the dash. “I couldn’t give a shit what she gets up to or who she runs around with. I never liked her, she never liked me. When our folks got together, my old man decided he wasn’t interested in raising someone else’s kid. So it became my job. I fuckin’ had to watch her and drive her around and make sure she was home by curfew. And she only ever bitched at me for it. Like I made the rules.”

Billy’s fingers bring the bummed cig to his lips, takes a deep drag. Runs his free hand through his hair. Tries to get his shit together. His heart is stuttering in his chest. Fingers twitch against his scalp.How long has it been since he actually smoked a cigarette?

“Did she know about this shit the whole time?” asks Billy, feeling a little insane. “The fucking… the monsters and shit?”

Harrington pinches his brow, scrubs a hand over his face. “No. No, that started the year before you guys moved here.”

Horrified, Billy turns and looks at him, a trail of smoke dusting the car’s interior.

In the driver’s seat, Harrington winces. “Look, man, I don’t know the whole story about all that. Honestly, I don’t know if anyone actually does. But, shit, if you want, I’ll tell you everything I know. You deserve that much, at least. After everything.”

“The fuck do you know about what I deserve?” Billy’s hands shake from the nicotine.

Harrington sighs like a girl. “Shit, man, I… I was there. I saw what happened to you.”

Closing his eyes, Billy can feel that night as clear as his own heartbeat. The Fourth of July. The basement of an abandoned foundry. People brainlessly marching to their deaths, their flesh melting away to syrup. Whole families. Children. Another world slipping before his eyes. The shadow monster’s growl in his head. The smell of gunpowder as he died.

Leaning forward, Billy strikes the glovebox with a fist. It feels pathetic, even as he does it. He just has to put that anger somewhere or he’ll lose his mind.

Harrington doesn’t even bitch about damaging his car.

Billy presses his knuckle to his eyes. The pressure soothes the fire in his head.

From the backseat, a static chirp snaps to life.

“Scooper Trooper, this is Gold Leader. I repeat, this is Gold Leader. Come in, Scooper Trooper. Over.”

“Goddamn it,” groans Harrington. He glances in the rearview, points vaguely over his shoulder. “Can you grab that?”

Billy can only see a coat tossed on the backseat bench.

“It’s the walkie,” Harrington gestures, hand flailing as he keeps his eyes on the road, “under my jacket.”

Twisting over into the back of the car, Billy reaches awkwardly, blindly following the buzzing static.

“Scooper Trooper, come in! This is Gold Leader, over.”

Reeling back over into the passenger seat, Billy tosses the clunky beeping radio into Harrington’s lap.

Pulling up the antenna with his teeth, Harrington holds up the walkie and hits the talk button. “I’m here, Dustin.”

“Codenames only on the radio! The Army might find our frequencies. Over.”

Harrington sighs defeatedly. “I’m here, then.”

“Are you with — uh, with H? Over.”

“Yeah, I’ve got him. We’re fine. Gonna take a drive and cool off.”

“Okay. Radio if you need backup. Over.”

“Got it.”

He slams down the retracting antenna and chucks the walkie talkie into the backseat.

Despite it all, Billy has to bite his lip to keep from grinning. Shaking his head, he looks out the passenger window so Harrington doesn’t notice.

“Your little gaggle of shitheads worried that I might finish you off?” he asks. At least if he’s antagonizing Harrington, he can’t be thinking about all the other horrible shit.

But Harrington just scoffs in the driver’s seat. “If you don’t then the goddamn CIA or the Soviets will, man.”

Stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray, Billy closes his eyes. Lets the vibration of the engine distract him. He loves driving. Everything about it. The speed, the liberty, the promise of going somewhere else, somewhere better.

Vaguely, he wonders what became of the wreck of his Camaro.

“The kids have been extra careful,” admits Harrington, tossing him a sidelong glance, “since spring break. Since the earthquake and… Max in the hospital. They keep track of everyone on the radio all the time.”

Even with his eyes closed, Billy can feel Harrington's nervousness. Billy used to love that feeling: knowing that people were watching their mouths around him. That they are never sure what he might do.

Harrington pulls onto the secondary highway out by some farmland. Fields of corn extend to the blue horizon on either side of the road. The Beamer hums comfortably along.

“What happened to you, man?” Harrington asks after a long silence. “Like, can you tell me? Do you remember at all? I know you’ve been talking to Hop about it, some.”

Billy wouldn’t really agree that he has been talking to Hopper. The chief has been grilling him about what he remembers in between fucking goofy harebrained treatments from the girl El and the other kids. They fucking burnt the back of his arm with a red hot spoon like a scene out of The Thing, but rather than reveal himself to be an alien monster Billy had just laid into them with hollered curses until Hop told them to knock it off.

“It might be important,” prods Harrington when Billy doesn’t respond. “Like, I dunno how much you’ve been brought up to speed, but shit’s sort of, uh, escalated in the past year. The National Guard is here now, and we’re pretty sure the Army, too, or some CIA spooks or something. We see them in these unmarked black trucks driving around. The phone lines have been tapped in the county for a few years, at least. That’s why we have the radios. And on the news they’re talking about war breaking out with Russia any day now, but we know that the Soviet military has been researching the monsters too, so… that could be related but we don’t know for sure.”

This is insane. What is he meant to do with this knowledge? Billy covers his face with his hands, rubs his eyes, drags his fingers down his face. Not for the first time this week, he wishes he had never been found out in the woods.

“If you remember anything,” Harrington implores, “or if you know something, about the monsters, about anything, it might be useful.”

“I remember the week of the Fourth I had a hot date,” says Billy. “Was driving out to pick her up that night when all of a sudden a deer jumps out in front of my car. Cracks the windshield and sends me spinning into a pole. Bash my head real good.” He taps his forehead where it had collided with the window. “I get out, goddamn car’s wrecked, engine hissing. I lean down to take a closer look at the windshield when something… grabs me. By the ankles. Drags me across the ground so fast it knocks the wind out of me.”

Billy wishes he had known that it was going to be his last day. Would’ve done a few things differently. Probably wouldn’t have driven to sleep with Mrs. Wheeler. The flirtatious housewives of Hawkins had been amusing, but Karen Wheeler had been the first audacious enough to actually try and meet. She had smiled and batted her lashes at him, but something about it had seemed sad, to Billy.

Not that he had cared. He likes attention from older women. Public attention moreso. Makes him feels more like a man, less like a fag. Like he can outrun being found out a little longer.

Rumours are everything in a small town. If sleeping with Karen Wheeler impressed these hicks, then he could make that happen.

Though, if he had known it was going to be his last day, he would’ve been fucking someone else.

“Next thing I remember I’m hauling ass down the road, stop at a payphone to call the cops but then… the world kinda… melts.” He leans his elbow on the window, props his head against it. “The colours go all screwy like a bad TV set. And there’s a voice in my head… not even a voice but, like, just a growl, just thoughts that are suddenly in my head but I know they aren’t my own.”

The shadow hadn’t spoken, really. Not with words, like people do. It had communicated its will by dropping instructions wholesale into his mind. And Billy had been powerless to resist.

“It needed a body,” concluded Billy, “a big one.”

Harrington glances at him from behind the wheel.

“At first it was just rats,” Billy goes on, the same way he had told it to Hopper. “Hundreds of rats. They gorged themselves on fertilizer and antifreeze and lye until their organs liquefied. It… needed that shit for some reason.”

Billy remembers the suicidal compulsion to drink liquid chlorine and hydraulic fluid. How he couldn’t stop himself. How it dissolved his throat on the way down.

“But pretty soon it wanted more material. It made me start bringing it people.”

Harrington covers his mouth with his hand. “You didn’t go to anyone for help?”

“It wouldn’t let me.”

“Shit.”

“Anytime I thought about trying… anytime I tried to stand up to it, to stop… it just wouldn’t let me. It wouldn’t let me speak. Wouldn’t even let me think sometimes.”

Obedience to the shadow was the only option. Its will is total. Defying it hadn’t even been conceivable.

"It knew the girl. El. I could tell that it… recognized her."

Billy remembers his hand closing around her tiny throat in the pool sauna, crushing the life out of her.

“By the time she found me in the mall, it was too late. All those people, fucking dead. Whole families. Kids.”

“Have you been talking to El about this?” asks Steve.

Ruefully, Billy chuckles. “That little girl was stronger than me, in the end. She managed to stand up to it, somehow.”

“Do you, like, know about her? Where she comes from?”

“Yeah, yeah me and her have been chatting the last few days. Bringing me up to speed on some stuff. Not a big talker but she says a lot by saying a little, y’know?”

“So you know where she comes from? What they did to her at the lab? What they did to her mom?”

“Yeah. The chief filled me in on all that, too.” Her ex-hippy mother had been part of some research program with the Department of Energy. Dosed with LSD and placed in a sensory deprivation chamber while pregnant. Lost her mind when the federal spooks stole her newborn. Now lives as a vegetable out in Bloomington.

The government had trained their freak of nature to kill at will, win the Cold War for America. But she had delved deeper than any of them could’ve ever imagined. Found a hidden world beneath this one. Things have never been the same.

That’s what killed Billy, in the end. That’s what had almost killed Max.

In the end, Hawkins had tried to kill them both in barely a year and a half.

Stinging at the corner of his eyes, unshed tears haze the edges of his vision. Sniffing, he swipes them away with the back of his hand.

This has been a pretty bad day. A pretty bad few years. But breaking down and crying in front of Harrington might be the worst thing that's ever happened to him.

At least Harrington has the decency to pretend not to notice.

The sun goes down around Billy. It must be eight or nine by the time it’s dark at last. Summer night falls slow in the Midwest. Like a receding tide. No streetlights, no noisy highways, no nightlife. Just crickets in the long grass and archipelagic starry skies.

Hunched over on one of Harrington’s pool chairs, Billy stares at the glowing water, deep in thought. Trying to figure out what comes next. He had finished his pack of bummed cigarettes hours ago and had too much dignity to beg another. The ash and the stubbed-out butts dirty the patio by his feet. But he can’t bring himself to move.

Because after a lot of thinking and staring he’s made his decision. He knows what he has to do. But once he gets up from this plastic pool chair, he’ll actually have to go out and do it.

And he will, any minute now.

Just as soon as he gathers the courage.

Max is right about him. The chief is right about him. His dad is right about him. He is dangerous. He is a monster. From the start. Born wrong. Something about him is just unlovable. Always has been. Since he was a kid. Repels even his own parents.

Some animals eat their young when the mother knows it's sick.

As a child he would vie for his parents’ attention, their love. All kids do, right? But his mother left and his dad despises him. So instead as a teenager he would seek attention from peers, from rivals, from enemies. And no attention was bad attention. Be the best, be the toughest, be the meanest. Push it further. Go harder. Anything. Anything at all if only people would look at him.

It had exhausted him. Made him angry. Made him hateful. All that work to impress people he didn’t care about. Who would turn on him if they knew how sick he really is.

And Billy can’t go back to living like that again. Can’t do it a second time. Eighteen years was more than enough.

So he knows what he has to do.

Any minute now.

Every ten minutes Harrington appears in the open sliding glass door at the back of the house and watches him in silence. Stands on the patio steps with his hands on his hips and concerned pout to his mouth and makes a big show about being annoyed. Like he wants to provoke Billy. Unearth some snippet that proves he’s still really himself.

After the sun goes down and it gets dark out by the pool, Harrington finally gives up on the silent treatment.

“Hey, listen,” he calls as he approaches Billy’s pool chair barefoot, “at least c’mon inside, okay? You can sit in creepy silence in the living room or something but you really can’t be out here alone in the dark.”

“Why’s that, mama bird?”

“Because, man, there are those big rifts open all over town. Y’know, not to mention the army. The CIA. They're looking for El. It’s not safe. Shit from that creepy place sometimes crawls outta the ground.”

Billy laughs, staring hard at the luminous surface of the water. “Yeah, no shit it does.”

“You know what I mean, dude.” Harrington folds his arms, flinging his hair out of his eyes with a dramatic head toss. “Just come inside. You can spend the night if you don’t want to go back to Hop’s. I’ve got a spare bed.”

Billy slides a cruel eye over to Harrington. His field of vision glimmers and swells, still retaining the liquiform surface of the pool water that he’s been staring at for so long. He has to blink a few times before it goes away

“And what’re you gonna do if I say no, pretty boy?”

Harrington rolls his eyes. “Fucking nothing, I guess.”

“Pussy.”

“Oh shut up, man.”

“Would’ve thought you’d be achin’ for round two. Reclaim your wounded pride and shit.”

“Dude, do you really think I care about dumb high school bullshit anymore?” Harrington speaks to him like he’s an idiot. “Congrats, you kicked my ass when we were both seventeen. Who gives a shit? You think I stay up at night thinking about it? Want me to build you a statue? Dedicate a plaque to the time you cleaned my clock? You should realize by now that there’s bigger problems to deal with than who was the bigger jackass senior year. Do you even know what was really happening that night? Hop ever fill you in on that?”

Billy had broken in Steve’s beautiful face while pretending it was his dad’s. That’s what really happened that night.

There was Maxine with her little crush. Having what Billy couldn’t have. Not caring what hateful shit Neil would say about her taste in partners. There was Harrington, with his contempt, getting between Billy and his rage. Everything Billy wanted and could never have.

Out there in the middle of the night with a 13-year-old girl. Did none of them get how sinister it all looked?

He had been so angry, that night. So angry he thought he might die.

Someone had to pay for it.

And Harrington had volunteered.

Pressing down through his heels, Billy stands. Curls both hands into fists before shaking them out.

He’s made his decision, and with it, there is a liberating finality.

No need to hold anything together anymore. No need to perform. The list of lasts is quickly getting all its items struck out. Last meal. Last cigarette. Last sunset.

Still time for some firsts, though.

Billy marches right up to Steve, his face glowing with turquoise pool light. Harrington shifts but doesn’t back down. Holds his ground.

“I said," Billy pokes a finger against Steve’s chest, "what are you gonna do about it if I say no?”

“Nothing, dude, I mean it.” Harrington swats Billy’s hand away. “I’m not gonna fight you.”

“Fucking pussy.”

“Yeah, and so what?”

Billy pokes him again, harder. “You fuckin’ smartass pretty boy.”

“If you say so.”

“Not gonna fight me?” Billy shoves him.

“No, I’m not.”

Billy grins happily.

Springing, he seizes Harrington by the shoulders. Shoves him backward. Forces him to walk eight or nine paces until they collide against the cedar siding on the house. Harington’s big brown eyes go wide. He grabs the leather sleeve of Billy’s jacket to stay upright.

They stare hard at one another. True to his word, Harrington doesn’t struggle, doesn’t shove or take a swing. Just grapples, tries to hold Billy off at arm’s length.

God, how Billy had hated this guy. From the moment he had first laid eyes on him. The king of some Midwest hicksville high school like that was something to be proud of. Billy had wanted to ruin him. Teach him a lesson.

It hadn’t even been hard to do. Harrington’s crew revealed themselves to be fairweather friends and most hicks in this town had never seen a sports car or a guy with pierced ears before. By the end of Billy's first day, the Beemer and the hair had been old news.

Hadn’t counted on the way Steve would look at him with those stupid beautiful eyes of his. Being the only one who seemed to look right through Billy and know that there was nothing underneath.

Harrington’s looking at him right now. Startled. Disappointed, almost. Like Billy has let him down.

He presses right up to him, chest to chest.

Maybe Billy had imagined it. Maybe it is all in his head. The crackle between them. The magnetic tug. How the very atmosphere constricted any time they looked at each other.

He’s about to find out.

He tilts his head forward. Harrington doesn’t push him away, doesn’t tell him to stop. Just breathes out hard through his nose. Grips a little tighter at Billy’s sleeve.

Billy is gonna let himself have this, before he’s gone forever one final time.

He kisses Harrington hard. Squeezes his shoulders, presses him back against the cedar plank siding. Harrington gasps into it, staggers in the flowerbed. Still not planting his feet. Useless.

His mouth is plush, yielding. A timid thing. Passive from the surprise, a precious, gentle farewell.

It’s slow, lingering. It’s Billy’s only chance; he wants to savour it.

They break apart. Billy exhales hard, his heart hammering, hands shaking. Rests his brow against Harrington’s temple.

“Really?” asks Harrington, voice wavering with excited disbelief and terror.

Billy releases his grip on Steve’s shoulder and touches his cheek. Traces a line of freckles over his cheekbone.

Cautiously, Harrington turns his face toward Billy’s. It’s too dark, they’re too close, Billy can’t really see him. But he can feel it when Harrington leans forward and kisses back.

Gentle and hesitant at first. But quickly he grows bold, confident. He licks into Billy’s mouth and Billy lets him. Opens up for him. Returns Steve’s boldness. Traces his gums, toys with his lip between his teeth.

A hand drives through Billy’s hair. Nails tracing his scalp. Billy moans at the sensation; it’s been so long since someone touched him like that.

In response he grabs a handful of Harrington’s own outrageous hair and tugs. Earns a little whimper in response. His heart soars.

They break apart again, gasping. Sharing breath in the small gap between them. Billy’s mouth tingles. He licks his teeth.

"Really?" Harrington asks again.

It feels like a victory to Billy. Surging, he captures Steve's mouth again. This time Harrington meets him eagerly. It's searing, roiling. Like being adrift in an ocean swell. Their bodies strain and shove together.

Billy rips up the hem of Steve's sweater. Starts fumbling with his belt.

"Oh my god," gasps Harrington, "oh holy shit."

Billy shuts him up with another kiss.

He gets Harrington's belt open, gets his jeans down. Runs a hand between his legs and feels Harrington getting hard. Billy's mouth waters.

“What’re you—”

The knees of Billy’s jeans hit the damp flowerbed earth. Dim porchlight and rippling liquid reflections not enough to see by.

In the dark, he works Steve free of his underwear by feel alone. Licks his own palm and strokes him firmly. He’s rewarded with a soft whimper sweeter than honey.

Leaning forward, Billy takes Steve’s cock in his mouth.

“Shit. Oh— oh my god.”

You’d think he’d never gotten a blowjob before.

It’s been a while for Billy, but his body remembers. Remembers the steps. How to build a good rhythm. How to test and try for what his partner likes. How to make their legs shake and their lungs heave.

He loves it. He’s always loved it, since the very first time he and another boy had swapped blowjobs at fourteen. It’s debasing and filthy and unmanly and Billy loves every second of it. This is how he knows what he really is. Knows for sure that deep down he’s a sick perverted faggot. How could he love it so much otherwise?

Normally Billy is impatient with sex. Too hungry. Too hasty. But this he wants to relish. Wants to draw out. Makes himself slow down.

He bobs his head, takes Steve’s cock as deeply as he can.

“Ah— ah— oh fuck.”

Billy can't help but grin around his mouthful, hearing Harrington moan like that. He digs his fingers into the back of Steve’s legs. Tips his head back, hollows his cheeks. Looks up at Harrington through his lashes. Harrington has his head thrown back against the siding of the house. Ripples of subaqueous light flicker over his long freckled neck.

He hates that Harrington isn’t looking at him.

Billy hates being ignored.

He draws his tongue up the underside of Steve’s cock, hums wickedly when he does.

A hand comes down on top of Billy’s head. Gentle, searching. Guiding him into a rhythm.

Against his every instinct, Billy lets himself be led. Lets the pace be set for him. If he only gets to do this once, he might as well get it right.

And Harrington is gentle. Easing him into a slow and level pace. Of course the pretty boy likes it sweet and tender. Wholesome cornfed Midwest boy. Probably never imagined having another guy suck him off outside in the dark before tonight.

“You alright?” moans Steve.

Billy looks up at him through his lashes. Harrington gazes back down, face flushed red, pretty mouth parted, stupid hair in his eyes. Totally besotted, like Billy always knew he would look. When they lock eyes, Harrington gasps, rolls his hips. Billy’s heart soars.

Watching Harrington look at him like that, Billy’s gonna come in his pants like a pathetic virgin.

“Oh god, hey, hey.” Suddenly Harrington is tapping him on the shoulder, gripping the leather of his jacket. “Billy, I’m close, I’m close. I’m gonna—”

But Billy knows better than Harrington where this is going. Rather than pulling off, he takes Harrington deeper. Groans and opens his throat. Digs his nails into Steve’s jeans and doesn’t let go.

Harrington’s big eyes go wide. His mouth falls open, a perfect expression of astonishment, and he comes down Billy’s throat with a wounded sound.

Happily, Billy groans and swallows. It may have been a while, but he hasn’t lost his touch.

Together, they’re still for a moment. Both breathing hard in the rippling turquoise light of the pool’s surface.

Slowly, Billy pulls off. Wipes his mouth. Works his jaw. Muscles click behind his ear. It’s a welcome sort of ache. Not bad for a final performance.

Finding himself, Harrington clumsily resituates his clothes. Zips up his jeans. It takes him a few tries, hands shaking.

It’s obvious that the silence is agony for him. Billy reveals in it. Nearly chuckles. Making other people nervous makes him feel so powerful. He’s going to miss it.

“Hey, um.” Harrington’s voice cracks and he clears his throat, tries again. “Do you, um, do you need a hand up?”

Bracing on one knee, Billy stands. Dusts the soil from his jeans. Knocks Harrington’s hand out of the way for good measure.

Harrington is boneless against the siding of the house. His chest rises and falls beneath his sweater. He glances away when Billy looks at him. Falls back on nervous tells and runs a hand through his hair.

Billy just meets him with silence.

“We should, uh,” Steve clears his throat, “we should… we should go inside.”

“Yeah?” Billy’s voice is hoarse. “Well then, ladies first.”

The goad works. Harrington looks at him then, flicks over his big Bambi eyes and levels an indignant look right at him. Billy can’t hold back a grin. Harrington is rarely so easy to bait.

“Whatever, man.” Harrington shoves off the side of the house and stomps over to the patio steps, disappearing back into the house.

Billy tilts his head back and closes his eyes. His heart pounds. His hands itch with adrenaline. He's still turned on, but it's a distant, muted feeling. It had been satisfying in other ways.

He rolls his head, stretching his neck. The muscles in his shoulders pop. He listens to the night sounds of crickets and early summer fireflies. He feels loose and content.

At least after Billy's finally gone, Harrington will always remember this night.

He glances at the open sliding glass door. The yellow light from inside spills over the patio. Harrington just expects him to follow.

Instead, Billy straightens his hand-me-down jacket. Turns on his heel and stomps through the flowerbed around the side of the house and down to the street. Starts walking down the side of the road under the streetlights. He’s not quite sure the way out of the neighbourhood, but he’s got all night, and lets his feet lead him back toward town.

It's been so long since Billy's seen the night sky.

High above the abandoned quarry the stars loom, shining resplendent. Constellations ray around the dusty arm of the Milky Way bisecting the dome of the sky.

He tries to think, tries to recall if he can remember anything of the interceding year. The year missing from his memory. Was he anywhere during that time? A purgatory he can't remember?

But no. There's nothing. He remembers the summer, the pool, the mall, the shadow monster. The people, as their flesh liquefied and amalgamated on the cement floor. The smell, ferrous and ozone wafting off the monster's body in fumes. The feeling when the monster used those arms of calcified flesh to stove in his chest. Dying, he remembers dying. Then, without pause, somehow he is staggering down the road, a year later.

There is nothing to account for that time. No images of that netherworld that the shadow had showed him. No notion that time has passed at all.

Still, when Billy looks up at the night sky, it occurs to him that he has not looked up at the stars in nearly a year.

Standing on the edge of the high quarry cliff, he considers the night in quiet for a time. Far below, the reflected moonlight ripples in the flooded open pit. A hundred feet down, at least.

Far enough.

The decision comes with a fantastic relief. No more Hawkins. No more Max. No more Neil. Finally free of them all.

Just one final step. And hopefully, this time, it takes.

But he lets himself contemplate the night sky for one last time. Even with the decision made, Billy finds that he needs to work up the nerve to go through with jumping.

Billy wishes he had a cigarette.

"Stargazing, Hargrove?"

Billy whips around. Set back from the cliff edge, thirty or forty feet back in the dark, Eddie Munson sits crosslegged on the roof of his shitbox van parked in the gravel. Face lit by the orange glow of his lighter as he sparks up a cigarette.

"Shit, Munson," snaps Billy, heart racing, "sneaking up on people, you creep? Since when the fuck are you quiet?"

The light on Munson's face extinguishes as he snaps his lighter shut. "Been here since sunset."

Despite everything, Billy is spooked to realize that Munson's been watching him the entire time he's been standing here and he didn't even notice him. Doesn't like to think that he's been watched. How long has Billy been standing here? How long has Munson been watching him?

"Thought you were staying with the chief," ventures Munson, blue cigarette smoke trailing up into the dark sky.

"And how do you know that?"

"Harrington may have mentioned it."

A fresh new well of rage surges in him. Fucking Harrington blabbing all over town and it hasn't even been a week.

"So what brings you out to the pit this fine fair evening, Hargrove?"

What the hell, it's not like it'll cost him anything to be truthful. Billy smiles wickedly. "Oh, y'know, Munson. Boy troubles."

Munson chuckles. "You know," he exhales thoughtfully, "I did have my suspicions about you."

He would've broken Munson's nose for that sort of comment in the past, but what does any of it matter now?

"Whatever you say, devil freak."

Munson only smiles, chuckles to himself. "Oh, Hargrove, if I was really in league with the dark lord Satan I'd have called on his forces of evil and burned this whole town to the ground a long time ago."

"Tsh," Billy sneers, "yeah, what-the-fuck-ever, Munson. Give it a rest."

Eddie just shrugs.

Billy turns away. Tries to shake it off. Looks far down to the moonlight rippling in the flooded pit of the quarry. Just one short step away. No further than it had been a moment ago.

Knowing Munson's back there sets Billy's skin crawling. Lurking like a voyeur, like the weird little creep that he is. Peeping into girls' windows at night, leering at people when they're vulnerable. How much has Munson pieced together just from watching him these past minutes alone? Does he know what Billy intends, here at the edge of the cliffs? Is that why he said something?

Suddenly Billy’s immovable resolve is cracking. Like an itch between his shoulder blades where he can’t reach. A feeling he can’t stand.

He’s embarrassed.

Embarrassed to have been caught at this final, ultimate moment of cowardice.

Fucking Munson showing up and ruining his last moment of peace.

Stubbornly, Billy stands there in the darkness for a few minutes more. Shoves his hands in his jean pockets. Scrapes gravel under his foot. Tries to play it cool, like the biggest loser in town didn’t just interrupt him trying to kill himself.

He nearly laughs. Snarls and grits his teeth. Can’t even get this part right.

"Well, think it's time you got out of here then, Munson. Better go mutilate a goat for the devil or sell coke to a middle schooler or whatever it is you get up to at night. Gettin' late and all. See you around. Or not."

Munson takes another drag of his cigarette. Makes no move to climb down from his van.

Furious, Billy takes a step toward the van. "C'mon, seriously. Get lost. Time to leave."

Instead, Eddie looks out over the flooded quarry pit, scratching at the back of his neck with his free hand. "Okay, but... you know that I can't, right?"

"What the fuck do you mean you can't?" snarls Billy. "'Course you can. Start up that ol' shitbox and get outta here. Just pretend you never saw me."

"But I did see you, man."

"Yeah, dumbass. So just say you didn't."

"Sorry, Hargrove," Munson takes another drag from his cig, the lit cherry making his face glow momentarily, "no can do."

Billy clenches both hands into fists. Propelled forward, he stalks toward Munson's van over the gravel, ready to swing. One of them might as well die tonight if they're stuck out here.

But as Billy approaches the van, Eddie just extends his hand down. "Could do with a smoke, Hargrove?"

He really could.

One last cigarette. Billy's earned that much at least.

Taking his lack of violence as an affirmative, Eddie rifles through his leather jacket for the pack, tosses it down to Billy, who catches it. A hit of nicotine could be what he needs.

Eddie leans over the edge of the van's roof, cups Billy's cigarette and lights it. Billy takes an aggressive first inhale, holds it in his lungs for a long moment, before tipping his head back and exhaling smoke into the night sky.

"There you go," says Munson, "that better, big guy?"

Billy snorts. "No."

"Yeah," Eddie chuckles, "yeah, I know what you mean."

Billy leans against the passenger door of the van and they smoke in silence for a while. His legs shake. The call of the void diminishes somewhat with every inhale of earthy nicotine.

"They fill you in on what happened over spring break?" asks Eddie quietly.

"Yeah. On the big shit, anyway."

"They tell you what happened to Max?"

"Just saw her earlier today, as a matter of fact."

"And how'd that go?"

"Told me to drop dead, in so many words."

Eddie whistles lowly. "Damn. That little girl is cold as ice."

"Can't blame her, really. We never liked each other. And now she thinks I'm, like, a body snatcher or something. Something that place cooked up and spat out."

"And are you?"

Billy shrugs. "Don't think so."

"Guess you wouldn't tell us if you were, huh?"

"I'd try. I tried last time. Didn’t help, though."

The nacreous glint of the monster’s thoughts always skirting in the corners of his eyes. A vast animal consciousness that Billy’s own mind could barely contain. Driving him with instincts that were not his own. Feed, feed, feed, devour, combine, recombine. Synthesis, resynthesis, swarm motility. The emergent intelligence of a billion particle nodes humming in concert. Knowing where millions and millions of his fellow organisms were across time and space, upside down and rightside up, because they had all been him as well. Their hunger had been his hunger. Their will had been his will.

What hope had he had to disobey that? When he could hardly tell himself apart from the monster eating him up?

But El, she had done it. She had unearthed a memory of kindness and told him he had been loved and now when she looks at him, Billy feels like a child, like that eight-year-old boy at the beach with his mother, chasing seagulls and falling off his surfboard.

It had been so easy for El to turn away the shadow. Scarcely fourteen-years-old and she had to show Billy how to do it.

There is a vacancy that lingers within him where the shadow had made its home. This looming emptiness in the back of Billy’s mind. Maybe it had always been there. Maybe that inner void had made him easy prey to a parasite looking for a home. It wouldn’t surprise him.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Billy glances at Munson still perched up on the roof of his van. “Don’t remember you ever being so quiet, Munson.”

“Well pardon me, California, turns out I’m fresh out of material for the time being. I’ll be sure to get back to you on that.”

“Do remember you being a bitch, though.”

“It’s the house specialty.”

“Yeah, you always had a fuckin’ chip on your shoulder.”

Munson scoffs, taking a drag, “You’re one to talk, Hargrove.”

“Oh, c’mon, like you didn’t love the attention. Causing scenes in the cafeteria and shit? Spray painting the gym? You live for it. You wanted this place and everyone in it to know exactly how much it pissed you off. You get off on that shit.”

“Figured you would get off putting a loudmouth loser in his place,” Eddie fires back. “No offence, Hargrove, but you seem exactly like the kinda guy that hates geeks and weirdos.”

“I never hated you. Shit, you were fuckin’ loud and annoying but you hated this town as much as I did. And you weren’t afraid to say it. And you had the best weed in the fuckin’ county.”

“High praise, California.”

“Yeah, well, ‘best’ is a relative term.”

“Well, as much as it pains me to break this news to you: unfortunately due to circumstances beyond my control I've had to retire from the recreational narcotics business indefinitely. My connect got nabbed by the cops and most of the town now wants me dead for killing a pretty cheerleader. It’ll be a long while before I can reup.”

Billy inhales his last puff and throws the cigarette butt down, snuffing it beneath the sole of his boot. “That Chrissy girl?”

Munson sucks on his teeth. “That’s the one.”

Billy thinks of Heather. Thinks of commanding her to murder her parents. Thinks of how they had shared each other’s minds for a brief time and how he might know her better than he knows himself. Thinks of how her body is sludge now.

Munson sniffs. Stubs his smoke out on the roof of his van. “Alright. Been a pleasant chat and all, but it’s past curfew. Think it’s time I took you back.”

“Fuck off.”

“No can do.”

“What are you, my fucking nanny? I can go wherever I want. Why do you give a shit?”

“Might have heard over the radio that you’re a fugitive from Casa del Harrington.”

So Harrington had put the call out. Billy groans. “You’ve got one of those stupid goddamn radios, too?”

“Aw, don’t worry, man, we’ll all chip in and get you one.”

Billy folds his arms, levels his mean glare at Munson. “And what exactly are you gonna do about it if I say no?”

Munson swings his legs over the edge of the van. Brazenly nudges Billy with the toe of his boot, like the mouse poking the lion. “Well I guess in that case I’m probably gonna end up having my face busted all over this here gravel by you, ‘cause let’s be real, I sure as hell can’t take you in a fight, and after you kick my ass you'll probably just go through with whatever it was you have planned to do out here, but sadly, despite that, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Tsk. You grew a pair.”

“Yeah, I don’t back down anymore, big guy.”

Something in how he says it signifies to Billy that Munson is absolutely dead fucking serious in a way he rarely ever is. He imagines how it would go, dragging Munson up and down this dusty quarry, laying into him with his fists, releasing all the black rage stoking inside him. It would be easy. Hardly a fair fight. Hardly a fight at all.

Whatever. Billy’s fed up. And tired. The quarry will still be here tomorrow.

“Fine, then. If you're gonna be a fucking pain in the ass about it. Drive me back to town.”

Munson launches himself off the roof of the van. Doesn’t quite nail the landing and stumbles to one knee before recovering.

They both climb into the van's cabin. However much Billy had expected the interior to smell like cigarettes, he had underestimated.

“Oh shit!” chimes Munson from the driver’s seat, digging around in the driver's side door for something. “You haven’t been around since last summer, right?”

No, guess not. “July fourth.”

“Oh man, oh man, do I have a treat for you, then, goldilocks.” From the pocket, he retrieves a cassette tape, pushes it into the deck slot.

Munson starts the engine and the van jumps to life. The dashboard lights ignite and the stereo blares midsong. Pounding kickdrums and chainsaw guitars roar. A song Billy’s never heard before, but the sound is immediately familiar. Exhilarating, raw. Like a heartbeat in the air. Like an army of ten thousand marching in such perfect time that the ground shakes for miles. Stampeding forward without mercy. An electric guitar squeals over a riff and the vocalist starts in on the chorus.

Definitely Metallica.

Giddy, Munson grins like a maniac and pumps the gas; the engine revs. “New album released in March.”

The rhythm, the wild melody. Music made to drive fast to. Billy can’t help but bounce his knee, chew back a smile. Didn't expect anyone out here in the sticks to listen to California thrash metal.

“How’s that for a reason to stay alive, big guy?” Munson asks as he peels out of the quarry and back toward the service road.

Eddie kills the engine on his van and with it the music. The vehicle doors slam in the quiet night. They don’t even make it to the front door before it’s thrown open, revealing Steve standing there, a dark silhouette in the hall light.

Eddie slaps Billy on the shoulder. “Found your stray, Harrington.”

“Oh my god,” Steve leaps down the steps, “oh my god.”

Billy is expecting a blow. Maybe even a slap. Harrington is dramatic enough for one. Probably imagines himself the leading lady of a daytime soap. Steve launches himself past Eddie, and Billy braces himself for the hit.

Steve crashes into him with a firm hug. Grips him tight with both arms. This close, Billy can see the fine white scar on Harrington’s scalp where once he’d broken a plate over his head.

Pulling back, Steve shoves him, hard. “Don’t you ever do that again! Jackass! Holy shit, I’ve got to radio Hop. They’re all out looking for you."

Oh, great. So everyone knows.

"Thanks, Ed. Seriously, you're a goddamn lifesaver for this."

Harrington and Munson hug like they're old friends, patting one another on the back. "Nah, it was no big deal. Hargrove here crashed my thinking spot. Just a right-place-right-time situation."

"Come on in. Both of you. I gotta call off the search."

Harrington darts back into the glowing interior of the house. Leaves the front door open behind him.

Hands in his jacket pockets, Munson stalls. Waiting for Billy to move first, no doubt.

"You gonna tell Harrington about me trying to jump?" mutters Billy, not looking, angry for a reason he can't name.

"Do you want me to tell him about it?" replies Munson, scraping a line in the dirt with his toe.

"No."

Eddie nods. "Then I won't."

He gestures for Billy to step inside.

Steeling himself, Billy walks over the threshold. Hates that he even hesitates. He's never been reluctant to go anywhere he wants before. Other people’s discomfort has never been his problem.

Then he had to go and blow Harrington, showing his hand like a dumbass.

That’s got him on the back foot more than anything else.

The vaulted foyer of the Harrington house is as Billy left it. Brass light fixtures, deco wall art, fake standing fern. Like the cover of a magazine in a dentist’s office. Steve appears briefly between the steps of the floating staircase as he paces from the kitchen to the living room with the walkie talkie hoisted to his ear.

Without removing his shoes, Billy follows after him. What else is he supposed to do?

"C'mon, come in, Hop." There's a chirp as Harrington released the call button on the walkie.

He's leaning against the back of an ugly beige overstuffed couch in the living room. Big clunky radio and its long antenna gripped in his hand.

"Hop! Come in. This is Steve. Over."

The walkie buzzes. "No names over the radio!"

"Not now, Dustin! This is serious. Where are you? Are you out looking with the chief?"

"No. The party split up at Cherry and Paladin and me are searching down by the Big Buy."

"Well you can call off the search," says Steve into the receiver, "H is back at my place. He's fine."

"Come again, Harrington," the chief's gruff voice crackles through the static, "you say you found him?"

"No names!"

Harrington heaves his shoulders in a dramatic sigh and rolls his eyes before depressing the call button. "Yeah, Papa Bear. He's here at my place. Uh, Hellraiser found him out by the quarry."

Next to Billy, Munson sticks out his tongue and flashes the horns with his ringed hand. Billy smacks his hand away. Munson grins back at him.

“You sure you got this, Harrington?” the chief asks over the walkie.

“Yeah, yeah, I can watch him for the night. Let Jane have a break. She’s probably really drained after searching for so long. I’ll call in the morning and I can bring him back over. Over.”

Billy bristles to have them talk about him like he’s not standing right here. Like his opinion doesn’t concern them.

“Okay,” the chief’s voice crackles through the fuzz, “be in touch in the morning. And thank Munson for me.”

Munson leaps over and grabs the walkie in Harrington’s hand, presses the call button. “I’m gonna need it in writing, chief.”

“Over and out.” Hop’s line goes dead after that.

Billy doesn’t like how easily Munson just charges into Steve’s space. How comfortable they both seem to be nearly standing on top of each other, play-wrestling over a stupid walkie-talkie. It makes him seethe.

He can feel himself staring at them. But he can’t look away.

Search party called off, Harrington tosses the walkie onto the couch cushions. “You scared me half to death, Hargrove.”

Billy snorts. “Am I your fuckin’ prisoner? I can go wherever I fuckin’ want.”

“But you didn’t let me know. Didn't say anything! Just took off! Jeez, man, I thought you weren’t ever gonna come back. Thought maybe the Army was gonna find you. Shit, I thought I was gonna have to be the one to tell Max —”

“Fuck off!” Billy snaps. “Do not talk to me about Max.”

“Someone has to!”

“Hey, hey, fellas, fellas,” Munson slinks between them. “Let’s cool it, how about? Don’t think the neighbours in this part of town are gonna react so great to late night screaming matches. Seeing as I don't have a great working relationship with the police, can you two meatheads not come to blows for at least half an hour? Hmm? For little ol’ me?”

He flashes a puckish smile at them both, but Billy only stares hard at Harrington, fuming. Tries to glare pure furious warning through his eyes.

For a petrifying moment, Billy is certain Steve’s gonna tell Munson what happened. Out him as a sick faggot just for spite.

But Munson’s peacekeeping song-and-dance works on Harrington. He backs down, turns away, shoves a hand through his hair.

"Okay, okay, thank you, gentlemen. Much appreciated." Munson smiles at Billy, bats his lashes.

Billy sneers.

Munson moves around Steve's living room like he's been here a hundred times. Inspects the shelves on the far wall. He looks real out of place in this tepid middle class decor, with his black leather jacket and chains on his waist. Looks like he’d be more at home in a mosh pit than suburbia.

There’s something between them, Billy’s certain. These two guys would never have been caught dead sitting next to each other in the high school cafeteria. Now they hug and Munson knows how to talk Steve’s stupid temper off the ledge.

This town forges fucking oddball alliances.

Arms folded all petulant, Harrington doesn’t even look at him. In a quiet voice he asks, “So where did you go?”

“Why do you care?” grunts Billy, monitoring Munson to be sure he doesn’t overhear.

“Because I need to know if someone saw you. Someone could have recognized you.”

“No, no one saw me.”

“Eddie did!”

“Because he was being a weird little freak sitting in the dark.”

Steve turns to face him then, arms folded. “Don’t call him that.”

“I’ll call him whatever I fuckin’ want, Harrington.”

But Eddie doesn’t seem concerned. He’s perusing the shelves of the Harrington’s record collection on the far side of the room, completely absorbed.

Steve watches him flitter about for a moment, weighing the risk. “Does he, um, does he know? Did, uh… did you say anything to him? About…”

This fucking idiot. Billy scowls at him like he's insane, trying to shut Steve up with pure vehemence alone.

Harrington doesn’t catch on. “You didn’t tell Munson, right?”

“What the fuck do you think, Harrington?”

“I don’t know, okay? I don’t know!”

"You think it's the sort of shit you just blab to total strangers about?"

"I fucking don't know what to think," Steve hisses, "okay?"

“Oh my god, holy shit, holy shit, no way! Steve, holy shit, I knew your taste was questionable, man, but what’re you doing with Ringo Starr’s fucking disco album over here?” Oblivious Munson trots up to the two of them, holding the LP sleeve out in both hands like a kid with a prize, chain jangling from his jeans.

Harrington gulps, looks pale. “Uh, yeah, I think that’s my mom’s.”

“Uh huh, yeah, sure.” Munson flips the sleeve over to read the back. “I’ve heard this was awful.”

“Sure, I dunno, man,” Steve scratches his eyebrow, exasperated, “they've had it for years. I don’t think I’ve ever actually listened to it.”

A devious gleam flickers in Munson’s eye. “We are putting this on right now.”

“Eddie, no, c’mon, not right now.”

But Munson has already launched himself across the room to the standing record player. Flips open the turntable’s dust cover. “If there’s one thing in the whole wide world I hate more than the Beatles, Steve, it’s disco. And the lamest Beatle trying to launch a disco career? Can you imagine what they sound like together? With Ringo’s pipes? I absolutely have to know what their powers combined have produced in order to keep such mistakes from ever again being committed to vinyl.”

“Dude, what?”

“Come on over, California!” Eddie beckons with a sweeping arm. “How about a little comparison? What’d’ya say? Master of Puppets versus Ringo the Fourth?”

Jesus Christ, Munson is annoying.

Turns out the album is pretty bad. Like, even for disco.

Munson seems absolutely ecstatic to have his suspicions confirmed. Billy's never seen a guy so excited to hear bad music before. Even Harrington is able to forget his frustrations for the moment, wincing at the second song starts up.

"Man," he says, "this is terrible."

Billy can't help but agree.

“It’s like if my grandpa made disco music,” Harrington continues.

"Doesn't inspire you to boogie, Harrington?" croons Munson.

"No, man, I don't think anyone could dance to this."

Careening into the open space of the living room, Eddie makes an attempt at the hustle over the carpeted floor. He looks like a crazy person.

"Doing alright there, Munson?" questions Steve.

"I can dance about as well as Ringo can sing," he insists and he bops his head to the sluggish rhythm, wild hair flipping back and forth.

Harrington chuckles at the clownish display. Tries to duck his face and pretend that he doesn’t. It’s a knife in Billy’s neck. That little smile. Billy wishes he had jumped.

The second song winds down and an uncomfortable vacuum expands throughout the room. The momentary levity is extinguished on Steve’s boyish face. He keeps glancing at Billy, spectacularly conspicuous. Billy prepares to throttle him if needed.

Caught staring, Harrington clears his throat, scratches the back of his neck. "Hey, uh, Eddie, are you selling at all right now?"

Munson stops his stupid dance. "Selling?"

"Yeah."

"Uh, well, I don't have much. Most of my stash went up in smoke when the trailer got demolished. All I've got is what's in my lunchbox."

"How much weed?"

Eddie shrugs. "Maybe an eighth?"

"Anything else?"

Eddie reassesses Steve. "Some acid and some K. What exactly are you looking for?"

"I dunno, man," Harrington sighs, "just… could use something to help chill out lately, y'know?"

"Did something happen?"

"No." Harrington is a terrible liar.

"Well, look, I can take some inventory if you’re really interested, but the last time a preppy rich kid came asking me for the strong stuff, it didn't go so well, man."

"Shit, yeah. Never mind. Listen, I'm sorry. Forget I asked."

Ringo continues to croon slightly off key over the stereo speakers. Munson’s big brown eyes flicker between Harrington to Billy and back again, riddling. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Totally, Ed, don’t worry about it.”

Well if Harrington’s out, Billy will take a stab. “That all you’re holding, Munson?”

“Oh, are you interested, Cali?”

“Do not give him acid, Eddie, I swear to god. I mean it. Under no circumstances. He’s got no money, anyway, he can’t pay you.”

Munson winces theatrically, as though the words are a dart through his chest, “Oh, big guy, I am terribly, terribly sorry, but no one gets the merchandise for free.”

“LSD is the last thing he needs, Jesus Christ,” Steve rants. “Back from the dead four goddamn days and he’s already lost his friggin' mind.”

Huffing, Harrington stomps across the living room toward the open kitchen. He busies himself rummaging through the overhead cupboards, finding a glass, filling it with tap water, pouring it out, rinsing it, finding ice cubes, filling it again, and downing it in one go.

“You know what’s up with him, Cali?” Munson asks, materializing at Billy’s side.

Billy only grunts.

Gears are turning in Munson’s head. He has no shame at all in gawking outright at Billy, squinting as if he’s an obvious liar. And fair, Billy’s feeding him a line of bullshit, but Munson’s not gonna pry the truth out of him. Not for all the subpar weed in Indiana. It's Harrington that is the weak link here.

After enduring Munson’s scrutiny for twice as long as he should, Billy snarls, “It’s rude to stare, freakshow.”

“Do not call him that!” Harrington spins from the sink, pointing an accusatory finger from across the kitchen.

“Hey, hey, easy, boys. C’mon. We were just starting to get along so well.”

“Quit being a jackass to all the people just trying to help you!” barked Harrington.

“You telling me what to do, Harrington?” Taking a step, Billy’s shoulders roll forward. “How’d that go for you last time?”

“No. No, screw this.” Steve braces both hands on the tiled kitchen island like a cop in an old noir film. “You can’t do this, Hargrove. You can’t run away and make everyone go searching for you in the middle of the night and then waltz back in here with a goddamn chip on your shoulder. We're the ones who get to be mad at you, got it? So drop the damn attitude."

"How about you suck my dick, Harrington."

Stricken, Steve pales. "Fuck you," he seethes quietly.

Billy flashes his canines, satisfied.

"Why are you still like this?" rants Harrington, cool officially lost. "All the bigger shit that's going on, you can't find it in your heart to not be a fucking petty jackass for one day?! Do you know how much Hop and El risked to bring you to see Max today? Do you know what would’ve happened if they had been seen? If you had been seen? But you don’t give a shit about any of that. We're trying to help you!"

"Yeah?” Billy slides his hands into his jean pockets. “And who asked you?"

"What was even the point of this?" yells Harrington. "Why take off if you're gonna come back anyways? Just to make a scene? Throwing a tantrum? Eddie said he found you at the quarry, right?” He gestures to Munson. “What the hell were you even doing all the way out there?”

“None of your goddamn business, pretty boy.” Billy sneers, shrugging with disinterest.

Eddie throws a glance his way, but true to his word, says nothing.

Scoffing like a priss, Harrington shakes his head, chewing on his lip in frustration. Fluffy hair falls into his eyes. He blinks rapidly and looks away. Harrington hates not getting what he wants. Drives him nuts.

“Fine. Fine. I’m going to bed. I can’t deal with this right now.” Harrington rubs his forehead. “Stay if you want, Billy. We all know I can’t make you do anything and that you won’t listen to me but, y’know. Just in case you choose to not be an asshole and make everyone’s life hard, you’re welcome to stay. Guess I’ll see you in the morning. Or not.”

Muson moves towards Harrington, “I can stay the night too if you want, man.”

“It’s fine, Eddie, you don’t have to. It’s late. Go home and get some sleep.”

“You know ‘home’ is a FEMA trailer right now, right?” Munson chuckles. “It’s not like I have a room at the Ritz-Carlton waiting for me. Seriously, I can crash if you need a hand.”

Like Billy’s a child to be minded.

Defeated, Harrington looks between them both. “Just wake me up if he runs away again.”

Stomping around the corner toward the foyer stairs, Steve shoves past both of them. Both Billy and Eddie watch him make his escape, like a kid past his bedtime. Up the stairs to the second floor landing, Steve stomps along the bannister and then out of sight, bedroom door slamming.

Munson and Billy are left abandoned in the kitchen. Over the stereo speakers, Ringo Starr’s discordant disco plonking continues playing in the background. It's a surreal, darkly funny moment. The wall clock reads twelve minutes to midnight. This is maybe the stupidest day of Billy’s life.

Loudly exhaling, Munson rolls his neck and shoulders dramatically. Head tilted up, hair trailing down his back, he glances to Billy out of the corner of his eye.

Billy sneers. “Got something to say, freakshow?”

Munson scoffs, shakes his shaggy head. “No, man. Nothing to say.”

“Well there’s a first.” Billy drifts over to the fridge and opens it, scouring for a beer.

“Are you gonna stay?”

No beer to be found in the fridge. “You gonna snitch if I don’t?”

“Heh, yeah. Sorry to be a narc.”

Figures. “Then I guess I’m staying.”

“Well, phew, that’s a relief.” Munson sighs, wipes his brow theatrically. “Even you’ve gotta be tired of being an oppositional dickhead at this time at night, right? You want the guest room? Or the master? Mr. and Mrs. Harrington got a pretty sweet queen mattress, gotta say. Also the ensuite has a sick jacuzzi tub. Nothing good in the medicine cabinet though, I already checked.”

“S’all yours, freakshow.” Billy shrugs out of Hopper’s brown leather jacket and hucks it over the back of an armchair. “I’m taking the couch.”

“Dude, such a drama queen,” Munson tisks. “There are enough beds for the three of us. What, are you gonna sleep on the living room furniture to make some stupid point about never accepting a handout or some stupid macho shit like that?”

Not answering, Billy kicks off his borrowed hiking boots and drops back longways on the sofa cushions. It’s a comfortable couch. Still ugly though.

“Wow.” Munson deadpans, swiping a hand over his face. “And here I thought Harrington was the drama queen.”

Billy chuckles at being compared to Harrington. If only Munson knew.

Throwing his arms out, Munson shrugs. “Alright. Fine. Be difficult. It’s your back that’ll be sore in the morning. You’ll have a crick in your neck and have proved nothing and there’ll only be yourself to blame. Obstinance isn’t a replacement for a personality, y’know.”

Raising an arm over the back of the couch, Billy flips him off.

From the open foyer, Munson must hit the lights. The Harrington living room plunges into darkness. Filaments of turquoise light from the outdoor pool streak in through the blinds providing meagre light to see by, rippling and bouncing off the ceiling.

Billy thinks of the moonlight rippling on the flooded quarry. Thinks of the shadow monster’s swirling fluvial limbs.

This town just won’t let him die.

Chapter Text

Roofing nails chip away the tree bark. Flakes like paper splinter and spit. Beneath, live yellow wood is revealed. The nails chip that away too.

This tree isn’t very old, maybe not even as old as Billy. A short, slender shrub with big spade-shaped leaves and odd brown flowers still blooming in mid-May. Grew here in this spot long before he came to Indiana.

Billy kills it in one day.

It feels so good. Strike, rear back, strike again. Harrington's bat is sturdy. It makes short work of the slimmer twiggy branches. The main trunk takes more abuse. Billy lands swing after swing at the main vee where the trunk diverges at waist height. A branch thicker than his wrist cleaves and splinters away.

Rage is good. Rage is an old friend. The charging rush that sparks his body to life. A volcanic extrusion that vapourizes everything in its path. It's a break. A time out. While there is rage nothing else can be happening. Everything else must come to a halt.

It used to be he surfed. Out on the ocean, bobbing on the waves, you are unreachable. A nearly monastic isolation between the rider and the water. A simpler way of relating. Who your dad is is of no concern to the ocean. Who you slept with is no concern of the ocean. It only demands that you swim.

And when he could not surf, Billy would drive.

He had purchased the Camaro one month to the day after he turned sixteen. Working three summers in a row he had saved up enough. Found it in a want ad used with ten thousand miles on it and spent the summer of ‘83 fixing it up.

The car was a monster. A nervy V8 engine wrapped in blue chrome. It had handled like a dream but had an attitude as bad as Billy's. Being in charge of all that horsepower, being able to control it, it was the most powerful Billy had ever felt.

Peeling through the oceanside highways under a clear sky of stars, music turned up, windows down with the marine wind in his hair, Billy sometimes thought he might really escape, really fly away.

That summer before they moved away from San Diego had been the best Billy had lived since his mom left.

But Hawkins, Indiana is a hell he keeps waking up in.

Days in the cabin are mind numbing. He can’t take it anymore. That’s probably what brought him out here, to this tree with Harrington’s spiked bat. Billy had found it in the shed with a trove of other ad hoc weapons. Premade molotovs. Rifles and bear traps. A backpack flamethrower with Russian letters painted on it.

The cabin feels like a cage. El and Hopper and he have been stepping on each other’s toes, all crowded in this psycho bunker of Cold War refugees. Between the three of them they probably average out to one civilized person.

Nobody knows what to do with him. No one's said it out loud but it's obvious. Now that Max has refused to see him, the Scooby Gang doesn’t know what to do with Billy. So they’ve banished him to this ramshackle hovel populated by only semi-mute feral vagabonds. It probably seems like Billy should fit right in. But if Billy has to eat frozen waffles or to listen to that Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young record one more time he is gonna go make good and jump off the quarry cliffs.

So instead he's out here with the bat because he doesn't know what else to do.

No one’s ever known what to do with him.

The bat connects and sticks deep in the trunk. Billy’s forearms burn. Sweat beads down his neck. Chopping down a tree is hard work.

No one’s ever known what to do with him. But the shadow knew just what he was made for.

So Billy resorts to what he knows. Destruction. Destruction of this fucking tree. It’s pitiful, it’s meaningless, and it’s so damningly pathetic, but it’s all he has and Christ it feels good. It feels good to make something suffer worse than he does. Too good to stop.

Fuck the shadow, fuck his father, fuck Steve Harrington and his pet freakshow Munson. Fuck the police chief and his weird spooky daughter. Fuck Max. Fuck Sinclair. Fuck all of it. None of it matters to this sorry tree, decimated under the unyielding blows of Billy’s bat.

“Hargrove!”

Billy spins, splintered bat raised in his grip.

The chief is there with Harrington and Munson huddled behind him, maybe a dozen yards away. Returning from their supply run to the Big Buy. A grocery bag hangs from Steve's elbow. A six pack is tucked under Munson's arm.

"Put the bat down!" commands the old chief.

Sweating, heaving, Billy refuses.

"Aw, man," groans Munson, "not the pawpaw tree."

"What's going on, Hargrove?" the chief tries instead. "Are you hurt?"

"Fuck off!"

"Dude, you totally ruined my bat!"

"Stay the fuck away from me Harrington!" Billy kicks one of the long, ruined branches at him, but it only rolls once and teeters to a stop.

"What's the matter with you?" Dropping his bag of groceries, Harrington shoves through Eddie and the chief.

"Hey, hey, Steve!" Munson tries to hold him back by the arm.

"Harrington, stay back from him."

But Harrington isn't listening. "What the hell did you do all this for?" He surveys the damage that Billy's managed, takes stock of Billy himself, frazzled and roiling, covered in dirt and wood chips.

“You hear me?” Harrington demands, unimpressed with Billy’s savage state. “What’re you doing out here? What’s the matter with you?”

"The fuck do you care!?" Billy snarls.

"Because you're destroying my stuff, asshole! You're destroying Hopper's property."

"Eat shit, Harrington!" Billy brings the splintered bat down in an arc. Too short, the jagged spear of wood passes through the air in front of Harrington's face.

“Jesus, dude, put that down!”

“Fuckin’ make me, shithead!” He could kill Harrington, right now. Might not even live to regret it.

“Look at all this,” Harrington groans, gesturing to the stunted corpse of Billy’s tree, raw yellow wood chips littering the ground. “What’s your problem, huh, Hargrove? Do you need to fuckin’ destroy everything all the time?”

Billy smiles, a rictus, menacing flash. Half-snarl, half-dare. “You stay the fuck back from me, Harrington!”

“Or what, you’re gonna chop me up too?”

“You wanna know where I was the other night, Harrington?” roars Billy. “Hmm? The day with Maxine in the hospital? When you called your little search party? You wanna know what I was doing out at the quarry? I was going to fucking jump.”

"That's enough!" bellows Hopper.

Harrington’s expression breaks. “W-what?”

“I went there to fucking end it and finally be rid of you all!” Billy lobs the fractured bat overhand at Steve’s head.

Harrington puts up his arms to protect his face and Billy pounces. Lunging, he grabs the front of Harrington's shirt. It's easy to stagger him.

"Jesus Christ, what's your problem, man?"

"You are." And Billy hits Steve in the face.

It's a really sloppy hit. Not a lot of force or coordination, but it makes contact. Harrington recoils and tries to duck his head behind his raised arms but Billy's regrouping for a second blow when something strong grips the back of his shirt and trips his foot and shoves real hard.

And then just as fast, Billy is looking up at the blue sky through leafy tree branches. Like the first night he found himself in the woods.

Air is knocked from his lungs and he coughs, groaning in pain, curling like a bug on its back.

Then Hopper's mean, angry face is menacing over him. "You stay down."

Like Billy has a choice. The old cop bowled him over like a Mack Truck.

Again Billy coughs as his lungs resume breathing. His vision doubles a bit and the back of his head stings and throbs. Connected square with one of the hard tree branches he'd hacked away. Fucking figures.

"Shit, dude," mumbles Munson from somewhere nearby, "did he get'cha good?"

"No, it's not bad. It's fine, Eddie, really."

Once the world stops swimming, Billy props himself up on his elbows. Just out of arm's reach there's Munson poking the fresh red mark on Harrington's cheekbone. Hopper is inspecting the damage too, planted squarely between Billy and Harrington.

“Let’s have a look,” instructs Hopper.

“Seriously, it’s fine.”

“Nah, nah, lemme see.” The ex-chief takes Harrington’s chin in one big mit of a hand, turns it up to the light to get a better look. He whistles. “No blood. Eye’s fine. But you’ll probably have a shiner in the morning.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Harrington shrugs out of Hopper’s grip. “I’ve had worse. I’ve had worse from him.”

They all three turn to look at Billy. From the ground, he feels fucking mortified. Sitting flat on his back among the leaves and the splinters. Like pathetic kid. A psycho that can never get it together.

Hopper told him to stay down, so he does. Doesn’t need the old cop giving him a beatdown in front of everyone. Hopper has easily got half a foot and forty pounds on Neil. Ex-military, too. Probably hits like a freight train.

“Man, why’d you have to go berserk on the pawpaw tree?” Munson asks him like a crazy person.

Billy blinks.

Munson scrapes a shattered branch with his boot. Gets a twig of big shaggy leaves over his toe and kicks it toward Billy. “See?! You know how long it’s been since I had a pawpaw? Like five years, easy. Those would’ve been ready to eat by September.”

Billy doesn’t know what the fuck Munson’s talking about.

Hopper stares him down, bushy eyebrows scowling, radiating fury. “Hargrove, get inside. Now.”

Well, at least Billy’s not getting a beatdown in front of Harrington and Munson.

He scrambles to his feet. Brushes the wood chips and splinters from his knees. His hands are still shaking.

All three watch him retreat to the cabin. Billy doesn’t miss how Munson tugs on Harrington’s arm to shield him.

Harrington’s burgundy BMW sedan sits in the clearing by the cabin. Next to the front bumper, El is standing. Her pensive face observes, takes in the whole scene. Billy pretends to not notice her.

Stomping up the steps, Billy throws the front door open so hard the windchimes on the porch rattle. Slams it closed just as forcefully. The frame of the cabin shakes.

Killing that tree has only made him tired. Adrenaline crashes and now he’s only sore and just as enraged. Why couldn’t Harrington just stay the fuck out of it? Why couldn’t he allow Billy an outlet. The sudden dark quiet of the cabin settles over him like a heavy blanket. His ears ring.

After a few gasping breaths, Billy feels the sting in his knuckles. His hands are chipped and cracked. He tore a fingernail down to the quick. Really, he’s coming out of this encounter worse off than Harrington.

Like walking through fog, Billy goes to the big porcelain sink at the back of the cabin. He turns on the tap and lets the ice cold well water wash over his scraped up hands.

The sting in his fingertips is focusing. Sharp and steadying. The little cuts and scrapes turn bright red under the cold water. Cupping his hands Billy splashes some water over his face, wipes his eyes with the back of his arm.

He’s dead meat. Hopper is going to kill him. The old cop is going to beat Billy black and blue and toss him out on his ass. Maybe put one between his eyes. Would probably turn him over to the Army if he could.

Stupid fucking Harrington. Charging at him when Billy told him to stay back. Pushing his last hairline nerve. Now he’s gone and got Billy killed.

Outside, beyond the timber plank walls, voices murmur. Hopper, Munson, Harrington. Billy can’t make out any words for the most part. But then Munson’s loud obnoxious voice, coming closer, crows, “How ‘bout you, Harrington? You ever have an Indiana banana? They’re so freakin’ good, man. There’s no way you’ve never had one. My uncle used to take me down to the creek when I was a kid at the end of summer and there was a whole mess of pawpaws. Big yellow leaves. They’re soft like a banana but kinda taste like pineapple. Man, we’d each eat, like, ten in one sitting and take the rest home. Should see if I can find some in the fall—”

Munson is still rattling on this insane nonsense when a car door shuts and the BMW’s engine turns over. Tires crunch over the litterfall and the car slowly putters out back toward the road.

Probably the last time Billy will ever see either of them.

The screen door rattles and slams shut. Billy’s head swivels. The chief and the girl come in from the porch with their plastic bags of groceries.

“Hey El, go hang out in your room for a minute, alright?” the chief tells her calmly, not taking his eyes off Billy.

El hesitates. Looks slowly between Billy and the chief and then back again.

“Remember all our talks about privacy?” asks the chief when she doesn’t budge.

She nods. “Doors can be closed. No three inches rule.”

“That’s right,” replies the chief, like that’s a statement that makes sense. “So I’ve got to talk to Billy in private for a moment. Okay? Sound good?”

Still reluctant, El moves around the coffee table and old sofa, her big brown eyes riveted to Billy as she walks into her bedroom and shuts the door without touching it.

Then it’s just him and the chief. Billy turns off the faucet, shakes his wet hands off in the old farmhouse style sink. His knuckles aren’t bleeding, just red and sore now that the dirt’s washed off. They shake as he twists the tap off.

“Right, you and me gotta talk, kid.”

The chief places his grocery bags down on the coffee table. Billy can track him moving through the cabin, even with his back turned. He turns to face him before the chief can get too close.

Billy’s gonna fight, if it comes to that. Doesn’t care that the chief could probably wipe the floor with him. Doesn’t care that the telepath in the next room could crumple him like a tinfoil ball with a flick of her wrist. He’ll go down swinging. Always promised himself that he would.

The chief towers on the other side of the small linoleum kitchen table, folds his arms across his barrel chest. Got that disapproving glower written all over his face, looking like a mean son-of-a-bitch.

“You gonna tell me what the hell that was all about out there?” asks the chief.

Billy sets his jaw. Refuses to cower. “Nothing.”

“Enough bullshit, Hargrove. Start talking. ‘Nothing’ doesn’t cut it.”

“Harrington pissed me off.”

“Yeah?” the chief’s bushy eyebrows fly up almost comically. “And what before that caused you to go apeshit on that tree out there?”

“I was angry.” Billy shrugs.

“About what?”

Insulted, Billy scoffs, rolls his eyes. Tries to look annoyed and not terrified.

“Okay,” the chief exhales, runs both hands over his face, “right, fine. Establishing boundaries. Here goes.”

The chief pulls out the kitchen chair and sits. Leans heavy on his elbows like a bear. Billy sidesteps to have a clearer line to the front door.

“Look, kid, I know you’re angry, okay? And really, you got every right to be. This is bullshit, what you’re going through. What you’ve been through. You probably don’t give a shit about what some old man thinks but believe it or not I was eighteen and pissed off once too, y’know? And you are definitely dealing with more shit than I ever went through at that age.”

Technically, Billy should be nineteen, but no one can agree upon whether they should count the birthday he had been dead for.

“And now you’re stuck here all day,” Hopper continues, “with the other dead people in hiding and we're all stepping on each other's toes and no one is happy to have to be out here. I know that. I get that. So if you’ve gotta blow off some steam and chop down a whole tree every day like Paul Bunyan or something, I’m not gonna complain. Knock yourself out. But listen to me. Hey— hey, look at me. You cannot keep attacking people. My daughter lives here. I’ve got a 15-year-old girl that has the entire US Army hunting her, ready to shoot on sight. If you’re going to be a danger to her, if you’re going to draw attention to us, if you’re going to jeopardize her safety, then we’re going to have to find somewhere else for you to go.”

Billy sneers, bounces his knee. “Think she can protect herself, chief.”

“She’s just a kid. She shouldn’t have to.”

The sooner she learns to, the better for her, Billy thinks. But he knows better than to say so.

His hand throbs where he made contact with Harrington’s cheekbone. Billy folds his arms to try and hide his reddened knuckles. Doesn’t understand what came over him, really, only knows that he’s not sorry for it.

"What you said out there," the ex-chief continues, a margin more compassionate, "about being at the quarry. That true?"

Billy bites the inside of his cheek. Nods. "Yeah."

"Do I need to be worried about that?"

"Won't be your problem to worry about."

"Because I've lost people that way before," Hopper says. "Buddies from 'Nam. I’ve had to bury a few of them. I've found people before, on the job, working as police. I've had to talk to spouses, family who've found someone."

No one who finds Billy is gonna care. Poachers or hobos, nothing they haven't seen before. Not gonna stick in anyone's mind.

"So if I need to worry about this," implores the ex-chief, "then you need to tell me right now, and we'll figure something out. But do not let my daughter be the one who walks in here and finds you. Or goes looking for you in here and finds you." He taps the side of his own head. "Please. I’m asking. Just, as a favour to me. Man to man. Don't do that to her."

For some reason, the thought of El finding his body makes Billy's skin crawl. Disappointing her. Letting her down like that. Makes him feel like a real piece of shit.

"You don't gotta worry about it," says Billy at length. He exhales, looks away. "Just a stupid spur-of-the-moment thing. Not gonna try it again."

"Can I have your word on that?"

Billy rolls his eyes. "Sure. Whatever. You have my word."

The chief sits back in the creaky kitchen chair, looks at Billy for a long, silent moment, clearly assessing Billy's trustworthiness. Billy stares right back.

"Okay," Hopper nods, resigned, "okay. I'll take your word."

Billy hasn't decided if he really means it, but he'll probably give it a few days, in any case.

“What’s this bad blood between you and Harrington, anyway?” asks the chief after Billy’s silence.

“He’s annoying,” grumbles Billy, “and a smartass. Thinks he’s hot shit just ‘cause he drives a nice car and played for some shit high school basketball team.”

The chief laughs, a gruff, dismissive sound. Raises an accusative eyebrow at Billy. Billy squeezes both hands into fists.

“Okay,” the chief exhales, “that’s fine. You two don’t have to like each other. Whatever the reasons. But I don’t care about your bickering and your horseplay, got it? That high school bullshit does not matter around here. I’ve got a kid. She comes first.”

Billy clenches his jaw and swallows down a swell of emotion. The rage is still simmering in his throat. It’ll be there all day now.

“Understand me?”

“Yeah, I understand,” replies Billy.

“Got anything you want to say to me? Now’s the time.”

Billy looks at the floor, shakes his head.

“Alright,” heaves the chief with a tremendous sigh, “then I guess we’re done here. Put these groceries away before they go bad, okay? Me and El are gonna take a walk, check all the traplines and tripwires. We’ll have our radio. Be back in an hour or two. You want a smoke?”

“No.”

“Okay. Heat up some leftovers if you get hungry, but we're having spaghetti tonight. At El’s request.” Hop stands and knocks on El’s door before entering.

And now Billy is alone. Standing in the small kitchen not knowing what to do with himself. The old fridge hums. The faucet drips. Billy fidgets with unresolved anticipation. He hadn’t expected Hopper to just leave. It feels almost like a trick.

He turns back to the sink. Leans both palms on the rounded porcelain edge. Stares at the dirty dishes stacked in the basin. The goofy mounted bass gapes at him from the wall. Billy almost knocks it down.

El and Hopper are back by sundown.

The purpling dusk falls early in the woods. No streetlights and dense trees mean that visibility drops fast. This cabin might as well be at the end of the world.

Standing out on the deck, itching for a cigarette, Billy sees their flashlight beams lurching through the underbrush first. Then the snapping of twigs under their feet, drawing closer, the approach of an unstealthy predator.

They break into the clearing side-by-side, looking like Butch Cassidy and a tiny Sundance.

“All good?” asks Hopper, climbing the porch steps.

Arms crossed, Billy nods. "Yes, sir."

“Good.” Hopper steps inside the front door, a man of few words.

Billy plans on lingering out on the deck until it gets too cold. Doesn’t want to be trapped in the cabin in case Hopper belatedly decides to dole out some discipline.

But, to his horror, El lingers on the deck.

She is not subtle. Stands there and watches him unblinking, with the calm madness of a prophet. A modern seer who peers into the otherworlds and is driven insane by what she sees.

Touched in the head. Literally, as it turns out, in El’s case.

“Hello, Billy,” she greets with a clumsy smile.

She’s standing in her oversized hiking boots and a red, garish United Colors of Benetton sweater, looking like a camp counsellor who’d fallen into a mosh pit. A look that is not helped by her buzz cut.

“Hey,” he offers.

“Do you feel better, Billy?”

For just an instant, Billy considers blowing her off. But he can't keep anything from her. So he replies, “No.”

“What happened? When me and Hop got home in the car with Steve and Eddie?”

“Scrapped with Harrington. Wasn’t that bad. I was angry. He volunteered himself.”

“Why were you angry?”

“Jesus, why do you think, kid? Because I’m fuckin’ stuck out here in this shithole cabin in the middle of nowhere with you two. And frankly neither of you are all that great company. And somehow I’ve been… been dead for a fucking year, and absolutely fucking no one can explain how that is possible. And there’s… there’s monsters. That thing fucked me up, fucked up my head. It got to me, and it got to Maxine. This shitty fucking bullshit town got us both. And she won’t even see me. Thinks I’m a monster too. And none of that even fucking matters because the whole world might be ending soon. Monsters or ICBMs or whatever else pops up. So there. Any of that answer your question?”

He doesn’t mean to raise his voice. But El doesn’t seem frightened. Only sad.

“Why did you hit Steve?” she asks solemnly.

Does she know? Can she see it in Billy’s head? What he and Harrington had done that night out by his pool? “Because I don’t like him. And I was angry.”

“But he wants to help you.”

“No he doesn’t. And even if he did, he’s going about it in a dumbshit way.”

El blinks. “Dumbshit,” she mutters to herself, testing the word.

Taught her a curse word. Billy suppresses a chuckle. Oh well, too late now.

In the leaf litter, the crickets have begun their song as the sun descends. Shadows pool and grow on the forest floor. Billy turns up the flame on the hanging lantern, giving them a smidgen more light on the deck. It will attract mosquitoes and june bugs pretty soon as the night floods in, but Billy won’t be staying out too long.

After a moment of thoughtful silence, El turns her stoic face back toward Billy and tells him, “Sometimes, when I’m angry, I hurt people too.”

“That so, kid?”

“Yes. Sometimes they were bad people. But sometimes they were not.”

Okay. “Sure.”

“You and me are alike, I think. When we are angry.”

Billy doesn’t think he and El are anything alike. “Nah, you’re wrong about that one.”

“People have hurt us. And that makes us angry. That other people can get away with making us hurt. It’s not fair.”

Billy clenches his jaw, chews on this thumbnail.

“The anger. It can make you powerful,” she says seriously. “But also… dangerous.”

“And who told you that?”

“Papa.”

Hopper had given Billy the broad strokes. A research scientist turned Cold War spook. Took in disaffected flower children and war veterans from Vietnam and treated them with LSD and electroshock. Kidnapped children for Uncle Sam and prepared them to fight the next war. Hid them all away in a sleepy Indiana town, right under the country’s nose.

It’s still fuckin’ weird to hear El call him that.

“Yeah?” Billy growls. “Your ‘papa’ tell you that? And why should I listen to anything that sick psycho ever said?”

“You still listen to what your papa said about you."

That blindsides him. He stares at her in open shock. How the fuck? How does she know that?

But of course she does. She knows him better than anyone. She would have seen it first hand in his own mind.

Her mad seer’s eyes blink. “Papa was a bad man. He loved me, but he did bad things. He lied. He hurt Mama. He hurt me. Hurt a lot of people. Your papa is a bad man, too. He hurt people too.”

“Don’t,” Billy warns, teeth gritting.

“I saw,” she tells him, her eyes welling. “I saw. I saw your papa. What he did to you and your mama.”

“Stop it!” snaps Billy, but he quickly gets a hold of himself. If Billy raises his voice to El, no doubt Hopper’s wrath would be permanent and unsurvivable. “You shut up about that! Understand me? That shit is none of your goddamn business. Got it? And if your papa was such a bad man then why do you even give a shit about anything he says about you?”

“Why do you?”

Red hot fury pricks behind Billy’s eyes. This kid. Thinks she knows anything? Thinks she can just mutter vague bullshit and Billy will be impressed?

But he can still feel her standing next to him on the beach. Can see her guarding his child self. Can still sense her presence in his heart of hearts, the parts of himself he can’t stand to look at. No amount of his usual snapping and threats will deter her.

She is not scared of him at all.

Is she doing it right now? Peering into his most guarded memories? Could Billy even tell if she was?

“Our papas,” she tells him, “they lied to us. They are wrong about us. We shouldn’t listen to them just because they are our papas.”

To save face, Billy looks away.

“Sometimes we hurt people when we’re angry. And when you hurt someone, you should say sorry,” El informs him.

“And what if I’m not sorry?”

“Then you are like your papa.”

Billy rounds on her, flaring rage. Takes a step toward her, fists clenched.

But El is immovable as stone, bedrock sturdier than anything ever built by man.

She stares him down in her tacky clothes and buzzed head. Calls his bluff. She doesn’t even need to worry about repelling him because she knows she is right. The calm surety of the superhuman.

They stare at one another as El waits him out. Patient as with a child throwing a tantrum.

“When I am angry,” El begins, “or scared, or hurt, and I feel like I’m going to scream, I have to remember to breathe. And it helps me to stop.”

“Breathe? That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“I breathe every day of my life, kid. Never made me less angry about anything.” Billy scolds himself for buying into this nonsense for even a minute.

“It’s a special way. Deep. Slow. Like you’re diving underwater.”

“Why?”

“To focus.” She says the word like she recently learned it. “It slows down my heartbeat. Makes my muscles relax. It makes finding people easier. If there is no water tank. Or static.”

Whatever that means.

“You breathe in. Then hold. One. Two. Three. Then breathe out.”

“Yeah, sure, kid. Just leave me alone.”

But El stays right where she’s standing.

“I’m serious!” he barks and spins on her again. “Get away from me!”

She doesn’t so much as blink at his faux lunge. Billy can’t even scare a little girl anymore.

“We want to help you, Billy. Everyone wants to help you. Me and Steve and Mike and Will and everyone else. We want to find out what happened to you. Even if you are mean. Because we should help people who need help. If this way isn’t working, then we will find a way that is not dumbshit.”

Billy sputters to hear her swear in that solemn tone of hers. Actually cracks up, despite himself. Smiles darkly and runs his tongue over his canines.

“Hopper is making spaghetti tonight!” El smiles, suddenly sunny and gleeful. “I am going to help. You should come inside soon. Dinner won’t take long.”

She hoists open the screen door. But she pauses, looks back at Billy standing on the porch with her solemn regard.

“You remind me of my sister,” she says sadly.

“You have a sister?”

But El only shakes her head before stepping inside. “Not anymore.”

Chapter Text

The past week, Billy has taken to walking out to the old quarry pit at night.

It’s a good walk. A couple miles one-way. Down the half-mile drive to the forest service road, following the secondary highway, and then up the weed-strewn gravel to the clifftops. About four hours total there and back. Trapped in the cabin with a grumpy veteran and an escaped science experiment has made Billy more stir crazy than usual. Without any of his usual outlets—no car, no weights, no music—Billy has had to get resourceful.

He’s always needed to be active, ever since he was a kid. If he sits still too long he loses his mind.

Trudging up the gravel driveway of the abandoned service road, Billy hears a vehicle approaching from behind. Headlight beams break between his legs, his preceding shadow growing longer as the vehicle approaches. Billy hops over into the knee-high switchgrass by the side of the road, hoping the driver will pass him by.

Muffled music closes in from the van's radio. A two-toned Chevy Van creeps over the gravel beside him as he walks, matching Billy’s pace at a slow roll. The driver’s side window is cranked down.

“We gotta stop meeting like this, Hargrove,” Munson singsongs from the driver’s seat after he turns down the radio.

Billy ignores him. Keeps walking forward.

“Did you run away again?” inquires Munson.

“Fuck off,” Billy huffs, continues walking.

“Hey, don’t mind me. I’m not here to be bad cop,” Munson banters as his van rolls forward, like this whole encounter just delights him. “Just trying to stay up to date on the cover story. You’re the one who keeps crashing my thinking spot, y’know.”

Billy makes a face. “Not sure a whole lot of thinking is ever going on at your smoke-out and jack-off spot, freakshow.”

“Not true! I can do both. A man can get a lot of thinking done when he’s alone and stoned.”

Not in Billy’s experience. Weed just makes him kinda stupid. But Munson seems like the kinda guy who would probably benefit from a pharmaceutical torpor. Drugs might be the only thing that shuts him up.

“You walk here?” Munson lolls his head out the window, batting his lashes at Billy, eagerly chumming the waters.

“What do you care?”

“Just makin’ conversation, big guy. Jeez, think everyone’s out to get you all the time, huh?”

Munson has no idea.

But Billy’s not gonna rise to the bait, if only just because he hates giving anyone what they expect from him.

They creep up the gravel road side-by-side toward the quarry pit in silence for a moment, the engine of Munson’s van purring just off to Billy’s right.

“Let me give you a ride, man,” offers Munson from the driver’s seat, gesturing out the windshield. “We’re clearly headed to the same place.”

Billy sneers and keeps walking.

“Oh c’mon! It’s like a hundred yards more up the road. I’m just gonna see you there in two minutes anyway.”

Briefly, Billy considers turning around and starting back towards the cabin. But he quells that impulse. He knocks the hood of the van and swings around the front before climbing into the passenger’s seat.

“There we are, big guy. Welcome aboard.”

“If we’re doing this, you’re not gonna be chattering the whole way,” grumbles Billy.

Munson frowns, makes obnoxious puppy eyes. “Aw, c’mon. Just a little chatter? Maybe?”

Billy glares.

“Don’t’cha ever get tired being so grouchy all the time, Hargrove?”

“Don’t’cha ever get tired running your mouth all the time, Munson?”

“Never have,” Muson grins.

They pull up to the open switchback at the edge of the cliffs. Just a couple dozen yards off from the spot where Munson had interrupted Billy’s intentions to jump the previous week. But Munson doesn’t mention it, so neither does Billy.

Eddie parks and shuts off the headlights. Blinking, Billy’s eyes adjust to the twilight dusk once again. The open chasm is still. Below, the weak, newly-risen moonlight ripples off the flooded pit.

They both climb out of the van. Gravel crunches loudly beneath their feet. It’s quiet out here in the middle of nowhere.

“You enjoy walking at night, Hargrove?” asks Munson conversationally, stretching both arms over his head. The hems of his jacket and flannel ride up exposing a margin of pale stomach.

“It’s the only time I can get out at all. Can’t exactly be walking around town in broad daylight as a dead man.”

“Hey, you’re not the only dead man walking around out here,” Munson replies. “There’s little Byers, and the chief. I think technically Supergirl, too. Or maybe she just never existed in the first place. The town certainly wanted me dead there, for a minute. A lot of ‘em still do. Can’t give ‘em the satisfaction, though.”

“So you here to be Harrington’s guard dog or something?” Billy asks as Eddie leans against the grille of the van. “Gonna tell me to watch my step with him or else you’ll send the devil after me?”

Munson sneers. “Harrington can look out for himself.”

They’ve met very different versions of Steve Harrington if that’s the case.

“No, I meant what I said, y’know.” Munson sounds oddly defensive. “Not here to bust your chops about takin’ a swing at Harrington. Just happened to be heading out to the quarry. I really do just come out here to get away.”

“Figured you would’ve been on his side about that whole thing.”

“‘On his side?’ What are we in middle school?”

Billy shrugs. “You two sure seem friendly nowadays, is all.”

Munson looks right at him, obnoxious in his lack of subtlety. A knowing grin breaks over his puckish face, all dimples and teeth. He knows what Billy is implying. It takes one to know one.

“Nah, it’s not like that,” Eddie looks away, betraying his disappointment by toying with his wild mane of hair. “Harrington’s off limits for me. I know better than to want what I can’t have. ‘Specially in a town like this.”

“Bullshit,” Billy replies.

“Hand to Satan.” Munson places a hand over his heart and raises the other like he’s swearing an oath. “Steve’s a good guy. He and the others really helped me out of a jam over spring break. Really put themselves on the line for me. Don’t want to go risking that, y’know?”

“So he’s free game to swing on, then?” Billy chuckles, flashing his canines.

“Well shit, I mean I’d prefer if you didn’t go around pummelling all my friends but something tells me that you’re just gonna do it anyway if you feel like it. You don’t seem like the kinda guy who responds well to polite requests.”

Billy huffs. Munson’s funny. “The chief wants me to apologize to him.”

“And are you gonna?”

“Probably should do if I want to keep having a place to stay.”

“Psh, Hop won’t throw you out,” Munson assess confidently, buttoning up his flannel against the cold. “Guy’s a big ol’ softie. Especially with kids. Loves a hard luck case. Caught me red handed dealing around town more than once and never brought me in. Must be on my fifth or sixth ‘warning’ by now.”

“God, you gotta be the shitest drug dealer in the goddamn world,” Billy tells him.

“I’m the only game in town, baby! Can’t be worst if there’s no competition.”

Billy rolls his eyes. Munson is ridiculous. “You’re freakin’ irritating is what you are.”

“Aw, I’m not buying it, Cali. You might actually like hanging out with me. Despite your tired macho douchebag attitude.” Eddie sweeps both arms out theatrically, spinning in place. “And as you can see, it's perfectly safe! No trees within striking distance.”

“Yeah? Why would I need to hit a tree when I’ve got you within striking distance?”

Clasping both hands over his heart, Munson recoils, miming a mortal wound. “Oh, you don’t wanna hit me, big guy. No sport in it. I wouldn’t put up half the fight the tree did.”

“Not lookin’ to match Harrington?”

“Hell no. Swear to god, that guy has a freakin’ martyr complex or something. Leaps before he looks, always, ends up getting his ass beat to hell. It’s ridiculous. Guy’s taken one too many blows to the head. Starting to think he might be a sadomasochist or something.”

Despite himself, Billy cracks up at that. He turns away, laughing into his shoulder.

Eddie smiles to have gotten a rise out of him. “Yeah, no thank you. I’ll leave the wounds of valour all to Harrington, thank you very much.”

He returns to leaning against the van, elbows of his beat up black leather jacket up on the hood. Munson crosses his long legs at the ankle and tilts his head back to look up at the evening sky, hair stirring in the breeze.

Billy chews at his thumbnail. He hasn’t had a cigarette in over a day and the craving is starting to get distracting. Having something to chew on helps his mind stop spinning. Gum, cigarettes, nail-biting, all habits that flare when stressed. Some he’s retained since childhood.

Watching the unbraiding stars, Munson glances over at him. “Kind of a shame we never hung out too much before your senior year. Would’ve been nice to have someone to sit around in seething silence with.”

“You think I wanted to hang out with your burnout ass?”

Munson squints like he's thinking very hard. “Well you sure seemed all counterculture and stick-it-to-the-man at first, but then you had to go and be a star athlete. Hard to pin down. You were kind of a mystery to me at first, I’ll be honest.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Someone moves to Hawkins, now there’s a mystery. Not the sort of place people move to all that often, our little backwater. But you show up with your California plates, your sunny tan, and your machismo attitude? No offense, Hargrove, but you’re textbook. Shootin’ a stupid ball through a stupid hoop and driving fast and hitting on the hot moms because daddy didn’t hug you enough.”

"Fuck off with that shit."

"With what, dear Billiam?"

"That like-you-know-me shit."

"Oh but I do know you, Hargrove," Munson grins, all self-satisfied. "C'mon, I know you so well it's almost cliche. You've got all that edgy psychopath intensity that only a mean father can produce in a son."

"Shut up, Munson. I mean it." He slides his eyes over, glare full of grave warning.

Leaning against the front of his dinged up Chevy van, Munson digs around in the pockets of his black leather jacket. Looks like he's misplaced a lottery ticket. Tense, Billy watches him closely until Munson finally produces a rumpled joint in his hand.

"A peace offering, then?" Muson offers with a stage magician's flourish. "On the house. Though I know it won't be up to your exacting Californian palette."

Shit, a joint sounds good.

Kicking a pebble, Billy reaches over and snatches the joint from Munson. He puts it between his lips while he rummages through his own pockets to retrieve the Zippo he'd stolen from Harrington the other day.

Sparking up, the first inhale is hot and earthy in his throat. Munson always had the best weed in this shithole, though that wasn't ever a high bar. He holds it in his lungs for a beat, two, before he exhales, shoulders dropping. Immediately, some of the fury drains out of his sore arms. The whirlwind in the back of his head weakens.

Nodding his approval, he passes the joint back to Munson.

"Look, Hargrove, I'm not trying to bullshit you with platitudes and after school special shit," mutters Eddie, pausing to take his own hit, "I'm really not, okay? Just that... look, there's only a few of us who know the shit that we know and there's" — he scratches at the back of his neck under his hair — "there's fewer of us who know about all this shit and are not on speaking terms with our immediate family. So... I do have some idea."

He reaches over and offers the joint back. Billy accepts. "Your folks not around?" Billy asks, not sure if he cares.

"Dad's a junkie and a thief. Mom's just a junkie. Lives with her new boyfriend up in Chicago, last I heard."

"Your dad locked up?"

"Yup. Couple more years this time around."

Billy is jealous.

"Both lost custody of me when I was eight or nine," Munson goes on because he never shuts up. "Wayne was the only family I had willing to take me in. Been crashing with him ever since."

Offering him back the smouldering joint, Billy shoots him a mean smile. "Living up to that Munson family name."

Eddie returns his cruel smile, tilting his head. "It's in the blood."

Deep down, Billy is realizing he might actually like Munson's company. The guy is annoying and hyper and talks too much, but he's got a crushing wit and will say whatever the fuck he's thinking right on the spot. There's no pretense with him, no artifice. He is exactly who he seems to be.

"Anyway, if you want my thoughts on the matter, I think you lash out at the people because you crave attention. You thrive on being contrarian. Shit, man, I know what that's like. And the harder they are to impress the more you need their approval. You and Harrington, with all the macho alpha male shit in high school, the scraping and the taunting, that shit's just fucking foreplay for you, man." Eddie takes a hit from the joint like he'd just dropped some cosmic knowledge on Billy. "Think that's why you keep whaling on each other when it would be so much easier to just go your separate ways."

Billy shoves him with his shoulder, swiping the joint back. Munson just giggles.

Anyone else in the world Billy would've decked for laughing at him. For some reason, Eddie laughing at him doesn't feel humiliating. Eddie's just the kind of guy who gets a kick standing next to a live grenade.

Besides, it's not like Munson's even wrong about it.

"I blew him," Billy admits around a lungful of smoke, "that night you found me out here. I, uh, I'd just come from his place.”

It's a different kind of strike. Meaner than any punch, and that's why Billy does it. Hands Eddie back the joint. Watches the words sink into his big brown eyes. Munson's got a terrible poker face for a drug dealer.

"And it was so bad you had to kill yourself afterwards?" A halfway decent comeback if not for the betrayal welling in Eddie's voice.

Munson turns his face away into his nest of hair, takes a long, quiet drag from the joint. All that jovial friendliness, crushed. Billy feels powerful, having done that.

"Why would you tell me that?" Munson croaks on the exhale.

Billy shrugs. "Still carrying a torch for him, right? You might have a shot after all."

Eddie scoffs, shakes his head in disbelief. "You really are a mean son of a bitch, arn't'cha?"

Another shrug. "Guess so."

Munson bobs his head a few times as that information settles over him. Sorts looks like he's having an argument with himself. Then he throws down the half-finished joint and stubs it out under his boot.

"Aw, don't wanna share no more?" taunts Billy.

"Yeah, fuck you, Hargrove."

"Don't know what you've got your panties in a twist over. Harrington's willing to slum it with the queers, it seems."

"That's obviously not at all the point."

"When then, tell me the point, Munson." Billy leans back on his elbows against the van's headlights. "I know you love to talk."

Fidgeting like a tweaker, Eddie picks at the ends of his hair in two hands. "'M jealous."

"Jealous?"

"Yeah, shithead!" he snaps. "Jealous."

"Well, don't be," scoffs Billy, "Harrington's all yours."

Munson glares at him, an open, incredulous look in his eyes, like he can't believe how stupid Billy's being. Like he's read the whole book and Billy is on page four.

"Dense like a fucking brick, Hargrove." Eddie shakes his head, looks back up to the purple sky over the flooded pit. "Worse than Harrington."

Billy cracks a smile. "C'mon, hey, no need to be mean, now."

It makes Eddie laugh, though he tries to cover it with the back of his hand. His shoulders jerk beneath his black leather jacket.

Billy laughs too, not even meanly.

"Fucking asshole," Eddie mutters. "Bet you broke all the boys' hearts in California, huh? And I bet you loved it."

"Had my share. Wasn't as big a slut as you're thinking, though."

"Oh, you have no idea the magnitude of slut I can think up, my man. Got an overactive imagination."

Billy rolls his eyes. "God, you're a fucking loser. No wonder kids picked on you in school."

"Is it true what they say about Cali? Things are better there? All the surfer boys and fairies holding hands as they mince down the street in pairs?"

Billy snorts. "Fucking no. 'Course not. You still gotta be careful. Still gotta watch your back. Know the good spots."

"But there are spots."

He shrugs. "Yeah."

Then Munson turns to face him, eyes a little bloodshot, studies him blatantly in the twilight.

"You leave some boy back in Cali, sunshine?"

"Fuck off. Don't ask me that shit."

To his shock, Eddie lays off. He'd expected Munson to needle at his weak spots. Billy would have deserved it, even.

"Wanna go some day," announces Munson, "see the ocean. Scope out the Bay. Visit Alcatraz. Gotta go to LA, eat at the Rainbow, see all the bands play. Such a good music scene out there! Quiet Riot, Legacy, Megadeth. Hit up the Jezebel! Man, I'd lose my shit."

"It's Jezebel's. No one calls it the Jezebel."

Eddie just grins his court jester's smile at him. "See? So you gotta come with me, then. Show me around. I mean, look at me. If I don't have a bona fide local as my escort I'll get mugged my first day in LA."

Despite himself, Billy chuckles at the image of excitable, spazzy Munson wandering around LA like a clueless tourist. "Yeah, wouldn't last an hour."

"You got those Hollywood good looks and everything."

"Oh, fuck off. I'm not even from LA."

"Where are you from?"

"San Diego."

"San Diego," repeats Eddie, exaggerating Billy's California accent, "dude, so totally radical, brah. Stoked for the bomb waters, man."

"God you're fucking annoying."

"And yet here I sit, Hargrove, face totally unpunched in your presence. Will wonders never cease?"

Billy folds his arms across his chest, annoyed that Munson has a point.

Scooting against the grille of his van, Eddie knocks his shoulder against Billy's. "You gonna make up with Harrington there, sunshine?"

Of course he is. "Thinking about it."

"You really should go for it, if you want my opinion." Like Billy was ever in danger of not hearing Munson's opinion. "He's something else, ol' King Steve. Never what you expect from him. And I've seen you look at him. 'M not an idiot, y’know, despite my grades. Whenever you two are in the same room—" he shakes his head "—it's like the air catches fire."

A pit of dread drops in Billy's gut. Prays it isn't as obvious to everyone else.

He casts a sideways glance at Munson only to be shocked when Eddie is boldly staring right at him. Closer than he had been a moment ago. On the backfoot, Billy is suddenly keenly aware of Eddie's shoulder leaning on his.

Gets too much of a thrill out of diving on grenades.

Pushing off the bumper, Billy seizes Munson by the shoulders and slams him up against the grille. Eddie jumps, but doesn’t fight. The gravel scrapes under their shoes.

Billy stares him down hard, their faces barely a breath apart. Dusk has come and gone and the dim blue light of evening closes them in a pocket out here on the clifftops.

Feeling a little insane, Billy leans in and kisses Munson hard and rough. Pliant, Munson opens his mouth to allow him. He sways and Billy tightens his hold. The sleeves of his leather jacket creak beneath Billy’s grip.

All the sour red hot anger pours through his body, unloading onto Munson. Billy catches Eddie’s bottom lip in his teeth, snaps it. He’s rewarded with a hitching moan from Eddie’s throat.

So hard. Billy had tried so hard in Indiana. Not to look at boys. Not to get sloppy. For almost a year he’d not given in. Hadn’t messed with anyone. Even when it had been hard. Even when it killed him.

Now he’s racking up two within a week. Right out in public like he doesn’t care who sees.

Thank god Neil isn’t here to see him.

Fucking Munson and his pushing the limits. Fucking Harrington and his doggedness. They’re screwing with his head. If there’s anything left to screw with.

Weed always makes Billy stupid.

Eddie slips his arms around Billy’s waist, guides their bodies together. He’s a better kisser than Billy would’ve thought. Less pushy, less demanding than when he talks.

They break apart for air. Bending, Billy slips his hands behind the knees of Eddie’s jeans and hoists him up onto the steep hood of the van. The whole chassis rocks on its axles. Billy leans forward between Munson’s legs and kisses him again, a little more desperate and messy this time.

“Think I’ll be your consolation prize, Hargrove?” Eddie mumbles into his mouth.

“You gonna stop me?”

Billy might not know him that well, but he knows Munson can’t say no to anything that feels good.

Once, when Billy had been eight years old he had touched a red hot stove. His mother had told him not to. So he did.

They ended up taking him to the ER to get the burn looked at and bandaged up. His dad had shouted the whole car ride there while his mom had kept a bag of frozen peas held to the burn in the backseat.

That day, Billy had learned that he was bad at resisting temptation. Even if it hurts. And that's what Steve is. That's what Munson is. Temptation.

Billy never learns his lesson.

Munson is gangly. All limbs and elbows. Knobby wrists and messy hair. Wraps his long legs around Billy's hips and tugs. Knows what he's doing, that's for sure.

Billy struggles with Munson's stupid handcuff belt.

"You like pushing people around, hmm? Roughing guys up?" Eddie murmurs in that obnoxious know-it-all tone of his. "Man, boys in San Diego must have been at each other's throats to get at you."

Frustrated that the guy doesn't know when to shut up, Billy hoists up Munson and shoves him against the side of the van. His legs come loose from around Billy's waist to support himself. But even the sudden change in position is not enough to dislodge that impish smirk from his face. Like this couldn't be more amusing. Like he knows a secret Billy doesn't.

"Yeah, this what gets you off, big guy?" Eddie pants as Billy mouths down his neck. "You like putting the freak in his place?"

Faster than he's expecting, Munson ducks and weaves, snatching Billy by the arm and shoving him face first into the side of his van.

He clangs into the metal siding and Billy's mind descends into snow. Beautiful uncomplicated static.

He stands there, not fighting, not resisting. Let's Munson bend him over.

His heart thunders in his ears, louder than either of their panting breath.

"Oh," the truth occurs to Munson, "oh no. Okay, now I get you. Yeah, I see how it is."

He runs his palms up Billy's arm, a gentle, skating touch. Grips the sleeves of Billy’s leather jacket and presses Billy's hands flat against the van. Munson leans in, folding his body against the line of Billy's back. Grinds his hips forward.

"Shoulda known," singsongs Eddie, "you want someone to be firm with you, hm? Need someone to discipline you. Typical."

Billy's body sinks forward. Rests his forehead against the van’s siding. He pushes his hips back into Munson. Doesn't really even mean to do it.

It's just that Munson's right.

Eddie's hands sweep up Billy's flanks. Takes a fistful of hair at the back of Billy's head. Doesn't tug, just tightens his grip. Tension builds pleasantly on the back of Billy's scalp as the roots of his hair are pulled tight. He waits, helpless. With that leverage, Munson steers Billy’s head curiously side to side a few times, testing compliance, before shoving Billy's cheek against the cold metal paint of the vehicle.

Billy hasn't been this hard in years.

"You little brat," giggles Eddie, grinding forward through his jeans, "you know exactly what you're doing, huh?"

Not really. It’s just that giving up feels so good. It’s not Billy’s fault if he ends up liking it.

"Shut up, Munson."

"Oh we both know you could throw me off if you wanted, big guy." Entitled hands come up under Billy's shirt, groping him. "But you don't, do you? That's not what you want at all, is it?”

It’s not.

"That it, baby? Hmm?" Munson prods, nuzzling into Billy’s hair. "You all bark and no bite?"

"Ask Harrington how bad my bite is."

Eddie's palm cracks across the seat of his jeans, hard. Billy is stunned to silence.

"Yeah," croons Munson, close to Billy's ear, "yeah, yeah I get you now. That why you cause trouble, right? Provoke people? Push ‘em around? You’re just looking for someone to finally push back?"

Another hard slap on his ass. Billy gasps.

"That why you roughed up Harrington? Why you can't keep your fucking hands off him? You're just dying for him to get fed up with you and show you some fucking discipline?"

Eddie’s hand finds Billy hard. He slips a hand under Billy’s waistband. Grips and strokes him. Billy moans, hungry. Over a year since someone touched him like that. Since California. Since cruising at surf shacks, hooking up with boys under the pier, in the back of his car, out on the sand late at night with the waves crashing behind them in the dark.

“Does the poor guy even know, I wonder?” Eddie’s breath is hot on the back of Billy’s neck. “That all your grabass and machismo hostility… does poor ol’ Steve even know that you were flirting with him.”

“You should learn when to shut up, freakshow.”

“Make me, California.”

Munson’s grip tightens on the downstroke and any rebuttal dies in Billy’s throat.

Eddie’s hands are skilled. Billy’s stamina is decimated. This is gonna be quick and humiliating and immolating. Shoved up against the guy’s van out by the abandoned quarry.

Not the most undignified place Billy’s ever come.

Munson fumbles to unzip Billy’s jeans. He shoves a knee between Billy’s legs. He picks up the pace of his hand, stroking, squeezing over Billy’s dick.

It’s so good that Billy’s knees shake. The siding of the van is cold under his cheek. Short, staggered breaths mist up on the paint.

Eddie’s big hand grips Billy’s hair, hard. “Fuck, you go down so pretty, big guy.”

“Shit—” but that’s all Billy can manage.

The pressure mounts rapidly. A low humming in his body. Billy chases it, rocks his hips into Munson’s hand. He tries to look at Eddie over his shoulder, but the grip in his hair holds his head firmly against the van.

“Go on, big guy,” Munson breathes into the side of Billy’s neck, “come all over my van if you gotta.”

Another stroke and grind of Eddie’s knee and Billy does. Comes moaning and gasping. He can feel it quaking in his thighs.

He braces his elbows against Munson’s van to stay upright. Then Eddie pulls off of him, wipes his hand on the gravel. He’s probably gonna want Billy to return the favour. But Billy needs a minute. Or several.

“Okay. C’mon, Cali.” Munson rights Billy’s clothes and guides him to the back of the van. He pops the rear doors open and sits Billy down. Billy’s legs swing over the rear fender.

Eddie sits down next to him, fishes a pack of cigarettes out of his black leather jacket.

Billy rocks back and lays flat in the open compartment of the van, arms flung out over the interior. Heartbeat thudding in his head. Fibres of his calf muscles still twinging. The orgasm really staggered him, not that he’s gonna let Munson know that. The aftershocks still pulse in his abdomen.

Pulling a cigarette out with his teeth, Eddie turns and offers the pack to Billy, “You need a smoke after that?”

Billy declines with a feeble wave.

Munson giggles. “Wow, you do know how to flatter a man’s ego, California. You that hard up that a handy in the woods has you turning down free smokes?”

“Shut up, Munson.” But Billy doesn’t have the breath to put any menace in it. “It’s been a while. Shit, guess it’s been years, technically. And… shit, even before last summer, I’d already been dealing with a dry spell.”

“The Billy Hargrove? Conqueror of high school seniors’ hearts? A dry spell?”

Billy shrugs against the carpeted floor of the van. “I’d graduated. Didn’t feel like stringing chicks along anymore. Most of them were annoying anyway.”

“Ah, the ol’ plausible heterosexual deniability ruse. Classic.”

“That shit was for my dad more than anyone. Made sure I was seen around town with girls a few times, y’know? Get him off my back.”

“Oh,” Eddie says. “Does your dad, uh…. Does he know that you’re—”

"Fucking told you to shut up, Munson.”

Wonder of wonders, Munson does shut up. He smokes his cigarette in relative stillness next to Billy.

Every few minutes he pats his hand on Billy’s knee, squeezes Billy’s leg through his jeans. An odd gesture, at once friendly but distant. Billy doesn’t have the focus to unpack it. Weirdness is Munson’s wheelhouse.

Having thoroughly basked in the afterglow, Billy heaves himself up into a sitting position. Together he and Munson look out over the quarry pit from the open rear doors of the van. It's actually kinda beautiful. The sky is starting to dusken with the first rosy touches of twilight. The grey cliffs a curious blue. They sit thigh-to-thigh as fledgling crows squawk in the white pine.

Cautiously, Eddie shoots him a sidelong glance. “You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Guess I don’t know.”

“You want anything?”

“You offering?” Eddie grins, dimples creasing.

In the interest of fairplay, Billy blows Eddie as he sits in the open bay doors of his van. Between his splayed legs Billy kneels in the gravel and finishes Munson off with relative efficiency. Munson is a nervy guy. Impatient. Already keyed up from their fooling around. It doesn’t take much to have him coming down Billy’s throat.

“Holy fuck, you’re good at that,” praises Eddie, chest heaving.

Billy spits into the gravel and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Plops back down next to Munson in the open doors of the van.

“I can’t believe I just got blown by Billy Hargrove,” pants Munson. “Shit, if you weren’t secretly back from the dead I’d tell absolutely everyone.”

“No one would believe you anyway, freakshow.”

The tide in Billy's head recedes, heavy debris settling to the bottom once in again. In an hour, when the ramifications of this set in, Billy will probably take another weapon to some new tree.

Next to him, Eddie leans heavy on the wall of the van and finishes his smoke. A red flush persists on his face, cheeks a little blotchy from the exertion. He keeps sneaking glances at Billy, trying to be inconspicuous but completely failing.

Billy rolls his eyes. "It was just a blowjob, Munson. Stop drawing up wedding plans."

"Aw, but you'd look so good in white," Eddie mugs at him.

Billy swats vaguely towards him, still too boneless and satisfied to make any contact.

After some silence, Eddie offers meekly, “I won’t tell Harrington if you don’t want me to.”

“Tell Harrington whatever you want,” says Billy, “I don’t give a shit.”

“Oh. Uh, well, I still probably won’t. He, uh… He doesn’t know.”

“Doesn’t know what?”

“That I’m gay,” Munson answers quietly. “Uh, no one really knows, actually. Not in Hawkins.”

Billy shrugs. He doesn’t give a fuck if Munson stays a closet case.

Munson smokes the rest of his cigarette in deep contemplation before throwing it down on the gravel. “So, okay, uh… shit. Listen, I get that I probably seem like a huge fucking hypocrite, right now,” Eddie babbles, impossibly chatty so soon post-orgasm, “but I really meant what I said. Before… uh, before we hooked up, I mean. Go patch things up with Harrington. That guy’s got such a big heart, he’d forgive you for the hit. Hell, might even overlook this indiscretion if you told him about it.”

Billy lays his head against Munson’s shoulder. “I don’t wanna talk about Harrington.”

“Oh. Um, okay. Yeah, sure.” Billy can nearly hear the steam coming out of Eddie’s ears. “Okay, yup. Loud and clear. No more talking about Harrington.”

Sitting beneath the open sky of the quarry, they soak in the nocturnal quiet. Around Munson, Billy doesn’t need to stay guarded. The guy’s harmless. A loudmouth, but not a gossip.

Around Eddie it’s easy to let his walls down. Easy to just sit and be with.

Billy still doesn't quite know what to make of him. Fondness? Obnoxious and a smartass with a withering comment for everything, but an undeniable wiry fortitude to back it up. Even though Munson is jumpy and distractible he’s like a dog with a bone when something has his attention.

More than anything, though, Munson is entirely genuine.

Billy likes people who are no bullshit.

Part of him almost regrets not getting to know Munson better during senior year. To Billy then, Munson had only been a source of weed and occasionally coke for the odd blowout. Making friends in Hawkins held no interest for Billy. A few of the other seniors had been good to party with, but once he graduated and saved up some money over the summer he had no intention of seeing any of them ever again.

So he’s also kinda glad he didn’t bother making friends with Munson. Would’ve just made leaving harder.

“Did you ever plan on getting out of here?” he asks after the long silence, still a little stoned.

“Oh, hell yeah,” says Munson, “only every day of my life, man. Nearly pulled it off this time, too. Was gonna finally graduate. Work and deal for a year, get some money together. Move out to Indy or Chicago or somewhere. The guys in the band were all graduating and off to college this year or next so I was gonna try and find somewhere new to play. A band. Give lessons. Anything. Was gonna leave this place in the dust and never look back.”

“Why did you even care about graduating? Aren’t you, like, nineteen or twenty by now?”

Eddie nibbles on his thumbnail. “Promised my uncle.”

Billy can’t imagine keeping promises to family members.

“He’s put up with me,” explains Eddie without prompting. “Let me crash with him for eight or nine years now. Never asked for shit, never gave me a hard time. Just wanted me to graduate. Was gonna make good on my word.”

“And now?”

“Well, I graduated on a technicality!” Munson grins and bumps Billy’s cheek with his shoulder. “School year was postponed after the earthquake. Just had to take the finals and pass ‘em. Got that D that I needed.”

“The school let you do that?”

“Had to write my exams separately in the library. Student body wasn’t exactly stoked on my return. The police cleared me but, y’know, I already had a reputation in this town and people were ready to jump me. Still are.”

“Fuck them.”

“Easy for you to say, Cali,” Eddie chuckles, “you could probably level the whole graduating class single handedly like some kinda blonde Rambo. I’m not exactly a fighter, if you hadn’t noticed. They'd turn my ass into mincemeat.”

“Tell me who and I’ll kill them.”

“Oh my god, no, it was a joke you lunatic!” Munson shoulders him. “I’ve already been on the run for murder once this year. I don’t need you rising from the dead and laying waste to the graduating class of ‘86 on my behalf, big guy.”

“No, seriously. Fuck this town. Fuck these people. Fuck what they did to you. Small-minded backwater hicks. Don’t feel sorry for them for one minute.”

“Hey now, those are my customers you’re talking about,” Munson deadpans before his face crinkles into an impish grin.

They sit together as the night densifies around them. Munson kicks his legs out the back of his open van doors like a kid on a swing.

“You know, you’re not half bad company, Hargrove,” says Munson after a while, glancing shyly at him. “Wouldn’t have thought so this time last year, but, man. These past few months have me reevaluating some core assumptions of my personal worldview.”

Billy chuckles. “Yeah. I hear you on that.”

“You want me to bring you back to the chief’s?”

“In a bit,” Billy mumbles, feeling tired.

He and Eddie share one more cigarette—Camels—and once they’re done, Eddie stands, stretches his long limbs, and they drive back to the main highway.

The dark, inverted world pulsates. The landscape itself is an organism that breathes. The earth, the trees, the sky. A united, cohesive membrane. Photonegative creatures inhabit the murk, crawling eyeless. Each a drone of the plasmodium that animates this place. They pulse in time with their hive.

Billy blinks, trying to clear his vision, but the skewed colours of the gloom world never remedy. On the dark horizon, silent red lightning forks and flashes across the sky, but the world seems no brighter for it.

He is standing in the middle of a paved road and he doesn't know how he got here. Particulate dust hangs in the air, catching the dim moonlight, wreathing between the roadside woods. To his right is a payphone booth, the phone dangling from the receiver. Somehow he recognizes it.

Terror rises in his throat. In all directions, impassable darkness.

Then, from down the road, a shape darker than shadow. A formless bulk, fluid, contracting and murmurating. Antimatter cutting through the membrane of reality.

The shadow monster.

It knows him. It’s staring right at him.

Distantly, Billy wants to run, but it would be futile.

Hanging in the air, its alluvial body chitters and solidifies. Black legs extend downward like tornadoes touching earth. It rises, enormous, higher than a barn. An elongated head distends, mouthless, looming high against the flickering sky.

This eternal writhing mass watches him. It knows him from across dimensional breach. It recognizes him like someone recognizes their own right hand.

It knows him. Knows him in every way that matters. Knows him like a hive knows a honeycomb. Knows him as an arrangement of matter that only pretends at being alive. Knows his first words, knows his last meal. Knows every thought he’s ever had. Down to the arrangement of the nucleotides of his chromosomes. Knows him better than his own mother knew him on the day he was born.

It knows him, all-consuming.

It will never forget. It doesn’t know how. It will keep him for all time. For all eternity.

Without even touching him.

There is no hiding from it. Ever.

A muffled voice is screaming, “Billy!”

Maxine. It’s her voice. Shrieking his name on the night of the Fourth.

“Billy!”

The sound is distant but everywhere. Like the shadow landscape itself is playing back her words.

“Billy, wake up! Please, please, you have to get up!”

The last words he ever heard her say. Does the shadow know even that, too?

“Billy, wake up. You have to wake up!”

But he can’t. He is transfixed, stupefied, helpless as the shadow monster fills the dark sky. It grows and grows. Without eyes it peers down at him. It does not chase and Billy does not run. He could never outrun it, more than he could outrun his own name.

With a jolt, Billy bolts upright, arms out in panic, ready to swing.

El sits on the foot of his bed dressed in her pyjamas, illuminated in the dim yellow glow of their incandescent bedside lamp.

“You have to breathe,” she tells him.

Chest heaving, Billy swivels, checking his surroundings. He lowers his arms. It’s his and El’s room. In the cabin. The tacky drapes stir by the ajar window. Their two cots separated by a bedside table. El’s posters on the walls and her sticker-covered stereo on the dresser.

Billy blinks, gulps.

That can’t be. The shadow had been after him. It was right there. It had been real. Huge and inescapable. If he closes his eyes he can still see its chittering swarm in the inverted world.

It must still be out there searching for him. Still hunting.

He will never outrun it.

It will always be there. Just through the skin of the world. Waiting.

His heart pounds in his eardrums. His mouth waters.

“Breathe,” instructs El.

She fixes him with those wide, sombre eyes and for the first time Billy thinks that maybe he’s not dying tonight.

Unafraid, she grabs both of Billy’s trembling hands in his lap. “Breathe how I told you. Inhale, hold. Exhale, hold. Together. Breath in.”

El takes a deep breath. So does Billy. Hands joined, they hold it for three seconds. Then they exhale, pausing on empty lungs for three seconds.

“Again,” directs El.

They repeat the procedure. Inhale, hold. Exhale, hold.

It works. Billy’s heart is no longer beating in his throat. His body settles back into the cabin bedroom. The terror abates.

There’s a heavy knock on the painted bedroom door and when it creaks open Hopper is leaning against the frame in an undershirt and sweatpants, scrubbing with a knuckle at his eye.

“Everything alright in here?” he yawns.

“Billy had a nightmare,” El tells him sadly.

Hopper squints at them in the dim light. “You alright, kid?”

“I thought it was real,” mutters Billy, hands still trembling. El’s hands are so small in his. “It was so real. I thought that it had found me, that I was… down there.”

“The breathing helped.” El confirms happily.

Hopper observes them both. “You need anything else, Hargrove? Water? Shot of whiskey? A cigarette?”

“Whiskey sounds real good right now, chief.”

“Alright. Sounds good. Come on out to the kitchen. We’ll talk it over until you’re ready to go back to sleep. El, it’s still late. You try and get back to bed alright?”

“Okay.”

Billy’s hands are still shaking. He curls them into fists in his lap. When his bare feet hit the floor gravity seems to double on his back. He hunches, leans his elbows on his knees, wipes the cold sweat from his temples.

He inhales. His chest pressurizes, expands. He holds it. Then, exhales, the tension unspooling.

The main room of the cabin is dark, save for the plug-in nightlight over the kitchen table. Hopper has some unlabeled bottle of amber liquor and two mismatched coffee mugs with ice. He pours a small amount of whiskey into both.

“Flashbacks can leave you on your ass,” Hopper tells him as Billy pulls up a chair opposite him. “A drink can help. A lot of drinks in a row do not help. Something to keep in mind in the future.”

Is that what Billy saw? A flashback? It had felt more real than this moment right now.

Hopper lifts his coffee mug and takes a sip of his whiskey. “You wanna talk about it?”

“What would I even say?” Billy croaks.

Hopper shrugs. “Talk about whatever scared you. What you saw. What happened.”

“Does that help?”

Another shrug. “Sometimes, if there’s just one other person in the world who knows the scary shit that you know, it’s enough to keep you from laying down on the railroad tracks.”

Billy puts his shaking hands around his mug of whiskey like it's a cup of warm tea. The ice has turned the ceramic cold. “Thought it was a dream. It was the night the shadow got me. By the abandoned foundry out by the secondary highway. But it was different. Different because… because I could hear Maxine screaming in the distance.”

It is still difficult to really remember that night. The shadow had so perfectly hijacked his consciousness that even now Billy still cannot really tell its thoughts apart from his own. The continuum of his memory stutters like an old film reel.

But he can still hear Maxine screaming.

“It was a memory but it was also… real. Like maybe it was really looking at me. Not in a dream or a memory but like it was really watching me from that… other world or whatever. Maybe it knows I came back somehow. Maybe it can still get to me.”

Billy takes a sip of his own mug of whiskey. It burns in a familiar way, helps wash the bitter cortisol taste from his mouth.

Across the table, Hopper rests his stubbly chin in his hand. All bedraggled and groggy the big man doesn't look as imposing as in the waking day.

“My first year back from Vietnam I thought every twig that cracked under my shoe was a landmine,” Hopper laughs darkly. “Saw a guy go that way. It’s awful. I'll never forget that popping sound. Whenever it rained I was a mess. Reminded me of the monsoon season. Harder to see booby traps in the rain. And then, obviously, y’know, this shit doesn’t help.” The big man gestures with his hand, indicating everything about their present circumstance. He smiles.

The whiskey is working. Talking gets easier.

“How did you get over it?” asks Billy.

“Get over it?” Hopper chuckles. “Kid, if I ever find out how to get over any of it, you’ll be the first to know.”

Billy chuckles, nods. Hopper's dark sense of humour is growing on him.

“Used to run from it. Used to drink too much, used pills too much. But it never worked. These days, I don't think it's really something you can really actually fix or solve,” Hopper muses. “I think it's more like losing an arm. Like, bam!” Hopper clasps his own shoulder. “Arm gets cut off in some freak accident. Gone forever. Never gonna grow back. So you gotta make peace with that. Damage is done. What comes next is figuring out how to carry on living with only one arm.”

The thought of never going back to the way he was isn't comforting at all to Billy. It feels like dying in its own way.

“Ah, don’t listen to me, kid,” Hopper grouses, “just an old man rambling about the bad ol’ days. Haven’t got any answers for you.”

That’s fine. Billy’s never had answers either. He’s starting to think that maybe there aren’t any.

Sitting in the cabin’s dark, Billy mulls on the possibilities. Then he finishes off the last of his whiskey.

Hopper’s heavy eyebrows perk inquisitively. “You good to just sit here in silence for a few more minutes until we turn back in?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, then.”

They sit together in the dark and quiet for another ten minutes. Once they’ve finished their whiskey, Hopper leaves the mugs in the sink and Billy crawls back into bed.

Chapter Text

He marches up to the big double front doors of the Harrington house. There’s a doorbell, but he pounds with his fist anyway.

Waiting, he checks over his shoulder, makes sure no one sees him. Only vacant suburban streets and green woods lurk behind him. A cozy little midwest mansion at the end of the cul-de-sac, woodland on three sides of the lot ensuring privacy and property value.

Billy pulls the brim of the LA Dodgers cap low over his eyes. He hates it but Hopper insists on it if he’s leaving the cabin. Even when staying off the roads. Billy hates the Dodgers. He’s starting to think Hopper is forcing the matter just to fuck with him.

The front door opens and Harrington’s stupid face greets him.

“Oh, uh,” Harrington frowns, jerks his head like he’s seeing things, “hey there.”

The bruise over his left cheekbone has faded. The mark is still a touch red and swollen. Hardly noticeable if you didn’t know to look for it. Ultimately it was a weak hit on Billy’s part, but it saves Harrington the humiliation of having to sport a pair of black eyes around town for a couple weeks for a second time.

“Can I come in?” Billy asks, trying not to sound too pissed off or too wistful.

“Um, yeah, I guess. If you want.” Steve fidgets with his hair, looking everywhere but at Billy. “Just didn’t expect it to be you.”

Billy squints. “You expecting company, Harrington?”

“Uh, no, not really. Is something wrong?” Steve does look at him, then. “No one’s been on the radio all morning.”

“No, nothing’s wrong. Nothing, like, monster related or shit like that.”

“Oh,” Steve squints, uncomprehending, “well, then what are you doing here?”

“Fuckin’,” Billy curses. Inhales, exhales, like El taught him. “Can we talk about it inside.”

It occurs only in that instant to Steve that he’s blocking the entrance with his arm against the doorframe. He moves aside, gestures for Billy to come on in.

Billy is getting used to the inside of the Harrington house, with its high ceilings and the big marble tile fireplace in the living room. Classy art on the walls and hardwood floors. A nice home. Not Billy’s taste, but no denying it would have been a nice place to grow up in. He wonders how long Steve has lived in this house. How many birthdays, how many Christmases.

“So, uh, what do you want, then?” grumbles Harrington after closing the front door.

“I’m, uh,” Billy huffs, musters up some sincerity, “just here to try and bury the hatchet, I suppose. About swinging on you the other day.”

Steve blinks. “Really? You’re here to apologize?”

“Not too much say in the matter. The chief made it pretty clear it was non-negotiable. It was either come grovelling to you or go sleep out in the woods.”

“Ah, I see. Okay, well, y’know. Figured you’re stubborn enough that you might not be above sleeping in the woods if it means avoiding me.” He props his hands on his hips, always posing like some prissy fucking model. “But, y’know. Either way I appreciate it, I guess.”

Great, so Billy can leave now, right?

"Um," Steve begins, "do you wanna, I guess, come in for a minute? Have a drink? Something to eat?"

A bad idea. Harrington's walking them into a trap, even if he doesn't know it.

"Now why would you want me to come inside, princess?"

It works. Harrington blushes, stammers, "Well, Jesus, 'cause, you came all this way. You're being civilized for a change. And I'm trying to, uh, I dunno. Return the gesture?"

Billy snorts. Swipes his tongue over his teeth. "Oh really? Return the gesture?"

"Dude, shut up." Harrington scoffs. The blush deepens.

"Well then sure," Billy cocks and eyebrow and grins, “invite me in for coffee, Harrington."

Glowering, Steve rolls his eyes. He stomps around the corner to the kitchen, the kind so clean it’s never been eaten in. Billy leans his elbows on the kitchen island, taking no small pleasure in watching Harrington squirm.

Whether they actually address what happened that night out by the pool— Billy is going to wait Harrington out on that. Wait and see if he can get Harrington agitated enough to bring it up.

“Did you walk here?” asks Harrington, retrieving some glasses out of an overhead cupboard.

“Yup.”

Steve fills up the glasses from the faucet. “Not worried about being seen?”

“That’s what the ol’ undercover cop disguise is for.” Billy taps the brim of the Dodgers cap.

"Uh, yeah, no one in the whole world is gonna think you're an undercover cop, dude. Not even Serpico’s got hair like you. Okay, well, I guess maybe you do sorta look like that guy in To Live And Die in LA. Not the cop guy but the villain. You know that one actor?"

Billy gnaws on his lip, makes a big show out of thinking very hard about it. "You know, for some reason I haven't really seen a lot of movies this year."

"But you must’ve seen the guy. The actor. He’s been in stuff. Damn it, what was his name? We had the poster of that movie in the video store for like three months and his name was right on it. Son of bitch what was that guy's name?"

Steve frowns in concentration under the mammoth task. Steam nearly comes out of his ears. Just as Billy's getting bored Harrington slams his hand down on the countertop and snaps his fingers.

"Willem Dafoe!" Harrington proclaims. "That's the guy's name. Yeah, you sorta look like Willem Dafoe."

Billy has no idea who that is.

"Um, yeah, but I guess you probably don't give a shit," Harrington mutters, self-conscious. "Yeah, uh, never mind. Doesn't matter. Forget about it."

On the kitchen island Harrington places down one of the glasses of water and sips the other. A respectable distance so as to not approach Billy. Cautious of getting hit or maybe jumped. They say nothing, but Billy gets the impression that he's not free to leave. Usually that wouldn’t stop him, but watching Harrington sweat is enjoyable. So he chugs back his offered glass of water. Tense silence prevails in the big open house.

It's only a little bit excruciating.

“Hey, uh,” Harrington begins, when he can endure the torment no more, “listen, um, did you mean what you said the other day? At Hop’s? About how you’d gone to the quarry that night to, uh, to jump?”

Billy tuts, furious. Tries to keep in mind what Munson told him. About Harrington's big heart. “Yeah. That was the plan.”

“After you left here? After we…”

"Yup."

The answer devastates Harrington. His beautiful mouth parts in wounded shock. "Because of… because of what we…."

“Oh c’mon, Harrington, don’t flatter yourself. No, it wasn’t because of that. You think sucking your dick was so awful I had to go kill myself afterwards?”

Steve winces. “Well then, um, why…”

“Decided to do it after leaving the hospital that day. Maxine told you guys to put me out of my misery, but none of you had the balls to do it, so I took matters into my own hands.”

“Max didn’t mean that, Billy.”

“She sure as shit did. That little girl never says anything she doesn’t mean. And she had the right idea. The smartest out of all of you.”

A stylish bronze-and-glass wall clock ticks in the corner of the kitchen. Billy chews on his lip some more, wishes he had a cigarette, a toothpick, gum, anything.

Astonishing to Billy, Harrington doesn’t pick a fight. Just shifts and fidgets on the other side of the kitchen island. The afternoon sun is streaming through the kitchen blinds, catching him in a nimbus of golden light across the side of his face. Soft brown eyes squint and blink against the sunlight. Freckles and moles dot the side of his face and throat. Preposterous waves of soft hair catch fire in the light.

Billy had really thought it would be the last thing he ever did. Didn’t ever expect to face Steve again afterwards. Doesn’t know how to navigate this bullshit. Doesn’t know what he’s expected to say to Steve now.

“Did you really go to my funeral?” Billy asks, cold with the absurdity.

“Yeah, I really did.”

“Why?”

Harrington shrugs. “‘Cause I go to all the funerals. It’s fucking hard seeing people die over this shit. Even if it’s the person who insisted on being a complete asshole to me when they were alive. A few other people from our class went, too. Some guys from the basketball team. But I went with the kids. They all went for Max.”

For some reason, Billy can’t picture Maxine attending anyone’s funeral, especially his own. Can’t imagine Susan wrestling her into that black dress she hates. Can’t imagine Maxine standing in silence, pretending to be sad in a graveyard.

Harrington blinks rapidly a few times then pushes his waves of hair back from his face. “Shit, yeah, that was a really bad day.”

“Was my dad there?”

“What? Yeah, of course your dad was there, man. He was standing with Max’s mom.”

“Did he say anything?”

“What, like a eulogy?

“Yeah, sure.”

“Uh, no. No, no one, like, really made speeches or anything. The priest read a prayer, I think.”

“Do you know if…” But Billy stops.

Harrington dips his head, tries to look Billy in the eye. “Do I know if what?”

Billy swallows, his throat clicking. “Do you know if anyone ever told my mom?”

Harrington’s big brown eyes go wide. He folds his arms, runs a hand over his jaw. “Shit, uh, no. Sorry, man, I have no idea.”

Billy sucks his teeth, squeezes his hand into a fist on the counter. Had his dad ever called her? To let her know her kid was dead? Had she felt bad for leaving, then?

Blinking, recovering, Billy says, “Well, good riddance, then. If she was interested she woulda called sooner.”

With a wince, Steve looks like he’s about to say something but thinks better of it. He’s getting wise.

For the first time since waking up in the woods, Billy wishes his dad was still in town, because he feels like he could finally walk up to the old man and sock him right in the face.

“No one’s seen your dad since he packed up the house,” Steve offers, mainly just to fill the silence. “Maybe he went looking for her.”

Billy scoffs. “He better not find her.”

If Harrington grasps Billy’s meaning or not, his expression doesn’t betray one way or another. Instead he just shrugs, accepting Billy’s cryptic bullshit without argument. He takes a deep breath and releases it through his nose. Billy watches him consider something, trying not to look Billy in the eye as he does.

“Penny for your thoughts, Harrington?”

Steve levels him with an unamused glare.

The unacknowledged blowjob in the room is quite plainly eating away at Steve’s composure. Billy is utterly amused by his misery. He gnaws at his lip with a fang to keep from smiling.

“Something on your mind, there, pretty boy?” Billy goads further, running his tongue along his teeth and grinning wickedly.

How far can Billy provoke him before he retaliates?

“You’ve got some fucking nerve, y’know?” sniffs Harrington.

“Yeah?” Billy preens. “How’s that?”

“You know how!” Harrington barks, thunking the countertop with his hand. “Quit being a freakin’ dickhead, man. You wanted to apologize? Fine. Mission accomplished, dude. Tell Hopper I said he can’t kick you out. So, are we done? What are you still doing here?”

“Just tryin’ to be friendly, Harrington. What’s the matter? You all nervous about seeing me back here again? Hmm? After last time?”

Leaning his elbows on the countertop, Harrington buries his face in his hands with a theatrical groan. Billy grins, feeling a little surge of a tiny victory.

But rather than take a swing at Billy, or call him a fag, or threatening to out him to everyone, Harrington just inhales deeply, shoulders rising and sits up right, pushing off the counter with both hands. He exhales and looks out the kitchen window that looks out over the backyard and the pool patio.

“I didn’t know you were, um,” Harrington’s voice cracks and he clears his throat before trying again, “I didn’t know that you were, uh, gay.”

Like a crowbar to the back of the head, that word. But Billy grins, sharklike, all threat and menace. “Yeah, well, turns out I’m not the only one, Harrington.”

“But… you dated girls, senior year.”

“So did you.”

“No, I, I'm not, uh… it's not the same, for me. I’m not… I don’t know if I’m, like, really….”

“Oh, sure, I’ve heard that one before.”

“Okay, but seriously. I’m not sure if I am.”

“Think your cock in my mouth would say otherwise.”

“Dude, could you fucking knock it off?”

“Oh c’mon, think you’re the first guy I’ve ever heard deny it?” Billy bats his lashes and licks his lips, just to be an asshole. “Doesn’t count, right? Not if you’re just gettin’ your dick sucked, doesn’t make you a queer, right? Bet you can’t get it out of your head. Probably been keeping you up at night, how hard I made you come. Hmm? Am I right?”

“Stop it.”

“Ain’t no running from the truth Harrington.”

“Would you fucking stop. Where the fuck do you get off, man? You fucking… you jumped on me. Kissed me. And then… and then after you just… left. Ran off. I thought you were gone. I thought you were gone gone, that no one would ever see you again. That fucked me up, Billy. You really fucking messed with me. And do you even care? No, of course not. It’s all just a big joke to you, right? Having a good ol’ laugh at dumbass Harrington. Still getting your kicks out of tormenting me ‘cause you’re a fucking douchebag.”

Billy shrugs with both arms. “You invited me in, Harrington.”

“Because I’m trying to be nice! I’m trying to help you out! Because you’re a part of this shit. You’re a part of the club now and it sucks, Billy. It sucks to know about this shit. It sucks having to worry about monsters from one side and the fucking government from the other. And I’m trying to not let bullshit from high school get in the way of figuring out what’s going on with you.”

“Well who asked you? Think I’m one of your freshmen ducklings? Think I need you to be my fucking mommy?”

“God, why are you like this?” Steve yells. “Why are you so fucking hostile all the time? You make everything so difficult! God, you make me crazy.”

Billy stalks around the kitchen island. “Oh, I make you crazy, pretty boy?”

Not retreating, Harrington braces.”Yes. You do it on purpose, you lunatic! Think it’s hilarious to get under my skin and wind me up. Don’t act like you don’t.”

Billy swipes his tongue over his canines, watches with interest when Steve stares at his mouth.

He likes having Steve’s attention.

“So why don’t you do something about it then?” Billy goads.

“Stop pushing me, man.” It is nearly begging.

With one hand, Billy shoves Steve’s shoulder. “Or what?”

Steve resists the push, scowling, as threatening as a kitten.

“Worried maybe you liked it too much?” Billy asks in a low rumble. He leans right into Harrington's face, noses nearly touching. “Once is an honest mistake, right? But if you let a guy blow you twice, well, then maybe you actually just like it.”

“Stop.”

“Make me, pretty boy.”

Steve shoves him back. “I mean it.”

“Gonna have to do better than that.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, I think you maybe you’d like that too.”

“Asshole.”

“Does your frigid little ex know? What was the bitch’s name? Wheeler? You were so torn up over her during senior year. Honestly it was kinda pathetic to watch. Does she know she turned you queer? Huh? Does she know she was in competition with the cocksucking fags —”

This time Steve does actually slap him. Cracks Billy right across the face with an open palm.

He’s strong. It hurts. Whips Billy’s head to the side, ends of his hair flying into his mouth. The sting and heat surfaces on his cheek and Billy smiles.

Being in control of the hurt, knowing what provokes it and what doesn’t, is the most powerful, gratifying thing Billy has ever felt. The power of knowing a person’s limits, and what it takes to push them over the line.

Slowly, he lolls his head back, stretching, rolling his neck, and faces Harrington.

Face burning red, from shame, from anger, from arousal, Harrington snarls at him in full contempt. The fire, Billy had called it.

He and Harrington, they are reckless in the same way.

Harrington lunges. Snatches Billy by the hair and yanks. They collide, crashing like an attack. It ends up being a kiss. Steve forces him by the hair and Billy opens his mouth for him. It's graceless and heated. Just as Billy craved.

Steering, Harrington slams them both back into the refrigerator. The stupid LA Dodger cap tumbles off Billy’s head. Magnets and papers clatter to the floor at his feet. A takeout menu from the local pizza place. A Harrington family photo.

The kiss ramps up. Somehow, it’s like there’s not enough time. Like both of them are racing to do things that are years overdue. Slammed up against the solid fridge door, Billy lets Steve take what he's after. Lets Harrington move him by the hair, lean in close, pry open his mouth, seize kiss after kiss, breath for breath. Lets him expel that anger like venting steam. Lets him figure it out.

Billy matches Harrington stroke for stroke. Keeps him on his toes. Slings his hands around Harrington's waist and squeezes. Is rewarded with a soft little gasp. Billy pries his knee between Steve's thighs and grinds. Steve moans and squeezes a handful of Billy’s hair. He breaks the kiss and looks down between their bodies.

The sight makes Harrington moan aloud again, when Billy grinds his knee. Like he's shocked. Like he can't believe what he's seeing.

Billy drives both his thumbs into Harrington's waist, circles the ridge of hipbone through the denim.

“Jesus,” curses Steve, his hips rocking forward.

In fairness to Harrington, Billy can’t really believe this is happening either.

It’s downright surreal, if you think about it. Standing here in Steve Harrington’s tastefully decorated kitchen, with his knee between Steve Harrington’s thighs, with Steve Harrington’s hands groping and roaming his body.

Twice. Billy’s gotten him twice. Billy’s won twice.

This time he even managed to get Harrington to swing first.

It feels like winning. Because by screwing around with Harrington, somehow Billy has beaten Hawkins. He’s taken their prodigal son and despoiled him. Everything Billy hated, everything he wanted and would never have. By blowing Steve Harrington, Billy gets the last laugh on the town in the end.

Billy lets the fridge door take his weight. Wetting his lip, his mouth tingles. His heaving breath stirs the ends of Harrington’s chestnut hair. The sight of him with his mouth red and panting is delectable.

Just looking at it sends a warm swoop through Billy’s gut.

Leaning forward, Billy lays hungry, open-mouthed kisses onto Steve’s neck. Nips at the tender skin there. Cranks his knee between Harrington’s legs, just for good measure.

It’s all or nothing, every time. He can never hold himself back when he wants something.

Overcome, Steve lets his head fall back. Billy plants a kiss to the tender underside of his jaw, warm and wet and with just an edge of teeth. Steve grinds his hips forward. He's growing hard against Billy's knee. Urgently, Billy fumbles for the front on Steve’s jeans.

“Shit,” Harrington groans, voice high and breathy, “oh my god.”

“That's it, pretty boy,” Billy huffs against his neck. He fights with Steve’s button and zipper, shoves his hand between his legs to stroke his hardened cock.

A piercing ring from the wall-mounted phone bolts them apart. Both snap to face it on the nearby wall, like it caught them.

After the third ring, Harrington reaches for it, tries to step away.

“Leave it,” Billy murmurs.

“I can’t.”

“Just ignore it.”

“No, I can’t,” Steve replies, “I really can’t.”

But Steve kisses him again, lets Billy slide his tongue behind his teeth.

The phone rings again.

“Shit, damn it. I have to. I have to get it. It might be important. It could be about El or the kids or something. Just… just don't go anywhere. Okay? Hang on one sec.”

Steve picks up the phone on the fifth ring.

“Hey, uh, hello. This is Steve. Harrington. Harrington residence.”

The sharp knife of rejection hits Billy in the breastbone. Standing there, all heated and disarrayed as Harrington just saunters off. He clenches his jaw, exhales heavily. His mouth tingles warmly. He pushes off the refrigerator and kicks a fridge magnet across the linoleum floor for good measure.

“Oh, yeah, hey, Robin,” Harrington sighs, pinches his forehead. “Yeah, I’m fine. No, no nothing’s wrong. Seriously, I'm fine.”

Billy rolls his eyes, chuckles bitterly to himself. Ditched for a girl, of course. He casts a scathing glare at Harrington.

“No. No, I’m not doing anything, Robin! I just thought it might be serious. Like, y’know, serious serious. Y’know, with everything going on, lately.”

Right. Phone lines are tapped. So this Robin chick must be in on the conspiracy shit.

“Well why were you calling then, anyway?” Harrington asks, verging on bitchy. “Is something up?”

This Robin girl must ramble. Harrington listens in silence for a while, pacing in a tight circle as far as the phone cord will allow. He throws a few abortive glances toward Billy, face still flushed pink, hair mussed in distracting waves.

Billy, snarling, decides he’s sick of being ignored.

He crowds up against Harrington, backs him up against the wall, slowly. Phone receiver to his ear, Harrington watches Billy like he’s an approaching mountain lion. Billy smiles.

Leaning in, he resumes kissing Steve’s neck. Softly, torturously, Billy plants a trail up his collarbone, his throat. He nips over the previous pink marks, laves his tongue over a dark mole beneath Steve's ear.

“Ah, okay. Um, yeah, sure,” stammers Harrington into the receiver as Billy’s tongue laves the underside of his jaw, “okay. Your shift on Thursday? Yeah, for sure. No problem.”

Billy can just make out the staticy murmur of the girl’s voice on the other end of the line.

“No, no seriously. It’s fine.” Harrington briefly moves the phone away from his mouth, gasping as Billy presses his canine into the skin of his throat. “Sorry, Rob, I gotta go, okay? Yeah, I know, sorry. But we’ll talk soon. Promise. And I’ll cover you Thursday. Okay? Okay. Yeah, yeah, I’ll call soon. Really. Promise.”

Billy recaptures Steve’s mouth with a punishing kiss. Not a moment too soon. Reaching blindly, Steve attempts to replace the receiver but misses and both phone and cord tumble to the floor, dial tone droning quietly.

Harrington throws both arms around Billy’s neck, holds him close. If he’s being honest with himself, Billy had expected more denial on Harrington’s part, more ambivalence. Not this clumsy enthusiasm. Billy’s kinda overjoyed.

They break apart for air, both panting into each other’s mouth.

Steve rests his brow against Billy’s. “Shit. Holy shit. This is crazy.”

Billy nips at Steve’s lower lip.

“This is crazy,” Steve repeats, voice low with desire. “This is really crazy. What are we doing? Shit, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Stop talking,” Billy rumbles, returning to kiss along Harrington’s neck.

Billy smooths a hand down Steve’s front, squeezes his cock through his jeans and smiles wickedly when Steve moans and shudders in response.

“Holy shit,” Harrington mutters, still dead set on talking through this for some reason, “your hands are big.”

He says it so earnestly Billy doesn't even make the obvious joke.

“Okay, wait, wait, wait, wait.” Steve pushes Billy back a step, gains some breathing room. “Just wait. I can’t do this here. Not in my parents’ kitchen, man. Can I… shit, can we go upstairs?”

“And what’s upstairs?”

“My bedroom.”

That has Billy on the back foot. There’s no way Steve realizes what he’s offering.

Billy slips a hand beneath Steve’s shirt, skates a palm up his ribs, presses a thumb over a nipple. “And what’s going to happen once you get me up in your bedroom?”

Flushing red, Steve bites his lip as Billy gropes him. “I want to try going down on you.”

The image nearly buckles Billy’s knees. The thought of pretty boy Steve Harrington, podunk small town boy, happily getting on his knees for Billy nearly makes him come in his pants.

“You sure about that, pretty boy?”

“I am.”

“Thought you said you weren’t a queer?”

“Do you want your dick sucked or not, Billy?”

Billy chuckles, flashes his canines at Harrington. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Because Billy’s been with guys like Steve before. Guys who will do anything, everything, but insist that they weren’t queer. Denial made it possible for those guys, somehow, to get what they needed without having to take on the ostracizing category of faggot.

Anything to hang onto being normal.

But if this is Billy's only chance then he won’t be picky.

In Steve’s bedroom, the mood is far more subdued. Gone is the frantic urgency from downstairs. The snarling and the shoving. Billy shuts the door behind him and realizes this is Steve’s childhood bedroom. Definitely hasn’t been updated that much since he was a kid. Posters of cars and one of Brooke Shields from Blue Lagoon being some of the more recent additions.

In the open space by the neatly made bed, Steve turns to face him, lips red and parted, cheeks flushed, hair a flyaway mess.

Billy did that to him.

“You change your mind on me, Harrington?” Billy asks, trying to sound annoyed and not devastated.

“No,” murmurs Steve, “I just, uh, I really don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never done this before. This is kinda crazy that we’re doing this, right? Like… this is crazy.”

Billy doesn’t like this dip in Steve’s enthusiasm. “Listen, Harrington, if you’re having second thoughts, just say so. Forget it ever happened. I’m not interested in hanging around for your identity crisis.”

“I’m not,” Steve insists, his back all up again, “but I… I mean it. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“But you’ve had a girl do it to you, right?”

“A couple times.”

“Well there ain’t no secret to it. Just do what they did. It’s kinda hard to get it wrong, trust me.”

Standing by his childhood bed, Steve looks Billy up and down, considering. Maybe this is a bridge too far. This is the moment he throws Billy out, calls him names and warns Hopper and El that they oughta kick him out, let the Army have it.

But instead Steve reaches out a hand. “Come here.”

Billy obeys.

Steve kisses him, hard and slow. Romantic even. Pulls off Billy’s jacket as he does. Lets it drop to the carpet. Gets his hands under the borrowed flannel and pulls that off too. Clearly it’s a move he’s practiced before.

And he’s good at kissing. Good enough that Billy imagines this isn’t some curious straight boy’s experiment. That maybe Steve wants something from Billy just as badly as Billy does from him.

It's already so crazy. Billy can let himself imagine that, just this one time.

Undoing Billy’s belt buckle, Steve breaks from the kiss and looks up at Billy from under those lashes. “Get on the bed.”

Billy shucks off his jeans and complies.

Steve takes off his own shirt and crawls over top of him. Billy’s stomach flips.

Steve Harrington, over top of him, shirtless, looking down at him like that.

Billy remembers Steve’s body from the locker rooms. Obliviously confident, at ease with himself in a way that’s rare in high school. Harrington probably hit his growth spurt early. Probably shot up and got facial hair by fourteen and never looked back.

Steve’s eyes trail down Billy’s own body in return. He only looks, really looks, maybe for the first time ever. Taking in this new sort of body in his bed. His eyes drift from Billy’s lips, down his throat, over his bare chest and abdomen, and then finally between his legs. Billy is hard, has been for nearly ten minutes. Maybe that's intimidating.

After a moment of stalling, Steve wraps his hand around Billy’s cock and strokes.

“Oh my god,” Steve mutters to himself.

It takes him a moment to get a feel for it, for the pace and rhythm, but once he does, he’s a natural.

Billy groans, digs both hands into the pillow behind his head. It’s good. It’s so good. So good that it’s a little unfair. Steve’s unskilled but confident strokes work up a fire in his gut.

Being on his back for Harrington, turning himself over to this guy that despises him so much, it turns Billy on more than anything.

After testing for a minute, Steve settles on his knees between Billy’s splayed legs. He has only a moment, two moments, of further hesitation before leans forward and takes Billy’s cock in his mouth.

“Son of a bitch,” curses Billy, fingers rending in the pillow behind his head, “fuck, yeah, just like that.”

It’s slow at first. Steve traces a long stripe up Billy cock, once, twice, before returning with more confidence. He’s figuring it out.

Then Steve starts to bob his head in long, deep strokes and Billy curls his toes and has to think of the LA Dodgers to keep from coming on the spot.

“Fuck, pretty boy, that’s it.” Billy reaches down and snags a handful of Steve’s luscious hair. “Knew you’d be a natural.”

Steve moans, the sensation vibrating up Billy’s spine.

“Yeah, you’re a natural.” Billy guides him by the hair, firm, but not cruel. “How long you been thinking about sucking cock, hmm?”

Moaning, Steve’s eyes flutter shut.

Tilting his head back, Billy lets his own eyes slide closed. “You sure you weren't lying to me? You haven't been practicing on boys behind the bleachers?”

Harrington digs his nails into the backs of Billy's thighs. Always competitive.

Picking up the pace, Steve laves his tongue, hollows his cheeks. Clumsy, but he's receptive, good at reading feedback, testing what Billy likes. An eager student.

“Fuck, you have no idea how much time we wasted, pretty boy.”

Harrington’s eyes flick up, staring Billy down through his eyelashes. Working his tongue, he takes Billy a little deeper and wraps his hand around what he cannot take. He gags a little. Everything’s a competition.

It’s too fast. Billy is about to snap, about to come in under two minutes from a rookie blowjob and he doesn’t care. Steve Harrington’s warm and unpracticed mouth has him shaking. The muscles beneath his navel tighten and Billy knows it’s too late.

He sits up. Pushes Steve off and onto his back. Sitting up on his knees, Billy takes his own cock in his hand.

“Just lay there, princess,” Billy orders. “Just stay right there for me.”

Steve clues in fast. “Oh my god. Oh my god, yeah. Come on me. Do it.” He reaches down to undo his own jeans.

Because Harrington is beautiful like this. Besotten, mouth red and swollen, eyes watering, hair mussed, and long limbs. The sight of him like this is enough. It’s enough and Billy wants to mark it.

It’s mounting rapidly as Billy works himself. The coil of ruinous pleasure. To claim Harrington, even in some insufficient, impermanent way. No matter if they never speak again after this, Billy had him first and he wants Steve to remember that.

“C’mon, Billy,” Steve whines as he starts working his own cock from the front of his splayed open pants, “yeah, do it. Come on me. Fuck, that’s hot.”

Billy does. Comes so hard his ears ring and his vision tunnels. Comes in waves all over Steve’s bare abdomen, even up into the hair on his chest.

With a low, throaty moan, Steve watches, then comes himself.

Billy collapses to his elbows over Steve, heaving, the aftershocks of his orgasm ricocheting through him. He hangs his head, barely an inch away from Steve’s. Steve looks right back at him, panting hard in high, thready breaths as he rides his own pleasure to completion.

Flooded with warm syrupy satisfaction, Billy slumps to the mattress beside him. Steve drapes an arm over his own eyes.

“Oh my god,” moans Steve as his breathing regulates. “Oh my god.”

“You like it that much, princess?” pants Billy, face half against the comforter.

“You fucking came on me. That was so hot. Holy shit. This is crazy. This is so crazy. You make me crazy,” says Steve, face still hidden in the crook of his elbow.

Billy nuzzles his face against Steve's neck and inhales, tasting the sweat and skin of him.

“I can't believe we did that,” Steve heaves, hand tracing down his own chest, “I can't believe we did that.”

Leaning, Billy reaches down to the floor and fishes up Steve's discarded shirt. He wipes up their collective mess from Steve's stomach, then wipes off his own hand. Steve doesn't even complain about Billy dirtying his clothes.

“You came on me,” repeats Steve with something like awe. “Holy shit.”

After, Steve curls up next to Billy on the bed. Knuckles press firmly into the tattoo on Billy’s shoulder. Maybe he’s testing to see if it’s real. If this tattoo is the same ink that Billy got the night of his eighteenth birthday in some basement two towns over. It must be the same, right? It must mean Billy’s body is the same.

Steve walks his fingers around Billy’s shoulder and down his collarbone. Billy is too content in the afterglow to mind.

The fine chain of his necklace pulls. Harrington rests his head on Billy’s shoulder, toying with the pendant against Billy’s breastbone. Feeling tolerant, Billy lets him.

“Are you religious or something?” asks Steve.

Billy smiles, chuckles. “Heh, no.”

“Then what do you wear this for? You always have it on. I remember even in high school you always had it.”

“It’s something surfers do.”

“You surf? Like, actually?”

“Used to.”

“Okay, well, that’s actually kinda cool.”

“Ya think so?”

“I will deny I ever said that, under oath.”

“Too late, amigo. Cat’s out of the bag now.”

Harrington groans dramatically. Annoying him, no matter how minutely, always feels like a victory.

“Saint Christopher.”

“Hmm?” Steve props his head on his palm.

“The little guy on the pendant. It’s Saint Christopher.”

“And what is he, like, the patron saint of gnarly waves and cowabunga?”

Billy cracks, smiling stupidly. Part of him can’t really believe this; that he’s laying here in Steve Harrington’s bed, post-coital, bantering like two sweethearts. Kinda wants to laugh at himself. “Nah. Or, well, sort of, I guess.”

“Well, uh, okay, so what does that mean?” Harrington gestures like he’s waiting for the punchline.

“There’s a legend,” Billy tells him, folding his other arm behind his head, “or a myth, I guess. A friend told it to me once. Back in the day, there was Saint Christopher, but, y’know, before he was a saint. He was just some guy. But a big guy. Like, tall. And strong. So tall and strong that he would help travellers across this dangerous river.” Somehow, Billy feels open, laying here in Harrington’s bed. Feels like he can share without consequence. “He would put them up on his shoulders and walk across the deep, rushing water. So now surfers wear these for protection out on the water.”

Harrington listens, an attentive pupil. Watching him sidelong, tracing the pendant’s edge with a steady fingertip against Billy’s chest. Billy could watch him all afternoon.

“Nowadays guys on the beach give them to their girlfriends,” he continues, “to keep ‘em safe on the water, and to let other guys know their girl’s taken.”

“So who gave you yours?”

Billy huffs. “No one.”

“You got it yourself?”

“Yeah.” He shifts, dislodges Harrington. “Sure. Got it myself.”

Sunlight dapples in through the window. This tacky schoolboy’s room swirls with a serene peace. Steve dozes against him, basking in the supreme satisfaction of a challenge conquered. Nearly boastful. Billy toys with his soft hair.

“This, uh…” Harrington croaks, “I mean, us. This… uh, us. This is okay, right?”

“You were there when I came, right, Harrington?”

He groans, laughs. “Uh, yeah. That part was definitely kinda hard to miss.”

“Well then what the hell do you think?”

“C’mon, man. I know the only way you can get your kicks is by messing with me, but I’m being serious. Thought it was obvious but I’ve never, like, done anything like this before. With, uh, y’know, with a guy. And, I dunno, after the first time you, like, took off without saying anything and I kinda freaked out. Freaked out about a couple things. I'm trying to figure out what this makes me. What this makes us. If we even, like, are anything. But… shit, I dunno.”

“Are you asking if we’re going steady, Harrington?”

Steve averts his eyes, annoyed, or ashamed.

“Want to dress me up in your letterman jacket? Take me home to meet your folks?”

“Okay, y’know, you don’t have to be an asshole about it, man.”

What else would Billy be?

Harrington sulks. He hates feeling stupid. It was one of the first things Billy clocked about him back in ‘84. Pretty smalltown boy, charming but inadequate, who falls in love too fast and too hard.

Sitting up, Billy pulls the chain and pendant over his head. He looks down at Steve, hair bedraggled, face shuttered off. The wide loop goes easily around his neck. The little brass pendant sits low against his sternum.

“How’s that, Harrington? You wanna be my girl?”

An obvious blush breaks down Steve's neck and chest. His eyelids flutter closed. “This is kinda messed up, right?”

“Which part?”

“Everything. You. Me. Shit, man, I went to your funeral. I went to your funeral. I saw it happen, y'know? I actually saw you die. Right in front of me. How can you be here now? I don't get it. It doesn't feel real. Maybe this is just… just me finally having a nervous breakdown or something.” He gestures to the mussed sheets pooling at their waists.

“Never heard of a hate-fuck before, Harrington?”

“No! Not with, y’know… not with a guy. Or anyone, okay? I’m… fuck, I’m trying to figure some stuff out, okay? Cut me a break.”

“Let me blow you again and you’ll forget all about it.”

Billy reaches for him, but Harrington winces away. Rejection flash floods in Billy’s lungs.

“Priss.”

“Don’t, man,” Harrington complains.

The sudden keelhaul in mood confuses Billy. Honestly, he thinks his little gesture with the pendant is kinda smooth. Sweet, even. Doesn’t know why Harrington suddenly has a bug up his ass.

Propelled by his sour grapes, Steve gets up out of bed. He stomps into some fresh clothes. Billy watches him, lying naked in the rumpled bedding. Waits for Harrington to tell him to get out.

Billy should really know better than to mess around with a straight boy.

Suddenly ashamed, unwelcomed, Billy sits up. Leans over and fishes his own clothes from the floor. Shrugs back into the flannel button-up that Hopper had given him. He feels like an idiot, and it’s all Harrington’s fault.

“Listen,” Billy starts, attempting to save face, “if you’re gonna freak out about trading blowjobs with another guy—”

“Oh my god, shut up, Hargrove. That’s not it.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“It’s not, okay?”

“Then what?”

Newly dressed, Steve runs a hand through his hair, shakes his head, like he can’t believe he’s found himself in this situation. Like he just tripped and fell into sex with Billy Hargrove twice in a week.

Billy watches him squirm, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

With a sigh, Steve looks right at him. “You need to apologize to Sinclair.”

“Uh, excuse me?”

“Sinclair. Lucas Sinclair. You owe him an apology.”

Billy blinks, dumbfounded. “Did Maxine tell you to do this?”

“No, Billy, I’m telling you to do this. Jesus, is it so hard to believe that I might want you to do the right thing?”

“Why do you care about what I owe Sinclair?”

“Because he’s one of my—” Harrington stops. Collects himself. “Because he’s been through enough. This past year especially. And now with Max in the hospital… You know that the kids have been dealing with this shit since they were twelve and thirteen? They’ve been facing monsters and the goddamn CIA and losing people. Going to funerals. All of that. And they still talk about that night. The night you came looking for Max at the Byers’ house. Still talk about it like it’s one of the scariest things that they’ve ever been through. They were terrified of you, man.”

“They were hiding her from me!”

“So what?”

“So it was creepy and suspicious that you were all hiding a 13-year-old girl in a stranger's house! What was I supposed to think? My old man was gonna kill me if I didn’t bring her home!”

“Fine, okay? I get that your dad’s a piece of shit. I get that you were mad at the kids for hiding her. At me for going along with it. Maybe I deserved a swing for that. But you took that all out on a kid half your size.”

“It was years ago!”

“So? You’re honestly gonna tell me that you’re not broken up about shit that happened to you years ago?” Harrington folds his arms. “You have a chance to unburden that kid. Do it.”

Billy fumes. Gets to his feet and stomps into his own jeans. He hates people telling him what to do.

“Fucking good enough to suck your dick but not good enough to hang around your precious brats. Is that it, Harrington?”

“Stop. It has nothing to do with that.”

“Bullshit it doesn’t.” Billy picks at his hair in the mirror, frizzy from his roll in Harrington’s sheets. “This here make you all ashamed to be around your pack of freshmen? Hmm? Sleeping with the enemy? Worried the queer might rub off and they’ll all notice it on you? Worried someone might start getting the wrong idea about you hanging out with kids all the time?”

“I just want you to apologize to the kid! Don’t be an asshole.”

“Good luck finding some Indiana girl who’ll suck you off like I did, pretty boy.”

“Billy, stop!”

A firm hand stops Billy from charging out of Steve’s bedroom. Steve stares him down, the fine chain of brass glinting where it disappears under his shirt.

“For once can you just listen before storming off again?” His big Bambi eyes implore with an embarrassing earnestness. “Maybe this was a bad time to bring it up. But it’s not about us fooling around, okay? It’s not, I promise. I mean, I am having a whole separate crisis about that but this is just about Sinclair. You just… you have a chance to fix something, and that’s rare, okay? Trust me, it’s really goddamn rare to be able to fix the shit you broke.”

He blinks and looks down to their feet. Clearly fighting some emotion.

But Harrington masters himself, looks back at Billy. “And I don’t think that someone is only the worst thing they ever did. I can’t think that, because if I did I’d have to admit that I’m a pretty shitty person.”

The hand on Billy’s chest lightens, sweeps up to rest on the side of Billy’s neck, thumb stroking behind his ear. Billy considers throwing it off, but can’t bring himself to.

“I got the chance to fix the shit I broke, once,” Harrington tells him, “and I’m glad I took it. So please, just tell the kid you’re sorry.”

"And what if I don't?"

Steve's expression hardens. "Then… then we can't do this anymore."

"'Do this'?"

"This!" he gestures to his unmade bed, to the both of them. "I can't fool around or whatever the hell this is if you don't apologize. Because I would feel like a total piece of shit. And I… I want to, okay? There, you happy? I want to keep seeing you."

"Pretty pathetic, Harrington.” Billy fully ignores Harrington’s admission in favour of being cruel. “Your loser of crew of children gets the veto on who you're fucking, huh? You planning on telling 'em or something? That you've turned bitch? Think they'll want anything to do with you after that?"

The barb lands. Steve winces. “I’m obviously not gonna tell them about this.”

“Obviously.”

“Yeah, I don’t know how they’d react, okay?” Harrington snaps, a small victory. “I don’t know how any of them would react if they found out. If it were any guy, not just you. I don’t know what they would say. They’d probably never want to talk to me again, you’re right. But like it or not those kids mean something to me, okay? Maybe that’s pathetic but they do. Guess I’m just at peace with being pathetic.”

It’s not what Billy expected to hear. For Harrington to be so ready to compartmentalize parts of himself for the affection of some loser freshmen. Billy feels only a little like a scumbag for trying to scare him over being outed.

He does not like that Harrington makes him doubt himself.

“Pretty sure Sinclair doesn’t want anything to do with me,” grumbles Billy noncommittally.

“If I talk to him, if he agrees to see you, will you?”

The idea of having to face the kid, grovel, beg forgiveness, it burns in Billy’s throat. Apology is an indignity. A weapon his dad used to humble him in front of others. It was something his dad taught him young: only the weak and the conquered ever have to say sorry.

But that stubborn pout on Steve’s face tells him that he won’t be budged on this matter. That face that is more frequently getting Billy to do stupid things against his own interest.

Harrington already has Billy wrapped around his finger and is too stupid to notice.

“Fine,” growls Billy. “Fucking fine. If the kid wants to talk, then I’ll talk.”

Harrington smiles. “You mean it?”

“If it’ll get this conversation to end.”

“Okay. That’s great. Yeah, uh, thanks man.” Harrington takes his hand back, suddenly embarrassed to be standing so close, touching so much. His free hand plucks at the chain under his shirt. “Do you, uh, do you want your necklace back?”

Steve pulls the chain over his head. It tugs through his hair in a thick wave. He holds the dangling pendant out to Billy.

“You don’t wanna be my girl, pretty boy?” Billy sneers, looping the chain back over his head.

Steve blushes. “I, uh… I still don’t know if I’m…”

“Queer?”

He cringes. “I like girls. I do.”

Billy rolls his eyes.

“But I like this too.”

Billy huffs. “Well, call me if you ever figure it out, Harrington.”

“I don’t just… I mean, I didn’t mean for this to happen again. I honestly didn't. It’s probably stupid. Not fair to you.”

“Oh fuck off,” groans Billy. “Don’t treat me like I’m an imbecile. I’m a fucking grown-up."

“Okay, yeah, but maybe it's still not the best idea! Like, you were fucking dead, man. And now you’re not, and, y’know, who knows what that could possibly mean. You’re going through enough with that and with Max. I feel like an asshole for jerking you around when you're all… messed up.”

Billy shoves Harrington in the shoulder. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t fucking throw me a pity party I didn’t fucking ask for,” Billy growls, staring down Harrington hard.

Because the truth is—if Billy allows himself a passing moment of honesty—that hooking up with Harrington and Munson is probably the only thing that’s kept him sane these past ten days.

But Harrington never knows when to give up. "I’m just saying, like, I already don’t have the best history with, like, hooking up, even when it’s just with girls. Never mind now I’m having a whole, I dunno, nervous breakdown over this, and that doesn’t really seem fair to you, but shit, since when do I give a shit about being fair to you, I guess…"

"Knock it off. I mean it."

Harrington scoffs. "You're such a jerk."

"Yeah? Well get used to it."

Harrington surrenders. Backs down. “Fine. Fuck. Jesus, sorry I brought it up. But, please, just cut me some slack on this… whatever this is, going on with us. I know it’s not in your macho, meathead nature to be generous with me, but I just need time to figure stuff out.”

Billy chuckles. He likes it when Harrington’s bitchy. “Yeah, take all the time you need, pretty boy.”

A soft blush breaks on Steve’s face. “Jeez, man, do you ever turn it off?”

“Not even when I sleep, princess.”

Steve sputters, rolls his eyes. Cheesiness works on him. Billy catches himself grinning.

Downstairs, after redressing, Billy stomps into his boots, preparing for the long off-road walk back to the cabin. El is cooking dinner tonight—Campbell’s chicken noodle soup with Vienna sausages—and Billy’s presence is mandatory. He checks his reflection in the hallway mirror, making sure there are no visible marks on his neck.

When he notices Harrington watching him over his shoulder in the reflection, Billy grins.

“Enjoying the show, pretty boy?”

Steve jolts, looks away.

Billy huffs. “Loosen up, amigo.”

“Listen, uh,” Harrington actually gulps, “maybe I’m reading this totally wrong, but, uh… y’know you can come by here again. We could, y’know, just hang out if you want. If you ever need to get away from the cabin. You know there’s a game later in the week. Lakers and the Rockets, Western Conference Finals. If you’re, y’know, a Lakers fan, too.” Harrington gestures to the blue Dodgers ball cap Billy has replaced onto his head.

“I fuckin’ hate the Lakers,” Billy grumbles.

Steve laughs, sounding kinda ditzy. “Heh, I kinda figured you might. Well, yeah, uh, the Celtics kicked our ass this year and they’re sweeping the Eastern Conference. If the Lakers take the whole championship from Boston, I might just have a new favourite team to root for.”

"You root for the Pacers or the Bulls?”

“Uh, c’mon, the Bulls, Hargrove. Obviously.”

This fucking smartass. Billy levels him with a sly look. “You traitor. You’d sell out the Pacers that easy, huh?

“Yeah dude, if it keeps Boston from taking home the championship.”

“Ain’t Larry Bird from Indiana? You’re telling me you’d rather have fuckin’ LA take home the title than your golden local boy?”

“Uh, yeah, if Bird’s gonna do it in a goddamn Celtics jersey.”

Billy laughs. “Oh, shut up. I bet five dollars you had a Larry Bird poster in your room as a kid.”

“Nah, the guy plays for Boston now. He’s dead to me.”

“Damn. You’re stubborn, Harrington.”

“Nice of you to finally notice.”

Billy fights to suppress a laugh. “And you're too much of a fuckin’ smart ass for your own good, pretty boy.”

Capturing the momentum, Harrington shoots him a warm smile. Billy’s stomach flutters. He kinda hates that he's falling for Harrington's routine.

“What’d’ya say?” Harrington invites. “There's beer. The game. Don't have to talk about anything. We can sit in creepy silence if you want. But, y’know, could be kinda nice. You wanna come by later?”

Billy shrugs, feeling sunny. “Yeah, what the hell, why not? Gotta be sure the Lakers lose.”

Chapter Text

Billy is frying up eggs and bacon for El’s breakfast when he hears a car approaching from outside.

“Go check who it is, El,” he says, cracking another egg into the sizzling cast iron skillet.

“It’s just Hop and Joyce,” she calls over her shoulder from the front window, peeking from behind the old curtains. “Oh, and Murray.”

Billy freezes. “Who?”

“He’s Hop’s friend. He’s funny.”

That’s all the preparation Billy gets as El undoes the many locks and deadbolts and opens the front door in greeting.

“Hi Joyce!” she calls out, waving.

“Hello, sweetie.” Ms. Byers is a small woman. When she hugs El with both arms, El must duck slightly. “Oh, it is so good to see you. How have you been doing out here?”

“Fine,” replies El. “I finished the movies Will brought me.”

Ms. Byers smiles warmly. “Well I can bring the tapes home and have him choose out some new ones for you. How does that sound?”

“Okay, enough, enough with the touching reunions please. Where is he? Let’s see him, Jim.”

A tall, balding man with glasses and a bad comb over shoves his way through the door. Frowning, he appraises the cabin with a critical eye, as if taking note of every detail in just an instant and finding all of it substandard.

But then the guy clocks Billy standing by the stove and a lightbulb all but goes off over his head.

“Oh. Oh, oh, oh, there he is,” the man pronounces with the faux-charm of a carnival barker. “First Jim and then the teenage hero lifeguard over here. Any other local martyrs we can expect to find popping out of the grave? Y’know, the remote viewing programs and child assassins were one thing, Jim, but this—” Murray gestures to Billy in open scorn “—people are coming back from the dead, Jim.”

Billy blinks. Tightens his grip on the skillet, just in case.

“Alright, enough. Lay off, Murray.” Hopper follows them all in and shuts the door behind him. “What’s cooking, Hargrove?”

“Eggs,” Billy replies, terse, “for El.”

“Heartwarming,” comments the balding guy, Murray, grinning insincerely, “playing house.”

“Enough,” insists Hopper, already sounding like he regrets whatever this plan here is.

Instincts pinging, Billy looks to Hop. “Who is this?”

“Murray Bauman, old reporter friend of mine.”

“Former reporter,” Murray corrects like it pains him to do so.

Hopper folds his coat over the back of the La-Z-Boy and tosses a folded newspaper down on the kitchen table. Seeming to note Billy’s tension at the stranger in the cabin for the first time, Hopper frowns. “Murray’s alright,” he assures Billy. “He’s gonna help us out. He’s up to speed with all this conspiracy shit and he can keep a damn secret. Your eggs are burning, kid.”

In the skillet, the edges of the eggs have gone crispy and black. “Oh, god damn it!” Billy fans the smoke, moving the skillet off the burner.

Hopper comes into the kitchen, retrieves the box of Eggo waffles from the humming freezer. “Here. Scrape out the eggs. Pop these in the toaster.”

The last time Billy wasted food at home, his dad ruptured his eardrum.

“So what is he doing here, then?” Billy asks as he forks the eggs into the trash bin.

“He’s gonna help us track down some paperwork on you.”

“Paperwork?”

“Certificate of death. Coroner’s report. Crime scene photographs.” Murray lists with the cadence of a drill sergeant. “Anything that might prove your supposed death to be a hoax or cover up on the behalf of the federal government. Mark my words, I will jam so many FOIA requests in their inbox they’re gonna be coming out of William Casey’s ass.”

At a loss, Billy just stammers, “A what request?”

“Freedom of Information, kid,” enunciates Murray like Billy is a supreme simpleton, “the only true advantage that democracy has over the Soviets. The illusion of fairness.” That phrase he pronounces with all the gravitas of a Shakespearean tragedy. After, he gets a vacant look in his eye and turns away.

Hopper steps in to rescue Billy from this madman’s attention. “The idea is this: your death is public record. It was in the papers.” He taps the newspaper on the kitchen table. Billy is horrified to see his own senior yearbook photo in black and white on the front page under the headline Recent Graduates Perish In Mall Fire. “The county coroner released your remains to your dad and a funeral home buried a casket. All that means paperwork. Publicly accessible paperwork. And if we can get our hands on it then we can start figuring out how it is you’re alive and well.”

Did they really hold a mock funeral, Billy wonders. Did they bury an empty casket? Did his dad even know?

The image of his dad having to act grief-stricken in front of a casket he doesn’t know is empty is darkly funny.

“First step is we’re gonna try and get any coroner’s report the county has on file,” Hopper elaborates. “See what they report the extent of your injuries to be.”

“The feds won’t turn over the real report, obviously,” Murray dismisses, “not the one that has ‘impaled by monster’ listed as a COD. But they have to put something in the kayfabe version of events. Manner of death. Some autopsy photos, maybe. Something to sell the idea that this was really a tragic firework mishap.”

Every third word out of this guy’s mouth is total gibberish.

From across the living room, Ms. Byers appears, a tiny angel of mercy. “Oh, enough, Murray. Don’t talk about that to him! He doesn’t need to hear all that. He’s still a teenager. Muster up a little compassion for once.”

“None of them have the luxury of being children anymore, Joyce,” responds Murray, bordering on remorseful.

Scowling with disapproval, Ms. Byers scoops Blily away with a slight arm around his shoulder, herding him to safety on the farside of the living room where El is assembling a small tower of VHS tapes on the coffee table.

“Don’t listen to Murray,” Ms. Byers insists to Billy. “He’s heartless. And a loudmouth.” She shoots a withering look back at the two men assembled in the kitchenette. “Whatever they end up finding you don’t ever have to see any of it if you don’t want to.”

“It’s fine, ma’am,” Billy replies stiffly, trying not to imagine seeing photographs of his own dead body.

Ms. Byers smiles, the corners of her dark eyes crinkling kindly. “The boys have me bring stuff over for El sometimes, so she doesn’t get bored. Just movies, books, that sort of thing. They all send letters back and forth. El’s working on her reading. But is there anything I can bring for you, Billy? Maybe a favourite book? Or movie? Maybe some different clothes of your own?”

Suspicious, Billy declines. “No, I don’t need anything.”

“My son Jonathan has quite a few records and tapes. I could have him pick some out to loan you. I mean, that is if you’re not sick of all of Hop’s Allman Brothers and Jim Croce records already.”

Caught off guard by her humour, Billy quickly smothers a chuckle behind his hand.

Hopper doesn’t overhear the slander toward his music tastes, however. He and Murrary are continuing some spirited argument in the kitchen, each with a beer in hand. It’s a little astonishing to hear Ms. Byers poke fun at the big cop so openly within earshot, however good-natured. Billy’s own mother would have never breathed a critical word of his dad within a hundred yards of him.

By all appearances Ms. Byers seems like a woman who wouldn’t have a mean bone in her body, but the more Billy is around her, the more she reveals herself to be tough-as-nails.

“I’ll scrounge up something,” she declares. “Maybe El can help me put some stuff together for you.”

“Yes.” El nods, solemnly accepting her task.

“Seriously, don’t bother,” Billy insists. He is unused to women wanting to take care of him.

Ms. Byers only shrugs, relents. “Well, I’ll be coming out here on the weekend to drop off more supplies either way. I’ll see what I have lying around the next time I run you guys groceries. At least a pair of your own shoes.”

“Makeover,” says El, smiling at Billy with excitement.

And, well, Billy can’t disappoint her.

“Okay, whatever,” he relents, just to get the moment to end, “yeah, fine, new boots would be great.”

“I’d say you’re about a size… hmm, ten?” Ms. Byers assess his socked feet.

“Nine and a half.”

“Well, jeez, your poor feet must be swimming in Hopper’s ratty old hiking boots! Don’t worry, I’ll find something at the church thrift store. They always had nice things to choose from when Will and Johnathan were growing up.”

Billy almost doesn’t notice how she managed it; gently turning away his two refusals and agreeing to a care package of secondhand shoes. Almost like it had been Billy’s idea the whole time. Before he can protest, she and El are carting their armfuls of VHS tapes outside to the car. Billy stands there, feeling like he got played.

Ms. Byers is so adept at reading people, their moods, their limits. Sometimes it feels she is nearly as psychic as El.

“Welcome, Hargrove. Mi trailer es su trailer.”

Billy kicks his new church thrift store boots on the welcome mat before ducking inside from the rain. The Munson FEMA trailer is not the decrepit nerd cavern he had imagined. Rather than counters stacked with half-finished cans of Jolt Cola and comic books, the narrow space is clinical and sparse. It nearly echoes.

Munson shakes rainwater out of his frizzy mane of hair. “Don’t worry about the water, it’s fine. Coat hooks are the wall behind you. Man, it is really comin’ down.”

Hanging up his hand-me-down leather jacket, Billy surveys the interior of the trailer. Mostly it is populated with objects salvaged from their former home. An ugly sunken couch from the sixties. A linoleum kitchen table. A dozen coffee mugs hang from hooks underneath the kitchenette cabinets. An Iron Maiden poster is taped up by the old TV set.

“You’re in luck,” chirps Munson, “the old place was never this tidy. You want a beer, man?”

“Sure.”

“Make yourself comfortable.” Munson kicks out of his own shoes and opens the fridge.

Despite the invitation, Billy loiters by the front door. He’s never been to Munson’s before. “You sure your uncle won’t be back?”

“He’s at work until at least 7:00 AM, so you are in the clear, Boo Radley.”

More and more, Billy finds himself spending time with Munson the past couple days. It’s his only other reprieve from the claustrophobia of the cabin, aside from seeing Harrington.

Some impromptu code of silence is holding between the three of them. Billy hadn’t planned it, but there it is. As far as Billy’s aware, neither Munson nor Harrington have mentioned anything to the other. And why would they? Munson’s a jittery closet case and Harrington is guilty and experimenting. Confessing such a thing risks friendship. Risks a brick through your front window, or worse. No matter how close the events of spring break had brought Eddie and Steve together, neither of them would breathe a word to anyone about getting blown by the revenant Billy Hargrove.

They both could be standing in the same room, talking, shooting the shit, unaware that Billy was now an unlodged wedge between them.

Juggling them both makes Billy feel like a king.

He and Eddie have fooled around a couple of times since that first night by the quarry. It’s not every time. And when it is, it’s only a quick fumbling of hands.

But Munson never refuses. Billy knows loneliness when he sees it.

It’s nice. Familiar. Drinking beers and jacking each other off in the backseat. It’s not the only reason Billy goes back to Munson, though. The last couple nights they’ve just hung out at the quarry or the junkyard and shot the shit without so much as exchanging a kiss. Occupying this undefined space of flirting and touching and sworn confidence.

It doesn’t even feel weird when nothing happens. Honest to god, Billy really just does find Munson oddly comforting.

Maybe they’re just, against all odds, actually becoming friends.

Billy hadn’t planned on that.

“Tragic news,” Eddie announces as he flops onto the couch with two unopened beers, “I am officially and truly out of weed, so all I have in way of refreshments is a twelve-pack of Labatt Blue.”

“Of what?”

“I dunno, man. Wayne gets it from Canada. With the exchange rate it’s cheap as hell.”

Billy picks up the brown bottle and inspects the label. Half the text is in French and there’s a red maple leaf on the foil.

Munson cracks his own cap before handing the bottle opener to Billy. What the hell, free beer is free beer.

Munson doesn’t have a VCR, or cable, so they’re flipping around channels to find something to watch. They end up settling on the ABC Sunday Night Movie and switch over to the local news for commercial breaks. Focus is a luxury in short supply for Munson. Why watch only one channel when you could watch two in half the time?

It’s like even Eddie’s mind can’t tolerate stillness. He’s always humming or twitching, his attention half divided between some perpetual argument that only he can hear. Confrontational even at rest. And everything about Eddie’s exterior is confrontational. Like a brightly-coloured snake that warns of venom. His style of dress, his long hair, his attitude. The very sight and sound of him. All an aposematic display.

And Munson may have this town fooled, but Billy knows better. He knows that beneath Eddie’s fortifications is a compassionate, sensitive dweeb.

He reminds Billy of Carlos, that way.

It must have been hard for Eddie in this town. Seven months of Hawkins, Indiana had put Billy in the ground. He can’t imagine the scope of damage that being born and raised here would inflict on a shy, creative weirdo. Gathered from their spattered conversations, Billy has reconstructed a vague timeline of Eddie’s childhood. A loner and a strange kid, not helped by the fact that his dad is in and out of jail and a known local lowlife. Poor and parentless and bestowed with curiosity and interests unapproved by his classmates and their parents, Eddie spent his elementary school years a perpetual target.

And at some point, around thirteen, fourteen, Eddie’s armour had grown in. Black clothing and loud music had transformed him from defenceless to dangerous. A walking lightning rod for the town’s hardships. A role that Eddie took to with a vindictive glee.

It’s a strategy Billy knows by heart. If people are afraid of you, they cannot hurt you.

Billy’s dad would always say to him: never let them see you cry.

“Hey, uh, Hargrove,” Munson asks during a lull in the news broadcast, “listen, can I maybe… uh… ask you something kinda lame without you chewing the shit outta me for it?”

Billy leans forward to put his beer down on the coffee table. “Pssh. How lame we talkin’?”

“Well, ya see,” says Eddie with a crooked smile, “I am maybe… possibly… in the market for some, uh, advice?”

“Advice? What the hell do you need advice for?”

“Swear not to be a dickhead about it?” The glint in Eddie’s eye betrays he’s only half-joking.

“Sure, Munson. Whatever,” he replies, because Billy is more curious than he is truthful.

Squirming, Eddie picks at his beer label with a bitten fingernail. He huffs, scowls, gathering his thoughts or maybe drowning in them. Rain patters on the tinny roof of the trailer.

“Back in school, you were always, like… y’know, popular and stuff, right?” Eddie starts, frowning at his beer label.

“Uh, yeah, I guess.” The subject blindsides Billy somewhat. “Christ, I was in that school all of eight months. It wasn’t really on purpose.”

“But people liked you, right?” Light from the TV flickers across Eddie’s face in the dark room.

“People like beer and fast car rides. I’m just the jackass who happened to have them in this shithole town.”

Eddie nods, processing Billy’s words like they’re some profound puzzle. He kicks his bare feet up onto the edge of the coffee table. The newscaster reads off some headlines in a staticy tone over the TV set’s speaker.

For a moment Billy thinks that’s maybe the end of Eddie’s vague, esoteric questionsing and they’ll resume finishing the movie they’re only half paying attention to.

But Eddie can’t ever keep a thought to himself. “How do you do it?” he asks.

“Do what?”

“Make people like you?”

Billy scoffs, chuckles. It’s only when Eddie keeps looking at him with those big, earnest brown eyes that Billy realizes he’s sincere.

“Wait, you’re serious?” Billy asks.

“You said you wouldn’t be a dickhead.”

“Fuck off, I’m not.”

“Well, then, yeah. I’m serious.”

Billy shakes his head, confused. “You don’t care about people liking you. You never did. You pissed people off on purpose. You made a point of antagonizing the whole goddamn town.”

“I don’t mean everyone,” mumbles Eddie, turning his face into his hair, distrustful.

“Okay, enough with the friggin’ riddles, dude. Just say whatever you wanna ask.”

“I mean like with guys,” he gesticulates madly, his elbow knocking into Billy’s arm.

Billy blinks, dumbstruck. “What are you talking about?”

“Like, y’know… flirting.” Eddie nudges one of the coffee table magazines with his toe.

Billy is silent for a beat, two, because surely that’s not possibly what he heard. “Flirting?”

“Yeah.”

“You wanna know how to flirt? With guys?”

“Yup. Exactly.”

“And why would I help you with that?”

“You had a guy in San Diego,” says Eddie, not a question, “and, like, okay. I’ve slept with a few guys but never… dated. Never had anything long term. I’m mean, obviously. It’s… hard out here, man. I haven’t exactly had a lot of practice.”

Eddie just says it like he just knows everything about Billy without asking. It gets Billy’s hackles up. “You don’t know shit about San Diego.”

Sighing, Eddie throws an unimpressed glare his way, making it clear Billy’s evasions are not convincing.

Agitated, Billy reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, retrieves his pack of cigarettes Hopper had given him. He pulls one out with his teeth and with his other hand fishes Harrington’s stolen Zippo lighter out of his other pocket. He flicks the silver lid open, puts the flame to the end of the cigarette.

With a flick of his wrist he snaps the lighter closed.

Billy lets the first inhale settle his irritation. Exhaling, he looks at Munson.

Munson is staring hard at the lighter in Billy’s hand.

“Listen, man,” Eddie says, hedging, “I don’t care. Whatever happened in San Diego, I don’t give a shit. I’m not asking about shit that’s not my business, okay? But… flirting, charming, making people like you, you’re good at it. Even while being a bit of a tool. And I’m… not.”

“You have someone in mind, Munson?”

Silent, Eddie folds his arms across his chest, shuttering off.

Curled up on this lumpy sofa, he looks so dejected and pathetic. Eddie had revealed the tender soft parts beneath his armour. Shown Billy where he’s weakest.

Normally that means an easy kill for Billy.

But Munson has been so genuine. Billy can’t find it in him to be cruel.

“You ask them about themselves,” he says, ashing his cigarette before picking back up his beer bottle. “People don’t get asked about themselves a lot. They talk about themselves a lot, sometimes, but they don’t get asked about themselves. Because most people don’t give a shit, y’know? Everyone’s just focused on their own bullshit so it’s nice to have someone… y’know, take an interest, I guess. ”

Munson regards him suspiciously. “That’s it?”

“Well, no, obviously. There’s more to it than that. But it’s a start.”

“You just ask them about themselves?”

“Ask them about what they like. And then be interested. Even if it’s boring. It shows you care. You care about whatever makes them happy.”

Eddie considers this, pensive.

“Like this.” Billy sets down his beer bottle. He scoots to face Eddie on the couch, the TV playing at a low volume. Eddie flinches, not trusting Billy’s sudden closeness.

Good. Billy likes having him a little nervous.

He extends his arm and gently brushes a curl out of Eddie’s face. Dark brown eyes track the movement like a sniper. Billy purposefully lets his fingertips just barely stroke Eddie’s cheek. Just that easy, and Munson is rapt, electric, apprehensive and eager in equal measure.

Billy smiles, a warm, real smile. “So, hey, I hear you’re in a band, Munson. That’s pretty cool. How long you been playing guitar for?”

Exhaling, the spell breaks, and Eddie’s tense expression cracks into a bright smile. He laughs, rolls his eyes, a shallow blush erupting on his cheeks. “Asshole,” he scoffs, not at all upset.

Billy takes his hand away, satisfied. “There. It’s just about reading people. They aren’t that complicated. You can't force it, though. Come on too strong, people get spooked.”

Eddie nods to himself, deep in thought. “The slow blade penetrates the shield.”

Billy scowls. “What? No. What?”

“Nothing. Never mind. It’s from a book.”

Whether they’re actually friends or not, Billy still doesn’t follow half of what Eddie’s mind produces. But still, Billy finds he doesn’t mind being around it.

After the credits roll on the film, Eddie stands and stretches his lanky limbs out. “Rain’s let up. You need a ride back to the safe house?”

“No,” Billy says, “I’ll walk. I like it.”

“Now that’s weird,” comments Munson, peering out the blinds and appraising the velocity of rain. “Well, I’m meeting with the guys at Jeff’s on Tuesday, but if you’re feeling squirrely we can hang out Wednesday. Can’t promise there’ll be anything thrilling on the docket.”

“No can do.” Billy tells him. “Going to Harrington’s on Wednesday. Gonna watch the game on that swish big screen TV of his.”

The threat hangs in the air. Billy watches it unfold over Munson’s face; I’ll be alone with Harrington. Who knows what he’ll ask me to do?

But Eddie recovers, more smoothly than last time. He folds his arms, watching Billy watch him. Just grits his teeth and grins darkly, like it’s a challenge.

“Alright, then. I’ll see you later, Billygoat.”

Billy jolts awake after watching a black living dust rip his mother’s face off.

His fists clench tightly in the blanket. An ache constricts his knuckles. He must focus to command them to release.

The world pitches when he sits upright in bed. Cold sweat runs down his scalp. His heart pounds like he just sprinted a mile.

Outside in the dark, even the insects are silent this late in the night. The woods are dark and shadowed but the moonlight lights the sky and treetops in silver. His thudding heart slows with each breath.

“Do you want me to find her?”

Bracing, Billy spins. El is watching him, head resting on her pillow. Her wide eyes look right down into him, sorting through his dreams.

“I can find her,” she whispers, “if you want me to.”

“What?” The breathing has helped. His heartrate decelerates. “ What are you talking about?”

“Your mama, I could find her.”

Had Billy been talking in his sleep? Or perhaps El overhears his dreams without meaning to.

“How the fuck would you do that?” he snaps.

“I can find people.” She taps the side of her buzzed head. “In here.”

“What? How?”

“It’s what Papa trained me to do. I can look for people and find them far away. Talk to them far away. It takes a lot of practice.”

“You can just find anyone?”

“I need something of theirs. A photo, or a name. Something to look for.”

His dad got rid of all her photos.

“Do you want me to find her?”

“No,” Billy lays back down, panting still, “no, don’t. Forget it. Don’t you tell me anything.”

He rolls over, facing away from El’s bed. The images of the dream are vague and rapidly fading. It’s been years since he’s had nightmares. What had been so scary?

Billy roots into his pillow. The cotton fleece smells like campfire. He breathes, like El showed him. In. Two. Three. Out. Two. Three.

Chapter Text

Munson’s van is parked in the driveway when Billy approaches from the woods.

That has Billy’s guard up immediately. Harrington hadn’t mentioned Eddie being here when Billy had radioed that he was coming over.

Had something happened? In the time it took him to walk from the cabin to Harrington’s place had the endtimes kicked off? Had the president gotten on the news and announced incoming nuclear missiles? Had the monster patrol caught one of those skinless, eyeless creatures eating the neighbourhood dogs?

But the suburban estate looks untroubled. Pandemonium has not erupted. There are no sirens or people wailing in the street.

Billy pulls himself together. Marches up to the front door and raps it with his fist a few times.

No one answers.

Billy pounds with his fist more pointedly this time.

Still no answer.

Okay, that is worrying.

Distress mounting, he glances around the neighbourhood again, but the world really appears to not be ending.

This time he rings the doorbell. Twice, three times in quick succession.

Billy’s getting ready to smash a window when Harrington answers the door, a big stupid smile on his face and a suave wave of soft hair over his ear. “Hey! You made it. Sorry, didn’t hear you knock over all the noise.”

Billy only shoots him a disgusted look, flustered that Harrington had managed to worry him so much over nothing.

Steve clocks Billy’s agitated state. “Um, you wanna come in? The kids are just wrapping up their game.”

“The kids?”

“Uh, yeah. They do their game thing here sometimes. School’s out and I’ve got the space for them all, y’know?”

Billy does not know.

“C’mon in. Grab a beer from the fridge or something. They’ll be clearing out.”

There are hollering, whooping voices issuing from the living room behind Steve. Billy considers bolting.

“You didn’t think to tell me that they’d be here?” he grunts at Harrington as he halfheartedly kicks his shoes on the welcome mat.

“Jeez, uh, I didn’t think it would matter. They’re not sticking around for the game or anything.”

“Not the point, Harrington.”

Turning the corner to the living room reveals the gaggle of freshmen sitting on the carpet around the coffee table. Easily a dozen cans of Coke clutter the coffee table along with papers, pencils and pens, odd-looking textbooks. And Munson is perched on the big La-Z-Boy recliner, holding court. In the middle of some story that has the kids cackling. He is without his usual black leather jacket, instead donning his denim battle vest over a black band t-shirt so faded it cannot be deciphered. From around his neck hangs his red guitar pick on a flimsy chain. He’s never without it.

“Steve! What the hell?”

The short kid with the curly hair springs to his feet. Suddenly the mood in the room evaporates.

“Dude!” the curly kid exclaims. “What the hell is he doing here, man?”

“Hey, lay off, Henderson, okay? It’s none of your business. Also, I invited him over.”

“You invited him?” Henderson shrieks indignantly.

“My house, my rules. I can invite whoever I want.”

“Does Max know about this?”

The whole room tenses. Holds its breath. Everyone glances at Billy, some obviously, some evasive, expecting the mention of Maxine to ignite him into a homicidal rage.

Burying a spike of disdain, Billy quite literally bites his tongue. He jerks his head away.

Harrington shoots the loudmouth kid a withering look, unimpressed with his back talk. “It's not up to Max, Dustin.”

Henderson blinks in offense, gaping like Steve just broke his heart.

The other kids all observe the faceoff tensely. Skinny, gawky Wheeler with his permanent sneer. The shy, dweeby kid cowering near him with big fearful eyes. Sinclair gets to his feet. Next to him, half his size, is a girl who is his spitting image, black hair pulled up in a high, voluminous bun.

The girl can’t be older than twelve, but she glares right at Billy with a scowl so contemptuous and withering he nearly flinches.

“Alright, c’mon! Let’s go sheepies,” Munson crows, ignoring the tension as he clambers to his feet, “bus is leaving. Everyone gather your stuff. Johnny Boy will be here any minute for you, Byers.”

Graceless like a three-legged goat, Eddie shoves his way through the freshman. He nudges Henderson in the ribs as he passes, breaking him out of his furious staring contest with Steve.

“Nice to see ya, there, Cali,” Munson greets as he walks up to Billy with a feline grin. “And what brings you to the right side of the tracks this evening?”

“I invited him over to watch the game tonight,” offers Steve.

“The game?” prods Munson, his eyes dazzling with mischief.

This crafty little shithead. Did Munson make arrangements to be here today after Billy told him about meeting Harrington? Or did he know their stupid club would be meeting at this time and place and merely failed to mention it?

Whichever it is, he’s clearly angling for a reaction. Daring Billy to react in a way that might out one or both them. Holding all three of them and their accumulated secrets at gunpoint in front of multiple witnesses in a standoff mutually assured queer destruction.

Clearly, Billy has underestimated Munson.

He does his best to portray nothing but prickly indifference. Billy sniffs. Shoves his hands in pockets. Pushes a blonde curl out of his face.

Harrington scowls, mouth pursing. He seems to pick up on the odd tenor between Eddie and Billy, but decides not to call on it.

Instead, he tells Munson, “Yeah, the game. The Western Conference Finals are on tonight.” Then, when the audience only returns blank stares at that information, he insists, “as in the playoffs? You know, the NBA finals? The finals for the… western… teams? Look, that means it’s important, okay? It's an important game. To see who plays for the championship. Of all the playoffs. You, Nancy, Jonathan and Robin all hate professional sports. Sinclair’s watching with his dad. You guys took over my living room all afternoon, just let me do one jock thing in peace.”

Eddie throws a knowing look between Billy and Steve. “Ouch, leaving me out of the cool sport hangout shindig? It’s like sophomore year all over again.”

Billy could throttle him.

“What, you wanna stay and watch the game?” Steve grouses, a betraying red flush blooming on his neck.

“Sure!” Eddie chirps. “Why not?”

“Eddie!” shrieks Henderson, up another octave.

“Been hanging around with the munchkins too long,” Munson wink-nudges his elbow against Harrington. “Spending a night with the grownups will be good. Haven’t had a reason to get out all that much lately. Not since Jeff left for the summer. Not exactly a lot of places I can go, y’know?”

Henderson does not react well to being ignored. “You’re my ride home, man!”

“Byers’s friend has that great big van,” Munson waves him off, “you’ll all fit.”

Blinking, Henderson sputters.

“Is he even supposed to be away from the cabin?” remarks the rangy Wheeler kid, indicating Billy. “What're you all, like, friends now?”

“So what if we are, Wheeler?”

“He’s an asshole and he totally beat you up!”

“Yeah, well, you're an asshole too, and I still talk to you,” Steve snaps.

Wheeler sneers with his whole face, like he just found a live worm in his apple.

Steve plants both hands on his waist, cocks his hips at some stupid angle. “Look, all of you lay off of it, okay? I mean it. Shit’s getting way more serious, guys, you all know that. And Billy's a part of this whole thing now, like it or not. We buried the hatchet, okay? Put it behind us. We're adults. We moved on. I'm still friends with Jonathan and Nancy even though we were shitty to each other. It’s part of growing up.” Steve frowns and finds that his tone grows more indignant, like he's being convinced by his own argument in real time. “And anyway, I don't have to explain myself to you guys. I am allowed to have a life without your approval, y'know.”

“Dude!” beseeches Dustin.

“Man, just drop it, Dustin,” grumbles Sinclair.

Munson is valiantly holding in a cackle at the sight of Harrington having to justify himself to his gaggle of bossy freshmen.

“Dustin, c’mon, just let it go,” the Byers kid tells him, apparently the peacemaker. “It doesn’t matter. We’re leaving. Look, I can see Argyle’s van rolling up out the window, see?”

It’s clear that Henderson wants to press his case but with no one to back up his indignation, he concedes. Shoots Billy a mean glare as he walks past down the foyer.

Billy glares right back. Little shit.

“Hey, Johnny Boy!” cheers Eddie. Billy cranes his head around the corner and glimpses the mousy Jonathan Byers and his tall, brightly-patterned friend in the foyer. “And Argyle, can’t forget. Hey, listen, I’ve been meaning to meet up with you actually, man. Wondering if you boys might have anything on offer at the moment.”

“Like, what?” Byers replies.

“Oh, y’know,” Eddie gets a crafty look, “perhaps our mutual friend Mary Jane.”

“You don’t have to talk in code in front of us,” whines Wheeler, “we’re not babies. We all know what weed is.”

“Oh, hell yeah, man!” croons the tall guy with knee-length black hair that Billy doesn’t recognize. “We definitely got’cha covered, bro. Real lucky that I had my reup in the work van right when we all had to split after the Army totally shot up the Byers’ house, man.”

Jonathan Byers goes white as a sheet. “Wait, you had that all in the van when we were on the run?”

“Well, yeah, man, where else would it have been?”

“We crossed like five or six state lines, dude. You know what would have happened if we ever got pulled over?”

“Hey, hey, chill out, man,” says the big guy, Argyle, smiling a really dopey smile, “it’s all good, buddy. We got here just fine. Not a soul lost, including the Purple Palm Tree Delight.”

“It’s a felony, Argyle! We had El in the van.”

“We got shot at by an Army helicopter,” groans the younger Byers, “getting busted with weed would have been the least of our problems.”

Billy should really get more caught up on the details of what happened over spring break.

“Aw, buck up, Mopey,” smiles Argyle at Jonathan, “it's in the past, dude.”

Eddie ends up buying half an ounce from Argyle, something called Purple Palm Tree Delight. It smells strongly of black licorice and honest-to-god is actually kinda purple. Stoners and skaters out in California always name the weed weird shit. Billy never saw the point. Weed is weed.

They're divvying up Eddie's half ounce on the kitchen counter with Mrs. Harrington's fancy Williams-Sonoma baking dishes when Argyle seems to clock Billy's presence for the first time.

“Oh, hey!” Argyle's clouded eyes light up and he points beneath Billy’s chin. “Nice little San Cristóbal you got there, my man. My grandma used to hang one of those little rosaries from her rearview mirror. ¿Surfeas?”

“Ya no, amigo” replies Billy, tapping his pendant.

“Oh, I hear you, man.” Argyle nods sagely. “No sick barrels to be had in the midwest, am I right, my dude?”

"Yeah you’re fucking right about that, man.”

“You from California, bro?”

“San Diego.”

“Righteous, dude. Love San Diego. My buddy Dave manages our franchise down there.”

Whatever that means.

Argyle smiles warmly like he and Billy have just become the best of friends. “Well, I know that time is of the essence and we gotta save the world and stop that super bad dude before anything else, but you definitely have to hit me up if you’re ever back in Southern California, man. Up in the San Fernando Valley, that's where I'm from, I'll show you all the good surf spots, bro. Locals only, y’know? Tell me, how do you feel about pineapple on your pizza?”

This guy is something else.

In the end Munson waves off his little battalion of freshmen with minimal bitching.

“We’re still on for Sunday at Gareth's, right?” whines Henderson.

“Yeah, man, still on. And it’ll just be Hellfire. Cross my heart, dipshit.”

Billy rolls his eyes from the end of the foyer. Munson coddles this one kid like he’s a newly hatched baby bird. Billy’s pretty sure he never whined this much when he was fifteen. Would’ve gotten him a bruised jaw if he did.

Sinclair and Harrington are standing off to the side at the bottom of the stairs. Their heads are bowed together and Billy doesn’t catch exactly what they’re talking about. But Harrington, with a suicidal lack of subterfuge, keeps giving away the game by glancing right at Billy several times like a guilty dog.

“Just think about it, okay?” Harrington is telling Sinclair in a low voice while the rest of the kids get their coats and zip their backpacks. “Seriously, no pressure at all. Just let me know either way.”

Sinclair shifts in discomfort. “Okay. Sure, I’ll think about it.”

“And hey, listen, I know shit’s been really tough lately. And I’m not trying to, like, smother you or anything, ‘cause I know you're the oldest and you hate that. But listen, I’m here for you no matter what.You know my number, and I’ve got the walkie on all the time. Call me day or night. If you need anything at all, man. I mean it.”

“Yeah, I will.”

Steve pats Lucas on the back before turning to Jonathan Byers. “Thanks for taking them home, Jonathan.”

“No problem.” He turns and nods at Eddie. “Good doing business with you, Munson. Lemme know if you ever need a reup or something.”

“You’ll be the first to know, Johnny Boy.”

Byers winces at the nickname. Billy snorts.

“Alright,” Munson sing-songs as he closes the double doors behind the troupe of brats, “so which game is this again?”

“Dude, I just said it,” Harrington calls, retrieving a six-pack from the fridge, “it’s the NBA Western Conference —”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah you said that, I got that. But I mean like what kind of game… baseball? Football? Basketball?”

Billy gapes at him. Harrington scoffs.

Munson looks caught. “It’s gotta be basketball, right? Balls through hoops, right? That’s the one you both played in high school, so it’s gotta be that. Am I right?”

“You sure you want this idiot around?” Billy asks Steve.

“I’m having second thoughts,” Harrington admits.

“Hey!”

“It’s basketball, Eddie.” Harrington deposits the six pack on the coffee table before turning on the TV. “You know how it’s played, right? Like you’ve gotta have some idea?”

“Shoot balls into hoops?”

Harrington sighs. “Yeah, that’s pretty much the main gist. Whichever team shoots more balls into the hoops wins.”

Slouching on this ugly beige couch, Billy gets comfortable. He puts his feet up on the coffee table and helps himself to a beer.

Hopefully he can get one beer in him before this timebomb of a living room goes off.

Steve flips the channel over to CBS on the modern big screen TV set. A zingy synth jingle announces the opening of the program. On screen the pregame talking heads are recapping the series matches into blocky microphones. Houston Rockets are up against the Lakers two-to-one in the series and the Lakers have the chance to tie tonight or have the lead on them be widened.

It’s a little surreal. Watching sports reporters discussing offensive strategies with a cold beer and a couple guys. Like returning to a hometown greatly-changed.

Sports used to be a useful distraction for Billy. Now they might no longer be up to the scope of the task.

At tipoff, it’s almost beginning to feel familiar. The to-and-fro of action rippling from one side of the court to another. Commentators calling out the play-by-play over the squeak of shoes on the court wood. It’s almost like there aren’t monsters crawling out of the ground. Billy almost feels at ease.

Tragically not enough to distract him from present company.

Billy and Steve sit on either side of the couch, and Munson sits on the floor between them, like a little kid demanding to be in the middle without having to be too close to either of them. Faded black tattoos punctuate the skin of his bare arms. His long, frizzy hair splays over the sofa cushion. Absently, attention darting around, he toys at the red guitar pick hanging on his neck.

Paranoid, Billy glares at the back of Munson’s head. He can figure out what Munson’s aim is here.

The game has only just started when Magic Johnson scores an early basket and Munson has to start making noise.

“Okay, what’s that about? How come the score goes up by two?”

Billy scoffs and ignores him.

Unfortunately, Harrington humours him. “Baskets are worth two points,” he educates over a swig of beer.

“Why?”

“What do you mean why? It’s within the three-point line. You have to be outside the three-point line to score three points.”

“Where’s the one-point line?”

“There isn’t a — Eddie, have you never even heard people talk about basketball?”

“I tend to tune it out. But there’s gotta be a way to score just one point, right? Otherwise why make normal baskets two points?”

“Uh, no, not during, like, regular play. Like, there’s free throws, but —”

“What’s a free throw?”

“Jesus Christ,” groans Billy.

Munson flashes him those sad puppy dog eyes. Billy is unmoved.

“Okay, Jesus, man,” gripes Steve, “think of it this way. The harder the shot, the more points awarded. Free throws are easiest, that’s one point. Close to the net during play is a little harder: two points. Then further away from the net is hardest: three points.”

The rest of the first period becomes Harrington desperately trying to fully train Munson in the rules of the sport. During commercial breaks he’s quizzing Eddie on the last few plays. Munson gives smart-ass answers. Their banter is better than the on-air commentators.

It's entertaining. Harrington, permanently exasperated, and Munson, a smart-ass firestarter. Billy could watch them all day happily and not say a word.

When the final buzzer sounds, the Lakers live to fight another day.

“You guys ever seen The Seven-Ups?” asks Steve, scanning the back of the rental box.

Despite the game being over, neither Billy nor Eddie have departed the Harrington house, and Steve has not kicked either of them out. Instead they all wait each other out, polishing off free beer and snacks as they do.

“Never heard of it,” says Munson.

“Think I might’ve seen it at a drive-in when I was a kid,” offers Billy.

“How about Bullitt?” Steve reads off another title from his stack of rental VHSs.

“That the one with Steve McQueen?” asks Munson. “I’ve seen that.”

“You’ve never seen Bullitt, Harrington?” That honestly surprises Billy. It’s a classic.

“Why is it good or something?” deadpans Steve. “Robin’s trying to get me to watch these.”

“Ah, I see. So the little birdie likes the bad boy types in the cop movies, that it?” Billy laughs meanly.

“Pfft. Uh, no, man. McQueen is not her type at all. Sorry to ruin your chances. She just likes old movies.”

Billy sniffs in disinterest. He can’t deduce if this Robin girl and Harrington are actually hooking up, but the guy sure talks about her a lot.

“You guys wanna stay and watch it?” Steve asks them both mildly, after having deemed the back-of-the-box synopsis worthy. “I could order some pizza and see if this car chase scene is all it’s cracked up to be. I mean, I don’t have anywhere to be in the morning.”

By now, Billy has noted the lack of family around the Harrington house. No matter when he radios to come over, the house is always available. Only Harrington’s maroon sedan is ever parked out front. A stack of bills and magazines has piled up by the mail slot.

Honestly it seems like a dream to Billy. Parents have only ever been antagonists in Billy’s life.

People have been in Steve’s house all day. And despite his peevishness, his exasperation over the small elementary school field trip in his living room all afternoon, here’s Harrington, offering two semi-friends to while away the night.

He doesn’t want to be here alone.

It’s pathetic, and Billy knows exactly how it feels.

Like guilty schoolchildren, Billy and Eddie glance at each other. They confirm mutually assured destruction.

“Why not? How about it, Cali? Wanna see the ol’ hometown?” Munson mugs obnoxiously.

Billy recoils, confused. “I told you I’m from San Diego.”

“Yeah.”

“The movie’s shot in San Francisco, dumb ass.”

“Oh, like I care that there’s a difference.”

“What’s your problem, Munson?”

Steve spins and snaps at them both, abandoning the VCR momentarily. “You two knock it off. Stop with the bickering. The last thing I need today is to have to break you two up.”

Eddie smiles, a little deranged with glee. He loves to get under people’s skin.

“Hargrove,” Harrington points to a black remote control on the coffee table, “change the channel to channel three, yeah?”

Ignoring Munson, Billy does, flipping the TV set over to the disused channel. Steve throws a thumbs-up over his shoulder as he fiddles with the VCR settings. Munson snickers at Billy obeying Steve’s instruction. That pisses Billy off.

“Something to say, freakshow?”

Chuckling, Munson looks away.

“Yeah, thought so.” He places the remote back to its resting place on top of a coffee table paperback. Cider House Rules by John Irving.

“Interested in new reading material, Hargrove?” baits Munson.

“So fucking what if I am?”

“Just didn’t take you for the reading sort of type.”

“Oh go fuck yourself, Munson. Some of us in the room graduated high school on the first try.”

Eddie deflects Billy’s insult with a shrug of surrender. “Not judging. I like to be wrong about people. What’s your favourite book?”

“Uh, I dunno. Dunno if there’s a favourite. Really liked Hell’s Angels, I guess. Y’know, like, the motorcycle gang? Hunter S. Thompson wrote a book about them in California. Read that when I turned sixteen.”

Eddie mugs. “Thompson? Billy Hargrove, are you a secret beatnik?”

Billy flips him off.

His contempt delights Eddie. “No, ‘course not. You’re just reading up about criminal gangs for practice, right, Easy Rider? Anything else?”

“I like Norman Mailer.”

Eddie rolls his eyes in vivid disgust. “Oh my god, you would like Norman Mailer.”

“What’s wrong with that?!” Billy snaps. ”I read his short stories in English class.”

“Short little guy with violence issues? Yeah, of course you read Norman Mailer.”

“We’re the same fucking height, asshole.”

Steve waves a palm between them to break their eye contact. “Okay! Hey! Could you guys stop fighting about books or whatever? Settle down, I got the movie started.”

“Not to worry,” Eddie all but bats his lashes at Steve, “just a friendly debate between literary minds.”

“If you keep antagonizing him, Munson, I’m gonna recruit you into keeping an eye on him,” Steve says as swings into the kitchen and he returns with the cordless phone and a takeout pizza menu.

Munson mimes a dramatic fainting. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Steve.”

“You’re just as bad as him, you know,” Steve chuckles, tossing the folded paper menu at Eddie’s face.

“Slander!” Eddie attempts to swat the menu out of the air, misses.

“It’s true,” Steve insists. He points at Billy at the far end of the couch. “He deflects shit with anger—” then he points to Eddie “—and you deflect shit with humour. But it’s the same song and dance.”

Eddie blinks, a little cross eyed looking at the tip of Steve’s finger. “And so how do you deflect shit, then?”

“By getting involved in other people’s problems. God, Munson, it’s like you don’t even know me at all.”

“Man, with all this head shrink talk you really are starting to sound like Buckley, y’know?”

“Or maybe I’ve just always been insightful and people like you guys have just underestimated me as a pretty face my whole life.” Steve is feeling snappy today. He flicks the paper menu in Eddie’s hand. “Now choose what you want on your pizza, rockstar.”

The movie plays. McQueen races a gorgeous green 1968 Ford Mustang up and down the hills of San Francisco. Billy remembers watching this film years ago at a friend’s house and that sinking feeling of dread when he realized his friend was looking at the car and that Billy was looking at Steve McQueen.

It’s late. Or early. Billy stirs, butting his head into the throw cushion of the couch. The living room is dark. He must’ve fallen asleep during the backhalf of the movie.

“Hey, thanks for sticking around, Ed,” Harrington murmurs quietly from behind the couch somewhere.

“It’s no hardship, man, seriously,” Munson assures, not as conscientious about keeping his voice down. “I don’t know shit about basketball, but the movie was cool. And Hargrove’s not all that bad once you shrug off the bulldog attitude.”

Steve chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, I know. But I just mean… I dunno. Things have been bad since spring break, y’know? This shit’s just been piling up year after year. Like, I hardly do anything else anymore, it feels like. No plans for what comes after, because what if there is no after, y’know? And, like, I dunno, having friends around, you and Robin, it’s really helped with that all shit.”

“Uh, yeah, man.” Munson sounds caught off guard by the sincerity. “Shit, you’ve been dealing with this crazy stuff way longer than me. It’s you guys that kept me from having a freakin’ goddamn nervous breakdown after spring break. And it’s no fun sitting alone in the FEMA trailer all night worried that monsters are gonna crawl in through my windows.”

“Yeah, sorry to tell you but that doesn’t really go away. After that first time, I slept with my bat by the bed for nearly a year.”

“Well we’re gonna have to find you a new weapon of choice after the whooping Hargrove put your bat through,” Eddie giggles.

“Yeah.” Harrington sighs, distant.

It’s quiet for a moment and Billy thinks maybe they’re about to turn in and leave him sleeping on the couch.

“Hey, Steve,” Munson starts cautiously, gently, “are you sure nothing happened?”

“What’d’ya mean?”

“You just… you seem real on edge the past couple weeks. Ever since, y’know, Cali Boy over there came back.”

There’s silence for a moment. Billy debates pretending to wake up to stop whatever Harrington’s reply is about to be, but he’s too slow.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” mutters Harrington, “I mean, it is really messing with me that someone I watched die is just, like, up and walking and eating my pizza and sleeping on my couch. But, y’know, just add it to the list.

He chuckles, but it’s not very convincing.

Munson doesn’t think so either. “You sure? Like, I know we weren’t close in high school but you can tell me shit.”

“No, I know,” whispers Steve. “It’s just… it’s good to have friends around. People who went through it too. Damn, it sounds so corny to say out loud but… just thanks, y’know? You’re a good friend, Eddie.”

“Oh, yeah, for sure,” stammers Munson.

“You gonna crash here again?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Feel free. I’m gonna radio Hopper and let him know Hargrove is spending the night.”

They both get up. Billy tracks them by ear into the kitchen and then up the stairs until he can’t anymore. They continue talking softly, their voices distinguishable only by tone.

Though he strains to listen, Billy can’t make out what they’re saying.

Chapter Text

“F6,” says El.

“Miss,” says Billy, popping a white peg into his Battleship grid. “A4.”

“Miss.”

Billy scowls, chin resting in his hand. He’s already down a destroyer and an aircraft carrier, picked off with an accuracy that is frankly suspicious. Five or ten minutes into this round and Billy has yet to hit any of El’s ships.

“C7,” El decides after a moment of severe consideration.

“Miss,” groans Billy, bored. On the far side of the cabin’s living room a record spins on the turntable, one of El’s. Joni Mitchell’s delicate, bird-like voice and plucky guitar warbles over the speakers. Billy picks at the peeling yellow linoleum on the corner of the kitchen table.

Peering over the top of her target grid, El’s bristly head and deep-set eyes scrutinize him.

Billy ignores her glare. “B3.”

“Hit.”

Finally. He pops a red peg into the target grid.

Calculative, El considers her own grid. After some solemn thought, she declares, “D9.”

Another hit. Smack dab in the middle of his submarine. She is decimating him. Three rounds to his zero. The first couple Billy could chalk up to luck, but she’s overplayed her hand now.

So Billy decides to test the theory. “Miss.”

“Cheating!”

“You’re cheating!”

Billy flips his open game grid around to show the satellite precision at which his fleet had been eliminated. Four ships obliterated by tiny red pegs.

“You’re reading my mind, aren’t you?”

“No!”

“Yes.” She may have Hopper wrapped around her little finger, but Billy is unmoved by her solemn doe eyes.

“I was… checking. To be sure you were not cheating.”

“Oh, bullshit! You think I’m an idiot? C’mon. If you just know where everything is from the start then what’s the point of playing this stupid game?”

“To be friends.”

Billy rolls his eyes and pushes to his feet, sending his chair skidding back across the plank floor.

Going on five weeks trapped in this cabin with a grumpy vet and a semi-mute psychic and Billy can’t take it anymore. This is his stupid breaking point. Playing board games out of desperation to wile away the hours and pretending the world isn’t falling down around them. Ignoring the other world crawling up out of the ground with black limbs. Infrequently hooking up with his old rival and a twitchy local burnout to break up the monotony in a way that will probably get him killed.

And El, hellbent on being friends.

It's absurd. Billy could laugh. If it was someone else, he would.

If his dad could see him now. For the past couple nights, Billy’s been lying awake in the dark, staring at the wood grain and cobwebs of the unfinished roof, wondering where his dad is now. Where he is that very minute. Still in Indiana? Back in San Diego? Or somewhere else entirely, maybe starting over with a third wife and kid?

If his dad were here now, maybe Billy could finally say all the shit he had ever wanted to say. Really tear into him. All the deadly truths he had wanted to unleash on the old man. Maybe he would finally have the courage.

For Billy’s whole life, his dad had been the only constant thing. It had been as frightening as it had been dependable. A strict mercurial warden that had dominated his waking hours. Things had been hard under his roof, but there had been a roof.

His mother left. His dad stayed.

He doesn't know which one he hates more.

And as a kid, Billy had thought that maybe he could earn it. If he could somehow finally fit into the shape of a son that his dad wanted, he could have finally earned some of that withheld approval. Whether it had been survival by conformity or brash teenage rebellion, everything about Billy had been a response, somehow, to his dad.

It just doesn’t seem possible that he can be just… gone. After so many years.

What is he supposed to do now?

Joni croons a heartful melody from the record player. Billy knows this album, knows this song. His mother would play it in the house all the time.

He slumps down onto the lumpy old couch. He rubs at his forehead. A headache brews behind his eyes. Maybe it’s a side effect of having El rummaging around in there. Maybe he’s just angry.

It is kinda funny. Cheating at Battleship while the world around them races on toward an actual final ending. There’s some sort of joke there if he thinks on it. Something about nuclear submarines.

Part of him always knew that moving here would ruin his life. Billy knew it from the first time he laid eyes on the Welcome to Hawkins sign on the side of the road. It had felt like the end of the world, at the time. Transplanted from his school, his friends, his home, all on the verge of his senior year. Right when he was finally going to get out. Start his own life. Be free.

This evil town will be the end of him. Not once, but twice.

Sulking, El comes and sits on the other end of the coach quietly. There is a small smear of blood coming from her nose. She wipes it on the sleeve of her seafoam green sweatshirt.

“Friends don’t lie,” she mumbles contritely, not looking at him.

“But we aren't friends, El. We’re just stuck out here together.”

“I still lied,” she concludes. “I am sorry that I cheated.”

“Forget it. It doesn’t matter. It’s a stupid board game. Just losing my fucking mind out here, waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Other shoe?”

Billy chuckles. “Yeah, the other shoe. Like, waiting for something to happen. Something that you know is coming. But you can’t do anything or stop it. You're just waiting. Waiting for the inevitable.”

“Inevitable,” repeats El, thoughtfully.

And Billy's never been patient, never been good at waiting. Walked in eggshells around his dad his whole life and it only made him jumpy and trigger happy. The anticipation is worse than the fallout.

It is actually a relief when shit goes wrong, because then at least there's no more waiting.

“What other shoe are you waiting for?” asks El, curious.

“Don't know. For Hop to get ahold of my autopsy report or whatever he and that Murray guy uncover. To figure out how I'm here. What happened to me.”

How could he possibly be thinking about anything else?

Sitting forward, Billy runs a hand through his curls, presses the heel of his hand against his eye. “Why would the monster send me back up here, y'know? It can’t be for no reason, right? It has to be something to do with what happened over spring break. What happened to Max. That voice… that fucking voice that spoke to me…”

“Henry.”

Sure. “He showed me things. Some weren’t real but… some were. Horrible things. Demented shit. Told me to hurt people. And I did.”

El sits silently next to him. Says nothing, just listens.

“The shadow… I've already been useful to it once. Maybe it thinks I can be useful again.”

Though multiconsciousness had all but destroyed him the first time. Billy wouldn’t survive it intact again.

“So maybe Max is right,” concludes Billy, leaning his elbows heavy on his knees. “Maybe I am a monster and none of you realize. Maybe he’s just biding his time down there, waiting to launch his final attack.”

“I have tried searching,” El tells him, “but I cannot find Henry.”

“I don’t hear him,” says Billy. “Not like I used to. It’s not like last summer. I could feel the monster, then. I could feel it in my head and when it was moving me around, when I wasn’t in control of myself. It was always talking, in the back of my head. Gibbering without words. It doesn’t feel like that anymore, I just feel… normal. Makes me feel like I’m missing something.”

“We tested you,” reminds El with certainty, “I looked inside your mind myself. There is no shadow monster inside you.”

“Then maybe it's Hopper that's right. You think the Feds swapped out my body with a dummy? That there’s nothing in the grave?”

“I don’t know.”

Billy is getting used to hearing that.

But even that possibility is not satisfying. Because nothing in the whole world short of a miracle could have mended his body so perfectly, without a mark or scar or lasting injury to show where the shadow monster had run him through. Nothing in this world.

Even as he lay dying he had known he was beyond repair. The horrible dropping sensation of his chest cavity depressurizing. Agonal breathing as his lungs futilely tried to draw in air. Knowing you were dead before your body did.

He and El sit on the couch for a while longer, not talking. Circling the obvious conclusion but never bringing themselves to say it.

Eventually, the album winds to an end. The turntable keeps rotating, playing soft white noise through the speakers. It ripples and pops in the room.

“Can you turn that off?” snaps Billy.

El looks to him, questioning.

“The static,” Billy leans his head in his hands, “it's like last summer. When the monster would talk.”

Dutiful, El gets up and takes the needle off the vinyl.

The silence is a relief, like a thorn being pulled out of his mind.

From outside a car engine approaches. Must be Hopper and Joyce, returning from a day at the Byer’s new place.

El hops over to the front window, pushing a patterned curtain aside. She actually looks like a kid when her solemn face cracks into a wide smile. She starts undoing the many locks on the front door.

Billy scrubs his eyes and organizes himself by the time Hopper and Ms. Byers step inside.

“Hi, Joyce,” El greets with a hug.

“Hey there, El.” Ms. Byers gives her a one-armed hug, holding a couple cardboard document boxes against her hip. “It’s good to see you again, sweetie. How are you holding up?”

“Okay,” says El with a small smile.

“Well, I know the boys are planning to come over on Saturday,” Ms. Byers tells her like it’s the town's juiciest gossip. “They all miss seeing you so much. I overheard them all the other day picking out which movies to bring over. Will’s ordering pizza and I know he’s planning to bring one with extra pineapple for you. He knows how much you like it.”

Billy grimaces. It would figure El has freaky taste in foods.

“Mike told me on the radio.” El lights up. “Saturday night. Six-thirty.”

That’s the first Billy’s heard of it. Great, so the cabin will be packed with caffeinated freshmen in a few days. Whatever, Billy will make himself scarce. Maybe he can get away with Munson for a night.

“Yeah, little smart ass better watch his attitude for a change,” grumbles Hopper, resetting all the locks on the door, a few sealed Tupperwares wedged under one massive arm.

“Oh, stop it, Hop,” Ms. Byers admonishes with a fond groan. “They’re all dealing with a lot right now, Mike included. Let them just be kids. Let them eat junk food and drink too much soda and bounce off the walls for one night.”

“Sure, easy to say when it's not your walls they’ll be bouncing off of.”

“Even you can put on a happy face for one night,” Joyce insists.

Hopper shoots back a deadpan pained grin, bushy brows peaking comically. Billy has to stifle a chuckle.

“Ah, she pull the ol’ Battleship routine on you?” chuckles Hopper, noticing the abandoned board game in disarray. “Must’ve got me half a dozen times before I called her on it.”

El pouts.

Swindled by a little girl, yet again.

“Hey, Billy?” Ms. Byers addresses him. “I have something for you.”

Billy blinks. “Me?”

Ms. Byers hoists the cardboard document boxes onto the coffee table with both hands. She’s a small woman but as resilient as a neutron star. “These are… well, after last summer, Max had held on to some things from your room. And my boy, Will, my youngest… well, the same thing that happened to you happened to him. With the shadow monster, I mean. And afterwards, after he was better, he said that something that really helped him feel more like himself was music. Music and drawing. He’s a creative boy. And I know you don’t draw or paint or anything like that but Max had some of your old music cassettes in here and a few books so I thought I would bring them over for you. Maybe it’ll help you like it helps him.”

Billy removes the cardboard lid of the document box. Inside is a small collection of objects: his graduating yearbook, a few manilla envelopes—one labelled “photos”, another labelled “documents”—a book by James Thurber, another by Stephen King, a dozen assorted cassettes, a VHS copy of Morning of the Earth.

Pitiable to think that his whole life could be packed away in a couple of cardboard boxes. With room to spare.

Flipping through the cassettes, Billy wonders what became of the rest of his things: his clothes, his stereo, his bed, the rest of his music and books. Probably left in a box outside Goodwill. Maybe brought to the dump.

“Um, thanks, Ms. Byers,” he says.

“Oh, please. Call me Joyce, it’s fine. We went and saw her today. Max, I mean. Just a quick stop. She’s doing well. She’s a tough little girl.”

Billy only nods, clenches his jaw.

“Just give her some time,” Joyce soothes, placing her hand on Billy’s arm. “The boys have all been trying to talk her into seeing you. She and El have been writing letters back and forth. She’ll come around.”

“It’s fine,” Billy grits, pulls his arm away.

Ms. Byers accepts the rejection with dignity. She drops the subject.

“Also, we brought over some leftovers for you guys,” she changes topics, turning to El. “Nothing too fancy, just some casserole and some lasagna. I’m not the world’s greatest cook but even Hopper here agrees my meatloaf is pretty alright after a long day.”

“Home cooking is better than any frozen TV dinner I can whip up myself, that’s for damn sure.” Hopper places the large Tupperwares onto the kitchen counter. “Can I talk to you for a minute, Billy?”

Billy’s shoulders go back. “Yes, sir.”

“C’mon, El,” says Ms. Byers, “let’s bring Billy things into your room for him.” They each take a box and shut the door behind them.

Hopper pulls a beer from the fridge, the inner light briefly illuminating the small kitchen. Cracking it, Hopper takes a swig, grouchy face scowling in contemplation.

“So,” the big man begins, “I’ve asked an old colleague of mine to get their hands on your official coroner’s report.”

Dread rolls down Billy’s spine. “Didn’t think anyone else was supposed to know you were alive, chief.”

“Heh, yeah, no kidding.” The chief makes an expression. “I, uh, took a calculated risk. Calvin Powell, known him for years. Good guy, unflappable cop. Murray, my old journalist buddy, he helped me get in contact with him.”

“And how did that go?”

Hopper laughs. “Well, after all these years I finally know what’ll get Powell to swear in front of a woman.” The big man takes another sip of his beer, nods to himself. “But he took it well, all things considered. We caught up. Turned him on to some things about this town.”

That’s good. Having an ally on the police force can only be a good thing for all of them. Billy tries not to think about whatever is lying in his grave.

The tragedy of the subject seems to occur to Hopper as well. “He’ll get it done, though,” he assures Billy. “I’d trust Powell to bury a body for me. I trust him to track one down.”

“You think it’s really me, in that grave,” asks Billy, “or a dummy?”

“Well, you’re standing here talking to me, kid. I don’t know how else to explain that. And it wouldn’t be the first time these goddamn spooks have faked a dead kid’s body on me.”

“Then where have I been, chief? It's been almost a year. I don't remember anything, not a goddamn thing. There’s no injuries. And even if all that could be explained away, then why release me? Now?”

“That I don’t know,” admits Hopper with a shrug, “it’s just my best guess, honestly. Could be a hundred other explanations. But it takes less work for me to rationalize all that away than it does to explain how else you’re standing here right now. The idea of them keeping you drugged and out of sight for a year is nothing. You can’t imagine the things I’ve seen them do.”

“The government?” asks Billy. “Or the monsters?”

“Both,” replies Hopper, chuckling at his own cynicism.

“Okay, then,” Billy nods.

“You gonna be okay with finding out the truth?”

“Never really had a choice about finding out the truth before. So why start caring now?”

Hopper raises his can and toasts to that. Leaning back against the farmhouse sink, he nods at the abandoned game of Battleship. “She kick your ass?”

“Yeah,” Billy scoffs, “had to be sure I wasn’t cheating.”

Hopper shakes his head. “You should’ve been there the night I tried to teach her poker. That ended with some tears. Poker chips flying all over the room.”

“Should take her to Vegas when this is all over,” Billy suggests. “Hit big. Retire.”

“That’s the plan for her twenty-first birthday,” winks Hopper. “Don’t tell Joyce. You’ll get an earful.”

They both chuckle, and when Joyce and El reemerge from El’s bedroom and ask what’s so funny, Billy excuses himself to switch out the album on the record player and leaves Hopper on the hook.

It’s… nice. Silly and frivolous in a deeply necessary way, to be around this little patchwork family of oddballs. A group that loves and defends each other. Billy flips through the record sleeves before selecting James Taylor’s first album. He slips the vinyl from its sleeve and sets the needle on it. The twangy open chords of Carolina in My Mind play over the speakers. Behind him, Joyce and El both grill Hopper for not letting them in on the joke.

Billy can’t remember the last time he was in a room with this many people and didn’t want to bellow at the top of his lungs.

So he might be a kook, but that Argyle guy has some pretty phenomenal weed.

They’re both laying flat on their backs in the back of Eddie’s van. A joint is being passed back and forth between them. Smoke hazes the closed cabin of the vehicle like mist on a pond. Only a puff or two in and Billy already feels his eyes growing dry and his limbs growing heavy.

On the van stereo, Billy’s salvaged cassette of Theatre of Pain is playing at a reasonable volume, because Billy has been trying to get Eddie to buy into Mötley Crüe. Eddie remains skeptical.

“I dunno, man,” Eddie assesses after a long inebriated consideration, “this is kinda lame.”

“Oh, fuck off. Listen for more than two seconds, Munson.” Billy’s head kinda spins so he closes his eyes.

“This is like the third song and I’m not really feeling it, Hargrove. Riffs are kinda weak. Real cheesy.”

“You listen to Rush, Munson. Don't talk to me about cheesy.”

“Hey, don't insult the dealer's taste. And here I am still giving you free weed. That'll get you kicked outta the van.”

“Oh yeah?” Billy chuckles, higher than he thought he was. “Dare ya, freakshow. Kick me out.”

Billy cracks an eyelid and observes Eddie take a long toke of the joint from flat on his back, eyes falling shut. A little ash falls on his cheek.

“Okay, well, obviously any forced evictions are gonna have to wait until after this Purple Palm Whatever wears off. But once that happens, you better watch out ‘cause then I'm coming for you and your glitzy LA glam metal, Hargrove.”

The weed propels an undignified giggle out of Billy. “Hey, you know what they said the ‘glam’ stood for back in California?”

“No.”

Oh, Munson’s gonna love this. It makes Billy crack up again just thinking about it.

Eddie turns his head against the carpeted floor, eyes a little bloodshot. “Well, you gonna tell me what it stands for?”

“Gay LA Metal”.

Munson sputters, courageously attempting to maintain a stone face. But Eddie can't keep a straight face even when sober. He cracks, and then Billy. Together they both come unstitched in a fit of giggles, ratcheting up and up the way weed does until they’re rolling on their backs, gasping for breath, now unable to stop the onslaught of laughter.

“So then,” Eddie chuckles, tears of glee sparkling from the corners of his eyes, “guess that means you woulda fit right in, Cali.”

Helpless to his own demented laughing fit, Billy shoves him, cackling. Perhaps in any other circumstance he would’ve rolled his eyes and swatted at Munson for the stupid, smartass barb, but within the little pod of Eddie’s van, just the two of them, a little high, trading cassettes, it’s the funniest thing that’s ever happened to Billy. His cheeks ache from creasing. Tears prick the corners of his eyes.

“Shit,” he cackles, lightheaded, then takes a few deep breaths, reins in the hysteria, “yeah, never noticed how many glam bands were from LA until the first time I heard that.”

“Well, it’s the showbiz city, right? The bands out there gotta add a little pizazz and stage presence to stand out.” Reaching overhead Munson stubs the joint out in the glass ashtray sitting on the floor behind the driver’s seat. “And there’s gotta be lots of girls out there wanting to meet rock stars.”

“Think you might be onto something, Munson.”

Eddie grins, a great big childlike expression that crinkles around his eyes. So expressive, he always is. Nothing fake about him.

Just as fast as they had broken down laughing a wave of inebriated silence comes over them both. They both settle. Time stretches and contracts while high. Immediately Billy is miles away, tunnel vision on the rolling drum track of “Home Sweet Home”.

Next to him, Eddie shifts onto his side, facing Billy. With two long fingers he pushes up the short sleeve of Billy’s borrowed t-shirt. With the careful focus of the extremely stoned Eddie carefully prods the lines of the tattoo on Billy’s shoulder. The little skull with a cigarette in its teeth. Examines the ink, the skin, with a monk's concentration.

“You get this in Cali?” Eddie asks quietly.

It takes a moment for the question to pierce through the haze of Billy's high. “No. Last year. Night I turned eighteen.”

“Did’ya have to go to over the stateline? It’s still illegal in Indiana, y’know.”

“Nah,” Billy smiles, “some guy from the basketball team had a cousin who ran a shop in his basement.”

“You fucking rebel.”

Eddie continues his examination, passing gentle fingertips overtop the ink. Maybe wondering how it’s possible that Billy can still have this tattoo, but no mortal wounds. How can this damage be preserved on Billy’s skin but not the rest?

Billy tolerates it. It feels kinda nice.

It’s so easy to let his guard down with Munson. True to his word, Munson has kept all things said in confidence between them. Town freak’s gotta know when to keep a secret, after all.

Billy lets his head fall to the side and he watches Munson’s face. His expression is soft focus. From behind his drape of hair Eddie’s big brown eyes catalogue the terrain of Billy’s skin.

He can’t stop himself, so Billy reaches over and presses his palm to Munson’s cheek. Runs his thumb gently beneath Eddie’s eye.

Eddie’s eyes fall shut. Lashes brush the tip of Billy’s thumb.

Weed makes him stupid.

Music pulsates in the air. Billy feels it more than hears it. Feels the heat of Eddie’s skin under his hand like a living furnace. Feels the steamy breath exhaled against his wrist.

He leans over and kisses Eddie. Softly, chastely.

Eyes still closed, Eddie mutters against his mouth, “You get handsy when you’re high, Cali?”

“Not usually,” rumbles Billy.

Whatever assessment Eddie is making, Billy passes it. Eddie kisses him back, leaning into Billy’s touch, his mouth. Wriggling to get an arm around him. His big hand skates up Billy’s spine over his shirt. The touch swims beneath his skin.

It’s sweet. Not urgent. Not rushed. Any impatience muted by the ripe, sluggish haze of the drug fogging both their minds. How long has it been since Billy just made out in the back of some guy’s car? Years and years. Since he has been meeting boys at the beach, at house parties, at shows. Getting felt up by guys in the allies behind bars that didn’t card. Sitting on the hood of his car next to Carlos, looking up at the stars up on the high sandy clifftop lookouts of Black’s Beach.

The memory causes him to wince. He breaks away from Eddie, not wanting to taint this moment. But emotion is never quite as volatile when he’s high. It’s easier to turn away the hurt.

“You okay there, big guy?” asks Eddie softly.

“Yeah. Yeah, just, kinda woozy.” Billy lays his head on Eddie's chest. “Smoked too fast.”

“Yeah, this really is some good stuff that Argyle has.” In an effort to be sincere Eddie nearly giggles in the middle of his sentence.

“Told ya,” rumbles Billy, “weed in California can’t be topped.”

“Right you were.” Eddie absently rolls his ring-laden hand through Billy's hair.

Like a cat in a sunbeam, Billy arcs into the touch. Having his hair stroked is his favourite. Always has been, since he was a kid. And having it done while he’s stoned, is, like, the best. His scalp tingles all down the back of his neck as Eddie’s fingernails comb back and forth.

Through the inebriated veil, a thought strikes Billy, and he wonders what Steve is doing right now.

Alone haunting his big empty house? Out minding the freshmen on some harebrained caper? Patrolling the woods behind the National Guard lines?

The dark interior of the van hums and thrums. Drums vibrate in the back of Billy’s skull. The sound waves oscillate over them both. Billy glances up at Eddie, squints in the gloom. Over the tendon of Eddie’s neck there are a smattering of dark bruises, each no bigger than a thumbprint.

Billy frowns, trying for twenty or thirty solid seconds to imagine how Eddie might have acquired those, before the obvious answer knocks into him with the ringing clarity of the stoned.

They’re not bruises. They’re hickeys.

“Who's been leaving love bites on you, Munson?” Billy pokes the blue-black bruises with a finger.

Eddie’s hand flies up to his neck. “Nobody.”

“Yeah?” Billy rumbles, nudging Eddie's hand away. His thumb swipes over one of the marks, over and over, a little lost in the repetition. “Well nobody’s got a hell of a bite on ‘em.”

Eddie swallows, throat flexing beneath Billy's hand. “Didn’t think we were exclusive or anything.”

“Well, one of us has slimmer pickings.”

Eddie cracks a nervous laugh. “Slimmer pickings than the cultist junkie cheerleader-killer? I’m not exactly beating them off with a stick, man. I’m basically like a leper in this town.”

“Well, someone’s been chewing on your neck, killer, and it wasn’t me.”

Tense, unblinking, Eddie gauges Billy’s reaction.

Billy pinches one of the hickeys beneath Eddie’s ear, flashing a dangerous smile. “I don’t give a shit if you’re screwing around with other people, Munson. Just curious about who the lucky guy is.”

Solemn, Eddie hides them beneath a ringed hand. “No one. It’s no one.”

An obvious lie. If he weren’t high, Billy might pursue that lie a little more viciously, but he is preoccupied enjoying the loopy pleasure in his head.

Surrendering back to the upholstered floor of the van, Billy passes his hand through Munson’s long mane of hair, over and over, a nearly involuntary, automatic motion. His inebriated brain is captivated by it. The slip of curly hair through his fingers is nearly hypnotic.

Munson tolerates the touch, maybe even enjoys it.

Billy honestly does not care if Munson is fooling around with other guys. Jealousy is a bad habit of his, historically. But for some reason beyond his grasp, Billy isn’t bothered by it here and now.

If he can’t have these moments away from the cabin, away from the impossibility of him being alive, then Billy really will throw himself from the quarry cliffs.

He will take any scraps Munson or Harrington throw at him.

So instead of being angry or mean, Billy rolls forward and kisses Eddie again. Pretends that he is a few years younger and a thousand miles away. The part of him still untouched by the shadow. Allows himself to indulge in the uncomplicated physicality of kissing someone. Tangled hair and soft lips. Warm breath. The earthy funk of cannabis. The heat and weight of another body right against his. The mild scratch of the industrial carpeting beneath them.

Under narcotic stupor, Billy subsumes into the low purr of music. His tongue brushes up against Eddie’s teeth. Groaning, Munson guides him onto his back. Bowed over Billy, long hair draping over the side of his head, Eddie presses him firmly into the floor. The kiss becomes more intense. Hunger rouses in Billy’s gut. A flame, a ravenous abyss where all his emotion goes. But with Eddie he is always safe.

Surging, Billy sits them both up, chasing Eddie’s mouth with his own. The floor of the van bobs like the deck of a ship. Billy leans back against the curved wall of the van, lets it prop them both upright. They slump at a somewhat severe angle, Billy’s neck and shoulders bent but neither of them break away. So what? Let it hurt. Let them ache. The sudden intensity is too good. Hooking Eddie by the belt loops, Billy hauls him forward into his lap.

The weed renders them dimwits of instinct. Suddenly unpreoccupied with seeming cool or unaffected, instead throwing themselves wholehearted into pleasure.

Making out while high has always been Billy’s favourite thing.

His jaw aches in that far-off submerged way. Billy strokes Eddie’s hair, his throat, his arm. Exploring with his fingertips Eddie’s rings, his tattoos, the hems of his clothes. Bolder, Billy slips his hand beneath Eddie’s t-shirt. Feels the soft skin, the sparse hair beneath his navel.

Billy’s hand traces up Munson’s flank. He pauses when his fingertips encounter an inorganic depression in his body. Creased, dense tissue. Some healed wound. A cavity that had been papered over.

Billy pulls away, scowling.

“A parting gift from that fucked up place.” Eddie lifts his t-shirt to reveal the wreckage of his abdomen.

Scars and discoloured skin, still pink and shiny with new healing. Dozens, maybe hundreds of varying severity, the worst of it concentrated on Eddie’s right hip and flank, disappearing below the waist of his jeans.

It’s horrific. An actual chunk of him is missing there. Muscle tissue gone, leaving a hemispherical pocket of missing flesh a bit smaller than a fist. Something a soldier in a trench might come home with. Waxy red scar tissue that healed over the subcutaneous gash.

Billy’s never seen an injury like it. Not even his dad on his worst day had ever done something like that.

These scars aren’t from being hit. They’re not from being stabbed or even impaled. They’re from being eaten.

“Pretty gnarly, right?” says Eddie.

Billy experimentally prods the dark escarpment of scar tissue. “It did this to you?”

“Part of it. It’s all one monster, right? But this is from these shitty little flying guys. About the size of a cat, but they’ve got nasty fangs and there’s hundreds of them. Swarmed me.”

Billy knows. The flocks had been a segment of the shadow’s distributed intelligence. Billy had never seen one in the flesh but he knew them. Thousands and thousands of the little flying organisms whose only instincts had been to consume.

“They’re teeth are pretty small, like, relatively or whatever,” rambles Eddie, “so they didn’t manage to get to anything vital. It just looks worse than it is.”

“Well that’s good because it looks pretty fucking awful.”

“Doc says they’ll get better with time. Won’t be so red and dark in a few years.”

“These are all from spring break?” Billy asks, tracing the springy ridge of a scar.

“Yeah.”

“How long were you laid up from these?”

“Was in the hospital three weeks. And it probably saved my ass too, because once the public knew I was there the government spooks couldn’t make me disappear quietly. There were witnesses and news crews and shit. Plus I had a cop posted by my hospital room day and night to make sure no one came around looking for street justice.”

“You had a police detail?” Billy scoffs.

“I was public enemy number one, Cali! A menace to society.”

The syrupy effects of cannabis magnify the humour of the image. Munson handcuffed to a hospital bed, all chewed up, with one hick beat cop charged with keeping a whole vengeful town at bay. “Can’t imagine you under guard in a hospital bed for three weeks. You must’ve been climbing the walls, amigo.”

“Dude, it sucked. No music, no cigs. The shittiest food you can imagine. Like the worst meatloaf day in the cafeteria. Read a lot. Seriously, I must’ve blown through eight or nine books. Started reading all the brochures, learned about the signs of a stroke and what my first trimester of pregnancy will be like. My uncle would come around when he could but he still had to work. The band would come by to keep me company, and the rest of the Hellfire kids.”

“And Harrington?”

Eddie looks at him, knowing a bluff when he hears one. “Yeah, and Harrington. He and Robin must have been coming to the hospital nearly every day for a while there. Would check up on me, would check up on Max.”

He says it with caution in his voice, but Munson can’t ever resist baiting the shark.

But Billy brought it up. Can’t ever resist touching a hot stove.

“He really is a good guy,” mumbles Eddie, rambling without focus. “Kinda almost makes me mad. He’s just got it all. Rich, good-looking, popular, and a nice guy? Didn’t want to believe it. Like, leave something for the rest of us, y’know? But he cares about those kids so bad. So much it’s gonna turn his stupid hair grey. Just wants to protect everyone.”

The thought of it, of Harrington worrying at Max’s bedside day and night, it makes Billy sick with rage for a reason he can’t name.

He slips his fingertips into the depression on Eddie’s flank, presses gently on the thin papery skin. Eddie gasps, but doesn’t move.

“This should be me,” Billy says, numbly.

“What should?”

“This should be me,” repeats Billy. “I should look like this. I should look worse.”

But he doesn’t. Eddie’s seen it. On Billy’s hands and arms, on his chest, his back, there are no poorly healed gashes, no suture marks. Only unbroken teenaged skin with the odd mole and fleck.

“That thing punched a hole right through me.” The backs of Billy’s eyes sting with emotion. “I could feel it. And it felt so weird that all I could think was this isn't really happening. I can’t be dying this way. It’s impossible.”

Eddie just watches him, wary, out of things to say at last.

At last Billy withdraws his hand. He puts it flat to his own stomach. The phantom pressure of the puncture under his palm.

“How do I not look like that, Munson? Huh? Answer me that, smartass. How is there not a scratch on me? It’s impossible.”

Eddie shakes his shaggy head. “Got no idea, Cali. If I knew I’d tell you. But fuck if I understand anything about this goddamn spooky shit.”

Billy scoffs and wipes his eye. He fucking hates tearing up in front of people.

“But maybe,” continues Eddie, “maybe if you can come back, maybe that means other people can come back too.”

“You mean like the cheerleader?”

Swallowing, Eddie turns his head away. His jaw clenches.

Maybe the two of them had been close. Like Harrington and Buckley. Maybe Munson had even been a little sweet on her. Maybe he had fallen victim to that zap of hope in his heart, that maybe he actually could find a girl, settle down, tuck the rebellious dalliances of youth away at the back of his singlewide closet.

Billy thinks of Heather again. He tries not to, if he can help it. But they had gotten along during their lifeguard gig.

If he could bring anyone back, it would be her.

“I gotta tell you, man,” Munson slips out of Billy’s lap, “you really know how to kill a mood, Hargrove.”

Despite himself, the deadpan makes Billy laugh. “Yeah, yeah I get that all the time.”

“You wanna try again?”

“Nah, think I’m too high to mess around. Want me to finish you off?”

Eddie waves him off. “Don’t flatter yourself too hard. I’m not gonna die of blue balls just from makin’ out.”

Billy’s grateful for that. The van is still spinning a bit and he’s not sure he could’ve been much use to Eddie in that regard. His teeth feel a little weird in his mouth. He runs his tongue over them, a firm, smooth texture that is suddenly fascinating. Bones you can taste.

“Hey, big guy,” Eddie nudges him with his shoulder, beseeching, “think I got something that might cheer you up.”

He scrambles his long limbs toward the front seats. Wedging himself between the driver and passenger chair, Eddie opens the glove compartment. Billy can hear him rummaging through stuff, cursing to himself.

“My uncle’s had this cassette forever,” Eddie says over his shoulder. “He loves this old seventies family band stuff. You know how many times I’ve had to listen to the freakin’ Osmonds, man?”

Evidently finding whatever he’s digging for, Eddie ejects the Theatre of Pain tape from the dashboard cassette player and pops something else in. The player whirs as tape is spooled through the mechanism.

“Hang on, it’s the second or third song,” Munson announces, mostly to himself, hitting fast forward a few times. “Just hang on. Gimme a second. It'll be worth it I swear. That’s it. Okay, now, tell me no one has ever made this joke to you before.”

He taps the play button on the dash. Over the speakers and jaunty drumming line plays. A very antiquated sound. Like old fife and drum marching bands.

"What is this shit, Munson?"

"Oh my god, do you really not know this song? No one's ever used this joke on you? Seriously? Man, they really have no sense of humour out in California do they? Aw shit, you're gonna love this."

Munson seems too excited for this be a good thing for Billy.

Through the speaker, the vocalist has begun the song, undetectable over Munson's giddy ramblings. Missing his cue, Munson whirls back to crank the volume nob up.

Marching drums and a plucky electric guitar melody swell over the stereo system. Eddie whips back to face Billy, hair flying out as he does, a stupid, manic grin on his face. Waving his hand like a conductor’s baton, he counts himself in.

"And with her head upon his shoulder," Munson belts out slightly off-key, "his young and lovely fiancée—"

"Oh Christ, don't fucking sing, Munson."

"From where I stood I saw she was crying," Eddie continues, miming a fake microphone in his hand. "And through her tears I heard her sa-a-ay—"

The music halts for a beat and a drum break signals the theatrical start of the chorus.

"Bil-ly, don't be a he-e-ro, don't be a fool with your life," sings both Eddie and the vocalist on tape.

It's so goofy that Billy has to turn his face away, hide his grin. "This is so fucking dumb."

"Bil-ly, don't be a he-e-ro," continues Eddie, hand over his heart, belting into an imaginary microphone, "come back and make me your wi-i-ife!"

Billy is dangerously close to laughing and Munson's clownish display. Can't have that.

"And as he started to go, she said, 'Billy, keep your head lo-o-o-w.'" Munson pauses with the music, bats his lashes at Billy and cracks a shit-eating grin. "Billy, don't be a he-e-ro, come back to me-e-e."

The chorus crescendos. Munson sweeps his arms out, nearly touching both walls of the van, and bows on his knees as though to raucous applause. The second verse carries on over the speakers.

"Don't think I don't see you crackin' a smile there, Hargrove. Wait 'til Steve hears about this. I can make you laugh and he can't. That'll drive Mr. Competitive Jock absolutely nuts."

“You’re such a fuckin’ shit disturber.”

Munson smiles that sly little grin, eyes bright and eager. “Well if I didn’t know any better, Cali, I’d say maybe you liked it. Hanging around my thinking spot all the time. Pawing at me for attention. Then again maybe you’re just using me for free weed and free rides. Was that the plan all along, Hargrove? Extortion?”

Billy shrugs. “Maybe I do.”

“Do what?”

“Like it.”

Munson blinks, blindsided. Actually gapes like a fish. An implicating blush washes over his face. His big eyes shine. “Um. Okay, yeah, that was smooth. I’ll give you that.”

“Pfft, you wouldn’t know smooth if it bit you in the ass, Munson.”

“Well, buy me dinner first, Billygoat, then maybe we’ll see what your chances are like."

Billy is hooked.

It’s an amphetamine in his blood. And it has him completely, hook, line, and sinker.

He is fully hooked on both of them. On the cheap beer and subpar handjobs. On the secrets and the risk. It’s all a rush, like driving too fast on narrow back country roads. Steve and Eddie are what he looks forward to. The thought of them gets him up in the morning. They make him want to dress nicely and style his hair. Make him want to venture out of this crowded ramshackle cabin where the world is ending.

Hopper doesn’t suspect. Surely, Billy would be dead on the side of the road if he did. Tough, veteran, ex-cop Hopper probably roughed up his share of homos while on the job, especially back in the old days. If the old guy discovered the kid he’d been letting sleep in his daughter’s bedroom is fooling around with not one but two boys?

Not even El would ever find Billy’s remains.

It’s only a matter of time. Before someone finds out. Before someone sees them. Before Steve blabs to Eddie or vice versa. When that happens, then Billy has no plan. There is no exit strategy. He’s just stomping on the accelerator, seeing how high he can push the speedometer before he wrecks.

If he cuts through deer trails in the woods and crosses Denfield road, Billy can walk to the Harrington house in under half an hour nowadays.

Not going to the front door, Billy reaches over the fence to open the gate latch and lets himself into the backyard. The pool and patio lay deserted, a few dead leaves floating on the surface tension of the water. Billy lets himself in through the back sliding glass door. It’s never locked.

From upstairs the shower can be heard running. Billy smiles. He couldn’t have timed it better.

He gets comfortable. Shucks off his old leather bomber and tosses it over the kitchen counter. He grabs a beer from the fridge.

Billy sinks into the overstuffed beige couch, kicks his feet up on the coffee table. Upstairs, the white noise of the running shower stops.

Harrington comes down the stairs, dripping, in nothing but a towel. He stops when he sees Billy. Just observes him from across the room. As if he is not at all surprised or upset to see Billy here, unannounced, making himself perfectly at home in the family living room.

Billy keeps showing up. Steve keeps letting him in.

He looks so good. Filled out a little more since high school. Arms a little bulkier. A nice, dark patch of hair filled in on his chest. Towel slung around his waist, the firm muscle of his abdomen. Skin still dewy from his shower. Damp hair all spiked up like a mad scientist.

Billy could eat him alive.

They collide halfway, in an urgent flare of mouths and groping. Both struggling for control, pulling hair, squeezing, overpowering one another. The towel falls from Steve’s waist.

They end up on the carpet. Billy’s not sure how. Steve laying naked on the speckled fibres. Billy straddling his hips. Their hands wrench in one another’s hair. Water drips from between Billy’s clenched fingers. It’s fiery, stinging, half fury and half lewd. But this is not about kindness. This is a necessity, nothing sweet or slow, but a frantic gnashing, nipping and moaning as their bodies roll and grind.

Steve’s damp skin flushes with exertion. Billy desperately strips off his own shirt. Bullies his way between Steve’s spread legs.

“I thought about it,” pants Steve between kisses, “I jerked off to it.”

“Yeah? Tell me. Tell me what you thought of.”

“First time. By the pool. Couldn’t believe it. Came so hard.”

“Yeah?”

“Then next time. Going down on you. Oh my god. It was so hot. Dunno why but it was just so… hot…”

“You like sucking boys off, Harrington?”

“Yeah.”

“Makes you hard thinking about it?”

He nips Billy’s lip. “Yeah.”

And it does. Undressed, Steve is hard as a rock against the denim of Billy’s jeans. Billy gets his fly open one-handed and pulls his own dick out. Without any decency, he licks his palm, wraps a hand around them both.

Steve moans and rolls his hips, finding the rhythm. The bare carpet rubs the backs of his arms bright pink. Together they thrust into Billy’s grip with abandon. The Harrington family living room echoes with the sounds of their bodies clapping together, their cries and gasps. There are no more words, no more questions. They know without speaking. They’ve never been any good with words; they talk with their bodies instead.

Panting hard, Billy throws back his head, chases the release. It mounts fast, too quick, too eager.

Steve’s hand closes over Billy’s, guides the final few strokes, and they both come.

Afterward, Billy rolls off. He sprawls on the carpet beside Steve, shirtless, pants open, staring up at the ceiling fan. The glow ebbs slowly, diminishing as his heart rate evens out.

Billy is hooked.

“I don’t think I’m straight,” Steve says, watching the slow rotating blades of the ceiling fan.

Billy chuckles, dreamy. “Don’t think so, pretty boy.”

“I dunno what to do about that.” Steve winces, his beautiful mouth parted.

Neither does Billy.

In a half hour, they do it again.

Chapter Text

It's a warm night, even for early June. A humid breeze is blowing through from the river. The air is sticky, laden. Yellow pollen from the trees covers the deck. Smells like warm timber and fresh cut grass. Could almost be California, if Billy closed his eyes.

Lighting up a smoke, he leans against the porch railing. The yellow glow of the porchlight casts a pallid colour over the front yard. The halogen bulbs whine and buzz above his head. Crickets and god knows what else that hides in the long grass here chirp.

Billy's almost done his cigarette when the deck planks creak under approaching footfall.

"Didn't think you'd show," he calls as he throws down the cigarette butt and stubs it under his boot.

Lucas Sinclair stands there, arms folded, looking altogether displeased to be here.

"Jesus, kid, you got big," Billy tells him.

He did. Must be fifteen or sixteen now—same grade as Max—and Sinclair and he are now nearly the same height. Kid's filled out too; high school basketball has put some muscle on his bones.

But Sinclair only regards him with that serious little frown of his. Still looks every bit a kid.

"Look, Sinclair." Billy jams his hands into his leather jacket. "I'm not here to make a scene."

"Then what are you here for?"

Grew a spine too, in the meantime, it seems.

Billy bites his lip to keep from snapping. "We don't have to be friends. Obviously. You certainly don't have to like me. But if you're going to stay around with Max, then, well, we'll be seeing each other, I guess. And if that's how it's gonna be, then… fuck." He paces when he's angry, tapping the toe of his boot against the wooden railing. "I'm hoping it doesn't have to be like it was before. That you and I can start over. Or at least ignore each other. So, I'm sorry. For that night."

He has to rip the words off his own tongue, but he says them.

But Sinclair only stands there, unmoved by Billy's attempts, it seems. That trendy hi-top fade he's sporting. Kid's fashionable. No wonder Max likes him.

"Why did you do it?" Sinclair asks at last.

"Man, does it even matter?"

"It does to me. I was a kid, Hargrove. Thirteen!" He says it like it was forever ago. Like from atop his fifteen years of wisdom it was another epoch altogether. Billy remembers that feeling. "And you were a senior, and huge! We just wanted to be Max's friends. What did I ever do to you that made you so angry?"

Billy smiles, that smile of his that is nothing but threat and contempt. "It was never about you, kid."

"Sure felt like it."

"Listen. The reasons don't matter. Is it gonna change anything? It was outta line. I'm apologizing." The word nearly chokes him.

"Well, I want to know why. Or I don't accept."

Billy looks right at the kid, affronted. The little shit. Can't Sinclair see that he's trying? He bites the inside of his cheek, hard. Be calm. Like El taught him.

"Because I knew… I knew that if my dad ever saw you with her, that it was gonna fall back on me. It was gonna mean fuckin' broken ribs or a black eye. That's just… the kinda man he is. And I had no problem scaring you off if it meant avoiding that. I was always supposed to be watching her, but she hated that, and so did I, and whenever she got into shit, it ended up being my fault. And my dad… he's not a good person. It wasn't personal, Sinclair. You were just a problem to me and… I got one fuckin' way of dealing with problems."

It's the most he's spoken about Neil in months. Technically, maybe even years. Mortifying, to spill his pathetic daddy issues to this kid that hates his guts.

Billy pulls out another cigarette. Never really used to chainsmoke but he sees the appeal more and more these days.

“So that’s my reason,” he mumbles around his cig, “make you feel any better?”

“No.”

“Yeah, well,” he pauses to light, “tried to warn you.”

“Do you regret it?”

Only as much as anything else in his life. “Yeah, kid. I regret it. Doesn’t change anything, though, does it?”

“Guess not.”

He doesn’t really expect Sinclair to linger after that. Billy doesn’t really have more to say. He has doled out his apology. Even minded his manners while doing so. Billy’s perfectly happy if they never speak to each other ever again.

Maybe the kid’s got some shit to get off his chest, though. And really, this might be his only chance to tell Billy to eat shit and die. Maybe he needs a minute to psych himself up for that.

"Max has talked about him some," offers Sinclair after a while. "Your dad."

"She should learn to mind her own fuckin' business."

"Yeah."

"Spent all my life hating that son of a bitch. Just ended up meaner and nastier than him."

“I think, uh, Max and El… they talked about it, a little bit. Before El left for California. Talked about what she saw in your head, that day at the mall.”

Billy knocks his fist against the wooden porch post, just taps it a few times. Sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and exhales. He still can’t even really think of that day, can’t even look at it. Sand and ash and freon. Waves at the beach with his mom. El pulling him out of the shadow.

“She shouldn’t have blabbed about that,” he grits. “Shit’s private.”

“They didn’t think you’d ever be… back, Billy. Max needed answers.”

“Yeah, well, she’s old enough, she should know by now that there are no answers. Sometimes people are just mean, and there’s no reason for it.”

Sinclair scowls a bit, clearly not agreeing. Hunches his shoulders, jams his hands into his pockets. “Y’know. One of the first times I ever really talked to Max, she told me about how you guys moved out here. How you two had never really gotten along, but once you both moved to Hawkins that you’d just gotten… worse. Just angry and mean all the time.”

“I am angry and mean. I didn’t give a fuck who was in my way. I was so fucking mad at my old man for moving us my senior year. For making me leave my friends. It was like he did it… just to hurt me. Because he knew I was leaving at the end of the school year and wanted to get one last ‘fuck you’ in before I was finally fucking free of him.”

“But none of that was Max’s fault,” contends Sinclair.

“No, it wasn’t.” Billy flicks his cigarette into the glass jar serving as an ashtray. “I took it out on her because I could. I took it out on you because I could. Learned it from the best.”

"Well then stop. For Max."

"Yeah, kid, I'm trying."

"You really mess her up, Billy. This last year… after last summer, it's like she's been a ghost. I really thought we were going to lose her."

"Shit, kid, I wasn't even here the last year."

"I mean before that,” insists Sinclair, “before you guys ever moved to Hawkins. She… she acts like you sometimes. Gets mad and… and shuts off. Or lashes out. She gets mean and stubborn and just… the two of you are a lot alike for not being related."

Ouch.

Drawing up his bravery, Sinclair squares himself and faces Billy. "If you're going to stick around, if you're really gonna be here for Max, then you have to be better."

Billy seethes. He fucking hates people telling him what to do. "Yeah, I know."

"Be better or don't be around at all."

Sinclair will never know how much Billy agrees with him on that.

Crickets continue to buzz in the torturous silence between them. They both look away, check their watches, inspect the wood grain of the deck. Anything but to have to acknowledge each other.

Sinclair scratches at the back of his neck with a look on his face like he’s contemplating some heavy shit. Billy wishes desperately that this encounter was over.

Deciding something, Sinclair nods his head a few times, then reaches for something in the back pocket of his jacket.

“During spring break,” the kid starts, pulling out a brown paper envelope, “she, uh, she wrote us all goodbye letters. In case we didn’t save her. Gave them out to everyone.” Sinclair flips the envelope over in his hands a few times, reading the front over and over again. “She wrote you one, too.”

He extends it over to Billy at arm’s length. Like he’s holding raw chicken out to a tiger.

Billy looks at the creased envelope in the kid’s hand. Yellow halogen light the only thing that breaks he and Sinclair’s little pocket of dusk out here. This kid is already so grown up. Already figured out shit that Billy will still be learning years down the road.

“Would she want me to read this?” inquires Billy with a nod of his head.

Lucas shrugs. “She wrote it for you. Read it to you. Made Steve drive all the way out to Roane Hills Cemetery so that she could leave it at your grave. Made us all wait in the car. Pretty sure it's what she’d want you to know.”

Billy takes it. Reads his own name written in blue ballpoint ink on the envelope. Max’s pen etching into the paper.

“She wrote me one too,” Sinclair offers, shoving his hands back into his pockets.

“Did you read it?”

“I tried not to. At first. When she was first in the hospital.” He shakes his head, picks at his hair nervously. “It felt like, if I did, it would be like admitting that she wasn’t going to get better. That it was really goodbye. But then, I… I had to know what she felt. What her real feelings were. She has a hard time saying them out loud, sometimes. Most of the time. But she had spent her last day writing them down for me, so I figured I should at least read them, no matter what they were. And I’m… I'm glad I did.”

He blinks and turns away for a moment, hastily wipes at his eyes, certain that Billy Hargrove will push him down and call him names for crying.

“I’ll, uh, see you around, I guess,” Sinclair offers vaguely. He nearly waves, but catches himself, agonizes for a moment over which farewell gesture to use, then after a few aborted attempts simply turns away and walks back in through the front door of the cabin.

Leaning both elbows onto the railing, Billy examines the envelope in his hands. Moths spiral out by the porchlight. Their papery wings tap against the awning.

What would Max have said to him if she knew that she was dying? Does Billy even want to know?

What if her words contain nothing but scorn? ”I always hated you, Billy, and I’m glad you’re dead.”

But… there’s so much he wants to say to her. So much he wants to hear from her.

They never have been good at talking. Maybe it’s better that they speak in letters. Away from the shit their parents put them through, maybe they could have found a truce.

El’s friends leave. They get picked up by Harrington after summoning him on the walkie radio. Billy makes himself scarce when the maroon BMW pulls up to the cabin and Harrington doesn’t bother coming inside. Blinds drawn, Billy stands by the window and listens to the freshmen pile into the backseat and slam the car door. Waits until the car’s engine rumbles away down the dirt road.

Through the closed door of his bedroom, Billy can hear El signal Hopper on the HAM radio a few times. His Morse Code isn’t perfect yet, but he’s pretty sure he makes out an “ALL CLEAR” in the dots and dashes of static.

Turning on the bedside lamp for light, Billy sits down on the creaky spring bed and retrieves the letter Sinclair had given him from his back pocket. The thing had felt like an armed bomb on him all night.

He gives himself a final out. Tells himself it doesn’t matter what a little girl thinks of him.

But yes it does. Of course it does.

He opens it. Tugs out two folded pieces of lined schoolbook paper.

Dear Billy, it begins.

Everything has changed so much since you left.

It reads in her voice. Her abrupt matter-of-factness. The degree of cynicism only a fifteen-year-old girl can possess. An annoying quality in a little sister, he had always thought.

Billy had been so mad when Susan and Max had moved in with them in Serra Mesa. He hadn’t wanted a new mom. And he certainly hadn’t wanted some younger stuck-up brat to look after. Didn’t help that Maxine seemed to hate his guts on sight. The day they had been introduced to each other she had walked right past Billy, shut the door to her new room, and ignored him.

But his dad had been overjoyed to have a new wife and only somewhat reluctant to have a new kid. Susan moving in had put Neil in such a good mood that he had hardly had a stern word for Billy for months and months. It had been the most peace that house had seen in a long, long time.

Max tells him of his dad leaving. How their parents’ had been getting into fights. How she and her mom have been struggling. Billy knows what it’s like to struggle without Neil’s help. How the only thing scarier than staying with him is leaving him. How things sometimes don't seem so bad compared to having to be alone.

At his darkest moments, Billy wonders to himself, privately, if he would have had the strength to leave, had he lived.

Basically, ever since you left, everything’s been a total disaster.

He used to daydream about it. Fantasize. About getting out. Graduating, turning eighteen, saving up some cash and leaving his old man in the dust. Couldn’t wait to start his life without him. Spend summers sleeping and surfing on Black’s Beach, scaring the rich people from La Jolla. Sneaking into shows up in LA. Driving up and down the coast in the Camaro. Crashing at surf shacks in Oceanside. And Carlos, if he had wanted to come. They could have gone anywhere together.

But then Neil had gone and moved them all out to Hicksville, Indiana just into the start of Billy’s senior year. And suddenly Billy had nowhere to go when he turned eighteen. No warm summer beach waiting for him. No broken open California road and sky. No Carlos to fall asleep in his arms at night.

It is the closest Neil could have come to killing him without pulling it off.

But I think a part of me died that day too.

Billy had been dead long before that.

In the end, in the last few moments he had under his own power, Billy had wanted only to spare Max that feeling. Of people leaving. This acute amputation of losing someone you love. The drudgery of having to go on living after they’re gone.

“Max loves you very much.”

Eyes bleary, Billy looks over his shoulder. El stands in the door, her hand on the handle, swallowed up in one of Hop’s old plaid shirts. The incandescent light of the table lamp lends her a supernatural glow.

“I saw,” she intones in utter seriousness, “over spring break, when I was piggybacking in from the pizza dough freezer.”

Billy laughs, wipes at his eyes. “El, I have no fuckin’ idea what that means.”

“I had to go inside her head. During spring break.” Barefoot she pads around to Billy’s side, sits up next to him on the creaky mattress, legs swinging. “I had to go inside her head, into her memories. Like I had to do with you. But she was very far away. So I needed to be in the freezer to reach her.”

Sure. Whatever. “And what’d you see?”

“California. Skateboarding.” She pauses. “The sauna.”

He had begged Maxine for her help. Cried like a child and begged.

“Some memories of you made her sad,” El states, “but also, some made her happy.”

“Bullshit.”

“Not bullshit,” she repeats, a little clunky. Billy groans. Hop’s gonna kill him for teaching El another curse word.

“I wasn’t a good person to her, El. I was angry a lot and I took it out on her. She should’ve been thrilled when I died.”

"You can be mad at someone and be sad when they die."

"Well, no matter how it happened. I doubt she missed me."

“It is hard to lose someone,” says El, “when you are not finished with them. When you are not ready to let them go. Because then you lose them twice. You lose the person that you had, but also, you lose the person that you could have had.”

Billy sniffs, wipes at his eyes. Next to him, El is steady.

“Max was sad when I left Hawkins,” she tells him, “and I… was sad too.”

“Why did you and the Byers leave?”

“Joyce was scared. She had lost a lot. Maybe the most of everyone. She didn’t want… Will and me to be there, anymore. Where all the bad stuff had happened. But I think she didn’t want to be in Hawkins anymore, either.”

Billy nods. He understands that feeling.

“How d’ya like California?” he asks.

“I didn’t.”

Another laugh ripples out of him. He looks at her serious little face, smiling over the letter in his hands. “Not really your scene, huh?”

“People were mean.”

“People are mean everywhere.”

“Not all the time.”

“So what'd they do? These mean people.”

“Made fun of me,” El’s voice wobbles, “of how I talk. Of how I dress. Said that I didn’t fit in. Said I was a 'freak'. Said I was a ‘snitch’. They poured milkshakes on me in front of everyone.”

“Jesus,” Billy suppresses a little flame of rage at the thought, “fucking Valley kids.”

“Mouthbreathers,” agrees El.

“So what’d you do about it?”

“I broke Angela’s nose with a roller skate.”

“What?” sputters Billy, reeling back a bit, looking El up and down. “You beat some girl’s face with a roller skate?”

“Yes.”

“Holy shit.” He can’t keep the proud smile from his face as he looks at her. “What’d she do to deserve that?”

“Made fun of Hop.” She blinks, and her big watery eyes flick to him. “Laughed at him being dead. Made me feel so small and stupid. Laughed at me for being sad. Like it was fun to hurt me. So I hurt her back.”

“Fuckin’ good on ya.”

“But it wasn’t fun to hurt her back.”

“No,” Billy agrees, “you think it will be, but it never is.”

El doesn’t look like she believes that. Folds in on herself a little bit. Fidgets with the hem of her plaid sleeves. “Sometimes, I am worried that I’ll become like Papa.”

“I don’t think that’s something you have to worry about.”

“Sometimes when I am angry, I do like hurting people. I want to hurt people. I want to hurt everyone. Because it’s not fair that they are happy and I am sad.”

“Yeah. Yeah, know how you feel, kid.”

“Papa used to say that I am dangerous. But sometimes… Papa would lie. But friends don’t lie.”

“And are we friends, El?” Billy asks with a cynical chuckle.

“Friends don’t always have to like each other,” she informs him with great importance, “but they always have to care about each other.”

“That so?”

“Yes.”

“Well, in that case,” he lays Max’s letter down on the bedside table, “I have a question for you. As a friend, who doesn’t lie.”

Honoured to be called upon for such an occasion, El straightens up, turns to give Billy her undivided attention. He still must fight the urge to wince away from her gaze, knowing she can see right through him. Right down to the parts that he can’t even bear to look at himself.

Billy leans his chin on his elbow, stares at the floor. “Do you think Max is right about me? That I’m not the real Billy? That I’m just… something that place spit out?”

For a long while, she studies him, seeing everything. If anyone else could look at him and see so much, Billy would be mortified, but El’s scrutiny never feels undignified. Within her tiny body is an endless well of compassion, no matter what sort of ugliness she encounters.

After her consideration, she assures him, “You are the same. Inside. Outside. Your memories are the same. Your feelings are the same. Your body is the same.”

“Then why don’t I have scars from where that thing killed me? How come I don’t have burns on my arms, or in my throat, or that black shit in my veins? How am I just walking around like I didn’t miss anything?”

“The Mindflayer is not inside you,” she insists. “Whatever happened to you… you are the same Billy as before. I can tell.”

“Well, if I start ripping copper out of the walls to eat again,” he groans, “you’ll be the first to know.”

She doesn’t laugh. Only stares at him gravely.

Because she is worried about it happening too.

“Seriously,” Billy repeats, “if I start hurting people again… you have to stop me.”

“I will.”

“Put me down, no matter what anyone else says.”

“Okay.”

He doesn’t think he’s ever thanked her for last time. Finding him in the shadow. Breaking through to him when he could hardly remember his own name. Unbroken hours with the shadow steering his body, speaking words out of his mouth, not letting him sleep, not letting him rest for an instant, it had all but disintegrated him. By the time he brought El to the monster at the Starcourt Mall, he didn’t remember himself, didn’t remember Maxine, didn’t remember a town called Hawkins.

But she had found him, hidden away in his happiest memories. Knew right where to look.

If she has to shoot to kill, Billy doubts she would miss.

He hates to ask her to have to do it again. But she’s the only one strong enough to do it.

At least Max won’t be there to see this time.

“It’s gettin’ late.” The red digits on the alarm clock read 11:54. “Chief’s not gonna be happy if you’re still up when he gets back in. Go brush your teeth and stuff. Get ready for bed.”

“Okay.”

Billy leans over conspiratorially. “Keep your walkie on until he gets home, if you want.”

El’s big eyes fix on him in shock. Disbelieving. Like she can’t believe they have a secret together.

“Just tell your friends to keep it down,” he tells her, “especially Henderson. Otherwise you won’t hear the tires roll up outside, and if Hop catches you with it on after lights-out, you’re on your own.”

Her big smile feels like a prize. She stands from his bed, rounds back to the bedroom door. Stops and looks back at him.

“I liked talking with you, Billy,” she states plainly, like it is so strange that it must be remarked upon, “I hope you sleep well.”

“Get ready for bed, kid.”

She leaves the door ajar.

Cathode ray colours flicker across the dark walls of the cabin. On the TV a woman poses in a shampoo commercial. Ever since El had closed the door to their shared room, Billy has been half-watching the 11 o’clock news at a low volume. The freshmen had left the cabin in a downright post-cyclonic state; junk food wrappers and scattered aluminium soft drinks cans on every surface, a stack of rental tapes not rewound.

Billy will clean up a bit before turning in himself. If Hop comes back in the morning to a totally trashed cabin he might actually slap Mike Wheeler in cuffs. But maybe spending the evening with Ms. Byers will leave him in a charitable mood. Billy’s seen how the big man softens up around her.

The news cuts from a story at the White House to footage of the World Expo in Vancouver. Slouched against the back of the sofa, Billy dozes, not listening. It’s just nice to have a distraction. Nice to playact at normal.

He’s halfway to dozing when from the otherside of the room, the squat CB squawks to life. A phasing gurgle of static emits weakly from the speakers. The needle jumps on the transceiver.

Billy gets up to investigate. Word over the CB usually comes from Hopper. It could be an update for them, or a warning.

The static whine crackles over the air a few more times. Singal’s weak. It could be nothing. Maybe a few ham radio users on the edges of their range. Picking up trucker chatter from the highway. Or maybe skip chatter from sunspots, even.

Billy listens for the pulses, checking for dots and dashes in the static. But nothing recognizable comes through.

The upright desk mic sits on its base by the squat radio. Billy pulls it toward himself, adjusting the windscreen. He tests the call button.

“Hey, uh, Hopper? That you?” He releases the call button.

He waits. Soft colours from the antenna TV set illuminate the room in a fuzzy CRT glow.

No response. Billy tries again. “Hop? That you? Uh, over.”

A few seconds of silence and then a chirp comes through strong and clear over the speakers. “No names on the radio!"

Jesus, this kid. Billy scowls at the microphone, half expecting to see Henderson’s smug little face chastizing him in person.

Another voice comes through the speakers. “That you, Billygoat?”

Munson. Billy can hear the mischievous gleam in his voice.

“Well hey there, Billygoat. Switch over to channel 11A. Two-seven-point-oh-nine-five megahertz.”

Carefully, Billy twists the radio’s large tuning knob on the front panel. The needle creeps up the band with every rotation. With some fine adjustment, he gets it to rest on 27.095, as Eddie instructed.

Testing, he hits the call button. “That better?”

“Loud and clear, Billygoat!” Munson’s voice is immediately clearer and sharper at this frequency. “This is the big kids’ channel, for future reference. We’re freebanders, now! Breakin’ the law!”

“What are you two squawking about so late?”

Harrington. Even over the airwaves his voice is easily recognized.

“Evening, Stevie!” chirps Munson over the radio. “Just rescuing our cabin-dweller here from getting his ass chewed out by Henderson over radio protocol.”

“Pfft,” Steve actually depresses the talk button to scoff, “oh my god, he’s so strict about the codenames thing. It’s ridiculous.”

“Go easy on him. He’s just scared, y’know?” replies Eddie. “Little guy’s a control freak.”

“Tell me about it.”

Billy smiles to hear them chat. It feels permitted, here in the dark cabin with only the moths on the screen door to see.

“Did ya’ listen the game on the radio last night, Hargrove?” asks Steve over the air.

“Missed it,” Billy says into the mic.

“Lakers got eliminated.”

Billy grins to himself like an idiot, shaking his head in something dangerously close to fondness. “Yeah, well good riddance.”

“Does this mean basketball’s over?” interjects Munson.

“Nah, not even close. Gonna have to try harder than that, Munson.”

Eddie groans theatrically over the radio, sounding worse than the Henderson kid.

Billy wishes they were here. Or he were there. With them. Holed up in Munson’s FEMA trailer or sprawled in Steve’s spacious living room. The two of them are comforting, grounding, a warm breeze off the ocean. They know what the shadow is capable of. They have fought it off before. With them, Billy does not have to explain. He’s not even expected to. All he has to do is just be.

He leans in on the microphone. “Well, invite me over next time you wanna present me with free pizza and beer. Maybe we’ll scrub the geek off Munson before long.”

White noise over the speakers. For a second he worries he pushed too far; the flirting became blatant and spooked Harrington off.

“Sure, you got it, ” comes Steve’s voice from the airwaves. “It’s a date.”

It knocks Billy right in the gut. Actually takes his breath away. Jumping, he glances over his shoulder to confirm that El’s bedroom door is still firmly shut. Goddamn Steve Harrington and his smooth fucking lines.

“You too, Munson,” Steve continues. “Free pizza and beer on game nights.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Harrington,” cackles Eddie. “Name the time and day. I’ll be there with bells on.”

Billy hopes the shadow can’t hear them through the wires. Hopes no one else is tuned into this frequency. He wants this just for himself. This tender moment of normalcy. It’s something all his own. Not for the shadow, not for his dad, not even for Hopper or El. It’s just himself, being at ease. Something no one else is entitled to know.

Chapter Text

Someone’s been giving Harrington lessons.

That, or he’s just an unfairly quick study, learning the ropes of hooking up with guys with second-nature ease.

Just another reason for Billy to hate him. Everything just comes so easy to the plucky hoosier country golden boy. Anything that passes under his hand, he masters. Even degenerate homo trysts in the middle of the rainy afternoon.

Steve has him up against the round dining table. Some tasteful centrepiece of a fake orchid rattles when they both knock into it. Steve has one hand up Billy’s shirt and the other groping at his throat, teeth kissing and nipping behind Billy’s ear.

Something’s flipped in him. He’s eager. All pushy and entitled and not hesitant at all. The fire, Billy remembers. The irradiance that had first drawn Billy to him like a tide.

Their antagonistic screwing around has grown into a semi-regular occurrence. Self-destruction has always been Billy’s poison of choice. It’s doomed, and stupid, but he can’t help himself.

He makes Harrington earn it, though. Puts up a little bit of a fight, because he can’t not. He loves a good fight, always has. He wrestles and shoves Steve a few times as they grope and fondle. Can’t be going easy on him. Can’t have him thinking Billy needs this sort of thing.

But it never even occurs to Harrington to not be in charge of things

Turning Billy’s head, Steve captures his mouth in a slanted kiss. Steve kisses like a storm, brutal and flashing.

Beneath Billy’s shirt, Steve’s fingernail brushes a nipple and a bolt of lightning ignites through Billy’s chest. He collapses forward onto the tabletop, elbows braced.

Harrington has never been this bossy, before. It is a role he suits nicely. His attitude is one of a guy that always presumes to be obeyed. Spoiled little rich boy, just expects that everyone will fall all over themselves to do whatever he asks.

And here Billy is, one of those idiots falling all over himself to please Steve Harrington.

Panting, Billy cranes his neck, tries to look back over his shoulder at Steve. The hand clenching in his hair tightens and shoves his head forward.

“Stay there,” Harrington insists, voice low.

“Make me, princess.”

Beneath his shirt, Harrington’s tweaks Billy’s other nipple meanly.

Cursing, Billy groans.

Steve strokes both hands down Billy’s flanks. Slowly, both hands grip around his waist. They pause, both breathing hard. The rainstorm has muted the interior of the house in dim grey, an underexposed photograph. Summer’s first downpour rolling overhead.

Looming, Harrington pulls back just a breath. He smooths a hand down Billy’s spine, clutches the fabric of his shirt.

“Take it off,” hums Steve.

Billy obeys. It doesn’t even occur to him not to. He pulls the plaid button-up and undershirt over his head with a swiftness, hair billowing into his eyes.

“All of it,” Steve insists.

So Billy undoes his belt and stomps out of his jeans, kicks them away. His bare legs knock against Steve’s socked feet.

And then suddenly he’s stark naked against Steve Harrington’s dining table. Completely bare, on display. He dares not turn around. Instead he puts his hands on the polished wood, braces himself.

He’s ready. For what, he’s not sure. Whatever Steve decides to do to him.

Steve makes no comment. Only hovers out of view somewhere close over Billy’s shoulder. Taking in the sight.

Billy shifts his weight from one leg to the other. Rolls his neck and shoulders. Tries to make it an alluring movement but he doesn’t think that he succeeds. He arches his spine and tips his head back, letting the ends of his hair trail against his back. His racing heart trembles under the scrutiny.

Maybe this is too much for Harrington. Maybe a fully naked guy in his parent’s decorated living room is too upsetting, too different and queer.

Billy keeps waiting for that moment. The moment of Steve crossing the line between curious and repelled.

He displays himself against the table. Tension grows in his gut, almost the same thing as arousal.

But then from behind, hands grip him gently by the waist. Thumbs rubbing small circles on either side of Billy’s spine. Sighing, Billy flexes against the hold. Testing the resistance. Steve holds him like he’s a girl. It’s a kinder touch, unused to holding a dangerous body. When Billy surges against him, Harrington paws at him with renewed intensity. His big hand closes on the meat of Billy’s hip, his thigh, pinches curiously. Learning all the ways a man’s body fits together.

It’s like Billy is a doll, a prop for Steve’s pleasure. It makes him so hard his eyes nearly cross. The pretty boy rich kid who gets whatever he wants. Billy had hated that. Hated that Steve was never impressed nor afraid of him. Hated that Steve was everything about this town that Billy resented. Hated that Steve felt entitled to ignore him.

But Steve sure can’t ignore Billy anymore.

Curious, unhurried, Steve plays with him, toys with him, explores Billy’s naked body with his hands, his mouth. Fear has never kept Steve Harrington from anything. He is as brave as he is foolhardy.

Both of Steve’s hands grip Billy’s hips. He digs his fingertips into the meat of Billy’s ass greedily and spreads him.

It’s so revealing a position. So defenceless. Billy trembles between arousal and raw shame.

Instead, he tries to listen to the drumming rain. An even white noise murmur. When he was with the shadow he would stand out in the summer storms all night. Rain pelting down on him. Soaking through all his clothes, his socks, his boots. Until his skin would prickle and turn as white as a sheet. Until he would shiver and faint. Until he knew every living thing in a square meter in every direction, above and below the soil, the exact biomass and all the carbon of their atoms. When his core temperature dropped to near fatal limits, it was a relief. Then the shadow would hold him close, one node on the filamentous web of infinite matter, and at last it was like someone released a vice in his mind. The shadow had adored the cold and Billy could feel its relief and happiness like his own as his fingernails turned blue.

The shadow’s goals had been mysterious to Billy, but he knew it’s joy.

Not being able to feel it now, it’s like Billy has lost a sense. Rendered clumsy. Like crawling out onto dry land and realizing he can no longer float.

Leaning away, Steve looks down at the prize in his hands. Even with the lights not on there’s no mistaking what he sees.

Breathing low, Steve runs a thumb over Billy’s flesh. “You ever done it that way?”

“What way?”

“Let a guy fuck you?”

Billy moans. Steve can’t be serious about this. “Yeah. Yeah, I have.”

“How many?”

“What?”

“How many guys?”

He considers lying. Giving Harrington the “Letter to Penthouse” routine, spinning some flattering fantasy of nonstop adolescent sexual conquests up and down the coast of Southern California, of no one ever turning Billy down.

But held against the dining table, naked, rain pelting down on the roof, Billy finds that he can only be honest.

“Two,” he rumbles as Steve’s fingertips dig into the meat of Billy’s ass, “only ever let two guys fuck me.”

The first had been a classmate of Billy’s sophomore year. They had been fooling around all spring when the guy said he had seen it in a porno and wanted to try it. It had been kind of a disaster, looking back. Neither of them had known what they were doing. Both of them all stilted and clumsy, but the guy had meant well.

The second guy had been Carlos.

Billy imagines it. Imagines Harrington finally running out of patience and fucking him right here, like this. Imagines his undone belt buckle pressing into the soft back of Billy’s thigh. Imagines the burn and the glide of his cock. Imagines feeling it for the whole walk back to the cabin.

“What’s it like?” asks Harrington, voice low and smoky with arousal.

“Good. It’s so good.” Billy doesn’t have the capacity for elaboration at the moment.

“Does it hurt?”

“No, no, doesn’t hurt. Just gotta relax. And it feels—” Being held down and fucked, it’s the best feeling there is. Having another man take charge of you. Warm and hard and driving.

“God,” swears Steve, swallowing hard, “that’s so…”

Billy hears it before he feels it.

A hand cracks across Billy’s bare ass, quick and crisp. A stinging firework of pain that starts sharp and ends hot.

The disbelief chokes him. His mouth falls open in shock. He can’t believe Steve did that. Gentle, forthright Steve Harrington, homecoming king, Mr. Congeniality. No way in hell he just smacked another man’s ass as foreplay.

But Billy stands there, hands on the tabletop, incandescent with shame, and says nothing.

So Steve does it again. Slaps the palm of his hand over the same spot as last time. Billy arches his back and whimpers. Steve folds at the waist, holding Billy down against the table with all his weight.

“You like that?” Steve asks right against his ear.

“Yeah,” gasps Billy, not recognizing his own voice.

“How about this? You ever let another guy do this to you?”

Billy thinks of that night almost a month ago, that first night with Munson out by the quarry under the night sky. How Eddie had clocked him at first sight. How he had shoved Billy against the side of his van and swatted his ass a few times over his jeans.

“Sorry, Harrington,” croaks Billy with a wobbly grin, “been at this queer thing longer than you. Don’t have many firsts left.”

Steve takes the bait. He smacks Billy a third time, harder, meaner, and keeps his hand against Billy’s reddened skin, digs his nails in.

The pain flashes like hot steam. Billy gasps, moans, lets his head fall back against Steve’s shoulder.

Another blow lands, this time on the other side. Stronger, deeper, a low thud that Billy feels in his guts.

Part of Steve has probably wanted to do this for a while, even if he didn’t realize, even if he didn’t know what it meant. Just knows that Billy Hargrove is owed a few hits. Wanted to be the one to discipline him, to get revenge, hit him back, to finally put him in his place.

“You’re such a goddamn cocky smart ass all the time,” growls Steve, sounding wrecked. He spanks Billy again, cranks his knee inbetween his legs.

“You like it,” huffs Billy without thinking.

“Yeah,” groans Steve.

Sometimes Billy wonders if he was born this way or made this way. Would he crave this kind of thing if life had been different? Is his dad the reason he responds so well to a firm, loving hand?

Maybe that’s kinda sick to think about.

After another smack, Steve’s free hand comes around and grips Billy’s cock.

“Shit, ah—,” Billy cries, high and indecent.

“You close?”

“Yeah.” And Billy is, even though his cock has hardly been touched. “Don’t stop, pretty boy.”

Steve smacks him again, then again, finding a rhythm. The table jolts on its legs. The force of it pushes Billy’s hips into Steve’s hand, stroking him with each blow. Steve is strong, far stronger than Eddie. Billy pushes back into the blows, rolling his hips. It builds in his stomach, this warm comingling of pleasure and hurt. He wants it, wants the pain, wants to come, but it’s not up to him. Nothing is up to him anymore. And the relief of that is nearly satisfaction enough. All he has to do is lay here and take what Steve gives him.

With a broken cry and a final strike, Billy comes, a rolling thunder wave. Steve spanks him one more time for good measure, then stills, holds him, one hand soothing over the bright red skin of his hip and thigh, the other ringing the last aftershocks of his orgasm from his cock.

Billy goes slack, arms outstretched over the table. He folds, letting his elbows take the most of his weight. Steve follows, folding over Billy’s back. He presses his brow between Billy’s shoulder blades, breathing heavily.

“Shit,” gasps Steve, his breath cooling the sweat on Billy’s back, “hey, are you okay?”

Billy only grunts, nods.

“Okay.” Steve breathes hard, stands. “Just stay right there.”

He goes to the nearby kitchen sink and rinses off his hand. Then he wets a dish towel. The sound of running water whispers over the rainfall outside. Steve wipes the cool, damp towel over Billy’s stinging red skin. It's so soothing that Billy moans out loud.

“You sure you’re alright?”

Instead of replying, Billy slides to his knees on the carpeted floor. Turning, he opens Steve’s jeans, finds him hard and throbbing.

He takes Steve's cock in his mouth. Let's his mind go blank, responds only to instinct. Sinks into the sensation of heat and weight on his tongue, the burning backs of his thighs, the warm pulsating of his own insides.

“Yeah, yeah,” mutters Steve, “that's it, just like that. Oh my god, that's so good.”

It's quick. A minute or less. Steve puts a gentle hand on Billy’s hair and watches him with soft brown eyes. He comes down Billy's throat, just makes him take it. After, he slides to the floor himself, panting, resting back against the leg of the dining table alongside Billy, side by side.

Outside, the summer storm churns. The empty, dark house patters gently with the rainfall. It's like a cave, cool and remote.

“Still okay?” asks Steve, breathless, looking at Billy through the ends of his swooping hair.

Later, Billy will blame it on the post-orgasm high. There's no other explanation for what he does. But he just feels so light and floaty, that he scoots his naked ass next to Steve and lays his head on his shoulder. Something about him being undressed and Steve still being fully-clothed makes him uniquely docile.

“Damn,” chuckles Harrington, still a little breathless, and runs an entitled hand through Billy's mussed hair. “Not so mean and scary after you’ve jizzed, huh?”

“You got all sorts of blackmail on me, Harrington.”

Steve sighs, chuckles. “If the graduating class of ‘85 could see us now, huh?”

“When did you know?” asks Steve around his cigarette.

“Know?”

“That you were gay. Like, did you always know?”

They’re still laying on the immaculate carpet against the dining table; Steve, half dressed, pants undone, smokes a cigarette stolen from Billy’s discarded jeans, while Billy, still naked as the day he was born, rests his head in Steve’s lap, laying sideways. The storm continues, downpouring on the patio and roof.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” mutters Steve.

“I was probably eleven. Or twelve. Can’t remember.”

“And you just… you just knew?”

Billy just shrugs.

“Well what does that mean?” probes Steve.

“Means I don’t know, Harrington. Why do you care so much?”

“Well I wanna know what it’s like. I’m trying to… figure out my own shit. Obviously. Because, well, okay… I’ve actually been, uh, talking to some friends of mine about it recently— and, hey, before you freak out, no, I haven’t mentioned you. Chill out. I wouldn’t do that.”

Hearing that Harrington is talking with someone does have Billy’s hackles up. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Well jeez, you know you aren’t exactly a stellar conversationalist most of the time? You’re hard to talk to, okay? And like it or not I’m… I dunno, I’m grappling with some stuff and I needed to talk to someone. I haven’t named you, I promise.”

“Oh yeah, and who do you just talk about this kinda thing with in Bumfuck, Indiana?”

Steve just smiles, all pleased with himself, “You really think you’re the first gay person I’ve met?”

Stunned, Billy has no response. Yes, actually, he had thought that.

“Yeah, anyways,” Harrington ashes his cig on the discarded dish towel, “talking about stuff with this friend has been helping a bit but… I’m thinking maybe talking to another person might, I dunno, help more. Get, like, multiple perspectives or whatever.”

“You make a lousy shrink, Harrington. Nothing to figure out, really. Just do whatever feels good.”

“But… I think I do want to. Figure it out, I mean.”

Lifting his head, Billy steals the cigarette from between Steve's rosy lips, takes a drag for himself before replacing it right back in Steve's mouth. “It wasn't like there was just one moment, y'know?” He exhales white smoke away from Steve’s face. “Think I was eleven when I had my first kiss. Playing spin the bottle. And, like, it sucked, but I dunno… I thought maybe she was just a lousy kisser. Maybe it just took some practice. So I kept trying. Kept kissing girls.”

“But it didn't get better?” asks Steve.

“It got better. But it didn’t get good. Not until—”

Georgie Becker, the night of the spring formal, freshman year. Both of them ditching the dance, hanging outside the back of the gymnasium, ducking the chaperones, sneaking shots of raspberry schnapps from a flask Georgie had. A scrappy, skinny boy with freckles and a gap in his teeth. Billy had just started growing his hair out long and Georgie was teasing him, plucking at his shaggy curls and pinching at his cheeks until one kissed the other in a half-drunken impulse.

And from that moment on, Billy knew.

Next day, he had started a fight at school for no reason, cut open his knuckles on some kids' teeth and got suspended for three days, but it didn’t help.

“Kissed my first boy when I was thirteen.” Billy recalls it with equal parts fondness and resentment. “And it was the real thing, then. Butterflies, fireworks, all that hokey shit in songs and movies.”

Steve is nearly finished his cigarette, burning low by the filter. He’s staring outside the sliding glass doors that lead to the patio where the grey rains are making the surface of the backyard pool jump and ripple.

“Tried to deny it,” Billy continues, watching him, “pretend it never happened. Still tried to date girls for a while. But, shit, cat was out of the bag.”

“That must’ve been hard.”

“Didn’t ask for your pity.”

“It’s not pity. I’m just saying. Realizing something like that at thirteen, having no one you can tell, it must’ve been scary. Shit, I’m gonna turn twenty later this year and this is, like, in my top three of scariest things ever, right behind Max and Eddie nearly dying over spring break.”

Billy stiffens at the mention of Maxine. Steve notices.

“Sorry, shit, didn’t mean to bring it up.”

“Heard she made you drive out to the cemetery so she could read some letter she wrote at my grave.”

“Who told you that?”

“Sinclair.”

“Oh. Uh, well, yeah, she did.” Harrington pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes clenched shut. “She wrote them for all of us.”

“Did you ever read yours?”

Harrington’s mouth tenses, forcing away some horrible memory. With a knuckle he swipes fugitive tears away from his face. “No. No, never read mine. Was too hard.”

With his head resting on Steve's thigh, Billy tries to imagine what Maxine might have had to say to Steve on her last day alive.

Maybe one day, Steve will want to know too.

“My, uh, my parents are moving,” says Steve, pivoting the subject.

“Where to?”

“Fort Lauderdale. But they've been down there a couple times on my dad’s business trips and they like it. I think, uh, I think the ‘earthquake’ bullshit was my mom’s last straw with Hawkins. Said they're gonna let me stay in the house rent free for a while so long as I do upkeep and get it ready to sell. Property values in Hawkins aren't exactly on the up right now, though.”

“Where’ll you go when they sell it?”

Steve shrugs. “Dunno.”

Billy knows what it's like to be left behind by a parent. And Steve might have grown up with financial security but it's becoming clearer and clearer that Steve's never really had anything much in the way of a family.

“Don't worry about it, princess,” says Billy as he sits up to start retrieving his clothes. “Hopper will no doubt let you have my bed in the cabin in a heartbeat.”

Unexpectedly, Steve laughs. “God, no, I could never live with Hopper. Too strict.”

“You’re a bigger stick-in-the-mud than Hopper is.”

“Am not,” whines Steve.

“You may as well be deputized the way you nag over Maxine’s friends. Bet you don’t even let them sneak a beer.”

“They’re too young.”

Billy smiles meanly, baring his teeth. “Like you weren’t their age sneakin’ out after curfew, feeling up girls, and stealing your daddy’s liquor.”

“That was different.”

“Heh, you hypocrite,” Billy taunts.

“Hey, I was a cool fourteen-year-old, I’ll have you know,” Steve teases with a self-deprecating smile, “I’d been around the block. I knew what I was doing.”

“Uh huh, sure.”

“They’re just… nerds, y’know? Even with all they’ve been through they’re still, just, kinda sheltered about some stuff. They’re not always the best at… social interaction. Aw man, the first time Dustin gets drunk is gonna be awful.”

“Such a narc. And anyways, Hopper’s at least got half decent taste in music.”

“Jeez, sorry, didn’t know I was talking to the president of the Chief Hopper Fan Club over here. You know that he’s already seeing Ms. Byers, right? Don’t think you stand much of a chance, dude.”

Billy tosses his balled up jeans square at Steve’s face. “Eat a dick, Harrington.”

They get cleaned up. Steve recentres the potted orchid on the dining table. Billy stomps into his jeans and finds his shirt tossed over an indoor fern. He balls it up in his hands, doesn’t put it back on right away.

He catches his reflection in the glass of some framed colourful Bauhaus print. Shirtless, flushed, curls raggled, a halo of blonde frizz around his face. And glinting in the glass, his Saint Christopher pendant resting over his sternum.

He must have been wearing it that day. The night of the Fourth of July.

Out of all things to survive that night.

“I lied,” he says out loud to the room.

“What?”

“I said I lied.” Billy turns away from the picture glass, faces him.

Steve scowls, puzzled. “About what?”

“I didn’t get this for myself.” Billy hooks the chain of his necklace with his thumb, tugging it. Saint Christopher jiggles below his throat.

Steve’s big solemn eyes go soft. “You didn’t?”

“No.”

“Then… who did?” He plays dumb so well.

“A boy from California.”

“Oh.” Steve regards him cautiously, a beautifully wounded expression on his face. He weighs out what Billy expects him to say, which branching path of this conversation doesn’t result in one of them getting their feelings hurt and storming out.

Against type, Billy takes pity on him. “But, y’know, he’s not around anymore.”

“No?” Steve’s eyebrows peak.

“No.” Calmly he walks back up to Steve, shirt balled in his hand. He steps right up to him, eye-to-eye. “So you want it?”

Without pausing for an answer, Billy presses his brow against Steve’s. With his free hand he pulls the chain up, over his own head and over onto Steve’s neck. The little brass pendant dangles in the air between them briefly before coming to rest overtop Steve’s polo shirt.

“There,” Billy croons, a delirious smile bubbling up on his face, “you’re my girl now, Harrington.”

Steve chuckles, half-gasp. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Even if I’m a huge dumbass and never know what I’m doing?”

“That’s half the fun of you, princess.”

“Okay, actually, how serious are you being right now?”

Billy leans away, takes in the sight of this little brass pendant hanging around Steve’s slender neck. He looks Steve up and down, bites his own lips when they lock eyes. “As serious as you wanna be.”

Steve surges forward and kisses him. He grabs hold of the sides of Billy’s face. Like he’s grappling for a way to hang on. Their mouths lick and bite. Billy snaps Steve’s plump lower lip between his teeth. Something about this guy just brings Billy’s competitive nature to the surface.

They don’t even truly make it back into their clothes. Steve blows him while Billy sits in one of the lounge chairs and feels like a fucking king. He smokes a cigarette while the slick muscle of Steve’s throat flutters around him, still more enthusiasm than skill. Harrington makes such a pretty picture down there. Pouty, pink mouth open obscenely. Liquid brown eyes looking up with defiant petulance that makes Billy rock hard. Tips of his hair bobbing in time with his head. Billy’s brass pendant rapping against his chest with the back-and-forth.

Billy lets his head fall against the cushioned chair back. He exhales smoke into the open living room and imagines a realtor with pearls and permed hair walking some suburban yuppie family through the house, gushing about the pool patio, the modern open kitchen, and the furnished living room.

Maybe that had been a mistake.

The quarry smells powerfully of wet stone. The flooded pool below is smoother than black glass in the dusk. The rain had let up before sundown and now the landscape is damp and still and quiet. It has given Billy room to stew.

Doubt wriggles in and he hates it. Maybe he’s overplayed his hand in giving Harrington the pendant. Maybe Billy is falling for his own act, a little bit. He and Steve don’t really know each other. Even after graduating to semiregular fooling around this past month, they don’t really talk. Especially not about meaningful stuff. There’s just too much baggage. Everytime Steve tries, Billy shoots him down. So he’s stopped trying.

His fractious mood is not helped by Munson’s nonstop rambling.

Billy can feel it. Can feel the fuse already lit.

They’re both sitting in the open back doors of the van and Eddie’s rambling excitedly about something or other. One of the freshmen is having a birthday? Billy doesn’t listen.

The stars are so clear here. So numerous and bright that Billy nearly casts a shadow. Skies unpolluted by cars or city lights. He's never seen a night sky like the one in Hawkins.

And Eddie continues to chatter, normally a soothing white noise but now a grating irritant.

Eddie is the sensitive one out of all three of them. Consequently the most flagrant with his emotions. He’s so revealing with his heart and unashamed of what he is.

That’s why it’s so easy to lash out at him.

“God, could you just shut up for a minute!” Billy snaps. “Do you always have to be freakin’ talking!?”

Eddie pauses mid-sentence, shocked. Then he scowls, crestfallen, and slumps in defeat against the open door of his van. “Jesus, what crawled up your ass?”

“You and your fuckin’ yacking all the damn time.”

“Hey, what did I ever do to you, asshole?”

“You’re always going on about some bullshit I don’t care about and sometimes I could just use some peace and quiet,” snarls Billy.

“Well damn, sorry I bored you with my shitty life.”

“Give it a rest, Munson.”

“You know, you don’t have to be such a dickhead all the time,” Munson responds, a petulance in his tone. “There’s really no one left to impress with the whole bad boy stunt.”

“Maybe that’s just the way I am,” growls Billy, leaning his elbows on his bent knee, “and maybe you’re just too stupid to notice. Maybe I’m not one of your little pets that needs protecting and hangs on your every word.”

Eddie winces, sneering. He blinks rapidly, pushing back some emotion. Does that thing where he tries to hide his face in his hair like a kid. He pushes to his feet and takes a half dozen steps out onto the open gravel, hands jammed in his jacket pockets.

“Been thinking about what Harrington said,” Eddie mutters, self-conscious.

“Now that’s a dangerous habit.”

Eddie chuckles. “Not when he’s right.”

“And what’s he right about?”

“You,” accuses Munson, his precise attention now scoped right in on Billy. “He’s right about you, like, deflecting shit with anger or whatever he said. You use this mean, tough, shithead act, this death wish that you’ve got, it’s like… like a barrier to keep people away. Like a rattlesnake. Or those little frogs in the Amazon that are all crazy colours to let predators know they’re poisonous. Like ‘back off! Don’t get close to me! I’m dangerous!’” Eddie pantomimes the thoughts of said colourful frog by throwing his hands out as if to scare a predator away. “Because if you don’t let anything get too close then no one can eat you, right?”

Honestly, Billy has never given it much thought. Just knows that he’s always been volatile, like a passenger in his own body sometimes. Just knows that anytime he’s ever let anyone matter to him, it only just meant anguish in the end.

So he does the predictable. “I don’t need anybody.”

“Bullshit.”

“I don’t. Never had anybody lookin’ out for me and I made it this far.”

“No you didn’t!” Eddie squawks. “You freakin’ died on some grimey mall floor because no one was looking out for you!”

“You don’t know shit about that.”

“Look, everyone needs someone, man. Just drop it. This lone wolf shit is not impressing anyone anymore.”

“I told you to can it with acting like you know me,” Billy warns, fixing Eddie with a cruel glare. “You don’t know shit about me.”

“But I want to know you, jackass!” Munson kicks the gravel in frustration. “And, like, maybe I wouldn’t have, before. Before monsters and kids dying and shit. I would’ve just chalked you up as another small-minded douchebag and never thought about you ever again after graduation. But goddamn it, you fucking laid your life down for those kids when you didn’t have to and I do know what that’s like, okay? I do. And I know what it’s like to be a— a queermo outcast in a straight town and have no parents and no money and I know that it fuckin’ hurts. It sucks. And if you would just stop being a stubborn mule about it and let someone in you would realize that it doesn’t have to hurt like that.”

“Oh knock it off with the martyr shit. I’m fine on my own. No one asked you to babysit me, Munson.”

Eddie casts both arms out wide in frustration. “No one made you keep hanging out with me! You’ve got legs. You definitely don’t give a shit about hurting my feelings. Get real. If I bothered you so much you woulda gotten up and walked off weeks ago.”

And in response, Billy should really get up and leave right now. Start the two hour walk back to the cabin so that he can be there before sunup. Just to make some dumb point that Munson doesn’t know him at all.

But he doesn’t. Just sits there against the front fender, nothing to say but too much of a coward to go.

Crickets chirp in the long grass. Eddie stands there in the dark, squirming but holding his ground, demanding some sort of response, an acknowledgment, but receiving nothing but Billy’s steely quiet.

“Do you even like me?” Eddie grumbles with a defensive frown.

“C’mon, Munson.”

“It’s a fair fucking question, asshole!”

Confessing that would be confessing a mortal weakness. “Yeah. Yeah, I do like you.”

“Then why are you such a bitch to me all the time?”

“‘Cause, I told you, that’s just how I am. You knew that when this started.”

Eddie shakes his head stubbornly. “Nope. Nope. No. That’s not good enough. That's bullshit. I know that’s bullshit because I’ve seen you not be an asshole. With Hopper. With El. With Steve. I fuckin’—” he points at Billy’s face across the gravel “—see you, Hargrove. You act like nothing can touch you because Daddy smacked you around but I goddamn know that routine. I wrote the book on that shit. You might keep the suburbanites in this town away with that bad attitude but I'm not fooled, okay? You think you hate this town?! Try it for ten goddamn years!”

By the end of it Eddie is shouting, unshed tears in his eyes, chest heaving. He swipes a hand over his face, swallows, fingers trembling. He seems embarrassed to have lost his temper.

Billy can only sit there, hands gripped into fists. He crushes gravel beneath his shoe.

Eddie says then, quieter, “Three months ago, a girl died right in front of me. She never did anything to anyone and she died and I couldn’t help her. And since then my life’s never been the same, man. And I’ve got, like, two, maximum three people who I can really talk to about it. And that’s the one, single, goddamn thing that’s been keeping me together. Having people. And I really want to be one of those people for you, if I can. And, y’know, actually, deep down, I think you want that too!”

He does. Needing people is a weakness but Billy wants it all the same.

And in defiance of common sense, Billy has chosen Eddie and Steve to buoy him to reality.

“You know all kinds of shit about me.” Eddie taps his own chest, then gestures with open hands at Billy. “I hardly know a damn thing about you. And everything I do know has been like freakin’ pulling teeth.”

“That's not true,” argues Billy half-heartedly. “I've told you things I've never told anyone else. About back home.”

“Well then that’s just sad, Hargrove.” And Eddie does look sad, even, big brown eyes blinking rapidly as he works to maintain his nerve. “And, like it or not, you’re a part of our shitty little club now and we take care of each other. So just trust me. Let me in. I won’t let you down.”

Once, as a young boy, Billy's mother had told him what it was supposed to be like when you grew up and fell in love. That it meant you cared for and worried about and protected someone.

If Billy ever knew how to love, that part of him is gone now. It’s lost, like baby teeth. Shrivelled up and fell away.

“The fuck you wanna know so bad about me anyways?” He picks at a thread in his hand-me-down jeans, feeling timid and hating it.

“Tell me what’s got you so mad all the time!”

Billy gnaws at his lip with the straight, hard edge of his teeth, wishes he had something to chew on. “Maybe I just don’t like people.”

“C’mon. Be serious. No one is angry like you are for no reason.”

Rage balls up inside Billy right now. He doesn’t like that Munson can tell these things about him. Doesn't like being called on his shit. Doesn’t like feeling exposed or obvious. Flying under the radar has always been a matter of survival, his whole life long.

“It’s just…” Billy says, “it’s just bullshit, okay? It’s just the same old bullshit as everyone else.”

Eddie gestures frantically. “Then how come are you the only one acting like a total dickhead?”

Billy chuckles. “‘Cause shit just ain’t fair, Munson. How’s that for ya? It’s not fucking fair.”

“Yeah, man. Life’s not fucking fair.”

“That doesn’t piss you off?”

“Sorta. I mean, yeah, of course it does. But what’s being angry gonna do for me? Just make me a miserable son of a bitch. I’d rather be happy if I can.”

Eddie pauses, gnaws on his lip in consideration. He must take this development as a hopeful one because he takes a few steps toward Billy, kicking the gravel.

“Like, I get being angry. Trust me, I really do. The world sucks and people let you down. But you can’t just stay stuck in that gear forever. Don’t you want to be something else? Do something else? Do you just wanna be mad forever?”

Billy shrugs. “Dunno how else to be.”

“Who do you think you’d be if you weren’t angry all the time?”

“I don’t know. Some days it feels like that’s all I am. It’s just how I’ve always been, since I was a kid. World’s a mean place, you gotta be meaner right back.”

“C’mon. You think it’s so much who you are that you can’t be anything else?” says Eddie.

“No, no I’m saying… that without it I'm a stranger.”

Because the fury has been with him for so long. It’s an old friend. As reliable as breathing. He would have to go so far back to find a version of his younger self that is not deformed by rage.

“My dad hates me.” He says it so plainly that it almost doesn’t feel like an evil thing. “He’s always hated me. I don’t know why. But I think he always has. Maybe he decided to hate me before I was ever born. My mom, she… she was a really hippie-dippy type back in the day and I think sometimes maybe she was, like, trying to make up for him. Be twice as nice. But the more she spoiled me the angrier he got.”

Quietly, Eddie comes and sits beside him in the open back of the van.

“He beat her,” continues Billy. “He would beat me too if I got between them.” He exhales shakily. He’s never admitted that out loud. “Lasted until I was… eight or nine. Then, she finally had enough. She split.”

Two living parents and neither one wants him. That makes Billy an orphan. Kinda like Eddie. Kinda like Steve.

“Those years, when it was just me and him,” Billy continues madly, unable to stop the confession, “those were the worst. He just… he hates me. Always has. Since I was a kid. And I don't know why.”

A tight knot of emotion lodges in his throat. He coughs, sniffs, tucks his chin to his chest.

“But, y’know, life goes on. You get on with shit. Put up with it. And by the time I was twelve or thirteen, that’s when I started to realize that… that I wasn’t normal. I wasn’t looking at girls like my friends were. Guess my dad was noticing too, because then he started really laying into me. Trying to toughen me up and shit. Always ‘don’t be a pussy, don’t be a fag.’ And I tried, y'know? I really fucking tried. Took girls to school dances and stuff. But nothing helped. Nothing made it… made it stick.

“So after a while I fucking lost it. Went ballistic. Started getting into trouble. Started fights. Cut classes. Because what did it matter? I was already the worst thing there could be. And how did he know, y'know. How did he know before I did? Did he know my whole life? Is that why he hated me? I didn’t want him to be right about me. All that shit he said… I didn’t want to prove him right.”

It feels like he’s falling. Like his body has walked over the cliff’s edge, plummeting toward the flooded quarry. Now that he’s talking he can’t manage to stop.

“When Susan and Maxine moved in… well, my dad was already raising some woman’s kid and he sure wasn’t interested in raising another, so that became my job. Maxine hated it. I hated it. I would break her shit and she would get me in trouble. Not like we could take it out on our folks, y'know? And my dad, he, uh, he had this rule: no friends over without permission. Because he’s a son-of-a-bitch, y’know? But I would still sneak people in all the time. Friends. Boys. Had a guy in my room. He was my… we were gonna get out, together. When we graduated we were gonna take our savings and my car and we were gonna go somewhere. Just had to make it one more school year. And then we were gonna get out.”

His fists tremble, squeezing until the ligaments pop. He drives his knuckles into his eyelid. Pressure releases behind his skull.

“But Maxine she, uh, she saw us. Walked in without knocking because she always does. Just barges in all the time. She saw us and told her mom. Her mom told my dad.”

Billy remembers that night so perfectly. To a forensic degree. Could play it front to back in real time. He thinks however long he lives that he’ll never have another memory so vivid and crystalline as that one.

“I was so sure he was gonna kill me that night.” And Billy has never said it out loud before. Tears sting his eyes. His insides are soft and burning. “I thought I was gonna die. Like, I really thought I was gonna fucking die that night. I thought he was gonna kill me. My own dad.”

It loosens in his chest. The blockage that has accumulated like sediment behind a dam his whole life long. Every time his dad yelled at him for crying. Every time someone tried to push him around. Every time he kissed a boy.

It has piled up for years in his heart, a lethal mass, never to be examined lest Billy not survive it.

"I was gonna die," he chokes. "I was gonna die and no one would ever tell my mom."

It unravels, the criticality self-sustaining, and he sobs and sobs. Tears spill over. Billy buries his face in his hand, mortified. The terror of that night he has never really confronted. Being so sure that he was about to die. So sure that those were his last moments alive. That no one would miss or remember him.

An arm wraps around his shoulders. Munson tugs him close, tucks Billy’s head under his chin, rubs a hand up and down his back.

They sit in the open doors of the van. Billy sobs and Munson holds him. The nighttime woods and wide open quarry swallow up incriminating sounds. In the sky above, the stars flicker millions and millions of miles away. Light that took half the lifespan of the universe to reach them.

In a moment, Billy will get a hold of himself and it will be like this temporary lapse of sanity never happened. There are no witnesses, no evidence. No one will ever know. Only Munson.

Billy regains his breathing somewhat. “But he… he fucked up,” he continues between inhales, wiping his eyes, “he fucked up because he had to take me to the hospital. And then after that social services was on his ass. It was gonna fuck up his job. His marriage. They weren’t gonna let Maxine live in the same house with him. So we had to leave the state.”

Billy never saw Carlos again after that night.

Munson rubs soothing circles into Billy’s back.

Billy is rended. Threshed and cracked open, like the shadow had done to him. All the sickness in him pours out. Whatever makes him unlovable. Whatever makes his own parents hate him. Whatever makes him sick. Now Munson’s seen it too.

Slowly, his breathing regulates. In, hold, out, hold. The fog recedes. Exhaustion descends on him like a raptor. Like he’s sprinted a mile. Like he had paddled in the breakers all day, arms aching and throbbing.

Eddie butts his head gently against Billy’s temple. “You’re okay, big guy.”

Billy scoffs. Clearly, he is not.

“S’okay,” Munson says, “just take it easy. Not going anywhere, alright?”

Billy needs to focus to breath steady, to fight against the shuddering sobs. He draws a few deep breaths. Eddie rubs his back encouragingly.

“That’s it. Gonna be fine. I got you.”

The tell tale beginning of a headache throbs behind Billy’s eyes. He must look crazy. Adrenaline makes him sweat and shake.

But Eddie just holds him, rubs his back, rocks him in an awkward sway.

Billy stares out over the dark clifftops of the quarry. It doesn’t seem real that he could confess that. The fatal mistake that had landed him in Hawkins. The first day of the end of his life.

Minutes pass by in silence. Then Eddie resituates them both. He takes Billy’s face in both his hands, turns him gently so that they are face-to-face.

“Hey,” Eddie tells him quietly, “just in case no one ever told you before: you can just stop. You can let go.”

“What?”

“All the rage and shit. You don’t have to keep it. You can just stop.”

“How? I don't know how.”

But Eddie doesn’t elaborate. Just wipes beneath Billy’s eyes with his thumb, smearing tear tracks away. Billy fights to not lean into the touch.

Eddie Munson has stubbornly wormed his way under Billy’s prickly shell. Now he knows more about Billy than probably any other living person. That’s a scary feeling for Billy.

But Eddie hasn’t been scared off yet. Maybe after getting eaten by monsters and watching a girl die horribly, mean ol’ Billy Hargrove hardly seems all that scary anymore.

He just wants to protect outcasts. Really, he’s a lot like Steve, that way.

After Billy composes himself, Eddie offers to drive him back to Hop’s cabin. It’s late, and Billy doesn’t have the obstinance to say no.

They drive without talking. A cassette plays at low volume through the speakers. Billy feels nearly as if he’s sleepwalking. Hawkins at night is nearly deserted. The yellow streetlights whip by the dark interior of the van.

They roll up the dirt road to the clearing and the cabin. No lights on inside. Hopper no longer waits up for Billy to come home every night if Billy lets him know where he is.

Parking well away from the tripwires, Munson kills the engine and lights. “You sure you’re good, big guy?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He clears his throat, feeling itchy and vulnerable. “Thanks for the ride, Munson.”

“Hang on a sec, before you go.”

Leaning over, Eddie pops open the glove compartment and retrieves something.

“Uh, here,” he holds it out to Billy, “I, uh, I got this for you.”

It’s a book. A creased second hand paperback. Billy takes it. He holds it in his lap to read the cover by the soft green light of the dashboard.

Large yellow text over a photograph of the ocean at sunset reads: Tough Guys Don’t Dance by Norman Mailer.

“Are you kidding me with this?” Billy chuckles softly. “You got this for me?”

“Saw it in the second hand section of the bookstore.”

“You paid money for this?”

“Okay it’s not a diamond ring, Hargrove. It was fifty cents.”

It kinda makes Billy’s heart glow. He teases, “Too bad, you spent money on Norman Mailer just for me, freakshow.”

Eddie tries to fight a smile, eyes gleaming. “Well, based on the title and the blurb on the back, sounds like he might’ve wrote something just for you.”

Billy runs a thumb over the embossed text of the paperback. Can’t remember the last book he read. Probably something for school.

He looks over at Eddie. He squirms all bashfully in the driver’s seat. Trying to play it cool and failing.

“Uh, thanks for this,” Billy shoots for genuine, clumsy.

“Gonna have to let me know how it ends.”

“Nah, fuck you, you’ll have to read it.”

“Ugh.” Eddie groans with great melodrama, eyes rolling.

“You don’t get to talk shit without doing the homework.”

“Oh my god, you are absolutely not roping me into reading that.”

Billy shrugs. “Well then I guess you’ll be keeping that big mouth of yours shut.”

He opens the passenger side door and climbs out. It’s nice that he and Eddie can still rib like this; that Billy’s mortifying breakdown earlier didn’t sour Eddie’s opinion of him.

“Hey, uh,” Billy hesitates, leaning against the open door of the van, “really, thanks for this.”

Eddie smiles, face underlit by the soft green dashboard light. He waits until Billy is safely on the cabin porch and through the front door before he three-point-turns the van around and drives back to the highway.

Chapter Text

Turns out, one of the freshmen is having a birthday.

Billy finds out when Harrington’s BMW pulls into the clearing outside the cabin in the middle of the day.

When Billy undoes all the locks and opens the door, Steve is standing there with the forest on his shoes, hands on his hips in some absurd stance. A high wave of hair spills into his face when he nods at Billy in greeting.

“Come help me unpack the trunk.”

“What the hell are you doing here? You didn’t radio.” Christ, Billy’s starting to sound like Hopper.

“Uh, hello,” Steve says all catty, “it’s the stuff for Henderson’s party.”

“Who?”

Steve scoffs like it’s a personal affront. “You know, the party for the all the kids?” he supplies in a leading tone, like this should all be very obvious. “Because Henderson’s birthday is coming up? But he and his mom are going to visit family over in Martinsville on his actual birthday? So the kids are all coming over here today to see El and have cake after their D&D game?”

Billy chuckles at the attitude. “Uh, I got no friggin’ idea what you’re talking about, Harrington.”

“Munson said he let you know about this.”

Shit, Eddie did say something like that the other night. “Ah, damn it,” Billy realizes, “that’s today?”

“Oh yeah, that’s today, pal,” nods Steve, apparently thrilled to see Billy distressed over this. “Hopper and Mrs. Byers are having a date night and so we’re gonna be chaperoning.”

Billy leans against the door jamb, arms crossed. “You’re not serious.”

“It’s not just gonna be us!” assures Harrington, like that’s the part that Billy objects to. “Robin and Nancy and Jonathan are all gonna be over. Argyle, too. And Eddie, obviously. He’s driving them over in his van. Sinclair might bring his little sister. She likes El. Anyways, we’ll basically outnumber the little shitheads.”

“Well if you and the Scooby Gang got it all covered,” Billy winces in mock-sympathy, “then I think I might just bail for the afternoon.”

“Uh-uh. No way, Hargrove. Promised Hopper I’d keep an eye on you.”

“Oh sure you did.”

“He needs you around in case you have to kill Mike Wheeler for him.”

Billy snorts, gnawing on his lip. “Not funny.”

“I saw you laugh.” Steve grins all cocky. “C’mon, I got an ice cream cake in the trunk that’s gonna be soup soon.”

Following, Billy searches for a glint of brass chain around Steve’s throat. But there’s nothing to see; the neck of Steve’s mustard sweater is too high. Did he keep it on? Is he wearing it right now?

Retrieving the cake from the open trunk, Steve drops a full grocery bag into Billy’s arms. Pack of balloons, snacks, a stack of rental VHS tapes.

“Wow. Really went all out. Should add ‘professional party planner’ to your resume, pretty boy.”

“Yeah, totally. Can I put you down as a reference?”

Robin Buckley bursts into the cabin like a whirlwind. “Uh, hi!” she sort of proclaims in the open doorway, waving stiffly. “I’m Robin. We haven’t met. I mean, I think maybe we technically met last summer, and we had US History class together for a semester, and I was in marching band so I saw you at games sometimes, but we haven’t ever actually, like, spoken, or anything. But, yeah, I’m Robin!” Her rambling peters off into a self-conscious grin.

Billy looks her up and down, finally getting the measure of her. Short bob haircut. Marching band geek. Her open, unconfident expression. She wears a boxy denim jacket and Doc Marten boots. Why, if he didn’t know better….

Guess she and Harrington aren’t hooking up after all.

Billy is kinda sold on this Robin girl in all of three minutes.

She’s sorta gawky and sarcastic but not to a hopeless degree. Kinda lame but kinda funny. Plus she came prepared. A package of dollar store streamers are added to Harrington’s growing stockpile of party supplies.

She talks a lot. And normally that annoys Billy but a good half of the time she’s razzing Harrington like it’s her job. They bicker over everything yet can’t seem to stand to be more than two yards apart from each other. When one moves, the other follows like a comet around a star.

Robin puts Harrington and El on balloon duty when she stands on furniture to hang paper streamers from the ceiling.

She, wisely, did not task Billy to help with anything.

“What time do the munchkins get here?” she calls at them over her shoulder.

Steve ties off a newly-inflated green balloon. “I told Eddie to be here by six-thirty, so knowing him, we won’t see them until probably, like, eight o’clock at the earliest.”

“Don’t worry, I told Eddie he has to be on time for once,” mumbles Robin, holding a thumbtack between her lips as she alternates streamer colours. “Hopper’s gonna be back at eleven on the dot and then, party’s over. So they’re coming over right away.”

“Christ,” groans Billy, “five hours of this shit?”

“Don’t worry,” Steve says between balloon-blowing breaths, “Munson’s definitely still gonna be late.”

“Well Jonathan and Argyle are in charge of getting pizza and snacks and Nancy will have them here fifteen minutes early, minimum,” counters Robin. “So at least we won’t go hungry.”

“Pineapple pizza,” El confirms, struggling to tie a knot in a distended balloon as it deflates.

“Eugh, pineapple on your pizza?” moans Steve.

“It’s actually kinda good,” Robin says.

Solemn, El nods in deep agreement.

“Ew, no,” Steve winces, “it’d be, like, sweet and stuff.”

Brow quirked in puzzlement, El looks at Billy for a ruling.

“Don’t look at me, El,” shrugs Billy, “I’m with Harrington on this one. Fruit on pizza’s nasty.”

“Yeah, okay, thank you,” Steve gloats, gesturing at Billy like he’s the only sane man in the room.

“Don’t be afraid of change, Stevie. Remember when I got you to try the Bottle o’ Rum Raisin flavour? You never know what you might like until you try it,” Robin chimes, flinging him a meaningful look.

Whatever the meaning is, Steve brushes her off.

“Well whatever sort of free food shows up, hopefully Harrington over here at least picked up some good flicks.” Billy retrieves the plastic shopping bag and starts pulling out the rental tapes, checking titles.

“Dustin is the birthday boy and he insisted on The Goonies now that it’s finally out on VHS,” Robin informs, returning to her drooping streamers, “and Munson is gonna try and get Steve and me to watch some cheesy fantasy movie, Legend I think it’s called.”

“It’s got Tom Cruise in it. It can’t be that bad,” gripes Steve, defensive.

Rolling her eyes, Robin says, “Such a philistine.”

Gnawing his lip, Billy shoots her a nod of agreement.

El pauses in her balloon tying, says, very seriously, “Try before you deny.”

So, okay, maybe it won’t be the worst afternoon ever.

Defying all standard automotive wisdom, the dust-blown, scratched-up Surfer Boy Pizza van with its California plates putters its way up the uneven bush path. Large potholes put the suspension through some punishment. The big red surfboard carves through the forest undergrowth like a shark’s fin.

From the inside of the van, Nancy Wheeler rolls the panel door open. She along with Argyle and Jonathan all hop out, each with an armload of Enzo’s pizza boxes.

“Surf’s up, dudes!” chuckles Argyle, his long black hair swinging. “So, per my investigative findings, this Enzo guy does the best pies in, like, this half of the county, man. But I gotta say, this dough would not pass inspection at our shop. Too mushy. Doesn’t have that snap.”

“Pineapple?” inquires El as they pass through the porch.

Nancy Wheeler marches like a drill sergeant in kitten heels, a stack of pizza boxes in her hands. “Four extra-large Hawaiians.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve bought into this whole pineapple on pizza thing too, Nance,” complains Harrington.

Nancy wrinkles her tiny nose. “Well, I tried it. It was definitely interesting.”

Steve throws both hands in the air in victory.

To his credit, Eddie pulls up only a half hour late.

The back doors of the van fly open and four freshmen come charging out.

Mike Wheeler, with the rough proportions of a newborn giraffe, is first through the door. His eyes find El and he scoops her into an embrace. Her feet nearly leave the ground. Close behind, the other four kids from Max’s class—Dustin, Will, Lucas, and Lucas’ younger sister—file in as well, each receiving their own warm hug from El.

Billy is already making himself scarce over by the kitchen. He might be on his best behaviour but he’s not interested in having to make bullshit small talk with a bunch of twerps who hate his guts. Instead he rummages through the many pizza boxes to ensure that there are several pineapple-free options.

“I got dibs on the black olive and jalapeno,” says Eddie, making a beeline to the pizza.

“Ugh,” grimaces Billy, “figures you’d be the one to come up with something worse than pineapple.”

“They got pineapple too?!” Eddie frantically searches several boxes before discovering a steaming Hawaiian pizza. “Hell yeah.”

Billy recoils.

“Hey, listen,” says Eddie, after stacking one of the chipped cabin plates high with three slices, “once they all get settled in with pizza and games and shit you should come outside for a smoke with me.”

“Hopper won’t mind a few cigarettes in the cabin.”

“Uh, well, that’s cool of him. But, uh, it’s more like…” Stammering, Eddie glances behind him, making sure no one is paying attention. “I’ve just… got something I wanna talk to you about. And, y’know, it should probably happen, uh, outside.”

Billy considers Eddie, scrutinzing, wondering plainly what this something that needs immediate discussion could be.

“It’s nothing bad!” assures Eddie, feeling the heat. “Nothing bad. Promise. Nothing ominous. Just… well, just come find me later. Okay?”

“You trying to steal my kidney or something, Munson?”

Eddie laughs nervously. “I’ll go halfsies with you if you can get Steve into a bathtub full of ice.”

Billy laughs, then is kinda annoyed that he did. Munson has grown on him like a stubborn rash. It’s kinda mortifying how much Billy likes being around him.

So instead of picking a fight, he just shoves Eddie playfully. Then they go back to selecting slices.

Billy sits on the recliner beneath the mounted deer's head, listening to the excited buzz of the room around him.

The shitbirds are sitting in a circle around the coffee table, each chowing down on a slice of greasy pizza. The younger Wheeler and Byers kids are sitting side-by-side on the back of the couch. Lucas is setting up a round of Trivial Pursuit. El studies the colourful pie pieces with intense curiosity and he runs down the rules for playing. The curly-haired kid, Harrington's favourite, is having some sort of animated argument with Sinclair's little sister, and she appears to be wiping the floor with him.

The older kids are clustered near the kitchen. Nancy Wheeler is listening to Argyle gamely explain how the pizza from this place is inferior to what he used to make back in California. Eddie is smitten with the guy, absolutely rapt by Argyle's every word. Robin keeps laughing too hard every time Nancy says anything. Steve is talking quietly with Jonathan Byers by the window, and Billy doesn't fucking understand that. How they can just be friendly with one another. Even given all the conspiracy shit.

Billy notices when Steve and Eddie lock eyes from their respective groups. Notices the smiles they trade. Or maybe he’s seeing things that aren’t there. Maybe he’s paranoid. After everything, he has every right.

He’s been behaving himself. Sticking to the edge of the room. Shooting a mean look Mike Wheeler’s way every fifteen minutes. He hasn’t even offered any of the kids cigarettes.

But it's nice. It's annoying and crowded but also… nice. To be surrounded by people who care about each other. Maybe even a little about him.

Billy's never had that kind of family.

The kids have a cutthroat round of Trivial Pursuit. Each of them struggle to secure a Sports & Leisure pie wedge until Henderson correctly answers a question about chess. It ends up winning him the game. The kid gloats, like he didn’t just miss a question about how many miles were in a marathon. Harrington tells him to stop being a sore winner.

Argyle starts passing around cans of Hopper's beer. All Hopper's got in the fridge is Old Milwaukee which Argyle heartbrokenly declares "grody".

Steve laughs, murmuring something to Jonathan and Robin about Argyle's antics.

Maybe that's why Billy notices. He’d just sort of been watching them. Just lost in his thoughts. But he notices solely by accident.

Against Steve's craned neck, dipping beneath the tugged neckline of his yellow sweater: a tarnished silvery chain.

Immediately, Billy knows.

Knows exactly what’s around Steve’s neck. A worn red guitar pick on a tacky nickel chain.

A cold, poisonous dread erupts in Billy’s gut. A paralyzing shock. Like he's been pushed from a tall ledge. Plummeting too fast to even react.

He searches the room for Munson to confirm what he already knows.

Across the room, Eddie leans against the wall next to Buckley, nursing one of Hopper's beers, in the middle of some dumbshit story. But even obscured by his shirt and the mane of dark, frizzy hair, Billy can see it. The chain peeking out from the neckline of Munson’s cut-up band shirt. A fine brass filament.

Billy nearly doubletakes. He cannot believe his eyes.

The sound pitches down and dissolves. Like tumbling off the face of a breaking wave and the world goes from chaos to pure quiet.

There’s no way.

The love bites on Eddie’s neck. Steve’s unnamed confidant.

They had been messing around with each other, right under his nose.

Tarlike rage wells up in Billy’s throat. Munson is chatting to Buckley by the linoleum-topped kitchen table, all smiles and laughs like he hasn’t got a care in the world. Like he and Steve aren’t doing this right now, here, in front of everyone. Publicly humiliating Billy with their rejection of him.

Pushing down through his heels, Billy gets to his feet.

No one takes notice. They don’t even care. No one in this room is scared of him.

Billy slams Munson against the wall with an arm across his neck.

Robin screams. The kids all look up from their game. There’s shouting. Yelling. A half dozen screeching freshmen voices filling the room.

“Hey, hey, what are you doing?!”

“What happened?”

“What's going on? Hey!”

“Get off of him, man!”

“Whoa, break it up! Leave him alone!”

But Billy ignores them all. Too busy glaring right at Munson, snarling, leaning his face in close, letting him know of his absolutely lethal mistake.

Eddie scraps, grapples, recoiling in fright, but he couldn't overpower Billy even on his best day. He doesn’t have a prayer.

“Get away from him you fucking psycho!” shrieks the curly kid, Henderson.

“Dustin, stay back!” Harrington. Of course. Holding the kid back. Leaping to everybody’s rescue. Even now.

And how dare Steve act shocked? How dare Eddie struggle, try to peel Billy’s arm away? Who do they think they are? They think they can just mess with him and get away with it? Think they can just make a fool of him in front of everybody? Think they can get away with this because he let them in and now they know about all the evil shit inside of him?

Billy should have known better. Should have known they weren’t different. He did, but he ignored it.

If only his dad could see him now. Neil is right. Billy is easy to abandon. His own mother left him to die. How could he expect more from anyone else?

Billy should have never, for one moment, let himself believe that they might care.

They're going to pay.

With an open hand, Billy strikes the wall by Eddie’s head.

"You fucking weasel, Munson!" he roars.

Eddie winces. “Get off me, man.”

“You’re hurting him!” shouts the curly-haired kid.

“Let him go!” Sinclair yells.

“Get off of him! What’s the matter with you?” barks Wheeler.

He ought to break Munson’s nose over this. Out them both right here in front of everyone. See how quickly their little band of misfits turn on them after that.

They want to invite Billy in, show him vulnerability and closeness and then rip it all away? Want to let him know he is second choice? Want to toy with him for cruelty's sake? They don't know who they're messing with.

“Billy, stop!”

He whips his head around. El is braced, standing there before everyone in the middle of the room, air thrumming around her.

Her little hands curl into fists at her sides. “Let go of Eddie.”

The room solidifies, stills. Adrenaline contracts time down to the instant, the microsecond. Billy breathes fast and short. They’re all looking at him in horror, stacked up behind El. The kids huddle together; the rangy Wheeler kid trying to shield his big sister. Buckley stands with her back to the wall, hyperventilating. Squirrely Byers stands in front of his little brother, creepy eyes riveted to Billy like he’s an angry cobra. Sinclair looks like he wants to disappear.

“Let go of him you shit heel!” Henderson shrieks and flails, only being held back from certain death by Harrington.

El glares right at him, eyes dark, her chest heaving. “Billy, let go of Eddie. Now.”

Beneath Billy’s hands, Eddie is shaking.

How dare Munson be afraid? How dare Harrington gawk at him all betrayed? How dare they?

He had trusted them.

They think they can just make a fool of him? Just string Billy along and then humiliate him in front of everyone? Fuck them. Fuck them both.

Seething, Billy leans a little harder on the arm across Munson’s neck. Crowds right into his face. The planks of the wall creak. Red shadows recede from the edges of Billy’s vision, but the rage doesn’t ebb. It just stalls in his limbs, unassuaged. A wound spring, aching for release.

“If you don’t stop, I will make you,” El informs him, extending one slim arm out toward him. The lights in the room all flicker. Electrons and gravitational waves dance invisibly off her fingertips.

She means it.

Snarling, Billy shoves off of Eddie.

“Give it back,” Billy demands of him.

Eddie frowns, stupefied.

“I said give it back you fucking sick freak!” Billy shouts so loud his ears ring.

Frozen in fear, Eddie only gapes.

Out of patience, Billy seizes the pendant and rips the chain over Munson’s head. A few strands of long, dark, hair rip away, caught in the fastener.

“Don’t touch him, asshole!” hollers Henderson.

“Dustin, shut up.”

Billy looks at the pendant in his hand. A tiny brass image of Saint Christopher the size of his thumbprint, chain pooling in his palm.

He looks up at Steve, stricken.

Holding back the Henderson kid, Steve's pretty face is broken in mortified shock, like Billy is some kind of traitor. He swallows, chin quivering, but he has an iron vice grip on Henderson’s shoulders.

The cabin is silent like a gallows. They’re all staring at him, frozen, afraid to spook him. Like he’s a wild animal, a feral dog that’s just worn out its last chance. A threat for which the only solution is euthanasia.

“What the fuck are you all looking at?!” Billy bellows.

They all flinch. Even El.

He shoves the pendant in his jacket pocket. He can’t stand this anymore. This town. This cabin. These people. Their truce with him had always been hairline thin. He was stupid to forget it. He got comfortable. Got complacent. Of course they all turn on him. No one here has ever been on his side.

He should have jumped that night at the quarry. Should have never let himself be talked out of it.

Because there is nothing about this second chance at life worth having.

He charges out the front door, shouldering Harrington hard as he goes. Picks a path without tripwires and starts walking. The cabin porchlight fades into the thicket of early evening behind him. Enough is enough.

No one comes after him.

Chapter Text

When his feet finally stop walking, he’s in the junkyard on the other side of town.

Billy spends the night in the junked out old school bus. He sleeps on the floor by the rear door having swept away most of the dirt and mouse nests. Zipping up his jacket, arms folded under his head, Billy curls up behind the last row of seats and plummets into unconsciousness.

It’s a cold night. Even nearing the peak of summer the wide open meadow strewn with clunkers is exposed, chilly, and damp.

Birds wake him at dawn. They’re loud like klaxons out here in the wild quiet. Shaking off sleep, Billy scrubs his face, brushes leaf litter out of his hair. Scrap metal groans. Dew collects on the metal walls of the bus. Out the rear window the pale blue light of dawn silhouettes the treeline. Billy’s watch reads 6:04 AM.

A thorn of pain throbs behind his eye, a headache he had felt in his sleep. His feet are sore. His shoulder is stiff where he had lain on the metal floor all night.

Sitting against the rear door of the school bus, Billy plans his next move.

Initially, the plan had been to walk to the quarry cliffs and keep walking right off the edge.

Then, after the cortisol crash had left him stricken and wobbly, the plan had been to walk to the interstate and hitch a ride heading out of town. But nightfall made going on foot difficult and the National Guard still patrols the major roads in and out of town. Even if Billy did manage to snag a ride, then what? He had only the clothes on his back. No money. No ID. He wouldn’t even make it out of the state. Assuming that the CIA didn’t pluck him off the side of the road.

So he needs supplies. Needs them without being seen. Can’t be breaking into houses or robbing local shops. That means going back to the cabin. Grabbing some essentials. Some cash.

Too bad. He’ll figure it out. If he has to, he can steal what he needs.

Once he gets on the road he’ll go wherever he can go. Probably head west. Hook up with the old Route 66. Follow it to the coast. California. If he makes it there, then he’ll decide what to do.

Maybe he’ll still go through with it.

Maybe he’ll set eyes on the ocean and end up jumping anyway. He hasn’t decided.

But he is not dying in this town twice. No way.

He doesn’t ever want to lay eyes on Hawkins, Indiana ever again.

To warm up his fingers, Billy shoves both hands into his jacket pockets. Inside the right hand one, the cold, tangled chain of his pendant sinks heavy in the back corner. He hasn’t put it back on. Nearly threw it into the dark as he stomped through the underbrush last night.

But he stopped himself. He couldn’t.

A stinging pressure swells behind his eyes. His head pounds. Billy blinks the obstruction away.

He tilts his head back against the cold metal of the bus wall. Knocks his skull against it a few times. His body rings like a gong.

He misses the shadow monster. Misses the non-voice whispering in his head, showing him the way. Misses never being alone. Misses belonging to something powerful.

But now there’s nothing. Where he used to feel the shadow like a carious lesion, now there is only lonely static. Nothing to tell him what to do. Nothing to protect him if he fell.

He’ll wait until later. Go back to the cabin while El and Hopper are both asleep. Pack a small bag, grab some money, and make tracks to the highway.

And whatever happens to him, at least it won’t be happening to him in this godforsaken town anymore.

The cabin door is unlocked when he returns.

For a moment, Billy is relieved at not being locked out. But as he shuts the door behind him, he locks eyes with Hopper, sitting in the dark on the couch.

Billy freezes briefly. But he recovers. “Just give me five minutes and I’ll be out of your way.”

“Nuh-uh. No way, kid. You and me gotta talk.”

“Nothing to talk about.”

“Bullshit.”

“Just let me pack some clothes and shit. That okay with you, officer?”

“Oh yeah?” Hopper raises his voice. “And where are you gonna go?”

“Don’t worry about it. I'm leaving. It’s not your problem anymore.”

Billy opens the door to his and El’s room. There’s no one inside.

He swallows. “Where’s El?”

Hopper scrubs a big hand over his face. “El’s staying at Joyce’s tonight.”

That jolts Billy. Billy has always assumed that one of the reasons Hopper never struck him was because of El. His dad had been like that; hardly ever smacked him in front of Maxine.

But if El’s not here tonight, then that means it’s just Billy and Hopper, with no one else around for at least a heavily forested mile in any direction. No phone. No neighbours. Just a ham radio on the fritz. He is alone here with Hopper. And only Hopper knows where all the guns are.

There’s the weapons shed, outside. Where he’d found Harrington’s spiked bat weeks ago. Maybe Billy could outrace the chief if it came to it.

Always promised himself he’d go down fighting.

“Sit down, kid.”

Outmatched, Billy obeys.

“How was the night in the junkyard?” asks Hopper stiffly.

Billy frowns. “How d’you know I was at the junkyard?”

“El saw you there.”

So they had her check in on him. Billy’s stomach turns at the idea of El watching him from the void all night. “You had her spy on me?”

“I needed to know you were safe,” Hopper says.

The tension expands. Like a pressure front moving through the room. Billy watches Hop, riveted, ready to spring for the door.

“So what happened last night?” asks Hopper, sitting forward on his elbows.

Billy crosses his legs, angles his body away in the chair. “They all already told you what happened.”

“And now I wanna know your side.”

“What for?”

“To know what I have to do next.”

That’s ominous. Billy tries to remain composed. “Look. I’ll leave. I won’t stick around Hawkins. You won’t ever see me again.”

“Why did you get in a fight with Munson?” asks Hopper, ignoring Billy’s negotiating.

Mortifyingly, tears well in Billy’s eyes. He sniffs, looks away. “He, uh, he took something of mine.”

“He took something of yours?”

“Yeah.”

“And so you… took it back?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“So, Munson, he just… stole something from you?” Hopper’s disbelieving frown makes no secret of his skepticism. “No reason? Just totally out of the blue?”

“I guess so. I mean, who knows with that guy. Sounds like he gets up to all kinds of shit. They say he’s into all that devil worship shit and whatever. He deals, y’know? To the high school kids.”

“Don’t be a snitch,” admonishes Hop. “What did Munson take of yours?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does.”

“No it doesn’t!” Billy shouts.

He and Hopper lock eyes. Hopper sits up a little straighter. Billy braces. He anticipates being yanked to his feet, slammed into the wall, slapped so hard his ear bleeds.

Hopper looks Billy up and down, shakes his head in disappointment. “I told you. I told you that you couldn’t be violent if you were going to stay here. And you said that you understood me. And then I come home last night and the kids are a mess. All saying you attacked Eddie for no reason. Munson won’t say anything at all. El’s crying. Henderson’s apoplectic. I had to basically read Nancy Wheeler the riot act to talk her off the ledge. She was about to break them up into search parties and track you down.”

Good, thinks Billy. He hopes they were all miserable for the rest of the night.

“Look, if Munson stole something from you, then that’s his fuck-up,” Hopper starts more diplomatically, switching tactics. “But even if he did, you still got physical with him. That’s unacceptable. It’s the one rule I had about you staying here.”

“Oh boo hoo, guess your charity case didn’t pan out,” snarls Billy, fed up. “Can we skip the lecture? What, you don’t want to let me leave on my own? Gotta take a power trip and be the one to kick me out instead?”

“We had an agreement,” Hopper challenges, voice low and even, “you and me. We had an understanding. You gave me your word. That you wouldn’t be violent. For El’s sake.”

“Yeah, well,” Billy slaps his own knee, “guess I’m not a man of my word, then, chief. Too bad. And you also told me that if it happened again that I’d be finding somewhere else to go, so don’t worry, that’s what I’m doing. I’ll get out of here and you and the little psycho can go back to playing daddy and daughter in peace.”

Hopper winces, just slightly. Billy feels a rush of satisfaction, knowing that the barb hit home.

But then Hopper’s face lithifies. His own rage submerges beneath the stoic cop facade once more.

He scrutinizes Billy for an intense, silent moment. Appraises him openly with a contemptuous glare, like he’s gearing up to be bad cop.

“If you take off,” says Hopper, “if you leave tonight, you're just gonna end up either in jail or dead.”

“Already been dead once, chief,” snaps Billy like a smartass. “Can’t scare me straight with that old line.”

“I mean it,” Hopper raises his voice, growing annoyed. “This attitude isn’t gonna save you out in the real world. Do you want it to be this hard for the rest of your life? Want every single day to be a fight to the death? We’ve all been trying to help you through this. Trying to save your life. Me and Joyce and Murray. Even the kids. You have all these people running around for you and you stomp your feet like you’re too good for anyone’s kindness. It’s getting old.”

“So then just let me leave. Tell Maxine I ran away. She won’t miss me. I can handle my shit on my own and none of you will ever have to worry about me hanging around ever again.”

“Kid,” Hop scoffs, sounding a little dumbfounded, “why are you trying so hard to destroy something that’s good for you?”

“What’s good about any of this?!”

A brittle echo whipsaws through the cabin.

Billy hadn’t meant to shout. He hadn’t meant to jump to his feet. But he can feel the burn at the back of his throat from screaming.

Hopper’s on his feet too. Ready to defend. He looms large in the dark cabin interior.

Billy balks. He can’t believe he just did that. Screamed at Hopper.

But he’s just encountered his last straw.

So Billy does what he does best. He steers into the skid.

“I said what’s good for me about this, chief?” he seethes, taking a step, hardly in control of himself. “Hmm? People keep telling me that but as far as I can see everything about this pretty much sucks for me. So what's good for me, chief? Hmm? Which part? Being a hostage out here? Being forced to kill and mutilate my classmates? That it? Being told over and over again about how grateful I should be for getting to endure all of this again? Waiting for the day when you all finally get sick enough of me and you trade me to the army for a deal, get you and El back in the world. Huh? Which part? Which part of this is good for me?!”

Hopper blinks, frowns. “That’s what you think I’m doing all this for? Keeping you as a bargaining chip?”

“What else?” Billy yells, hands shaking. “I’m just another mouth to feed, aren’t I? I piss you off. I put El at risk. You fucking hate having me here but now you won’t let me leave! And I’m not doing this shit anymore. I fucking can’t. I’m done. So either kill me or let me go!”

Whatever happens now, at least Billy had finally said his piece.

Hopper watches him for a moment, stoic in consideration. Like Billy is something sad and confusing. “Kid, you got it all wrong.”

“Oh please, you’ve been looking for a reason to put me down.”

“No. No, not at all.”

“Bullshit.”

“You need structure. You need help.”

“What help!?”

“Hargrove, hey—”

But Billy is already falling apart. Fury boils up in him in a pyroclastic surge. “C’mon! Are you serious? Help? What help is there!? Do you know what it’s like to talk people into killing themselves? Then have to watch them do it? Watching while something bigger and stronger than you hurts people you care about? Think you can help with that?!” Billy sweeps his arm. An end table lamp crashes to the floor. “There is no help! There never is! People look away, or they leave, and that’s it!”

“Kid—”

“You wanna know somethin’? I hate this fucking town and everyone in it.” Billy’s voice is soft but trembles with rage. “I'm glad all those people died. I'm glad those monsters are coming for the rest of you. Good riddance. This goddamn place is the worst thing that has ever happened to me, and I can't wait to see it all be destroyed.”

The igneous glow of wrath warms him up inside, makes him feel secure and rocksteady. Makes him feel as strong as the shadow monster.

“So enough with the bullshit, old man.” He lunges forward and shoves Hopper hard with both hands. The big man doesn’t budge. “Just admit it! You all hate me. You all want me dead. Just say it. Say it!”

“Hargrove, hey, knock it off—”

“Just say it!” Billy shouts at the top of his lungs. “Throw me out! Turn me in! That’s what you want, right?! Give me over to the army, and you and El get your lives back, right? Go ahead. Do it! Do it! What are you waiting for? I gave you a reason!”

That has to get some kind of reaction. Billy is so far over the line this time. No one would ever blame Hopper for whatever happens now.

Pain lances behind Billy’s eyes. Blood thunders in his ears. It's like the whole room has a heartbeat. Like he and the world are one organism again.

After a leaden beat of silence, Hopper gestures to the armchair. “Can we have a seat?”

“Fuck no,” Billy snarls.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you,” says Hopper, “and if I let you down somehow, then I apologize.”

Billy scoffs, rolls his eyes.

“I can’t make you stay, kid.” Hopper scrubs at his shorn head, sounding defeated. “If you really want to go, I know you’ll find a way. But I think you should stay. For your own sake. For El. For your sister.”

“Maxine doesn’t give a shit!”

“Doesn’t matter. You should be there for her anyway.”

“Why? Why should I?! Why do I always have to take care of her!? She’s not my sister. It’s her fault! This is all her fault! It’s her fault we had to move out here. She told him. She knew what would happen and she told him—”

Hot tears spill down his face. He scrubs them away and snarls. Kicks the armchair and sends it skidding across the planks.

Hopper takes a step over and Billy flinches hard. Stumbles back. Knocks the coffee table with his shins.

“Whoa, hey, hey, okay.” Hopper holds his hands up, placating, like Billy is a spooked horse. “Hey, look at me. Look at me. Let’s just calm down. We’re good. You’re good. Just take it down a bit. Alright?”

Billy stands, vitrified, ready to swing.

“Listen. Look at me, kid.” Hop takes a step back, giving space. “Just take a breath.You’re fine. No one’s going to hurt you. Okay?”

Never once has Billy heard that and believed it.

“We’re good.” Hopper repeats steadily, like it’s a hostage situation. “You’re good, kid. Just take a breath.”

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold. And again. And again.

He blinks and the world goes fuzzy. Cortisol rapidly drains from his body. The rebellious fury extinguishes. A powerful vertigo staggers him. Billy tries to hold in a sob but fails and scrubs at his eye in anger, seething. It’s like the dam within him has finally ruptured under the pressure.

Dizziness spins the room. He needs to get out of here. He stumbles. Nearly hits the floor. A strong hand grips him by the elbow.

“Okay, c'mon, let’s sit down.” It’s Hopper with a firm hand on his arm. “Take it easy. You’re good. It’s all good.”

Billy sinks to the couch. The busted springs creak. The weight of the previous twenty-four hours rolls over him in a wave from head to toe. He takes a few more gasping inhales, trying to regulate his breathing. His vision tunnels. Everything is slipping away.

“There you go, just keep breathing.” Hopper clears a space on the coffee table and eases to a sit across from Billy.

Furious at showing weakness in front of Hopper, Billy buries his face in his hands, digs his nails into his scalp. The little sting of pain is clarifying.

“So you gonna tell me what’s going on with you?” asks Hop in a soft rumble.

Billy shakes his head. He can’t. If Hopper knew, Billy is as good as dead.

“Okay,” Hop exhales, leaning away, extending his bad leg, “okay, you don’t gotta tell me anything.”

The room feels far away, like Billy is listening at the end of a long tunnel. He closes his eyes to keep from being sick.

Seconds tick by on the loud wall clock over the woodstove.

“Look, Hargrove,” begins Hop more kindly, “whether you believe me or not, I do actually want to help you. I don’t want to see any more kids die over this.”

Billy imagines Steve at his funeral. In a black suit and tie. Hair combed. Pictures him standing next to a scowling Maxine, fretting over her like he always does.

“I know this is hard to come to grips with. The stuff in this town.” Hopper shakes his head, sighs. “I get that. I really do. It turned my world on its head, that’s for damn sure. And what’s going on with you… I don’t know how anyone can handle that.”

Billy rubs his forehead, tries to will away the nausea in the pit of his stomach.

“And I get that you’re angry, okay? I do,” continues Hopper gently. “Trust me, I was angry for a long time. Years, really. Over lots of shit. Shit life deals you.”

Reaching down, Hopper rubs his bad ankle. The one that got smashed in the gulag. Billy’s heard the story two or three times by now.

“And I can tell you haven’t had it easy. No one who’s mad like you comes from a good place. But you walk around like you're waiting for a timebomb to go off. And I don't know how to convince you that there isn't one.”

Billy scrubs at his eyes with his sleeve, trying to keep tears off his face. Tries to disguise a sob in a cough.

“If you want to go, then go.” Hopper gestures to the front door and its many locks. “But I hope you don’t. I hope you choose to stick around. For yourself. For your sister. Because I know you care about her. You sure don’t always act like it but I know you give a shit.”

He doesn’t. He doesn’t.

“And she cares about you, too.”

“She doesn’t,” Billy grits.

“She does. The way the kids tell it, last summer all but killed her.”

I think a part of me died that day too, she had written to Billy.

“And I’ll be honest,” Hop says, “I really don’t know Max that well. Mostly just what El and Joyce have told me. But even I can see that little girl is tough as nails. She’s been through more at fourteen than most people ever will. But losing you like that tore her apart.”

I imagine that we could’ve become friends Maxine had written. Good friends. Like a real brother and sister.

Only now, she won’t even see him.

“Max and El, they talked about your parents a lot. Stuff El had seen in your head. Stuff Max had overheard in your house.”

The paramount fear had always been someone finding out. Asking about a black eye or a broken arm and deducing the mortifying truth: big bad Billy Hargrove can't even fight off his own old man.

“I had a daughter once,” says Hopper in a low, even tone, "before El. She was the best thing I ever did.” He folds his big arms, looking back in time to some distant happier memory. “And when she died, I thought I’d never know joy again. So, yeah, I don’t get it. I don’t understand how someone can hate their kid. Want to hurt their kid. But I do know this: that’s not on you. None of it. Okay? No matter how bad you were, whatever shit you pulled, you didn’t deserve any of that. Nothing that your dad did was your fault. Your mom leaving was not your fault. But it is yours to deal with now. And that shit is not fair. It’s not. I know it’s not. People do shit to you and then you've got to figure out how to live with it. They were the adults and It’s not fair that you have to clean up their mess. It’s cruel and it’s shitty. But it’s the only way.”

I thought that maybe we could try again.

Despite his dogged attempts to get a grip, Billy cannot stop the tears. He doesn’t know how to hear this. Doesn’t know how to intake this information and believe it.

“You’re still welcome here,” Hop tells him. “El wants you to stay. I want you to stay. But we have got to start dealing with this anger you have.”

“Dealing how?” croaks Billy, scrubbing away tears with the sleeve of his jacket.

“You have to start talking to someone. Doesn’t have to be me. Could be Joyce. Someone else. But you have to let it out or it’s gonna be your dad who runs your whole damn life until the day you die.”

Exhausted, Billy clenches his eyes shut, nods. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, I’ll stay,” he repeats.

“You will?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll stay.”

Hopper sits back, rubs his bad leg. Billy feels like he just got interrogation of Hopper’s career.

“Okay then,” affirms Hopper, deep eyes crinkling. “You want me to say anything to Munson?”

Billy shakes his head, sweat running down his scalp.

“New rule,” Hopper starts, heaving himself up to a stand, “this cabin is your home. And so starting today, anyone you don’t want coming around doesn’t have to come around here anymore. Whether that’s Munson or Harrington or whoever. With the exception of a true emergency—” Hopper holds up a single stout finger to punctuate this point “—you have as much say over who comes here as myself and El.”

How much does Hopper suspect about what’s going on between Billy, Eddie, and Steve? Hopper notices far more than he lets on. Maybe Billy has not been as inscrutable as he thought.

This feels like a trap.

Hopper extends his arm down to Billy. “Do we have a deal, kid?”

It feels like a trap. But some part of Billy really thinks it might not be.

“Yeah, okay.” He takes Hopper’s hand, shakes it. “Yeah, we have a deal.”

The morning light erodes slowly through the cabin. Billy hasn’t slept much. Before the dawn he had woken to El and Hop moving around in the kitchen. They had left on foot without waking him.

After pouring himself a mug of cold coffee, Billy stands by the kitchen counter and contemplates leaving again. He could gather some clothes and some spare change and maybe make it to the Interstate before anyone notices he’s gone.

A coward’s retreat. But maybe better than ever having to face Steve or Eddie ever again.

That is the thing that incenses Billy most. He had been duped. He had fallen for their routine, hook, line, and sinker.

He thought he had been playing them, when really they were laughing together the whole time.

Acid surges in his throat. Humiliation is something Billy can't abide. Turns him sharp and ragged inside.

He's on his own. He always has been.

Billy considers the contents of the fridge, the inner light beaming stark white over his face, but his stomach rejects even the vision of food. A stack of plates sits unwashed in the sink. Billy ignores them. Maybe the road wouldn’t be so bad.

From outside, the crackle of tires over gravel approaches. The low murmur of an approaching engine rumbles up from the floor.

That's unexpected. There's only a few people who would be coming up the road by car, and none of them are options that excite Billy.

The low shadow of a vehicle rolls to a stop behind the drawn blinds. The engine dies and a car door slams. A sharp, prompt knock on the front door announces the stranger.

If it's the feds, Billy is as good as dead. And if it's the monsters, well, the monsters don’t bother with knocking.

Still cautious, Billy peek through the curtains. In front of the porch, avoiding the trip wires, a wood-panelled station wagon is parked between the trees.

That's certainly not who he expected.

Another demanding knock, less patient this time.

Preparing himself, Billy uncouples the locks and opens the front door.

Nancy Wheeler stares right at him, all five-foot-two of her. She has such a fierce, brittle expression, with mousy hair in a tight perm and a shoulder-padded blazer, giving her the appearance of a divorce attorney hellbent on ruination.

Neither of them greet each other. Just stare accusatorially at one another through the open door as sparrows chirp overhead.

"Look, Hop and El aren't here," Billy offers at last, leaning on the doorframe.

"Well, that’s fine. Because I'm not here to see them."

Great. Billy sighs tremendously. "Cut to the chase, Wheeler."

She bristles, crosses her arms. "You need to stay away from Steve."

"Excuse me?"

"Steve. You need to leave him alone." Nearly a head shorter than him, she tilts her chin up, looks him right in the eye.

Billy has to hand it to her, Wheeler's not afraid of anything.

"And you think you're gonna tell me what I can and can't do?”

"Someone should."

A ripple of amusement passes over Billy. Reaching into his back pocket he retrieves a pack of Marlboro Reds. "Harrington know you're here laying out ground rules on his behalf? That the sort of thing he keeps you around for?"

"Look, listen, I've tried to be understanding since you've been, um, been back. For Max. Because even if I don't like you, nothing that happened over last summer was your fault.” She unfolds her arms, having extended all her sympathy. “But you haven't changed. You're still the mean, violent asshole you always were. Even if Steve can't see it.”

Billy scoffs, lights his cigarette. Wheeler has no idea.

His disinterest in her scolding enrages her. “Steve’s a wreck, Billy! Your stupid outburst the other day really messed with him. He said that you and he have been getting along since you've been back. But now he's hardly speaking to any of us."

"Sounds like his problem."

"You are such a jackass."

"Bingo, Nancy Drew."

"Don't." Pure steel glints over her eye, a solid warning.

Cowed slightly, Billy ashes his cigarette onto the porch. "Real pathetic on Harrington's part sending you down here to fight his battles for him. If he wants to tell me something then he can do it his damn self, how about that?"

"Steve doesn't know that I'm here."

"Oh, so you felt entitled to wander down here in the middle of the day and chew my ass out over shit that doesn’t concern you?"

"I'm here to tell you to stay away from him."

Nancy Wheeler believes she can move mountains. Audacious like only the repeatedly vindicated can be.

Billy tisks. "I don't think you really get a say in who he does and does not see anymore. Hmm? Not after how things ended."

Wheeler's mouth pinches down. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"C'mon. You think I haven't heard about what went down between you two?"

"Whatever you think you know about us, you're wrong. It's history now. We've put it behind us. Steve is my friend."

"Yeah, that’s why you’re not here worried about Munson at all. Don’t give me that. You just still want to be in charge of him is what this is. I think you like being in charge, Wheeler. Still trying to run Harrington’s life even all these years after you broke his heart to shack up with the latchkey kid."

The steely determination melts from her face. The investigator slips and beneath is the doe-eyed sensitive girl.

Billy is almost disappointed. "Thought you were the smart one in this town, Wheeler."

"And what does that mean?"

"Means if you two really are so close then I thought that you would've figured out why Harrington's been hanging around here so much.”

Nancy’s contempt wobbles. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, you know,” Billy challenges, “you’re a smart girl.”

The fuse is lit; Billy can see it in her eyes.

He goes to sink the knife. “You know, I even heard all about how he threw himself at you over spring break. Yeah, Munson told me all about it. Really gave you the hard sell, talking about kids and family vacations and growing old together. And you still shot him down. Rejection like that can drive a man to do something drastic.”

Her scowl turns unsure, lip trembling. Denial prevents her from understanding.

“Yeah, Harrington’s been taking it real hard, I’d say,” Billy continues dryly, “been real lonely. Wonder who’s been keeping him company lately, maybe?”

The colour drains from Nancy Wheeler’s pretty face.

Bingo.

“What’re you saying?”

“You know what I’m saying.”

“No. Steve… he’s not…”

“You so sure about that, Nancy Drew?”

“He’s not! If he was, I would know!”

“Because you know everything, is that it? Miss Busybody, no one can keep anything a secret from you, right?”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Oh you wanna talk disgusting, Wheeler?” Smiling, Billy runs his tongue over his top row of teeth, testing the edge of his canines. “I’d say Harrington’s got me beat in that department, honestly. Got a mouth on him in the sack, doesn’t he? He ever talk dirty to you like that when you were suckin’ his—”

Nancy slaps him. Not that hard but it does the trick. Billy chuckles, taps his stinging cheek. Tears well in Wheeler’s big, wounded eyes.

“You’re lying.” Her voice crackles with fury.

“Sure, babe.” Billy pushes a dislodged curl of hair back out of his face. “Whatever you’ve gotta tell yourself.”

“Here’s what’s going to happen.” She steps right up to him, stares him down. “From this minute forward, you’re gonna stay away from Steve. You’re never gonna speak to him ever again. If you can help it he won’t ever have to cross paths with you again. If he enters a room you leave it. If he’s here checking on El you’re out in the woods. Do you understand me?”

“Well no worries, Wheeler. If I ever have to see your sloppy seconds out and about ever again I’ll probably turn myself in anyway.”

That would suit her just fine from the look of it. She marches over the leaf litter back to her station wagon. “Tell Hopper and El I stopped by.”

He won’t.

Leaning in the cabin doorway, Billy watches as Nancy Wheeler all but spins out of the forest clearing, kicking up a curtain of twigs and soil under her squealing tire. The station wagon accelerates down the dirt road leading to the secondary highway. Shaking, he takes a deep drag off his cig. There is a familiar glow of satisfaction roaring in his chest. The victory of knocking someone off their high horse.

Chapter Text

For the next four or five days, Billy doesn’t leave the cabin.

Days start at sunrise. Hopper gets up early. Never shook the habit after boot camp. Billy wakes in his and El’s room to the coffee machine sputtering to life in the kitchen. He will doze for about half an hour more before he gets up. He emerges in an old t-shirt and is greeted in silence by Hopper with a steaming mug of coffee.

Mornings are nonverbal until El gets up. She usually emerges an hour or so later, barefoot and short hair all askew. Together they’ll whip up a breakfast. Eggs and bacon if they still have some from the latest grocery run. Frozen Eggos if they don’t.

It’s peaceful. Boring and predictable but peaceful. Family meals had rarely been a peaceful event in Billy’s life.

Then after breakfast it’s chores. Dishes, sweeping, filtering the rain catcher. Billy will chop wood for the old wood stove. El or Hopper do radio check-ins with the kids in town.

Then it’s lunch. Ham and cheese sandwiches and Campbell’s tomato soup. Hopper will play one of his old Steely Dan albums or something.

After, Billy and Hop will take a smoke break and El will practice her spelling and math problems. Hop is strict about trying to keep up with her schoolwork. She already struggles.

But once that’s complete, the rest of the afternoon is free time for both her and Billy. The old TV gets a few channels over the antenna, but mostly Billy watches movies on the VCR with El. She’s got weird taste. Fantasia and The Way We Were. But she watches movies with a rapt entrancement that Billy is jealous of. It’s been so long since he felt like a kid.

El and Hopper go back to doing their regular perimeter checks. Hop had been kind of reluctant to leave Billy alone in the cabin, but El convinced him. Billy thinks she misses time alone with her dad.

Not that Billy minds. He takes full advantage of his time alone. He commandeers El’s stereo for the hour, throwing on a Judas Priest tape and cranking it up. Rob Halford rips through the chorus of “You've Got Another Thing Comin'” over the sticker-covered speakers.

Billy is about twenty pages into Tough Guys Don’t Dance. He sits against the headboard and props the paperback up on his bent knee. It opens with a mystery. A guy has woken up from a drunken bender with a new tattoo. A woman’s name. He doesn’t remember getting it.

The song changes on the tape and Billy turns the page. A small scrap of notebook paper falls out from the open book.

Billy unfolds it. In slanted, rushed handwriting there’s a phone number and one line is written in pencil.

We should go dancing sometime, tough guy. — E.

He can hear it in Eddie’s lilting, mischievous voice. Half-provocative, half-sincere. Testing the limits like a minesweeper in deep waters.

Billy crumples up the note and tosses it.

Stupid Munson.

The bafflement on Eddie’s face when Billy had him up against the wall. Dumbstruck, knowing he had fatally misstepped. Like a matador that had turned his back on the bull.

Realizing a moment too late that he had stood too close to the grenade.

Billy doesn’t want to think about it. He’s been steadfastly trying not to think about it since he made the decision to stay. Just ignore it. Just stay busy. Try to keep occupied with other shit. No looking back. Consider that suicidal triangle over and done with.

But the both of them loom over his days and nights. Eddie and Steve. Whenever he sits too still. Doesn’t keep moving. His idle mind finds satisfaction in replaying all their time spent together. Little moments, imprecise dates and times. With both or either of them. A smile, a bad joke, a lingering touch. Some stilted conversation or quiet understanding. Trying in hindsight to scour those innocent moments for incrimination. Proof that they lied, that they played him. Some vindication that Billy was right to always be so vigilant.

It hurts. Those hours spent with Eddie and Steve might be the closest thing to happy that Billy’s been in a long while. Hardly a month and he had become so habituated to them both. Didn’t realize how much they helped him until they were gone.

He’s still angry. So angry he could scream. So angry he could deck them both.

But he misses them.

Mood ruined, he closes the book. Billy gets up and retrieves the balled-up note from the dusty corner. Opens it. Smoothes it back out. The lined notebook paper retains the severe creases.

Billy reads Eddie’s handwriting over and over.

Even if it’s over now, it had meant something.

Next day at lunch, a car approaches the cabin through the shady green path.

El runs to the window to check. “It's Steve.”

Great.

Chewing, Hop sets down his sandwich. “You want to hear him out?” he asks Billy.

Billy shrugs, just looks at his food. “Not really.”

“Alright. You got it.” Hop wipes his hands on his napkin.

El sits with him in their tiny shared bedroom while Hopper fends off Steve at the front door. Together, sitting side-by-side on El’s bed, they listen easily through the thin plywood wall.

“You didn’t radio,” grumbles Hop. “Something up?”

“Uh, hey, Hop.” Steve’s voice nearly cracks. He clears his throat. “Hey, um… is Billy around?”

“Now’s not a good time, kid.”

“Look, I’m still really, really sorry about the other night, okay? About everything. I am. And Eddie is too. And I’m not here to, like, cause a scene or anything. But I just really need to talk to him.”

There’s a beat of silence. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Steve.” Billy can just picture the look of open suspicion on Hopper’s face.

“Look, seriously, I’m not here to start shit. I just want to figure out what happened. Get Billy’s side of it. But I— look, never mind, I just need to talk to him. Just five minutes. I just need to tell him something.”

El turns and examines him, confused. Billy shuts his eyes. Like she can’t peer the information straight from his brain.

“If you gotta tell Billy something just use your walkie,” Hop tells Steve.

Steve scoffs. “It’s not exactly a conversation I want the kids overhearing.”

“Well, then,” Hopper says, exasperated, “whatever it is, you can tell me and I’ll be sure to let him know.”

“Hop, c’mon…”

“I don’t get this, Harrington,” dismisses Hop. “Why are you two always antagonizing each other? You two keep poking at each other’s weak spots and there’s no point. Just stay away! Clearly you and him don’t get along, so I don’t think it’s smart for either of you to be bothering each other right now. There’s bigger shit to worry about.”

“Please, Hopper, it’s important. C’mon. I know he’s in there.”

A heavy sigh from Hop. “He doesn’t want to see you, Steve.”

Only silence from the other side of the door for a beat. Then, Steve yells, “Hey, Hargrove! Hey, I know you’re in there, man! Please just come to the door—”

“Harrington!” Hopper bellows so loud the birds outside stop singing. “That’s enough! I am too old to be refereeing this high school bullshit. And I’m not standing in the door all day with you. You two are taking a break from each other for your own good, end of discussion. If Billy wants to hear from you, then he’ll be in touch.”

Steve’s quiet again. Probably aiming some bitchy glare at Hopper. He always has such a sulk when he doesn’t get his way.

“Well, tell him he should call Munson,” snaps Steve, fuming.

After that he stomps away. A car door slams and an engine turns over. Steve accelerates away, and Billy listens until he can’t hear the motor anymore.

Billy actually does try to call Eddie.

He couldn’t say why, entirely. Maybe just to give Eddie a piece of his mind. Maybe to find out if Nancy Wheeler has blabbed and if Steve is going scorched earth in the fallout. Maybe he just retains a morbid curiosity about what Eddie would even say to him.

Late at night, after both El and Hopper are asleep, Billy sneaks out and trudges to the gas station through the dark. There’s a payphone under the powerlines, there.

Silence pervades his walk. Not even a car drives by him on the side of the road. Hawkins is so quiet at night. You can hear your own ears ringing. Billy never got used to it during the whole eight months he lived here. It’s like the atmosphere itself goes to sleep.

The gas station is closed. Windows and signs sit dark. A buzzing orange streetlight down the road casts an eerie monochrome glow over the pavement.

Billy fishes a quarter and the crumpled note out of his jacket pocket. He dials Eddie’s number.

The line rings. Six times. Seven. On the ninth, the line disconnects. Billy slots another quarter in and dials again. After nine rings, the line disconnects again.

He hangs up.

No answering machine. Not that he would’ve left a message.

Sighing, Billy grinds his teeth. There is still another quarter in his pocket but he doesn’t bother. Either Eddie’s not home, or he’s not answering.

Standing out here in the middle of the night, Billy feels like the world’s most lonely idiot.

Billy starts back toward the cabin, following the shoulder of the road. He knows the way even in the dark. Around him the trees murmur in the breeze, rhizomatic creatures. As alive as a man or an animal or the dust of the shadow monster.

Sometimes Billy misses not being human. That’s probably not what really happened. Not the correct way to think about it. But that’s how it felt. The shadow monster found him and he stopped being human. It had been so alien an intellect that Billy still can’t really approach it with any understanding. Doesn’t know how much of himself was him and how much was the shadow monster. Just knows that when the shadow monster had been with him, he knew the heartbeats of a billion creatures across time and space. He knew with perfect certainty his task and role in a vast orchestra of consciousness.

The shadow monster knew him, understood him, more than anything ever has.

It would have killed him. Would have assimilated and disposed of him like it did to all creatures of matter it encountered. But it understood.

But entropy wins. It always does.

And his whole life long, Billy has only ever wanted what was bad for him.

After a week, he radios Steve.

“I’ll be over in an hour. You and me gotta talk.”

There’s a long beat of quiet from the ham radio. Then the static crackles. “Okay.”

When Billy makes it to Steve’s house, he lets himself in the back door.

Steve is in the living room, sitting crosslegged in the overstuffed beige couch, chatting on the walkie with someone, probably Henderson. The static feedback punctuates their conversation.

When Billy rounds the corner, Steve sees him, waves and points to the walkie. "Five seconds," he mouths.

Billy shucks off his brown leather jacket. Chucks it over the recliner. He doesn't really need it, even walking everywhere in summer, but he can't fucking stand to be cold now.

"Yeah, I know, buddy," Steve replies to whatever Henderson is blathering on about, "the Army or the National Guard or whoever has moved into the old lab. They've set up some kind of base of operations."

He releases the button and the walkie chirps.

"You're supposed to say 'over' when you're done talking on the radio. Over."

Harrington rolls his eyes like a prom queen. "They've set up some kind of base of operations, over."

"Yeah, I know. That's what the news said. They said it's to manage the rescue and relocation and whatever but that's total bullshit. The Ranger siblings and me are gonna go scope it out tonight. Over."

"No, Jesus Christ. Dustin, do not do that."

"No names on the radio!"

"Dustin Henderson do not argue with me right now, I am being absolutely dead serious. Do not drag them around into dangerous schemes right now. Lucas is dealing with a lot and Erica, like, just turned twelve. Over."

"We were thirteen when Will first went missing," Henderson whines through the fizzing static. "We've been through it before. We have to do something. The government isn't gonna keep us safe. Over."

"The government is actively looking for El, man. Didn't you listen to them talk about Nevada? No more screwing around, I mean it. What happens when your dumb ass gets caught and soldiers search your mom's house and they find photos of you with El? They'll take you into custody and we'll never see you again. You want your mom to end up like Barbara Holland's parents? You want that for the Sinclairs?"

There is a pointed, bitchy silence from the other end of the walkie. Blank static crackles from the speaker.

"Fine," comes Henderson's dejected assent. "Over."

Steve's eyes fall shut in relief. "Thanks, man. Listen. I know you want to help, you want to do something, but there's still ways you can help, okay? Talk to Sinclair. He's really hurting and Mike, Will, and El... they have to keep such a low profile since California and he's having to deal with Max in the hospital basically on his own. If you need something to do just go see him, y'know? He's your friend and he needs you to talk to him, not involve him in federal crimes. Over."

There's a ringing silence for an extended moment.

Then the walkie crackles, "Max is my friend too, y'know."

Steve huffs. His eyes falling shut. "Yeah, I know, bud. So go hang with her or something. Keep her company. Let Sinclair have a break."

"Okay, yeah, I will, over."

"Listen, I gotta go, man. I'm gonna leave the walkie on if there's an emergency. And Codename's with me, by the way, in case anyone asks. Over."

"Alright. Fine. I'll stay on your channel. Over and out."

Exhaling Steve drops the clunky machine onto the couch cushion beside him. He plants both feet on the floor and leans forward, elbows on his knees, holding his head in his hands.

"That kid is gonna be the fucking death of me. Holy shit, I think he's turning me grey." He runs his fingers through his hair and inspects the strands that come loose.

Billy sits on the arm of the recliner, folding his arms. "Codename?"

"Heh," grunts Steve, "we, uh, we thought it wasn't the best idea to be using your name over the radio. We don't think the Army's onto us but anyone could still pick it up. None of the kids could decide on a codename for you. A nice codename. So your codename is Codename."

"They are such little assholes," Billy tisks, "no wonder they're all friends with Maxine."

With a huge sigh, Steve hoists his head upright. The shaded lamp on the end table casts his face in a warm yellow light. They look at each other for a moment. Steve smiles at him, his eyes soft.

"You walk from the cabin?" he asks.

"Yeah," Billy replies scratching at the back of his neck, "needed time to... to think. Talked with Hop, of all people."

"Hop?"

"Yeah. He's..." Billy hesitates. He can't really name what makes it easier now to confide in Hop. "He's good at listening, I guess.”

"Does he know about what’s… going on with us?"

Billy shrugs. "It's not like I told him but... he keeps asking me about what the fight was about. He's figured out something's up. I mean he's a fucking police officer."

Steve absorbs that information in an accepting nod. "And he doesn't mind us being around the kids?"

"Hadn't said anything."

"Did you see Eddie at all?"

"No. Figured he wouldn't want to be seeing much of me."

"Have you called, at least?"

"Tried. Walked to the payphone by the gas station but no one picked up and they don't have a machine."

"He's avoiding me, too," Steve mutters.

Billy sucks his teeth. Thinks something mean but doesn’t say it.

Steve’s house is always so quiet. Cavernous and deserted. The emptiness feels like a gulf between them, even together in the same room.

But Billy came here for closure. And he’s had enough small talk. “You wanna tell me what the fuck you two think you were doing?”

Steve closes his eyes, like he’s absorbing a blow. “Look. Billy. I’m really sorry.”

“Not good enough, Harrington.”

“Please just let me talk. Please? We didn’t… I didn’t…” But Steve falters, tries to gesture his meaning before he falls silent.

Billy shoots him a mean, burning glare, jerks his head to impel Steve to get on with it.

“Look, I'm sorry, okay?” Steve says, unable to look him in the eye. “I am.”

“What the fuck were you thinking?” asks Billy in a low growl.

“I don't know. I wasn't.”

It's not a satisfying answer. They both know it.

“He saw it on me,” Steve admits at length, wringing his hands, “your necklace. Eddie saw it on me. He came over and he saw it on me and he put everything together. He notices everything. And after that we talked for a long time. Like, a really long time. All night. And I had been having a really hard time, okay? I’ve been trying to figure out what this is. What this makes me. And for the first time it seemed like it might end up being something good and I— I just wasn't thinking. And I know, I know how lame that sounds. I used to think it was bullshit when people said that about mistakes but it's the truth, okay? I just… I messed up. I didn't think about how it would look until it was too late.”

Steve pauses. Collects himself. Rambling like he’s on trial for his life.

But Billy remains unmoved. Just leans with crossed arms and waits for something more compelling.

“You know, you’re fucking hard to talk to, Billy.” Steve chuckles without humour, sniffs. “You're… you're so hard to talk to. Especially about this stuff. The… the gay stuff. You started this, y’know. You just… you dropped this bomb in my lap when you left that first night. And I didn't know what was okay to ask. What was okay to talk about. I've just been trying to… I dunno, go with the flow or whatever. ‘Cause that’s what I do. And I liked it, okay? I liked what we were doing and I didn’t want it to stop. Maybe that was selfish of me. But it’s the truth. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing and drive you away.”

“So Munson’s just a better listener,” complains Billy, “is that it?”

“Yeah, Billy,” barks Steve, “he is.”

Billy rolls his eyes, gnaws his own lip.

“It’s true, man!” Steve pushes. “I’m not scared to talk to him like I am with you. I thought if I said the wrong thing you’d fucking jump into the quarry and I would have to… I would have to be the one to tell Max and I couldn't—” He puts his face in his hands, exasperated.

Billy hasn’t really ever considered what he put Steve through that first night. By now he’s had years to come to terms with being attracted to boys. And he’s still not at peace with it. It’s not like Billy is a sterling example of a well-adjusted guy.

“But Eddie,” continues Steve, calmer, “it feels like I can talk to him about anything.”

“So you take your homo panic to the town fuckup?”

"Eddie's not a fuckup. Not any more than I am. If he's a fuckup then I'm, like, King Fuckup."

"Now that has a ring to it."

They both smile at each other. It feels hopeful. But Billy understands why Eddie is cagey about it. Why they both find it easier to confide in Eddie than in each other. Eddie is sensitive, jumpy, unconfident, and even if Billy has a mean streak, it's less mortifying to share your gay insecurities with the outcast freak.

On the ugly beige couch, Steve pats the cushion next to him. "Can you sit?"

Just to be obstinate Billy wants to say no. But he chokes down the instinct and shoves off the recliner, and slides into the open space on the couch, a respectable distance between them.

"I have to tell you something," Steve starts in that hilarious grave tone of his, that captain-of-the-basketball-team voice, "and I don't want you to get mad or freak out when I tell you."

That puts Billy's back up. "Tell me what?"

"Just promise that you'll be cool. That you'll hear me out."

"No, fuck that. I'm not promising shit over something I don't know about."

"Oh my god, you're exhausting." Steve runs a hand down his face.

"You're such a fucking diva."

"I'm the diva?!"

"Yeah. Making demands. Huffing and whining all the time. Diva."

"Jesus Christ, fine." Exasperated, Harrington tugs on his own hair, sweeps it to the side. "You can be as mad as you want, I guess. You always are. I just have something I need to talk to you about and I'm hoping that we can be reasonable adults about it and have a productive discussion and express our feelings and our points of view and whatever and not resort to hitting each other. That sound good to you?"

"I'll take it into consideration."

Steve looks at him. Big beseeching eyes giving him a thorough once over. Then he bites his lip, flinches, looks away.

“I slept with Eddie,” he confesses.

A stab of jealousy detonates in Billy’s heart, because he is nothing if not a hypocrite. “When?”

“The night after Hop’s cabin, when you flipped out at us in front of everyone.”

Something plummets in his chest. His hands feel cold.

“He was a mess,” explains Steve, “and it was my fault. And I… look, never mind, it doesn’t matter. It happened.”

Not that Billy hasn't been doing the same thing behind their backs the whole time.

“And obviously,” Steve continues, “he knows that we’ve been hooking up, and I know about you and him screwing around.”

One of them has to be cut out, and this is that moment, Billy realizes.

“So this is you serving me my walking papers, then.”

“No,” Steve insists, “that’s not what this is.”

“Real glad I could set you and Munson up. Hope you two live a long and happy life as small town closet cases together.”

“Stop it!” Harrington grabs Billy’s arm. “Let me talk before you freak out. Might save you the headache of pitching a tantrum.”

Aggression has never impressed Steve. It’s part of the reason Billy had been so fixated on him, probably. This snooty, small town rich boy hadn’t flinched when Billy bared his fangs. Had only ever stood his ground when Billy tore him up.

Billy had wanted him so badly. At first sight. And so Billy had decided to hate him instead. Hate him for being everything Billy couldn’t have anymore. Figured that would slake the craving.

But it didn’t work. It never works.

“Remember what I said to you that one time?” says Steve, swallowing. “That no one is only the worst thing they ever did?”

“Yeah,” Billy sighs, “yeah, I remember.”

“Well, I’m hoping you’ll believe it right now.”

He can’t help but chuckle at Steve’s melodrama. “You and I both know this isn’t the worst thing you’ve ever done, Harrington.”

Steve laughs softly, runs his free hand over his hair again to discharge some anxiety. “Yeah, okay, you’re right, smartass. But still… I’m hoping that you can maybe trust me right now, even though I don’t deserve it.”

Lucky for Steve, Billy knows the value of second chances more than most.

“Let me ask you something,” implores Steve, thumb stroking over the back of Billy’s arm, “and after that you can go back to being mad and hating me and all of that. Just tell me the truth.”

Steve dips his head, waves of hair falling across his face, trying to catch Billy’s eye.

“Who are you more jealous of?”

It’s not the question Billy expects. Stops his rage dead in its tracks.

Who is he more jealous of?

Munson? For having Steve first? For Steve picking him over Billy?

Or Harrington? For luring away Billy’s confidant, the only other queer kid in this shithole town. The one person Billy could share himself with without judgement.

He doesn’t know.

Having to be without either of them— Billy doesn’t think he would survive it really. That’s probably a warning sign all by itself.

It must show on his face, because Steve smiles at him, gently, like he knows Billy’s thoughts better than his own.

“You’re not sure, are you?"

“Can it with this know-it-all shit,” Billy spits weakly, “you can’t pull it off, Harrington.”

“Then tell me that I’m wrong.”

Billy can’t.

Blood is surging in his ears. Loud like a car engine. Tendons flex in his neck and arms. His body wants to fight. That’s what it knows how to do best.

“What if we didn’t have to choose?” ventures Steve after a cautious moment. “What if someone didn’t have to get cut out?”

“What are you talking about?”

“What if the three of us were together?”

Billy scoffs. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I don’t think I am.”

Billy shakes his head. Bears his teeth. “Shit don’t work that way, Steve.”

“Well, why not?”

“Because it’ll get us fucking killed. Are you kidding? People in a town like this… they’ll kick your ass for looking too queer. What do you think’s gonna happen when someone sees us together? Or if someone figures it out? When it ends up on the local news that the murderer cultist Eddie Munson is a fag and recruiting the local boys? You think the town’s just gonna leave him alone? Leave us alone?”

“We can keep to ourselves. We don’t have to flaunt it.”

“Yeah, ‘cause we've been doing a swell job of that so far. Can't even go a whole afternoon without causing a scene in front of everyone.”

“We didn't mean for that, Billy.” Steve frowns. “We didn't mean it the way you took it, I swear. We just… we were excited. We did it without thinking.”

“I don't want to talk about it. It wouldn't work anyways. Someone would be the favourite. Someone would get left out. The three of us would just end up hating each other.”

Steve’s hand slips into Billy’s own. “You haven’t told me no.”

“Because it’s a stupid fucking question, Steve. I told you, you’re out of your mind.”

“Okay, maybe,” Steve nods, “but honestly, I really don’t care if I am.”

“Because you’re too stupid to know better. You don’t know what it’s like. When people find out. To be outed. Jobs fire you. Friends turn on you. People never look at you the same.”

“I don’t care what these people think of me! You think I’m trying to impress Hawkins, Indiana? These people? After what they’ve done to my friends? After what they tried to do to Eddie? Their opinion means nothing to me, Billy. They can fucking disown me if they want, I don’t care.”

“Oh yeah? You don't care what Wheeler will think of when she finds out she turned you queer?” Billy studies his face, searching closely for evidence that Nancy has already confronted Steve. He finds none. “Or what all the parents in town will think about you babysitting their kids all the damn time? You sure you don’t care about that?"

Harrington pales. He can’t even imagine the conclusions people will draw. Idiot.

"And it’s not just Hawkins,” Billy swallows against a lightning rod in his throat. “People are the same all over. No matter where you go. That’s just the world.”

Steve squeezes his hand. “Are you really gonna sit there and tell me I shouldn’t do what I want because the world’s a scary place? You? Billy Hargrove? Resident California bad boy?”

Despite himself, Billy chuckles, tugs at his lip with a canine. “You have no idea how bad it can get, Steve.”

“I dunno about that. The Army’s already patrolling the streets. There's a carpet delivery van parked out my front door every other day with two spooks watching the house in it. Reagan’s on the news saying we’re gonna be at war with the Soviets any day now. Dunno how it could get much worse.”

Perhaps against the scope of the whole town atomizing under a mushroom cloud, getting outed as the town deviant didn’t scare Harrington as much as it should have. Stupid brave boy.

“Y’know,” Steve takes his hand back, rucks it through his hair, “you scared the shit out of me in high school. You really did. Because… I’d never felt that way about another guy. Or, maybe I had. I’m not really sure. But you made it… unavoidable, I guess. And, yeah, you were a mean son of a bitch, and you did not want to be in Hawkins and you took it out on the kids and you took it out on me but — fuck, every time I saw you, you fucking scared me to death because of what you made me feel. Not because you had a temper or threw a mean haymaker. After all the demented shit I’d seen in this town one meatheaded asshole didn’t really scare me. But you never let up with the psycho flirting and provoking me and getting in my space and it drove me insane. I always wondered if you ever made a move… would I have been brave enough to go for it. Or would I have been too scared.”

“So why aren’t you scared now?”

Steve laughs. “I just told you! What’s there to be scared of? Whole freakin’ world’s ending, man.” Playfully, he nudges Billy with his socked foot and Billy doesn’t even mind. “But really — it was a messed up time for me. I was staring down the barrel of graduation. Nancy and I were falling apart. I was still getting my head around monsters and the government conspiracy in my backyard. And then you come blazing into town, all acid wash denim and a bad attitude. Too much for ol’ podunk King Steve.”

“I remember the first time I ever saw you at that lame fucking house party,” recalls Billy almost fondly. “Wanted you so fuckin' bad. Shoulda taken you out back and blown you in the flowerbeds right then and there.”

“Is that always your opening move?”

“Works on the hicksville straight boys, what can I say?”

Steve aims another kick at Billy’s leg. “Jackass.”

It’s strange to think back on that night, now. Not even a year and a half ago. Feels shorter, to Billy. Still feels like it should be the summer of ‘85, and he is one part-time summer job away from never having to see his dad or Susan or Maxine ever again.

“Still haven’t given me an answer, y’know,” prods Steve, a glint in his eye that reminds Billy of Munson.

For just a moment, Billy lets himself picture it. The three of them. Maybe splitting a shit apartment somewhere. Eddie cooking dinner with the music turned up. Working on Steve’s car in the summer. Both of them giving Steve a hard time about his total lack of handyman skills. Getting to press them against the wall and kiss them whenever he wants.

It makes his mouth water, like peaches in the summertime.

Billy has only ever wanted what is bad for him.

Rising up on his knees, Steve shuffles over, sits right next to him on the couch. Lays his fluffy head right on Billy’s shoulder like they’ve never come to blows. Like it’s the safest place in the world to rest his head.

“I know I’m not much better at feelings and shit than you are. But I do know that when I’m with you guys, I feel like I can face it, all that bad shit out there. I feel like I can take on all the bad shit and make it through.”

Needing people is a mistake, Billy wants to tell him.

“And I don’t care if it’s too weird or too queer. I just don't anymore. There was a time when I would have but I just don’t give a shit anymore, Billy. I’ve lost too many people. I’ve come too close to dying. I can’t waste time on anything but what makes me happy.”

Telegraphing his movement, Steve brings one arm up and around Billy’s shoulders. His fingers wind through Billy’s curls, scratching pleasantly at his scalp.

“And I know there’s shit you don’t want to tell me. Stuff that you only tell Eddie. About your dad. And your mom. And really, that’s fine. You never have to tell me if you don’t want to. But I hope that someday you will. That one day I’m the sort of person you want to tell that stuff to. Because I know that, for me, the only thing that made all this crazy shit survivable is that other people knew about it. Other people knew what happened to me. They knew and they stuck by me anyway. And that makes it bearable, somehow. So if you ever want to tell me that stuff, I’ll listen. I'll know about it with you."

Part of Billy wishes he still lived in that world. The world that Steve lives in where love can reach someone.

Then he would still be a stupid kid, waiting on someone's better nature to come save him.

But it is tempting. The promise of a haven. A pair that will face the world for him, condemnation be damned. A pair that look at him and see a confidant, a partner, a friend. How long since he’d truly had a friend?

Billy swallows dryly. Takes a shaky breath. He’s never been good at resisting temptation.

Steve is watching him, chin resting on Billy’s shoulder. “So what’d’ya say?”

“Think you and Munson are crazy, pretty boy.”

“And what about you?” answers Steve playfully. “You our kind of crazy?”

Billy nods. “Yeah.” He chuckles and wipes his eyes. “Yeah, I think I might be.”

Leaning up, Steve kisses his cheek, his jaw, then finally his mouth. Billy lets it happen. Knows he shouldn’t, but does anyway. Steve’s mouth has become a familiar place. And if Steve can’t sell Billy on it with his words, then he’ll resort to what he knows.

Advances unrepelled, Steve slides like water into Billy’s lap. Climbs right on with a knee over either side of his thighs. With his body he presses Billy back against the overstuffed couch. Braces his elbows on the spongy off-white leather at either side of Billy’s head and leans down and kisses him again.

Billy runs both hands up Steve’s thighs, his hips, his waist. Dipping his fingers below the waistband of Steve’s jeans he traces firm little circles above his tailbone. Steve moans into the kiss. He circles his hips encouragingly.

Steve’s hard. They're both hard.

Gripping him by the hips with both hands, Billy guides Steve into a slow, continuous rocking. Their bodies just barely touching through their jeans. The sensation is torturous, teasing.

Steve always kisses like it’s a contest. Like his life is on the line. Maybe he thinks so. The stakes are always life and death with him.

Billy lets him win, for a change. Lets Steve steer the kiss, the intensity. For once not answering competition with defiance, but surrender.

Steve tilts Billy’s head back against the back of the couch, ratcheting the kiss. Rises up over him and bears down. Holds Billy right where he wants him.

Gasping, they break apart. Steve hangs his head, hair brushing Billy’s shoulder. With great effort he stills his hips. Billy's heart beats in his throat.

“I want to take you upstairs,” pants Steve into the sweaty skin behind Billy’s ear. “Will you come upstairs with me?”

Steve could’ve asked him anything. Could’ve asked Billy to shoot the president. He’ll do it.

They climb the stairs like they’re making a getaway. Quickly and without talking. Like if they don’t act fast this moment will expire and they’ll never have the chance again.

But Billy knows the way to Steve’s bedroom now by heart. Turn left at the top of the stars, last door on the right.

Once they’re inside, Steve all but jumps him. Kissing and undressing at the same time. It’s eager and frantic and it’s clumsy but in a way that feels desperate rather than silly. Billy scrambles out of his own shirt and jeans. Their clothes are tossed to the floor.

Billy doesn’t ask what’s on the table and what’s off limits. There’s nothing unallowed here. Whatever Steve intends here, Billy will give him.

They undress to their briefs, kissing, touching, before Billy is manhandled onto the bed. The ugly plaid wallpaper and grey bedding recedes into the background. The cotton sheets smell like Steve.

Steve scrambles on top of him. A solid, warm weight, pressing Billy down into the sheets. There’s a natural pause and they look at one another, breathing hard. Steve’s beautiful mouth red and panting.

Soon, Steve’s hands start roaming. He sweeps over Billy’s shoulders, his chest. He swipes a thumb over a nipple, watching in delight when Billy curses and moans.

It’s still like a fight. They don’t know how to do anything without fighting. Testing the limits of one another’s bodies.

A brand new way to know each other.

Steve shifts and his hand comes to rest on the waistband of Billy’s briefs.

He looks at Billy, searching for permission with those big brown eyes. They’re so close, it’s all Billy can see.

Billy doesn’t stop him. He never could. Never would.

Steve slips his hand underneath and strokes Billy’s cock like he’s an old pro, done it a hundred times. Billy’s eyes fall shut in a buzz of relief. Steve has mastered the rhythm of what Billy likes in no time at all. Slow, soft strokes to start, grow firmer, tighter on the downstroke, building waves of tension and release, tension and release.

Urging, Billy cants his hips upward into Steve’s hand. However Steve doesn’t relent from his pace. Just holds Billy down beneath his weight. Makes Billy submit to the tempo he sets.

Steve’s too inexperienced at this to be so confident already. It almost makes Billy angry.

So he leans his head and kisses Steve meanly. Nips his lip and tugs his hair. Steve surges to meet him. Never loses the rhythm of his stroking.

The kiss only breaks out of necessity. Gasping, Billy tilts his head back against the pillows for air. His mouth stings. His eyes slide shut. Molten honey pumps through his body with every pump of Steve’s hand. The weight on top of him pushes him down, heavier and heavier and his own body gives up the fight.

From the bedside table, Steve produces a small capped tube. He squeezes some into his hand, coating two fingers well.

He touches Billy’s hip with his clean hand. “Turn over.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. Do it like this.” He spreads his knees obscenely.

Steve hesitates. “Won’t it hurt like that?”

Billy reaches overhead for one of the pillows, jamming it beneath his lifted hips. “Not if you know what you’re doing. Jeez, Munson that bad a teacher?”

Red like a beet, Steve gulps. “I… I want to do what you like.”

“Want to look at you,” growls Billy, “want to watch you, pretty boy.”

Reaching down, Billy strokes his own cock. Bites his lip and bats his lashes at Steve. He hopes it’s a good show.

It’s easy to give it up, now that Billy’s decided to. Easy to throw himself at Harrington. Second choice and second place.

Steve climbs over him on his knees, the bed dipping beneath them.

The anticipation hums within him like a live grenade, primed and ready to be tossed.

He’s still so angry at them both.

“Fucking put it in me already, Harrington,” he growls.

Steve answers with a confrontational, burning glare. It’s still a fight, after all. Answer Billy’s goading by shoving two slick fingers into him without warning.

So sudden it pushes the air from Billy’s lungs. His hisses, gasps. Lets his knees fall open. Lightning licks up his spine, his body rippling around the demanding intrusion.

Harrington is brisk with the preparation. Billy almost doesn’t have time to process it. Swiping perfunctorily between his legs before coating more lube on his own cock. And then he’s scooting closer on his knees, lining himself up between Billy’s legs, and then Steve is breaching him, pressing inside, in a powerful and unyielding thrust.

It burns like a sweet lance up Billy’s guts. He shudders, incandescent.

Above him, Steve bows over, eyes screwed shut.

“Oh shit,” gasps Steve, “oh my god.”

Billy can’t say anything. He can’t believe he went through with it.

It aches. A humbling experience, every time. But not painful, not too much.

They grip one another. Billy throws his arms around Steve, holds him close.

Slowly, Steve starts to roll his hips. Rocking in and out. A shallow, gentle angle. Almost indiscernible to the eye but Billy can feel every blood vessel and muscle fibre between them both in Steve’s cautious little thrusts.

Familiar sensations are rising up in him. The delicious burn of his body yielding to another man. Letting a man place him on his back and fuck him. Being overpowered is the only Billy ever lets himself be taken care of.

He can feel his own heartbeat between his legs. He can feel Steve’s in the back of his throat.

“You’re okay?” bites out Steve, voice shaky.

“Shut up. Don’t stop.”

Steve adjusts them. He pulls up onto his knees, one of Billy’s legs thrown over each shoulder. That gleam of fire in his eye.

“Quit worrying and fuck me, pretty boy,” Billy grits out.

He’s answered by a snap of Steve’s hips. Billy grunts, moans. The power Steve can put behind his thrusts when upright like this is, like, exponential. Billy’s in for it now.

Even now, it’s still a fight. It’s their most familiar way of being. Steve sets a quicker, rougher pace and Billy braces against the headboard, meeting him stroke for stroke. It’s good. The lewd sound of their skin clapping together fills Steve’s childhood bedroom. After a particularly powerful thrust, Billy rakes his nail down Steve’s flanks, trembling and burning. Steve wrestles Billy’s hands away. They vie and cajole for the upper hand until Steve seizes Billy’s wrists. He pins them to the sheets on either side of Billy’s head, really leans his weight on them.

Pinned, butterflied, Billy is finally subdued. He struggles one more time for show but it’s futile. He cannot hide. Just has to let Steve see him.

The vulnerability is too powerful, too revealing. Billy shuts his eyes.

“No,” says Steve, “look at me.”

Billy turns his head.

“You said you wanted to see.” Steve punctuates with a slow, deep roll of his hips. “Look at me.”

They both have always known without speaking that Steve is allowed to hurt him. There’s a threat of it in his tone now.

But Billy never does things the easy way.

“Look at me, Hargrove.”

How does he do this? Force obedience from Billy Hargrove?

Billy opens his eyes.

Steve just takes him. And takes him. And takes him. Drives into him over and over. A steady, unyielding pace. And Billy can do nothing but lay there and take it. Can’t even reach down to relieve his own dick with his hands pinned.

But somehow that’s even better. Not having a choice. Being totally at the mercy of Steve’s decisions.

And Steve is strong. Billy remembers from their fistfight, but he really is. Maybe Billy could struggle free. If he tried. But maybe not.

He is strong in his thrusts too, driving over and over in a pace that must be punishing but he doesn’t slow, doesn’t falter.

Even untouched, warm pressure is building in Billy’s gut. Right behind that spot within him that Steve is striking with every thrust. The heat builds, spreading up his chest and neck.

“Oh, shit,” Billy gasps, twisting as the pleasure builds and builds.

“Good?”

“Touch me.”

Releasing one of his wrists, Steve closes a hand on Billy’s cock, stroking in time to his thrusts.

“Fuck,” groans Billy. He cranes his head up. Tries to see.

“Like that?”

“Harder,” Billy demands, “fuck me harder.”

Steve obeys. Hoists himself upright with Billy’s knees over his shoulders and ups the intensity.

Billy grips his own cock, strokes a few more times, and that’s all it takes.

The circuit closes. Electricity flows. His body lights up with current. Wave after wave breaks over him and he’s coming.

“Oh my god,” gasps Steve, barely audible over the blood surging in Billy’s ears, “oh fuck, just like that. Oh my god that’s so good—”

It stills, at maximum tension, and then Steve grunts, groans, and he’s coming too.

Steve collapses next to him on the bed. Billy just lays there, immobile.

They lay together, basking, in an astonished silence. They’re both sweaty, slick, sore. Billy’s hair is tangled and Steve’s is in haphazard waves, sticking up comically in all directions.

Billy has never been particularly romantic with sex. Even when he dated, even with Carlos. Sex is great, of course, but it never felt romantic, never lived up to the stuff of songs and poems he read in high school English class.

But this, this feels momentous.

“We’ll make it work,” whispers Steve afterwards into Billy’s hair, “we’ll figure it out, okay? The three of us. I promise.”

He strokes a hand up and down Billy’s flank, like shushing a spooked animal.

“We’re gonna be okay,” Steve assures, kissing the crown of his head. “The three of us. You just gotta trust me, okay? Just trust me.”

And against all sense, Billy does. He trusts that Steve Harrington’s gonna lead them out of this mess that they've made. Steve just always has that confidence that makes it easy to believe him.

Billy can’t remember the last time he ever trusted someone.

Chapter Text

It’s still early morning by the time Billy walks back to the cabin. Still that lambent blue morning light, the sun not yet above the trees, shadows slanting the wrong way across the world. Mournful birdsong flitting intermittent through the otherwise silent streets.

He left before Steve woke. Quietly tiptoed around the dark room to gather his clothes. Went down to the kitchen and splashed some water in his face. He considers leaving a note, but doesn't. Steve knows where to find him.

Tired, sore, Billy marches up the long dirt driveway. The patched up cabin still slumbers in its little clearing. Steam is rising steadily from the boiler chimney.

One thing is out of place, however. Next to the porch railing, Joyce Byers’ green Pinto is parked. Winged maple seeds are strewn on the car’s hood, undisturbed. It's been parked there a few hours at least.

Billy smiles to himself. Maybe he wasn't the only one who got lucky last night.

Propping open the screen door, Billy fishes his key out of his creased leather jacket and opens the front door to the cabin as silently as he can manage.

It doesn’t matter. Hop’s sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette. There’s an open casefile in front of him. He flips it closed when Billy walks in.

“Hey, kid,” he mumbles quietly, sounding more tired than Billy’s ever heard him.

“Hey.” Billy waits for the interrogation. Where has he been? Why didn't he radio in? What’s he sneaking back in for?

But it doesn’t happen.

Instead Hop just takes another drag from his cigarette and places it into the ashtray on the linoleum table. There’s a small pile of ash and a few other butts in there already. Like he’s been at it all night.

“You want some coffee?” asks Hop, standing and heading over to the kitchen counter where the coffee machine is purring. “El’s still asleep. Probably won’t be up for a while.”

“No, I’m fine.”

The chief only grunts noncommittally. He pours himself another mug and drinks it black. Leaning against the countertop, Hop crosses his big arms and regards Billy with that scrutinous beat cop look of his. Takes another long sip of his coffee.

“Uh, is Ms. Byers here?” asks Billy awkwardly.

“No. No, Murray drove her home last night. Think I might need the car today.”

“Oh.”

Billy waits, refusing to flinch under the tension. He should just go to bed and shut the door behind him, but he doesn’t. He can’t. Everything in him tells him that blinking first in this encounter will lead to a beating.

“Let’s take a ride,” Hop says, placing down his mug.

Billy blinks, unsure. He doesn’t like Hop’s sudden caginess.

“We gotta talk, Billy,” Hopper insists glumly, “and I don’t want you to have to be in front of anyone when you hear it.”

Billy swallows. Tension twists in the muscles of his neck and jaw. This can’t be good. Whatever it is, Billy struggles with the instinct to dig in his heels and refuse.

He hates people telling him what to do.

But he… he trusts Hopper. Sort of. More or less. As much as he can trust an older man. An authority. The guy has a temper and is rough on the edges but he doesn’t talk bullshit. Tells it just like it is and doesn’t sugar-coat things. He’s been upfront and straightforward with Billy this last month. Offered advice and guidance when asked and stayed out of Billy’s business when not asked.

“C’mon, let’s go,” ushers Hop, grabbing his jacket. “It’s gonna be okay. Okay? We just gotta talk.”

“Sure.”

Hop leaves a note for El on the fridge and locks the front door, the casefile from the table is tucked under his arm.

They climb into Ms. Byers’ light green Pinto. It’s a tight squeeze. The radio pops on as the engine turns over but Hop reaches over and shuts it off. Billy feels like he’s being driven to his own execution.

Despite turning off the radio, Hop seems intent to drive in silence. Billy doesn’t mind. Folding his arms, he leans his head against the passenger window and closes his eyes. The previous couple days are catching up with him. Making a scene in front of everyone. Lashing out at Eddie. Taunting Nancy Wheeler. And then last night. Letting himself get sweet talked into bed by Steve Harrington. That had been a mistake. He can still feel it, in his body, how Steve’s touch felt on him, inside him. Billy wants to smack himself. Fucking idiot.

No discipline; he always gives in to temptation.

God, he can’t be thinking about this shit sitting next to Hop. That’s the last thing he needs. The grumpy cop has been tolerant of his behaviour so far, but finding out that Billy’s a fag, that he’s been messing around with not one but two guys while staying under his roof, no doubt they’d find Billy’s body out at the quarry before nightfall.

The gentle vibrations of the window rumble against his scalp as they roll down the street. It’s kinda nice. Behind his closed eyelids the early daylight flickers between the passing trees.

It doesn’t matter where they’re going. Either Hopper’s gonna kick him out or he’s not. Nothing Billy can do about it now.

They drive for what must be fifteen or twenty minutes. With his eye’s closed Billy’s not sure.

The car rolls to a stop and the engine turns off and the world is suddenly very quiet around them. Hop’s driven them out to the junkyard. Parked them on a ridge studded with rustbucket vehicles, old tractors, household appliances. The purple shadow of the meadow is laden with morning fog, lingering against the cool metal carcasses. The old school bus that Billy had spent the night in is still covered in frost.

Both Billy and Hop stare out through the windshield. The daylight is climbing higher, nearly over the treetops. Shaping up to be a nice day.

Next to him, the chief sighs a colossal sigh. Obviously frustrated, he scrubs at his stubbly head, drags his big hand down over his face. Rests his extended arm out on the steering wheel.

Watching closely, Billy waits in silence. He closes one hand on the inside handle of the passenger door, in case he has to bolt.

“So, I heard back from my friend at the coroner’s office,” begins Hopper, holding up the manilla casefile folder he'd been reading. “Murray and Joyce came by last night.”

“And?” prompts Billy, jaw clenched.

“And, well, uh,” Hop stalls, clears his throat, “this here is your coroner’s report from the Fourth of July.”

Oh.

“It’s the official one, at least,” continues Hopper, tossing it onto the dashboard. “It’s possible that there is another, more truthful one in a federal archive somewhere, but those contacts aren’t exactly speaking to me much these days. This contains whatever was left over after the feds turned the scene over to local authorities.”

His heart kickstarts in Billy’s chest, cold dread rising in his throat. “So what does it say?”

The chief taps at the steering wheel, struggling for words. “It, uh… it says that the cause of death was smoke inhalation secondary to trauma resulting from the collapse of the mall’s roof. That your body was released to your, uh, to your father after autopsy.”

“And is that true?”

Hop exhales, digs around in his pockets for a cigarette.

This caginess does not bode well. In all the time Billy has known him, Hopper’s never been reluctant to broach any subject.

“Look, kid,” Hopper cracks the window as he lights his cig, “I don’t really know how to say this.”

“Just tell me.”

Hopper exhales, scrubbing at his brow with a big hand. “The, uh… the report details… your dad identified your body. In person.” He stalls again, considering his words. “They confirmed it with dental records from back in San Diego.”

The world is too quiet, too ordinary to contain this. It’s like Billy is submerged, listening to Hopper from under water.

“And the county medical examiner did a full autopsy as part of the investigation into the mall fire. Took samples. Toxicology. Wrote up all the findings. Documented all the injuries. And, uh, and took photos.”

Photos. Positive ID. Dental records. Witnesses. The evidence eliminates any option save the obvious.

Hopper looks at him, palliative. “I’m really sorry, kid.”

There is no mystery. No conspiracy. Events are exactly as they seem to be. Billy Hargrove died on the Fourth of July. His own dad confirmed it.

“You saw the photos?” Billy hears himself say.

“Yeah,” Hopper confirms. “I did.”

“And it’s… It’s me?”

Hopper looks at him sadly. Grimaces and takes another long drag of his cigarette. “Yeah. It is.”

A low, droning tone rings in Billy’s ears. Like he’s been struck hard in the head. Something cracks deep in his chest, a continental ice shelf cleaving away.

“So then…” he stammers, “I’m not… him. I can’t be. I’m not the… the real me. Am I?”

“There is a body buried out at Roane Hill Cemetery. It sustained the damage depicted in that report. And that damage wasn’t survivable.”

“So Max was right. I died in the mall fire.” His breath flutters, voice breaking. “And this— I’m— I’m something that the shadow monster built.”

“I don’t know what you are, kid.” Hopper winces at the truth. “But I’ve read that report. I’ve seen the photographs. There was chemical damage to your esphogaus and stomach. Holes clean through your abdomen. Missing organs. That person isn’t walking around anymore.”

Leaning forward, Billy buries his face in his hands. Squeezes his eyes shut. Some juvenile attempt to block out dawning reality. His ears ring, his vision tunnels. Max had been right. She knew right away. Couldn’t even see him but she knew.

Billy Hargrove is dead and buried. In his place is a creature. A monster. A fucking body snatcher.

“Can I see?”

Hopper sighs, weary, “That’s not a good idea, Billy.”

“No. No, I want to see.”

“There’s some pretty rough stuff in there,” warns Hopper. “Look, sometimes parents or spouses… they think that knowing all the gorey details will help, will somehow make death make sense but… in my experience… it doesn’t help.”

“Ever had someone read their own coroner’s report before, chief?”

“No,” he admits, bushy eyebrows rising, wrinkling his brow, “no, gotta say. That is a first in a long line of firsts these past few years have brought to me.”

Billy picks up the manilla folder from the dashboard. The tab is labelled with a casefile number and name, Hargove, W.

“You don’t have to read it, Billy.”

“No, I want to know.”

He flips the folder open in his lap. A stapled cover page is stamped with the seal of the Roan County Coroner’s Office. Coroner’s Report into the death of William Hargrove, the typewritten header reads.

The investigative findings are gruesome. Medical terminology that he only halfway grasps, all recounted in precise, crisp detachment. Thoracic bisection. Avulsion of the forearms. Diaphragmatic rupture, approximately four inches.

He turns to the following page and there are pictures.

Autopsy photos.

Nausea seizes him. With his hand, Billy scrabbles for the Pinto’s interior door handle. He tumbles out of the car onto his hands and knees in the damp morning grass. He wretches, gagging. Nothing comes up, but his body still tries to purge itself.

He screams, a long, wordless wail. Until the back of his throat burns. Pathetic and impotent. Crying in the dirt over what can’t be changed.

Because there is no second chance for him. There never was.

He screams again, hands shaking, clawing at his hair. The daybreak silence vapourizers.

Hopper leaps out of the car. The Pinto’s axle creaks. He jogs around the front to the passenger’s side, but hesitates to approach.

Morning dew soaks through the knees of Billy’s jeans. Heaving breaths, fogging, ragged, charge in and out of his lungs. His face burns.

His body wants to fight. Coursing with cortisol it tells him to attack, to preempt. It’s the only way his body knows how to confront a threat. Has been since he was a kid.

The shadow monster has recreated even that, apparently.

Inhaling, Billy sits up on his knees. He sways. Hopper hovers.

It’s beautiful out here. Soft morning light in the opaline mist. Wildflowers between the scrap metal.

“Did you take me out here to shoot me?” asks Billy, numb.

“No. Of course not.”

“You probably should.”

“Too bad.”

It’s the final word on the matter. Billy’s learned by now there’s no arguing with Hopper.

This whole time, and Billy didn’t even know. Couldn’t even tell that this body was a replica. The mimicry is so perfect it would have been absurd to believe anything else. All the old scars and blemishes. He can feel the old fracture in his left arm, where his dad threw him into a door frame when he was seven. Can see the old burn on the back of his hand from when he dropped his cigarette at fifteen.

All of it, replicated to perfection by the shadow.

“Fuck!” shouts Billy, at a loss. “Fuck!”

“Billy, look at me.”

“Get the fuck away from me!" he shrieks at Hopper.

And Hopper does, hands up in surrender. He takes a big step back.

Reality seems to oscillate. Like it’s cracking from the pressure of the revelation. It must. How could the world be the same after this?

But the meadow continues around him undisturbed. The sun ascends the sky. The birds flit in the undergrowth. Not the trees in the sky nor the roots in the earth care at all about Billy’s tantrum. The only thing changed by this news is him.

Billy feels so small and stupid.

“What are you gonna do with me now?” he asks aloud, only half to Hop.

“Kid,” Hopper says, rocksteady, “nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

Billy laughs bitterly. “You sure?”

“I am.”

He smiles, feeling insane. “You’re an idiot for not shooting me.”

“Not gonna happen.” Almost comical in his inelegance, Hopper maneuvers down to one knee so that he’s eye-level with Billy. He winces, rubs his bad ankle. “No one’s gonna do anything to you.”

“I’m a fucking monster!” screams Billy. “A fake! The shadow sent me to kill you all.”

“Well, it hasn’t happened yet.” Hopper’s grim tone is only partly in jest.

Billy bites hard on his lip, eyes stinging.

“The only ones that know are me, Joyce, Murray, and El,” Hopper tells him. “That’s it. And that’s all it’s ever gonna be, if that’s what you want. No one else is gonna find out without your say so.”

“Yeah? What happened to ‘friends don’t lie’?”

“Those are kids’ rules,” dismisses Hopper. “The real world is complicated. And it’s no one’s business but yours. It’s your life. It’s your choice.”

The only person worth telling already knows. Maxine, recouping in her hospital bed, she knew at first glance. Knew to keep Billy well away.

Realization dawns on him. He hides his face in his hands.

Eddie. Steve. How could he ever tell them?

“Listen to me,” Hopper entreats, “I’m not gonna sit here and tell you I know how this happened or what this means for you. Because I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “I got no idea. But I trust El. Okay? And she is adamant. You’re not a threat. Whether you come from that rift in the ground or not, it doesn’t change that.”

Of course El vouched for him. Always covering his ass.

“Joyce and I are gonna come up with a plan, okay?” assures Hop, squirming on his bad foot.

“A plan for what?”

“You. Murray can make you fake documents. A new identity. We can get you somewhere safe.”

Billy’s own skin doesn’t fit him. “I— I don’t—”

“Hey, look at me. Right here. Nothing’s gonna be decided without you. If you want to stay and take your chances with us in the cabin, that’s good too. We’re not kicking you out.”

Feeling faint, Billy’s not really hearing any of this anymore. All of Hopper’s words slide off of him like water off oilcloth.

“We can stay here as long as you need,” says Hop. “And then once you’re ready, we’re gonna head back to the cabin. Sound good?”

It doesn’t sound like anything to Billy. But Hopper stays with him, crouching in the dirt. Doesn’t say anything more. Eventually, after some inexact span of time, Billy picks himself up on the ground. His legs-that-are-not-his are numb. They tingle as blood flow returns.

On autopilot, he climbs in the passenger seat. Doesn’t see the case file anymore. Hopper must have tossed it somewhere.

The big man folds himself in the driver’s seat of the Pinto. Doesn’t talk, doesn’t make Billy say anything. Just lets the quiet do its job. Just turns over the engine and gingerly guides the car back toward the road.

The red numbers of the digital clock read 11:46PM. The dead of night. It's quiet outside, in the middle of the woods. So much quieter than the nights in San Diego. So much quieter than the suburbs of Hawkins, even.

In the back of a closet Billy had found an old duffle bag. Camo green with faded stencilled letters in it. Old Army rucksack, probably belonging to Hop. He throws it on the bed. Tosses his toothbrush and razor into it. The hand-me-down shirts. A few pairs of jeans. He's not got much in the way of clothes anyway.

Hop keeps a coffee mug of loose change by the kitchen sink. Billy had swiped it earlier. Couple of bills and a handful of coins. Eight dollars thirty-seven cents. Enough for a start.

In the document boxes under the bed are the things that Max had saved from his room last year. Some cassettes, a few books, and photographs. Billy still hasn't really looked at any of them. He pulls them out now to rifle through, check if there's anything useful.

To his surprise, Billy finds an old photo he recognizes in the stack. Faded golden with age. Of he and his mother at the beach. He couldn't have been older than five. Billy doesn't remember having it taken. But he remembers always having it. He had hidden it away after his mom left and Neil had thrown out or destroyed anything that had once been hers.

He stares at it in the dark before slipping it into the duffel as well.

Also in the document boxes he finds his old California driver's licence, still valid. He slips it in his back pocket.

He pulls on one of Hopper's old flannels over his white tee. Then the secondhand leather jacket. It's not punishingly cold, even this late at night, but it's the only jacket he's got and he's going to need it.

And that's it, really. At least that’s all he can think to gather without risking alerting El. If Neil had taught him anything, it was how to move throughout a house in utter silence.

Zipping up the bag, Billy slings it over his shoulder. If he makes it to the interstate in good time hopefully he can hitch a ride by dawn.

Hopper left after dinner. Another emergency meeting with Joyce and Murray. Figuring out what to do with him.

The bedroom door clicks shut behind him. The cabin is dark. El fell asleep watching movies hours ago.

He opens the front door, glancing through the screen door, making sure the coast is clear. The woods are dark and still. Only the moonlight to see by.

“Are you leaving?”

Really, he’s not even surprised. He turns and there’s El, sitting in the dark, staring right at him over the back of the couch like she had the night they first brought him here.

“Are you gonna stop me?” asks Billy in a quiet huff.

“No. It’s not good to keep people locked away.”

“Hop’ll be mad.”

“You should get to decide what you do. Hop will understand.”

“How did you know I was up? Did you hear my thoughts?”

“No,” she answers, bringing her knees up under her chin on the couch. “I heard your feet.”

Billy smiles fondly, despite himself. Always getting ratted out by little girls.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“Dunno,” replies Billy, keeping his voice just above a whisper, “probably California, eventually. Depends on where I can hitch rides to.”

“Men in big trucks are nice sometimes. They will take you where you need to go.”

Billy lets that statement flow right past him.

El blinks at him a few times, eyes seeming even bigger in the moonlight. He keeps waiting for her to tell him not to go. To stay. Part of him, probably, wants her to.

But she doesn’t. She knows better.

“Max will be sad,” she offers instead in a low whisper.

“Nah, she’ll get over it.”

“Steve and Eddie will be sad.”

“Don’t,” he warns, hackles raising, “don’t talk to me about them. Don’t go looking through my head. You’re too young anyway.”

What a stupid thing to say, like she hasn’t destroyed people with her mind. Killed her enemies at will and walked between dimensions. Like Billy’s the one protecting her from something.

“I’m not looking through your head,” she assures him, “but I can still tell.”

“Yeah, well,” he mumbles, “they’ll get over it too.”

She nods, looking straight ahead into the dark of the cabin, like she’s looking into a different world. Maybe she is. “Are you going to try and find your mama?”

Billy bites the inside of his cheek. “Maybe. Haven’t decided.”

Again she nods, giving his answer solemn consideration. Curls forward and hugs her knees. How can someone so powerful be so small?

“Are you going to try and find your papa?” she asks in a tremulous breath.

“No,” replies Billy, jaw clenched, “no, to hell with him.”

“That’s good.”

El doesn’t say anything else for a while. For a moment, Billy thinks that’s the end, and he’s free to make his getaway. Open up the screen door and vanish from this place forever.

Then she turns her shorn head and looks at him again, wraithlike in the moonlight, her brows pinched in a serious little stare. “They are wrong about us.”

“Who are?”

“Our papas. They say that we are monsters. But we are not.”

Billy’s heart quavers in his chest. It’s almost a pain, a physical pain, to hear her say it.

“It’s them that are the monsters,” she concludes. “And we can’t be like them.”

All his life, Billy has hated that he tears up so easily. It got him mocked, castigated, smacked around. Called a pussy and a fag. But nothing ever helped, no matter how much he toughened up. No matter how he strove to replace tears with rage and violence, it didn’t resolve the hair-trigger in his heart. Every emotion is simmering just under his skin, all the time. Barely contained. Ripping him apart.

But now, when tears sting in the corners of his eyes, he isn’t ashamed. In front of El, no emotion ever feels shameful.

“Yeah,” he croaks, coughing, quickly swiping his thumb beneath his eyes, “yeah you’re right about that. You keep that in mind after I’m gone, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Watch out for Max.”

“I will.”

His hand closes around the handle of the screen door. Readjusts the strap of the duffel on his shoulder.

“See you around, kid.”

“Goodbye.”

Mindful of the screen door rattling, he opens it and slips out into the night. Down the steps of the porch and out into the long, forested driveway. Twigs and dead leaves crunch under his boot as he marches toward the road. Bugs chirp out in the bush, filling up the nighttime silence.

It’s been a long time coming. Leaving Hawkins. Years overdue, really. Learning that the suspicions are true, that he is not himself, that he is a puppet, a replica, that his body is not his own, it’s a freeing last straw.

This shit town that ruined his life, took everything from him, that killed him, where his body now rests forever, let it fall into hell. Let it all burn down. Let the shadow monster have it. Not his problem anymore.

Steve and Eddie, let them go down with the sinking ship. Let them sacrifice their lives for a bunch of shithead kids and a town that doesn’t give a shit about them. That would hunt them down and kill them if they knew what they were. Billy’s already been there. Already seen how it goes.

Not interested.

He makes it to the paved road. Starts west towards the secondary highway. He’ll hitch a ride to the interstate and then, from there, who knows.

The occasional car flies past him as Billy trudges down the shoulder of the highway in the dark. Farm acreage rolls out on either side into the night. Must have been at it for a few hours by now. Headlamps grow bright on the approach, casting him in long shadow before whipping by. A few container trucks as well. He sticks his thumb out when the shine of the hi-beams starts between his ankles, but no one stops for him. Probably won’t catch a ride until sunup. Hitching in the middle of the night is stupid anyways. A good way to get run over.

Until the next pair of growing headlights rolls and slows, rumbling to a stop a few yards behind him on the shoulder.

A car door opens. “Billy!”

Billy keeps walking.

“Billy, hey, hold on.”

The car door slams. Feet sprint at him over the asphalt.

“Wait, c’mon. Just give us a minute, man, please. Just talk to us.”

Billy shouts over his shoulder. “Think we've said all there is to say.”

“Stop this, c’mon. Please just talk to us.”

Billy rounds, sees Steve's car thrown into park on the shoulder of the highway, doors thrown open, headlights on. Steve coming toward him with no coat, silhouetted in the yellow light. Eddie stands in the open passenger door, watching them both with a nervous frown.

Billy glances between them both in the glare of the headlights. Imagines them undressed in Harrington’s ugly bed. Gasping and kissing in those same sheets. He wants to run to Munson. Wants to shove him, wants to kiss him.

No sense of self-preservation, Steve jogs right up to him. Boldly grabs his hand on the side of the road.

“How’d you even find me?” sneers Billy.

“Are you kidding? We’ve been looking for you all day! You… you left without saying anything. No one had seen you since yesterday. I radioed the cabin to see if you'd come back and El said that you’d taken off hours ago.”

Honestly, Billy doesn’t blame her. Friends don’t lie.

“Where are you even going?” Steve admonishes, squeezing their hands together. “It’s the middle of the night. You’re on the side of the road.”

“Getting the hell outta Dodge. What’s it to you?”

“Don’t,” fumes Harrington, hitting him with that glare that makes Billy’s heart flutter, “don’t say shit like that. We’re so past that. You matter to us. We matter to you. Don’t bullshit us, Hargrove. At least tell us to our faces.”

Around them the night is quiet, save for the humming of the BMW’s engine. They stand illuminated in the stark pool of headlight before the front bumper. Steve stares him down, hackles raised, doesn’t let up. It’s like he wants Billy to take a swing at him. Wants him to prove that it means something, even if it only meant anger.

But Billy doesn’t. He won’t.

Instead he blinks first. Looks away. Kicks the gravel under his shoe. Billy mumbles, “I can’t stay.”

“Why?”, presses Steve. “What— what happened? Was it us? Was it… was it me? I thought… I thought we were okay. I thought that we had a plan.”

“Bullshit.”

Steve shoves him. “It’s not bullshit! Don’t be a coward. Tell us why.”

Billy absorbs the shove easily, taking half a step back. He sets his jaw. It doesn’t work like Steve wants it to. Doesn’t make Billy throw down his duffel bag and shove back.

The thing is, he doesn’t think he can bear Steve and Eddie finding out. That their hands and mouths have been kissing a monster, a creature. It’s preferable that they think he abandoned them. So he refuses to answer. No matter how Steve pouts, he can’t take this last thing from Billy. This last, horrible truth.

“Let us come with you,” offers Eddie from behind the open passenger door.

They both look back at him, shielding their eyes, hard to find over the brilliant crest of the headlights.

Eddie shrugs. “If you can’t stay in Hawkins, then let us come with you.”

Steve’s head whips back to face Billy. “Yeah! We can come with you! Where are you headed? Let us give you a ride.”

“Steve—”

“Do you have anywhere to sleep? C’mon, we’ll drive to the next town and find a motel. Just… let’s just sleep on it, okay?”

Billy should refuse. Just hoist up his duffel and keep walking. He had made his decision and he should stick to it. It’s just the way life is, and if Harrington doesn't know that by now, well that’s just tough. Time to teach the pretty boy and the local basket case a lesson. People always leave. Why can’t Muson and Harrington see that, of all people?

But here they are, on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, chasing him down. Refusing to give up because they’re both too stupid to know the way life is.

“Okay,” Billy assents, barely a whisper, “okay, fine.”

“You’ll come?”

“Yeah. Let’s sleep on it.”

Steve crushes him in a hug. Both arms wrap around his neck, holding tight. Harrington’s long fingers grip Billy's hair at the back of his neck.

“C’mon,” says Steve as they break apart, “let me take your bag.”

“Can carry my own bag, Harrington.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Fine, whatever. Be grumpy, I don’t even care. Let’s just get out of here.”

He follows close behind Billy as they approach the car, like he’s afraid Billy’s gonna make a run for it. Stepping out of the eclipsing glare of the headlights, Billy can finally get a good look at Eddie. Standing behind the open car door, he looks nearly sick, posture withdrawn, hair a flyaway mess, dark rings around his eyes, chewing at his fingernails. When Billy approaches, Eddie’s hand closes around the guitar pick hanging from his neck, almost defensive.

Eddie shuts the car door and embraces Billy. Squeezes his eyes shut and tucks his chin right over his shoulder.

He’ll never admit it, but Billy is starting to suspect that Munson is actually the bravest, most pigheaded of them all.

Eddie crawls in after him when Billy climbs into the backseat. Lays his head on Billy’s shoulder. Some song plays on the radio too low for Billy to identify. The dark inside the cabin of the car is soothing after squinting in the bright headlights. Just the orange dashboard buttons softly illuminating the interior of the car.

Steve glances at them both in the rearview. “Still heading west?”

“Yeah,” agrees Billy, free arm snaking around Eddie’s waist, “anywhere’s good.”

They pull off of the shoulder back onto the highway and pull away down the nighttime road.

Chapter Text

“I’m taking the floor,” announces Steve, chucking his car keys onto the TV credenza.

“What’d’ya mean the floor?” chirps Eddie.

Billy follows them into the motel room. Clearly, the place had been built in the late 60s and never renovated. As an institution the establishment exists only to collect a few bucks from exhausted road trippers on the way to Niagara Falls and has been doing that reliably for twenty-five solid years. Beneath their feet is an offensively green carpet older than all of them. Ugly wood paneling on the walls and floral drapes that totally fail to block out the phosphorene glow of the roadside vacancy sign.

“I mean I’m sleeping on the floor,” Steve repeats. “You two can each take a bed. I’ll grab the spare pillows and camp out against the wall or something.”

“Oh c’mon, Steve,” Eddie groans, “you don’t have to do that.”

“No, no way,” he rebuts, kicking off his sneakers, “not up for debate. It’s gotta be almost three in the morning and we’re all, like, sensitive and shit right now. Everyone is feeling touchy and abandoned and shit and I’m not gonna worry about someone feeling left out or playing favourites or anything like that. So, decision made. You two are each taking a bed and I’m taking the floor and we’ll talk about it all in the morning. Sound good?”

Harrington looks at them both, all attitude. Hand on his hip and eyebrows piqued, daring either of them to object.

Billy sees it out of the corner of his eye when Muson glances to him as well. They both expect Billy to protest. A fair assumption. If Steve said to go right, Billy would go left, just to be obstinate.

But Billy doesn’t have the energy tonight. Might never have it again. Just shuts the door behind him and locks it without a word.

“Good, glad we’re all in agreement.” Steve shrugs out of his grey Members Only jacket, slings over the back of a chair. “Okay. Fuck, I’m beat.”

Munson pulls the chain on the sconced wall lamp between the two double beds. The room only gets uglier under more lighting.

Billy just stands there, gripping his duffel bag. Reluctant to even take off his boots. He’s still not fully against the idea of bolting.

Steve leans both arms on the back of the chair, stretches, rolls the bones in his neck, exhausted. He looks awful. Eyes hollow and hair uncombed.

Munson fiddles with the digital clock. Trying to figure out the radio, no doubt.

“Either of you mind if I shower?” asks Harrington, running a hand through his hair. He looks almost self-conscious about the state of it.

“Knock yourself out, man,” says Eddie. “See if there’s any complementary toothpaste or mouthwash while you’re in there.”

"You sure, Munson?" Steve glances conspicuously at Billy.

"Yeah, don't worry about leaving me alone with the big guy, here," Eddie crows. "I'll go easy on him."

A dramatic eye roll from Steve. “Copy that.”

He spares one final inscrutable glance to both Billy and Eddie before slipping into the bathroom. The pleasant static noise of a running shower starts up from behind the door.

And then it’s just Billy and Eddie, alone in this shabby interstate motel room. Like the start of a bad joke.

For the first time in a long time, Billy is ashamed. He’s ashamed of how he treated Eddie. Ashamed of what he called him, ashamed of his actions. He can’t remember the last time he felt embarrassed of something he had done. A long time ago, way back in San Diego.

Eddie seems equally uncomfortable. He fiddles with the digital clock some more before giving up. Turns and inspects the rest of the room disinterestedly. Folds his arms across himself, looking everywhere but at Billy.

“I mean, y’know, in my defence" — Eddie scuffs the carpet with his sneaker— “you did kinda tell me to go for it.”

“What?” Billy croaks.

Eddie dons his terrible southern California accent. “No need to be jealous, freakshow, Harrington’s all yours, man.” He grins hesitantly. Trying to be playful.

Billy turns away, drops his duffel bag on the floor by the dresser and toes out of his boots.

“Oh no,” croons Eddie, reaching his arms around Billy’s flanks, pressing his forehead against the shoulder of his jacket, “are we feeling delicate, big guy?”

Somehow, Munson says shit like that and Billy never feels mocked.

Because he does. He feels delicate. He feels small and feeble and humiliated. Crying and storming off because his friends left him out of their game.

Eddie’s ringed hand soothes up Billy’s front, resting up over his heart. Another hand comes to rest on his waist. For a while, Eddie just holds him like that, swaying gently between the two beds in this dated motel room.

Eddie lifts his head, rests his chin over Billy’s shoulder. “What happened, Cali?”

“Got sick of looking at your goofy fuckin’ mug.”

Munson only chuckles. “Now there’s the ol’ big bad meanie I know.”

It sorta feels like Eddie is all that’s holding him together. Like if Eddie were to drop his arms Billy would dissolve away onto the carpet.

“Wanna lay down, big guy?”

He does. Doesn’t even put up a fight.

Munson steps out of his own sneakers and folds back the bed covers. Billy just stands there like an invalid while Eddie scrambles into the sheets. He reaches over and swipes the glass ashtray from the bedside table.

“How ‘bout a smoke, sunshine? Don’t have any reds, I’m afraid, but I’ve got some Camel Straights. Feel like splitting a half pack?” He shakes them for effect.

Sitting on the edge of the bed in his jeans and black t-shirt, Eddie lights up a cigarette and offers it to Billy. Billy accepts and sits next to him on the bed. Holding it in his lips he shrugs out of his leather jacket and tosses it over the opposite bed.

Eddie slips under the covers, sitting up against the headboard, ashtray balanced on his lap. Billy folds up right next to him, lays his head on Munson’s shoulder as he inhales his smoke.

Doesn’t think he’s ever seen Eddie this quiet. Billy almost feels bad, but it’s also sort of nice. Not having to explain himself. Not having to articulate what’s going on or why he is the way that he is. Why he keeps abandoning them. Why he keeps letting them both down. Just existing next to Eddie is always so easy.

Together they smoke while listening to the showerhead running in the bathroom. Their legs brush against one another under the covers.

Billy is gonna have to explain himself eventually. After this cigarette. After Steve gets out of the shower. After they all get some sleep. Eventually he’s going to have to tell them. Why he left town in the middle of the night without saying goodbye.

But Eddie doesn’t press. Doesn’t needle, though it must be killing him not to. He just smokes his cigarette and runs his fingers through Billy’s hair.

For as long as he can remember, Billy’s never had to explain himself to anyone but his dad.

He doesn’t know how to do it to anyone else.

“Listen, big guy.” Eddie taps his cig into the glass ashtray. “We don’t have to talk about it or anything, okay? But, uh, I just really wanna tell you that I’m… I’m sorry. Okay? About the stupid… party and shit. That was shitty of me. Of us. We didn’t mean it. I was a dumbass. I don’t exactly have a lot of, um, practice at this sort of thing. I just saw it on him and I thought… Y’know, I just thought we were all on the same page about what was going on but clearly I was wrong. Jesus, sorry, I’m making this worse. So, uh, yeah. Just… I'm sorry. And I’ll shut up about it now.”

Billy should apologize too. Knows he should. He had been out of line. Shoving Eddie up against a wall. Screaming at him in front of the kids.

But he doesn’t. Just ashes his own cigarette.

Instead, Billy passes one hand through Eddie’s hair, strokes at the back of his neck.

They finish their cigarettes and, once stubbed out, Eddie reaches across and places the ashtray back on the chipped bedside table next to the old rotary phone. They lean against one another in silence. Billy can see their tiny warped reflections in the dead black TV screen. Curled under the thin quilt like an old married couple.

“He’s been in there a while.” Eddie nudges an elbow in the direction of the closed bathroom door. “How long until you gotta go in and save him, Mr. Lifeguard?”

“Give him another five,” Billy grumbles.

“He could be drowning this very moment! C’mon, he’s cute and all, but you know the guy, Hargrove. Can’t tell his left from his right some days.”

“You do a lot of shit talkin’ for a guy who had to repeat senior year three times.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not the one showering unsupervised at the moment. I make no claims about my directional capabilities.”

“Just give him some time. He’s probably just trying to get his head on straight.”

Eddie snickers like a kid.

It’s the middle of June and the night is warm, but Billy still cosies up next to Eddie. Always the guy is warm like an old coal furnace. On a cold day you could probably see the steam zigzagging off of Eddie like a car’s engine.

“You really scared the shit out of him, you know,” mutters Eddie.

Billy doesn’t say anything.

“He called my place at goddamn two in the morning and I’d never heard him so freaked out. Seriously, not with the monsters or the shit with Max, I never heard him like that. He was a wreck. Thought maybe you’d… gone back to the quarry.”

Funny thing is, after reading his own coroner’s report, Billy hasn’t once thought about jumping.

“Look, hey, whatever’s going on,” continues Eddie, “whatever made you skip town in the middle of the night, we’re still here. And, like, we want to be here, okay? But you have to tell us, man. You have to let us in. Even just a tiny bit. And in the morning, if you still want to go, if we still can’t talk you out of it, then just tell us why. Give us some closure, okay? We’re touchy about losing people, for some reason.”

Eddie wouldn’t ask for that if he could know the truth.

But Billy’s body has missed him. The last time they touched without violence must be more than a week ago now. Missed Eddie’s practiced touches. His carefree flirtation. His smartass commentary. Getting high in the back of his van listening to music and touching each other for hours. Kissing, stroking, rolling.

None of the mind-game bullshit like between him and Harrington. Billy never has to guess what Eddie is thinking.

“We care about you. Okay? Promise,” Munson repeats.

Billy waits, not knowing how that changes things.

In the bathroom the water shuts off. A sudden vacuum of white noise plunges them into a deeper silence. The atmosphere seems to petrify.

“Listen,” mutters Eddie, “I dunno what he’s gonna say when he gets out here. But please, just let him down easy, okay?”

Never, thinks Billy.

A wedge of yellow light spills from the opening bathroom door. Feathers of steam erupt over the transom. Steve emerges redressed in his jeans, shirtless, with a threadbare motel towel over his shoulders. Moisture beads and drips from the ends of his hair. He switches the garish bathroom lights off and brings denlike sanctuary back to their twenty-five-dollar-a-night motor lodge room.

It’s such a perfect quiet, Billy shuts his eyes to try and preserve it forever in his mind. Whatever happens, this gentle moment can last.

“Guys, c’mon,” Steve grumbles, “what did I just say about sharing a bed?”

“Big guy was feeling sensitive,” Eddie replies, “we kept it wholesome.”

“You know that's not what I mean, Eddie.”

“Well, cross my heart, anyway.”

Steve stalks right over to them, looking not at all intimidating with wet hair and scant towel over his shoulders. With his hair all deflated, the hair on his chest all wet and dark, Billy can’t help but find Steve’s attitude comical. Hands on his hips, all put-upon and haughty. Harrington can never hide it when he’s pissy. Prima donna.

Billy will never know why he is so hard-up for this pompous pretty boy. Just knows that he is.

Suitably scolded, he and Munson sit up. Disentangle. Give Harrington their full attention. Steve’s got that glow about him like when he’s planning some condescending lecture.

Leaning back, Steve sits on the made bed across from them. Hunches forward on his elbows. The tips of his hair drip onto the bedspread.

“Listen, um,” he ventures, “shit, uh, I have a lot of stuff that I want to say, okay? And I’m probably gonna mess it up. I’ve been trying to go over everything in my head, but, y’know, I’m not the best at words and shit. So, like, bare with me.”

He scrubs with the towel at his wet hair. Steve always fidgets. It’s his worst tell.

“I care about you both,” Steve declares without preamble. “Okay? I really do. I thought that was, um, obvious, but I’m learning I have to say things to you both point-blank obvious, so, there you go. I care about you both. You don’t have to say anything back or anything, but you both should know, really. I don’t want to be without either of you. If you make me choose” — he exhales, shakes his dripping head — “I dunno what I’d do, honestly.”

Idiot. Like he’d be chooser and not the choice. Billy can’t bear to look at him.

“It’s just… I sort of almost lost you both to this thing,” continues Steve, “nearly. Eddie, you were touch and go for a while after spring break and Billy… shit, I still don’t understand it. And now it’s like I’ve been handed this incredible second chance to… to really know both of you. And I didn’t even know that… that a part of me could want that. Did want that. And I’m really scared to screw it up. Because I don’t know what I’m doing. This is all totally uncharted waters for me, okay? But I’ve been handed this amazing second chance when so many other people didn’t get one and so I think I should suck it up and be brave. So, there. I care about you both.”

Steve nods to himself, apparently deeming this speech a winner so far. His jiggling knee betrays his agitation.

“But I don’t know what to do about it,” he says, scrubbing water off the back of his neck. “I’m serious, I’ve got, like, no game plan here, at all. I think it’s common knowledge by now that I’m the one here with the least, um, experience… y’know, with this queer stuff. Really I’m just flying blind. And I keep messing up. But I don’t want to lose either of you.”

Unvarnished sincerity is mortifying. People exposing their underbelly and expecting to not be gutted. Billy can hardly stomach it. He turns his face into Eddie’s shoulder.

“But I’ve been thinking, okay?” Steve goes on. “Really, I swear to god, I haven’t thought about anything else for, like, two days now. I’ve been thinking about how this could, like, actually work. That if we really want to give this a shot, with the three of us, then we really need to let it be, like, the three of us.”

Steve gestures with his hand and shrugs like it’s a solid conclusion. Eddie and Billy stare back with blank incomprehension.

“Oh c’mon! Don’t you see what I mean?”

“Elaborate, if you would,” Eddie implores.

“Jesus Christ, okay, here goes,” mutters Harrington, damp towel darkening the bedspread beneath him. “I think the problem is, or, at least, one of the problems is that I’m worrying about how we could do this and, like, make everything equal. Between us three, I mean. I’m trying to treat you both the exact same, so that it doesn't feel like someone's getting the short end of the stick. Or, well, I dunno, maybe that’s only me.”

All things considered, Billy really is doing his best to follow Steve’s warrenlike line of reasoning but he’s worried the guy might have at last cracked.

But Steve is gaining steam. "I don't think we can come at this saying everything has to be, like, the exact same between everyone. That's just... setting ourselves up to fail. Right? It's not doable. We’re three different people and there’s no way we can all treat each other exactly equally all the time. Someone's gonna feel left out. Like... look. We all" — he gestures between all three of them — "we all like each other, right?"

"Like each other."

"Can it, Munson. Like each other. We all like each other. I like you and Billy. You like me and Billy. Billy likes the both of us." He gestures his hand like a wheel spinning between them. "Right? Is that fair to say? Anybody in the peanut gallery have any objections to that statement?"

Eddie's smile cracks and he hides his face in Billy's shoulder. Smirking, Billy keeps his commentary to himself.

"Okay," Steve refocuses, "so, if that's the case... then it's not one relationship... it's actually, like, three."

He pauses like he just made a staggering point. Both Eddie and Billy blink at him.

"Like, there's three of us," he restates.

"Do you wanna check his math on that, Hargrove?"

Billy cracks and scoffs. Grinning victoriously, Eddie giggles.

Steve rubs his forehead. "You're not helping, man."

"Okay, okay, I'll stop. Continue with your epiphany."

“So there’s you and me. But there’s also Billy and me. And there’s also you and Billy. And… those are all different. Different relationships, I mean. What I like about you, maybe it’s not the same as what Billy likes about you. Some of it's the same, sure, but maybe not everything. Maybe you two fit together differently. Maybe you wouldn’t, y’know, come to me with a problem that you might go to Billy with. But that’s okay! It’s okay for each relationship to be different. It’s okay for some stuff to be uneven. I dunno. That’s all I’m trying to say.”

Even Munson contemplates that in silence for a moment. It sounds so obvious and juvenile when spelled out like that. Schoolyard ground rules about trading baseball cards. Being taught to share all over again.

“And, I dunno.” Steve wrings his hands. “I know that I can get jealous pretty easily. Or feel left out. Insecure, I guess. And I’m not saying I would be perfect at this right off the bat. Clearly I haven’t been. But thinking about it that way feels okay to me. Doesn’t feel like… cheating.”

Beneath the bedspread, Eddie takes Billy’s hand in his own.

“You don’t think you’d get jealous?” asks Munson.

“No. Because… I’d know I’m not losing anything.”

Instead, you would be gaining both.

"So it's not, like, cheating," Steve argues, "because there’s no lying. No losing. It’s just the three of us. We all agree to it."

"You mean like swingers?" asks Billy.

"Yeah!" Steve exclaims, then reconsiders. "Well, okay, maybe not. Not exactly. Because… that’s just more, like, fooling around, isn’t it? With a lot of people, not just three. But you still stay married to your spouse. More just about sex without the relationship, right?"

"I dunno, Steve, you're the one who seems to have all this inside knowledge of the lifestyle. Your parents attend a lot of key parties while you were growing up?"

"Ew. Gross. Thanks, for the nightmare, Eddie."

“Man, can you imagine if stodgy, square Mr. and Mrs. Harrington were ex-hippie free love types back in the day? Maybe you come by it honestly, big boy.”

“Yeah, I promise you, they were not.”

Headlights sling across the room a lone car passes by on the highway. Steve’s face is briefly illuminated in rapid sequence, like a timelapse of daylight.

“Okay, so,” concludes Harrington, “I’ve said all that now. Don’t know if it made any sense. I’m kinda, not so good at… putting feelings into words, I’m realizing. But, I dunno, if either of you have anything you wanna tell me, I’m all ears. Like, is all that not what either of you want? Am I totally off base?”

He really just went and laid his whole heart out like that in nothing but a motel bath towel and jeans.

“I want that,” Eddie utters.

“You do?”

“Yeah,” he gulps, “yeah, fuck, I really do, guys.”

Cautious hope dawns on Steve’s face. Daylight after rain. He glances at Billy.

“What do you say, Hargrove?”

A final insult. All Billy’s ever wanted, yielded up to him only now that it’s too late. Neil himself couldn’t have done it better.

“I say it’s a stupid fuckin’ thing to want.”

“But do you?”

Admitting it would be admitting so much more. That he needs people to love him. That there are despicable things about him that cannot be helped, cannot be fixed. That he is pathetic and inadequate and he’ll never overcome the defect of anger he was born with.

“Yeah,” Billy murmurs, “yeah, I want that, too.”

Harrington leans across the gap between the beds and puts his hand on Billy’s knee. “That’s good! Isn’t that good?”

“Just because we want it doesn’t make it a good idea.”

“Oh c’mon, man,” Steve smiles, “when have you, of all people, ever let a bad idea get in the way of what you want?”

It makes Billy crack up and chuckle and he hates it. “You’re such a little bitch.”

“Made you laugh.”

“You’re worse than Munson.”

“Hey, uncalled for.” Eddie pulls a theatrically wounded expression.

Billy pokes a cold finger into Eddie’s ribs. Eddie yelps and flails. The three of them become tangled in the sheets.

“Dude! Your hair is dripping all over me,” crows Eddie at Steve, unable to free himself from both their holds.

But Steve leans forward undeterred. Nudges his damp head against them both, presses his forehead to Eddie’s hair, scratches the back of Billy’s scalp.

“Can we just,” he murmurs between them, “like, start over? The three of us? Like, no more bullshit, no more sneaking around. We’ll just… see where it goes. Can we just… start fresh? Together?”

The dark scribble of Eddie’s hair nudges close in. “I can do that,” he says, for once, completely sincere.

“Yeah,” breathes Billy, “yeah, I’m in.”

Despite reaching their tentative agreement, Steve is still insisting on taking the floor for the night.

No amount of admonishment from Eddie will sway him on the matter.

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea, Ed,” he insists as he gathers up the spare pillows from the two double beds. “Emotions are still high. Let’s not jump the gun. It’s one night, okay? My neck can take it. And then we have the whole drive back to Hawkins to figure out how sleeping arrangements are going to work.”

“Just seems kinda stupid that you would sleep on the floor when everyone in the room has already touched your dick.”

“Yeah, the whole point is to have no one touch it, actually.”

“Oh, you’ve become such prude, man,” Eddie squawks, gleeful to have reclaimed his prankish banter with Steve. “I remember how you gloated in high school.”

“So you were eavesdropping on my love life back in high school, huh?”

Got him. Eddie goes red like a beet, sputtering and stammering, trying to cover how Steve caught him out.

Billy doesn’t catch the rest of Munson’s torture of Harrington because he closes the bathroom door. Still mildly glistening with steam from Steve’s shower, Billy wipes the mirror clean with a folded washcloth.

His reflection stares back.

The image is so perfect, so exact. There is not a hair or freckle or pore out of place.

Gold hair that had lost its natural California highlight. A little outgrown; he could use a haircut. Eyes a little swollen from a day of tears and no sleep. Dark lashes, a small scar that split his eyebrow.

His own mother wouldn’t know the difference.

A replica so perfect that it fooled even himself.

Billy washes his face. Brushes his teeth. Doesn’t have the energy for a shower. He changes into the pair of worn out sweats he packed. Shucks off the long sleeve flannel button-up but leaves the tank shirt on.

He should tell them. He should march right out there and lay it on them both. Stop this thing dead in its tracks.

It’s for the best to have a clean and terminal break. A field amputation. That’s what he’d been trying to do. When things get so bad, sometimes there is no saving it. Better to bow out. No teasing false hopes. No more undefined grey area; just sink the dagger and leave.

It occurs to Billy that this is probably a lot like the pep talk his own mother once gave herself in the mirror.

Out in the room, Steve is still diligently building a makeshift bed on the floor between the two twin beds.

Munson is still curled up on the far side of the one bed. He’s lost his shirt, jeans, and socks to a pile on the floor. Motley tattoos and wine-coloured scars speckle his torso. A meager patch of wiry hair grows in the centre of his chest. He chews on his nails with a fresh cigarette wedged between his fingers. The glass ashtray sits on the sheet next to him, dirty with the stubbed out butts from earlier.

“Hey, uh, guys?” Eddie croaks, taking another drag. “Okay, so, uh, so if we’re, like, gonna lay it all out and bare our souls and everything, then, um, I guess I have something I should, like, lay out.”

Harrington quirks an eyebrow, receptive.

Eddie’s jumpy eyes flick between the two of them. “You said we, uh, we need to talk about what we want. From each other. Like, honesty and shit. So… I’m doing that. Yeah, um, here goes.”

He takes another long, heavy drag from his cigarette, cheeks hollowing, eyes wide.

“I think, uh…” Eddie mumbles, exhaling smoke, “I think I’m the odd one out here, right?”

He throws a skittish glance from Billy to Steve and back again.

“Right?” Eddie repeats. “I think it’s sorta obvious, but I guess I'll be the one to say it.”

“Wait, wait, wait, hold on,” says Steve, “what do you mean you’re the odd one out?”

“C’mon, man, look at the two of you,” he gestures with his cigarette between Steve and Billy. “And look at me.” Flourishes his hand down his bare chest, over blotchy tattoos and dark scars. “I’m not some butch jock beefcake. You two have this history… this… history and I can’t match that. If we really did this, tried this whole threesome thing, pretty sure you’d both get bored of me. I’d just be in the way, y’know? Like, even if you don’t mean it, even if you try not to, it’ll probably just happen. I think I was kinda just a stepping stone, maybe. And now that both of you are on the same page maybe that’s my cue to, like, bow out gracefully.”

“Ed.” Steve goes and kneels on the bedspread beside him. “You really think that?”

Eddie just shrugs. Beneath the covers, his knee is bouncing in agitation.

“Wait,” says Steve, “so is that why you've been avoiding me? You thought neither of us would pick you?”

“Kinda thought I'd ruined my chances with that stunt of mine at Hopper’s.”

Steve's face cringes in a wounded expression. “Even after we… after you and me…”

Again, Eddie shrugs, looks away. “Just figured. I mean, okay, not to sound all sorry for myself or whatever, but it’s not like I've ever been anyone's first choice.” He smiles, tries to sell it as a joke, but it craters.

Billy's heart breaks a little bit to hear that. It always seemed like nothing bothers Eddie. He knew that Eddie was guarding a soft, brimming heart under his showy exterior. But Billy had bought the front that Eddie put on just the same.

“You still think we'll leave you out?” prompts Steve.

“Yeah,” Eddie nods rapidly, “yeah. I mean, c’mon, nobody likes hard work, right? And this… this would be hard. What if we can't hack it? What if we all just get jealous and start to hate each other?”

“I’m not scared of this, Eddie.” Comforting, Steve reaches out and pushes a frizzy lock of hair from Eddie’s face, like he's touched him that way a hundred times. “Yeah, it’ll be hard, and none of us know what we’re doing, and we’ll probably end up fighting and making mistakes and hurting each other’s feelings and shit, and maybe it’ll just end up falling apart in a few months. But I’m not scared. I’ve dealt with so much scary goddamn bullshit these past few years, the idea of a messy breakup is nothing. I want to try. Even if it’s scary. Even if it doesn’t last.”

“But you've never even… been with a guy, man. And now you're jumping into bed with two. What if you decide you're not actually a queer? What if you get tired of hiding? It's harder than you think, Steve.”

“Uh, pretty sure I'm well past the point of experimentation, Munson.”

Eddie looks unsure.

“Hey, I’m not including you out of pity, Ed,” insists Steve. “I wouldn’t do that to you. And c’mon, we both know that Billy would never do anything for anyone out of pity.”

Eddie flicks his gaze to Billy and back to Steve like a nervous animal.

“And you know, for the record,” Steve swipes a thumb along Eddie’s cheekbone, “not to toot my own horn too hard or anything, but I think we have pretty good chemistry too, Munson.”

Despite himself, Eddie giggles, a truly embarrassing sound; he falls so hard for Steve’s schmaltzy routine.

“And I bet if we could ever get Billy over here to pay anyone a compliment,” Steve continues, “he’d admit that him and you have pretty good chemistry too.”

A fearsome blush breaks out on Munson’s face, his neck. He tries to hide a smile in his hair. Billy doesn’t think he’s ever seen Eddie bashful before.

It’s touching.

After a heartbeat, a pause of sober consideration, Steve leans forward and kisses Eddie. It’s chaste, but lingering.

Billy has definitely never seen them kiss before.

It’s a different thing to watch two people you know kiss. Not just to see it but to watch with focus. Invasive, revealing, voyeuristic. And like a true voyeur, Billy is transfixed. He can’t look away. He watches them, astounded.

Steve is gentle. Far more gentle and guiding than he ever is with Billy. Nudges his nose against Eddie’s cheek like an affectionate puppy. And Eddie is downright tame, submissive even. So unlike his usual overflowing contrarian mischief. Like he can’t help but to follow Steve’s lead, the only person he would ever take direction from.

Stupidly, It hadn’t occurred to Billy that they would be different with one another.

It lasts only a heartbeat, maybe two, but Billy is certain he will remember the image forever.

Remembering their audience, Eddie jolts away. He glances at Billy out of the corner of his eye before he breaks away from Steve. Expression like a guilty dog, he clears his throat, swipes at his hair.

Steve pinches his eyes shut. “Sorry. Shit, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

And Harrington’s right. They shouldn’t be doing this.

It’s too volatile. Too strange.

They’re not ready.

The world is too scary.

So many reasons not to let this happen.

But they came to find him in the dark. They could have just let Billy go. He made it easy for them. He lashed out and then vanished, offering no apologies or explanations. Nothing is owed to him from either of them.

But still, they came to find him anyway.

Eddie and Steve have both been brave for so long. It’s Billy’s turn to be brave for them.

He crosses over to them, reaches over with his knees on the bed and kisses Eddie.

He’s a little forceful. He can’t help it. Eddie tenses underneath his touch, gasps against his mouth. Half ready to flee or surrender.

It’s just that Billy is no good with words. Even when he tries. There’s something defective about him that makes his words hollow and insufficient. Words are cheap. Action is what matters.

And Eddie deserves to know. That he’s sorry. That he would take it back. That he cares about them too.

After a tense, rigid moment, Eddie’s body unspools under his hands. He returns the kiss. Cautiously at first, then with more confidence, leaning into it. He touches the side of Billy’s face, his hair. Billy grips Eddie by the shoulders. His thumbs dig into the soft flesh of his upper arms. Muscle fibre crackles in his shoulders.

They part, breathing hard. Billy leans his forehead against Eddie’s. The rings on Eddie’s fingers tangle in Billy’s hair. A ripple of excitement surges up his stomach.

Billy turns and looks at Steve with hooded eyes and Steve is right there, hovering right next to them both. So close, his knees knocking against them.

They kiss. Billy doesn’t know who starts it, but he and Steve kiss, finally abandoning the pretension that this isn’t happening.

They keep breaking rules for each other. All three of them.

Together, they ease down as one to the bed. They tangle, grapple, kissing, searching. The reluctance evaporates. In its place, a mad sort of urgency sprouts. Like now they must make up the lost time. They wasted so much time. So much heartache on petty bullshit.

Billy closes his eyes and lets his body steer itself. All input is reduced to touch. His fingers clenching over limbs, skin, hair. Two bodies pressing against his own. Mouths, tongues, hands, Billy abandons keeping track of what belongs to who. Just surrenders to the sensations. They grope in an eager frenzy, wrestling, breathtaking.

It’s like they’ve come unstuck in time. Like nothing from before can reach them in here and nothing is waiting for them on the other side of morning. In this extended moment they are free of any worries. They are so far from high school and the Cold War and involute netherworld monsters and church mobs that none of it matters here. This anonymous roadside room might as well be on the far side of the moon.

Nothing can touch them now.

Pausing, Steve sits up and strips off his sweater. Sharing the impulse, both Eddie and Billy reach out and touch him, running their hands over his chest, through the impressive thatch of hair. They pull him close. Eddie claims another kiss while Billy plants hot, trailing bites up Steve’s neck and shoulder. He melts under Billy’s mouth. A little moan escapes his parted lips.

Billy frees himself of his own clothes and does the same to Eddie. None of them hesitate. Somehow, being naked with both of them is the most natural thing in the world.

Someone flips Billy onto his back. One of them lays between his legs; heavy, warm, sucking at his neck. Harrington. The other strokes his hair with callused fingers and nips at his lower lip. Eddie.

No words are needed. It’s like Billy can read their minds.

Steve licks and bites his way down Billy’s body. He nestles between Billy’s bent knees, gives Billy’s cock a few long strokes with his free hand.

Groaning, Billy breaks the kiss with Eddie, cranes his neck to look. He has to see. Has to see Harrington look up at them both with dark, come-fuck-me eyes as he confidently swallows Billy’s cock down.

“He’s been practicing,” rasps Eddie into his ear, dark hair flung across his face. “Let him show you how good he’s gotten, big guy.”

He has been practicing. The difference is marked. The rhythm, the tempo, Steve is an old hand at it by now. Champion cocksucker. Because he’s competitive at everything. Always has to be the best. The image comes to Billy’s mind unbidden, likely scenes from the past six weeks. Moments that must have happened that Billy was not present for. Harrington on his knees sucking Eddie’s cock in his parent’s kitchen, in the back of his car, on the rough carpet of Eddie’s FEMA trailer. An eager student, practicing.

Waves of pleasure are building up in Billy’s abdomen. Each stroke of Steve’s tongue ratchets him closer and closer. He reaches both arms overhead, bracing against the headboard. When Eddie gently turns his face and resumes their kiss, Billy does not resist. Pliant, he opens his mouth, lets Eddie take whatever he wants.

Whatever they want.

Billy floats, unbodied between them.

Eddie takes Billy’s hands and places it down on Steve’s soft head. The not-quite-dry ends of his hair slip under Billy’s palm. Steve’s shudders, swallowing a gasp. With the barest pressure, Billy encourages him down, to take more. Steve tries, going a little further on the next downstroke. He gags and swallows, and Billy sees stars.

Eddie’s ringed hand joins Billy’s on Steve’s scalp. Challenging, guiding. Daring Steve to go farther.

“Oh my god,” swear Billy as Steve swallows again, “oh shit.”

“Isn’t he something?” Eddie groans.

Scrabbling, Billy reaches with his free hand, takes Eddie’s cock in his hand. He strokes him firm and slow. Eddie’s so hard, hot to the touch. Just from watching them, from watching Steve suck Billy’s cock.

“Oh shit,” praises Eddie, his hips bucking into Billy’s hand, “yeah— yeah just like that.”

Billy wants their praise.

He belongs between them like this. Taking whatever they give him.

He’s close. His grip tightens in Steve’s hair. Steve looks up at him all defiant. Like he knows for a certainty that he will outlast Billy’s stamina.

It’s the look that does it. Or Eddie’s love bites on his neck. Or the visual of his own hand and Eddie’s tangled in Steve’s hair. But the world momentarily slips away and Billy’s eyes roll head and he’s coming into the warm, velvety softness of Steve’s throat. He thrusts, a little meanly, even, and feels Steve gag against him, taking it. A hot, rolling sensation ripples from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

He knows what they are now. They fit so perfectly, Billy doesn’t know what he had been so afraid of.

Billy allows himself to bask in the feeling for a short while. Just lets himself float in his own body. Eyes closed, legs splayed on the thin motel bedspread. Waves of pleasure ebb with each breath.

Bodies jostle and move on the mattress around him. Eddie and Steve are resituating themselves somehow. They’re talking in low, husky voices, how people sound when they’re turned on.

The bedsprings dip and creak. Billy opens his eyes to see Eddie bent over him on his hands and knees, the tips of his hair brushing the front of Billy’s chest. His red guitar pick hangs from its chain around his neck, swinging in the air between them. They lock eyes and Eddie blinks. Like he didn't expect to find Billy here. It seems like he’s about to say something when his jaw drops open in a languid gasp.

Steve kneels behind Eddie, driving his hips with slow but powerful thrusts.

Oh, shit.

Billy thought he would be jealous. With utter certainty he thought seeing them together would ignite rage inside of him. The familiar sour fire of rejection.

But it doesn’t. Not even close.

Billy runs his hands down Eddie’s flanks, rippled with dense scar tissue. He is skinny, ribs pushing back against Billy’s palm. In the dim light Billy can pick out the tattooed inky patches on Eddie’s skin. The smattering flock of bats on his forearm, the demon’s head beneath his collarbone.

Having produced lube from somewhere, Steve ups his pace, puts a little more force in it.

Eddie throws his head back, hair falling into his face as he gasps and moans. His body rocks over Billy as Steve thrusts into him from behind, keeping a slow but firm pace.

“Holy shit,” mutters Billy, mostly to himself. Still can’t believe they’re doing this.

Eddie is beautiful. His dark mane of hair falling across his face. His wiry limbs straining to push himself back against Steve. His huge brown eyes half-lidded and glazed, looking down at Billy with a craving.

“Oh my god.” Eddie cranes his neck to look back at Steve pounding into him with lazy, even thrusts. “Shit, oh my god—”

How could Billy be jealous? When he knows exactly what Eddie is feeling at this very moment. Knows how it feels to be on your hands and knees for Steve, have him work your body open. Knows how his touch is careful and sentimental but unyielding. Knows that Steve Harrington’s attention can drive you insane.

Billy can see it in Eddie’s eyes. The delirious shock. Rapturous disbelief. They both know how it feels.

“This is—” Eddie tries.

“Yeah,” rasps Billy.

“You’re both—”

“Yeah.”

Straining up, Billy kisses him. Slips a hand around the back of Eddie’s scalp and pulls him in deep. Kisses Eddie sound and steady. Nips Eddie’s plump lower lip with his teeth. Tugs at his vagabond hair. Tries to apologize with actions the way he never can manage with words.

“Fuck,” gasps Eddie into the kiss, “holy fuck.”

“Yeah,” agrees Billy, stupidly, “you’re good. S’okay.”

Eddie’s shoulders tremble. Steve grunts and lands a particularly strong thrust and Eddie collapses to his elbows. Moaning, he clings onto Billy, his cheek pressed firmly into Billy’s chest.

Beneath them both, Billy wraps Eddie in his arms, holds him tight. All three of them rock with the pace set by Steve. Billy braces his feet against the bedspread. Eddie hangs on for dear life.

Hot, wet breaths gasping breath over Billy’s chest from Eddie’s panting mouth. The chain of Billy’s pendant is trapped beneath Eddie’s cheek. His heart pounds, races; Billy can feel everywhere their bodies touch.

This is the only time Eddie ever stops talking. He withdraws, no performance or facade. Just surrenders to the sensations. Finally only focused on one thing. Finally calm.

“Billy, touch him,” croaks Steve, winded.

Billy does. Reaches a hand down underneath Eddie and finds his cock, hard and warm and slick. The angle is awkward and he has to strain but the result is worth it. Eddie moans at the brushing contact, tenses, writhes against Billy. He folds entirely, head and chest boneless against Billy’s body, his hips propped up only by his knees and Steve’s firm grip. Billy’s fingertips tease his cock with each stroke of Steve’s hips.

“Yeah,” exhales Steve, “yeah, that’s it. Oh my god.”

“Ah— ah— ”, breathes Munson “oh shit, shit.”

Because Steve is driving now, deep, solid thrusts. Grips Eddie by the waist with both hands and strikes over and over, puts his whole back into it. Billy can feel it.

The mattress creaks beneath them, louder and louder.

“Make him come,” Steve instructs.

“Yeah,” replies Billy.

“Oh fuck, oh—” cries Eddie.

Billy closes his hand around Eddie’s cock, makes a tight channel of his fist. Every strike of Steve’s hips forces Eddie into Billy’s hand.

Between them, Eddie moans, wanton and loud.

Sweating and hot, they move together. All three of them. Steve is panting, quickly reaching the edge, skimming the summit. Keeps thrusting, deep, deeper, pushing Eddie into Billy.

Billy didn’t know three people could get so close. All three nearly occupying the same space. Eddie’s hair splaying over Billy’s chest, his fingernails in Billy’s skin, the sweat between their bodies. Steve’s weight overtop them both, his knees brushing Billy’s calves.

In this stupid, tacky motel room on the side of the highway there are only these flashbulb touches. Everything beyond these wood panel walls dissolves away. Sand and ash. There is no town called Hawkins, Indiana. There is no shadow monster. There is no Cold War. There is only the touch and heat and pleasure in the sanctuary of this room.

Billy doesn’t want it to end.

Lifting his head, Steve catches Billy’s eye in the dark. A mouthwatering expression over his features; hair in his eyes, brows drawn, eyes dark.

Craning forward, past Eddie’s head, Steve kisses him.

Billy can only hold tight as Steve kisses him soundly, thoroughly. Just lets Steve have whatever he wants. Hardly manages to return the kiss at all.

“Make him come, Hargrove,” Steve says into Billy’s mouth.

“I am,” Billy promises, “shit, yeah, I am. I am.”

“Mnh— oh, Christ. Oh god—”

Eddie tenses, clenches, his knees shaking. With a staggered, broken moan, he comes into Billy’s hand. Cries and thrusts. Smacks the bedspread.

“Yeah,” praises Steve. He hoists himself back upright. Thrusts into Eddie with more power. “Yeah, that’s it. Fuck. Oh my god. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

Steve throws his head back. The long cords of his neck tense, pop. His hips drive forward harder and harder. The clap of skin on skin and the squeal of old bedsprings crescendos.

With a cry, Steve comes. Drives his hips savagely in the final throes. Once, twice. Slams into Eddie’s body a final time and holds, tense, quivering, mouth open in silent, astounding pleasure.

They topple. Collapse into a heap on top of Billy. Steve pants like a dog, back heaving. Eddie mewls, burrows against them both.

Madly, Billy throws his arms around them both. Tries to scoop them up tight. Hold them close and never let go. Never let this moment slip away.

These two stupid boys who chased him down on the worst day of his life because they refuse to give up. Because they don’t know a lost cause when they see one. These two boys who are unafraid to feel with their whole hearts. Who smile and laugh and cry and don’t care who sees.

It’s a responsibility Billy isn’t ready for.

Gradually, after seconds or minutes, they all untense. Their muscles loosen and they ungrapple one another. Like survivors on a life raft in a storm, they hold fast. Only each other to see them through.

Billy stares up at the stipple on the ceiling. He can feel his heartbeat in his face.

Fumbling, Steve’s hand runs soothingly along Billy’s forearm. With his other hand he gropes blindly for Eddie, finding his hair and coming to rest on his head.

“Are we all okay?” Steve asks quietly, facedown against Eddie’s shoulder.

Billy exhales a scoff. Eddie grunts.

“Okay,” stammers Steve, “okay.”

Shifting, Steve dislodges himself from Eddie. They both hiss as they come apart.

“Sorry, Ed,” says Steve as he pulls out. “Damn, hang on. Wait one sec.”

Reaching over the edge of the bed, Steve fishes up the discarded towel from his shower. He wipes down Eddie between his legs and Billy’s stomach.

“Ah! Fuck, that’s cold, man,” Eddie crows, flinching away.

“Sorry! Sorry, I just thought it would get, like, y’know, uncomfortable otherwise.”

“Wiping a guy down with a cold towel,” grouses Eddie. “Were you raised in a barn, Harrington?”

“I said sorry, man! It was either that or let it dry all tacky.”

“Can you believe this guy, Hargrove?”

“You said it felt weird last time!” Harrington’s head looks like it might pop off his shoulders.

Billy chuckles again, exhausted, uninhibited. None of this feels real. This can’t have really just happened. “Lay off ‘im, Munson.”

Eddie grins, a little demented, a little unsure, nervous and excited and maybe a bit batty. He presses into Billy’s side, wriggling as close as physics will allow. Sitting upright on the bed, Steve wipes clean his hands on the damp towel and then offers it to Billy, who wipes off his own.

Steve lays down on Billy’s other side, touching but not quite as close as Eddie. Over the rumpled bedspread they all three lay together, basking in the magnitude of what they’ve just done.

Billy still can’t really make himself believe it. Has to bite his lip to keep from giggling like a loon. Embarrassed by the rare joy. Every second that passes it seems more and more absurd. The room looks the same. He feels the same. But how can that be? How can the world be so unchanged by this?

How could this happen in the world where his dad lives?

From Billy’s side, Steve reaches over and cups Eddie’s half-hidden face, strokes a thumb under his eye. They smile at each other on either side of Billy. Then Steve pushes a few golden curls out of Billy’s face.

“So,” begins Steve in a low voice, “I vote that we all go sleep in the other bed.”

Eddie cackles. “What happened to your martyr complex about sleeping on the floor?”

“Well, obviously, that’s not gonna happen anymore. And the other bed is clean.”

“Heh. Okay, geez, gimme a minute,” Eddie mumbles. “Still can’t really feel my legs.”

No kidding. Billy is still riding the gratification of his own orgasm. An ebbing, glowing warmth in his core. He had stiffened up a little at the display of Eddie and Steve over top of him—he’s not made of stone after all—but he honestly doesn’t think he has another round in him.

“What about you big guy?” Eddie peers up at Billy with his probing big brown eyes. “You’re awful quiet.”

Billy doesn’t know what to say.

On Billy’s other side, Steve smooths a bold but gentle palm over Billy’s chest. His fingertips nudge the pendant and chain there. “You okay?” Steve asks quietly.

“Yeah,” Billy exhales, staring up at the popcorn ceiling. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Car headlights streak across the room as another late night motorist passes by. Billy turns his head to read the digital clock on the nightstand. 3:32. Shit. Tomorrow morning is going to be rough.

It’s Steve who gets up first. Stands there naked for a moment in the dark motel room, just looking at Eddie and Billy sprawled over the bed by the glow of the street. He redresses in his boxers and then hauls up Eddie by the hand. Smiling, Eddie mimes a slow dance, throwing an arm around Steve’s waist and twirling them before being deposited on the other bed by Steve. Quickly, he scurries beneath the covers.

“You comin’?” Steve turns back to Billy, extending a hand.

“Yeah.” Billy takes his hand and is hauled upright. He blinks, inner ear swirling at being vertical again.

Billy feels like a thief. Stealing all this joy with this body. This body that is not his. This body that eats and tires and gets dizzy if it sits up too fast. That can still feel the charging rush of release and pleasure. This body that he let them both touch and kiss and loved every moment.

Now he has to tell them.

Billy crawls naked into the fresh bed after Steve. They arrange themselves without speaking. Eddie curls nearly into a ball, just a frizzy mop of hair poking from beneath the covers. Between them, Steve rolls onto his stomach, arms folded beneath his head. Billy turns his back to Steve, feeling the long line of his body against his spine.

Reaching an arm over to the nightstand, Billy turns the digital clock so that he can check it without lifting his head. Check out is at 10:00AM. They can’t be caught all sleeping mostly-naked in the same bed.

He’ll tell them both in the morning.

Chapter Text

“Okay, check-out’s done,” Steve informs them both as he returns to the room. “We all good to go?”

Billy and Eddie are sitting next to one another on the edge of one of the unmade motel beds. Eddie pats the empty space on the mattress beside him. “Yeah, got all my bags packed.”

He mugs at them both, hoping for laughs or groans.

Eddie’s been trying to make jokes all morning, clearly hoping to keep morale high.

Both Eddie and Steve had ransacked the small bag of toiletries Billy had pilfered to complete their morning grooming. All three had shaved with the same razor and used Billy’s single packed toothbrush, which honestly doesn’t strike Billy as gross at all. After what the three of them accomplished last night, no amount of sharing seems too close anymore.

“Okay, let’s get moving, then.” Steve checks his watch. “We’re just about a half hour from town. If we hustle hopefully we can make it back before the kids wake up and put out a code red on us.”

Slapping the knees of his jeans, Eddie stands.

Billy remains seated on the edge of the bed.

“Billy?” prompts Steve. “C’mon, man. Time to go.”

Hopper’s stolen Army duffel rests on the carpet by Billy’s ankle. Under full daylight, the green carpet is sinisterly ugly. The room has lost its element of sanctuary. This low-rent bunk isn’t the sort of place where revelatory things happen. Billy had been stupid to fall for that.

“Hey, you okay?” inquires Eddie, waving a hand in front of Billy’s face.

But Billy clenches his hands, straightens his shoulders, rehearsing what he must tell them.

“Okay, c’mon, say something, dude.” Eddie smiles but his big headlight eyes go wide with concern. “The whole staring off into empty space all unresponsive thing is really not something I like, big guy.”

Right, the cheerleader.

To assuage his fear, Billy makes eye contact with Eddie, shakes his head.

“Oh, thank Christ.” Eddie puts a hand to his brow, chain bracelet jingling. “Jesus, what’s the matter with you? Don’t scare me like that.”

“What’s going on?” probes Steve.

Billy looks at the carpet. “There’s something I have to tell you both.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah.”

Eddie and Steve look at each other. They have a whole conversation through facial expressions.

“Uh, yeah, okay,” Steve says, cautiously. “Um, what do you have to tell us?”

Billy steels himself. Don’t be a pussy. Man up and say it.

“Hop got a hold of my coroner’s report.”

“Your what?”

“My coroner’s report. Like, the official police report of how I died at the mall.”

Again, Steve and Eddie both look to each other. “Well, what did it say?” asks Steve.

“That my death was accidental and the result of being impaled by debris during a fire. That I sustained catastrophic injury to my vital organs. And that… that due to the findings my death was ruled accidental and my remains were released to my dad after the investigation was complete.”

A slimy chill fills the motel room.

“Well, uh, okay,” Eddie bargains, “then clearly that’s just the bullshit made-up cover story. Like the one they release to the public or something. Because we know that story’s not true. You weren’t impaled by debris, it was a freakin’ monster.”

“Hopper always said it was the State guys who have been in on the shadowy stuff about the lab. They tried to fake Will Byers’ body back in the day,” Steve confirms.

“There were pictures.”

Both Eddie and Steve pale.

“There were pictures of my body during the examination. Showing the injuries.” Billy stares at the pattern on the bedspread, the pile of the carpet, the knots in the wood panelling. Anything to not have to see their faces as he tells them.

“And the body,” Steve concludes, “it wasn’t a double, was it?”

“No,” Billy replies, “no. It wasn’t. It was me.”

Eddie sinks to the floor. “No, no that can’t be right.”

“It was,” he tells them.

Billy wishes he had grabbed one of the photographs that had been included in the report. That he could make them look. They wouldn’t be denying it then.

“The Byers kid?” he continues. “Hop said that when they faked his body, it was some kind of rubber dummy. And stuffed with, like, polyester or something.” He pauses, chewing his lip hard. “But not mine. There was… blood and skin and stuff.”

“It could’ve been faked!” Eddie insists. “Special effects! Movie shit!”

Billy clenches his jaw, shakes his head.

Steve’s hand covers his mouth, tears welling in his eyes.

“It was me, dead on the examination table,” Billy tells them, “with a hole blown clean through my chest, and the gouge marks, tattoos and birthmarks. You could see my lungs. My ribs. It wasn’t a double, it wasn’t a dummy. There was blood and that black slime and the mark on my cheek from the car crash. Soot from the fireworks. It was me.” If he just keeps saying it, maybe it will become less impossible a statement. “The Billy who went to Starcourt that night died. The coroner took some samples and so did the Feds, probably, and then my body was released, and it was buried at Roane Cemetery. And unless Hopper’s actually gone and dug it up to verify all this, then it’s probably still there.”

“But then how are you here?” screeches Eddie, eyes also brimming with tears.

“Because Max is right. She’s been right this whole time,” Billy grits his teeth as he says it. “Nobody wanted to see it but she was right. I came out of the rift. I think that I’m something that the other world built.”

The admission mummifies the air.

“But you have that tattoo!” argues Eddie. “The tattoo on your shoulder. And the piercing!”

“I don’t know.”

“You really think you came out of the rift?” asks Steve, quietly.

“What else could it be?!” Billy snaps. “What’s the other option? Because even if they had swapped me with a double, even if I had beat the million-to-one odds and survived, then I would have permanent injuries from those wounds and I don’t. No, I’m not the real Billy. I’m the double.”

Steve sinks to the opposite bed. On the carpet next to him Eddie rends his hair.

The implication dawns on them. Last night, Eddie and Steve had been fucking a creature of the Upside Down.

Guilt sting behind Billy’s eyes. “That’s why I took off last night. Because I’m a fucking pussy and I couldn’t stomach telling you. Either of you. Because I couldn’t stand to be around you both and never get to touch you again. And if you didn’t want me there, and Max didn’t want me there, then nothing was keeping me in Hawkins.”

Steve reaches down, grips Eddie’s hand with his own. “Why wouldn’t we touch you?”

“Because I’m not even human.”

“You look human to me.”

“Well I’m not.” He glares fiercely at Steve. “I’m something that the shadow built.”

“But you have all your memories!” Eddie interjects, tears spilling over. “You know your name, you know your birthday, where you grew up. Everything! Everything you’ve told me about San Diego! Stuff about your mom! The stuff that El and Max know is real! How can you know that stuff if you’re not really Billy?”

“I don’t know!” Billy roars at both of them. “Okay?! I don’t know. I don't know anything about how this shit works, or what the shadow monster can do. I don’t know why I can remember stuff from San Diego but not the past year. I don't think I existed this past year. I don’t know!”

They all sit facing each other. Steve on the opposite bed and Eddie on the floor by his knees. Clinging to each other, they both watch Billy. Both with tears in their eyes.

Billy looks at them both and feels so stupid. This tacky wood-panelled motel room isn’t big enough to contain the revelation.

“I was going to tell you,” he insists and it sounds pathetic even to his own ears. “Or, shit. No I wasn’t. I wasn’t gonna tell anyone. I was just gonna leave. But then you found me last night. And you wanted to know why I was leaving and I couldn’t man up and tell you. So, I thought I would tell you in the morning before I left. But then… we…”

Their boyish explorations that had felt so transformative and right last night now seem inadequate and juvenile in the face of day.

“So I can’t stay,” Billy concludes, sniffing and wiping at tears collecting in his lashes. “I don’t know where I’m going, but I can’t stay in that fucking town. Not with Max there and not with you both there.”

He tries to say it with some finality. With some authority. Like his dad would. Like the matter is settled.

Because he can’t keep fixating on it. Can’t keep running his mind in circles. Chasing answers he’ll never have. Dwelling on unknowable things. Asking why and never knowing. It’s killing him.

It’s been killing him ever since the last day he saw his mom.

Sometimes people just leave and there’s no reason for it.

“I don’t care,” Steve says quietly, clutching Eddie’s hand.

“What do you mean you don’t care?” snarls Billy.

“I don’t care if you’re right. I don’t care if you were made by the Upside Down.”

“Well you fucking should care, Harrington!” Billy shouts. “You should pay attention and think with your head for once in your fuckin’ life!”

Steve’s shoulders set in firm determination. “I am thinking. And I’ll tell you what I think. You look like Billy. You act like Billy. I think that you’re Billy. El says that you are Billy and I believe her. So none of the rest matters to me. I care about you. And you are Billy.”

“But I’m not.”

“Sure you are! You look like him, you talk like him, you know the things he knows, things only Billy would know. That’s enough for me.”

Billy scowls at Steve.

“I’m being serious,” Harrington gestures with his arm. “Look, I don’t know anything about that evil dimension shit either. I’ve seen it. I’ve walked through it. I’ve killed parts of it. But I don’t know what it is or how it got there or what it wants from us. But I do know you. I knew you for basically a whole year. And you’re just as much like that guy I knew, and he was like you.”

Billy shakes his head, hides his face behind his hand.

“It’s true,” insists Steve.

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true.” Steve repeats.

A tight, voiceless scream coils up in the back of Billy’s throat. Neither he nor Steve ever know when to back down.

But then Billy feels a big hand close around his ankle over his jeans. A searching grip. Billy looks down at his foot.

He sees Eddie’s ring-laden hand tugging gently on the denim.

“He’s right,” Eddie agrees.

“You both don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Okay, maybe,” concedes Eddie, “but, gun to my head, I couldn’t tell you apart from the Billy Hargrove I knew before. None of them could.”

Angrily fighting off tears, Billy pinches his nose, swipes a hand over his face. If he keeps his hands busy then he won’t start swinging.

“I’m not going to speak for Eddie,” says Steve, looking right at Billy, “but this doesn’t change anything for me. I’m serious. I still stand by everything I said last night. I want this. I want to try. I want to be with you, get to know you more, have you around. Whatever we call it, whoever we tell, I don’t care. You both make me feel stronger and… understood. And I don't want to give that up.”

Steve clenches his grip on Eddie’s hand.

“So, Billy, if you’re still leaving,” Steve says, “then I’m coming with you.”

“Yeah, me too,” croaks Munson, still looking stricken, but resolute.

Disbelieving, Billy can only stare for a moment.

He nearly wants to call them on their bluff. Ask what the kids would think if Steve and Eddie both vanished today. What would become of their precious brood? Of Eddie’s uncle?

He pictures them all running away together. Leaving Hawkins, Indiana behind in the dust, like he always promised he would. Disappearing down the interstate, living like vagabonds until they hit the Pacific Ocean. Staying in motels, a new one every night, or sleeping under the stars, where no one knew who they were, where they could touch, kiss, lay next to one another. Their own private world on the road.

Because they might actually come with him for a few days. A week. They’re both stubborn enough.

But eventually it would dawn on Steve and Eddie what they had done.

Billy thinks of the wreckage they would leave behind. Maxine. Hopper and El. Steve's parents, wherever they are. Eddie’s friends and bandmates. How the guilt of this adolescent impulse would stew in Eddie and Steve and become resentment after the honeymoon was over. Resentment that Billy made them choose.

And Billy knows what it's like to have your loved ones leave without saying goodbye.

If he cares about Eddie and Steve at all, then he won't put them through that.

And he doesn’t want to be a coward. Doesn’t want to be like his mom.

“No,” Billy says, “no.”

“No what?” croaks Eddie.

“No, you’re not leaving.” Billy decides. ”I’m not leaving.”

“You’re not?”

“No. Let’s go back to Hawkins.”

“You mean it?” asks Eddie.

Billy nods, swallows. “Yeah, yeah, I mean it.”

Eddie launches up on his knees and throws his arms around Billy’s waist. Steve laughs in surprise.

“Okay, Munson,” Billy squirms, “get off me before I change my mind.”

Releasing him, Eddie springs to his feet with a giddy celebratory energy. He wipes tears from the corners of his eyes.

Steve stands, offers a hand down to Billy. “We’re going to figure it out, okay?”

Billy has never heard that and believed it. He doesn't believe it now. But Steve wraps both him and Eddie into a hug. With his and Eddie’s arms overlapping, their heads all nudging together, in this tacky roadside motel, Billy thinks that maybe he can buy into the delusions this one time.

They’re back in Hawkins by 9:00AM.

If anyone noticed Billy’s brief desertion, they hadn’t put out the alarm. Once they’re back in radio range, Steve has Eddie contact the cabin on the walkie.

“Hey, uh, Scoops-mobile to the cabin,” Eddie says into the radio, sprawled in the front passenger seat as familiar billboards and road signs drift by, “anybody there?”

He releases the talk button and waits.

After a moment, El’s gentle voice emerges over the airwaves. “Hello?”

“Hey there, supergirl,” Eddie grins. “We’ve got the runaway back here with us. We’re headed back to town now.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah. Hey, thanks again for the assist last night. Is the ol’ Papa Bear there?”

“No. Not back yet.”

“Okay. Well, let him know that the big guy is with us whenever he’s back. Don’t need anyone else freaking out over where he is.”

“Okay.”

“You’re not lonely at the cabin all by yourself?”

“I’m okay. Will left some new movies. The Black Cauldron.”

Eddie smiles. “That’s a good one.”

“Spooky.”

“Yeah, but it has a happy ending though.”

“Like you.”

In the driver’s seat Steve barks with laughter. Eddie swats him with the back of his hand. “Yeah, yeah, you’re funny, supergirl.”

El comes through clear in the static. “Let him know that I’m glad that he decided to come back.”

Eddie looks over his shoulder at Billy in the back seat. His brown eyes go soft. “You got it, kid,” he says into the walkie, “I’ll be sure to tell him. He’s gonna stay with us for the rest of the day, okay? He’s got something he needs to do. Just needs some time.”

“Follow the rules,” she says.

Eddie grins, and says into the walkie, “Don’t be stupid. Copy that.”

Hospitals at night are fucking eerie. Not that Billy thinks he’s ever been in one at night before. His trips to the doctor had never been so dramatic. More the standard just-walked-into-a-door story that battered wives and sons have been telling since the dawn of time.

Honestly he had expected getting onto the patient floors after hours to be much harder than this. But donning the same LA Dodgers cap and Hopper’s old leather jacket, Billy’s able to walk up the fire escape stairwells, past the nurses on their smoke breaks, and up to the fourth floor.

The corridor lights are bright but the halls are all but deserted. A few other civilians are loitering after official visiting hours, posted up next to glowing vending machines, drawing chairs together to catch a few hours of sleep.

Seems that since the quake, visitor policy has been relaxed.

No one even glances at Billy as he slips into Max’s hospital room.

At least in here it’s appropriately dark. A few green digital readouts glow and beep in the otherwise dark room. Above the head of the bed a few medical instruments hang on the wall: an otoscope and a blood pressure cuff with its spiral cord. The blinds are open and a few stars twinkle low on the treeline.

Max is asleep, snoring softly. She's always been skinny but she seems frail after two months in the hospital.The neckbrace she was in last time is gone now and her rigid plaster casts have been swapped out for splints and bandages.

She still looks so small. All the other kids look so much older to Billy, grown, filled out, started dressing themselves, but Max still looks so young, as young as the day she and Billy had first met. Like a stubborn kid who didn’t know what she was getting into.

She has needed a cast once before. When she had just been learning to skate and fell off her board onto their driveway in Serra Mesa. Another time Billy should have been watching her.

He remembers she had asked him to sign it. Instead he'd shouted and told her that girls can't skateboard.

Billy sinks into the bedside chair, an uncomfortable thing with ugly hospital upholstery. He should let her sleep, he knows. She needs her rest.

But he wants to be here. Doesn’t know where else he should go. Back to Eddie and Steve, maybe. They had agreed to try, the three of them. Billy’s problems are their problems, Munson had assured.

But he and Max, it’s for them only to understand. What’s between them, no one else can ever really know. Even if Billy tries to explain it, Steve and Eddie would never really get it. What it was like to live in that house. What it was like to have them for parents, step-parents. To have their friends and plans and futures uprooted, discarded. The futile sort of rage that they directed at each other when they couldn’t lash out at the people who had hurt them.

That’s just between them.

An unshed line of tears wells in Billy's eye. He swipes them away. Clears his throat to try and stave them off.

“Who’s there?” Max’s milky eyes flicker open.

Billy blinks a few times. For a moment, he considers bolting. Leaving and never bothering her again.

But he gets a handle on himself. “Hey, shitbird."

"Billy?"

"Yeah, Maxine. Just me."

Max’s expression flairs. “You really do sound like him."

"Yeah," he replies sadly, "yeah I know."

"What time is it?"

"Clock says 11:35PM."

"How did you even get in here?" interrogates Max, wriggling a little more upright against the pillow. "It's way after visiting hours."

"Just walked right in. Went up the roof access stairs. Nightshift nurses are too swamped patients to give a shit. Plus, the chief lent me this ugly Dodgers cap so no one would recognize me."

“The real Billy wouldn’t be caught dead in a Dodgers cap,” she sneers.

“Yeah, the perfect disguise, right?”

He flashes his shark smile at her, forgetting that she can’t see him. Mercifully, she can’t see his fumbling recovery either. Feeling like an idiot he sweeps the stupid ball cap off his head and tosses it onto the bedside table. Leans forward and runs a hand through his tangled hair. Heaves a mighty sigh and bites the inside of his cheek in frustration. Wishes he had something to chew on.

"Everyone's been trying to convince me to talk to you,” Max admits. “Telling me that you’re real, somehow. That you're really Billy. Even El. Even Dustin and he fucking hates you."

Billy frowns. "What'd I ever do to Henderson?"

"You beat up Steve!" whines Max like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "And Dustin, like, worships Steve. Thinks he's the coolest guy to ever scoop ice cream into a cone, I guess. So after you broke Steve's face he's always hated you on principle."

Billy scoffs, "That little shit's never said two words to me!"

"Yeah, well, you're scary, Billy! Dustin's obviously not gonna do anything about it. It's, like, a solidarity hatred."

“Ah, yeah,” he affirms dryly, “sorta thing you’d know all about, right, Maxine?”

“Ugh, nobody calls me Maxine.”

“‘Cept me.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re a freakin’ jackass.”

Yeah, he is.

Billy’s never been good with words. Never been good at explaining the shit that goes on in his head. Whenever he tries, it doesn't work like how he wants. Got him laughed at, got him punished. So he stopped trying long ago.

He’s not really sure what he wants to say to Maxine, what he needs to say to her, if there’s anything to say at all. Just feels like he should be here, in case he figures it out.

“I ever scare you, Max?” he asks after a moment.

“Pfft. No,” she responds. “You’re an asshole and you break my stuff but you don’t scare me.”

Billy nods, not sure he buys it.

“You scare my friends though.”

“Yeah.”

“After we moved here… you just got…” she swallows, paws at her eye clumsily with a slinged arm, “so angry. At everything. Maybe… maybe you scared me a little bit, then.”

He winces, feels despicable. Like the first time his dad ever smacked him.

“I, uh,” he starts, voice wavering, “I read your letter.”

Max scowls, turns her head toward him. “How’d you know about that?”

“Uh, Sinclair. Lucas, he… he gave it to me.”

Her scowl intensifies and she groans, rolls her clouded eyes. “He said you’d tried to talk to him.”

“Yeah, well, don’t blame the guy for taking me up on it. He’s in over his fucking head on this.”

“Yeah, we all are.”

They don’t talk. Their miserable little family doesn’t talk. Never has. Words are nothing; Billy learned that lesson young. Action is all that matters. The only thing that counts. If you want something then go get it. If you hate something, destroy it. Anything less is a waste of time.

But nothing can fix this. No action can undo Max’s broken limbs, her blinded eyes. He should have been watching her. He hadn’t been there to watch her and she got hurt. And nothing can solve that. There is nothing to do, no one to hit. All that’s left to him are words.

The machines beep and hum in the dark around them. Outside, in the town, those black dendritic feelers are growing up out of the fissures in the earth. Behind the Iron Curtain, the Soviets have nukes and who-knows-what-else at the ready. In another world, the shadow is amassing its swarm.

In the face of all that, he feels so small, so powerless. And he despises that feeling. Always has.

Billy drags a hand over his face, scratches at the stubble on his jaw.

“Max,” he asks, hardly even a rumble, “do you really think I’m a monster?”

She thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “What else would you be?”

“Guess I don’t know.”

They sit together in the dark. Her breath hitches and she turns away, hiding her face in her pillow.

He gets to his feet. “Max…”

“No, fuck off,” she snaps around her tears, “you do not get to see me cry right now.”

“Max.”

“You can’t be him. You can’t really be him,” she sobs, little shoulders heaving, “because I saw you die. I saw that thing… I watched it rip you apart.”

Billy just stands there in the dark. Comfort is an alien thing to offer. That isn’t his way. This isn’t his place.

But Max makes it simple for him. “Hand me a tissue, asshole,” she orders.

There’s a box of them on the table beside the bed, clearly for the visitor’s benefit. Billy plucks a few and presses them into Max’s hand. She tries to bring them to her eyes, but her splinted arm is clumsy and she winces when the angle becomes uncomfortable.

Without thinking, Billy takes them and swipes the tissues over her cheeks, the corners of her eyes where her tears are spilling.

Shocked, Max laughs between her sobs. “Oh my god, I can’t believe no one’s here to see this. They’re never going to believe it.”

“Yeah, well, you should see yourself, shitbird.”

She laughs—sobs—and wrinkles her nose when Billy fumbles at drying her eyes. Bites her lip, but more tears come. She’s always hated crying in front of people. Especially Billy.

“Scoot over,” he mumbles.

Without a fight, Max wriggles over to the far side of the wide hospital bed. Toeing off his shoes, Billy crawls in beside her.

He doesn’t really hold her. That would be weird for them. But he lays there as she cries, passes her fresh tissues when she runs out. Swipes them when they spill down the corners of her eyes and into her hair. Against his head, the thin hospital sheets are scratchy. His back pushes up uncomfortably against the siderail. Beside him, Max’s little body trembles and heaves.

“I’m sorry,” she weeps, gasping, “I’m sorry, Billy, that I didn’t… that I didn’t—”

“Don’t tell me none of that shit.”

“Last summer, at the mall, I wanted to— I should’ve—’

“Should’ve nothing. There’s nothing you should’ve done, Maxine. That’s not something anybody knows how to deal with. Nothing to be sorry about.”

“I didn’t want it to be you.” She sniffs, catches her breath. “I really didn’t. I know I said things and sometimes… sometimes I wanted you to leave, or I wished you weren't around but… I know we fought and screamed all the time but I really didn’t actually want anything bad to happen to you.”

“I read all that shit in your letter.”

“Oh my god, shut up and let me talk! You were dead. Like, for real dead, and I thought I was never going to get the chance to ever say any of this to you and now that you’re here… you’re gonna fuckin’ be quiet and let me say it.”

Billy knocks his knuckles into her shoulder. “You can say it but that don’t make none of it true.”

Max sobs, hiccuping a little. “We wanted to help you. We tried to.”

“In the end, you did.”

“But not enough. Not in time.”

“Your friend, El,” his finger taps at her bony shoulder, “she got to me in time. In time enough that none of you got any more hurt.”

“But you still did,” she corrects.

“That’s not on you.”

Regaining her composure slightly, Max’s breathing regulates. “El told me, afterwards. How she was able to get through to you… in the mall. Your happy memory. Surfing with your mom.”

Even now, Billy smiles to recall it.

Max sniffs. “You never talked about her.”

“Nothing to talk about.”

“Uh, yeah, okay.” Still all attitude, even with three broken limbs. “That’s total bullshit.”

He snorts. “Yeah, you’re right, it is. But… we don’t talk about that kinda shit, do we? We’re not that kinda of family.”

“I wanted us to be,” admits Max, “but… I don’t think I realized that I did until… until—”

“Until it was too late.”

“Is that stupid?” asks Max.

Yes, Billy wants to say. Not to be mean, just to save her more disappointment.

“No,” he says instead, “maybe it was impossible, but it’s not stupid to want it.”

Shrugging, Max wipes her face on her shoulder.

“Y’know, after,” she says, choking up, “after the mall fire and everything your dad lost it. Like, he really lost it. Started drinking a lot. Starting lashing out at my mom. He would break stuff. Punch holes in the wall. And for a minute I thought… she’s finally had enough. She’s finally going to leave him. I really thought that. I begged her to. But she didn’t. She still didn’t! She kept making excuses for him, brushing it off. About how he was grieving. How he needed time. Nothing he did was ever bad enough. Nothing was ever over the line. He had to leave us, in the end.”

Billy doesn’t say anything.

“She always chose him. Over me. Over everything. He was an asshole and mean and she still chose him up until the very end. Why? All he did was ruin our lives and then ditch us. Why did she put up with that? Why did she drag me all the way across the country so she could be with him? Why did he matter more than me?”

Tears spill out of the corners of her eyes again. Wadded used tissues crumpled in her hand. Billy reaches behind his head and brings fresh tissues to her, dabbing her face.

They’re not that kinda family.

But they could try.

“My mom left one day while I was at school,” he tells her quietly, tucking his arm beneath his head. “I must’ve been… eight or nine? She was supposed to pick me up after school like usual but… one day she just never came. I sat on the curb until sundown before someone noticed. And I could never figure out why she left me. Why she didn’t take me with her.”

He’s never told this to anyone. Not out loud.

Max turns her head toward him, maybe trying to look at him.

“At the time, I was too young. I didn’t really get what was going on,” he continues, “but eventually they got divorced and — she still never came and got me. I think she lost custody somehow, but I’m not sure. Dad would never tell me. But sometimes I would call her late at night, so he wouldn’t hear, and I would beg her to come and get me. She never did.”

Tears prick traitorously at the back of his eyes. Billy remembers El finding him in that memory and it had felt so real, kaleidoscopic and sensory. The warm sand under his bare feet. Gulls squawking and wheeling. Salt spray stinging his eyes. His mother cheering from the shore. A time when she loved him. The warmth of it all floods his chest, even now.

“I was so mad at her,” confesses Billy, “for fuckin’ years I was mad at her. Think maybe I still am. How could she leave me alone with him, y’know? How could she just leave me behind?”

All these years later, that’s really all Billy wants to ask her.

He has to stop, get a grip. Dabbing his own eyes on the corner of Max’s hospital sheet, he lays close next to her, mindful of her newly-healed limbs.

“If she stayed he would’ve killed her,” he admits, “but she still left me alone with him. And I'm still mad at her for it.”

Would any explanation she could give him satisfy the rage he has? Could any reason be good enough?

“So I don’t know why either of our moms did what they did,” he tells Max, clearing his throat. “And really, now, I don’t think I care why. They fucked up. Both of them. We were their kids, their only kids. And they should have fucking been there for us and they weren’t. So fuck them.”

Max’s face crumples. New tears trail out of the corners of their eyes.

“It's okay to be mad at her. It's okay to be mad that she let you down. But don’t waste years of your life being mad like me,” Billy instructs her, wiping at his own eyes, “okay? Wondering what was wrong with you and why she didn’t come through for you like moms should. Expecting the whole world to be mean so you gotta be mean to them first. ‘Cause that’s all fucking bull, and you know it. You're smart. There’s nothing you did wrong to make her this way. It was her decision. Only she can answer for it.”

For a while, Max just cries. After some hesitance, Billy wraps an arm over her shoulders and hugs her close. They’ll probably never speak of this moment again, but it feels good to do.

If only he had been better to her, maybe they could have been friends. Maybe they could have had a truce in their household, had one another’s backs when they needed it most.

Maybe better late than never.

Billy butts his head against Max’s shoulder. “Do you want me to stick around, Max?”

“I don’t know,” she weeps.

“It’s fine if you don’t. Seriously, I mean it. If it’s too hard on you I don’t have to be around. Say the word and you never have to see me again. I can fuck off back to San Diego or something.”

“Is that what you wanna do?”

Billy sighs, “I’m gonna do what you want me to do for now.”

“Okay.” Max takes a steadying breath, chest heaving. “Okay, then, then yeah. Yeah I want you to stick around. I don’t know if— I don’t know what you are, or— or how you're here but you… you really seem like Billy and if you’re back, somehow, then, yeah, I think I want you here.”

He knocks his brow against her shoulder again. “Okay. Then I'm staying right here.”

Together they lie in the dark hospital room. The occasional beep of machinery and muffled PA announcement from out in the hall filling the nighttime quiet. If he listens, Billy can make out the rumble of passing cars on the secondary highway, intermittently sweeping by in the late night outside the window. That world is miles away. Hawkins, the war, the shadow. All of it far beyond their bubble of darkness. Some other world entirely. Here is their private world, made of hurt and hatred but maybe it could be something better. If they tried. Billy imagines them as two much younger kids, hiding away under the covers from their parents arguing.

At some point, Max succumbs back to sleep. Her chest rises and falls evenly. Her stubborn little face loses its scowl and she looks so much younger. So much… less burdened.

Curled up on his side, Billy just watches her in the dark for a time. He wonders what El saw inside of him when she sorted through the topography of his mind. Could she see what he thought of Max? If he asked her, how would she describe it? Did she see this storm of resentment and indifference and fondness and call it love?

Billy’s not sure he has ever loved anything, at least not in a long, long time.

He wouldn’t know where to start.

But he owes her. So he’ll try.

It must be hours that he stays. Maybe he even drifts off to sleep himself once or twice. After the second or third time he blinks awake, the treeline outside Max’s window has started to glow with pale predawn light.

Billy rolls and checks the red digital clock over his shoulder. Four thirty-six. The morning shift will start soon. He should get out of here.

Carefully extracting himself from the hospital bed, Billy stands, stretches his cramped limbs. He picks up the leather jacket from the back of the chair and shrugs into it. With only minor attitude, he snatches up the LA Dodgers ball cap and puts it on too. He vaguely swipes at the curls spilling out from beneath the hat, wondering how identifiable they actually make him.

Outside in the hall the fluorescent lights are garish. He blinks and winces as his eyes adjust. Glancing both ways down the corridor and feeling ridiculous, Billy tucks the brim of the ball cap low and starts towards the stairs.

The hallways are all but deserted. The few staff he passes don’t pay him any mind.

Rounding the corner he scrubs his hand over his face. The night of halfway sleep and catharsis has left him bleary. The walk back to Loch Nora will be drudging. Steve will complain that he didn’t call for a ride, but he’ll get over it.

Keeping his eyes down as he marches, Billy almost doesn’t notice her before it’s too late.

Standing a few feet in front of him a woman stares, stock still.

Susan.

They lock eyes, equally astonished.

Billy halts dead in his tracks. The shock nearly petrifies him.

Her hair is just like Max’s. Red and flyaway. Ungroomed in many days.

Dark rings below her eyes are bruising through fair skin. Rumpled clothes. The strap of her purse slipping down her shoulder. Haggard under the hallway lights and collapsing under the dread every time she must visit these rooms.

Her mouth falls open in shock. Recognition, disbelief, culpability, it all passes over her face in a pained ripple.

Even after this, after everything else, Billy really had thought he would never see her again.

Susan’s brows knit. Her eyes fill with tears. She inhales, as if to speak, but all that comes out is a wavering gasp. Her hand comes up to cover her mouth.

Billy grinds his teeth, seething.

What did she and his mother both see in Neil? What deficit do his mother and Max’s mother share that made them marks to the same man? There must be something. What made him worth more than their own children?

How could she do that to her kid, he wants to ask.

How could his own mother have done it to him?

But from Susan, Billy has never wanted anything. Least of all answers.

There’s nothing between them worth saying.

With a blink, Billy looks away. Hands crammed into his jacket pockets, he ducks his head and continues right past her.

When Billy gets back to the trailer, Eddie is curled up under a blue blanket reading a magazine by the light of the table lamp.

“You stayed up?” asks Billy, quietly shutting the trailer’s front door.

“Yeah,” Eddie whispers, “couldn't sleep. Wanted to make sure you made it back.”

“Steve still here?”

“Sawing logs,” Eddie nods toward the closed bedroom door. Steady, rumbling snores can be heard from the other side. “He was on the phone with Buckley for, like, three hours. Think he talked himself tired.”

“Those two are friggin’ weird.”

Eddie chuckles. “Tell me about it.”

Billy toes out of his boots on the welcome mat, feeling barely alive. Fighting the nausea that comes with sleep deprivation. Eddie tosses the magazine to the coffee table and comes toward him. The blanket around his shoulders trails on the floor behind him like a cape.

“How'd it go?” Eddie asks, cautious.

“Fine. Good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Billy inhales, scrubs at his face with both hands, crackling inside with emotion. “We talked. She wants me to stay. It was good.”

Eddie smiles, such a disarming sweetness every time. He wraps Billy up in a hug, the blanket enfolding them both like the wings of a bat.

Billy stands there, lets himself be held. Presses his cheek to Eddie’s shoulder and hair. He squeezes his arms tight around Eddie’s waist. His fingertips pass over the large healed wound on Eddie’s side.

“You got these from saving Max, right?”

Eddie stiffens. “What?”

“These,” Billy clarifies, tracing the pocket of scar tissue through Eddie’s shirt, “you got these the night Max got hurt.”

“Yeah,” admits Eddie softly.

Billy can feel the rigid scar. The near fatal injury inflicted by the shadow. The permanent mark of Eddie’s bravery.

“Thank you,” Billy mutters, voice breaking.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you,” he repeats, “for doing that. For saving her. For fighting so hard. For making sure that she… that she…”

His voice abandons him. But if Billy is technically a new person then he might as well start acting like it.

Eddie folds him up in his blanketed embrace, swaying slightly. He presses a kiss behind Billy’s ear. “Any time, big guy.”

Chapter Text

“So,” begins the lanky Wheeler kid after an extended silence, “he’s not the real Billy?”

“He is,” insists El, sitting next to Billy on the threadbare couch.

“And he’s not dead.”

“No.”

“But then…” Mike trails off as he pieces things together, “the real Billy still died at Starcourt.”

“Yes,” replies El.

“But this is also the real Billy,” asks Wheeler, pointing.

“Yes.”

“Okay. But, like, how?”

“Same inside. Same outside.” El nods wisely.

The freshmen all look at each other in bewilderment. Even loudmouthed Henderson shakes his head in noncomprehension. Billy feels like he’s on trial for his life.

“But El,” asks the younger Byers kid, “how can there be two of the same person? How can one be dead and one be alive? That doesn’t make sense.”

“Not two,” El insists. “One. The same.”

“So was he stuck in the Upside Down?” asks the Wheeler kid, the peskiest. “Like Will was? Billy was down there for ten months and doesn’t remember?”

“No,” says El.

Scrutiny sears against Billy’s face, hotter than a furnace. Max’s friends are all here. The older kids linger on the edges of the room. Nancy with Jonathan and Argyle. Buckley stands posted with Eddie and Steve. In the kitchenette Ms. Byers and Hopper are by the refrigerator, murmuring back and forth at a low volume that Billy cannot hear.

They’re all looking at him, circling him, adjudicating the mystery of how he could possibly be sitting here.

Mike Wheeler folds his long toothpick arms and sighs. “Okay, so, Billy wasn’t in the Upside Down. Then where has he been all this time?”

El frowns, considering. “Nowhere. Gone.”

“Because Billy really died at the mall,” Wheeler finishes.

“Yes.”

“Okay, but then how is he here, El?” Wheeler implores with desperation as their circular argument laps itself. “He’s here, right now, sitting right next to you! If the real Billy died at Starcourt then how can the guy sitting here right now also be the real Billy?”

“Where did this second Billy come from?” presses Sinclair more calmly.

El falters. She still struggles to explain the cerebral parts of her abilities.

“He’s a backup file.”

Every head in the room swivels to Henderson. The kid is seated in the armchair pondering Billy with open curiosity, chin in hand.

There are a few confused glances between Joyce and the older kids. Clearly, Henderson had anticipated applause.

“Y’know, a backup file!” he exclaims when no one agrees. “Like on a floppy disk.”

“Backup file,” mutters El.

“What is the kid saying?” Hopper asks Steve.

“I don’t even know half the time,” Steve replies.

“Oh c’mon! You guys all use computers.” Henderson throws his hands up in frustration. “It’s like when you make a backup copy of your files. Like for computer games or homework or something. You can duplicate a file and put it on a disk and move that copy to another computer. Or put the disk somewhere safe. So, like, even if your computer is destroyed, you can still put the old file on a new machine. Like making a photocopy. The copy and the original are basically identical.”

“Is this like that movie?” asks Harrington, suspicious. “With the motorcycles in the computer?”

“No, Steve, this is nothing like Tron! This is real! Right, El?”

El nods sternly.

“Okay then how is this anything like whatever you do on your computer?” implores Steve.

“The ecosystem of the Upside Down is a hivemind,” says Henderson, “a superorganism, like a hive of bees or a reef of coral. All creatures share a sort of consciousness. And Vecna is a powerful psychic attached to that consciousness. He's incorporated himself into the ecosystem of the Upside Down somehow. Now, we don’t know exactly how they interact, but when Venca reaches out psychically, he uses the Mindflayer. And the Mindflayer was controlling Billy the night of the Fourth.” Henderson gets to his feet and starts pacing like he’s goddamn Sherlock Holmes. “And if all our deductions about this are true, then that means the Mindflayer would have had access to an up-to-date copy of Billy’s whole consciousness and personality, because he was looped into the hivemind right up until he died.”

Around the cabin, faces start going slack, eyes widening in horrific understanding. Nancy Wheeler starts to tear up. Ms. Byers turns her face into Hop’s shoulder.

“But then how is there,” Eddie falters, gesturing with his whole hand, “another body?”

“Yeah,” agrees Nancy, wiping her eyes, already way ahead of everyone on the conclusions of Dustin’s logic, “okay, so. Even if the Mindflayer has stored a perfect copy of Billy’s mind, that’s one thing. But his actual body still physically died at Starcourt. How can there be a new, identical body with Billy’s mind in it? Even with stuff he wasn’t born with! Like the tattoo and the piercings?”

“We learned about elements in science class from Mr. Clark,” Sinclair says, nodding to his classmates. “Don’t know if the Upside Down has, like, carbon and hydrogen and normal atoms and stuff like we do in our world. But if it does, couldn’t the Mindflayer just build a body just like Billy’s? Exactly the same? From the atoms up?”

“It’s already built itself a body once,” Nancy agrees, “with the rats and chemicals last summer.”

The implications of that settle over the room like a plague.

“The Mindflayer can manipulate matter,” extrapolates Dustin, “whether chemically or psychically. It can regenerate a physical body given enough raw material.”

“But El says he’s not flayed,” the Wheeler kid follows. “He's not looped into the hivemind anymore. It’s only Billy in the new body.”

Is it? At times Billy himself is not sure. El has scoured within him over and over again, scrutinizing his inner self for any trace of the shadow. But Billy cannot help but second guess sometimes. If this body is new does that make him not real? He feels real. Maybe he’s real but just a different person. Are you still the same person you were five years ago? Two years ago? Ten minutes ago?

How much can someone change before they’re no longer themselves?

“So the Mindflayer replicated Billy’s consciousness…” says Sinclair.

“And built the body that it remembers to put it into,” the younger Byers finishes.

“It built a brand new Billy from scratch,” resolves Dustin, “so identical to the original that he doesn’t even realize he’s a copy. A backup file.”

The room is silent. It may as well be a wake.

Billy feels as if he is at the bottom of the sea. Weightless. Unreachable. He leans his elbows on his knees and hangs his head, trying to not be sick. Looks at the back of his hand. How the tendons flex and release. How the pattern of the pores and fine hairs of his skin line up like they always have. How the small white scar on his knuckles doesn’t stretch and contract with the same elasticity as the rest of his tissue.

He got that scar years ago. Some fight in school. It has steadily faded for ten years but never really went away.

And the shadow knew even that. Knew to build a scar that looked ten years old. Even though not one molecule of Billy’s body is older than three months.

If every atom of this body is the same as before, does it really matter that they’re all new?

It’s Nancy, of course, with the courage to break the silence. “But why would the Mindflayer do that? If he’s not flayed, if the Mindflayer isn’t using him as a spy, why replicate a whole person and then just… let him lose from the Upside Down?”

Ever the interrogator, Nancy’s question stumps the room. Munson covers his head with both arms, rocking. Buckley hugs Steve close to pretend she’s not crying. Max’s friends all glance between one another, unable to conjure a satisfactory explanation between them.

Henderson asks the obvious. “Are we sure he’s not a spy?”

“Yes,” says El.

“Maybe it was a mistake?” offers Mike Wheeler, shrugging weakly. “Like, I dunno, maybe the Upside Down regularly replicates its native creatures when they die off.”

“We know the creatures have a life cycle!” asserts Henderson. “Little pollywogs turn into demodogs which turn into demogorgons. But maybe they don’t reproduce. Maybe it’s a way the Mindflayer regulates the ecosystem of the Upside Down.”

“And now it’s trying to regulate ours,” says Will Byers, very gently.

His interjection brings everyone to silence. Joyce Byers watches her youngest from across the cabin with haunted eyes.

“The Upside Down broke through,” Will continues, squirming under everyone’s attention. “Those vines, or whatever they are, have been growing up into this side of the rift for, like, more than three months now. Maybe the Mindflayer is able to detect things from our world now. Gather data. Maybe it knows what’s missing from our world and it’s trying to… fix it.”

Hopper tries to pump the brakes on the kids’ speculation. “We don’t know any of that for sure.”

“It’s a better explanation than nothing,” gripes Mike Wheeler.

“But we don’t know,” Hop counters firmly, “this is all just your best guess. You know what we call that on the police force? Conjecture. And it doesn’t do a lick of good to prove your case.”

“He’s sitting on your couch, Hop!” Mike Wheeler’s voice cracks as he exclaims. “I think we have some pretty fucking convincing evidence!”

“Hey! You watch your language!”

“Or what?” Wheeler bitches. “You gonna arrest me for conjecture?”

“Hey, now that’s enough,” Ms. Byers snaps at both of them, her voice fearsome and commanding for coming from such a tiny body. “Stop picking fights.”

Hopper folds his burly arms and frowns at Mike from across the room. Billy can practically see him counting to ten in his head.

On the couch beside Billy, El takes his hand. “He is the real Billy. So real that I could not tell. If he really is a… backup file… then he is still real. The same as before.”

Billy doesn’t miss how Jonathan Byer’s dark-ringed eyes flick over to his little brother.

Hopper steps over, his gruff face holding in some sort of emotion. “Okay, kids, that’s enough,” he says in a firm but gentle voice, “let’s give him a break. Everybody take five. C’mon, Hargrove, let’s take a minute, go out and have a smoke or something.”

Released, Billy shoots up. The seated kids flinch when he does. Not glancing at Steve or Eddie or anyone, he turns to the door. As he passes, El catches his hand and squeezes tight for a moment before letting go.

Then Billy is out the front door.

It’s getting dark. The woods are quiet. Moths tap on the glowing lantern hanging from the awning. On the porch, Billy is on his third cigarette. Inside the cabin several conversations can be heard happening at once, none of them Billy wants to know anything about. He leans on the railing, staring hard into the dirty glass jar peppered with ash and cigarette butts.

“Um, hey…”

Billy glances over his shoulder. The younger Byers kid stands there, slouching, too big for his growing body. So quiet, the kid had snuck right up on him.

“Do you… uh… mind if I…?” the kid gestures at the empty space against the porch railing.

Billy shrugs. He extends the open pack of cigarettes toward Byers.

“Oh, uh, no thanks.”

Another shrug. Kid can suit himself.

The kid scoots forward to come alongside Billy on the railing, leaving a healthy arm’s length of distance between them. He fidgets, blatantly uncomfortable. Byers picks at the greying wood of the banister. Billy continues his cigarette.

“Hey, listen,” Byers starts, newly-deep voice cracking, “can I, um, can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Can you, uh…” Byers looks down and the wood railing beneath his hands, clears his throat. “Can you, like, ever feel it? The Mindflayer? That feeling when it would talk to us? Like cold shivers on the back of your neck?”

Billy hits him with a scowl of confusion.

“Never mind, it’s stupid. It’s just something that happens to me sometimes,” explains Byers, looking away, “since sixth grade. Since I went missing. That sorta chilly, dizzy feeling when it would control me. And then even after they got it out of me it was like I still could feel it sometimes, whenever the Mindflayer was close. Like an echo. Like it was trying to reach out. That doesn’t happen to you?”

Billy considers it. Tries to recall the sensation of the shadow. The helplessness of being amputated from your own body. Assailed by indescribable knowledge. Searches his memories for what Will Byers is talking about.

But there’s nothing. No chills, no whispers.

“No,” Billy tells him, “never felt anything like that.”

Byers nods, swallowing audibly.

For a second Billy thinks that’s all the kid has to say and is hoping he’ll rejoin the others inside soon. The kid hesitates, fidgeting and looking away.

“Sometimes I think it’s always there,” Byers mutters, “like there will always be a piece of it inside of me. It’ll never really be gone, it's just… dormant. How long until it takes control again, y’know? I think about it all the time. Because why me and not anyone else? There are hundreds of kids in town, but it picked me. So there must have been something about me that made me… an easy target. And ever since I’ve been back in Hawkins, it’s so much stronger. I can feel it closing in. And then I get that feeling, shivers on the back of my neck.”

The kid is a raw nerve. Brimming with emotion. Billy is almost jealous over how deeply he seems to feel.

“But I don’t… I don’t get that feeling around you,” Byers tells him before he pushes off the railing and slips back inside through the screen door, as quiet as he came.

Everyone is piling into their respective vehicles. There’s a minor skirmish over who gets to ride with Harrington and who goes with Munson. The freshmen are all pulling out their walkie-talkies and synchronizing their watches and shit. Sleepover logistics are being strategized. Billy watches from the porch railing, nibbles on his thumbnail.

Sun’s almost down. Must be late, maybe close to nine o’clock. Summer evenings last forever out here.

To Billy’s horror, Nancy Wheeler is walking up to him as the kids squabble.

“Hey, um, can we talk for a minute?” she broaches.

“Asking permission now?” Billy snaps.

She chews her lip. “I deserve that.”

“What do you want now, Wheeler?”

Subtly she glances at the insurgency of freshmen, ensuring she and Billy are not overheard.

“I just wanted to, um, apologize. For hitting you. And for what I said last week.”

“Who gives a shit about your apology?” dismisses Billy.

“Well I’m not apologizing for all of it. You still shouldn’t have blown up at Eddie like that in front of the kids. Or at all, really. But you’re right about the other thing. It’s… it’s none of my business if you and Steve hang out.”

Billy suspects that Nancy privately considers everything to be her business. “Well, so long as I have your approval.”

“That’s not— I’m not trying to, like, give you my blessing or anything,” she stutters defensively, cheeks turning red. “Clearly I don’t agree with his choice but… it’s his to make.”

Billy sniffs. With his toe he scuffs at the litterfall. They brace in their mutual discomfort.

“I haven't told anyone,” Nancy admits gently. “I wouldn't tell anyone.”

“Tell whoever you want.”

“I wouldn't,” she insists.

Chewing his lip, Billy tries not to seem relieved.

“You were being serious, right? About you and him?” Nancy drops her voice to a whisper, folding her arms. “You weren't just… saying stuff to try and shock me? Because lying about something like that would be so messed up.”

“Wasn’t a lie,” Billy tells her. “He doesn’t know I said anything to you.”

To her credit, she absorbs the knowledge with the dispassion of a surgeon. “Okay. Um, well, that’s fine. I guess that if he ever wants to tell me, then, he’ll tell me.”

It seems to hurt her that Steve would not trust her with that information.

But she gets a hold of herself quickly. “But even if you were being a jackass, I still reacted badly. So I'm sorry. Dealing with this thing, the lab and the feds and the Upside Down, it sucks. And it’s scary. And people die. And there’s only a few of us who have lived through it. We can’t be in-fighting. We need to be on each other’s side. So, truce?”

“Whatever.”

Their stilted exchange concluded, Billy expects them to never speak to each other again.

But Nancy lingers. Hesitation hikes her shoulders. Her expressive eyes dial up with some emotion. “Listen, hey. Can I ask you something else? Last summer, when you were, uh, flayed. Or, um, possessed. You could hear the Mindflayer talking to you, right?”

“Yeah.’

“Did it have, like… a voice?”

“A voice?”

“Like, did it talk like a person? Could you recognize the voice if you heard it again?”

“It wasn’t like it spoke, really. It was more… impulses. I would just feel… compelled to do stuff. And even if it was crazy it made sense somehow. Like when wild shit happens in a dream for no reason.”

“Did you ever… hear anyone else, then?”

“Anyone else?”

“Like, maybe someone else who had been taken to the Upside Down? Another person? A girl, maybe our age?”

A thousand thousand voices, talking all at once, none of them with words. None of the human.

“No,” Billy tells her steadfast, “there wasn’t ever anyone else.”

Her big eyes well. She looks away, clenching her dainty jaw to keep from crying. “Yeah. I figured. Okay. Um, thanks. See you around.”

She ends up taking her brother home in the station wagon. The other freshmen get divided up somehow among Harrington and Munson, and the vehicles head off down the road like a wagon train.

El and Hop are having a movie night. They’re bundled up on the couch with blankets and popcorn watching The Black Stallion. El’s got a new fascination with horses. Keeps asking Hopper if she can see one in real life.

It gives Billy some privacy in their shared bedroom. Some space. He suspects Hopper suggested he and El watch a movie exactly for that purpose.

Because the afternoon had been tough. Facing the freshmen and the older kids had been tough. But Billy is a little surprised by how okay he feels. There is no sour bubble of rage. No instinct to run away. No compulsion to go out and make someone hurt as much as he is hurting.

Mostly, he is just tired.

Curled up in his creaky bed, he hovers between awake and asleep. The muffled, staticy audio of the movie in the next room murmurs over him like white noise. The flickering fluctuating light of the TV set spills beneath the door.

“Hey, Codename, you there?”

Billy cracks an eye open. The brick shaped walkie-talkie that Eddie and Steve had presented him with sits upright on the bedside table. It crackles with static.

“Come in, big guy,” Eddie’s voice crackles over the speaker, “we’re here to say goodnight.”

Billy brings the walkie to his face, hits the call button. “Did you two get me this thing just to torture me?”

“It’s all part of the initiation,” says Eddie. “Next, we make a blood pact and teach you the secret handshake. Then we move on to the animal sacrifice.”

“Blow me, satanist.”

“You doing okay, man?” That’s Steve, all business. “Today was kinda rough.”

“No shit,” Billy replies.

“You wanna talk about it?”

No. “Don’t really want to get too specific over the radio,” he says.

“Think Hop will let you get away anytime soon? You can come crash with the both of us for a couple days. We can talk… or not, if you want. Whatever.”

Lying in bed, Billy stares up at the planks in the ceiling, toys with his pendant on its chain. “Lemme see if I can sweet talk the old man into letting me out. I’ll let you know in the morning.”

“Okay, cool. Sounds good,” comes Steve’s reply.

“You two together right now or are you on different radios?”

There is a noticeable extended beat before Steve replies. “We’re spending the night at my place.”

Billy imagines them. Laying side-by-side in Steve’s bed, or snuggled together on that overstuffed beige couch. Eddie borrowing some of Steve’s clothes to sleep in. Watching reruns of Cheers. Having a boring evening together.

There’s no jealousy. Only longing. Billy wishes he was there with them both.

“Well, trying not to miss me too hard,” he tells them both. “I’ll buzz in the morning to let you know the plan.”

“We’re gonna leave the radio on this channel if you need anything.”

“Hey, don’t need you mother-henning me like you do those kids, Harrington.”

“Too bad. Better get used to it.”

Billy rolls his eyes. For his whole life, he has always been drawn to people that stand up to him. Both Eddie and Steve have that quality in spades.

And Billy’s never had anyone want to take care of him before.

“Be in touch, okay?” instructs Steve over the radio. “We’re here for you. Get some sleep. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, pretty boy.”

“Sweet dreams, tough guy!” crows Eddie.

“Over and out.”

Billy plucks nervously at his hair. “Is it too short?”

“No, it’s fine.” Jonathan doesn’t even look, adjusting one of the small dials on his camera.

“My hair’s never this short.”

“No one’s gonna notice, man. Hair grows.”

“It better not look stupid.”

“Seriously, it looks fine. it doesn’t really matter. No one ever looks good in their driver’s licence photo.”

It is slightly aggravating that Jonathan Byers is dishing out style tips given the sorry state of his own hair. Billy knows he has a tendency to be vain, but Byers objectively could stand a haircut himself.

Joyce Byers hadn’t really just Billy’s hair all that short. Just trimmed the outgrown stuff. The ends still hang past his ears. Can’t rightly be called a mullet anymore, but a couple months of new growth will fix that.

Billy poses stiffly in front a white bed sheet that Hopper had tacked to the wall. Jonathan snaps a couple photos. The flash strobes across Billy’s field of vision.

“I’ll get to the school darkroom and get copies to you in a few days,” Jonathan tells Murray as he winds the roll of film.

“This is like pregnancy, Jonathan, it cannot be rushed,” says Murray as he peers through a magnifying glass and array of counterfeiting tools at the tiny kitchen table. “All in good time. We’re still putting some finishing touches on our new persona in the meantime.”

With tweezers and a Q-tip, Murray is carefully emulsifying the ink off of an old Indiana driver licence. He holds up the card to the light and blows the solution dry.

He glances between Billy and Hopper over the frame of his large glasses. “We’re gonna need a new name.”

“A new name for what?” asks Billy.

“For you, Mr. John Q. Public.”

“Why?” Billy scowls.

Murray blinks rapidly, like Billy’s question betrays supreme idiocy. “Because if you bear a striking resemblance to a famously dead teenager, you had better not also share a name and birthdate.”

“Couldn’t I just claim to be a different guy with the same name? Isn’t having an Indiana driver’s licence enough?”

“Ah, there’s that famous California Department of Education at work,” Murray gripes under his breath. He sets the licence card down and appears to compose himself with a small, internal pep talk. “You can’t just bluff your way out from under the eye of the feds, kid.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means the best way to avoid scrutiny is by not being suspicious. The surveillance apparatus of the federal government is wide and it is vast, kid.” Murray smirks, a maniac glint of conspiracy in his eye. “And it’s not like the old days. It’s all digital now. In the mainframe. Used to be folks could just move one town over and assume a new name. Not anymore. Pretty soon Uncle Sam is going to have all our records in a central computer database from the moment you’re born. You’ll be on the grid. Trackable. You get pulled over in Florida with your old name and, bam, an agent in DC gets a phone call that same day. You need a whole new identity, kid. New birth date, new birth certificate, new name.”

“Man, I’m never gonna remember all that.”

“Well you’re going to have to try. Ever heard of the Witness Protection Program? Hide in Plain Sight? Hmm? Only in this case you’re hiding from the government.” Murray returns to his magnifying glass. “And really, you can go by whatever name you want out in the world. Call yourself Bob or Bill or Joe at work. But your papers at least are going to have to say something totally unrelated.”

“Well, how long do I have to choose a name?”

“Couple days until I get the photos—” Murray gestures to Jonathan and his mom “—after that it’s really just a typewriter and a Xerox machine.”

Billy considers for a moment. “Can my last name be ‘Hopper?’”

Murray shoots Hopper a nettling look. “How about it, Jim?”

Hopper leans against the sink, big arms folded. “You don’t need to do that, kid.”

“That’s what El’s birth certificate says, right?” Billy persists. “Jane Hopper?”

Hopper swallows. “It does.”

Billy nods, certain. “Yeah. Yeah, then I want my last name to be Hopper.”

Ms. Byers smiles quietly. She touches Hopper’s elbow, slipping her small hand around his arm. Hopper blinks rapidly, clears his throat in a conspicuous harrumph. Frowns and shuffles on the spot.

“Uh, yeah, sure," Hopper says hastily, "sounds good, kid. Whatever you want.”

Chapter Text

Steam wafts in warm veils around the Harrington’s master bathroom. It fogs the mirror, the block glass window, the faux marble tile. The warm spray of the shower runs down Billy’s scalp, his neck. It’s probably the nicest shower he’s ever used. The hot water never runs out. And Billy takes his showers hot these days.

After he redresses, Billy comes back downstairs. Steve is talking on the phone with someone in the kitchen. Eddie is over in the living room, once again inspecting the record collection.

“Jeez, took you long enough. I’ve never known a guy who liked his own reflection as much as you,” he crows and tugs one of Billy’s damp blonde curls. “You getting into all of Mrs. Harrington’s expensive hair goops?”

“Y’know, some conditioner wouldn’t kill you either, freakshow.”

“He’s still on the phone with Buckley,” Eddie tells Billy, indicating with a nod of his shaggy head toward Steve wrapped up in the phone cord, “y'know, yack yack yack. Could be another hour or two at this rate.”

They both end up venturing out to the patio to smoke. The season is in full display outside. A fat, humid, Indiana summer afternoon. Lush, green woods encircle the backyard, creating dapple pockets of shade around the pool. Insects chirp in the vegetation. Branches stir in the sluggish afternoon breeze. Despite the heat, Eddie still dons his black leather jacket, nonconformist even against the weather. The concrete is warm and rough beneath Billy’s bare feet. He lights his own cigarette before handing off the disposable lighter over to Eddie.

“So,” Billy says, exhaling his first drag, “Buckley’s a dyke, right?”

With a squawk and a clatter, Eddie fumbles the plastic Bic lighter. It drops to the patio, bounces, and skitters over the edge of the pool.

“Shit!” barks Eddie, getting to his knees, like he could scoop it up from the bottom of the deep end. “Aw, shit! Shit. Goddammit!”’

“Jesus Christ, how did you ever sell drugs, man?”

“Dude!” squawks Eddie, spinning on him. “You can’t just ask shit like that.”

“She is, though, right?”

Eddie blinks before he is able to rein his expression back in. “Uh, um… I mean, I don’t— I don’t know. Why would I know?”

Expectant, Billy cocks an eyebrow.

Eddie folds under zero pressure. “Man, I— I’m not supposed to say anything.”

“You didn’t say anything. I figured it out.”

“She’s worried. About people finding out.”

“Well I’m not saying it’s obvious. I’m just saying I figured it out. I know what to look for. And you got the worst poker face in the history of all the world.” Billy flaunts a mean grin as he ashes his smoke.

Eddie scrunches up his face all petulant. He looks like a kid when he makes that face. In some harebrained display of dominance, he stomps over and swipes the cigarette right out of Billy’s mouth. Takes a big drag and exhales smoke right in Billy’s face.

He raises his eyebrows at Billy in challenge.

Grinning, canine gnawing at his lip, Billy shoves Eddie back into the water.

He goes down like a sack of potatoes. Arms pinwheeling. “Shit—”

There’s a splash and then quiet on the patio for a few heartbeats before Eddie resurfaces with a yelp.

“Fuck!” His sodden hair hangs across his face as he squawks and coughs. “Oh, oh yeah, laugh it up you son-of-a-bitch.”

“Anyone ever tell you your mouth writes checks your ass can’t cash, Munson?”

“You just like riling me up, sugar.”

“You like me riling you up, amigo.”

From his jacket pocket, Eddie retrieves a ruined, sodden pack of cigarettes and flings it at Billy’s head. He misses by a few feet. “You owe me a new pack of cigs, dickhead.”

Eddie can’t quite haul himself out of the deep end in sodden wet jeans and leather jacket. He tries in vain to hoist his body up onto the concrete a few times. His hands scrabble and flail. After the third try, Billy takes pity and helps him out, snatching the back of Eddie’s collar and heaving him up onto the concrete like a landed tuna.

After Eddie strips out of his wet clothes, Billy retrieves a towel for him from one of the outdoor hooks. He drops it over Eddie’s head.

They lay Eddie’s clothes out flat on the sun-warmed concrete. It’s a hot enough day, they’ll be dry in an hour or two. Together, they curl up on one of the pool loungers, Billy in a tank shirt and faded jeans, Eddie with the beach towel draped over his shoulders. He’s so skinny the towel folds over him like a robe. His long, pale legs are probably seeing sunlight for the first time in several years. Unable to s plit a cigarette Eddie toys with Billy’s newly-trimmed hair. He always needs to be fidgeting with something.

“You do, right?” Eddie asks. “Like it?”

“Hmm?”

“You like the bickering and riling each other up, right? Like, you get it’s all banter. I’m not slowly digging my own grave with your patience, am I?”

Billy shifts against him, awkward. They haven’t had much time one-on-one with each other, not since the roadside motel. They haven’t really addressed… well, any of it. There is tension between them that Billy doesn’t know how to cross.

“Think I might owe you some patience,” he mumbles to Eddie.

“Oh, so you’re just going easy on me?” Eddie bats his lashes. “What, you think I can’t take it?”

“Nah, I still like pickin’ on you.” Billy traces his fingernails up and down Eddie’s bony knee. “It’s just too easy to get under your skin, freakshow.”

“And you like someone being a little mean to you, don’t you?” Eddie asks, playful and conspiratorial.

“Guess I must.”

“I think you do.” Eddie nudges him with his damp head. A few drops of pool water shake onto Billy’s bare arms. “That’s why you like Steve, too. It’s, like, damn near pathological with you two, I swear to god. He always stands up to you. Calls you on your shit.”

“I think you both do plenty of that.”

“But Steve’s not mean. Not like I can be.”

Billy pulls back, hitting Eddie with a daring grin. “Oh, you think you can be mean enough for me, Munson?”

“You think I can’t, Cali?”

“I think you talk a lot of bullshit every time you speak.”

Mischief gleams in Eddie’s big, dark eyes. “Then shut me up, big guy.”

Eddie’s got it too. The spark, the fire. That instinct to provoke that draws Billy to certain people. From across countries. From across spacetime.

Billy presses his tongue across the straight edge of his teeth. Lets his eyes fall to Eddie’s pink, parted mouth. Then further, down his stubbled chin, his long, pale neck, the dark but scant patch of hair on his chest, the inexpert tattoo and the hatch mark scars, still healing. Licks his lips. Leans in a hairsbreadth. Teases. Make’s Eddie wait for it.

Eddie rolls his eyes, all dramatic. “Jesus H. Christ, it’s always some fucking power trip with you—”

Billy licks the last word right out of Eddie’s mouth. Leans in and kisses him hard. Uses his size and strength to roll them. Straddles Eddie’s body in the lounge chair. The plastic creaks. Both of Eddie’s hands fly up into Billy’s hair, pulling him close, nails digging at his scalp. The towel slips away from Eddie’s arms and shoulders, revealing the tattoos and discoloured scars flecked on his limbs and chest. Against his bony sternum, that beat up red guitar pick rests on its chain.

They kiss, filthy and forceful. Until their mouths are red and swollen. Until mortality demands they surface for air. But Billy can’t stop. Not really. He mouths along Eddie’s jawline damp with pool water, the patchy stubble, to the junction of his ear and neck. Nips at Eddie’s earlobe, tastes chlorine.

Eddie all but purs. His hands stroke down the groove of Billy’s neck, back, clawing at his ass through his jeans.

Against Eddie’s alkaline skin, Billy rolls his hips forward. Slips his hand between Eddie’s legs and strokes his hardening cock. Eddie gasps and unravels.

Since their first fumblings, Eddie always steers things between them. It’s like he tricks Billy into not noticing that he’s following instruction. Like a matador, baiting the foaming bull, dancing away from the tips of its horns. He kisses Billy however he wants. He places Billy wherever he wants him. Goads Billy to react however he wants. And Billy had always assumed without asking that if they ever actually went all the way, that Eddie would be on top.

Maybe that is partly wish fulfillment on Billy’s part. Billy always revels in the bad sort of attention. Maybe it's just what he knows. To drive someone to frustration, to retaliation. To have his tantrum thwarted. To be bossed into compliance.

And Eddie is the kinda guy who likes bossing people around.

But Eddie isn’t that way with Steve— Billy had been there to witness it.

With Steve, Eddie is goo-goo eyed. As earnest and tender as he can be. It had stunned Billy to see it that night at the motel. All of Eddie’s countercultural defiance had evaporated like snow on hot rocks. Around Steve, his masquerade of the freak vanishes, and the vulnerable, sensitive boy that it protects is exposed. An awkward, poor, nerdy kid, hiding that he’s a queer. Ostracized and scapegoated by the whole damn town. A burnout loser that no one believes in.

But the popular jock boy is making eyes at him now, and some child version of Eddie is healed by it.

“Do you always bottom with Steve?” Billy asks, pumping, hot breath puffing against Eddie’s neck.

“Yeah,” gasps Eddie. “So far.”

“Woulda thought you liked being on top.”

“I do. Usually. But— y’know… Steve is…”

Eddie never comments on what Steve is. But Billy knows what he means.

“Would you fuck me?” Billy asks, stroking Eddie’s cock. “If I asked?”

“‘Course I would, baby.”

“I want you to.”

Eddie’s ringed fingers snatch Billy’s hair, wrench his head over for another fearsome kiss. He dictates their rhythm with the steady, even roll of his hips, tilting into Billy’s grip. Spreading his legs, he urges Billy further into the cradle of his body. A ringed hand slips between them. Grips at Billy’s necklace through his shirt.

“You know I’m sorry, right?” Eddie pants urgently, eyes closed, against Billy’s mouth.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“I really fucked up with you. With all of us.”

“S’okay. S’okay.”

He kisses Eddie to silence him. Eddie shouldn’t ever have to apologize to him for that night.

The sliding door to the patio opens. Both Eddie and Billy roll their heads to the side to witness Steve stepping out over the threshold in jeans and a polo shirt. He halts at the sight of them, dry humping like virgins on his pool lounge chair in the summer afternoon swelter.

“Oh, uh… hey, guys,” he gapes.

They all three regard each other. So quiet Billy can feel his heartbeat in his eardrums.

“Uh, sorry! Sorry,” babbles Steve, looking away, like he’s fretting for their modesty. “I just, uh, I hadn’t really ever seen you two kiss like that before. Not really. Expect, I guess, that night at the motel, obviously. But that all happened so fast that I didn’t really get to, uh, watch.” Steve clears his throat dryly. “Sorry, shit, I’m making this weird. Is it weird that I came out here? Am I, like, intruding?”

Billy slips a sleeved arm under Eddie’s neck, tucks him close. His heart pulses against Billy’s cheek. Neither of them object.

“Do you… uh…” Steve fumbles, glancing around, “do you want me to go?”

“What’d’ya say, big guy,” Eddie whispers as he slips his both hands into Billy’s back jean pockets. “You want to let Harrington go?”

“No,” Billy croaks.

With caution, Steve looks back at them. Lets his big eyes rove over them both. He bites his lip, a voracity in his expression. When he swallows, the cords in his neck pop. Maybe this is still strange for him, challenging, seeing two men together. Maybe some inner part of him still wails and howls that this is wrong.

But Steve is brave, and so he watches. Watches hungrily in the door frame as Billy kisses down Eddie’s bare arm. Watches as Eddie squeezes and grinds his thighs around Billy’s hips.

“You wanna join us, big boy?” Eddie beckons to Steve, eyes dark. “It’ll be a tight fit on the chair here, but I’ll bet if we try real hard we can squeeze you in.”

“I think I just want to watch you both,” says Steve, taking a seat on the patio’s slate step. “If that’s okay.”

“Oh, so you like to watch?” taunts Eddie.

But Steve just laughs that sweetheart laugh he does. “Kinda, yeah.”

“Are we not your first threesome, Harrington?” Eddie purrs as Billy nibbles the skin on his neck. “Were the rumours about you with Carol and Tommy H. in sophmore year all true?”

“Only half true.”

Eddie furrows his brow, ruts up into Billy’s grip. “Which half?”

“I only ever watched them.”

Eyes closed, head tossed, Eddie smiles, like Steve’s deviance nourishes him personally. “You little pervert, big boy.”

“Hey, don’t look at me.” Steve puts up his hands to the criticism, chuckling. “They asked me to.”

“And you obliged, of course,” Billy cuts in. “‘Cause you’re such a good sport.”

Locking eyes with Steve, Billy grins, feisty, and wrapped his hand around Eddie’s cock and strokes.

It’s exciting. Billy’s never had an audience before. That night at the motel, the night he’d run away, it hadn’t been like this. All three of them had been involved. No one was left just watching. But this… this is him and Eddie only.

Between them two, they speak their own language. A different one than the one spoken between him and Steve, or between all three of them. It is theirs. Only theirs. Their bond is uniquely accented, a pidgin of their own making, intelligible to the other dialects between them all, but not interchangeable. Steve may watch, may know a word of two, but it will never be his native tongue. For the first time, under the drone of a molten summer afternoon, Billy understands how marked is the difference between the dynamic of just himself and Eddie, himself and Steve, and the dynamic of all three of them.

They are a group of three pairs. That’s what Steve had said. Three pairs overlapping into something greater than the sum.

Finding out what that means will be difficult. It will involve heartache and mistakes and growing pains. But Billy would rather have their mess than face it alone.

No longer is he a creature of billions anymore. Maybe he can make do with just two hivemates.

Perhaps their lives have always been entwined, deep underground. Were they destined to meet in this small Hoosier town with it’s conspiracies that pierce through worlds? Did the Upside Down decide to draw them together, across time and space for some involute purpose? Billy’s never been religious, never believed in fate or destiny or any of that hokey shit, but the powers of the shadow monster outpace his own understanding of reality. It is an eternal intellect, a creature of infinite permutation. Who knows what it is truly capable of. Who knows what its true goals are. Billy had been touched by it only briefly, but his perception of the world will never be the same.

Insects drone in the sluggish summer heat. A hand touches the side of his face. “Hey, hey,” Eddie murmurs gently, “you with me, Cali?”

Billy nods, turning his head and nipping playfully at Eddie’s palm.

“Where’d you go?” asks Eddie.

Not answering, Billy burrows against Eddie’s front. He kisses over his skin, the lesser scarring, the faint patch of dark hair over his sternum. Sweat beads down Billy’s neck, dewey in the humid, stagnant air.

Eddie’s hands cradle Billy’s head to his chest. “Let’s take this inside, baby. Hmm? It’s hot out here.”

They barely make it to the living room. Towel abandoned, Eddie follows naked into the Harrington house, tugging at Billy's clothes with each step. They collapse in a heap on the living room carpet before they are on each other again. Billy struggles to shove down his jeans the rest of the way.

Eddie folds overtop him, kisses Billy’s throat, his jaw, his mouth. His damp hair brushes Billy’s skin, cool and prickling. The rounded corner of his guitar pick necklace bump Billy’s shoulder. The fibres of the carpet pile scratch beneath Billy’s back.

Somewhere in the periphery of the room, Steve hovers. Billy cannot see him but knows he’s there.

“Hey, Harrington,” Eddie says, “you still got that tube of KY in your jacket pocket?”

They take turns fucking him on the living room carpet. Eddie is first, working Billy open after retrieving the tube of KY. Holding Billy down with a forearm across his chest, Eddie takes Billy apart, cruelly, thoroughly, his strong musician’s fingers sliding deep inside. He toys with Billy like a cat does with its food. Billy thrashes, impatient, but Eddie keeps him down. Makes him wait. Makes him groan and beg and squirm.

He shoves Billy forward onto his elbows and knees and lines himself up. Breaches him with a slow, powerful thrust. The relief is blinding. Billy’s mouth falls open.

Finally.

Eddie gives him a minute to adjust. Bows forward, kissing up Billy’s shoulders and neck. Folds a tattooed arm around Billy’s shoulders and holds him, presses his nose into the hair behind Billy’s ear. Breathes with him.

On the Harrington living room carpet Eddie takes him in slow, shallow thrusts for a minute. Easy. Slow. Just warming him up.

Billy is so keyed up. So into Eddie being mean and pushy. It winds him up, makes him electric, engulfed. He didn’t know it was possible to be horny while having sex. His body is warm and glowing. He bites his lip and arches his back, trimmed blonde curls falling into his face. Whimpers and rocks his hips back a few times, encouraging Eddie to speed up. He has no patience. For anything. Never has.

A heavy smack lands across Billy’s flank. Then another. Then Eddie grips at the reddened flesh, digs in his fingernails. “Been waiting a long time for this ass, Hargrove. Don’t you try and rush me now.”

Eddie snaps his hips meanly. Billy feels it in the back of his throat.

“Don’t fight it.” Eddie rakes both hands down Billy’s back. Red scratch lines erupt on his skin. “You’re just gonna take whatever we give you.”

Billy hangs his head between his shoulders in surrender. He hates being told what to do. But he loves being forced to do it. How does that make any sense?

Then Eddie starts laying into him. Rears back and fucks him in really deep, steady thrusts. Coring right through him. Rocking them together. Over and over and over. A relentlessly steady rhythm, an ocean tide beating on the rocks for a thousand years.

The force takes Billy’s breath away. Eddie is heavier, stronger, than he looks. He must brace himself, pushing back into each stroke. Carpet burn rubs his knees raw.

Because then Eddie starts to really pick up the pace. Plants a foot on the carpet for leverage. Thrusts harder, deeper. The sound of their skin clapping together fills the room, obscene. A hand smacks his ass, red hot. Then again. Then again. A strobing pain flashes up Billy’s spine. It oscillates in him, the buzz of a saw cleaving him in half. Billy lets Eddie have everything. Lets himself be taken so thoroughly that he nearly ceases to exist. Like he’s become an extension of Eddie’s will. An object of his pleasure. His own cock hangs hard and throbbing and untouched between his legs.

Accelerating, Eddie snatches him by the hair, wrenches Billy’s head up. “Fucking take it.”

Yanked up by his hair, Billy opens his eyes and sees Steve. He’s seated a few feet away in the recliner, with the front of his pants open and his hand stroking his own hard cock. In rapt fixation he watches them, his pouty mouth open in a gasp, his face flushed.

Being taken on the floor, on his hands and knees like an animal, Billy has never felt more adored.

“Mmh—” Eddie tenses, groans, grabs Billy by the waist with both hands and fucks into him driving and deep. “Just take it.”

“Ah— ah—” Billy’s head falls forward, jolting with the force of it. “Fuck, Munson.”

Eddie throws his head back with a snarl. “Yeah, yeah, that’s it—”

His big hands clench around Billy’s waist and he growls, loud, pumps hard two, three times and then he’s coming. Tensing, driving his hips so deep. Billy’s eyes roll back in his head.

Afterward, Steve can no longer keep to himself. He sits on the recliner and watches as Eddie and Billy break apart. They lay side-by-side on the cream coloured carpet, spent.

Steve strips out of his shirt, then steps out of his pants and socks. Strokes himself a few more times to the sight of Billy and Eddie basking on the floor.

Laying face down, legs splayed, Billy rests his head on his folded arms, overwhelmed, speechless, aching and quivering and well used. Beside him, Eddie lies on his back, hair fanned out around him, glowing with satisfaction.

“Flip him over, Ed.”

Hands move him. Billy is flipped onto his back. The ceiling fan drifts into view. Someone lifts his hips and a throw cushion is slipped beneath them.

Steve climbs on top of him, between his legs. He’s warm, hairy, more solid than Eddie. He slots their bodies close, grinding, and for a moment it’s almost like he’s fucking Billy without even being inside of him. He can feel how hard Steve is, can feel it hot and hard against the back of his thigh.

Billy’s mouth waters for it.

This is right for him. To be shared by them both. To share them with each other. It’s so right between them all. It seems so obvious now.

Ever the romantic, Steve leans down and kisses him. Then he glances over at Eddie.

“Grab me the lube.”

Billy almost tells Steve not to bother. He is already so slick between his legs. Even without being touched, his cock is still hard and red against his stomach. Anticipation makes him shake. It’s really going to happen. He’s going to be fucked by both of them. Even the promise is too depraved.

His dad would kill him.

But that matters so little Billy nearly laughs.

His back arches, unable to keep still. It is insane that this is happening. Can’t believe he almost didn’t live to experience this.

Steve is looking right down at him when he pushes inside. Just like their first time. And just like the first time his expression is a little dumbstruck, a little disbelieving. Like he can’t believe he’s getting away with it.

He starts out more cautious than Eddie. When he pulls back the first time he is slower, gentler, a barely perceptible roll of the hips. He lays glowing, sinful kisses on Billy’s neck as he progressively increases his pace. The weight of it heats Billy’s skin. Choppy, warm breaths break against Billy’s left ear. With each slow, punishing thrust, Billy feels something eroding inside of him. Something so ossified it had seemed permanent. Inside he is crumbling to dust.

And he surrenders to that, too. Lets himself be reshaped. Lets himself be changed. Lets himself be punished and loved. In Billy's experience, they are often the same thing.

And Steve is a picture of debauchery as he fucks him. Sweat runs down his neck, the hair of his chest. Eyes dark and half-lidded, sweet mouth panting, his face and neck flush red from exertion. His absurd hair comes unstyled, falling into his face, bouncing on each thrust.

Rug burn stings Billy’s back. His body rings with endorphins and pain, like the crisp, frigid high of a good fight, or the after-workout glow, the glorious ache of a body pushed to its physical limits. Pain is the best fix Billy knows. And each stroke from Steve has the carpet fibres abrading a little more into his skin. A little heartbeat of pain to their fucking. Billy gasps at each pulse. Doesn’t even really realize he’s doing it. Instead he comes loose in his own body. His mind recedes into the subbasal consciousness of the shadow monster. A distributed creature of pure sensory input once again.

The tempo upshifts. Steve plants a hand right in the centre of Billy’s chest, holds him down firm. It gives him some leverage as he adjusts the angle of his hips, slings one of Billy’s knees over his shoulder.

The change in position forces Steve a little deeper inside. Billy’s eyes slide shut and a filthy cry spills out of his mouth. He clutches at Steve’s arm.

But Steve snatches Billy’s hands away. Gets them both and pins Billy’s hands to the carpet on either side of his head.

“Hold him down, Eddie.”

A dark mane of hair skirts the corner of Billy’s vision. A pair of hands restrain his arms up over his head.

It frees Steve up to rear back and adjust. The new angle grazes something deep behind Billy’s navel that has him seeing stars. Like stroking a molten core he didn’t know he had.

“Oh god—”

“Yeah, shit,” Steve growls, “oh my god, Billy—”

“Let ‘im have it, big boy.”

He’ll let them do anything to him.

And if this body is truly his, then he’ll christen it however he likes.

Something wells up from deep inside. An eruptive thunderclap surges through Billy’s body from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. He’s never felt anything like it. He strains, tensing. Eddie holds him down solid. Billy is struck, breathless, as rolling hot waves crash over his body and he is coming untouched beneath Steve. Only it’s not like coming at all. It’s like being conquered.

“Oh my god.” Steve is looking down at Billy’s own come marking up his stomach. “Oh my god, did you just come?”

Billy cannot speak. It goes on, blinding. Another wave rolls over him.

“Oh my god, fuck, you did. That’s so hot. Holy shit.”

Steve grabs the back of Billy’s knees and spreads him. Drives his hips fast and vicious. Eddie holds his breath, griping Billy’s arms like a lifeline.

“This is crazy. You drive me crazy,” Steve grunts. “You both drive me so crazy.”

Steve tenses, groans low and guttural, drives his hips forward one final time and he’s coming inside Billy. He throws his head back, curses, and Billy, smiling, finds it almost as satisfying as his own orgasm.

Static floods his head. Fading in and out of focus, Billy basks in the soreness and satisfaction ringing in his body. Steve flops on top of him. Eddie releases his arms and lays alongside him, stroking his flank and kissing his neck. Sweat runs between their bodies. Golden afternoon sun rays slide through the living room windows. Pool chlorine still lingers on Eddie’s hair.

They lay on the carpet for more than an hour afterward. Billy’s not certain he doesn’t fall asleep. He drifts. They sprawl in a pile of limbs, sharing breath and body heat, triple heartbeats drumming out of sync. The humidity thickens the air, and all thought and movement becomes sluggish.

Occasionally he can hear Eddie and Steve talking quietly but doesn’t pay attention.

At some point one of them gets up and retrieves a warm, damp hand towel. They wipe down themselves and then Billy. The cloth is soothing as it passes over his skin.

“Okay, I have to say it,” says Steve, voice hoarse, “that was the best sex of my life.”

Billy snorts, eyes still closed.

“Yeah,” Eddit agrees, sounding a little stunned, “yeah, that was…”

Like an idiot, Billy feels himself smiling. He gnaws on his bottom lip with his canine, and cracks a sidelong eye at Eddie.

Eddie looks right back at him. A pair of earnest big brown eyes that threaten to melt through all Billy’s defences. Half-damp hair splayed on the white beige carpet, his red guitar pick tangled around his neck.

Steve shuffles nearer, a cloud of body heat, wraps an arm around Billy's chest from behind. “What about you?” he murmurs into Billy’s shoulder. “You doin’ okay?”

“Unngh,” Billy grunts.

Both Eddie and Steve chuckle in response, loopy in their own post-orgasm wake.

Because Billy doesn’t have the courage to say what he is really feeling. That this is the scariest thing that’s ever happened to him. That he hasn’t been so afraid to lose something in a long time. That people always leave, especially when they say they won’t. That they both make him feel so free and unburdened that he can’t bring himself to trust it.

Choosing this is terrifying. And Billy has never been allowed to be scared.

But he’s going to hold on with all his might. No matter what. He wants it. And that is reason enough. Billy is sick of losing people.

“I think it’s like this,” Eddie begins, sitting naked against the headboard of Steve’s bed, finishing the last puff of his roach. “It’s like… imagine a car that gets banged up. Like totaled in a real bad accident. Doesn't run anymore. You might have to replace a whole buncha stuff.” He lists them on his ringed fingers. “Bring it to an auto body guy. Get new fenders painted and the chassis straightened out. Maybe order some new parts, rebuild the transmission and shit. But let’s say you do all that. You gotta million bucks burnin’ a hole in your pocket and a good mechanic and you go do all that and then—bam—you get your car back running good as new. It’s still your car, y’know?”

Billy nudges his head against Eddie’s elbow while Steve trails his fingertips along the blonde hair of his arm.

“Like, maybe the parts are new,” continues Eddie, gesticulating his point, trailing smoke as he does, “maybe it’s not exactly factory stock, not exactly the same as it rolled off the assembly line. But it’s still your car.”

“Isn’t there a Johnny Cash song about that?” mutters Billy.

“No, that was about him stealing all the car parts to build himself.”

“Rock ‘n roll.”

Eddie smiles, snickers. “Yeah. Rock ‘n roll indeed.”

Having not bothered to redress, they all lay in Steve’s bed. They are filthy, covered in sweat and come but none of them can bring themselves to wash just yet. Instead, they drowse, arranging themselves in an instinctive, easy closeness. Eddie had lit up a joint and Steve hadn’t stopped him. They pass it around, basking in the afternoon heat and the glow of good orgasms. They alternate between chatting and deep, restful silence.

“You get what I mean though, big guy?” asks Eddie.

Steve’s hand strokes gently through Billy’s hair, combing through his sweat-streaked curls. Touching the chain against Billy's neck. Billy closes his eyes, inhales, tries to detect their heartbeats at all the points where they’re touching.

“Yeah,” Billy says, cheek resting on Eddie’s forearm, “yeah, I think I know what you mean.”

Eddie leans down and kisses him, tasting of earthy weed.

“You just need a new coat of paint, some racing stripes,” he teases Billy by dragging the ends of his frizzy hair back and forth across Billy’s nose, “and you’ll be good as new, big guy.”

“I think you might be losing track of your metaphor, Ed.”

Eddie whistles. “Metaphor. Nice five dollar word there, Steve.”

Without lifting his head, Steve tugs a pillow out from behind his head and brings it down in an arc onto Eddie’s face.

“Hey, hey, careful!” Eddie lifts the glass ashtray with his smouldering joint high out of pillow striking distance. “The ashtray, man! Watch it!”

Steve and Billy share a dazed, sputtering chuckle, one that betrays their inebriated states. Craning his neck Billy glances at Steve over his shoulder. The stupid pretty boy laughs with his whole face, eyes creasing, mouth grinning. High on pot and endorphins, Billy has never felt so untroubled.

They end up fucking again late in the evening as the room fills with the orange light of the sunset. Billy blows them both as they sit side by side on Steve’s bed. It’s slow and worshipful, the opposite of their frantic rutting downstairs. Sucking cock while high is about as close to true bliss as Billy can get. With single minded focus he indulges his oral fixation to maximum results. Watches from the floor as Eddie and Steve kiss one another in slow, passionate waves. How Steve takes Eddie's jaw in his hand and gently steers him with that timeless confidence. Happily, Billy would watch them all night.

First it’s Steve.

Then, finally pulled off red-mouthed and panting, he switches to Eddie.

At some point they both come. Billy finds himself sprawled out on the unmade bed between them as they both run their hands over his body, both stroke his cock in tandem, palms slipping over each other. On either side of Billy’s neck they plant hot, panting kisses as currents of pleasure churn in Billy’s body. He loses track of who is who. Loses track of touches and tempo and the boundaries between them.

He just knows it’s slower than earlier. No one’s stamina is fully recouped. There is no adolescent urge to be hasty, like if they don’t hurry up they might miss something. Just a deliberate sort of patience and savouring. They kiss him. They kiss each other. Touch each other so freely.

Much later, after they have washed and changed the sheets and raided Steve’s spare toothbrushes, they curl up in Steve’s bed again. Nighttime insects are chirping in the dark outside the open bedroom windows. The awful plaid drapes billow slightly in the breeze.

Asleep instantly, Eddie snores loudly between Billy and Steve. Steve is breathing softly, maybe asleep, maybe not. He reaches an arm across Eddie’s chest, hand resting on Billy’s shoulder.

Billy lies awake, staring at the popcorn ceiling in the dark.

Eddie’s car analogy had been kinda silly. But Billy looks at the back of his own hand in the dark and realizes that this is a body that has never been abandoned. This is a body that was never left behind by its mother. This is a body that has never been slapped around by its father. And if this body doesn’t have to carry those things, then maybe he can learn how to let them go too. Maybe its best to leave those things buried under the earth at Roane Hills Cemetery.

Around the side of the cabin, a safe distance from the tripwires, Billy lights up a smoke in the dark.

He leans against the planks of the exterior wall. Inside, muffled voices overlap. It’s been a few days since all the kids have been in the same room. They’re playing Munson’s stupid game. All sitting in a circle on the floor round the coffee table with papers and dice and little figurines. Honestly Billy still doesn’t get it. It’s dorky and loud in equal combination.

So he sneaks out for a smoke. The night is cool and stabilizing. Low light, low noise. A quiet that soothes. There is no future where Billy is not easily agitated, but being able to duck away, to retreat, without feeling like a coward, it’s been helpful.

Yellow light spills out from the cabin window next to Billy’s head. He can dimly see the tree he destroyed last month off aways. The pawpaw tree, much to Eddie’s devastation. The live inner wood has died and weathered grey. The shattered limbs scattered about have been trudged and flattened. The slim trunk still stands, amputated at the main vee near shoulder height. Probably done for. But who knows. It might sprout leaves next spring.

The screen door slams around the corner, and Hopper appears from the same direction shortly after. He sees Billy leaning against the house.

“Kids get loud,” Hopper mutters, pulling out his own cigarette.

Billy only nods.

He has decided he likes being around Hopper. Maybe “likes” is putting it strongly. But Billy can smoke quietly next to the old ex-cop and not sweat like he’s standing on a landmine. Silence from Hopper isn’t a timebomb, isn’t a threat. It’s just silence, a truce that cannot be improved by speaking.

“You doing okay out here?” inquires Hopper after his first drag.

“Fine.” Billy flicks his ash. “Gets loud, like you said.”

“That Henderson kid could talk paint off a wall, I swear. When he and Munson get into it, it’s like a goddamn Abbott and Costello routine.”

Billy snorts.

“I never did get around to thanking him and Harrington for bringing you back,” muses Hopper a little too-knowingly with his best cop-on-the-trail tone.

"They both love a hard luck case," says Billy.

"Ha. Yeah. They aren't the only ones."

Holding the smoke in his lungs, Billy tilts his head back to the night sky. Tree limbs comb the stars, each leaf a node that eats light and exhales air. Each contributing to their host body. The chemistry of flesh and wood are more similar than they are different. The shadow monster taught him that. There is just as much tree below ground as above.

He exhales. Across town, his real body is consumed by microbes beneath the soil. His real body smokes a cigarette with Hopper against the cabin wall. His real body hums and roils in a superfluid swarm, chittering and filamentous, in another world entirely.

There is just as much below ground as above.

“There’s, uh, there’s something I think I should probably tell you about that,” mumbles Billy.

“Oh, yeah?” Hop looks off into the dark woods.

“Yeah.”

“About you and Harrington?”

“And Munson.”

“Wait,” Hop frowns, turns toward him, “it’s you and Munson?”

Billy can’t look at him. Takes another deep drag. “It’s me and Munson. And Harrington.”

All the shit the world’s put him through, the grief and terror and pain, and this is still the scariest moment of Billy’s entire life.

He braces. He can’t not. Tucks his elbows. Flexes his knees. Steels himself to take a hit or a slap or shouting. Throws down the cigarette butt and crushes it under his heel.

But the moment expands, extends, and there is no crash.

Billy uncoils, slowly, like winding opening a bear trap. Unclenches his fist. Glances cautiously at Hopper.

Hopper is taking a deep, thoughtful drag from his own cigarette. The red ember intensifies its glow. He nods to himself gently a few times. Billy’s never seen the big man look more out of his depth.

“Just so I am completely, utterly clear about this,” Hopper croaks around his exhale, “that is to say that you and Harrington and Munson— like, uh, romantically—”

Christ, romantically. “Uh, yeah. That’s what it means."

“Well, shit.”

Billy gnaws his lip. Indeed.

"And how does that work?" asks Hopper.

"Not sure. It's, uh, let's call it a new development."

“And you three are all… good,” Hopper attempts, “with that.”

“I think we’re gonna try.” Cold sweat rolls down Billy’s back. This is equal parts terrifying as it is mortifying. “I guess it’s sorta like, y’know, swinging, or something. But instead of being—”

Hopper puts up a big hand. “Kid, I was young in the sixties. You do not need to explain swinging to me.”

Billy swallows. Doesn’t know what compelled him to this confession, but this is certainly not how he thought it would go.

Hopper scrubs at his shorn head, looking more uncomfortable than Billy could’ve imagined him to ever look. But there’s no rage, no tirade of name-calling, no slaps to the face. Billy wonders if Hopper even realizes he’s been letting Billy sleep in the same room as his daughter for more than a month.

“Is that not weird?” Billy asks, because at this point he nearly wants to help this outburst along.

“No, no it’s pretty goddamn weird, kid.” Hopper scoffs, nods to himself, fidgets with his cigarette. “But, hell, I’ve seen plenty of really goddamn weird things these past few years. I’ve grown to be accepting.”

Billy blinks. Thinks he might faint. Leans back against the cabin in case he does.

He almost wants to argue. Argue Hopper’s case for him. That he should call Billy a perverted faggot in front of all the kids and throw him out, maybe rough him up for good measure so the lesson really sticks.

But Billy doesn’t think that moment is coming.

Silence goes on a while longer. The forest does them the favour of swallowing most of it up, distracting from this hugely uncomfortable moment with crickets and rustling treetops. It helps Billy remember to breathe.

“I swear to god, I’m only going to ask you this one time,” Hop says, already sounding like he regrets it, “but I gotta ask at least once, just for my own peace of mind about it. The three of you, uh, shit… you’re… you’re being… safe? I don’t have to worry about taking you to a clinic? For the virus thing?”

“Uh, no. You don’t have to worry. Yeah, we’re… being safe.” A lie, but Billy would rather crawl into a hole than discuss that further with Hopper.

Maybe Billy can’t even catch the virus anymore.

“Okay, well, thank fucking god. Jesus. I would’ve… honestly needed a minute.” Hopper shakes his head and stares off into the dark woods.

There is still a possibility that Billy might faint. Terror is making his vision double. Inside, the muffled voices of the kids cheer in some imagined victory.

Hop finishes his cigarette in silent contemplation. After smoking it down to the filter he stubs it out in the cabin siding, his big grouchy face screwed up in a near comical discomfort.

It’s better that they don’t face each other. Just lean side-by-side and stare at the woods. In the dark wood, none of this is real. It’s almost like it didn’t happen.

"Listen," Hopper begins, "uh, this is my first time doing anything like this so my apologies if I, y'know, put my foot in my mouth over what I'm about to say. You’re a grown man, okay? And ever since you ended up here I’ve tried to keep that in mind, not be too much of a hard ass with you. Tried to be reasonable and not set up a bunch of rules that you’d just blow off anyway. You got cut a raw deal. Not just with this shit in the town, but with your old man. And I knew that. Tried to mind my step. Wasn’t about to give you an excuse to hate me if you were stuck here.”

Hop pauses, sighs. Billy clenches his jaw so tight his eyes water.

“You did good, though,” assess Hopper gently. “Wasn’t perfect. Obviously. But lord knows I wouldn’t have handled any of it any better at your age. You were good with El. Kinda surprised me at first. But really, guess I should’ve seen it coming.”

Billy doesn’t really know what Hopper’s talking about with that. If anything, it’s El that was good with him.

"Look, I know probably the last thing you want right now is an old man's advice.” Hopper scratches at an ungroomed eyebrow with his thumb. “I always hated that shit. But this gettin' older stuff, I dunno, it does something to you. You see kids lining up to go through the same hardship that you did when you were their age and you just want to pull 'em away. Save them the pain, y'know? And I know what it's like to be eighteen and mad at the world because your dad was an asshole. Shit, when I was a kid it was just how most dads were. Your kid stepped outta line you had to smack him back into line. Whip him into shape. Make a man out of him.

"And when you're young it seems like the world’s just a mean place and things are just gonna be like that forever but shit can change so fast, you have no idea. You're eighteen. You're a baby. You have no clue what life can do. Shit, when I was your age I'd never been to war. Never been married. Never been a father. I was a whole different person."

Billy can’t imagine Hopper at eighteen. Can’t imagine any version of him that isn’t this huge grizzled bear of a man. Can’t imagine a Hopper that isn’t a vet or a father.

“Hell, I've been leaving behind former versions of myself my whole life.” Hopper continues, pensive. “Think that's just what living is. We're shaped by living. Good and bad. There's no undoing it. The stuff you do, the people you meet, it alters you, bit by bit in ways you never even know. Then one day you look back at yourself and realize how different you are.”

Hopper stops, folds his arms. Something passes over his face. For a moment, it appears like he has no more to say.

“It’s hard to have hope.” Hop says at length, contemplative, clearing his throat. “I know it. Trust me, I fuckin’ know it. Hell, if you have hope you get proven wrong so often. Most times in life shit just doesn’t pan out. And that hurts. Being let down over and over. It wears most people out. Turns ‘em bitter. Turned me bitter for a long, long time. But I swear to you, kid, we need it. We need to keep trying. Even when it’s hopeless. We need to hold tight to the idea that things can get better. Because if we keep working at that, then one day, after a thousand failed attempts… they will.”

Hopper says it like not even he himself believes it. Like it's something he learned recently. Still a little baffled to find that it's true.

“What I’m saying,” ventures Hopper, “what I’m trying to say is that I don’t know what’s in store for any of us. And I know that the world is a bad place, and it is cruel, and random. And that no one else is going to save us. So it’s up to us to take care of each other. You gotta hang on to that hope. You gotta become the sort of person who you needed as a kid. And you go save the next one.”

Behind them, teenaged hollers and shouting call out through the planks of the cabin. The players cheer some tabletop triumph. Even with their home on the brink of invasion, they laugh, more resilient than Billy will ever be.

“Frankly, to hell with Munson and Harrington,” Hop says after a moment’s consideration. “I’m not worried about them right now. They’ve both got people looking out for them. I’m worried about you. You need someone looking out for you.”

Billy tucks his chin to his chest, blinks rapidly, striving to keep the stinging tears at bay.

“So, look, I’m not meaning to spook you,” continues Hop, “or come down on you with heavy shit or jinx what you have going on. But, look, if it doesn't work out, for whatever reason, I just want to tell you that you're still gonna be okay. Alright? Even if this all goes wrong and falls apart, it might hurt, it might be hard, but you're gonna survive it. Heartbreak can be a real son-of-a-bitch in the best case scenarios and you, well, you've hitched your wagon to a real dog and pony show with this one. And I haven't known you that long but I can tell that you feel things at maximum velocity. Kinda like El. And so if one day, you three all eventually go your separate ways, just know that you’re gonna be fine. You will be different and you will be changed but you will be okay. Okay? Being one of Joyce's kids, that shit is not conditional. It is lifelong. And you can always come to us if you need a place to go, no matter what."

Billy turns away. Ducks into the dark. Tries to hide his face away from the yellow light. He can’t handle it. Can’t handle Hopper saying this to him. Can’t handle the idea that it’s not a joke or a trick or mockery. His body refuses it. He grinds his teeth. His jaw clicks and tears spill over his eyes.

Inhaling, Billy’s voice cracks, a watery gasp. Mortified, he covers his mouth with his hand. His shoulders shake as he strains to get himself under control.

A big bearlike arm comes around him and Billy flinches. Just once. Reflexively tenses as Hop pulls him into a engulfing hug.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it, kid.” Hop pats him on the back like a drum. “You’re gonna be okay. It’s all gonna be okay.”

Billy screws his eyes shut. Takes a ragged breath. Fights off a sob. A tear runs down his face. He furiously wipes it away.

“So, did I do okay?” asks Hopper with a goofy smile, holding Billy at arm’s length by the shoulder. “Kinda flying blind on this one. Never, uh, had anyone come out to me before. Do people still call it that? Coming out? Christ, I’m getting old.”

Despite himself, Billy laughs, a little insanely, a wet, wheezy chuckle. Cracks a smile and another warm tear rolls over his cheek.

“Uh,” he stammers, scrubs a hand over his face, wholly forgetting Hop’s question, “uh, shit—”

“Okay,” says Hop, patting him on the shoulder, “it’s okay. How about this? I’m gonna go back in and tell the kids it’s time to wrap up their game. And you take a minute out here. Take a breath. Have another smoke, if you need. Come back in whenever you’re ready. They’ll all be mad at me for ruining their fun and no one will even notice you. Sound good?”

Rubbing a knuckle under his eye, Billy nods. “Yeah. Sure. Sounds good.”

But Hopper hesitates a moment. Squeezes his shoulder once more. “You’re a brave kid, Billy.”

Cringing, Billy barely holds his shit together. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Takes a deep breath.

“Alright.” Hop assures. “I’m heading back in. Take your time.”

The deck creaks loudly as Hopper opens the screen door. His muffled voice booms as he announces the end of the game despite the whining teenaged protests. It must be getting late. Byers and Wheeler will be coming by to pick up their respective siblings soon.

Reeling himself back together, Billy takes another deep breath. Holds it. Exhales. Like El taught him.

He drops his shoulders, straightens his back. He runs both hands over his face. Wipes his trembling palms on his jeans. Static rattles his lungs, a sensation of relief that a nervous cough does not clear. He feels giddy and impulsive. Breathless, like he just ran a mile. Letting the engine loose on a joyride. The first time he’d ever successfully popped up on a wave.

It’s stupid. It’s puerile and sissyish.

But he chuckles again. A little in shock. A little disbelieving. Bites his lip to keep from smiling to himself like a dumbass.

Can’t keep the glee off of his face, though. Couldn’t hide it if his life depended on it. Not even if his dad were standing in front of him right now.

Chapter Text

“Okay, so, press on the clutch, then put it into first gear.”

From the driver’s seat, El studies the gear shift on the stout upholstered console between them. Concentrating, she grips the knob in her hand and moves the clunking lever into the correct position.

“Yeah, good,” says Billy, rapidly feeling like he might have bitten off more than he can chew, “okay, now see this dial here? The one that says RPM?” Reaching across he taps on the cylindrical housing of the tachometer.

“R-P-M,” enunciates El.

“This tells you how fast your engine is spinning. Your foot still on the clutch?”

El looks down to verify. “Yes.”

“Okay, good.” Billy gulps. “Keep it there. Now take your other foot and tap the accelerator. Just lightly.”

Remembering which is the accelerator pedal, El carefully applies her right foot. The engine of Joyce’s Byers’ lime green Pinto whizzes with less than a single horsepower.

“See how when you do that the needle moves?” Billy directs her eye back to the tachometer on the car’s dashboard.

Fascinated, El taps the throttle again. An anemic whine revs the engine. The tachometer needle flutters on the dial and her eyes go wide in astonishment.

“Now listen,” Billy emphasizes, “slowly… slowly take your foot off the clutch pedal.”

El does.

“Listen to the engine,” Billy reminds her, “you’ll feel the clutch bite. Then, press on the accelerator.”

The clutch and flywheel connect and the Pinto jerks forward through the leafy summer undergrowth.

“Okay, nice,” Billy assess cautiously as they ease down the dirt road at a slow walking speed.

Beaming, El clenches both hands tightly on the steering wheel. Even with the driver’s seat moved all the way forward she has to lean toward the dashboard to reach. She smiles, looking like a proud kid despite her shaved head.

Not so bad. Didn’t even stall out on her first time. The little hatchback wobbles down the shady forest road toward the cabin. It’s not exactly the Z/28, but Billy doesn’t even want to think about El at the helm of a V8 engine.

The car putters. The suspension bounces them over the forest pathway. El steers a little sharply around the soft bend. Billy’s heart rate elevates. He tries to play it cool as the passenger side mirror slowly brushes a leafy branch with little clearance. If they damage Mrs. Byers’ car, Hop is gonna be mad.

“Give it some juice,” he tells her.

El glances through the steering wheel to her feet. She taps the accelerator. The little green car bucks and lurches through the forest.

“Easy! Christ!” Billy cringes at how uptight he sounds. “Gently with the pedals.”

Amazed at her control over the vehicle, El becomes fast acquainted with the accelerator pedal. Quickly she deduces the relationship between pressure and speed. Her pedal operation smooths out.

They roll at a light jog down the forest service road toward the cabin. Wells of sunlight and shade glide over the Pinto’s expansive windshield. Billy’s not gonna have her take it out of first gear. There’s tripwires and trees and shit up ahead. He’s not a total lunatic. But even travelling at barely ten miles per hour, it is suddenly occurring to Billy how dangerous driving actually is.

“Okay, now ease up,” instructs Billy, surveying the road. “We’re coming up to the first tripwire.”

El takes her foot off the accelerator. The car continues to coast forward without slowing down.

“You gotta hit the brake, kid.”

Perhaps El intends to move her foot to the brake, but the only result is that the little green car revs and lurches forward again at a jerking speed. A twiggy branch collides and snaps against the A-pillar.

Billy grips the interior door handle. “Alright, brake, El. Right now.”

Panicking, she hits the clutch instead. The transmission disengages. Nothing happens. They continue coasting forward.

“The middle pedal!” exclaims Billy, the linear flicker of the tripwire across the road rapidly bearing down on them.

Again checking her left from her right, El finally locates the brake pedal. She all but stands on it. Brakepads squeal. The poor car stammers and lurches like a rusty seesaw, coming to a brisk, immediate stop in the middle of the forest, the tripwire still a half a dozen yards ahead of them down the road.

They both stare out the windshield in silence. Billy’s short, new life all but flashes before his eyes.

The slowest, most low-stakes emergency stop in automotive history.

“Okay,” announces Billy, reaching over and cranking up the parking brake. “Lesson’s over. Get out.”

After the impromptu driving lesson, Billy and El lean against the tiny car and shake off their near-miss in comfortable silence. The shady noontime forest is cool despite the sunny, windless day. Murray, Hopper, and Joyce won’t be back for a couple more hours. More than enough time for Billy to be able to broach the concept of a white lie with El.

Billy looks over at her. She’s watching a couple of acrobatic squirrels scuttle up and down a maple tree. She smiles at them.

“Uh, hey, El?” Billy folds his arms, scuffs the litterfall with his boot, stalling. “Listen. I’ve been meaning to say… Um, I never… I never did say thank you to you. About last summer.”

There is so much he wants to thank her for. An ocean. An innavigable amount. But words are inadequate and clumsy after they have spoken mind-to-mind. She knows him so perfectly that talking only fouls their understanding.

Billy wishes he could do that with everyone. Just transmit his emotions without speaking. Having to talk about his feelings is still so alien an ordeal. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be comfortable with it.

“Well, I, uh— anyways, guess I just finally wanted to say…” A swell of emotion stops him. He clears his throat. “Shit, I’m no good at this kinda thing.”

“It’s okay,” she tells him, “I know.”

Billy nods.

They watch the squirrels a few moments more.

“I am glad that Steve and Eddie brought you back,” she tells him.

Billy smiles. “Yeah. I’m glad you sent them after me.”

They haven’t spoken about it, but Billy is pretty sure El knows about the three of them. To some degree. It doesn’t scare Billy at all.

“Betty and Veronica,” says El.

Billy frowns, certain he’s misheard. “What?”

“Steve and Eddie. They are like your Betty and Veronica.”

“Oh, so does that make me Archie, then?” sputters Billy, unable to keep a straight face. “How the hell do you know about Betty and Veronica, anyways?”

“Max lends me her comic books sometimes.” El’s sombre mask splits into a playful smile. She is always proud whenever she gets Billy to laugh.

“I really owe you a lot, kid,” he tells her, serious again.

She looks at him, her eyes placid with total understanding. Like Billy is something she built herself, and knows his every component and how they each operate together. Right down to the nucleotides in each and every cell. She tells him, “Friends help each other.”

When Murray, Hopper, and Joyce return, El manages to play it cool about taking the Pinto for a test drive. Billy is pretty sure Hopper notices that the car is not in the same spot Joyce left it, but besides from a suspicious glance thrown Billy’s way, he doesn’t say anything.

“So we’re really gonna do this, huh?”

Billy looks over at Steve in profile. Sitting on the edge of the pool, Steve looks like a movie star. An overhanging wave of chestnut hair tousles over his Ray-Ban sunglasses, gold in the summer evening.

“You gettin’ cold feet there, Harrington?”

Steve shakes his head. “No. No, I’m all in.” He smiles. “I know you think I’m gonna bolt at the first sign of trouble, by the way.” He cuts a smug glance at Billy and takes a swig from his Cherry Coke.

“Wouldn’t be the first straight boy who cut and run after getting in over his head,” Billy says.

Steve chuckles. “Man, you are such a jackass.”

That is always Billy’s move when he’s mistrustful about something. Undercut the threat. It’s becoming easier for Steve to read him on it. No longer so easily baited. Instead, Steve just leans back on his hands and splashes his toes in the pool water, basking in the sunlight.

“I’m just saying,” Billy shrugs, kicking a small splash Steve’s way, “you’re the one out of us who likes girls. You could have a real shot at that. That white picket fence life you want. Maybe you just don’t realize yet what you’d be throwing away.”

Steve groans, like Billy’s doubts are silly misconceptions. “Nah, to hell with normal, dude. I’m over it. Normal’s bullshit, okay? If these past few years have taught me anything, it’s that.”

Even Billy can’t argue with that. Absently, he rotates his own Cherry Coke can in his hands. Cool condensation beads over his fingers.

The marshy summer sticks to their skin. The late afternoon stalls dead and heavy. Cicadas drone loudly in the woods. Sweat runs down Billy’s scalp. Maybe he’ll jump into the pool again. It had been refreshing. But he’s enjoying his extended quiet moment with Steve. Billy could watch him in the golden sunset light forever.

“We’re really gonna do this, though,” Steve repeats thoughtfully. “That’s just crazy to think about. Y’know, like, nervous but exciting. But I’m not worried. No, I have a good feeling about it.”

Billy cracks a smile, rolls his eyes. “Well so long as Harrington has a good feeling.”

“I do! I think we’ve got a shot.”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you.”

“You’ll see. I’m not wrong about these things.”

“Uh huh,” Billy groans, nudging Steve with his shoulder, “you're used to people doing whatever you say, huh, rich boy?”

Steve looks at him over the black rim of his sunglasses, a sultry dart in his eye. “Yeah, guess I am.”

They had spent the previous hour swimming and horseplaying in the pool. Pruny and smelling of chlorine they’d dried out on the patio in the high noon sun. Billy hasn’t put his shirt back on and Steve has not been shy about looking. There’s this unspoken sense that they might have sex later, but it’s not a sure thing. It’s kind of… nice? The anticipation, but without expectation. It’s sweet. Makes Billy want to chase. He has gotta hand it to King Steve… guy’s a charmer.

“Just think you might finally be in over your head with this one, Harrington,” Billy surmises after running a propositional eye over Steve. “Think we all might be, actually.”

“Well yeah, but—” Steve shrugs “—that’s part of the fun.”

Billy scoffs. “Munson’s right. You are a masochist.”

“Yeah, maybe. Would explain some things.”

They laugh. Steve’s funnier than Billy had realized.

“I like people that push me, I think,” says Steve, like it’s a natural continuation of that thought, “y’know, who challenge me, or whatever. Hell, that’s what I liked so much about Nancy, even. I actually don’t want someone to just smile and nod along to whatever I say, y'know? I want to be pushed. You and Eddie are always pushing me. Getting me out of my comfort zone. And, yeah, sure, a lot of the time it can be really annoying and stupid and totally drives me crazy, but also, I think I like it at the same time.”

They sit, legs kicking in the pool water, and watch the golden afternoon sky. Billy tips the last syrupy suds of his Cherry Coke into his mouth and sets the can down on the pool patio.

“So, hey.” Steve places his own empty can down. “I know you hate to get all—” Steve gestures and grimaces in a faux panic “—super emotional and shit, but I just want to say for the record that I’m over high school. Whatever happened between us, I’m over it. We were both dealing with a lot of shit way above our paygrade. And everyone deserves a shot to fix the shit they broke. So, at least for my part, I’m over it. Sound good?”

Steve’s right; Billy doesn’t like to be emotional. But he is learning to tolerate it. Some emotions are better than others.

Emotional closeness with Steve isn’t as easy as it is with Eddie. They’re still testing one another’s limits. Neither fully committing to absolute vulnerability just yet. The chemistry between them has always been strong, but if they’re not butting heads, Billy hardly knows what to do with himself around Steve. Feels a little like the dog that caught the car. The idea of letting down defenses, exposing all his injured parts, that kind of trust is hard for him to stomach. But even so, Steve is still doggedly chipping away at Billy’s walls.

They’re working at it. They're taking it slow. Steve is patient. More patient than Billy deserves.

If there were ever two people who knew the value of a fresh start, it’s them.

“Okay,” replies Billy, “sounds good, Harrington.”

“Cool.” Steve paddles his legs in the water. “Thanks. For hearing me out. I know how’re sensitive.”

“Shut up. I am not sensitve.”

“Au contraire,” replies Steve like a dick, “you are very sensitive. I mean, c’mon, you've got a short temper, man. All sorts of shit sets you off.”

Billy frowns, disliking that Steve might be onto something. “Since when do you know French, Harrington?”

“I have to look up the stuff Robin says to be sure she’s not shit-talkin’ me in a foreign language.”

“Ah, okay, that makes sense. Shoulda guessed you were picking up habits from your little girlfriend.”

“Oh, will you drop the whole fake jealousy thing about her.” Steve swings his head back, exposing his luscious throat, and hits Billy with a cocky look over the dark lens of his sunglasses. “I know you know she’s gay, dude.”

Every time Billy thinks he’s got Steve cornered, Steve reverses the playing field with ease. That doe-eyed face is a lethal distraction. And Eddie might have the worst poker face in the world, but Billy falls for Steve’s every time.

Outmaneuvered, Billy tries to play it off. Scoffs. “Touché, Harrington.”

“And hey, don't you go being an asshole to her about it, you hear me?” Steve wags a cautionary finger at him. “She hasn't told anyone but me and Eddie.”

Billy clicks his tongue like an asshole. “Well, you know how I feel about people telling me what to do, Harrington.”

“I'm serious, dude.” Though the smile on Steve’s face makes him appear very unserious. “I'll totally kick your ass.”

“Yeah? You think so?”

“Oh yeah, it’s over for you, Hargrove. All that shit I just said about fresh starts and second chances— chhk.” Steve chops a hand across his own neck. “Forget about it.”

Steve lays back on the sun-baked concrete. He adjusts his shades against the sky, then stretches his bare arms overhead. He appears to go right back to enjoying the splendid afternoon. Not at all troubled by how vulnerable he makes his heart.

The blue lagoon of the pool sparkles daylight off its broken ripple surface. Billy kicks his feet in the cool water. Enjoys the weightless sensation of his legs floating. Tries to imagine living without his guard up all the time.

“Hey, you know what Dustin told me the other day?” says Steve after a long time listening to cicadas.

“What’s that?”

“He told me that the human body… you know how our organs and stuff are made of, like, cells?”

Billy recalls senior year biology. “Uh, yeah?”

Steve folds his bare arms behind his head. “Well, those cells, they only last, like, a couple years max. They get old and wear out and stop working so our bodies have to make new cells to replace them. And this is happening all the time. Like, thousands and thousands of cells get replaced every day.”

“...Okay?”

“And Dustin says that… eventually, even the cells in our bones are replaced. So after a long enough time you’re mostly a totally new person anyways.” Steve looks at him over his sunglasses and grins.

They do end up having sex later. Steve boldly backs Billy up against the kitchen counter and gropes him hungrily. Billy ends up bent over the countertop with his swim trunks down, slickened up with cooking oil from the cupboard. It happens so fast and it all feels so filthy and scandalizing and it drives Billy crazy. When Steve finally places himself inside Billy they both shudder with the relief. Steve flutters a hand up Billy's spine, grips him by the hair and forces him down. It’s rough and hasty and after they both come, Steve gets him a glass of water and starts the shower running and Billy thinks it’s maybe the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for him.

Before Steve, he didn’t know people were really made like that. People that are joyed to take care of others. Who exert compassion like it’s a habit.

“What’s your favourite movie?” asks Eddie as they are pouring over his cassette collection on the floor of his small FEMA trailer bedroom one night.

“What for?” asks Billy.

“Next time Robin’s working I’ll pick up a copy for movie night. Birdie gives me the friends-and-family discount.”

Billy snorts. “And Steve doesn’t?”

“Uh, not after I lost the copy of Excaliber that I rented,” Eddie smiles and chuckles, a little guilty. “Keith chewed him out pretty bad for that. But hey, maybe now that we’re sleeping together, he’ll lighten up about the whole thing.”

Eddie hunches like a gargoyle on the floor sorting through tapes. They’re picking out stuff that Billy has missed, comparing favourites, arguing over whether Ratt is “real metal” or not. A small stack of cassette jewel cases is growing for Billy to take home to the cabin. On the menu are a couple cassettes from Saxon, Van Halen’s first album, and some band called Cirith Ungol, however that’s pronounced. Eddie had breathlessly explained that the name is from some book, but Billy’s eyes had glazed over when he started talking about elves.

Billy leans back on his palms on the creaky bed and thinks on Eddie’s question for a moment. “Vanishing Point.”

“Hmm?”

“Think that’s probably my favourite movie. It's up there, at least. Vanishing Point.”

“And what’s that about?”

“This guy takes a whole bunch of uppers and drives across the country to deliver a sports car to California. And he, like, gets into trouble and shit along the way.“

Eddie smiles up at him. “Lots of car chases?”

“You know it. Dodge Challenger R/T tearin’ ass through the desert.”

“Alright. Vanishing Point. Let me write that down.” Eddie scribbles the title down on the back of a palimpsest notebook on top of the large amp serving as a bedside table.

“What about you?” asks Billy, nudging Eddie with his foot. “Tell me your favourite movie, freakshow.”

Eddie doesn’t even have to think about it. “Monty Python and the Holy Grail.”

Billy scowls in confusion. “What?”

“My favourite movie. Monty Python and the Holy Grail. That’s the title.”

“The hell does it mean?”

“It’s British,” Eddie informs, like that explains anything.

“Who’s Monty Python?”

“No, dude, it’s not one guy. It’s a group of guys.”

“What?” Billy is pretty sure Eddie is just messing with him now. “It’s a group of guys and they’re all called Monty Python?”

“No, no, no, no,” Eddie waves Billy’s foolishness away with a ringed hand, “it’s a comedy group. You know, like the Firesign Theatre? But these guys are British. They made movies. Holy Grail’s the best.”

Billy is still not convinced that Eddie isn’t making this up.

An idea ignites in Eddie’s gleaming eyes. “Okay, I’m putting Holy Grail on the list too for movie night. You and Steve are gonna get cultured this weekend.”

So far, Eddie’s taste in movies has been very hit or miss as far as Billy’s concerned. He has suspicions that this Monty Python thing is gonna be Eraserhead all over again.

The two of them have the narrow trailer to themselves until Eddie’s uncle returns from his overnight shift. On the stereo, Ozzy Osbourne’s newest album is winding down. Upright beneath the small awning window, Eddie’s guitars lean upright against the wall, the weathered, graffitied acoustic and the painfully cool electric model.

Billy nods over at the instruments. “Play something for me.”

Eddie looks up at him, then over at the guitars.

“Never heard you play.” Billy glances suggestively, grinning, tongue teasing the corner of his mouth. “What? You don’t wanna show off for me?”

Eddie blushes and scoffs, like Billy is just too much. He still can’t handle being flirted with.

“C’mon, rockstar,” goads Billy. He leans back on his palms, looks Eddie up and down with his best bedroom eyes.

“Alright, fine, fine.” Eddie stands and picks up the battered acoustic guitar. “A private show for the Californian royalty.” He bows deeply, hair falling in his face. “Any requests, your majesty?”

“Surprise me.”

Eddie takes a seat next to him on the bed, thin mattress jostling. He gets comfortable, adjusts the guitar across his lap. He positions his arms, strums a few cords. When he finds the pitch dissatisfactory, he adjusts a few of the tuning pegs. The tone plunges and oscillates as Eddie dials in on the correct pitch.

Satisfied with the instrument, Eddie shrugs his hair out of his face and begins picking out a slow and moody melody. It hovers in the tiny compartment of a bedroom. A gentle, mysterious tune like a torrid summer evening. Something drowsy and invitational. Vaguely psychedelic.

Eddie glances at Billy with his big brown eyes, judging smartly if Billy recognizes the song or not.

“You want to kno-o-w how it will be-e-e,” Eddie sings in a quiet, low, slightly flat voice. Almost shy to be heard. “Me and hi-i-im or you and me-e-e.”

The chord progression repeats. Eddie checks his fingering with a steady focus.

“You both stand there, your long hair flo-o-wing,
Your eyes alive, your mind still growing.
Saying to me ‘What can we do now that we both love you?’
I love you too. I don’t really se-e-e, why can’t we go on as three?”

Billy shakes his head. Can’t believe he’s smitten with this goofy, sentimental weirdo.

Eddie flashes a warm sidelong smile and continues strumming his melody, repeating the lead up to the first verse. Strings squeak beneath his fingers as he changes chords.

“You are afraid, embarrassed too,
No one has ever said such a thing to you,
Your mother's ghost stands at your shoulder,
Face like ice, a little bit colder,
Saying to you, ‘You can not do that,
It breaks all the rules you learned in school,
I don't really se-e-e, why can't we go on as three?”

The dreamy, mellified tune repeats for a final outro before Eddie trails away with a final elongated strum. The gentle tones linger and evaporate in the air and even the silence sounds like an extension of the song.

Performance complete, Eddie folds his arms over the lobe-shaped body of the guitar, face half hidden behind his spilling hair.

“S’a nice song,” praises Billy. “Yours?”

“It’s by Jefferson Airplane,” mutters Eddie, shy.

Billy chuckles. “Playing me hippie love songs, thinkin’ you’re so sly. But deep down under that hair and black leather you’re just a tender little romantic, ain’t’cha Munson?”

Eddie smiles, body clutching his guitar like it’s a ballistic vest. “Guilty.”

Billy scoots right over to Eddie, and leans down to kiss him.

“Well,” Billy murmurs against Eddie’s mouth, “it’s workin’ on me.”

Later, about two joints in, they’re together in Eddie’s bed and Billy is on top riding hard in Eddie’s lap. The bedsprings squeal rhythmically. Eddie is staring up at him in the dark with a blushing, awestruck expression. He’s never had a guy on top of him like this before, Billy thinks. Never had a guy push him onto his back and do all the work.

Sweat beads down Billy's spine. The whole volume of his blood surges. It deafens him with pleasure. He runs a hand down his own throat, chest, pinches his own nipple. Poor Eddie’s eyes nearly bug out of his head.

Afterwards, in the trembling, sticky aftermath, Billy nudges the dark locks of hair away and kisses him.

“Okay, so, can I ask a stupid question?” says Steve as he retrieves his steaming popcorn bag from the microwave.

“You never needed permission before,” replies Billy.

Steve ignores him, opening and overturning his popcorn into a large green Tuperware bowl. “What’s it feel like? For you guys. Uh, during sex? When you’re, uh, y’know, on the bottom?”

Eddie honest to god spits out his drink. Smacks a hand over his mouth and spins to look at them both, scandalized.

“Well, like— it must feel good, right?” insists Steve, trying to save face. “But, I dunno… doesn’t seem like it would feel good, really.”

Billy bursts out laughing. Like, real, deep, thorough laughing. Slaps his hand on the countertop a few times.

“Okay, yeah, thank you, jackasses,” Steve grumbles.

“Of course it feels good, Harrington,” crows Billy with wicked glee. “What, do you think we’re faking it for your ego’s sake?”

“Jeez, okay, I said it was a stupid question.”

“No, Steve, hey, I’m sorry.” Eddie puts down his soda can and tries, mightily, to get a grip on his erupting laughter. That puckish smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t mean to laugh, man. That just kinda came out of nowhere.”

Pouting, Steve shrugs. Picks up his bowl of popcorn and stomps over to the living room. “Just was curious. I’m trying to, like, be understanding and open and stuff. It’s not something I ever, y’know, thought about or whatever.”

Billy can’t resist. “Curious, eh?”

Steve turns red. And when he’s embarrassed he always gets feisty. “Look, could you two cut me some slack? This is still very… new for me, okay?”

“Oh, don’t be mad, princess,” Billy taunts. “Don’t worry. Munson and I’ll let you in on all the nasty homo secrets before long.”

Eddie smacks him on the arm and shoots him a heeding look. Be gentle, he tells Billy without speaking.

They’re gathered at Steve’s place for their weekend double feature. Billy had won the coin toss and his movie had been first. After the credits rolled, they broke for refreshments. They swap out the Vanishing Point tape for Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Steve is so preoccupied with being embarrassed that he doesn’t even complain about not rewinding the rental VHS.

Billy was right— Monty Python is very weird. Very British. He doesn’t get it. Surprisingly, Steve seems to like it. Everytime he laughs at an onscreen joke, Eddie looks at him with stars in his eyes.

By now it’s long past midnight. Billy can feel himself losing steam. The weird movie is boring anyway. He lays his head in Steve’s lap and rests his eyes. Gets comfortable. Half-listens to the dialogue from the TV.

He is sorta half asleep with a hand combing through his hair. The TV screen casts flickering soft lights against the backs of his eyelids. His body sags like molten lead into the couch. Steve keeps shifting his legs beneath Billy’s ear.

It’s like he can’t get comfortable. It’ll get to a quieter part of the movie and Billy will just be on the edge of sleep and Steve will just have to adjust his position. Shift his thighs and recross his legs.

By the fifth or sixth time he does it, Billy’s a little annoyed.

He lifts his head, cracks a bleary eye open. “You thinkin’ about me bein’ on top there, Harrington?”

Steve down looks at him all fearful. Mouth parted, sweet brow nicked in confusion.

Billy grins lazily at him, eyelids heavy, gold curls strewn across his face.

From the other side of Steve, Eddie reaches over and flicks the crown of Billy’s head. “Save it for after the movie, horndog.”

But Billy is asleep on the Harrington couch long before that.

“The Fourth’s coming up,” Hopper mentions one night over dinner. “You gonna be okay?”

It’s the last week of June and El had flipped her wall calendar over today. Another Tiger Beat photo of Ralph Machio for the month of July. Billy is sick of that kid’s face.

In response to Hop’s question, Billy shrugs. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.” He doesn’t know if he will be, but what else is he gonna do?

“The fairgrounds are a couple miles east of here. You can hear the fireworks, sometimes.”

Billy pushes away his bowl of Kraft mac and cheese. “Fuckin’ great.”

There’s no swearing allowed at the dinner table, but Hopper lets it slide.

“Loud,” says El, and that’s all she says, returning to her bowl of processed yellow macaroni.

“If you wanna get out of here for the night,” Hop says to Billy, “that’s fine. Just be careful. Radio in, let us know where you are.”

Maybe Eddie or Steve can take him in for the evening. Sacrifice their barbeque plans.

“Just take care of yourself, kid,” says Hopper, forking up another mouthful of macaroni.

Steve, acting cagey all afternoon, finally blurts out, “Hey, so, uh, Nancy and Jonathan broke up.”

“Oh, shit.” Eddie bolts upright from the couch. “Really?”

“Yeah. Uh, Robin told me the other day.”

“Actually?”

“Yeah.”

Billy and Eddie share a look, slumped against one another on the living room sofa. Sometimes it feels like Steve’s great lost love hangs over them like a shadow.

“Well, what was the reason?” asks Billy in a lame attempt to stay neutral.

“She got into Emerson,” recounts Steve. “And, uh, Jonathan’s not going.”

“Ouch.”

“He, uh,” Steve glances around, like it’s horrible gossip he shouldn’t be overheard sharing, “he didn’t even apply.”

“What?” Eddie gushes, relishing a scandal. “Thought going to college together was their big, romantic happily-ever-after plan?”

Steve lifts his shoulders in a shrug. He chuckles, strained, smiling, then pinches the bridge of his nose self-consciously, “Sorry. Sorry, I’m trying really hard right now to not be a total asshole about this.”

Billy shrugs, “Hey, they did it to you first.”

“Yeah, but they’re still, like, my friends. We’ve been through a lot together. I don’t want to be, like, happy that they’re miserable.”

“Pfft,” Billy dismisses, “Wheeler’s going to that fancy college of her dreams, leaving this town in the dust. Doesn’t sound like she’s miserable.”

“Heh, maybe.” Steve’s face is at war with itself. Unable to settle on an emotion: empathy, concern, glee. “She’s wanted to go to Emerson for years.”

For his part, Billy doesn’t hate Wheeler. Not at all. Out of all the Scooby Gang, honestly, she’s probably the one he respects the most. There is a pitilessness about her that he admires. And she has never blinked first with him. Was the only one who stood up to him after the fight at Hopper’s cabin. Was ready to put one square between his eyes on the Fourth of July. She’s tough as nails. Billy appreciates that.

But Billy doesn’t understand why she would ever give up Steve.

Eddie gets to his feet and goes to Steve, rubs a soothing hand up his arm. “You, uh, feelin’ okay about this?”

“Yeah,” Steve exhales, “yeah. Just… feels weird. A little like… closure, or something. I guess.”

Billy doesn’t really believe in closure. But he’ll take it.

“You worried about Steve going back to Wheeler?”

Billy and Eddie are out by the quarry late one night, burning one down in the back of Eddie’s van.

Eddie takes a long, thoughtful toke from the joint before answering. “Can I swear you to secrecy?” he asks, before handing it across to Billy. “Kind of.”

The van’s back doors are open to the warm night. The high, yawning vault of the quarry pit and the starry night sky give the feeling of being parked at the edge of the world. The distant sounds of insects chirping in the brush are soaked up by the vast column of empty air over the flooded chasm.

“Guess I’m glad I’m not the only one,” says Billy, feeling oddly sentimental under the effects of the weed.

“Yeah, I mean,” Eddie hesitates, fidgeting with his rings, “it’s not like I don’t trust him.”

“But?”

“But… I dunno. I guess if I were him, sticking to girls would just seem so much easier.”

That’s the truth, at the end of the day. The reality that gives them both doubts. Why would anyone ever choose to be a freak, if they had the option not too?

“Well, you were the one with him over Spring Break, not me,” says Billy, regarding the stars overhead. “How hard up did he seem?”

“Over Wheeler? Man, those goo-goo eyes of his were doing overtime.”

They both chuckle gently, knowing exactly the expression Eddie’s speaking of. Steve wears his heart right on his face.

“Well, I’m told Harrington’s gotta thing for people who kick his ass,” Billy scoffs dryly, thankful to Nancy Wheeler for that much, at least.

They lapse into a warm silence. Time compresses and extends as the pleasant high comes on. Eddie sits with his back to the wall of the van, one knee bent and one swinging out the open hatch. He watches Billy watch the stars.

“You know,” says Billy looking over, “I’ll say this much for Harrington. In all the time I’ve known him, he’s never once taken the easy way out for anything.”

Eddie nods his shaggy head a few times. “You are damn right about that.”

“But hey.” Billy turns to face him in the open back hatch of the van. “Let’s say he does back out of this. Where’s that leave us? You still gonna stick it out with me, Munson?”

In the indigo moonlight, Eddie grins, flicking his ash outside of the van. He looks at Billy with a pensive eye, like he’s measuring up Billy’s attributes with cheeky consideration. “Sure, yeah, why the hell not? I think I’ll stick it out with you, Hargrove. You’re a cool enough guy. Plus, you still gotta take me to LA one day. Don’t think I forgot.”

They both smile, a little giggly, and maybe it’s just because Billy’s a little high, but his heart swells in his throat at Eddie’s easy promise, how he can be so open, without pretension or apology. Billy hopes that, one day, he learns a fraction of Eddie’s bravery with his heart.

The next time he and Steve sleep together, it’s electric. They shove and claw at one another. Billy taunts and fights, but ultimately, Steve gets him on his back and pulls him to the edge of the bed.

“You’re so hot when you’re jealous,” groans Steve, undoing his pants.

Standing, Steve fucks him like that. Hard and deep with Billy’s legs over his shoulders. The angle and force of it has Billy seeing stars. He rips at the bedsheets.

He kinda likes possessive Steve.

With a few more powerful thrusts, Billy comes with Steve’s hand around his cock. A hot nova of pleasure rolls through him, and he teeters over the edge with a broken cry. A moment later, Steve drives in deep, stills, and comes as well.

He gets used to watching Eddie and Steve together.

They’re different with each other. Around each other. Not in a super pronounced way, but in a small, understated capacity. A hundred little ways that they exist differently around each other than around anyone else. The gentleness, the care. They orbit around each other, like iron filings around a magnet.

With Steve, Eddie loses most of his snark. Not all of it, not by a mile, but he’s nowhere near as acerbic with Steve as he is with Billy.

And with Eddie, Steve is much more… protective. That’s really the only way Billy can describe it. Always has an eye out on what Eddie’s getting into. Watching after him. Fretting over him.

Billy thinks he doesn’t have the capacity to care so blatantly. He probably never will. Nothing scares him more than being totally, utterly exposed and genuine with someone.

The first time he watches Steve and Eddie together, it kinda takes his breath away.

There isn’t really a reason he isn’t involved that night. It just kinda unfolds that way. Steve and Eddie had been in tune with one another all night, and Billy notices, and when Steve starts kissing Eddie long and deeply against the headboard, Billy steps back and lets them.

They go so slow. Even though they must be somewhat practiced at this by now, they take their time. Passionate and dreamy. Romantic. That’s what people mean when they say that word, Billy thinks.

He’s never watched two people have sex before. Not, like, in person. In the same room. And certainly not two people that he knows. Knows and… cares about. Two that he’s also slept with.

It’s strange, but not in a bad way.

And even though Steve is on top, Billy is surprised by how much he lets Eddie steer things. How he lets Eddie push him against the rumpled sheets, lets Eddie nip at his throat, lets Eddie grind his naked cock against his thigh. Tangled in bed they couldn’t look more different. Steve’s well-built figure and handsome summer tan against Eddie’s gangly limbs and rough scars on pale skin.

The whole while, they both steal darting glances at Billy out of the corner of their eyes. They both seem a little turned on by Billy watching. And he stares right back at them, getting hard in his jeans, but he decides to wait. He doesn’t want to be distracted while watching this.

Steve drops his brow to Eddie’s as he pushes inside. They both groan, watching each other. Watching him.

Eddie comes with Steve thrusting between his bent legs, whispering sweet things into Eddie’s ear that Billy cannot overhear. Soon after, Steve follows him, nearly growling as he jerks and stills with a shuddering gasp, coming inside.

Afterwards, they bask, heavy and satisfied in the bed sheets. Steve holds Eddie close, pressing gentle kisses to his neck, smoothing back his wild hair. An action he has never done for Billy. And Billy is acutely aware of the bond they have that is not accessible to him. The unique language that is just theirs to speak. It surprises him that he is not jealous. Only a little in awe, humbled, that he can know two people so well and still not at all.

Sometimes Billy dreams about the shadow.

In the dream he is part of the particle swarm once more. In that cauterized netherworld he is never alone. Not for one instant. Not even in sleep. The shadow talks to him without words, without language, just with direct contact to his innermost mind. Carving through the layers of his consciousness, his memories, his subliminal mind. An arrow that pierces him all the way through to his very ego.

He doesn’t think he will ever have been so known by anyone or anything ever again.

Sometimes, in the dream, he dies with the shadow monster. They kill it with fireworks at the mall and when it goes down and all the rat flesh and dissolved townsfolk melts away, so does Billy.

Sometimes, in other versions, he swears he can hear Maxine, reading her letter at his grave.

Sometimes the dream ends with the shadow amputating him. Expelling him from the distributed consciousness. Blinded, deafened, Billy is banished to exist in a single body once more, doomed to be alone in his own head forever.

When he wakes up, he is always shaken, haunted. Never completely certain if it was really a dream or not.

Maybe the shadow is still out there, on the other side. Waiting for him. Calling to him. Slowly creeping across the lip between worlds, searching for its lost sporeling.

He’ll get up, look out the window into the dark forest. Stand on the porch and feel the air on his skin, inert and inorganic.

He doesn’t know why. Doesn’t think he would even understand it if he did.

But a part of Billy will miss the shadow for the rest of his life.

Side by side, Billy and Steve lean against the front fender of the BMW. Eddie crouches on the car’s hood next to them, arms around his knees. A six pack, half finished, rests in the dust by the tires. Together they occupy an extended silence. Above, the reddened gilt clouds of sunset fill the vault of the summer sky. Pink foil streamlines of light colour the world. It’s beautiful, oddly humbling. Below the cliffs, the dark pool of the flooded quarry is the sunset’s liquid mirror.

Summer puts on a show here in Indiana.

“Hey, c’mon, man, watch the chains,” Steve scolds Eddie with a beer in his hand, “you scratch my hood it’s comin’ out of your future royalties, Ed.”

In response Eddie shimmies his skinny ass against the BMW’s paint job, wallet chain dangling from his jeans.

Steve scoffs, turns all offended to Billy. “Can you believe this guy?”

“Shove him off, princess.”

“Oh, our prom king would never,” mugs Eddie.

Challenged, Steve shoots Billy a promising look—watch this—before elbowing Eddie right in the ribs. Yelping, Eddie leaps off the hood of the BMW like calamity, spinning and tripping in the gravel. His high decibel squawk echoes off the rock escarpments. A spatter of birds flee the treetops.

Billy chuckles at the display. He and Steve share a fond look over their smiles.

“Oh, you two meatheads are always pickin’ on me,” Eddie hams it up, dramatically throwing his hand over his brow like a maiden about to swoon. “Will no one defend my honour against you brutes?”

Eddie bends and picks up a smooth stone and chucks it into the wide open chasm of the quarry. It arcs and spins away into the air.

Hanging out as a threesome, it has come surprising easily now that they are all on the same page. Establishing the natural give-and-take of the relationship had happened pretty organically. They are easy for Billy to be around, together and alone. Billy doesn’t remember the last time he was this at ease with people.

“Uh, hey, guys,” Eddie starts, “I, uh, there’s something I’ve been… maybe… meaning to bring up….”

But Eddie stalls out after that, swinging his heel in the gravel, standing against the vast red blend of sunset.

“Well?” prompts Steve. “What is it? You pregnant or something?”

Billy laughs. Eddie flips them both off.

Turning away, Eddie says, “I think I want to tell my uncle.”

Steve pleats his brow. “Tell your uncle what?”

“Uh, that I’m a big fat homo, Steve. C’mon, what do you think?”

“I thought he already knew.” Steve shrugs.

“No! Of course not. Man, if he threw me out I would have nowhere to go.”

“Dude, Wayne would not kick you out over being gay.”

Eddie winces, like Steve’s naivete breaks his heart. “That’s not a sure thing, man. Don’t get me wrong, I love the old bastard, but Wayne’s still an old fashioned sorta guy. Likes his beer and his truck and his football, y’know?”

“No way, Ed.” Steve is steadfast. “I don’t buy it. I’ve met him. I’ve seen how much he cares about you. He stood up for you when the whole town was after your blood. Nancy told me.”

Eddie sways, digs a furrow in the gravel with his toe. Clearly his fears are not assuaged.

“I can be there when you tell him,” offers Steve, “if you want. If it’ll help. Moral support or whatever. Robin would come too. Hell, I bet even Nancy would come if we asked.”

Billy would be there too. Doesn’t care if Wayne Munson would recognize him. If Eddie asked, Billy would protect him from anything.

The blue shadows of dusk pool below the sky. A breeze stirs the air in the dark treetops. The silhouette of Eddie stands in the foreground against the blazing sunset.

“You don’t have to tell him if you don’t want to,” Billy says at last, just to have it on the record. It falls to him to provide Eddie an out. “Lots of people never tell their families.”

Eddie turns away from the open quarry and the evening sky, looks back at both of them against the front of Steve’s car.

“No,” he affirms, “I want to tell him.”

“You sure?” asks Steve.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure. I’m through with running away from scary things.”

Billy and Steve look at each other. Steve shrugs, asks, “You want us to be there when you do?”

“I dunno,” Eddie shrugs noncommittally. “No. Maybe. Maybe. I’ll think about it. I just kinda wanted to… say it to someone. So, y’know, now I have to actually go through with it.” He chuckles nervously, burying his face into his mane of hair. “Don't let me back out of it, okay? Both of you.”

“I guess I could see it with Munson,” Hop admits after a thoughtful silence. The kerosene porch lamp throws deep shadows over his face. “He’s kinda out there. In your face with that stick-it-to-the-man attitude and everything. But Harrington… I gotta say, I doubt I would’ve ever guessed that one.”

Hopper’s still processing the news. It’s clear he’s got all sorts of questions but is doing his best to be respectful and not pry. He and Billy have regular smoke breaks out on the porch now on evenings when the kids are over playing their game. They have good talks.

Billy cups the lighter and sparks the end of his fresh Marlboro. “When did you have me figured out? About being gay?”

“I didn’t really.” Hop swats a fluttering moth away from his face. “I'll admit I had my suspicions later on, what with how… intense you got about them. But it’s not like I called it right outta the gate. It’s not obvious, is what I’m saying. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

Billy gestures over his shoulder to indicate the freshmen on the other side of the wall. “Who do I care about finding out? Don’t think the little shits would ever figure it out. These Corn Belt kids don’t even think about that kinda thing.”

Hopper shrugs, nods his head. “You may be surprised.”

“My dad could always tell,” Billy says plainly, exhaling his first drag. “Don’t know how. But he knew it just from how I was. He knew it before I did. Since I was a kid.”

Quiet, Hopper looks at him, arms folded.

Billy confronts the thought with a scowl, blinking away hard emotions. “First time he ever called me a fag I was six or seven. Don’t remember what I did. But I remember that feeling.”

He hugs himself, feeling a knife edge in his guts. Even more than ten years later, the shame of that moment is nearly physical. Hopper watches him.

Billy clears his throat, flicks his cigarette. “I don’t think I’d even, y’know, like, realized that shit about myself yet. I was just a kid. Don’t know how he knew, what gave it away. It fucked me up because I didn’t want him to be… right. Didn’t want him to be right about me.”

“Hey,” Hopper says gently, and when Billy looks at him he offers an alleviatory shrug, “it’s nothing you did. That I can promise you. Sometimes there is no why. Take it from an old cop, sometimes there really are just bad guys out there, and they do bad shit for no good reason. You don’t have to justify it for him.”

How many times has Billy been just some bad guy in someone else's life? Doing shit to be mean and feel powerful.

He doesn’t want his dad being right about who he is anymore.

“So you think Steve passes, but maybe not Munson, is that right?” Billy chuckles, returning to Hop’s original topic. “You worried about us getting our asses kicked in town or something?”

Hopper sighs. “I’m thinkin’ the town’s got bigger shit to worry about right now.”

Not that Billy can show his face around town. Or that Eddie really can all too much either. And Billy might have a bit of a death wish, but he’s not looking to draw the attention of the Army over this.

But if they could, how open would they choose to be? How safe would it even be? Billy imagines there are exactly zero out-of-the-closet queers in Hawkins. And even if there were one or two known individuals, a gay trio would definitely make some red state heads spin.

“Hey, look,” Hopper starts, creaking on his chair, looking everywhere but at Billy, “I can’t promise I’ll be good at this sorta thing but— you can talk to me about it. If it helps.”

“About what?” Billy plays dumb, because watching Hop so discomforted is a little funny.

“About, y’know, them.” Hop gestures out to the darkened forest and the town beyond, as if all of Hawkins represented Eddie and Steve. “About what’s going on with them. If you need—I dunno—advice, or help, or something. Look, I’m not trying to snoop or anything.” He waves away the presumed objections. “Lord knows I get enough of that with El and the Wheeler kid. But you’ve picked a hard thing here. With them. And I don’t want you thinking you have to tackle it all on your own just because I’m a crabby old bastard who doesn’t get it.”

Billy chuckles behind his cigarette, “You worried about my love life, chief?”

“It does worry me, okay?” grouses Hop. “C’mon. I would be an idiot not to worry. This thing with you and those two… pardon me for noticing but you boys moved fast.”

Billy smirks wickedly, cigarette teetering in his mouth. “Afraid I can’t wear white at my wedding anymore, old man?”

The question visibly takes years off Hopper’s life. Wincing, the big man slowly closes his eyes, exhales deeply, shaking off Billy's attempts to provoke him. “You got involved with them during a highly… emotional time. That alone would be enough of a reason to be concerned. But on top of that, you and Harrington have come to blows in the past, literally right in front of me one time. So that’s another reason for me to be cautious. But then on top of all that, you’re also a dead man walking around with fake documents. That’s a lot of complications, kid.”

Billy suddenly has doubts. “So you think I should just back out while I can.”

“I think that if you want to give this a shot, then you have to be serious about how you handle it.”

Hopper’s skepticism hurts more than Billy expects. “You think I would have ever told you about any of this if it wasn’t… wasn’t serious to me?”

“Hey, c’mon, no, that’s not what I’m saying.” The big ex-chief leans forward and rests his beer can down on the planks. “Look, I’ve never been presented with a situation like this before. I’m doin’ my best. I know it’s serious. I know they’re important to you. But the three of you are real young and you’ve all been through a lot of really tough shit. More tough shit than most people go through in a lifetime. It’s a volatile mix. I know marriages that have ended over less extreme events.”

“You think we’re just stupid kids,” Billy grumbles.

“Yeah, a little bit,” nods Hopper, shrugging. “But there’s nothing bad about that. Everyone’s a stupid kid at your age. Part of figuring out who you are. All I’m saying is that if you want this thing to work you’re going to have to try real hard to be a grownup.”

Scowling, Billy feels embarrassed and small. “Would you be saying any of this if they were girls?”

Hopper brings a hand to his bristled head and sighs hugely. “I don’t know, kid.” And that really does seem to trouble him. “Let’s be real, it’s not like it’s not a factor, okay? For your safety, and theirs. But, hey, listen, even if they were both girls, I would still have a whole bunch of other concerns about this situation.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“C’mon. Give me some credit. The gay stuff… look, I don’t pretend to get the appeal. But if you’re happy and safe, then I really do not care who it’s with.”

Billy sulks a little bit. Hopper just lets him. He’s well-versed by now on giving Billy the opportunity to diffuse his own emotions. This whole openness thing is still a foreign language as far as Billy is concerned and he is still practising at it.

They finish their minute in silence. Billy mulls their conversation over in his head.

Hopper zips up his fleece jacket as the night densifies around them. “Listen, here’s some free advice that they don’t tell you in the movies, kid. Being happy? It’s hard work. It doesn’t just happen by accident. You have to do it for yourself. So if there are people in your life that make that work a little easier, that’s worth hanging onto.”

Billy looks at Hopper out of the corner of his eye. He so badly wants to believe these things. He’s so badly been needing a little guidance for his whole damn life.

In his big hands, Hopper flips the lid of his Zippo lighter open and closed. It’s the one that he has carried since Vietnam, Billy knows. The metal hinge and cap clinks at regular intervals in the quiet night.

“The world’s about to change real fast, kid,” Hopper tells him, contemplative. “Future’s coming up on us. It’s the end of the millennium. And I’ll be honest, I don’t know what it’s got in store for any of us. So when it does come, if you can face it alongside the people that make you happy, make you stronger—” Hopper slaps a hand on the knee of his jeans “—that's the whole ball game, kid. That's the most any man can hope for.”

The Wheeler’s station wagon rolls up to the cabin. Nancy extinguishes the headlights and taps the horn to alert the freshman that it’s time to go.

She awaits her brother and his friends on the front porch, chatting with Hopper, brushing away moths orbiting the outdoor lamps. She politely asks after Billy as well. They make some stilted small talk. It’s uncomfortable. But Billy appreciates that she’s been upfront with him, so he plays along.

The kids come pouring out of the front door and into the summer evening. They charge in a line right past Billy and Hopper, catapulting off the deck, so enraptured in their overlapping conversations that they barely acknowledge any of the adults waiting on them.

“Hey, Sinclair,” Billy calls.

Sinclair doubletakes, frowning, cautious about Billy speaking to him.

Billy leans forward on the bench and takes a folded envelope from his back pocket. He extends it out toward Sinclair. “Give that to Maxine the next time you see her, will you?”

The kid regards the offered envelope with skepticism. After a beat, he steps forward and accepts it.

“Thanks,” Billy tells him.

Sinclair flips the folded letter in his hands a few times. “Someone might have to read it to her,” he warns. “Her eyesight’s getting better but it’s still hard for her to read sometimes.”

Billy shrugs. “You can read it to her, if she asks.”

“Okay. Uh, yeah. Sure.” The kid smiles, glances at Nancy and Hopper as if for confirmation that this interaction isn’t a dream. “If, uh, if she writes you anything back I’ll bring it over.”

After a brief squabble over shotgun, the kids pile into the car. Nancy waves back to them before climbing into the driver’s seat of the station wagon. Hopper and Billy watch the red tail lights disappear into the dark forest before turning inside.

El is holding the faded photograph in her hand. She sits blindfolded and cross-legged on her made bed, lithic, mediational, like a hermit from an old myth.

The voltage drops and the single lamp in the room flickers and dims. White noise sandblasts over the sticker-covered portable radio. El picks through the spinning particles of reality, searching. Billy sits on his own bed scarcely a yard across from her, watching silently.

He doesn't really know how this works. Just knows that El can find people from far away. Can voyage out in her mind and find them with just a name, or an article of clothing, or a photograph.

There’s no buoyant tank of salinated water. No high doses of hallucinogens courtesy of Uncle Sam. Just an ad hoc blindfold and some radio static. Billy hopes it will be enough.

“There’s water,” she says, distant, stilted, “and hills. Green shrubs. Red soil.”

That’s vague. Billy folds and refolds his arms. Shakes his hair out of his eyes. Has to stop himself from bouncing his knee in agitation. The vibrations distract her.

“A lake,” El announces softly.

Billy keeps very still, like he risks disturbing the psychic mirage by thinking too loudly. Patience is agony to him.

“It’s sunny,” she relays distantly from behind her blindfold, “and there are boats, and a dock. People swimming.”

Still not helpful. That could be anywhere.

Then, El says, “I see her.”

Billy’s head whips up, looks, expecting to see her. Like she would be standing right there.

“She’s looking at the water. Her hair is in a bun. The sun is bright. It’s pretty.”

She’s really there. El found her from across thousands and thousands of miles, beyond the curvature of the earth. Suddenly she is no longer vanished but is somewhere, standing at some shore, under the same sunshine that’s falling on Billy.

“Lopez Lake,” El reads off a sign on the far side of the country.

“What?” Billy asks before he remembers not to interrupt.

“The sign. It says Lopez Lake.”

Billy reaches forward then stops short, hand hanging in empty space between them, like he expected to reach out and find it. Like it was in the room with them, the sign, the dock, the lake. Like the particle swarm of the shadow could pluck data from atoms. Like Billy could step into El’s remote viewing and be transported across the continent.

Blood runs out of El’s nose. A slow, red bead. The lamp’s lightbulb brightens, buzzing, the filament supporting a voltage it was never designed to maintain. The strength of El’s power flexes the planks of the walls.

“Stop, El. That’s enough.”

He turns off the radio static. El reels her perception back in like a net from the cognitive ocean. The sudden low pressure makes Billy’s ears pop.

After, he gets her tissues and she returns the photo to him.

“Lopez Lake,” El repeats, her voice somewhat nasally with a tissue plugged up one nostril. “That’s what the sign said. It had a picnic table on it.”

Billy looks at the photo of him and his mom. “Okay.”

“Do you know… Lopez Lake?”

“No,” Billy admits. “Sounds like it could be in California, though. Maybe Arizona. But it could be the ass-end of China for all I know.”

“We could try again,” suggests El slowly. “Later, if she goes home. Maybe I can find the name of a street. Or numbers on a house.”

“No. No, that’s enough for now.”

Maybe it will be enough just to know that she persists out there. That she carried on the last decade sufficiently well without her child. Is it better or worse that she can live with what she’s done? Would Billy be more satisfied if El had found her as a broken woman?

Maybe that is what he hoped to find. That streak of cruelty still burns radioactive within him. Maybe it always will.

El lays a tiny hand on Billy’s forearm. “She was still smiling. She looks like you when she smiles.”

In the faded yellow photograph, his mom at the beach holding a young Billy in her arms, not yet six. He doesn’t remember the precise day, but he remembers that feeling. The booming sea and boundless sky. Their hair is splayed wild in the shoreline breeze. Billy’s cheeks are pink from the sun. They both smile at the photographer. Over her shoulder is a small quadrant of blue sky and ocean.

So alike to the memory El had rescued him from. The sun, the waves, tripping in the foam. Free and young and not yet injured in the way he would come to be. The happiest he had ever been. The most loved he had ever felt.

At least for a time. For a long time.

But maybe not anymore. Maybe that day in the waves with his mom doesn’t have to be the best day of his life forever.

He replaces the photo into the documents box beneath his bed with his new fake birth certificate and licence. On the back of the photograph he scribbles “Lopez Lake” in ballpoint pen, just in case he ever decides to go looking.

The Fourth arrives. Corn dogs and fireworks and barbeque. The annual parade down Main Street is canceled on account of the gorges still bisecting the downtown core, but the fairgrounds had escaped the earthquake unscathed, and carnival rides and food carts have been in the trampled field setting up all week.

Billy crashes at Steve’s. He gets there before noon, not interested in running into any patriotic festivities starting early.

Eddie arrives in the late afternoon, having had beers and barbeque with his uncle before Wayne went to a buddy’s poker night and Eddie drove up to Loch Nora.

They all sit outside watching the long sunset together, each with a beer and a home-grilled hotdog. Steve brings out a little portable stereo and puts on Born In The USA because he thinks he’s a comedian.

“You know this song is actually about the war vets, right?” Eddie asks, bemused.

“Don’t worry, Robin already gave me that lecture,” deadpans Steve. “But, hey, you know, look at all of us! Born in the USA. It kinda fits.”

Even Eddie’s got to admit it: Springsteen’s got a gifted way with song. He entertains his boys with a passionately silly air drum solo during the chorus.

They roll up their jeans and cool their feet in the pool and eat their hotdogs while the music plays. It’s still a little light on the horizon all the way to nine o’clock. The woods fall dark first, deepening with pools of shade, then the light on the rooftops turns golden, then rose, then blue. They watch as the summer palette of the sky extinguishes.

The pool glows turquoise like a portal to another world. Rippling water underlights the three of them, giving them each the appearance of a liquid blue sun shining on them from below.

When it’s finally dark, the distant concussive rumble of detonating fireworks starts, many miles away. There’s no seeing them at this distance, but the sound travels. Like far off thunder, intermittent and irregular.

The song changes and Steve jumps to his feet with a splash. “Oh shit, this one’s my favourite!” He turns up the volume knob on the stereo as high as it’ll go.

The synthy melody and driving drums fill the backyard patio. Eddie, clocking the song immediately, casts a cheeky look at Billy.

Of course this is Steve’s favourite Springsteen song. Of course.

“Get up,” Steve waves at them both. “C’mon, both of you get up.”

“What are we doing?” Eddie asks and he’s hoisted to his feet by Steve.

“Dance with me.”

Eddie turns his face into his hair. “You’re unbelievable, big boy.”

“Dance with me, Munson!” Sometimes it’s very obvious that Steve is an only child. “You too, Billy. We’re doing this.”

“Dude I have never danced before in my life,” groans Eddie, “certainly not to friggin’ Springsteen.”

“Oh loosen up, rockstar. It’s funny.” He takes Eddie’s hands in his own and encourages him to sway on the upbeat. “We’re dancing in the dark. Get it?”

Steve’s a passable dancer, got natural rhythm and timing, but Eddie is stiff like a plank.

They bring a smile to Billy’s face. Steve’s charisma coaxing a wooden, insecure Eddie to move his hips and bop a little.

It’s silly. They look ridiculous. Something Billy would’ve mocked a person for not even a year ago. Something about people being happy and goofy and not caring who sees scares him. He’s not sure why.

Steve slides an arm around Eddie’s waist and tugs him close. He smiles. Eddie blushes. The aqueous blue light spotlights them like they were on a stage. A pocket of night where nothing can touch them.

“You too, Hargrove.” Steve reaches down and tugs Billy to his feet. “It’s not funny unless we all do it.”

“‘Funny’ is generous.”

“Nope, no grumbling. It’s summer. It’s a holiday. We’re having fun.”

Billy glances at Eddie over Steve’s shoulder. Smiling, Eddie shrugs. “Live a little, big guy.”

Billy hasn’t ever danced before either. At least, he doesn’t think so. Sorta moshed at concerts in the past but that’s not the same. He’s definitely never danced with someone. Not like that.

But Steve takes one of his hands, and Eddie takes the other, and it’s not graceful or coordinated but they guide him into a rhythmic sway to the energetic music.

It feels kinda stupid. But they both smile at him, thrilled at having gotten Billy to buy in, and it makes his heart soar.

The song winds down and the next one begins. Steve scoops them together in his arms, nudging his head between both of theirs. His fingertips trace the back of Billy’s scalp.

“I think we’re gonna make it,” he mutters, burying his face in their shoulders. “I think we’re all gonna be okay.”

He holds them tight.

“You guys trust me?” he asks, pulling back to look them in the eye.

And Billy does. He trusts them both so much.

Eddie takes Steve’s hand from his shoulder and brings it to his mouth for a kiss. “Always.”

Steve looks at Billy with those big, beseeching eyes. “What about you?”

Billy thinks for a minute, smiles, then leans forward and kisses Steve on the mouth.

“I trust that you’re a dork, Harrington,” he mutters against his lips.

Steve groans and shoves him playfully. Laughing, Eddie offers Billy a high five.

“You know what? I’ll take it,” says Steve, confident as anything.

The humid night is alive with music and the far-off sound of fireworks. One year to the day that Billy’s life was over. And the truly unbelievable circumstance that he finds himself in now, well, he doesn’t understand it. Probably never will. But no one ever gets a second chance like this, so he might as well earn it.

The things he’s seen, the things he knows, in the face of all those things, being happy doesn’t seem like that huge a hurdle to clear.

And with these two in his corner, Billy lets himself believe, privately, that they really might just make it.

That they all just might make it out of this.

And that they might end up somewhere even better.