You’re No Idiot, Steve Harrington
Billy Hargrove had said it so much that it nearly became a fucking tagline. Steve could remember it happening since long before they stopped hating each other, before Steve managed to sort out the terrifying electric current of feelings that made his stomach flutter. Billy Hargrove never stopped bitching about their “shithole town”.
“So fuckin’ cold–” he said it all the time “How d'you live here, Harrington?” Like clockwork, every fall and winter.
Many things had changed over the two years since Billy had sped into Hawkins on a cloud of California seaspray and cigarette smoke. In just the short time before Steve graduated high school, Steve and Billy had learned so much, changed so much, fallen hopelessly into something neither of them were willing to name.
Many things had changed since Steve took a job under his dad, since Billy drunkenly murmured “I love you” into Steve’s skin for the first time, since the unstoppable Billy Hargrove started to slow down and soften.
Many things had changed, but every time the blonde boy bitched about the weather, Steve still only answered with a roll of his eyes.
This time was no different.
Billy was curled up at the little breakfast table in the Harrington house, cradling his coffee mug and sucking on his first cigarette of the day. Bitching about the weather.
“Is it not the end of fucking March? Does that not mean spring in this goddamn town?”
“Nope!” he popped the p, smirking at the blonde from over his own steaming mug “You’re such a baby– it’s starting to warm up.”
“Forty five degrees? Are you yanking me right now?” Billy shook his head while Steve laughed at him. “Fuck this– one day I’ll show you Cali, you’ll never wanna come back to this shithole.”
It was the wistful way Billy said it, the sparkle in his still-sleepy blue eyes, that gave him away. He was missing home, Billy had always missed home. It was in everything he did. Even right then, when he leaned closer to the window to try and glean some element of warmth from the weak Indiana sun. It was a little sad, but he sure looked beautiful in the light, eyes closed and blonde curls lighting up gold.
Steve couldn’t help but smile, his chest feeling big and open as he swung around the small table to sit close to the other boy’s side. Excitement thrummed out to his fingers, feeling an opportune moment rising for something he’d been meaning to say.
Steve loved Billy. Steve hated his job. Steve would love to see California. Steve hated his dad.
“Is that a promise?” He slipped his fingertips up the nape of Billy’s neck, smirking.
Billy only raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
“Showing me California– is that a promise? William?” He teased, and Billy glared.
“Not if you keep calling me that, Princess.” He teased back, a little more biting than Steve.
“I am not a princess, Asshole–”
“Really? Have you seen your damn house?! Cuz you live in a mansion.” Billy snuffed out his cigarette in the vase of lilies that Mrs. Harrington had set out to keep up the charade that this stupid house was actually lived in.
Steve huffed an annoyed breath, and snapped “Okay, this is all beside the damn point: you wanna move out west after graduation?”
The silence was deafening. The distant twitter of birds– the first brave ones back for the spring– could just barely be heard, but Steve was oblivious to everything but his pounding heart. And the wide eyed stare of a boy who was rarely left speechless.
“A-are you serious?” It was barely a whisper, almost a hiss, and Steve’s hands tore absently at a napkin on the table as his anxiety flew into the stratosphere.
“It’s stupid! I mean, no. No, it’s not. I’ve been thinking and I hate my job and shit, but I’ve made a lot of good money– like, a lot– and you’re gonna be graduating. We could get a little apartment and finally get away from our shithead dads– I’ve been applying to some schools, UCLA has a great program for Early Childhood Ed… it’s just- I think I–”
His rambling was cut off by a kiss that tasted like cigarettes and the stupidly sweet coffee Billy liked. There was a rough hand holding his jaw, and once his brain caught up to what was happening, Steve found himself grinning against the other boy’s mouth. His fingers had tangled into the hair at Billy’s nape, and he didn’t ever want it to stop.
“Not a bad idea, Pretty Boy.” Billy rested their foreheads together even after they pulled up for air. “You should think more often.”
The relief was too fucking much. Steve exhaled long and hard, feeling boneless. He sipped his coffee, taking Billy’s hand and playing absently with the fingers intertwined with his.
Billy was beaming. His grin was slow, steadily rising as he took in all the things Steve had blurted out onto the breakfast table that morning. They were quiet for a moment, catching their breath, and then Billy snorted a laugh.
“What?” Steve asked, part of him thinking that maybe the blonde had been joking, maybe it was a cruel joke and Billy didn’t want to move with him, or– “C'mon Asshole, what’s so funny?”
“Early Childhood Education? What the fuck, Harrington?” He dissolved into real, actual giggles, and Steve couldn’t manage to get too angry hearing that. He still frowned for effect.
“Maybe I like kids, Asshole. I’m a damn good babysitter, and that’s all it is when they’re so fuckin’ small–” he trailed off when Billy stopped laughing and looked at him with as much seriousness as he could muster (while trying and failing to keep a straight face).
“You know you can’t refer to them as little shits, right? Or dipshits? Or shitstains?” He burst out into laughter again. There must’ve been a look on Steve’s face, some anxiety that he hadn’t managed to hide, because it soon died down.
He locked eyes with him again, still smiling, still sparkling. Steve couldn’t wait to see him in the California sun.
“You’re good with those twerps you already drive around. You’re no idiot, Steve Harrington, you can do it.” He stumbled over each word, like it was too big for his mouth. Billy still wasn’t the best at verbal reassurance, but the kiss he gave him then had all the words he couldn’t say.
They lapsed back into comfortable quiet, Billy whistling Zeppelin tunes– “the classics” he called them– as he plundered the cupboards for pop tarts and eggos and other sugary foods that barely constituted breakfast.
Steve could get used to this.
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