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Billy chuckles weakly, turning his head to look out the car window. The newest bruise over his cheekbone throbs, the scab where his skin split under his father’s ring pulling tight at the movement. “I just don’t get why you’re so concerned, Harrington,” he says. “Don’t you have some shitheads to babysit or something?”
“I’m concerned because of your face,” Harrington shoots back, and wow, that actually sounds like genuine worry in his voice.
Fuck him.
Billy leers as best he can with a fat lip and a black eye. “Aww, don’t be jealous, pretty boy,” he snarls. The pain is making him angry, making him mean, but he can’t find it in himself to care.
Harrington, the asshole, doesn’t rise to the bait. He sits back, hands raised in a gesture of goodwill, and stares. Billy’s used to being stared at, by girls, women, even the occasional guy who doesn’t know better, doesn’t know how to hide it (Tommy looks in the locker room, sometimes, although Billy knows he’d never admit it), but he’s never been stared at like this. It’s like Harrington's trying to peel back the layers of his face, like he wants to see what’s underneath.
The worst part is, Billy thinks he might let him.
“Just tell me what happened, man,” Harrington says, all soft voice and doe eyes. “Maybe I can help.”
And there it fucking is. Steve fucking Harrington, the goddamn white knight of Hawkins, Indiana, swooping in with his BMW to pick up damsels in distress on the side of the road and kiss away their boo-boos. Only he got Billy instead, and Billy sure as hell isn’t gonna fall for that.
“Fuck off, Harrington, I don’t need your help,” he grumbles, turning away again, but Harrington just can’t leave well enough alone.
“Honestly, dude, whatever it is, I won’t judge. I’ve done some seriously stupid shit, trust me.”
Billy’s tried, really. He’s tried to remain civil. But Harrington can’t take a fucking hint or twelve, and his patience has run out.
“None of your fucking business, is what it is!” he shouts, slamming a fist on the dashboard. “Just a gift from my piece of shit dad to his piece of shit son. It's my fault and I. Don’t. Need. Your. Help.”
Billy’s never seen Harrington’s face morph from gentle worry to pure rage so fast in his life. “Absolutely the fuck not,” he snaps. He’s actually shaking. Incredible. “Billy, I don’t care what the hell else happened, this is not your fault in any way, shape, or form. Nobody should have to deal with that, and you especially shouldn’t blame yourself for it.”
If Billy didn’t know better, didn’t know that Harrington would get knocked on his ass in a second flat, he’d think he was ready to go pay Mr. Hargrove a visit right the fuck now. What did he say? Harrington, the white knight.
“Thanks, but I already know how much you hate me.” Billy sighs and reaches for the car door. “I’m a big boy, you don’t have to lie to try to make me feel better.”
“I’m not—” Harrington breaks off with a frustrated groan, and Billy’s caught for a moment by the way he runs his hand through his hair. “I don’t hate you, and I’m not lying to you,” he finishes. Some of the fury has drained out of his shoulders, but he’s still tense, still wound up. The way he carries the tension looks... familiar, like he’s used to it. Billy wonders what a guy like Harrington has to be that tense about, what he does to blow off steam. He’s not like Billy, basketball and girls are probably enough for him, aren’t they?
He’s taken too long to respond, he knows that, but he still scoffs and rolls his eyes. Not the right thing to do, it seems, because Harrington crosses his arms like Billy’s just issued a challenge.
“What do I have to do to prove it to you?” Harrington asks. “What, was picking you up off the side of the road not enough? Seriously, what do I have to do?” he continues as Billy, accepting the fact that he’s apparently not leaving the car any time soon, reaches for his cigarettes. He doesn’t reply, just flicks his lighter open and holds it up to the cigarette with trembling hands.
He’s barely stuck his lighter back in his pocket, cigarette glowing and clenched between his teeth, when Harrington reaches out and plucks it away. He doesn’t even smoke it himself, just tosses it out the driver’s side window. Billy opens his mouth to protest, a “What the hell, man?” on the tip of his tongue, but it’s swallowed by Harrington’s lips.
Billy doesn’t know what’s happening at first. One moment Harrington’s there in the driver’s seat, and the next he’s leaning over the center console, one hand fisted in the front of Billy’s shirt and the other resting on his knee. And then he’s just everywhere, filling Billy’s senses, smelling of rain and pine trees and just a little bit of sweat from basketball practice earlier, his stupid fucking hair tickling Billy’s face, and his lips are so soft, so gentle against Billy’s. He minds the split in Billy’s lip, presses in firm but not hard, traces the seam of Billy’s lips oh so slowly with his tongue. When Billy finally kisses back, finally opens his mouth, he chokes down the moan that crawls up his throat, although he can’t suppress the shudder traveling through his spine. He buries his hands in Harrington’s hair, grabs it and pulls just a little, just so he can get his tongue in Harrington’s mouth. Can Harrington taste the lingering blood on his teeth? Billy can.
This is the best thing Billy’s ever experienced.
He’s freaking out a little.
But then Harrington pulls away, not far, just enough to put some air between them. “I don’t hate you,” he repeats. Billy can’t stop staring at his lips, spit slick and cherry red. “In fact, against my better judgement, I like you. Kind of a lot,” he adds. His hand is still gripping Billy’s shirt. Billy’s hands have fallen to Harrington’s shoulders.
Harrington leans forward then, and for a moment Billy thinks he’s going in for round two, but he doesn’t, just rests their foreheads together. “Come back to my house tonight,” he whispers into the space between them, so quiet Billy almost thinks he’s misheard. “Not for that,” Harrington cuts in before Billy can even think of an innuendo to make. Better off that way, he supposes. His ribs are definitely bruised. He’s not doing much of anything tonight. “So you can sleep in a bed without your fucking father down the hall.”
Billy wants to say yes, wants to thank him, kind of really wants to kiss him again, but because he’s allergic to sincerity in all its forms, what comes out of his mouth is, “Jesus, Harrington, I didn’t realize you cared.”
They’re still mere inches apart. Billy feels Harrington’s huff of laughter against his lips. “I care too much,” he says, and something about the way he says it makes Billy think this is about more than just wanting to fuck, or wanting to like, make out under the moonlight because that’s the kind of sappy romantic shit Harrington is probably into. It makes him think that Harrington’s got some shit too, like maybe he wasn’t cared about enough as a kid, and maybe Billy isn’t the only one he cares too much about (it’s those fucking kids he babysits, Billy would stake what’s left of his life on it), but right now Billy’s just happy to be included. He nods against Harrington’s forehead, sighs against his mouth.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”