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The game had been close. Which was actually how Billy preferred it; keeping the tension until the final moments, drowning in adrenaline, pushing hard until the last second. But they had won, to everyone’s glee. The coach had smiled and told them not to stay up too late celebrating back at the motel.
Because the game was on a Friday evening in another town the school had decided (after conferring with the team members’ parents) to stay the night and return to Hawkins the next day. An arrangement that Neil had agreed to only because basketball was probably the only thing Billy did that he approved of.
And now the team was crowded into someone’s room, passing around a smuggled bottle of whiskey and talking shit. Billy was still surfing the high of the win, feeling loose and easy with fatigue and alcohol. The wash of conversation was out of focus, unimportant and stress free. Billy was king shit here, there was no Neil here. No one to fight for a place. No random shove or punch coming unexpectedly. Just the sound of the other boys’ laughter and the warm burn of whiskey in his throat.
And there was Harrington sitting quietly in the corner. Not quite excluded, but still not part of things either. Billy kept an idle watch on him, wondering if Harrington still (had ever?) resented his dethroning. The bottle made its way to Harrington and he looked at it thoughtfully before taking a pull long enough that someone whooped and Tommy snarked, “Leave some for the rest of us, Steve-o.”
Steve barely grimaced as he swallowed the whiskey down, then stood, passing the bottle on. “I’m done for the night. See you losers in the morning,” he said, his tone mild, teasing. There was a friendly enough response from a few of the boys but mostly Steve was unnoticed as he quietly slipped out the door and into the dark.
Billy was suddenly restless, the chatter filling the room becoming more annoying than soothing. The sound of Tommy’s laugh was grating against Billy’s nerves enough that he felt the familiar urge to lash out rise in him. He stood abruptly, startling the guys sitting near him into laughter. “Going for a smoke,” Billy said, heading outside because, of course, they’d been stuck in non-smoking rooms. Being innocent teenagers and all.
Once outside, in the chill of the almost empty parking lot, Billy pulled out his smokes. But while digging for his lighter his hand closed around his room key and he paused. Pulling it out to look at it he thought back to the team’s arrival at the hotel. About the coach handing them all their keys. About Harrington receiving a key with the exact same number tag as Billy. Harrington either hadn’t noticed or hadn’t cared that they were bunking together.
Billy had noticed.
Turning the key over and over in his palm, Billy pursed his lips down at it consideringly, very carefully thinking of nothing at all. Then he shoved the cigarette he had fished out back into the pack and stuffed the pack back in his pocket before heading to the room number indicated on the key.
Standing in front of the door Billy could see light filtering through the drawn curtains. He leaned against the door and held his breath. He couldn’t hear anything other than the rush of blood in his own ears. He grabbed the knob. Slid the key in the lock. Turned it. Then merely stood for a moment, the metal of the door handle growing warm in his hand.
When Billy got into the room Harrington was sprawled across the only bed, a double, one arm thrown over his eyes. He didn’t move at the sound of the door and Billy wondered if he had managed to fall asleep that quickly. But there was a stiffness to Harrington’s pose, a tension. He was a wake. He was just ignoring Billy.
The anger, already unsettled from his earlier agitation, stirred again. Billy did not like being ignored. He couldn’t (wouldn’t) parse the thick tangle of emotions that welled up in him when it happened, (when someone dared ,) didn’t bother even trying. He just did what he was best at. He started to antagonise until he got a reaction. Any reaction. Because no one fucking ignored Billy Hargrove.
“Too tired to keep up, Harrington? A game and a party on the same night too much for you?” It was a weak enough jab but it did the job.
“Fuck off, Hargrove,” Harrington sighed, almost succeeding at seeming unaffected.
Billy ran his tongue over his teeth, almost imagining he could taste blood there, the salt of his sweat almost as satisfying. “No, I don’t think I will, pretty boy,” Billy purred, his voice thick with what sounded like aggression. “Considering that’s my bed you’re currently hogging.”
Harrington jerked up, any attempt at playing that he was too cool for this dropped gratifyingly quickly. Billy felt his blood warm. “Are you seriously suggesting you’re getting the whole fucking bed?” Harrington demanded, indignation mixed with his usual anger at Billy’s existence.
Billy felt his tongue dance between his teeth. “Are you seriously suggesting you could stop me taking it if I wanted it?” he rebuffed quickly. He felt heat race up his neck at his own words, felt embarrassed by the unintended double entendre. Then felt angry at his embarrassment.
Harrington stiffened, as though he thought Billy had meant what he’d seemed to imply. As though he thought Billy was some kind of— Billy felt his temper rising, his usual level of just-plain-pissed-off skirting towards the black rages that sometimes came over him. The ones where his mind disappeared and his body moved independently. The ones where he woke up with someone else’s blood all over his fists.
But then Harrington deflated. His tension fell away and all of a sudden he just looked tired. He looked as tired as Billy had ever felt, when his body was sore from Neil’s fists and feet and his heart was sore from everything. When he found himself fiddling with the straight razor that Neil never used and watching his own exhausted, fearful eyes in the bathroom mirror.
“Whatever,” Harrington huffed, more of a breath than a word. He slid down the bed, dragging one of the pillows with him, before moving to the floor and stretching out.
“You’re gonna sleep on the floor?” Billy asked. His surprise, when it mixed with his not quite diffuse anger, sounded like disgust.
“You want the bed, man? Take it,” Harrington said, shuffling around on the floor as though trying to get comfortable. “I don’t need this shit. Like, ever.”
That sparked Billy’s temper again. “What, you’re too good for me?” he demanded, hands hitching into fists.
“I’m too tired for you, Hargrove. I’m too tired for all of this shit,” Harrington said, sitting back up to glare at Billy. “You wanna pick a fight with me in the morning ? Go right the fuck ahead. You wanna kick my arse? Just make it quick. I came here to sleep, not get in another pissing match with you.”
Billy felt that flush up his neck again, feeling it settle over his ears, hot and shameful. And all of a sudden Billy was also tired. Tired of picking fights, tired of having everything to prove, tired of being so fucking angry all the time. Perhaps Harrington sensed this because with one last glare at Billy he settled back onto the floor, curling around the pillow and seemingly settling in to sleep.
Billy stood over him for an eternal three seconds before scoffing. “Get on the fucking bed, man,” he said roughly, ignoring the way his heart was kicking against his ribs. “Just don’t hog the covers.”
With that Billy wrenched off his jacket, tossing it away before pulling his shirt off too. He’d stripped his boots, socks and jeans before Harrington had done more than sit up, peering at him over the foot of the bed. His suspicious eyes made Billy feel irritated again. “Or sleep on the floor. Whatever gets you hard.”
Before Billy could catch Harrington’s expression over this second instance of poor phrasing and feel even more stupid than he already did, he threw himself down onto the bed and yanked the covers over himself. Turning so his back faced the side Harrington would sleep on Billy scrunched his eyes closed and felt himself flip back and forth between being mad at himself for being a fucking idiot and mad at the world for being there to see it.
There was a moment more of silence before there was a sigh, then the sound of cloth moving over skin. Billy screwed his eyes shut harder and kept his mind very intentionally blank. He ignored the sudden heat in his chest and belly. He didn’t acknowledge the thunder of his heart. He didn’t wonder how the hell he was ever going to get to sleep like this.
When Harrington climbed in his calf brushed Billy’s foot, making Billy jerk away almost violently on instinct. There was another pause. Another sigh. Then Harrington was settling under the covers as well, facing away from Billy, reaching up to turn off the lamp. The room was thrown into a semi-darkness, the lights of the parking lot filtering through the cracks in the curtains. Harrington settled and then there was as much stillness as can be found in a motel just off an exit ramp.
Billy felt certain that he would never be able to sleep. But somehow the mix of exercise and alcohol was enough to drag Billy’s mind away from itself long enough to let him drift into unconsciousness. The heat at his back was actually somewhat comforting; proof that, for once, Billy wasn’t alone.
When Billy woke again it was still dark and there was an arm around his waist. He had no moment of sleepy confusion, no soft cushion of pre-wakefulness contentment. Billy always slammed awake, as though consciousness resented him even these few hours of reprieve. So he knew right away that at some point in the night Harrington had cuddled up to him. More than likely assuming in his sleep that Billy was some chick he’d scored with, if the rumours were to be believed about Harrington’s easy affections.
So Billy was paralysed under Harrington’s arm, feeling the broad palm resting just under his pec, the long fingers curled almost under him. Harrington was moulded against him, shoulders to ankles, making it very obvious that Harrington had also stripped down to his underwear. The heat of his bare chest against Billy’s bare back was almost stifling. And Billy was having a hard time thinking of nothing when he could feel the soft pressure Harrington’s dick pressed into his arse.
He shifted, pulled away slowly, thinking he might be able to slip out of Harrington’s arms and escape to the bathroom. But as he moved Harrington hummed and pulled him back again, pressing his lips against his neck in a not-really-awake kiss. Billy almost let loose some kind of sound as Harrington’s hand swept up and down his belly in what was likely supposed to be a comforting way.
Billy held himself rigid, waiting for Harrington to wake up properly. For him to realise what had happened. What Billy had let happen. Like a fucking idiot. Like a fucking— But Harrington just settled them back together, tangling their legs and snuffling happily at Billy’s neck and hair. The humid wash of his breath raised gooseflesh down Billy’s back.
And that was it. Harrington was just holding him, breathing softly against Billy’s skin. But Billy felt tears of humiliation clog the back of his throat, felt the burn of them in his nose and eyes. Because he was getting hard. A man was holding him, just holding him, and he was getting hard faster than he ever had with a girl’s mouth wrapped around his dick.
All of Billy’s careful avoidance, all of his deliberate unthinking, was completely destroyed by Steve fucking Harrington. Because of course it was. He’d survived nearly his whole fucking life, kept his carefully cultivated deniablility, never once acknowledging the thing that was probably most of why Neil hated him and all of why his mother had left him. And Steve fucking Harrington had come along with his hair and his thighs and his stupid preppy clothes and had ruined everything because Billy was laying here harder than he had ever been in his life and the fucking bastard hadn’t even done anything to him.
Because Billy was a faggot. He was a disgusting queer. A pansy arse fairy. He had been since puberty and all of a sudden the second best thing about the beach wasn’t building sand castles anymore. It was watching the men in their swimming briefs covered in oil working on their tans.
Billy wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to murder Harrington and reclaim his deniability. He tried to move away again, needing space, needing distance, needing to get rid of this aching fucking hard-on. Harrington let out another sleepy snuffle, refused to let Billy go and smiled lazily. Billy could feel it against the back of his neck. “Hey, baby,” he said with sleepy satisfaction.
His hand swept up Billy’s body, (he had to notice the lack of tits, right?) then back down. Billy nearly jerked out of his skin, desperately trying to keep Harrington from feeling the massive rail spike poorly hidden in his shorts.
“Shh, babe,” Harrington said, still soft and sleepy. “I’ve got you.”
Then Harrington’s hand was on his dick. He was jacking Billy lazily, working the head, teasing the slit through the cloth of his boxers. Billy let out a sound that felt like it was going to be a shout but came out a breathless moan. Harrington huffed, sounding pleased with himself as he said, “There you go, baby. Lemme take care of you.”
Harrington’s other arm snaked under Billy’s chest, holding him tight, as his hips came forward to grind into Billy’s arse. Billy could feel that Harrington was starting to chub up as well. His heart was pounding, he couldn’t breathe, he was going to die. Whether from hyperventilation or the feeling of impending doom crushing his chest. He didn’t have the braincells left to wonder why Harrington was so comfortable with handling another dude’s junk, or why he seemed to enjoy it so much. Billy was too busy trying to keep from passing out.
Then Harrington’s hand slowed, and as much as Billy’s dick mourned, Billy was glad of the chance to gather himself. As Harrington pulled back, pulled away, Billy felt like he could breathe again. Could keep from panicking. And as the urge to freak out faded all that was left was his aching cock and Harrington’s silence behind him.
“I’m so sorry,” Harrington said in quiet mortification. “I didn’t— I would never—”
He didn’t know it was Billy. He would never touch Billy like that. Because of course he wouldn’t. Harrington had completely destroyed Billy’s carefully curated self-image, had completely exposed him to his most shameful self, had utterly ruined him for any other unsatisfactory half-hearted fumble with a girl. And he hadn’t even been trying to. Hadn’t even wanted to.
Billy felt tears threatening again, this time from self-pity. Because wasn’t that just Billy’s life? Even when he finally admitted what he actually wanted he didn’t get it. Probably because he didn’t deserve it. Billy could admit that he didn’t deserve much of anything good. But for once in his life couldn’t he just get it anyway? Couldn’t he luck out, just once? Considering he would more than likely never let himself have this ever again, couldn’t this one time he be allowed something good?
“Please,” Billy didn’t recognise the small, desperate voice that came out of him. “Please don’t stop.”
There was a second’s pause where Billy was sure Harrington was going to laugh at him. Or just leave him there. But then, without a word, Harrington was back against him, wrapping his arms back around Billy and pulling him close. His breath washed over the back of Billy’s neck again, in soft pants. Harrington plucked at Billy’s nipples, surprising him with the electric twang of pleasure that produced.
Then Harrington was reaching back down, pushing his boxer shorts out of the way and touching his cock directly. Billy jolted against him, thrusting desperately into that loosely clasped hand. He could feel Harrington smiling against his neck and couldn’t even care. Nothing had ever felt like this before. This felt raw and real and so fucking alive that Billy almost couldn’t stand it. He reached down and wrapped his hand around Harrington’s wrist, not controlling, just needing something to ground himself.
Harrington’s fist tightened, not moving from around the head of Billy’s dick, then loosed again. Tightened, loosed. He was squeezing the head of Billy’s cock like a stress ball. Like Billy was fucking someone who was clenching desperately around him. Then he slid his hand further down, tightened his grip just on the right side of too hard and flexed his fingers in a wave, like he wanted to milk Billy dry.
Billy was chewing his bottom lip hard, trying desperately to keep from coming just from the knowledge that it was Harrington touching his dick, Harrington actively trying to get him off. Every breath he let out had just enough voice behind it to make him sound like a desperate whore and he didn’t give a fuck because Harrington was starting to slide his fist up and down.
“Spit,” Harrington told him, letting go of his dick to hold his hand in front of Billy’s face. Billy caught his own scent on Harrington’s skin and it was hot enough to make him whimper. He had to suck hard on his tongue for a second before he had enough saliva in his mouth to spit into Harrington’s hand.
Now lubricated Harrington jacked Billy steadily, neither fast nor slow, just an agonisingly smooth pace. Each time his hand dragged down, he rolled his hips forward, rocking his now hard cock against Billy’s crack, dragging a surprising flicker of pleasure up Billy’s spine. It had only been moments and Billy was already so close to coming. He turned his face into the pillow under him, trying to hold on for as long as he could. This was his only chance to have this.
Then Harrington’s other hand —the one not pulling Billy’s brain out of his dick with the smoothest, most confident hand job he had ever received— gripped Billy’s chin gently. Long fingers brushed soothingly against his jaw before soft pressure was applied to turn Billy’s head. Billy allowed it, not quite able to believe Harrington was going to do what he seemed to be doing.
Harrington’s lips were soft, amazingly soft, yet still so much firmer than any girls’. There was a slight rasp of stubble from his chin. When Billy trailed his fingers hesitantly over Harrington’s jaw he could feel how broad, how square it was. The soft sounds that Harrington let slip into Billy’s hungry mouth were quiet but obviously masculine. This moment felt more like Billy’s first kiss than his actual first had done. That had felt like making-out with a wall. This felt like drowning, where the only thing keeping him afloat was Harrington’s lips.
Harrington kissed with a kind of gentle determination, not domineering but utterly focused, as though he wanted to know every single inch of Billy’s mouth. Like he wanted to find every touch, every stroke that made Billy melt, even as the hand around his dick made him squirm. He also had an enviable amount of coordination. A shame he couldn’t bring that to his basketball game.
Billy couldn’t keep himself from snorting into the kiss and had a moment of sheer panic as Harrington pulled back, fearing that he had ruined everything. But all Harrington did was smile down at Billy, still jacking him slowly and ask, “What’s funny, honey?”
Trying to save some dignity in the face of his absolute outing as a pathetic needy deviant Billy gave a weak example of his usual cocksure grin. “Just wondering why you can’t be this slick on the court,” he said, his tone too breathy and wanting to have any of the bite he wanted it to have.
Harrington grinned back at Billy in a way that was friendly, almost fond. As though they were sharing the joke. As though they could be something other than antagonistic together. “Oh, I save all my best moves for the stuff I actually care about,” Harrington said with ease. His hand picked up its pace and Billy gasped disgustingly, reaching back to grasp at Harrington’s hair.
It was soft under the crispy outer shell of hairspray, satisfying to sink his fingers into. “So getting laid is your sport of choice?” Billy asked, not really caring about the answer, already pulling Harrington’s mouth against his again.
With a non-committal waggle of his head Harrington said, “It used to be,” before letting Billy jam a desperate tongue down his throat.
They kissed as Harrington steadily increased the pace of his hand around Billy’s cock. Billy was leaking so much now there was barely any friction and it was actually a little frustrating, an almost too smooth slide. He began to kiss more savagely, squeezing Harrington’s wrist that he still held. And Harrington gripped tighter, moved faster, hitched his hips against Billy’s arse more firmly.
Finally Billy was creasting that peak, feeling his orgasm rushing over him like falling in the ocean. He reached back to grip Harrington’s arse, encouraging him to grind hard and fast as Billy came all over his hand. He wanted to feel Harrington shooting his load all over the back of Billy’s boxers. And he did, Harrington letting Billy devour the delicious sounds of his pleasure as his cock jumped and twitched along Billy’s crack.
Billy expected Harrington to pull away as soon as it was over but he continued to kiss Billy, even more softly, almost painfully tender. He cradled Billy’s face in one hand as though it were fragile, as though Billy were fragile. It should have pissed Billy off, but right at that moment he did feel fragile. He felt ready to shatter into a million pieces, while at the same time he felt capable of moving mountains. He had never had sex like this before.
Finally (toosoon toosoon ) the kissing slowed down and stopped. Harrington pulled back to smile at Billy before getting up and walking away. Billy half sat up, more jolted, certain that Harrington was going to walk out of the room and leave him there. But he was just moving to the bathroom.
“Toilet paper?” he asked, casually, as though this were something even vaguely close to normal. “Or would you prefer a wet towel?”
Billy blinked rapidly, trying to wrap his head around everything and failing hard. “Whatever,” he said gruffly, sounding more like his usual arsehole self. And he felt sad for that, knowing that Harrington was going to start hating him again. Then mad at himself for getting sentimental over a one time loss of sanity on both their parts.
Harrington grabbed up what seemed to be most of the roll of toilet paper and scrubbed at his hand and inside his boxers. Then, grabbing more, he came over and actually wiped Billy’s stomach off for him. The touch was gentle, almost polite. Billy’s muscles twitched and spasmed under the touch anyway, able to feel the electric sensation of Harrington’s skin even through the paper.
Balling up the toilet paper Harrington tossed it towards the bin like a freethrow. At the whoosh of a perfect basket Harrington pumped his fist and turned to grin at Billy. It felt even more surreal than the sex had. Like they were friends or something.
Then Harrington was climbing over Billy to reach the other side of the bed, pulling the covers back up and settling down as though to go back to sleep. Billy found himself staring at Harrington’s face. How the fuck was he taking this so lightly? Harrington hated Billy. Moreover, Billy was a man . Did he have no idea how big a fucking deal this was? Was he seriously just going to go back to sleep like they hadn’t just done the absolute worst thing imaginable?
Billy was working himself up into another freak out when Harrington wrapped his arms around Billy’s waist and tugged him close. He snuggled his face into Billy’s neck, sighing contentedly. The complete unexpectedness of it shut Billy’s brain up faster than anything ever had, leaving him with an almost awed inner silence. Tentatively Billy wrapped an arm around Harrington’s shoulders, drawing another pleased breath from him.
“Don’t think about it too much, Hargrove,” Harrington said, already sounding sleepy again. “This doesn’t have to be anything you don’t want it to be.”
But there was nothing more terrifying to Billy than having to be the one who made any kind of decision about this. Because he hadn’t even known that he wanted this in the first place. ( oh you fucking liar ) And as always fear (shame) made him angry, because that was literally the only way he knew how to interact with the world.
“This isn’t fucking anything, Harrington,” Billy said harshly, his voice poisonous with cruelty.
“Oookay,” Harrington said around a yawn. He didn’t move away. Neither did Billy.
It wasn’t long before Harrington’s weight grew heavy and his breathing became even. But Billy spent half the night simply laying there, feeling the warmth beside him and idly tracing his fingers over the arm Harrington had thrown across him.