Work Text:
To say that Steve Harrington’s night had gone from bad to worse would be an understatement.
It started off with his movie date with Natalie. An easy enough little romantic outing, right? Well, Steve managed to completely and utterly fumble it. And that had been after getting her to agree on going on a date with him to begin with, which is no easy feat in Hawkins High’s current social climate. A social climate that has Steve teetering at the top, if he hasn’t already plunged already, that is.
Dating never used to be this hard. Not when he’d been King Steve. And especially not before Billy Hargrove blew into Hawkins, with his beach blonde hair and rippling biceps and bad boy attitude. Somehow, Hargrove managed to conquer the school in less than what? Two months? Sounds about right. And the worst part is that Hargrove is using his new guy popularity to go on a solo speed-dating competition, shrinking the dating pool in Hawkins even more.
And Steve, well, he hasn’t been at the top of his game. Like, at all. He’s not really King Steve anymore and people see him as either one of two things: pathetic loser who Nancy Wheeler dumped for Jonathan Byers or a has-been no one cares to pay much attention to anymore.
And despite all that, Natalie still said yes to going on a date with him. Not all was lost. Natalie felt like proof of that. Like there was still hope for Steve Harrington.
And the date had started off so promising too. The movie was great. Popcorn was great. She’d laughed at his jokes and even leaned in close enough that their shoulders brushed during the trailers. But of course Steve had to mix up her name with Nancy’s right at the end when it mattered most. It’s not his fault they sound exactly the same. Well, not exactly the same, but they both start with an ‘N’ and kinda rhyme if you stretch it…by a lot. So yeah, he got a bucket of popcorn shoved onto his head for that little mistake - grease, butter, salt and all.
So yeah, it had tanked horribly. Ended the night being called hair with lips. That was a new one.
Strike two towards his bad night came in the form of an unwanted visit from the Upside Down. Or, to be more specific, getting attacked by a mutant monster thing. And if that hadn’t been enough, it had wrecked his precious BMW, leaving it with a cracked windshield, dented metal, and scratched out paint. Steve just knew a buff wasn’t going to get the damages out.
And Steve really hadn’t wanted to get dragged into any of that. Not again. But he had to, because strange stuff around Hawkins meant the government might come back. And the government coming back meant Eleven being in danger. So he’d helped Dustin out and somehow ended that particular monster hunt racing to Chief Hopper’s cabin. And after all that, what does Steve get in return? He gets kicked out by Hopper after literally incinerating both of those mutant monster things right under his nose at the dump.
None of the kids ever plan to tell him. And you know what? Neither does Steve. It’s what the old man gets.
And now, lastly, the third strike. The cherry on his already crappy night: walking back to his car that had been left on the other side of town. And of course, it just had to start snowing too.
Steve zips his coat all the way up to his chin, rubbing his bare hands together to get some feeling back into them. He gives up and shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat when another cold wind blows by, making his fingers ache all over again. It also makes him regret not grabbing the gloves he’d tossed onto his bed when he’d been getting ready for his date. They didn’t match his fit. In hindsight, it was a really stupid reason.
At least the kids have bikes. Their trip should be much faster and much shorter. They should be home by now, warm and safe and eating cereal or whatever the hell they do after going off monster hunting on their own.
The wind picks up and the snow isn’t fluttering down anymore, it’s actively whipping into him, feeling like thousands of tiny needles. And Steve is pretty sure there is a snow storm or something hitting Hawkins soon, but now he’s starting to wonder if he’d heard wrong. Maybe that blizzard was supposed to come through tonight. It sure feels like he’s trudging through a snow storm. And of course, Steve is definitely not prepared for it, stuck on foot halfway between nowhere and his wrecked car.
But Steve can’t stop now. He has to keep going. His shoes crunch through the growing layer of snow on the road, each step heavier than the last. He’s wearing sneakers too. And why would he choose not to wear boots? For the same reason he decided not to wear gloves. The reason feels stupider and stupider the more the cold seeps in through, chilling him down to the bone.
Steve hears the rumble of the engine before he sees the headlights coming up from behind him. It gets louder and louder and it sounds… familiar? Steve glances over his shoulder and sure enough, he recognizes that dark blue Camaro, sleek even under a dusting of snow. How could he not, when he’d had that same car driving up the Byer’s driveway not that long ago, adrenaline spiking as the owner stepped out? How could he not when the owner of that very same car almost scrambled his brain two months ago?
It’s Billy Hargrove’s Camaro.
Steve steps off the road, grunting when his feet sink into snow high enough to chill his ankles, but he doesn’t trust Hargrove to not blow right past him, kicking up snow as he goes. And that is exactly what Billy Hargrove does as he speeds on by.
What Steve doesn’t expect is the sound of the tires screeching as the Camaro’s brakes are no doubt slammed down to the floorboard, the car fishtailing slightly before coming to a hard stop a few feet past Steve.
From where Steve is standing, he can hear the rock music blaring from the speakers. It’s turned down a moment before the driver door opens, one boot slamming down onto the road before Billy Hargrove himself is out of the car, one arm bracing over the door. His blonde curls are swept up by the cold winds, no doubt biting through Billy’s thin denim jacket and jeans. The guy is definitely not dressed for an Indiana blizzard, but even so, Hargrove doesn’t flinch. Instead, he simply plucks the cigarette from between his lips and squints at Steve.
“I must be dreaming again,” Hargrove mutters, taking a drag from his cigarette and exhaling a plume of smoke that is instantly whipped away by the blowing winds. “That you, Harrington?”
“Yeah, it’s me,” he huffs.
Steve watches Billy stand there, the cherry of his cigarette bright in the otherwise dark night. It’s the only way Steve is able to see the grin tugging at the corners of Billy’s lips. His thin denim jacket doesn’t look like it should be doing much against the cold wind, yet the guy doesn’t even so much as shiver, seemingly unaffected.
Steve, on the other hand, is wearing a puffer jacket and he can still feel the cold biting at him. It’s settled into his face, making his skin feel raw and his nose numb. Feels like he has an ice cube sitting smack dab in the middle of his face. But Steve has also been out here for a while. Doesn’t matter how many Indiana winters he’s been through, every year is always colder.
Steve steps back onto the road, kicking out his leg to shake off the cold that had threatened to slip into his sneakers while he stood in ankle deep snow. And maybe he should keep his distance. The last time he approached Hargrove, the other boy had shoved Steve so hard he’d crumbled to the ground right in the Byers’ driveway. And the last time he’d actually talked to Billy, if it could even be considered talking, had been right before the fight that left Steve concussed, saved only by Max plunging the sedative right into her own step-brother's neck.
And yet Steve doesn’t take a step back. Doesn’t cower. He can’t. His stubborn pride won’t let him.
“You lost, Hargrove?” Steve asks, the harsh wind whipping his damp hair into his face.
That gets an amused huff out of Billy. “Lost?” he repeats, tilting his head to the side. “Why would you think that, princess? From where I’m standing, you’re the one who seems a bit lost.”
Steve opens his mouth, a retort on his tongue about how he’s not lost, because he isn’t, just kinda stranded on foot, but Billy is already turning away and ducking back into his car, not even waiting for a comeback.
"Thought you were someone else, Harrington. Someone worth the effort," Billy calls out as he settles into the driver’s seat, flicking the half-finished cigarette into the snow before pulling the door shut.
Steve bristles, hunching his shoulders against the onslaught of snowy wind, glaring daggers at the glowing break lights of the Camaro.
But Billy doesn’t immediately pull away. The Camaro idles there for a good minute before the door swings open again and Billy steps back out. "Is it far?" he demands to know, impatiently tapping his fingers on the roof of his car.
Steve blinks, not expecting the question. Hell, he’d expected a face full of snow from the Camaro peeling away.
And Steve apparently takes too long to process the question because Billy is huffing out an irritated breath and adding, "Your car, dim-wit. How far back did you wreck it?"
“I didn’t wreck it,” Steve snaps in return. Which is true, he didn’t wreck it, that overgrown monster did. But he can’t very well tell Billy Hargrove that. “Much,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “It’s across town,” he continues, pointing in the direction he had been walking towards, not walking from. Steve catches the confusion that flickers across Billy’s face because why would Steve be walking towards his car instead of away from the wreck, right? “I caught a ride with someone but they couldn’t give me a ride back.”
And that, Billy snarls out a dismissive, "I don't care.” He braces his palm on the roof of the Camaro, "I'm not offering, but if you want the ride, get your ass in the passenger seat in three seconds. I'm not waiting."
Without lingering to see if Steve moves, Billy drops back down into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut again. A moment later, the rock music is cranked up, loud enough that Steve can vaguely hear the lyrics even while standing a few feet from the car in a raging snow storm.
Steve stands there for a moment, the offer or whatever that had been hard to follow, but he doesn’t dare hesitate for long. Not with the way the Camaro’s door had slammed with a finality that spurs him into moving. There isn’t much to think about anyway, he either stays out here and keeps walking into a storm that’s only getting worse or he braves the confines of Billy Hargrove’s Camaro, warm and safe from the winds, even if there is an asshole behind the wheel.
And does Steve believe that Billy would just peel off if he takes too long? Yes, yes he does, because this guy is an asshole with a capital A. So Steve jogs over to the Camaro, sneakers slipping slightly on the thin layer of ice beneath the snow, and opens the door, clumsily sliding into the passenger seat. He breathes out a sigh of relief as the door closing immediately seals out the cold winds outside.
The air smells like cigarette smoke and leather, but compared to the freezing chaos outside, it might as well be heaven.
Steve brings both of his hands up to his mouth, cupping them as he blows warm air into his palms, trying to get feeling back into his fingers. He mentally berates himself for not putting on gloves yet again. Though, in his defense, Steve was supposed to be home hours ago. None of this had been part of the plan.
For the first time since getting into Billy’s car, Steve looks around. The inside of the Camaro is… not what he expected. From the outside, it always looked kind of cramped. Maybe because it’s so low to the ground. But sitting in it now, there’s more space than he’d given it credit for. The seats are wide enough to avoid making Steve feel like a sardine in a muscle car.
The music though, is loud. Really loud. But Steve wouldn’t dare ask Hargrove to lower it, not when he’s pretty sure the guy had considered leaving him out there in the snow storm but didn’t.
Steve spares a glance over at Billy, watching as the other boy adjusts one of the vents blowing warm air towards him.
“Thanks,” Steve mutters, and he’s pretty sure it’s swallowed by the music, but he says it anyway. He’s been taught manners, thank you very much.
Billy doesn’t acknowledge it. That or maybe he didn’t even hear it. He shifts the car into gear and floors it, Steve’s body pinned back against the passenger seat as the Camaro surges forward.
Despite how fast they are going in a snow storm, both of Billy’s hands are steady on the wheel. That still does nothing to calm Steve’s frayed nerves because who in their right mind races down icy roads, especially when visibility is reduced thanks to the snow still coming down, seemingly heavier by the minute?
Steve can only clutch the edges of the seat under him for so long, fingers numb for reasons other than just the cold now, before he’s turning towards Billy and shouting over the music, “You should slow down!”
Billy spares him a glance, a hand releasing the wheel to cup his ear, “What?”
That only makes Steve’s steadily growing trepidation spike even more, “Slow down!”
In response, Billy simply flashes a toothy grin and shrugs, the hand returning to the wheel.
Steve genuinely can’t tell if the guy heard or not, so he reaches for the volume knob on the dashboard, fully expecting the way Billy’s hand shoots out and grabs his. Because yeah, it’s bad manners to fiddle with someone else’s radio, but Hargrove needs to slow down.
Except Billy doesn’t shove his hand away, he holds it tightly, like if he’d reached out on instinct.
Steve’s gaze flickers up from their hands to Billy’s profile before immediately darting back towards the road. He doesn’t dare look away for too long. He’s not driving but he sure wishes he was. Billy is speeding down these icy roads like they’re not, well, icy.
Billy seems to finally realize he’s still grasping Steve’s hand and lets go in favor of reaching for the radio himself, turning the volume down. “What’s the matter, pretty boy? Look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he smirks.
Steve just wants him to keep both hands on the wheel at all times. “Slow down,” he demands.
“I know how to drive,” Billy bites out, a hint of annoyance in his tone.
“I didn’t say you didn’t,” Steve retorts. He points out the windshield as he adds, “The roads are icy. It’s dangerous.”
“You think that because I'm from California I don’t know that?” Billy huffs with a roll of his shoulders, eyes locked on the road ahead.
“Yeah,” Steve deadpans.
Billy barks out a laugh, head tipping back just slightly and everything, “Relax, Harrington. Live a little.”
“Yeah, that's what I'm trying to do,” Steve stresses, gesturing out through the windshield again, at the snow flying past them in streaks of white.
And almost as if the universe decided to finally align with Steve for once, the Camaro hits a patch of ice and skids, Billy correcting it with a violent jerk of the wheel. Steve’s hands fly up to the dashboard, both hands bracing against it as if that could actually stop the Camaro.
“That is why I’m saying you need to slow down!” Steve shouts, wide eyes darting between the windshield and Billy.
Hargrove directs a brief glare at him, but he’s clutching the wheel tighter now. Even so, for a moment there, Steve thinks that he’s going to speed up just to spite him, but then the Camaro finally starts to slow down. Steve finally lets himself relax enough to drop his hands down from the dashboard onto his lap. The rest of the ride back should go smoothly now, or at least Steve really hopes so. But outside, the snow is coming down heavier. And, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, Steve knows the storm is getting worse.
“So how’d it happen?” Billy asks a little too conversationally, breaking the delicate silence that had settled between them after that heart pounding moment.
And judging by his tone, Steve already knows nothing nice is following the question. He glances over anyway, brows furrowing, because just what the hell is Hargrove talking about?
Thankfully Billy keeps his gaze ahead, not needing to look over at Steve to know that his passenger has no clue just what he’s referring to.
“One day you’re the golden boy, king of the halls. You have everyone wondering what Steve Harrington is wearing, what he’s thinking, who he’s screwing. And the next?" Billy clicks his tongue, glancing sideways for just a fraction of a second. "You’re just some guy in an ugly jacket, hitching rides from people who clearly don't like you enough to finish the trip."
Steve bristles, face flushing from a combination of embarrassment and anger. And maybe he should have expected this. Hargrove’s shit talking had started since day one. What Steve didn’t expect was the commentary on his life.
Steve crosses his arms over his chest and turns his head to look out the window, because what does he say to that? Billy Hargrove doesn’t know a thing about him and Steve is perfectly fine with that. He has no desire to clarify a single thing. Doesn’t want to tell Billy that he’d caught a ride on a kid’s bike after leaving the Hawkins’ dump.
What he should have done is keep walking, would have saved him all of this.
But as Steve takes in the snowy landscape outside, inches of snow piling up high enough that the road itself is starting to disappear under a blanket of white, he knows he wouldn’t have made it home without some kind of divine intervention. And well, that divine intervention came in the shape of Billy Hargrove, headlights cutting through the dark, snowy night.
“Nothing to say?” Billy prods, flashing a toothy grin Steve’s way. “Just gonna sit there shivering in my passenger seat smelling like popcorn?”
Steve huffs and tears his gaze away from the window, eyes narrowing at Billy, “What do you want me to say? Do you want me to clap and congratulate you on being so observant?”
Steve expects an immediate snarky comeback, but Billy doesn’t seem to acknowledge his response, completely focused on the road. And looking out the windshield, Steve can see why. The snow is coming down heavy enough that it might as well be a waterfall of pure white. The headlights are bright, but all that does is illuminate the snow, reducing visibility to barely an inch beyond the Camaro.
“What do you do when you can’t see shit?” Billy asks, eyes squinting in an attempt to make out anything beyond the hood of his car. Thankfully, he’s eased his foot off the pedal enough that the car is just inching forward.
Yeah, there’s no seeing anything. “Pull over,” Steve answers.
“What?” Billy asks, not sounding convinced that’s the best course of action.
“Pull over,” Steve reiterates. “We could be driving off the road and you wouldn’t know it.”
Billy purses his lips, looking annoyed with the suggestion. But he actually listens, completely easing his foot off the gas and letting the Camaro coast to a stop while he carefully pulls onto the side of the road.
“Hazard lights,” Steve instructs. When Billy glances over at him, brow arched, he continues with, “In case another asshole in a Camaro comes speeding down the road.”
Billy lets out an amused huff before he reaches out to the dashboard and turns on the hazard lights.
“You also need to crack the windows,” Steve adds as an afterthought.
At that, Billy frowns, “We want the cold to stay outside, Harrington.”
“Yeah,” Steve concedes, already cranking down the passenger window to barely an inch. “But I also heard it’s not good to breathe in the air when we’re stalled like this.”
Billy clicks his tongue again and rolls down his own window, “You've been stuck like this before?”
“Once,” Steve answers, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest in an attempt to conserve heat for as long as he can. “When I was a kid.”
“How long we have to wait?” Billy grunts, leaning forward in his seat and squinting out into the heavy snow fall.
“An hour. Maybe two,” Steve shrugs. “Maybe more.”
Billy’s head swivels towards him, frown firmly in place, “You serious?”
Steve uncrosses one arm and gestures vaguely out the windshield, smiling thinly as he says, “Welcome to Hawkins.”
Billy turns his gaze back out the windshield, looking like he’s wishing for the worst of the snow storm to pass sooner rather than later. Steve can sympathize. He doesn’t want to be stuck in a car either, visibility at zero and nothing but the sounds of the howling winds outside. But with how heavy the snow is coming down, it doesn’t seem like that will be the case. They have no choice but to settle in for the wait.
Billy seems to finally come to the same realization and sighs. He kills the engine and lets his head fall back against the headrest, eyes sliding shut.
They sit in silence for a few moments, before Billy shifts in his seat. He grabs his box of cigarettes from where it had been resting in a cup holder and taps one out onto his palm, offering it to Steve. And even though it’s been a while since Steve smoked, he takes it. Billy taps another one out for himself, dropping the box back into the cup holder before he awkwardly lifts himself enough to straighten out his hips, fingers slipping into the front pocket of his jeans. Steve watches him struggle, Hargrove’s signature skin tight jeans not allowing him much room at the awkward angle. The guy's thighs are actually quite muscular, too, Steve notes.
Billy flashes him a grin and Steve catches himself staring, face flushing hot all the way up to the tips of his ears as he pointedly looks away. That’s one way to warm up.
Out of the corner of his eye, Steve sees Billy finally pull out his lighter and settle back down onto his seat. He ignites his own cigarette first before handing the lighter over to Steve.
Billy takes a drag of his cigarette before breaking the silence, “How long were you stuck the last time?”
Steve furrows his brows, trying to recall as he lights up. He gets the lighter to ignite on his fourth try, his trembling fingers not doing him any favors. “Three hours,” he answers, bringing the lit cigarette up to his mouth.
Billy sighs, his shoulders rising and falling with the motion, “Damn.”
Steve coughs, throat suddenly feeling dry after taking his first drag. It has been a while, but he didn’t think he’d be pathetic enough to actually cough. Glancing over at Billy, he sees the other boy grinning widely at him. The flush from before stubbornly stays in place, even as Steve looks away again.
Steve distracts himself by rolling down the window a little more, the smoke from two cigarettes already making his eyes water. And maybe lighting up had been a mistake, because now even more cold is sweeping into the Camaro’s compact cabin. It gets colder almost instantly, the cigarette doing nothing to warm Steve up, shivers wracking his body. It also doesn’t help that he had only sucked up the warmth in the Camaro for a few minutes before Billy had been forced to stop.
“So are you gonna answer the question?” Billy asks, seemingly unaffected by the cold air taking over. He just sits there in his denim jacket, smoking away.
Steve tilts his head in confusion, “What question?”
“How did King Steve catch a ride from someone who clearly didn’t like him enough to finish the trip?” Billy questions, the cigarette’s ember glowing steady.
Steve huffs and rolls his eyes. Dustin does like him well enough, but he had to go home in the opposite direction. Hell, Steve is glad the kid went straight home or else he’d be stuck in this snow storm too.
“You ask too many questions,” Steve shoots back before he’s twisting his torso towards the center console, one hand bracing against the dashboard and the other on the seat’s head rest as he pulls himself up, planting one foot on the seat cushion for leverage.
“Get your foot off the seat!” Billy hisses, sounding scandalized.
Steve ignores him, ducking his head as he climbs into the backseat.
“Harrington!”
Steve lets himself drop into the backseat, slumping slideways until he’s laying on his back, knees bent to fit in the confined space. He hadn’t been wrong about the Camaro being cramped after all. The car isn’t any warmer back here, but at least the cold air from the cracked window isn’t rushing in over his head.
Steve brings the cigarette up to his mouth again, taking another drag. His gaze moves down from the Camaro’s ceiling to Billy when the other boy huffs, probably still pissed that Steve had used his seat as a springboard. From this angle, he can see Billy in the driver’s seat. Can see Billy watching him. At some point, Billy had also twisted his torso towards the center console, the cigarette dangling from his lips.
And Steve finds that he can’t look away, not that he can see much through the darkness. The ember from Billy’s cigarette is illuminating his face, but not enough to be seen clearly. Just enough to highlight his features. And Billy… Billy is staring right back.
Steve feels another shiver wrack his body, but he’s not too sure if it’s solely from the cold this time. He is still freezing though. Can feel his body start to tremble, teeth starting to chatter. The rest of him is kinda late to the party though since his nose still feels like an ice cube and his hands haven’t stopped trembling.
And Billy notices. “Cold?” he asks in a low tone. It’s stripped of any amusement. Stripped of any teasing. Just a genuine question.
“Yeah,” Steve admits, crossing his arms over his chest the best he can while still holding the cigarette up.
“I might have a blanket in the trunk,” Billy offers.
Steve shakes his head, “Don't go out there.”
If it’s so cold inside the Camaro, Steve can only imagine just how bone chilling it must be out there.
Billy stares at him for a long moment before muttering out a quiet, “Can't be helped, then.”
And Steve thinks that's that, until Billy grabs the headrest and pulls himself up out of his seat. He positions his knee on the seat cushion and steps over the center console, boot firmly planted on the floorboards before he can properly climb into the back of his car.
Steve turns over onto his side and tries to press himself back against the seat, but Billy motions with a jerk of his chin for Steve to scoot up instead, so he does. Billy wedges himself between the backseat and Steve, arm sliding over Steve’s waist and embracing him, keeping Steve flushed to his chest and keeping Steve from tipping over the edge of the seat.
After a moment of awkward shuffling, they settle with Billy’s other arm sliding under Steve’s head, the cigarette hovering over Steve’s head. Their legs are a tangled mess, bent with one of Billy’s knees between Steve’s.
“There should be an ashtray in front,” Billy says, hand still suspended in the air above Steve to avoid both bringing it too close to the seats or burning Steve.
Steve shifts, propping himself as best as he can on his elbow, feeling Billy’s hand tighten around his waist to keep him steady. Steve blindly reaches over the center console, vaguely recalling where he’d seen it. His fingers bump into it and he grabs it, bringing the ashtray into the back and settling it down on the floor mat. Steve puts out his own cigarette first before grabbing Billy’s and putting it out as well.
Once that’s done, Steve settles back down, head resting on Billy’s bicep. And this, the position they are in now, the closeness, should be awkward, but it isn’t, at least not to Steve. It’s surprisingly easy to let himself relax. To let himself lean back into Billy’s hard chest, feeling the much welcomed heat radiating off the other boy.
“When this clears up, I’ll take you home,” Billy mutters into Steve’s hair.
The sound of his deep voice so close and the warmth of his breath over his ear makes Steve’s stomach flutter, color rising in his cheeks. He’s blushing. Steve knows he is, but at least Billy can’t see it.
“To my car,” Steve corrects quietly, forcing his voice to come out steady.
“Right,” Billy mumbles. “Can it start?”
“Yeah,” Steve answers, gaze focused on the back of the passenger seat. “The damage is… surface level. Scratches and a cracked windshield. Stuff like that.”
Billy hums, sounding a little displeased.
Steve frowns, “You wanted my car to be wrecked?”
“No,” Billy answers quickly enough. “I just…” he trails off.
Steve can feel the way the rise and fall of Billy’s chest against his back speeds up, and if Steve didn’t know any better, he’d say Hargrove is nervous.
“You just what?” Steve prompts.
Billy clears his throat, arm tightening around Steve’s waist, before continuing, “You got a ride from me… and maybe I like you enough to finish the trip.”
Steve finds himself blinking into the darkness of the Camaro’s cabin for a moment, the words sinking in and pleasantly warming his chest. Is Billy saying what he thinks he’s saying? Billy hasn’t let go and if anything, he presses in closer, if at all possible with how flushed together their bodies already are. The back seat is too small to allow any sliver of space between them.
“Is it because my hair smells like popcorn?” Steve finally mutters in return.
Billy's chest rumbles as he chuckles, “It’s not a deal breaker.”
Steve bites down on his bottom lip, feeling all warm and giddy, and not just because Billy is sharing his body warmth with him. Feeling bold, Steve reaches down and rests his hand over the one Billy has around his waist, threading their fingers together.
“Ok,” Steve mutters.
There is a slight hitch in Billy’s breathing before he whispers, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Steve nods, pressing his cheek into the denim covering Billy’s arm.
To say that Steve Harrington’s night had gone from bad to worse would be an understatement. First, his date with Natalie had tanked. Then his precious BMW got wrecked by monsters. And then after that, he’d almost been stranded, on foot, in a snow storm.
But then headlights had cut through the snowy, Hawkins night. And from that point onward, his night had gotten marginally better. Now Steve Harrington can say that his night hadn’t been a total disaster. He can actually say it wasn’t all that bad. Not all that bad at all.