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“Well, shit. Steve Fuckin Harrington. What the hell are you doing out here?” Billy’s got a glint in his eye, and a crooked smile hitched across his face. He’s sweating. Wearing nothing but a pair of ripped jeans and a t-shirt, despite the fact it’s 30 degrees outside. He’s holding a tallboy of Hamms in each hand, emphatically ignoring the crowd of girls clustered around him, to lean in close enough for Steve to hear him talk. The bar is loud. Some sort of noise rock blasting over the speakers in between sets. Steve’s tongue feels heavy. He’s already had a few drinks. There’s a nervous twist in his stomach. This dumpy club on the South Side is emphatically not his scene. The friends he came here with left half an hour ago. Steve didn’t. Because he got lost in the crowd. Because when he saw Billy Hargrove walk on stage, and get behind the drum set, his shoes stuck to the floor. Billy is a rockstar. Billy’s in a band that’s popular enough to have people screaming, wearing the t-shirts, pushing towards the stage in a writhing mass. Billy has moved up to Chicago. And Steve’s standing here, looking at him, unable to make his voice work. “I um, live here.” Steve manages to splutter out. “I mean—not here obviously, but up in Rogers Park…” “And you came all the way down to see little old me? Can’t say I’m not flattered.” Billy winks. Steve wants to correct him. To offer stumbling excuses. To say this was an accident. But then Billy’s pressing a cold can into Steve’s hand and toasting him. Billy downs his drink and waves to the bartender for another. Steve figures it’s rude not to drink a beer someone else paid for. So he sips it, even though it’s watery and tastes like corn. “Wanna have a smoke?” Billy flicks a cigarette out from behind his ear. “Sure.” “Let’s go outside.” Steve follows, heart racing, as Billy weaves through the crowd. He walks the same way he used to. Like he belongs wherever he happens to be. Like he owns the place. Swaggering, smiling, drawing heated gazes from every direction. His hair is long as it used to be, but the front has grown out. He tucks it behind his ears instead of cutting it. He’s grown out a beard to compliment the moustache. It’s trimmed close. Obviously cared for. He’s just as muscular. Broad, and thick, and powerful. He looks like he could pick Steve up and slam him against a wall. Experience proves it's true. It’s started to snow. The cold, fresh air is a shock against Steve’s flushed skin. He unties the red and grey striped sweater from around his waist and slides it on. Billy doesn’t seem to be bothered with the cold. Still in his thin white shirt. He sparks up his cigarette. Then Steve is stuck under the laser focus, the danger of Billy’s direct attention. It feels like a physical weight. Like a lead blanket. It’s a little harder to breathe. Running is unthinkable. “So, Queen Stevie. You come here with anyone?” “Not really.” Steve’s mouth is dry. He takes a few sips of beer before lighting a cig of his own. “My friends left already.” “Why’d ya stay?” Billy arches a plucked eyebrow. There’s dark eyeliner smudged around those captivating baby blues. More piercings in his ears since high school. The vee of his shirt dips low enough to hint at a colorful chest piece. Something to match the anchors and roses curled around his left forearm. “I wanted to see your set.” Steve shrugs. Like it’s no big deal, and he’s not staring, and he’s not hungry in a way that scares him. Since Steve moved to Chicago, his tastes have changed. He drinks martinis, and listens to club music, and he goes to bars in Boystown wearing tight jeans. He takes ecstasy and gets fucked in dirty bathroom stalls. Sometimes he puts on lipstick and smears glitter across his cheeks, and he looks damn good in a little black dress. He does things and says things he never would have dreamed about back in small town Indiana. Maybe he always wanted to close the gap between his mouth and Billy’s soft looking lips. Maybe he wanted to do something about that sizzling electricity he felt anytime Billy Hargrove got in reaching distance. Maybe he’s still not brave enough to get into Billy’s space and take the initiative—because Steve is the type that people chase, not the pursuer. But he’s sure Billy can act on that predatory smile that’s all teeth and malice. “Oh, really?” Billy licks his lips. “If you’re not careful, I might get the wrong idea there, Princess. Might start thinking you're a wannabe groupie or something.” “Who says that’s the wrong idea?” Billy laughs. Loud and harsh. Maybe trying to hide the surprise. He knocks back the rest of his drink, crushes the can and tosses it aside. Then he lunges. Fists his hand in Steve’s hair and tugs him into a kiss. It’s wet, and hot, and it makes Steve’s knees quiver. He whimpers. Drops his cigarette so he can grasp at Billy’s shoulder. “City’s turned you into a slut, huh?” Billy murmurs. The honey in his voice makes it sound almost like a compliment. “Maybe,” Steve’s breath hitches. “I’ve always had a thing for musicians.” “Mmm… any musician? You saying you want me to go get the rest of the band? We could take turns. Pass you around. Fuck you nice and deep until you’re all sloppy and open and dripping…” Steve shudders. Because yes. That’s exactly what he wants. He wants it so bad, he can’t keep from grinding against Billy’s hip. Already so hard. Aching. “Damn.” Billy grabs a handful of Steve’s ass and squeezes. “You’re a horny little bitch. Bet you’d give it up for any of my friends that wanted a turn.” “Yes,” Steve groans. He doesn’t want to think about what he looks like. Needy and vulnerable. He’s disgusting. “OK.” Billy pulls back, flushed, breathing faster. “Shit, OK baby. I’ll show you a good time, don’t you worry.” He grabs Steve’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and tugs him off down the street. Steve abandons the rest of his beer to clutch at Billy’s arm. He isn’t wasted. He’s sober enough that he should be wondering where they’re going. Questioning what Billy’s about to do with him. But he’s all messed up just on the warmth of their hands touching. The taste of Billy’s tongue. The rough feel of his beard scraping over smooth skin. Steve feels like he’s floating. He’ll go any direction Billy wants to push. And that should be dangerous, raise alarm bells. It doesn’t. Somewhere, in the back of Steve’s mind, there’s a smooth voice telling him that Billy isn’t gonna hurt him. That it’s ok to relax, to go limp and roll belly up exactly the way he wants to. Maybe it’s a bad habit. Giving up so easily, letting somebody who’s more confident, more aggressive, more violent take control. But it’s the only time Steve ever gets this excited humming in his chest. He gets all light headed and loose. It’s like danger is a prerequisite to arousal, and the more he surrenders to the crushing wave of it, the easier it is to ignore the worst case scenarios. Billy leads them over to a grey van. Loud music is blasting from inside. He thumps an open palm on the back door. “Hey fuckers, I brought you a present.” The door swings open after a moment. Skunky smoke billows out into the the night. One of Billy’s band mates—the bassist—a tall, skinny black guy with long dreads smiles up at them. He’s sitting on a dingy mattress, completely naked. Dick hard and shiny with spit. There’s a short blonde guy sprawled out beside him, lips swollen, obviously just had a cock in his mouth. They’re both hot. The kind of hot Steve would be more than happy to follow home if they hit on him at a bar. Steve can’t help staring. Even as Billy pushes him forward into the van and shuts the door behind them. It’s dark. Just distant street lights shining through the front windows. It takes a moment for Steve to adjust. And before he can get much of a real grasp of the situation, Billy’s tugging at his clothes, kissing him, pushing him back into the mattress. He’s naked. Prone. Pliant. Squirming just a little to feel Billy’s weight on top of him. “What we’ve got here, boys, is a genuine cockslut. He wants it bad. All he can get.” Billy drags his nails up Steve’s thigh to make him whimper. “Isn’t that right, baby? You wanna be stuffed full?” “Yes,” Steve gasps. “Please.” “Well damn.” One of the other guys, Steve isn’t sure who, laughs. “I’ll hit that.” Steve is too warm. Flushed pink with alcohol, and adrenaline, and shame. He likes being objectified. Just being a hole to fuck. The baddirtywrong just stokes the fire. Gets him off harder. The tip of his dick is already sticky with how bad he needs this. Billy’s kissing him again. Lightly now. Teasing. Steve wants to chase. But as soon as he does, Billy pulls away. Flips Steve over onto his stomach. He tugs Steve’s hips back, positioning him like a show dog. Ass out. Head up. He keeps a hand on the small of Steve’s back. The only anchor point holding Steve in reality. The blonde guy is kneeling, with his dick in Steve’s face. There’s no need for instructions. Steve’s good at this part. He flicks his tongue out, wetting the tip of the hard cock in front of him. He mouths out at. Taking his time. Relishing the feel as it slides further into his mouth. Until it’s pressing against his soft palate. Filling him up. “Yeah, baby,” Billy groans. There’s a hand fisted in Steve’s hair, guiding him, pushing him to take more. He doesn’t fight it. He relaxes into it, tension draining from his body. He’s never calmer than when there’s a dick shoved down his throat, cutting off his air supply. It’s a paradoxical state of surrender. Maybe he just doesn’t have survival instincts. But Billy lets him up for air long before Steve’s in danger of passing out. Lets him gasp, tears streaming down his face, before pushing him right back to where he was. The blonde guy’s moaning. Mumbling about how good it feels. Steve’s not really paying that much attention. He’s more focused on the way he can feel Billy’s erection pressing against his hip. He’s focused on the twinge in his scalp, and the warm, rough palm on his back. “You’re doing such a good job,” Billy coos. Only reinforcing the notion that Steve is a puppy, performing a trick. He soaks up the praise anyway. Arches his back. Leans against Billy just a little. There’s a thick finger pressing against his asshole. It’s distracting. It slips forward without resistance. He might whimper. “Damn. Y’all fuck already?” “Nah.” Billy tugs Steve’s hair just a little. “Slut must have fingered himself open.” Steve did. In the bathroom. Before seeking Billy out at the bar. Maybe it’s a bad look, but he’s not here to pretend he’s anything other than desperate. He even rocks back against the finger in him, trying to get it to drag against the right spot. He’s upset when it’s withdrawn, but only for a moment. Because then there’s a thick cockhead pressing forward. It burns just right. Makes his breath catch. It’s that deep, muscle ache, like sprinting till your legs give out. Runner’s high. He’s giddy with it. He’s stretched wide. Stuffed. Full at both ends, and this is how he’s happiest. So out of it he’s drooling everywhere, not even gagging as he gets throat-fucked. His thighs tremble as the cock in his ass slides deeper. Starts to rock into him in a steady rhythm. Not as fast as he wants it, but probably as fast as he can handle. He’s still tight, not quite slick enough. He wanted it that way. He wants to feel it tomorrow. He’s not going to shower. He’s gonna go to bed filthy, wake up, and jack off in the mess. Shove a few fingers in himself to prod at all the sore spots, relive the moment. As it turns out, Steve is actually pretty gross. It’s not something he would have guessed about himself. But here he is, getting spitroasted in the back of a van, so turned on he’s about to come like a minute into getting fucked. He’s not the only one feeling it. He gets no warning before his mouth is flooded with musky jizz. He swallows without considering it. Kind of doesn’t even register it until his mouth is empty, and he’s a little disappointed. There’s no longer a hand in his hair, but then there are two fingers pushing between his swollen lips. He sucks on them. Tracing his tongue over the calluses. Settling immediately. “Fuck,” Billy groans. “That’s it, Princess. Show me how much you want it.” Steve focuses as much as he can on Billy’s fingers. It’s kind of difficult because he’s really getting railed now. The worn-out mattress is creaking underneath them with the force of it. The speed. He’s not all that confident in his ability to remain upright for much longer. His legs feel like jelly. His cock is twitching. He’s dangerously close to the edge. He whines, because words would be out of reach, even if he weren’t sucking on something. He’s trembling. Overwhelmed. Not breathing, because holding his breath just makes everything more intense. “You gonna come, baby?” Billy’s holding onto Steve’s hip. Holding him steady as he gets pounded, supporting more of Steve’s weight by the second. Steve tries to nod. He’s halfway delirious. Maybe still crying? His face is wet. “It’s OK. Go ahead. I want Martin to feel how fucking tight you get.” It’s a split second reaction. Steve lets go. Shuddering. Pleasure rolling through him. Making him dizzy. He can hear Billy talking. He can feel the brutal increase in speed. But he’s a few steps removed from reality, wrapped in a hazy cloud. He’s still not exactly registering what’s going on. He’s on his back again, with Billy on top of him. Sliding into him. Fucking him so deep and slow. Kissing him the way people kiss at the airport after not seeing each other for months on end. “You did so good,” Billy murmurs. “You’re so goddamn sexy. Love seeing you so slutty, baby.” Steve clutches at Billy’s broad shoulders. Clings to him. Shivering underneath him. Overstimulated. Still hard. He never really got the chance to go soft. And Billy’s got a spit-slick hand wrapped around his cock. Jerking him off while he fucks him just right. It hurts. It’s too much. Steve’s hips stutter. He’s a mess of involuntary movements. Body unsure if he wants to get away or press closer. “I know you got one more in you.” Billy licks up the side of his neck. “C’mon, sweetheart.” Steve is teetering. Kind of wants to scream. Billy bites down on his lower lip. Squeezes him just a little too tight. And then Steve’s coming so hard it almost doesn’t feel like release. He’s still a twitching, rubbed-raw disaster when Billy goes still on top of him. It takes a while for Steve to come back. Billy’s still holding him. Kissing him. Carding his fingers through Steve’s hair. Patrick is sitting in Martin’s lap on the other side of the mattress, hitting the bong. Steve wants to say something. Thank them? But he’s still not sure about talking. And they’re off in their own little world anyway. So he just looks up at Billy and smiles. “How was that, baby?” Billy grins. “Everything you wanted?” “It was perfect.” Steve murmurs before nuzzling into the side of Billy’s neck, hiding because without the fog of arousal, the embarrassment is harder to cope with. He still doesn’t quite understand why Billy lets him have shit like this. Why Billy goes along with it when Steve says stuff like I’ve always wanted to be in a gang bang. Most people wouldn’t be stoked about their partner’s desire to get on a bunch of other dicks at once. Billy doesn’t just tolerate it. He pushes it to the limit. Makes the dream a reality, and seems to enjoy it. Maybe it’s just fun to play games. To pretend they got together under sleazier circumstances. It’s more exciting than the real story. The story that started with a message on Steve’s answering machine that said, hey man. It’s Billy. From Hawkins. I uh, Max gave me your number when I told her I was moving up to the city—she said you were up here now too. And I guess I just wanted to see how you’re doing and like—apologize for being a dickhead back in high school, maybe buy you a coffee or something? The story spun out from coffee, to long nights at dive bars, movie theaters and concert halls, hanging out Just As Friends because surviving Hawkins was a little like surviving a war and it’s strange to see a familiar face in such a sprawling city. The ghost of someone you didn’t quite know but always wanted to, haunting your waking life. It was a story with far too much prologue. Passive aggressive jealousy that never got talked about. Always dancing around each other. Just out of reaching distance. Until finally, finally Billy got drunk enough to break down and kiss Steve at midnight on a whirlwind New Year’s Eve after nearly two years of playing gay chicken. It’s not the way those sorts of stories always end—but they were living together after a few months. They were already basically married. It’s what all their friends said anyway. And Steve likes it. He likes their nice, stable little life, that feels as close to a picket fence as either of them will ever get. But that’s why it’s also fun to play act at alternate timelines. It’s exhilarating. Thinking about all the other ways it could have been. It always would have been Billy, though. Steve knows it in his bones. He knows it every time they touch and he feels drunk. Billy makes his body sing like nothing else ever has. Makes his heart race. Makes him feel all gooey on the inside like a half baked chocolate chip cookie. “I love you.” Steve whispers. Heart too full. He’s overflowing with warm feelings in the afterglow. It’s almost hedonistic—how intensely this affection crashes through him. “Love you too, baby.” Billy murmurs against his skin. “Love you so fucking much.” “Get a room,” Patrick giggles from the other side of the mattress. “Man, fuck you. This is my van.” Billy props himself up on an elbow. Smiling. All relaxed and loose. “It’s the band’s van.” Martin reaches for the bong. “I distinctly remember paying for a third of it.” “And your boyfriend ain’t in the band so he can shut the fuck up.” “Let’s go home.” Steve kisses Billy’s neck. Soft. Playful. “OK, baby. You good to walk a few blocks or you want me to bring the car over?” Steve thinks about it. His legs are probably shot. He’s gonna be wobbly. But he also doesn’t like the idea of not touching Billy. “Wanna go with you,” he mumbles. Billy helps him sit up. Get dressed. Before Steve knows it, they’re saying goodbye, and climbing out onto the cold street. It’s not a long walk to Billy’s car. They stay twined around each other. Breath coming out in little puffs of fog. Billy’s not quite shivering by the time he plops into the driver’s seat. But he turns on the heat immediately. He digs a parka out of the back seat and drapes it around his shoulders like a blanket. It’s a bit of a drive back to their little apartment back in Rogers Park. Steve picks the radio stations and Billy sings off key to every song that he recognizes.