Archive of Our Own

It’s midnight on Christmas Eve, and Billy can’t sleep. The left side of his ribs throbs in time with the right side of his face—an early Christmas present from Neil.

Merry fuckin’ Christmas to me, he thinks. 

Christmas fucking sucks. He hasn’t had a good one since…since his mom...since she…

His eyes sting, but he’s seventeen, almost eighteen years old, and he refuses to cry like a little pussy, so he bites down on the inside of his cheek, using one pain to suppress another. 

The wind is howling outside, actually howling. He hadn’t known that was a thing that happened outside of gothic novels and horror movies until they moved here. And he fucking hates it. All of it. The stinging bite of the cold, the malevolent sound the winter storms here make, the way the harsh glow of moonlit snow reflects into his bedroom, the shitty, broken blinds on his window that do almost nothing to mitigate the brightness.

He hates it here—he hates it everywhere—and he’s scared it’s always gonna be like this. That nothing’s ever going to get better. 

So he lays here, glaring balefully at the window while his tears distort the light, biting the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood, uncomfortably aware that he probably looks like an overgrown version of that four-eyed blond kid from that stupid Christmas movie that came out this time last year. 

It happens literally in the blink of an eye—one second there’s nothing, then he blinks and there’s someone standing in his room.

The guy is looking out of the window, his back turned to Billy and—No. It can’t be. 

But it is. The hair, the broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips, his height—he's unmistakeable even from the back. It’s Steve Harrington. Steve fucking Harrington is standing in his room, at the end of his bed, silhouetted by the cool winter moonlight.

Billy sits straight up. “What the fuck, Harrington?!” he whisper-hisses. If Neil catches him there, Billy’s DEAD. They’re both dead. 

Harrington turns, and for just a second, Billy thinks he catches the outline of…something behind him. Something huge and glittering. Liminal, like it’s…caught halfway between this world and another. Something that looks distinctly like the outline of wings.

“The fuck?” He rubs his eyes and when he looks again, there’s no outline, no glitter, just Harrington standing there watching him. 

“How the fuck did you get in my room?!” Billy whispers, raging. “You cannot be here!” 

“It’s okay, Billy. You’re not in any danger. No one else can hear us,” Harrington says, and something about his tone—it’s not right. It’s too calm. Too…what? Certain. It’s too certain. Steve Harrington doesn’t talk like that. 

He means to say are you fucking high?, but what comes out instead is, “Who are you?” 

He doesn’t know why he said it. There’s no mistaking Harrington’s stupid, pretty face. Clearly the guy has just gotten into some bad shit, lost his mind, crawled in through the window or something. But…how? The window is locked and so are all the doors, bolted even, ‘cause Neil is a paranoid motherfucker like that.

And once again, Billy is hit with the sensation that, whoever this is, no matter what he looks like, it is not Steve Harrington standing in front of him.

“That’s because you’d be right,” Harrington says. “I’m not Steve Harrington. You see, it’s the custom of my kind to take on the form that will assume the greatest impact. In your case…” He sweeps a hand grandly down the front of his body, like he’s one of the spokesmodels on The Price is Right, and his body is the prize. “…it’s this boy.”

Suddenly, Billy is painfully aware that he’s alone in his room with this guy. “Who. The hell. Are you?” Billy says again, putting some growl in it this time, trying to ignore the way his heart has leapt into his throat. 

Steve, or whoever he is—wait, this is crazy, why the fuck is he actually buying this shit?— steps forwards to sit on the edge of Billy’s bed. Instinctively, Billy scrambles back, pressing himself into the far corner of the bed. The other guy’s face is implacable. He holds his hands up, all harmless and see? I won’t hurt you. But Billy knows better.

“Would you believe me if I said I was your guardian angel?” the guy asks.

So that’s what this is. Someone is playing a sick fucking trick on him, and fucking Harrington is in on it. Billy loses it. 

There’s only one person who could, and would, have let him in the house. He’s off the bed and storming towards her room at the realization, careless of the consequences. Neil’s gonna kill him anyway—that’s bound to be the whole point of this little exercise—so he might as well give the little bitch a piece of his mind before he gets a hell of a lot more than a piece of Neil’s.

Only. Max doesn’t respond, even when he bangs her door against the wall and yells at her. And neither does anyone else in the house, even though Billy wasn’t quiet when he went barreling down the hall, bellowing Maxine’s name. Neil should be storming in by now, face contorted in malignant rage, but…he’s not. Everything’s all quiet. Too quiet.

“Believe me now?” the “angel” asks, leaning casually against Billy’s doorframe.

Billy’s heart is pounding. “Why are you in my house? And what have you done to my—to everyone?” he demands.

“The thing is, we really don’t have time for the whole ‘ye of little faith’ bit, so we’re just going to have to skip ahead,” the…other guy says, pushing away from the doorframe and moving closer. “Everyone’s fine, they’re just asleep. I am your guardian angel, and I’m here because you need help, and it’s Christmas. And the rules are a little…let’s say ‘relaxed’ on Christmas.” He puts a finger to his lip, taps his foot impatiently.  Finally he says, “So, what can I do to convince you?”

“How about you SUCK my DICK?” Billy doesn’t mean it literally, it’s more a knee-jerk ‘fuck you’ than anything else. But the other guy seems to take him literally.

“Eh.” The other guy wrinkles his nose, lifts one shoulder. “I don’t think that would be very productive. Let's try this instead,” he says, and reaches out with one hand to cup Billy’s cheek, then slides the other under Billy’s shirt so it rests against the bare skin over his ribcage.

Billy gasps. 

“Careful there,” the other guy admonishes. “Don’t get your wires crossed. I’m not him. This isn’t that.”

There’s a sensation of spreading warmth in the spots where his hands are pressed, the same places Neil had laid into with his fists earlier that night…then the throbbing pain in those spots just…vanishes. Once again, for just a second, Billy thinks he sees the outline of something behind Steve, or whoever he is, something glimmering, limned in a gold-white glow. Wings. 

“Almost wings,” the angel corrects. “I’m still working on earning the full set. It's like…angel wing layaway.”

“Holy shit,” Billy breathes, his heart in his throat. “You’re really not lying. You’re a fucking angel.”

“Well yeah. Your fucking angel, to be precise,” Angel Steve says.  

“Shit. Okay.” Billy drags in a deep breath, not quite daring to hope. “So, are you here to do something about…about my dad, Angel?” 

The angel's eyes go soft for a second, his mouth turning down at the corners. Then he shakes his head. “Some things even we can’t fix. And unfortunately, his ship has sailed. For that, I am truly sorry, Billy. I wouldn’t have chosen that for you. But I’m here because there are some things we can change. Because there are some things you need to see.” The angel holds out his hand.

When Billy hesitates, the angel gestures impatiently. “It’s okay. You can hold my hand. There’s no one here to see. Now come on, there’s no time to waste!” 

Tentatively, Billy places his hand in the angel’s hand. Then everything goes white. 

***

When his vision clears, they’re standing…in the mall. What the hell? It’s decorated for Christmas, and it’s so crowded that at first he thinks they’re in the line to meet Santa. But there are no screaming brats anywhere to be seen. 

No, the crowd seems to be composed almost solely of women. There are hundreds of them: all shapes, skin colors, and ages. And the line leads to…the Waldenbooks? There are so many people it’s hard to see what they’re in line for, but there’s an enormous placard, posted high in the display window, and covered with an obnoxious, flowy script that reads: “Signing today! NYT bestselling author of the Real Love series, Eve St. Clair.” There’s a picture of the book cover on the sign, some magenta-colored monstrosity, and enormous stacks of the actual book underneath.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says to the angel. “A bunch of sad old maids waiting in line for some trashy romance novel? This is what you just HAD to show me? Great. Even my fucking ‘guardian angel’ is defective.” 

“I’m not defective, brat. You’re just impatient. Wait,” The angel tells him, face implacable.

“Are you supposed to insult me like that?” Billy regards the angel suspiciously. 

“The mouth on you, and you’re going to ask me that? Let’s put it this way: they were never going to send you one of the halo-wearing, harp-picking types. Now shhhh! You’re going to miss her big entrance. Look.” He points.

Billy doesn’t even have to follow the direction of his finger, because the crowd starts cheering, a giddy, elated sound. There’s a woman making her way to the signing table, and she’s striking. Her hair is cut into a dark, bouncy bob and she’s wearing a pantsuit so white, so bright that she practically looks like an angel herself. There’s something familiar about about the woman, though Billy doesn’t know her. He starts to turn back to the angel, ready to question their purpose here a second time, only—he does a double take. It’s—holy shit—it’s Karen Wheeler! “What the fuck?” he sputters. 

The angel laughs and claps him on the back. “Right?”

“But…what…how…why?” Billy stutters. 

“I think you’re missing a couple—pretty sure there’s supposed to be a when, where, and who in there somewhere,” the angel teases, smiling prettily.

Billy’s already socked him in the arm before he’s had time to consider the ramifications of punching an angel. “Quit fucking around Ste- stupid angel. What. The hell. Is going on here?” 

“Come on.” The angel takes his elbow and steers him through the crowd, literally through—they slip through the standing women like ghosts. No one acknowledges them. It’s unsettling as hell, but Billy doesn't have time to think about it too much, because they're stopping right beside the signing table.

The angel puts a finger to his lips. “See for yourself.” 

Close up, it’s easy to see that this is definitely not the Karen Wheeler that Billy knows (and idly flirts with for his own amusement). And it’s not just the change in hair and wardrobe (though that in itself is surprising enough: Karen Wheeler in pants?  With short hair? Really?). She’s older, by a whole decade maybe, but something about her actually seems younger. Her demeanor is simultaneously playful and gracious, and there’s a sure, self-possessed set to her shoulders. She’s fucking glowing, and so are all the women in line, especially when they get to the front to talk to her. Billy can hear the conversation between Karen and the next chick in line: a youngish woman, tall, with glasses, soft-spoken, solemn. 

Solemn, that is, until she sees Karen. Then it’s like…her whole being lights up. “Ms. St. Clair, I don’t know how to thank you for what you’ve done for me,” she says.

She goes on to practically tell Karen her whole life story: how she was in a loveless engagement but was too scared to break it off because she just didn't want to end up alone, until she read Karen's amazing book, and how it changed her life, and made her realize that she deserved to be loved the way I want and how now she's living her life on her own terms, with someone she loves, with the woman she loves, and—

Christ. Billy blinks. There's such trembling earnestness in her voice, such awful vulnerability there, it's all Billy can do not to squirm. He closes his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek.

"Steady there," the angel murmurs beside him. "Watch now. This is the important part."

Billy opens his eyes, forcing himself to listen, just as the young woman finishes, eyes shining with unshed tears, "You made me realize that I deserved to be loved the way I want, Ms. St. Clair. And I can never, ever repay you for that.” 

Karen rises to her feet, her eyes are shining now too. She comes around the table. “Oh sweetheart, you don’t have to repay me. You already have. If you’ve read my book, you know my story. And you know that I once thought my story was over. But every time I talk to women like you, every time I hear about a woman who decided to seek her own true story, not the one others give us, it reassures me that I’m still writing my own. That I can write a new one every day. And that our stories are never over, even when we think they are.” The two women embrace, and Billy hears Karen whisper: “You do deserve to be loved. And you deserve to love yourself too. Trust me, I speak from experience.” 

Normally Billy would roll his eyes at a bunch of silly women waxing lyrical about romance and love. But...there’s something about the way Karen holds herself. About the confidence in her eyes. No, not confidence. Knowing. She’s goddamn compelling. This woman…Billy’s not attracted to her, never has been, not really, but…whatever “it” is, she’s got IT. She’s figured it out.

“I’ve got a story to tell you.” The words are spoken directly into his ear, the angel standing so close behind him the vibration of his voice against Billy’s ear makes Billy’s whole body erupt into chills. “Two of them, actually,” the angel says. “We’ll call it: ‘A Tale of Two Karens.’

"In the first: she gives up. Completely checks out on her life. Drinks way too much wine, plays the perfect homemaker, and spends her life wanting more, but is never able to even imagine what “more” would look like. She goes to her grave never telling anyone how much she hated the life she chose. Unfortunately, her kids figure it out anyway. It’s a sad story, though not exactly an uncommon one. Still, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

“In the second version though, the alternate one, well…you’re looking at her. I don’t have to tell you this is the better option of the two. And there’s only one thing that triggers the difference in those two timelines. Can you guess what it is?” 

The angel slips around him and meets his eyes pointedly, studying him with Steve Harrington’s face. There’s a suggestion in those chocolate brown eyes, an implication in the curl of his mouth. And all of a sudden, Billy can guess. 

He’s had this feeling for a while, when he’s around Karen, with the way she looks at him. It’s like a sort of tickle in his gut, the same one he gets when he knows he’s gonna make something happen, just because he can. 

“That’s right,” the angel says. “There’s only one version of these two stories where Karen Wheeler screws you.”

Billy feels a laugh working its way up his throat. He looks over to the table where this amazing version of Karen Wheeler sits and— 

“And it ain’t this one,” the angel says. 

“What?”

“What?” the angel echoes, quirking his eyebrows like you know better than that. Billy wants to slap that condescending little look right off Steve Harrington’s face—off the face wearing Steve’s face. 

“You seriously thought you were packing magic in your Levi's? That all Karen Wheeler needed was a good deep-dicking from one Billy Hargrove and suddenly—BOOM! Everything’s coming up roses? Billy. Come on. You’re pretty, but no one’s that pretty. It’s not even like you like her. You just like the fact that she likes you.”

Billy starts to protest but the angel cuts him off. “No, don’t lie. Won’t work. Guardian angel, remember?” The angel raises a hand and sketches a rough loop in the space above his own head, as if indicating a halo Billy can’t see. 

He continues, “You and I both know it wouldn’t take much. A touch here. A glance there. A charming smile at just the right moment. Throw in a few sweet nothings…and voilà! You’re IN. And you wouldn't even feel a thing. 

“But Karen will. She’ll feel all those horrible feelings you've pushed aside, because they're too big and scary and real for you to handle: hunger and heat and a desperate want just to be seen. Maybe even a little hope...at first. Until reality sets in. Then it's just shame and despair all the way down.

"'You just fucked a motherless eighteen-year-old Karen, what the fuck is wrong with you?! It doesn’t matter how beautiful and charming and oversexed he is, he’s young enough to be your child. He is a child!' That’s what she’ll think to herself. She'll be right. And she’ll hate herself for it. 

“And that's when she'll give up, when she’ll start fading, a little more every day, until her light is gone. And this?” The angel twirls his finger to indicate everything around them. “Nah. Never happened. All because you’re mad at everything and everyone, and you screw with people because it's fun.”

Billy’s face flames hot. He’s never felt so completely seen before. And he’s never felt so completely ashamed of it either.

“So that’s it,” he grits out, clenches his teeth around the words. “‘Don’t fuck it up for everyone else, Billy’? THAT’S what you’re here to teach me?! Everyone’s life is GREAT, as long as I stay the fuck out of it? That’s what I’m supposed to take away from all this? That touching me would taint Karen's immortal soul? Well fuck you! I don't need a messenger of God to tell me I poison everything I touch!”

The sound of the words coming out of his own mouth makes him even angrier. He didn’t need a fucking angel to make the same point that Neil goes out of his way to communicate every day.

“Why—" he stumbles over the words, breathless with outrage. "W-why would you tell me that!? What the fuck kinda guardian angel are you, HUH?”

But the angel doesn’t answer. Doesn’t say a word, just looks at Billy, all pained disappointment and pity. 

It makes Billy sick with rage.

“TELL ME!” And then he’s holding Steve—no, not Steve, the angel—with his hands fisted in the front of his shirt, just screaming into his face. But the guy doesn’t budge. Doesn’t even look phased. Just sad.

The angel sighs. Brings his hands up between where the two of Billy’s grip his shirtfront and pushes outward with his wrists, deflecting Billy’s hands away from his body until he’s forced to let go. Then the angel, he…he cups Billy’s face in his hands.

“Karen is responsible for her own choices. I'm not worried about the toll on her soul—I'm worried about the toll on yours. About what it does to you, to let yourself become the rock that other people break themselves against.

"You choose to hurt other people because you’re hurting, Billy. You like to set fires to watch them burn. But you're carving out a little piece of yourself, every time you do it. And the worst part of it is, some part of you knows.” For a moment, the angel's face...flickers, going beaten and bloody, looking like Steve had looked that night on the floor of the Byers house, underneath Billy’s body—underneath his fists. A bystander caught up in the not-so-tender throes of Billy’s rage. 

After that night, Billy had remembered how Steve looked only through the haze of adrenaline-fueled rage and whatever shit Max had injected him with. But the sight of it here, now, vivid and in ugly technicolor, is worse than anything he remembers. Suddenly it’s obvious how close he came to...to killing Steve. The breath leaves Billy’s body with a weak, punched-out noise.

But then the angel’s face flickers again, back to normal. “But I’m not here to tell you something you already know. And I’m not here to tell you that you fuck anyone’s life up. I’m here to show you that you can save lives, if you wish. You can build instead of break. If you choose that path instead.”

Billy shakes his head, dislodging the angel’s hands from his face. “I don’t fucking understand any of this shit.”

“I know,” the angel says, and places his hands on Billy’s shoulders, “But you will.” And once again, with a bright shimmer, the world dissolves again.

***

When the light clears, they’re standing in a hallway. Not just any hallway—one of the familiar hallways of Hawkins High. Only now it’s streaked with gore and blood, Christ. What’s happening? Why are they here?

“I don’t want to see this,” Billy tells the angel, suddenly terrified that he’s about to be told that he somehow had a hand in this. Please, no.

“Shhh, it’s okay. We’re just here as observers. Nothing here can hurt you.” But the calmness of the angel’s voice is no reassurance. “I know this is hard, but you have to see.” He starts walking, stepping over one dark-streaked patch Billy tries his hardest not to look too closely at, and Billy has no choice but to follow. He tries not to, but he can’t help but gawk at the scene around him. The dark substance—blood? is it blood?—isn't just on the floor, but all over the walls as well. 

“What is this? Why are we here?” Billy demands, trying to keep the quaver out of his voice, but when he looks back to the direction they're heading, the angel is stepping over the body of a man, and vanishing around the corner. Oh God. That’s a body. But what’s wrong with its face—?

A hand clamps Billy’s wrist and he has to bite down on a scream. It’s the angel. “Best not to look at that. Spoilers galore. Come on. Eyes on me now, good job.” He pulls Billy by his wrist, guiding him around the body, and then around the corner. And all thoughts of the thing on the floor go flying out of his head. 

It’s him. Billy’s own self. Kneeling down in front of someone else sprawled out in the hall. Someone with long legs and dark skin and a camo bandana tied around his head. 

“Sinclair?” Holy shit, it is. He’s a few years older, broader though the shoulders and so long-legged he probably towers over Billy when he’s on his feet, but there’s no mistaking the fact that this is indeed Lucas Sinclair. 

Billy’s hands are pressed to, oh God oh fuck, pressed against a ragged wound in Sinclair’s side, trying to slow the bleeding. There’s a baseball bat lying on the ground beside them, a monstrosity of a thing, with long, wicked looking nails driven through the end, coated in blood and assorted viscera. Oh. Oh God. He knows that bat. Billy looks from the bat to Sinclair to the bat again. The he looks at the angel. “Did I…please tell me I didn’t do this.” Billy’s temper scares even him sometimes, but he doesn’t think he’d ever be capable to doing something like this…would he?

The angel shakes his head solemnly, and points back to the duo. “Watch. Listen.”

Billy’s…future self? shakes Lucas, never taking his hands from the wound they’re staunching. “Hey! Hey! Stay with me Sinclair, you hear me? Help is on the way! Don’t you dare break my sister’s heart by dying on me! You HANG ON!”

“I…am hanging on. Jackass,” Sinclair gasps. 

He watches his own shoulders sag in relief. “Good, you do that.”

Sinclair struggles to sit up straighter, wincing. He starts, “Hey. About that thing that happened. When—when you first moved here-”

The other Billy cuts him off. “Don’t. Don’t say this makes us even. And don’t give me any messages to give to Max for you. You are not dying here.” 

Sinclair wrinkles his nose. “I was going to say: DON’T think this makes us even. You still owe me, man.”

“Oh.” Billy’s older self laughs, a desperate sound, uses the back of a bloody hand to push sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes before immediately replacing it against Sinclair’s side. “Okay, fine. Good. How, uh, how long you thinking I might still be owing you there, amigo?”

“Long as we’re both still breathing, at least.” Sinclair flashes him a big, pained grin.

“Then you better keep breathing, fucker, “ Billy hears himself say.

“And he does,” the angel says, snapping his fingers. The scene goes quiet. Billy can still see them, but it’s like watching a TV with the volume on mute.  “He does,” the angel continues, “Because you’re there.”

“What?”

“Once again, there are two ways this scenario shakes down: in the first, you pull your head out of your ass and make amends to this kid for that racist bullshit you pulled last month.” 

“It wasn’t racist! I’m not-”

“Shut up,” the angel shushes him. “I am not finished. You make amends to him for the RACIST BULLSHIT you pulled last month. You stop making it your personal mission to terrorize Max and her friends. You let them learn to trust you; you earn their trust, so that when this goes down, you’re here, fighting alongside them.” The angel’s face, Steve Harrington’s pretty, harmless face, is full of fiery righteousness. It’s beautiful, and more than a little intimidating. 

He continues, “OR, second option: you don’t. You continue acting like a bully and a coward. This kid,” he hikes a thumb over his shoulder at Sinclair, “Learns first hand from you that people like you will hate him, for nothing more than the color of his skin. And he takes that knowledge to his grave four years later, here, in this hallway, because they all feared you, distrusted you, so you weren’t here tonight to have his back. Because you taught these kids you were a monster, and then never gave them any evidence to contradict it.”

Billy looks at the two of them on the floor—himself and Lucas Sinclair, and all the blood spilled around them—and feels a terrible helplessness twist in his chest. His hands ache desperately to reach out and help staunch the flow of blood, but he knows somehow that his hands would pass through them like they did with the people in the mall, like he’s a ghost. “I don’t—I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do. How can I fix anything? How am I supposed I fix this? I don’t even know what this is! DO SOMETHING!” he orders the angel. “We’re here now! You’re supposed to help—so help them!”

But once again, the angel remains motionless. “Didn’t you hear anything I just told you? I am helping them.”

Billy growls in frustration, steps forward and kneels, trying to help somehow, but his hands slide through the pair, insubstantial, just like he feared they would. Then there’s a warm hand at his shoulder. 

“Sorry for the whiplash, but our time is limited, and we’re not done yet,” the angel says. He snaps his fingers and the world dissolves again in a Christmas light blur. 

***

They’re…back at Billy’s house. They’re standing where they started, in the hallway near Max’s closed door. Only now it’s light outside. But...

“Are we done? I thought you said-”

“Same where, different when,” the angel says. “This one’s important, so pay attention.” 

What, like Billy HASN’T BEEN this whole time? The angel wraps a long-fingered hand around Billy’s wrist and pulls him along like an errant child.

They walk through the door, literally through it, and this whole…being a ghost thing is never gonna stop freaking him out. Only…then they’re on the other side of the door and what he sees there is enough to make him completely forget about the whole Casper thing. 

Because on the other side of the door are Max and Susan. Only, Max is older. Grown. A grown-up. And she’s wearing a…wedding gown? Billy looks to the angel for confirmation. 

“Yes. It’s a Christmas wedding. You might hate it here, but Max, she loves it. Loves the snow. And, you know, loves a couple of other things here too,” the angel says with a grin. “In fact, she loves it so much, she moved back here after college.”

Sure enough, there’s a framed graduation cap and tassel on the wall, not Hawkins HS colors, but dark blue and gold, the colors of some school Billy doesn’t recognize. It’s not the only thing Billy doesn’t recognize. The room is different too. He doesn’t go in Max’s room, never; Neil would kill him if he did something so unseemly as set a foot across her threshold (as if Billy ever would, ever could even dream of being…of doing something inappropriate towards her...he'd never). But he’d seen the room through her open door as he’d walked down the hall to his own room, many times—all pinkness and lace and buttery yellows, more to Susan’s taste he’d figured, than Max’s. This is not that room. This room has wall to wall bookshelves, filled not only with books, but movie memorabilia, figurines, pictures. So many pictures, taken in so many different locations. Is that...is that Stonehenge? Max, it seems, has travelled far.

And Max herself, Jesus—it’s hard to look at her. She’s so beautiful. But more than that, she’s so happy. He’s never seen her look like this, full of such unfettered joy. He wonders if this is because he’s not here to ruin her life anymore.

The angel makes an irritated noise in his throat.

Then, there’s a knock on the door, and before anyone can answer, a young woman with long dark hair and an elusive, close-lipped curl of a smile sticks her head in. “He is here,” she announces with a satisfied nod, then pushes the door wide.

And for the second time that night, Billy gets to experience the supremely unsettling sensation of watching himself from outside his own body, as another version of him enters the room. He’s older, even older than he was in the last scenario the angel showed him. He feels a moment spark of satisfaction in noting that Neil has apparently never succeeded in forcing him to cut his hair. His hair is longer, actually, and queued back in a loose knot at the nape of his neck, and he’s exchanged his usual long earring for a small, simple loop. Turns out Max isn’t the only one who looks happy. No. Happy is too simple. He looks…content? Settled? He looks like things are good. 

“Hey Red, you ready?” he asks, grinning proudly at Max. Proudly. It’s surreal. 

“Give us about ten more minutes,” Susan says, aiming a small, tentative smile in his direction. 

Max rolls her eyes. “Mo-om!” But Susan insists her hair has to be “just perfect for your big day!” and Max acquiesces, on one condition. “Mom, can you give us a minute?” 

“How’s he doing?” Max asks the other him when Susan leaves.

“Losing his shit.” Billy watches himself wink at her. “Don’t worry, the party’s keeping him away from any ledges. Sharp objects too.”

“Ha ha,” Max groans.

“Nah, he’s nervous, but he’ll be fine. He’s a tough kid. And he loves you more than anything. I’ll radio over to check on him again in a minute.” 

Billy’s older self turns to leave, but Max stops him. “No, El can check. Just, stay for a second?” She gives him a hug. “Thank you for coming. I’m really glad you’re here." 

His older self’s voice goes gravelly with emotion. “I should be thanking you, Red. Sometimes I still can’t believe we’re here, after the way I used to treat you-”

“Shush,” she says, thumping him on the shoulder. “I know things haven’t always been, well. You know. But I’m glad you’re in my life. I’m glad you’re my brother. I’m even glad my mom married Neil. I mean, I’m even gladder she threw him out, but without him we wouldn’t have gotten you, jerk.” The smile she gives him is lop-sided and conspiratorial, and watching it is too much for Billy. There is never going to be a world where Max looks at him like that. 

“Is this all to fuck with me?” he asks the angel, disgusted at the wobble he hears in his own voice, but unable to do anything about it.

“No,” the angel tells him. “This is real. This is one possible future for you, and the path here is so simple, Billy, all you have to do is try-”

“Enough! I’m seen enough. I want to go back. Take me back. I’m done with this,” Billy cuts him off, but the angel shakes his head. 

“No. You haven’t seen nearly enough. Don’t you want to see how you drive her to the church? In your Camaro, no less. Susan was worried she’d get that beautiful white dress dirty, but Max insisted. Said it was tradition—after all, you used to take her everywhere in that car. She loves that car almost as much as you do. But you know, she loves you more. Oh! And you walk her down the aisle, by the way. In case you hadn’t already put two and two together. Seems fair to me. You were the only man for the job, after her dad passed.” 

“Bull. Shit. This whole thing is bullshit. You’re fucking lying. This doesn’t happen—it can’t!” Billy’s voice cracks.

“Why can’t it?” the angel asks.

“Because you don’t see how she looks at me. How they all look at me. How I made them look at me…I broke it. I’m broken. And there’s no fixing it.” 

“But don’t you want to see just a little more…?”

“No. Just take me back.” Billy’s pissed and he’s tired. So fucking tired. He’s so fucking done.

“Fine,” The angel sighs, “Back it is.” He claps a hand over Billy’s, pressing it firmly to his own chest, and snaps the fingers of his other hand. The world goes twinkly and bright again for the last time. 

***

When Billy’s vision clears, they’re in a bedroom: a kid’s bedroom, by the looks of it. Sure enough, there’s a small lump curled underneath the covers of the room’s double bed. He’s not sure where this is, but it’s sure as hell not HOME. Billy puts both hands against the jackass angel’s shirtfront and gives a sharp little shove that would normally send a guy stumbling back a couple paces. But the angel doesn’t budge. It only serves to piss Billy off further.

“No, I said HOME. This is not home,” he growls.

The angel makes a waffling motion with his hands, like he’s juggling invisible balls in the air. “Well, technically, you said ‘take me back.’ So, we’re back. Christmas 1984.”

“You’re a fucking liar, and a trickster, and the worst guardian angel ever! IF that’s even what you are!” Billy rages. 

The angel’s wince isn’t so much sad as it is resigned. He nods, “Well, that might be true, but you’re here now. And the only way out is through. So-”

“And where the hell is ‘here’?” Billy interrupts him, working himself up into a good old-fashioned tirade. It feels good to finally embrace his anger at this whole bullshit night. Guardian angel his ass! “Let me guess: this is the bedroom of some…wunderkind who grows up to solve world hunger, but only so long as I don’t fucking…fuck his mom first?”

He spits the words out derisively, glaring at the angel, who remains unphased. No, not unphased. He looks…proud of himself. Smug, even. Billy isn’t sure what’s worse: seeing that unfamiliar expression on such a familiar face, or knowing the person underneath is an imposter.

“Not even close,” said angel enunciates, a smile teasing at the corners of Steve Harrington’s full mouth. “Like I said, this isn’t the future. This is now. Your now. Look around. Don’t you recognize the place?”

“No.” Billy refuses to comply.

The angel sighs. “Then look again,” he says, tilting his head to the side. “You can hate me all you want, but I’m not going to fail you on this. We’re not leaving until you learn what you’re here to learn.”

“Oh my GOD, fucking fine!” Billy huffs, turning in a circle to survey the little room. He takes in the childish nature of the space: the toys on the bookshelf, the wallpaper and comforter that feature ships and fish respectively, the Jaws poster, the stuffed panda bear, the crayon drawings of wizards and goblins that litter the desk—sketched by a child with some level of skill, but obviously a child nonetheless. There’s nothing of note that would clue him in to their location.

Well. There is one thing of note. It’s the middle of the night, and the kid is clearly asleep in bed, but the room itself is too bright. Billy counts no fewer than three nightlights, not to mention the lamp glowing cheerily beside the bed. But this still gives him no clues. He spreads his hands hopelessly. “I don’t know what you want, amigo. I got nothing. It’s a kid’s room, a boy, probably. S’all I got.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s true, you didn’t exactly get a chance to check out this room, the last time you were here,” the fucking angel replies. 

“The last time I was…what?” Billy frowns, his stomach turning over. Then the child-sized lump under the covers picks that moment to sigh and roll over, and the blankets fall away from his face, and Billy doesn’t recognize him, exactly, but he recognizes something about him. Then, inexplicably, his gaze falls to the carpet, and it hits him—he knows that ugly shag carpet. Intimately. He’d woken up lying on it the morning after…the morning after the night he’d lost it and Max had knocked him out with a needle to the neck. He’d dry-heaved over this carpet, had had an impression of the shag weave imprinted on the side of his face when he’d climbed shakily to his feet, his head pounding and his mouth so dry it felt like he’d gargled with sand, while shame, fear, and rage all warred to claim their rightful place deep down in his bones.

This is the Byers house, where he’d gone to retrieve Max, and ended up almost killing Steve Harrington instead.

“There it is,” the angel with Steve Harrington’s face says. “Took you long enough.” 

“Why are we here? I don’t want to be here,” Billy tells the angel, hearing the register of his own voice climb in desperation. “Are you torturing me? Is this my punishment? Are you really even an angel, or...are you something else?”

“Calm down Ebenezer, this part isn’t even about you. It’s about him.” The angel hikes a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the kid on the bed, who makes a small snuffling noise, almost as if in response.

Reluctantly, Billy moves to take a closer look. If they're in the Byers' house, then this is Will Byers, the kid some of the students at Hawkins call “Zombie Boy.” The one that everyone apparently thought was dead, until he wasn’t. The one whose older brother is now dating Steve Harrington’s ex.

...And seriously, what is that chick smoking? Harrington is…Harrington, but compared to that other guy—strange and brooding and never without his creepy little camera—there’s no contest...

“Getting off topic here,” the angel warns. 

“Stop. Doing. That,” Billy bites out. “Stay the fuck outta my head, creepo.”

“Then stop ignoring the reason we’re here,” the angel tosses back.

Billy shakes his head, expels a harsh breath through his nose, then steps in even closer. This kid is small, too small for his age—especially since Billy’s pretty sure he’s in Max’s class, a member of that odd little band of geeks she hangs out with. The little guy has an almost elfin appearance: big eyes in a pale, pointed face, his hair cut in an old-fashioned bowl cut, just adding to Billy’s general sense of how young, how vulnerable this kid is. He seems so fragile, so goddamn breakable that it hurts to look at him. 

“Are you an angel?” The kid’s eyes are open.

Billy startles. Shit. He’s awake, and Billy could swear he’s looking right at them with those wide brown eyes, full of wonder. Only, he’d thought the angel had said no one could see them.

“Oh, that’s usually true,” the angel supplies. “But only when I will it to be so. And I’m not doing that right now.”

“Are you?” the kid repeats. “An angel…I mean?”

“Yeah, and he’s not talking to me. Can’t even see me, actually. Just you,” the angel continues. 

Billy sends the angel a brief accusatory look over his shoulder, then whips his head back towards the bed. 

Yeah, there’s no mistaking it now. The kid’s looking right at him. 

“Uh,” Billy wipes suddenly sweaty hands off on the side of his pajama pants and kneels down by the side of the bed. “Hey…little guy. Uh, amigo. Buddy? I’m—uh. What—what did you say?” 

“I said: are you an angel? Because you look like an angel, and it’s Christmas, so I thought you might be…” The kid’s eyes are somehow sleepy and wide at the same time. So expectant. So…hopeful. And what is it about this fucked up universe that sends a piece of shit like Billy a guardian angel, but doesn’t send one to this kid?

“No, I’m sorry, little dude. Not an angel.”

“Oh. Well…it’s okay. I just always wanted a guardian angel and I thought you might be mine.” The kid’s face falls a little.

There’s something in his face. In his eyes. It twists in Billy’s gut. And suddenly Billy knows. 

This kid is…like him. Hell, this kid IS him. Not in the literal sense, but in every way that counts. Whatever trauma this kid has been through, it’s not the only thing that makes him different. Not even close.

The kid knows it himself, too, Billy would be willing to bet. Or, if he hasn’t actually figured it out yet, then he’s at least started to suspect. Suspect that he’s not like the other guys. Because when his friends are starting to talk about chicks, and their pretty faces, and their sweet smells, and their perfect boobs, and which ones they want to date, and who they want to kiss, and he’s…not. Instead, he’s waking up to find his sheets sticky from half-remembered (or whole-remembered, which is even worse) dreams of broad shoulders, and hot skin, and hard, flat chests, bodies like that pressed against his own. He’s looking at Tom Cruise or Kevin Bacon or that fucking guy in flannel from Sixteen Candles, and wondering why he’d rather stare at them than hot chicks like Jennifer Beals or Elisabeth Shue. 

If he’s lucky, he’s already figured out how to hide it when he’s around his friends, how to avert his gaze when they go swimming or when they change in the locker room. If he’s not (like Billy was not) lucky, he hasn’t. Hasn’t figured out that that one friend of his, the one whose smile makes his heart pound and his stomach feel tight, is never going to feel the same way, and he’d be better off if he just ended the friendship now, save them both the trouble later. Save himself the pain. Poor fucking kid.

There’s a word for guys like them, an ugly one. Neil uses it all the time. Only, looking down at this sweet-faced, vulnerable kid, Billy feels such a sad, fierce surge of protectiveness that he can’t bear to think of that word and this little guy in the same sentence.

“Yes,” the angel breathes. “That’s it. Keep going.”

Billy ignores him, because…he can’t stand it—can’t stand the thought of letting this kid down, of being the reason that he realizes that he is well and truly alone in the world.

“I’m not an angel. But—I could be. Your...your friend.” It just rolls out of Billy’s mouth. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying. But he’s not about to stop now. “If you want. I could be your friend. Have your back.”

“You’d be my angel?” the kid asks, with such sweet, earnest belief that it makes Billy’s stomach ache. 

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say, I’m the farthest thing you’ll find from an angel, kid. But he can’t. Doesn’t want to. So he just nods.

“There it is,” the angel says, something like pride swelling in his voice. “I knew you had it in you.”

A sleepy smile blooms on the kid’s face. “Good. I’m glad. What’s your name?”

“I’m…Billy.”

“Nice to meet you, Billy. I’m Will.” A heavy yawn splits the kid’s—Will’s—face. “Merry Christmas, Billy.” His eyes flutter shut, and just like that, he’s asleep again. 

And Billy feels…strange. All fluttery inside. Light, somehow. He stands up slowly, half-convinced if he moves too fast, he’ll just float away.

“Well done, Billy.”

Billy turns back to find the angel regarding him with a happy smile. He’d almost forgotten there was an actual angel in the room the whole time. Almost. Only...

“Why not you? Why did you let him see me, but not you?” Billy asks, a hint of doubt creeping in to darken that light feeling in his chest. “Why did I get an angel but he didn’t?”

“You sure about that?” the angel counters.

“Ha. You say that like I can be sure about anything after tonight.” Billy shakes his head, rubbing at his breastbone, marveling at the weird gossamer feeling underneath. “Only thing I’m sure of is this kid doesn’t deserve what the world is going to throw his way.”

“Then be sure of this,” the angel says, stepping closer. “This is the first step.”

“What does that mean?” Billy turns to look at the angel.

“It means, he’s going to need you. Not now, but soon. And he’s going to need you to be the guy you were just then.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Yeah, but you will. I have faith in you.”

The angel’s satisfaction is discomfiting.

“I can’t be this guy you’re trying to make me be. I’m not...good...like that.”

“Tell that to someone who CAN’T see the potential inside here,” the angel gently taps Billy’s temple with two fingers, “And here,” then taps again over his heart. “But you do have to choose. You have to make the choice. You have to fight for it.”

“You say you want me to fight, but no one ever fights for me,” Billy whispers, struggling to keep his breath steady.

The angel cocks his head, considering. “Yeah, about that. We’ve got one last stop to make.” In the warm nightlight glow of the room, the outline of wings shimmers stronger than ever behind the angel, sparkling like lights on a Christmas tree. 

***

Billy has just enough time to say, “No, not again!” before the angel wraps those glittery, more-substantial-than-not wings around them both, and the world explodes into a Christmas light shimmer. 

Billy blinks, waiting for the bright after-image to clear, which, to be honest, is getting pretty old. They’re…they’re in another bedroom? Though this one is very different from the last. Bigger. Darker. Lit only by the ambient glow of the full moon drifting in through the curtains. It even smells different. Smells…familiar, somehow. Then the person sleeping under the covers shifts, murmuring in his sleep, and uh oh. Billy knows immediately, without a doubt, whose bedroom they’re in. 

He tries to make a break for it, no idea where he’s going, just knowing that there’s no way in hell that he can face this. Face HIM. Not tonight, of all nights. 

Only, the angel bars the way, and that fucker is STRONG. 

“No! No way! I’m not doing this. So get me the fuck outta here!” Billy insists.

But the angel just takes him by the shoulders, turns him gently, irresistibly, back to face the room—back to face the guy on the bed. “Relax. You’ll do fine,” he murmurs into Billy’s ear, in Steve Harrington’s voice, in Steve Harrington’s fucking bedroom. “See you at sunrise.” He pats Billy’s shoulder, there’s a rushing noise, and then—he’s gone.

“No!” Billy yelps, then claps a hand over his mouth. “Get back here, you stupid fucking angel!” he hisses.

But there’s no answer. At least, not from the angel. 

“Babe?” The lamp beside the bed switches on, and there’s Steve fucking Harrington, the real one, sitting up in bed in all his half-naked (please let it be only half-naked) glory, rubbing at his eyes, with his stupid, poofy, perfect, sleep-mussed hair sticking up at all angles.

“Oh, fuck me,” Billy breathes.

“Well, you have to come back to bed first,” Harrington says.

For once in his life, Billy Hargrove is short on words. He blinks. “Wh-what?”

Harrington stops wiping at his eyes. Looks at Billy. Really looks at him, like he’s seeing him for the first time. Looks at the empty spot in bed beside him, then back at Billy. “You’re him,” he says, something like awe creeping into his voice.

“Huh?” Billy asks, dumbly, the whole of his vocabulary escaping him.

Harrington throws the covers back, stands up. He’s not naked, but. He’s three quarters of the way to being there, clad only in a pair of black Calvin’s. “Holy shit!” he says, advancing on Billy. “You are! You’re him…”

Billy shakes his head, shuffling backwards. He points at Steve. “Ah, you—you just stay the fuck over there,” he says in a low tone, hoping he sounds more intimidating than he feels right now. “The fuck do you mean: I’m ‘him’?”

The intrigue in Harrington’s face softens to something more…understanding? “Okay,” he says, holding his hands up in the universal signal for I mean no harm. “Okay.” He looks Billy up and down again. “Let me see if I can get this right. You’re….seventeen?”

Billy nods, not bothering to point out that of course Harrington should know how old he is. 

Harrington mirrors his response at him, nodding back. He continues, “And, it’s the middle of the night on Christmas Eve, and all of a sudden, you wake up to see….basically me, standing in your bedroom. Only, turns out it’s not me, is it?”

Billy shakes his head helplessly, and Harrington nods again, letting his hands slip back down to his side. “So this guy, he says some stuff. Like, really hard to believe stuff. And then he takes you to some places—places that you shouldn’t be able to go—and shows you this really weird shit, right? Says some stuff you maybe don’t want to hear? And also, he’s got…wings. Sort of.”

“How do you know that?” Billy asks. 

Harrington kinda laughs, all rueful and amused at the same time. “Because…the same thing happened to me, if you can believe it. Only my guy, he looked like you,” he says, taking a tentative step in Billy’s direction, then another, and another after that. “Also? You told me about it yourself. Told me that this would happen. Couple of years ago, actually.” Now he’s standing close enough that Billy could reach out and touch. 

Billy shakes his head, but he can’t really deny it. The signs are there, like….Harrington’s broader through the shoulders, and he’s taller too—not much, just a scant inch or two, but enough that Billy’s not quite eye to eye with him anymore. And there’s his face—his general air. He’s missing that dopey expression that Billy’s used to seeing: the one that looks like he’s caught somewhere between confusion and expecting a kick to the teeth. Now…he just looks confident. At ease. Supremely settled, like he’s fully inhabiting every square inch of his body, and he’s doing it well. This isn’t Billy’s Steve—that is, not the Steve that Billy knows. Which means…

“Where—when are we?”

Steve bites his bottom lip, lifts his shoulders and shakes his head a little, looking at Billy like he’s supposed to understand. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Harrington’s smile is soft, apologetic. “Sorry sweetheart, I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you much in the way of specifics? Let’s just say…a few years in the future.”

And suddenly it’s all too much—the ridiculousness of it all, the things that the angel showed him (a fucking angel, are you kidding?), the weight of it, the expectation, the road that lies ahead, the things that he’s done, the fact that Steve Harrington from some unknown point in the future is standing, nearly naked, in front of him, having just implied that….there’s something between them? And all the while smiling, so goddamn gently, like Billy's some sweet thing to be handled with kid gloves. And the bedside lamp is casting shadows like bruises over one side of his face, so all Billy can see is what he’d done to Steve’s face that night in early November: the way he’d bruised him, bloodied him, hurt him, and there’s no world, no future, where he will ever earn a smile like that from Steve Harrington, and he can’t—he can’t—

“Fuck!” he gasps. “I can’t do this! I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—” and he’s shaking his head, over and over again, and his chest is heaving, and the collar of his old, worn-out t-shirt suddenly feels like it’s choking him, and he’s pulling at it, and his face is on fire, and the room is a blur, and…and—

And then there’s a pair of strong hands on his biceps, anchoring him, pulling him in close, holding him tight against a warm, solid body, and petting his hair softly, and no one’s touched him like this in such a long time. So carefully. Like he matters. 

“Okay. Okay,” Steve is murmuring in a low, reassuring tone, “I gotcha, it’s okay.” It’s the kindness in his voice that does it. Billy could have handled anything else—anger, insults, coldness, anything—but not the affection he hears in Steve Harrington’s voice.

It feels like something tears wide open inside of Billy’s chest, and suddenly these awful, broken noises are coming out of his mouth; they can barely even be called sobs, just these ugly, ragged sounds. He’s crying like a child—what the fuck is wrong with him?—leaking snot and tears all over the bare skin of Steve’s chest and shoulder, open-mouthed and helpless, and he hates it, he’s sick with embarrassment, but he can’t stop.

Then Steve’s hooking his chin over Billy’s shoulder, and he’s soothing warm hands up and down Billy’s back, saying, “Shhh shhh shhh, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

But it’s not okay, and Billy doesn’t think it’s ever going to BE okay. 

“It’s not okay! Nothing is okay! I hate everything and the whole world hates me and I don’t know how to make it stop and I don’t want to live like this and Max hates me and I hurt you so bad and I almost hurt that kid too and I scare myself sometimes and I can’t fix it and my dad wishes I was dead and no one loves me and I miss my mom,” he says, or tries to say, but he’s blubbering so hard that the words don’t even sound like words to him. 

But Steve must understand, at least some of it, because he kisses Billy’s hair and says, “I know. I know. I forgive you. I forgive you, Billy. It’s going to be okay. I swear.” And Billy just grips the skin of his back, his fingers digging in way too hard, hard enough to bruise, he knows, but he can’t let go, can’t do anything but hold on and sob like a baby, while Steve holds him tight, rocking them back and forth.

It takes him a long time to stop, residual sobs continuing to wrack his body sporadically, like the aftershocks of an earthquake. When he’s finally done, he doesn’t move; barely feels able to move. So he just stands there limply, his shoulders hunched, head bowed, letting Steve Harrington hold him, coddle him, coo soothing nonsense words under his breath like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Finally Steve pulls back, not away, just far enough to get a look at him. “Hey there. Still with me?” 

Billy ducks his head. He’s so ashamed. But Steve just tilts his own head lower, so he can catch Billy’s eye. “Hey, don’t do that. It’s okay.”

But Billy can’t stand to meet his eyes. There’s a veritable lake of tears and snot smeared across Steve’s bare skin where Billy had pressed his face, and Billy tries to swipe at it, uselessly, doing little more than spreading it around. He wipes his wet palms off on his own shirt, disgusted with himself.

“God, I’m acting like a little bitch,” he mutters, voice cracking, bringing his arm up so he can hide his heated face in the crook of his elbow. “You must think I’m such a little bi-”

“Hey, hey, hey. No,” Steve cuts him off, reaching up to pull his arm back down. He swipes his thumbs through the tears under Billy’s eyes.  “I just found my guy, don’t take him away again.” He props his elbows on each of Billy’s shoulders, interlacing his fingers behind Billy’s neck, so he can’t look down or hide his face. “Okay?” 

When Billy doesn’t—can’t—answer, Steve just nods, then presses a kiss to his forehead.

God, the way he looks at Billy, with such fondness…it’s unreal. 

“You say I’m ‘your guy,’” Billy starts, because he needs to know, even though he’s half dreading the answer, and half hoping for it at the same time. “Me and you, are we…are we…” but he can’t quite get that last word out.

Steve smiles. “Yeah. We are.” 

“Together?” Billy presses, because he needs to be certain on this, needs to hear the words outright.

“We live together,” Steve says. “We cook and eat together. We go shopping together. We spend time together. We sleep together. We make love together. Man, half the time we even shower together, because you turned into the WORST hot water hog the minute you moved out of your dad’s house, I swe- mmmphh!”

Because Billy’s body had gone hot all over when Steve had said the words “make love together” and he’d needed to have his mouth on Steve’s now, couldn’t go another second without it.

And Steve kisses him back, and it’s so good, so sweet, but he’s not kissing him back, not really, not the way Billy wants. Because Steve's still gentling him down, when all Billy wants is to be fucking mauled. There’s a fire rising in his belly, and he wants to feel that fire in Steve too, wants to feel it burn. He pulls back, ready to pull away because maybe…maybe Steve doesn’t want this version of him: the old, fucked up one that can’t get his shit together. Or maybe Billy did something wrong, maybe he was bad at it…except. 

Except there’s something about the way Steve’s regarding him—searching his face with a kind of enchanted curiosity, like he’s found something he likes, and he’s looking for more. He raises his eyebrows, like he’s surprised, and says, “Yeah?” He smiles encouragingly.

“…Yeah,” Billy husks, because if Steve’s asking what he thinks he’s asking then…his belly clenches with want. Yes.

“Have you ever, before?” Steve asks. And like, what the fuck? They go to school (went to school?) together, there’s no way Steve didn’t hear the girls talk. And they talk a lot. Billy knows. He makes sure of it. 

Then Steve clarifies, “With a guy?”

Oh. 

“Y-yeah,” Billy answers, ‘cause he has. There was a bar in San Diego called the Brass Rail. Billy had told Neil he was going to a concert, but instead he’d gone to this bar that he’d heard whispers about, heard that a lot of Navy guys liked to frequent (discreetly) when they were on shore leave, and Billy hadn’t ever…gone anywhere like that before, had never, ever let anyone see him in a place like that, that might be construed as…what it was. But he’d been sixteen and he’d known that he wasn’t like other guys. That he didn’t get off on chicks the way all his friends did. He'd been so curious by then, so eager, and… he’d needed to know for sure. Billy knew what he looked like, could see it in the faces of the men in the bar when they’d looked at him, hungry and avaricious. 

But there’d been this one guy, young like Billy, hair shaved in a high and tight, and carrying himself like a military man—an off-duty sailor, had to be, meaning he’d only be in town for a night or two, and…Billy had liked him. Had wanted him. And they’d moved together on the dance floor, dirty and hot, then they’d moved it out back to the alley, where the guy had turned him around and yanked his pants down without preamble, had put his dick against the back of Billy’s thigh, and between his cheeks but not in—probably only because Billy had stuttered out a startled "Wait!" at that moment—and moved against him, groaning and heavy as he came all over Billy’s back, finishing with a rough pat to the flank and a, “Thanks, gorgeous,” before walking away without even so much as a reach around. It had left Billy feeling discarded. Detached. Cold.

They'd moved to Indiana shortly after. And he'd never tried anything like it again.

Billy shakes his head, banishing the images, the emptiness. Trying to. “Yeah. Yes,” he says again, louder this time. Defiant. But when Steve helps him tug his shirt over his head and then lays him back on those dark, messy sheets, when he lays his own body out beside him, face-to-face, tangling their legs together, Billy knows his words were a lie. He’s touched guys before, but he’s never been with a guy like this. 

Seems like Steve knows it too, because he keeps his touches gentle, telegraphing every motion like Billy’s a spooked horse or something. 

But god, it’s so good.

The way Steve looks at him, so fucking tender, like Billy’s precious or something—it makes him feel naked. No, not naked. Laid bare. Exposed. 

Then there’s what Steve is doing with his hands. Make that hand, singular, because the other is lazily propped under Steve’s head so he can watch himself drive Billy absolutely fucking crazy.

He starts out scritching his fingers through the hair at Billy’s nape, so a riot of goosebumps breaks out over Billy’s skin, racing down his back. Steve chases those goosebumps, trailing his fingertips down the curve of Billy’s spine to linger at the end, tickling the skin just above his tailbone, playing at the waistband of his pants.

“Oh,” Billy says, twitching. It’s like there’s a live wire in Steve’s fingers, lighting up Billy’s body wherever it touches him. Especially when he skims them over the back of Billy’s pajama pants before slipping underneath to drag them down the cleft of Billy’s ass, never actually dipping between the cheeks, just…teasing. “Oh,” Billy gasps again, moving restlessly, and Steve chuckles, the sound knowing and...sweet, somehow.

“Yeah?” he asks, a deeper, richer echo of his earlier question, and Billy breathes, “Yeah. Yeah.”

Steve pulls his hand out of Billy’s pants and spider walks his fingers over the curve of Billy’s hip, around to the front of his body. Billy whimpers.

But instead of putting his hand where Billy wants it most, where he’s throbbing, desperate and hot—come on, Steve, fucking touch me touch me touch me, PLEASE—Steve presses his palm flat against Billy’s stomach, watching the way Billy’s heaving breaths move it up and down, up and down. He lingers there, pressing down lightly against Billy’s belly, so the muscles tense under his hand. 

“Steve!” Billy grunts, and if it sounds like Steve’s killing him, it's because he is, a little.

Steve hmmms, lifts his hand to pluck playfully at the trail of dark blond hair leading down into Billy’s pants. The muscles in Billy’s stomach twitch, fluttering really, the way they sometimes do when he comes, and the noise that comes out of Billy is needy, embarrassing. But Steve moves his hand up higher, goddammit, to circle his thumb around Billy’s nipples, over and over again, switching back and forth, stopping every so often to pinch, or flick, or pull at the suddenly-too-sensitive skin, just so Billy can never predict what’s coming, until the sounds coming out of his mouth are wordless, animal things. 

Billy’s had plenty of sex, good sex (good for whoever he was with anyway, and more good than bad, passing fair, at least, for him), and he’d always thought getting off was just that. He loves the bright, hot flash of nutting, that quick, gut-squeezing clench of pleasure—even though it's always over too fast. Even though it's never quite enough. But he’s never felt like this, like he’s about to explode into a million pleasured pieces before he ever comes, like his brains are going to actually squirt out through his dick when he does. And he’s not even having sex yet, he’s just letting Steve…pet him. Fucking pet him, that’s all.

He presses his hand over Steve’s—holding it flat against his own chest so Steve can’t torture his nipples anymore—and moans, “I’m gonna come, Harrington, and I haven’t even touched you!”

“Well I can fix that,” Steve says, and pulls Billy to him with both hands.

And oh, this wasn’t what Billy meant—he’d just wanted to slow things down so he could catch his breath, so he could get his hands on Steve, but…Steve’s fucking mouth. He sips at Billy, working him him over, starting gentle, barely even open-mouthed, then slipping in to slide his tongue against Billy’s, then sucking at Billy’s top lip, flicking his tongue against the cupid’s bow and pressing small, nipping kisses to his lips, his chin, the skin of his jaw. He’s...he's making love to Billy’s mouth. It should make Billy feel feminine. Silly. Weak. But instead it makes him feel…special. Precious. Loved.

He tastes salt between their lips and realizes it’s tears, HIS tears, but he’s too turned on to even feel ashamed. He just wants.

“Please,” he moans against Steve’s mouth. 

Steve pulls back, searching his face. Then, finally, reaching down to tug at the drawstring on Billy’s pants, god finally, untying it and pulling Billy’s pants and underwear as one down his thighs. Baring him. Oh. He studies Billy’s naked body (Billy flushing under the scrutiny, unable to look away from Steve looking at him), before slipping his palm under Billy’s hard-on, just letting it rest there in his hand, taking the heft of it. “You are so beautiful,” he says, before curling those long, sure fingers around the length of him.

Billy gasps, hotter than he's ever been in his life. He has to grab Steve’s wrist before he can move because, “If you keep going, ‘m gonna come.”

“Good,” Steve says. He wraps his fingers around Billy’s cock. “I want you to,” he says, as Billy cries out. “I want to see it. You, coming for me.” He strokes up and down briskly, working Billy’s cock like he owns it. “Would you do that for me? Give it up? Let me see?” 

Billy’s stomach clenches and his balls contract hard, and he tips his head back and obliges with a helpless whine, spilling hot and copious into Steve’s hand. 

“Beautiful,” Steve whispers, watching and working him until he's done, then pressing a final kiss to his mouth—a taffy-slow, savoring sort of kiss that redefines Billy's definition of the word—before reaching over to the nightstand to grab a fistful of tissues to clean his hand. Truly a fistful, like five,  because Billy came a lot. 

Steve grins at him, resting his head on the pillow as he mops the tissue over his palm and between his fingers. “Some things never change,” he says.

Billy feels his eyes widen in horror. “Oh God. You mean I always go off like a goddamn bottle rocket the second you touch me?” he moans. SO fucking humiliating. 

But Steve just laughs. “No, I mean you always spill, like, the hugest fucking load whenever you come, babe,” as he uses the last tissue to clean off a few drops on Billy’s stomach that had managed to escape his hand. 

Billy’s face heats. “Oh,” he says, turning to press his flaming cheeks into the pillow. This whole thing is so fucking intimate in a way Billy never expected. It’s insane. And even though he just came harder than he’s maybe ever come in his life, he can feel the tell-tale tingle/ache combo starting up again in his groin. He wants…he wants Steve to hold him again, but he doesn’t know how to ask for it when he’s not half out of his mind with pleasure.

“Hey, hey,” Steve murmurs, carding his fingers through the hair behind Billy’s ear until Billy takes his face out of the pillow. “I know the first time is always kind of overwhelming. You okay?”

“I’m not a fucking—this isn't my first time!” Billy insists, flushing even harder.

“Yeah, I know. But…you and me, it’s like nothing else when it's us. Sex is fun and all, but sex with US like, rewrites the rules. You felt it too, right?” 

Oh. So that wasn’t just him. Billy bites the inside of his cheek and nods, trying to will away the blush. “Mm-hm.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Steve nods back. “You know, the first time we hooked up, I was so turned on I thought…I thought I was going to pass out.”

“Which was...when, exactly?” Because Billy still can’t quite believe he’s here, naked, in Steve Harrington’s bed. Can’t believe that Steve Harrington, from the future, is now stroking his hair and holding him close. The whole damn thing is beyond belief, and Billy still doesn’t really buy that this could ever actually be his future. Can’t imagine a way. But if Steve could just give him something to hold out for, a day to look forward to, then maybe…

But Steve doesn’t bite. “I don’t know how much I’m supposed to tell you,” he says regretfully. “Even a little bit might be too much. You—my you, your future self—told me that there are things you have to figure out for yourself.”

“…Right.” Billy feels ice creeping into his chest.

“No dammit, don’t do that,” Steve begs, wrapping an arm around Billy’s waist and rolling onto his back so Billy lays on top of him. “Don’t go away on me. Don’t give up so easy. 

“I can tell you this much: it's soon. I promise. Maybe not as soon as you’d like, but sooner than you’d think. Just—” he kisses the tip of Billy’s nose, the corner of his mouth- “Trust what your angel says. And if you can’t...” He presses his mouth full on Billy’s and says between two halves of a kiss, “Trust me.”

Billy wants to say yes. God, he wants to, but his faith died a long time ago, and he doesn’t know how to find it again. Still…

He sighs against Steve’s mouth. “‘Soon’ is a long time in my world, Harrington.” 

Steve sighs back, a wistful sound. He rubs his nose against Billy’s. “I know. I know. But please, don’t take this from us before we ever had a chance to have it. We’re so good, Billy. You don’t even know. Fight for this. Fight for us, baby. Fight for you.”

Yes. One little word. Why is it so hard to say? It sticks in his throat. He opens his eyes and meets Steve’s, hoping somehow he can see what Billy’s thinking, see that he wants to. 

Steve’s eyebrows draw together sadly before he huffs out a small breath and nods. “Okay. It's alright, I get it. It's not exactly like there's a road map for all this.”

Then his eyes widen, and he smacks a quick kiss on Billy’s mouth before sliding off the bed. “It’s okay,” he reassures him, when Billy sits up in dismay. “Lie down. I’ll be right back.” 

He’s only gone for a minute, but Billy can’t bring himself to lie back and relax. Has he ruined everything? Already? He’s still frozen, sitting half-propped on his elbows, when Steve comes back, something hidden behind his back.

“Lie down,” Steve insists, pushing with a gentle hand against Billy’s solar plexus. He pulls Billy’s pants all the way off, discarding them, then climbs on top of him, straddling Billy’s legs just above the knee. “Don’t look.”

With some difficulty, Billy casts his eyes up towards the ceiling. He hears the squeak of a cap being pulled off and tenses for a second before the sharp tang of marker hits his nose.

He lifts his head, trying to see, but Steve’s bent over his lap, and his lion’s mane of hair is blocking the way. Billy squirms to see around him.

“I said down!” The words are exasperated but Steve is laughing as he says them, directing Billy back down with a Sharpie that he waves like he's an orchestra conductor. 

“Then tell me what it is.” It’s phrased like an order, but they both know it’s a plea. They both know who’s really in control at the moment.

“It’s a trail of breadcrumbs. To find your way back.” Steve bends over and resumes his work. Billy feels the wet scratch of marker on the low patch of skin between the iliac furrow and the crease of his thigh, just beside where his pubic hair begins. He gasps at the sensation, shivering a little.

“There,” Steve says, blowing on the fresh markings, and Billy’s gasp drops into a moan. “Now you’ve got a piece of me to take back with you.” He leans over and drops a chaste kiss on the head of Billy’s dick, and Billy’s blood runs scalding.

He surges up, flipping them over so their positions are reversed: Steve on his back and Billy on top, snugged up tight between his legs. “What if I want a piece of you now?” he growls, and can’t resist the urge to thrust hard against Steve’s body. It’s not enough.

“Get these off!” he orders, already tugging the dark material of Steve’s underwear down his legs. Seriously, how does he still have clothes on? Billy flings them away to join the discarded Sharpie on the floor, and oh. He stops short. Holy shit.

He’d heard the other guys making jokes in the locker room, but letting your eyes actually stray below another guy’s waist when you were in the showers (or the locker room in general) was a no-go if you were Billy Hargrove. And even if he had looked, he wouldn’t have gotten the full experience of seeing Steve Harrington hard, holy fucking shit. Steve Harrington is hung. And not just that. Billy’s been calling him “pretty boy” for months, and not knowing just how right he was.

He looks up to meet Steve’s eyes, disbelieving, and then back down at his swollen pink dick, and Jesus fucking Christ, leave it to Harrington to have the prettiest cock in maybe the whole world. He’s not sure if he said all that aloud or if Steve's just read it all from his face, but either way, Steve covers his eyes and laughs this gorgeous, full body laugh, one that somehow manages to sound bashful and cocky at the same time (and as an added bonus, makes his stomach tighten and his pretty cock bounce), before he says, “Well you’re not too bad yourself, for the record.” 

He uncovers his face and looks up at Billy with those dark fucking bedroom eyes, lashes like fucking Bambi, and husks, “C'mere.”

Billy launches himself at him, relishing the press of mouth against mouth, skin against hot, slick skin. as he thrusts hard against Steve's body. It’s heaven—the sensation of Steve’s big dick, wet with precum, slipping against his own. Steve’s arms are around him, strong and warm, petting over his back, exploring the curve of his ass, wrapping around the backs of his thighs and urging him on, harder, faster, and Billy needs…he needs…he needs to come, and, “Unh, fuck fuck fuck!” he can feel his balls drawing up, his body racing towards that silver knife’s edge of pleasure, and—

With a gasp like a drowning man breaking the water’s surface, he pulls away, wrenching his mouth from Steve’s, rising to his knees to put some space between their bodies, tightening his hands in an iron grip around Steve’s wrists to hold them down at his sides on the bed when he tries to pursue him. 

Steve’s eyes are wide, his face flushed, as he gasps, “W-what are you doing?” He fights to sit up, but Billy pushes him back down. Steve’s chest is heaving, his skin slick with sweat, and he looks like raw sex incarnate; Billy has to drop his head back and moan, like the sight hurts him. And it does, hurts in his balls and his belly and the small of his back, and his cock feels like it’s going to BURST at even the slightest hint of a touch, and maybe even without, but he can’t. Not yet. Time is slipping away from them, he can feel it, and he knows if he lets go, if he comes that second time, if they come together, then it’s all over. And he’s not ready for this night, this perfect thing between them, to end. 

He tells Steve as much, carefully, carefully wrapping his fingers around the base of his own cock, trying to drive his orgasm back through sheer force of will. 

Steve turns his hand over, the one that’s still held down to the bed by Billy’s free hand, entwines his fingers with Billy’s own, and brings Billy’s hand up to his mouth. He brushes kisses against Billy’s knuckles, over and over again, rubbing Billy’s hand back and forth over his soft mouth. “Nothing’s ending, babe,” he murmurs. “You and me? We’re just getting started. I promise you.”

Billy tightens his fingers around the base of his cock, shifting his hips restlessly, breathes deep around the urge to come. He can barely hear anything over the sound of his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, so it takes a second for Steve’s next words to register. 

“Do it again.” Steve’s eyes are dark, and it’s almost but not quite an order.

“D-do what again?” Billy asks, still concentrating on holding his body back from the edge.

“Tug your foreskin back like that,” Steve husks. “I fucking love that you have one.” He cups a hand over his own circumcised erection. “God, you’re beautiful. Show me.”

Billy moans, high and desperate, helpless to do anything but obey. He thumbs his foreskin down, completely away from the wet head of his cock. He…he can’t help it, it’s over; he has to touch himself then. He rubs his hand up and down, starkly aware of how his foreskin slides up and over the head and back down again with every movement. 

Steve lets out a moan of his own, low and hurt, needy, and starts working his own cock.

It hits Billy all of a sudden—what the hell is he doing, perched here in Harrington’s lap, the two of them watching each other jerk it, barely touching, when they could be doing this together? "Fuck it," he gasps, and scoots forwards in Steve’s lap, knocking his hand away from his cock so Billy can press their cocks together and wrap his hands around both. Hands, because it takes both of Billy’s to fit around their combined girth. God.

Steve surges up, pulling Billy in flush against his body and rolling them over so now Billy’s on his back again. Steve props his forearms on the bed to either side of Billy’s head, then he's fucking mauling him, the way Billy had wished for earlier, and Billy couldn’t stop now if the world was ending. Their legs are tangled, thighs between thighs, bodies undulating, thrusting desperately, pressed so tightly against each other he can feel the pounding of Steve’s heart reverberating through his own chest, both of them gone mindless and animal in their want. 

Billy breaks the kiss and tilts his head up so he can look between their bodies, watching Steve’s cock slip against his own, trailing a slick line of precum against his belly. Billy might spill a huge load when he actually comes, but Steve, it seems, gets as wet as a girl before he lets go. Oh.

Steve is murmuring something in Billy’s ear: sweet, low words, watching Billy’s face as Billy watches the space between their bodies, but Billy’s too far gone to comprehend a thing he’s saying. He’s breathing so hard it sounds like he’s sobbing again, and he’s not even sure he cares, and then Steve’s cock is flexing against Billy’s stomach, or maybe it’s Billy’s flexing against Steve’s, because...fuck. “GOD, hahh-Harrington, oh, OH!” Billy cries out. “So hot, so fucking hot, I, I can’t-” and then Billy starts, and then Steve is doing it too, god, they’re both coming, spurting slick and wet and HOT in the shared space between their bellies, and it’s delicious, and it’s like dying, and it’s better than anything Billy’s ever felt.

After, he drifts on a wave of exhausted bliss, fighting to keep his eyes open as Steve presses sleepy, sated kisses against his mouth, his chin, his jaw. But it’s no use. Sleep and the sunrise are coming for him, and it doesn’t matter which gets there first; one of them is going to take Steve from him. Just before his eyes flutter shut for the last time, he thinks he hears Steve whisper, “I love you, Billy Hargrove,” and he prays, Dear God, please let me stay. 

But since when has God ever been on Billy’s side?

“More often than you think.”

Billy’s eyes fly open to see Steve standing at the end of the bed. No, not Steve. Steve is laying in bed beside him, asleep. The differences between the angel and the real thing are glaringly obvious now, and it’s not just the glittering outline of wings that sets them apart. 

“Please,” Billy pleads, “Please, just a little longer.”

The angel looks sad for a moment. “I’m sorry. Your time is up. Even Christmas magic can only work for so long.” Then he brightens. “But you’ll see him again—if you choose.” And with that, in a motion so quick Billy can barely track it—too quick for Billy to scramble out of reach—the angel that looks like Steve lays a hand on Billy’s bare ankle, and the world dissolves into a shimmer of twinkling lights, like being inside a Christmas tree. 

In that last, scant second, as his vision is going sparkly and bright, Billy looks over at Steve, sleeping naked and oblivious and so, so beautiful beside him, and tries to commit the image to memory, to burn the picture into his own brain. Then everything goes white-out bright, and Steve is gone.

***

Billy wakes to a silent house. The early morning light drifts in through the curtains, hazy and gray, the dreary color of winter in Indiana. He’s the first one awake, turns out. Nothing new about that. The newlyweds like to sleep in on the weekends, and Max is too old to be up at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning.

Wait. That’s right. It is Christmas.

And still he doesn’t remember. Not at first. Not until he sits up and feels the skin on his stomach…crackle. He reaches down to touch, and—Jesus. His stomach’s covered in dried cum, like…COVERED. What the hell kind of wet dream did he have last ni-

THEN it all comes rushing back. The angel, the things he’d showed him, Steve fucking Harrington. Fucking Steve Harrington. Literally.

But it was all just a dream. A really weird, really really HOT dream. 

Billy throws the covers off, slings his legs over the edge of the bed. Rubs wearily at his face with both hands. Lets out a laugh that sounds more like a sob. Well. No point in crying over something he can never have. He’s got more important things to worry about. Like washing the stink of his own dried cum off his skin before he has to contend with his joke of a family on Christmas morning. Best he not ruin Max’s first Christmas as a Hargrove. The consequences don't bear thinking about. 

He’s grabbing clothes to take to the shower with him when he catches sight of his own profile in the mirror. Against his better judgement, he turns to regard himself in full, moving closer to his reflection. God, he’s a mess. His hair is a rat’s nest of tangled curls, he’d lost his shirt sometime in the night, and there is a truly remarkable amount of cum dried across his belly. It starts high, literally just underneath his ribcage and spreads down to disappear underneath the waistband of his pants. It’s not unusual for Billy to spill hard when he comes—so much that chicks usually hate it when they go down on him, if they can manage to get him there—but it’s just his luck that a wet dream about fucking pretty boy Harrington would make him blow a superhuman load.

He wonders, not for the first time, if he’s cursed. He chuckles, a low, bitter noise, as he pushes the waistband of his pants down. He’s morbidly curious to see how far down it goes. It goes…really far. Even into his pubic hair. He closes his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to remember the sensation of dream-Steve carding his fingers through the hair there, teasing, torturing Billy before he’d finally wrapped his fingers around Billy’s cock and started to tug. 

He pushes his pants even farther down, baring the base of his own cock, so caught up in the memory that he can’t stop, no matter how ridiculous he looks. He forces himself to open his eyes again so he can see himself, so he can force himself to put an end to this shameful, stupid pining…and then he sees it. 

Black letters on his skin, inked low between the cut of muscle at his hip and the place where his pubic hair begins. He gasps, bringing both hands up to cover his mouth, and his waistband springs back up to hide the ink on his skin.

There’s no fucking way. It can’t be. 

But he remembers Steve bent over his lap, scratching at his skin with the rough tip of a Sharpie. It’s a trail of breadcrumbs…so you can find your way back.

It can’t be. He blinks hard. Slaps himself in the face. Shakes his head like a wet dog in the hopes (the dread) of clearing whatever delusion has taken over. And then he shucks his pants all the way off. 

Against all logic, THE INK IS STILL THERE.

It reads:

S❤B

Billy rubs his fingers across his skin wonderingly. He- he doesn’t even own a Sharpie, much less possess the ability to write upside down and backwards on his own hip, much less do it in his sleep.

There’s no way it can be real. But...there’s also no way it CAN’T. 

It was real. It is real. It has to be. And maybe...maybe it still could be again. From somewhere distant, faintly, he thinks he hears a bell ring.