Archive of Our Own

I. Heard you pull dick now, too.

Steve’s never really been on the outside, before.

But ever since he signed on to be roommates with Tommy and Billy, he’s never felt more like he’s looking in on other people having fun.

It’s simple as this: Steve is Tommy’s old friend. Billy is Tommy’s new friend.

So it’s a constant competition.

Competition for what, though, Steve’s still not sure. Because, okay, it’s not like Tommy’s a trophy, he actually fucking sucks. But maybe it’s not really him they’re fighting over. He’s just a placeholder, like, if they can eclipse each other in his life, they can do it elsewhere, too. This campus isn’t big enough for the two of them, kind of thing.

And Billy’s just as accustomed to winning as Steve is, it turns out.

Steve’s actively annoyed at how good of friends Billy and Tommy are. They even rushed their frat together. Were pledges at the same time, were bonded through public humiliation, probably, like that time the brothers shaved off both of their left eyebrows. They’ve mostly grown back, by now.

Look, all that said, Steve isn’t jealous of Billy. He just isn’t a fan of change. Isn’t a fan of this intrusion onto his life.

Though, to be fair, Billy mostly keeps out of the way — he sleeps almost the entirety of the day like a fucking lion. Always comes home wasted at three in the morning, leaves his bedroom door open, and passes out with all his window shades up, so when Steve gets up to make coffee he can see straight through. Perfect view of Billy lying there. Shirtless atop his mattress on the floor, soaking up sun in his sleep. Snoring and drooling. Long blonde curls capturing the glint of the light, enhancing his whole oversized man-cat thing he has going on.

Steve mainly catches him rousing from his cave at noon and drinking chocolate milk straight out of the half gallon in the fridge. Standing there, in just a pair of old lacrosse shorts, gulping messily. Not even looking at Steve, who’s staring in vague disgust. And when he pulls off, there’s milk beading in the hair above his upper lip.

He’s a nuisance, yeah, but Steve’s heard proper roommate horror stories, and he knows things could be worse. It’s not so bad, as long as Steve can get over him fucking blaring 6ix9ine “Tati” nextdoor, like, these bitches think I’m stupid, I ain’t stupid, dummy boys fall in love with it, he stupid. (Steve thinks the delivery of that song is kind of fucking frightening?) Besides. Steve and Tommy were required to have a third person in order to move into the dorm they wanted, so it wasn’t really like Steve had a choice.

It just sucks, because he thought he was going to love living with the two of them, since they really like to get fucked up. But it’s turning out really shitty because Steve is constantly third wheeling, when he’s pretty sure he introduced Tommy to Billy in the first place. Before all the frat stuff.

It’s Sunday morning and Steve rolls himself out of bed. Uses his forearm to wipe his mouth. Scrapes hands through his hair to push it out of his face as he pads out into their dorm. He feels fucked up, that disoriented feeling after he oversleeps — because he never sleeps this late.

His roommates are in the common area, watching old South Park, the episode with ManBearPig. It’s only 1, and Tommy’s sprawled out on the couch, already drinking.

The room’s freezing, because Billy’s next to the open window, perched on the sill, sucking on a blunt and blowing out the smoke through a paper towel roll and a dryer sheet. Like somehow that’s gonna cut the smell. That never really works. Steve should know. That’s how his mom caught him in the 10th grade.

“Oh, look,” Billy’s saying as he takes a hit. “It’s sleeping beauty.”

And Tommy’s like, “Morning, princess.”

He fucking got that from Billy. That pisses Steve off. He knows Tommy’s a textbook sycophant, but he sort of preferred things when Tommy was under his dominion.

Steve doesn’t respond to that. Tries not to reward their behavior.

“So,” Tommy says. “Heard you pull dick now, too.”

Steve's eyebrows cinch together, confused.

It pisses him off how Billy looks over and just grins. “You want me to show him, or will you?”

“Show me what,” Steve says. He settles into the bean bag chair by the couch. “It’s fucking cold in here. Close the window.”

“When I’m done,” Billy says, “then I will. Just put on a sweatshirt, sweetheart.”

Tommy’s on his phone typing and a second later, Steve’s phone vibrates in his sweatpants.

It’s a Twitter notification. Tommy mentioned him? Jesus.

@tommyh22: @kingsteve Is that u?? ( also srry, friend, he’s taken <3 )

Steve doesn’t have the energy for this.

Okay, the Tweet above it is from the Missed Connections page at their school, inspired by that Craigslist shit. Operated by a mysterious anonymous person. It’s kind of like, this funny little page that any person at their university with self-respect follows? Because deep down they all fucking want to be sighted and called out on this account.

They all want to be missed.

Steve can’t lie. He’s definitely combs the feed late at night, scrolling hopefully through, to see if anyone had written about him. Bending shit to make it work. Like one time he saw a girl posting this thirst, all, cute guy with the long brown hair at jenkins hall??? u watched me wipe out on a patch of snow, i was hoping u would help me up but u didnt — come make it up to me over drinks??

Steve thought about that all goddamn day. He did see a chick wipe out? By Jenkins Hall like the Tweet said, on an icy spot on the brick path — and he remembers this clearly, because he was distracted, swiping through Tinder when it happened, remembers he saw Nancy, 19, and started feeling like absolute fucking shit even though like, he’s on Tinder too, otherwise he wouldn’t be seeing this in the first place? And when he looked up, that random pretty girl went down like a ton of fucking bricks, and —

She had to be talking about him, then.

Or maybe it’s that annoying drive he has. This gnawing ache, like, MAKE THIS ABOUT YOU MAKE THIS ABOUT YOU MAKE THIS ABOUT YOU, and. Well. He’s been known to do exactly that. He doesn’t have terribly good self control.

This time, though? This thing Tommy’s mentioned him in. It doesn’t seem like his head’s playing tricks on him, this time. It’s way too specific. It feels the way he’d always kind of expected — that if someone was really going to post about him, he’d feel something from reading it. A jolt of familiarity. Serendipity.

But he doesn’t want it, in this context.

@umissedconnections: Bambi eyes. m4m. i was rippin cigs in the sae p-lot. u made urself puke 2 make room 4 more beer. incredible? ur my hero PLS say ur into guys

Steve doesn’t fucking say anything. Because that can’t be about him. Right?

No.

No, right? Like, ‘Bambi?’

Although.

He doesn’t actually remember much of this weekend. Tommy and Billy dragged him along to a party at their frat under the guise of getting him laid, since he and Nancy are always so on-and-off.

They’re trying so hard to get him to be officially off her.

Steve woke up in his own bed, alone, though, so apparently it didn’t work.

Which is weird, because last night, Billy had been adamant, like, “Come on. You know what they say, Harrington; the best way to get over someone, is to get under someone else,” smiling wide and sickening. And it’s so annoying how true that is.

Then he clapped Steve so hard on the back that he choked on his shot. (Made taking the shot so much worse? Because then the vodka touched his actual tongue, and it was that shitty kind of vodka, that super sketchy brand Popov.)

The night’s a blur after that — he was conscious during the pregame, but he doesn’t even remember getting to their frat.

And he knows himself. Knows he’s a different fucking person altogether when he’s had enough. It makes Tommy sling his arm around Steve’s shoulders, smacks a wet kiss to his cheek all sloppy and stupid while he says, “You’re so fun, tonight, like this. You should rush SAE. You’re so fun right now, bro. Why aren’t you always like this?”

Because. Depression, Tommy. But.

That Steve isn’t This Steve, so it could very feasibly be that he got wasted enough to make himself throw up, on purpose, so he could drink more. That Steve is not to be held accountable for his actions.

And by the way? Pulling the trigger real quick to accommodate more alcohol, it’s not that weird to do. That’s normal.

A lot of people do that, actually.

So he doesn’t know why this random stranger on Twitter is throwing fucking shade at him right now, when it’s clearly undeserved.

The worst part about it is the Tweet’s already got thirty-seven likes and twelve retweets. A handful of replies, Tommy’s included. That’s actually a lot for this page. Apparently people think this is cute, or funny or something. But does it look like Steve’s fucking laughing?

He’s just staring at Tommy and Billy. They’ve got twin shit-eating grins.

“You actually think this about me,” Steve says, finally. It doesn’t hit like a question, because it isn’t one.

“Dude, look,” Tommy says. “I’m just saying. How many dudes puked outside SAE on Saturday?”

“Probably a lot.”

“Yeah, but,” Billy’s saying, and he blows smoke through the paper towel contraption he’s made. “Come on. They were very specific about it, dude.”

“It could’ve been about anybody,” Steve says, dismissive, and he knows how shaky and stupid that sounds. How big of a lie it is.

“You asked for it,” says Tommy. “You always wanted to be on there. You literally told me, you were like, ‘I would suck some dick to get on that account—’”

“Somehow, I don’t think I said that.”

“Maybe I’m paraphrasing.”

“You’re a prick,” says Steve. “And this wasn’t really what I had in mind.”

“Lemme ask you something, and be honest,” Tommy says. “Would you put your dick in a glory hole?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “No. That’s dirty. That’s how you catch shit.”

“Okay, but. Just imagine. Does it really matter if it’s a chick on the other side?”

“Um, yeah,” Steve says, laughing, incredulous. “It really fucking does.”

“Last time I checked, a mouth’s a mouth,” Billy offers up.

“That’s what I’m saying,” Tommy says.

“Would you fucking shut up?” Steve hisses. “You’re so crude. Maybe it doesn’t matter to you, but like. I care. And I’m not gonna hook up with someone just because they’re interested in me. That’s not how this works. That’s not how anything works.”

“Whatever,” Billy says. “Be careful what you wish for, I guess.”

“And remember,” Tommy’s saying, “you’re all mine, right, Stevie? You’re taken.”

Billy’s staring. His blunt smolders between his fingers. He watches Steve as he drags from it again, slow. Then his shoulders give a flippant shrug. Steve doesn’t really know what that means.

So he gets up and stalks off to the bathroom to shower. Snaps the door behind him, and if he really slammed it, well, that was sort of an accident.

Even still, with the door shut tight, he can hear Billy say, “Dude. I think Bambi’s pissed at us.”

But once Steve’s in there, he turns on post notifications for @umissedconnections.

Just in case.

*

II. I was playing real nice.

Steve and Nancy hook up later that night. They can never really stay out of each other’s beds for long.

But the whole time he can’t stop thinking about that goddamn Tweet.

After they’ve cleaned up and she’s tugged her clothes back on, she grabs for her jacket, too, while Steve’s still using tissues to wipe his dick off before he pulls his sweatpants back up.

She’s standing awkwardly at the door in her little navy parka, like, “I have an 8AM.”

He wants to say, I know, because he knows her schedule this semester.

But he’s just like, “Oh, yeah. Okay.”

So then she’s off. He hears her snarl a disgruntled ‘bye’ to somebody, and he’s crumpling up his fistful of tissues and tossing them in the bin when he hears someone in the kitchen pressing buttons on the microwave.

It smells good, that hearty, warm smell of some kind of food, so Steve’s shuffling out like a dog, to check it out.

Billy’s there at the counter when he emerges. He’s got his elbows on the surface, hands pushing his cheeks up so they pudge, hair tied up messy. He’s wearing a sleeveless shirt, so his muscles bulge out of it, and Steve hates that he finds himself looking.

Billy’s visibly drunk. He sort of always is. The microwave whirrs behind him, the only light in the dark kitchen, besides the TV that’s still displaying the PS4 loading screen.

He’s making a tray of Bagel Bites. There’s a few already done, on a plate in front of them. Of course he’s making more, because the directions say not to put too many in the microwave at once, but Billy can eat a whole box with no shame.

Steve figures this is way too many for one person? But Steve knows him, knows he’s gonna finish every single one of them. But Steve’s making his way over because he needs something after sex, needs more stimulation, since he feels sort of empty, now. And he’s not going outside in the cold to get high. And he’s trying, really trying this go around, to stay off his JUUL, so.

“Can I have a few?” he says, instead. He’s not really looking for permission, though.

“What, you want me to cook for you now? No,” Billy says with his mouth full, and “Make your own,” he adds, and, “Seriously? Spend your own dining funds on this shit.”

But he doesn’t actually try to stop Steve when he perches at the stool across from where he’s standing. Doesn’t say anything when Steve plucks one off the plate, and pops it in his mouth.

They’re eating in silence until the microwave interrupts, shrill and demanding.

Billy’s turned his back, is working to get the next series of Bagel Bites out when he’s finally like, “God. Can’t you guys fuck at her place next time? So I don’t have to see her? I thought this was over.”

Oh.

Steve forgot how much Billy fucking hates Nancy. Hates when she’s there.

The two of them get into actual arguments, because she thinks he’s an alcoholic idiot, and he calls her pretentious, and Steve’s not saying either one of them missed the mark on those assessments.

Like one night, Steve tried to make things nice for everyone, and held a game night to get wasted and play Cards Against Humanity. But it was a bad idea, because he forgot how fucking competitive they both are. And Billy was winning, because he always throws down the cards that are like, cheap shots. The grossest cards possible. All the dick jokes, that don’t even fit with the prompt card, and yet somehow he still wins.

Nancy got pissed, because she was actually trying to be creative. So she called him out and they got into it, and he said some mean shit to her about being a little prude bitch and she locked herself in the bathroom to call Jonathan for a ride, and Billy was shouting through the door like, “Oh my God, it’s a game, it’s okay that you’re not good at it. Hey, I said I was sorry,” but that wasn’t really an apology. And they still haven’t been able to move past that.

Billy and he haven’t really gotten along since then.

So. But. ‘Thought this was over.’ Right.

Billy thought he and Nancy had finally had it. Steve thought they’d had it, too? Tommy and Billy had tried so hard last night to get him to move on, but, just like clockwork.

Here he is.

Steve feels caught.

So he just shrugs, even though Billy doesn’t see it from where he’s turned at the counter.

“I didn’t know you cared?”

“I don’t,” Billy says, and his words slur into one another. He turns and lets the plate fall in front of them, so the mini bagels scatter, a little.

“Really convincing.”

“I just don’t fuckin’ like her,” he says. “You know that, Harrington.”

Alright, Steve’s just about done here. He stands up, and takes a handful of bagels with him.

“You don’t have to like her, dude,” he says. “I just don’t want you being a douchebag to her when she’s here.”

“I wasn’t,” Billy enunicates, like Steve’s stupid. He sounds so fucking in denial. But the longer he stares Steve down, the more his face contorts. Shifting. Into a grin. “I was playing real nice. Not for her, though. For you, baby. ‘Cause I like you.”

He actually smiles, all brilliant white teeth. Lips curving, evil, making his eyes crinkle at the corners.

Steve had meant to go, but he’s stuck still. Holding greasy-warm Bagel Bites in his palm. Just scowling.

“Be real with me,” Billy says. He gestures around vaguely. “No one’s here. You can tell me. So, what. Are you like, into her? Or are you just blowing each other?”

“Billy. I’m tired. I don’t even know what that means.”

“You look way too sad, to just be blowing each other, right now,” Billy goes on. “You wanna know what I think?”

“Not really.”

“I don’t think she’s good for you,” he tells him, anyway. “And I don’t wanna be the one to break it to you, but she’s definitely fucking that nerd, the photographer guy—”

Steve is a little taken aback by that. “Dude. Fuck off, Billy, she— we’re not even together—”

“All I’m saying,” Billy says, “and I know, no one asked me, but if they did — I’d say you’re wasting your time.”

“So it’s a good thing no one asked you.”

Billy’s still grinning at him. Chewing on bread and tiny pepperoni pieces.

“You ever think about rushing?”

Jesus. They’re insatiable.

“No. I don’t wanna join your fucking stupid fraternity.”

“It would suck,” Billy’s saying, “to look back one day, and be like, ‘Fuck. I missed out.’”

That sort of sounds heavy, laden with subtext, or.

Maybe Steve just needs to go to bed.

“I won’t, I won’t ever do that,” Steve says, and he finally tells his feet to move. He’s stalking back off to his room with his stolen Bagel Bites, like, “Goodnight.”

“Hey, you’re not still pissed about the whole Bambi thing, right? You’re not pissed at us? You’re acting like you’re mad.”

*

III. ‘Bambi’ is better than ‘Spooky.’

Steve has a lot of shit to get done tonight, because syllabus week was over two weeks ago and he’s starting to have real deadlines on the horizon. He posts up at the Starbucks near the library and starts getting his shit together. Passes the evening listening to those, like, Relaxing Lo-Fi Vaporwave Chill Beats To Study To or whatthefuckever while he color codes in his planner.

Fooling himself, like that’s gonna be the thing that helps him.

Nancy used to tell him he sort of had poor executive functioning skills. Used to try to help him do things that were gonna correct that, but he can face it. He’s nearly twenty fucking years old. He’s done developing skills. Done learning. He’s gonna be like this, forever, presumably. There’s some point where he’d just accepted that he was a C+, B- student at best.

So he makes some headway organizing his shit. Stays long enough to buy a second drink. A different one, this time, ‘cause before he’d gotten just gotten a plain latte because he felt bullied into not ordering something with a lot of calories, but now the place is cleared out since it’s fucking six o’clock, and he feels a little less stupid ordering that thing on the menu board.

But on his way out, he’s so flustered trying to get out of there that he drops that drink all over the tile.

He just stares at the milky tan puddle at his feet, as it seeps under the crack of the door. Sad.

He’s got his arms full with all his school stuff, and he just. Doesn’t have time for that.

He looks apologetically at the barista who seems like she would rather be dead than deal with it, and Steve takes that as his cue to evaporate out, into his car.

That was a seemingly unimportant moment, and Steve would’ve just shrugged it off, probably would’ve forgotten about it by Friday, but then later that night in their shared bathroom, as he’s toweling off from his shower, another Tweet rolls in.

When it happens, he’s scrunching through his hair, squinting at himself in the mirror, inspecting a zit above his left eyebrow. It’s one of those ones that’s deep under the skin, so he can’t pop it, or it’ll get worse. This isn’t okay. Steve doesn’t break out, ever. It’s his one thing that he has going for him.

So while he’s absorbed in that, his phone buzzes, letting him know the account posted.

He almost drops his fucking phone on the gross bathroom floor trying to scramble to see it.

@umissedconnections: Bambi eyes @ starbs. U got a CINNAMON SHORTBREAD LATTE (?) & dropped it all over the ground. I was pretendin 2 type. Im still waiting

Steve doesn’t know what he feels when he reads that.

It’s like, this leaping feeling of excitement in his chest. Akin to seeing the first Tweet. Serendipitous.

Now he’s fucking sure it’s about him, there’s no excuses anymore — and he doesn’t know what that means just yet.

He looks back up in the mirror. Scrutinizes his own face. Drags hands down his cheeks, Kevin McCallister-like.

Bambi eyes.

He scoffs to himself. Remembers when kids in middle school used to call him Spooky because of his eyes. That was before he learned he could be mean, back.

He’s gotta admit, though. ‘Bambi’ is better than ‘Spooky,’ but, please.

They’re not even that big.

His eyes are just fine.

They’re normal.

*

IV. He’s probably super closeted.

The next time the guy Tweets, Steve’s in line at the dining hall, watching a guy cook his stir fry. Observing beef and mushrooms and rice noodles being scraped from wok to plate. Thinking about how he’s definitely going to get foodborne illness from the vivid pink of the meat.

Then his phone vibrates and he’s jumping on it. So fucking on-edge.

@umissedconnections: Bambi eyes @ rodgers hall. u were talking real close 2 some girl? THOUGHT what we had was special, but i see how it is. msg received ~aries

That last bit?

That’s a fucking signature.

He’s got a name now.

So he’s picking absently at his plate, sitting at a table by the wall. Mostly really staring at his phone for fifteen uninterrupted minutes. Wanting to respond again, but having no idea where to start.

Has he mentioned he loves the fucking attention?

He’s caught up in it when Nancy joins him, hops up onto the barstool, shrugs her jacket off her shoulders and sets it on the railing next to them.

Nance and him are trying this thing where they’re friends.

Sunday night’s hookup aside.

Like. They’re friends, not quite with benefits. Steve’s not sure how to feel anymore. He knows about Jonathan, and everything, but. It still feels weird.

He spends so much time moping, but it’s not like he can even feel badly about it, he doesn’t deserve that — how things turned out, that’s his own fault. He and Nancy had started off their freshman year together, and two months in, Steve was getting jealous of Tommy’s freedom. Had pulled the whole, ‘maybe we should see other people’ thing, and now he’s not sure that was the right move.

But he’s pretty sure.

This is supposed to be good for him.

He looks up as he slurps teriyaki noodles into his mouth. “Do you think my eyes are big? Like. Too big?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Sorry? Something happen?”

“Billy and Tommy happened. What’s fucking new. They’re just being twats.”

“You should move out,” Nancy says. “I tell you this all the time. Billy was so weird to me the other night. And he’s always that way. I don’t know what his problem is.”

“He has a lot of problems,” Steve says. “I don’t even think he knows what his problem is. What did he say to you?”

“He didn’t say anything, really. It was just. His attitude.”

“I should say something. Do you want me to say something? I’m gonna say something—”

“No, don’t, I don’t want you to,” she says. “You just need to get out of there. Both of them, I mean, they’re insufferable.”

Steve sighs. “I can’t move out, Nance. They’re my friends.”

It almost sounds like he’s asking a question. This time both of Nancy’s eyebrows sort of stitch together, but she doesn’t comment on that, just changes the subject.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You seem kinda,” she pauses, choosing her words, “off, today. Is this about those Tweets?”

He’s quiet, because. He didn’t know she even knew.

They haven’t talked about it in so many words. He doesn’t know why they would have.

He’s got a pretty good rule of thumb; he usually tries not to talk about people he wants to fuck, in front of people he’s already fucking.

Not that he wants to fuck that guy for sure, or anything, he means, but, like.

Whatever.

“How do you know about them?”

She gives him a look, and he’s not good at reading people’s faces, so he goes on.

“It isn’t about the Tweets,” he says. “And, okay, no one can even prove they’re about me. So I don’t know why everybody keeps tagging me, and at’ing me, like something’s gonna — like I’m gonna —”

“I think it’s adorable,” she says. “It’s almost Valentine’s Day. And you’ve got a secret admirer.”

Steve feels kind of squirmy at that.

“No, I don’t,” he insists, pushing broccoli into where teriyaki has pooled on one side of his plate. Letting it soak before stabbing it. “Whoever it is, they’re not being nice. It’s cyberbullying. I’m being bullied. I think I can report them to the school for that.”

Nancy’s on her phone, now, too. Staring at where it’s rested on the table while she spoons herself vegetable soup.

“You’re so dramatic,” she says. “He likes you. It’s cute. Relax.”

He pulls down on the feed. Refreshes it. Twice in a row. A little obsessively. Double checking, to make sure something wasn’t posted this very second, while they were talking.

Is that crazy?

“What if he’s a legit stalker,” Steve says, but he’s smiling. “Maybe I should make one of those If I Go Missing folders, you know. Like they say, in that crime podcast. All my passwords and stuff. You’re gonna feel pretty bad if I go missing because I didn’t report to the cops.”

Nancy kind of snorts. Even when she snorts, it’s cute.

Steve’s still got it pretty bad for her, he realizes.

“You’re not gonna report it.”

“But I could, is what I mean to say,” he says. “I’m being bullied. And I can’t believe you don’t even care.”

“Maybe you should be trying to piece this together,” she says, and there’s something like excitement in her voice. “Figure out who it is. What’s really the worst that could happen? Just play his game, right back at him.”

“Sure, Nance,” he says. “But just so you know? My passcode is ‘1738,’ you know, like that song. In case they find my phone somewhere and they need to get in. To figure out where I was last seen, before I got abducted.”

“That’s not funny, Steve.”

“I’m not trying to be funny,” he says. “I’m trying to be safe.”

“Oh, just leave him alone, let him have his crush,” Nancy tells him. “Poor guy. He’s too scared to actually talk to you. He’s probably super closeted.”

*

V. Page fourteen of the fairly innocent query ‘bi threesome.’

Steve tells himself he’s not obsessed.

Despite the fact that he’s seemingly constantly refreshing the page, just in case — on the off chance — somehow — he missed the notification that the account posted. (What’s worse is when the account does post, but it’s not from Aries. That’s its own unique letdown.)

He gets up earlier now, can’t just roll out of bed and trudge to class, because he’s feels like he always has to look presentable. This guy keeps fucking seeing him, at times when he’d never thought he was being watched, so he can’t ever chill.

He can’t roll out of bed and leave for 9AM calc in random sweats and mocs anymore. That’s not an option.

This guy’s fucking his shit up.

The feeling of being watched, it should probably be creepy to him? But it’s more fun than anything. Stressful, yeah, but harmless.

And he’s actually been having a full-fledged breakout on his forehead since this Twitter shit started happening. It’s mostly covered by his hair, but he’s swiped some of Nancy’s makeup. That color corrector shit. He knows that from watching her get ready in the morning. So he tries to copy what she does, use the yellowy shit to dapple over angry redness. Probably does a shit job at it, everyone can probably tell that he’s wearing makeup, but at least it gives him peace of mind.

It’s strange, being attracted to someone he’s never seen before. He’s weirdly, unexplainably hopeful about the person on the other side of the phone.

He analyzes everyone he passes. In the dining hall, in his dorm building, at the gym, on the walkways through campus. Sometimes he sees weird dudes and prays it isn’t them. Sees, objectively speaking, of course, good looking guys and catches himself thinking about pushing them into his bed, in Nancy’s place.

He tries to compile what he knows so far about this guy. First, he parties at SAE. Second, he smokes. Third, he does homework at Starbucks.

That narrows it down to.

Every guy Steve knows.

But he’s got a name for him, now — ‘Aries?’

Ugh. That’s the vaguest, meanest thing to do to Steve. That could be literally anyone. As if Steve knows anyone’s fucking birthday but his own. (And like, one time when he got busted, he even forgot that, because the campus police got all up in his face like, your date of birth, son, and Steve was trying to say August but he couldn’t get anything else to come out.)

All things together, it’s clear the guy doesn’t want to be found. But he’s leaving breadcrumbs, so he does wanna string Steve along.

And it’s working.

So tonight, Steve’s on PornHub, searching through the videos for way too long because he’s so picky. Gets to page fourteen of the fairly innocent query ‘bi threesome,’ when a banner drops down, indicating a new Tweet.

He hates that he gets this stupid feeling that the person who typed this can somehow see his screen. He feels oddly guilty. Paranoid. It’s like that thing of when he’s talking shit about someone, and he compulsively checks his phone to see if he somehow called them at that exact moment.

Sort of like that.

@umissedconnections: bambi eyes. god. break up with yr girlfriend already. im bored. ~aries

His heart’s racing, because that’s fucking insulting.

Does it make it even more pathetic that his gut reaction, his first thought is, ‘she’s not my girlfriend?’

And he hates — like, really fucking hates that his hand’s on his cock when he reads it.

Hates it even more that he feels it jump to think of the implications.

That’s it. He’s trying to take his mind off it. Switching back over to PornHub. Tapping the first video he sees, this time. Whatever.

He fast forwards, skips around until he gets to this part where this built jock dude is fucking this chick, and this kind of pretty tan guy gets behind him on the bed and starts fucking him, and.

Yeah. Steve does not last impressively long.

Cums so hard, his hips tighten up and his toes curl and all he can do is watch, frozen, while his load pools on his stomach.

And then he just fucking lies there.

*

VI. But they’re still Starbursts.

This is getting out of control, probably.

It’s Saturday morning and he’s eating breakfast at the dining hall with Tommy and Billy after their run. Which was like, the shittiest run ever, because Steve has officially taken that spot in their friend group where, when the path outside is too small, Steve’s the one who has to trail behind while Billy and Tommy run two abreast.

That’s the worst.

So they’re at one of the high tops by the window, where they always sit. Still in Under Armour and Nikes. Tommy’s cheeks are flushed pink, making his freckles stand out, stark and odd. Billy’s got his sweatshirt unzipped so far that Steve can actually see his nipples, which is not something people really do, Steve’s not sure if Billy’s aware of that.

Tommy looks smug when he joins them at the table with a fresh mug of coffee. Gets a proper look at Steve, now that they’re indoors.

“You okay, bro?” he ventures, squinting at Steve. “You know, you’re, like. Really broken out, on your forehead.” And he gestures at his own for reference, then he’s like, “You usually have such good skin.”

“Is it that bad?” Steve asks, and he’s looking at his reflection in his phone screen, trying to make it out, when they’re interrupted.

His phone lights up with a notification. Adrenaline gives a jolt to his heart while Tommy just grins. A knowing sorta grin. He’s got Twitter open now, too, and Billy’s sat next to him, looking over his shoulder.

Steve ducks his head down to read.

@umissedconnections: so is steve harrington single now? asking 4 a friend. ~aries

What, now the guy knows his name?

At least it’s confirmation that it’s about him. He doesn’t know if that makes him feel bad or good or both.

“I fucking called it,” Tommy’s saying, and Steve can tell he’s projecting a little bit for some fucking reason. But he slams his mug down so hard, people actually turn and look at them. The coffee sloshes about inside of it. “Did I not fucking call it? Bambi.”

“God,” Steve hisses. His eyes dart around the dining hall. He watches until the attention they’ve attracted subsides. “Can you — Jesus fucking Christ. Can you keep your voice down?”

“Relax, Harrington, nobody knows what I’m talking about,” he says. “Besides. Billy said it first. Something about, like, not looking a gift horse in the mouth, or whatever. You asked for this.”

“Yeah, but I was kind of expecting it’d be a chick,” Steve says. “This is like, you know when you tear into one of those little two-packs of Starbursts? And you’re hoping double pink. Or at least pink and red. But you peel the packaging in half and the first one’s yellow, and the second one’s orange.”

Billy’s eyebrows stitch together as he stirs his scramble around. “But they’re still Starbursts.”

“I think you’re missing the point.”

“Maybe you are,” Billy says.

“I don’t think I am,” Steve says. “The point is, I’m being stalked. I’ve seen You.”

(That reference is definitely lost on both of them. Billy solely watches the Rams. Tommy, the Colts, and Billy’s given in, started following them too since he’s moved from California.  And like, both of them like that terrible show on MTV, with Rob Dyrdek. Steve should know. He always comes back to their dorm and finds them watching that shit, melting into the couch, looking like that one anti-marijuana PSA.)

He refreshes the page again.

Even worse. Chicks that Steve used to know from classes past begin haunting him in the replies.

@mandapanda862: @umissedconnections omg unite these two?!?! tru fuckin love

@abby.mich: @umissedconnections @kingsteve ok but this is actually the cutest shit i have ever seen

“Honestly?” Tommy’s saying. “I’m kinda pissed about it. You’re ungrateful. You don’t even deserve the attention.”

“I don’t want it,” Steve says. He cuts into his omelet and stretches the cheese, elasticky, ‘til it breaks. “You can have it.”

Billy’s scrolling Insta. Not looking up from his phone, like, “You figure out who it is yet?”

Steve huffs. “There’s like, a billion people on this campus. I’d have no fucking clue.”

“But, come on,” Tommy says. “You gotta be curious, aren’t you?”

Of course he is. They have no idea the lengths he’s gone, the time he’s spent on this.

“I don’t care who it is,” he insists. “Not like I’m gonna do anything about it.”

“One hookup wouldn’t kill you,” Billy says, and he licks over his bottom lip, back and forth, a little hypnotic. Smiling all the while. Like he always does.

Steve genuinely can’t tell if they’re just fucking with him or not. If they actually think it would be advisable to hit up this total stranger online.

“Are you guys fucking for real? Number one, it’s a rando, and number two — come on, do I have to say this?”

“I don’t know, dude,” Tommy says. Then he shrugs. “Could get you outta your rut.”

And Steve fucking snorts. “I’m not in a rut.”

“You haven’t gotten laid in... how long?”

“I literally had sex on Sunday!”

Billy bites into a sausage link, snapping it in half. “Stevie. That doesn’t count. With someone other than Nance.”

And, fair. He knows he should probably stop doing that.

It’s like, he’s at a point where everyone still thinks he’s with her, so it’s killing his opportunities with other girls.

“I’m just saying,” Billy goes on, but he looks too fucking malicious. “Sometimes all’s you need is a push.”

Steve wants to fucking push Billy over in his chair. But he stays good. Resists.

Does it in his mind, instead, kind of like Cady’s Africa flashbacks in Mean Girls, but it’s not quite as satisfying as the real thing.

Besides, one time in high school, before the bell rang, these dudes in Steve’s chem class were playing the Pass Out Game, and this kid smacked his head off the floor and he almost got paralyzed.

And so, Steve’s just thinking, here, he doesn’t really want Billy to get paralyzed.

*

VII. He really wants to add, ‘im calling the cops.’

That night, the account tweets again.

@umissedconnections: i would truly risk it all 4 steve harrintgon

It’s spelled wrong, which is infuriating, and Steve hates that he finds it kind of hot?

So he taps out a DM to them like, ‘Okay yeah this has gone too far, i’m gonna need their @???’ No context, no explanation, because he knows he doesn’t need it. This dude is the only real traffic populating the account these days.

But Jesus fucking Christ. He instantly regrets hitting send.

It’s almost like.

Now that he’s so close to knowing.

He doesn’t wanna know anymore.

He know that’s fucking stupid.

But knowing could mean a lot of things. His worst fear could come true. It could be someone. Unattractive. God. That would be a fate worse than death. To spend so much fucking time thinking about this guy, and scanning crowds for him, and wondering what he’s like — how fucking disappointing would it be to find out he’s one of those weird computer guys that look like they never shower? Or one of those guys who smoke a bunch of weed and hang out on a slackline on the quad when it’s warm out. The ones who compensate with too-long hair to make up for their receding hairlines.

So Steve would say he’s worried about being Catfished, but. He actually hasn’t even seen a picture of him yet.

God, Steve’s so fucking dumb. If this is anyone’s fault, it’s his own, for falling for it blindly.

He realizes that maybe he’s obsessed with the anonymity of it. That he’s terrified of finding out who’s behind it.

His message is instantly marked Seen, though, and the reply is just as quick: Hi, sorry! We can’t reveal the submissions. It’s in our bio.

Maybe there’s something a little relieving in the fact that the identity wasn’t revealed.

But what the fuck do they think they are, customer service? This is a glorified Craigslist page. And this predicament, it’s serious. It’s affecting his life. He needs to know.

He writes back, that’s fine but what if there are extenuating circumstances???

No response for a few minutes, so he hits them with that double DM, like, I AM BEING BULLIED.

That makes them an accomplice. He really wants to add, ‘Im calling the cops,’ but he knows that would be seen as extra.

So later that night, when he and Tommy are having beers and playing fucking Rocket League (does anyone but them still play Rocket League? Steve has no idea, but it’s tradition now), he gets brave. Braver than is probably good for him. And at Tommy’s jeering, it’s not like he feels he can make that choice anymore.

When he talks himself into committing, Steve’s in one those canvas chairs that soccer moms always sit in at their kids’ games. He feels like this moment is important. That he’s gonna remember it for the rest of his life, no matter what the end result is. He’s got his beer in the little pocket of the chair and he’s on Twitter like he always is. Fucking glued to the feed.

And he sort of talks himself into the idea that if he can’t beat the guy his own way, he’s gotta play his game right back at him, like Nancy said — fight fire with fire.

He’s also drunk, when he makes this decision, though.

Regardless, he sends some stupid shit into the Twitter’s DM’s. A submission. To let them know that he wants his message sent out to this guy. Like,

@ ‘Aries’ —  you’re all fucking talk?? Put your money where your mouth is. Dm me already.

He nearly has a heart attack when that actually gets posted. Has to put his phone on the table, far away so he won’t be tempted to touch it, won’t sit there staring at his Tweet until it gets attention.

He’s a little terrified.

But it’s fine.

*

VIII. they dont call u KING 4 nothing right?

Fucking finally, when Steve’s given up, when he’s gotten stoned and put himself in bed, the guy responds. Odd syntax and grammatical errors indicating that he’s drunk.

Steve’s half out of it, but he tears himself out of bed to see the message.

u still up??

His heart is hammering. He feels excited, it’s ridiculous. The DM’s from @nicetryharrington, an account with zero followers, that’s only following Steve, and the missed connections page.

Also. What a fucking bitch. ‘Nice Try Harrington?’ Steve swears to God. Nancy should have believed him. This guy is a bully.

But, ‘Always,’ Steve finds himself writing immediately. Can’t even give it any wait time, he’s that amped.

Then he gets nervous. Deletes it, starts up again. Types, ‘ Yeah, I’m out rn,’ lying through his teeth. Deletes that, too. Ends up that it doesn’t matter, because then the guy’s typing again.

@nicetryharrington: I cant sleeeeep

@kingsteve: Insomniac?

@nicetryharrington: something like that

@kingsteve: I can’t sleep either

‘I don’t sleep,’ he should probably say. Not without the help of vodka or a bong or an orgasm, at least.

@nicetryharrington: u break up with ur girl yet?

Steve huffs a big, exhausted sigh. But also? He’s chewing on his lip. This guy’s so fucking flirty, and he hates that it garners a reaction in him.

@kingsteve: Jesus you’re a lot

@nicetryharrington: so thats a yes? that sounds like a yes

@kingsteve: Something like that??

 @kingsteve: Can you at least tell me this— do I know you?

@nicetryharrington: not rlly :p

@kingsteve: So how do you even know me?

@nicetryharrington: met u at that party

@nicetryharrington: havent rly stopped thinking about it since

Damn.

Okay. Steve doesn’t even know what to say to that.

And he can’t believe he’s about to extend this invitation, but he sort of sends it before he gets a chance to think it over.

@kingsteve: Dude lets cut the bullshit, you should come through

@kingsteve: Come have a drink

@nicetryharrington: didnt ur mom tell u! ur not supposed to show up @ strangers houses this late

@nicetryharrington: nothing good happens after 12

@kingsteve: So let me come there??

The response that follows that message comes quicker than the rest.

@nicetryharrington: no

@nicetryharrington: cant host

@nicetryharrington: i have roommates

@kingsteve: I do too, who gives a fuck?

@kingsteve: Come on you gotta at least tell me who you are, then

@nicetryharrington: just a friend :))

@nicetryharrington: i gotta get up early so gn

Steve sends a few more messages, but the guy doesn’t open or respond. He must’ve passed out, Steve guesses. He eventually falls asleep, phone in hand.

Here’s the thing, though.

After that night, he and his Internet stalker start a sort of strange channel of communication.

They’re actively talking.

Steve’s becoming dependent on the messages. They’ve displaced the Tweets. Now he’s obsessed with getting a response. And it makes him feel nervous to leave his phone out around the guys or Nancy, because he never fucking knows what nicetryharrington is going to send him.

It started out as nothing, past the first day. Just the usual, like the conversations Steve has with chicks on Tinder. Small talk sent in between classes or at night before bed. Discussing classes (which the guy is very purposefully vague about, so Steve can’t sort through any incriminating clues to his major) and video games and campus shit.

He feels like he knows him pretty well.

But one night, Steve gets drinking again. Gets fairly fucking buzzed and decides he has to press him on it. Has to find out who the fuck he’s been talking to. It’s been on his mind, itching at him, driving him fucking crazy.

@kingsteve: Hey can I ask you something?

@nicetryharrington: heyyyy. ya, shoot

@kingsteve: Why would you do all this, keep talking to me, if you don’t wanna meet?

@nicetryharrington: idk i dont even think ur rly done w that girl

@nicetryharrington: & anyway. u wouldnt be v happy if u knew who i was

Steve’s heart’s thrumming. It’s that thing again. Worrying that he has fucked up. That this guy isn’t anything like what he’s been fantasizing about.

@kingsteve: You don’t know that

@nicetryharrington: oh I know that. just trust me

@kingsteve: Ok sure?? trust the guy with 0 followers??

@nicetryharrington: hey dont get me wrong

@nicetryharrington: i wanna meet

@nicetryharrington: i do

@nicetryharrington: i just dont kno if its a good idea rn

@kingsteve: Guess it’s true, you’re really all talk.

They’ve been messaging pretty consistently until now, but there’s a pause after he sends this. Steve imagines him scrambling, trying to come up with something to say. He likes the sensation of power it gives him.

@nicetryharrington: fine. ur rly down? ok prove it

@kingsteve: How so?

@nicetryharrington: they dont call u the KING 4 nothing right?

@nicetryharrington: i wanna seeeeee if ur worth my while

@nicetryharrington: if u show me, maybe we can meet :p

Okay, so that’s like, not even a thinly veiled attempt at soliciting dick pics from Steve, and the thing is, alcohol is bad for Steve, it makes him make bad choices.

So against better, more sober judgement, he’s going to do it. He’s gonna send one. He knows how fucking embarrassing that is.

But like, to be fair, he’s sent girls pictures when he’d had even less interaction with them, and right now he’s lit and he’s horny and — alright, there’s really no good excuse.

It’s attention he’s after.

Also? He’s aware he’s sending it over Twitter Direct Message. This is probably the worst place to sext.

He spends way too much time composing the picture. Getting the angle. Making sure the lighting is good. Thinking, should he just pull his pants down mid-thigh? So it looks kind of like he doesn’t care? Or does he take them off further so they’re not visible in the picture? Or does he pull his dick through his zipper?

He tries the last one. And that seems really lewd, the picture he gets looks really shady and kind of gross — so he settles on the first option.

And then he waits.

Waits for an eternity, it seems.

Finally the screen glows, fresh, with the new message.

@nicetryharrington: ur cute but rrllyyy sending dick pics = childish?

@nicetryharrington: send cum vids ;p

What a fucking prick? Steve’s cheeks heat up when he reads it.

@kingsteve: Oh my god

@kingsteve: As fucking if

@kingsteve: I am not sending you a video

@nicetryharrington: guess u will never know who this is then!

Ugh.

It’s stupid how fast he agrees that, like, yeah. That’s logical.

He’s doing this. He’s up, out of bed, flipping the lights on. Thinking, kinda panicked and quick, about where’s the best place to do this?

Mirror, he decides. Shot from the waist. Top down view, obviously, he’s not gonna put his face in the video, that’s just asking for trouble.

Steve always hears old generations talking about how like, the Internet is bad because it allows people to say things they wouldn’t normally say, do things they wouldn’t normally do. This whole hiding-behind-the-anonymity thing.

But regardless, he finds himself jerking off anyway? Finding it so hard to cum without porn, though, which he’s not using since he’s afraid he’ll get distracted by the videos and forget to record himself. And just the added pressure that he’s actually actively about to record his orgasm, like —

Steve’s never done that before. He thinks it’s trashy. Regardless, he’s got his phone in his hand, not recording yet, and his other hand on his cock, lightly rubbing at the head.  

But, okay.

He’s kind of fucked.

Because Steve has a really, really bad imagination.

It’s why he can’t read a book to save his life. It drives him insane to try to force himself through a text and just see these blank humanoid shadows in his head.

He can’t picture people satisfactorily, can’t invent people he hasn’t seen before. He hasn’t read anything to conclusion since the second Harry Potter book in fourth grade, which he could only really get through because he’d seen the films, and he had something to base the characters off of.

He can’t just invent people. He’s gotta go off of faces he already knows.

So as he’s spitting onto his cock, spreading it with his fist, and letting his eyes slip shut, he realizes he’s picturing Billy. It makes a fiery feeling grow in the pit of his stomach, guilty and shameful.

His heart rate’s doubled. He can hardly hear anything but his own ragged breathing.

It feels so good. Jerking off has gotta be his favorite thing. Like, yeah, sex is all Steve thinks about, and he loves getting head, loves a good handjob — but sometimes he just wants to rub his own cock.

He teases himself for a while before starting with the camera. Gets himself close. Fucks into his fist and spits down, again.

Hits the red button and the timer’s ticking and oh my God he’s doing this.

He doesn’t know if he should let himself be loud or not? He’d fucking die if anyone heard him, and he’s terrified that if his voice is in the audio, it’ll be obvious it’s him if the video got sent anywhere else.

But he starts thinking of the way Billy looks when he comes back from the gym. Hair tied up in an elastic, a few stray curls hanging loose, a little damp with sweat. The way his necklace hangs against his chest. The way his fucking throat works while he shotguns beer? Even how his nose is kind of short and wide, because Steve really likes the way his freckles stretch across it.

And one time?

One time.

Tommy was out, and Billy and Steve were alone, playing Mario Kart because they were both so stoned, and that’s Steve’s favorite game, and he already had pissed Billy off by selecting Larry because he wanted to play as him too, so Billy had to pick Link who he annoyingly kept calling Zelda, and Steve bluffed and pretended he was shit at the game when he’s actually really fucking good from playing with Dustin and the kids for all those years.

And just like with the fucking card games, Billy takes it really seriously, hates losing. Steve wouldn’t let him win so Billy knocked the controller from his hands mid-lap around the track, and pushed him onto the couch so hard it knocked the breath out of him, and Billy crawled on top of him and held him down by straddling him while he played the rest of the track on his own, and.

Nothing happened, that night.

Billy got his victory. Looked down and realized, holy fuck, he was actually on top of Steve — and promptly slid off.

But their bodies were so close, and it was so fucking weird and competitive, made Steve feel so young and inept, that he had almost sort of wished something had happened.

Which he knows is a gross thing to think about his roommate.

All those thoughts together, they don’t give Steve a choice. He thinks of Billy’s heavy weight spread across his hips, the vivid blue of his eyes, and then Steve’s moaning, all fucked-out and low, growling. He’s watching through his camera’s view as his cock slips in and out of his clenched fist.

Steve can’t believe he’s jerking off thinking about his disaster roommate, and sending the resulting video to a stranger on Twitter, but like, he knows he would regret not doing this for the rest of his life if he didn’t try.

When the orgasm hits him, he cums a lot. He bucks into the tightness of his hand, and cum is dribbling down, thick and wet and whitish. It’s one of those times when he’s surprised because there’s just so much. Fucking messy. He can hear the little droplets smatter against the surface of the mirror. He wonders if the camera picked that up, too.

Steve twists his fist over the head until he’s hissing because it tickles, oversensitive. He hits stop, and his body shuts down. He can’t catch his breath.

He’s glad that at least, if he’s gonna do this, it was a good cumshot. One he could be genuinely proud of. Because there’s nothing worse than a girl asking him to finish on her face and there’s like, not a lot cum? Even amateur porn has set a pretty high bar.

No, he destroyed his mirror, which is honestly a little gross, now that he’s come down from the climax.

Actually. Really fucking gross.

A big, guilty actualization of the fact that he just jacked off thinking about his roommate.

He doesn’t watch the video first for review, because frankly, he can’t now. If he watches it, he can guarantee he’ll get too nervous and delete it, so he’s just gotta full send before the more developed parts of his brain can have a say in things.

It’s a forty second clip, and the wait time of the user opening the message, then actually watching the video — it feels like an eternity.

But finally the response pops up.

@nicetryharrington: holy fucking shit

@nicetryharrington: king 4 sure

@nicetryharrington: n  i dont just say that 2 everyone

@kingsteve: So you want to come through now?? One of my roommates is here but he won’t even notice you’re here

@nicetryharrington: im like RLY tired :/

@nicetryharrington: but thanks for the vid tho :)

@nicetryharrington: talk to u tmrw?

And he’s. Just. Gone? Like that. No matter how many messages Steve sends. No matter how quickly, he doesn’t get another response.

Okay, is Steve really that fucking gullible?

The answer is fucking yes.

*

IX. What Tommy doesn't know, won't hurt him.

So Steve gets actually ghosted that night.

He guesses that’s fine, that’s becoming pretty standard issue for him, it seems like. Maybe he put too much energy in this.

So in an effort to put the past few weeks behind him, he’s arranging to hook up with this girl, Faith, who’s like, super hot, Paris Hilton’s unique 2007 shade of tan (because apparently that’s a thing again), and has more followers on Insta than he does, so Steve knows Tommy would be applauding him for this. He thinks that’s maybe one of the only reasons he hits her up.

And then while they’re texting, she sort of drops it on him, in not so many words that she’s on her period, and that kind of kills it. Like he knows it’s not her fault, it’s just such bad timing, but they both knew what this was going to be. Why they were planning to meet up at his fucking bedroom at 11 at night.

Too bad, ‘cause he was really banking on fucking her.

He’s too fucking exhausted from the past few weeks, to try to have sex with her, and then get up to shower to rinse off his dick, so he’s not going there. He comes up with a reason to cancel.

Frustratingly enough, she doesn’t even get angry with him, and that kind of takes the fun out of it. Like, if he’s going to be a douchebag to girls, it’s only worthwhile if he can tell they’re pissed at him.

So he’s booting up fucking Mario Kart, just to give himself something to do with hands. Just because the PS4 is in the other room where their communal TV is, where he can hear Tommy loudly watching ugly Rob fucking Dyrdek, once again. Phone’s out of the question too, because he knows if he lets himself on there instead, he’s gonna be glued to Twitter like he always is, fucking moping for the rest of the night.

But Steve only gets as far as the title screen when someone appears in his doorway.

It’s 1 AM, and enter Billy fucking Hargrove, just standing there. A little unsteady on his feet. Back from the frat, and even this far away he’s sure fucking smelling like it. It’s the pungency of weed and cigs, clinging to that sherpa-lined denim jacket and diffusing into Steve’s bedroom.

Billy would almost be a little startling, ghostly-looking, if he didn’t have his hair up in that stupid bun. It creates a bulging shadow, backlit by the bluish glow of the flickering TV.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is quiet, like he doesn’t want Tommy to hear. “You busy? Can I come in?”

Steve’s sitting on his bed, back against the wall, like it’s a couch. Controller in his hands. He’s obviously not busy.

But Billy doesn’t really give Steve an opportunity to say ‘yes,’ exactly, he’s pushing through and closing the door behind him, not all the way shut, but cracked, a bit. So a little sliver of light shines through onto the carpet.

Steve’s still holding on to the controller but he rests his hands in his lap. Directs his attention to Billy.

“Man, I just wanna play this one round, and pass out,” he says, grumbly as all hell. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Billy says, and he skirts the room. Has his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, but takes one out to inspect the little Iron Man figure on Steve’s desk. He stands in front of the TV, obscuring it. Silhouette framed by cartoonish colors. “Just thought I’d come see my good friend Steve Harrington, is all.”

Steve lifts his eyebrow. Because he remembers the time that Billy swirled around his beer bottle and made it explode all over his face at the frat. He happened to catch a Snap of it with the tornado emoji, so Steve doesn’t consider them to be great friends, really. It’s just an extension of his relationship with Tommy, these days.

“Are you playing racing games by yourself?” Billy says. “Why’s it so dark in here? You’re like a vampire.”

And he’s right, it is kind of dark. Steve tries to exist mostly by LED.

“Thought I was gonna get laid. You know, mood lighting, but. Apparently that’s not happening?”

He’s kind of laughing. Only a little bitter about it, because he knows he’s being a dick.

“King Steve lost his touch,” Billy mourns.

“No, she was bleeding,” Steve explains. And he doesn’t know why he feels like he has to prove himself, to Billy, of all people.

Billy shrugs. “Don’t be a bitch. Just put a towel down.”

“That’s like, what you do for puppies when they’re still peeing in the house. I can’t just put a towel down.”

“Shower sex, then,” Billy says. He watches Steve’s face, his own adorned with a lazy smile.

“That’s my whole thing; that’s too much work. Sex shouldn’t be so hard.”

“It sounds to me like you’re making shit up,” Billy says, and he’s crossing over, hopping up next to Steve on his bed. “Making excuses. I don’t think you really wanna fuck her. If you wanted to, you’d make it happen. Hell or high water.”

And Steve hates to admit it but he kind of has a point. Because maybe that was an excuse. He hates that Billy says a lot of shit that just makes sense. He’s weirdly sort of contemplative.

Steve scoots away from Billy to make room, but that just makes Billy take up more. He doesn’t really seem to get personal space. Steve can smell the smoke on his clothes. The cologne at his throat.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Steve says. “A party, or something?”

“You trying to kick me out?”

“Only wondering.”

Billy scoops up the second controller from where it’s resting on the other side of Steve. Starts up the game.

Steve can’t help the rush he gets. That night, it’s happening again. And for once, interestingly enough, Twitter is off his mind.

But maybe it’s really not if he’s thinking that.

“Thought you thought this game was so fucking lame,” Steve says. And to be perfectly fucking honest, Steve thought this shit was stupid before the kids, but it’s addictive. The perfect stoned activity.

“Definitely fucking lame,” Billy says, “but. I want a rematch. Wanna kick your ass.”

“Listen, I’m like, classically trained,” says Steve. “You can’t beat me.”

“Where the fuck did you pick up this shit, anyway? From those brats back home?”

“It was a present,” he says. “For college. Because I only had the PS4, but they wanted me to be able to race with them online, still? So they all threw down for the Switch.”

Billy scrunches up his nose and makes a face like he can’t imagine why he would have accepted such a gift.

Steve’s about to select the little turtle with the rainbow mohawk, but Billy’s like, “Uh-uh. Princess? You gotta be one of the princesses. It’s only right.”

He gives that wide smile, fucking annoyingly charming. Eyes pinkish, high.

Steve rolls his eyes and picks one of them. The one Billy decides is the hot one, with the red hair, while Billy picks Link, refers to him as Zelda, again, which Steve knows Dustin would flip his shit about, because he’s done it to Steve before, like, Zelda is the girl!

Those kids are fucking dorks, but he sort of misses them.

Billy’s skills have evidently improved since last time. Steve wins the first track, Billy wins the second, and Steve takes the third, so Billy can really only hope to tie, but fuck if he’s not passionate about it.

Steve’s not letting Billy have it easy, though. It’s not his fault, he’s just good at it. He’s played enough that he can’t really be bad unless he lets Billy win, and that’s not happening, because. Their last game lingers in his mind.

They’re on the last track that will break their tie, and of course, they stay neck and neck almost the entire time.

Third lap starts and Billy’s noticeably angry.

Steve’s sort of high, sort of lit, so he’s trash talking, mocking Billy to his face, all like, “Talk a lotta shit, Hargrove, what the fuck’s your deal?”

Billy stops him there. Shoulder checks Steve sideways, into his pillows hard, and Steve’s body is screaming fucking deja vu as he recoils. Billy’s eyes are trained on the screen, reflecting the light of the white glowing snow as his character soars down it. He moves to sit on Steve’s waist so he can anchor his weight into him, throw him off.

And Billy’s stronger than him, so Steve can’t do much but fucking watch, one arm restrained by Billy’s knee as he pulls out from second place and passes him. Steve, all discombobulated and having lost control, ends up in twelfth. Dead last.

Billy’s looking proud. Satiated with himself.

“You fucking cheater.”

“Whatever,” Billy says. “You gotta do what you gotta do. I fucking won, didn’t I?”

“We tied, overall,” Steve corrects, laughing, incredulous, “and you cheated to get there.”

“You’re just mad you lost.”

“But that only happened because you actually pinned me down—”

Billy still hasn’t gotten off of him yet, though. He drops the controller, leans his weight into Steve’s arms and keeps him from moving like that while he watches the cutscene of the trophy onscreen.

Steve doesn’t dare move. Or breathe. Particularly not when Billy looks down at him.

They’re so close. He can smell Billy’s cologne. The alcohol on his breath, the smoke in his hair.  Feels blue eyes lingering just too long on Steve’s fucking Bambi ones. Feels all of his 180 pounds, pressing down onto his hips.

Steve’s waiting, wants to let this happen, will let Billy do whatever he wants to him, if he only just stays right there, straddling Steve’s hips.

Finally, Billy seems to come back to himself.

He jumps the fuck off, expression as unreadable to Steve as ever. Billy doesn’t say sorry, doesn’t spit nasty shit about how Steve’s a sore loser, or anything.

He just kind of sits there, on his knees, not looking quite sure what to do with his body. Like he feels awkward in Steve’s bed.

“Can I be honest?” he asks. When Steve nods, he goes on. “See. I know Tommy’s not gonna say anything. So I have to.”

Steve’s quiet. And he stays that way, because he doesn’t know what to say. What he’s supposed to say.

“But you can’t tell him about this,” Billy says, “if I tell you.”

“I won’t,” Steve says. His chest feels tight with tension.

“No, you gotta promise.”

He’s making Steve a little nervous, talking all serious like that.

“Hargrove,” he says. “I’m not, like, attached to Tommy, it’s not like we tell each other everything—”

Because aren’t Billy and Tommy best friends these days, anyway? Steve can’t remember the last time he actually had a serious conversation with him.

“I won’t tell you, if you don’t promise.”

“Okay, okay. I promise. I promise.”

“Look,” Billy says, and he won’t meet Steve’s eyes, now. “That whole thing. The Twitter thing —  Jesus, Harrington, I know you’re not that stupid.”

Steve gets that feeling in his stomach. That little flip, kind of like when he’s speeding on the highway and passes a cop that he didn’t know was there. Vulnerability.

Billy goes on when he realizes Steve isn’t going to say anything. “You really gonna make me spell it out? I wrote the fucking Tweets. I’m the one you’ve been talking to.”

Steve’s brain shorts out at that.

Mostly because he doesn’t know what to make of it.

It doesn’t fit with his idea of what this guy should look like. It’s like, somewhere in there, Steve’s been harboring this hope that it could be Billy, but he’d never thought he’d get that lucky. He didn’t let himself properly fantasize about it, entertain it. It’d just be more of a letdown when it was revealed. Too far fetched.

So he laughs, because he’s not sure how he’d react if he didn’t.

“I don’t think I understand,” he says. Because there’s no way anyone would go to such lengths for a joke, right?

But Billy still won’t look at him. He’s tensed. He sniffs, deep, through his nose, like he’s steadying himself.

“We were fucking with you,” he says. “At first, we were just. Tommy was just. Trying to freak you out, but.”

Steve feels so fucking seen. He thinks of last night, particularly. Feels his cheeks flush hot. The flirting, the pictures, the fucking video?

All of it, it’s a lot more than just fucking with him, even if there wasn’t much reciprocation on Billy’s end.

“Dude,” Steve says, and his voice is rising. “What the fuck.”

“Steve,” Billy says. “Just hear me out.”

“What?” Steve hisses. “No. Get out of my room.”

And he’s about to push off the bed. Trying to end the encounter. Looking for an escape.

Only, right. They’re in his fucking room.

“Wait. Jesus. Can you chill?” Billy says, and he’s slinging an arm across Steve’s chest, catching him by the shoulder. Stilling him. “Calm down. I just wanna talk.”

“I'm not talking about this,” Steve says, and he’s trying to wriggle out of Billy’s grip, pushing against him. “Get out of my fucking room. I can’t believe you would pull this shit.”

“I never thought in a million years you would ever respond, so I just kept going and I couldn’t fuckin’ stop. The Aries ones, those were just me. Not Tommy. I was hoping you’d realize.”

“How would I have known that?”

“I don’t know, okay? Sometimes I was so sure you were on to me. Like that time at breakfast, I just. I thought, for sure, you knew.”

And he should have fucking known, right there, right?

But call him a hopeless romantic, or whatever.

Billy got him.

“I never meant to take it there,” Billy goes on, and if Steve wasn’t seeing red, he almost might feel sorry for him, the way he looks all despondent like that. “I know I went too far.”

“Billy.”

“I never thought that—”

“Just leave me alone.”

“Harrington, I know you’re mad at me—”

“I’m not mad, Hargrove, I’m fucking pissed off.”

“So let me fucking explain!”

And Billy kind of roars that last part at him. So Steve shuts up.

Watches carefully, uncertainly, as Billy regains himself.

“It was a joke, at first, yeah,” he says. “And I said I’m fucking sorry. But then you were all into it. All obsessed with Twitter. And you actually responded, and we started talking, and I finally decided I’d tell you—”

They lock eyes again, and Steve feels immobilized by his stare. Like he can’t move, with Billy looking at him like that.

So Billy fucking kisses him. Cups his cheek and tugs him in, a little aggressive. So Steve has to submit. And fuck, he goes easier than he’d anticipated. The rough pads of Billy’s fingers brush over his skin, irritating and soothing at once.

His mouth tastes smokey, like Steve expected. A little cloyingly sweet and malty and chemical, too, like beer.

And Steve’s surprised to find himself not throwing Billy back, surprised he’s not slapping him across the face, surprised he’s not hauling Billy’s drunk ass back into his own goddamn bedroom, no, Steve’s. Just. Letting himself be kissed. He’s letting it happen. Letting Billy lay him down, not resisting when he leans his weight into him.

They move together, synchronous. Steve follows Billy’s lead. Backs up, lies out. Everything feels oddly fucking right.

So. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised, after all.

It’s just so strange, having this overlap where the person he’s been communicating with online is the person that’s lived alongside him this whole year.

“I didn’t fuck this up, right?” Billy whispers into Steve’s lips. “This is okay?”

“Fuck. Yeah. Yes. Jesus.”

Billy’s laughing, sort of. “Okay. But I just. Wanna make sure. That you’re done, you know? You’re single. ‘Cause I’m not helping you cheat. I don’t do that shit. I’ve been there, before, and I don’t do the sidepiece thing.”

That almost makes Steve feel sad, that he has to check like that. Steve grips at Billy’s hips. Rubs at the jut of bone beneath his shirt.

“Not my sidepiece,” Steve confirms, marveling at Billy’s body. “Just want you.”

Billy’s sitting on his waist, rocking his hips back and forth. Only pulls off of Steve so he can shrug out of his denim jacket and toss it to Steve’s floor.

Underneath, Billy’s got on this pink tie dye shirt, with Japanese lettering on the front. Stupid fucking streetwear shit. Steve runs his fingers up under the hem to touch the defined muscle beneath it.

Because he’s always wanted to do that, if he’s honest. Billy’s so disgustingly hot.

“I hate that fucking jacket,” Steve says, just to take him down a notch. “By the way.”

“Please. Look at you right now. You love that fucking jacket.”

They’re kissing again, and Billy reaches in between them. His hands are shaking — like he’s got, what? nerves? — as he tugs on Steve’s belt buckle. Yanks it free, so there’s a little hiss of leather-on-fabric as it’s pulled loose.

Steve feels himself thickening up again.

Billy probably feels it, too, because he smiles into the kiss, pleased.

“The door—” Steve says against his lips, weakly. It’s still cracked, and he can just fucking see Tommy getting nosy and wandering in.

“Oh my God,” Billy says. “Fuck the door.”

And maybe the risk of being caught is what makes this that much better.

Billy’s peeling out of his shirt, flinging it somewhere, and Steve’s taking the hint, tearing out of his own. Both wriggling out of their pants, too, leaving only their briefs on. The movement’s a little ungraceful because they’re both not completely sober, and they fall into each other, kinda laughing.

Billy nibbles his white teeth against Steve’s neck, and Steve arches into it. Exposes more of his throat. He rubs over the baby hairs at the base of Billy’s head, guiding him along. But instead of kissing, now Billy’s whispering to him instead, like, “Can’t believe that fuckin’ video.”

Steve feels a bit embarrassed, but he’s groaning in response. He feels dizzy with want. He rocks up, helplessly, grinding their cocks together. Runs his fingers over Billy’s ass.

“God,” he says, feeling his cheeks heat up. “Don’t remind me.”

“Why not?” Billy presses. “It was so hot. Fuckin’ jacked off to it. In my bed. I wanted to come wake you up, but—”

“Shit, you should have. Why didn’t you?”

“I know,” Billy whines. “I don’t know why. I knew I shoulda. I’m stupid.”

“I’m stupid,” Steve’s saying as Billy sucks over his earlobe. “I can’t believe I sent that.”

“No, listen. Do you know how many times I watched it?” Billy admits. “Like, twenty fucking times.”

“Yeah?”

Billy licks, salving up Steve’s neck, as he says, “Wished I could’ve cleaned you up.”

“Fuck,” Steve hisses. “Can that still happen?”

Billy’s working at Steve’s underwear, pulling his cock free from the fly. He licks his palm and gets him wet with it.

And Steve can’t believe this is happening. He groans, bucks up into it. Watches Billy’s thick fingers grip tight to his cock. This is just so insane, that Billy’s really here, on top of him, kissing him and rubbing his cock like they don’t generally resent each other.

“Were you disappointed that it was me?” Billy asks, soft. He’s holding strong eye contact with Steve. Something sorta brave in it. “When I told you.”

“No,” Steve says, but his mind’s occupied, focusing on clenching his abs to resist groaning at the touch. “Why would I—?”

“I don’t know,” Billy rushes. He pumps his fist faster. “Fuck. I was just. Not sure how this’d even go. I didn’t really. Get this far. Didn’t think it all the way through.”

“You don’t really think a lot of things through,” Steve says, and he reaches up for Billy’s neck. Cups at it and pulls him back in to kiss, messy.

Billy moans, quiet and rumbly against Steve’s mouth. He’s arched over, leading, sucking on Steve’s lower lip as he jerks him off in between them.

And Steve’s just relishing in the moment. Giving in to it, because Billy’s kind of a wreck right now, a little desperate as he tries to take as much from Steve as he possibly can. Like he wishes he could get closer than this, even.

“I hate your ass,” Billy blurts out against Steve’s mouth, making their lips bump together. “But I always wanted to get with you. Just didn’t know you swung both ways.”

Steve feels his dick pulse in Billy’s hand, and that makes Billy huff out something like a laugh.

“I could say the same,” Steve says.

But come to think of it, maybe he should’ve known. Steve sees Billy with the brothers a lot — but he doesn’t often see him bring chicks home. He’s just so hypermasculine, exuding hookup culture, Steve didn’t really give it much thought. And the electricity between them when they were playing racing games the first night, there was just. No other explanation for that.

“What you trying to do?” Steve rushes.

Billy looks down between them at Steve’s cock. He pulls away a little, licks over his lips, thinking.

“I don’t know,” Billy says. “You want head, pretty boy?”

God.

Yes. That’s the most beautiful fucking thing he’s ever heard, he wants to hear it over and over again, it’s like music to his ears.

He never thought he’d fucking say it, but. He’d kill to get head from Billy Hargrove.

With him sitting there, weight balanced across Steve’s thighs, and he’s gotta be putting that on purposefully, that way he’s looking so fucking young and shy and. Not like the Billy that Steve knows, the one who exploded that beer in his face, the one who’s always trying to show him up, the one who pounded on his back and told him about all the pussy he could be getting, if he’d only broaden his fucking horizons.

At least he can say he took Billy’s advice, then.

But like, Steve wants that, yeah, obviously. Obviously he wants Billy choking on his cock. He wants to fucking ruin Billy. It’s just, now he’s hoping for something more.

“That what you want?” he asks, probing.

“I give good head,” Billy shrugs. “Just get these off.”

He’s tugging at the waistband of Steve’s underwear, until his cock springs free from the fly and he can pull the fabric all the way off. Steve kicks his legs erratically, trying to help.

“Wait.”

“What, Harrington? Cold feet?”

“Uh-uh,” he says, and he gets on his knees. Pulls Billy up with him, who follows sort of blindly. Lets himself be led. Lets Steve push his briefs down, too.

Steve just wants to fucking touch him.

Despite that Billy totally fucking tried to Catfish him.

He’s behind Billy anyway, kissing up his neck. Pressing their bodies together, so his cock grinds against the plush of Billy’s ass. He rocks into the friction and smoothes his hands over Billy’s muscles. His thighs. Back up, to brush over his nipples.

“You’re such a fucking dick,” Steve says, and Billy cranes his neck to the side, reaches behind and strokes his fingers through Steve’s hair. “I can’t believe it was you. This whole time.”

And then Steve’s got his hand around Billy’s cock, rubbing him.

“Goddamn, Harrington,” Billy muses. “Keep that up, I’m gonna fuckin’ cum like that.”

“That’s kinda the idea,” Steve says, twirling his fist.

“Shut the fuck up. You know what I meant. That I don’t wanna. Don’t wanna cum yet. Not like this.”

“Yeah? How do you wanna cum, then?”

“I dunno,” Billy says, breathing it out. “Doesn’t matter. Just wanna give you what you want.”

They’re up, kneeling like that, for a while. Steve’s not sure how long, because they’re prolonging it, lazy and slow without rushing because time seems to stretch on forever. And Steve could keep going. Listening to Billy’s breath hitch, listening to him fucking hum with pleasure. It’s dark in there, just the light from the TV illuminating them, and in the same mirror where Steve jerked off, Steve watches them. Billy’s watching, too. They’re both a bit narcissistic. Steve can’t stop staring at Billy’s broad chest, the way he’s all spread out as he leans his weight into Steve, sucking his lower lip into his mouth as Steve works over his cock.

“You look so good like this,” Steve whispers into the damp skin at his neck.

“Don’t get fucking sappy on me. Don’t make it gross,” Billy whines, and he squirms, like he’s in discomfort at being complimented. But then he tightens his grip in Steve’s hair, though, and mumbles, “Look pretty fucking good, too.”

“I’d fucking think so,” Steve’s saying. “I have a guy stalking me.”

His other hand travels. Splays out, across Billy’s perfect abs. Trails down to the curls above his cock. Billy shivers.

“Hey, it wasn’t stalking, asshole,” he says, but he doesn’t stop rutting into Steve’s fist. “I woulda stopped posting, if you. If you just said you didn’t like it. I didn’t know how else I was supposed to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

Billy’s quiet for a second.

“Now you’re just trying to make me say it,” he says, and Steve’s giving it away that that’s true, smiling wide behind him in the mirror. “Tell you that I wanna fuck you, or whatever.”

“It’s fine,” Steve’s saying. “I told you, I’m glad it’s you. Because if it wasn’t, I mean. I was a little worried they were gonna find my body in the lake.”

Billy laughs, deep in his chest.

“You’re ridiculous,” Billy says. And then, hissing it out in a whisper, he’s like, “I want you.”

And Steve does too, he wants Billy so fucking bad, so he pushes him into the bed, eases him over, forwards. So he settles against the sheets, on his stomach. Steve crowds in behind him and just relishes in the closeness. Billy’s hot skin feels incredible, pressed up to his own.

Steve rises his hips up off of him, kneels again so he can spit onto his cock. Get it wet again.

Billy’s craning to look, warning, like, “Hey. Wait, okay, I don’t remember saying you could fuck me—”

Steve soothes over him, gentle. “Relax, I’m not trying to actually put it—”

“I don’t fuck on the first date.”

Steve ignores that Billy just called this a date.

“Okay, first of all, somehow I doubt that?” he says, and he hesitates, rubbing his slicked up cock.   “And. Just. Fucking. Trust me, okay? Do you trust me?”

“Hardly,” Billy spits out. But he turns back around, satiated. “What, you gonna fucking dry hump me?”

“Close your legs, baby,” Steve says, and he’s not sure why he let that word drop, but. Billy seems to respond to the name. Does as he’s told, even if he’s huffy about it.

Steve slides his cock into the space between Billy’s muscular thighs. Pulls back out, spits down onto them again. It’s dark in the room still, but Steve can see his saliva dribble down, leaving Billy shiny.

He hears him suck in a breath.

“This okay?” Steve asks, and he settles in on top, legs sort of on either side of Billy’s. Pushes into the tightness and practically moans.

“Fuck,” Billy says. “Goddamn. Yeah. Keep going.”

“You feel so good,” Steve babbles. He wonders what it would be like to actually fuck him. His cock kicks at the thought of it, so he buries his face in Billy’s neck, says, “Smell so good.”

“Come on, Harrington,” he grunts out. “Said don’t go all fucking soft on me.”

“Fuck you.”

It’s a little awkward getting the position right, and it’s not the constant stimulation of actually fucking someone, but it’s close to perfect. Billy’s thighs feel tight around his cock, create just the right amount of stimulation, and when Billy squeezes them together, vices up around him, Steve’s head spins.

If this is all that Steve can get, it’s still more than enough. More than he’d ever thought he’d get.

And God, Billy. He’s amazing.

He’s watching Steve fuck into him, in their reflection. Wide eyed and pretty. All hard muscles and angles, but soft eyes and lips and hair. Predictably entranced by how they look in the mirror. A little curious, a lot fucking vain.

Billy moves with him. Steve realizes that he’s rolling his hips a bit, grinding his own cock into the bed. Against Steve’s sheets. Humping Steve’s bed.

Billy whines, hips stuttering as he tries to maintain his rhythm and keep his thighs tight for Steve.

“Shh,” Steve hushes, partially just fucking taunting Billy, just to be mean to him. The TV’s too fucking loud for them to be heard. “Door’s open. Tommy’s still awake.”

He wraps an arm around Billy’s throat, just a light pressure, so Billy’s chin rests on the crook between his forearm and bicep, aligned with his elbow. Billy hisses a little at being choked, but then he produces the filthiest fucking moan Steve’s ever heard in his damn life.

“Of fucking course you get off like this,” Billy snarls. “That what you like, Harrington?”

Steve bucks into the tight wetness.

“Think you like it,” he says. He tightens his grip a little, picks up the pace with his hips, and Billy gasps a little. “Don’t you?”

“Yes,” Billy blurts, “I like it. I really fucking — Fuck. Keep going.”

“Baby,” Steve says. “I’m gonna. Fuck, I’m. So close, Billy. Oh, fuck.”

“Yeah,” Billy says, and it’s more of a moan as he fucks into the bed, stimulating himself on Steve’s bed sheets, pushing his cock into it as he lets Steve basically fuck him like this. He grips at Steve’s arm, clutching like he can hardly take it. “I’m getting close, too, baby. Gonna cum for you. I'm gonna — I’m gonna fuckin’ cum.”

It’s so fucking much. Steve’s head rushes and he knows he’s cumming, that easy. He thrusts a few more times, shallow and disjointed, and he spills out in the crack between Billy’s legs, cock throbbing and pulsating as the feeling grips him. He doesn’t even make a sound, it’s so intense. All his energy goes into letting it wash over him, letting it drug his body into euphoria.

It takes Billy a little longer to come. He’s still trying to get himself there, humping and whimpering. Frustration evident on his face in their reflection.

When it happens, though, Billy spasms beneath him, and it’s harder to keep him quiet. He grunts out with the orgasm, can’t hold it in. Bites into the meat of Steve’s bicep to try to muffle himself, but it comes out anyway, fucked-out and whiny but still masculine and.

It’s the hottest thing Steve’s ever heard.

And they’re suspended like that for a while. Both too spent to move.

Steve hates to think of what will happen when it’s over. He doesn’t know how this goes, really, doesn’t know if he should be scrambling to get up, get off of Billy. Leave him alone, since he gets so bitchy on a moment’s notice. Definitely doesn’t seem like a cuddling kind of guy.

But Steve’s totally weak from his own orgasm, and he just slumps against his body. Buries his oversensitive cock all the way between Billy’s thighs. Lets himself ride out the last of the aftershocks, until his breathing’s returned to normal, and moving his limbs seems plausible again.

He pulls off, and Billy flips over instantly, doesn’t seem to care about the fact that Steve’s cum is still dripping down his legs — just pulls Steve in and fucking kisses him, and Steve doesn’t have time to be grossed out about the fact that they’re spreading both their cum all over the bed, all over themselves, too, because he’s trapped there between Billy’s legs. Pulled forward until they’re lying against each other. Billy’s body feels warm and sculpted, pressed into his own.

“What Tommy doesn’t know, won’t hurt him,” Billy says, and he leans their foreheads together. “Right?”

“Jesus,” Steve says, cupping at Billy’s face, like, “don’t talk about him right now.”

“Sorry,” Billy says, and he kisses him again, just a delicate press. Lingering. Equally soft and plush and firm.

“Stay here, tonight,” Steve says. Before he can even stop himself.

“Oh my God, Harrington. Treating me like your fucking girlfriend.”

He’s pushing Steve off, palm to his chest. Then he’s making to pick his shirt up from the floor.

Steve shamelessly checks out his ass and the bobble of his cock as he makes his way over. Watches as Billy brazenly wipes cum from his thighs with the inside of his shirt. Flips it inside out, puts it on.

Ugh.

He’s getting back into his underwear when he looks up and sees Steve, leaning against the wall. Still trying to put together what the fuck just came over him.

“Goddamn,” Billy says. “You look fucked. Alright. Come on. Come sleep in my bed. Where the sheets are clean.”

“They’re probably not even clean,” Steve says. “You know I just watched what you did with that shirt, right?”

“Do you wanna sleep in the wet spot?” Billy bitches. “Yeah. Exactly. Put your fucking briefs back on and come over.”

He does as he’s told, because that doesn’t really sound like a suggestion.

In Billy’s disaster of a room, Billy shuts the door tight behind them. Steve stands awkwardly in the dark on the rug, awaiting further instruction. He doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t feel like he can make that call.

Billy gets to his nest in the center of the room. Perches atop his tangle of sheets and blankets and begins draining the rest of a big ridiculous SmartWater bottle that’s on the floor beside it.

“I always sleep on the outside,” Billy says, an invitation, when he pulls off the bottle and wipes his lips. The bottle makes a crinkling sound in his hand as it regains shape.

Steve kneels, crawls to the other side between Billy and the wall. Settles in. Just observes Billy, who hasn’t laid down yet. He’s sitting cross-legged, now. Pulls on the elastic in his hair and shakes it out from the bun. Letting the curls free. When he does it, Steve is met with the coconut kind of smell from his shampoo, sweet and fruity and fresh.

He watches as Billy parts his hair into sections, weaves them into one another, creating a sort of messy blonde braid. Ties it off with the hairband he’d left around his wrist. Steve doesn’t know how to braid, he realizes.

Billy feels him watching. Turns, and explains, like he’d been asked: “It’s just so it doesn’t get tangled, while I sleep.”

“I’ve never seen you do that. You should leave it that way.”

Billy scrunches his wide nose that way he does. The way Steve has found he likes so much.

“You think so? I don’t really know if it’s my vibe,” Billy says.

Steve sort of pushes away all the sheets and makes himself as small as possible, unsure of what’s okay, but Billy’s grabbing for them, flicking his wrists twice so the sheets tent out over them both.

They turn to face each other.

“Tommy is gonna figure it out, you know,” Steve says, and he can’t say for sure if he’s telling himself or Billy. “Like. When he sees me leave your room, tomorrow.”

“I know,” Billy says. He rolls over onto his stomach. Reaches out, a little experimentally, and slips his fingers into the waistband of Steve’s briefs. Settles there, tucked on his hip. Stroking the skin. “And that’s fine, but let him sort it out, okay? Just don’t say anything, for a little while longer.”

Steve nods in the dark. “Okay.”

“I’m still gonna send in Tweets about you, you know. You’re not off the hook. I had one more written, before you DM’d me. And it’s a good one, so. I’m sort of legally obligated to post it.”

“Oh my God. You’re never going to leave me alone.”

It’s getting fucking late. That’s evident, because they can hear Tommy snoring from the other room. Billy’s having noticeable trouble keeping his eyes open. His lashes flutter shut, and he keeps his fingers, slack, resting inside Steve’s underwear.

“One more thing, though,” Steve says, to which Billy just grunts. “You actually think my eyes are that big?”

He mutters out something that sounds like, “Fucking spooky.”