Work Text:
May 8, 1985
The gym smelled like it always did after last bell—sweat that had soaked into the walls over decades, tangy chlorine wafting in from the pool, and that sharp chemical odor of industrial cleaner that never quite masked the must underneath.
Billy pushed through the double doors with his shoulder, letting them swing shut behind him with a hollow thud that echoed off the walls. The fluorescent lights overhead, casting everything in that sickly yellow-green that made even everyone look off.
He wasn't supposed to be here. Had no reason to be here, really. There wasn’t any practice, and he'd already changed out of his gym clothes two periods ago.
But he'd heard Zimmerman talking in the hallway—loud enough that half the school probably heard—about how Harrington was finally clearing out his locker. It was early-May, only a few weeks until graduation, and Coach Keller was making all the seniors clean out their stuff before the ceremony. Billy had stopped mid-stride when he heard it, shoulder blades tensing under his denim jacket.
Harrington.
Steve fucking Harrington, who'd been back at school since the start of the semester, but who moved through the hallways like a ghost. Billy had told himself that was just fine—told himself he didn't give a shit where King Steve had gone, what had happened to all that swagger and smirk.
That was a lie, though. Billy had been on Harrington's ass all semester—not with fists, because that would get him expelled—and he knew Harrington's fucking body-guard had already ratted him out to Higgins, that Chief Hopper had tried to get Steve to press charges, to take it to court.
But still—it was just a fight, and Harrington seemed to want to protect what little pride he had left, and the charges were dropped.
And then Billy never really heard anything more about it after that.
But still—he knew he couldn’t do much to Harrington on school grounds—but he did what he could.
Shoulder checks in the hallway that sent Steve stumbling into lockers, close enough that Billy could smell whatever stupid fancy shampoo he used.
Comments muttered just loud enough to carry: ‘What's wrong, Harrington? Forget how to walk straight? Guess that Italian vacation didn't do much for you, huh?’
Stepping in front of him, crowding his space in the parking lot until they were nearly chest to chest, making sure Steve knew exactly who owned this school now.
Billy had been needling him for months, poking and prodding, waiting for Harrington to snap. Waiting for that famous Harrington temper to flare up, for King Steve to finally show his face again and give Billy the satisfaction of putting him down in front of everyone. A proper, public humiliation this time—not some fight in a stranger's house that nobody saw.
He wanted Steve to look at him, really look at him the way he used to, with that cocky challenge in his eyes. Wanted to see something—anything—flicker across that stupidly pretty face besides empty distance.
But Steve never reacted. Never pushed back, never even looked Billy in the eye. He just... didn't engage. When Billy shoved him, Steve would catch his balance and keep walking. When Billy got in his face, Steve would step around him like he was a piece of furniture in the way. No flinch, no anger, no fear—nothing. Just a blank, distant look, like Billy was background noise he'd learned to tune out. Like Billy didn't even register as worth acknowledging.
It was infuriating. It made something hot and ugly twist in Billy's gut, something that felt too much like desperation and not enough like the clean, simple anger he wanted it to be.
So Billy kept pushing harder, getting meaner, but it was like trying to fight a mirage—you can't win against someone who won't fight back. You can't establish dominance over someone who's already surrendered without you even asking for it.
You can't make someone see you when they've decided you're not worth being seen.
Billy told himself it was still winning. Told himself that Harrington's silence was just proof that Billy won back in November, that the king had been so thoroughly dethroned he didn't even remember how to throw a punch anymore.
But it didn't feel like winning.
It felt hollow and wrong, and so Billy told himself he didn’t give a shit.
But the thing was, Billy did give a shit. Had been giving a shit for months now, even if he'd never admit it out loud. Because there was something unfinished between them, something that sat in Billy's chest like a stone he couldn't cough up.
The fight at the Byers house in November—that should have been the end of it, should have been Billy's coronation, his final proof that Hawkins had a new king and the old one was dethroned.
He'd won.
He'd put Harrington down hard, left him bleeding on that floor, and that should have been enough.
Except it wasn't. Because Harrington had disappeared after that.
Not just from school—it was like he disappeared from Hawkins entirely.
But disappeared in a way that felt wrong, that felt like Billy had been cheated out of something. You don't get to beat a guy and then have him vanish. You don't get to win only to have your opponent refuse to acknowledge it by simply not showing up anymore.
Billy had heard the story, of course. Everyone had.
Harrington had gone to Italy, visiting family over there—some aunt or cousin or whatever on his moms side. The whole school had bought it—even Tommy H. and Carol, who just rolled her eyes and said something about how typical it was for Steve to just take off to Europe like it was no big deal.
Italy.
Yeah, right.
While everyone else swallowed that lie, Billy knew exactly where Harrington had really been. In a hospital bed. For a week, maybe more—because of what Billy had done to him. But Billy had shoved all of that aside, had refused to let it mean anything.
Guys got hurt in fights—that was the whole fucking point. You hit someone hard enough, they go down, they learn their lesson.
Maybe Harrington had gotten a concussion—so what? Billy had been concussed before. His old man had made sure of that.
You shake it off, you get back up, you move on. That's what men do.
Head injuries heal. Everyone knows that.
The gym was mostly empty now, just a few stragglers heading out through the far exit. Billy's boots squeaked on the polished floor as he crossed toward the locker room, that familiar buzz starting up under his ribs—the one that always came before a confrontation, before he reminded someone of their place in the hierarchy. His hands flexed at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead.
He pushed through into the locker room, and the smell got worse—wet tile, old socks, the metallic tang of rust from the ancient pipes. The showers were dripping, a steady ‘plink plink plink’ that echoed off the walls—
And there, at the far end of the row of lockers, was Harrington.
Billy stopped just inside the doorway, taking in the scene. Harrington was standing in front of an open locker, a duffle bag at his feet. His letterman jacket was already stuffed inside, the green and white fabric visible through the open zipper. He was holding his basketball jersey—number 7, HARRINGTON printed across the back—and just... staring at it. Not folding it, not packing it away.
Just holding it, like he'd forgotten what he was supposed to do with it.
There was something off about his posture. Billy noticed it immediately, even if he couldn't quite name what it was. His shoulders were slightly hunched, his head angled down and to the side in a way that looked almost defensive. Like he was protecting something. Or like he was being very intentional about how he held himself—controlled, measured, careful in a way that seemed unnatural for someone just cleaning out a locker.
Billy felt his jaw tighten.
This wasn't right.
This wasn't the Harrington he remembered—the one who'd gotten in his face during practice, all false bravado and arrogant posturing. This wasn't even the Harrington from the Byers house, the one who'd actually thrown a decent punch before Billy had put him down. This was something else. Something absent.
And Billy hated it.
He crossed the locker room with purpose, his boots loud on the tile. Harrington didn't turn around—he didn't even seem to register that someone else was there. He just kept staring at that jersey, his fingers gripping the fabric tightly.
"Heard you're done with sports," Billy said, his voice echoing off the tile. He stopped a few feet behind Harrington, close enough to crowd his space but not quite touching. "That true, Harrington? King Steve officially hanging up his crown now?"
Harrington's shoulders tensed—a small movement, barely visible. But he still didn't turn around, didn't respond. And that buzzing under Billy's ribs got louder, more insistent.
"I'm talking to you," Billy said, taking another step closer. Close enough now that he could see the back of Harrington's neck, the way his hair curled slightly at the collar of his shirt, dark and soft-looking against olive skin.
Close enough to see the way Harrington's breathing had gone shallow, controlled, the slight rise and fall of his shoulders. Billy's eyes caught on the line of his spine, the delicate curve of it, and something twisted in his gut. Something that made the anger burn hotter, meaner. "What, you deaf now, or just stupid?"
Still nothing. Harrington just stood there, head down, jersey clutched in his hands. And Billy felt something hot and vicious rise up in his chest—that familiar anger that always came when someone refused to acknowledge him, refused to give him the reaction he was owed.
But underneath it was something else, something that made his hands curl into fists, made him want to do something he couldn't name and didn't want to think about.
He reached out and grabbed Harrington's shoulder, felt the warmth of him through the fabric of his shirt, the solid muscle underneath, and turned him around, shoving him back against the lockers in one smooth motion. Metal rattled and clanged, the sound sharp as it echoed in the enclosed space.
Billy got close, right up in Harrington's face, one hand pressed flat against the locker next to his head. Close enough to feel the heat coming off his body, close enough to see the faint freckles and marks across his cheekbones, the way his lips were slightly parted.
Close enough that it made Billy's pulse kick up in a way that had nothing to do with the confrontation and everything to do with something he could never admit. It made him furious—at Harrington, at himself, at the way his body was betraying him.
"You think you can just disappear?" Billy said, his voice low and dangerous. "Think you can just stop showing up, stop playing, stop existing, and that makes everything go away? That's not how this works, Harrington. You don't get to quit. You don't get to just—"
He stopped suddenly.
Because Harrington was looking at him now, but something was wrong. His doe-brown eyes were open, focused in Billy's general direction, but there was a delay—like he wasn’t sure who Billy actually was. His gaze landed on Billy's face a beat too late, a few seconds off, and Billy felt a flicker of confusion cut through his anger.
"What?" Billy demanded. "You got something to say, or are you just gonna stand there looking brain-dead?"
Harrington blinked. It was slow and his mouth opened slightly, then closed again. The jersey had fallen from his hands at some point, was now crumpled on the floor between them.
Billy felt his irritation spike.
This was bullshit.
Harrington was playing some kind of game, trying to make Billy look like the asshole here. Trying to act like he was above this, above Billy, like he couldn't even be bothered to engage.
"You ignoring me?" Billy shoved harder, both hands on Harrington's shoulders now, slamming him back against the lockers again. The metal rattled, and Harrington's head snapped back slightly with the impact. "You think you're too good to—"
Harrington's hand came up. Billy saw it in his peripheral vision, saw the movement and tensed, ready for Harrington to grab his wrist, to finally fight back, to give Billy the confrontation he'd been craving for months.
But Harrington's hand didn't reach for Billy. It stopped, fingers pressing against his own temple instead.
Billy froze.
Harrington wasn’t trying to protect himself or push Billy away.
No, this was something else entirely.
Harrington's hand was shaking slightly, his fingers pressed against the side of his head, and his eyes had gone unfocused again. Like he hadn't tracked the shove even happened, or that Billy was even in front of him.
"The fuck are you doing?" Billy said, but his voice had lost some of its edge. He was still close, still crowding Harrington's space, but something cold was starting to creep up his spine.
Harrington's mouth moved. Words came out, but they were slurred slightly. "I'm... jus’... gimme a second, I jus’ need..."
He trailed off, his eyes closing briefly, and Billy stepped back slightly, his hands dropping from Harrington's shoulders.
This wasn't right.
This wasn't how this was supposed to go.
Harrington was supposed to push back, supposed to get angry, supposed to give Billy a reason to finish what they'd started. But instead, he was just... standing there. Barely standing, actually, leaning heavily against the lockers.
"What, you drunk?" Billy demanded, grasping for an explanation that made sense. "You high or something? Jesus Christ, Harrington, it's three in the afternoon."
But even as he said it, he knew that wasn't it. He'd seen drunk plenty of times—had been drunk plenty of times. This wasn't that. Harrington's eyes weren't glassy, weren't bloodshot. They were just... wrong.
"I'm not—" Harrington started, but then his face did something strange. A wince, maybe, or a flinch. His hand pressed harder against his temple, and his breathing got more controlled and heavy, like he was concentrating on it.
"Then what?" Billy said, and he hated how his voice sounded—uncertain, almost concerned. He shoved that feeling down hard, buried it under layers of anger and denial. "You tired? You playing some kind of game here?"
Harrington didn't answer—couldn't answer, maybe. Because he was sliding down now, his back against the lockers, his legs giving out in a slow, controlled descent. Not collapsing—no, this was worse. This was purposeful, like Harrington knew he couldn't stay standing anymore and was trying to manage his own fall.
He ended up sitting on the dirty tile floor, his back against the lockers, knees bent, head tilted back against the metal. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow and measured. One hand was still pressed against his temple, fingers splayed across the side of his head.
Billy stood there, frozen, staring down at him. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The showers kept dripping. And something cold and rotten was settling in Billy's stomach, something that felt like recognition even though he was fighting it with everything he had.
"Get up," Billy said, but his voice came out quieter than he intended. "Come on, Harrington. Get. Up."
Harrington didn't move.
He just sat there. His face was pale under the lights, and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. He looked like he was about to be sick.
And that's when it hit Billy.
He can't get up.
The thought came sudden, and unwanted. Billy tried to shove it away, tried to find another explanation, but it was there now, solid and undeniable.
Harrington's head wasn't right. His brain wasn't working the way it was supposed to. And it wasn't because he was drunk or high or tired or playing dumb.
It was because of November.
Billy's breath caught in his throat. He took a step back, then another, his boots slipping on the tile.
The memory came flooding back—the Byers house, the fight, the plate.
Jesus Christ, the plate.
Billy had grabbed it off the counter and swung, had felt it connect with Harrington's skull with a sound that was part crack, part crunch. Had seen Harrington stumble backwards.
And Billy had felt good about it. Had felt victorious, powerful, in control. Looming over Harrington's unconscious body with bloody knuckles; he had felt like a king.
But now—
Now Harrington was sitting on the floor of the locker room, unable to stand, unable to talk, his hand pressed against his temple like he was trying to keep his brain from leaking out.
And Billy understood, with a clarity that made him want to vomit, that this was his fault. That he hadn't just won that fight in November—he'd done something worse.
Something permanent.
And so it all clicked into place with a sickening finality.
Billy had broken him—but not in the way you break someone in a fight—not a black eye or a split lip or a bruised ego. He'd broken something inside Harrington's skull, something that didn't heal the way bones and skin did—something that maybe didn't heal at all.
And there was no pride in that. No bragging rights. No victory.
It felt like crippling a guy mid-game, like shooting someone in the back.
It felt like cheating, except Billy hadn't meant to cheat.
He'd just meant to win.
But this wasn't winning.
Billy's hands were shaking now, trembling at his sides. That buzzing under his ribs had transformed into something darker, something that felt like panic mixed with rage mixed with guilt.
He wanted to hit something, needed to hit something, but not Harrington.
Not anymore.
Because what was the point?
You can't fight someone who can't fight back. You can't compete with someone who's already been sidelined.
The silence in the locker room was suffocating. Billy could hear his own breathing, harsh and uneven. Could hear the drip of the showers, the buzz of the lights. Could hear Harrington's careful, controlled breaths as he sat there on the floor, eyes still closed.
"Get up," Billy said again, but it came out wrong—too quiet, too uncertain. Not a command.
Almost a plea.
Harrington's eyes opened slowly. He looked up at Billy, and for a moment, his gaze was almost clear. Almost focused. And Billy saw something there that made his stomach twist—because it wasn’t anger, and it wasn’t fear.
It was just… nothing.
Like Billy was nothing worth seeing.
"I'm trying," Harrington said, and his voice was clearer now, less slurred. Matter-of-fact. Just stating a simple truth. "Just... give me a minute."
Billy's eyes traced the line of Harrington's jaw without meaning to, the way his shoulders curved forward, the careful way he held himself. All that easy confidence Billy had hated—had obsessed over—reduced to this. Sitting on a locker room floor because he was struggling to stand.
He couldn't do this. Couldn't stand here and watch Harrington struggle to do something as basic as standing up.
Because if he stayed, if he watched him try to get up and fail, or worse—if he watched Harrington succeed but saw how much effort it took, how much pain it caused—then he'd have to acknowledge it. He'd have to name it.
He'd have to accept that he'd done something unforgivable.
He'd have to accept that he'd taken someone who'd gotten under his skin in ways Billy didn't have words for, someone he couldn't stop watching, couldn't stop thinking about—and he'd ended him. Reduced him to this broken thing on the floor.
And Billy Hargrove didn't do guilt, he didn't do regret—he didn't do apologies or amends or any of that weak pathetic bullshit.
So he left.
He didn't slam the door on his way out, didn't throw a parting shot over his shoulder. Just turned and walked away, his jaw locked so tight his teeth ached, his breath coming in short, clipped bursts. His hands were still shaking, and that feeling under his ribs—that buzzing, demanding thing—was screaming at him to hit something, to break something—
But not Harrington.
Not anymore.
Billy pushed through the double doors and out into the hallway, the fluorescent lights overhead just as sickly and yellow-green as the ones in the gym. Students were milling around, heading to their cars or the parking lot or wherever the hell they went after school.
Billy moved through them like a shark through water, his shoulders hunched, his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets to hide the trembling.
He made it to the parking lot, to his Camaro, and sat in the driver's seat with the engine off, staring at the glass past his steering wheel. His reflection looked back at him from the rearview mirror—blue eyes, sharp jaw, the face that usually made him feel powerful and in control. But right now, he just looked—
He didn’t even know.
He'd done this.
He'd ruined Steve Harrington in a way that couldn't be fixed, in a way that was forever.
And the worst part—the part that made him want to punch through the windshield—was that he hadn't even known.
He hadn't cared to know. Had spent months telling himself that Harrington was fine, that head injuries heal, that guys shake it off. Had spent months watching Harrington's hands, the way he moved through the hallways, the line of his shoulders. Had told himself it was about competition, about dominance, about proving something.
Had told himself a lot of things that were easier than the truth.
The guilt was a living thing now, crawling up his throat, making it hard to breathe. But underneath it was something worse—something that made his stomach twist with a different kind of sickness. The image of Steve on that floor, hand pressed to his temple, eyes squeezed shut.
Pretty even like that.
Especially like that, helpless and vulnerable in a way that made Billy feel like he was the one who couldn't breathe, like he was the one whose brain was broken.
He'd wanted to touch him—had always wanted to touch him.
And so he had—with fists, with shoves, with violence. The only way he knew how.
The only way that felt safe.
He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles went white, his jaw clenched so hard he was pretty sure he was gonna crack a tooth. He wanted to scream, wanted to hit something, wanted to go back in time and stop himself from picking up that plate.
Wanted to go back further than that—to the first time he'd seen Harrington and felt that pull in his gut, that wrongness that he'd immediately translated into hate because hate was easier, hate was allowed.
But he couldn't. Time didn't work that way.
Billy started the engine, the Camaro roaring to life beneath him. He peeled out of the parking lot, tires squealing, and drove too fast down the empty streets of Hawkins. The radio was off, the windows up, and the only sound was the engine and his own ragged breathing.
He didn't go home.
He couldn't face his father right now, couldn't deal with Neil's scrutiny or Max's questions, or the sudden understanding about the medical books from the library he found in her room—the ones he spent months pretending he never saw.
Instead, he drove to the quarry, parked at the edge, and sat there until the sun started to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and red, until darkness swallowed the earth, until the only visible thing were the tiny pinpricks of light speckled across the sky.
And he sat and tried and failed to think about anything else in the world—anything else but the memory of Steve sitting on the floor of the locker room, hand pressed against his temple, trying to convince his brain to let him stand up.
…
After that, he never touched Harrington again.
He saw him in the hallways, of course. Hawkins High wasn't big enough to avoid anyone completely. But Billy kept his distance, kept his hands to himself. He still had the venom, still had the sharp comments and the cruel smirks. Still postured and preened and loomed and made sure everyone knew he was the one in charge.
But no more hands. No more shoves. No more physical confrontations.
Because he knew now, that there was no honor in that. No victory in fighting someone who couldn't fight back.
Harrington didn't come to school for the rest of that week, and Billy felt that cold, mean guilt settle deeper in his stomach every time someone mentioned it. Guilt, and something else underneath it—something that twisted when he remembered the way Harrington's hair had fallen across his forehead, the line of his jaw, the shape of him crumpling against the lockers—something Billy refused to examine too closely.
He'd won that fight—but he'd lost something in the process too. Something he couldn't quite name but felt like it might have been important.
Or maybe what he'd lost was the excuse to get close, to touch, to make contact in the only way he knew how.
Tommy asked him once before graduation, why he didn't mess with Harrington anymore. They were in the parking lot, leaning against the Camaro, and Tommy had noticed the way Billy went still whenever Harrington walked past. The way Billy's eyes tracked him without meaning to, lingering a second too long on the careful way Harrington moved now.
"You scared of him now or something?" Tommy had asked, laughing like it was a joke.
Billy had grabbed Tommy by the collar and slammed him against the car, nearly hard enough to dent the door. "Say that again," he'd growled, his face inches from Tommy's. "I fucking dare you."
Tommy had gone pale, had stammered an apology, and Billy had let him go.
But he hadn't answered the question.
Because the truth was complicated, and Billy didn't do complicated. He did simple. He did violence and dominance and control.
He did anything that wasn't this—this sick feeling in his gut every time he caught sight of Harrington in the hallways, this awareness of exactly where he was in any room, this wrongness that felt too much like the thing his father would beat out of him if he ever suspected.
So he kept his distance. And every time he saw Harrington in the hallways—moving carefully, head down, hand sometimes rubbing his temple—Billy felt that cold, mean guilt settle a little bit deeper.
Guilt for what he'd done.
Guilt for why he'd done it.
Guilt for the fact that even now, even after everything, some part of him still wanted to look.
He never apologized. Never tried to make it right.
He didn't know how, even if he'd wanted to.
What do you say to someone whose life you've permanently altered?
Sorry I gave you brain damage? Sorry I ended your sports career? Sorry I ruined your life?
Sorry I couldn't handle the way you made me feel so I maimed you instead?
The words didn't exist. Or if they did, Billy didn't have access to them.
…
Time passed, Harrington graduated, spring turned to summer, and Billy spent his days at the pool, lifeguarding and flirting with bored housewives and trying not to think about it.
Trying not to think about him.
But the guilt followed him everywhere—to the pool, to his car, to his bedroom at night when he couldn't sleep. It was a constant presence, a weight he couldn't shake.
And underneath the guilt was that other thing, that wrongness, that pull he'd spent months trying to beat out of himself by beating on Harrington instead.
And sometimes, late at night when he couldn't sleep, Billy would think about that moment in the locker room—Harrington sliding down to the floor, hand pressed against his temple, his pretty brown eyes pinched shut in pain. The vulnerable line of his throat. The way his chest had risen and fallen with each breath.
And Billy would feel something crack inside his chest, something that felt like it might have been his heart if he'd believed he still had one. Something that felt too much like wanting, and that was the most dangerous thing of all.
And so he had to live with what he'd done. Had to live with what he'd destroyed for the rest of his life, because he couldn't handle what he felt.
And so would Steve.