Archive of Our Own

The door to the trailer opens with a dry, tormented creak. It sounds like an audio effect from a horror movie—or fingernails on a blackboard. Eddie cringes. He really should fix it sometime. Not that it bothers him, usually. Most days he doesn’t even notice, but today isn’t most days.

It’s unusual for Eddie to bring someone home with him. And why should he? He’s got no girlfriend, and most of his friends live in nicer houses, with more space and moms who’ll cook dinner and serve them snacks, with siblings, and dads, and all that jazz. Eddie only has Uncle Wayne, who’s away most of the time, and their home isn’t what you’d call cozy. Eddie’s used to it, but it’s no fun to imagine what it must look like from an outsider’s perspective.

That’s why, in general, he meets people elsewhere.

But not today.

Today, for some inexplicable reason, he thought it would be a good idea to do a fucking drug deal at his house, and, to put it mildly, he’s having regrets. Not just because of his home, but also because it’s a violation of rule number one in the drug dealer’s handbook: You really, really don’t want your customers to know where your stash is.

The problem with regrets is that you always have them too late. He can’t change his mind now, not with Billy Hargrove right behind him, breathing down his neck.

For a second, Eddie considers telling him to wait outside at least, but it’s fucking November and the wind is cold as fuck and he isn’t a heartless bastard. Billy isn’t dressed for a November night in Indiana. Besides, it’s not as if Eddie has anything to hide.

They’re poor—so what? There’s no use denying it, and Eddie refuses to be ashamed. Or perhaps he just refuses to admit to himself he’s ashamed. He has complicated feelings on the matter. (Eddie has complicated feelings about a lot of things.) What he has absolutely no doubts about though is that it’s not his or Uncle Wayne’s fault they have no money. They’ve had some bad luck, that’s all. And if some rich boy like Billy Hargrove with his shiny Camaro and his pockets full of cash has a problem with how they live that’s of no concern to Eddie.

Eddie had his share of bullying over the years and he’s done with that shit. He worked hard to attain a place outside the pecking order, and he sure as hell won’t let a newcomer like Billy fucking Hargrove drag him back into it. He has earned himself the privileges of a fool by the sweat of his brow, and he’s gonna defend them tooth and nail if necessary. There’s a reason they call him Eddie the Freak as if he’s got the trademark on the epithet. He’s a jester at the court of jocks and cheerleaders. Untouchable, with all the pros and cons that status entails.

Trailer park trash, drug dealer, metalhead, dungeon master. Eddie wears many hats, most of them weird enough to keep people at a distance. When he started selling weed, he made sure everyone knew the kind of crowd he was running with. Ex-cons, biker gangs, Satanists, that sort of thing.

It’s all bogus, of course. Eddie sometimes hangs out at Rick’s so he knows some of Rick’s friends and acquaintances, that’s it. He isn’t friends with hardened criminals. But he’s pretty good at spinning a yarn—courtesy of D&D—and the rumours serve their purpose. At this point, he can do whatever he wants and no one will bat an eye. Not even the bullies at school dare mess with him. Not really.

But that doesn’t mean he’s bulletproof. They can still hurt him if they want to. Being poor is always a weakness, and Billy Hargrove seems like the type who’ll twist the knife in that wound, just to see him flinch. Eddie can’t imagine someone like Billy will let a few colourful stories stop him from being cruel if he wants to be cruel.

So he braces for the worst. Slips into his jester persona, just to be safe.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he says with a mock bow and Billy gives him a strange look—as if that went straight over his head—before he squeezes past him into the cramped space of the living room.

Eddie rolls his eyes and follows him inside.

Every place has its own aroma, a mix of familiar smells its inhabitants rarely notice anymore, and usually, that’s how it is for Eddie, too. But now, coming in from the cold, the stale air of the trailer hits him like a wall. It’s musty and damp, saturated with cold smoke and cooking odours—the smell of Uncle Wayne’s microwaved dinner still lingers in the room. Traces of beer and the sourness of weed mingle with a residue of the incense Eddie sometimes burns to cover up the weed. There are more notes a keen nose might be able to tell apart, the majority of which are rather unpleasant, nothing Eddie wants to dwell on.

He turns on one of the floor lamps and reveals another unflattering facet of his home.

It’s messy.

Uncle Wayne is a bit of a packrat. He likes to keep things. All sorts of things. Things that are useful. Things that might turn out to be useful one day. Things they could sell at some point. Things that are old and broken, but not old and broken enough to be thrown out. And then there are all the things they just own for even more mysterious reasons, like Uncle Wayne’s collection of baseball hats, and Granma’s mugs, although that probably doesn’t count as a mystery. (They simply didn’t have the heart to get rid of after she’d died. Granma loved those mugs.)

On top of that, there’s a layer of actual garbage, empty bags and wrappers, old pizza boxes and last month’s newspapers, beer cans and tissues, not to forget dirty dishes… It’s probably pretty impolite to invite someone over and not tidy up a little, but Eddie won’t apologize for it, no matter the fact the sorry is already on the tip of his tongue.

To his relief, Billy doesn’t seem fazed by the chaos. Like, at all. The carefully maintained mask of boredom he’s wearing hasn’t slipped once since they arrived. And instead of scrutinizing Eddie’s home, all of his attention is focussed on a pack of cigarettes. First on fumbling it out of the pocket of his jacket, then on shaking it to get out a smoke. Looks like he’ll be occupied for a bit.

“Wait here,” Eddie says and marches past him without waiting for an answer.

He doesn’t bother switching on the lights in his room. The warm orange glow filtering in through the window from outside and the light from the corridor behind him is enough to illuminate the way to the dresser. Not that he needs it, strictly speaking. His room isn’t that big and Eddie knows where everything is. He could find his way around the room, including his stash, in absolute darkness if necessary. He sometimes misplaces the smaller items, the LSD, the Special K, the Speed, and then it’ll take some rummaging about to find them again, but never the weed. He always knows where his weed is.

It only takes a bit of digging because he’s hidden it—for obvious reasons.

This time, when he opens the box everything is as it should be. A few ounces of weed, some sachets of Speed, a bit of Special K, and a bottle of Valium, all there. Which is good, because he doesn’t even know what exactly it is Billy wants.

Not that he’d be surprised if Billy didn’t know either. He gives off that vibe. Mercurial. Erratic. As if he doesn’t know his own mind. As if he could be your best friend one day, and your worst enemy the next. Most of the time he’s buzzing with excess energy, nervous and high-strung like a racehorse. It sets Eddie’s teeth on edge, all that fidgeting. You’d think the sports, the partying, not to forget the fucking (if you can believe the rumours) would be enough to take the edge off, but apparently not.

Makes you wonder why he is like that.

Makes you also wonder whether it’d be a good idea to offer him the valium.

Probably not.

A noise behind him gives Eddie a start. He whips around, but it’s just Billy, leaning against the door frame, his cigarette glowing in the dark.

“You don’t live here alone.” It’s not even half a question.

“My uncle’s at work.”

Billy nods as if that explains everything. “Must be nice,” he says.

“Having the place to myself at night?”

Billy shrugs. “My dad’s a pain in the ass, so from where I’m standing you’re living the dream, man.”

Eddie snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, sure.”

It’s too dark to make out Billy’s expression, but Eddie has the distinct feeling that, if it would have been lighter, he could have seen a shadow flick over his face.

“I wasn’t being sarcastic,” Billy says.

There’s something in his tone that makes Eddie wonder if he’s misjudged him.

When Billy turned up at school a few weeks back, everyone went absolutely crazy about him. “Have you seen Billy?” they whispered in the corridors. “Who’s Billy?” the uninitiated would ask, and then you’d get the whole story if you wanted or not.

“Billy Hargrove, he just transferred from California.”

“He drives a Camaro! ”

“Long blond hair. Leather jacket. Nice ass. You can’t miss him.”

“Do you think he surfs? He sure looks like a surfer, doesn’t he?”

“He is so handsome.”

“Have you heard the music he’s listening to?”

“Yesterday I saw him shirtless on the basketball court, and boy, he’s ripped! ”

Billy, Billy, Billy.

It got old pretty fast. Perhaps Eddie would have found the gossip more tolerable if Billy had just been your usual run-of-the-mill jock, but Billy’s not that. He has this bad boy vibe about him that guys envy and girls love, and he moved to the top of the food chain without breaking a sweat. Not that Eddie has a lot of sympathy for the popular kids, but it must be kinda brutal to get knocked down to the lower ranks like that.

The territorial fights had already rubbed Eddie the wrong way, but then he saw how Billy treats his little sister. The way he yelled at her, with murder in his eyes, and the things he said, really mean shit, made Eddie’s skin crawl and his fists clench into balls. And that just about settled it.

Billy Hargrove is a bully, and Eddie hates bullies.

But Hawkins is a small town and since Eddie’s still in school, there was no fucking way to avoid him. On the contrary, for the last few weeks, Eddie’s had a front-row seat to the show. He’s seen Billy prancing about every damn day, and heard every bit of gossip—about the drinking games he won, about the dares he accepted, about the fights he got into. Eddie knows about that one time Billy beat Steven Harrington at basketball, and the other time, too. He even knows he allegedly slept with a hot waitress two towns over—despite dating Vicki Carmichael practically from the moment he set foot into town.

Everyone loves to talk about Billy, and most of all they love to talk about how pretty he is. And yeah, obviously, he is. Eddie isn’t blind, he can see it just fine, the long blond hair and smooth tan skin, the firm ass and nicely toned bod. Billy is gorgeous, it’d be silly to say otherwise. But to Eddie, that’s actually more of a warning sign than anything else.

People like to conflate beauty with all sorts of virtues, and even for someone like Billy, who has few redeeming qualities, they’re eager to make excuses. Explain why some horrific behaviour is okay, or not that bad at least, and Eddie fucking hates that.

Maybe the comparison is a little fanciful, but Billy reminds him of Oscar Wilde’s Dorian Gray. A man so enamoured with his good looks, he doesn’t care about being a decent person, and no one else does either. Eddie has seen just enough of Billy’s violent streak to suspect there’s more where that came from, that underneath the pleasant façade there’s something dark and ugly and rotten. And it drives him crazy that no one seems to be bothered by that.

Eddie doesn’t really believe in magic, but in this particular case, he’s inclined to make an exception. It would make perfect sense for Billy to have a portrait hanging in the attic that allows him to be ugly without looking the part.

Or at least Eddie thought it made sense. Now he’s not so sure anymore. Maybe the problem is not that Billy’s a selfish little asshole, maybe it’s something else entirely, and for all the glitz and glam of the show, Eddie has missed it too.

“That bad, huh?” he says and Billy just shrugs again.

For a moment it looks like the conversation is over, but then Billy pushes himself off the door frame and strolls into the room. He walks over to the bookshelf, trails his fingers along the spines of the books, absent-mindedly. It’s a light touch, almost reverent, and Eddie, who usually can’t stand it when people touch his stuff, swallows his objection.

“It’s just that I hate my old man,” Billy says quietly, more to himself than to Eddie. “Or he hates me. Not sure what came first.”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says. It sounds lame, but it’s the best he can do right now, and Billy doesn’t seem to mind.

“Yeah, you know how it is,” he says with another shrug. “You can’t change it, so you just wait it out.”

And he’s right. Eddie does know. He knows only too well how it feels to clench your teeth, put on a brave face and pray for something to pass. The question is why Billy tells him this as if somehow they’re in the same boat or something.

And then, as he’s crouching there, in front of his dresser, his weed box in his hands, and watches Billy resume the tour of his room, it just clicks. The reason Billy is honest with him, the reason he’s here, the reason he doesn’t treat him like he treats the Hagans and Harringtons of this world is because he feels a sort of kinship with Eddie. As if deep down, Billy sees himself as a freak like Billy, even if everyone else considers him the newly crowned king of Hawkins High.

Eddie can’t really wrap his head around that epiphany, but perhaps he doesn’t have to. Perhaps he should just take things as they are and see where they’re going?

In the meantime, Billy has moved on to the stereo. He picks up the record lying on top and holds it up into the dim light.

“You like Voivod?” He sounds surprised and delighted and also kinda impressed.

Eddie feels stupid for being so pleased by this. “Yeah,” he says, trying to play it cool. “They’re great.”

“Most people here have a shit taste in music,” Billy says, leaning in to have a look at the record that’s still on the turntable. Eddie holds his breath—he’s so ridiculously fond of Dio, it’s become sort of a litmus test for him—but Billy passes with flying colours. His reaction is all Eddie could have wished for.

“Oh, I love that one!” Billy moves the tonearm in position, presses play, then flicks the cue lever. A few clicking sounds later, We Rock comes blaring from the speakers, and Billy actually has the good sense to turn down the volume a little before he goes back to rummaging through Eddie’s records.

And Eddie finally gives in and switches on one of the lamps for him.

He wanted to avoid that if he’s being honest. The yellowish lampshade absorbs a good deal of the light—the bulb is pretty low wattage—it’s just about enough to illuminate the direct vicinity of the stereo so Billy can comfortably look at the record covers. But even the dimmest light source will expose the jumble of shapes and shadows in the room as the mess it really is. A cluttered house is one thing, a dirty bedroom another. More personal. More awkward.

But Billy doesn’t even seem to notice. He glances up, gives Eddie a brief nod Eddie interprets as a thank-you, and immediately returns his attention to Eddie’s record collection. For the next five minutes, it’s the only thing he has eyes for. He’s completely absorbed by it. Every now and then, he’ll click his tongue in appreciation or murmur the name of a band or the title of an album with something like rapture in his voice, but that’s all Eddie gets to hear of him. It’s as though he has completely forgotten Eddie is even there.

Which Eddie has no problem with. On the contrary. He’s glad this is going so much better than expected. He wouldn’t have thought Billy could be so… normal. Just an ordinary person underneath all the anger and arrogance. Now when Eddie looks at him, it’s like seeing a flip image. One second he’s the guy who keeps his shirt unbuttoned to the navel in November, who makes their female teachers blush with innuendos, who’s cruel and pretty and popular; and the next he’s not so different from Eddie, just some teenager with an abusive father who likes metal and weed.

Speaking of which… Eddie grabs the weed box and abandons his position by the dresser. He walks over to his bed, slumps down on the mattress, scrambles backwards a bit so he can lean his back against the wall. Then, without much of a conscious decision, he opens his box and reaches for one of the old index cards he keeps there for filter tips. Rolling a joint always calms him down.

He goes to work and for the next minute, forgets all about Billy and his worries.

“Man, I can’t believe your Show No Mercy is beneath all this other stuff,” Billy says a little bit later, a note of outrage in his voice. “Are you not listening to it, or what?”

“Of course I listen to it!” Eddie says without looking up, but careful to sound appropriately indignant. “I just I shuffle things around sometimes, so I don’t listen to the same shit all the time. You know—for variety’s sake.”

“Okay, makes sense,” Billy concedes, then adds, “I’m still so mad that Kerrang! called it trash.”

“Fucking Dave Dickson,” Eddie agrees and lights his joint.

“Nomen est omen, I guess. He’s totally a son of a dick.”

They both chuckle, and Billy is the tiniest bit surprised Billy knows some Latin. But that little bit of surprise quickly turns into a whole fucking lot of surprise a few moments later when Billy throws himself down next to him on the bed and stretches out his hand as if they’re actually friends and doing this all the time. Hanging out, talking music, smoking weed together.

Eddie passes Billy the joint. Billy takes it, turns it between his fingers, examining Eddie’s craftsmanship.

“Nice,” he says with an appreciative grin before he lifts his to his lips, and again, an odd sense of pride washes over Eddie.

Billy sucks the smoke down into his lungs with a satisfied hiss.

“Nice,” he repeats as he exhales a cloud of sour smoke and hands the joint back to Eddie.

“18 bucks for half an ounce,” Eddie says before he takes another drag himself, “If you want some.”

“Hell yeah,” Billy says. “It’s good stuff.”

There it is again, that stupid warm feeling he feels every time Billy throws him a scrap of praise. What the fuck is wrong with him?

They smoke in silence for a while, passing the joint back and forth, listening to the music, and Eddie tries not to stare, but for some reason, Billy’s lips are really fascinating to watch and his lashes are so dark over his blue eyes and…

Why the fuck is Eddie’s mouth suddenly so dry?

At least that he can blame on the weed. “Gonna get myself a beer,” he says. “Want one too?”

“Sure.” Billy sucks at the joint with these damn lips and Eddie has to positively tear his eyes away from him.

He scrambles out of the bed. “Be right back.”

Billy just nods. The last thing Eddie sees before he leaves the room is Billy lying on his back on his bed, blowing a smoke ring into the air like some fucking wizard.

Eddie swallows a curse and heads towards the kitchen.

It’s probably just the weed kicking in, but he feels odd, like the cogs in his head are turning too fast and there’s the slightest flutter of panic in his belly, just because—

Eddie stops himself right then and there.

He’s enough of a regular user to rarely get this feeling of thoughts spiralling out of control anymore, but sometimes it still happens, and this seems to be one of these occasions. His mind is racing, and fuck, he really can’t have that right now.

He shuffles over to the kitchen sink, turns on the tap, gathers water in his hand to rinse out his mouth. The fuzzy feeling disappears at once. Eddie uses the opportunity to splash some water into his face. It feels hot and the cold water brings a little relief. Sobers him up somewhat, too.

He stands there for a moment, hands braced against the sink, waiting for the noise in his head to die down.

Drip, the faucet goes.

Drip.

Drip.

One more thing to fix, Eddie thinks.

With a sigh, he pushes himself off the sink and strolls over to the fridge. He opens it, stares inside, scanning the contents for a solid ten seconds before he remembers what he’s looking for. He grabs two cans of beer, makes a mental note to throw out the rest of the casserole at the first opportunity—which clearly isn’t now—and have a look at what’s actually in the orange plastic container behind it. He’s pretty sure it’s been there for a while and neither he nor Uncle Wayne have touched it.

Maybe they’ll get lucky and there’s intelligent life developing in their fridge. Wouldn’t that be awesome? Having, like, cute furry thingies living between beer cans and old casserole and the odd vegetable. Like little Gremlins. No, wait. Mogwais. Without the whole drama, of course.

Eddie grins. Yeah, that’d be excellent. He slams the fridge door shut with a little too much force. The contents clatter and rattle. Ooops. Earthquake!

He chuckles as he trudges back to his room.

Billy must have gotten up while Eddie was away because there’s a different record playing—Black Sabbath this time, good choice in Eddie’s opinion—but it looks like he hasn’t moved at all. He lies there pretty much exactly as Eddie has left him, on his back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. When he hears Eddie returning he props himself up on one elbow. His dark blond hair is tousled and his lips are so—so pink.

Fuck, Eddie thinks. He’s being stupid again. But there’s no off-switch for that, so what can he do?

He throws Billy one of the beer cans, and Billy catches it, no problemo. Good reflexes.

“I fucking missed this,” Billy says with a sigh as he cracks the beer open. “Music, weed, beer… No big deal, no party, just hanging out.”

Eddie can’t say he can relate because that’s pretty much all he ever does, but then, he’s also not hanging out with the popular kids. Makes sense they’d be boring as fuck.

Billy leaves him no time to ponder on the downsides of popularity, because to underline his happiness with the situation he stretches like a big cat and Eddie, Eddie quickly takes a sip of his beer to distract himself. So he doesn’t stare at how Billy’s shirt rides up over his stomach when he moves. Because obviously, there’s no way you can do these two things at once.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Billy was flirting with him. Which is, of course, absurd. It’s Billy Hargrove, and… no one knows that about Eddie.

(No one knows he fantasizes about men sometimes.)

Eddie finds it difficult to admit, even to himself, even just in his head, and especially now, with Billy in his bed.

On his bed, Eddie corrects himself. On the fucking bed. Big difference.

It’s ridiculous that he can’t think straight in Billy’s presence, no pun intended. Eddie has imagined things—sometimes, occasionally, not that often really—ever since he read The Lord of the Rings when he was eleven and crushed hard on Aragorn. But he has fantasized about a lot of things in his life he doesn’t necessarily want to happen to him for real, so he always figured fantasies didn’t count.

He’s not gay.

Seems like a bit of a no-brainer that he isn’t. He’s had sex. Like, normal sex. With women.

Maybe Eddie doesn’t have as much experience as Billy, but he isn’t a virgin either. Hasn’t been a virgin since that party in the summer of ‘83 when Rick’s friend Monica took him by the hand and led him upstairs to the spare bedroom. And he liked it, didn’t he? He fucking loved how she felt and how she made him feel. He’s fooled around with other girls too, mostly older ones who didn’t care he was one of the freaks. They tasted like cheap beer and cigarettes (and salty and musky and sweet, too) and they told him that he was cute and a good kisser and that he had very nice hands. Sometimes they let him fuck them, and sometimes they wanted him to do other stuff. They showed him how, and he’s reasonably good at it, he thinks, but he imagines it’s different with a guy.

But maybe it isn’t?

How hard can it be, really? He touches himself all the time and that’s simple enough. It doesn’t take much and—

He really should stop thinking about this.

Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose, shakes his head as if that’ll help.

“What are you doing?” Billy sounds amused. He has his head cocked to one side and watches him with a little smile around the corners of his mouth.

“Uh, nothing,” Eddie says and takes a gulp of his beer. “Just remembered something and tried to get rid of it. Shake it off, you know. Literally.”

Billy laughs. It’s a warm, soft sound that settles in Eddie’s chest. “You’re weird, you know that, right?”

Eddie makes a non-committal noise, and then Billy does something Eddie wouldn’t have predicted in a thousand years. He leans closer and says, voice lowered to a conspiratorial tone, “But I like weird,” and Eddie’s breath catches in his throat because this—this isn’t happening. It can’t be happening.

Billy’s so close, if he was a girl… If he was a girl Eddie would be reasonably sure it was an invitation, and he wouldn’t hesitate, but Billy isn’t a girl, pretty obviously not, and he can’t be— Billy Hargrove can’t be gay, can he? That’s just not possible. This whole situation, it must be wishful thinking, or worse, a trap, and if Eddie’s not careful…

Then Billy’s hand is on his thigh, warm and solid and so startling, Eddie literally jumps off the bed.

“Dude, what the fuck—?!” The words burst out of him before he can stop himself, and for a split second, Billy just looks shocked. Shocked and vulnerable and hurt, and Eddie has never regretted anything in his life like that stupid reaction.

“Sorry,” Billy says, his expression darkening. “I didn’t mean—”

But Eddie doesn’t let him finish. “No, I’m sorry! I just… I didn’t expect...” He racks his brain for words and comes up empty.

“I should go.” Billy moves to get up and leave, but that’s the last thing Eddie wants.

“No, please,” he says, trying not to waver when Billy’s eyes meet his. “Stay.”

Billy hesitates, and Eddie knows he has to be fast or miss his chance, so he gets back on the bed and reaches out, touches Billy’s cheek, cradles his jaw in his hand, and then he leans in and presses his lips on Billy’s.

It’s not a chaste kiss, but it’s not passionate either. No tongue. Just open-mouthed enough to convey he’s serious about this. Only a soft, insistent touch of his lips to Billy’s, and for a moment, he isn’t sure if it’s working. But then Billy’s hands come up, fingers tangling in Eddie’s hair, fingertips digging into his scalp, and Billy’s kissing him back.

He kisses him back, and there’s nothing gentle about that kiss. It’s urgent and unrestrained, with too many teeth and too much tongue, but Eddie doesn’t care. He can’t get enough of it.

Billy tastes of beer and weed, peppermint and cigarette smoke, and in that very moment, it’s like the fucking best thing Eddie has ever tasted. Billy’s face is a little scratchy, no real stubble but enough to make a difference, and Eddie loves that. Desire spikes through him, sharp as a drug high, euphoria pulsing in his veins. His hands tug at Billy’s clothes, Billy’s hands tug at his. Fumbling with buttons and belt buckles, impatient, eager.

At some point, Billy cups him through the jeans, pressing his palm against the hard shape of Eddie’s cock and Eddie can’t help himself, he bucks up into that touch with a groan, almost desperate. He wants more of this, wants everything Billy is willing to give him, and Billy laughs and bites Eddie’s lip hard enough it hurts and then laughs some more.

It’s a relaxed little laugh, happy. And despite the pain in his lower lip (he might even be bleeding), Eddie feels it too. A moment of levity. Nothing matters, nothing exists anymore but pleasure and joy.

When Billy pulls back his hand, Eddie’s disappointed and relieved in equal measure, but there’s no time to ponder on either because Billy goes back to undressing him, and Eddie’s getting the last of Billy’s clothes out of the way, and at some point, they’re finally naked. Naked and achingly hard. Billy’s on his back and Eddie’s leaning over him, taking in the sight—and what a sight it is. Billy is truly beautiful, and Eddie’s fingers itch with the desire to touch him. So that’s what he does.

It’s the most amazing feeling to run his hands over Billy’s stomach and up to his chest. His skin is so soft and warm and alive, Eddie wants to map out every inch of it with his fingers, with his lips, with his tongue.

He touches his mouth to Billy’s sternum and is rewarded with an impatient wiggle. Clearly, Billy has different ideas about where Eddie should focus his attention, but Eddie isn’t in a hurry. He smiles against Billy’s chest, trails kisses up his collarbone and the side of his neck to that sensitive spot behind the ear, just like he’d do with a girl. So far this isn’t so different from what he knows. Except for the stubble and how Billy smells (masculine, in some undefinable way) and the fact that he refuses to lie still. He tries to rub himself against Eddie, his fingers clutching at Eddie’s back like claws, digging hard enough to bruise.

It hurts, but Eddie welcomes the pain, it tempers the pleasure, calms him down. Which is good. Because Eddie wants to drag this out. He wants to relish it.

And for that, it’s not helpful to have Billy rut against his leg, and it’s even less helpful when he rolls his hips against Eddie’s—for obvious reasons. Eddie is excited as it is, he really doesn’t want to embarrass himself.

“Dude,” he says after some more fidgeting from Billy, “Can’t you just lie back for a second and let me kiss you?”

And miraculously Billy listens. He lies still while Eddie strokes his thumb along his cheekbone; doesn’t even move when Eddie lowers his head and brushes his mouth over Billy’s. Eddie makes his lips as soft as he can when he presses them against Billy’s, nips at his bottom lip, over and over, before he finally deepens the kiss.

He kisses him like he wanted to kiss him the first time, slow and careful and sweet, with just a little bit of tongue and definitely no teeth. And while he’s doing that, a thought occurs to him, and it’s probably the silliest of all the silly thoughts he’s had this evening, but he thinks he wants to make love to Billy Hargrove.

It’s pretty crazy for a number of reasons, but most of all because he’s fairly sure Billy doesn’t want Eddie to be gentle, and Eddie gets it. Gentle means intimate. As long as they’re a little rough with each other they can pretend they’re just horny teenagers, and this doesn’t mean anything. And maybe it doesn’t? (Eddie’s pretty positive it does, though, at least to him.)

But the solution to the problem is simple enough. All Eddie has to do when Billy’s patience with him is wearing thin again is tighten his grip on Billy’s jaw and kiss him as slow and languid as he likes, and Billy can squirm and scratch like a wildcat, and they’ll both be happy. So that’s what they do for the better part of five minutes.

“Do you want me to stop?” Eddie asks between kisses—just to be sure—and Billy makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a growl.

“I don’t want you to stop. I want you to get the fuck on with it, man.”

But Eddie just laughs and keeps kissing Billy at his own pace, and that’s when Billy finally runs out of patience. He tries to kiss him back, hungry, urgent, but Eddie is stronger than he looks and he doesn’t let go, not even when Billy bites him again.

“Do I have to tie you to the bed?” Eddie asks, half-joking.

“You can try.” Billy grins and flips them both over with more ease than Eddie anticipated.

“Didn’t expect you to be such a tease,” Billy remarks before he dips his head and kisses Eddie just like Eddie kissed him, tender and lazy. But that’s where the similarities end because Billy has no qualms to lie on top of Eddie in a way Eddie has avoided for good reason: their erections slide together like that, trapped between their bellies, and it feels so fucking amazing Eddie can’t suppress a gasp.

“Fuck,” he bites out, and “Billy.”

“See, I knew you’d like that,” Billy says smugly, and moves again and for a split second, Eddie thinks that’s it. Pleasure races up his spine, white-hot and liquid, but then something catches. Skin drags along skin, too dry, or too sticky, whatever it is, and while Eddie isn’t opposed to a little bit of pain, as long as it’s the good kind of pain, in this case, the discomfort almost drowns out the pleasure.

Eddie’s hand flies up, grips Billy’s upper arm, nails biting into his flesh. “Lube,” he croaks. “In the nightstand, top drawer.”

Billy’s grin is all teeth this time. “Aye, aye,” he says and slides over, all his weight’s on Eddie now, putting even more pressure on their dicks. Eddie bites his lip hard not to moan and closes his eyes.

There’s the sound of a drawer being pulled open, followed by a bit of rummaging, then an appreciative whistle.

“A man of wealth and taste,” Billy comments as he sits up and unscrews the tube of KY.

Eddie blinks at him. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? “Did you think I’m more the vaseline type?”

“Nah, just pleasantly surprised you have the good shit, I guess,” Billy says, squeezing a generous portion of lube onto Eddie’s stomach, on his dick and balls.

It’s room temperature, and the room isn’t exactly warm, so on his hot skin, it feels fucking icy. Eddie flinches and curses—to Billy’s utter amusement.

“Come on, it can’t be that bad,” he says, and “I’ll make it worth it, I promise.”

He trails his fingers through the sticky mess, playfully, like he’s drawing glyphs into the lube, avoiding all the sensitive spots, all the places where Eddie wants to be touched, while Eddie watches with bated breath. It’s like a porn flick, only in real life, Eddie thinks as he looks at Billy straddling his legs, the contrast of their skin, Billy’s tan against Eddie’s pallor, but most of all their dicks, side by side. He stares at them, thick and flushed with blood. It’s not just surreal, it’s fucking crazy.

The craziest thing though is how Billy looks at him, as if he’s actually hot.

Perhaps this is all just some weird fucking dream.

Billy reaches out and runs a finger up the length of Eddie’s cock. He keeps the touch feather-light, but it’s awesome all the same. Eddie sees himself twitch, and he feels it too, and then Billy closes his hand around his dick and Eddie makes the most stupid guttural sound of surprise.

“Now, isn’t that nice?” Billy says.

Eddie has no idea how he manages to sound mocking and goddamn serious at the same time.

“Yeah,” he chokes out. Billy’s fingers do feel fucking amazing. Tight and slippery and just perfect.

“Wanna return the favour?”

“Sure,” Eddie says, doing his best to keep his voice steady.

Billy gives him a few quick strokes that make Eddie feel as though he’s about to melt into the mattress before he lets go of him to pick up the lube again. “Hand please,” he says, and obediently, Eddie props himself up on his elbow and holds out his free hand, palm-up.

Funny how the lube feels so much warmer on his hand.

He’s got a score to settle, though, and so he doesn’t waste any time. Doesn’t give Billy the chance to even screw the lid back onto the tube before he reaches out and wraps his fingers around Billy’s dick.

Billy makes a startled noise. “What the fuck—”

“Come on, it’s not that bad,” Eddie says, echoing Billy’s previous statement, and before Billy can come up with a reply, Eddie moves his hand and gives him something else to focus on.

Billy’s cock is smooth and silky in his hand. Heavier than he thought it would be perhaps, or maybe his brain is just trying to come up with differences now because he expected it to be different and weird, and it’s really not weird at all. It feels natural. He moves his hand like he would jerking off—or almost like that, the angle is off—and looks up to see Billy’s expression. His eyes are closed, his face is screwed up in pleasure. When he gives him a light squeeze, Billy moans, low and lewd and so fucking hot.

Eddie’s cock twitches in sympathy.

“Like this?” he asks—because he can ask unnecessary questions too, and it’s fun to see the effort it takes Billy to form a simple answer like, “Yeah,” and “Don’t stop!”

Eddie wasn’t prepared for how much he would love seeing Billy so unguarded, for feeling such a rush of power with every reaction he can get out of him, every moan and sigh and jerk of his hips. It’s perhaps not what he had in mind when he thought about making love, but it’s close enough. Or almost. If he could kiss Billy, that’d be even better.

He moves to sit up, and Billy opens his eyes, narrows them again. “What are you doing?”

“Figuring out a way to kiss you?”

Billy clicks his tongue, licks his lips. And there it is again, the flip image. Naughty or nice, friend or foe—it’s like Billy the bully is only the blink of an eye away, watching from the sidelines, ready to strike. And perhaps, deep down, Eddie wants that, just a little taste of Billy’s cruel side. Maybe it’s what has drawn him to Billy all along.

“Kiss me, huh?” Billy says as if it’s a request he has to consider first.

But if this is a game, Eddie can play it, too. He raises his chin, holds Billy’s gaze, and says, “Yeah. Kiss you. Any objections?”

He still has his hand on Billy’s cock, so he gives it another long, firm stroke with a nice, wicked twist at the end. The effect is immediate. Pleasure flashes across Billy’s face, and the strangled sound he makes is everything but dignified.

It takes Billy a hot second until he has himself under control again. “So that’s how we’re gonna play this?”

Eddie’s not gonna back off now. “Why not?”

“Okay.” Billy grins and puts his hand over Eddie’s to keep it from moving. “What do you suggest? Cause my original plan was something like this—”

He shifts and leans forwards, slowly, bracing himself on one arm, until he’s so close Eddie can feel the warmth of his skin and his face is only inches away. Eddie’s gaze flicks from Billy’s eyes down to his mouth. It looks so lush and soft. He really wants to kiss him.

Billy’s hand is still on Eddie’s, which in turn is still wrapped around Billy’s cock. Billy tugs, gently but firmly, and Eddie lets go without protest, allows Billy to pull his hand away and press it into the mattress next to his head.

Eddie swallows. For the first time since they started doing this, he feels out of his depth. Like he’s given up all leverage he had and is now at Billy’s mercy.

“You know what your problem is?” Billy says, his mouth almost touching Eddie’s, so close Eddie can feel the warm dampness of his breath.

Eddie shakes his head.

“You’re thinking too much,” Billy says. Which would be surprisingly accurate for a character judgement by someone who has known him for a couple of hours, give or take, but Eddie’s pretty much one hundred percent sure that’s not what Billy means.

“You see,” Billy continues, still so tantalizingly close, his voice low, seductive. “This is about getting off. I want to get off. Fuck, I need to get off. I’m getting into blue balls territory here. Don’t you?”

“Yeah, sure.” Billy has a point. Eddie’s so hard it almost hurts.

Billy’s eyes are so intense, it looks like they’re glowing. “So what do you say? Let’s stop playing around and do this, or what?”

“Sure, man,” Eddie says, holding Billy’s gaze. Whatever Billy’s gonna throw at him, he’s ready. Or so he tells himself. “It’s not as if I’m planning to go anywhere.”

Billy’s lips curl into a pleased smile. “And here I thought I’d have to tie you to the bed.”

Eddie feels the blood drain from his face and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. His expression must be an open book, and of course, Billy picks up on it.

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he says, voice low, seductive, and Eddie freezes up a little.

Technically, Billy already has a pretty good hold on him. He hasn’t let go of Eddie’s right hand, he’s still pinning it to the mattress, and judging by the ease with which he’d flipped their positions earlier, he won’t have any trouble staying on top if he wants to. And it’s not as if Eddie doesn’t like that. On the contrary, he finds it embarrassingly arousing. He’s sure being tied to the bed would be hot. But it takes a whole other level of courage to ask for it. And a whole other level of trust.

“What did you say again about getting off?” he deflects.

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t be able to get off while you’re tied up,” Billy says. A grin spreads over his face. “In fact, I know that you can.” He licks his lips again and Eddie’s finally convinced he’s absolutely and irredeemably evil.

And that’s even before Billy rolls his hips against him and his cock slides, slick and hot, against Eddie’s.

Maybe it’s just that he’s so overwrought by now that every sensation is multiplied a thousandfold by his brain, but it’s electrifying. Eddie has no other explanation for why it feels as good as it does—Billy doesn’t apply much pressure and all the lube is drastically reducing the friction; it’s simple and artless, almost primitive, and yet there’s still something so incredibly erotic about it, Eddie feels like he’s losing his mind.

Every slippery thrust of Billy’s dick against his drives him a little crazier. The shape and feel of Billy’s cock, its blunt, smooth head, the silky skin of the shaft, the slight coarseness of Billy’s pubic hair, the weight of his balls—all those little sensory impressions, they add up and up and up, until Eddie can’t stand it anymore. Breathing becomes a challenge. He doesn’t get enough air.

It takes a great deal of effort to keep his eyes open, but he wants to see Billy’s face, the expression of pleasure and concentration, the parted lips, so rosy and plush and kissable, the gleam of his teeth, the dark shadow of his lashes. Eddie is determined not to miss anything, to commit every little detail to memory. But with every passing minute, it’s getting harder to stick to that plan.

Eddie’s dick is throbbing, a dull, heavy ache between his legs. He’s desperate for more—more friction, more pressure, just more—and before long he finds himself moving with Billy, grinding up against him.

“You like that, don’t you?” Billy asks without stopping his movements, “Do you like rubbing up against me, against my hard cock? Does it feel good?” He keeps going like that, just a stream of dirty talk and nonsense, and it’s silly but it pushes all the right buttons for Eddie, and inevitably, his self-control is beginning to slip.

He understands now how Billy felt lying under him, what drove the urge to claw at his back because he’s feeling it too, that need to touch, to maximize contact. He’s running his free left hand over every bit of skin he can reach, Billy’s shoulders, his back, his ribcage, his sides, the top of his thighs. He digs his fingers into his ass hard enough for Billy to hiss in pain.

“You wanna come?” Billy asks. The question barely penetrates the haze Eddie’s caught up in. But this time, when he doesn’t get a reply, Billy doubles down. “I said, do you wanna come?”

It sounds like a challenge or a threat, Eddie doesn’t know, his brain has stopped working properly some time ago. All he can do, really, is moan his answer. “Yes, yes”, and hope Billy doesn’t have some unexpected cruelty in store for him.

Eddie wants him closer, wants to feel all of Billy pressed against him, every inch of skin, wants to rub himself against him until he comes. He’s getting light-headed, the muscles in his thighs are trembling, he’s so close. But Billy has something different in mind. He sits up again and lines up their dicks, side by side, before he closes his hand around them.

And even though Eddie watches him do it, the sensation of Billy’s cock squeezed against his, of Billy’s fingers wrapped tight and firm around them, still comes as a surprise. It knocks the air right out of him. He’s panting now, gasping, and his cock pulses, he can see the precum dripping from the slit at the tip, and then Billy begins to stroke them, moves his hand up and down over their shafts, the mushroom heads of their cock glistening with lube. Billy pushes them together, pink tip to pink tip, and the feeling is indescribable.

Something pulls tight inside Eddie, too tight, it’s gonna snap, he’s—

“Fuck,” he chokes out. “Fuck, I’m gonna come...”

Billy doesn’t stop, he keeps up the rhythm of his hand, his fingers tight around their cocks, too much—too much—too much now.

Pleasure contracts inside Eddie, turns into pain, turns into numbness. There’s a moment of nothing. His balls are so taut and heavy, he thinks they’re about to explode. He can’t bear it anymore, he can’t—Eddie hears himself moaning, weird, low animal noises, distraught, desperate, but he can’t stop himself, he’s just too far gone, he’s at the very peak. He’s—

His climax hits him like a high, full-on, ecstasy is ripping through him, spasms rippling like waves. He’s coming. He’s coming all over his chest and stomach, and Billy strokes him through it, his grip loosening. He lets go just before it becomes painful, and then, for a few moments all Eddie feels is relief.

The next thing he registers in his blissed-out state is how Billy grips himself tighter and sets a new rhythm, jerking himself off in quick, rough strokes.

It seems almost angry, violent, and without thinking, Eddie reaches out.

“Hey, let me,” he says and pushes Billy’s hand away, and to his astonishment, Billy doesn’t protest.

He must have been close already, judging by the way his stomach muscles tense up when Eddie closes his fingers around his cock. For a moment, Eddie wonders if it was such a great idea to interrupt him, but then he gives Billy’s cock an experimental squeeze, and it jumps in his hand, and Billy just makes the most awesome little noise, as if Eddie’s killing him, but in a good way, and Eddie stops worrying.

He moves his hand the way he likes it himself, not too fast, not too slow, with a nice amount of pressure to the sides of the shaft. Watches Billy’s face for clues. Takes notes when he moans, when he bites his lip, and how pleasure twists on his face. Pumps his cock, steady, steady, its shape almost familiar by now. Keeps his fingers firm and tight until Billy stiffens, muscles trembling with pent-up tension.

And then a shudder runs through him. He looks like he’s in pain, the most exquisite pain imaginable, and the sound he makes is like nothing Eddie’s ever heard—he can’t tear his eyes away from him. His fingers are slick with come, warm and wet, and his own cock twitches because this is so fucking hot his stupid brain forgot he just came, like, two minutes ago and wants him to get it up again.

Billy’s always pretty, but he’s stunning when he comes, and Eddie has every intention to jerk off to the memory of this moment for all eternity.

And then, it’s over.

Billy lets himself fall next to Eddie on the bed with a laugh. “Wow,” he says, trying to catch his breath, and “Fuck,” and “That was fucking awesome.”

Yeah, Eddie thinks with a strange sense of wonder. Yeah, it really was.

They just lie there for a minute, on their backs, side by side, waiting for their breathing to become normal again. Eddie notices all the places where he’s either sweaty—his temples, the dip of his collarbone, his thighs—or wet with lube and spunk—his stomach, his cock—because it’s getting uncomfortably chilly there. He hadn’t even realized it was that cold in his room before they started this.

He considers pulling the blanket over them but decides against it. No need to scare Billy away with too much intimacy. Eddie can’t have Billy think that he thinks that this wasn’t just a casual thing. That he wants him to stay over. Even though he does. (Of course, he does.) He figures Billy is someone who’s terrible with commitment, so he better not put him under pressure.

And there it is again—he’s thinking too much.

In the end, Eddie settles for the next best thing to a blanket. He grabs the box of tissues from the nightstand, pulls out a few to clean up the worst of the mess. Heaps another five or so on Billy’s chest so he can do the same.

Billy grunts something that sounds like a thank-you, wipes himself down without much enthusiasm, discards the crumpled-up tissues, and reaches for his cigarettes instead. He fumbles one from the pack, lights it up, holds it out to Eddie.

Eddie hesitates for a second before he takes it. “Thanks.”

He takes a drag. The tobacco is dry and the smoke burns when he pulls it down into his lungs. He holds his breath. Exhales. The smoke curls and twists above him.

They smoke in silence for a while and it’s not uncomfortable. (Aside from the fact that it really could be warmer.)

Halfway through the smoke, Billy shifts, props himself up on one elbow.

Out of the corner of his eye, Eddie can see him looking at him. “What?” he says.

“I was just thinking,” Billy says and Eddie turns his head.

Billy’s looking at him with his big blue eyes and Eddie’s stomach does a weird little flip.

“About what?”

“I still owe you.”

“Yeah?” Eddie says. He’s got no clue what Billy’s talking about. It’s not like he can’t count to two. Two people, two orgasms. Seems like they’re square.

“Yeah,” Billy says, leaning closer. His eyes are heavy-lidded now, and his voice has this tone again, like he’s purring, and that does things to Eddie if he wants it or not.

Eddie clears his throat, but the words still come out rough, “And what exactly do you owe me?”

Billy smiles. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips.

Evil, Eddie reminds himself.

“You know earlier, when you jerked me off, and you could have just gone through with it? Just a few more tugs and—” He waves his hand and spares Eddie a potentially cringe-worthy euphemism.

Eddie frowns. “Yeah, what about it?”

“You could have finished it and then I would have returned the favour, but instead—” Billy pauses, licks his damn lips again. “Instead you decided you wanted to kiss me?”

Eddie gives a little laugh. “Suppose you were just too tempting for me to resist.”

Billy cocks his head and looks even more smug than usual. “Probably true,” he says. “But what I was getting at was more—you never got your kiss.”

“I didn’t,” Eddie confirms.

“So do you still want it?”

Eddie puts countless hours of D&D to good use and rubs his chin as if he has to contemplate the question. “Can I think about it for a moment?”

Unsurprisingly, Eddie gets a pillow in the face instead of a kiss. And even more unsurprisingly, he still gets the kiss afterwards.

Despite his ostentatious disinterest, Billy actually loves it when Eddie kisses him, unhurried and thorough, so that’s what they do for a bit, interrupted by short breaks for getting another beer, putting on another record, smoking another joint, and, naturally, another round of hand-jobs.

It’s not until dawn breaks over Forest Hills Trailer Park that they finally fall asleep. Underneath the blanket. It is, after all, fucking cold in Eddie’s room.

–