Running Through Storms, Chasing the Lightning - Harringrove

1. motel hell and a hand to hold

Billy's grip tightens against the wheel.
He doesn't know where the fuck he's going at this point.
He's driven past the motel, driven in a fucking loop, a million times over now, he's near some rich-ass, fancy neighborhood, and he's pretty sure he recognizes the suburb name, but he can't think past the pounding in his head and the throbbing against his ribcage.

He turns off the car, tilting his head forward to rest against the steering wheel, breathing deeply, when a knock sounds against his window.
Standing outside the car is Steve Harrington, with a furrowed brow, and what appears to be a baseball bat in hand.
Billy moves to turn the car back on, but watches Steve's nose wrinkle at the movement and stops himself, like a fucking idiot.
They hate each other.
He'd tried to kill Steve last year.
But here Harrington is, making a hand motion, telling Billy that he's supposed to follow after Steve, before he turns on his heel and walks away, as if he expects Billy to just… Blindly follow.
And God, he is a fucking idiot, because he gets out of the Camaro, locks it behind himself, and follows Steve up through the gates.

He shuffles his feet on the porch as Steve opens the door.
He's been quiet this whole time and honestly Billy is just standing there waiting for him to start yelling, calling him a douche, calling him a total spastic, violent dickwad, but instead, Steve just stands off to the side of the open door, lights glowing invitingly in the front hallway of the Harrington house.

"You gonna come in, Hargrove, or do I have to drag you?" Steve sighs, fingers already reaching for the edge of Billy's leather jacket.

Billy flinches back, but does as Steve asks, stepping inside.
He feels… Out of place, in the hall, all this glamor and extravagance making his skin itch, like if he clawed it off, he'd become someone different, someone better, someone worthy of standing in this house, next to King Steve Harrington.

"Your folks know you sneak in the local delinquents, Harrington?" Billy teases, but there's something in his voice that even he can't place. It isn't the usual mean bite that he uses when he's bitching at Steve. It's something different. Something more vulnerable.

Steve just rolls his eyes. "They left a couple weeks ago, they're not gonna know,"

And with that, he's disappearing up the stairs.
Billy stands at the bottom, staring up after him, with a small frown.
What the fuck ever. This was Steve Harrington and Billy refuses to feel sympathy for him.
Steve pokes his head down from the top of the stairs, once again furrowing his brow.

"Get your ass up here, Hargrove, you're not driving home tonight."

Billy's head snaps up, venom rising on his tongue, as he shifts his body to storm back out the door, but Steve just raises as an eyebrow, slips back through the door he exited, like he knows that Billy doesn't really want to leave.
Billy trudges up the stairs after him, arms crossed over his chest.

Steve is waiting, with a first-aid kit and a change of clothes on the bed.
When he hears Billy's footsteps at the door, he immediately approaches him and starts tugging at his jacket, trying to get it off.

"Whoa, whoa!" Billy exclaims, jumping back. "At least take me to dinner first, Harrington!"

Steve pouts at him, and dammit it's not cute, it isn't, apparently frustrated at Billy's lack of cooperation.

"I'll get you dinner after I make sure you're not gonna puncture a lung in my house, you dick." Steve snaps. "Jacket and shirt, off."

Billy feels himself tensing as he shifts away from Steve, readying himself to bolt.

"What the hell are you talking about?" He hisses, through gritted teeth.

Steve looks at him like he's the biggest idiot in the world. "Those bruises on your chest that you pretend don't exist." He reaches out, not quite meanly, but not with any measure of gentleness either, because they wouldn't be them if they were gentle, and presses his fingers in.
It's not like he's trying to hurt, it's like he's trying to remind, like Billy could ever forget.

"You don't know what you're on about, Harrington, so drop it before I make you," And he can't help but take any kindness handed to him and dig his teeth in, burying his fangs up to the gums in whatever it is, rips and tears at it until it limps away bleeding. But Steve fucking Harrington sinks his teeth in right back, finds the soft, fleshy bits of Billy that he hides beneath leather jackets and heavy metal, and bites down, not to harm, but to hold, like he's trying to keep Billy from running, just like he always does.

It's like Steve thinks he can stare Billy into submission, and maybe he can, because after a few moments of those chestnut and honey eyes, boring into his soul, Billy is stripping off his jacket and yanking his shirt over his head.
Then, Steve's hands are curling around his hips, guiding him backwards to sit on the bed, landing next to the first-aid kit.
Steve works with a single minded focus, fingers tracing over the edges of the bruises, suddenly tender in a way he wasn't before.
He gently massages in some cream or other that Billy doesn't know the purpose of, but he does know that Steve's fingers are like lightning across his skin, sending tingles up his spin, as he sits there, feeling viscerally exposed beneath Steve's soft ministrations, like his entire chest has been ripped open, all for goddamn Steve Harrington, and he can't stop thinking that, that this is Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington that he almost tried to kill, is being careful with him, treating him like glass, and Billy has never been delicate to anyone, but for some reason, Steve treating him this way doesn't piss him off, it makes him want to return the favor, makes him want to be sweet and soft and gentle, and all those sappy adjectives right back.

Instead, he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding as Steve leans back, pressing a t-shirt and a pair of shorts into Billy's hands.

"Tell me when you're changed," He commands, packing up the first aid-kit and stepping out of the room, going to the bathroom across the hall.

The Hawkins High swim team shirt tugs a little around his shoulders and rides up a little at his hips, but he expected that, because Steve is a little shorter, a little thinner.

Once he's changed, he swings open the bedroom door to see Steve sitting across the hall, fiddling with a loose string on the hem of his own shirt.
As soon as he spots Billy, he doesn't even give him a chance to argue before he's breezing past him, fingers catching on Billy's borrowed shirt, pulling him back into the bedroom.
Steve yanks back the covers and shoves Billy down onto the bed, before crawling in after him, koalaing himself around Billy to keep him in place.

"It gets cold in here at night," Steve says, in lieu of a proper response, nestling himself against Billy's body.

So, Billy stays, tells himself that he shouldn't leave Steve motherfucking Harrington to freeze to death in this big mansion, all by himself, so he turns into Steve, rests his chin on top of Steve's head, hooks his arms around Steve's waist, and pretends that he's not already starting to get uncomfortably warm.
He listens to Steve's rapidly steadying breathing, muffled against his sternum, and lets it lull him off to sleep.