If I Stare Too Long

Chapter 1: Prologue

The first time he sees Steve Harrington roll through Hawkins' shitty RV park to stop in front of Eddie fucking Munson's trailer, he shatters the beer bottle in his hand just by squeezing too hard.

He's sitting outside with the radio on full blast, in nothing but an old pair of basketball shorts, long since given up on bothering to hide the mess of scar tissue his chest and back have become. June has just rolled into Hawkins, and a heat wave followed.

Even without the gates of hell opening beneath their feet, it's too hot for a shirt.

So he's sitting there, shaking glass from his hand with beer dripping down his fingers, sweaty and shirtless and seething as he spots Harrington's head pop out of the window as he lays into the horn. He doesn't even look in Billy's direction.

"Munson!" Steve calls from the car, and even from here, Billy can hear the clatter coming from inside the trailer sitting opposite of where he's been shacked up with the Mayfields since clawing his way out of a coma. "Let's go! We're wasting daylight!"

Billy thinks this is the first time he's seen Harrington on the wrong side of town since the ex-chief of police's little psychic daughter saved the world again. He doesn't know if he came here before that– was too busy laying in a hospital bed with a feeding tube down his throat– but he'd put his money on fuck no, judging by the way he's currently refusing to get out of his car, hanging with one arm out of the window instead.

He's looking at the Munson trailer like it might bite him. Which is funny, considering the damn thing is brand new. A gift from the town, for all the trouble. Billy thinks the town needs to work on their hush money.

Steve lays into the horn again. "Eddie, c'mon!"

"Hot date, Harrington?"

Those big doe eyes of his dart over, wide and startled, like he hadn't even realized Billy was sitting out on a rickety lawn chair trying to drink himself into a stupor before noon. He's tense, jumpier than Billy's ever seen, the hand hanging out the window flinching like he wants to grab something. It looks like he's been caught doing something he's not supposed to, in a place he isn't supposed to be.

It does very little to soothe Billy's hackles down. He has to take a breath before he reaches out and slaps the radio off, just to keep from breaking a third one. He can only beg the neighbors so many times.

"Uh," Steve blinks at him from the car window, skittish gaze darting down to Billy's chest– to the scars there– before jerking right back up. "I'm actually a glorified taxi, right now."

Billy's brow arches. Neither of them moves– Steve, idling in the car, half out of the window; Billy, sitting sprawled and watching.

Steve's fingers drum against the metal of the car door. Billy would bet he's got a leg bouncing like he would on the bench during games before he graduated, and he hates that he knows so many of this preppy, pretty boy's habits. He hates how, even now, he doesn't want to look away from all of that nervous, barely-contained energy.

Billy flinches first. Looks away. Bends down to snatch up the half-empty pack of cigarettes tucked into the ankle of his sock, tapping one out before he's even sat straight again. Slumps back in his seat press it to his lips and grab the Bic tucked behind his ear to light it up.

There's a scattering of used-up buds at his feet.

"Pretty fancy fuckin' taxi service," he mumbles around the filter and then breathes deeply.

Steve Harrington squints at him as he blows out smoke. Tilts his head.

Only looks away when Munson's door clatters open.