If I Stare Too Long

Chapter 7: It's Been The Ruin Of Many A Poor Boy (And God I know I'm one)

The third time Steve's BMW kicks up dust at the trailer park, it rolls just past Munson's place– and right up to Billy's.

It's been a week since he spent a night splashing around in Steve Harrington's pool. A week since Steve has been by. Billy had even been tempted to take Max down to the arcade just so he could have a reason to waste time at Family Video.

He hadn't done it, but he'd certainly given it some thought.

Instead of stepping out of his car, though, Steve rolls his window down before killing the engine. Unbuckles. Twists in his seat and rests his forearms on the windowsill and sets his chin on his forearms. Eyes Billy where he's sitting and smoking in his lawn chair again.

There's at least an empty basket next to him, and fresh clothes on the line out front and in the back.

"Hey there, trouble," Steve says.

"Hey yourself," Billy says. "What, not here for Munson?"

Billy knows that Eddie is probably sleeping right about now. It's midday and he was up all night playing music that filtered in through Billy's window. Billy fell asleep sometime around six in the morning. Slept for a few hours until the sound of Eddie's music cut off. And then he woke up.

Steve's head tilts a bit as he lets his gaze stray across the dirt road to Eddie's trailer. Mr. Munson, Eddie's uncle, is actually milling about with a cup of coffee in hand. Steve gives a little wave.

"No," he says, glancing back at Billy. "You owe me a ride."

Well. Billy's pretty sure he woke up. Because this is right out of a wet dream. Especially as Steve climbs his way out of the car, all limbs and charm. The smile on his face is big and expectant, and somehow instead of looking dopey he just looks confident and in charge.

Like he knows Billy's helpless for him.

"Fine," Billy says, feeling warm, feeling dreamy. "Let me get you a helmet."

He ducks inside and comes back out with two helmets. One is older, the first one that Billy bought. He tosses the newer one, his usual one, at Steve.

"It's gonna ruin your hair," Billy warns.

Steve shakes his head, already rolling the helmet around in his grip, sort of bouncing on his toes. All that nervous energy, just for Billy. Billy wants to contain it, to catch it and feel the way Steve might buzz underneath his fingertips like trapped lightning.

"Nothing can ruin my hair," Steve assures him.

"We'll see," he says. And then strides over and raps his knuckles on the helmet he gave to Steve. "C'mon. Put it on. I'll help."

After Steve slides it over his head, Billy helps him adjust it. Tightens the strap and makes sure it sits comfortably—and correctly—on Steve's head.

Billy's not planning on going too fast. God fucking knows he's taken enough chances with Steve in the last couple of weeks to keep him careful.

"Ready, pretty boy?" Billy asks, popping his own helmet on. It's not as comfortable as his new one, but he'll make do. "Once you're on, you're going to want to put your hands on my hips. Won't be able to hear you too well, so give me a tap," he pats at his own side, like Steve should, "if you want to slow down or stop."

Steve nods, dark eyes darting down over him, and he tilts his head with a little frown. "Shouldn't we be, like, wearing leather jackets or something?"

"Wasn't planning on going that fast," Billy says. "But you can borrow one if you want. Might not be a bad idea."