Underwater (Wonderful Nothing)

The Fall

October 31st, Wednesday, 1984

22:28

Steve Harrington punches like a rich kid, all flash and no substance. The first hit pops him right in the nose, sending blood spilling like some over-the-top movie moment. It's a familiar sting, like same shit, different day.

He was supposed to go on a date tonight, sink a few beers, maybe get lucky—but instead, he's here, in this crackpot house, surrounded by those weirdo middle schoolers.

He watches Harrington standing there, shoving that ridiculous messy hair out of his face, those big, doe-like eyes now narrowed. He realizes that he's started something bigger—something bound to get ugly. The kid doesn't get it. He's always just a pretty face, an entitled brat with a silver spoon shoved so far down his throat he probably chokes on it at night.

But there's something else there too.

Maybe Harrington isn't as soft as he thinks. He can almost respect that—if only it didn't come wrapped in that pathetic image everyone else used to fawn over. "King Steve," they called him, as if that title actually meant something. Billy has never seen it. Until now, he guesses. There's a fire there, a flicker of something raw and dangerous that makes Billy feel alive.

Billy might just be imagining things, but he sees it in Harrington's eyes—something almost eager. It's like he needs this fight too. Maybe now he finally, finally gets a glimpse of the guy who might have been king. The real king, beneath all that shiny bullshit.

It intrigues him, makes his blood pump a little faster.

But even in this moment, Harrington punches like a pathetic bitch. It's almost disappointing. But hell, who is Billy to judge? He thrives on the messiness of it all.

And he can't help but think—if Harrington really wants to play, he better learn how to take a hit.

"Get out," Harrington says, his voice thick with contempt as he touches two fingers to his chest.

No one tells me what to do. Billy doesn't know if he said it out loud or if it's just pulsing through his mind.

His hand moves before he can think, fingers gripping Harrington's collar, pulling him closer. But in that split second, it isn't Steve Harrington standing there.

It's not this pretty boy with the carefully styled hair, not the guy everyone looks up to.

Billy's breathing hard. Everything's blurred, distorted.

He pulls Harrington closer, his fist trembling.

Then it happens—a fast swing, hard and unmasked. Billy doesn't bother disguising the throw; Harrington ducks under it, quick and graceful, that annoying agility of his coming into play. Just as Billy realizes his mistake, Harrington's fist connects with his mouth, snapping his head back. The taste of iron floods his senses, and just as the shock registers, another punch lands across his jaw.

His lips split open, filling his mouth with the coppery taste of his own blood. He feels the burn of tears threatening behind his eyes, but he swallows them down, refusing to let it show.

The kid is meaner now, more determined, like he finally grasps what's at stake: that he has to put Billy down and keep him there.

It stings—badly—but Billy just laughs.

The whole time, the murmuring of those freak kids buzzes in Billy's ears like a swarm of insects, their anxious whispers louder than they should be. It grates on him, the way they're all huddled together, wide-eyed and nervous, every one of them cheering for Harrington.