Chapter Text
The Sullivan Residence Hall sits on the southeast end of the academy. From the back, there’s an unobstructed view of the lake — wild grass cradling the water's edge and dark woods on the other side. Dorothy, we’re not in California anymore .
Billy Hargrove sneers at the sight of those woods, looking out a third-floor window of the boy’s dorm. He’s a long way from his home in San Deigo but thinking back to the drive in when he’d first glimpsed that lake from the window of Mrs. Byers car; it sooths him a little how easy it would be to slip out a back door and find the road out of this place.
“Curfew is at ten o’clock on school nights, and eleven on weekends, no exceptions.” His guide Mr. Bauman says from further down the hall. He’d been introduced to Billy as the head of the dorm, or as he’d put it, the ‘ residential authority ’.
He yaps on, pausing and clearing his throat impatiently only when he realizes that Billy has fallen behind. Billy pretends not to notice, not done with his study of the school grounds. There’s a group of teens down by the lake doing something in waders with a mustached man he can only assume is a teacher. A science class maybe?
Either way, escape attempts should they become necessary had better wait for nightfall.
Town is only a ten-minute drive down the road — not that there was much to see of it when he and Mrs. Byers drove through. But even a hick town like Hawkins has to have its watering holes. Places where he can bum a few drinks and find a fuck or a fight. Billy gets this buzzing in his head whenever he’s due for one. He knows his limits pretty well and manages the pressure before he blows. Usually dancing helps with that.
But what has gotten under Billy’s skin lately isn’t the sort of thing dancing is gonna cure. He’s been a powder keg since the day he buried his mother, and that’s what Mrs. Harrington doesn’t get , or she never would have let him near her precious school.
Unbidden, brown eyes flash through Billy’s mind, cutting just as deep as they had back in the studio, and Billy’s gut tightens. He needs to get laid.
He’d love to let loose some steam with Harrington, but that door seems firmly shut; and before he goes and does something stupid — like yank it open with his bare hands — he ought to decide what the fuck he’s doing.
This place is his ticket out from under his dad for good and if he really is going to stay, it wouldn’t be very smart to shit where he eats. Right?
“Mr. Hargrove?”
Mr. Bauman interrupts Billy’s thoughts, and Billy shoots him an annoyed glance, unworried about possibly pissing him off. Bauman’s got soft written all over him: middle-aged with a receding hairline, wearing a suit jacket he bought in the seventies and thick grandfather glasses even a grandfather would balk at.
“You don’t look like a dancer.” Billy points out, rather than move. He’ll come when he’s good and ready.
“Yeah? Nobody’s young forever. I teach folk dances. Irish step specifically. Though from what I’ve heard, you’re already not bad.”
Billy's brows arch in surprise.
“Grapevine moves fast around here huh?” It’s barely been an hour since he left Mrs. Sinclair’s class.
“Like you wouldn’t believe. And just you remember that Hargrove, when you and your little friends are planning all the little nighttime adventures you think I don’t know about.” Bauman warns. “I’ve got eyes and ears everywhere. You step one foot out of line and I’ll know about it.”
Is this guy for rea l? Billy wonders as Mr. Bauman stands there staring him down with beetle eyes, grinning like he’s daring Billy to try something funny. Like he lives for this shit. Billy hates authority figures on principle, because most of them are stupid assholes, but this Bauman guy really takes it to a whole new level of insufferable.
Threat delivered, Mr. Bauman turns and starts striding down the corridor without waiting for him this time. After a moment Billy reluctantly follows, the weight of his duffel bag cutting into his shoulder. They walk down a row of identical wooden doors with number plaques beside them. There are a few mats outside and a poster stuck here or there for personality, but the boys on the third floor clearly are not spending their creativity on the hallways.
"Laundry is in the basement. The machines are free to use and if you run out of supplies you can purchase more at the student store." Bauman drones as they go, not bothering to check to see if Billy is listening. "It’s two beds to a room. Private rooms are reserved for a select number of seniors. If you want a chance at that by the time you’re one, I’d put your name on the list today . Room inspections will occur at random. Possession of drugs or any other items from the contraband list is grounds for disciplinary action, which may include immediate expulsion."
How do they expect anyone to remember all these stupid rules?
“So no girls then?” Billy drawls, just to be a pill about it.
“Female students are not permitted to enter any male residence hall outside of select visiting hours, and your door must remain open during visitation. You wanna audition for sixteen and pregnant I suggest you find a closet somewhere, because if I catch you with a lady friend, you’ll both be serving detention.” Bauman answers and Billy sneers.
“Just detention? Not much of a deterrent.”
“Detention with me means missed practice. You bet your ass your instructors will make you feel each one. That’s your real punishment.”
The dude cackles. Cackles - like a fucking witch.
Got it. No chicks in the dorms. Not unless he wants to get kicked out, and regardless of the spur of the moment decision he made back in Mrs. Sinclair’s classroom when he was putting Harrington on notice, Billy is not a hundred percent certain that he doesn’t want that.
"The bathrooms are communal," Mr. Bauman continues, gesturing to a door on their right. "Shower before seven if you want hot water."
They turn a corner into a common area where a few boys are lounging on a blue couch set in front of a flat screen tv. The volume is already turned down low, but one of them reaches for a remote and turns it down even lower when the boys spot Mr. Bauman. Who pauses to gesture to a bulletin board hanging on the wall.
"This is the lounge. Open until curfew. Community notices as well as weekly cleaning assignments are posted here. Everyone participates, no exceptions. You’re expected to manage your own schedule, so I don’t want to hear excuses. Questions so far?" The tone suggests he very much hopes there are none.
"Yeah. When do we eat?" Billy asks. Guys gotta to know when his next meal is coming.
"Dinner is served in the dining hall between four-thirty and seven thirty each day. Breakfast is from five to eight in the morning. Lunch starts at eleven, closes at two. There are vending machines if you miss a meal, and snack options available for purchase in the student store, as well as various kiosks around campus." As Mr. Bauman rattles off the dining hours, he eyes Billy's leather jacket and torn jeans with thinly veiled disapproval.
“I should mention. We regularly entertain important guests here, so the dress code applies even in the dining hall. Dance attire is acceptable but nothing... provocative."
Billy smirks. "Define provocative."
"You'll find it in your student handbook. Which I suggest you read thoroughly ."
Mr. Bauman motions for Billy to follow again, and they continue down the next hall a short way before he stops abruptly in front of an undecorated door, loud music pumping out from within. He fishes in the pocket of his mustard suit and produces a key.
"Don't lose it. Replacement fee is twenty dollars." Without waiting for a reply, he turns and knocks his knuckles against the wood with sharp authority. The sound is almost lost however under the loud music coming out through the small opening under the door—something with a heavy bass line and dreamy vocals.
"Tallchief! How many times do I have to warn you about keeping the music down?!" Mr. Bauman barks.
The music suddenly dials down, and after a moment the door swings open. The boy in the doorway is tall—taller than Billy by several inches—with long black hair tied back in a loose ponytail. His face is striking with high cheekbones and dark, expressive eyes. He’s obviously either just back from a dance class or on his way to one, a pair of loose gray sweatpants hanging low over his tights and the sleeves of his leotard peeking out from under a faded sleeveless t-shirt with the neckline stretched out to within an inch of its life. INDIGENOUS DANCE FESTIVAL 2013 is printed across the front.
"Yo, Mr. Bauman! What brings you here dude?" the boy questions in a lazy Californian drawl that instantly snags Billy’s attention.
"This is William Hargrove, your new roommate, Dude ." Mr. Bauman sneers, gesturing to Billy. "Hargrove, this is Argyle Tallchief."
Billy's eyebrows shoot up. "Tallchief? Like Maria Tallchief?" And Argyle's face breaks into a genuine smile, surprise evident in his expression. "Yeah, man. That’s my great-aunt. Love to see a man who knows his history."
"My mom was a big fan of Firebird," Billy says simply, not wanting to elaborate. The past tense of her still feels strange in his mouth. His new roommate picks up on the vibe and simply nods without asking any awkward follow up questions.
"Glad to see you boys are getting along. Maybe you’ll be a good influence on him Hargrove. The foundation had high hopes for Mr. Tallchief but he’s more interested in being high I think," Bauman has the gall to say, smiling about it as he rests a hand on Argyle’s shoulder.
He opens his mouth to say something else, but then his attention is suddenly caught by something—or someone—at the far end of the corridor.
"Morsov! I see you Fyodor!" he calls out, arm snapping up quick as a whip into a dramatic point. "I know you were the one who locked me in the storage closet!"
Without another word to Billy or Argyle, Bauman takes off down the hallway like a shot in pursuit of a lanky guy bolting in the other direction like he saw a ghost. What the actual fuck ?
“Are all the teachers around here like that, or -?” Billy questions, making Argyle grin. He steps back, waving Billy inside.
“Bauman’s not as much of a hard ass as he puts on. Stopping our mischief is like a game for him. No fun if we’re all expelled right?”
Sure. These people are crazy , Billy thinks as he looks around, sizing up his temporary living situation. The room is split down the middle like some bizarre before-and-after photo. Argyle's side explodes with color—tapestries hanging from the wall, photographs taped haphazardly between them, and clothes spilling from an open dresser drawer. A rainbow themed dream catcher that he really hopes is some attempt at irony hangs above the unmade bed, and suspicious little bundles of herbs sit in a ceramic dish on his desk.
The other side of the room is stark and bare. A set of clean bedding sits folded neatly atop the bare mattress on the bed and the plain empty desk shines with wood polish, as do the vacant shelves above them waiting to be filled.
"Sorry about the mess," Argyle says of his side of the room, though he doesn't sound particularly apologetic. "Wasn’t expecting to share with anyone this term. My roommate bailed on me two weeks in because he got offered a role on Broadway." He makes air quotes with his fingers and rolls his eyes. “He’s just an understudy.”
Billy doesn’t respond, dropping his duffel on the empty bed with a thud and tossing his backpack down beside it.
"You want help unpacking?"
"Not much to unpack," Billy mutters in response to the offer, unzipping his bag and pulling out a few folded t-shirts.
"When do you start classes? Tomorrow?"
Not for the first time since he left the studio in the Tallchief Center, Billy asks himself what the fuck he’s doing at this school. The practical side of him knows he doesn’t actually have much choice. College was always his ticket out of Neil Hargrove’s house. Get the grades. Play some good ball. Snatch the first full ride on offer to his Neil free life.
But then, Billy’s mother died. And as much as that sucks the facts are he almost let her death kill any chance he had of escaping his father. Grades in the gutter, benched from missing too much school; Billy was being real fucking stupid before Mrs. Harrington had showed up to wave a fat check under his father’s nose. It was his dad who forced him to transfer here midterm. To the Hawkins Academy of Arts. To dance .
Maybe that’s it. The reason Billy keeps swiveling back and forth like a broken branch in the wind is because he doesn’t really want to dance. Not because he’s not good. He proved that to everyone back there during his audition. He could do this shit if he really wanted to.
He’s just not sure he does.
Now that his blood isn’t up, and with nothing to prove Billy just feels cold. His mom thought dancing again would fix him; and it makes him a total piece of shit, but there’s this part of him that wants to choke before he makes any of her dreams come true. How stupid is that?
Real fucking stupid - the better angel on his shoulder sounds like Riv.
Billy shrugs off the self-doubt. He’s here, right? Out from under Neil three whole years earlier than expected, and if he wants it to stick then the only choice he’s got is to get his shit together. Stick to the plan. Only it’s even better now because he doesn’t even have to ball anymore.
"Yeah. Morning." he finally answers. Argyle nods slowly, taking Billy’s standoffish demeanor in stride.
"Cool. You need help with your schedule? It can be pretty confusing at first, cause of all the rotating classes and stuff."
Billy hesitates, then reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out the folded paper they’d printed for him in the registration office. He could probably figure it out on his own but there’s no point in struggling if he doesn’t have to, and the office lady had made a huge deal about how being more than five minutes late to lesson without a note would result in an absence. Apparently three unapproved absences would land him in the dean’s office.
He hands it over without comment and Argyle studies it like he’s reading off a recipe.
“Sophomore Classic Literature, Algebra II – okay. Nice. Spanish - I’m taking Polish this cycle, but at least we’ll have English together - Chemistry, World History, Metalworks –that's rad, lunch, okay and then your dance blocks in the afternoon…” he rattles off, thick eyebrows scrunching together.
"Whoa, dude. You leveled L61 off your audition ?"
Billy can’t help the little bit of smugness he feels when Argyle’s mouth drops open. There’s genuine admiration in his eyes when he looks up from the paper.
"It’s just a number." He shrugs. “I don’t even know what that shit means."
"Just a—" Argyle laughs, shaking his head. "Bro, rank is everything in ballet. They rank us so that we’ll be used to the pressure and won’t pull a Red Poppy when we join a real company.”
“A what ?”
Argyle laughs a little at Billy’s blank expression.
“Back in the twenties, these two Russian ballerinas pulled a joint suicide jumping from the flies during the show Red Poppy. Major crash out. Died in front of a full audience.”
Jesus' mom , this is the career you died wishing for?
Billy’s mother never really had the best judgment.
“Anyway, we’re all ranked like in the real corps. Your number is shorthand for level six tier one .” Argyle helpfully explains, pausing to throw himself down on his bed and prop himself up on his elbows before going on. “Sixers are royal class here. And tier one means you’re étoile, dude. The rest of us can suck eggs as far as the scouts are concerned."
He’s top dog, is what Billy hears, smirking with satisfaction. Good. And it’s gonna stay that way. He didn’t work so hard and risk so much just to let some assholes in suits tell him he couldn’t out dance some pampered brats.
“Harrington’s L61 too right?” Billy glances up to confirm Argyle’s nod. “Huh. Must not be that hard then.”
Behind him Tallchief barks a disbelieving laugh, a glint in his eye that suggests he’s excited about something as he answers, “For you maybe. I’ve never out danced King Steve, and I’ve been training since I was eight. How long you been dancing for?”
It’s the first time he’s been asked since he got here but he can already tell he’s going to grow to really hate that question.
“All my life.” He answers without looking up from his bag. And maybe warned by the flatness in his tone, Argyle doesn’t press for details.
“Cool. Cool. I could show you around campus if you want?" he offers, extending his arm to hand Billy his schedule back. "Help you figure out where everything is before tomorrow? This place is pretty huge.”
Billy snatches it and tosses it into the empty bin next to the nightstand. "Nah. Where can a guy bum a smoke around here?"
Argyle winces sympathetically. "No smoking on campus, man. Madame H's got a zero-tolerance policy. You get caught; it's automatic detention."
Billy snorts.
"It smells like a dispensary in here and you’re telling me you always follow the rules?"
" Moi ? I'm a man of the streets, dude.” A sly grin spreads across the other teen’s face just as an alarm starts beeping. Argyle pulls a phone from the pocket of his sweats and thumbs off the alarm before jumping up from the bed, grabbing a duffel bag out from under it.
“First rule of the street is never give up your source to new blood." He winks, slinging the bag over his shoulder. "Gotta jet to class. You sure you don’t wanna come?"
Billy shakes his head and Argyle shrugs, throwing up a peace sign on his way out. The door clicks closed behind him, leaving Billy alone with the silence.
For a moment he doesn’t move, staring at the door, and ever so slowly the tension coiled in his body unwinds. Billy abandons his half-unpacked bags and flops down onto the unmade bed face first. He grabs the starchy new pillow and presses his face into it hard to muffle a scream.
When he comes up for air, he rolls onto his back and stays there staring up at the ceiling completely spent. It’s like he expunged his will to live on the breath of that scream, body drained and numb.
He's not sure he could move from this spot right now even if someone yelled fire in the hallway - but at least now he feels a little less liable to ‘crash out’ as his roommate put it. He closes his eyes and tries to empty his mind but the quiet presses in around him, amplifying the thoughts that he’s been trying to drown out all day.
Steve Harrington's face keeps flashing through his mind— brown eyes cool with indifference in the face of defeat. When Billy decided to show him up back there, he’d expected embarrassment. Maybe even anger. But not blunt dismissal.
The old Steve would have cried. And not just because they were kids. The Steve he remembers wore his heart on his sleeve in a way that Billy never dared to even at six - could wield wounded eyes like a kicked dog in one of those animal cruelty commercials. A far cry from this ‘King Steve’ guy nobody can shut up about.
When his classmates had been losing their minds over Billy’s audition and acting like he was the second coming, Steve had reacted to the whole thing like it wasn't even worth noticing.
But that’s not quite true, is it? Billy thinks, replaying the moments after his audition in his mind.
Mrs. Harrington had stepped off to the side to speak with Mrs. Sinclair, and he recalls the way the other students had crowded around him, the taller one—Nick—leading the charge with this calculating look in his eyes that Billy immediately detested. It’s the look someone gives you when they think you are an easy mark and they are gonna get over somehow.
"It’s about time we got some new blood around here. Maybe now the instructors will remember Steve’s not the only one of us who can dance. I’m Nick Benson.” The taller boy says, offering Billy a smile full of false warmth. “Where'd they scoop you from? Bolshoi? Vaganova? You've got that intensity to you. You can always tell when somebody’s been through the Russian dance machine."
There’s something real punchable in the way the Benson kid talks about the Russians, but Billy ignores it, eyes seeking out Steve instead where he is hanging back with what must be the most loyal members of his entourage. They’re trying not to look too eager, but they came just like everyone else to see what Billy is about. It makes him grin.
"Does it matter where I was before this? I'm here cause Mrs. H. doesn't think any of you can keep up with the princess.” Billy waits for Steve to look at him, grin broadening when Harrington can’t seem to help but meet his gaze a moment later. “And from what I saw she ain't wrong."
The smile slips off of the Nick kid’s face just like that, his jaw tightening. "It's easy to be top of the class when your mother's the director," he snaps, voice rising, oblivious to the attention he’s drawn from the adults.
“If things were fairer, I could dance circles around Harrington."
For some reason Billy highly doubts that.
"You're welcome to do so, Mr. Benson. No one is stopping you." Mrs. Harrington interjects dryly from where she and Mrs. Sinclair are still standing, echoing Billy’s sentiments. "Least of all me. It’s a much bigger expense to solicit new talent."
She lets the silence hang there with all its weight. Even the kids on the sidelines who weren’t apart of the drama, fall silent in the wake of the madame speaking.
"I suggest you nurture yours with practice before your next lesson. Class dismissed."
Billy smirks at the memory. Nick had stalked off without another word, the rest of the group dispersing just as quickly.
He can admit that it’s a little badass the way that Mrs. Harrington could clear a room. Steve hadn’t looked all that impressed with it though. He’d rolled his eyes, but something in the pinch of his mouth gave off the vibe that he was holding something back.
Like maybe if none of them were there he would have had some choice words for mommy dear. Billy shouldn’t wonder what Steve might have said if he didn’t hold back. Shouldn’t care.
But as he lays there staring at his ceiling, the truth of it stares right back at him. He wants to know. Steve. Not like, be friends again or whatever. More like… Steve is an unsolved puzzle in Billy’s mind. An unresolved piece of his past that he could ignore before – out of sight out of mind – but now that he’s here, begs for resolution.
Unfinished business. That’s it. He’s got a decent plan: go to school, make some money, graduate. He never expected to see him again, but now it makes sense to put a real ending on things and close the book on Steve Harrington for good.
Hell, maybe he’ll even convince Steve they should fuck. A lot of straight boys are down to try it at least once.
It’s a nice thought to close his eyes to.
~~*~*~~
Billy wakes up to a dark room, disoriented in the unfamiliar bed, unsure for a moment what it was that woke him. Braced either way for the worst.
The floorboards creek across the room and Billy tenses up. In the dark he can just make out Argyle closing his closet door, the other teen turning with his gym bag in hand. Billy sags in relief, but visions of hands grabbing him out of bed still stab behind his eyes as he struggles to breathe. You’re safe . He tries to tell himself. Neil can’t get the jump on him here. He's fine.
He must make a sound though, because Argyle pauses when he reaches his bed and twists around to glance toward Billy.
“You awake?”
Swallowing roughly, Billy forces his breathing to even.
“What time is it?” He forces out, but doesn’t wait for an answer, sitting up to peer at the digital clock on the nightstand. It reads 4:47 am.
“Jesus Christ. It’s not even five. Are you insane?”
“Nah, just trying to stay on top of my game. Doors open at five and I’m meeting a few guys in DC-1 for practice. You wanna come?”
Billy sighs and slings his legs free of the blankets, knowing sleep won't return. He might as well get a shower in before everyone else. He doesn’t bother answering Argyle about practice - figures he’ll get the message - and shuffles on bare feet to the communal bathroom.
It’s basically empty this early; water runs from a single stall in the corner but there's barely any steam in the air. For a second Billy pauses, the wild thought that maybe it’s Harrington in that stall passing through his mind before he boots it away with a scoff. Steve’s got a whole house to be naked in, why the fuck would he be here?
Billy grabs a towel from the stack on the table by the door and gives it a careful sniff. Smells alright – probably clean.
The hot water helps clear his head, washing away the stress of his rude awakening. Last night's dream is a little harder to shake off. Gets annoyingly more persistent in fact, the more he relaxes. Hot eyes and grasping hands, Harrington’s arms fluttering like wings, Billy’s hands on his body, his arm tucked under the bend in his waist as Harrington bends back back back until he’s damn near folded in half.
Fuck.
His dick is hard.
It’s fine. It’s not because of some stupid dream. He’s hard because he’s fifteen and he can count the days he doesn’t wake up ready to hammer nails on two fingers.
Resigned, Billy wraps a hand around his cock and jerks off quickly and quietly - routine maintenance - uncaring of who might hear; and when the water starts to run cold, he gets out, toweling himself down.
The room’s empty when he gets back to it, Argyle long gone, so he discards the towel at the door. He goes for toned down, pulling on a clean black t-shirt and jeans without rips. The dress code can kiss his ass, but he's got a plan to follow, and it doesn’t include getting kicked out on day one.
The mess hall is much emptier at just a little after five thirty in the morning, but there are a surprising number of early risers. Pockets of students sit together with their notebooks open as they finish last minute assignments. Others wander in lugging gym bags and instrument cases to catch a bite before an early morning practice.
Billy doesn’t see his roommate anywhere and figures Argyle must be planning on eating after his practice. He fills his tray with scrambled eggs and toast and sits alone at an empty table.
He doesn’t watch for him, but Billy knows just the same that Steve doesn’t come into the hall for breakfast that morning. But any disappointment that he feels about that disappears once he gets to his first period.
Classic literature. It’s in the A building so he finds it easy, but it’s not until he walks into the classroom and scans the mostly filled seats that Billy remembers Argyle saying this was sophomore English. Which means — Billy’s pulse quickens when he spots Harrington at a desk near the window, talking to the girl with dark red hair perched on the edge of it. He's laughing at something she said, his head thrown back, exposing the column of his throat. Billy's mouth goes dry.
He makes for the empty desk beside Harrington, ignoring the curious glances from the other students. The redhead and Harrington stop whatever it is they are talking about as Billy saunters up.
“Well if it isn’t HAPA’s new star!” the chick coos, eyes roving over him like she’s seizing up the best cuts to take home from the butchers. Billy smirks, puffing out his chest a little.
"Morning, Stevie. This seat taken?"
Harrington's brow twitches. The only sign he gives that the familiarity gets under his skin.
"It is, actually."
"Doesn't look taken to me," Billy challenges, his own smile never faltering. But just as he says it a hand slaps down on his shoulder. He jerks, alarm bells ringing in his head. It’s everything he can do not to turn around and swing on instinct.
"Sorry, man. This one's mine."
Harrington’s freckled lackey Tommy Hagen, swings around Billy and slides into the empty seat with a smug grin, dropping his backpack on the floor with a thud. Billy allows himself to imagine wiping that grin off his dog face, but he’s going to have to be content with his imagination for now. This isn’t the time to put Freckles in his place.
"Aww bad luck big guy. Seats go fast around me what can I say?" Steve says with a little smirk and a shrug, before turning back to the redhead and relaunching their conversation - something about the lake not being that cold in October. Tommy leans in to close the loop, and it’s as if Billy no longer exists to any of them.
Dicks . He stands there like an idiot for a second too long not to feel the burn before he rallies. Scoffing, a muttered ‘whatever’ under his breath.
Billy finds another empty seat a couple of rows back, between Argyle — who is dead asleep slumped over his desk, a worn hoody and track pants thrown over his dance clothes — and a tall skinny guy in a denim vest, nails painted black. Billy takes a note of the guy for later, because if anyone else besides his roommate knows where to score some decent weed around here, he’s betting on the alt kid.
Argyle starts awake when Billy throws his backpack down.
“Forty-two!” he blurts, causing Denim Vest to snort and a girl in the row behind them to giggle. Argyle’s head bobs this way and that like he’s not sure where he is.
"We're still in English. Relax." Billy bends to fish an old notebook and a pen out of his bag. After passing out yesterday he hasn’t had time to stop by the school store to pick up his textbooks or get supplies.
“Sorry dude, meant to save you a seat.” Argyle apologizes with a grimace, stretching his arms over his head until his joints pop. He groans deeply, slumping forward onto his desk, a long lock of hair falling loose from his messy bun. "Practice this morning was brutal," he whispers, voice hoarse. "Benson’s crazy man — he didn’t even leave us time to shower.”
“Benson? Blond guy, bean pole with an attitude?” Billy recalls the older student who’d mistaken him for Russian and Argyle snickers.
“Yeah Nick’s a piece of work. He’s so butthurt that Harrington keeps cooking him on the exams.”
Billy lifts a brow, surprised. Argyle must be talking about dance. The Steve he used to know had never liked the school part of school. Had always been more interested in the colorful pictures in Billy’s books than the things they had to say about stars or sea animals.
‘Reading is boring. I like it better when you teach me.’ He can hear the way Steve used to say, biting his lip nervously, big round eyes silently pleading for Billy not to get mad or poke fun at the fact that Billy always finishes the page before he does.
Billy blinks the memory away, staunchly ignoring the unwelcome ache it leaves in his chest. He’s being stupid. They’re not kids anymore. Steve doesn’t remember any of that shit, so why is Billy still holding onto it, pining like a lame chick?
Thankfully the teacher swoops in just as the bells in the actual ass bell tower start to chime, signaling the start of the hour. Ms Peers is a petite woman who looks pretty much like what he’d expect an english teacher to look like: a neat, carefully cropped bob, cardigan buttoned up to her chin, and the tired eyes of someone who’s spent half their life grading poorly written essays.
She starts class by taking attendance, pausing to announce when she gets to the H’s that they have a new student. She introduces him as William Hargrove.
“I prefer Billy.” he grunts, for the benefit of the dozens of eyes staring at him. His smile says they’ll pay attention if they know what’s good for them.
When Ms. Peers is done taking the roll, she has them open their books to where the class left off in Mary Shelly’s Frankienstien; and it’s only when she notices Billy’s utter lack of movement that she thinks to add, “Billy, why don’t you scoot closer to Eddie and share his book for today. I expect that by tomorrow you’ll come to class prepared for the lesson?”
She says it like a question. It’s not.
Billy makes a big show of dragging his desk closer to Denim Vest (Eddie) metal legs scratching loudly against the floor. Ms. Peers frowns but doesn’t comment on it, and the lesson roles on.
She calls on several students to read, seemingly at random and Billy half listens as they stumble through the pages and attempt to find intelligent answers for the teacher’s questions. The one time she calls on Harrington with a question about the significance of the creature’s loneliness in the narrative, Steve answers like a smartass.
“I dunno Ms. Peers maybe it’s a warning. Don’t be such a freak and maybe things will turn out better for you.”
A ripple of laughter spreads through the room. Ms. Peers seems to share Billy’s skepticism though, the eyebrow twitch and the way she folds her arms barely hide her exasperation. “Elaborate for us. Or is that the entirety of your thesis, Steven?”
Harrington shrugs, leaning back in his chair like he hasn’t got any cares in the world; but Billy catches the barely there dart of his eyes towards Tommy. Pathetic .
“He’s obsessed with going where he’s not wanted, right? He’s causing all these problems and all this pain, just cause he wants what other people have. But, he’d have been happier right? If he just accepted that he’s not them.” Steve pauses and Billy tenses, the silence feeling pointed. He wonders for a split moment whether he was wrong, whether Steve remembers , until…
“Plenty of people are happy being freaks. Right Munson?” Harrington finishes, and the class erupts in laughter as he turns and smiles winsomely at the boy Billy is pretending to share a book with. Eddie gives him the finger.
Ms. Peers doesn’t see it, too busy waving her hands and directing the class to settle down before picking up the thread of the conversation. It actually wasn’t that bad of an answer. Though Billy privately agrees with the ‘ asshole ’ grumbled under Eddie’s breath.
He doesn’t plan it, but Billy finds himself watching Steve the rest of class anyway. Watching the slump of Harrington’s shoulders and the stretch of pale skin that peeks out from his untucked shirt as it rides up when he leans forward on his elbows.
He’s got a few little moles there that Billy doesn’t remember from before, and his imagination conjures up an all too vivid picture of Harrington lying out in the sun in tiny little trunks. They’d have to be tiny for him to get sun that low on his back.
He’s never more glad than when the bells finally ring.
~*~*~
The rest of the morning passes in a blur — each class the new kid, giving the same tedious introductions, and offering the same excuses for why he doesn’t have his textbook and hasn’t done the assignment. They all graciously make allowances for him, like they’re giving him time to get his shit together. It’s total bullshit. Billy wasn’t the one who went out of the way to uproot himself in the middle of the semester.
He slouches through Algebra II, feigning boredom even as his eyes repeatedly drift to where Harrington sits two rows ahead, twirling his pencil between long fingers. Billy’s calling total bullshit on any thoughts that it’s Harrington’s brain that has got that Benson guy’s panties in a twist; because just like in english class Steve’s clearly not paying attention to the lesson, doodling something in the margins of his notebook instead.
When the teacher unexpectedly calls on him, he looks stupefied, until the Wheeler girl mutters the answer from the seat next to him. Nobody bats an eyelash, so Billy figures that Steve’s girlfriend must be the real brains in the relationship.
The classes are small, about fifteen students to each one. From what he remembers of the spiel they gave him in the registration office, the classes are reserved for certain years and each year is split up into different blocks that rotate based on student needs.
“Don’t forget to choose your classes early before the end of term. It gets so difficult rearranging schedules last minute. Especially for you dancers!”
Because Billy is dropping into things in the middle, he’s not enrolled in any AP classes this term, but he can change that next term if he wants. After two classes in a row with him Billy was starting to dread that he shared his entire schedule with Harrington, but he gets a short reprieve in Chemistry class.
But when he walks into World History and his eyes immediately find Harrington sitting near the front with Wheeler, and Billy feels something like relief, he gives up pretending like his feelings are anything close to straight forward.
It’s the itch of the unknown, he tells himself. So long as Steve remains a pandora’s box of unanswered questions in his mind —does he remember? Will he even care once he does? — Billy’s gonna wanna keep thinking about prying it open, right?
Inevitable as pink elephants he thinks to himself later when he’s standing in the dining hall with a tray full of hot lunch, eyes scanning for somewhere to sit. He can’t just sit anywhere. He’s new to this whole private school thing, but the social politics of school lunchrooms are the same everywhere. He knows exactly who he’s got to sit with if he wants to dominate the food chain.
And it’s not Nick Benson and the group of upperclassmen he’s sitting with, regardless of the eager expressions on their faces as Nick waves to him, calling “Hey Billy, over here!”
He ignores Benson, eyes combing the crowded tables, face falling in disappointment when he doesn’t spot Harrington in the mix. The kitchen doesn’t close for another two hours. Maybe his lunch break isn’t scheduled until later.
“Hargrove!”
Billy’s just about to give up when a voice cuts through the general din, and he follows it to the windows and realizes immediately why he didn’t spot Harrington the first time.
The floor on that side of the room dips down, like an orchestra pit. Which is exactly what it is Billy realizes when he draws closer and sees the baby grand piano resting under the arched windows. There’s a built-in shelf running along all three sides of the pit for the musicians to sit on during performances, but right now it’s occupied by a small group of teenagers, sprawled out like they’re hanging out at home in the living room. Afternoon sunlight filters in through the frosted glass, bathing them in shades of gold.
Carol Perkins, the redhead from english class, beckons him once more with two fingers, until she seems satisfied that Billy is really coming. She turns and flops onto her back, head resting in Tommy’s lap. Either they’re dating or she wants them to be; but Billy doesn’t really care to know which it is.
He finishes making his way over, maneuvering between tables. Curious eyes track his movements as he passes, but he pays them no mind. As he approaches, Tommy sits up straighter, his arm draped possessively around Carol's shoulders.
"New guy! Welcome to the pit, man." Tommy says, gesturing for Billy to come down.
“I’m surprised they let students eat here.” Billy ignores the built in stairs in favor of stepping over a pair of girls, forcing them to lean out of his way until they’re practically sliding off the bench.
“Oh Mr. Preston hates it. The first chairs used to flock here but Steve told his mom we study during lunch and the light here ‘ helps him focus ’.” Carol chuckles, and the other kids snicker along. “The entire music department has basically hated us since sixth grade.” She doesn’t sound at all put out by this fact. Harrington doesn’t look overly bothered by it either.
He shrugs. “Right because the dining hall was the only place on campus where they could circle jerk to Mozart. Give me a break.”
"Take a load off Hargrove and let me introduce you to everyone. That's Tina Rothschild—" Tommy points to the girl on Billy’s left wearing heavy blue eye shadow, who is gathering her long brown hair into a bun behind her head,"—Heather Holloway—" on his right, a pretty girl with wavy brown hair pops her bubblegum and flicks her hand at him in a bored wave, "—Patrick McKinney—" a lanky black guy acknowledges him with a nod, "—George Galloway—" a stocky guy curiously wearing a kilt over a dark leotard and tights grunts in acknowledgment, “— Becky Holmes —”, a girl with bright blue highlights in her frizzy hair wags her fingers at him from Heather’s right, "—Jason Carver—" all american type in an emerald green and gold jacket bearing the school name on the back, "—and Chrissy Cunningham." A cute strawberry blonde offers him a warm dimpled smile.
Tommy's arm tightens around Carol's shoulders. "You know my lady, Carol." He bends down and plants a wet, open-mouthed kiss on her that makes Billy's stomach turn. He’s seen less tongue on an ant eater.
Tommy finally breaks away with a smack, leaving Carol giggling. He gestures halfheartedly toward Steve with a cocky grin. "And everybody knows King Steve."
Billy's eyes finally land on Harrington who's lounging against the wall, tray balanced in his lap and one knee drawn up against his chest. He acknowledges Billy with a little tilt of his chin. Billy was kinda hoping for something more, but Steve’s not going to give it so Billy takes his seat between the girl doing her hair and the chick chewing gum, settling against the wall across from him.
"So Billy," Tina (he’s pretty sure) starts eagerly, before he’s even settled, "is it true you danced with the San Francisco Ballet?"
Billy scoffs.
"Who told you that?"
"Nick Benson," The Carver guy answers with a shrug. "He’s telling everyone you’re some kind of prodigy they poached from SFBC."
"Benson’s full of shit." Billy grunts, beginning to digg into his plate spaghetti. The food is surprisingly just as good as the food they’d served yesterday in the founders’ lounge.
“He’s just hoping to ride your coat tails. Hap groups dancers who work well together when he’s planning the shows.”
Billy pauses, fork to lips when Steve speaks. Looks up and meets a surprisingly neutral gaze.
He swallows— cages the questions posed to leap off his tongue behind his teeth. Searches Steve’s gaze for a hint that he remembers that summer, the day they’d met James Hapsirokov, or anything… and gets nothing.
The guy in the kilt wrests Billy’s attention away, leaning over the Patrick kid to ask. "So which competition were you discovered at? YAGP? Prix de Lausanne? Universal?"
Billy blinks, fixing his face into a bored mask to hide his unease. He’s got no idea what the fuck the guy is talking about.
"What?"
"You know, the ballet competition where Madame H. scouted you?" George clarifies." Or was it Vang? It wasn’t Hap was it? He like never recommends talent, dude. That’s— "
"I’ve never competed." Billy denies flatly, setting his fork down. And before they can ask, he adds, "I’ve never been to a school before this. I taught myself."
Steve laughs—a mocking little thing that cuts through Billy’s skin like a knife and sends heat climbing up his neck.
"Something funny, Harrington?" he demands, and when Steve’s eyes meet his there's something there that wasn't there before. It hits Billy like a slap. The bastard knows him. He's been playing dumb the whole time.
Billy swallows back a surge of rage. Of course, Harrington remembers him. It was stupid to think he wouldn’t, but he knows why he did. He bets Steve is having a grand time making him feel like a piece of shit.
This is what nice gets you. Stepped on. Beat. Except Harrington’s gonna have to do a whole lot better than that if he wants to put Billy Hargrove down.
"Self-taught?" Tommy echoes incredulously, looking between them. "You're telling me you learned that stomp the yard shit on your own?"
Billy forces his jaw to relax and his expression into something easy and smug.
"You can learn anything off of YouTube these days.”
Carol rolls her eyes dramatically. "Uh-huh. And I taught myself to play Chopin by watching piano cat videos.”
“It would explain why your Chopin sounds the way it does.” the other brunette, Holloway, shoots back and Carol glares at her.
“He’s pulling our legs.” Jason insists. “There’s no way anybody can be as good as he is without real training.”
“Hey! Did I stutter?” Billy snaps, and the circle goes silent around him.
Billy clenches his jaw so hard his teeth click together. It’s the dismissive way the guy says it. Just discounts everything Billy’s put into it — the sweat and blood and risk — out of hand.
"There's nothing wrong with being self-taught," Steve says after an awkward beat. Smooth, and softer than anything he’s given Billy in the last twenty-four hours. Maybe he regrets being such a total dick.
"If you're good, you're good. And Billy here clearly has a gift."
The words are right but the smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Don’t sweat it. A mimic like you? You’ll catch up with the rest of us in no time."
The backhanded compliment lands exactly as intended, and Harrington's friends make varyingly poor attempts to hide their salacious amusement. Billy curls his fingers into a fist against his thigh.
“Don’t worry about me catching up Pretty Boy, we’re in the same tier.” he drops, letting it sit for a moment as the bodies around them go still with shock, eyes rounding with gleeful awe. One by one their eyes go to Steve, trying to gage his reaction to the news. Billy grins, licking his lips.
“I’ve heard you’re top dog around here, King Steve, so the only thing I’d be worried about if I were you is hanging on to that crown.”
“Maybe I’m just a nicer guy than you. I’ll even give you some advice," Steve answers without blinking. He seems nonplussed and oblivious to the rapt gazes of their audience. His tone is friendly, but the eyes don’t lie. His eyes are savage . They make the breath catch in Billy’s throat, tongue twitching like he can taste the blood they draw.
“Oh yeah?”
"Yeah. Don't follow Eddie Munson's lead unless you want to end up falling down to fourth tier. I mean, don’t be surprised if that happens anyway — being untrained and all — but I’d hate to see you get stuck there.” Steve finishes with a little smile.
Instead of telling him to eat shit like he wants to, Billy smiles back — all teeth.
“We’ll see.”
“Eddie’s the only one in our year who hasn’t leveled up the entire time he’s been here." Tina sighs, false pity dripping from every word.
“But Eddie’s a music major. I don’t think he takes his rank that serious.” The blond girl, Chrissy points out, just to be shut down by Jason who scoffs, muttering that he doesn’t think Munson takes anything seriously.
“Carol’s in music and I’m not a dance major either but you don’t see us living on the bottom tier.”
“That’s cause you’re anal-retentive Jason,” the Holloway girl jokes, and the conversation devolves — the group trading bitchy barbs behind fake smiles until it’s hard to tell whether they consider each other friends, or just closely kept enemies.
It’s obvious they’re all insanely insecure, and jealous of each other on top of things. The only thing that seems to unite them is their mutual agreement that being in this circle means something.
It’s fucking pathetic is what it is, but it also means they’ll fall in line once they realize that Harrington can’t compete with Billy so, win-win. As for King Steve, well he’s going to have to learn why you don’t take shots at Billy Hargrove and miss.
~*~
Billy heads straight to DC-1 after lunch, anticipation thrumming in his veins. He’s got three dance blocks between now and his dinner hour, the classes rotating on a twice weekly schedule. Friday those hours are reserved for something called study hours, that he guesses he’s free to do whatever he wants with. Today it’s Classical Movement from one to three, group class — which he’s hoping means all of the levels will be there. He means to make sure the word will spread when he puts Harrington in his place for good this time, but the more people who see it for themselves the better.
As he walks past the help desk in the lobby and into the hallway beyond when a giant board hanging on the corner catches his eye. Student Notices stands out in huge letters at the top and under it in slightly smaller heading is the date for an upcoming exam. Amongst a few flyers for things like upcoming auditions, studio reservations, and lost items, are three neat rows of printed paper, listing the current student rankings.
The students are split into separate lists. Those who Did Not Meet Expectation all have fewer than forty points and no stars next to their names. There are bronze stars next to the students on the Pass list but the highest point score is only fifty-four. He understands why a second later when he moves on to the next list: Pass with Merit. At least fifty-five points will get him a silver star, but he’ll need at least ten more if he wants to earn a second star and make the High Merit list. But Billy’s not after silver stars.
He abandons the list he’s on and moves further to the right, eyes scanning until he catches his first glimpse of gold.
He skims over the names with a single gold star for passing with distinction. Fine. But not what he wants. His heart quickens when he finally reaches the final list, the shortest one by far. Passing with High Distinction.
Steve Harrington sits at the top of level six with eighty-nine points out of a hundred.
But not for long.
Chapter 2
Summary:
Billy's decision to replace Steve as the top student at the academy may not be as easy as he first thought, as he faces an immediate setback that could keep him from dancing.
Notes:
Happy Post Day.
Thank you to everyone who is reading this and stopped to leave me a comment last week. You are gems.
I hope you enjoy the next installment of this soap opera. It should be called "Hopper is already over it". XD
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The men’s changing room smells rank - like sweaty feet and muscle cream. Not much different from his old high school locker room, though that one lacked the hint of rosin clinging to everything. They certainly had not been able to afford the rows of spacious oak cabinets in place of metal lockers.
Billy picks one near the door and hangs his backpack inside, getting changed where he stands rather than heading to a stall. A boy a few lockers down glances his way but looks away when Billy makes eye contact.
Sneering, he strips his shirt and pulls on a tank over his gym shorts, before grabbing his sneakers from his bag. They’re old as shit, but they are tested and true and his favorite for dancing. He knows them the best and he doesn’t want anything getting in the way of the total take-down he has planned for Harrington.
He’s one of the first in the studio, empty except for a pair of girls stretching on the floor and two men conversing at the far end. He’s got his back toward the door, but Billy instantly recognizes one of them as The Hopper, James Hapsirokov. The man he’s talking with looks a few years younger, dark blond with sharp, angular features, and as Billy walks shoes squeaking on the marley, piercing blue eyes glance his way. The guy says something to Mr. Hap that makes him twist in Billy’s direction.
Billy doesn’t make it two more steps before Hapsirokov shouts across the floor, voice booming. “No street shoes on my dance floor!”
It echoes so loud that the girls stretching and a couple of kids just walking through the door jump. They look over at Billy with the same hopeless fascination he imagines they’d wear watching a plane crash, and Billy suppresses his own reaction. He holds his breath, forcing the muscle to freeze, heart beating in his chest like it’s playing a game of paddle ball.
“Did you hear me kid?” Mr. Hap when Billy still hasn’t moved. It’s softer this time with a hint of concern in his tone that drives Billy into defense mode.
“The whole campus heard you.” he responds flatly. He turns to meet Hap and the other as the pair make their way across the studio. “What’s wrong with my shoes?”
“Besides not being part of the mandatory dress code? These floors are expensive enough to maintain without little imps tramping dirt all over them. A child knows this, ja?” the blond man with the mustache says in a thick Russian accent.
It’s only when he’s standing right there, that Billy realizes he’s talking to fucking Dmitri Antonov - Vaganova’s Dmitri Antonov. Billy thought Mrs. Harrington was stretching it when she’d said he could learn under masters like him and Ivana Vang — figured she’d meant they’d teach a workshop here or there.
But no, that’s really Dmitri Antonov standing right there, getting ready to teach the same class he must teach every Wednesday if Billy hasn’t somehow misread his schedule. And he really is looking at Billy like he’s some kind of moron.
“I’ve heard that Mr. Hargrove’s training was... unorthodox.” Mr. Hap attempts to help, he thinks. At least it's got none of the disbelief or dismissal that Billy’s already used to hearing whenever the subject comes up. Worse, Billy detects a subtle hint of sympathy that makes him see red. He doesn’t want any bullshit sympathy.
“They let me dance in them before. No one said shit.” he points out, hand tightening into a fist at his side.
“I heard about that,” Antonov remarks with something like amusement glittering in his eyes. But it’s Mr. Hap he looks at as he says, “Estelle seemed to think the routine warranted admission without further review. I’m sure that must have tweaked a few noses, eh mister director?”
“Artistic Director. I’ve been reminded that Estelle can run this place like a circus if she wants to.” he grumbles in reply, and Billy’s heart sinks down into his stomach like a ball of lead because from the sounds of it, Hapsirokov doesn’t want him here. “But training them up and getting some real art out of these kids is my job.” Mr Hap finishes with a snap, ignoring Dmitri’s wide smirk as he turns back to Billy.
“The minute you joined my program you became mine Hargrove and my dancers aren’t quitters, late, or stupid. Stupid people risk snapping an ankle and ruining their career before it even starts. Shoes off.”
Mr. Hapsirokov points toward the door where kids continue to trickle in, all of them eyeing the spectacle of Billy getting reamed by a ballet legend, and he desperately wants to say some shit he knows he’ll regret.
“Fine,” he growls, rage burning away any hesitation as he bends, yanking off his sneakers one by one and letting them hit the floor with a loud slap. “Happy?”
“Where are your shoes?” Mr. Antonov asks with a cock of his head, appraising Billy as if he thinks he’s hiding them.
“I don’t got em stuffed down my shorts—” At the back of the room someone laughs sharply and then quickly smothers the sound. “There wasn’t a lot of time before I had to be here, and my old man wouldn’t take me shopping.”
Billy clams up, clenching his fists. Doesn’t tell them about buying a secondhand pair off some mom on craigslist that ended up being a size too small and beat to shit. Something passes through Mr. Hapsirokov’s expression, but it’s Mr. Antonov who finally speaks.
“Equipment can be purchased from the school shop. Tomorrow come prepared. Today sit. Observe. You might learn something.”
He doesn’t say it unkindly. Just indifferent. But Billy would have actually preferred unkindness. You make somebody mad, or they need a punching bag is simple. Fight back or get stepped on. But there’s no swinging at indifference. You can’t make anyone give a damn about you.
Billy can’t even make himself stop giving a damn. Fifteen, his eyes burning with the threat of tears like the crybaby he still is underneath it all, and over what? Hands fisted tight at his sides, Billy starts turning away so that no one will see how close he is to blubbering, when he hears it.
The snicker from the doorway is soft, but it carries. Billy doesn’t look over his shoulder to know its Harrington. He doesn’t even really need the reflection of Steve, Tommy and the peanut gallery from lunch in the mirrors lining the wall – this is just his shit luck.
In the mirror Steve stares at Billy, eyes flicking down to his bare feet on the marley floor and then up again. He’s wearing an expression like he’s trying to solve complicated math. His friends on the other hand look gleeful – enjoying the show.
“Screw this.” Billy huffs, breathing hard as he stomps toward the door, gaze fixed on the glimpse of hallway through the door glass, thoughts firmly on getting out before the pressure squeezing his chest becomes too much.
The other kids sidestep to avoid his angry march, but Harrington and Hagen don’t budge, a wide smirk splitting Tommy’s mouth that Billy enjoys knocking loose as he shoves his way between the two boys. It takes him by surprise though when Steve's hand shoots out, catching his forearm— stopping him cold. A jolt runs through Billy’s body, right from the spot Steve is holding him — skin to skin — almost like static electricity.
“I’ve got spares.” Billy watches lying lips spread into something like a friendly smile as Steve offers, “If we’re still the same size, you can have them. I’ve got more lying around than I know what to do with, so it’s not —” he falters as Billy pulls free with a violent shrug, the stupid smile dropping off of his face.
It’s silent for a moment, Steve blinking slowly as Billy leans close — so close he can almost feel the brush of Steve's long lashes. Nearly gets caught up by the swirl of amber in his eye. He wonders how someone whose eyes contain galaxies can be so disappointingly shallow.
“Do I look like I need charity, Harrington?”
Billy sounds calm, but Steve is not stupid. Billy knows this, even when Harrington insists on saying some real stupid shit. Like it’s ‘no big deal’ that all of their peers are wondering now how Billy could come to school without shoes, or why his dad wouldn’t just toss him his visa card to buy some online like their parents. Billy can see the questions forming behind their eyes, and that is a big fucking deal. Worse though is the hunger on many of their faces to see him take Steve’s charity. Far worse.
Yesterday Billy put Harrington on notice and today he’s going to dance in the kings cast offs? No fucking way.
Billy pushes in even closer and he’ll give Harrington this, he doesn’t budge an inch, even when Billy gets right in his face.
“You look like a psycho, actually. You’re wigging out over nothing. I was just being nice.” Steve says.
“That’s right, cause you’re the nice one.” Billy laughs, head tilted back and a touch too manic to beat any psycho allegations. He stops almost as quickly as he started, head snapping up and eyes burning into Steve as he spits, “Bullshit.”
The last remnant of humor drains from Steve’s face, his eyes going hard as he stares back at Billy.
“I know mommy tells you you’re something special Harrington, but really, you’re just pathetic. And soon everybody here is going to know it. I’ll make sure.”
Eyes locked with his, Steve swallows. Billy can see the rage there, practically taste it, but before he can reply a sharp whistle pierces the air, shattering the tense moment.
“Enough!” Hapsirokov barks, "Go join the drama department if you want to be divas. Warmups. Now!”
Steve huffs and turns away, muttering something under his breath that Billy doesn’t catch. He leaves Billy standing there without a second glance. Billy stares after him.
Over the scramble of feet as their classmates rush to comply, Mr. Antonov calls out. “Hargrove! Decide now: leave or dance?”
Billy slams the studio doors so hard on his way out that the glass rattles in its frame.
~*~*~
Billy storms his way out of the center and doesn’t slow until he reaches the quad. He shakes his arms like he can fling away the memory of Harrington’s hand as easy as water. But the memory lingers, the impression so stark he half expects to look down and find bruises in the shape of Steve’s fingers on his arm.
Sighing, Billy tips his head back and breathes deeply thinking that he really needs a release if a touch that simple has him on edge like this. Harrington hadn’t even held him that hard.
There’s an art installation in the center of the quad where the pathways meet, a ribbon of steel that swoops up toward the sky called ‘The Wave’, and Billy meanders toward it, drawn by the vague reminder of home and the beach he wishes he was on right now.
The area seems to be the unofficial hangout spot for half the campus — judging by the number of students who always seem to be hanging around there. Even on a windy day in October all the benches that dot the pathways are occupied and there are kids lounging on the grass under the colorful trees in little groups. They all look so content in their little worlds, unaware of the ticking bomb that is marching past on the sidewalk. Blind to their luck.
Billy is going to break something eventually — can feel the inevitability of the crash like he’s on the road going ninety, wheel rattling in his hands.
Maybe it’s mercy that a flash of red catches his eye just then. It’s Eddie Munson, curls falling over denim clad shoulders in messy tangles, with an electric guitar balanced on his knees. He’s tuning the ruby red instrument, plucking the same string three or four times before moving to the next, hyper-focused, tongue poking out the side of his mouth in concentration. He fiddles with a battery powered amp resting near his feet and pauses, noticing Billy standing above him mid-twist.
“You lose a bet?” Munson asks, glancing down at the Billy’s feet. He’d been too pissed to do more than grab his bag and throw his sneakers inside it in the changing room. “Or is this solidarity with the homeless masses?”
Billy snorts.
“Neither. Why aren’t you in Classical Movement with the rest of them?”
Munson’s hand freezes for a split moment, before he goes back to tuning. “They know a lost cause when they see one,” he says, with an edge. “Besides—” He grins, flashing a canine. “My genius is wasted on pliés and tendus. I’ve got better shit to do.”
He strums a chord, the rich, resonant sound filling the air, vibrant and warm before he starts to riff some twelve-bar blues. It’s nice. Munson is good, sliding effortlessly into Schools Out with a glint in his eye that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Antonov loves to pretend I’m wallpaper. It’s mutual, but you aren’t scenery. What are you doing here?”
Fingers dancing over strings, he’s picking away at Runnin’ With The Devil with an eyebrow arched.
"The instructors are pricks," Billy shrugs, watching Munson's fingers skillfully work the frets. The anger still burns in his chest, but the music helps calm him with its comfortable familiarity. Munson snorts, not missing a beat in his riff.
"Welcome to ballet, where if the instructors don't chew you up and spit you out, the industry will."
"Is it really that bad?"
Eddie’s head bobs a little, like yes, in tune with the music as he transitions into Back in Black. He laughs, a little wildly, cynical.
"Worse." He stops playing, letting the last note fade into the October air for a dramatic moment. "The dance world is high school on steroids, man. They've literally made judging people an art form. This society will reward you for kicking down your fellow man and tear you up in the process— its sadism disguised as education.”
“Jesus. That’s fucking bleak, for a guy I hear chooses dance electives when he doesn’t even have to.”
Billy’s not sure why he’s pushing back. He hasn’t been here a full day yet, and he still wouldn’t trust a single person here not to trip him down the stairs at the first oppertunity. He can picture Mr. Hap asking him why he didn’t land on his feet.
On the grass Eddie shrugs, muttering, “dreams bigger than the bullshit I guess.”
The dream is bigger than the bullshit. It doesn’t make sense for Munson, Billy doesn’t know him well enough for it to, but it rings true.
Dancing has brought more trouble to his life than not, but it’s also the only thing that brings him peace. It’s like a dream he looks forward to having when he closes his eyes at night. It’s solid land in a roiling sea. Maybe that’s why he keeps coming back to it. And Billy promised himself he was getting out for good, that he was going to seize this chance and come out on top for once.
Like hell he’s going to let a few assholes get in his way.
“Word on the street is you might know where I can get a smoke. That true?” Billy takes a chance, rather than comment on the cryptic reply. His freak-o-meter is verified when Munson looks up from his guitar with an expression somewhere between amused and calculating.
"Hypothetically, it would depend on what kind of smoke you're after. Cancer sticks'll run you twenty. But if you want something a little greener—"Eddie mimes holding a blunt to his lips and crosses his eyes. "I could see myself charging seventy-five an ounce."
"Hypothetically you're running a fucking grift, Munson and I could see myself telling you to eat a dick."
Eddie laughs again, even more gleeful than last time, full bellied and mouth open.
“Suit yourself man. You know where to find me anytime you wanna theorize.”
When he adjusts the guitar in his lap and starts strumming up Crazy Train by Ozzy, Billy can only shake his head. Guy’s a fucking douche — but it’s in a familiar, palatable way. The kind that reminds him late nights at the skate park. Munson’s alright.
Billy does not take him up on his offer though. He can’t afford a twenty-dollar pack of sticks right now when he’s got more important shit to buy. He heads to the dorms instead to get changed and grab his wallet.
~*~
The school store is on the ground floor of the A building, past the lobby and the coffee kiosk being manned by a bored looking girl in a green apron with the school logo on it. A sign on the glass doors reminds students to tell their parents they can now top up their accounts online. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead as Billy pushes through them, eyeing the shelves that line the narrow aisles, packed with everything from energy bars to school supplies. It smells like poster board and vanilla air freshener inside.
He grabs a basket and starts loading it up. Basic supplies first: pens, notebooks, highlighters. The textbook section takes up half the back wall, organized by department. He goes down his crumpled list, finds Physical Wellness, wincing a little at the price tag, then locates his algebra and history texts. When he’s got the full list, he moves on to the dance shoes stacked in white boxes on half shelves not far from the register.
Billy runs his fingers over the soft leather of a pair of men's ballet flats covetously; his stomach dropping when he risks a look at the price tag. Ninety dollars.
“Fuck me.” he yanks his hand back like the leather burned him. Across the aisle in the women’s section a petite girl looks up to stare curiously at him. Billy recognizes her as one of the kids he met at lunch. Chrissy? Something like that.
Abandoning her curious gaze, Billy looks back down at the rack of shoes with an intense frown. Torn. The leathers would probably last longer but it’s not worth it, not for that price tag. But his spirits don’t lift much when he moves over to the cheaper, less durable, canvas flats and sees that they’re still gonna run him about forty dollars. Fuck.
"I know. Canvas is so much more economical, but I tear through them so fast.”
Billy turns to find the girl standing behind him now, holding a basket filled with protein bars and what looks like half the vitamin aisle. Close up, he’s struck by how tiny she is. Her impossibly slender frame and the blue veins under her skin prick at something inside him. She smells like lilac, nothing like his mother’s perfume, but she still reminds him of her, drowning as she is in that fluffy baby blue sweater.
“It’s lucky we can put them on our accounts. Right?” She smiles shyly up at him.
“Yeah. Lucky.”
Billy grabs a pair in his size without looking. Shoving them into his basket, eager to get away from her.
He walks toward the register doing quick mental math, textbooks, supplies, shoes — and his chest tightens.
What the fuck is he going to do if he doesn’t have enough? Even if he could stomach asking Mrs. Harrington, the scholarship money was already generous. It was supposed to cover this sort of thing; but Billy isn’t under any delusion that his dad has put money for supplies on his account.
If the cash in his wallet isn’t enough, he might even have to call Neil and ask about it. The thought makes his stomach twist.
The guy working the counter in a dark green vest has long greasy hair and the deadest expression Billy has ever seen on a living person. He’s tempted to check for a pulse. Keith, makes a vague hand motion for Billy to hurry with his basket, reaching in for items to scan before Billy has even fully set it on the counter.
It’s way too much, even after Billy stops him from scanning the calculator and new pens.
"Two hundred and thirty-seven dollars and forty-three cents." Keith announces, punching something on the screen of the computer with a blunt finger.
Billy pulls out his wallet, counts all his cash twice even though he already knows it's not there. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
"Just... give me a second." He stares at the pile of books and supplies, trying to figure out what he can live without. He’s gonna have a rough time passing any of his classes without textbooks. Argyle seems cool enough, so maybe he can borrow a few from his roommate for homework. But what’s he gonna do when the teachers notice he doesn’t have books of his own? He can’t get kicked out of class every day for being unprepared. He won’t last the semester.
“Is that Modern Chemistry?”
Chrissy suddenly appears at his side again, neck out as she leans forward to peer down into Billy’s basket.
“Oh don’t get that here. I know I saw a copy recently at the thrift shop in town. It’s where everyone dumps the stuff they don’t want to take home at the end of the year, so there’s probably others too.”
Billy glances at her sideways, recognizing the careful way she's not looking directly at him, the deliberate casualness in her voice. It would make him angry how carefully she’s trying not to embarrass him if she didn’t look so utterly breakable. It’s not just how slight she is. It’s something in the eyes that warns him to handle with care. Which is exactly why he should get away from her. Billy’s no good with breakable. Breaking things is in his DNA.
"Thanks," it scrapes out of his throat rough but genuine. He turns from her, giving his back as he turns his mind back to his two-hundred-dollar problem. He’s gotta stick to the plan, and that means he can’t afford not to pass his classes. But he won’t have the ones he took today again until Monday so that will buy him time to try the thrift store this weekend.
Billy pulls those books from the pile, leaving just the few he’s going to need for tomorrow's classes, but even with just those… the shoes eat up too much of his budget.
Without them you can’t dance…
But he doesn’t need to dance to graduate. That’s the painful truth of it. It’s like Mrs. Harrington said. There is plenty of opportunity for him here, even if he never dances again.
It’s funny.
Billy wasn’t even sure he wanted to dance yesterday, but letting go of those stupid shoes feels like tearing away a piece of his soul.
The important thing is graduating and getting into college, Billy reminds himself walking back to the dorm alone. He could break a leg tomorrow but he’ll always have his brain and that’s what he needs to rely on.
He’s not a quitter though. School might be the priority, but it’s not over till the fat lady sings. He’s gotta figure out a way to get shoes. Sooner rather than later. He’s still thinking about it through dinner — which he doesn’t bother with because if he’s gonna beat Harrington he needs to start taking care of his body again and he already regrets the giant plate of carbs he had at lunch. He’s still thinking about it as he lays in bed that night.
Billy finally accepts that he’s going to have to call Riv as his eyes droop. He hates that he’s going to have to take more from her, but he doesn’t know what else he can do. He’ll find a way to pay her back somehow he promises himself as he’s drifting off.
When Billy wipes his eyes clear and shuts off his alarm in the morning, there is a plain white box sitting on the edge of his bed. Warily he reaches for the box, confusion turning to astonishment when he flips open the lid and sees the leather Capezios nestled inside. Brand new. Size nines.
As Billy sits there staring at them, the door swings open. Argyle strolls in with water still dripping from his damp hair onto his shoulders.
"Did you—" Billy gestures at the box, unable to finish the question. Something angry and too close to tears for his liking bubbles up in his throat. His roommate pauses, towel slung around his neck. His gaze searches Billy’s face for a moment, confusion written on his own.
"Sorry Roomskie, wish it was. I’m broke as a joke." He shakes his head slowly. "Box was just sitting outside the door with your name on it."
"You didn't see who left it?"
"Nah. Hallway was empty." Argyle yawns, moving to his dresser.
Maybe there’s a card. Billy wonders, digging around inside the tissue paper. There isn’t one. Giving up, he lifts one of the shoes from the box. The leather is buttery soft and supple, the split soles firm. They’re by far better than anything he’s ever owned.
"Maybe it's from the school?" Argyle suggests, though his tone suggests he doesn't believe it either. "Like a scholarship thing?"
Billy shakes his head. Schools don't leave anonymous gifts on doorsteps. This is personal. But who the hell would spend this kind of money on him? The only person who comes to mind makes his jaw clench.
"Harrington" he mutters, and Argyle stops rifling through his drawers to raise an eyebrow at him.
"Didn't you tell him to shove his charity up his ass?"
Billy's hands curl into fists. The memory of Steve holding him back flashes through his mind. Or so he’d thought, but now an insidious voice whispers that maybe Steve had grabbed him because he was really trying to hold Billy down. Stop him from making a scene and discovering the consequences.
It’s a dangerous thing to think, but even more dangerous if Steve actually thinks that way. The thought that any part of Harrington might think Billy is some troublesome thing that he can manage, makes the blood boil in his veins. He’s not above causing a seismic event, just to show Steve how stupid he is to think that for even a second.
Because there are certain things that Billy just knows are his, and things that aren’t. Respect he can demand, wrest it from the broken hands of the withholders with blood in his teeth if he has to. He’s secure in his own ability. But safety? Safety in the fence of someone’s affections – their kindness towards him? Secure in every gentle promise behind a touch?
Never. Accepting it is the only thing that’s gonna keep him from swallowing bullets. He doesn’t need anyone to manage his emotions or save him from his own damn choices. Especially not Harrington.
Billy doesn’t need shit from Steve Harrington except for the fight and his inevitable defeat. Get up, so that I can show you why you should stay down. The snafu with the shoes meant that Harrington didn’t get the picture yesterday, but before the day is out Billy is going to make sure he understands.
~*~
His schedule starts later on Tuesdays and Thursdays but Billy’s out of the dorms by six that morning and headed toward DC-1. Inside, he stops in the lobby to grab some water and a few power bars from the vending machine on his way to find an open studio — scanning the nutrition label on the back with a critical eye. There’s way more sugar in them than he wants right now, but they’re still better than the pancake and cereal bar on the menu in the dining hall.
He makes a mental note to get to lunch early so that he can talk to someone in the kitchen about getting work. There wasn’t a huge selection, but he’d noticed basic things like yogurt, cottage cheese and fruit among the zillions of chemical filled snack options in the school store. Once he’s got a little more spending money it shouldn’t be too hard to stick to his old diet. Easy as pie if he can get his hands on some containers and load up at the salad bar at lunch time.
He inhales the first bar as he toes off his shoes, meandering down the hall on socked feet as he looks for a room to practice in, glad he came dressed so he doesn’t have to waste time changing. He’s surprised at how busy the place is even though classes don’t start until around nine. The two largest studios at the front both have been reserved. Do not disturb signs pinned to the board beside their doors, so Billy moves on to the smaller ones in the back.
He doesn’t find anything empty, but the doors are open in studio D and the pair stretching out at the barre when he pokes his head in don’t tell him to kick rocks, so he figures the room hasn’t been booked by anyone.
Billy claims a spot near the mirrors and drops his bag, reaching to pull out his new dance shoes. The leather still feels a bit foreign in his hands — still smells a little too nice and new — but that will change quickly once he breaks them in. As he starts his own stretches, he thinks about breaking Harrington — at least of the thought that this little stunt of his will change anything. He’s not going to let it.
Billy’s got no need to look the gift horse in the mouth when he’s already at war. It won’t really matter to anyone that Steve bought him shoes or what he planned, when Billy takes his spot.
Strangely that doesn’t seem to be stopping Billy from picking the action apart in his own mind, trying to guess what game Harrington is playing with him. Steve's probably planning on saying something when Billy shows up to class wearing them, he decides. Something petty. No doubt, designed to embarrass him.
The thought makes Billy's jaw tighten. He gets up and moves to the barre to start his warmup. Well it’s not going down like that.
He almost hates how good the shoes feel on his feet. How they grip just enough and slide just right, every movement flowing smooth and easy. He’s proud of his skills and how he never let not having proper gear hold him back, but the ease of his feet cutting through air and sliding across the floor is like a stone lifted from around his neck, and his body aches in the absence of the burden, resentful of change.
It knows how to operate under burden. This new luxury not so much. It creates tension where he’s not used to it, muscle overcompensating. But he pushes through his warm-up routine, channeling his frustration into focus.
He doesn’t acknowledge it when Steve drifts in later with Tommy, Nancy and Carol, but he notices. That radar for all things Steve that he’s already wishing would get fucked, pinging in his head.
"Hey Billy!" Carol's voice cuts through his concentration, bright and artificially cheerful. She bounces over, the rest of the group trailing behind her.
Billy doesn’t pause his routine but that doesn’t stop Carol from planting herself directly in his line of sight, nearly getting smacked as he swings his leg, plie with developee, catching his heel to bring the leg up straight against his body in a long stretch. Her gaze drops, lingering a beat too long below his waistline before her lips curl into something predatory that would frighten most guys — or at least make them run out and buy a dance belt expeditiously. Billy smirks.
“Can I help you?”
“Wow okay, real friendly Hargrove.” She tuts and Billy rolls his eyes, bringing his leg down and bending back as far as he’s able, feet in fifth.
“Wasn’t aware we were friends.”
Tommy snorts. "Nice. You know I honestly didn't expect to see you here today?" His tone carries that particular brand of fake concern that makes Billy want to punch him with each new thing he says. "A rumor started that you dropped out after that little tantrum in classical yesterday."
There it is. Billy can see where this is headed. Thinks to himself that Steve doesn’t waste any time. It’s not just the workout he just finished that has Billy feeling warm all over as he releases the barre.
Bending, he grabs the towel from on top of his bag and wipes his face and neck, his eyes finding Steve’s.
“Harrington wishes I would drop out.”
Steve scoffs softly in reply. “Something tells me I’m gonna regret asking, but what makes you think I’d care what you do Hargrove?”
Billy laughs at the response. Steve’s expression is perfectly bored but there’s a subtle edge to his tone that makes Billy certain that he has gotten under his skin.
“You’re really gonna pretend like you aren’t sweating, worried everyone’s about to watch you lose your place?”
Carol and Tommy sneer, but Wheeler shifts closer to Steve, almost protective as she frowns at Billy.
“That’s really mean, you know.” She says, like she actually thinks Billy might not.
“Truth hurts babe.” He shrugs, bored with the conversation until Steve chooses that moment to speak again.
“You know it’s funny he says that, after what we talked about in health the other day.” It’s directed at the others but he meets Billy’s gaze partway through and holds it. "Maybe don't stake everything on rankings, man. Learning to live with being average might be better for your mental health."
Tommy and Carol laugh loudly, but the disapproval on Nancy’s face just deepens.
“Steve…” she rebukes softly, only to be steamrolled by Hagen who scoffs and leers over at Billy.
“Ease up Wheeler. Steve’s just giving Hargrove some friendly advice. Right Billy?” His hand slaps hard against Billy’s back, but he seems to regret it when Billy turns and stares coldly at him. Soon his gaze promises, and then Billy dismisses Tommy from his mind altogether for the only important thing.
"That why you got the shoes? You accepting that you're average, King Steve?"
Billy watches Steve’s face carefully as he shakes his head, laughing with a tone of disbelief.
“You think I’d buy you Blochs after you told everyone I was pathetic? You really think I’d help you after that?”
He looks genuinely baffled at Billy’s stupidity and Billy’s confidence wavers. Harrington makes him want to pull his own hair out, the way Billy can’t seem to find level ground around the guy. He knows Steve is full of shit, just like he knows deep down in his gut that buying Billy shoes even after Billy called him a waste of space in front of the entire class is exactly the kind of terminally soft thing Steve Harrington would do.
But Steve’s standing there blessing his fucking heart with a piteous smile, and Billy’s reminded again in the most painful way that this isn’t the boy he used to know. The boy who cared too much and who would have given of himself even when he shouldn’t, is gone.
And then it dawns on Billy, a horrible sinking feeling, that maybe the only reason he thought Steve was behind the shoes in the first place, is because he wants him to be. Because it would mean perversely that he still cared.
Carol glances between them, analyzing them so intently that Billy shifts away. Uncomfortable.
"Wait, so someone bought you those shoes… but you don’t know who it is? That’s so weird."
“And you’re sure it wasn’t you, Steve?” Nancy asks slowly, making Steve frown. He isn’t the only one either. Tommy is giving her a look like there is a turd stuck to her shoe.
“He said no already.”
“Yeah Nance.” Steve says, more gently. “Maybe one of Billy’s floor mates has a little gay crush or something but it’s not me.”
For reasons nobody can understand, Nancy doesn’t let it go.
“But you know him, right? Knew him before yesterday, I mean.”
She’d been quiet after her vain attempt to get them all to play nice, and Billy doesn’t know what is driving her to choose this moment to prove that those deductive reasoning skills aren't just reserved for classwork, but he wishes she wouldn’t.
“Yesterday, you said he could keep your spares if you were still the same size.”
Tommy looks to Steve for an answer, his brows lifting in surprised confusion. “She’s right. You did.”
Billy waits with jaw clenched for whatever bullshit excuse Steve will come up with. Naturally, the guy who has had some bitchy retort for just about everything, suddenly can’t seem to find his words. The silence stretches just long enough for everyone to make note of it.
"Billy's mother was a dancer," Steve says finally, his tone casual but careful. "Our moms knew each other back in the day."
Tommy's face shifts, something hurt flickering across his features before he masks it with indifference. But Billy catches it.
"Wait, so you were like what… friends? How come you didn’t say anything?"
Steve shrugs. "Does it matter? We were like four Tommy jeez. Did you think I didn't have any friends before the sixth grade?"
The joke falls flat, and Billy lets out a harsh laugh that cuts through the awkward moment like glass.
"Right." He turns away, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. "Well, this has been fun, but I'm gonna find somewhere else to practice. Too much hot air in here."
He is almost to the door when he glances back over his shoulder, meeting Steve's eye one last time.
"You should get some practice in before class this afternoon, Harrington. I'm going to wipe the floor with you anyway, but you shouldn't make it so easy for me this time."
He lets the doors swing shut behind him with a satisfying thud, cutting off Steve’s response. He feels much better today about leaving earlier than he’d intended. That look on Steve’s face is enough to keep him smiling for the rest of the morning.
Notes:
So who got Billy the shoes? Place your bets lol.
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