A Brief History of Falling for Billy Hargrove [harrington x hargrove]

2.

The first time Billy waited for Steve at his locker was the day after the boxing match. Steve looked at the boy leaning against the cold metal with his hairsprayed hair and his half unbuttoned shirt that left his entire chest on display and his lips that were in a dire need of a cigarette (at least in Steve's eyes they were, because when Steve imagined Billy he always imagined him with a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth).

"What did I do to be honored with your delightful presence?" Steve asked as he pulled his locker open. He could almost feel Billy's breath on his neck. The close proximity of the other boy was making him uncomfortable. Or maybe it wasn't. He was undecided.

"I was thinking," said Billy, who apparently decided to dismiss Steve's taunting remark, as he watched Steve stuff books into his already full locker.

"Wow, didn't know you were capable of doing that," snapped Steve because it was of a reflex he had developed when he was around Billy, and he may have punched the anger out of himself yesterday but then he came home and his parents didn't care enough to call and he was left alone with his thoughts again and overthinking made him angry.

"Shut up Harrington, I'm trying to make a proposition here," Billy barked back but there wasn't much heat in his voice. In fact, he didn't seem to be bothered by Steve at all.

Steve narrowed his eyes, "What kind of proposition?"

Billy's mouth stretched into a sly sideways smile, "I like the whole fighting-as-a-stress-reliever thing and I like fighting with you," (he liked it because Steve actually put up a fight – he had a kind of vigor not many people who Billy found himself in a brawl with seemed to have, not that he'd ever tell him), "and so I thought we could make it a thing. You in?"

Steve stood there contemplating Billy for a long time. He wanted to do this. He really, really did. When he fought with Billy he felt light and free and fucking careless. And who cares if he couldn't win a single fight? Who cares if he was always the one who ended up on the ground? So he nodded – once for himself, once for Billy.

Billy's smile transformed into a Cheshire-cat grin. He pulled a scrap of paper out of his back pocket and pressed it into Steve's outstretched palm. On it, in black ink and surprisingly neat handwriting, was a phone number and an address.