Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Billy hadn’t had a choice in coming here. Nobody did.

The notice from the school board had been printed on thin, official paper — a crisp government seal stamped at the top, instructions in neat block text beneath. Annual Classification Testing: Mandatory for All Students Fourteen and Above. It was free, yes. But it wasn’t something you could skip without someone knocking on your door.

That was how Neil ended up driving him to the city hospital that afternoon, the car silent except for the hum of the engine. Neil didn’t talk, didn’t even look at him much, just kept his eyes fixed ahead like he was on his way to deliver a package he’d already decided was defective.

The waiting room was too bright, smelling faintly of lemon cleaner and the sterile tang of antiseptic. A nurse called his name, leading him down a hallway of frosted-glass doors under the sharp buzz of fluorescent lights.

Inside the testing room, there was only a vinyl chair, a small counter stacked with sealed needles and vials, and the kind of cold air that made your skin feel thin.

“Sit. Left arm.” The nurse was efficient, her voice free of malice, but Billy still felt like he was stepping onto an assembly line.

He hated needles. Always had. But with Neil leaning against the wall in the corner, arms crossed, eyes heavy on him, it was worse. He could almost feel his father’s disappointment preloaded, waiting for whatever the results would be.

The sting of the needle was nothing compared to the slow, molten panic crawling up his chest as his blood filled the vial. The nurse asked the standard questions — family classification records, medical history, whether he’d ever been tested informally — and Billy answered quietly, aware of Neil’s gaze burning into his side.

Then came the waiting.

The Classification System was something everyone knew in broad strokes. It wasn’t just biology — it was identity, law, social structure.

There were the alphas , commanding, driven, their instincts tuned for leadership and protection. They were pillars, sometimes benevolent, sometimes tyrants.
The omegas , softer in physiology but no less important, rare carriers of genetic continuity, often treasured in family lines.
The betas , flexible and dependable, able to bridge gaps between the others, their neutrality valued in politics and business.
The baselines , rare enough now to be a curiosity — people with no secondary instincts at all, often living on society’s fringe.
The switches , fluid in their roles, capable of stepping into dominant or submissive instincts as needed, sometimes prized for versatility, sometimes distrusted for unpredictability.
Beyond those, there were the dominants and submissives , not tied to the alpha/omega divide, but bound to their own behavioral wiring.

And then there were the outliers — the two classifications so rare they shaped entire families’ fortunes: caregivers and littles .

Caregivers were anchors. Biologically inclined to nurture, to protect, to guide. They were steady hands in a chaotic world, capable of calming storms in the people bonded to them.
Littles… littles were rarer still. A biological alignment tied to regression, comfort-seeking, and deep emotional bonds with their caregivers. They weren’t childish — not exactly — but their instincts carried them into softer states, where protection and care weren’t luxuries but needs written into their bones.

Society adored littles. They were treasures, often protected fiercely by families lucky enough to have one. People saw them as precious, worth guarding, worth spoiling, worth bending rules for. In the right household, being a little was almost royal.

But Billy didn’t live in the right household.

He didn’t even have to imagine Neil’s reaction — he could feel it before the results came. That kind of tenderness had no place in the Hargrove house. Rarity meant nothing there except more leverage for control.

The office door clicked open, and Neil was called in first. Billy watched him step forward, saw the faint crease between his brows as the nurse spoke quietly. He didn’t hear the words, but he saw the shift — the set jaw, the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not good.

Neil stepped aside without a word, disappearing out into the hallway like the room itself was beneath him.

Then the doctor walked in. She was a warm-looking woman in her forties, with a softness in her voice that made Billy think she might be a caregiver herself. She smiled at him like she was handing over good news.

“A little, sweetie,” she said brightly. “You’re a little.”

The words felt unreal for a second, like she was speaking a language he only half understood.

She kept talking, explaining the significance, the rarity, the way his instincts would likely manifest in early drops — how his first drop might make him feel unsteady, vulnerable, in need of safety. She told him how, in most families, being a little was something to celebrate, something to be proud of. “You’re very rare, Billy. Very special. Even more so than a caregiver.”

Her voice was gentle, but the more she spoke, the tighter his chest became. His palms felt damp. His throat burned. This was supposed to be a blessing, but here, it felt like a mark painted bright red on his forehead — a target, not a crown.

By the time she started listing what his father should expect — behavioral shifts, emotional needs, possible triggers — his breathing had gone shallow. His ears rang with the rush of blood. The room was too bright, too small.

His panic didn’t build slowly. It slammed into him like a wave, stealing the air from his lungs.

It wasn’t supposed to be this terrifying. But in the world of Neil Hargrove’s house, “little” didn’t mean rare or special. It meant vulnerable. And that was dangerous.

That was how it started.

His first beating came like a storm he couldn’t escape, full of panic and confusion, in the middle of a drop he hadn’t fully understood yet. His body had slipped somewhere between his little instincts and the terror of Neil’s wrath, caught between vulnerability and survival. The pain was blinding, a white-hot line that cut through the haze of his panic and made everything else vanish.

And then, strangely, a part of him was grateful for it.

The adrenaline surged through him, sharp and intoxicating, setting every nerve on fire. He felt alive in a way he hadn’t before — alert, dangerous, capable of moving faster, thinking clearer, if only for the tiniest sliver of time. For those moments, the world shrank down to the immediate sensation, and nothing else mattered. The fear, the shame, the knowledge of being a little — they all receded into the edges of his awareness.

Billy discovered something terrifying, and yet… alluring.

Pain could protect him.

If he could redirect the panic, if he could channel the intensity into himself, he could hide what he really was — his little alignment, his need for a caregiver — from the world that would punish him for it. From Neil, from school, from anyone who might see his instincts and think they were weaknesses to exploit.

It started small. Pinches, scratches, slaps to the skin that barely left marks. The first time he drew a line across his wrist, it was curiosity, testing the theory that physical pain could override emotional vulnerability. And it worked. The panic didn’t vanish, but it shifted — the storm in his chest focused outward, tangible, controllable, something he could manipulate.

By fifteen, Billy Hargrove had become addicted to it. The sharp sting of a blade, the burn of pinching too hard, the red blossoming across pale skin — it was a secret language only he understood. A temporary shield against exposure, against the shame of being a little in a house that didn’t honor littles, against the panic that had first overtaken him in the hospital.

He learned the timing, too. During drops — when the instinct to regress, to seek a caregiver, bubbled up uncontrollably — he’d bite, scratch, or press the pain deep into his own body. Each scar, each bruise, became a talisman, a marker of survival. He called it his little armor, though it was built out of his own torment.

And yet, even as the self-harm calmed him, even as it gave him a fleeting sense of control, the weight of his classification remained. He was still rare, still a little — still someone society would have celebrated, admired even. But in the Hargrove household, rarity didn’t bring protection. It brought attention, scrutiny, punishment.

Every night, Billy would lie awake, tracing the faint lines on his skin, and think about how differently the world could have treated him. In another home, he would have been cherished, cuddled, adored for the very traits that Neil punished. But here, his body was a battlefield, and his mind had learned the language of pain before it had even finished learning the language of trust.

And in that crucible, something darker grew: the idea that he could survive, even thrive, by controlling the only thing left under his command — himself.

Pain was power.

And the little who had once trembled under a needle now understood the seductive, twisted truth: control wasn’t given. It was taken.

By sixteen, Billy had gotten good at control — or at least at faking it.
Pain was his anchor. His camouflage. But anchors drag when they’re too heavy, and one night he pushed it too far.

It hadn’t been planned.
Most of his cuts were calculated — shallow enough to sting, deep enough to bleed, never bad enough to land him in trouble. But that night, his hands were shaking too much. He’d been in the middle of a drop that he couldn’t claw his way out of, no matter how hard he bit down on it. The craving for safety, for comfort, was like acid in his veins, and Neil had spent the evening picking at him like a vulture with a fresh carcass.

The blade slipped. Just half an inch too far.

Blood came faster than it should have. Bright, alarming. He pressed a towel to it, but the edges of his vision went dark. He woke up under hospital lights, the air thick with antiseptic and that sickly sweet smell of latex gloves.

The doctor’s voice was low but firm, her eyes sharper than her tone. “You’re lucky you didn’t hit the artery.”
Lucky. Right.

They had his documents on file — every citizen’s classification was officially registered after testing — and the second his ID pinged in the hospital system, they knew. Little. Rare. High priority for intervention. His file flagged red in a way that made nurses keep looking at him like they were afraid to leave him alone too long.

But the thing about being rare was… it made people notice when you were in danger.

The social worker came next. Then the police. They asked careful questions, their voices pitched soft, but there was an edge there — an awareness that this wasn’t the first bruise, the first scar, the first sign that something was wrong in the Hargrove household. Neil tried to spin it, of course. Tried to make it sound like his son was dramatic, reckless, a troublemaker. But the social worker didn’t look convinced. The cop’s expression was colder still.

They opened a file. They said words like case and investigation and protective measures . Billy almost believed them.

But cases take time. And Neil knew when the air was about to turn against him. By the time the pressure really started to close in, Neil was already gone — packed up the house, shoved his son, his stepdaughter Max, and his wife Susan into the car, and drove until the city was just a blur in the rearview mirror.

They ended up in a place no one had heard of.
Fucking Hawkins, Indiana.

A dot on the map. A town that felt like it had been forgotten by time, all cracked sidewalks and peeling paint, with that heavy, small-town air that clung to you like dust. Billy could smell the boredom before they’d even unpacked.

The irony wasn’t lost on him — he’d nearly died in a city that wanted to “save” him, only to be dragged to a nowhere place that wouldn’t care if he bled out in the street.

Hawkins wasn’t home. It was exile.
And as he stared out the car window at the flat stretch of nothing, one thought kept looping in his head:

If he was going to survive here, he’d have to get even better at hiding what he was.

Chapter Text

Steve’s caregiver side had been… restless.
That was the only word he had for it. Restless, gnawing at him like a hunger he couldn’t satisfy. He’d had instincts before — soft flashes of protectiveness, the need to keep the kids safe when the world went sideways. But ever since the new family moved to Hawkins, those instincts had sharpened into something else. Something that wouldn’t let him sleep.

He’d seen them the first week of school. The Hargroves. The step-sister, the mom, the man who radiated fury. And the son. The blonde angel with sky in his eyes.

Billy Hargrove walked the halls like a neon sign — too-tight shirts, glittering belt buckles, hair styled sharp enough to cut. He was flashy, aggressive, dangerous in the way people who are deeply wounded usually are. And it should have put Steve off. It should have been enough for him to roll his eyes, mutter something about macho posturing, and walk away.

But his caregiver side didn’t let him.  It locked on.

Every time Billy smirked, every time he snapped at someone, Steve’s instincts pulled in the opposite direction. They screamed: pick him up, wrap him in blankets, make him safe. His whole body itched with the need to soothe, to hold, to give him the kind of soft that boy had clearly never been given.

And it was insane.
Billy wasn’t a little. Hell, everyone at Hawkins assumed he was baseline if anything — wild, rough-edged, nothing soft about him. Steve kept telling himself he was losing it, that his caregiver wiring must be misfiring. Because what else could it be?

Why else would he find himself buying things? Little things. Soft things. Blankets, stuffies, bottles, pacifiers— items he told himself were for later, for when life made sense again, but always with one image stuck in his head: Billy Hargrove curled small in his arms, safe.

So he bottled it up.
Contained it. Focused on the kids. He told himself he could redirect the instinct — use it on Dustin, Lucas, Mike, Will, even Jane. Max, too, the redheaded girl who’d been folded into their little group, Billy’s step-sister. She gave him enough trouble to keep his hands full.

But the truth was… it wasn’t enough.

That afternoon, driving Dustin and Max to his home, the buzzing need inside him flared again. They stopped at a gas station for snacks, and that was when he saw it. Hanging by the register, small and ridiculous and perfect — a bee plushie keychain.

It was nothing, really. A silly little trinket. But Steve’s chest ached when he saw it.
Because of course he thought of Billy.
Billy. B. Bee.

His fingers closed around it before he even realized what he was doing. He bought it without thinking, tucking it into his pocket like it was some dangerous secret.

Back in the car, Dustin gave him a look. “You’ve been a little fixated with bees lately, Steve.”

Steve forced a laugh, shrugging. “Yeah, maybe.”

But his heart was pounding. Because he knew the truth. It wasn’t about bees.
It was about Billy.
About a boy who glared at the world like he wanted to fight it bloody, when all Steve’s instincts told him he needed was a warm blanket, a safe lap, and someone who wouldn’t let him go.

So he ignored Dustin’s suspicion, shoved the keychain deeper in his pocket, and drove them all home. Back to the chaos of Lucas and Mike arguing over the TV, Will and Jane sitting quiet in their corner, Max rolling her eyes at all of them.

Steve let himself be swallowed up in the noise, the comfort of caretaking a house full of kids. It was easier than admitting that his heart had already chosen someone else. Someone impossible.

Someone he wasn’t allowed to want this way.

The basement smelled of pizza grease and warm soda, the kind of scent that always clung to them after hours of movie marathons. A pile of VHS tapes sat by the TV, with Return of the Jedi already rewound and waiting, though nobody seemed eager to press play just yet. The kids had sprawled across Steve’s living room, limbs draped over beanbags and carpet like they owned the place. It was late enough that yawns were sneaking out, but the buzz of sugar kept them going.

Steve leaned back on the couch, half-tuned out of their chatter. His attention drifted between Max and Dustin arguing about the Star Wars expanded lore, and the way Billy’s laugh occasionally drifted through his mind like smoke curling under a door—raspy, sharp-edged, and unwillingly magnetic. Steve forced himself to pay attention, to focus on the kids.

Somehow the argument about who was cooler—Darth Vader or Luke Skywalker—started morphing. He didn’t even catch the thread of how it happened, but one moment Dustin was insisting Vader had better lines, and the next—

“Gosh, littles are so cute,” Dustin said through a mouthful of pizza crust, his voice higher with the excitement of the thought. “I wish I could see one of them someday.”

Steve blinked, caught off guard by the sudden pivot. He stiffened, biting the inside of his cheek. Littles. Out of all topics. He knew where his mind immediately went, but he swallowed it down hard.

“Yes, they are,” Max said easily, like it was the most normal conversation shift in the world. She was lounging on the rug, twirling her soda can in her hands. “Back in California, I saw a few of them. It was the cutest thing ever.”

Steve had to bite his tongue until it almost hurt not to ask if her brother wasn’t one of them . His brain screamed the possibility, but he forced his jaw to stay clamped shut. He knew Billy wasn’t. Couldn’t be. No way.

“Ow, really?” Mike leaned in, frowning in interest. “Like… what were they like?”

Max shrugged, a tiny smile twitching across her lips. “Just… soft. Happy. It’s different when you see it in person, y’know? They don’t even have to try, they just make you want to be nice to them. Haven’t you guys got any littles in Hawkins?”

Steve’s stomach gave a strange twist at that—something close to recognition, something close to panic.

“Well, we do have one,” Dustin piped up before Steve could interrupt. “Robin Buckley. She’s in Steve’s class.”

Steve’s shoulders tensed. He knew this was coming.

“But her headspace is almost our age,” Dustin added quickly, waving a hand like it wasn’t a big deal. “So it doesn’t really make a difference. She’s not, like… tiny.”

Mike’s brows furrowed. “Still counts though, right?”

“My brother and Mike’s sister take care of her sometimes,” Will added, his voice softer than the others. He fiddled with his soda can tab before offering a small smile. “She’s really cute. When she’s small, it’s like she lights up the whole room.”

“That’s adorable,” Max admitted, and the way she said it, Steve could tell she meant it.

The conversation lingered for a moment, warm and wistful, before the movie blared again and pulled them back in. Star Wars filled the room, the hum of lightsabers mixing with the sound of kids chewing pizza and the occasional burst of laughter. Still, Steve couldn’t shake the words. Littles are rare. Special. And as he glanced at Max, then at the closed hallway door where Billy might appear to pick up his sister, something twisted uncomfortably in his chest.

And Steve couldn’t shake it. He sat there, knuckles pressing hard into his thigh, thoughts stuck where they shouldn’t be.

It was torture. There were only four known caregivers in Hawkins—Steve, Nancy, Jonathan, and Joyce—and just one little. One. So people had to work with what they had, to subdue their instincts. Caregivers volunteered at daycares, spent time at the shelter, or even looked after pets and plants, anything to pour out that gnawing need to nurture. It wasn’t the same. It never really filled the ache.

For Steve, it was worse. Ever since Billy Hargrove showed up, loud and angry and shining like something Steve couldn’t name, the itch wouldn’t stop. It didn’t matter how many kids he babysat, or how many afternoons he spent helping with Robin’s headspace. The moment Billy swaggered into Hawkins High with his ripped jeans and sharp tongue, something in Steve locked onto him like gravity, like instinct whispering mine.

In less than a month, Billy Hargrove had become his whole world and stars.

And it was maddening. Because Billy wasn’t a little. Everyone knew that. He was a storm—volatile, dangerous, his temper snapping like a whip. There was nothing soft about him, nothing pliant, nothing that should have tugged at Steve’s instincts the way it did. But Steve couldn’t stop watching, couldn’t stop worrying about the way Billy carried his rage like armor, the way he flinched when people screamed too loud. Billy was not a little. But Steve’s bones screamed at him like he was.

The bell rang a little after the movie ended. By that time, Steve had already replayed all his dream scenarios in his head a dozen times. Billy, with that little bee pacifier Steve insists on leaving in his car—just in case, though he tells himself it’s a joke. Billy, soft-eyed, calling him Daddy in a whisper only Steve could hear. Billy asking to be picked up, to be held, to be fed a bottle in Steve’s arms. Billy stepping into the room Steve had only just begun to make in the quiet corners of his mind: bees on the wallpaper, bee plushies piled on the floor, soft yellow sheets, a nursery made for someone who doesn’t even know it’s theirs.

“That must be my brother, guys,” Max said, her voice dragging him back into the present.

Steve blinked, rubbed the back of his neck like he could erase the warmth of those thoughts.

“I’ll accompany you,” he offered casually as Max began to gather her things.

Max gave him a side-eye, suspicious but too tired from the long evening to argue. Steve didn’t really have to go—she could grab her things and meet Billy herself—but still, he wanted to. Just to see Billy’s face. Just to measure if, somehow, he could catch even a glimpse of what he’s been convincing himself he sees in him: a softness, a fragility tucked behind the armor.

Steve’s steps matched Max’s as they made their way down the hall. His stomach churned with a strange blend of anticipation and guilt. Because it wasn’t fair, was it? To project his caregiver dreams onto someone who had never given permission. To picture Billy, the hurricane, the golden-haired storm of Hawkins High, as his hidden baby.

But the thought refused to leave him. His mind kept circling back to the possibility, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Maybe, if he could just get closer. Maybe, if he could form a friendship. Maybe then his caregiver side would finally give up its obsession, let go of the idea that Billy Hargrove was the one he was meant to protect, soothe, nurture.

And maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t.

Opening the door, Steve was hit with an image he thought he’d never see. Billy Hargrove—mister perfect smirk, perfect hair, perfect don’t-give-a-damn swagger—stood in the doorway with red-rimmed eyes and a face streaked with tear tracks he was furiously scrubbing away with the heel of his hand, as if sheer force could erase the evidence.

The sight made Steve’s chest ache in a way that felt dangerous. His whole body went taut with the sharp, instinctual urge to just scoop the younger boy up into his arms, tuck his head under his chin, and promise him nothing would ever hurt again. To give him the safety he was so obviously lacking.

“Oh, sweetbee…” Steve murmured under his breath before he could stop himself. It slipped out soft, reverent, carried on instinct.

Billy’s head jerked up, blue eyes narrowing, confusion breaking through the raw shine of tears. “What?”

Steve’s stomach dropped. His own mask flew back into place as he shoved down the slip, scrambling for that casual tone he wore like armor. “Nothing, man. Are you… are you okay?” He leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed, trying to look cool, like the image of King Steve he knew he didn’t really pull off anymore.

“Yes. Yeah, just… something in my eyes.” Billy’s voice was rough, scratchy, frayed like fabric worn too thin. He rubbed at his face again, harsher this time, knuckles scraping under lashes. “They’re kinda sensitive, y’know?”

Steve didn’t know. Nobody knew, he guessed. That Billy was crying, that Billy could cry, and now he was lying on top of it—lying badly. And it had Steve’s instincts in a chokehold, every part of him screaming to push, to press, to peel him back until he wasn’t hiding anymore.

“Where’s my sister?” Billy snapped, sharp enough to sting, but Steve could see the fissures underneath.

“I’m here,” Max cut in quickly, swinging her backpack over one shoulder. She edged past Steve, practically bolting for the stairs. “Let’s go, Billy. Bye, Steve. Thanks for today.”

“Yeah, sure,” Steve muttered, but his eyes never left Billy.

The keychain in his pocket suddenly weighed a thousand pounds. A stupid little thing—bees for his sweet bee—that he’d bought for him and, still, hasn't the courage to give. It burned against his thigh like it knew something he didn’t. Like it knew letting Billy walk away right now, red-eyed and raw, would be a mistake he couldn’t undo.

Billy shifted, clearly ready to follow Max and vanish, shove this moment back into whatever locked drawer he kept inside himself. Steve panicked.

“I…” He swallowed, his throat dry. Then, before he could stop himself, it came tumbling out, a plea dressed as casual suggestion. “Why don’t you come in, Billy? Just for a bit. You eaten yet? There’s still pizza downstairs.”

Billy froze in the doorway, caught mid-step. His shoulders tensed, his jaw tightened, but for a flicker of a second—just a flicker—Steve saw something else. Hesitation. Hunger, but not for food. Something softer, something bone-deep.

And Steve thought, with a sudden dizzy clarity, that maybe, just maybe, Billy wanted to be asked to stay.

“I can’t, man. Dads—you know how they are about…” Billy trailed off, voice dropping until it was nothing but gravel. His eyes shimmered, wet but unspilled, and for one painful second Steve thought he was actually going to let it happen—thought he’d let the tears fall and let Steve see him. But then Billy blinked them back with a sharp inhale and squared his jaw.

“Bye, Harrington.”

It was soft. Softer than Billy ever let himself sound in daylight, in hallways, in front of anyone. It was the kind of goodbye that lodged in Steve’s ribs like a splinter.

Max offered him a small, polite wave. A gesture that said she’d seen too much too, but she was too tired to try and fight the weight in her brother’s body. Together, they turned and walked down the sidewalk toward the Hargrove house.

Steve stood in the doorway long after they were gone, the taste of uneaten words stuck at the back of his throat. He wanted to shout after Billy, wanted to tell him he didn’t have to go, didn’t have to put on that armor again. But the door was already swinging shut against the quiet, and the last thing he saw was Billy’s hunched shoulders disappearing into the dark.

The silence inside the house pressed heavy against him. The smell of leftover pizza clung to the air, mocking the invitation he couldn’t convince Billy to take. Steve leaned back against the door, palms flat against the wood, as if he could keep Billy there by force of will alone.

That night, sleep was impossible. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the shadows stretching and shrinking across his room as the hours dragged. His hand curled tight around the little bee keychain he hadn’t been able to let go of, the cheap metal digging into his palm. Every time his eyelids slipped shut, he saw Billy’s red-rimmed eyes. Every time he shifted, he heard Billy’s voice in his head— Bye, Harrington —like a knife sliding between his ribs.

Steve pressed the keychain to his chest, whispering promises into the empty dark. “You’ll be okay. You have to be okay. Please, Billy.”

But the house stayed silent, and so did Billy. And Steve stayed wide awake, clutching at a prayer that maybe one day Billy would let himself be small enough to need him—small enough to be Steve’s baby, like every instinct in his chest already swore he was.

Chapter Text

Billy’s stomach gave a loud, violent growl, sharp enough to rattle through the silent hum of the Camaro’s engine. It almost embarrassed him, but he didn’t let it show. Hands locked on the wheel, knuckles pale, he kept his eyes on the stretch of road ahead. Beside him, Max sat cross-legged, earbuds dangling from her lap, gaze sliding toward him without moving her head.

She noticed everything.

“God, Billy,” she said finally, voice soft but tinged with that little bite she always had. “When’s the last time you even ate? Or slept? At all?”

Billy didn’t turn. Didn’t blink. Just pressed his foot harder on the gas, watching the numbers on the speedometer climb like it mattered.

“Shut the fuck up, shitbird,” he snapped, his voice ragged, raw around the edges. “Take care of your own life.”

Max flinched but didn’t back down, stubborn as always. She opened her mouth like she might say something else, but one sharp glance from Billy shut her right up.

Silence settled between them, heavy as the sticky heat trapped in the Camaro. Outside, the early morning sun bled through the windshield, hitting Billy square in the eyes. He squinted, jaw flexing, but didn’t reach for the sunglasses shoved in the console. His eyes were bloodshot, the soft rims of pink betraying just how many hours had passed since he’d even tried to sleep.

The truth was, he didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to hear Max’s worried voice, didn’t want the guilt, didn’t want anyone to look at him like he was something fragile.

But worse than that—he didn’t want to admit how badly he was breaking.

His throat felt dry, tongue heavy, like every word was scraping the inside of him raw. His stomach twisted and clenched again, sharp and painful, but he ignored it the way he’d trained himself to ignore everything else. Hunger was good. Hunger meant control. Hunger meant skinny and praises. 

He liked the way it burned.

The lack of sleep, too—the endless nights pacing his room until his legs ached, lights off, window cracked just enough to let the cold bite at his skin. He liked pushing himself until his muscles trembled and his bones begged him to rest, because there was a point—this perfect, delicate point—where his body would finally give up on him.

And when it did?

He won.

Billy thrived on that. The power of it. Waking up sprawled across his bed or passed out over the floor, throat dry and limbs dead weight, but with his head clear—no buzzing, no racing thoughts, no screaming inside. Just silence.

He adored the silence.

He craved that control, that small, pathetic victory: he could hold back until his body quit on him. He could deny himself until there was nothing left to deny. And in those few short hours after waking, before everything came rushing back—the shouting, the fists, the pressure in his chest—he felt lighter. Untouchable.

He wasn’t weak.

At least, that’s what he told himself when he looked at his reflection and didn’t recognize the hollow-cheeked, red-eyed boy staring back.

Max shifted in her seat, twisting one of the frayed strings on her hoodie between her fingers. Her voice, when it came, was quiet.

“You know you’re gonna crash, right?”

Billy didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

The Camaro roared louder as he pushed it harder, burning through the empty stretch of Hawkins roads like he could outrun the weight pressing down on his chest.

Because if he slowed down—if he stopped—he’d have to feel it all.:

And Billy Hargrove wasn’t built for falling apart. He couldn’t fall. He wouldn’t give up.

“Those who committed suicide will be sent to hell.”

The words echo inside his skull like a sermon carved into bone, sharp and cruel. He remembers the way people used to say it—cold, sanctimonious, as if punishment was the only thing waiting for people like him, suicidal. But he also remembers the name behind the whispers. Leah Clearwater.

Leah.

She was sunlight once—golden and untouchable. An omega, brighter, braver than Billy could ever be, with a laugh that used to make the hallways feel warmer. She ruled San Diego High with Sam Uley, her alpha, their names murmured like a promise of forever. They said an alpha’s mark meant infinite love. Until forever turned into betrayal. Sam cheated—with Emily Young, Leah’s cousin.

Billy remembers the way Leah dimmed. How her light slipped through the cracks in her ribs until nothing was left but shadow. He remembers seeing her shoulders fold inward, her eyes lose their spark, remembers the day her parents came to school, faces pale, screaming and sobbing because their daughter had jumped from the tallest building in San Diego.

Gone.

Billy remembers the scars on Leah’s arms, on her neck, where Sam’s mark was rotting. Thin, angry, and screaming for someone to notice. They were the same as his, carved in places no one was meant to see, under layers after layers of clothes. Leah was the first person he ever showed them to, the first person who didn’t look away, the first who understood.

He remembers one lunch, both of them sitting on the farthest bench in the schoolyard where no one bothered to look. She had picked at her food, silent until he asked.

“Why, Leah… why would you jump?”

She smiled, small and sad, like someone who already knew the ending to her story.

“For the same reason as you, B,” she whispered, voice barely louder than the breeze. “I wish to fly. Fly far away from here and never come back.”

She jumped two days later.

Billy still sees it—the soft sneakers dangling above broken pavement, the way they said she didn’t scream on the way down. Brave. Leah was brave in the way he wasn’t. She reached for freedom while he was still trapped inside a body that felt too heavy, inside a life that wasn’t his.

He wishes he had her courage, wishes it would grow inside his ribs like something wild and untamed. He wishes he could stand on the edge and not look down, wishes he could leap without wondering if the fire waiting below was hotter than the hell he already lived in.

But Billy can’t. Not yet.

Because he’s still haunted by the doubt.

By the sermons.

By the sharp-edged warning that people like him—people who dream of flight, people who want out—are damned before they even jump.

And God, some nights, he wishes he didn’t care.

Some nights, he wishes he’d climb anyway.

Don’t Jump by Tokio Hotel came to its final notes as Billy’s self-deprecating spiral wound down, his thoughts slowly quieting as the school loomed closer in the distance. He could already make out his usual parking spot, the one he always claimed like clockwork, and his grip on the steering wheel tightened briefly before relaxing.

He pulled in smoothly, the song still playing faintly through the speakers, the fading melody wrapping around him like an old, familiar ache. The engine hummed low for a moment before cutting off, leaving a heavy silence behind.

Max was already moving, grabbing her bag in one swift motion, her skateboard tucked under her arm like it was an extension of herself. Without a word, she shoved the door open and jumped out, boots hitting the pavement with a muted thud. She didn’t look back. She never did.

Billy watched her go, his jaw ticking, fingers drumming against the steering wheel in time with the last lingering chords. Alone now, he sat there for a moment, just breathing in the quiet car, the air faintly smelling of smoke, leather, and stale cologne.

The lights will not guide you through, they are deceiving you… don’t jump.

The lyric echoed as the song faded out completely, leaving nothing but the buzz of his thoughts.

“Thanks, Bill,” Billy muttered under his breath, the bitterness curling in his tone like smoke. “I think I prefer to be deceived.”

With that, he shoved the door open, stepping out into the morning air, slamming it shut behind him, and walked toward the school without looking back.

His day would be better—so much better—if he could just walk into school, head down, go to his locker, grab his books, and disappear into class without anyone talking to him. If he could handle his own shit the way he’s always done, locked up tight and away from anyone’s reach. If he could deal with the gnawing hunger, the hollow exhaustion, and the endless self-deprecation alone.

But God acts in mysterious ways—or maybe it’s the devil already cashing in his dues, making Billy pay for every damn thing he’s ever done wrong, ever thought.

“Hey, Bee. Good morning.”

Steve Harrington’s voice cuts through the noise of the hallway, warm and obnoxiously cheerful, like honey melting in sunlight. Billy doesn’t even have to turn around to know it’s him—the stupid perfect hair, the blinding smile, the way his presence fills the damn space like he owns it.

Billy doesn’t comment on the way Steve stretches the B too long, soft and sweet, making it sound like bee , the insect, like it’s some stupid little nickname. He doesn’t comment on the way that single word feels like it’s been stitched into his skin. He doesn’t comment on the warmth that spreads through his chest like wildfire just from hearing his voice.

He doesn’t admit any of it.

He will never admit that Steve Harrington’s attention plants a dangerous little spark of hope in him—a hope Billy Hargrove cannot afford. He doesn’t admit how his head goes dizzy when Steve’s too close, how his instincts—the ones he’s buried for years—start clawing up from the dark, screaming at him to give in, just this once.

Just for Steve.

Just for his Daddy.

“Morning, Harrington.” Billy forces the words out flatly, tone bored, deliberately twisting the syllables to sound disinterested as he yanks open his locker.

“No, no,” Steve tuts, stepping closer, that infuriating grin on his lips. “What have we talked about?”

Billy’s jaw tightens. He wants to tell him to shove it, to back off, to stop playing this game, but instead, he rolls his eyes so hard it hurts and mutters, “Morning, Steve.”

Steve beams. “That’s it, Bee. Good boy.”

And then his hand is in Billy’s curls, ruffling them softly before trailing down just enough to linger. Billy freezes, pulse hammering in his ears, pretending it doesn’t make his chest ache in the most dangerous way. Pretending it doesn’t make his little whine quietly behind the locked door of his headspace, begging for more.

But his body betrays him. His stomach growls—loud, desperate, and humiliating.

Steve’s hand stills for just a moment before sliding into Billy’s hair again, gentle now, soothing in a way that makes Billy want to punch something.

“God, honeybee,” Steve sighs, soft and concerned in that way that makes Billy’s throat burn. “We’ve gotta get some food in you right now. C’mon, let’s hit the cafeteria. Maybe you can even take a nap. We’ll just skip first period—I’ll look after you.”

Steve’s thumb brushes against his curls, his hand still on him, grounding, steadying.

Billy wants to scream.

It’s been like this for a week now—ever since that day. Ever since he’d shown up at Steve Harrington’s door, red-eyed and shaking, Max hovering awkwardly behind him, too small and too scared to be the buffer she usually tries to be. Ever since Billy had cried in Steve’s driveway like the pathetic little fuckup he is.

Ever since then, Steve hasn’t stopped.

The coddling.
The pet names.
The constant watching.

It’s exhausting. It’s confusing. It makes Billy feel like he’s drowning, but it also makes him… happy. And that’s the problem. Because Billy Hargrove doesn’t get to have this. He doesn’t get to be taken care of. He doesn’t want to want it—doesn’t want to feel his walls cracking every time Steve smiles like that, every time he calls him Bee, every time his stupid soft hands end up in his hair.

And the worst part? Nobody else thinks it’s weird.

“Don’t worry about it, Billy,” Tommy H. had told him yesterday when he complained. “It’s just his caregiver. He does this sometimes. He likes taking care of people. You just happen to be the youngest outta the group, that’s all.”

Billy had stared at him like he’d grown another head. Tommy was so whipped for Harrington it was disgusting. That had to be it. Because no one else seemed to see how wrong this was.

Steve started this without asking. He decided to care. He decided to invade Billy’s life, his space, his everything, without permission.

And Billy doesn’t know how to handle it—because people don’t care for him. Not without wanting something in return.

And Steve… Steve’s giving too much. Steve’s caring too much.

And Billy doesn’t know if he can afford the price tag attached to that kind of kindness.

“Okay, Harrington,” Billy finally snaps, his voice sharp, cracking through the tension like glass shattering. “I’m gonna stop you right there. I’m not a fucking baby. Don’t treat me like one.”

Before Steve can reply, the bell shrieks overhead, cutting the air in half.

Billy slams his locker shut, his heart pounding, and starts walking without another word.

“Bye, Harrington.”

And he doesn’t look back.

The classroom hums faintly with the sounds of pencils scratching, pages flipping, and the occasional cough—but Billy hears none of it. He stares blankly at the notebook in front of him, the words on the board blurring into an indistinguishable smear of chalk and white. His hand is locked around his pen, knuckles white, his entire body wound up like a wire about to snap.

And thank fuck he doesn’t share this class with Harrington.
Because if Steve were here—if Billy had to see his face, the disappointment, the confusion, the quiet ache behind those damn brown eyes—he knows he’d break.

He almost already has.

He can’t think about Steve right now. Can’t think about that soft “good boy,” the hand in his curls, the warmth that lingers when he’s gone. He can’t carry it—not right now, not when everything else is splitting open inside him.

His chest feels too tight, like someone’s pulling him apart from the inside. Breath comes in sharp, uneven little gasps, too fast, too shallow, and he tries to clamp his jaw shut so nobody notices. His stomach flips violently, an empty pit gnawing at him, dragging all his organs with it like they’re tangled in barbed wire.

His head spins.
His throat burns.
And his eyes—God, his eyes are on fire.

Billy Hargrove is going to collapse. He knows it.

Or maybe—if he’s unlucky—he’ll drop. Not physically, not on the shitty linoleum floor, but into his headspace, somewhere small, somewhere quiet, where the static can finally cut out for a second. And he would have to change cities again.

Or, if the universe is feeling really generous, maybe he’ll just die right here at his desk.

But he needs something.

His fingers twitch before his brain even processes the decision, sliding beneath the cuff of his long-sleeved henley. He curls them tight, nails biting into skin until they find familiar grooves, old raised lines hidden beneath thin fabric. And he digs.

Just a little.
Just enough.

The sting blooms sharp, electric. Perfect.

Pain floods his system fast, adrenaline surging hot through his veins, masking everything else—hunger, dizziness, exhaustion—until there’s only this. Until there’s only control.

He presses harder, feels the skin give under his nails. The warmth follows instantly, wet and slick, soaking into the fabric before he even processes it. A single drop splashes to the floor, dark and tiny and insignificant, except it isn’t.

Black spots bloom in his vision, edges creeping in, but God, it’s delicious. Perfect. He feels light. He feels real.

And then—

“Billy… Billy.”

A hand clamps down on his shoulder, jolting him back into his body like a punch to the chest.

He blinks, sluggish, pupils blown wide as his surroundings sharpen into focus. The basketball poster, the teacher’s back, the rows of bored faces. And right next to him—Patrick, one of the older guys from the team, baseline, kind eyes creased in concern.

“Dude, you’re bleeding.”

Billy’s gaze drops automatically, following Patrick’s to the damp patch spreading on his sleeve.

Shit.

“I…” His throat locks up. He wants to confess, wants to say it all—how his head’s a storm, how he can’t breathe, how the pain is the only thing keeping him from completely unraveling. He wants to scream for help, to trust someone, anyone.

He wants to be brave like Leah had been before she jumped. Wants to be the kind of person who could open his mouth and let someone catch him.

But he isn’t brave.
He isn’t built for flying.

So he swallows it all down, forces the words past the lump in his throat, and lies.

“It’s okay,” Billy mutters, voice flat, controlled. “I’ll just go to the bathroom and patch this up. Must’ve… must’ve scraped it on something.”

Patrick hesitates, frowning. “You sure? I can come with you, man.”

It hits Billy then—the softness of it. The way Patrick’s looking at him like he actually matters, like he’s not just some angry asshole on the team. They all do this, the older guys—joking with him, calling him their “smartass junior,” treating him like some annoying little brother they’ve decided to keep around anyway.

It should make Billy sneer, should make him bite back, but instead… it softens something deep in him, something fragile he doesn’t let anyone touch.

He forces a smirk, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Nah, man. I’m alright. Just embarrassed I didn’t notice it before.”

Patrick nods slowly, still watching him like he’s trying to see through him, but eventually lets it go.

Billy mutters something about needing the hall pass and strides up to the teacher’s desk, tossing out some half-ass excuse about a nosebleed. He’s granted permission, and he’s gone before anyone else can stop him.

The bathroom tiles are cold under his sneakers, the overhead lights buzzing faintly, and for a moment, Billy just stands there, staring at the sink, his pulse loud in his ears.

It’s worse when he’s alone.

Because alone feels safe. And safe means his head whispers drop, drop, drop .

But he knows better. He knows better.

He shoves his sleeves up, biting down on the inside of his cheek when the fresh gashes sting from the movement. The scars are a mess, layered and tangled over each other, some faded, some raw, some bleeding freely.

For a second, he just stares. Watches the way the red spreads, fast and quiet, turning his skin sticky. And then he looks up—right into the mirror.

And there he is.
Billy Hargrove, in all his fucked-up glory.

The bruises, the dark circles, the dullness in his own eyes. The jagged little reminders carved into his arms, proof that he can’t get it together, proof that he’s wrong, that he’s broken, that he’ll never be what anyone wants him to be.

His chest heaves once, twice, and then the sob rips out of him silent and violent, shoulders shaking, tears slipping hot down his cheeks.

He tips his head back, presses his fingers into one of the open cuts until the pain spikes bright, grounding him. He sucks in a shuddering breath and bites it down, swallows it whole, choking on the taste of copper in the back of his throat.

For one wild, fleeting second, he wishes his father were here. Wishes Neil would storm in and rip him apart, beat this “fairy shit” out of him, force him into something that makes sense.

But he’s alone.
And the silence is deafening.

Until it isn’t. Until a sharp gasp cuts through the haze, and hands—soft but insistent—wrap around his wrists, tugging him back from the edge. Just stop harming yourself, Jesus, the voice pleads, trembling, urgent. But he can’t. He can’t stop. The blood won’t vanish. The tears won’t fucking disappear. And the hands—the gentle, relentless hands—won’t leave him alone.

“Billy… It’s okay. I’m Robin, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

It’s not. He wants to scream it, to shout that nothing will ever be okay. He’s too broken to return to anything resembling normal. His chest heaves, his fingers tremble, and his eyes meet hers—shining, vulnerable, just like his own—and the floodgates break. More tears fall, stinging and hot, and he collapses, dropping to the cold tile in the middle of the bathroom. The world tilts around him, and he lets himself fall, letting go of control, letting go of the fight, letting himself be small and shattered for the first time in what feels like forever.

“Oh, baby… it’s okay. Robin is here, big sis is here, it’s all going to be okay.”

And she hugs him, tight and grounding, and it’s so good that he finally, utterly gives up. He lets her pull at his hands, guides them beneath the running water. The sting bites at his skin, the pain shoots through him, and yet, somehow, it’s dizzying, overwhelming, and—fucking—blissful. His tears fall freely, turning into soft sniffles, and he just… lets himself be.

Paper towels press against the open cuts, soaking up blood, and another damp one wipes away the tears and the sorrow streaked across his face. Above him, a calm, pretty face looks down, steady and reassuring. A girl making him feel safe, protected, cared for, calling herself his big sister. “Calm down, baby. Big sis is here. It’s going to be alright.”

For the first time in a long while, Billy relaxes. He allows himself to breathe, to soften, to be held. He lets himself be cared for without fighting it.

But it all fades too quickly. The drop, the safety, the fleeting warmth—it slips away like water through his fingers. Panic flares, sharp and sudden, and fear coils in his chest. Billy pushes her hands away gently, takes a deep, shaky breath, and steels himself, ready to speak.

“Don’t start,” she murmurs, voice low but hardening, “I know what it is about.”

And of course, Robin knew. She was a little like him—she dropped, she understood the way it felt to be trapped in a storm of emotions, to carry scars both visible and hidden. She would know why his arms were marked, why people still assumed he was nothing more than a baseline, ordinary and replaceable. She knew because the school had done its job in raising awareness, teaching students to recognize abuse, to understand its weight and its signs. And she was smart—sharp, attentive, intuitive. Of course she knew.

And Billy knew it too, what abuse looks like, what it feels like. But he isn’t brave. He wishes he was.

“You can’t tell anyone.” Billy forces his voice to come out, hardening his eyes. Robin opens her mouth with an angry grimace. “You can’t tell. He will kill me. Or I will kill myself. If you tell someone I’ll be dead and it’ll be your fault.”

Robin eyes widens with tears and her mouth trembles as she forces it back into her eyes. Don’t drop, don’t fucking drop.

“I… I promise, I won’t tell anyone.”

And then he lets her tend to his injuries again.

God he is such an asshole.

Chapter Text

It’s been almost two months since Steve last talked to or touched Billy Hargrove. Exactly seven weeks and three days. And in that span of time, he’s been miserable.

Between forcing himself to keep his caregiver instincts in check and battling the part of him that had grown hopelessly fond of the very idea of Billy, Steve’s been walking through hell. He’s gotten earfuls from teachers, from the coach, from everyone who noticed his slipping grades and missed practices. But none of it mattered—because Steve simply couldn’t. He couldn’t sit next to Billy and pretend to be unaffected. He couldn’t watch that stupid little blonde curl falling on Billy’s forehead and not want to lean over and tuck it behind his ear, as if touching him would make it better somehow.

He couldn’t stand seeing Billy chew his lip raw either—probably another nervous tick, an oral fixation Steve wanted so badly to soothe. He hated himself for it, but he’d thought about giving him the pacifier that still sat in his car, right next to the tiny bee keychain he once bought for Billy. He still took the keychain out every day—sometimes more than once—just to feel close, just to make the ache hurt less.

So Steve stayed away.

He stayed away because forcing your classification on someone—forcing your caregiver instincts onto someone who hadn’t asked for it, who wasn’t made for it—was constitutional abuse. And the thought of hurting his boy like that… it made Steve sick to his stomach.

Because yes—Billy never stopped being his. Not in his mind. Not in the quiet, restless hours where he lay awake, suffocating in longing.

Steve had imprinted, hard, on Billy Hargrove. On a boy—a teenager—who wasn’t a little, who wasn’t his baby. And it fucking destroyed him. Because after Steve had experienced life with Billy—after holding him, soothing him, taking care of him for just a little while—he realized he didn’t know what happiness was anymore outside of that feeling.

That warm, gentle, impossible feeling of loving and being loved back.

And now, without it, Steve Harrington was unraveling. Quietly. Patiently. Painfully. Every day, a little more of him stripped away, like loose threads pulling free until there’d be nothing left but an empty shell of who he used to be. Every second was another quiet theft of his sanity. He wore it well enough—perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect posture—but beneath it, he was splintering.

He didn’t think it was possible to see someone more miserable than him. Not until now.

Steve had been at the arcade for over an hour, hovering near the machines without really playing, fingers gripping the side of one so tightly that the plastic bit into his palms until they ached. He’d come to blow off steam, to drown in the mindless buzz of flashing lights and digital noise, but mostly, if he was being honest, because he knew Billy would be here.

And he was.

Billy had brought Max a little earlier, dropping her off like he always did, gruff and impatient as ever. And Steve had done what he always did, too—stayed back, hidden, watching from a distance like a coward with his heart in his hands, trying not to exist too close to the boy who destroyed him without even knowing it.

But then he saw Max.

The girl wasn’t her usual self—no snark, no snapping comebacks, none of the fiery little spark that usually lit her up. Instead, she was quiet, tucked into herself, expression unreadable, hands clutched around the joystick of her game like it was the only thing keeping her tethered. Her shoulders were tense, her whole posture too small, too fragile.

And the air around her… God, it was heavy.

It was wrong.

It felt stormy, like the room itself had shifted, thick with the kind of darkness that made Steve’s chest tighten. The kind of darkness he knew too well. It rolled off her like a tempest—silent, suffocating, the air sharp with something unspoken, like glass splinters beneath the skin.

And that was when Steve snapped out of his own misery.

Because Max wasn’t just quiet. She wasn’t just thinking. She was hurting.

And Max being like this could only mean one thing: something had happened.

His brain went to the worst place first, faster than he could stop it. Faster than reason. Because Steve wasn’t just Steve anymore—he was a caregiver, and his instincts were screaming, clawing at him, choking him, forcing every alarm in his body to go off all at once.

What if this was because of Billy?

What if something happened to his boy?

He hated the thought. Hated the way his chest burned with the panic of it, hated the way his hands trembled against the machine, hated the way his whole body itched with the urge to run to him, grab him, demand to know what was wrong and fix it because that’s what caregivers do.

But he couldn’t.

Because Billy wasn’t his.

Because Billy wasn’t a little.

Because Steve wasn’t allowed to want him like this, wasn’t allowed to hold him, wasn’t allowed to soothe him when every bone in his body begged him to.

Still, the thought kept circling his head, over and over like a mantra he couldn’t escape:

If Max looks like this… what the fuck happened to Billy?

So he stayed.

Steve stayed where he was, leaning against the wall by the row of arcade machines, watching Max from afar. His eyes tracked every twitch of her little hands, the way her knee bounced like a drumbeat out of sync, the way she sighed—too often, too deep—the way she slumped forward until her spine curled like she was carrying the whole damn world on her back. He didn’t miss the frustration in the way she mashed at the joystick, sharper than necessary, movements jerky and impatient. And then, eventually, Max gave up entirely, shoving her game card into her pocket and heading toward the door.

Outside. Air.

And Steve followed.

He told himself he shouldn’t, told himself to stay back, to let her breathe, to not involve himself in anything that led back to Billy Hargrove. He’d promised himself weeks ago that he’d stay away—stay away from the boy, stay away from anything that made his instincts spiral, stay away from the gnawing urge in his chest that screamed protect him .

But when he saw Max push through the glass door with her shoulders hunched like defeat, Steve was already there.

Standing by his BMW, leaning against the hood like it was casual, like he hadn’t been waiting for an excuse. In his hands, he held a bottle of water and a packet of her favorite candy—cheap chocolate drops he picked up from the gas station earlier, a quiet bribe he hadn’t even known he’d be using.

“Hey, Mad Max.”

Max was sitting against the side of his Beemer now, knees drawn up, her skateboard balanced across her shins like a shield. She looked small, younger than usual, and her voice cracked when she answered without meeting his eyes.

“Hey, Steve.”

The silence between them grew thick, stretching until it was almost suffocating. The kind that makes you hyper-aware of every little sound—the buzzing neon above them, the hum of traffic down the street, the faint shouts from kids still inside the arcade. But Steve wasn’t listening to any of it. His head was going haywire, overdrive, his instincts screaming louder than reason.

Because whatever this was—this quiet, this weight, this wrongness—he felt it deep in his bones.

“Stop.”

Steve blinked, pulled from his spiraling thoughts. “…What?”

“Just… fucking stop, okay?” Max muttered, hugging her knees tighter, voice sharp like broken glass. “You’re not going to guess. And I’m not supposed to tell you.”

Steve stared at her, his jaw working, his brain spinning. Then he hummed low, pretending to think deeply when really he was just buying time.

“And when,” he said, tilting his head, taunting gently, “was the last time you actually obeyed a rule?”

“Plenty,” Max shot back immediately, too defensive to be convincing.

He raised his eyebrows, smirking. “Plenty, huh? Is that what we’re going with?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” He leaned in just slightly, playful glint in his eyes. “You don’t even listen to arcade staff when they ask you to stop climbing on the cabinets.”

“That’s different,” she muttered, but his eyebrow wiggle made her crack.

Just like he wanted.

Her shoulders shook, lips twitching, and then finally Max broke into a laugh—a real one, deep and sharp and bright enough to soften the storm in her expression. She let out a little snort, a sound she’d deny making later, and shoved his arm weakly.

“Thank you, Steve.” She wiped at her eyes, still laughing breathlessly. “I think I needed this.”

He smiled, softer this time. “You ready to tell me now, then? I can help. Promise.”

But the shift was instant. The brightness dimmed, her shoulders drew in, and the darkness in her eyes swallowed everything again.

“No, you can’t.” Her voice was smaller this time, fragile in a way that scared him. She hesitated, like pulling words from her throat hurt, before finally whispering:
“I think Billy is hurting himself again.”

Steve froze.

The words didn’t fully land at first, sliding around the edges of his brain, refusing to stick because they didn’t fit anywhere logical, Steve couldn’t take for it to fit. But Max’s face, pale and tight and scared, anchored them like weights.

She didn’t tell him everything. She couldn’t. She wanted to—God, she wanted to scream it loud enough for the world to hear:

I think my brother is trying to kill himself again. I think he’s going to succeed this time.

But she didn’t. Because she’d promised him.

Because Neil made sure she’d keep quiet, fists slamming on tables, his voice like a threat etched into her bones. Because her mom had begged her too, hands shaking as she swore Max into silence, terrified of what would happen if anyone found out.

So she swallowed it. Swallowed the panic, the grief, the betrayal, forcing herself to hold it together while it carved her hollow.

Max couldn’t understand why Billy wouldn’t ask for help, why he’d rather let himself shatter than reach for anyone. And maybe she’d never understand it—but she loved him, and that love made her feel like she was drowning.

It had taken years for Billy to trust her enough to even hint at this part of himself. To let her in, even a little. She couldn’t throw that away, even if keeping quiet meant watching him sink deeper.

And yet… sitting here, beside Steve Harrington, it still felt like betrayal.

Because she’d planned this.

She knew Steve came to the arcade every day now. She knew he hung around like a ghost, orbiting but never touching, staying close without letting himself get burned. She counted on that. She counted on the way Steve’s eyes always followed her brother, the way his chest always softened when Billy’s name came up, the way he wanted so badly to care for him—even when he wasn’t allowed.

Max played him. She’d gotten Steve exactly where she wanted him, said just enough, nudged the right buttons until he asked the right questions, and she gave just enough of the right answers to put him on the path she needed him to take.

Her plan worked perfectly.

She should’ve felt relief.

But it still felt like betrayal.

Steve didn’t notice any of that—he was too wrapped in the words she did give him, his mind spiraling, caregiver instincts clawing against his ribs. He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again, but nothing came out.

And then, just as the weight of it was starting to settle, just as his body went cold with dread—

Billy walked out of the arcade.

“Max! Let’s go.”

And just like that, she was gone.

Steve stood there, hands frozen around the bottle of water, the candy slipping slightly in his grip, his heart beating too fast to breathe.

Max’s words echoed, low and sharp, looping in his skull until they were all he could hear.

I think Billy is hurting himself again.

And Steve knew—right then, right there—that staying away wasn’t an option anymore.

Steve had stayed up all night, making a plan.
He wanted it to be perfect. He’d keep his distance, stay close enough to watch but far enough not to scare Billy off. He’d wait for the right opportunity—he’d find a way back into Billy’s orbit, back into his life, one careful step at a time.

If Billy hated him for it later, fine. Steve could take the hit, so long as his boy was safe. He’d handle everything for him, even if Billy didn’t want him to.

By the time the first rays of sun came crawling through his blinds, Steve was already dressed. He hadn’t slept a second. The light burned against his eyelids, but there was no heaviness, no drowsiness—just restless energy buzzing through him.

He’d done everything right. Picked clothes that made him look casual but approachable, packed his bag, and left earlier than usual. Because today, Billy would be early too. Steve knew his patterns, knew that on this particular day, Billy liked to sit in the cafeteria until the bell rang.

It was supposed to be perfect.

But when Steve stepped into the cafeteria, what he found instead was Billy—laughing.

Billy, sitting at a table near the exit, shoulders brushing Robin’s, trading jokes with Eddie Munson like they’d been friends since birth. His smile was loose, easy, soft in a way Steve hadn’t seen in months. Robin had her arm draped casually behind Billy, Eddie leaned in too close, and Billy didn’t look uncomfortable. He looked… happy.

Steve froze.

At another table, closer to the entrance, Nancy and Jonathan sat with their heads bent over a thick journal. Without thinking, he dropped into the chair across from them.

“Why the hell is Robin sitting with Billy Hargrove?” were the first words out of his mouth.

Nancy didn’t even look up. “Morning to you too, Steve.”

“Morning,” he muttered, still watching the table like a hawk.

Jonathan snorted, shaking his head, and started explaining. “Honestly? We don’t know. She just showed up one day, said Billy was her ‘baby,’ and decided they were inseparable. Now she sits with him every morning.”

Steve blinked at him, stunned.

“We tried asking her why,” Jonathan went on, flipping a page in the journal, “but every time we push, whether she’s in or out of headspace, she starts crying. So we stopped. She’s serious about it, though. Calls herself his ‘big sister’ now.”

Steve’s eyes drifted back to the table. Billy was relaxed—leaning against Robin like it was the most natural thing in the world, soft little laugh lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes. Eddie was there too, looking far too comfortable, and something ugly twisted in Steve’s chest at the sight.

In what universe did Robin Buckley, Eddie Munson, and Billy Hargrove make sense in the same frame? It was surreal.

And Eddie—God. Eddie being there was its own problem. Ever since Eddie had been classified as a sub, Jason and Chrissy shadowed him constantly, guarding him like he was a wayward child. But here he was, free, untethered, sitting next to Steve’s boy, talking too close and laughing too loud. Steve’s stomach knotted instantly, imagining every reckless thing Eddie could teach Billy if left unchecked.

He forced himself to keep his voice even. “And Eddie?”

Jonathan grinned, like this part was the punchline. “That’s the funny part. Eddie just… inserted himself a few weeks ago and refused to leave. Robin made it official—calls him their ‘big brother.’”

Steve’s brows shot up. “Robin nominated Eddie Munson? For Billy?”

“Nope. For them. ” Jonathan chuckled, shaking his head. “Wild, right? But get this—Jason and Chrissy actually thanked us for letting Robin near Eddie. Said their ‘pet’ finally grew responsible since he’s got people depending on him now. Apparently, Eddie’s on his best behavior because he wants to be a good big brother. Cute, isn’t it?!”

Nancy finally looked up from her journal, adding dryly, “Not that cute. Remember when she kicked us off the table? Said we were ‘embarrassing her in front of her friends.’”

Jonathan laughed. “Oh yeah, fun times.”

Steve’s jaw tightened, gaze flicking back to where Billy’s hand brushed Robin’s as they shared a laugh. He didn’t like this. Not the closeness, not the ease, not the little bubble they’d formed without him.

“So that’s why you guys aren’t sitting there anymore,” he said, voice carefully neutral.

Jonathan grinned. “Exactly, Stevo.”

But Steve’s mind wasn’t on them anymore. It was on Billy’s soft laugh, Robin’s protective arm, Eddie’s dangerous grin. It was on the table where his boy sat, and how he wasn’t part of it. How Billy didn’t need him.

And, honestly… maybe Max was worried over nothing. Maybe Steve was just making up reasons, inventing emergencies, just so he could justify putting things back the way they were before the incident. Because look at Billy — the boy was laughing, leaning close, trading jokes, his smile soft and natural. He wasn’t hurting, wasn’t sad. He looked… happy. Content. Enjoying his life without him.

Steve should’ve felt relieved at the sight. He should’ve been glad. But instead, the thought of Billy not needing him was like ripping open an old scar — raw, aching, bleeding all over again. It hurt like hell.

Before he could spiral too deep, Nancy’s voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and casual as she skimmed the latest headline.

“Oh, fuck. Look at this,” she said, eyes flicking over the page. “Baby omega found dead inside his home. Killer’s probably his own father.”

Jonathan leaned in to read alongside her, and Steve finally blinked out of his misery, dragging his gaze toward them.

Nancy read aloud from the journal:

“Henry Bowers, 15 years old, recently classified, was shot inside his own home this Wednesday afternoon. Sources claim the shooter was his father, Denver’s chief of police. The boy’s autopsy revealed three broken bones — nose, ribs, and arm — alongside extensive bruising scattered across his body.

This journal went further into the case, tracking down a close friend of Henry’s, Patrick Hockstetter, 17, alpha and reportedly Henry’s destined mate. Patrick was the one who found the body and gave his statement:”

Jonathan reached over and tapped the column. “This part’s rough,” he muttered, and Nancy kept reading.

“So, Patrick, how did you find the body?”

‘Henry’s dad came to pick him up from school that day. He never did that — not once — so I already knew something was wrong. Henry was scared, too. I could feel it. We’re destined mates; I always knew when he was upset.

His father… was abusive. That wasn’t news. I thought it’d be the usual — yelling, bruises. But then, when I felt Henry’s pain hit me like a punch… and then felt the relief, so much relief… I knew. I knew before I even got there. I ran, but by the time I did… it was too late. He was already gone.’”

Nancy glanced at the next line, her expression hardening as she read the reporter’s follow-up:

“‘Why didn’t you try sooner, if you knew his father was abusive?’”

Patrick’s response was blunt, raw:

“‘I did try. But in this shitty city, everyone thinks Henry and our friends are just troublemakers. No one listens. No one cared. His dad being chief of police? Made it worse. Nobody wanted to get involved. His mom left years ago, too, so there wasn’t a single adult who gave a damn. I thought staying quiet was protecting him — that I’d just make things worse if I stepped in.

Now I wish I’d killed that bastard before he killed my mate.’”

Silence settled for a moment, thick and heavy, until Nancy exhaled sharply, flipping the page.

“It’s always the same,” she muttered bitterly. “We’re taught to report abuse. Taught to speak up. But when we do ? No one listens. They don’t care unless there’s something to gossip about. Remember the Vance Hopper case?”

And yeah — Steve remembered.

Vance Hopper. Thirteen years old. The cops had picked him up for fighting at the local store. Everyone in North Denver knew Vance had a temper, it was said by the news that he was a local troublemaker, but instead of taking him home safely, the officers left him wandering the streets. At the time, there were active reports of a possible kidnapper, a serial predator known as The Grabber . Everyone knew, but they left Vance anyway.

It wasn’t a surprise when the boy disappeared.

What was a surprise was how no one really seemed to care. Not until the Grabber was caught — not by the police, but by one of his own victims, a boy named Finney Blake, who fought his way out and led investigators to the basement.

And then they found the bodies.

Vance Hopper had been there for almost two years. Shackled. Beaten. Used. Dead. He’d been classified down there , too — a little, against his will.

Jonathan shook his head with a disgusted snort. “Yeah. I remember the uproar. Everyone suddenly cared the second they found out he was a little. Suddenly, it was all news articles and hashtags and ‘justice for Vance.’”

He scoffed. “People are fucking hypocrites.”

Steve didn’t answer. His mind was elsewhere, looping around and around Billy’s laughter, Robin’s protective arm, Eddie’s stupid grin. The cases Nancy read out echoed like warning bells in his skull, sharp and unrelenting.

He began to wonder — really wonder — if any of it fit Billy at all.
If he wasn’t making a mistake.
If he wasn’t misunderstanding everything.
If he wasn’t already too late.

The cases, the doubts, the warnings — they followed him like shadows, weaving clouds inside his head, smothering his senses until all he could do was watch.

Steve started stalking Billy. Quietly. Obsessively.

He skipped his own classes, lingering near Billy’s. He noticed the little things most people didn’t — the way Billy chewed on the end of his pencil, or his lower lip, or the skin around his fingers without even realizing it. Nervous tics. Unconscious cracks in the mask.

He noticed the dark circles under Billy’s eyes, the exhaustion in his body, the strange hollowness behind his smile. He noticed how Billy was always smiling when someone was watching — smirking, grinning, playing the part. As if happiness was something he could perform until it looked real enough to fool everyone else.

But not Steve.

When Billy asked the teacher for permission to step out, Steve followed. He waited a full minute before slipping away, careful not to draw attention.

He searched everywhere — bathrooms, gym, labs, the nurse’s office, the benches outside, even the principal’s hallway. Every time someone questioned him, he fed them the same excuse:

“Have you seen Billy Hargrove? The teacher’s looking for him.”

Nothing. Billy was nowhere.

Steve’s chest tightened until it was hard to breathe, his heart slamming so loud it echoed in his ears. Thoughts spiraled, sharp and suffocating — What if he’s hurt? What if Max was right? What if—

Then, a soft breeze brushed across his skin, cold and sudden, pulling him out of the panic. It came from the stairwell.

Steve ran.

He climbed the steps two at a time, and when he reached the top, he froze.

Billy sat on the railing of the rooftop, legs dangling casually over the edge like it was nothing.

Steve’s heart jumped so violently it felt like his ribs might crack.

The sunlight hit Billy perfectly — his skin glowing gold, blond curls catching fire in the rays. He looked almost untouchable, ethereal, like something carved out of light itself. For a moment, Billy Hargrove didn’t look human at all.

He looked like an angel about to take flight.

“You’ve been watching me all morning.” Billy’s voice drifted lazily through the air, calm, amused. He didn’t turn around. “Figured I’d give you a scare for it.”

Steve should’ve felt embarrassed, but Billy acknowledging him — even like this — sent a strange warmth flooding his chest. Without thinking, he crossed the rooftop and lowered himself onto the rail beside him.

“You did,” Steve admitted quietly.

Billy’s eyes were closed, his head tilted back, breathing deep like the breeze belonged to him. The silence stretched, filled only by the faint hum of the world below them. Steve glanced down at the tiny shapes of students walking between buildings and swallowed hard.

“God,” he muttered, gripping the railing, “this place is really high.”

“Not that high.” Billy cracked one eye open, voice soft but oddly detached. “If you jumped, maybe you’d break a few bones. But it wouldn’t kill you.”

He looked away again, gaze locked on the horizon, and added almost absently:

“Back in Cali… there are places high enough to do the job.”

Steve’s frown deepened immediately. Something in Billy’s tone made his stomach twist. Those blue eyes, when they opened fully, were heavy with something buried deep, something Steve couldn’t quite reach.

Because Billy wasn’t just thinking about the view.
Billy was thinking about flying.

“Bee…” Steve’s voice was quiet, strained. “You really shouldn’t be thinking like this.”

Billy smirked faintly, without humor. “What? About jumping?”

“Yeah.” Steve’s grip on the railing tightened. “That’s not— That’s not normal.”

Billy scoffed, finally sliding off the railing, brushing invisible dust from his jeans. “Steve, people jump all the time. It’s normal.”

Steve wanted to scream. He wanted to shake him, drag the words out of his chest, make him admit something was wrong. Because Max’s voice kept replaying in his head, over and over, a warning he couldn’t ignore: I think Billy’s hurting himself again.

And yet here Billy was, calm, detached, talking about death like it was nothing.

It wasn’t normal. It couldn’t be.

“It’s not,” Steve insisted, his voice rough. “Life— Billy, life has so many paths. People have so much to live for. Why would they just…” He swallowed. “Why would they throw that away?”

Billy’s reply was soft, but sharp enough to cut through him:

“Honestly, Steve, you’ve never been a thirteen-year-old girl.” Billy looked at him for the first time, eyes burning cold and tired. And then he walked away.

Steve just sat there, blinking after him, his mind stuck on the words, looping them endlessly. What the fuck does that even mean?

Billy didn’t explain. He didn’t need to. Instead, his voice carried faintly down the stairwell, quoting something distant, something Steve didn’t understand:

“In the end, we had pieces of the puzzle… but no matter how we put them together, gaps remained.

Oddly shaped emptiness, mapped only by what surrounded them — like countries we couldn’t name.

What lingered after wasn’t life, but a list of meaningless, mundane facts:

A clock ticking on the wall.
A room dim at noon.
The outrageousness of a human being thinking only of herself.”

His footsteps faded. Steve stayed frozen, alone on the rooftop, confused and shaken.

And somewhere below, Billy’s thoughts carried on, silent and unreachable — not answering Steve’s questions, only his own:

And when she jumped…
she probably thought she would fly.