toast-ranger-to-a-stranger:

funkylittlelesbians:

fucking weirdos on this website: we dont change or erase billys character! we just make a few headcanons!

same fucking weirdos:

like??? who is that cos that aint billy lmao. yall know hes an abusive racist and hateful mf right? hes not a Soft Boy Boy who Doesnt Know How To Express His Gayness UwU hes just pure fucking trash. stop shipping abusive ships involving “attractive” white males just cos you love fetishizing gay relationships thanks

AN: I got this. @brawlite hold my flower. 

---

The first time it happens, sometime in mid January on an away game, Steve forgets his jacket on bus, and they’re standing outside after a flawless fucking victory, waiting for it to pull around. There’s sweat drying on his skin and in his hair, and the cold has bitten his face, his arms, his fingers red.

He stamps his feet. Rubs his arms. Tries to blow some damn heat back into his hands.

Tommy snorts at him. “You dumbass.”

“Shut up,” Steve huffs, jaw tight just to keep his teeth from chattering. “M’fucking freezing my damn balls off over here.”

The jacket that hits him in the face isn’t much more than their standard uniform windbreaker. Steve scrambles to catch it before it flops to the mud and mush of snow and ice at his feet.

He blinks as Billy shrugs his jean jacket on over his jersey. Billy’s not even looking at him.

“We’ve got another fucking game next week, Harrington. Get your fucking shit together. I’m not losing because you catch pneumonia.”

He hands it back when they climb into the bus without a word. Billy grunts and snatches it away.

***

The second time, Steve’s drunk. He’s drunk– and, okay, maybe a little high– and the house is too hot, way too hot, and Steve just needs air.

He stumbles out on his foal legs, catches himself on one of the pillars outside of Janet Kapeski’s house, and laughs as the world tilts. There’s a few people outside– someone’s drunk enough to be making snow angels in the fresh blanket on the front lawn– but no one pays Steve any mind.

There’s snow still falling and Steve’s still high off their latest win– championships, holy shit, they’re going into the finals– and the rest of the team is inside celebrating. He should be, too, but it’s still hard for him sometimes– to accept the good when there’s been so much bad.

Still, Steve smiles up at the sky. The clouds are low, reflecting street light, and the snow falls down in little flurries. He loves this time of year.

Tries to catch a snowflake on his tongue. Catches it in his hair and on his eyelashes, instead.

“What the fuck are you doing, Harrington?”

Steve jerks. Startles, really, because sometimes he still has nightmares about monsters and Billy Hargrove, and trips over his own feet as he turns.

He lands on his ass, hard, and grunts as the snow bleeds icy cold into his jeans. Billy squints at him, like he’s a bug or something he found on the bottom of his shoe, leaning against the wall by Janet’s front door, smoking, a hand tucked into his pocket to save it from the cold.

“It’s snowing,” Steve says, like it’s obvious, or maybe Billy is a little dumb, and shrugs as Billy cocks his head.

He’s got lipstick smeared by the corner of his mouth, and Steve thinks it’s the same shade Steve’s got pressed to his cheek; Carol is affectionate when she’s drunk, even if she’s still mad at Steve for yelling at her and ditching her and Tommy two autumns ago for a girl that broke his heart. Steve thinks pink is a funny color on Billy.

“You backwoods Indiana shitheads are all fucking crazy,” Billy says with a shake of his head.

Steve grins, and it’s maybe a little meaner than usual. “Can’t take the cold, Hargrove?  Do they not have snow back on the Golden Coast?” 

Billy snorts and flicks the dying ember of his cigarette away, shoves off the wall, and Steve’s a little too drunk to be intimidated as he idles down the front steps to stand in front of him.  “We’ve got mountains, smartass.  You’re the idiot out here shivering.  Where’s your fucking coat?” 

Steve thinks about arguing.  Thinks about saying I’m fine, I’m not shivering, but when he checks his hands, he finds them shaking.  

He blinks at his fingers and says, “huh.” 

Billy rolls his eyes.  Calls him an idiot.  Shrugs out of his coat and tosses it in Steve’s lap.  

“If you’re gonna sit out here like a dumbass, at least dress for it.” Billy sneers.  “I don’t wanna catch whatever cold you get for being stupid.” 

The coat smells like smoke and whatever god awful cologne Billy wears.  Steve pulls it on anyways, still shaking a little, still sitting in the snow.

“Thanks, man.” Steve says, grinning up at him, because he’s always a little nicer when he’s drunk– even to assholes who’ve hit him over the head with dinner plates. 

Billy frowns down at him.  

“Whatever.  Don’t mention it.” 

And then he walks away, heading back into the party. 

Steve doesn’t.  Not when he finally ambles up.  Not when he stumbles inside.  Not when he downs whatever shot one of his teammates offers him.  Not when he wakes up the next morning, dawn barely on the horizon, asleep on Janet’s couch with Billy’s coat over him like a blanket.  

He definitely doesn’t mention it when he creeps around sleeping bodies and out the front door.  Or when he settles the coat, folded carefully, against the hood of the Camaro when he sees it lining the street with all the other cars.  

***

The third time happens because Dustin is a dumbass who can’t wake up in time or remember his winter gloves or his winter coat.  February has set in and there’s a storm around the corner and Steve cares. 

So he gives the kid his coat and dares the weather with nothing but the dumb, cable knit sweater his mom gave him for Christmas when he climbs out to head into school.  He’s blowing into his hands even after he’s shoved through the double doors, face and ears red from the short jaunt, and his skin prickles a little as the heat of the building hits him. 

He waves at Nancy and Jonathan when he sees them.  Flips Tommy off with a grin when he shouts something at him. Runs headlong into Billy Hargrove before he can even make it all the way to his locker. 

His hands are still fucking freezing. 

“You’re a public fucking menace, Harrington, christ.” Billy scoffs and shoves a pair of mittens against his chest.  “You’re the fucking point guard, for fuck’s sake.” 

“Worried about my hands, Hargrove?” Steve asks, wiggling his fingers into the ratty wool mittens, sighing at the heat, and laughing when Billy shoves at him. 

“Worried about winning, Harrington.” Billy says, and he sounds mean, but he’s grinning a little too.  “Championship’s next week.” 

It’s hard to always hate someone who you play ball with on a daily basis.  

“So you like to remind me,” Steve says.  

Billy squints at him, presses two fingers against his chest, and pushes a little.  “Because you’re such a fuckin’ airhead, pretty boy.” 

Steve slaps his hand away, smile fake and saccharine and drippingly sweet.  “You say the nicest things, Hargrove.” 

Billy barks out a laugh and shoulders by.  “Bring your a-game today, Harrington.  Or I’m laying you out flat at practice.” 

“Get in line!” Steve hollers after him.  “Tommy’s got first dibs.” 

He hears Tommy’s cackle as he walks away, hands warm, and heads to his locker. 

***

The fourth time is when they win.  

There’s a bonfire by the quarry.  One of the cheerleaders is shaking, so Steve gives her his coat because he’s nice like that and she’s making big eyes at him, and Steve is making eyes right back at her up until one of his teammates spills beer all down his shirt front. 

“Danny, you dick,” Steve spits, and Danny’s already apologizing, but the cold is like a slap to the face, and Steve can’t just ask for his coat back–

The buttery heat of leather drapes over his shoulders.  Steve looks over at Billy, sees him grinning in wicked amusement, firelight on his face and in his eyes, and Steve shoves at him before shoving his arms into the sleeves. 

“Thanks, asshole.” Steve says. 

Billy offers out his pack; he’s been in a good mood all night.  Winning looks good on him. 

“You look like a fuckin’ wet cat, hissing and spitting like that, King Steve.” 

Steve plucks a cigarette free.  Lets Billy light it for him, and grins around a mouthful of smoke.  

“You like watching me suffer.” 

Billy shrugs.  “You’re not wrong.” 

Steve doesn’t give back his jacket all night. 

***

The fifth time is the kicker.  

He’s not sure when exactly he and Billy stopped being teammates-who-kind-of-put-up-with-each-other and instead became guys-who-kind-of-hang-out-sometimes-while-babysitting, but he thinks they’re friends, now, or some shit.  

Steve’s standing out in the cold.  The last of winter is still clinging on tight, tooth and nail, fighting the coffin of springtime.  The arcade is a beacon of light that Steve refuses to walk into.  

Last time, Dustin made him play some stupid game he kept losing at, and he refuses a repeat performance.  Lucas still won’t stop giving him shit for it. 

He also doesn’t want to waste the gas, lingering in the heat of his car, so he’s huddled and cold outside of it until the little idiots come out.  He’s just supposed to pick them up and drop them off, nothing he expected to be standing in the cold for, but they’re late, like usual, so here Steve is. 

But then the Camaro pulls up and the engine is dying and Billy’s stepping out, tossing Steve his lighter, like it’s a habit to share a smoke with him while they wait to collect the rugrats.  Which, yeah, it kind of is, these days. 

Steve eyes him as he lights up, trying not to bite into the filter of his cigarette when his teeth try to chatter out of his body again, shudders rippling through him as Billy leans up against Steve’s Bimmer like he belongs there.  Guy’s got no personal boundaries. 

But he looks cozy.  Warm in his layers and his gloves and his jacket.  Breathing out smoke and watching his breath fog in front of his face.  And Steve is cold.  Thinks– maybe, just maybe– Billy’d be willing to offer him a scarf or his gloves or something if he asks. 

Thing is, he’s never asked before.  Billy’s just usually– rolled his eyes and thrown shit at him and called him dumb.

“I’m fuckin’ cold,” Steve says, tries, and blinks as Billy rolls his eyes, unwinds the scarf from around his neck, and tosses it at Steve.

“Dumbass,” he says, grinning and smoking and leaning there looking maybe a little fond, and– 

And it’s not much, but it’s something.

this might be the most savage response i’ve seen to an anti and I fucking love this person for it