"He's doing it again."

There was a bitterness harbored in Nancy's voice that made Steve look up from the abysmal slop he'd been picking through on his food tray. The tenseness with which she squared her jaw made him frown, and he followed her stern gaze to where she held it, directed towards something over his shoulder.

Turning his head to see what she was referring to, Steve felt he already had a pretty good idea about what it was he was going to see, and, true enough, sitting three tables behind them sat Billy Hargrove and a group of his old friends. Instead of taking part in any of the conversations Tommy was trying to start, Billy was steadfastly ignoring him in favor of staring openly at Steve. Suppressing the slightest of shivers, Steve sighed and turned back around to his food with a resigned expression.

"Yep, he sure is," he said dryly. "Nothing I can do about it."

In the two weeks since the attack, Billy had gone through a series of shifts in demeanor when it came to interacting with Steve. When he'd first returned to school, he'd ignored him outright with a stubborn sense of determination, but his dismissal of him quickly flipped and turned into an obsession that was so prominent, people- or Nancy, at least- had begun to take notice. At any given time, if Billy happened to be in any relative proximity to Steve, he wouldn't be able to keep his eyes off of him, and although people had started to talk about it, their words did little to deter him.

Nothing stopped him from staring at Steve, and the attention was beginning to make his skin crawl.

But whatever it was Billy was doing, as long as it didn't get physical, Steve found he couldn't find the energy to care. He was still nursing his wounds, and had to worry about finding a job or something so he could pay his father back for ruining the BMW, and on top of that heap of responsibilities, there was the looming threat of finals, and while he was trying to manage all of those things as best he could, the simple fact that they hadn't yet found the creature that attacked him weighed heavily on his mind.

He had nightmares about it; about it descending from the trees in a heap of vicious limbs that lashed out at him, cutting his flesh to the bone- nightmares where he hadn't acted fast enough to be able to prevent Billy from bleeding out and, and instead had to hold him in his arms while his blood ran out of him, leaving him pale and gasping as the snow turned crimson around them. Hell, he still had nightmares about the fucking demodogs, so if Billy wanted to stare at him, fine. He had more important things to worry about, though he did have to admit that he found Billy's behaviour odd.

Was he staring at him because he realized that Steve had literally saved his life and was now thinking of a way to repay him somehow? He could start by replacing the car seat he'd nearly bled to death in, if that was the case, so he could cross that worry off his list. Or was his interest in Steve fueled by something more sinister, like a desire to seek revenge for belittling him somehow, despite the fact that Steve had done his damnedest to dispel any emasculating rumours that had surfaced after the incident? The last thing he wanted was for their bad blood to start flooding the school's hallways for everyone to slosh around in.

Nancy didn't bother lowering her voice when she spoke, and despite the general ambient tone of conversation that the lunchroom carried, Jonathan overheard what she'd said, and as he came to sit down beside her, setting his brown paper lunch bag onto their table, he looked at her for a confused moment before asking, "Who's doing what?"

He looked curiously between them as he began to unpack his lunch, setting a sandwich and a piece of fruit aside while Steve breathed out another sigh and tried to shrug off the eyes he could feel boring into his back.

"It's Billy," Nancy said when Steve declined to answer. "He's staring at Steve again."

Looking annoyed, Nancy let out a little huff and finally diverted her eyes away from where Billy was sitting to give Jonathan a small smile in greeting. Despite his growing annoyance with the situation, Steve managed to find some amusement in the fact that Nancy was more bothered by Billy's behaviour than he was. It showed she still cared about him somewhat, and that was one of the few good things he felt he had left.

"Why do you think he's been doing that?" Jonathan asked as he unwrapped the plastic surrounding his sandwich. His sunken eyes looked across the lunchroom for a moment to get a look at their subject of conversation before focusing back on his tablemates.

"Who knows with that guy," Steve commented indifferently, shrugging as he stabbed a fork into the meaty portion of his meal. "As long as he stays the fuck away from me, I don't care what he does."

"Even if you don't care, I don't like it." Nancy's eyes flicked briefly back to where Billy was sitting before taking a bite of lunch. Beside her, Johnathan had grown silent, eating his food contemplatively. "It doesn't feel right. It's almost like he's planning some kind of revenge scheme."

"Well you'd think if he was angry with you he'd have done something about it by now," Jonathan said, directing his statement towards Steve as he swallowed down a bite of food. A small smear of mayo streaked across his upper lip. "So far he's shown himself to be the kind of guy who acts immediately on his feelings, you know?"

"Oh, believe me, I know," Steve replied, unable to keep the slow drawl of sarcasm out of his tone, memories of nearly being beaten to death surfacing in his mind. Despite his reluctance to credit Jonathan with a good idea, he knew that he was probably right. If Billy had some sort of beef with him, he'd definitely have taken it up with him before now.

Besides that, whenever Steve noticed him staring and returned the look, he never really thought that Billy looked angry with him. He looked more lost than anything. Confused, even. He never even seemed to realize that Steve was staring back.

"Well if he's not thinking of ways to kill you, then what is he doing?" Using a napkin, Nancy reached out and wiped away the mayo on Jonathan's face, earning a timid smile from him in thanks. "He's been giving you weird looks all week."

"Hadn't noticed," Steve murmured sarcastically.

Nancy didn't appreciate the tone with which Steve spoke, but didn't press the issue beyond giving him a reproachful look. As their conversation died off, they ate in silence, offering Steve a chance to run through a mental list of who was hiring in the area, and what places he could reasonably send in an application, but having no prior experience with working, well, anywhere, left his options sorely limited. The places that would probably hire him were the places he had no desire to work at, but at the end of the day, what was it his dad was always telling him? 'Beggars can't be choosers'.

"The more I think about it," Jonathan said, stirring Steve from his thoughts, "the more I think it looks like he's trying to figure out how to approach you."

"What?" Steve shook his head in a way that he knew made his hair look good and laughed.

"What makes you think that?" Nancy asked.

Jonathan shrugged, looking down when Steve laughed. He picked at the crust on his sandwich as he spoke, peeling bits of brown bread away as he said, "The way he's been staring at Steve kind of reminds me of... me. Like, before I got to know you guys; back when I was on the outside looking in, sort of."

"Jonathan-" Nancy started, a sympathetic look creasing her brow.

The bell that signaled the end of their lunch period rang before anything more could be said. As they stood up and prepared to discard their trays and trash, Steve cast a look back to where Billy had been sitting. The boy was gone, though; lost in the transitional migration crowd as their peers began to make their way back to class.

Even if Steve wanted nothing more to do with him, he couldn't deny the fact that he'd been bonded to him in some regard when they'd both survived the 'bear' attack. If Billy had something to say to him, he'd listen, sure, but Steve wasn't going to be the one to initiate that conversation.

They hadn't even spoken since Steve had last seen him at the hospital, and that particular conversation had been weird enough to the point where he'd decided to give Billy the widest social berth he possibly could.

Whatever Billy wanted to talk about, he'd have to come to Steve first.


Coming back to school hadn't been easy for Steve; his injuries were so incredibly less severe than Billy's that he hadn't needed to take time off, but he wished he'd been allowed to. His writing hand was constantly sore because of all the numerous stitches running up his arm, and with the amount of last minute note taking he'd been doing in preparations for finals, he was half-afraid he was going to pop a few open as a result, but at least returning so soon had given him the opportunity to pretend everything was normal, and the more time that passed that allowed him to think that, the more Steve was inclined to believe that it really had just been a bear.

A mange-ridden, rabid, larger-than-your-average bear, sure, but it was better than the alternative; it was better than the unknown.

Despite his feeble self-assurances that carried him through his school days, he couldn't deny that he held an absurd amount of trepidation when it came to the simple task of opening his locker.

The last thing he wanted was to ruin his fragile psyche by finding more notes stuffed into his locker. But as the days went by and he hadn't yet found another invitation, he allowed himself to grow comfortable in the thought that the whole ordeal was behind him, and would remain as nothing more than another traumatic memory he'd just have to learn to live with.

He could manage that much. Or at least, he hoped he could.

The note that fluttered out of his locker then as he opened it threw his newly reconstructed confidence to the breeze. Steve stared after the offending piece of paper as it fell to the floor, already feeling a slight panic start to build up in his chest. The fear that the note had something to do with the woodland parties blinded him to the fact that this shred of paper was different from the invitations he'd received before.

Printed on fine cardstock that likely would have impressed a businessman like his father with its weight, the note that came fluttering from Steve's locker was the exact opposite of what he feared it was. This was a literal scrap of college-ruled paper, torn from a notebook and folded over itself lazily.

He turned away from the note lying on the floor and closed his locker quickly. He almost walked away without picking it up, and would have, too, if he hadn't caught Billy's eye at that precise moment.

Leaning against a row of lockers further down the hall, Billy was watching him, giving Steve reason to pause. Imperceptibly, Billy broke the stare between them and nodded once to the note Steve had left on the ground. 'Pick it up', he seemed to say.

Steve squinted at him, unsure of what his motives were. Driven by curiosity, he turned back to where he'd left the note and hesitantly bent down to grab it. Relief replaced that slight feeling of panic when he realized that the note wasn't like the invitations he'd received in the past. He turned back to Billy, only to find that he'd moved on. Crinkling the piece of paper in his fist briefly, Steve stepped back to his locker and unfolded the note.

'I need to show you something.

Meet me in the parking lot.'

Despite the fact that it hadn't been signed by anyone, the note had undoubtedly been written by Billy. Anybody else would have just asked to speak with him in person.

Tucking the note into his jeans pocket, Steve sighed miserably as he made his way through the hall, an uneasy feeling about the direction his afternoon was taking settling into his gut.

That feeling was improved upon when he finally stepped outside and saw just how gloomy it was. Wet, half-frozen snowflakes were falling from an overcast sky, creating an uncomfortable slush he had to trudge through to get to the student parking lot. Wind was blowing weakly, occasionally throwing a soggy flurry into his face that he had to wipe away in order to see.

People were peeling out of the lot as quickly as they could, desperate to escape the hideous weather conditions and get somewhere warm. His fingers played with the note in his pocket as he strode through the second-hand mush of winter and made his way to where Billy stood, leaning up against his car feigning nonchalance despite the fact that Steve could see him visibly shivering.

Because of his injury, Billy had taken to wearing his coat half on, half off. The brace that he'd been outfitted with to keep his broken arm in place wouldn't fit in the tight leather sleeve of what must have been his only winter coat. A smarter man would've dressed in layers, Steve thought, and then grinned a little because he himself had dressed in layers. Dress smarter, not harder.

"Wanna tell me what this is about?" he asked as he approached Billy, holding the folded note up for him to see.

"Thought I was being pretty clear when I wrote it."

Billy obviously wasn't in the mood for their typical banter, but Steve wasn't in the mood for being serious. He'd been stewing in serious thoughts all day, and if Billy was going to give him an opening to be an ass, then he was going to take it.

"Well, I mean, this could mean any number of things," he said, opening the note to read it aloud. Billy' looked away with a scowl. "I've only ever gotten notes like these from girls, you know."

"Christ, cut the shit Harrington," Billy said, rolling his eyes. He made to stand up, but was pushed back against the Camaro, a look of surprise overtaking his features as he felt Steve's hand wind itself into his jacket.

"No, you cut the shit, Hargrove!" Steve snapped, his pent-up frustrations boiling over. "You've been staring at me all week like a girl with a crush on me, and now you send me this? What is it you've got to show me? Your fucking dick or some shit? Because believe me pal, I am not interested in whatever kind of fucked up confession this is."

After his outburst, both boys went quiet, each of them stunned into silence after Steve's sudden eruption. Around them, the parking lot was nearly empty, mercifully allowing them a privacy neither of them had thought they'd need to have this conversation.

Realizing he'd had the lapels of Billy's jacket bunched into his hands, he let Billy go and took a step back, running his hand that wasn't wrapped in bandages through his hair.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered to himself, then turned back to Billy, who had yet to say anything. "Well?" Steve snapped. "You got something you need to show me or not?"

A mirthful smile spread across Billy's face when he spoke, a mischievous spark lighting his eye. "Yeah, I do, but it's at my house. Get what I'm saying, Harrington? I'm asking you to come home with me, stud."

Steve stared at him blankly for a moment before breaking away to laugh, sucking in frigid air and snowflakes that melted in his throat. Billy shrugged his jacket back into place, covering his injured arm from the cold.

"You're a real piece of shit, Hargrove," Steve finally said, shaking his head. "Alright, fine. I'll 'come home with you', or whatever, but I swear, if you actually whip your dick out when we get there I'll fucking kill you."

"Relax, asshole, I'm not asking you over for a fucking conjugal visit," Billy drawled, rolling his eyes again. Steve waited for him to elaborate more about what the nature of the visit actually was, but Billy had evidently said all he was going to about the matter.

"You want me to follow you then?" he asked, gesturing towards where his car was parked a few rows over.

"Try to keep up," Billy replied, smirking a little bit as he rounded the front of the Camaro to the driver's side, whereupon he opened the door and slid awkwardly into the seat.

"Don't you have to wait for Max?" Steve asked, speaking loudly as Billy started his car, but he never heard the reply if there was one. Billy began reversing almost immediately, intent on driving out of the lot as fast as he could to make Steve work for it. Breathing out a hasty "Oh, shit," Steve started jogging towards his car so he wouldn't fall too far behind.


Compared to Harrington's house, Billy knew that his own had no way of stacking up against it. Hell, Steve's house had a pool and Billy's didn't even have a second fucking floor. Everyone that lived in Neil Hargrove's house all lived together on the same miserable floor, cramped together by circumstance, and even though Tommy had cast his friendship with Steve aside, that didn't stop him from talking up how awesome the fucking Harrington house was.

It was one of those things he'd had to punch him out for.

All that aside, Billy honestly didn't give a shit about the state of his house; it didn't reflect him or his worth- only his father's, for he had been the one to settle for the shit-heap. Not everyone could be born into their wealth.

Regardless, he averted his eyes away when Steve's eyes wandered up the front of his home, taking stock in its size and the rundown condition it was in after he pulled into the driveway. He didn't comment on the miserable way it sat on its foundation as he stepped out of the car, or of how grimy the windows were as he walked with Billy up the front porch steps, and even stayed quiet when the wooden boards squeaked and groaned with their weight.

As they stepped through the front door, Billy finally had to address the queer feeling he'd been harboring in his stomach as nervousness. Steve looked around their tiny living room, but refrained from saying anything about its size. But oh, how he must have wanted to; Billy could see it written all over his pretty face. The rich fuck wanted to brag about how much better his own house was, he could feel it-

"Nice set up," Steve said instead, gesturing to where Billy had his work-out equipment set out.

Whether he was being sincere or not, Billy couldn't say, but the compliment had done enough to derail his spiraling train of thought.

"Gets the job done," he replied casually, taking his coat off and throwing it over his workout bench.

"I'll say."

"What?"

"You said you had something to show me?" Steve said, frowning a little at the look on Billy's face. "Please don't tell me you took me all the way out here just to fuck with me."

"Who's fucking with who?" Billy said with a hint of a snarl curling his lip. He had to remind himself that he had been the one to initiate this gathering, and had to bite back on some of the anger that had surfaced out of nowhere. Steve didn't say anything in response, allowing Billy time to simmer down enough to point at his TV. "Turn that on."

"You bring me to your house so I can turn your TV on for you?" Steve scoffed, but Billy looked serious. "Fuck you," he said as he stepped across the living room from where he was standing to kneel down and press the power button.

The screen flickered for a moment, struggling to stabilize as the black screen turned grey before sputtering to life, the colour image slowly beginning to materialize on the screen. Steve took a few steps back as he waited for it to come into clarity, not noticing the way Billy had averted his eyes away from the TV. His gaze was, once again, fixed solely on Steve, waiting to catch and gauge his reaction from what he was about to see.

Billy had rented the VHS tape of 'American Werewolf in London' from the store after Max had returned it, intent on showing the creature on the film to Steve, but unsure of how he was going to accomplish that. They weren't friends, or even anything remotely close to that, but ever since he'd seen it he'd known he'd have to clue him in on what he'd found out eventually. That, and he had more than just the movie to show him.

As the movie scene that Billy had paused the tape on finally came to light, he felt his injured arm itch, and longed to scratch it.

"What the hell is this," Steve finally said after a moment.

His eyes had grown wide at the sight at the tormented figure of David lying on the floor, face contorted in pain as he was caught in the throes of mid transformation. It was all the affirmation that Billy needed to know that he'd been right.

"Look familiar?" Billy asked, running his tongue along his teeth.

Steve stared at the creature for a second longer before shaking his head. When he turned to Billy, his face no longer looked frightened, but angry.

"No, really, what the fuck is that?" His tone was accusatory, and he was speaking so loudly he might as well have been yelling. "If this is your idea of some kinda fucking joke-"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Billy snapped back, brow creasing as Steve went into denial. "I figured it out, asshole! The thing that got us in the woods- that thing that nearly ripped my fucking arm off- that's it! Right there on that fucking screen!"

Steve turned away from him to stare at the screen again, eyes running over the details presented to him. It did look remarkably like the creature he'd grown content to believe was a bear: the sparse patches of hair, the elongated canine jaw, and the harrowingly thin frame that carried it all left little to no doubt in his mind that this was it. Whatever 'it' was.

"How did you-" His throat had gone dry with the realization. Steve had to wet his lips before he could speak again. "How did you find this?"

Billy looked at him contemplatively, as one might watch a dog that has tried to bite them in the past but still wanted to pet it. "The rental place by the arcade. It's a movie; Max was watching it."

"A movie?" Steve balked. "So you're saying we were assaulted by a movie monster?"

"A werewolf," Billy said decisively.

The unease Steve had felt building up inside him seemed to vanish in an instant. His body wanted to shake with relief, but he wouldn't let it.

"Holy shit," he said, combing a hand through his hair, stifling a nervous laugh. He took a few steps to the side, pacing in front of the TV. "This is unbelievable."

Billy regarded his shift in demeanor calmly, but with a frown. He reached into the back pocket of his pants and grabbed his pack of cigarettes and pulled one out, setting it to his lips and then lighting it.

"I mean, do you hear yourself? A werewolf? C'mon, man," Steve continued, finally coming to a stop in front of Billy. He shook his head and uttered out another short laugh. "I really thought you were onto something here for a minute, you know? Werewolves aren't real. What did you expect me to do after showing me this? You want me to call Hopper up? Tell him that what he's been looking for all this time is a goddamn movie monster?!"

"Well what's your theory then?" Billy finally replied, sneering around his cigarette, his anger smoldering beneath his skin like the burning end of his cigarette. "If it looks like a werewolf, acts like a werewolf, then fuck, what the hell else could it be?!"

"A bear!" Steve shouted, throwing his arms up in frustration. "Werewolves don't exist, dipshit!"

"Then how do you explain my arm?!" Billy hollered, throwing his cigarette to the floor. He stomped it out angrily before he lifted his injured arm up, struggling to pull the sling up and over his head. Alarmed at the action, Steve stepped in to try and stop him but was roughly shoved away. "If it's not some kind of supernatural piece of shit, then how do you explain your hand?" he hissed, throwing the sling to the floor beside the crumpled filter of his wasted cigarette.

"What about my hand?" Steve asked, speaking levelly as he watched Billy's fingers fumble with the brace, managing to all but tear it free from his arm to drop it to the ground alongside the sling. "Are you fucking insane, Hargrove? What the hell are you doing, man, your arm-"

"My arm is fine."

Billy spoke curtly, practically cutting his own sentence short in his haste to show off what he meant. He peeled the bandages that had been wrapped around his arm away with hasty, scratching motions, and then held his arm up for Steve to see it. Where there should have been sections of stripped off flesh and bruises marking where his arm had been broken, there was instead… nothing. Astonished, Steve saw that there was not a single scratch left on his tanned skin. The mutilation he'd endured was gone.

As if that wasn't evidence enough to prove something supernatural was behind his miraculous recovery, Billy stepped towards his workout station and grabbed up one of his heaviest hand weights. Without so much as a grunt of effort or slight whine of pain, he curled it effortlessly in his arm, ultimately proving that his bones were no longer broken. Steve watched his display with wide eyes, mouth dropping open in confusion, because he'd known for a fact that Billy's injuries had been substantially worse than his own, and to see that his arm was totally healed now was baffling. His own arm still had all of the stitches in it, and throbbed painfully sometimes when he wrote with it for too long.

"Your arm was broken-" he stuttered, unable to fully put words behind his thoughts.

"Yeah. In three places," Billy said morosely, as though he were upset by the fact that it now seemed to be intact and unbroken.

"But then… What the fuck…" Steve whispered, reaching out to touch Billy's bicep to feel for himself if what he was seeing was true. The contact was short lived, as Billy immediately flinched away from his touch with a disgusted look plastered all over his face.

"My hand," Steve said flatly, pulling away without a fuss. "You keep saying it's all fucked up, but I don't see it. What the hell's so wrong with it?"

"No one else sees it- not just you; I've been watching people talk to you like it's normal all goddamn week."

"Tell me what you see, then."

Steve waited patiently, giving Billy enough time to put his thoughts in order. He'd been riled up before, and looked to be struggling with how to best describe what it was he was seeing that no one else could, his eyes focused entirely on Steve's hand.

"It looks diseased," Billy finally said after a moment. "There're these… puncture marks in it that just- look infected."

"Infected," Steve repeated, looking over his hand curiously, turning it forward and back. To him, it still looked fine.

"And it smells, too, like... " Billy sniffed and then immediately wrinkled his nose in disgust. "It smells like the air did that night. Rotten."

"It didn't bite me, though," Steve said, frowning. "My hand wasn't hurt at all."

"No," Billy said quietly. "It didn't, but whatever you saw at that bonfire did."

A chill made the small hairs on his body stand upright as Steve was forced to remember the disembodied wolfs head, picturing it in his mind with vivid clarity. He remembered its teeth sinking into his flesh, poking holes into his skin that had vanished the instant he'd thrown it away in shock. No one had believed him then, but the look on Billy's face said he was willing to believe him now, but Steve wasn't sure if he himself actually believed it anymore.

Along with his willingness to write the creature they'd encountered in the woods off as a bear, Steve had written off his experience with the wolf head as just a bad trip, and now Billy was trying to turn it into something else, forcing him to re-examine the trauma as though it was something that had actually happened.

"You can see where it bit me?" Steve asked, speaking slowly and with an air of trepidation. "And you're saying that, what, it's infected now?"

Billy didn't reply right away. There was a strange look on his face as he studied Steve for a moment, his eyes trained on the hand he claimed was injured.

"I wanna try something," he said at last, stepping past Steve and into the narrow hallway that lead to the other rooms tucked away in his house.

Steve followed after him, glancing once back at the image displayed on the screen, wondering if perhaps the idea of a werewolf existing in Hawkins wasn't as far-fetched as he initially thought it was. Walking down the short hallway to where Billy had slipped into the bathroom he shared with Max, Steve took a glance into what could have only been Billy's bedroom.

Beyond it being small, (much, much smaller than even the guest bedroom in his own home), it looked just like what a person might think Billy Hargrove's bedroom would look like. Hot women, a vanity station, and a stereo to blare his music was all a man like Billy could ever need.

"Here," Billy said, stealing Steve's attention away. "Let me see your hand."

"Why?" Steve asked hesitantly, holding his hand warily away from where Billy was holding out his own to take it.

"What are you, a fucking child? Just give it here," Billy said impatiently.

Groaning mentally, Steve relinquished his hand. Billy gripped him tightly around the wrist, pulling a face as he drew his hand closer towards him.

"What're you doing-"

"Just hold still."

With his other hand, Billy held a clean ball of cotton and slowly moved it towards Steve's hand, his face pinching up in disgust as he finally rubbed the ball against his skin.

"That hurt you any?" Billy asked as he released his grip over Steve's hand, switching his focus from Steve's skin to the cotton ball he'd just swabbed over it.

"N...no?"

Billy grunted lowly, furrowing his brows as he held the cotton ball up for Steve to see it. "What about this? See anything on this?"

And to his horror, Steve found that he could.

The little ball of cotton had been clean when Billy plucked it out of the package. Steve had seen that, and yet, as he stared at the gruesome mixture of pus and blood on the side Billy had used as a swab, he couldn't help but think for just a second that perhaps it had come like that. No way had that awful mixture actually come from him. The fibers of the ball were stained yellow and bright red, indicating that whatever it was that Billy was able to see on his hand was an open wound. A gruesome, open wound.

"What the hell?" he uttered, mortified by the sight of the cotton ball. He rubbed his hand over the patch of skin Billy had swabbed, but nothing came up on his fingers when he pulled them away. He ignored the way his hands had begun to shake as he inspected the back of his hand uncomprehendingly.

"You see this," Billy said, gesturing to the stained cotton ball, "but you still can't see it on you?" Steve didn't bother replying. "Fuck. Fine, alright, let me see it again."

"Why?" Steve asked, looking over his hands again and again, trying desperately to see what Billy saw and could, evidently, interact with.

"Gotta clean it out." Steve paused with his examination and looked up at Billy who'd gone back to rifling through the things he kept stored behind the sink mirror, sure he'd misheard him. When Billy caught the look of disbelief in Steve's eye he paused, placing a bottle of antiseptic on the rim of the sink. "I know you can't smell it, but I can and it fucking stinks. I can't fucking stand it anymore. If I clean it out, maybe it'll be less, I dunno, putrid."

"I mean, maybe?" Steve could admit that he had no idea if it would make a difference or not, but Billy's logic was sound. "If it'll get you to stop staring at me, have at it, I guess."

Even though Steve knew from experience that nothing Billy did to the wound would physically hurt him, he found himself recoiling out of habit when he poured the antiseptic over the back of his hand. Billy arched a brow at the reaction, but held Steve's hand firmly over the sink as the liquid flowed over his skin. It didn't run off clear.

The tainted antiseptic left murky, bloody streaks that trailed into the basin of the sink as it found its way to the drain. As the bodily fluids left whatever invisible plane they existed on, Steve thought he could catch a faint whiff of whatever smell Billy had been complaining about. A scent of what could have been construed as rotting flesh or a dead animal had begun to take up the small space of the bathroom they stood in, causing him to grimace as Billy began to clean out the wound in earnest. He would have said something witty about how focused Billy appeared to be, using q-tips and cotton swabs to clean out the hidden wound, if not for the strange situation they had both found themselves in.

Instead he watched him quietly, and found himself admiring the way Billy became lost with what he was doing when he decided to really put his mind into behind his work. It was a side of him that Steve had never seen before, and against his better judgement, he found the way Billy furrowed his brow in a way that it wrinkled his forehead kind of... endearing. When he wasn't full of adrenaline and anger, Billy almost came across as personable.

Almost.

"Now who's staring at who?" Steve heard Billy drawl, and he had to blink a few times to draw himself out of his semi-trance.

"Please, don't flatter yourself; I wasn't staring at you," he replied defensively, watching as Billy turned his hand from side to side to make sure he'd gotten all the gunk out of the puncture wounds only he could see. "I was clearly mesmerized by all this shit coming out of my hand."

Billy scoffed, but let the issue drop. Instead of offering up a retort, he said, "You probably need stitches."

This time Steve did yank his hand away from him, pulling it away so quickly it thumped into his chest with a dull thud.

"What the hell Harrington-"

"I am not about to let you put stitches into the imaginary holes in my hand!" He didn't mean to sound so whiny about it, but he couldn't help the way his voice lilted in distress.

"I didn't say I was going to," Billy snapped, his calm demeanor turning into irritation. He cast away the soiled materials he'd been working with in the small bathroom trash can and pushed past Steve into the hallway. "I only said that you probably needed them."

"Yeah, well, what the hell do you know," Steve said, following after him.

Steve continued to hold his hand against his chest as Billy moved into his bedroom. He stepped into the doorway and watched as he made his way to the small, self-constructed vanity and began to rifle through a box of his belongings. Unsure of what it was Billy was looking for, Steve took the time to gaze around his room, eyeing up whatever he could and mentally storing away things he could use to discredit him in future arguments.

"Here," Billy said after a moment, pulling out what looked like a small, self-made first aid kit out of a hidden box. "Gimme your hand again."

"What for?" Steve asked, eyeing the box warily.

"To fucking amputate it, idiot; just give it here." Billy held out his hand expectantly, and rather reluctantly, Steve once again trusted him with the care of his hand.

In the small, inconspicuous first aid kit was an assortment of bandages, gauze, and adhesive tape. Steve didn't ask why he had it; only watched quietly as Billy took out a box of butterfly bandages and began applying them to where the holes in the back of his hand must have been. It looked odd to Steve to see his perfectly fine skin get bunched up underneath the thin, white bandages, but if this was what it took to get rid of the mark (and he was sure, suddenly that it was a marking of sorts), then he'd allow it.

"God, that's gross," Billy mumbled, scrunching his face up before wrapping Steve's hand in the medical tape until the bandages were covered and hidden.

"Gee, thanks," Steve said, examining Billy's handiwork when he was done. He hated to admit it, but he'd done a pretty good job dressing his hand for him.

They stood in the door-frame of Billy's bedroom for a long moment afterwards, neither one of them speaking. The weight of their discovery weighed heavily on each of their minds as they individually wondered about what they ought to do with the information going forward.

"So, I guess I'll tell Hopper-"

"We need to talk about-"

Steve laughed when they spoke at the same time, but Billy only scowled.

"Get the hell out of my room," he said crossly, pushing Steve out of the doorway and into the hall. "I need to show you the rest of that fucking movie."


Steve didn't like the movie. He'd never been a fan of the horror genre- couldn't understand why anyone would be, really-, but the werewolf movie Billy was forcing him to sit through was so violent it was beginning to make his stomach turn.

Worse than the violence, though, was that he had to watch a large portion of the film alone. Not that he was scared to watch it alone, but he definitely would've preferred not to have to watch it by himself in a stranger home. In order to keep up appearances, Billy had left him to re-dress his arm once he'd rewound the movie to a suitable starting point. Steve understood that he couldn't just walk around town with his arm the way it was, but even still, he didn't appreciate having to sit through the horrific movie alone at his insistence.

"Why the hell did you make me watch that," Steve complained once the movie had ended.

Billy had come in around the halfway mark, his arm freshly bandaged and back in its sling. He'd caught Steve cowering on the couch, watching the gorey parts behind the selective censorship of his fingers, and of course he'd laughed at him. He'd taken a seat on his workout bench, leaning against the dumbbell supports and laughed at him for a good five minutes, but at least that instant of humiliation had taken the edge off of the worst of it. Steve had been able to watch the rest of the movie without issue, but he knew he was never going to be able to live that down.

Now that the movie was over, Billy didn't look quite as amused anymore. He was watching the end credits slowly scroll up the screen with a somber, dissociated look. Unsure if he'd heard him or not, Steve was about to repeat himself when Billy finally spoke.

"To make sure you understood what's coming." Confused, Steve could only look at him uncomprehendingly. With a groan, Billy sat up from his hunched over position and turned his eyes away from the screen. "I guess you didn't get to being the 'King' of the hick capital of the world by being smart. Did you pay attention to the movie at all?

"It was a werewolf, Harrington; even you can't deny that now, and you saw what happened to that guy who got bit by one, or did you miss that while you were watching the movie through your fingers?"

"Shut the fuck up," Steve muttered in embarrassment. "It was one part; I watched every other second of the damn movie!"

"Then work it out for me, pretty boy; exercise that tiny little brain of yours for once and show me you're better than all the rest of these inbred Hawkins idiots."

Steve opened his mouth to argue, but saw that Billy wasn't actually trying to initiate an argument. Instead, he was trying to reason with him. He hadn't forced him to watch the movie for his own entertainment, but was instead trying to show him something. There was something obvious Steve was failing to see here, and Billy was trying to open his eyes to it.

Mentally, he recounted everything he could that related to their situation. The bonfire, the attack, the recovery, his conversations earlier that day, the bite on his hand-

The bite.

"It- it didn't bite me," Steve finally said, his eyes going wide in realization as he recalled the conversation they'd shared not two hours ago. Billy's face lit up as Steve's succumbed to the horror the movie had exposed him to. "It didn't bite me, it bit you, so then, you- that makes you-"

Billy grinned at him sardonically, revealing his teeth.

"Guess I really am a monster now."