Billy was uncharacteristically tired of partying, and it wasn't even midnight.

Leaning against the wall of the living room, he took a long drag on his cigarette and watched the half-dressed girls and overambitious guys romp around in their alcohol-induced craze that may or may not have been a form of dancing. At this point, at least half the party was wasted, so any type of action had gone from semi-normal teenage stupidity to absolutely wasted shit.

For Billy, who could hold his alcohol very well, the scene was pitiful. Even the party-hard jocks were plastered, and most had only downed three or four beers. Not that he was immune to the keg that he had chugged – he could feel the buzz deep in his skull; his vision was off and his thoughts were a little contorted, but he was so used to the feeling that ignoring it was second nature.

They didn't call him Keg King for nothing.

Still, he hated the laughing, the stumbling, the stupid behavior that followed the scent of body odor and alcohol. It was barely midnight on Halloween, and already half the people there could barely remember their own names. Even Tina was laying somewhere past out, which had put a damper on Billy's after-party plans. And without her on his arm, he'd become easy bait for Carol, who had tried to pull a few moves on him. Admittedly, he had let things go a little further with her than he had originally intended. Mostly it had been a tease — he wanted to spark some heat, then leave her hanging just for the hell of it. And it had worked well enough, but now there was no Tina and no Carol. And with Michael and Ryan off somewhere with their own conquests, there really wasn't much else to occupy him.

Letting his cigarette rest between his lips, he watched the chaos unfold around him numbly. A few times Harrington past through his line of sight, disappearing into the crowd of dancers and reappearing on the other side of the house. Wheeler had long since vanished, probably puking in the bathroom or trying to find a ride home, so whatever it was that Harrington was looking for Billy didn't know and didn't care.

If he didn't hate his dad so much, he might have considered going home. But home wasn't really home at this point in his life; he had a roof over his head and food when he was there, and it was a place to crash when he was sick of driving around, but he had no emotional attachment to it, or the people in it. Especially not his dad.

The thought made his stomach twist. He was supposed to have been home by eleven, and it was now going on twelve. He was very, very late. And his dad hated when he was late.

Billy pulled his cigarette from his mouth, exhaled. He noticed that Harrington had stopped his frantic searching and was now staring at the ceiling with his hands on his hips. He licked his lips and mumbled something to himself, and Billy took another draw, blew it into the space in front of him, clouding Harrington.

Billy snorted to himself.

Asshat, he thought mockingly, taking another deep inhale. Just go home already.

When the smoke dissipated, Harrington was no longer staring at the ceiling. He was scanning the room in what looked like a last-ditch effort to find whatever it was he was looking for, and when his gaze came to rest on Billy, he froze. Their eyes locked.

For one steely moment, Billy thought he was finally going to get the fight he'd been craving since the first moment he stepped into Hawkins High. There was a frigid distaste that passed between them, and Harrington stiffened as Billy pinched his cigarette and pulled it from his mouth. But the moment was over before Billy could even digest the change, and Harrington was suddenly looking at him like he had just found the answer to a very, very big problem.

And Billy didn't like that at all.

Without warning, Harrington lunged. Billy, startled, dropped his cigarette, but before he could even get his fists up, Harrington had grabbed hold of both his shoulders and was holding him at arms length with a grip of steel.

A fist Billy had expected, but this? This sudden helplessness that was radiating off Harrington? No. No, he hadn't expected this at all.

"Have you lost your fucking mind, Harrington?" Billy snapped, trying to shove his hands away.

But Harrington ignored him.

"You live next to Randy, right?" he demanded. When Billy simply stared, he gave him a shake. "Do you live next to Randy?"

"Wha— who?"

"Randy!" Harrington pressed, shaking Billy more violently. "Nancy's friend!"

"Peters?" Billy nearly choked.

"Yeah, you two are neighbors, right?" Harrington continued with urgency. "Like, a right-next-door, thing, right? Right?"

"Yeah, but what the hell does that–"

"Oh, thank God." Harrington sighed in relief, released Billy who quickly backed away. "I'll leave her to you, then. I gotta head out, but she lives twenty minutes in the opposite direction."

"What the hell does that mean?" Billy demanded.

"Uh, give her ride?" Harrington said as if it was the simplest thing the world, then snorted. "It's not rocket science, Hargrove. You live next door."

"You must have seriously lost your shit," Billy deadpanned.

"Yeah, maybe, but hey, you gotta do what you gotta do. Anyway, I don't know where she is, but I'm sure she won't be too hard to find."

"No way in hell am I–"

"Just make sure she gets home in one piece," Harrington called as he backed away, pointing a finger at him.

"Wait a fu— Harrington!"

He disappeared into the crowd of dancers.

Billy ran a hand through his hair.

"The hell," he muttered to himself. "She's not even here."

Harrington was definitely losing his mind. Either Wheeler had finally pushed him over the edge or he was completely wasted. Maybe high. Maybe both. Either way, he was gone. Peters had made it very clear that she hated parties. Halloween or not, she was a no-show. And even if she had changed her mind, Billy would have known. He would have seen her — heard someone mention her — something. He knew everyone that was there, and Randy Peters was not one of them.

Billy pulled out a fresh cigarette and brought his lighter up to it.

Flick, flick.

He scowled.

Flick, flick.

Flick, flick, flick.

"Piece of shit," he grumbled, giving it one more good slide of his thumb.

The lighter flared to life.

Billy puffed a few times until the familiar smoke filled his lungs, then exhaled a cloud through his nose. Glancing towards the wide-set staircase where toilet paper and party streamers clung, he reached up to pull the stick from his lips and froze.

How he had not seen her the whole night was completely beyond him, but there Peters was, just like Harrington had said, standing at the top of the steps. But she wasn't alone. Tommy had her cornered, and if there was anything that he knew about Tommy, it was that anyone cornered by him who wasn't Carol probably didn't have anything good coming their way. Especially not someone like Peters.

Shoving off the wall, he made his way towards the stairs. Whitesnake thrummed in his ears and shreds of toilet paper clung to walls and ceilings around him. The smell of perfume and cologne permeated the air as girls stumbled past him with empty cups and running makeup, too wasted to even notice him.

It wasn't Tommy's bullying that took Billy up the steps. He didn't believe in standing up for people; no one had bothered to do him any favors, so what did he owe anyone else? No, he wasn't going to save Peters — that nice guy stuff was bullshit. He was going to pick a fight. He was bored, he was angry, and he'd missed his chance with Harrington. Tommy was the simplest solution to that problem, and one that would feel damn good to hit.

As he neared the top, taking slow, careful steps, he could hear Tommy's hoarse growl, wooed by alcohol and cigarettes, "C'mon, Peters. You're stuck here. What's anyone gonna do about it?"

Peters was backed against the wall with Tommy holding onto her arm, his face inches away from hers.

"Ugh, do you seriously not having anything better to do but bother me?" she groaned. "You're at a party. Go find Carol and make-out in a corner, or something."

Billy stopped at the top landing and leaned against the banister, cigarette hanging from his lips as he watched the interaction.

"Nah," Tommy drawled, leaning in closer with an eerie smile, "This is more fun."

Billy contemplated grabbing the back of Tommy's shirt and heave-ho-ing him down the staircase, wondering just how funny it would be to watch him roll all the way to the floor.

"Seriously, leave me alone." Peters shoved at Tommy's chest, but Freckles barely budged. "I just want to go home, okay?"

Or maybe he could just tap Tommy on the shoulder, knock him out cold with one good hit, and avoid the effort of a full-on fight?

"Awe, is it past poor Peters' bedtime?" Tommy cooed. His grin turned feral and he slammed his other hand next to her head, trapping her on both sides. "Well, that's just too damn bad, isn't it?"

Billy's patience snapped like an over-stretched bungee cord. He rolled his cigarette around in his mouth, then gave a pointed clear of his throat. Tommy whipped around and Peters glanced at him from beneath an arm.

"The hell do you want, Hargrove?" Tommy demanded coolly.

Billy took his cigarette from his mouth, shrugged, then muttered, "Just came to take a piss, Freckles. Didn't know you were so desperate for someone to screw with that you started threatening girls, though. Pretty sad."

"What's it to you?" Tommy snapped, not releasing Peters. "It's none of your damn business what I do to nerds."

"I came to take a piss and you're in my way, so—" Billy gestured to them, "Yeah, it kinda looks like it's my business."

"Fuck yourself, Hargrove."

Billy's mouth twitched and he bit down on his cigarette.

"Careful, sweetheart," he murmured around the smoke. "Don't want you getting hurt now, do we?"

Tommy released Peters and strode up to Billy, straightening to his full height and meeting Billy's gaze.

"You asking for shit, Hargrove?"

"Asking for you to get the hell out of my way," Billy said quietly, dangerously.

"Too damn bad," Tommy spat.

"Then I'm going to ask for shit."

Tommy grinned, the action crude and sharp. "I've been itching for a fight with you, Hargrove."

Billy took a draw form his cigarette. He released the smoke in Tommy's face.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Tommy said. "And I can't wait for this ugly bitch to wipe your blood off the floor when I'm done."

Billy snorted. He threw the butt of his cigarette down and stomped on it as he took another step forward until he was nose-to-nose with Tommy.

"Let's get this over with, Freckles. I gotta piss."

Tommy clenched his jaw. His arms shook and his face twitched, and for a moment, Billy thought he was really going to take the opportunity to swing. But there was conflict in his gaze, an inner battle bubbling beneath the rage.

"Well?" Billy murmured. "What are you waiting for, pretty boy?"

Sweat mingled with his freckles, mouth working, brows quivering with rage.

Billy smirked. "No?"

Tommy swallowed, raised his chin.

"Well then, maybe it would be better if you just–" he pushed Tommy away with the tips of his fingers, "–walked away."

Tommy wanted it; he wanted it so bad, and so did Billy, just so he could kick his ass and make him look like a fool in front of everyone. But unfortunately for him, Tommy was brighter than he looked. Billy had at least five inches on him, and in terms of muscle, Freckles was undeniably lacking. If they fought, he would lose. And they both knew it.

Licking his lips, Tommy glanced back at Peters. She was watching them, arms crossed, expression unreadable, and for a moment Billy was actually worried that Tommy might pull something incredibly cowardly and incredibly stupid. But after piercing her a look of withering contempt the moment passed, and luckily for the both of them, he did nothing else.

"Have fun fucking the nerd, Hargrove," he hissed, shoving his shoulder into Billy's as he walked past.

Billy was tempted to kick him down the stairs, to watched him roll like a stupid sack of potatoes, but the fight in California, his dad's fury, and the sudden move to Hawkins flashed through his mind, and he clenched his fists instead. Chewing on his cigarette, he took a deep breath in, then a deep breath out, then a deep breath in, then a deep breath out. Once he was fully in control of himself, he tore his gaze from his boots, caught Peters' eye. He glowered at her.

"The hell you looking at?" he snapped.

She rose her hands in a mock of surrender.

"I was just going to say thank you."

"Thank you? Do you know how many times I've saved your sorry ass?" He held up two fingers. "Twice, dipshit. Twice."

"Yeah, well, I didn't ask for your help. I had everything under control."

"'Under control'?" Billy barked a laugh. "That's what you call 'under control'?"

"Yes."

"No, that's called being a moron, you dipshit. That's called pushing the biggest dick in school to almost ruining you're fucking life by making you do things you can't even imagine. That's not under control, that's—" He inhaled, wiped a hand down his face. "You know what? I'm too tired for this bullshit–"

Billy broke off. Peters' eyes were moist and red, her lip quivering.

He sighed.

"Whatever," he grunted, digging into his pocket and pulling out his car keys. He tossed them to her.

"Wait in the car," he snapped, shoving past her and towards the bathroom. "I'll be out in five."

He was so going to kill Harrington.