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“But I...?” Hargrove asks, after long enough for Steve to go nose-blind to the furyragekillmaimkill scent, the Alpha’s jaw set and hands clenched in his pockets and eyes so easy, so blue, so- pretty. God, Steve should stop looking. Should look away, any second now. “Spit it out, doe-eyes. Don’t got all day.”
God, he has to stop looking at him.
“You call me Captain,” Steve answers, finally breaking eye contact to look instead at Hargrove’s fingers flicking his lighter again and again. Steve hopes the words say what he can’t: you were kind to me. From the way his fingers still, and the soft, barely-there pleased surprise blooms in Hargrove's scent beneath the rage, Steve thinks they might.
Or: Billy moves to the deadest part of the United States, meets the prettiest boy he's ever fucking seen, starts writing poetry, and everything - literally everything, from common courtesy to the food chain in Hawkins to his already-rocky home life to something so basic as his secondary gender - goes to fucking shit. For the better. Steve has panic attacks, spends most of his time alone, and swallows everything he's ever felt on reflex. And then he meets Billy, and everything gets, well- better. Much better.
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Bookmark Notes:
Wonderful story!!
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