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Wrestling is gay.
That’s what his dad had always said, when Billy had been approached to join the team in California. Wrestling was for faggots.
And Billy really couldn’t contradict that. It was, after all, the only sport where he was encouraged to grab his teammates. Touch them, pin them down, press closer and closer.
Wrestling Steve Harrington was another thing entirely. He’d never imagined this, being encouraged to wrap his hands around Steve’s biceps and curl his body around his back. Bind him in place with his strength.
It’s probably a good thing his dad didn’t attend practices , because he would have seen through Billy in a moment. Would have seen that his joining the team wasn’t about scholarship opportunities or exercise.
It was about feeling Steve Harrington pressed up against his back again, breathing into the sweat on his neck. It was about imagining if the context were different and Steve wasn’t wearing a fucking unitard when he rocked against Billy’s hip, trying to roll him onto his side.
He’s become an excellent daydreamer, clutching the mat beneath him with the image of bedsheets between his fingers instead. Of Steve’s skin meeting his, sloppy and desperate. He feels Steve’s cock against his ass, knows that it’s hard because everyone’s always hard -- a combination of aggression and friction is just a recipe for a boner and Billy wishes he could turn around and see .
But feeling is just fine. Feeling is great . As long as he doesn’t make it obvious that’s all he wants. He gives Harrington a good fight. Flips him a couple of times, makes him pant and sweat and grunt with exertion. It’s better than their fist fight at the Byers’ house. It’s better than rolling around with Vicky in the back of her dad’s Ford, getting his cock sucked at the quarry.
Steve pressed against him, breathing in big gulps of air, is infinitely better.
It must have been better than he thought.
It’s a Thursday, and practice is about twenty minutes from wrapping up when coach pairs them up. He always pairs them up, because the guy is lazy and their names are neighbors on the roster. Hargrove, Harrington. Billy wonders if there’s some kind of cosmic joke somewhere in there.
They take to a mat, like they usually do, and when the whistle blows, Billy goes rigid in anticipation of Steve’s move. It’s not difficult, waiting him out and flipping him off when he lunges. He shrugs Steve off his shoulders like he’s nothing but a breeze.
And that pisses Harrington off. Like it always does.
He’s rougher after that, just like Billy wants him to be. He’s mean, going for his legs and pulling Billy down to the mat so his back slaps against the surface. It sends adrenaline singing through his body, makes his blood pump hard into his fingertips as he grabs at anything he can. Thigh, calf, hip. Doesn’t matter. He makes a couple of good grapples and sends Steve sprawling, pinning him momentarily until his opponent can retaliate. And Steve always retaliates.
“Good!” The coach calls from the sideline, encouraging when Steve sends Billy back, rushes after him. And Billy can’t help it . He grins, repeats the word on a breath.
“ Good .” He purrs and Steve growls, grips behind his knee to toss him onto his belly.
With his cheek flattened against the mat, he laughs while Steve struggles against him, holding him down. The coach starts to count and Billy laughs and bucks up, playing. Pretending he can’t get out of Steve’s hold. And maybe he arches a little too much. Teases too rough.
Because suddenly Steve is shuddering above him, a hushed fuck escaping his lips. Soft and ragged. Then Billy feels it -- goes terribly still while Steve’s cock kicks against the back of his thigh and warmth coats his skin, moving, dripping . Wetness growing larger, hotter.
For a moment, Billy can’t even contemplate what’s happening because the coach is down in his face, yelling that Steve’s pinned him. That they’re done. But Steve isn’t moving and Billy can’t breathe .
Steve Harrington came on him. His come is wet on the back of Billy’s leg and he can still feel Steve draped over his back, riding out the aftershocks of a truly enormous orgasm -- cock kicking, chest heaving.
“Good pin, Harrington. Both of you, hit the showers.” The coach says, but before he’s even done , Steve is leaping up and jogging away. Heading to the bathroom, no doubt, while Billy clamors up to his knees to stare after him.
He’s careful about following Steve into the locker room. Not too eager, not too obvious that his leg is wet and he’s trying to hide it.
But he follows Steve by less than a minute, slipping away while the rest of the team finishes their matches.
“My left is my good side.” Steve’s voice echoes against tile, before Billy can even see him. Still winding through rows of lockers, he follows the sound of hurried changing. “So, if you could hit me on the right , my grad pictures might actually look bearable.”
When Billy rounds a corner, he sees Steve sitting on a bench, unitard, socks and shoes discarded and head hanging. Something in his gut twists up. Steve looks resigned to the beating he thinks Billy is ready to dole out. Not running, not even pleading , just waiting.
“It’s wrestling.” Billy says, as casually as he can while the memory of Steve breathing hot and heavy into his ear plays on repeat. His whimpered curse . “It happens.”
Only it really doesn’t .
“What?” Steve asks, his face finally turned so Billy can see, brow furrowed in confusion.
“Get over yourself, Harrington.” He grunts, pulling open his locker in search of his towel. He needs a shower, an ice cold one, before the rest of the team files in -- before he heads home to Neil . The guy can smell deviant behavior like some kind of blood hound and Billy’s head is just chocked full of deviancy. “It’s wrestling. Primal and shit.”
Steve blinks at him and Billy takes advantage of the eye contact, stripping out of his unitard and grinning when Harrington’s gaze shoots away. Back down to the floor between is feet.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He says, softly, lifting one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. And Billy sniffs, stares.
“Unless that’s not why you came on my back.” Billy says with a husky purr, stripping off his socks until he’s in nothing but his skin. And Steve flushes scarlet at the cheeks.
“Get over yourself, Hargrove .” He responds with Billy’s own words, but his eyes stay away. They don’t look over when Billy steps closer. When he laughs with closed lips.
“I dunno, Harrington. The way you’re blushing so pretty for me right now…”
“I’m not the one calling you pretty all the time, getting up in your space.” Steve says defensively and stands to rip his towel off the hook in his locker. When he finally meets Billy’s eye, a spark of anger is lighting up his face.
Billy pushes, because of course he does. He needs that fire, can taste it in the back of his throat. Sharp like iron and lingering.
He wants .
Stepping into Steve’s space, he smiles. Flirty, handsome, the way he does when Mrs. Wheeler asks him to come inside and have a freshly-baked cookie. The way he does when Mrs. Hanover from two houses down asks if he’d cut her grass for five dollars.
But the way Steve swallows is so much better than the flustered blushes of bored housewives.
“You seemed to like being in my space just fine.” He purrs into Steve’s ear, almost his cheek. So close he can smell Steve’s hairspray and spicy deodorant. Or maybe the scent is just seared into his brain from when Steve had been draped over his back. Much closer to his deepest dreams than he’d ever imagined.
Steve’s eyes dart all over, evasive as he tries to back away. All the anger is slowly slipping away, the blush in his face pure embarrassment. He thinks Billy is enjoying his humiliation.
Which, sure, maybe he’s getting a little bit from it. But that’s not his goal.
He wants to know why Steve looks so seen .
“Look, I’m sorry—”
“Are you?” Billy interrupts and Steve startles, turns his head away but Billy’s not done . He grabs him by the wrist, gently, like he needs to hear the answer before Steve can run. Coaxing it from him, he moves closer again, breathes slow into the skin of Steve’s throat. “Are you sorry?”
When he looks up, Steve’s lips are parted on a shocked little inhale.
Billy’s ventured into dangerous territory. Territory that he won’t escape with a simple laugh and a dismissing smack on the back. There’s too much on his face, he knows, because Steve’s mapping it, eyes shining. With yet another swallow, Steve seems to arrive at an answer, his pulse leaping in his neck.
“No.”