Street Fighter

My #harringroveforukraine commission for @shewritesdirty - thank you so much for your donation and for this awesome prompt! You can also read it on AO3.

Want to commission me? I’d love to write something for you! Check out my #harringroveforukraine post here.

Street Fighter

It’s a lazy kind of party, the kind that takes place down in Sam Crawford’s basement in a cloud of smoke with a cluster of people around the foosball table, a few more getting high on Sam’s mom’s old leather couches, and a steady stream of people swapping in and out of the ongoing Street Fighter tournament taking place on Sam’s Commodore 64 in the corner.

There’s music but no one is hyped up enough to dance, and even the alcohol has dried up to an extent. Steve is sprawled lazily in an armchair near the foosball table with an empty red plastic cup in his hand, head tipped back and eyes fluttering open and closed, and he’s wondering if college is really the place for him, if he’s too old for this shit, because he’s already twenty-two and everyone else his age has graduated.

He doesn’t mind the studying part, although he still has no idea what he’s going to do with it after he’s done. He dithered about whether or not he wanted to go for too long, too caught up in Upside Down bullshit and pressure from his dad and everything else that weighed down on him, and by the time he finally applied he was already twenty.

His eyes catch movement across the room. Billy Hargrove is heading back from the bathroom, cigarette tucked behind his ear and shirt flapping half-open. Billy is the same age as Steve. Billy is somewhat beautiful, although Steve is aware that he’s only admitting it because he’s drunk and a little high.

Billy has an excuse for going to college so late. Billy nearly died saving the goddamn world - diddie, really, spent months wrapped up in a hospital bed and then in a wheelchair and then with a walking stick, and now he walks with a limp and bears an impressive set of scars that Steve only knows about because they’re both still a part of the basketball team and sometimes he glances over in the showers.

Because of the scars, just the scars, he wanted to see - but Billy caught him looking once and grinned, shark-like, and Steve flushed and turned away while his stomach fizzed with something he didn’t really understand.

They’re not friends. Steve’s best friend at college is a twitchy nineteen-year-old called Nicky, and that’s only because they’re roommates. Nicky is too smart for his own good and sells both weed and illegal term papers on the side. He gives Steve the pot for free, and sometimes when he’s feeling generous he looks over Steve’s assignments and points out the obvious mistakes.

Steve doesn’t even really like Nicky. He’s just there, like everyone in college, everyone in this room - everyone except Billy.

Billy is brightly colored, an aura of confidence and warmth surrounding him and making him stand out from everybody else. Steve watches as he heads over to the computer, slaps the shoulder of Jake Simmonds and says something that makes Lucy Carter giggle. Every movement is effortless, his eyes sparkling in the dim lighting of the basement, and Steve lets out a small sigh as he watches through hooded eyes.

Then Billy turns, as if Steve’s scrutiny has laid a physical hand on him, and his eyes settle on Steve.

For a moment they just look at each other. Then Billy grins, eyes flashing, and makes a little gesture. Come here.

Steve doesn’t hesitate. Leaving his empty cup on the floor, he gets up and moves across the room.

“Harrington,” Billy says in greeting as he reaches the gaggle of people watching Chris Elliot and Samantha Cummings playing Street Fighter. Samantha is winning, fingers blurring on the keyboard.

“Hargrove,” Steve replies. Billy’s eyes are so light, so warm, so goddamn blue.

A second too long of quiet between them. Then Billy motions towards the computer. “Want to play?”

“Sure,” Steve says.

“Me and Harrington are on next,” Billy tells the group at large, without taking his eyes off Steve.

Steve waits for his turn. Billy’s shirt is dark red, unbuttoned halfway to his navel, and he’s wearing a silver chain that floats in and out of his collar. There’s a black beaded bracelet on his left wrist and a silver ring on his right thumb. His forearms are bare and Steve has to restrain himself from sliding a hand across them.

Samantha wins the match and Steve and Billy sit down in the pair of chairs in front of the screen. The game isn’t really set up properly for two players, not on a home console, and Billy’s thigh is warm against Steve’s leg. Experimentally Steve nudges against him and is rewarded with a steady pressure in return.

The game starts, pixelated and bright, making Steve blink. He’s never been very good at arcade games; he’s never even really likedthem, but that’s not the point. That’s not the point. The point is the closeness of Billy’s body, the fact that his arm is laid right up against Steve’s, skin-to-skin, shoulders bumping each other and Billy’s hair falling against the side of Steve’s face.

He presses buttons almost at random. He’s not trying to win.

Billy’s leg curls around the back of his ankle. Steve squeezes.

“You’re going down, princess,” Billy murmurs. His mouth is by Steve’s ear, and in spite of the crowd around them Steve isn’t sure if anyone else was meant to hear.

Fast as lightning, he smacks at Billy’s leg. To anyone watching it probably looks like he’s responding to Billy’s shit talking, but he lets his hand linger for a moment above Billy’s crotch, fingers pressing down, just for a moment.

He feels Billy’s cock, feels rather than hears the soft surprised sound Billy lets out as Steve’s knuckles graze past it.

Then Steve is drawing his hand back, returning it to the keyboard. Billy’s on-screen character has faltered, and Steve takes advantage of the moment to deliver a crushing blow.

“I win,” he says quietly, as behind him Lucy and Samantha and Jake and the others cheer.

Billy looks across at him. “Yeah,” he says. He grins that dangerous grin, the one that makes Steve’s stomach contract and his vision blur. “Want to get out of here?”

Nicky is somewhere at this party, probably over by the foosball table selling his wares and trying to chat up the stoner chicks in the corner. The room they share will be empty, unused, Steve’s bed a rumpled mess just waiting for occupants.

“Yeah,” he says, and then he basks in the glow of Billy’s smile.