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Steve winced as he reached down to open up a tub of ice cream, muscles pulling in ways he didn’t think possible. The fluorescents seemed brighter than usual, and his body ached in a way he hasn’t felt before. He’d gotten into fights, sure, but nothing like this. The drugs had worn off, leaving him cold and sore, stumbling around the mall until he found his way back to his post. A glance in the bathroom mirror confirmed his fears- he looked terrible, lip split, blood everywhere, bruises blooming across his stomach. He sighed, sticking his finger into a bowl of ice cream that somebody left at the counter, and sucking it clean. He wanted comfort, wanted something sweet. He needed a brain freeze. Maybe that would distract him from how much his head hurt.
---
“What the hell happened to you?” Billy hopped up on the counter with ease, ignoring Steve’s faint protest. Still in his uniform, legs out, face bashed in. He looked fucked. He looked stupid. It was, Billy wasn’t afraid to admit to himself, endearing. It was kinda hot. “I asked you a question, Harrington, get your fingers out of the damn ice cream.” He snatched the paper bowl away, looking at it with disgust before tossing it into the nearest trash can.
“Russians.” Steve stared at him, aware of how absurd it sounded, holding back a laugh through swollen lips.
“Russians…” Billy repeated, slowly, as if explaining something to a child.
“Evil Russians, in the basement of the mall. Tried to kill me, drugged me, the whole nine yards.”
“Right.” Billy ignored his explanation. What a damn idiot. He had probably gotten into a scuffle again, lost again, and didn’t want to admit it. They were too old to be fighting, anyway. He thought back to the last time, months ago now. Thought about the way Steve had teased him. Thought about the almost imperceptible shift in his demeanor when he’d had him pinned. He’d softened for a second, a split second, collapsing under Billy’s weight on the kitchen floor, before retaliating. Maybe he’d been tired. Maybe he had needed to catch his breath.
Billy scooted across the counter, swinging his legs over the other side and jumping down into Steve’s space. “Why is it that every time I see you, you’ve just lost a fight?” He scanned Steve, looking him up and down. Knobby knees. Strong legs. Those goddamn socks. Lips swollen, split, still laced with dried blood. He reached out, prodding at Steve’s busted lip. “Pretty.” Steve hissed in pain, jerking backward, back to the wall. “Get out of here Billy, Jesus.” He was frowning, looking up at Billy with curious eyes. Billy studied him, both of them quiet for a moment, tense.
---
Steve touched a finger to his lip, still tender from the prodding, and wiped a bead of blood off on his shorts. “You’re not supposed to be back here, you know.” He offered, trying not to laugh at his own half-baked excuse. “I could get in trouble. My manager, you know, who’s never around?”
“Looks to be like you already are in trouble.” Billy reached out, stroking the side of his face, not unlike the way the Russian man had no more than an hour before.
“That hurts, you fucking asshole.” Steve whined, Billy’s fingers brushing over his face. If he had felt sick and sore earlier, it was worse now, a new sort of dizzying pain. His stomach was aching on the outside and burning on the inside, as if he’d been dropped several feet, as if he’d been knocked over and stood up too fast, all of the blood rushing to his head too quickly. He felt shaky, about to break into a cold sweat.
“Yeah? Let me see.” Billy tugged at the hem of Steve’s shirt, examining the yellow-tinged dark bruises that littered his soft stomach. “They really did a number on you, huh?” Steve hummed at the words. Billy lifted his eyes, clear and alert, to Steve’s. “Just like I did last winter, like Jonathan did, like-”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
Billy chuckled. “I know, I know. You’re a terrible fighter, though, Harrington. He smiled, letting go of Steve’s shirt. “Always losing, always ending up a total wreck.” He secured a hand in the back of Steve’s hair, giving it a firm tug, tilting his head back to look at him. Steve whined then, a strained noise, more of longing than of discomfort.
“Billy-” He began, swallowing thickly, wincing at his aching ribs were pressed on as Billy leaned against him. “I’m an invalid, you should be careful with me, I’m-”
“Then why are you hard?” Billy remained calm somehow, calmer than it was inside Steve’s swirling head, thoughts racing at one hundred miles per hour. He hadn’t asked to be attacked by Russians, or by Billy, or Jonathan, but this felt different. With a sickening flop of his stomach he recalled the moment with the Russian man again, the burn of humiliation at being slapped and stroked and tied down, the way Billy kept poking and prodding at his injuries, the delicate way his fingers touched his busted lip. He felt cornered. He felt used. Steve pulled Billy closer then, feverishly pressing his hips into his, searching for any kind of pressure through his itchy nylon shorts. “Billy, I swear to god, if you don’t-” He stopped, gasping as Billy’s hand closed around his neck, still able to breathe, yet taken aback by the sudden pressure.
“You sick fuck,” Billy grinned, feeling over the bulge in Steve’s shorts, pressing his fingers over the faint wet spot that was forming. “Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you?”
“Dunno.” Steve laughed, feeling high again, adrenaline coursing through him. “But if you could just, please, I can’t do this all day-”
Billy let go of his hair then. “Are you begging me to hit you, Harrington? Are you really?”
Steve could only nod, still helplessly attempting to hump Billy’s leg. “Uh-huh.” He squeezed his eyes shut then, feeling a fist come into contact with his belly for the second time that day. He choked back a sob, clinging to Billy’s shoulders as he came in his shorts. "Thank you." He took a ragged breath, smiling up at Billy. "You did something right for once."