Chapter 36: The Billy Problem
March arrived with false spring—warm days between cold snaps, Hawkins pretending winter was over.
Billy Hargrove's Camaro appeared in the school parking lot like declaration of war. Loud, aggressive, impossible to ignore.
I'd been avoiding him since December. Letting the situation develop, watching patterns, waiting for right moment to intervene.
That moment came on March 15th.
Lucas and Max stood by her locker between classes, talking about something—probably the latest D&D campaign or her skateboarding tricks or whatever twelve-year-olds discussed.
Billy materialized like storm system. Grabbed Lucas by the shirt, slammed him against lockers.
"What the fuck you think you're doing with my sister?"
Lucas's feet left the ground. "We're just talking—"
"You don't talk to her. You don't look at her. You don't breathe near her. Clear?"
Students scattered. Nobody intervened. Just watched like it was entertainment.
I was thirty feet away. Fight Master calculated approach vectors, Billy's stance, optimal de-escalation techniques.
Chose the direct approach.
"Back off," I said, voice flat.
Billy turned, still holding Lucas. "This doesn't concern you, Harrington."
"Kid you're assaulting is my friend. That makes it my concern."
"Your friend?" Billy laughed. "King Steve's friends with middle school nerds now? How the mighty have fallen."
"Last warning. Let him go."
Billy shoved Lucas aside, turned full attention on me. "Or what?"
He swung.
Fight Master engaged—time dilation, threat assessment complete in microseconds.
Telegraphed right hook. Weight committed forward. Balance compromised. Speed adequate but predictable. Weakness: overconfidence.
I caught his fist mid-swing.
Billy's eyes widened—shock mixing with rage.
I redirected his momentum, used his own force to spin him, put him on the ground in one smooth motion. Textbook aikido technique. No injury, just humiliation.
Billy stared up from linoleum floor, expression cycling through disbelief to fury.
"How—"
"I've been training." I extended hand to help him up. "We done here?"
He slapped the hand away, stood without assistance. "This isn't over."
"Yeah. It is. You don't touch my friends. You don't touch Max's friends. You want problems, come to me directly. Leave kids out of it."
Billy's jaw worked. Every muscle screaming violence. But surrounded by witnesses, backed into corner socially, he couldn't escalate without looking worse.
"Fuck you, Harrington."
He stormed off. Students whispered. Lucas breathed again.
"Thanks," he managed.
"Don't thank me. That just delayed things. Billy's type doesn't give up—he escalates."
"So what do we do?"
"Stay in groups. Don't engage. Let me handle him."
Max appeared, expression caught between relief and fury. "I'm sorry. He's always like this. Controlling. Violent."
"Not your fault."
"But he's my—"
"Step-brother. Not your responsibility." I met her eyes. "You're not accountable for his behavior. Remember that."
She nodded, but guilt remained.
Need to deal with this properly. Before Billy hurts someone. Before the situation explodes.
I found Billy in the parking lot after school, leaning against his Camaro smoking.
"Come to gloat?" he sneered.
"Come to talk."
"Nothing to talk about."
"I know about Neil."
Billy went absolutely still. Cigarette halfway to mouth, frozen.
"I know about the belt. The cigarette burns. The way he corners you, breaks you down piece by piece until you think you deserve it."
"You don't know shit." But his voice shook.
"I pay attention. See patterns. Your flinch when guys raise voices suddenly. The way you position yourself with back to walls. How you overcompensate with aggression because showing weakness gets you hurt."
Billy's hand trembled. "Shut up."
"What he does to you is wrong. It's abuse. It's not your fault and you don't deserve it."
"I said shut up!" He threw the cigarette, faced me with wild eyes. "You don't get to psychoanalyze me like I'm some case study. You don't know what it's like."
"You're right. I don't. My parents neglect me, not beat me. Different trauma." I stayed calm, non-threatening. "But I know enough to recognize pain when I see it. And I know enough to recognize when someone's passing that pain to others who don't deserve it."
"Max—"
"Max and Lucas are off-limits. They're kids. They're not responsible for what Neil does to you. Taking your rage out on them doesn't fix anything—just makes you exactly what he is."
Billy flinched like I'd struck him. "I'm nothing like him."
"Then prove it. Stop hurting people weaker than you. Stop controlling Max like she's property. Stop being the person he's turning you into."
Silence. Billy staring at the ground, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
"Why do you care?" he finally asked. "I'm nobody to you. Just some asshole from California."
"Because I've seen what happens when people like you don't get help. Seen the damage. The casualties." Seen you possessed by Mind Flayer, killing people, dying tragically in Season 3. "And I think you're more than what he's made you. Question is whether you believe that."
Billy looked up, eyes wet. "I hate him. I hate what he does to me. But I don't know how to be anything else."
"Start small. Stop hitting kids. Stop controlling Max. Treat Lucas like he's human. Baby steps toward being better."
"And if I can't?"
"Then I stop you. Every time. However necessary." I kept my voice level. "I don't want to fight you, Billy. But I will. For as long as it takes."
He absorbed this. "You really think I can change?"
"I think you're seventeen and drowning in trauma and lashing out because that's all you know. But yeah. I think you can change. If you choose to."
Billy wiped his eyes roughly. "This conversation never happened."
"Agreed."
"And if you tell anyone—"
"I won't. Not my story to tell."
He climbed into the Camaro, engine roaring to life. Sat there for long moment before speaking again.
"Thanks. For not making it worse."
"That's the bare minimum, Billy. But it's a start."
He drove off, music blaring, leaving me in parking lot wondering if I'd made breakthrough or just delayed inevitable explosion.
Max cornered me at my car minutes later.
"What did you say to him?"
"Private conversation."
"He looked... different. Shaken."
"He's dealing with things. Heavy things. Give him space."
"You know what he's going through."
Not question. Statement.
"Yeah. Some of it."
"And you're trying to help him?"
"Trying to help everyone. Including you." I leaned against my car. "Max, Billy's issues aren't your responsibility. You didn't create them. You can't fix them."
"But he's my step-brother."
"And that's biology, not obligation. You're allowed to protect yourself. You're allowed to have friends he doesn't approve of. You're allowed to live without his control."
She kicked her skateboard. "He's not all bad. Sometimes he's... almost nice. When our parents aren't around."
"Abusers are often complicated. Doesn't excuse behavior."
"Are you a psychologist now?"
"No. Just someone who's seen too much and wants to prevent more."
Max studied me with sharp eyes. "You're weird, Steve Harrington. But good weird."
"I'll take it."
She left. I drove home thinking about Billy Hargrove and cycles of abuse and whether some people could be saved from themselves.
In the show, Billy gets possessed by Mind Flayer in Season 3. Becomes its vessel. Dies heroically saving El. Tragic arc. Redemption through sacrifice.
But that's eighteen months away. If I can reach his humanity now, maybe the possession goes differently. Maybe he resists. Maybe he survives.
Long shot. But worth trying.
The Mind Flayer whispered: You're collecting pieces, traveler. Building your army of damaged souls. Do you really think you can protect them all? Do you really think you can change fate?
Watch me try.
I had 238 days until Halloween.
238 days to prepare everyone—even Billy Hargrove—for what was coming.
The war wasn't here yet.
But I'd use every second of peace to get ready.
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