Billy Hargrove
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Summer 1986 – somewhere in Roane County, Indiana
CLOSED BANTER with @Eddie Munson
Billy was more than a little annoyed that he'd been roped into playing delivery boy today. Steve had some doctor's appointment, Dustin's bike had given up on life, the Wheeler's had some kind of family emergency, and he already forgot what type of bullshit excuse the Byers' had.
He didn't even know what Eddie liked. The whole drive out to the hideout, Billy kept running through increasingly colorful ways to tell him exactly where he could shove any complaints about the food. He'd gone out of his way to grab takeout; actual warm wood, not whatever scraps Eddie usually lived on. It cost money. The guy better appreciate it.
Whatever. Eddie was alright. Certainly not the worst. Hargrove didn't know the guy too well — just the occasional shared lunch period back at school, both of them having stuck to opposite ends of the cafeteria with their respective crowds — but he'd never had a reason to hate the guy. Weird, sure. But so was half the Party. And anyone who blasted Metallica and AC/DC and somehow managed to have a band of his own couldn't be that bad, right?
Didn't mean that he was thrilled about any of this. He had no plans or anything. Just wasn't in the mood.
So when he pulled up to the hideout with Steve's car, Billy was a little grumpy. He killed the engine, grabbed the food, and stepped up to the door — only to pause.
Right. The tap code.
"Shit."
Steve had shown it to him earlier, all patient and careful, like Billy was supposed to give a damn. And now? Gone. Completely gone. His memory issues ever since that night at Starcourt Mall hit him like a gut punch, every single time.
Billy huffed out a breath, already knocking hard against the wood instead. If it scared the hell out of Munson, that was his problem.
"Hey, Munson!" he called, voice cutting through the quiet. "It's me, Billy! I forgot the stupid tap code, so if you wanna eat this weekend, you'd better open the damn door."
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