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“Shit, shit, shit–”
Billy tries to keep his hands steady on the steering wheel, but he has no fucking clue what he’s doing. The speedometer needle trembles just above ninety and hell, there’s no way he can go faster without completely losing control. It doesn’t help that he can’t see a fucking thing. The windshield keeps fogging up for some reason and he has no idea how to fix that, keeps fumbling with the dashboard, flipping switches at random, but all it does is blast ice-cold air out of the vents, and how the fuck does anyone do that while driving?
The steering wheel jerks in his hands and he overcorrects in a panic, which has the car fishtailing for like half a second before he manages to wrestle it back under control.
“Shit–”
In the rear windshield, red and blue lights blur into one, strobing so fast it makes his head spin, while the siren rises and falls in a steady, threatening wail. They’re too close.
He really should’ve gotten his fucking license when he had the chance. Maybe then he’d actually have a shot of getting them out of this mess. How has it never occurred to him that something like this might happen? That he might have to drive if something happened to–
“Billy…”
His head whips to where Stu’s slumped in the passenger seat, one hand over an already blood-soaked towel bunched against the wound in his shoulder. With every bump in the road, his head knocks against the window, and every groan he lets out makes Billy’s stomach drop like a stone.
He’s going to bleed out if Billy doesn’t crash them into a ditch first.
“I told you to keep pressure on it,” Billy snaps, forcing his eyes back on the road, but they keep darting between the cruiser looming in the rearview mirror and the cars ahead of them.
“I am,” Stu wails, frustrated, and that’s good, right? He still sounds like his usual annoying self.
“You’re not,” Billy says. “Press harder.”
“Y’know I love it when you’re bossy but– fuck–” Stu hisses as Billy tries to overtake a car and they jolt forward, swerving as he changes lanes and his foot slips off the pedal. “Maybe you should focus on the road, man.” He’s trying to be a smartass, but Billy can tell he’s struggling to keep his voice steady.
“The fuck do you think I’m trying to do here?”
You think you can outrun it.
The fortune teller’s voice worms into his head like she’s fucking cursed him or something.
But his blood will be on your hands.
Billy groans and slams a palm against his temple, trying to whack her voice out of his brain. Like it hasn’t been screaming at him all fucking night, ever since Stu asked that stupid question – how will I die? – and that bitch practically predicted Billy killing him. Like he hadn’t nearly done that already. And now here they are, getting chased by the pigs because they couldn’t keep their hands off each other after killing all those people, and then Stu got shot when the cops showed up, and now he’s half out of it in the passenger seat, and she might actually have been right–
“Watch out…” Stu groans.
Billy curses and veers to avoid plowing straight into the truck ahead of them as its break lights flare up. Their car jolts into the next lane, the angry sound of a horn droning through his chest, rubber shrieking against asphalt. A lump clogs up his throat when he looks up and sees the cruiser gaining on them, but then something flashes and another horn splits the air and he realizes they’re on the wrong side of the road.
“Fuck!”
Heart thundering, Billy slams his heel into the pedal, the only way being forward. But the oncoming car is too close, honking aggressively–
Without thinking, he jerks the wheel and cuts to the right across the truck’s nose, diving down what he hopes is an exit ramp with his eyes closed. For a breathless moment, he’s sure they’re going to flip, but then he snaps his eyes open and somehow manages to regain control and continue straight onto the lower road. Beside him, Stu yelps like a wounded dog, but there’s nothing Billy can do for him right now.
Keep going, keep going.
As soon as he feels steady enough to let one hand go of the wheel, Billy leans forward again to wipe at the fogging windshield with his arm. Two lanes, barely any streetlights. He decides to kill the headlights, and everything goes dark. Stu makes a small noise beside him.
“Shut up.”
Billy can still hear the siren, but it sounds distant now, confused, blaring somewhere above on the overpass. There’s no way they got off this easily. He squints into the black road, half expecting to crash into a deer any second, then he panics and flicks the lights back on – fuck it – and prays that the cruiser won’t turn around and come the other way. One turn, then another, and the police lights don’t follow. There’s just darkness swallowing the road behind them, and he finally allows himself to exhale.
In the passenger seat, Stu shifts with a grunt.
“Still with me?” Billy asks.
Another grunt.
He glances sideways and god, he really wishes he hadn’t. Stu’s hand is still pressed against the wound, but the towel and his flannel are completely soaked through.
”Come on, now you’re gonna keep your mouth shut?” Billy taunts, his usual snark reduced to a pathetic croak.
“What d’you want from me?” Stu slurs. He tips his head back with his eyes shut and a sudden anger flares up in Billy’s guts.
“I want you to keep pressing that wound so you don’t bleed out, you stupid fuck.”
Stu tuts and sucks in a sharp breath as he drags the seatbelt over his arm to add more pressure, which probably doesn’t do shit. “It hurts, man.”
A car passes somewhere in the distance, and Billy ducks instinctively as the headlights sweep across the windshield, but then he jerks upright again, whiteknuckling the wheel. He needs to keep his cool and get them off the road. Find a place to hide.
For a while, neither of them says anything. There’s just the humming engine and Stu’s strained groans and the occasional sucked-in breath whenever a car passes, paranoia getting the better of them. They might’ve escaped the chase for now, but if they get pulled over and someone asks for his license or sees Stu covered in blood… they’re done for.
Billy tries not to look at Stu, thinks he might actually do something stupid if he sees his pale face and bloodied flannel again. Like drive him to a hospital.
His stomach curdles. They’ve pulled some freaky shit in the past, and he knows some basic first aid stuff, but a gunshot wound? Never mind the bullet – he doesn’t even know if it went through-and-through – but Stu’s lost so much blood that he probably needs a transfusion at this point, right? What if he–
No. Hospital is not an option. If Stu shows up there with a bullet wound, they’ll file a report, call the cops, and then they’re fucked. So that’s not happening. He’s going to have to figure something out.
Okay. Fuck.
He swallows and turns his head toward Stu, and shit, he really doesn’t like how quiet he’s gotten.
“Hey, you good?”
Stu grimaces. “Feelin’ a little woozy.”
“Yeah,” Billy mutters, a familiar pang in his chest. “Just hold on, okay?”
“Hmm… Billy?”
“What?”
“If I die–”
Billy cuts him off. “You’re not dying.”
“–you gotta tell my family it was, like, a car accident or something.”
“Stu.”
“Just saying,” Stu groans, “you’re a terrible driver, so–”
An involuntary snort punches out of Billy. “Oh fuck you–”
Stu huffs a weak laugh. “Just kidding. We got away, didn’t we?”
And fuck, whatever relief Billy just felt is instantly erased, because there’s something about the way Stu says that, so hopeful and soft, that makes him want to pull over and crawl into a hole.
You think you can outrun it.
He doesn’t answer, too scared of whatever pathetic sound might escape his throat if he did. Instead, he rolls down the window and drags in a sharp breath. The cool night air actually helps a bit, clears the dizzying haze of iron and sweat, but then he glances at Stu shivering beside him, and his stomach drops again. They really need to stop somewhere asap.
The road stretches on for what feels like forever before it finally curves and he sees the fluorescent flicker of a gas station sign. Billy pulls over and the engine sputters and jolts to a stop in front of a grimy ice machine. He hesitates for maybe a second before shoving the door open.
“Don’t move.”
Stu snorts. “Yeah, actually I was gonna go for a jog–”
Billy slams the door and strides toward the store. The bell above the door jingles when he steps inside, and the guy behind the counter gives him a curt nod before returning his attention to the tiny TV propped beside the register.
Billy keeps his head down as he moves through the aisles, grabbing rubber gloves, some gauze pads, a roll of bandage – just in case, Stu’s first aid kit is most likely expired or lost in the ether anyway – and bottled water.
What else?
The bullet. What if it’s still inside him? He’s probably gonna need, like, tweezers or something to get it out… right?
He scans the shelves, gnawing a hole in his cheek. Dog food, fishing supplies… Huh. There’s a pair of fishing pliers hanging beside the bait cooler. That’ll do.
On the way to the register, he also snags a cheap bottle of vodka and then dumps everything on the counter.
“Found everything you need?” the cashier mumbles, ringing each item up at a sluggish pace that makes Billy want to throttle him.
“Yeah, thanks.”
From the candy rack in front of him, Billy grabs some nuts and a bag of cherry Twizzlers and slaps them on the counter, along with some cash and his fake ID – the one that says his name’s Anthony Carpenter, 22 years old. A bit flashy, maybe, but still better than what Stu had come up with. Jason fucking Myers. So, yeah.
“Actually, you know anywhere I could crash for the night?” Billy asks, as casual as he can, even as he struggles to meet the cashier’s eyes. He can only imagine how crazed he must be looking right now, but the guy doesn’t seem to be fazed at all when he gives him directions for a motel down the road.
Still, Billy’s desperate to disappear into the shadows again and lets out a relieved huff when he slumps into the driver’s seat and unscrews the water bottle for Stu.
“Drink.”
Stu just looks at him with a weak rendition of that stupid grin, and Billy suddenly feels drained, can’t even muster an insult anymore, so he leans over and tips the bottle to Stu’s mouth. Half the water runs down his chin, mixing with the blood smeared across his collarbone, but Stu swallows it like he’s been parched for days. A short moment to catch his breath, then he sticks his tongue out, signaling for more.
A bead of sweat runs down his temple, and Billy follows its trail, notices the vein pumping in Stu’s bruised throat, the frantic rhythm of his pulse trying to keep blood moving through his body. Billy swallows against the terrifying quiver in his stomach before taking a sip of what’s left of the water and tossing the empty bottle into the back seat. Then he rips open the Twizzlers and stuffs one into Stu’s mouth.
“Here, before you go into shock or something.”
Stu cocks an eyebrow as he sucks on the ropey candy, seemingly pacified and mind in the gutter as always.
Billy just… can’t with him sometimes.
With jittery hands, he shifts the car into reverse, but the engine dies straight away. Okay. Deep breath, let the clutch out slowly. Just like Stu had taught him those few times in the library parking lot.
The car jerks backward, but when he shifts into drive, the engine dies again. Billy curses under his breath – he just knows that Stu is trying his hardest not to groan or make a comment – and finally they’re back on the road before he can die of embarrassment.
After a few minutes of following the cashier’s directions, he sees a large VACANCY sign flicker at the edge of the empty road. Below it sits a squat building shaped like a horseshoe, which is cast in a sickly yellow light.
“Bates Motel much?” Stu mumbles around his Twizzler, and Billy doesn’t know whether he feels relieved or disappointed that Stu doesn’t make a joke about stabbing him in the shower.
He pulls into the lot, determined not to kill the engine this time, and sees only a handful of pickup trucks parked near the reception door. He makes a mental note to hide their car later in case the cops pass through. Stu’s already trying to unbuckle his seatbelt with one hand, but Billy stops him.
“Just… wait here. Don’t want anyone to see you like this.”
Gravel crunches under his feet as he heads for the motel office. Besides that it’s eerie quiet, the only other sound the buzz of bugs meeting their fate in the dim fluorescent lights above the door. Inside, the place smells like cigarette smoke and citrus cleaner. The man behind the counter looks so insanely unremarkable except for that grubby mustache that Billy thinks he must be hiding something. Or maybe he’s just seen one too many horror movies.
Relax.
“I need a room.”
Good, he sounds normal.
“Just you?” The guy’s eyes drift toward the window.
“My, uh–” Billy swallows, “My friend’s in the car.”
Shit. Brother. He meant to say brother! Ugh, don’t be weird.
“Uh-huh. How many nights?”
Good question. One he can’t answer yet.
“I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
Wannabe Tom Atkins hums quietly, then slides him a check-in form. “Room seven,” he says. “Thirty dollars a night. Check out‘s at noon.”
He goes on with a bored baritone, giving Billy the rundown of where to find the best hashbrowns and bang for your buck while Billy – sorry, Anthony – signs his name and slides the cash over.
He's outside before the creep can say anything else, pulse fluttering in irritation when he sees Stu leaning with his back against the car, head tipped back and eyes closed. Like he’s enjoying the breeze, only that he’s pressing a blood-smeared hand against his shoulder. Totally inconspicuous.
“Good news, idiot,” Billy says instead of causing a public scene about Stu never listening to him.
“Please tell me he wasn’t talking to his mommy.”
Billy snorts despite himself. “Wouldn’t put it past him. We got a room though.” He grabs the bag with the snacks and first aid stuff from the car and sets off, but something makes him pause and turn around to look at Stu. “You good to walk or–?”
“Yeah, man.” Stu swallows, then pushes himself off the car and shambles after him. Billy walks several steps ahead so he doesn’t have to watch him struggle.
As soon as he unlocks the door to room seven, he’s assaulted by the stale, moldy kind of stench that you’d expect from a place like this. His fingers find the lightswitch next to the door and the room is cast in a dim light. While he waits for Stu to step through, Billy’s eyes scan the room. To his left, a chipped sideboard with a small TV, where he drops the plastic bag. To his right, two twin beds covered in hideous brown duvets, divided by a rickety nightstand. In the corner, a humming mini fridge and microwave next to a round kitchen table with two uncomfortable-looking leather chairs.
Welcome home.
Stu stumbles toward one of the beds, but Billy slams the door shut, locks it, and drags him straight to the bathroom.
“You’re not staining the sheets,” he says over Stu’s protesting moans. He flips on the bathroom light and helps Stu lower himself into the turquoise bathtub. “Okay, just– Give me a moment. Don’t move.”
It’s compulsive at this point, and maybe he’s just delaying the inevitable, but he double-checks the front door lock and closes the musty curtains before finally returning back to the bathroom, plastic bag in hand. Stu is already fumbling with the buttons of his too-tight flannel, the blood-soaked towel is discarded across his legs.
He looks– shit.
He looks like shit. Sweaty as fuck, his usually intense blue eyes now glassy under his fluttering lashes. The last time Billy‘s seen him like this had ended with Stu in hospital for several weeks, and he sure as hell isn’t gonna let that happen again.
Stu’s eyes meet his stare and he puts on a crooked half-smile that’s probably supposed to say I‘m fine even though he clearly fucking isn’t. Enough. Kneeling beside the bathtub, Billy slaps Stu’s hands away from his collar.
“I swear to god, if you don’t stop moving–” he grits, before snatching the knife from the holster at the back of his belt and slicing through Stu’s flannel. Stu flinches and groans when the fabric drags across his torn skin, but Billy has zero patience to be gentle right now. Without thinking, he yanks his own shirt off and shoves it into Stu’s mouth. “Shush.”
To no one’s surprise, Stu’s eyes flutter wide open and he lets out an indignant huff, breath coming ragged through his nose. Billy smirks. Checks out that he’s into this. At least the neighbors won’t hear what he’s about to do.
He pulls on the rubber gloves from the gas station, the powdery latex instantly sticky and itchy against the sweat on his palms. With a shudder, he presses two fingers along Stu’s shoulder, only to feel the muscle twitch under his touch. The bullet went in right under the collarbone. Stu squirms and mumbles something into his makeshift gag while Billy probes around the wound, the skin there already swollen and hot to the touch, even through the gloves. Slick blood coats his fingers as they trace the opening, but then–
Billy’s fingertip hits something hard. He’s painfully aware of Stu’s muffled moans, but he doesn’t look up, because there, just beneath the skin, is a tiny, unnatural lump.
Holy shit.
“Okay,” he says, more to himself than to Stu. “Okay, I see it. The bullet, it’s still– I think it‘s right there.”
Stu makes whimpering noise, and Billy is glad he can’t open his mouth right now. He needs to focus.
He grabs the fishing pliers and douses them with the vodka – only 40% proof, but better than nothing, he guesses – then leans closer again. “Don’t pass out,” he says sharply. As if Stu would miss an opportunity to watch him poke around inside of him, the freak. Billy‘s never going to hear the end of it.
Pressing his thumb beside the hole, he pushes down until the skin bulges and the dark shape shifts under the surface. He takes a deep breath, then slides the pliers into the wound, but Stu jerks like a brandmarked horse, and a strangled shout tears through the shirt in his mouth.
“Fuck’s sake, Stu,” Billy snarls, pinning his twitching shoulder down with his forearm. “Do you want me to lose it in there?”
Stu’s chest is heaving way too hard right now, so Billy lets out a frustrated sigh and leans his forehead against Stu’s. If there‘s one thing he knows how to do, it’s calming him down (or shutting him up, if you will). Which isn’t the most shocking skill, really, considering how fucking malleable Stu gets in his hands – especially when there’s blood involved – but it‘s still something Billy’s secretly kinda proud of.
Neither of them moves. Stu‘s breath is hot and uneven against his face, and Billy has to clench his teeth to stop himself from crushing him.
“C’mon, pull yourself together,” he hears himself say, and he thinks maybe he’s more like Norman Bates than he’d like to admit, because he keeps fucking talking to himself and Stu might just as well be imaginary at this point.
The saliva dripping from the corners of Stu’s mouth looks pretty damn real though. His brows are drawn into a tight, trembling line, but he nods, nostrils flaring and teary eyes trained on Billy as he tries to steady his breathing. Good pup.
Once Billy feels like he's calmed down enough, he pushes the pliers back in. Another gush of blood oozes out, slicking the metal and his fingertips, which turns the whole thing into a slippery, nightmare game of Operation.
Billy works his jaw pushing deeper, trying not to think about how little he actually knows about what he’s doing, much like in the car, but then a metallic click vibrates up his fingers as the pliers scrape something solid. Gotcha.
He clamps down. At first, the bullet feels stubbornly wedged in place, and the thought that he might have just tugged at a bone or something makes his stomach churn. But then it shifts, and a fresh rush of blood spills down Stu’s chest as Billy pulls the mushroomed thing free with a wet sound. He barely notices Stu’s muffled groan as he looks at it, his brain refusing to process that this tiny piece of metal has caused so much damage. He’s sort of offended on Stu’s behalf, to be honest. It just feels so fucking unpersonal. Cowardly. At least with a knife, you have to get your hands dirty, get real… intimate, you know? Stu would‘ve ripped that cop‘s trachea out if he‘d come close enough.
Billy pushes himself up with creaking joints to drop the bullet into the sink, then grabs a fresh towel from the rack and kneels back down beside Stu, whose face is now streaked with long, beautiful trails of tears.
“You’re good. I got it. It’s done,” Billy keeps muttering, pressing the towel against Stu’s shoulder until he realizes he should probably give Stu a chance to breathe. As soon as he yanks the shirt out of his mouth, Stu sucks in a ragged breath of air.
“We should do that again sometime,” he slurs, head tipped against the tiled wall.
“Yeah, I’m sure you’d like that,” Billy scoffs. He reaches for the open bottle of vodka and tips it against Stu‘s mouth. “Here, this‘ll help.” It probably won’t, but what else is he gonna do?
Stu swallows and immediately coughs as the spirit burns down his throat. “I think I‘m gonna puke, man,” he whines as his head lolls to the side.
“No you’re not,” Billy says, although his stomach actually feels just as unstable right now. “And keep your fucking eyes open.”
Stay with me.
He pulls the towel away to check the wound again. It‘s still bleeding, but slower now, and that’s a good sign, right? Fuck, he’s no expert, but if anything important had been hit, wouldn’t it be pulsing or bubbling or something like that?
“Hey fuckface,” Billy snaps his fingers in Stu‘s face. “Stay awake.”
Stu‘s lashes flutter, his eyes rolling under his lids, and fuck, why is this getting to him so much? It’s not like they haven’t dealt with this kind of shit before. Hell, Billy can’t even count the amount of times he’s had to bandage bloody cuts he’s left on Stu‘s body himself, but something about this just feels– out of control.
He tosses the bloody towel aside, ready to make Stu scream by pouring vodka straight into the wound, but then he stops. Didn’t he read somewhere that you’re not supposed to pour alcohol over open wounds? Sure, that’s what they do in the movies – he’s always thought it was kind of stupid (hot) watching some half-naked guy moan while he’s drenched in blood and booze – but he’s pretty sure that’s actually bullshit. Which is good, because he has a feeling he might need a drink later anyway. Water it is then.
He turns on the tap and slaps Stu lightly across the cheek as he waits for the water to warm. Stu shifts uncomfortably when it starts soaking into his jeans.
“D‘you think I’m gonna make it, doc?”
“If I don’t kill you first, yeah” Billy mutters, running a hand under the water to test the temperature.
“Why‘s that kinda hot?” Stu slurs, and Billy‘s never been more grateful for his freak-shit brain. If that’s what’ll keep him alive and talking, praise the lord or whatever.
He rips open the packet of gauze pads with his teeth and pulls one free to soak it under the tap. His knees are starting to go numb from the tiles already, gross pins and needles crawling through his calves, but he keeps dabbing away the blood, all the while trying to ignore Stu’s gaze and the way it makes him feel all flustered and incompetent.
Once he’s satisfied that everything’s clean enough, Billy shuts off the tap and carefully pats the skin dry with a clean towel before pressing another stack of gauze over the wound. Stu hisses and grips Billy‘s forearm, but he doesn’t pull away like before and Billy doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he reaches into the bag again and pulls out the roll of bandage.
“Arm up.”
With obvious effort, Stu lifts his good arm so Billy can thread the gauze over and under, pulling it snug across his chest before looping it back again. With each pass, he tightens the pressure over the wound, which has Stu complaining like a little bitch. “Jeez–”
Another loop, another pull, until the roll runs out. Billy tries to tie some kind of knot, then finally sits back on his tingly heels. The bandage is already blooming light red, but it seems to be doing the job for now, so that’s something.
It’s then that Billy realizes how un-fucking-bearable the itching between his fingers has gotten, so the gloves come off with a satisfying snap. His hands look like they belong to a ninety-year old on uppers, all pruned and shaky as fuck. He presses them against his thighs in an attempt to ease the unsettling tremor, but it does absolutely nothing.
Stu watches him with the unfocused attention of someone who’s running on about three brain cells – so basically his normal state – when he says, “Thanks, babe.” Then he dissolves into a full-on giggle. “Babygirl. Billy-babe.”
“Jesus Christ.”
He’s clearly losing it, so Billy pushes himself to his feet and hooks an arm under Stu‘s shoulder.
“C‘mon,” he mutters. “Let‘s get you out of the tub.”
Stu leans into him as Billy hauls him upright, his skin cold but oddly reassuring against Billy‘s side.
“Wow,” Stu murmurs. “You‘re, like, so strong.” Another chuckle.
Billy rolls his eyes and drags Stu toward the nearest bed, carefully lowering him onto the mattress. While Stu keeps babbling nonsense, Billy unbuttons the fly of his jeans and pulls them down, carefully dragging each hairy, heavy leg out of the wet denim. He takes Stu’s wet socks off, too, and isn’t it kinda weird that he’s never done this before? At this point, it feels like they’ve committed every kind of depravity together, have ripped each other’s clothes off more times than he can count, but somehow this feels like he’s intruding on Stu’s privacy or whatever. His feet are actually fucking freezing though, so Billy gives them a quick, embarrassed squeeze before finally pulling the ugly duvet over him.
Once that’s done – not without Stu mumbling something about buying him dinner first – Billy presses the back of his hand against his forehead. It‘s hotter than he’d like, a worrying contrast to his icicle hobbit feet, but under the circumstances it shouldn’t be surprising. Then his eyes drift to the bathroom door. All that blood. Right. Billy drags a hand down his face and moves before he can worry too much about Stu falling into a feverish shock.
The bathtub looks like a crime scene, with all that rusty-pink water pooled around the drain and the gauze wrappers sticking to the porcelain next to Stu’s slashed flannel and the bloody towel. Billy shoves everything into the empty plastic bag, then turns on the tap and starts rinsing and wiping down the tub with increasingly impatient circles. He’s so fucking exhausted and he just doesn’t care anymore, so whatever streaks are still visible can wait until tomorrow. His hands are still shaking though and now that he looks at them again, there’s actually more blood than he remembers getting on himself, crusted under his nails, smeared across his wrists, probably from about half a dozen different people considering what they did at the fair.
His blood will be on your hands.
Fucking freak show.
Billy cracks his neck and moves to the sink. The bullet’s still in there, and he’s about to toss it in the bag when he thinks about Stu’s stupid face and how stoked he’d be to see it, so he shoves it in his pocket instead, then starts scrubbing at his hands with the cheap motel soap until his skin starts to sting. A shame he can’t do that with his brain.
For some reason, he looks up into the cracked mirror. There’s a smudge of dried blood on his jaw, and dark, bruise-colored circles frame his bloodshot eyes. And wouldn’t you know it, the first thing he thinks is that Stu would probably be turned on by his current stoner look. Hell, he’s pretty sure he could get a dick tattooed on his forehead and Stu would still worship the ground he walks on. Probably especially with a dick tattoo, now that he thinks about it.
Fuck.
He cups his hands to splash water over his face, as if he could wash away the idea of Stu never calling him any of his dickbrained nicknames again. A hot shower might do the trick, but then he remembers the car parked right outside their room, and he sighs for probably the millionth time tonight.
He glances toward the sound of Stu’s irregular snores drifting from the other room. Already out like a light. Billy guesses he can leave him alone for a moment. With one last look at his boyfriend (shut up), he grabs the car keys and slips out the door.
Outside, the night feels more restless than before. A dog barking in the distance, a truck growling along the highway. Billy half expects to get jumpscared by a siren and blinding headlights, but nothing happens. Just the flicker of the motel sign and another bark. Their car sits exactly where he left it, right across the lot like a big blinking Catch Us If You Can sign. It has him spiralling in an instant.
What if the motel creep saw the blood on his hands? What if the gas station guy already called them in? What if–
Nope. Stop being such a pussy. They most likely haven’t even made the news yet, and these idiots didn’t look like they gave a shit anyway.
He slides behind the wheel and rolls the car off the parking lot – no sputtering this time – but he has no real idea where to go, so he just drives straight down Main for a while until the COME AGAIN SOON sign flashes past him and he realizes he’s probably gone way too far to walk all the way back. So he turns around and eventually parks the car in a dead-end street behind a row of dumpsters. Maybe it’s a bit excessive. Maybe it’s also a bit stupid, given that there’s only one motel in this jerkwater town. The cops would have to be insanely stupid not to put two and two together if they saw the car here, but you never know.
After grabbing Stu’s grubby duffelbag from the trunk and finally putting on a shirt – it was actually one of Stu's better ideas to start carrying spare clothes for their "roadtrips" – he walks back to the motel, head low and a lit cigarette between his fingers. He’d hoped the walk would make him feel better, but the thought of Stu alone in that room in his current defenseless state makes him pick up his pace.
By the time he gets back to the room, he’s gone through two cigs and a whole catalogue of worst-case scenarios. But Stu is still sprawled under the duvet with one arm hanging off the side of the bed, snoring faintly like nothing in the world is wrong.
Billy doesn’t go over to check his forehead again, too scared to wake him or feel him heating up or accidentally smothering him in his sleep because look at him, drooling away like a stupid puppy while Billy just spent the last half hour freaking out about the cops busting in and putting a bullet through his head. Instead, he heads straight for the bathroom to soak in the unpleasantly lukewarm bathwater until his skin prunes and nausea starts to creep up his guts.
When he finally steps back into the bedroom, dizzy from this rollercoaster of a night, he grabs the snacks along with the half-empty bottle of vodka and the TV remote. His eyes drift between the empty twin bed and Stu, and yeah, there’s no way he’s getting any sleep tonight, so he drags one of the chairs from the little table over beside Stu’s bed and drops into it. With his feet plopped on the mattress, he switches on the TV and turns the volume down enough so it won’t disturb Stu, not that anything could wake him up once he’s zonked out.
Tired of struggling in the kitchen? This peeler will change your–
In Washington, lawmakers have debated–
Lonely tonight? Call 1-900-HOT-BABES and–
The truth is out there–
Call me now for your free reading and find out what destiny has–
Ugh. Not that crap again.
Billy mutes the TV and finally lands on some music channel, watching people’s faces distort into rubbery smiles while Soundgarden jams it out in a stormy tundra.
He tips the bottle against his lips, grimacing with each slow, burning sip that he follows up with a handful of stale nuts. Somewhere between the increasingly rapid staccato of a creaking bedframe next door and a black hole swallowing the earth on screen, his mind starts to trail off.
They killed seven people. In one night. A record, even for them, and insanely reckless.
Behind his closed lids, he sees their faces blurred together, a mix of surprised ohs and frozen screams in the cloying haunted house fog. Stu’s steady gaze when he slit that security guard’s throat. Billy swallows. The way Stu looked up at him between his legs–
His blood will be on your hands.
Fuck. And that stupid fortune teller.
A sudden heat flares inside his chest. If Stu hadn’t dragged them into that tent, none of this would have happened. They wouldn’t have made that ridiculous bet – like some teenage amateurs – and no one would’ve called the cops, not straight away, at least.
But Stu never fucking listens. All evening he’s been doing the exact opposite of what Billy told him to do, so of course he killed that security guard, of course he flipped off the officer at the fair exit and started running. Which earned him a bullet to the shoulder. And the worst part? Stu‘s probably really fucking proud of himself.
Billy snaps his eyes open, but his anger dissolves the moment he sees Stu’s eyeballs twitching under his closed lids, face slick with sweat. Because if he really thinks about it… It’s his fault.
I’ve got one more bet for you.
What the hell was he thinking, fucking Stu in the Ferris wheel, knowing full well that the cops were probably already on their way? He bristles, knuckling his thighs with increasing pressure. If they had just left–
“Billy…”
Beside him, Stu has started mumbling into his pillow. Billy leans over and curses when he feels the heat radiating off his damp skin. There’s no denying anymore that he’s running up a fever. Billy pushes himself up on wobbly legs and rushes to the bathroom, running a towel under cold water before draping it over Stu’s forehead.
Stu’s breathing comes shallow as he claws at the blanket, mumbling. “I’m cold…”
Billy throws another duvet over him, like that’s gonna make a difference. The lump in his throat feels too thick even to swallow, let alone speak, so he starts pacing the room instead – tucking Stu’s blankets tighter, rewetting the towel, over and over again, all the while toying with the bullet in his pocket, rolling it in his fingers until the jagged edge bites into his fingertips.
The whole thing feels like some kind of purgatorial déja vu. He remembers the sleepless nights he spent by Stu’s bedside after he’d gotten a TV to the head the night they killed– well, Billy doesn’t wanna think about those people anymore, he’s moved on from that. But he can’t shake that feeling of how close he’d come to fucking it all up. Stu nearly bleeding out because Billy got too carried away with that knife. And now it’s the same fucking thing all over again.
You think you can outrun it.
Yeah, well, fuck her. She doesn’t know shit.
Stu knew what he signed up for. They’re both as bad as each other. But still…
He crosses the room before the thought can eat his mind and drops into the chair again, checking Stu’s bandage and watching his pulse flutter in his throat until the flicker of the TV finally lulls him into a restless, uncomfortable sleep.
***
Billy jolts awake to the sound of someone hammering at their door. Heart already punching through his chest, he reaches for his knife before his system’s even fully rebooted.
The cops are here.
Stu stirs with a groan – thank fuck he’s alive – as Billy tiptoes toward the rattling door. He can hate himself for falling asleep later.
Okay, he’s thought about this.
They can’t run, obviously. He could use the knife, sure, but then what? He’ll likely end up like Stu, or worse. If he confessed… maybe Stu gets out of this. Billy could spin it. Say he forced him or something. Stu’d never get along with that, though. He’s too goddamn loyal.
Fuck. FUCK.
He unlocks the door, bracing himself to be tackled to the floor–
“Checkout was an hour ago.”
The fucking motel creep.
Billy swallows, the ringing in his ears too loud to think straight. His grip tightens on the Bowie that’s hidden behind his back.
“Good lord, you look like you’ve been through it,” the man chirps, keys spinning around his wonky index finger. His eyes flick past Billy’s head, like he’s trying to peek at the person under the blanket. Billy shifts to block the view, more like the fugitive he is rather than a… gentleman protecting his lover’s privacy. He’s about to open his mouth, but the guy waves it off. “I’d rather not get into it. Not my circus, not my monkeys, and all that. Either be out in ten or pay for another night.”
Billy nods, too stunned to speak, and passes him the money. As soon as the bolt slides back into place, he leans his forehead against the wood.
Christ. One wrong move, and he would’ve filleted that asshole in broad daylight.
No cops, though.
A laugh threatens to spill out of him, the relieve as nauseating as the Gravitron ride Stu forced him on when they were kids but then-
Stu.
Billy pushes himself off the door and slumps down next to him, breath hitching as he reaches for Stu’s forehead. Cooler. His breath… slow and steady.
Thank god. Billy presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, hard enough to spark stars–
“Don’t you cry tonight, I still love you, baby…”
Billy drops his hands. Stu’s looking at him through sticky lashes, croaking fucking Guns N' Roses like a complete fucking loser. A grin splits his face when he catches Billy’s shocked glare.
“And don’t you cry– Ow!” Stu yelps when Billy punches him in the arm.
Billy flinches when he remembers the hole in Stu’s shoulder, but he smirks anyway. “Who’s crying now, huh?”
Stu winces, his face all scrunched up as he shuffles himself halfway upright.
Billy clicks his tongue. “What are you–”
“Gotta take a leak, man,” Stu says. One leg’s already swung over the edge of the bed.
It’s a whole ordeal getting him to the bathroom and making sure he doesn’t, you know, nosedive into the toilet, but while they’re already there, Billy swaps out the bandage. The swollen skin around the bullet entry is a dark purple, and while Billy thinks an infection is not off the table, Stu seems absolutely ecstatic.
“Man, I wish I could’ve seen the bullet,” he says when Billy lowers him back down into bed. “Was it huge?” So fucking predicatble.
Billy rolls his eyes, digs into his pocket, and presses it into Stu’s hand. “Consider it your birthday present,” he mutters.
Stu’s eyes go wide. “Dude–” He turns it over between his fingers. “That is– It’s so small.” Then he looks at Billy. “But I guess it’s not the size that–”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Billy snaps.
It doesn’t even take a second for both of them to crack, and the laughter that spills out of them is rough if not slightly hysterical.
Stu shudders when it fades, still clearly hurting, but his voice goes mock-serious. “I think this is the best gift ever,” he says. “Y’know, besides the gift of life.”
Billy scoffs.
“For real though,” Stu smiles weakly. “Thank you.”
The lump in Billy's throat tightens and he just has to look down at his hands, as if Stu hasn’t already caught that blush crawling over his face. “Yeah, don’t be a fag about it.”
And that’s a funny thing to come from him. Because what if he told Stu he thought he was going to die? Hell, what if he told him that the thought made him feel like the fucking walls were closing in on him and actually, he realized that, yeah, Stu’s the only thing keeping them from crushing Billy alive–
A loud, pathetic growl cuts through the noise in his head. Stu grimaces apologetically.
“Uhm– right,” Billy says, already pushing to his feet. “I’ll find something–”
“No,” Stu reaches out and catches his wrist. “C’mere.”
Billy can’t even convince himself that he doesn’t want this, so he lets himself be dragged into the narrow bed, settling awkwardly at first, not knowing where to put his legs or head or hands without hurting Stu, but then he finally rests a hand against his chest. His eyes are fixed on the TV that’s still flickering in the corner, yet he’s hyperaware of Stu’s breathing evening out under his palm until its synced with his own.
They should probably leave soon, now that Stu seems stable enough to move. They can’t risk another night at this place.
Not right now, though.
“God I love you,” Stu murmurs, voice groggy and terrifyingly serene.
Oh shit. It's not like he hasn't heard this before but after the night they’ve had, Stu’s words suck the air straight out of him. Billy closes his eyes, too vulnerable to be perceived, and nuzzles his face against Stu’s warm neck so he can’t hear his muffled response.
“Yeah. Me too, mutt.”