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“Got any porno?” Stu says, his long tongue chasing the chocolate soft serve that’s already melting down the side of his wrist.
Billy scoffs. “You serious?”
“Yeah, it gets me in the mood.” Stu waggles his eyebrows before biting into the side of the cone, smearing more ice-cream across his mouth and probably freezing whatever dick-for-brain cells he‘s still got. The cone almost slips from his grip when Billy punches him in the arm. “Ow!”
“Videodrome,” Billy mutters, rolling his eyes. “We just watched it last night.”
“Duh. Wanted to give you an easy start,” Stu groans. “Your turn.”
Billy cracks his knuckles, trying to ignore the sight of Stu finishing his sticky Carnival treat and the way it makes his insides squirm. It’s almost as bad as those ear-grating calliope pipes assaulting them left, right, and center. The reek of horseshit and rancid frying fat. So many fucking people without any spatial awareness, all sweaty and gross, stomping down the midway.
He puts on a solemn voice. “That urge to torture a human… that's one thing I never could get rid of.”
“Ohhh, wait–” Stu’s eyes go wide, and he starts bouncing, almost bumping into a pack of kids clutching neon stuffed animals. “Wait, that’s the, uh, Henry! The serial killer!”
“Close,” Billy snickers, “but no. It’s–”
“Wait!” Stu says, snapping his fingers in Billy’s face like those teacher’s pets at school. Yes, Macher? “Don’t tell me, don’t– Uhhh, okay, I got it. It’s that German one, right? Angst?”
“Austrian,” Billy corrects. “But yeah. Didn’t think you’d get that one.”
“Yeah, didn’t think you’d get that one,” Stu mocks, shoving him with gluey fingers. “Fuck you, dick. You think I can’t read subtitles?”
“You sure complained about them like a little bitch,” Billy snorts and wipes his ruined shirt.
“Yeah, cause that was–” Stu cuts himself off when Billy raises an eyebrow. What? “Whatever. My turn.” He points at an invisible plate in his hand. “What are you gonna do with those pies, boys?”
“Auntie Lee's Meat Pies?” Billy guesses.
“Nope.” The self-satisfied grin Stu flashes is nothing if not infuriating. “That was bangin, though. We should watch that again sometime.” Nothing if not predictable. Stu had almost looked proud of his boner last time they watched it and Billy still doesn’t know if it was the tits or severed limbs that did it for him.
“Shocking,” Billy says. Then, to stop thinking about Stu’s boner and circle back to this already expired guessing game, he offers, “Bloodthirsty Butchers?”
Stu shakes his head, and Billy tuts. What other fucking pie movies could there possibly be?
“What, got you stumped?”
“I’m thinking,” Billy hisses. “Give me another quote.”
“Okay.” Stu wipes his hands on his shorts and inhales the scent of toasted caramel drifting from one of the stalls they just passed. “Popcorn? Why popcorn?” he says, and starts walking like a robot when Billy doesn’t reply. “Come on, dude!”
“I don’t know, fuckwit! Popcorn?” He’s grasping at straws now.
Stu clears his throat, then– “Where’s my dog?” he whines. “Where’s my Pooh Bear?”
Billy snarls. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Jeez, man.” Stu’s stopped walking, incredulous, like Billy’s the annoying one here. “I thought you watched Killer Klowns from Outer Space.”
Oh, Jesus.
“Of course not,” Billy snaps, feeling a sudden heat rush to his face. “It’s trash.”
“Dude, I told you it’s supposed to look–”
“Whatever.” Billy kicks at an empty soda cup, sending it skidding beneath a ticket booth. “This game sucks.”
“Well, what else are we supposed to do?” Billy could think of a few things, but Stu keeps complaining. “We already played rock, paper, scissors like, fifty times. My hand‘s all cramped up.”
Billy scrunches his nose as Stu dangles his limp hand in his face. “You sure that’s not from jerking off all day?” Not thinking about Stu’s boner is going great, thanks for asking.
“I mean, yeah.” Stu shrugs, shameless fucker. “Ugh, but I’m so bored. I’m like, actually looking forward to school starting again.” Billy’s only slightly offended. “Like, fuck the plan, right? Why do we have to wait until September to–”
“Shut up,” Billy hisses, grabbing Stu‘s shirt and yanking him sideways before he can walk straight into a cotton candy cloud on legs. Stu’s breath smells like chocolate and the Luckies he shoplifted earlier, and for a split second, Billy has this insane vision of licking his mouth clean. “Not here, dumbass.” He lets him go. “And we’re sticking to the plan.”
Stu drops his head back, offering his throat to the sky as he groans, and Billy thinks of that bullshit vampire movie they watched the other day. Ever since Stu had so eagerly agreed to help kill Maureen, they’ve been doing their homework in the slasher and bootlegged snuff department, but every now and then they still have to sit through a random movie night with Sidney and Randy and whatever stray Stu drags into the house and onto his lap. Lately he’s been trying to get his hands on that blond Becker brat, and because Randy has to work Fridays, Stu had begged Billy to be his wingman for the night.
Billy could’ve said no, could’ve stayed at his very own haunted house with his very own boogeyman, but while it’s been nice to have a break from his five-star boyfriend act while Sidney’s off to visit her grandparents, Billy sadly shares Stu’s end-of-summer-break restlessness. Folie à deux or whatever. Plus Stu had surprised him with a shiny new Buck 120 to practice for the big day and Billy secretly felt like he owed him one.
Not enough to watch him choke on seventy-odd hot dogs for a hundred dollar prize, though. Fuck no. Billy saw it coming from a million miles away, and now he has to stop Stu from wheel-spinning his way to the hotdog eating contest taking place at the center of the midway.
“What, you don’t think I could win?” Stu grins as Billy drags him in the other direction, away from the sign-up queue. There’s no doubt that Stu is the right kind of gross to win this thing, but irony being a cruel mistress, Billy chokes on the homophobic joke sitting behind his teeth.
Because there’s a clown somewhere, to his left.
He knows it’s there from the sound alone, from the high-pitched, repetitive rubber horn sending a cold shiver right down his spine. It bounces, high and low, and Billy’s like the opossum they found in Stu’s attic the other day. Frozen dead. Possibly about to be disemboweled.
Honk-a-honk. Toot-toot.
“Billy?”
He blinks himself back into his cold body, back to Stu’s hand waving in his face.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing,” Billy says, swatting Stu’s hand away. He doesn’t dare turn his head, even if it makes his skin crawl just the same.
Stu’s eyes, flicking between his own, are annoying, observant. I don’t believe you, they say.
His mouth, on the other hand, is stupid. “Thinking of me swallowing wieners got you all stiff?” A closed fist moves toward his mouth, the universal sign language for sucking cock.
“Jesus Christ,” Billy swears, cheeks blazing, shaking off the shudder still coursing through him. “The fuck is wrong with you?” He could ask himself the same question, to be honest.
Stu just shrugs. “My doctor says I've got a– Oh shit, there’s Casey!” he blurts. “How do I look?”
He scrubs a hand over his face, peeling off the last bits of dried ice-cream sitting in the corners of his mouth before raking those filthy fingers through his newly cut hair.
“Wait.”
Billy reaches out to whack Stu – for whatever reason, maybe it’s just instinct by now – but then Stu‘s pupils dilate the way they do when they sit too close during movie nights and now Billy’s hand kind of just hovers near his face like he’s about to say you’ve got something there or some other gay shit like that. Which he obviously wasn’t going to do, but now it’s just fucking weird and so before Billy can panic about any of this, he finally slaps Stu smack across the cheek.
“There,” he says, already stepping away to hide his furrowed brows. “You still had cocksucker written all over your face.”
Stu flinches and cups his cheek, but even though he’s whining and calling Billy names, it looks like he’s treasuring the red, palm-shaped outline forming on his skin. Stupid. “Can you hit a little harder next time?” he asks, and Billy’s fingers twitch in sync with his heart. “I heard Casey‘s into bad boys and maybe a little blood would help–”
“Maybe a little brain would help,” Billy snaps, knowing, regretting, that he can’t unsay it.
Stu‘s lips twitch, predictably. He says “Oh, you bet it would,” and on and on it goes. An endless, excruciating waterfall of Stu-brand commentary, all the way to the bumper cars, where they line up behind Casey and some brunette Billy swears he’s never seen before.
“What’s up, chicas,” Stu drawls, slinging his arms around their bare shoulders, and then who knows what else he’s saying, it’s too loud in here. But it must be stupid as all hell based on the way Casey covers her mouth with her manicured hands.
Billy’s chewed himself halfway through his right cheek by the time people start stumbling out of their cars, rubbing their necks, laughing. Having the time of their fucking lives. A metallic blue one calls to him, with black stripes, right near the edge. Across from it, Casey shrieks as Stu jumps into her orange flame-tattooed ride, pulling her close and gripping the wheel with one hand. She rolls her eyes up, he rolls his tongue out, and there’s an image Billy wants to never fucking see again.
Beside him, someone clears their throat. “Your jizzhead friend stole my ride,” Casey’s brunette sidekick says, nodding toward the jizzhead friend in question. “Mind if I join? All the other cars are already gone.”
He can’t really say no, can he?
Whatever. She climbs in next to him, carrying with her that same overwhelming vanilla perfume all the girls at school seem to douse themselves in these days. Just a couple weeks ago, Stu and Randy had complained about how they can’t even eat vanilla ice-cream without pitching a tent anymore. Right now, Stu can barely keep his eyes above Casey’s collarbone, and guess what Billy is thinking about again.
He looks at the girl next to him, nodding along as she prattles about some class they supposedly had together and how Casey is way too cool for some goof like Stu and whether he’s still dating Sidney and, and, and. Despite her inability to shut the fuck up, it’s pretty clear that there’s more than enough horny idiots in here who’d happily share their rides with her. And maybe he sort of gets it?
Long, silky hair. Long, silky lashes. Long, silky legs. There’s probably some horse metaphor here, one that Stu would find– Ha. Fucking hilarious.
Thank god the overhead current crackles on and sends every car forward at once. The wheel pulls under Billy’s grip and some asshole bumps into him right away, the impact snapping his shoulder against horsegirl’s arm as she screeches in his ear.
He corrects the wheel, pushing forward without really knowing where to go when the next car hits him from behind. Bones rattled, he turns backward and spots Stu across the arena, looking like a stick bug in a go-cart. He’s heading straight towards Billy already, weaving between cars, Casey gripping the side. She should be careful, or her soft, little fingers might get crushed.
Billy angles slightly to avoid a direct hit, but then he’s slamming into horsegirl’s side again, swearing.
“Jesus,” she shrieks, wrapping her arms around herself. He says sorry or something like that.
As he speeds off, Stu whoops and throws a fist into the air. Like a fucking loser, and Billy probably shouldn’t encourage him, but he’s already on Stu’s tail. Turning the wheel. Chasing orange. There, to his right, he spots Stu’s car spinning out after hitting someone else, and then he plows straight into it. Billy’s breath catches as his body absorbs the impact of the collision, front to side with so much force it feels like his brain is twisting in his skull.
Yelling something over the music blasting from every corner, Stu curls his fingers inward, daring him to come closer again. Billy flips him the bird, sees something red flash in the corner of his eye, in and out as he drifts through the arena. It’s all a blur at this point, neon lights against the darkening purple sky, Bruce Springsteen against the sound of whirring cars, sticky arms against tense shoulders–
Casey’s mouth against Stu’s ear, and that red flash again and–
“You guys are insane,” horsegirl shouts, as Billy slams his foot into the pedal and once again meets Stu head-on.
The impact is brutal, throws them out of their seats for a second before their bodies catch up with gravity and they’re jolted back in place. By now Billy’s head is mostly static, so he doesn’t really hear or care about his passenger’s complaints as they get pinned against the railing, facing the midway, facing–
Greasepaint. A red nose. A balloon, trembling in its hands–
“Oh my god, careful–” horsegirl shrieks, and they’re smashed into the corner again.
Billy‘s hands are on the wheel but it won’t budge, someone’s cornering him from behind, maybe it’s Stu, stupid fucking Stu, but what’s actually trapping him in place is… it. Staring right at him, with tiny, grotesque eyes, cocked brows painted blue and green in an eternal state of astonishment. And it looks like it’s coming closer, tilting its head, lifting a gloved hand, and it doesn’t even make sense but Billy can barely swallow against the dryness in his throat, he can’t fucking reverse–
He almost jolts out of his seat as a siren blares overhead, and suddenly the motor winds down, horsegirl is climbing out, shaking her head, and his hands– They’re clammy as fuck. He wipes them on his pants, peels himself out of the sticky seat and on wobbly legs, makes his way to the platform where the others are already waiting for him. No clown in sight.
“... I feel sick after that,” Casey says, rubbing the back of her neck, and Billy agrees, although for entirely different reasons.
“That’s cause it was sick,” Stu beams, all gum and sharp teeth. “Round two anyone?”
“God no, I think I need some food first,” horsegirl laughs, linking arms with Casey.
Stu raises an expectant brow at Billy, but he just can’t right now. “You go. I think I just saw an old friend I wanna say hi to.” He plasters on what Stu likes to call his Teflon smile: greasy and artificial, but effective.
To anyone but Stu, that is. He puts an arm around Billy’s shoulder. “That means he needs to take a piss,” he drawls, “but he’s too polite to say it. We’ll catch ya later.”
And what can Billy say. As much as he wants to be alone right now, there’s something satisfying about the way Casey’s lips twist into a pout, about the way Stu’s arm is still wrapped around him, warm and weirdly possessive. He still shrugs him off, just to watch him roll his eyes.
The moment they turn their backs to blondie and her friend, Stu velcroes himself back against Billy’s shoulder. “An old friend, huh?” he says, sucking his teeth. “Last time I checked you didn’t have any besides me.”
Maybe because the last time someone tried to befriend him at school, the kid fell down the stairs in a freak accident. Swore he got pushed. Good thing that Stu was there to help him up. Swore he saw someone running away. Freaky shit.
Not that Billy would let anyone besides this jealous mutt get close enough. Which is why Billy doesn’t contradict him, they both know it’s true. He works his jaw instead, tracking the crowds as they walk past creaky rides and seedy game booths.
“So what’s the matter, grumpy-bum?” Stu presses, and Billy wants to headbutt him. “What’d you make me ditch Casey for?”
“I didn’t make you do anything,” Billy says, shoving back a sticky strand of hair. It’s hot and cold, fucking sweat and goosebumps.
“No, I know, but like, you‘ve been acting all weird and shit and I–”
“What, and you think you’re my therapy dog now?” Billy spits. “Go suck face with Blondie. I’m good, Stu.”
Maybe he laid it on a bit thick, because Stu’s blinking at him all Gizmo-eyed, like he doesn’t speak English. ”You–“
The rest of the sentence is swallowed by an arctic wave of dread.
Someone taps Billy on the shoulder, and he knows who, or what, it is before his body twists around to face the clown he saw earlier, eye-level with his sickening mouth, and his throat produces an unfamiliar sound as he jumps back against Stu‘s chest.
Up close, it’s so much worse. The rugged cracks in the greasepaint. Dirty white on salmon-like skin, laced with scars and wrinkles. An uncanny smile that’s carved in a red slash. The paint cracks even more as its grin widens to reveal crooked, coffee-stained teeth and the stale odor of smoke and some barely digested dinner.
It’s fucking rotten, and Billy knows it’s just a man, just an actor, and he knows Stu’s probably laughing his ass off behind him, but none of these thoughts are helping right now. If anything, the idea that some random, old fucker has decided to follow him through the carnival should be enough to justify his humiliating paralysis.
But fuck, why isn’t he jumping this asshole? Because now he or it or whatever the fuck is extending an arm, synthetic fabric rustling as it reaches for Billy and all he can do is press himself harder against Stu’s body like a rat in a cage, his heart jackhammering away, in his chest, against his back, and fuckfuckfuck he’s gonna have to claw himself a tunnel into Stu's ribcage to get the fuck away from this–
The clown tilts its head. And it twists its hand, palm facing upwards, and there’s something black. A wallet, Billy’s wallet, and as soon as he realizes what’s happening, he deflates like a cheap balloon.
“Aw thanks, man.”
Stu’s voice is light and golden as his hand slides past Billy to retrieve the wallet. It’s also right next to his ear, sending another unnecessary shiver down his spine. Down and back up again, the moment a condescending hand clamps down on Billy’s left shoulder, but then the clown curtsies and shakes its matted wig as it walks away.
Honk-a-honk. Toot-toot.
“What’s the matter, Billy?” Stu says, jaw poking into Billy’s shoulder now. “You look like you’ve seen a clown.”
He can hear Stu’s teeth clank together as he snaps his shoulders up, hoping that his canines carved a hole in his tongue. Freak really needs to learn a thing or two about personal space. Billy might have been too frozen to deck the clown but Stu’s been asking for it, like, literally, and Billy’s fucking ready for it.
But alas, they’re in public, and he’s also pretty sure now that it was Stu’s heart pounding against his back, not his own. Probably shitscared himself.
Probably.
It’s more likely that Billy’s losing his mind, though, but what else is new.
“Wait.” Stu, cursing behind him. “Shit, Billy. Sorry, that was stupid.”
Please elaborate.
“But, like, clowns,” he continues, obviously not aware when to keep his mouth shut. “For real? Is that why you haven’t seen Killer Klowns? If I had to guess I would’ve thought–“
Billy snaps around to face him then. “Can you ever just shut the fuck up?”
And Stu… God, he looks so stupid. So fucking stupid, like he clearly just wants to keep his thin lips closed but his eyes are flicking all over Billy’s face, yelling a hundred things at once. Or maybe they’re searching for answers or whatever. Either way, it’s driving him nuts.
“What,” Billy grits, and the muzzle comes off at once.
“I have an idea.” God help him. “Come with me?” Stu’s got one eyebrow cocked, which usually means he’s either got sex or death on his brain. Not that he has much space for anything else up there.
Billy scowls, but his “no” is half-hearted at best, and his feet are already dragging behind Stu, stepping over spilled plastic cups, past the Laughing Clown game booth, past clowns on stilts and clowns twisting balloons and clowns fucking everywhere. By the time they reach their destination, Billy’s shirt is soaked and clinging to his skin.
Another clown.
At least it’s behind bars this time, but his pulse is on overdrive as he turns to Stu, who’s saying things like “exposure therapy” and “fun” and he thinks he might actually have to kill him. Because if he leaves now, he’ll never hear the end of it. Ever. Billy knows that Stu wouldn’t dare tell anyone about this, he’s not suicidal, but the thought that Stu might have something to tease him about is almost more terrifying than what’s in front of him.
Fucking Bozo the clown. Sat on a collapsible chair above a square water tank, behind him the star-spangled banner. The perfect fucking image of everything wrong with this country. This one’s bald, wearing blue overalls, and spitting insults at someone’s grandpa who keeps missing the red target.
DROWN THE CLOWN it says on a sign to his left. One dollar, one ball. Ten for eight.
Stu’s already leaning over the counter, chewing the carny’s ear off, and grandpa misses again. Bozo guffaws. Just two old men, trying to humiliate each other, and if Billy really thinks about it, it hits almost too close to home. Exposure therapy his ass.
“Take your pick, B-b-billy boy,” Stu says, quoting fucking Pennywise and holding out five identical baseballs for him to throw.
“What’s up, fellas,” Bozo shouts from his prison. “Couldn’t get a date?”
Billy grabs a ball and aims, missing the target by a mile. His hands are still shaking.
“Oh, I see. One of you is the date,” Bozo hoots. “Come on, throw it like a big girl now.”
Nah, fuck this. What is he even doing here? How the fuck is this supposed to–
SPLASH.
Stu shoulder-bumps him, pointing at the clown he just sent plummeting into the water. Behind them, someone’s whooping as they walk past.
“Come on, man,” Stu says. “Let’s drown this motherfucker.” He hands him another ball, still with that genuine, unaffected look on his face. God, he really thinks he’s helping here. That Billy needs help. Which makes him feel like the loser Bozo tells everyone he is.
“Hey, handsome,” the clown yells now, wiping at his eyes as he settles back into his seat. “Your lankenstein boyfriend just got me all wet. You jealous yet?”
The fuck is wrong with this guy? Isn’t this supposed to be a family-friendly thing? Furious, Billy takes another useless swing, and Bozo explodes into raucous laughter again.
“That’s right, pretty boy, why don’t you show us somethin’ else you can’t do?”
Fuck. He grabs another ball, sends it sailing through the air and this time, it smacks the target dead center.
SPLASH.
The bastard drops like a jar of rotten pickles, and Stu ruffles Billy’s hair like he just hit a home run. Billy smirks despite himself. He’s gotta admit, it feels somewhat satisfying to watch the drowned rat climb out of the tank and laugh with a little less enthusiasm each time.
“Get another round,” he says, and watches Stu slap another bill into the carny’s hand. Sponsored by Mr and Mrs Macher, may their plane finally crash this time. Sure, Stu would be a little sad for a while, but they clearly don’t give a shit about him, and not to be sappy or anything, but Stu deserves better. Even if he’s an obnoxious little dumbass.
“Oh, someone’s got anger management issues, huh? That‘s right folks, let it out on poor old Bozo.”
Unfortunately, they have to take turns with other people trying to drown their parents, teacher, or whoever it is they’re projecting onto this mouthy fucker, but most throws miss their target anyway.
You’ve got good arms for soccer, babe.
Take your time, I’m up here for the next–
SPLASH.
Someone’s taking down with the clown a bit too literal, hey?
See that red target? It’s the thing you keep miss–
SPLASH.
Alright, almost bedtime, boys–
SPLASH.
Stu sinks him again, does this little hip wiggle, and for the first time tonight, Billy thinks he almost feels like a normal teenager. Just him and his weird friend, no Sidney, no Hank, no fucking Maureen–
“Jesus Christ, Ronny, stop selling them balls!” Bozo yells, bit out of character now, and poor old Ronny the carny winces as the clown climbs out of his cage, sopping wet. “That’s it, boys, go home now,” he spits, shoving Stu’s money back into his hand. “I’ve had enough of you.”
“What, you’re gonna send away paying customers?” Stu pouts, shrugging his shoulders innocently, and Bozo almost loses his shit behind the counter.
“Listen, you little brat–” he starts, spit landing just short of their feet, but then some guy behind them thankfully tells them to just piss off. And they do, though not without Stu cracking a joke about clownfish or some other stupid shit no one finds funny.
“Wait, I got another one,” he says to Billy, clutching at his middle over another knee-slapper he just assaulted him with. “Why don’t cannibals eat clowns?” he asks, quivering lips pressed tightly together, and he can’t even wait for Billy to roll his eyes before spurting it out. “Because they taste funny!” He snorts out an explosive laughter.
“Fucking hell,” Billy mutters, locking his jaw to stop himself from joining Stu’s descent into madness. “They should study your brain.”
“Oh man.” Stu wipes an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye. “I’d make a good brain model.”
Billy snorts and pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. There’s this squirmy feeling in his stomach again, like he’s hungry or sick or something. It’s not nice, exactly, but he feels lighter than before, even if Stu is still talking about clowns.
As they stop to watch some kids stumble out of the Vomitron and spew their dinner behind the railing, it occurs to him that Stu hasn’t brought Casey up once since they left the girls, and that he kinda hopes he won’t, at least for the rest of the night. Not that he’s jealous – why the fuck would he be jealous? – he just doesn’t like her, as a person, and– Whatever. His teeth have stopped grinding, the stomach knot is untangling, and he should just enjoy it. Just this once.
They both turn away gagging and laughing as the next person starts vomiting their soul out, which somehow reminds Stu that he’s hungry so they end up buying some cornjacks that they chase down with a can of Coke each.
It’s getting late, he can tell by the way the space starts clearing up around them, the way less and less sticky bodies keep brushing just past him. Less families and more couples, sharing buckets of kettle corn and tripping over themselves in an attempt to impress each other. Well, and then there’s Stu, sticking his tongue through the pull tab of his empty soda can in an attempt to lift it without his hands. Right.
“Let’s go home, dumbass,” Billy says, and there’s no bite to his words this time, but then Stu waggles his eyebrows at him, saying look at me, look what I can do with my stupid, freaky, long-ass tongue–
They don’t even make it past the now abandoned wiener contest stand before Stu stops dead in his tracks. “Look,” he says, slightly muffled because Billy might have ripped the can off his tongue two minutes earlier. “Ronald McDonald is taking a break.”
Billy follows his gaze and sees Bozo the Drowned Rat sitting on the steps of a white trailer, puffing smoke and talking to that stalker creep with the red balloon. The balloon’s gone, probably floating down in the sewers somewhere, but he’s still got that grubby silicone nose attached to his human nose, despite being off the clock, and that must mean it’s surgically attached to him, right?
“Ayo Krusty, found any kids in the sewers?” Stu hollers as they walk past. So, so close to the exit, and he can’t keep his fucking mouth shut.
Both clownheads turn at once, and Billy’s so distracted by their smudged greasepaint and unnaturally large feet that he can’t tell which one is speaking until he sees the spit flying out of Bozo’s mouth. He growls “Didn’t I tell you to get lost?” Then he gets up and stomps out his cigarette.
Billy hears Stu bark back, but his eyes are on Pennywise the Stalking Creep who still hasn’t said a single fucking thing. With one arm resting across his sparkly yellow chest and the other angled towards his mouth, his eyes are trained on Billy, flashing him a sleazy grin between exhaling plumes of smoke. Not a single word, but if he honks his rubber horn again, Billy can’t guarantee anything.
Fuck. Fuck.
“What’s wrong with your little buddy here?” Bozo sneers, nodding at Billy and showing his ugly teeth as he eyes him up and down. “Scared of a bit of make up? You should try it boy, it sure would highlight your pretty features.”
Fuck–
The way Stu lets his mask drop then is so carnal that Billy grows heated just thinking about what it’ll be like to kill Maureen together. Something starts boiling inside him, tight and vicious in his chest, but there’s something else, too, and he can only watch as Stu steps forward to crowd Bozo’s space, towering over him. “If I were you I’d shut it, old man.”
“Or what? You’re gonna call your lawyer daddy? Tell him I upset your little boyfriend–”
“Oh, I’m gonna fuck you up, man.”
Stu takes another step forward, backing Bozo up against the trailer, and it’s like he’s bursting to escalate. Even from this angle, Billy can see that he’s grinning from ear to ear. Meanwhile Billy’s nails are digging into his palms, the knot in his throat so tight he can’t even fucking speak for himself.
“Alright, kid. Cool it,” Bozo says, palms up. Then he glances at Billy again, and that sneer is back on his face. “Better take tough boy home before he wets himself.”
And just like that, Bozo’s on the ground, clasping his face and groaning as Stu drives his foot into his side. Behind him, Pennywise’s mouth opens into a silent O before he launches himself at Stu, puffing up the dirt around them.
It’s a flurry of kicks and punches, and Stu is putting up a damn good fight, elbowing Pennywise in the gut and buying himself more time to land another jab at Bozo’s already bleeding face. Stupid fucking Stu, probably thinking he’s defending Billy’s honor or some shit like that. Now he’s getting his ass kicked by two decrepit assholes. Because as vicious and fast as he is, he’s also not the strongest, always gets into brawls but never fucking knows how to use his long limbs to his advantage.
One of these fuckers has Stu in a chokehold now, forcing his head back, and like a fucking idiot, Billy’s still just standing there, telling his feet to move, help Stu, but fuck, apparently he’s a goddamn coward–
Tough boy–
Little boyfriend–
Through the dust cloud, Billy sees Stu’s head whip to the side as Bozo backhands him with a loud slap, and he hears Stu laughing through it, laughing as he twists his head to look at Billy – and did he just fucking wink at him? – and that’s all Billy needs to finally pounce.
He snakes his arm around the clown’s neck to drag him off, but despite his stocky shape, Pennywise is quick, ruthless, tackling Billy so hard his back slams against the ground. The red nose is gone, so now Billy can see pink nostrils flaring as the clown grunts into his face, and he wants to shut his eyes, but he has to do something–
Shut his eyes–
He grabs a handful of dirt and throws it into the nightmare face above him.
“Fuck–” Pennywise whines, and Billy pushes himself up on his stinging elbows, coughing as he shoves the high-pitched piece of shit to the side.
Someone shouts “Fuck you, you fuckin’ fuck” and it’s either the guy rubbing his eyes or the one with the blood-covered face, but it doesn’t fucking matter, they’re all on the ground, huffing and groaning, and they should get the fuck out of here.
Near the trailer steps, Stu swings at Bozo again, and Billy thinks of that kid falling down the stairs, thinks he really wants to watch Stu split that clownface in two, but then Stu looks back at him, mid-swing, his eyes flicking up above Billy’s head and then–
“BILLY–”
A hard blow lands on the back of Billy’s head and he’s face-down in the dirt, white noise ringing in his ears as someone straddles him, palms flat against his back to keep him on the ground. He’s coughing again, gravel scraping his cheek raw as Pennywise’s spit lands just short of his face. Acid threatens to crawl up his throat, and he’s clawing at the ground, uselessly angling his head, searching for something to grab, pull, throw, whatever. But there’s just dirt and hay and dust, so with a loud grunt he twists his torso in an attempt to buck off Pennywise who’s now saying “Stay the fuck away, boy,” and then a white plastic chair shatters over his head.
Stu delivers a good kick to his stomach before hauling Billy up with a quick “You good?” and then they’re running.
Down the midway, taking the next right to squish through a narrow pathway and cut through the trailer park. Right again, then left, almost tripping as they jump over electric cords and folding chairs.
Billy’s breath is coming quick, sawing in and out of him, and the fence they climb over leaves a stinging gash on his arm that he’ll have to disinfect later, but then they’re at the car.
“Holy shit,” Stu wheezes, panting with his hands braced against the door. Billy holds his side, trying to steady his breathing. “You think they’ll call the cops?”
“Nah,” Billy says, inhaling through his nose. “Don’t seem like the– the cop-calling type.” Exhaling through his mouth.
With his back against the car, he lets his head roll to the side, facing Stu.
Inhale. Exhale.
There’s a red gash under Stu’s left eye, and what looks like a gnarly bruise already forming around it.
Inhale. Exhale.
Despite the ruptured veins in his eyes, Stu looks fucking alive. Manic, yes, but invincible. Billy feels invincible.
Inhale. Exhale.
“Hey Billy,” Stu says, between ever-slowing gulps of air. Sweaty forehead pressed against the warm aluminum, lashes fanned out against his bloody cheeks, he scans Billy’s face, and while Billy would never use the word “pretty” to describe his best friend, it’s the only one that comes to mind right now.
He swallows. “Uh-huh?”
Stu straightens then, and suddenly he’s so close that Billy can feel his breath ghosting over his lips. His pulse barely had any time to slow down, but now it’s thudding in his throat like he mainlined a liter of coffee, and Stu’s eyes flick down to his lips, and what the fuck is he thinking–
Something clamps around his nose then, and Stu takes a step back, grinning.
“What the–” Billy recoils, crossing his eyes before ripping off Pennywise’s red nose.
“Got you a little souvenir,” Stu says, biting his lower lip like he knows he overstepped, but he’s still grinning, looking at him like he doesn’t think Billy’s a coward or a pussy, and Billy just… laughs.
“Let’s go home,” he says, scrubbing a gritty hand over his nose. “I need a fucking shower.” An ice-cold one.
As soon as the car doors slam shut around them, Stu turns to him again. “You’re coming to mine though, right? Wanna watch a movie?” he asks. “Killer Klowns?”
Billy nips him in the arm then, smiling. “Too soon, jackass.”
To the sound of Stu’s cackling, Billy rolls the window down. The night air feels cooler, now that they’re driving, and in here, with the carnival lights blurring past them, wind brushing his face, his heartrate finally slows to a steady rhythm. It hasn’t been that long since Stu got his license, but his car has quickly become one of Billy’s favourite spaces, despite the ungodly mess in here. Maybe it’s the fact that Stu lets him pick the music every time, or that for a few minutes, it feels like they could just keep driving, past the LEAVING WOODSBORO sign.
Leaving Hank. Maureen. Sidney. Casey.
Call him corny or whatever, but in Stu’s car, all of his problems seem like distant stars. No consequences, no shame.
Chin propped in his hand, eyes chasing the guide posts, Billy allows himself to think of other things.
Bloodied knuckles. Stu’s lips. The clown’s nose in his pocket.
No consequences. No shame.
In the side-view mirror, he sees something red, floating just above the horizon.
A total lunar eclipse.