Somewhere in his desiccated state enough neurons had fired up to push Billy back into movements. He thinks he stopped months ago, before. The thirst had been terrible, and Henry Creole rarely brought bodies into this hellscape, now. Just fleeting consciousness; it's hard to drink a soul, especially when the zookeeper is watching. So he thinks he stopped, let himself dry out and thought maybe this time he might die for real.
But he had known the music, and he had moved - grabbed some of the fleeing bats to drink and tasted real. Then he had found Eddie Munson, smelling sweeter than necter and he'd had a taste, before it was too late. There'd been so much blood anyway, all of it going to waste. It had been enough to get his strength back; to fill out his hollow cheeks and turn him slightly gold again. Enough to take Eddie in his arms and drag him from the open terrain down to the suburbs, where the storms where loudest.
It is and isn’t his house. In ‘83 Billy Hargrove had been kissing California girls on the beach, not here in this washed out childhood bedroom. Still, he remembers the layout. Puts Eddie on the single bed and wonders if he’ll wake up. See, he might not, is the thing. He might wither away in this bed, might turn to bone and dust before Billy's eyes. He isn't sure.
Still, he does what he can anyway. Waits, and watches, suddenly patient with all the time he's had to be alone here. Watches the rise and fall of Eddie's chest, how it sometimes stops and starts. See, the other thing is that Billy isn't really sure how he made it. He can't remember beyond the mall; doesn't know if that thing dragged his body into hell. Doesn't know if the bats made dinner out of him while he was dying. He just knows that he had woken up screaming, like his blood was boiling inside of him. Like he was being gutted from the inside out, screaming and clawing and dying and dying and then thirsting; starving.
He considers draining Eddie before the blood turns rancid in his veins, too. Considers it while washing the blood from his face, smoothing the tangled curls from his forehead. It might even be a mercy, really. But he doesn't, and maybe that's selfish, because maybe, just maybe, after a year, maybe Billy's lonely.
So he watches. He waits, and then finally, there's something. ] Keep your voice down, [he says, from the doorway, arms folded, frowning. ]
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Somewhere in his desiccated state enough neurons had fired up to push Billy back into movements. He thinks he stopped months ago, before. The thirst had been terrible, and Henry Creole rarely brought bodies into this hellscape, now. Just fleeting consciousness; it's hard to drink a soul, especially when the zookeeper is watching. So he thinks he stopped, let himself dry out and thought maybe this time he might die for real.
But he had known the music, and he had moved - grabbed some of the fleeing bats to drink and tasted real. Then he had found Eddie Munson, smelling sweeter than necter and he'd had a taste, before it was too late. There'd been so much blood anyway, all of it going to waste. It had been enough to get his strength back; to fill out his hollow cheeks and turn him slightly gold again. Enough to take Eddie in his arms and drag him from the open terrain down to the suburbs, where the storms where loudest.
It is and isn’t his house. In ‘83 Billy Hargrove had been kissing California girls on the beach, not here in this washed out childhood bedroom. Still, he remembers the layout. Puts Eddie on the single bed and wonders if he’ll wake up. See, he might not, is the thing. He might wither away in this bed, might turn to bone and dust before Billy's eyes. He isn't sure.
Still, he does what he can anyway. Waits, and watches, suddenly patient with all the time he's had to be alone here. Watches the rise and fall of Eddie's chest, how it sometimes stops and starts. See, the other thing is that Billy isn't really sure how he made it. He can't remember beyond the mall; doesn't know if that thing dragged his body into hell. Doesn't know if the bats made dinner out of him while he was dying. He just knows that he had woken up screaming, like his blood was boiling inside of him. Like he was being gutted from the inside out, screaming and clawing and dying and dying and then thirsting; starving.
He considers draining Eddie before the blood turns rancid in his veins, too. Considers it while washing the blood from his face, smoothing the tangled curls from his forehead. It might even be a mercy, really. But he doesn't, and maybe that's selfish, because maybe, just maybe, after a year, maybe Billy's lonely.
So he watches. He waits, and then finally, there's something. ] Keep your voice down, [he says, from the doorway, arms folded, frowning. ]