First, the body stops. That in itself is a slow process due to the stasis of the realm. What should be instant and relatively painless is excruciating. Dustin holds him as the shock sets in, goes running for help when Eddie goes still in his arms - but a return to the present would do nothing but kill him. The party's merry bard was half-eaten, hovering on a knife's edge - trying to bring him into the real world without immediate medical attention would simply kill him faster. A mercy, perhaps, but not one the world sees fit to give him.
When Dustin returns, there's just a pool of blood where he'd lain. They have no answers as to where he'd gone - hoping perhaps that he'd survived, but near certain that something else had just come along and taken it.
The corpses of the monsters hide the footsteps of the thief.
The second death is different. A slow decay of the mind and soul, twisting in the loneliness and terror of this realm. Few retain enough of themselves to truly survive it, most devolving into the mindless flesh beasts that exist as a small part of Vecna's great whole. One was not truly dead until they couldn't differentiate themself from Henry Creel. The last echoing notes of his solo serve as salvation for one such unfortunate creature. One who seeks him out, finding him cold, alone, and afraid on a battlefield he had no place in.
He doesn't remember much of the journey. Just his fingers fisting in a bloody jacket, tears running down his face, pleading to be saved because he wasn't ready yet and this was meant to be his year. A different conversation than with the boy he'd put a brave face on for, what use did the dying have for dignity when faced with a stranger?
Eddie awakens in the bed of an unfamiliar house. Remembers little of whatever occurred before. His wounds are bandaged - not that it will do the leg much good, it's more meat than limb - and the blanket over him does little to stem the shivering. ]
Henderson? [ there's a wracking cough. The air is thick here, tinged with dust. The windows are boarded up, but he can tell the world outside is dark, dark, dark.] ... Anyone?
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. ]
[ Billy Hargrove is a dead man. He remembered getting the news when he'd rolled back into Hawkins, fresh from another fleeting ride on Edward Munson Sr's attempt at fatherhood. Remembers thinking it was such a shame because Billy'd been a fucking prick, but there'd been lines he wouldn't cross that others did.
Then again, he was learning so much of this town was built on lies. Billy was up, moving, didn't look like the things that had just tried to eat him. ]
Hargrove? [ his voice cracks. The arm holding him up wobbles and he sinks back down. ] Billy Hargrove, is that...
[ He changes tack midway through. If this is Vecna fucking with him as he's dying, he thinks maybe the sick fuck missed the memo. He'd dreamed of Billy Hargrove, sure. That smug smile, those pretty blonde locks, the way sometimes their eyes met and he felt seen in a way no one else in this town managed to do... but that felt like an eternity ago now. ]
[His voice feels rough with disuse. He thinks the las time he used it, he was screaming. The vocal cords feel delicate even when he swallows dry; feels like his throat is constricting with the effort to mimic old, useless functions. He leans against the frame, watching, watching.
The room smells like copper and decay; like dust and damp. Eddie smells like all of those things, but he also still smells a little sweet. Still alive; still circulating. His nails are digging into his own arms before he can even really process it.
He's slow to move at first. Seems reluctant to pull away from the frame, to cross over to the bed and pull an old stool over to sit close to Eddie's head. It's dark, sure, but Billy can see the pale hue of Eddie's face just fine.
Billy's hand is ice cold when he places it against Eddie's forehead.] You've got a fever, probably. It might break before your body shuts down. I don't know. The delirium might make it easier,
[ It's a balm to his overheated skin, damp with sweat and clammy to the touch. Eddie's shivering, leaning in to the touch, lips pulling into a trembling smile.
But those big brown eyes are wide and fearful, teary at the corners. He's still dying. Still on his way out. Just in a slightly more comfortable place with a dead man at his beside. ]
You, uh... [ his teeth are chattering. he's so hot but so cold ] manage to save my guitar, Hargrove?
[The laugh is startled out of him. So surprised by it, so surprised that Eddie’s coherent, still himself that he finds himself thawing out a little. He remembers Eddie made him laugh once, out in the woods. Had Billy laughing into his own hand as he slid over a twenty while Eddie had snatched it, delighted.
He shouldn’t be surprised, he thinks. Eddie Munson’s self preservation had always been thin at best. ] Just you, [he says, grinning with all his sharp teeth.
He takes Eddie’s wrist next, counting the pulse and then hums softly. Slow. As expected.] If you wake back up I’ll go get it. [If, if. ]
[ Eddie doesn't fully glean the meaning. Everything is hazy, his eyes are on Billy's lips and sluggishly catch the teeth. Ah, of course. A wolf in sheep's clothing is always what Hargrove has been.
Dimly he wonders if the others are looking for him. Or if they'd left him here, and this beautiful creature had scavenged the remains. ]
I- I'm not ready... to die yet.
[ He wets his lips. Not that it does much good. The cough that's pushed out of him coats them with blood. Eddie tips his head back against the pillow. ]
[His eyes glance fast, lingering on the blood on Eddie’s lips while something in his gut begins to unwind with want. Thirst. He’s dizzy with it.
He remembers Eddie Munson in moments; picking fights with juniors like Jason Carver; his voice loud in the hallways; the way his fingers looked rolling a joint; the bandana hanging from his pocket. Eddie Munson had a life, he knows. Had friends. Had so much in him he looked fit to burst.
Now, weak and bleeding out, Billy wonders what he’ll be like after. The same, he hopes. He’s endured so much quiet already; he doesn’t know if he can anymore.
His thumb, though, has moved. Swiped the blood from Eddie Munson’s pretty lips to press against his own tongue. His eyes lift, hold against Eddie’s and considers.]
You’re already dead, Munson. [it’s neither kind or unkind. Just factual.] Let me make it easier.
[See, see - if he lives, if he changes, it’ll hurt. Hurt worse than anything before. But this - the draining, the morphine-high numbness will at least feel nice, just for a while.]
[ It feels true. Eddie knows how much it takes to kill a man - the education he'd received in his formative years had been painfully thorough, though largely unused. It existed, though. He knew what you needed to hit to make someone pay up when they owed. And he knew the signs of someone entering shock, as surely as he knew that he should have already bled out.
He thinks Billy Hargrove is beautiful. ]
My own personal angel of death. [ He laughs without humor. His eyes overflowing, too disoriented to even register he's crying, how scared he is. ] Okay... okay.
[ He's already been eaten by bats. Might as well let himself be devoured by a mouth he's dreamed of on lonely nights. ]
[He thinks Eddie Munson is so incredibly pretty when he cries. He’s thought that before, when he’d been crueler. He supposes he still is cruel: if he weren’t, he’d snap Eddie’s neck instead of this.
This - is his knuckles wiping under Eddie’s eyes. It’s getting up, it’s climbing to straddle Eddie Munson’s limp body, it’s leaning down to press his cold forehead to Eddie’s clammy one. ] For what it’s worth, I hope you wake up.
[A soft murmur before he swipes his tongue across the drops of blood on Eddie’s lips, before he licks inside, chasing the remnants of it. He should have kissed Eddie Munson while he was human, probably. All those fears seem so far away now.
He bites Eddie’s mouth until the blood pools from it, chases it down his chin and throat with a groan, then sinks his teeth into a slow pulse point and feels his body come alive again in lazy sparks. He thinks Eddie Munson tastes better than anything he’s ever had before, wonders if he’ll still taste sweet if he wakes up after.
He can’t be sure, so he drinks until he can’t hear a heartbeat. He drinks until the blood tastes sour on his tongue, and then he pulls away, tanned and blue eyed and panting, and waits all over again.]
[ As far as ways to die go, it could be worse. Billy's gentleness wrings another sob from him and Eddie, ever the coward, lets him do as he pleases. It's not as though he could fight him off. It's not as though he could run.
Billy kisses him like he's something precious, with energy he can't muster up in turn. He's cold and Eddie is burning up, the most he can do is lift a hand to clutch at the back of his dirty jacket. Holding on for dear life, gasping as teeth pierce his lip and a cold tongue chases the hot trail. Barely registers the pain of his throat being bitten, just tenses and moans in a sweet mix of pleasure and pain.
And bit by bit, the pain ebbs away. Slowly the hands clutching Billy begin to go limp. Those big brown eyes start to lose focus, gaze becoming distant before finally shutting as his heart begins to slow, slow, slow and stop. The cold sets in and Eddie is gone.
Not everyone gets back up. So many simply lay down and die. Emptied of everything they were when their flesh perishes.
And for a while, it looks as though that may be the case. Eddie doesn't stir. He's pale and bloodless against the ruined bedsheets, his curls a disheveled mess, tear tracks cutting lines through the filth covering his cheeks.
And then it happens. He jerks. Fists clenching the fabric underneath him as the emptiness in his veins begins to burn. He's screaming before he even opens his eyes, the sound raw and agonized. Nerves and neurons firing back on, all wrong, stalled functions starting again. It's awful, unlike the sweet release Billy had given him hours before. The pain of his body dying has nothing on this. ]
[He does a few things while Eddie’s still, but mostly he finds himself at his side, back to the wall, crammed into the bed and dozing. He watches Eddie’s face, and yeah, yeah, Eddie Munson is beautiful. Maybe he’s known that all along.
When the first scream comes, Billy tenses. When the second comes, Billy feels himself watching on bated breath. He knows it hurts; knows the pain so intimately well that he can count the seconds between one thing coming alive and the next. He does what he wishes someone had done for him: he sits and pulls Eddie, screaming, into his arms. Holds him and feels so selfishly relieved. Feels so goddamn elated to feel Eddie spasm and howl against him.
He smooths his hair, murmurs a soft croon to his crown: quiet i know it hurts, i got you and that’s it, keep screaming it out, and finally, it’ll be over soon, you’re doing so good. And maybe it’s hours of this, but Billy takes all Eddie has to give.]
Curled against Billy Hargrove and feral, e doesn't mean to, but he bites. Purposelessly. Desperately. Everything aches but his stomach hurts worst of all and he's starving, he's cold, he's afraid but Billy's words keep him grounded. Stop him from wandering out into the void where Henry Creel beckons. Keeps him locked on the memory of the day Billy ripped into Hawkins in his shiny car, with his shiny hair, and metal pounding out of those expensive speakers.
His teeth are still in Billy's shoulder, the scream dying to whimpers as the pain ebbs to a dull roar, tears still streaming down his pale cheeks. Every part of him aches with newness. He clings to Billy the same way he had as he was dying - terrified and desperate for something to keep him buoyant admist it. ]
[Eddie bites and Billy lets him: there’s nothing to take, though. It’s all recycled blood, useless and empty. But it hurts, and Billy could get used to that. He hasn’t hurt in a long time; hasn’t felt anything in a long time. So he holds Eddie against his shoulder: watches the change with a breathless kind of glee.
He watches the wounds fight to heal. Knows they’d do it faster with real blood. He’ll have to get something, he realises. Maybe from the gutted Hawkins General abandoned here. Maybe someone will fall through a gate instead, just the way Eddie had. ] Easy, killer. I know it hurts.
[He could kiss Eddie Munson right now just for simply making it. He just might.] I know you’re hungry, too, I know. Hold on a bit longer.
[ He's still mangled. A dead man moving, now pale, bloodless and sharp as a knife at all his ends and edges. Eddie stays glued to him for a little longer, until he feels able to move and that too is sluggish and low. It'd be better had there still been blood in his veins. A smoother transition, able to burn his own supply, but perhaps Billy had needed it just that much more. ]
What... [ Words creaking at the edges, wavering with the waves of pain and confusion. He doesn't let go of Billy. ] What happened... I... [ Died. Felt it. Felt whatever the fuck Henry Creel is - but not... not in him. Not the way he is in the vines, or the bats. Is blessedly free from the touch of that cold, calculating mind but is able to sense it much the same way El does.
I don’t know. [He’s still in Billy’s arms. Still soothed by gentle fingers, still held. If he pulls back some more he’ll see that Billy Hargrove does not look gentle: the blues of his eyes are darker now, and there’s an unyielding want in him now. Billy is quieter, and perhaps that makes him more dangerous.
He wets his lips. Asks, softly:] You can’t move yet. Tell me where you came in.
[ it's hard to speak. His tongue feels heavy, mind sluggish. His jaw chatters in pain. He'd back long enough to get a look a billy and then pressed to him again, grinding his back teeth. ]
[Trailer. It’s doable. He felt the terrain shift, knows there’s probably more now. More than he’ll know what to do with while being stuck. He really could kiss Eddie right now. ]
I’m gonna go get what you need, [he says, in a croon. ] It’ll be easier if - if you hate ‘em. If you don’t care.
[Billy knows who his first would be. Knows who’s door he’ll be knocking on, eventually.] Give me a name.
[ hate? he doesn't hate anyone. not enough to... to do what billy did to him. Eddie wasn't violent by nature, not unless his back was to the wall and he was given no where to run.
But that was before he woke up frightened, agonized and starving. There's another sob against Billy's shoulder, because he full well knows who put him in this situation. That had he not been hunted, had he not been demonized, had he not had the audacity to be queer in one man's periphery, his name could have been oh so easily cleared. ]
[Easy as that. Billy remembers a face; rich boy clothes and smooth, golden hair. He probably hated him too, if he’s honest. Gently, he pries Eddie from him. Lays him down and leans over, uses a knuckle to clear his face of hair.
Billy Hargrove is a predator. His smile is gentle, but it’s there, behind his eyes. Something cruel; something horrible. ] I won’t be long. Promise.
[He doesn’t kiss Eddie Munson. Not yet, anyway. He does leave him as comfortable as he can, grabs his jacket and leaves to hunt. It’s muscle memory, driving some old car to Munson’s place. Remembers one or two times during summer, before he’d been taken. He’s lucky the gates right there. Lucky he can’t hear voices on the other side. Staring at it feels exhilarating; surreal.
Squatting into a jump, grasping the edges of it and climbing through feels better. Hitting the mattress, feeling the crisp air of reality hit his stale, dead longs feels so fucking good he almost cries. Not now, though. Now he has to focus.
It takes him two hours to find Jason Carver, because all it takes, in the end, is to listen to the gossip on the wind, to sniff out a Hawkins High jacket and follow. He finds him at the Creel house, finds him at the door and grabs him fast. He smells like rage and hate; like bad cologne and misguided righteousness.
He has no idea he’s probably just saved Max’s life, but he knows she’s in there and he fucking hesitates a second before he drags an unconscious Jason Carver back with him.
He wakes up when Billy pushes him through; screams when Billy lands next to him. It’s not his fault he has to punch him to knock him out, but he isn’t complaining. Dragging him home is less of an ordeal that way anyway. He’s pliant when Billy ties him to a chair, heavy and limp when he drags the chair down the hall to the room that isn’t his, and leaves him opposite Eddie.
Billy looks mean when he pulls Jason’s head back by the hair to pry his mouth open to gag him. He looks delighted. ] There we go. You want him awake, Killer?
[ it should make him sick, waking from restless sleep to find his tormentor tied and gagged.
Eddie isn't cruel by nature. Ozzy biting the head off a bat might be metal, but Eddie scoops spiders out of the shower with his bare hands. Feeds the cats in the park with money he don't got.
But it doesn't. It doesn't.
He's so hungry and cold and Jason is a fire burning bright, the smell of him suffocating. His mouth is watering and he understands the assignment - trying to sit up and eat without giving a proper answer. ]
[Cute. It’s a tough choice whether to push Jason to him, or help Eddie up. Tougher choice not to take Jason for himself, but he’s - he’s tired of being alone. Jason’s eyelids are fluttering, though, and with a sigh he lets his head drop and pushes the chair forward.
He moves to Eddie after, carefully moves his hips, mindful of the mangled leg - wonders if that will heal at all - and then he gently lifts him from under his armpits and inches him forward. ] That’s it, careful.
[It’a not that unlike holding someone over a toilet: when Eddie’s balanced, he holds his hair back and gently urges him forward.]
[ It's fucked. There's some part of him that comes online as Billy picks him up, catching up with what instinct is compelling him to do and take.
But it's ignored. Billy's gentle touch and encouragement take precedence.
The bite Eddie gives is savage. Jason jerks awake as those fanged teeth gouge into his neck, his panicked eyes going to Billy and then to the man he's holding. ]
[He hums, something that sounds vaguely like Iron Maiden, glancing at Jason with an empty sort of grin. ] Nothing personal, Carver. From me anyway.
[He can smell the blood, can practically taste it in the air. Jason’s ragged breathing is so fucking loud, Billy can hear his heart working overtime with the effort of being alert. He waits, though, until Eddie comes up for air, to reach out with a thumb to catch some of the blood. ] Take it slow, Munson. Don’t choke.
Max is almost fourteen; she’s capable, she’s street smart. She’s left alone with Billy for two weeks while Neil and Susan go out of town for a late honeymoon. At first it’s fine, because Max stays out of his way and he stays out of hers. It’s four days of blissful cohabitation without a single word exchanged, and then it breaks on the fifth.
See, Billy’s got a date Friday with Leslie McBride. It’s a sure thing: a movie, burgers, and then back to the Hargrove household. Max is supposed to be out. She’s supposed to be spending Friday with her stupid friends and then spending the night with Chief Hopper’s kid, and Billy’s supposed to have the place to himself. Then on Thursday Max drags herself to eat some cocopuffs and tells him she’s not going, because she and the Sinclair kid are on the outs and she doesn’t want to drag her weird friend away from her first game night in weeks.
Billy’s head goes into a white noise mode. He says you’re going and Max says no I’m not, and Billy says I have a goddamn date and Max rolls her eyes and tells him she’ll be fine home alone. It’s not till Billy tells her he’s supposed to be home alone that it clicks.
So she tells him she doesn’t care about Billy’s stupid date, and then it escalates from there. He says go do your fucking Fairy game, Maxine and she gets real bad and tells him he’s a prick (which he is, yeah). Billy doesn’t think anything of it; he’s grabbing his keys and going for the door, already trying to figure out how to get Leslie to fuck him at Skull Rock instead when he answers to her next question: I’m going out Maxine, maybe if I’m goddamn lucky the fairies will take you while I’m gone.
He buys smokes and uses his fake ID for a six pack. Calls Leslie from a payphone and takes some time to cool down. He expects to find Max sulking in her room when he gets back, but what he finds is -
Chaos. The windows and door open, the house a fucking mess. He sees red, tears through the halls screaming her name and finds moss and the smell of ozone where she should be. He hears his name - tears down the hall and room is the worst of all; the surfaces touched with what looks like morning dew, rose petals left behind, and there she is, there she is, held by some fucking stranger.
He’s so breathless with fury, barely registers the leather, the otherwordly gleam of his eyes. He’s so angry with the mess, with Max and whatever the fuck this is. He’s blinded by it. ] What the fuck do you think you’re playing at Maxine, [is what he says, taking a slow step towards them. ] Huh?
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First, the body stops. That in itself is a slow process due to the stasis of the realm. What should be instant and relatively painless is excruciating. Dustin holds him as the shock sets in, goes running for help when Eddie goes still in his arms - but a return to the present would do nothing but kill him. The party's merry bard was half-eaten, hovering on a knife's edge - trying to bring him into the real world without immediate medical attention would simply kill him faster. A mercy, perhaps, but not one the world sees fit to give him.
When Dustin returns, there's just a pool of blood where he'd lain. They have no answers as to where he'd gone - hoping perhaps that he'd survived, but near certain that something else had just come along and taken it.
The corpses of the monsters hide the footsteps of the thief.
The second death is different. A slow decay of the mind and soul, twisting in the loneliness and terror of this realm. Few retain enough of themselves to truly survive it, most devolving into the mindless flesh beasts that exist as a small part of Vecna's great whole. One was not truly dead until they couldn't differentiate themself from Henry Creel. The last echoing notes of his solo serve as salvation for one such unfortunate creature. One who seeks him out, finding him cold, alone, and afraid on a battlefield he had no place in.
He doesn't remember much of the journey. Just his fingers fisting in a bloody jacket, tears running down his face, pleading to be saved because he wasn't ready yet and this was meant to be his year. A different conversation than with the boy he'd put a brave face on for, what use did the dying have for dignity when faced with a stranger?
Eddie awakens in the bed of an unfamiliar house. Remembers little of whatever occurred before. His wounds are bandaged - not that it will do the leg much good, it's more meat than limb - and the blanket over him does little to stem the shivering. ]
Henderson? [ there's a wracking cough. The air is thick here, tinged with dust. The windows are boarded up, but he can tell the world outside is dark, dark, dark.] ... Anyone?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
Then again, he was learning so much of this town was built on lies. Billy was up, moving, didn't look like the things that had just tried to eat him. ]
Hargrove? [ his voice cracks. The arm holding him up wobbles and he sinks back down. ] Billy Hargrove, is that...
[ He changes tack midway through. If this is Vecna fucking with him as he's dying, he thinks maybe the sick fuck missed the memo. He'd dreamed of Billy Hargrove, sure. That smug smile, those pretty blonde locks, the way sometimes their eyes met and he felt seen in a way no one else in this town managed to do... but that felt like an eternity ago now. ]
Are you real?
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[His voice feels rough with disuse. He thinks the las time he used it, he was screaming. The vocal cords feel delicate even when he swallows dry; feels like his throat is constricting with the effort to mimic old, useless functions. He leans against the frame, watching, watching.
The room smells like copper and decay; like dust and damp. Eddie smells like all of those things, but he also still smells a little sweet. Still alive; still circulating. His nails are digging into his own arms before he can even really process it.
He's slow to move at first. Seems reluctant to pull away from the frame, to cross over to the bed and pull an old stool over to sit close to Eddie's head. It's dark, sure, but Billy can see the pale hue of Eddie's face just fine.
Billy's hand is ice cold when he places it against Eddie's forehead.] You've got a fever, probably. It might break before your body shuts down. I don't know. The delirium might make it easier,
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But those big brown eyes are wide and fearful, teary at the corners. He's still dying. Still on his way out. Just in a slightly more comfortable place with a dead man at his beside. ]
You, uh... [ his teeth are chattering. he's so hot but so cold ] manage to save my guitar, Hargrove?
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He shouldn’t be surprised, he thinks. Eddie Munson’s self preservation had always been thin at best. ] Just you, [he says, grinning with all his sharp teeth.
He takes Eddie’s wrist next, counting the pulse and then hums softly. Slow. As expected.] If you wake back up I’ll go get it. [If, if. ]
I can make this part easier. If you want.
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Dimly he wonders if the others are looking for him. Or if they'd left him here, and this beautiful creature had scavenged the remains. ]
I- I'm not ready... to die yet.
[ He wets his lips. Not that it does much good. The cough that's pushed out of him coats them with blood. Eddie tips his head back against the pillow. ]
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He remembers Eddie Munson in moments; picking fights with juniors like Jason Carver; his voice loud in the hallways; the way his fingers looked rolling a joint; the bandana hanging from his pocket. Eddie Munson had a life, he knows. Had friends. Had so much in him he looked fit to burst.
Now, weak and bleeding out, Billy wonders what he’ll be like after. The same, he hopes. He’s endured so much quiet already; he doesn’t know if he can anymore.
His thumb, though, has moved. Swiped the blood from Eddie Munson’s pretty lips to press against his own tongue. His eyes lift, hold against Eddie’s and considers.]
You’re already dead, Munson. [it’s neither kind or unkind. Just factual.] Let me make it easier.
[See, see - if he lives, if he changes, it’ll hurt. Hurt worse than anything before. But this - the draining, the morphine-high numbness will at least feel nice, just for a while.]
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He thinks Billy Hargrove is beautiful. ]
My own personal angel of death. [ He laughs without humor. His eyes overflowing, too disoriented to even register he's crying, how scared he is. ] Okay... okay.
[ He's already been eaten by bats. Might as well let himself be devoured by a mouth he's dreamed of on lonely nights. ]
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This - is his knuckles wiping under Eddie’s eyes. It’s getting up, it’s climbing to straddle Eddie Munson’s limp body, it’s leaning down to press his cold forehead to Eddie’s clammy one. ] For what it’s worth, I hope you wake up.
[A soft murmur before he swipes his tongue across the drops of blood on Eddie’s lips, before he licks inside, chasing the remnants of it. He should have kissed Eddie Munson while he was human, probably. All those fears seem so far away now.
He bites Eddie’s mouth until the blood pools from it, chases it down his chin and throat with a groan, then sinks his teeth into a slow pulse point and feels his body come alive again in lazy sparks. He thinks Eddie Munson tastes better than anything he’s ever had before, wonders if he’ll still taste sweet if he wakes up after.
He can’t be sure, so he drinks until he can’t hear a heartbeat. He drinks until the blood tastes sour on his tongue, and then he pulls away, tanned and blue eyed and panting, and waits all over again.]
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Billy kisses him like he's something precious, with energy he can't muster up in turn. He's cold and Eddie is burning up, the most he can do is lift a hand to clutch at the back of his dirty jacket. Holding on for dear life, gasping as teeth pierce his lip and a cold tongue chases the hot trail. Barely registers the pain of his throat being bitten, just tenses and moans in a sweet mix of pleasure and pain.
And bit by bit, the pain ebbs away. Slowly the hands clutching Billy begin to go limp. Those big brown eyes start to lose focus, gaze becoming distant before finally shutting as his heart begins to slow, slow, slow and stop. The cold sets in and Eddie is gone.
Not everyone gets back up. So many simply lay down and die. Emptied of everything they were when their flesh perishes.
And for a while, it looks as though that may be the case. Eddie doesn't stir. He's pale and bloodless against the ruined bedsheets, his curls a disheveled mess, tear tracks cutting lines through the filth covering his cheeks.
And then it happens. He jerks. Fists clenching the fabric underneath him as the emptiness in his veins begins to burn. He's screaming before he even opens his eyes, the sound raw and agonized. Nerves and neurons firing back on, all wrong, stalled functions starting again. It's awful, unlike the sweet release Billy had given him hours before. The pain of his body dying has nothing on this. ]
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When the first scream comes, Billy tenses. When the second comes, Billy feels himself watching on bated breath. He knows it hurts; knows the pain so intimately well that he can count the seconds between one thing coming alive and the next. He does what he wishes someone had done for him: he sits and pulls Eddie, screaming, into his arms. Holds him and feels so selfishly relieved. Feels so goddamn elated to feel Eddie spasm and howl against him.
He smooths his hair, murmurs a soft croon to his crown: quiet i know it hurts, i got you and that’s it, keep screaming it out, and finally, it’ll be over soon, you’re doing so good. And maybe it’s hours of this, but Billy takes all Eddie has to give.]
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Curled against Billy Hargrove and feral, e doesn't mean to, but he bites. Purposelessly. Desperately. Everything aches but his stomach hurts worst of all and he's starving, he's cold, he's afraid but Billy's words keep him grounded. Stop him from wandering out into the void where Henry Creel beckons. Keeps him locked on the memory of the day Billy ripped into Hawkins in his shiny car, with his shiny hair, and metal pounding out of those expensive speakers.
His teeth are still in Billy's shoulder, the scream dying to whimpers as the pain ebbs to a dull roar, tears still streaming down his pale cheeks. Every part of him aches with newness. He clings to Billy the same way he had as he was dying - terrified and desperate for something to keep him buoyant admist it. ]
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He watches the wounds fight to heal. Knows they’d do it faster with real blood. He’ll have to get something, he realises. Maybe from the gutted Hawkins General abandoned here. Maybe someone will fall through a gate instead, just the way Eddie had. ] Easy, killer. I know it hurts.
[He could kiss Eddie Munson right now just for simply making it. He just might.] I know you’re hungry, too, I know. Hold on a bit longer.
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What... [ Words creaking at the edges, wavering with the waves of pain and confusion. He doesn't let go of Billy. ] What happened... I... [ Died. Felt it. Felt whatever the fuck Henry Creel is - but not... not in him. Not the way he is in the vines, or the bats. Is blessedly free from the touch of that cold, calculating mind but is able to sense it much the same way El does.
He's a new thing. A free thing. Starving. ]
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He wets his lips. Asks, softly:] You can’t move yet. Tell me where you came in.
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[ it's hard to speak. His tongue feels heavy, mind sluggish. His jaw chatters in pain. He'd back long enough to get a look a billy and then pressed to him again, grinding his back teeth. ]
In my trailer.
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I’m gonna go get what you need, [he says, in a croon. ] It’ll be easier if - if you hate ‘em. If you don’t care.
[Billy knows who his first would be. Knows who’s door he’ll be knocking on, eventually.] Give me a name.
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But that was before he woke up frightened, agonized and starving. There's another sob against Billy's shoulder, because he full well knows who put him in this situation. That had he not been hunted, had he not been demonized, had he not had the audacity to be queer in one man's periphery, his name could have been oh so easily cleared. ]
Ca.. Carver. J-Jason Carver.
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Billy Hargrove is a predator. His smile is gentle, but it’s there, behind his eyes. Something cruel; something horrible. ] I won’t be long. Promise.
[He doesn’t kiss Eddie Munson. Not yet, anyway. He does leave him as comfortable as he can, grabs his jacket and leaves to hunt. It’s muscle memory, driving some old car to Munson’s place. Remembers one or two times during summer, before he’d been taken. He’s lucky the gates right there. Lucky he can’t hear voices on the other side. Staring at it feels exhilarating; surreal.
Squatting into a jump, grasping the edges of it and climbing through feels better. Hitting the mattress, feeling the crisp air of reality hit his stale, dead longs feels so fucking good he almost cries. Not now, though. Now he has to focus.
It takes him two hours to find Jason Carver, because all it takes, in the end, is to listen to the gossip on the wind, to sniff out a Hawkins High jacket and follow. He finds him at the Creel house, finds him at the door and grabs him fast. He smells like rage and hate; like bad cologne and misguided righteousness.
He has no idea he’s probably just saved Max’s life, but he knows she’s in there and he fucking hesitates a second before he drags an unconscious Jason Carver back with him.
He wakes up when Billy pushes him through; screams when Billy lands next to him. It’s not his fault he has to punch him to knock him out, but he isn’t complaining. Dragging him home is less of an ordeal that way anyway. He’s pliant when Billy ties him to a chair, heavy and limp when he drags the chair down the hall to the room that isn’t his, and leaves him opposite Eddie.
Billy looks mean when he pulls Jason’s head back by the hair to pry his mouth open to gag him. He looks delighted. ] There we go. You want him awake, Killer?
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Eddie isn't cruel by nature. Ozzy biting the head off a bat might be metal, but Eddie scoops spiders out of the shower with his bare hands. Feeds the cats in the park with money he don't got.
But it doesn't. It doesn't.
He's so hungry and cold and Jason is a fire burning bright, the smell of him suffocating. His mouth is watering and he understands the assignment - trying to sit up and eat without giving a proper answer. ]
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He moves to Eddie after, carefully moves his hips, mindful of the mangled leg - wonders if that will heal at all - and then he gently lifts him from under his armpits and inches him forward. ] That’s it, careful.
[It’a not that unlike holding someone over a toilet: when Eddie’s balanced, he holds his hair back and gently urges him forward.]
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But it's ignored. Billy's gentle touch and encouragement take precedence.
The bite Eddie gives is savage. Jason jerks awake as those fanged teeth gouge into his neck, his panicked eyes going to Billy and then to the man he's holding. ]
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[He can smell the blood, can practically taste it in the air. Jason’s ragged breathing is so fucking loud, Billy can hear his heart working overtime with the effort of being alert. He waits, though, until Eddie comes up for air, to reach out with a thumb to catch some of the blood. ] Take it slow, Munson. Don’t choke.
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Max is almost fourteen; she’s capable, she’s street smart. She’s left alone with Billy for two weeks while Neil and Susan go out of town for a late honeymoon. At first it’s fine, because Max stays out of his way and he stays out of hers. It’s four days of blissful cohabitation without a single word exchanged, and then it breaks on the fifth.
See, Billy’s got a date Friday with Leslie McBride. It’s a sure thing: a movie, burgers, and then back to the Hargrove household. Max is supposed to be out. She’s supposed to be spending Friday with her stupid friends and then spending the night with Chief Hopper’s kid, and Billy’s supposed to have the place to himself. Then on Thursday Max drags herself to eat some cocopuffs and tells him she’s not going, because she and the Sinclair kid are on the outs and she doesn’t want to drag her weird friend away from her first game night in weeks.
Billy’s head goes into a white noise mode. He says you’re going and Max says no I’m not, and Billy says I have a goddamn date and Max rolls her eyes and tells him she’ll be fine home alone. It’s not till Billy tells her he’s supposed to be home alone that it clicks.
So she tells him she doesn’t care about Billy’s stupid date, and then it escalates from there. He says go do your fucking Fairy game, Maxine and she gets real bad and tells him he’s a prick (which he is, yeah). Billy doesn’t think anything of it; he’s grabbing his keys and going for the door, already trying to figure out how to get Leslie to fuck him at Skull Rock instead when he answers to her next question: I’m going out Maxine, maybe if I’m goddamn lucky the fairies will take you while I’m gone.
He buys smokes and uses his fake ID for a six pack. Calls Leslie from a payphone and takes some time to cool down. He expects to find Max sulking in her room when he gets back, but what he finds is -
Chaos. The windows and door open, the house a fucking mess. He sees red, tears through the halls screaming her name and finds moss and the smell of ozone where she should be. He hears his name - tears down the hall and room is the worst of all; the surfaces touched with what looks like morning dew, rose petals left behind, and there she is, there she is, held by some fucking stranger.
He’s so breathless with fury, barely registers the leather, the otherwordly gleam of his eyes. He’s so angry with the mess, with Max and whatever the fuck this is. He’s blinded by it. ] What the fuck do you think you’re playing at Maxine, [is what he says, taking a slow step towards them. ] Huh?