Dumpster Fire

CHAPTER 8

It was fucking freezing. Billy shoved his free hand in his jacket pocket, taking another drink, sniffing hard.

Winter break had turned into a nightmare he couldn't imagine, stuck at home for two weeks, two fucking weeks, with Neil. He sighed, readjusting his stance so his back was facing the breeze. Scratched at his stubble with his fingers before drinking again, watching the slummers on the first floor of the abandoned barn.

Someone had brought shrooms and people were tripping hard. Maddie was cuddled with Tiffany on a bean bag, both talking to some… alien? named Frank. Tommy was making out with an old horseshoe.

Billy winced, hoping he had his tetanus shot recently. Not even a little jealous. Not at all. Eyes rolled. He didn't want to be sober. He didn't want to keep remembering.

He turned back around, finishing his beer, Steve's sighs echoing in his head as he swallowed.

Eyes popped back open and Billy tossed the bottle as hard as he could, watching it fly, hearing it land in the snow. A muted thump. Unsatisfactory.

He grabbed another bottle, fuming. If he hadn't sucked Steve off they could be sitting on the couch right now, watching some shifty late night oldies film.

Maybe The Lone Ranger. Billy popped the top off his beer with some difficulty between his bruised, swollen right hand and his frozen left fingers; but it came off with a hiss, the click of the lid falling to his feet somewhere on the rotting wood.

That one wasn't been too bad. He sipped the cold beer, wishing for some coffee, or even some fucking hot chocolate. Cheesy as fuck though. He frowned at the bottle, memories of Steve playing good host and handing him a mug of something warm every time he was over were nearly as tangible as the moans he kept hearing when he closed his eyes, the taste of Steve's cum, the fingers that had tangled in his hair.

It had become a comforting part of their routine, And I ruined it. Billy sighed, resting his head on the cold leather of his coat, curling his almost numb toes. I ruined it because… he tried to blink away the tears, looking at his fucked up hand. I am a fucking faggot.

Neil's words, Neil's fists, at their last meeting had really nailed that point home.

Three? Billy squinted, trying to remember the endless parties that he'd been crashing in an attempt to stay away from home. Four days now?

Most places had a couch, a recliner, an occupied or unoccupied bed he could sneak in a quick nap at two or three in the morning. Just a few hours, a shitter, a sink.

Billy sighed, blinking again. This lifestyle was exhausting. But it had been working until they went to a mother fucking barn in the middle of nowhere. He swallowed the urge to scream the rising panic with another swig, half the bottle left. What was he supposed to do? Tell Maddie, or worse Tommie, his pathetic sob story? That they'd just open their arms and take him in?

Billy scoffed, making imprints in the snow on the ledge with the bottom of his bottle. No one did that but fucking Harrington, and that was only because he was a fucking bleeding heart. Eyes drifted out to the tree line as he drank again.

Billy wasn't under any delusion. He knew his friends weren't like that; theirs was a loyalty built on fear and respect. If Billy lost that standing he would lose them. And- he felt the laugh want to claw out of his throat. And he needed somebody, anybody, in his corner. Anybody.

Bottle emptied. Arm yanked back. Bottle flew through the moonless night, surprising Billy by shattering on impact.

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