If I Stare Too Long

Chapter 2: I'm burning (I'm burning for you)

When Billy first woke up, it was in such fits and bursts that it didn't seem real.

The last thing he remembered with any true clarity had been screaming. Something hoarse and loud and ringing. Something that tore from his throat and left his chest raw.

He'd thought that's why he ached so much when he stirred back to life from the miasma of a never-ending nightmare. Hadn't remembered, at first, that he'd had some big fuck-off meat monster spear him straight through the heart.

But then he had. And then he remembered everything else.

Pale and frail and shaking, he'd vomited up a feeding tube and forced himself to focus– clawed his way out of that red smoke and lightning– dragged himself back into the light as he might actually be worthy of it.

"Mmax–" was the first thing he'd gasped, spitting up and grasping out blindly, something cracking, crunching, breaking– "Max!"

He was a little late on the draw, but he guesses he gets points for caring or some shit. Max certainly hadn't complained when they rolled her in, three days later, both her legs in casts and an arm in a sling.

Even with two black eyes, she didn't hesitate to bawl. Billy hadn't known what to do with himself then.

He doesn't know what to do with himself now.

It's the middle of the week, so the lake is sparsely populated. He thinks he can see a fishing boat off in the distance, but the sun is bright on the water. Like glass reflecting light.

There's a scattering of others across the bend, but Harrington pulls them into a secluded inlet with one of those floating docks drifting a good swim off the shore. It's a pretty choice spot, all things considered, but Billy still finds himself hesitating.

"You did bring the booze, didn't you, tough guy?" Eddie asks, unstrapped from his seat belt the second Steve shifts to park, hands on both of Steve's shoulders like he can't fucking help himself.

"What would the point of this fucking be if I didn't, Dungeon Master? You wanna ask another stupid question?" Steve huffs, derisive and just as resigned as before, glancing over his shoulder at Eddie's grinning face.

Real nerd shit, if you ask Billy.

"King Steve," Billy mutters, "how far he's fallen."

"How far I've dragged him down," Eddie responds, sounding way too proud of himself.

That pride, that easy self-confidence, grates. It makes Billy's skin feel too tight and makes his scar tissue itch.

Billy wants to reach over and pry Eddie's hands off of Steve's shoulders. That would help.

"Don't flatter yourself, Munson. I'm nowhere close to joining your little club."

And then Steve is shrugging off Eddie's touch and lets himself out of his car. Eddie follows, hand on the door handle—but not before turning his sharp eyes to Billy and smirking a mile wide. The expression makes his face go a little darker, a little less carefree.

"Come on, Hargrove. Wouldn't want to keep his majesty waiting, now would you?"

Billy gets out of the car before he can pay attention to the way his knuckles itch. To the way, Eddie's grin had made something inside him twist uncomfortably.

Steve's got his trunk popped, and he's already leaning down to haul out a cooler before turning to shove it into Eddie's arms as Billy rounds his way to the back. Steve's sunglasses are shoved up onto his head, so Billy doesn't miss the scathing dryness that unfolds when Eddie sticks out his tongue.