Caught Like A Hare

by swinedrunk

Summary:

After the Woodsboro Massacre, Billy's father drags him to somewhere quieter. Minnesota. Of all places. He expects Billy to clean up, get a job, be normal.
(This has gotten so far away from me. Send help.)

Notes:

Takes place in @rockemroar's (on Tumblr) AU Woodsboro Bunnies 🐰
written in a fever this morning as most things I write are, will probably add more chapters 🤔

(Used to be titled: Familiarity, but as I continue it feels ill-fitting, so new title!)

Chapter 1

Billy Loomis slouched into the chair like it was an accusation.

The office smelled faintly of burnt coffee and something older--dust, maybe, or machinery left running too long. Minnesota sunlight streamed through the blinds in clean, unforgiving lines. Billy looked out of place in it, all sharp angles and ill-fitting pressed clothes, jaw tight like he was bracing for impact.

Across the desk, Steve Raglan adjusted a thin stack of papers.

Calling it a résumé was generous.

William Afton--Steve, here--didn’t comment on that aloud. He didn’t need to. The silence did the work for him as his eyes scanned the page.

No achievements.
No volunteer hours.
No work history.
High school: incomplete.

He hummed thoughtfully, just soft enough to be irritating.

Billy’s jaw flexed. His hands were clenched in his lap, fingers digging into his palms like he was holding something down. William noticed that immediately. The tension. The coiled restraint. He’d seen it before--in mirrors, mostly.

“Hm,” William said mildly. “Short.”

Billy exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. That’s what happens when your life kind of… derails.”

William looked up at him then. Really looked.

Pale, sleepless skin. Eyes that were too alert for someone claiming grief. The irritation flickering just under the surface, quick and hot. A boy who didn’t like being evaluated--who hated being found lacking.

Interesting.

William’s gaze dropped back to the paper. “Schools in Woodsboro, California,” he noted. “That’s a long way from Minnesota. What brings you here, Billy?”

Billy stiffened.

There it was. The pivot point.

Billy inhaled slowly, deliberately, like he was stepping into a role he knew by heart.

“There was… an incident,” he said. His voice softened, roughened at the edges. “Back home. A massacre.”

William leaned forward slightly, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled. He didn’t interrupt.

Billy continued, eyes unfocused now, aimed somewhere safely distant. “A lot of people died. Friends. Principal. Police.” He swallowed. “My girlfriend. My best friend and I--we barely survived.”

He let just enough shake creep into his hands. Just enough pain into his eyes. It was a good performance. Convincing. Practiced.

William felt a spark of something like appreciation.

“A terrible thing,” William murmured. "To live through."

Billy nodded. “Yeah. My dad thought… a fresh start. Somewhere quieter.”

William smiled at that. A small, knowing curve of the mouth.

Survival stories always had such clean edges when the truth was buried properly.

He stood abruptly. “Coffee?”

Billy blinked. “What?”

“Coffee,” William repeated brightly, already turning toward the small counter behind Billy. “I made some earlier. Would you like a cup?”

Billy watched, thrown off-balance, as William poured himself a mug. He added sugar. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

Billy’s mouth twitched. “No, no--I’m good.”

William took a sip, considered it like a man tasting wine, then turned back and sat down again.

“I think,” he said, voice smooth, expansive, “that what a young man like you needs is purpose. Direction.” He gestured vaguely, as if sketching a future in the air between them. “Something structured. Something that gives you time to think.”

Billy rolled his eyes before he could stop himself. William did not miss it.

He leaned back in his chair. “I may have something for you. The pay isn’t great.”

Billy waited.

“The hours,” William continued pleasantly, “are worse.”

Billy ran a hand through his hair, gaze dropping to the résumé still sitting on the desk--his thin, empty life reduced to a single page. Beggars, choosers, all that.

“How soon can I start?” he asked.

William’s eyes gleamed.

“Tonight,” he said.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Working nights at Freddy’s couldn’t have fit Billy better if it had been designed with him in mind.

He settled easily into the rhythm of it. A horror movie playing low on one of the dusty surveillance-room TVs, his feet kicked up on the desk, Stu on the other end of the line. They talked like there wasn’t a state of wide, dusty, nothing between them.

The job itself was laughably simple. Watch the cameras. Make sure no one broke in.

And if someone did? Well. Billy almost pitied them.

They talked about the place, about how strange Steve Raglan was--his voice too cheerful, his smiles a little off. Then, softer, quieter, the things that hurt to say out loud. How empty everything felt. How much they missed each other. Billy didn’t say it directly, but Stu heard it anyway.

The first night passed without incident. So did the next. And the next.

Billy started to think he could live like this. Make a routine of it. Nights, movies, Stu’s voice filling the empty space.

Then, one night, something moved on the cameras.

"--oooooHHH and there we go, show your tits and die, of course! Billy, you seeing this?" Stu's voice was a far off nuisance as Billy leaned forward, eyes narrowing. A shape near the food counter. Someone rifling through trash.

"Stu, shut up," Billy hushed him. "There's something on the monitor."

A vagrant, he figured.

He hung up without much of a goodbye, figuring he'd be back later. Grabbed his flashlight and left the security room, boots echoing softly through the darkened building. He found the man hunched over, digging through discarded wrappers and boxes, probably hoping for something still edible.

Billy considered just scaring him off.

Then he thought about how long it had been since Woodsboro. Since he’d felt anything at all.

Who would miss this guy?

The pocket knife snapped open in his hand with a familiar, comforting sound. Billy approached quietly, pulse steady, every step deliberate. When he struck, it was with purpose--over and over, the blade sinking in again and again as the man fought weakly beneath him.

Thirty. Forty.

Billy lost count.

By the time the body went still, Billy was straddling it, chest heaving, breath tearing out of him like he’d been holding it in for weeks. Blood smeared his hands, his clothes, the floor. He barely noticed. He felt awake for the first time since Minnesota swallowed him whole.

He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him.

The soft chuckle was what finally cut through the haze.

“My, what anger you have.”

Billy froze. Slowly, he looked up.

Steve Raglan stood a few feet away, hands loosely clasped, eyes bright with something like fascination. Billy registered the blood only distantly--how much of it there was, how soaked he was in it.

For a split second, one clean, cold thought crossed his mind.

I’m going to have to kill him.

Then Steve gestured casually toward the body. “You look like you need help with clean-up.”

Billy’s grip tightened on the knife. “Why are you here?”

It didn’t make sense. Career counselors didn’t show up at their clients’ jobs in the middle of the night.

Steve laughed, light and easy. “Nostalgia.” He stepped closer and held out a hand--half an offer to help Billy up, half a handshake. “William Afton. Owner of this fine establishment.”

Billy blinked. He stood on his own, deliberately ignoring the offered hand.

William didn’t seem bothered. His smile lingered, stretched just a little too tight.

“Are you going to call the cops?” Billy asked, turning the knife slowly in his hand.

William giggled, genuinely delighted, as if Billy had said something charming. “Calm down, Cujo. I’m not going to tattle on you.” He raised his hands briefly, then pointed toward the corpse. “But we are going to have to deal with that.”

Billy hesitated. He’d never disposed of a body before. In Woodsboro, the bodies had been part of the point.

William’s gaze softened with understanding. “First time,” he said knowingly. “Don’t worry, kid. I’ll walk you through it.”

He turned and headed toward a maintenance closet, then glanced back and crooked one finger in a silent come here.

Billy followed.

He hated how natural it felt.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next hour passes in a blur.

Billy moves through it like he’s underwater, still riding the high of the kill, every nerve humming. William doesn’t get his hands dirty--not really. He instructs, corrects, oversees. Gloves are pressed into Billy’s hands. Heavy garbage bags. An old hand saw retrieved from a maintenance cabinet that looks like it hasn’t been opened in years.

William talks him through it calmly, almost gently. Where to cut. How to separate the limbs and the head, bag them apart from the torso. Practical advice, delivered like career counseling all over again.

Billy listens. Billy does as he’s told.

They mop the floor together. The smell of bleach burns his nose. When it’s done, William leads him into the kitchen, to an old industrial sink. He turns on the tap and, without asking, helps Billy scrub the blood from his hands and forearms. Billy lets him. He doesn’t know why. Maybe because his body is still buzzing, or maybe because William’s presence feels… steady. Grounding.

William hums thoughtfully. “Your clothes are soaked.”

Billy glances down, like it’s only just occurred to him. Red-brown stains everywhere.

“Peroxide,” William says. “If that doesn’t work--burn them.”

“I’ve gotten blood out before,” Billy replies automatically.

It’s a slip. He realizes it the second the words leave his mouth.

William’s eyes flicker with interest, but he only smiles. “Of course you have.”

They stand there for a beat too long. The adrenaline has nowhere to go. Usually, Billy would burn it off with Stu--hands, mouths, bodies pressed together until the world quieted down. Instead, he’s left vibrating in his own skin.

Before he can think better of it, his hands are on William.

William is solid. Taller. Not as easy to shove around as Stu. Billy fists his hands in William’s shirt and shoves him back against the counter, breath hot, reckless. William’s eyes light up instantly.

Billy kisses him hard. He tastes like coffee and something smug, feels the scratch of William’s kempt beard. William doesn’t resist. He holds Billy there, lets him think he’s in control--though his hands slide into Billy’s hair, grip his hips, grounding him in place.

They rut against each other. It’s fast. Messy. All heat and friction and leftover violence bleeding into something else.

When it’s over, the clarity hits like cold water.

Billy jerks back as if burned, yanks his jacket into place, and turns for the door without a word.

William watches him go, straightening his own clothes, a quiet laugh spilling from him as the door shuts behind Billy.

He already knows.

This won’t be the last time.

Chapter 2

Summary:

Billy feels haunted by this William Afton. To keep control, to not let him win -- he tells himself -- he goes digging. It's not curiosity, it's self preservation.

Billy doesn’t sleep.

He drifts--half-dreams that snag and tear, sheets twisting around his legs as he rolls from one side of the bed to the other. It isn’t the killing that keeps him awake. That part sits cleanly in him, familiar, almost comforting in its certainty.

It’s Steve.

William.

The way his voice never rose. The way he watched. The way his hands had closed around Billy like they already knew where to go.

Billy stares up at the ceiling, jaw clenched so hard it aches. He shouldn’t have done that. Shouldn’t have touched him, shouldn’t have let himself be touched. The man was old enough to be his father, and the thought coils in his gut, sharp and nauseating. Authority. Control. Something disturbingly parental in the way William had held him still, firm and certain, like Billy was something being steadied rather than resisted.

That’s the worst part.

Billy liked it.

His skin still feels lit up where William’s hands had been, phantom heat blooming and fading and blooming again. He presses his palms flat to his mattress like he can ground himself, like he can scrub the sensation away the same way they scrubbed the floor clean.

It doesn’t work.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand just as dawn begins to thin the dark.

Stu.

Billy already knows what it says before he opens it.

you alive?

Stu has school in a few hours. Still thinking of him. Still checking in, even from states away.

Billy stares at the screen for a long time. His thumb hovers. He thinks of telling the truth--no, something’s wrong, I did something stupid, I can’t stop thinking about him--and the words die before they ever form.

Instead, he types:
Yeah. I’m fine.

The lie sits there between them, small and perfect and awful.

Billy drops the phone facedown and drags the blankets over his head like he can suffocate the thoughts if he traps them in the dark. He squeezes his eyes shut.

William’s hands.
William’s smile.
The way he knew.

Billy exhales shakily, fingers curling into the fabric.

He shouldn’t want it.

But the wanting is already there, gnawing and persistent, a low ache beneath his ribs.

He wants more.

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Billy tells himself he’s being careful.

That this is reconnaissance. Self-preservation. That driving to Freddy’s before his shift, in the daylight, parking lot empty and washed out--isn’t about the way William’s name has been lodged in his skull since last night.

It’s about information.

He kills the engine and steps out. The place looks even sadder in daylight: faded paint, a mascot’s grin peeling at the corners, windows clouded with dust and neglect. On the notice board near the entrance, flyers overlap in a papery collage of time--birthday invitations, missing pets, church rummage sales yellowed with age.

Then he sees the new one.

White paper. Bold black letters.

FREDDY’S IS MURDER

A phone number printed cleanly at the bottom.

Billy’s mouth quirks despite himself. Drama. But his pulse ticks faster anyway. He memorizes the number and gets back into the car.

He dials.

It rings twice.

“Hello?”
A man’s voice. Older. Worn thin, like it’s been sanded down by grief.

Billy leans back in the seat, eyes on the building. “Yeah, uh--hi. I’m calling about the flyer. Freddy’s.”

There’s a pause. Not silence--breathing, measured and careful.

“Yes,” the man says finally. “I put those up. My name is Henry. Henry Emily.”

Billy nods, like Henry can see him. “You said Freddy’s is… murder.”

A brittle exhale on the other end. “That’s right.”

“I’m new in town,” Billy says smoothly. “I keep hearing the name William Afton come up. You know anything about him?”

The silence this time is heavier.

“Oh,” Henry says quietly. “Him.”

Billy straightens a little. “So you do.”

“I wish I didn’t,” Henry replies. His voice tightens, something strained pulling at the words. “William Afton was my..." a deliberate pause. "Friend. God help me, I trusted him.”

Billy watches the front doors, their glass reflecting sky and nothing else. “What happened?”

Henry doesn’t answer right away. When he does, it’s careful, deliberate--like stepping around broken glass.

“My daughter,” he says. “Charlotte. She was ten. Sweet, caring. She loved the animatronics. Loved him.” A pause, breath hitching. “She was stabbed to death backstage. I believe William killed her.”

Billy’s grip tightens on the phone. “You believe.”

“I know what I saw afterward,” Henry says. “And I know what William is capable of. After Charlotte, five more children went missing. One after another. All tied to Freddy’s. All--”

A sharp knock interrupts him.

Billy jolts, heart slamming hard enough it almost hurts. He looks up.

A cop stands beside his window.

Tall. Blonde. Hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. Expression unreadable but attentive.

“Shit,” Billy mutters, then quickly lifts the phone again. “Henry, I--”

Another knock, firmer this time.

Billy hangs up.

He rolls the window down, pasting on the easy smile like muscle memory. “Can I help you, officer?”

She glances at the interior of his car, then back to him. “Afternoon. Officer Shelly,” she says. “Mind telling me what you’re doing sitting in the parking lot of a closed establishment?”

Billy shrugs, casual. “I work here. Night guard.”

Something crosses her face--too fast to name. Surprise, maybe. Or something closer to concern.

“You do,” she says.

“Yeah.”

She tilts her head. “You’re not wearing your badge.”

Billy blinks. “Badge?”

Her mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Come on,” she says, straightening and stepping back from the car. “Follow me.”

She turns toward the entrance without waiting, boots crunching softly on gravel.

Billy hesitates just long enough to feel the echo of Henry’s words ringing in his ears.

William killed her.

Then he opens the door and follows.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vanessa leads him through the entrance, to a forgotten corner of the pizzeria. Behind a counter, she picks up a plastic bin full of the little badges. She sets them on the counter with a dull clink.

Billy blinks. They’re plastic, painted bronze shields with SECURITY -- FREDDY FAZBEAR’S PIZZERIA stamped across them in chunky letters. They look like something you’d hand out to a kid so they’d feel important.

Vanessa rummages for a second, then plucks one out. Without asking, she steps into his space and pins it to the front of his jacket.

“There you go,” she says, pleased. A small, warm smile curves her mouth.

Billy looks down at it.

Jesus Christ.

Stu would point at him, howl laughing, tongue hanging out, calling him Officer Doofus or something equally stupid. The image flashes so vividly it almost hurts.

He clears his throat and forces his shoulders back. “Right. Official.”

Vanessa chuckles under her breath, then straightens. “All set.”

Billy glances up at her. “So. You work this area a lot?”

“Enough,” she says lightly.

“You know much about this place?” he presses. “About the owner?”

She hesitates--just a hair too long. Then she slips into something rehearsed, easy. “It was big in the eighties. Birthday parties every weekend. Kids loved it.” A faint smile, nostalgic. “The owner’s… sentimental. Doesn’t have the heart to tear it down, I guess.”

Billy hums. “Ever hear about anything bad happening here?”

Her spine stiffens.

“Bad how?” she asks quickly.

He shrugs, casual, hands in his pockets. “Murders. Missing kids. That kind of thing.”

Her eyes sharpen. “Why would you ask that?”

“There’s a flyer outside,” Billy says. “Says Freddy’s is murder. Figured someone around here must be talking.”

Vanessa exhales through her nose, something tight passing over her face. “That’s just a grief-stricken parent. People want something to blame when bad things happen.”

“So nothing did?” Billy asks.

She meets his gaze, steady and unwavering. “Nothing like that.”

And there it is.

Billy sees it then--clear as day. Not ignorance. Not uncertainty. Protection. She’s guarding something, or someone, with both hands.

“Right,” Billy says softly. “Makes sense.”

Her voice drops, urgency bleeding through the calm. “Listen. You’re new here. That means you don’t know what you’re poking at. And you really should stop.”

It’s not a threat.

It’s almost a plea.

Billy’s mouth twitches. If he laughed now, really laughed, he’d give himself away. If you only knew, he thinks. You’re begging the wrong monster.

Vanessa seems to catch herself, straightening abruptly. “Anyway--haven’t seen you around before.”

“Just moved,” Billy says. “California.”

“Oh.” Her expression softens. “Then you probably didn’t grow up with Freddy’s.”

“Guess not.”

“Well,” she says, brightening suddenly, “come on. You should at least see them.”

She grabs his wrist before he can protest and drags him toward the main stage like an excited kid herself. She darts ahead, flicks a switch near the wall.

The lights dim. The curtains shudder, then part.

The animatronics whir to life--Freddy, Bonnie, Chica--movements stiff but eager, eyes glassy under the stage lights. Music crackles through the speakers.

When I hear you talkin’ in your sleep…

Billy raises an eyebrow as The Romantics’ “Talking in Your Sleep” blares out. Of all songs.

Vanessa bounces lightly on her heels, grinning up at the stage. “They still work,” she says, like it’s a miracle.

Billy watches the figures sway, their mouths opening and closing just off-beat. He doesn’t think about murder, or William.

He thinks about Stu.

Stu would lose his damn mind over this. He’d clap and laugh and lean over to whisper some filthy joke in Billy’s ear about the rabbit.

The song ends. The animatronics wind down, settling back into stillness.

Vanessa nudges Billy with her elbow. “You’re smiling.”

Billy startles. “I am not.”

She laughs outright. “You totally are.”

He scrubs a hand over his mouth like he can wipe the expression away, embarrassed despite himself. “Shut up.”

She’s still smiling when she steps back. “Your shift starts now. I’ll let you get to it.”

She heads for the exit, pausing only once at the door. “Try to have a quiet night, okay?”

Then she’s gone.

The lights hum. The stage looms. And Billy Loomis, night guard, stands alone as the sun finally slips away.

Chapter 3

Summary:

William brings Billy a gift. A test. A lesson.

Billy’s shift starts the way the others have--like slipping into a well-worn groove.

He kicks back in the chair, boots up on the edge of the desk, an old horror movie flickering on the surveillance room TV. Stu’s voice crackles through the phone, bright and loud and there, filling the empty space.

“Dude,” Stu says, practically vibrating through the line, “animatronics? Like actual animatronics? With dead eyes and creepy mouths?”

“They sing,” Billy says. “Badly.”

“Oh my god. I’d marry the rabbit.”

Billy snorts despite himself. “You would.”

They talk through half the movie--Billy mentioning the cop, the weird vibes, the owner who keeps popping up like a bad penny. He tells Stu about the flyer, about Henry, about the word murder sitting heavy in his mouth.

“Maybe it’s haunted,” Stu offers, delighted. “Like, cursed child ghosts.”

“Yeah,” Billy says distractedly.

Because something moves on the monitors.

He leans forward, squinting. One of the cameras near the side entrance flickers, then steadies. A familiar figure steps into frame.

William.

He’s not alone.

A young woman trails behind him, arms folded tight around herself, heels clicking uncertainly on the tile. Her clothes are wrong for the place--too thin, too deliberate. Billy’s stomach drops.

“Stu,” Billy says quietly. “I gotta go.”

“What--why?”

“I gotta go."

He hangs up before Stu can argue.

Billy stands, pocket knife already in his hand without remembering pulling it out. His pulse thunders. He doesn’t know why he’s nervous. He’s done this before. He just did this before.

Footsteps echo down the hall.

“Just a little further,” William’s voice singsongs, light and coaxing. “Promise.”

They step into the surveillance room.

William stops when he sees Billy, smile sharpening like he's pleased by the coincidence, as if it is one. The woman’s eyes dart between them, confusion blooming into fear.

“Steve?” she asks uncertainly. “What is this?”

Billy doesn’t wait.

The first strike is clumsy, too fast. The second lands harder. She screams--high and raw--before the sound chokes off into wet gasps.

“Billy,” William says, calm as ever, hands closing around his arms. “Slow down.”

Billy’s breathing is ragged. He barely registers being pulled back. The woman scrambles, dragging herself across the floor, leaving a smear behind her.

William leans close, his heat warm and steady at his back, his voice low against Billy's ear, “Savor it.”

Something in Billy fractures open.

William lets go.

Billy circles her slowly, measured now. He lunges just close enough to make her cry out, then pulls back, watching terror bloom fully in her eyes. His laughter slips out--quiet, ugly.

William watches, intent. He unbuckles his belt with deliberate calm.

Billy looks up, heart hammering, a flicker of uncertainty flashing through him.

William presses the belt into Billy’s hands. Their eyes meet. Understanding passes between them--silent, complete.

Billy kneels. Wraps the belt around the woman's throat, pulls her taut against him, choking her out. He feels her breathing become more panicked, has to hold her down as she scrambles, clawing against his face, his arms.

He shushes her. Billy looks up briefly to catch William's eyes, dark, full of heat.

Finally, she stills.

For a moment, neither of them moves. The air feels charged, like something struck and waiting to catch fire.

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Billy's the first to move, he tosses the body aside like she's nothing more than an obstacle. He stands on shaky legs, vibrating with too much adrenaline, crosses the room in two strides.

His hands fisted into William's shirt, yanking him close. His other hand went straight for William’s zipper, desperate, clumsy with need. William didn’t stop him--just tilted his head slightly, offering his throat as Billy’s mouth latched on, teeth scraping over stubble and pulse.

William exhaled slow and controlled through his nose, one hand settling lightly at the nape of Billy’s neck--not guiding, not yet, just allowing. Billy freed him from his pants, wrapped a trembling hand around thick, heavy heat, and stroked once, twice, rough and urgent.

William’s fingers threaded into Billy’s hair and tugged--sharp, deliberate--pulling him off his throat. Billy’s pupils were blown wide, lips parted, breath ragged. William didn’t speak. He just pointed -- Down -- an unmistakable gesture.

Billy sank to his knees without hesitation.

The tile was hard and cold, but he hardly registered it.

William prodded two fingers against Billy’s lips, and Billy opened for him immediately--sucking greedily, tongue swirling, tasting salt and skin. William’s grip in his hair tightened slowly, tugging in gentle warning, then firmer when he decided playtime was over.

He guided Billy forward.

Billy’s lips stretched around the head, then further--William was big, thicker than Stu, for sure. He gagged almost instantly, eyes watering, but William’s low murmur cut through the burn: “Easy. Breathe through it. You can take it.”

Billy tried. He hollowed his cheeks, took more, let William rock shallowly into his mouth. The hand in his hair stayed firm, controlling pace, keeping him steady.

When William came, it was with a quiet grunt, hips pressing forward, burying himself deep. Hot pulses hit the back of Billy’s throat. Billy choked, hands flying to William’s thighs, pushing weakly. William held him there a second longer--possessive--then released.

Billy pulled off with a wet gasp, coughing, spit and cum stringing from his lips to William’s softening cock. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, chest heaving, dazed.

William chuckled--low, fond, already tucking himself away, zipping up, smoothing his shirt like nothing had happened.

Billy stayed on his knees a moment longer, expecting the door to open, expecting William to walk out without so much as a backward glance. That’s what this was, right? A lesson. A reward.

But William didn’t leave.

Instead, he reached down, fingers sliding gently into Billy’s sweat-damp hair again--this time soft, almost tender--before tugging upward. Billy rose slowly, wary, eyes searching William’s face.

William kissed him.

Slow. Deep. Deliberate. No rush, no violence--just warmth and control. His hands--those careful, paternal hands--traveled down Billy’s sides, over his chest, down to his waistband. He unzipped Billy with the same calm precision he approached most things with, drew him out, and began to stroke--long, unhurried pulls that made Billy’s breath shake against William’s mouth.

“You thought I’d leave you like this,” William murmured against his lips, voice teasing, amused. “I’m not that cruel, Billy.”

Billy kept his eyes open, intense, defiant. Even as William’s mouth moved to his neck, sucking a slow mark just below his jaw. Even as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter.

Only when the edge hit did Billy’s eyes finally unfocus--hazy, half-lidded, but still open. He came with a shuddering exhale, spilling hot over William’s fingers, hips jerking helplessly into that steady grip.

William held him through it, palm slick, thumb brushing soothing circles at the base of Billy’s neck.

William pressed one last kiss to the corner of Billy’s mouth, soft and proprietary.

“Good boy,” he whispered.

Good boy. The praise struck Billy like a slap. He backed away, sucked in a breath. Then remembered there was a dead woman still on the floor, just a few feet away.

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After, they move like nothing happened.

No words about it. No acknowledgment. Just a shared, unspoken understanding that whatever spark had flared between them had burned itself down to embers--for now.

They work.

William directs, precise and economical, while Billy follows without question. Gloves on. Bags opened. The steady, awful rhythm of it all. Billy’s hands don’t shake, but his eyes keep betraying him, flicking toward William when he thinks he won’t be noticed. He never lets them linger. He’s not sure what scares him more--being seen, or being understood.

William hums under his breath as he works, something faintly cheerful. At one point, without looking up, he says,
“You’re being very loud.”

Billy freezes. “What?”

“Your thoughts,” William clarifies mildly. “They’re practically echoing.”

Billy swallows. There’s too much to choose from. The murders. Henry’s voice on the phone. The way this is starting to feel like a pattern instead of an accident. What William actually wants from him. What he wants back.

He lands on something that feels… safer.

“The cop,” Billy says. “Officer Shelly.”

William pauses just long enough to be noticeable. “Vanessa,” he corrects gently.

He inhales through his nose, slow and thoughtful, then adds, “She’s my daughter.”

Billy blinks. “Your--” He stops himself, then nods. “That… yeah. That tracks.”

Of course she’d protect him. Of course the edges of her concern had felt personal. Billy’s stomach twists, not with guilt, but with a strange, creeping understanding of the kind of orbit William pulls people into.

“Why not teach her?” Billy asks before he can stop himself. “You know. Like you’re… doing with me.”

William lets out a soft chuckle, amused but not offended. “She’s stubborn,” he says. “Always has been.” A beat. “Suppose she gets that from me.”

“She showed me the animatronics earlier,” Billy says, filling the silence. “Put on a whole show.”

William’s mouth curves, something genuine breaking through the practiced charm. “Oh, that?” he says. “That’s nothing.”

He ties off a bag with neat finality and finally looks at Billy fully. “If you liked that, I’ll need a little prep time--but I can give you a real show tomorrow night.”

Billy meets his gaze. There’s heat there, yes--but also promise. Structure. Intention.

“Yeah,” Billy says after a moment. “Okay.”

They fall back into silence after that, the work continuing until it’s done, the night stretching on around them. And for the first time since leaving Woodsboro, Billy feels something dangerously close to routine settling in.

Chapter 4

Summary:

William introduces Billy to his children. Billy runs into Henry outside Freddy's.

Billy arrives early.

The place is already awake.

Freddy’s hums with a false life it never has when he clocks in. Neon strips glow too bright, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, casting warped shadows across the floor. Music tinkles through the speakers--an old pizzeria jingle, cheerful to the point of nausea.

Billy slows, unease crawling up his spine.

Then he hears it.

“--please--please, I’ll do anything--”

A man’s voice. Hoarse. Panicked.

Billy follows the sound, heart pounding harder with every step, until he reaches the main floor.

The animatronics stand in a loose circle.

In the center, a man lies on the tiles, bloodied and shaking, eyes wide and glassy with terror. He looks up at Freddy like he’s staring at a god that won’t answer.

“What the fuck…” Billy whispers.

He backs up, instinct screaming not to draw attention--

--and bumps into something soft.

Before he can turn, a firm yellow paw clamps over his mouth.

Billy jolts.

“Shhhhh,” a voice hushes at his ear, warped through a modulator but unmistakable. William.

The grip loosens. Billy spins just enough to see him--towering in a yellow rabbit costume, fabric aged and wrong, eyes blue and hollow.

William nudges him aside gently, then steps past him toward the circle.

“Good job, everyone,” William says, voice sing-song. He pats Freddy’s shoulder like a proud coach. “Finish up.”

Billy watches, frozen, as the animatronics move.

It’s not clumsy. It’s practiced.

Metal hands seize the man. One pins his head still. The others pull.

The sounds are wet. Real. Too real.

Billy’s breath comes fast, shallow. Fear spikes--sharp and electric--but beneath it, something else coils tighter. Excitement. Awe. Terror twisted into adrenaline.

When it’s over, the animatronics stop as one.

William turns slowly to face Billy.

They all turn with him.

Billy knows, distantly, that this is the moment he should run.

He doesn’t.

“What the fuck is this?” Billy asks, voice barely steady.

William reaches up and removes the rabbit head. Sweat mats his hair to his forehead, eyes bright and delighted.

“These,” he says, gesturing broadly at the animatronics, “are returns on investment.”

Billy stares at him.

“They’re--” William shrugs, like he’s commenting on the weather. “Dead kids.”

The words land wrong. Heavy.

Stu was right, Billy thinks numbly. Ghost kids. Stu would be thrilled.

“What?” Billy breathes.

William waves him closer. “Come on, come on. Take a look.”

Billy approaches carefully. The animatronics track him with their eyes but don’t move otherwise. He swallows, forcing himself closer until he’s standing among them, surrounded by humming machinery and something older, meaner beneath it.

After a moment, he asks, “Do they… do cleanup?”

William laughs. “No, unfortunately not.”

“Joy,” Billy mutters.

He glances at William. “Nice costume.”

William smirks. “Sarcasm? In front of the children?”

Billy huffs despite himself. “No, no. I get it. Stu and I--”
He stops.

Too much.

William notices. Of course he does. He doesn’t press--just watches Billy with that sharp, knowing interest. Recognition sparks there.

Dressing up. Ritual. It makes sense.

“You still have it?” William asks casually.

“Have what?” Billy says, too quickly.

“Your costume,” William replies, tilting his head. “Ghostface, wasn’t it?”

Billy’s face gives him away. Of course he still has it. The knife too.

William smiles, satisfied. “Bring it to work.”

He steps closer, suddenly, fingers lifting Billy’s chin and angling his face toward the light. His thumb brushes the scratches along Billy’s cheek.

“You look like you were mauled by a cat,” William says mildly. Right. The scratches, from the woman. “Cover that up if you’re going out in daylight.”

Billy nods.

“Atta boy,” William adds, patting his cheek once before stepping back.

Billy would deny the heat pooling low in his stomach.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Stu texts him just after noon.

> u alive?
> we didn’t even watch a movie last night wtf

Billy stares at the screen longer than necessary. His thumbs hover, useless.

What would he even say? Sorry, I was busy watching a man get torn apart by haunted animatronics while my boss wore a rabbit suit?

He types one word.

> busy

He tosses his phone face down onto the bed like it burned him.

In the bathroom mirror, he barely recognizes himself. He digs through an old toiletry bag until he finds it--cheap foundation he stole from Leslie Macher years ago, back when he and Stu were making prosthetics for Halloween and needed skin tones to blend fake wounds.

He smears it under his jaw, along his cheek.

Wrong shade. Too orange. It cakes around the scratches no matter how careful he is. He swears under his breath, rubs at it until it’s passable, then pulls his jacket collar higher.

Good enough.

He drives to Freddy’s in broad daylight, the building looking smaller, sadder without the glow and noise. He parks with the engine still running, scanning for Vanessa’s cruiser.

Instead, he sees a man at the notice board.

The guy’s movements are quick and nervous, shoulders hunched, like he’s expecting someone to yell at him. He pins something up, steps back, checks over his shoulder.

Billy rolls down the window. “Hey!”

The man jumps, almost bolts, then freezes and turns around.

Flyers. The same ones Billy saw yesterday.

FREDDY’S IS MURDER.

“Yeah,” Billy says, opening his door. “You.”

The man swallows as Billy approaches, eyes darting once toward the building, then back. Up close, he looks tired in a way that goes bone-deep. Haunted.

Billy knows that look.

“You Henry?” Billy asks.

The man stiffens. “Who’s asking?”

“Billy.” He offers his hand, easy, disarming. “We talked yesterday. On the phone.”

Recognition flashes across Henry’s face as he takes the hand. His grip is firm, grounding. “Right,” he says quietly. “You’re the kid. What are you doing here?”

“I work here,” Billy says, shrugging. “Pays like shit. Night security,” Billy adds, tapping the plastic badge still pinned to his jacket. He hasn’t taken it off. He doesn’t know why.

Henry doesn’t smile. Doesn’t laugh.

Instead, he studies Billy with unsettling focus. He exhales sharply, lifts his hands to touch, hovers, then places them carefully on Billy’s shoulders.

The touch is steady. Earnest.

“You need to quit,” Henry says.

Billy blinks. “What?”

“You need to get out of here,” Henry continues, looking him straight in the eye. “Now. Don’t finish the week. Don’t give notice. Just leave and never come back.”

The sincerity in his voice--raw, urgent--hits harder than yelling would have.

A laugh bursts out of Billy before he can stop it. Sharp. Manic. Wrong.

“Jesus,” Billy says, dragging a hand through his hair. “You don’t even know me.”

Henry squints, not offended. Assessing.

Slowly, gently, he lifts one hand and brushes his fingers under Billy’s jaw, right where the foundation thins. The bruise there blooms purple beneath his touch. His fingers trace higher, catching on the shallow scratches along Billy’s cheek.

Henry’s breath catches.

Something dark and familiar flickers behind his eyes. Recognition. Fear.

“Leave,” Henry says again, quieter now. “Please. Before it’s too late.”

He steps back, already retreating. “I’m sorry,” he adds, like that explains everything.

Then he turns, gets into his car, and drives away.

Billy watches him go, jaw tight.

“Coward,” he mutters.

But the word doesn’t sit right.

Not when his shoulders still feel warm where Henry touched them.

Notes:

a shorter chapter because the next one is... Something 👀

Chapter 5

Summary:

William and Billy have a perfectly normal phone call.

Billy waits for night like it’s a curtain call.

When the sun finally bleeds out of the sky, he opens the trunk and pulls out the costume. The fabric smells faintly like old latex and sweat and memory. He slips it on without ceremony, mask dangling loose at his side, knife heavy and familiar in his hand.

Freddy’s greets him the same way it always does when it's just him--too quiet, too expectant.

He settles into the surveillance chair, props one boot on the desk, and taps the knife’s point against the edge. Over and over. Waiting.

He doesn’t call Stu.

William will come when he’s ready.

The phone rings.

Billy startles so hard the chair creaks. He stares at the phone like it’s grown teeth, then snatches it up. “Hello?”

A soft, amused sound crackles through the line. “No, no. Not like that.”

Billy’s spine goes cold.

“You’re doing it wrong,” William says mildly. “Use the voice.”

Billy swallows. “What voice?”

“The one you used on Sidney Prescott.”

The name lands like a slap.

Silence stretches.

“Come on,” William purrs. “For me?”

Billy leans back slowly, heart hammering. He lets his shoulders relax, lets the mask slide fully into place in his mind. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, smoother--practiced.

“What do you wanna talk about?”

William hums, pleased. “That’s better.” A pause. “What are you wearing?”

Billy grins, pulling up the mask. “Ghostface.”

“Good boy,” William says.

The praise hits him sharp and immediate, a jolt straight down his spine.

“I brought the knife too,” Billy adds lightly. “Kinda disappointed you didn’t come out to play.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” William says, testing the word like it’s new on his tongue.

Billy shivers despite himself.

“Work obligations,” William continues, almost laughing at his own lie.

“Right,” Billy says, dragging the knife’s tip along his bottom lip, teeth catching it briefly. “Busy man.” He exhales, then adds casually, “I ran into Henry today.”

The line goes very still.

“Oh?” William finally says.

There it is.

Billy smiles, slow and cruel. “He was… warm,” he says thoughtfully. “Rough hands. But gentle. You’d like that.”

William’s voice tightens. “Do you want him to fuck you?”

Billy tilts his head, feigning innocence. “How do you know he hasn’t?”

Silence.

Then, softly, dangerously, William says, “Tell me.”

Billy closes his eyes, hand already sliding down his own stomach, and begins to paint.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“He couldn’t wait,” Billy starts, voice hushed, conspiratorial. “Pushed me up against my car right there in the Freddy’s parking lot. Middle of the day. Sun beating down, anyone could’ve driven by. He didn’t care. Just crowded me against the door, hands everywhere, mouth on my neck like he’d been starving for it.”

William’s breathing has changed--deeper, controlled, but Billy can tell there's strain behind it.

“Tell me how he felt,” William says, rough.

Billy hums. “Big,” he answers, savoring it. “Thick. Heavy in my hand when I pulled him out. Hot, too--like he’d been hard the whole time we were talking. He didn’t even bother with finesse. Just shoved my jeans down, spun me around, and fucked me right there against the hood.”

“Did it feel good?” William asks, voice tight.

Billy’s laugh is soft, cruel, dripping venom and honey. “So fucking good,” he whispers. “He filled me up. Every thrust--deep, relentless. Hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. Kept murmuring my name like he couldn’t believe it was happening. I had to bite my own arm to stay quiet.”

“You came for him,” William says. Not a question.

“Yeah,” Billy breathes, teasing at the fabric of his jeans but not giving in, not yet. “Came all over the side of my car while he was still buried inside me. He followed right after--hot, pulsing, claiming. Left me dripping.”

The line goes suspiciously quiet.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Billy lets the silence stretch just long enough to feel it throb.

“Are you jealous?” he asks lightly, like it’s a joke he already knows the punchline to.

On the other end of the line, William exhales. Slow. Measured. Then a soft chuckle slips through the receiver.

“You’re lying."

Billy smiles despite himself. “Am I?”

“You are,” William replies calmly. “Henry didn’t fuck you like that.”

Billy considers pushing it--digging in, escalating--but something about William’s certainty needles him. He shrugs, even though William can’t see it. “Fine. No. He didn’t.”

“Tell me what really happened,” William says.

Billy’s voice drops, loses some of its bite. “He put his hands on my shoulders. Warm. Solid. Looked at me like he was trying to save me from something.” A beat. “Then he told me to leave. And he did. Ran off.”

“A coward,” William murmurs, thoughtful rather than angry.

“Yeah,” Billy agrees. “That’s what I thought.”

There’s a hum on the line, William turning the information over in his head. “Do you want him to fuck you?” He asks again.

Billy snorts. “I’ll answer if you do.”

A pause. Then, “Deal.”

Billy leans back in the chair, knife resting against his thigh. “Yeah,” he admits. “I could see it.”

“Your turn,” Billy says.

William doesn’t hesitate this time. “I’ve never been good at sharing my things.”

Billy laughs, sharp and incredulous. “You think you own me now?”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” William says softly. “You’re mine, aren’t you, Billy?”

Something twists in Billy’s chest--hot, ugly, familiar.

“Fuck off,” he snaps, and slams the phone down before the feeling can settle.

He doesn’t bother locking up. Just leaves Freddy’s humming behind him, grips the steering wheel until his knuckles go white, and drives like he’s trying to outrun the sound of William’s voice still echoing in his head.

Chapter 6

Summary:

Billy does something stupid. Incredibly stupid.

Billy doesn’t sleep.

He paces.

Back and forth, bare feet whispering over carpet, jaw clenched so hard it aches. Every creak of the house makes him flinch--his father asleep down the hall, heavy and oblivious. Billy keeps his breathing shallow, contained, like he might shatter if he lets it get too big.

Tell me I’m wrong.

William’s voice won’t leave him alone. Soft. Certain. Like ownership is a fact, not a question.

Billy turns and slams his fist into the wall.

Once. Twice. Again.

Pain blooms sharp and satisfying, skin splitting, knuckles screaming. He doesn’t stop until his hand goes numb, until blood streaks down his fingers and spots the carpet. He presses his forehead to the wall, chest heaving.

How dare he?

A couple of nights. Some bodies. Some twisted intimacy. And suddenly William thinks he gets to carve his name into Billy like a claim.

“Fuck you,” Billy mutters to the quiet house.

He wraps his hand in gauze with shaking fingers, not bothering to clean it properly, then slips outside onto the front porch. The Minnesota night is cold and still, stars sharp overhead. He lights a cigarette with his good hand and drags smoke deep into his lungs.

His hands won’t stop shaking.

He pulls out his phone and calls Stu.

Straight to voicemail.

Billy stares at the screen. Calls again.

Nothing.

Stu never does that. Stu would answer half-asleep, voice thick and warm, complaining but there. Stu would always answer.

A cold, sick thought worms its way into Billy’s head.

What if he found him?

Billy’s breath goes shallow. He scrolls and dials another number.

It rings. And rings. Then--

“Hi, you’ve reached Steve Raglan--"

Billy snarls and leaves the message before the beep even finishes.

“Listen to me, you son of a bitch,” he spits, voice shaking with rage. “If you laid a single finger on Stu, I swear to God I will gut you like a fish. You hear me? I will end you.”

He hangs up hard, chest burning.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The drive blurs together--empty roads, headlights cutting tunnels through the dark. At some point, red and blue lights bloom behind him.

“Fuck,” Billy mutters, easing onto the shoulder.

It's her.

Vanessa steps out of the cruiser, posture careful, watchful. Billy rolls the window down before she can say anything, the words tumbling out of him raw and unfiltered.

“Did your dad ask you to follow me?”

“What--no,” she says, startled. “Billy, what are you talking about?”

Her eyes drop to his hands. The gauze. The blood seeping through.

“Jesus,” she says softly. “Are you okay? Are you… are you on something?”

Billy laughs under his breath, hollow. He scrubs a hand through his hair. “No. I’m just--tired.”

She studies him for a long moment, then exhales. “How much do you know about my dad?”

Billy looks at her, really looks. Sees the fear under the badge, the exhaustion.

“Enough,” he says.

Her gaze flicks to the scratches on his face. The bruise under his jaw, barely hidden.

Vanessa closes her eyes, just for a second.

“Fuck,” she mutters. “Dad. What did you do this time?”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Billy follows her.

They drive farther out than necessary, streetlights thinning until the road turns into a ribbon of dark cutting through shrub and dirt. Vanessa pulls over first. Billy follows suit, engine ticking as it cools. The night feels too open out here, sky vast and uncaring.

They sit on the hood of Billy’s car, shoulder to shoulder but not touching.

Billy smokes like he’s trying to burn a hole through the filter, one cigarette lit from the last. His wrapped hand throbs in time with his pulse. Vanessa watches him from the corner of her eye.

“So,” she says finally, voice careful. “You think he has your friend?”

Billy runs his free hand through his hair, fingers snagging. “I don’t know.”

Vanessa nods once. “He’s certainly capable of it.”

That earns a short, humorless laugh from Billy. “Yeah. No shit.”

Silence stretches. Crickets. Wind whispering through dry grass.

“What did my dad do to you?” Vanessa asks.

The words catch in Billy’s throat like broken glass. His mouth opens, closes. Saying it out loud feels stupid. Embarrassing. Dangerous.

You’re mine.

He exhales sharply through his nose.

Vanessa sees it--the way his shoulders hunch, the way he folds in on himself like he’s bracing for a hit. She softens, just a fraction.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she says. Then, after a beat, “I know what a monster he can be.”

Billy doesn’t answer. He stares out into the dark, jaw working.

Another pause.

“So,” Vanessa says, walking forward, back turned to Billy. “What are we going to do?”

Billy snorts. “You’re asking me?”

She gestures vaguely with one hand. “I figured we could brainstorm together--”

He moves before the sentence finishes.

Billy slides off the hood and comes up behind her, arm snapping around her throat, bicep locking tight. Vanessa gasps, hands flying up, nails digging into his forearm. She bucks hard, slams an elbow back into his ribs. Pain flares, but he grits his teeth and tightens his grip.

“Billy--!” she chokes, reaching for her firearm.

He twists with her, using his weight, dragging her down. They hit the dirt hard. She fights him like hell--kicking, clawing, heel slamming into his shin. He takes a blow to the mouth, tastes blood, but keeps his arm locked, pressure steady, ruthless.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, more to himself than to her.

Her struggles weaken. Hands go slack. After a few more seconds, her body goes heavy.

Billy releases her and staggers back, chest heaving. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his knuckles, then looks down at her unconscious form.

"I just need you..." he breathes quietly. "For leverage.”

He pops the trunk.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Billy drives back toward his house with the sun just beginning to bleed over the horizon. Pale light catches on the windshield, makes his eyes ache. His father’s car is gone--of course it is. Early shift. Good. One less thing to juggle.

He pulls into the driveway and slams on the brakes.

Someone’s sitting on the porch steps, kicking at the dirt with the toe of their sneaker, long legs sprawled, posture familiar in a way that makes Billy’s stomach drop.

Stu.

Stu fucking Macher.

Billy’s door is open before the engine’s even off. “Stu--"

Stu looks up, grins like he hasn’t just detonated Billy’s entire nervous system, and pops to his feet. He opens his arms wide. “There he is! C’mon, man.”

Billy shoves him. Hard.

Stu stumbles back a step, hand flying to his chest. “Ow. What the hell?”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Billy hisses.

Stu frowns, rubbing where Billy hit him. “I flew in to see you. You were being weird. Like, extra weird. I got worried.”

“Fuck,” Billy spits, dragging both hands through his hair, pacing a tight circle like he’s trying to outrun his own thoughts. “Fuck. Goddamn it.”

“Aww,” Stu says, softening, stepping closer again. “Missed you too, buddy.”

“Stu, you massive fucking idiot,” Billy snaps, shoving him again just to get the energy out. “I’ve got my boss’s daughter in my trunk.”

Stu blinks. Then--“Well why’d you go and do that?”

The words tangle in Billy’s throat. Panic. Paranoia. William. The voicemail. The sick, gnawing certainty that something awful had already happened.

Because of you.

He can’t say it.

“We’ll just dump her,” Stu offers brightly. “No big deal, right?”

“She’s not dead,” Billy says.

That finally wipes the smile off Stu’s face. He laces his fingers over his head, groans. “Oh. Ohhh. Okay, yeah, that’s worse.”

Billy punches his own temple with the heel of his hand. Think. Think. Let her out? Apologize? Explain that he panicked like a lunatic and kidnapped a cop because his feelings were hurt?

His phone rings.

William.

Billy freezes. Stu watches him, suddenly quiet.

Billy answers, forces his voice into something approaching normal. “Yeah?”

“That was quite the voicemail you left,” William says, far too cheerful.

Billy covers his face with his hand. Shame burns hot and stupid in his chest. “I’m sorry,” he mutters.

“I’m sorry?” William echoes lightly. “What was that? You’ll have to speak up.”

Billy exhales through his teeth. “I said--I’m sorry.”

“There we are,” William purrs. “Was that so difficult?”

A loud bang erupts from the trunk. Then another. Vanessa’s voice, muffled but furious, yelling for help.

Billy’s blood turns to ice.

“What’s that?” William asks, curiosity sharpening his tone.

Billy swallows. No point dancing around it. “Your daughter.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then William laughs.

Billy stares at the ground, heart hammering. Laughter was not on the list of acceptable reactions.

“Meet me at Freddy’s,” William says smoothly. “I’ll handle her.”

Like it’s a flat tire. Like it’s nothing.

The call ends.

Billy lowers the phone with shaking fingers. Stu is already moving, sliding into the passenger seat like this is just another bad idea on the itinerary.

Billy hops in the driver's side, shoots him a look. “Get out.”

“Nope,” Stu says, buckling in. “Not letting you go alone.”

Billy clenches his jaw, starts the car, and pulls out of the driveway as the sun fully clears the horizon.

Chapter 7

Summary:

William does damage control. Billy and Stu catch up.

By the time they reach Freddy’s, William is waiting in the lot, leaning against his car like he hasn’t just calmly accepted the fact that his daughter was thrown in a trunk.

Billy kills the engine and sits there for half a second too long, lungs locked. He doesn’t know whether to tell Stu to stay or follow, so he says nothing at all.

Stu follows anyway.

Vanessa has been screaming the entire drive. Kicking. Banging. The sound is still rattling around in Billy’s skull when he steps out of the car and walks toward William, legs stiff, jaw clenched.

William’s gaze flicks over him--quick, assessing--then he reaches out and takes Billy’s hand.

Billy flinches.

William turns Billy’s knuckles gently, inspecting the blood seeping through the gauze. He presses them deliberately to his mouth. Not a kiss. Not quite. Just enough pressure to make the point.

Billy shivers despite himself.

Behind him, Stu’s eyes go wide. Something sharp and wounded flashes there before he schools his face into confusion.

“Go sit in the restaurant,” William says mildly, like he’s telling kids to wait while he talks to a cashier.

Billy nods immediately. Too immediately. He grabs the front of Stu’s shirt and steers him inside before Stu can ask questions.

They clear debris off a booth and slide in. Billy folds forward, elbows on the table, hands tangled in his hair like he’s trying to physically hold himself together.

“So,” Stu says quietly, leaning in. “What was that?”

Billy doesn’t answer.

He risks a glance through the grimy window just in time to see William pop the trunk. Vanessa tumbles out, unsteady, gasping. William catches her by the shoulders, murmuring something Billy can’t hear. He tucks her hair behind her ear with a tenderness that makes Billy’s stomach twist. She nods, swallowing hard.

William guides her toward the restaurant with a hand at her back.

He brings her straight to the booth.

“I believe you have something to say to my daughter,” William says, voice calm, paternal, like they’re all misbehaving children who’ve made a mess.

“I’m sorry,” Billy blurts.

The words come out fast and automatic, like a reflex. Stu blinks at him, startled by how quick it was.

William squeezes Vanessa’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” she says, forcing a laugh that doesn’t quite land. “Accidents happen.”

“Yeah,” Billy laughs too, the sound thin and wrong. “Just an accident.”

Stu lets out a nervous little laugh, glancing between them like he’s trying to follow a script he was never given.

William studies him with open curiosity.

“Well,” William says, turning back to Vanessa, “I think it’s time you went home. Get some rest.”

“My gun--" Vanessa starts.

“On the dash,” Billy says immediately.

She looks at him, surprised. “Thank you.” She sounds younger when she says it. Smaller. Then she leaves, head down, shoulders tight.

William waits until the door closes.

Then he ruffles Billy’s hair.

Not gently. Possessively. Fingers threading into greasy strands, tugging just enough to make Billy suck in a breath. It’s a display more than affection, and William knows it.

Billy goes slack under it anyway, eyes unfocused.

“Billy,” William says lightly, “you haven’t introduced me to your friend.”

“Stu. Macher,” Billy answers, clipped, exhausted.

William smiles like he’s been handed confirmation of something he already knew. “Ah. The friend who survived the Woodsboro Massacre with you. Such a tragic thing to live through so young.”

“Uh. Yeah,” Stu says. His leg is bouncing under the table. Billy kicks him once, hard enough to make him still.

William’s gaze flicks between them. “How much has Billy told you about me?”

Stu looks at Billy. Billy gives him a look that says say it.

“Just… rumors,” Stu admits. “Murder stuff. I think your name’s William Afton.”

“Mm,” William hums, thoughtful. He pats Billy’s head again, slow and deliberate, like rewarding a well-trained animal. “I see.”

Then, pleasantly: “Sounds like you two have catching up to do.”

It’s phrased like a suggestion. It isn’t.

William stands, already turning away, humming to himself as he heads back toward his car.

Billy stays frozen in the booth, the echo of William’s touch still burning on his scalp.

Stu looks at him, really looks this time. “Billy,” he whispers. “What the fuck did you get us into?”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Billy drags a hand through his hair like he’s trying to scrape William’s fingerprints off his scalp. It doesn’t work. He leans back against the booth, immediately hates the way it feels, then folds forward again, elbows on the table, head in his hands like the weight of it might keep him anchored.

Stu watches him for a beat before reaching out, fingers closing around Billy’s arm.

“Come on, man,” Stu says quietly. “He wants you to tell me. Let me in.”

Billy lets out a shaky breath through his nose. It stutters, then steadies. He doesn’t look up when he starts talking.

“He’s not just some creep,” Billy says. “He’s… William Afton. Child killer. Like--actual, documented, kids. He built this place, killed them,” He swallows. “They’re still here. That’s what the animatronics are. Dead kids.”

Stu’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“And he--” Billy keeps going, like if he stops he won’t start again. “He decided I was… interesting. Took me under his wing. Like a protégé. We’ve--” He laughs once, sharp and humorless. “We’ve killed together. Cleaned up together.”

Stu stares at him, eyes wide, glassy.

“And,” Billy adds quickly, like ripping off a bandage, “we fucked. A couple times. I need a cigarette.”

“Wait, what?” Stu blurts, scrambling to his feet as Billy’s already heading for the door.

Billy doesn’t slow down. He steps outside, the early morning air cool and thin, drags a pack from his jacket, lights up with hands that won’t quite stop shaking. He takes a long pull like it might cauterize something inside him.

Stu barrels out after him.

“Okay,” Stu says, words tumbling over each other. “Okay. I’m gonna have to circle back to the ghost kids because--called it--but--" He gestures helplessly. “You fucked him?”

Billy exhales smoke through his nose. “Don’t make it a big deal.”

Stu stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “It’s a huge deal, Bills. This isn’t some random small-town girl, this is a whole--” He waves his hands, searching.

Billy snorts, bitter. “Man? What. If he was a woman it’d be better? Because girls don’t matter, right, Stu?”

“That was the rule,” Stu shrugs automatically, then winces. “And--no--okay, no. It’s because he’s, like… a mega psychopath.”

Billy laughs, sharp and incredulous, pacing now. Crushes his cigarette in his hand before tossing it. “What the fuck am I, then? We killed people, remember? A lot of people. Got away with it. I kidnapped his daughter because I panicked, for fuck’s sake.”

Stu grabs his arm. Billy spins, shoves Stu back against the car hard enough to rattle it. They stare at each other, breathless--Stu’s blue eyes wide with worry, Billy’s dark and hollowed out, running on fumes.

Then Billy just… collapses.

He presses his forehead into Stu’s shoulder, all the fight draining out of him at once. His voice comes out low and wrecked.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “I missed you.”

He buries his face into the crook of Stu’s neck, breathes him in like muscle memory--cheap soap, fabric softener, home. Stu doesn’t hesitate. He wraps his arms around Billy, tight and grounding, one hand sliding up to the back of Billy’s head.

“I missed you too, man,” Stu murmurs into his hair. “I missed you so bad.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They fall back into it like muscle memory.

Billy barely makes it to his bed before he’s out--Stu kicks off his shoes and crawls in beside him. They end up tangled together without trying, Stu’s arm slung heavy over Billy’s ribs, Billy’s knee hooked over Stu’s thigh. It’s the way they used to sleep in Woodsboro after long nights that bled into morning, when the world felt smaller and less sharp.

Billy sleeps hard. No dreams. Just dark, heavy rest that pulls him under and keeps him there.

When he comes back to himself, it’s to soft clattering and very deliberate, very failed quiet.

“…shit--okay, nope--”

Billy squints his eyes open. The room’s dim, washed in late-evening blue. Stu’s crouched on the floor, wrestling an N64 out of his duffel bag like it personally wronged him.

“Oops--hey,” Stu says softly when he notices Billy watching. Like he hasn’t been making enough noise to wake the dead.

“Hey,” Billy echoes, voice rough, still half-buried in sleep.

He glances at the window and freezes. The sky’s darkening fast.

“Fuck,” Billy breathes, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“What?” Stu asks, immediately alert.

“I gotta go to work soon.”

Stu just stares at him. “What? Seriously? You’re going back?”

Billy groans and presses his palms into his eyes, like he can physically shove the thought away. Of course he’s going back. Of course he is. William’s got his teeth in him, and Billy hates how deep they’re sunk--hates that part of him still wants to hear that low voice, that approval.

“Yeah,” Billy mutters. “I am.”

Stu blows out a breath, pacing once. Then he stops, eyes lighting with a thought.

“Okay--okay. Then take me with you.”

Billy drops his hands and looks at him.

“No.”

“Come on,” Stu insists, already moving closer. “You can’t seriously think I’m letting you go back there alone.”

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

Stu grins anyway, sliding up to the side of the bed, leaning in like he’s got a secret. “It’ll be fun. Just you, me, your creepy boss. A bunch of ghost kids.”

Billy snorts despite himself.

Stu presses a quick kiss to the corner of Billy’s mouth, light and familiar. Billy feels the traitorous curve of a smile start and hates that he doesn’t stop it.

“It’s a dumb fucking idea,” Billy murmurs.

“Yeah?” Stu teases, crowding his space, all elbows and confidence.

“Yeah.” Billy shoves him away, not gently.

Stu flops back on the bed with a dramatic grunt. “Wow. So hostile.”

“Quit fucking around,” Billy snaps, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “If you’re coming, we gotta get ready.”

Stu blinks. Then grins, wide and sharp.

“Oh, I’m coming,” he says, popping to his feet. “Told you. You always cave.”

Billy glares at him, but there’s no heat behind it. Just tired affection and a knot of dread tightening in his chest.

Because somewhere across town, William Afton is waiting.

Chapter 8

Summary:

Billy and Stu go exploring. They find more than they could bargain for.

The drive over is quiet in a way that makes Billy itch.

Freddy’s is dark when they arrive, the parking lot empty, the building sitting there like it’s holding its breath. No yellow rabbit. No William leaning against a car, no humming, no sense of being watched--at least, nothing obvious.

Billy doesn’t relax.

He heads straight for the surveillance room, muscle memory guiding him. Stu lingers in the doorway, peering around like a kid let loose in a haunted house.

Billy flips on the monitors.

Nothing.

He scans them once. Twice. A third time, slower, methodical, his jaw tight like he’s waiting for something to flicker into existence just to prove him right. Empty halls. Empty dining area. Stage dark and still.

Nothing.

“Man,” Stu says, leaning against the wall, already bored. “We shoulda brought a movie.”

Billy doesn’t answer. His eyes stay on the screens another beat too long.

Then Stu straightens suddenly, finger snapping up like he’s had a divine revelation. “Or--or--we could go exploring. I mean, how much have you actually dug around this place?”

Hardly at all, Billy thinks. Just enough to know where the mops are. Just enough to clean up blood.

He checks the cameras one more time. Still nothing.

“Fine,” Billy mutters.

Stu pumps his fist, whisper-hissing, “Yes.”

They move together through the halls, Billy leading with the flashlight. The beam cuts through dust motes and old paper streamers, catching faded murals and peeling paint. The place feels bigger without the lights on, warped by shadows.

The first room they duck into looks like a workshop frozen in time. Worktables. Shelving. Crates shoved against the walls.

Stu immediately starts rummaging.

“Dibs on anything cursed,” he says, already knee-deep in junk.

He pops open a trunk and lets out a low whistle. Inside are spare animatronic parts--arms, wiring, cracked shells. He digs deeper and pulls out a rabbit head that doesn’t quite fit the rest. Patchwork. Handmade. Wrong.

He holds it up to his face. “Billy,” he intones, muffled, “it puts the lotion on its skin.”

Billy snorts despite himself. “You’re an idiot.”

“Thanks, buddy.”

Billy’s flashlight drifts away, catching on a dusty box shoved beneath a table. Books, stacked haphazardly. He crouches, pulls one free, knocks the dust off against his knee.

It opens too easily.

These aren’t books.

They’re journals.

His stomach tightens as he flips through pages--entries that swing wildly from neat, reverent handwriting to frantic, jagged scrawls. Henry’s name appears again and again. Praise that borders on devotion. Then suspicion. Jealousy. Accusations spiraling into incoherence. Some pages are just ink, scratched so hard it tears the paper.

“Oooh, whatcha find?” Stu says, popping up beside him, peering over his shoulder.

Stu’s voice drops as he reads a few lines. “What the fuuuuck.”

Billy doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

“Do you think…?” Stu trails off.

William, Billy thinks. He knows it in his bones.

He closes the journal and slides it back into the box like it burned him, like pretending he never saw it might make it untrue.

They leave the room quieter than they entered.

Eventually, they push into a back room Billy’s never seen before. The flashlight beam sweeps the center and stops.

Both of them do.

In the middle of the room sits a chair.

No--something built around a chair.

They circle it slowly.

Restraints. Arm clamps. A Freddy mask mounted above it, opened to reveal serrated blades lining the inside. Wires snake from the mechanism like veins

Stu swallows. “This guy is nuts.”

Billy doesn’t speak. Something cold and electric flares behind his ribs--not just fear, not just revulsion. Something darker. Awe. Recognition. The understanding of a mind that builds horrors not out of chaos, but intention.

And that’s what scares him the most.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I think that’s enough exploring,” Billy says abruptly.

“Yeah--yeah,” Stu agrees a beat too fast. His bravado has thinned, stretched tight over something unsettled. He gives the chair one last look, then backs toward the door. “Hard pass on murder furniture.”

They turn--

--and nearly collide with someone standing right behind them.

Billy yelps, jerking back on instinct. Stu straight-up screams, a high, startled sound that has no dignity to it, and swings before his brain catches up. His fist connects squarely with the guy’s face.

Crack.

The stranger stumbles back and hits the floor hard.

“Oh my--” Stu gasps. “Oh my God. Dude. Sorry--no I’m not--why were you just standing there like that?”

Billy’s heart is trying to claw out of his throat.

“Who the fuck are you?” Billy snaps.

The guy on the floor laughs.

Actually laughs.

He wipes under his nose with the back of his hand, blinks at the blood there, and grins wider, like that’s somehow funny. The smile is wrong--too tight, too eager, stretched over something brittle.

He pushes himself upright, dusting off his jacket like he didn’t just get decked. Up close, Billy clocks the resemblance immediately. Same build. Same eyes.

Oh. Oh no.

“I heard my dad hired a new night guard,” the guy says, cheerful as anything. “Got curious.”

Billy feels his stomach drop.

Another one.

“Michael,” he says, like he’s introducing himself at a party. "Michael Afton."

“Where’s your father?” Billy asks, eyes narrowing.

Michael’s mouth opens automatically--then closes. The grin falters, just a crack, but Billy sees it. The uncertainty. The kid who’s always the last to know. The one who doesn’t get looped in.

“I don’t know,” Michael says finally, quieter. Honest.

Billy exhales through his nose, annoyed more than surprised. “Figures.”

He turns and brushes past Michael, shoulder-checking him on the way by. “Useless.”

Stu shrugs apologetically as he follows. “No offense, man. You just… got punched.”

They’re halfway down the hall when Michael speaks again.

“I know something you don’t.”

His voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. There’s something deliberate in it now, something that hooks instead of startles.

Billy stops.

Slowly, he turns back.

Michael’s standing where they left him, hands shoved into his pockets, head tilted like he’s trying not to look smug--but failing.

Billy raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Michael hesitates just long enough to make it count. “The first Freddy’s,” he says. “Not this one. The original location.”

Stu’s head snaps toward Billy. Billy feels that familiar, dangerous click in his chest--the sound of curiosity locking into place.

Michael smiles again.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Out front, Michael mounts a purple moped, hooking a helmet around his chin.

He looks ridiculous. Billy and Stu share a look, then break down laughing.

Michael gestures for them to follow, peeling off down the road.

They follow in Billy’s car, headlights swallowing the moped whole as it buzzes ahead of them. The drive doesn’t take long--too close, Billy thinks, like this rot’s been sitting right under the surface the whole time.

The first Freddy’s squats at the edge of town, smaller than the franchise location, older. Sun-bleached mascot decals peel from the windows. The parking lot is cracked and choked with weeds.

Michael hops off his moped and doesn’t even wait for them to shut the car doors.

“So,” he starts brightly, already walking, flashlight clicking on, “this is where it all began.”

Billy exchanges a look with Stu and follows.

Inside, the air is stale and wet, like something’s been holding its breath for decades. Michael talks as he leads them through back halls, voice echoing.

“The whole reason the franchise location exists,” he says, almost proud, “is because this place got shut down. All it took was one mishap. One little girl poking where she shouldn’t have, and--" He makes a slicing motion with his hand. “Closed.”

Billy’s stomach tightens.

Henry. His daughter.

Michael ducks into a maintenance tunnel, motioning them along. The walls narrow, concrete sweating. At the end of it sits a large, striped present box, looming and wrong, its crank mounted to the side.

Billy knows before Michael says it.

“This is where she died,” Michael continues, lifting his flashlight to illuminate the box. “Collapsed right into the Marionette’s arms.”

Stu lets out a low whistle, murmuring the X-Files theme under his breath.

Billy elbows him hard.

Michael stops at the entrance to the room and gestures them inside. “Go on. Check it out.”

Every instinct Billy has screams no. Against his better judgement, they step forward.

Then-- the crank on the present box starts to turn.

Slow. Mechanical.

Billy’s flashlight flickers. Static crackles through the speakers, a sound like breath caught in a throat.

Billy turns back toward the entrance.

Michael is gone.

“Stu,” Billy says sharply.

He doesn’t wait for a response. He grabs a fistful of Stu’s shirt and hauls him backward.

“Run.”

They bolt.

Their boots skid on slick concrete as they tear back through the maintenance tunnel, down into the underground boat ride. Water sloshes underfoot. Stu nearly eats shit and yelps as Billy drags him upright.

“Jesus--!”

In the restaurant proper, Stu risks a glance back into the dark.

Something hangs from the ceiling.

Metal. Limbs wrong. Too many joints. A head twisted at an angle no neck should allow.

“Fuck--nope,” Stu pants, shoving Billy forward. “Go, go, go--”

They don't stop until they've cleared the threshold of the pizzeria, lungs burning.

Michael is there.

Waiting.

He’s smiling.

Something in Billy snaps clean in half.

Billy crosses the distance in a second, grabs Michael by the jacket, and slams him to the ground. The first punch lands before Michael can speak. The second splits his lip. The third knocks the smile right off his face.

Stu stands back, watching, breathing hard, not stopping him.

Billy keeps going until his knuckles split, until Michael’s face is a ruin, until the anger finally drains enough to leave him shaking.

He pulls off him at last, chest heaving, and spits at Michael’s feet.

“Let’s go,” Billy says flatly.

He turns and walks back to the car.

Stu follows without a word.

Chapter 9

Summary:

Billy crosses a line.

Billy and Stu slip back into the house while the sky is still bruised dark, that in-between hour where night hasn’t decided to leave yet. They don’t bother with lights. They just peel off shoes, stumble into Billy’s room, and collapse onto the bed like they’ve run out of bones.

The adrenaline hits the floor all at once.

Billy’s heart is still jackhammering when he closes his eyes. Stu’s breathing evens out faster than his, familiarity doing most of the work. Billy almost gets there--almost--

The phone rings.

Once.

They ignore it.

Twice.

Billy cracks one eye open, squints at the dresser. Unknown number. He lets it die.

The third ring drills straight into his skull.

“Jesus--” Billy mutters, snatching it up. His voice comes out wrecked. “Hello?”

“Billy.”

William.

Concern coats his voice so thick it’s almost convincing.

Billy stares at the ceiling, brain sluggish, edges still dulled by exhaustion. Of all the things he could say, what falls out is blunt and half-asleep. “Where were you last night?”

There’s a pause. Then, soft as velvet--

“Oh, baby.” William sighs, indulgent. “I was giving you and your friend space. You’d just reunited. It seemed… polite.”

Billy rolls his eyes hard enough it almost hurts. He shifts onto his side, turning his back to Stu. “Do you know what your shitty son did?”

“I do,” William says easily. Too easily. “And I know you handled it. Are you and your… friend okay?”

The tenderness in his voice is wrong. It slides under Billy’s guard instead of hitting it head-on. He presses his palm to his eye, rubs like he can scrub the last few days out of his skull.

“No,” Billy admits quietly. “No, I’m not.”

The words hang there, heavier than he expects.

“I thought as much,” William murmurs. “Would you like me to make it better?”

Something low and instinctive stirs in Billy’s gut at that. He hates it. He glances over his shoulder.

Stu is awake now, propped on one elbow, watching Billy with naked concern. No jokes. No grin. Just there.

As if sensing the hesitation, William adds gently, “You can bring him with you.”

Billy exhales through his nose. Stu would follow him anywhere. That’s the problem. That’s always been the problem.

“Yeah,” Billy says after a beat. “Yeah, okay.”

William gives him an address. Calm. Casual. Like this is just another errand. Then the line goes dead.

Billy sits up immediately, swinging his legs off the bed.

“Let’s go for a ride,” he says.

Stu blinks. “Right now?”

“Yes,” Billy snaps, already pulling on his shoes. “Right now.”

Stu doesn’t argue. He never does. He just grabs his jacket and follows.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The house they pull up to is painfully ordinary. Two stories. Neutral siding. A porch light glowing warm and domestic against the dark.

Stu squints at it. “What are we doing, man?”

Billy doesn’t answer. He gets out of the car and knocks before he can talk himself out of it.

The door opens almost immediately.

William stands there like he’s been waiting, concern written clean across his face. Sleeves rolled up. Hair mussed. The picture of a man roused from sleep for something important.

“Billy,” he says softly, stepping aside. “Come in.”

Billy moves without thinking. Stu follows, glancing between them, brow furrowed, like he’s trying to solve an equation with missing numbers.

The door shuts behind them with a quiet click.

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The living room felt too big and too small at once. Billy and Stu sat side by side on the couch, knees brushing, the silence thick enough to choke on. Billy leaned into the armrest, fingers raking through his dark hair, trying to look bored when his pulse was hammering. Stu’s leg bounced in a frantic rhythm, the only sound besides the faint tick of a wall clock.

William stood in the doorway to the kitchen, watching them with that calm, unreadable gaze.

“Something to drink?” he asked, voice smooth as ever.

“Sure,” Billy answered--too quick, too sharp.

William didn’t comment.

He just turned, poured two fingers of amber whiskey into three heavy glasses, and carried two of them back. He set them on the coffee table with deliberate care. Billy snatched his first, nudging Stu with an elbow until he grabbed the second.

The whiskey was good--warm, smoky, expensive. Billy threw it back in one swallow. William was already refilling before the glass hit the table. Second round gone just as fast. Stu laughed, high and nervous, and matched him. William poured again. And again. And again.

By the fifth, the edges of the room had softened. Billy’s head swam pleasantly, heat pooling low in his gut. William moved behind the couch, silent, and then his fingers were in Billy’s hair--slow, possessive strokes that made Billy’s eyes flutter shut. He leaned into it without thinking, a low hum escaping his throat.

When he opened his eyes again, Stu was staring--face flushed, lips parted, pupils blown wide with confusion and something hungrier.

Billy didn’t think. He just shifted, bent forward, and pressed his mouth against the bulge in Stu’s pants. Hot breath, fabric, the shape of him unmistakable.

“Bills--” Stu’s voice cracked, hands hovering like he didn’t know where to put them.

William’s hand guided one of Stu’s down, curling his fingers into Billy’s hair. “Like that,” William murmured, approving. “Good.”

Billy moaned, low and shameless, the sound vibrating against Stu.

“You want his cock, don’t you, Billy?” William asked, voice velvet and steel.

Billy nodded, mouth still working through khaki fabric. “Mhm.”

A sharp swat landed on his ass--William’s hand, precise.

Billy jolted, a strangled noise catching in his throat.

“Words,” William said calmly.

“Fuck, I want you, Stu,” Billy rasped. The rest slipped out before he could stop it. “Want you both to fuck me.”

Stu’s breath stopped entirely. William hummed, thoughtful.

“Get up,” he ordered.

They obeyed, clumsy and buzzing. William was already moving, leading them down the hall. Billy’s gaze snagged on the shadow at the top of the stairs--Michael, curled small against the wall, face bruised and swollen, eyes wide. Billy registered it dully, filed it away.

Didn’t care.

The bedroom door clicked shut behind them.

Billy froze in the doorway. The bed was huge, neatly made, reality slamming into him like cold water.

Stu bumped into his back, breath warm against his neck. “Fuck, you sure about this, Bills?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Billy lied, voice steadier than he felt. He stepped forward.

It blurred after that--clothes shed in frantic pulls, hands everywhere. Next clear moment: Billy on his back across the bed, pants and boxers gone, knees pushed wide. William knelt between them, two slick fingers working in and out of him slow and deep.

“That’s it,” William praised, voice low. “Opening up so beautifully for me. Doing so good.”

Stu hovered awkwardly at the edge, shifting weight, unsure.

William glanced up. “Don’t you miss your friend, Stuart?”

Stu swallowed hard. “Yeah--yeah.”

“Miss his warm mouth?” William continued, sultry. “The way his teeth catch just right?”

Billy didn’t wait.

He hooked a finger in Stu’s belt loop, yanked him closer, fumbled the zipper open. Stu sprang free, hot and heavy, and Billy took him in one smooth slide--wet, eager, insistent.

Stu groaned, hips stuttering forward after a frozen second. His hand found the back of Billy’s head, cradling gently at first, then guiding shallow thrusts.

William watched, eyes dark, then shifted. The blunt pressure at Billy’s entrance became something thicker, broader--William pushing in slow, relentless.

“That’s it, baby,” William murmured. “You can take it.”

He bottomed out with a shared groan, then found a rhythm that matched Stu’s--deep, steady strokes hitting Billy’s prostate on every pass.

Billy came first, sudden and blinding, moaning around Stu’s cock, body clenching hard. The vibration sent Stu over--he pulled out with a broken “fuck--” and spilled across Billy's mouth and chin.

William didn’t stop. He shifted angle, draped himself over Billy’s spent body, one hand cradling the back of his head possessively. Harder now, deeper, chasing his own release.

All Stu could do is watch.

Billy babbled--nonsense mostly, fucked-out and floating. One word slipped clear: “Daddy--”

William’s rhythm faltered only a second. Then he pressed his mouth to Billy’s ear, voice rough with affection. “That’s right, baby. Just a little more. You’re taking me so well.”

He came with a low growl, buried deep, pulsing hot inside Billy. Billy clung to him--nails digging into William’s back, ass, anywhere he could reach.

William stayed inside a long moment, breathing hard. Then he leaned close again, lips and beard brushing Billy’s temple.

“What do you say?”

Billy’s voice was wrecked, small. “Thank you--thank you.”

William kissed the spot softly. “Good boy.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Billy lies sprawled on William’s bed, limbs heavy, body gone loose and useless like someone unplugged him. The ceiling swims faintly above him. He’s too tired to care.

Stu sits beside him, stiff as a fence post, hands not quite knowing where to land. William returns from the bathroom with a damp washcloth, presses it into Stu’s hand without ceremony.

“Here,” William says quietly.

Stu nods and leans over Billy, wiping at his face with careful, almost reverent movements. “Sorry,” he murmurs, like Billy might be fragile enough to crack.

Billy hums in response--something low and indistinct--eyes half-lidded.

“I’m sorry too,” William adds, voice smooth, regret practiced but convincing enough. “I do need to get ready for work. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”

Then he’s gone again, footsteps receding down the hall, the sound of a shower starting up.

The door closes.

The room exhales.

Stu stares at the wall for a second, then lets out a quiet, stunned, “What the fuck.”

“Mmm?” Billy intones, voice lazy, boneless.

Stu drags a hand down his face. “What the fuck… what the fuck did we just--Billy.” His voice catches.

Billy covers his face with his forearm. “Don’t,” he says flatly. Don’t ruin it. Don’t make me think about it.

“Billy,” Stu presses, softer now. “You called him--”

“Don’t.”

There’s a pause anyway.

“…you called him daddy,” Stu finishes, the word twisted with something like hurt.

“So?” Billy snaps, dropping his arm, defensive heat flaring fast and sharp.

“So--so what the fuck,” Stu says, refusing to say the thing that would actually break him.

“Stu, shut the fuck up,” Billy bites.

Stu turns away, perching on the edge of the bed, knee bouncing like it’s trying to escape his body. He doesn’t look back.

“It was just sex,” Billy says, forcing the words steady. “I was just horny. Like Sidney. Like Tatum. Remember?”

Silence.

Billy sighs and sits up, the movement slow, joints protesting. He slings an arm around Stu’s shoulders, pulls himself close, presses a kiss into the side of Stu’s neck--familiar, grounding.

“Are you jealous?” Billy asks quietly.

“No--no,” Stu answers too fast.

Billy reaches up, turns Stu’s face until their foreheads touch. Stu meets his eyes, searching.

“Hey,” Billy says, softer now. “I love you, man.”

Stu studies him, finds the truth there despite everything. His shoulders sag.

“Love you too,” he murmurs.

Billy pulls back, resolve settling in.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Notes:

Fic title change! Used to be Familiarity, but as I continue to write it feels ill-fitting, so new name!

Chapter 10

Summary:

Stu has feelings to get out.

The drive home is careful in the way only bad ideas ever are. Billy grips the wheel too tight, jaw set, eyes glassy in the streetlights. Stu watches the road for him, sober enough to know when to talk and when not to.

When they finally stumble into Billy’s house, shoes kicked off wherever, they collapse onto the bed fully clothed and pass out like someone flipped a switch.

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Later--about an hour before Billy’s shift--the room smells faintly of cold pizza and sugary soda. Mortal Kombat blares from the TV, pixelated violence flashing as Billy hammers the controller, ruthless and focused. Stu sprawls beside him, talking shit, laughing when Billy lands a brutal combo.

The phone rings.

Billy pauses the game, frowns at the screen. "Huh."

He answers "Hello?"

“Glad to hear you made it home safely,” William says, voice warm, satisfied.

Billy straightens immediately. “Yeah--yeah, sorry. I--” The apology tumbles out too fast, too eager.

“You’re forgiven, baby,” William hums, light and easy.

Billy swallows.

“And,” William continues, the word stretching with delight, “I have a little surprise for you. For you and your friend.”

Billy perks up. “Oh? Yeah?”

Stu mouths what? from beside Billy. Billy waves him off without looking.

“Mm-hmm,” William laughs, a touch too giddy. “No hints. But you’ll want to come prepared.”

Billy leans back against the bed. “Prepared how?”

“Ghostface,” William says. “Both of you.” A pause. “I’ll give you the number for the surveillance room. And Billy--" His voice lowers. “Use that voice. The one you use when someone realizes they’re cornered.”

Billy’s stomach flips. He doesn’t need it spelled out. Someone’s waiting. William wants them to hunt--like before.

When the call ends, Billy just stares at the phone for a moment.

“Well?” Stu asks.

Billy turns, grin slow and sharp. “He’s got a surprise. Wants us masked. Wants us… working.”

Stu's slower to excite than usual, but seeing Billy smile--Stu smiles, something smaller than his usual big, goofy grin.

He stumbles over to his bag, pulling out the costume and knife. Of course he has them.

Billy laughs under his breath, presses a quick kiss to Stu’s cheek.

Tonight, they have fun.

Like old times.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Billy and Stu roll into Freddy’s a little late, the parking lot empty and humming under sickly white lights. They sit there for a beat, engine ticking, masks resting in their laps, knives warm in their hands.

Billy pulls out the voice changer and dials the surveillance room.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end is startled. Male. Thirties, maybe.

Billy smiles and clicks the changer on. “Hello?” he echoes back, voice syrupy, wrong. “Oops. Did I wake you?”

“I think you’ve got the wrong number,” the guy says.

“No--wait, don’t hang up,” Billy purrs. “I’m bored at work. Keep me company?”

There’s a sigh, long-suffering, then a reluctant capitulation. “Yeah. Sure. Me too. What do you wanna talk about?”

Good man, Billy thinks.

“Seen any good movies lately?” Billy asks.

A pause. “Uh. Saw The Frighteners last weekend.”

Billy’s smile twitches. Of all movies.

“A serial killer and his teenage lover,” Billy lilts. “Kinda dark for a comedy, don’t you think?”

“It had its funny moments,” the guy says. Billy can practically hear the shrug.

Billy gestures Stu toward the back of the building, slips him the keys. Stu nods once and disappears into the dark.

“Do you like scary movies?” Billy asks, strolling toward the front doors.

“Sure.”

“Ever wanted to act in one?”

Another pause. “Maybe when I was younger. Why?”

Billy steps inside, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. He looks straight into the camera he knows is trained on him.

“Because I’ve got a script,” Billy murmurs, “where the night guard gets gutted.”

A beat. Then a laugh. “Very funny. Alright, you’ve had your fun. I can see you on the cameras--get out before I call the cops.”

The line goes dead.

“Oh,” Billy breathes. “Oh, that’s not good.”

He moves fast--cuts the power first, plunging the building into sudden, choking quiet. Emergency lights flicker weakly as he sprints for the surveillance room.

When he gets there, it’s already over.

Stu is straddling the guard, knife rising and falling, rising and falling. Blood slicks the floor, the wall, Stu’s sleeves. The man’s back is a ruin of overlapping wounds, less a kill than an erasure.

Billy pulls his mask up. “Stu--what the fuck?”

William’s voice whispers in his skull--savor it--unwanted, intrusive.

Stu finally stops. He drags his own mask off, shoulders heaving, breath ragged. “He--” He swallows. “He called the cops.”

Like that explains it. Like that excuses the way Stu kept stabbing long after panic should’ve burned out, like he was trying to carve something out of himself.

“Fuck,” Billy whispers.

Outside, distant but unmistakable, a patrol car whoops once as it turns into the lot.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Billy heads for the cameras, heart still jackhammering. He scans, breath catching--then easing--when he spots Vanessa slipping through the front doors, flashlight in hand.

“It’s just Vanessa,” Billy says, relief sagging his shoulders. He peels away to meet her.

She startles when she sees him, then exhales hard, pressing a hand to her chest. “Billy--Jesus. It’s just you.”

“Are you the only cop in town?” Billy jokes weakly.

Vanessa gives him a tired smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It’s possible she is. Her flashlight beam drifts over him, catches on the white mask, the glittering black fabric. “What are you wearing?”

Billy spreads his arms a little. “Ghostface,” he says, like that explains anything.

Her brow furrows. She doesn’t speak this language--not Billy’s, not Stu’s, not William’s. He realizes that with a strange pang. Then she sighs. “I’ll have to report the break-in,” she says, already resigned, “but I’ll say it was just neighborhood kids.”

She doesn’t ask why he’s here. Or what he was doing. Maybe she understands more than she lets on.

“Thanks,” Billy says quietly.

She nods and leaves.

Billy goes back to the surveillance room. Stu is sitting across from the body, staring it down like it might move again. He looks up when Billy enters.

“We’re good,” Billy tells him.

Stu exhales, shoulders slumping, relief cutting through the shock.

They clean up the way William taught him--methodical, efficient, empty. No thinking. Just steps.

They’re hauling the last of the bags into the trunk when headlights sweep the lot. William’s car pulls in smooth and unhurried.

“How are my two little bunnies doing?” William calls, voice light as he steps out.

Billy can’t help it--an incredulous smile flickers across his face. Stu sees it.

“Almost done,” Billy says.

William closes in immediately, fingers threading into Billy’s hair, proprietary. “Good boys.”

“Can you fuck off?” Stu snaps, shoving William back.

William pauses, studying him with open curiosity.

Billy reacts without thinking--grabs Stu, slams him back against the car. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Stu fires back, shoving him in return.

Billy hits him. Hard.

Stu hits back.

They go down in a tangle of limbs and fury--punches, scrabbling hands, knees slamming into concrete. It’s messy, desperate, all the words they won’t say coming out as violence.

“Okay,” William says mildly. “That’s enough.”

He lifts Billy off Stu like he weighs nothing. Stu staggers up, wiping blood from his mouth, eyes glassy. “Fuck you, man,” he spits, voice cracking.

He turns to leave.

A hand snaps out, iron grip on his arm. Stu whirls and punches William square in the face. Glasses skitter across the pavement.

For a split second, William just looks at him. Something cold slides into place behind his eyes.

Then both hands close around Stu’s throat.

“Fuck,” Billy breathes.

Stu claws at William’s wrists, face flushing red, panic breaking through the anger. “Hey--hey, fuck, that’s enough!” Billy shouts, grabbing at William, trying to pry him loose.

He doesn’t budge. He’s impossibly strong.

Seconds stretch, awful and long.

Chapter 11

Finally--finally--William releases him.

Stu collapses backward, coughing, gulping air like it’s the first time he’s ever needed it. Tears streak his face as he chokes and wheezes, hands shaking around his throat.

William pinches the bridge of his nose and draws a long, deliberate breath--inhale, exhale--like he’s filing himself back into place.

“Get up,” he tells Stu.

“Fuck you,” Stu rasps, wiping his face with his sleeve. “You tried to kill me.”

“Get up,” William repeats, firmer now. Not a request.

Stu staggers to his feet. William grips him by the scruff of his shirt, then does the same to Billy, hauling them both inside the pizzeria. He shoves them into a booth, sitting across from one another like scolded children. Neither of them looks up. Their gazes fix on the scarred tabletop between them.

“Stuart,” William says calmly, settling in like a mediator. “I believe you have something to say.”

Stu chews on it, jaw working, chest hitching. Then it spills out of him all at once. “No--okay, no. Why should I be sorry?” He barely breathes between words. “You’re the one who packed up and left me after everything. I fly out here because I’m worried about you and now you’re-- you’re--” He gestures sharply at William. “Fucking this creep. And I’m just supposed to accept it?”

“It’s just sex,” Billy snaps.

“Billy--” Stu’s voice fractures on his name.

Billy finally looks at him. Really looks. Stu’s knee is bouncing, hands clenched white-knuckled in his lap. Billy’s irritation flares, hot and defensive. “So what if it’s not?” he fires back. “I didn’t realize I had a tattoo on my forehead that says property of Stu Macher.”

Stu flinches like he’s been struck. He looks up, tears blurring his vision. “Man… it’s always been us,” he says softly. “Billy and Stu. Stu and Billy. Against the world.” His voice breaks. He drops his face into his hands. “Where do I fit if that’s changed?”

The question lands heavy. It hits Billy low and hard, knocking the air from his lungs.

He leans forward, reaching out before he can stop himself, hand closing around Stu’s forearm. “You’re a massive idiot,” Billy says quietly, “but you’re still my best friend.” His voice steadies. “I love you, man. I mean it.”

Stu looks up, eyes red and impossibly blue, searching Billy’s face like he’s afraid the answer might disappear. After a beat, he nods. “I’m sorry,” he says, raw and earnest.

Billy swallows, pride scraping on the way down. “I’m sorry too.”

Their fingers lace together across the table, tight like a lifeline.

William clears his throat, scratching at his beard as if this has all been mildly inconvenient. “So,” he says smoothly, “we’re good? No more… petty infighting?”

“Yeah,” Stu murmurs. “Yeah.”

William leans in then, draping an arm around each of them, pulling them close. Possessive. Satisfied. “Good,” he says. “We function as a team from here on out. If someone feels insecure, we address it.” His smile is thin, sharp. “A machine is useless with a failing part.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They dump the body at a landfill in the middle of the night, the place dead quiet sans the sound of chittering bugs. No one talks on the drive back to William’s house. There’s nothing left to say.

That night blurs into heat and motion and the strange, fragile shape of something like acceptance. Not sharp, not hungry the way it usually is--just heavy, consuming, like sinking under warm water. When it’s over, Billy lies boneless between them, spent to the marrow.

Stu turns toward him first, instinctive, curling around Billy’s side like he’s always done. Billy, half-asleep already, reaches out without looking and finds William’s hand--big, rough, warm. He doesn’t open his eyes, like he’s daring William not to comment, not to turn it into something loaded.

William pauses, just for a second, studying the gesture. Then he leans in, presses his face into Billy’s neck, and leaves soft, lingering kisses there--nothing sharp, nothing claimed. Just there.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Billy dreams.

He sees the Marionette--something he’s never laid eyes on, yet knows instantly. Long and spindly, paint-streaked tears carved down its face. It crumples to the floor, folding in on itself, sobbing like a child.

As Billy steps closer, it changes.

It’s a girl now, maybe ten. Long dark pigtails. A striped shirt. When he circles her, he sees the wounds in her back--three neat, brutal stabs.

“Hey,” Billy says, heart pounding. His voice sounds small even to him. “Hey.”

She doesn’t look up at first.

Then she does--

And she lunges, letting out a shriek that doesn’t sound human at all.

Billy jerks awake with a gasp, tangled in Stu, heart racing, the smell of coffee already drifting through the house.

“What--what?” Stu mumbles, still half asleep, tightening around him on instinct.

“Nightmare,” Billy says hoarsely. He scrubs a hand over his face, already sitting up. “I’m getting up.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Billy follows the smell of coffee into the kitchen, head throbbing dully. Stu trails after him, socked feet shuffling against the floor. William is already seated at the table, humming under his breath as he skims the newspaper, one hand wrapped around a mug.

He looks up as they come into view, smile bright and effortless.
“Good morning.”

“’Morning,” Billy groans back, voice wrecked with sleep.

They look exactly like what they are--two teenagers who rolled straight out of bed. Hair sticking up in defiance of gravity, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Billy gestures weakly toward the coffee pot.

“Can I?”

“Help yourself,” William says easily, pointing out the mugs.

Billy pulls one down. Stu reaches for another and Billy immediately swats his hand away.
“Coffee is the last thing you need,” he mutters.

Stu clutches his chest in mock offense. “Wow. Oppression."

They sit across from William. Billy nurses his coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. Stu’s knee starts bouncing almost immediately, restless energy crackling under his skin.

Without looking up from the paper, William speaks, casual as if he’s discussing grocery lists. He says he’ll keep hiring night guards. Periodically. He expects Billy and Stu to handle the luring with him. They’ll hunt together. Clean together. No loose ends.

Billy doesn’t argue. Stu doesn’t either.

And so they do.

The weeks that follow blur into a pattern--voices on the phone, footsteps echoing through empty halls, knives flashing under flickering lights. They move like a machine with three perfectly aligned parts. Efficient. Vicious. Seamless.

Billy keeps dreaming.

Always the same girl. Long dark pigtails. A striped shirt. Three stab wounds in her back. She cries without sound, grief pouring off her in waves that seep into Billy’s bones.

Henry’s daughter, he realizes one night with a jolt of clarity.
Charlotte.

“What do you want?” Billy asks her in the dream, lucid and exhausted, fed up with being haunted.

She doesn’t answer. She just stares.

Billy blinks--and he’s standing in the Macher house.

Blood is everywhere. Slick on the floors. Running in the sink. Smeared across the walls like paint. The rooms are full of bodies. Not just the ones from Woodsboro, but all the ones after. Every choice he’s made since, laid out in silent accusation.

Billy wakes up gasping, heart pounding, sweat cold on his skin.

This time, he doesn’t try to shake it off.

This time, he knows exactly what he’s going to do.

He’s going to call Henry.

Chapter 12

Back at his house, Billy slips out onto the porch for a cigarette. The Minnesota day grey, overcast. He lights up with shaking fingers and stares out at nothing in particular.

Before he can talk himself out of it, before he can decide what the end goal even is, he dials Henry’s number.

It rings twice.

“Hello?” Henry answers, exhaustion heavy in his voice, the kind that never really leaves.

“It’s me,” Billy says. “Billy.”

There’s a pause--then recognition. “Oh. Billy. The night guard.” He hesitates. “You're still working there?”

Billy doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

Henry exhales softly. “Why are you calling?”

There’s no irritation in it. Just concern. That somehow makes it harder.

Billy drags in smoke, lets it burn. “I don’t know,” he admits finally. “It just… felt like I should.”

He can’t say the real reason. Can’t tell him about the dreams. About Charlotte crying.

Another pause. Then, tentative, like Henry’s afraid of scaring him off:
“Do you… want to meet? At my house?”

Billy’s heart stutters, sharp and sudden.

“Yeah,” he says before he can reconsider. “Yeah, okay.”

Henry gives him the address, voice still careful, and says he’ll see him soon.

Billy ends the call and stands there for a second longer, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. Then he crushes it out and heads back inside to grab his keys.

“Where are we going?” Stu asks immediately, already halfway off the couch, alert like a dog hearing a leash.

Billy doesn’t even slow down. “We’re not. You’re staying here.”

Stu blinks. “Uh, excuse me? We’re a team, Bills. Daddy’s rules. I gotta come.”

Billy spins on him. “Don’t call him that,” he snaps. “And no. Shut up, go play a video game or something. I’ll be back before work.”

Stu frowns, clearly gearing up to argue--but Billy’s already at the door, keys in hand, jaw set.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Billy pulls up in front of Henry’s house and kills the engine.

The place looks tired in a way that goes beyond age--like it’s been losing a fight for years. Vines crawl up the siding unchecked, the porch sags, a hairline crack runs along the foundation like a fault line no one bothered to fix. It’s the opposite of William’s immaculate, curated home. This place feels abandoned even while occupied.

Billy knocks.

Henry answers almost immediately, like he’d been standing just on the other side of the door. He looks worse up close--gaunt, hollow-eyed, clothes rumpled in a way that isn’t accidental.

“Come in,” Henry says quietly.

Billy steps inside. The air smells faintly of dust and old coffee. Henry gestures toward the kitchen, and Billy ends up sitting at the table, hands folded loosely in front of him.

“Coffee?” Henry offers, already moving toward the counter.

“No,” Billy says. Too fast. Too sharp.

Henry sits across from him instead.

For a moment, he just looks. Really looks. His eyes linger on Billy’s neck, on the bruises blooming there--finger-shaped, possessive, barely disguised under layers of poorly matched foundation.

Henry exhales through his nose.

“He’s got his claws in you,” he says. It’s not a question.

Billy leans back in his chair. “I didn’t come here for a lecture.”

“Then why did you come?” Henry asks, blunt.

Billy’s gaze drifts past him, fixes on a spot on the wall like it’s suddenly fascinating. His jaw tightens.
“How could you let him keep going,” Billy asks, quiet but sharp, “knowing what he is?”

Henry stiffens.

“I mean,” Billy continues, words coming easier now, “if someone killed my daughter? I’d kill them.”

Henry’s fist slams into the table.

The sound cracks through the kitchen--papers scatter, a mug rattles dangerously close to the edge. Billy flinches despite himself.

“I’m sorry,” Henry says immediately, horror flashing across his face. “I didn’t mean-- It’s not--” He swallows hard. “It’s not that simple.”

Billy watches him carefully. The way his shoulders cave. The way his eyes refuse to meet his.

He thinks of the journals. The obsession. The devotion curdled into paranoia.

“Were you two…” Billy hesitates just long enough to make it hurt. “Lovers?”

Henry’s mouth opens. Closes. Whatever excuse he reaches for doesn’t stick.

“Whatever we were,” Henry says finally, choosing each word like it might detonate, “that man is a monster. I despise him.”

“But you don’t want to kill him,” Billy scoffs.

“I didn’t say that,” Henry replies, barely above a whisper.

“Then come to Freddy’s,” Billy presses, leaning forward. “Confront him. Stop hiding. Stop being a coward.”

Henry freezes. You can almost see the calculations running behind his eyes--the fear, the guilt, the impossible weight of it all. He opens his mouth like he’s about to argue.

Instead, his face hardens.

“Get out.”

Billy blinks.

“I said get out,” Henry repeats, louder now, his hand curling into a fist against the table again. “Now.”

Billy doesn’t argue. He doesn’t apologize. He just stands, turns, and walks out without another word.

The door closes behind him with a soft, final click.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s almost a normal night at Freddy’s now.

Billy and Stu lounge in the surveillance room with their boots propped on the desk, knives loose in their hands. A horror movie flickers on the TV, sound low, long since forgotten--just screams and music bleeding together in the background like ambience.

“We could do another hooker,” Billy says casually, like he’s suggesting takeout.

Stu groans. “We just had a hooker, Bills.”

Billy shrugs.

“Oh--oh!” Stu perks up, pointing at Billy with his knife. “Pizza guy.”

“Nah,” Billy says instantly. “Too traceable.”

Stu opens his mouth to argue when Billy goes still.

Movement on one of the monitors. A lone figure stepping through the front doors, shoulders hunched, posture heavy with hesitation.

Billy leans forward, squints--then smiles.

“Well,” he murmurs, tapping the screen with his knuckle. “Bingo.”

Stu leans over. “Who the fuck is that?”

“Henry,” Billy says. “From the journals.”

There’s a beat. Then--

“Oh,” Stu says.

Another beat.

“Oooooohhh,” he adds, eyes widening as it clicks.

Billy smacks him lightly on the forehead. “Focus. It’s time to play.”

They slip out of the surveillance room together, quiet, practiced. Henry moves slowly through the pizzeria, unaware--dusting off counters, lingering over faded posters, broken toys. He looks smaller than Billy remembers. Older. Sad in a way that sinks into the bones.

When Henry pauses near the stage, staring up at the lifeless animatronics, Stu comes up behind him and brings the butt of his knife down hard into his temple.

Henry crumples. His glasses skid across the floor.

He stirs a moment later, groaning, trying to push himself upright--

“Hold him down,” Billy snaps.

Stu drops to his knees, wrestling Henry’s arms behind his back as Henry struggles weakly, confusion bleeding into panic. Billy works fast, looping rope around wrists, ankles, binding him tight. Stu throws a few sloppy punches to Henry’s head, more frantic than precise, until Henry finally goes slack.

Stu exhales, staring down at him. “Fuck. Sorry, man.”

Billy barely looks at Henry’s face.

“Come on,” he says, already trying to pull Henry up. “Let’s set the stage.”

Chapter 13

Billy and Stu haul Henry onto the stage and strap him to a chair between the animatronics. They try, briefly, to move them--grunting, straining, shoving uselessly at cold metal and plush foam--but the things don’t budge an inch. Billy finally snaps, kicking Freddy’s leg hard enough to rattle his own bones.

“Fuck--Bills, what if it wakes up?” Stu hisses, backing away.

“It won’t,” Billy says flatly. “They only wake up when he’s around. We're not special enough."

"Maybe they don't like us," Stu suggests.

“No,” Billy's quick to correct. He's seen what happens when they "don't like" someone. He glances at the blank, staring faces. “I think they’re just… indifferent. And I’m fine with that.”

Henry stirs. A low sound slips out of his throat as his vision swims back into focus. Billy notices first--the flutter of lashes, the slow, dawning panic--then Stu does.

“Should I punch him again?” Stu asks, already lifting his hand.

“No,” Billy murmurs, pleased. “No, this is perfect.”

He dials William’s work number without hesitation. Late hour, no surprise.

“Billy,” William purrs, answering immediately, like he’d been waiting.

Billy smiles. “Daddy.”

A low chuckle hums through the line. Stu’s eyebrows shoot up--he's never heard that tone from Billy before, not in this context.

“We’ve been naughty,” Billy adds sweetly.

“What did my little bunnies do?” William asks, intrigued now.

“We got you a surprise,” Billy breathes. He leans in close to Henry, pressing the phone to his ear. “Say hello.”

Henry blinks, trying to orient himself. Rope. Chair. Stage. Animatronics. Knife at his throat.

“What--” His voice cracks. Then recognition hits. “Will?”

Billy pulls the phone back, dragging the knife lightly across Henry’s chest instead. "I was thinking--"

The line goes dead.

Billy stares at the phone. “Will?”

He checks the screen, then looks at Stu. “The fucker hung up on me.”

Stu clutches his head. “Oh shit. Dude. He’s pissed.”

“What?” Billy snaps, pacing. “This is a gift. These two haven’t seen each other in years. I dragged him out of hiding, wrapped him up like a neat little present. He should be thanking me.”

Stu doesn’t answer. He’s watching Billy now, unsettled, trying to decide who scares him more when they’re angry.

“Fuck!” Billy yells, plunging his knife into Freddy’s plush torso.

For a heartbeat, nothing happens.

Then Freddy’s head turns--slow, deliberate--its eyes narrowing, fixing on Billy.

Stu swallows hard.
“…What the fuck.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By the time William shoves through the front doors of Freddy’s, the scene has already curdled into something feral.

Freddy has Billy pinned flat against the stage, metal knee grinding into his ribs, one heavy paw braced over his chest. Billy’s breath comes shallow, panicked, every inhale scraping. Bonnie has Stu by the shoulders, arms locked tight as a vice; Stu thrashes anyway, teeth bared, shouting Billy’s name. Chica stands off to the side, head tilted, cupcake perched in her hands like a grotesque little audience member, daring either boy to try and run.

William doesn’t take any of it in for long.

His eyes go straight to Billy.

“Move,” he snaps.

Freddy obeys instantly, servos whining as he steps back. William is already kneeling, already fisting his hand in Billy’s hair and forcing his head back against the stage. The lights above are blinding now, white-hot.

“You think you can touch what’s mine?” William asks, voice low, dangerous.

Billy snarls and swings blindly, driving his elbow back. It connects--hard--right where it hurts.

The silence afterward is brief. Terrible.

William’s face changes. Not anger exactly. Something colder.

He slams Billy’s head into the stage once. Twice. Again. The impact rattles his teeth, sends sparks skittering across his vision. Billy tries to bite back a sound, but it spills out of him anyway, a broken noise. Then the words come, tumbling over each other--apologies, incoherent, desperate, anything to make it stop.

Stu roars, fighting Bonnie with everything he has, fury and terror twisting together in his chest. “Get the fuck off him!”

“Will! That’s enough!”

Henry’s voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and shaking. William freezes mid-motion, breath ragged, hand still tangled in Billy’s hair. Billy’s stomach lurches; the world tilts. The stage lights burn like suns.

William releases him and turns to Henry. His hands soften immediately, cupping Henry’s face, brushing back his hair, tracing the blood trickling from his scalp where Stu knocked him out. The gentleness is obscene in contrast.

Henry jerks away. “Don’t,” he says hoarsely.

“Hey. Hey,” William murmurs, soothing as ever. “It’s okay. Shh. It’s okay.” His eyes stay fixated on Henry. “They’re just hard-headed kids. They don’t know any better.”

His gaze flicks to the knife embedded in Freddy’s plush torso. He circles the animatronic, pulls it free, turns it slowly in his hands, considering it.

“And despite what you just saw,” William says, voice hitching, “I care very deeply for that boy.”

Henry swallows. “Will. He probably has a concussion. Let me take him to the hospital. Please.”

William doesn’t answer right away. He just watches Billy, crumpled on the stage, eyes glassy, trying and failing to focus. The knife glints as William turns it once more.

That’s the last thing Billy sees before the lights finally go out and the world drops away beneath him.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Billy is a child again.

Freddy’s is bright the way it used to be in the eighties--too bright, all primary colors and blinking lights, the air thick with sugar and noise. Arcade machines scream and chirp, music pounds cheerfully from unseen speakers. Everything feels big, oversized, safe in the careless way childhood lies to you.

He drifts past tables and balloons until he notices a girl sitting alone in a booth.

She’s small, dark-haired, feet swinging above the floor. There’s an untouched slice of pizza in front of her.

“Why are you sitting by yourself?” Billy asks, sliding closer.

She glances up, tired. “The other kids think I’m weird.”

Billy shrugs, like that’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. He looks around. “Can I sit?”

Charlotte shrugs back. “Sure.”

They sit in companionable quiet for a moment, the din of the restaurant swelling around them. Billy watches the animatronics onstage, their smiles frozen wide.

“Where are your parents?” he asks eventually.

“My dad works all day,” she says easily. Then, softer, “And my mom… she left.”

The words hit Billy in the chest, sudden and sharp, like a bruise you didn’t know you had.

“Oh,” he says. After a beat, “You wanna be friends?”

Charlotte’s face changes instantly, lighting up like someone flipped a switch. “Yeah,” she says, quick and certain.

Billy smiles--and then notices the table between them.

Something dark drips down, splashing onto the laminate surface. Once. Twice.

He touches his forehead. His fingers come away red.

The colors smear. The noise warps. Charlotte’s face blurs like wet paint as the room tilts sideways and--

Billy wakes with a gasp.

He’s sprawled on an old leather sofa in a cramped office, the smell of dust and old papers heavy in the air. His head throbs, every pulse slow and brutal. He tries to sit up and immediately regrets it.

A hand presses him back down, gentle but firm. “Don’t try to get up.”

Henry. Billy registers him dimly, like a name floating up from underwater.

Billy realizes he’s half-draped across Henry’s lap, cheek pressed into his stomach. Henry’s head is tipped back against the couch, eyes closed, exhaustion etched into every line of his face.

“Where’s--” Billy tries, the word slurring apart in his mouth. His eyes swim as he searches the room. Everything lags, like reality is buffering.

“Getting pain meds,” Henry says quietly. “You’re okay.”

Billy gives up on thinking. He stares at the ceiling, watches it spin lazily. Questions drift through his mind and slip away before he can grab hold of them.

Without really deciding to, he turns his head and nuzzles closer, breathing Henry in--soap, oil, something steady and human. It grounds him in a way nothing else has.

Henry hesitates. Then his fingers slide into Billy’s hair, massaging gently at his scalp, slow and careful. The touch sinks straight through him. It feels good. Better than good. Safe.

Time stretches, dissolves.

A voice filters in, sharp with panic. “Fuck-- is he asleep? Couldn’t he die from that?”

Stu.

“He’s fine,” William says, dismissive, certain.

“We should take him to the hospital,” Henry says quietly, tension creeping into his voice. “Just to have him checked.”

“I said he’s fine,” William snaps.

The sound cracks through Billy’s skull like a bat to glass. He flinches despite himself.

There’s the rustle of a bag. The dry rattle of a pill bottle. Henry’s hand leaves Billy’s hair long enough to take the medication--and Billy, hazy and half-lost, misses it immediately.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Billy wakes clearer this time.

Everything still aches, a dull, full-body throb, but the world isn’t sliding anymore. He blinks slowly and looks up.

Henry is slumped forward, chin tucked to his chest, glasses askew--fully asleep. Billy realizes, distantly, that he’s still half across his lap.

He shifts, careful, starting to ease himself upright.

“Billy!”

The whisper snaps him out of it--sharp, urgent. Stu appears at his side in a flash, hands outstretched, eyes wide.

“Jesus, dude,” Stu murmurs, steadying him before he tips sideways. “I was legit worried you were dying.”

Billy tries to respond, but his stomach lurches violently. Heat floods his throat. He shoves weakly at Stu’s chest, panic flaring as the room spins again.

“No--no--” he manages, but it’s too late.

He pitches forward and vomits onto the floor at Henry’s feet, harsh, ugly retches tearing through him. Chunks splatter against Henry’s pant leg.

Henry jerks awake with a startled sound.

“Okay--okay, yeah, maybe we actually need to--” Stu says quickly, guiding Billy back, easing him down onto the couch again before his knees give out.

Billy curls in on himself, eyes squeezed shut, mortified. “Fuck… I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

Henry exhales, rubbing a hand down his face as he takes in the mess. “It’s-- it’s okay,” he says quietly. “Not the first time.”

William is suddenly there, efficient and sharp. He presses a towel into Henry’s hands, nudges Stu aside with his shoulder, and crouches in front of Billy. A cool washcloth touches Billy’s face, dabbing gently at his mouth, his chin.

Billy opens his eyes, unfocused, and tries to find William’s face. The blue of his eyes swims into view, the tight line of his mouth, the furrow between his brows that almost looks like worry.

“I’m sorry,” Billy repeats, small and automatic.

“It’s alright, baby,” William murmurs. “It’s alright.” He kisses Billy’s forehead, brief and possessive. Then, softer, “Lesson learned.”

He snaps his fingers without looking. “Stuart. Water. Tylenol.”

Stu scrambles.

William shakes two pills into his palm and brings his hand up. “Open.”

Billy does, obedient, tongue peeking out slightly.

“That’s it,” William murmurs approvingly as he places the pills on Billy’s tongue. Stu returns with the bottle; William takes it and tips it carefully to Billy’s lips. “Swallow.”

Billy does.

Henry watches, jaw tight.

“What are you doing, Will?” he asks finally.

William keeps dabbing Billy’s face, calm and methodical. “Taking care of my boy.”

“No,” Henry says, tired but firm. “I mean--what are you doing with them at all? They’re just kids.”

“They need guidance,” William replies, as if stating a fact. “Structure. Purpose.”

“They need school,” Henry counters. “Friends their own age.” The not you hangs heavy between them.

“Hen,” William says gently, using the nickname like a key. Billy notices it even through the haze. “You’ve seen what they are. They need me.”

Henry is quiet for a long moment. His hands tremble slightly where they rest on his knees.

“Then let me help,” he says at last, voice unsteady. “A new project. Like old times.”

William studies him, eyes sharp, searching for something--hesitation, deceit.

Then he laughs. Soft. Almost fond. Cruel underneath.

“Well,” he says, straightening. “Looks like we have a deal.”

Henry holds out his hand.

William takes it--and instead of shaking, pulls Henry in close, mouth brushing his ear.

“If you screw me over,” William murmurs, just loud enough for Billy to hear, “I’ll kill them. And I’ll make you watch.”

Henry closes his eyes once. Then he nods.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Henry drives.

Billy sits slouched in the passenger seat, forehead resting against the cold glass. Streetlights smear into long, glowing lines as they pass, each one briefly illuminating his reflection before it dissolves again. Behind them, William’s car keeps a steady distance. Stu is with him--insurance, William had said, smiling like it was a joke.

Henry breaks the silence carefully. “So… where are your parents?”

Billy doesn’t turn his head. “Dad works all the time. Doesn’t give a shit.” A beat. “Mom left.”

The words land flat, practiced. Henry’s grip tightens on the steering wheel. The answer feels uncomfortably familiar.

“Okay,” Henry says quietly. “What about your friend’s parents?”

Billy huffs a laugh, short and humorless. “Stu’s? Probably in Cancún. Or Panama. Somewhere with cocktails.” He snorts. “They don’t give a shit about him either.”

Henry exhales through his nose. “School?”

Billy finally glances over, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “Dropped out senior year. After the Woodsboro thing.” He chuckles under his breath. “‘The Woodsboro Massacre,’ they called it.” He sounds almost fond. “Stu and I went on a rampage. Pinned it on my ex’s dad. It was beautiful.”

Henry swallows. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters.

The car hums softly for a while after that. Tires on asphalt. The ticking of the engine cooling slightly at a red light.

Then Billy speaks again, quieter. “Will’s right about us.”

Henry flicks a glance at him.

“We’re like hunting dogs,” Billy continues. “You don’t train us, don’t leash us, we just… keep going. If we were cut loose, Stu and I?” He shrugs. “We’d keep killing on our own. That’s all we know.”

Henry doesn’t respond right away. He drives, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the road ahead, thoughts churning so loudly Billy can almost hear them.

By the time they pull into Henry’s driveway, the house looks just as Billy noticed before--tired. Vines creeping along the siding, porch light dim and flickering. William’s car rolls in behind them and idles.

Inside, Stu helps Billy down the hallway when his balance wobbles. “Guest room?” Stu asks, already peering into open doors.

“Last door on the right,” Henry says, gesturing.

They make it to the bed and collapse almost immediately--Stu flopping onto his back, Billy sinking down beside him, the mattress swallowing them both. Exhaustion hits fast and heavy.

Down the hall, voices murmur--low, tense. Adult voices. Plans being made.

Billy doesn’t hear much of it.

He’s asleep within minutes.

Notes:

a longer chapter this time, didn't feel right splitting it up 🤔

Chapter 14

Billy wakes slow and heavy, like his body has been filled with wet sand overnight. Light leaks in through the curtains, dull and gray. For a second he just lies there, breathing.

“Hey.”

He cracks one eye open. Stu is already awake, propped on his elbow, staring at him like he’s afraid the moment he looks away Billy might stop breathing altogether.

“Hey,” Billy rasps back, throat dry.

Stu’s relief is immediate, poorly disguised. “How’s your head?”

A crooked smile tugs at Billy’s mouth.

“Wait--don’t,” Stu groans, slapping a hand over his face. “I heard it."

“No complaints yet," Billy grins, pleased with himself.

He shifts, then immediately hisses and clamps a hand to his skull. White-hot pain blooms behind his eyes.

“Jesus,” Stu mutters. “That’s twice now he’s almost killed one of us.”

Billy exhales through his teeth, forcing himself upright despite the protest from his head. “If he actually wanted us dead, Stu,” he says evenly, “we’d be dead.”

Stu doesn’t argue. He just watches Billy carefully as he swings his legs off the bed.

“Come on,” Billy adds. “I smell coffee.”

They shuffle down the hall together, shoulders brushing. The kitchen is already occupied--Henry sits at the table with a mug cradled in both hands, looking like he slept about as well as Billy did. William is at the fridge, peering inside with open disappointment.

“Eggs, Hen,” William says, reproachful. “You don’t even have eggs.”

“I don’t cook much,” Henry replies with a small shrug.

“Hey,” Billy says, lifting a hand in greeting.

William’s attention snaps to him instantly. He crosses the room in two strides, cups Billy’s chin, tilts his face up. His thumb pulls gently at Billy’s lower lid as he checks his pupils, searching for something only he knows how to name.

Then, apparently satisfied, William pulls him into a hug.

Billy stiffens for half a second--then gives in, his forehead pressing briefly into William’s shoulder. When William lets go, he guides Billy to a chair at the table. Stu drops into the seat beside him, eyes tracking William like he might lunge at any moment.

“Do you want to tell them,” Henry asks quietly, “or should I?”

William sighs and leans back against the counter, folding his arms, coffee cup in hand.

“Tell us what?” Billy asks, already bracing.

“After the stunt you pulled,” William says calmly, “you’re suspended from Freddy’s.”

Billy blinks. “Suspended?”

“You’re not stepping foot on the premises without my permission,” William continues. “Either of you. You can’t be trusted alone.”

A hollow laugh bursts out of Billy. “So you’re firing me.”

“More than that,” William says. “I don’t want you working at all.”

"What?" Billy’s head throbs harder. “If I don’t have a job, my dad’s gonna kick me out."

Henry clears his throat. “You could… stay here,” he says carefully. “Both of you. Guest room.”

Billy and Stu exchange a look. Something cold and tight curls in Billy’s chest. This isn’t kindness. It’s a net.

“I can help you study for your GEDs,” Henry continues, rushing slightly. “You get back on track. College, maybe. Be around people your own age.”

Billy’s heart pounds. “What about killing?”

William doesn’t hesitate. “That happens on my time. When I say. Only when I say.”

Stu lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Fuck you, old man. You’re not our dad.”

William’s coffee cup hits the counter hard enough to rattle the cabinets. He steps forward. Stu’s chair scrapes loudly as he stands, nose-to-nose with him in an instant.

Henry moves fast, wedging himself between them. “This isn’t about control,” he says, hands raised. “We’re just--guiding. Trying to keep everyone alive.”

Billy’s head feels like it might split open. He reaches out, grabs Stu’s wrist, and yanks him back down into his seat.

“It’s okay,” Billy says, voice tight.

Stu turns on him. “Billy, no--fuck him, he can’t--”

“It’s okay,” Billy repeats, firmer now. He looks directly at Stu, eyes glassy but steady. “It’s okay.”

Stu searches his face, jaw clenched. Finally, reluctantly, he nods. “Okay, man.”

He doesn’t believe it. But he believes Billy.

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There’s barely a ripple of resistance when Billy tells his dad he’s moving out. No questions, no fight--just a distracted grunt and a vague, “Do what you want." Billy packs two bags: one stuffed with clothes, the other precious--VHS tapes stacked crooked, his portable CD player, a handful of worn, favorite CDs.

That’s it. Everything that matters.

Henry watches quietly as Billy and Stu haul their things into the guest room. “Let me know if you need anything,” he offers, lingering in the doorway like he’s not sure whether to step in or retreat.

The first day passes without incident.

Henry doesn’t shove books at them or start lectures. Instead, he spends most of the day pacing with the phone tucked between shoulder and ear, murmuring patient instructions--Did you try turning it off and back on?--over and over. IT work, mostly remote. Billy files the information away without comment.

He and Stu fill the hours with movies, video games, half-hearted trash talk. It’s almost normal. Almost.

That night, Henry orders Chinese takeout. They sit around the kitchen table with cardboard cartons spread out between them, the quiet thick and awkward. Chopsticks scrape. No one looks at anyone else.

Finally, Billy exhales. “You know,” he says evenly, “if every day is like this, we’re gonna lose our fucking minds.”

Stu practically lights up. “Thank you,” he says, pointing his chopsticks at Billy. “Jesus Christ, thank you.”

Henry winces. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I just--thought you could use the rest.”

A few seconds pass. The hum of the refrigerator fills the space.

“Don’t you feel it?” Billy asks, voice drifting, thoughtful. “Sitting in this house all day. Like there’s a buzzing under your skin. Like something’s trying to crawl out.”

Stu watches Henry closely now, a slow grin spreading. He loves it when Billy gets like this--quiet, sharp, dangerous.

“No,” Henry says too fast. “I’m not… like you. Not like William.”

Billy hums, unconvinced. “But enough like him that you moved two teenage boys into your house instead of calling the police,” he says, shrugging. “That’s gotta count for something.”

“I moved you in because--” Henry starts, then stops. He pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut. “What are you doing right now?”

Billy doesn’t hesitate. “I’m bored.”

Henry sighs, long and tired. “Fine. Fine. I’ll call him. See what I can do.”

Billy leans back in his chair, satisfied.

Henry picks up the house phone, turns away slightly. Billy doesn’t need to see William to hear him--his voice carries, sharp and unmistakable even through the receiver.

“Absolutely not. They’re on probation.”

“Will--” Henry tries.

“No,” William cuts in flatly. “Entertain them another way.”

The line goes dead.

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Apparently, Henry’s idea of entertaining two teenage boys amounts to letting them tear through the garage.

They descend on it like scavengers, hands diving into boxes, pulling out relic after relic--early handheld cameras with bulky grips, tangled nests of multicolored wires, audio equipment that looks half-assembled and half-abandoned. Stu narrates his discoveries like a museum tour guide on cocaine.

Then he freezes.

“No fuckin’ way,” Stu breathes.

He digs something free from beneath a tarp and lifts it reverently. “Dude. A JVC GR-C1.”

Billy squints. “A… what?”

Stu cradles it like a newborn. “The grandfather of camcorders. Beat Sony’s Betamovie. Changed the game. This thing is legendary.” He peers through the viewfinder, swinging it around the garage. “Oh man, she’s beautiful.”

Henry steps closer, one hand settling on Stu’s shoulder, the other hovering over the camera. “Careful,” he says with a soft laugh. “She’s old.”

“Sorry,” Stu says immediately--actually apologetic as he lowers it.

Henry catches the look on Stu’s face, the awe, the careful way he’s holding it now. Something tightens in his chest. “You can have it,” he says, almost surprising himself.

Stu’s face detonates. “Are you serious?” He grins so wide it looks painful. “Hell yeah! Billy, dude, we’re gonna make so many movies with this bad--” He pauses, glancing at Henry. “--girl? Is that okay?”

Henry chuckles. “She’s fine with it.”

While Stu and Henry banter, Billy is knee-deep in another box. VHS tapes. Cassette tapes. Personal ones. He flips through them slowly.

Charlotte -- Birthday 1.
Charlotte -- Birthday 2.
Charlotte -- Christmas.

Then, buried beneath the rest: a blank label. Three Xs. A heart.

Billy’s smile creeps in, slow and crooked.

“Anyone up for movie night?” he asks casually, holding the tape aloft.

Henry squints--then lunges. “Nope--”

“No?” Billy mocks, tucking the tape to his chest like a football.

“Billy! Over here!” Stu yells, abandoning the camcorder and holding his arms out.

Billy fakes left, fakes right, teasing Henry just long enough to enjoy the panic flash across his face--then he throws.

Stu catches it with a bark of laughter, sticks his tongue out. Henry stares at him for a beat, chest heaving.

Then Stu bolts.

“You little--” Henry growls, taking off after him.

Billy follows at a leisurely pace, grinning to himself as chaos spills into the house. By the time he reaches the living room, Stu is sprawled on the couch, clutching the remote like a trophy while Henry tries to pry it from him.

Stu cackles and shoves it down the front of his pants. “Go on,” he dares. “Get it.”

Henry freezes, horrified.

Billy leans against the doorway, utterly delighted.

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The VCR whirs to life, the screen flickering with grainy VHS static before settling on a shaky handheld shot: someone walking through a dimly lit hallway in William’s house, camcorder held low. The footsteps are deliberate, quiet. Billy recognizes the layout immediately--the angle of the banister, the faded wallpaper.

The bedroom door creaks open.

Younger Henry is sprawled across the bed, shirt rucked up to his ribs, pants gone, face flushed deep red. He's clearly caught off guard. He throws an arm over his eyes the second the lens finds him.

“Will…” he groans, half-laughing, half-mortified. “Turn that off. Don’t record this.”

The voice behind the camera--William’s, unmistakable even younger--is warm, coaxing. “Come on, Hen. Let me see you.”

The shot dips as William climbs onto the bed. He pins Henry’s wrists gently above his head with one hand that then trails slow and deliberate, down his arms, along Henry’s jaw, down the column of his throat, pausing to circle a nipple until Henry’s breath catches. Lower, over the soft give of his stomach, finally wrapping around his cock.

Henry arches, head tipping back into the pillows with a broken sound. William spits into his palm--audible, wet--and starts stroking, slow and sure. The camera catches it all in alternating angles: Henry’s face contorted in pleasure, then the slick slide of William’s hand, then back to Henry’s parted lips as William murmurs filthy praise.

“Look at you. So pretty like this. All mine.”

In the living room, the three of them are frozen.

Billy’s lips are parted, eyes glassy, fixed on the screen. He can feel the heat building low in his gut, his cock already straining hard against the denim of his jeans. From the couch, Stu’s mouth hangs open, just staring, flushed and obvious, tenting his own pants like a flagpole.

Henry stands rooted to the spot behind the couch. His face is scarlet, eyes wide with horror. He finally jolts forward, lunging for the eject button.

Billy moves faster--dives across the carpet on his knees and slaps both hands over the VCR like he’s guarding a goal. Henry hesitates, then simply reaches up and kills the power on the television itself. The screen snaps to black.

“Boooooo,” Stu jeers from the couch, voice cracking halfway through. “Worst ending ever.”

Henry sags forward, forehead pressing to the top of the TV set, breathing hard. From where Billy’s still crouched on the floor, the angle is perfect: the unmistakable bulge straining against the front of Henry’s jeans.

Billy doesn’t think. He just reaches.

His fingertips brush along the shape of Henry through the denim--light, testing. Henry flinches like he’s been shocked, whole body jerking, but he doesn’t step away. Billy’s pulse hammers in his ears. He pops the button, drags the zipper down slow enough to hear every tooth. Slides his hand inside, past the waistband of Henry’s boxers, and wraps fingers around hot, velvet-hard flesh.

Henry’s breath stutters. His hips twitch forward involuntarily.

On the couch, Stu watches with wide eyes, one hand already shoved down the front of his own pants, moving lazily.

Billy leans in--mouth open, ready--when Henry suddenly recoils. He shoves himself back into his jeans with shaking hands, zipping up fast, almost tripping over himself as he backs away.

“No,” Henry says, voice rough, strained. “Not--not like this.”

The room goes quiet except for the low hum of the VCR still spinning uselessly in the dark.

Billy stays on his knees a second longer, hand still outstretched, tasting the moment he almost had. Stu’s hand slows in his pants, uncertain.

Henry drags a hand over his face, eyes squeezed shut.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You two are going to kill me.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Henry opens his mouth like he’s going to say something more but nothing comes out. He snaps it shut, jaw tight, and turns on his heel. His footsteps retreat down the hallway, quick and uneven, until a door clicks shut somewhere deeper in the house.

The living room falls into a thick, buzzing silence.

Then Stu breaks it, voice low and ragged. “We’re… we’re still watching this, right?”

Billy’s grin is sharp, triumphant. “Fuck yeah, we are.”

He crawls forward, flicks the TV power back on. The screen blooms to life mid-scene: William’s younger self braced over Henry on the bed, camera angled just right to catch every slick slide of his cock disappearing into Henry’s body. Henry’s legs are hooked over William’s shoulders, head thrown back, moans spilling out raw and gorgeous.

William’s voice is steady, filthy praise rolling off his tongue in that calm, commanding way.

On the couch, Billy drops down beside Stu. Stu doesn’t hesitate--he hooks an arm around Billy’s waist and drags him sideways into his lap, Billy’s back to Stu’s chest. Jeans are shoved down just far enough; hands find each other in the dark. Stu’s long fingers wrap around Billy, Billy’s fist closes around Stu, and they start moving in perfect sync with the rhythm on screen.

Stu’s mouth finds the side of Billy’s neck, open and wet, kissing and sucking sloppy trails up to his ear. “Fuck, Bills,” he whispers, breath hot. “This is insane. So hot.”

Billy tilts his head back against Stu’s shoulder, eyes half-lidded on the TV. “Too bad he’s such a goddamn prude,” he mutters. “Could’ve had him right here with us.”

Stu’s hand stutters for a second, then tightens. “Yeah? You want to fuck him now?”

Billy exhales a rough laugh. “After watching this? Hell yeah, I do.”

Stu groans into Billy’s skin, forehead pressing hard against his shoulder blade. “Jesus, Billy…”

On screen, William’s thrusts turn erratic--hips snapping faster, deeper. Henry’s moans climb higher, broken and desperate. William buries himself to the hilt with a low growl, pulsing inside him. When he finally pulls out slow, the camera lingers on the thick drip of cum leaking from Henry’s clenching hole.

Billy’s breath catches hard; he cums first--hot, sudden, spilling over Stu’s fist with a choked sound. Stu follows seconds later, hips jerking up into Billy’s grip, muffling his own moan against Billy’s neck.

They stay like that for a long moment, panting in tandem, sweat cooling on their skin. Then Stu’s arms slide fully around Billy’s waist, tugging him backward until they both collapse horizontally across the couch--Billy half-sprawled on Stu’s chest, Stu’s chin hooked over his shoulder.

The tape keeps playing, softer sounds now: quiet murmurs, rustle of sheets. Neither of them moves to stop it.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When they finally came back to themselves, Billy was the first to move. He stood, popped the tape from the VCR, and gave it a thoughtful shake.

“We’re keeping this,” he said.

Stu, flushed and loose-limbed, grinned at him like he’d just been handed a trophy. “Obviously.”

The rest of the night passed without incident. They eventually drifted off, leaving the kitchen table littered with takeout cartons and congealing lo mein like evidence no one bothered to clean up.

Chapter 15

Morning came slow.

When Billy and Stu shuffled into the kitchen, the coffee was already brewing, the familiar smell filling the space--but Henry wasn’t there. A minute passed. Then another.

Finally, Henry appeared from the hallway, looking like he hadn’t slept much at all. Without preamble, he dropped two thick, stapled packets onto the table and slid them toward the boys.

“These are GED assessment questions,” he said, sitting across from them. “They’ll show me where you’re struggling so we know what to focus on.”

He rolled a pencil to each of them.

Stu flipped through his packet, grimacing. “Man, I don’t remember any of this shit.”

Billy turned his over, scanned the back, and groaned. “There’s an essay?”

“Yes,” Henry said flatly.

Stu’s knee immediately started bouncing as he worked. Billy, meanwhile, ignored the prompt entirely and scribbled something down, then leaned back in his chair.

“How are you done already?” Stu whispered, like they were back in high school.

Billy flipped his paper over.

BLOW ME

Stu snorted so hard he had to clap a hand over his mouth.

Henry reached over, plucked the worksheet off the table, and read it. His eyes closed. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Do you have to be so difficult?” he asked, exhaustion heavy in his voice.

Billy leaned back. “You gonna do something about it?”

Henry sighed--a long, worn-down sound. He slid the paper back toward Billy. “Come on. You’re better than this.”

It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even frustration.

It was disappointment.

Billy rolled his eyes, but his jaw tightened. He erased the answer, leaned forward, and--grudgingly--started again.

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Billy and Stu play video games while Henry grades their papers at the kitchen table. Minutes blur into hours. At some point, Billy presses an ear to the hallway and realizes the house has gone work-quiet--Henry’s on the phone, pacing, murmuring about routers and power cycles.

He forgot about them.

The realization lands heavier than Billy expects, a dull ache behind his ribs.

“Fuck this,” Billy mutters, rubbing at his temples. His head’s starting to throb from staring at the screen all day. “Come on. We’re ransacking his shit.”

Stu’s already on his feet, energized like a dog hearing a leash jingle. “Hell yeah.”

They creep through the house together, opening doors with exaggerated care. One room stops them cold--a little girl’s bedroom, frozen in time. Bed neatly made. Toys arranged just so. Posters still taped straight to the walls.

A shrine.

“This is just… sad,” Stu murmurs.

Billy nods once. They close the door gently and move on.

Henry’s room is next. Unremarkable. Lived-in. The covers are mussed like he doesn’t bother fixing them anymore.

They dig through drawers. Billy finds pill bottles first--antidepressants, sleep aids. He recognizes enough from labels and warnings to piece it together. Beneath those: folded notes in a child’s handwriting. Crayon hearts. Accepted apologies for missed birthdays. Little concessions to a father who’s always busy, always gone. Freddy’s looming over every page.

Billy stares too long.

“No fucking way,” Stu says suddenly.

“What?” Billy snaps, pulled back into the room.

Stu holds up a gallon ziplock bag, unmistakable. “Score.”

Billy’s slow grin mirrors Stu’s.

They retreat to the guest room like burglars who got away clean. Henry never notices--still doomed to ask strangers if they’ve tried unplugging it and plugging it back in.

Billy empties the tobacco from one of his cigarettes, packs it with weed, cracks the window. They light up.

By the time Henry catches the smell and thinks, okay, that’s not a skunk, it’s too late.

Billy and Stu are sprawled on the floor, boneless and giggling, a movie forgotten on the TV.

Henry opens the door, arms crossed. “What are you two doing?”

“Heeeyyy, Hen-ry,” Billy sing-songs.

Stu loses it, laughter bursting out of him. “Heeennn-ry,” he echoes. “That’s such a dad name. Like you were born forty.”

Billy tilts his head back, eyes glassy, pupils blown. He looks straight at Henry.

“Daddy,” he says, slow. Curious. Testing the word like it might bite.

Stu watches Henry’s face with open fascination.

Color floods Henry’s cheeks, creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears. His gaze drops to the bag of weed on the floor. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You went through my things,” he says, tired more than angry.

“Yeah,” Billy shrugs easily. “Whatcha gonna do about it?”

Henry stands there, hand still pressed to his forehead, weighing something heavy and unspoken--like he’s realizing too late that the line he crossed isn’t behind him anymore.

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“If you’re going to get stoned, you need music. Not…” Henry gestures vaguely at the TV, where a girl is shrieking while a chainsaw roars.

“Yeah?” Billy breathes, eyes half-lidded, unmoved.

Henry sighs and disappears down the hall. When he comes back a few minutes later, he’s carrying a battered cardboard box stuffed with cassette tapes. He drops it onto the carpet with a dull thud and sits back down between Billy and Stu.

Stu dives in immediately, rifling through them. “Fleetwood Mac. Led Zeppelin. Doobie Brothers,” he reads off, tossing each aside. “All solid choices.”

“Thank you,” Henry says, faintly relieved.

“Mötley Crüe, Warrant, Def Leppard--oh, now we’re talking,” Stu adds, grinning.

Billy reaches over and plucks the Def Leppard tape from the pile. He gives it a little shake. “This one.”

Henry’s face tightens. “Don’t you want something a little… calmer? More zen?”

Billy snorts. “Does it seem like we do zen?”

He stands, dusts off the stereo on the dresser with his sleeve, flips open the cassette deck, and slides the tape in. A second later, the opening riff of Animal crackles to life.

Already loose from the weed, Billy nods along, turns, and flashes Henry a crooked smile.

Stu takes a deep drag from what’s left of the blunt and holds it out. “Your turn.”

Henry swallows. “I--I’m good.” He lifts a hand in weak refusal.

Billy’s arm snakes around Henry’s shoulders, pulling him in, half a wrestle, half an embrace. “Come on,” he murmurs near Henry’s ear. “It’s your pot. Only polite.”

Stu’s grin sharpens as he nudges the blunt closer. “Yeah, man. Don’t be rude.”

Henry exhales shakily and takes it, fingers trembling just enough to give him away. He inhales too fast, coughs, then laughs under his breath, dizzy.

“That’s a good man,” Billy says softly. The words send a shiver straight through him.

By the time Pour Some Sugar on Me comes on, Henry is well and truly gone. Another blunt is already rolled. Billy lights it, watches the ember bloom, then takes a slow, deliberate hit. Stu and Henry track the motion with unfocused eyes.

Billy hands it to Stu, then suddenly grips Henry at the back of the neck, pulling him close. Henry’s breath catches, mouth parting--instinct or protest, he can’t tell.

Billy exhales straight into him, smoke flooding Henry’s lungs before he can think to stop it.

For a moment, they just stare at each other--Billy’s eyes dark and daring, Henry’s wide and soft--while the music thumps on, loud enough to drown out everything Henry knows he should be thinking about.

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Henry’s hand rises, trembling, and settles over Billy’s chest--fingers splayed against the thin cotton of his shirt. He presses, tentative, then bolder when Billy’s breath catches. The pad of Henry’s thumb finds Billy’s nipple through the fabric, circling slow, deliberate. Billy lets out a soft moan, eyes fluttering shut for a second before snapping back open, locked on Henry’s.

Henry’s exhale shakes.

Billy closes the last inch between them, lips brushing Henry’s--barely there, testing.

Henry trembles harder, but he doesn’t pull away. Billy kisses him for real then, slow and deep, tasting coffee and smoke and something sharper--regret, maybe, already blooming on Henry’s tongue.

Billy leans back onto the carpet, tugging Henry down with him. Henry follows, clumsy and eager, straddling Billy’s hips. Stu watches from the side, mouth slack, eyes blown wide.

Billy rolls up once--sharp, deliberate--and Henry freezes for half a heartbeat before grinding back down, helpless. Billy tips his head back, baring his throat. Henry buries his face there immediately, lips dragging hot across skin, kissing, nipping, sucking marks that will bruise.

Clothes are shoved aside in frantic handfuls--shirts rucked up, jeans pushed down just far enough. Their cocks slide together, bare and slick with precum. Henry’s bigger--thicker, heavier--and Billy’s grin is feral as he wraps a hand around both of them, stroking slow.

Henry makes a strangled sound against Billy’s neck.

Stu finally moves, crawling closer. He takes a hit off the forgotten blunt, then leans over Billy and exhales the smoke into his open mouth. Billy moans into it, free hand tangling in Stu’s hair, dragging him down until their lips crash together--messy, hungry.

Henry lifts his head just as they part, lips swollen, eyes dazed. Stu hesitates, glances at Billy--Billy’s nod is sharp, pleased--then surges forward and kisses Henry.

Henry startles, but doesn’t pull away. The kiss is softer than Billy’s, uncertain at first, then deeper. When Stu finally breaks it, Henry drops his forehead to Billy’s shoulder with a broken groan.

Stu doesn’t wait for permission this time. He shifts up, knees bracketing Billy’s head, and feeds his cock into Billy’s waiting mouth. Billy takes him eagerly, hollowing his cheeks, humming around the length.

The rhythm builds fast--Billy’s fist slicking over both his and Henry’s cocks, Henry grinding helplessly, Stu fucking Billy’s mouth with shallow thrusts.

Billy cums sudden, hard, spilling hot over his fingers and Henry’s length.

Henry stills, breath ragged against Billy’s throat. Stu notices first, pulls back with a wet pop, blinking.

“Did you--?” Stu starts, not sure who he’s asking.

Henry jerks away like he’s been burned. He shoves himself back into his jeans, hands shaking, and buries his face in his palms. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice wrecked.

Billy pushes up on an elbow, irritated. “Hey--we’re not done, asshole.” He grabs Henry’s shirt, tugging.

Henry shoves him off harder than he means to. Billy stumbles back into Stu, who catches him instinctively.

Henry’s eyes go wide with horror at his own strength. “Enough,” he says, voice cracking. “You got what you wanted. That’s enough.”

He scrambles to his feet, swaying slightly, and stumbles out of the room.

Billy’s face goes cold--furious, sharp. He zips up fast, already moving. “Henry--”

“Billy, wait--fuck,” Stu panics, fumbling his own clothes together as he lurches up to follow. He crushes the blunt out on the windowsill.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Billy barrels after him, shoving him hard between the shoulder blades. “That’s it, huh?” he snaps. “You start shit and don’t finish it?”

Henry barely stumbles. He’s bigger, steadier, and he keeps moving, jaw clenched, eyes fixed ahead. Billy shoves him again. Nothing.

Henry reaches the kitchen, the old house phone mounted to the wall. He lifts the receiver.

“Fuckin’ coward,” Billy sneers, voice rising, reckless now. “No wonder your wife left you.”

Henry flinches--just a fraction--but his hand doesn’t leave the phone. He dials with shaking fingers.

Billy steps closer, breath ragged, seeing the crack and driving straight into it. “What’s this, huh? Gonna bail again? That your thing?” He laughs, sharp and ugly. “Abandon a couple more kids?”

Stu freezes a few feet away, eyes blown wide. “Billy--” he whispers, too late.

Henry moves fast then. He turns and grabs Billy by the front of the shirt, slamming him back into the wall hard enough to rattle the frame. Their faces are inches apart. Something raw and furious burns behind Henry’s eyes, grief and shame twisted tight.

Billy barks a laugh, adrenaline buzzing. “There it is,” he goads. “Finally. Hit me.” His grin is wild, unhinged. “Come on. I know you want to.”

For a long second, it looks like Henry might.

Then he lets go.

He steps back, chest heaving, hands curling into fists at his sides like it takes everything he has not to use them. He turns away again, lifts the receiver.

Billy just stares at him, stunned, the anger souring into something colder.

The line clicks. Someone answers--barely gets a word out.

Henry doesn’t bother with pleasantries. His voice is low, wrecked, final.

“Get your fucking children.”

Chapter 16

“It’s been two days. Two,” William snaps.

Billy and Stu sit on Henry’s couch while William paces in front of them like a caged thing. Henry is slumped at the kitchen table, elbows braced, face buried in his hands. Billy’s arms are crossed tight over his chest, sunk low into the cushions, one leg bouncing with thinly veiled irritation. Stu mirrors the posture, though his shake comes from naked nerves instead of defiance.

“What do I have to do?” William continues. “Chain you to the bed so you stay out of trouble? Because that can be arranged.”

Billy doesn’t answer. He stares at the wall.

William slams his palm down on the coffee table. Stu jumps. Billy flinches despite himself.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

Heat floods behind Billy’s eyes. No one has ever spoken to him like this--like he’s something feral that needs correcting.

“Well?” William exhales slowly. “What do you have to say for yourselves?”

“Did he tell you,” Billy says, voice sharp, “the part where he abandoned us for six hours?” He leans forward. “Or the part where he started to fuck me and chickened out?”

Billy turns his head deliberately, exposing the bruises along his neck--dark, blooming, unmistakable.

William steps closer. He studies the marks, fingers tilting Billy’s chin up, invasive.

“Did you do this?” William asks Stu.

“No--fuck no,” Stu blurts. “Maybe one on his shoulder last night, but not that. I swear.”

William hums, still holding Billy’s face.

A pause.

“You two want to kill someone?” he asks, casually. Like he’s offering drive-thru.

Both of them light up instantly.

“Get your jackets,” William says. “Grab your knives.”

Billy and Stu are already scrambling, colliding with each other in their hurry.

“You’re rewarding them?” Henry finally asks, lifting his head.

“They need enrichment, Hen,” William replies, shrugging.

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The murder passes in a blur.

They’re still stoned enough that everything feels soft at the edges, floaty, unreal--like watching themselves through glass. William does most of the talking. He lures a prostitute with an ease that makes Billy’s stomach twist, someone who never has a chance once she’s between the three of them. Her hands are tied behind her back before fear can fully settle in.

William tells Billy to hold her.

Stu does the rest.

It isn’t just stabbing. It’s slow. Deliberate. The knife twists, cruel and lingering. Stu’s pupils are blown wide, his grin slack and bright with something feral. Billy presses his forehead against the woman’s shoulder, feels her shaking, feels it taper off as the life drains out of her.

William murmurs the whole time--soft encouragement, low praise--like they’re doing something tender. Like this is intimacy. He curls close to Stu, who goes rigid at the contact.

“A little lower,” William says, guiding Stu’s hand.

Billy swallows hard. He hates that his body responds, that arousal coils low in his gut at the sight of them together, at the way William’s voice sounds like a lover’s.

Cleanup goes the same way: smeared, disjointed, barely remembered. Billy and Stu fall asleep tangled together in the backseat while William drives, the road humming beneath them. The body gets dumped somewhere Billy won’t remember later.

Billy dreams.

He dreams of Charlotte. Of being small again. Of Freddy’s, bright and loud and safe in a way it never really was. In the dream, they’re just kids. They’re having fun. It’s… nice.

“Hey,” William whispers, gentle--actually gentle--as he opens the back door. “Come on. Time to get cleaned up.”

Billy stirs. Stu does too. They untangle themselves slowly, groggy and compliant, and follow William.

Henry lets them in, bleary-eyed, like he’s just been dragged out of a half-formed dream. Billy and Stu shuffle past him, shoes kicked off carelessly, pants and shirts following, moving with the loose, reckless ease of people who know they won’t be stopped.

William is already talking--calm, precise--directing Henry about the laundry. Peroxide first. Hot water after. No questions. Henry nods, automatic, rubbing at his face as if trying to wake himself fully.

His gaze flicks, just once, toward the boys waiting in the hall. William catches it immediately.

He leans in close to Henry’s ear and murmurs something too low for Billy to hear. Whatever it is, Henry stiffens. His jaw sets. A faint flush creeps up his neck, equal parts anger and something harder to name.

“Go on,” William says lightly, turning back to Billy and Stu. “Get cleaned up. Mr. Emily and I have a few things to discuss.”

They don’t argue. Billy and Stu disappear down the hall, the sound of running water soon filling the house.

They stay in there longer than necessary. The heat helps. The noise drowns out thought. When they finally come back, towels slung low, hair damp, faces flushed from steam, Billy leans closer to Stu and mutters, “Watch this.”

Stu lingers in the doorway, hanging back just enough to see everyone at once--Billy stepping forward, Henry at the sink, William leaning against the counter like he owns the room.

Billy tilts his head, voice dropping into something small, plaintive, deliberately wrong.

“Daddy?”

Both Henry and William look up at the same time.

Billy has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Stu turns away, shoulder shaking as he tries--and fails--to smother it.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

William responds first, striding straight towards Billy. His fingers slide into his damp hair, tugging just hard enough to tilt his head back. Billy’s eyes are still hazy from the earlier joint, dark and hungry.

“You need Daddy?” William murmurs, low and amused.

Billy nods, slow, lips parted.

“No--no, not in my house,” Henry cuts in, voice sharp and too quick.

William’s smile sharpens. “Why? Afraid you’ll want to join, Hen?”

Henry goes very still, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes like he can block the whole night out. William watches him a moment, thoughtful.

“Two boys can be a handful,” he says, almost gentle. “Could use the help.”

Henry exhales--long, shaky--and then, to everyone’s shock, pushes away from the sink and begins walking towards his bedroom. He doesn’t look at any of them as he mutters, “My mattress is a queen. Bigger than the guest room."

It’s the closest thing to permission they’re going to get.

William’s hand settles on the small of Billy’s back, the other on Stu’s, guiding them after Henry like a shepherd with particularly dangerous lambs. His grin is wide, predatory, thrilled.

In the bedroom, Henry is already rummaging through a box in the closet. He pulls out an old bottle of lube, squints at the date, pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Expired?” William asks, stepping in close--too close.

Henry shifts away. “No.” A beat. “Don’t touch me.”

William raises both hands, palms out, smile feline. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He turns to the boys instead. “Why don’t you two warm up.”

Billy and Stu tumble onto the bed, towels dropping, laughter bubbling up at the sheer absurdity. They crash together--mouths finding mouths, slow and deep. Stu cups Billy’s jaw, kisses him like he means it, and Billy melts into it, moaning softly.

Hands roam, hips grind. Skin still damp from the shower, sliding easy.

William undresses at the edge of the bed, deliberate. Halfway through, he brings a palm down sharp across Stu’s ass. Stu jolts, the sound muffled against Billy’s lips.

William crooks a finger at Henry. “Lube.”

Henry hesitates, then hands it over like it burns. William nudges Stu aside just enough to settle between Billy’s thighs. Two slick fingers press in--slow, thorough--murmuring praise as Billy arches and gasps.

He reaches for Stu next; Stu startles, but Billy kisses him through it, swallowing every nervous sound until Stu relaxes, pushing back onto William’s fingers.

Henry stands at the foot of the bed, arms crossed tight, watching like he’s trying to talk himself into--or out of--something.

“Hen,” William purrs. “Touch them.”

Henry steps around, hand trembling as it threads through Stu’s hair. Stu leans into it instantly, moaning. Henry’s fingers trail down--ribs, the faint ridge of a scar. Stu shivers.

Henry notices the matching scar on Billy, reaches--and Billy catches his wrist, guiding it lower. Henry’s large, rough hand wraps around Billy’s cock, tentative at first, then stroking with growing certainty. Billy smiles, lazy and pleased.

Henry pulls away only long enough to undo his own pants. The second his hand leaves, Billy whines.

“Daddy,” Billy breathes, looking straight at Henry this time.

Something jealous flickers across William’s face, gone as fast as it came.

“Want you in my mouth,” Billy continues, voice syrupy.

Henry fumbles forward. Billy tugs him closer by the base of his cock, mouthing along the side--hot, wet kisses. Stu joins from the other side, messy and eager, tongue everywhere.

Henry curses under his breath, hips twitching.

Billy reaches blindly lower; William catches the hint, lines up, and sinks into Billy in one smooth thrust. Billy moans around Henry, the vibration pulling a ragged sound from Henry’s throat.

After that, everything fractures into heat and motion.

Henry and Stu trading places at Billy’s mouth. Henry fucking Stu slow and careful, like he’s afraid he’ll break him. Billy riding William hard, hands braced on his chest. Then swapped--Henry sliding into Billy like he’s something precious, William taking Stu face-down, hand firm between his shoulder blades.

At some point William loses patience. He grabs Henry by the hair, yanks him back, and kisses him--deep, claiming, familiar in a way that makes the air go sharp. Henry melts for a heartbeat, anger and grief and old want all tangled together.

Billy elbows Stu, who looks up dazed. “Watch.”

They do--William and Henry pulling out of them, turning on each other at the foot of the bed, fucking like the years never happened. Billy and Stu shift to the side, hands finding each other, stroking in time to the rhythm of the older men’s thrusts.

When it’s over, the room is sweat and heavy breathing and tangled limbs. They collapse in awkward piles across the mattress.

William presses a kiss to Henry’s temple, soft. “Love you.”

Henry stiffens. “I told you not to touch me.”

“Oops,” William says lightly, already moving. He slides up to the headboard, pulls Billy into his lap, nosing at damp hair and the curve of his neck. Stu curls against Billy’s side, boneless.

William crooks a finger at Henry, who hovers uncertainly at the edge.

Stu reaches back blindly, catches Henry’s wrist, and tugs. Henry exhales--defeated, fond, something complicated--and lets himself be pulled down into the mess of them.

Chapter 17

Morning comes quietly.

Billy wakes to the smell of coffee first, then bacon, then something sweet--french toast, maybe. Stu stirs beside him, groggy and warm, and they exchange a look before slipping out of bed and padding down the hall.

The kitchen is already busy. Henry and William are unloading takeout bags, transferring food onto plates with practiced efficiency. It looks almost normal. Almost.

“Jesus Christ,” Henry says when he notices them. He startles like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Go put some clothes on.”

Billy and Stu snort, not even pretending to be embarrassed, and disappear back into the guest room. When they return dressed, William is seated at the table with the newspaper spread wide in front of him, humming softly under his breath. Somewhere in the house, a radio murmurs the morning news.

Henry and William sip their coffee. Plates are passed. Billy and Stu dig in like they’re starving.

It’s… domestic. Unsettlingly so.

“Mr. Emily will be starting your lessons today,” William says mildly, eyes still on the paper. “You’ll be good boys, won’t you?”

Billy and Stu glance at each other. Billy shrugs.

“Yeah. Sure.”

Henry watches them over the rim of his mug, wary.

“And if you’re good for the week,” William continues, folding the paper neatly, “you’ll earn a reward.”

Another look between the boys.

“Okay,” they say together. Stu’s voice carries an edge of eagerness, bright and unguarded. Billy just feels calm. Content, even.

William leaves for work not long after, coat shrugged on. The door clicks shut, and the house feels immediately larger--and quieter.

“I can’t--” Henry runs a hand over his face. “I can’t stay with you all day. I have work. We’ll do a short lesson, then you’re free until this evening.”

“Yeah,” Billy says easily. “Sounds good.”

Henry doesn’t look convinced. Neither does Stu, if his restless shifting is anything to go by.

The lesson goes ahead anyway. Twelfth-grade math. Numbers on paper. Stu bounces his leg hard enough to rattle the table, eyes glassy with frustration. Billy drags a hand through his hair, jaw tight, hating every second of it--but he does the work.

Because Henry fucked him.

Because Henry gave in.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rest of the day passes easily. Almost suspiciously so.

Billy and Stu sprawl across the living room, cycling through movies and video games, heckling characters on-screen, trash-talking each other like this is any other lazy afternoon. Henry stays in the kitchen and his room, half on the phone, half glued to his computer, muttering in IT shorthand to people who sound more confused than helped.

Billy and Stu don’t get into anything. No trouble. No damage. No blood.

By evening, they’re back at the kitchen table. Henry spreads the worksheet out between them, red pen uncapped. He goes over the problems methodically, correcting mistakes, circling numbers.

“You’re smart,” he tells Billy, tapping the page. “You just don’t show your work.”

Billy shrugs, but something in his chest loosens anyway.

Stu's paper is a mess of scribbles, where he's shown his work, doing it correctly, panics, then writes down a wrong answer. Henry patiently works him back through it, nodding when he lands where he should.

“Good effort,” Henry says, tired but sincere. “Both of you.”

The praise lands harder than Billy expects. Stu practically glows, sitting up straighter, like a dog that’s just been told he’s good.

Dinner arrives not long after--spaghetti, breadsticks, salad. William comes with it, shrugging off his coat and setting a bottle of wine on the counter.

“They don’t need wine,” Henry says flatly, rubbing his eyes.

“You said they were good today,” William replies, unbothered.

The wine ends up poured anyway, not into anything fancy--just regular glasses. It’s red and sweet and goes down too easily.

They eat. They talk. The tension softens at the edges.

When dinner’s finished, Billy and Stu sit back in their chairs and look between William and Henry, expectant. A little loose. A little warm. Waiting to see what comes next.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

William leans back in his chair, swirling the last of his wine, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You two are insatiable.”

Billy plants his elbows on the table, leaning forward, chin in his hands. “Don’t make us beg.”

William’s grin sharpened, head tilting as he propped it on one fist. “But you’re so pretty when you do.”

Billy’s voice dropped, soft and deliberate. “Please, Daddy.”

A low, pleased hum rumbled out of William. He turned lazily to Stu.

“Your turn.”

Stu groaned, sinking lower in his chair. “In front of Mr. Emily?”

Billy smirked at the formality--Stu had started calling Henry that, like it added some extra forbidden layer. Billy refused; to him, the man was just Henry.

William arched a brow. “Do you want to be fucked tonight or not?”

Stu bounced his knee, arms crossed tight over his chest, looking for all the world like a sulky teenager. “Please,” he muttered.

William cupped a hand behind his ear, mock-confused. “What was that?”

“Please,” Stu said louder, glaring at the carpet.

William’s smile widened, Cheshire-slow. “And what exactly do you want, Stuart? Use your words.”

Stu bit his lip, flushed scarlet. The words came out in a rush. “Kinda… want to ride Mr. Emily while Billy sucks my cock.”

Henry made a strangled sound, somewhere between a cough and a groan, sputtering into his wine.

Billy barked an incredulous laugh, delighted. “Holy shit, Stu.”

William looked far too pleased with himself, reaching over to clap Henry firmly on the back. “You heard the boy, Hen.”

Henry’s face was burning, but his eyes flicked to Stu--wide, wanting, impossible to hide. He set the glass down with a soft clink.

Billy slung an arm around Stu’s shoulders, leaning in to murmur against his ear, lips brushing skin. “Yeah? That what you want?”

Stu swallowed hard, nodded once, face still blazing. “Yeah.”

William stood, stretching like a cat waking from a nap. “Well then,” he said, voice warm with amusement and promise. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They migrate down the hall in a loose, buzzing cluster--wine-warm and loose-limbed--until the bedroom door swings open. Stu barrels straight onto the mattress like an overexcited puppy, bouncing once on his knees before sprawling out with a grin that’s half nerves, half pure anticipation.

William’s hand is already on Billy’s ass, kneading possessively as they follow, fingers slipping just under the waistband of Billy’s jeans. Billy leans into it, smirking.

Henry stops just short of the bed, hovering like he’s second-guessing the entire night.

Billy rolls his eyes. “Why are you so goddamn awkward?” He reaches out, fists the front of Henry’s shirt, and yanks him forward into a hard, claiming kiss. Henry makes a startled sound that melts into a groan as Billy’s other hand dives between them--popping the button, dragging the zipper down, wrapping sure fingers around the half-hard length he finds there.

Henry’s breath stutters against Billy’s mouth, hips jerking forward involuntarily.

“You’re gonna let my friend fuck you,” Billy whispers, lips brushing Henry’s with every word. “And you’re gonna make him feel so good, aren’t you?”

Henry’s pupils are blown wide behind his glasses. He nods, once, helpless.

Stu scoots over to make room, patting the mattress. Henry climbs on carefully, reaches to take his glasses off--old habit when things get physical--but Stu’s hand darts out and stops him.

“Nope,” Stu says, voice husky, gently pushing the frames back up Henry’s nose. “These stay on.”

Henry’s cheeks burn dark, but the flustered look only makes Stu’s grin wider.

Stu grabs the lube from the nightstand, slicks his palm, and reaches for Henry--still shy, eyes fixed somewhere around Henry’s collarbone as he coats him thoroughly. Then Stu shoves his own pants down, straddles Henry’s hips, and sinks down slow.

Henry’s hands fly to Stu’s waist, steadying. “Easy--you’re okay,” he murmurs, voice soft and reassuring even as his own breath catches.

Stu exhales shakily once he’s fully seated, forehead dropping to Henry’s shoulder for a second. When he lifts his head again, face flushed and lips parted, he glances back. “B-Billy?”

“Don’t worry, you big idiot,” Billy says fondly, already crawling onto the bed. “I’m coming.”

He settles on hands and knees, mouth finding Stu in one smooth drop--hot, wet, eager. Stu’s hips roll instinctively, pushing deeper into Billy’s throat.

Behind Billy, William watches with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. He steps in close, one hand settling on the back of Billy’s neck, guiding the rhythm with subtle pressure--matching it to every lift and drop of Stu’s hips so that each motion drives Stu right into Billy’s mouth.

William’s voice is low, velvet and filthy, wrapping around all three of them.

“Look at you, Hen--taking him so well. Feel good having that tight heat wrapped around you?”

Stu whimpers.

“And you, Billy--fuck, the way you swallow him down every time he moves. Greedy boy.”

Billy moans around Stu, the vibration pulling a broken sound from Stu’s chest.

William leans closer, lips brushing Billy’s ear. “Doing such a good job for your friend. Both of you taking it so perfectly.”

The night dissolves into heat and motion, boundaries blurring under the low lamplight.

Stu cums first--hips stuttering, a broken cry spilling out as he fills Billy’s mouth in thick pulses. William’s hand stays firm at the base of Billy’s skull, holding him steady, guiding him through it.

“That’s it, baby,” William murmurs, voice rough with approval. “Take every drop. Swallow for him.”

Billy does, throat working, eyes watering.

The clench of Stu’s body around Henry is immediate, involuntary. Henry’s fingers dig hard into Stu’s hip, grounding himself as a low groan escapes him.

William finally eases Billy off with a gentle tug, then pulls him up into a deep, filthy kiss--tongue sliding against tongue, chasing the taste of Stu still lingering there.

Stu, breathless and trembling, leans forward and finds Henry’s mouth. Henry kisses him back slow and sweet, hips still rolling upward in steady, unhurried thrusts.

Billy watches them--glasses slightly crooked on Henry’s flushed face, Stu’s long frame folded over him--and feels William behind him, impatient now. Jeans are ripped down and kicked aside; the slick sound of lube, then William pushing into Billy in one long, possessive slide.

The room quiets for a moment--just the wet rhythm of skin, breath, the soft creak of the mattress. Then Henry’s voice drifts through, low and tender, meant only for Stu but loud enough for the others to hear.

“You feel so good… that’s it, just like that. Doing such a good job for me.”

Stu answers with small, helpless whimpers, head dropping to Henry’s shoulder.

The gentleness of it--the raw intimacy--hits Billy and William like a spark to gasoline. Their own pace quickens, harder, deeper, chasing the heat of the sounds beside them.

When it’s over, they collapse in the same tangled pile as the night before--limbs overlapping, skin slick with sweat, hearts hammering against one another.

William reaches across the pillows, fingers searching for Henry’s. Henry doesn’t take the offered hand. Instead, he curves an arm around Stu, pulling him closer. Stu burrows contentedly into the warm space between Billy and Henry, nose pressed to Henry’s collarbone, one leg thrown over Billy’s.

William watches them for a quiet moment, something complicated flickering behind his eyes, then settles in on Billy’s other side--close, but not quite touching Henry.

The room falls into slow, shared breathing, the four of them knotted together in the dark.

Chapter 18

The next week falls into a pattern.

Mornings are lessons: Henry at the table with worksheets and coffee gone cold, explaining concepts, correcting mistakes. Billy listens with half-focus but gets the answers right anyway. Stu tries harder, knots himself up with nerves, then beams when Henry tells him he’s done well.

Evenings are quieter. Review. Dinner. William arrives like clockwork. The house shifts when he does--gravity bending subtly in his direction. What happens after is unspoken, but expected. It becomes part of the rhythm, as ordinary as brushing teeth.

It’s nice. That’s the strangest part.

By the end of the week, William keeps his promise. They kill, and it feels good--clean, purposeful. All that restless energy bleeds out of them at once. Billy feels loose afterward, calm in a way he hasn’t been in years. Stu is practically glowing.

Then it starts again.

Weeks pass like this. Lessons. Praise. Routine. Release.

Until one afternoon, William sits Billy and Stu down at the table. No teasing this time. No games.

“I hired a new night guard,” he says, folding his hands. “This one’s special.”

They listen.

“He had a little brother,” William continues mildly. “I killed him years ago.” A pause. A smile. “The symmetry is perfect.”

By the weekend, Billy and Stu are vibrating with it. This one matters. Billy wants it to be perfect--for William. Stu wants it perfect--for Billy.

William indulges them.

He lets them stalk this time, the way they used to. Slow. Patient. Personal.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They hear the laughter first.

High, shrill, unmistakably a child’s--echoing through the building in a way that makes Billy skid to a stop. He rounds the corner and sees her: a little girl, brown hair, no older than ten, shrieking with laughter as the animatronics crowd around her, clumsy hands poking at her sides.

For a split second, it doesn’t make sense.

The animatronics look up first. Their attention snaps to Billy and Stu, heads tilting in unison, something like recognition passing through them.

Then the girl looks up.

Her smile vanishes.

“Shit--hey, shh,” Billy says quickly, hands lifting without thinking, like that might help. “It’s fine. It’s okay.”

Stu freezes beside him, eyes blown wide. “Fuck,” he whispers. “What do we do? Why is there a little girl here?”

“I don’t know,” Billy snaps under his breath. “Shut up.”

The girl’s gaze flicks between them. Billy. Stu. The knives they’re holding too low to hide.

Her face crumples--and she screams.

Everything happens at once. The animatronics surge forward, movements jerky and sudden, no longer playful.

“Fuck--fuck,” Stu hisses.

They run.

They tear down the hall in the opposite direction and slam straight into someone rounding the corner--a man, shorter than both of them. Billy has the fleeting, lucid thought not to do it. Not yet. It would ruin everything.

Stu doesn’t think at all.

He lunges.

The man gasps and stumbles back. Billy grabs Stu hard, hauling him away before he can strike again. The man collapses to the floor, clutching himself, eyes wide with shock.

Billy doesn’t look back.

He drags Stu down the hall toward the room where William keeps the yellow rabbit suit. They burst inside just as William is pulling it on, the head tucked under his arm.

“What?” William says, eyes wide.

“There’s a little girl,” Billy blurts.

William blinks. “You’re running from a little girl?”

“No--fuck,” Billy says. “The animatronics. They’re protecting her.”

“I stabbed him,” Stu says suddenly, panicked, words tumbling out. “He came at us, I just--I didn’t mean--”

William exhales slowly. He squeezes his eyes shut and presses a broad paw to his forehead, like he’s holding something together by force alone.

“Follow me,” he snaps.

Billy and Stu obey without thinking. They trail him back into the hall, where the girl is crouched beside the injured man. The animatronics stand close, a loose, protective ring around them both.

William lifts two fingers and snaps.

“Hold him down.”

The animatronics move immediately. Freddy pins the man to the floor with mechanical efficiency. The man struggles, but it’s useless.

The girl cries out, panic rising as she watches her friends turn on him at William’s command.

William turns sharply and points his knife at Stu.

“You. Hold her.”

Stu hesitates--just for a heartbeat--then does it. He hauls the girl upright, arms shaking as he restrains her, the blade pressed close enough to make the threat clear. She sobs and thrashes. The man fights harder, shouting -- "Abby!" -- straining against Freddy’s grip.

William looks at Billy.

“Kill her.”

For the first time all night, Billy freezes.

His hands tremble. He’s never done this before. Never a child. The thought makes his stomach twist--fear, nausea, and something darker tangled together. He swallows, raises the knife anyway, forcing himself to line it up.

Just as he moves--

The crack of a gunshot splits the air.

Billy jerks as pain blooms near his shoulder. The knife slips from his fingers and clatters to the floor. A second shot hits lower, knocking the breath from his lungs. He stumbles, then collapses.

Stu lets go of Abby instantly and drops to his knees beside Billy, hands frantic as he tries to stop the bleeding, voice breaking as he calls his name.

At the far end of the hall stands Vanessa, gun raised, arms trembling.

William snarls and charges.

She fires again, hitting his shoulder. He barely slows. He reaches her in seconds and drives the knife forward. Vanessa gasps, the gun slipping from her hand.

“Dad?” she whispers, confused and weak.

She collapses.

William stares down at her for half a second--face twisting, then turns away as Abby screams.

His gaze lands on Billy, pale and shaking, and on Stu, desperate and useless with blood on his hands.

“Fuck,” William mutters. “You two are useless.”

He grabs Billy by the front of his shirt, hauls him upright, and slings him over his shoulder like dead weight.

Billy doesn’t feel the floor disappear beneath him.

He blacks out.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Billy drifts in and out on the drive to the hospital.

Streetlights smear into long, pale streaks across the windows. The car hums beneath him. Stu’s voice is there--close, frantic, steadying--hands pressing down, holding him together as best he can. Billy can’t focus on the words. They slide past him like water.

He slips under.

He’s a kid again.

He’s standing in the woods, the air sharp and cold, and there’s a deer lying in the leaves. It’s hurt--badly--but still breathing, legs twitching, eyes wide and glassy with pain. Billy recognizes the scene as it’s happening. This already happened once. He remembers it.

Except Charlotte is there now.

She stands a few feet away, quiet, watching him with that same unreadable calm she always has. Billy kneels beside the deer and lays a hand on its neck, stroking gently, murmuring nonsense meant to soothe. The animal shudders beneath his touch.

“I know,” Billy whispers. “I know.”

His other hand closes around his pocketknife.

He keeps petting the deer as he does it. Keeps talking softly, telling it everything will be okay, that it won’t hurt much longer. When it finally goes still, Billy presses his forehead into its fur and sobs.

Charlotte steps closer. She rests a hand on his shoulder, solid and warm.

“It’s okay,” she says gently. “It was suffering.”

Billy believes her.

The darkness closes back in, and the road keeps rushing forward.

Chapter 19

The next thing Billy becomes aware of is sound.

Machines. A steady, electronic rhythm. The smell of antiseptic.

His eyes flutter open and Stu is suddenly there, crowding into his space like he’s been holding his breath for hours. Stu grabs Billy’s hand and squeezes hard, like he’s afraid Billy might disappear again if he lets go.

“You’re awake,” Stu says, voice wrecked. “Holy shit.”

Behind him William sits in a chair by the wall. A strip of white bandage peeks above his collar when he shifts. His arms are crossed, posture controlled--but his eyes soften when Billy looks at him. Relieved. Unmistakably so.

It’s daylight, Billy realizes dimly. Pale light filtering through the blinds. Stu looks exhausted. William does too.

“Stuart,” William says gently, “why don’t you go grab yourself something from the vending machine?”

It isn’t a suggestion.

Stu hesitates, then reluctantly lets go of Billy’s hand. “I’ll be right back,” he promises, and slips out into the hall.

William stands and moves to the bedside. He threads his fingers through Billy’s hair, slow and careful. It feels grounding. Good.

“How are you feeling, baby?” William asks.

“Like I need a smoke,” Billy says, attempting a smile. It comes out weak--but he really could use one.

William hums. Billy swallows.

“Sorry we fucked up,” Billy says quietly.

“No,” William corrects immediately. “There were too many variables. Things spiraled.” A pause. “Everything went wrong.”

Silence stretches between them, heavy and fragile.

Then Billy asks, “Did you stab Vanessa?”

William doesn’t dodge it. “Yes,” he says simply.

He doesn’t say anything else--but through the haze of medication, something clicks into place. William chose him. He brought Billy here. Not Vanessa. Billy was the priority.

The thought cracks him open.

Tears spill before he can stop them. William wipes them away with his thumb, soothing, murmuring softly. He pulls Billy closer, careful of his shoulder, holding him against his chest. Billy sinks into it, into the warmth, the attention.

Something tight and aching curls in his chest.

“I love you,” Billy says, the words slipping out before his mind can catch them.

William stills. He pulls back just enough to look at Billy properly, cradling his face in both hands. Billy’s pupils are blown wide, eyes glassy with painkillers--but there’s no mistaking the sincerity there.

William presses his forehead to Billy’s.

And then--

The door swings open.

“Okay, uh,” Stu says, reentering awkwardly. “Turns out I don’t have my wallet. I got my hand halfway into the machine trying to steal Doritos when a nurse walked by. She said she’d bring me a sandwich.”

William closes his eyes and exhales, long and weary.

Billy laughs--then winces, clutching his abdomen as the pain flares.

Stu immediately panics. “Oh shit--sorry--don’t laugh--are you okay?”

Billy nods, still smiling despite it.

For just a moment, the room feels almost normal.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They keep Billy for almost two weeks.

By the end of it, he’s halfway out of his mind. Trapped in the same room, the same sounds, the same bland walls. He aches constantly--not just from the wounds, but from the waiting. He wants out. Wants air. Wants noise. Wants home.

And somewhere in the fog of medication and boredom, the thought lands and sticks.

Henry’s house is home.

The realization feels quiet and final, like something clicking into place.

They visit in shifts. All of them.

Stu walks him up and down the hall when the nurses let him, slow laps with an IV pole rattling along beside them. Every now and then, Stu sneaks him a cigarette--quick, illicit, shared in a stairwell with the door cracked just enough. Billy coughs every time. It’s worth it.

William knows everyone. Doctors. Nurses. The psychiatrist. He asks the right questions, remembers names, follows up. When anyone asks who he is, he answers smoothly, “I’m his stepfather,” like it’s the simplest truth in the world.

Henry fusses.

He adjusts pillows. Pulls blankets up. Reminds Billy to drink water like it’s his sole purpose on earth. Billy snaps at him once, tells him all he’s allowed to do is drink things and he’s losing his fucking mind. Henry just nods and brings him another cup anyway.

On the last day, they let Billy eat something solid.

A yogurt. Plain. Low-fat Greek.

It tastes like chalk and sour milk.

Billy eats every spoonful like it’s sacred.

It’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Billy is finally discharged--arms full of paperwork about wound care, diet restrictions, and medication schedules--his first demand is immediate.

“I want a cheeseburger,” he tells Henry flatly. Then, quieter, almost pleading, “Please.”

Henry doesn’t cave. To his credit.

William, on the other hand, finds it endlessly amusing to point out that he did, in fact, convince Henry to go grocery shopping. Specifically for Billy.

Stu rattles off the haul like he’s proud of it: whey protein, sugar-free electrolyte drinks, fat-free cream soups, sugar-free pudding. And when Billy’s allowed to graduate to puréed food--baby food, mashed potatoes.

“Lucky me,” Billy mutters.

But he means it the other way. He feels it in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar: gratitude. Someone is paying attention. Someone is making sure he heals.

William takes charge of the wound care.

He removes the bandages carefully, methodical and unhurried, examining everything with an appraising eye. Billy hisses when the antiseptic spray hits warm skin, and William soothes him automatically--voice low, hands steady, murmuring reassurance until the cold sting fades.

He shows Billy how to help in return. How to clean and re-dress William’s own injury, guiding his hands, correcting pressure, lingering just a moment too long. It’s close work. Quiet. Loaded in a way neither of them acknowledges out loud.

Doctors had drilled “no strenuous activity” into him like a mantra, but Billy had never been good at listening.

Billy watches him in the mirror, eyes half-lidded, lips parted.

William’s gaze flicked up, met Billy’s in the reflection. Something dark and hungry flared. He set the gauze aside, stepped in close, and turned Billy gently by the hips until he faced the counter. One hand splayed across Billy’s lower back, pressing him forward; the other slid around front, unerring, wrapping around Billy’s already-hard cock.

Their mouths crashed together--messy, desperate kisses. Billy's pants were pushed down just enough. William's hips rolled forward, grinding against Billy’s bare ass, the thick line of his erection dragging slow and deliberate over Billy’s hole without pushing in.

Billy moaned into William’s mouth, pushing back greedily.

Then a sharp grimace twisted his face. His breath hitched--pain, not pleasure.

William froze instantly, hands stilling. “Shit--Billy--”

Billy’s head fell back against William’s chest with a frustrated whine--high, needy, utterly unlike him. “Don’t stop. I need you. Please.”

William exhaled slowly, forehead falling forward. When he started again, it was careful--strokes long and gentle, pressure light, hips rocking in shallow, teasing drags.

“Easy,” William murmured against his skin. “Don’t tighten your stomach. Just breathe. Let me take care of you.”

Billy tried. God, he tried--shoulders dropping, weight leaning into the counter, letting the pleasure build slow instead of chasing it hard. William’s hand was perfect--steady, knowing--until Billy came with a shuddering gasp, spilling hot over William’s fingers and the counter below.

The second he finished, Billy sank to his knees--wincing at the pull on his wounds, but determined. His hands went straight for William.

William caught his wrists, gentle but firm. “Dick’s not on the post-surgery diet plan.”

Billy looked up, flushed and defiant. “Fuck the diet plan.”

William’s mouth curved--half amusement, half surrender. He let Billy tug on him, guided him down with fingers threaded softly through dark hair.

The rhythm William set was careful, almost reverent--shallow thrusts, never deep enough to jostle Billy’s injuries. Just the slow glide into wet heat, Billy’s tongue working eagerly around him, eyes fluttering shut.

It broke something open in Billy’s chest, the gentleness of it. He hummed around William, hands braced on thighs for balance, letting himself be held and guided.

When William came, it was quiet--a low groan, hips stuttering forward once before stilling. He stroked Billy’s hair through the aftershocks.

Billy stayed on his knees a moment longer, head resting heavy on William’s thigh, breath evening out.

“Thank you, Daddy,” he whispered, voice small and raw.

William’s fingers tightened in his hair--not pulling, just anchoring.

“Anytime, baby,” he said softly. “Anytime.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Most days, Billy disappears into video games with Stu, hazy and loose on Percocet. They play until hours slip sideways. When Billy gets completely locked in, reflexes sharp despite the fog, Stu laughs and calls him a beast, half awed, half proud.

GED lessons continue in fits and starts. Henry keeps them going, but he’s learned when to stop--when Billy’s eyes glaze, when his hands shake, when frustration starts to boil. He never pushes it. Stu sticks close through it all, touching Billy constantly: a knee pressed to his, fingers hooked into his sleeve, like if he lets go Billy might vanish.

Henry touches him differently. Careful. Measured. Like Billy is something already cracked.

One afternoon, clarity cuts through the fog.

It startles Billy enough that he asks the question before he can overthink it.

“What happened to them?” he asks William. “Mike. Abby. Vanessa.”

William exhales slowly. He looks tired in a way Billy hasn’t seen before.

“They must’ve gotten away,” he says. “I haven’t seen them back at Freddy’s.”

There’s something off in his eyes when he says it. Something tight and distant. Talking about a daughter who survived him--who slipped through his hands.

Billy reaches out without thinking and takes William’s hand, squeezing it gently.

“I--” he starts.

But the words don’t come. He isn’t drugged enough to let them spill anymore.

William leans in and brushes the hair out of Billy’s eyes, thumb warm against his temple.

“I know, baby,” he says softly. “I know.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By the time Billy is mostly healed, he’s climbing the walls.

The house feels too small. The days stretch too long. He wants to go somewhere--anywhere. The movies. The mall. Just out. His body hums with pent-up energy, something dark and impatient coiled tight under his skin, looking for release.

William and Henry both tell him the same thing.

“Just a little more time.”

Billy hates that they’re probably right.

Summer creeps in before he finally graduates back to solid food. William makes a production of it, coming home one afternoon with a small box from an upscale health food place. Inside is a cupcake--gluten-free, low sugar, high protein, meticulously decorated.

Stu squints at it, then declares, “It needs a candle.”

He finds one anyway. Of course he does.

Billy stares at the whole setup, throat tight. The attention. The care. It hits him all at once, overwhelming in a way he doesn’t quite know how to handle.

William lifts a Polaroid and snaps pictures--Billy’s crooked grin, the way his shoulders relax, the look on his face when he tastes the cream cheese frosting and closes his eyes like it’s the best thing he’s ever had.

For a moment, everything feels suspended.

And Billy lets himself enjoy it.

Chapter 20

It’s almost Stu’s birthday by the time William finally gives them permission.

The words barely leave his mouth before Billy and Stu are on each other--wrestling, shoving, laughing too loud. It’s all elbows and momentum, excitement spilling out in careless bursts. Stu hasn’t complained once during Billy’s recovery, hasn’t pushed, hasn’t asked. He stayed clean for him. The release hits him all at once.

On the drive to Freddy’s, the mood shifts. William is quiet for a long stretch, hands steady on the wheel.

“You won’t be teenagers much longer,” he says eventually.

There’s something strange in his voice. Not regret. Something closer to disbelief. Like time has slipped past him without asking.

Billy leans forward from the back seat, bracing himself against the driver’s seat. He lowers his voice, close to William’s ear.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “I’ll still call you daddy.”

William doesn’t look at him, but his jaw tightens, just a fraction.

They do what they came to do. It unfolds the way it should-- familiar, practiced, inevitable. When it’s over, William turns to Billy.

“You sit this part out,” he says firmly.

Billy bristles, then relents, watching instead as the others move with efficiency. The night hums around them, thick and electric.

It feels like everything is finally back where it belongs.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Stu’s twentieth birthday dawns quiet, sunlight filtering through half-closed blinds.

Billy’s already awake, sliding down the bed with purpose. He takes Stu in his mouth slow and deep, waking him with wet heat and the lazy swirl of tongue. Stu stirs with a groan, hips lifting instinctively, fingers tangling in Billy’s hair as he cums with a shuddering gasp.

Billy crawls back up, straddling Stu and kisses him--open-mouthed, filthy, sharing the taste of him.

“Good morning, birthday boy,” Billy whispers against his lips.

Stu’s grin is sleepy, wide, and utterly smitten. “Best wake-up call ever.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Henry makes waffles.

Henry. Makes. Waffles.

He sets the plate down like it might explode and clears his throat. “Happy birthday,” he says, a little awkward, a little proud.

Stu stares at him for half a second--then grabs him by the collar and kisses him, big and careless and stupid. Henry freezes, startled, before Stu pulls back and reaches up to fix his glasses, nudging them straight like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Henry exhales, flustered. Billy grins into his coffee.

Later, Henry gathers them at the table and tells them they’re close. Really close. GED tests are coming up. If they pass, they’ll be graduates. High school, done. College applications--if they want them--are next.

“You’re always welcome here,” Henry adds, softer. “No matter what.”

The words land hard in Billy’s chest, immediate and soothing. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed to hear that--proof he wasn’t being eased out, nudged away, abandoned again.

Stu’s phone rings in the middle of it. He glances at the screen, rolls his eyes, and lets it buzz itself silent. A voicemail follows--his parents, voices polished and distant, performing concern and birthday wishes like it’s a script they’ve rehearsed.

Stu deletes it without listening all the way through.

That evening, William brings home pizza and an ice cream cake, candles and all, like they’re ten years old again. No one complains. They eat too much, laugh too loud, smear frosting everywhere.

It’s perfect.

The real surprise comes at the end of the night, when William tells them to grab their jackets and drives them to Freddy’s. Henry comes too-- setting off Stu's alarm bells. His knee bounces like crazy in the back seat.

The building is already alive when they arrive, lights glowing, movement visible through the windows. Stu bolts inside the moment the door opens, buzzing with excitement like a kid let loose somewhere forbidden.

Billy follows, unbelievably fond.

Inside, the music is already blaring. The animatronics sway and jerk to Smells Like Teen Spirit, tinny speakers doing their best to keep up with the distortion. It’s wrong in a way that feels perfect.

Stu barely notices that the floor is clean now--no glass, no debris, no sharp reminders of what used to be there. He’s too busy laughing, head tipped back, transfixed by Freddy’s stiff, enthusiastic singing.

Billy nudges him in the ribs and hooks a finger into his sleeve, tugging him toward the arcade. He slides a Faz-coin into a machine. The screen flickers to life.

As Stu starts mashing buttons, he glances sideways, grinning. “Dude,” he says lightly. “What the fuck?”

Billy leans back against the cabinet, arms crossed. “William fixed the machines,” he says. “Henry programmed the animatronics.” A shrug. “I cleaned the glass.”

The machine chimes and spits out a stream of tickets. Stu scoops them up like treasure, holding them high. “Ooooooh,” he sings. “What can I get?”

Billy points him toward the prize counter. “Let’s see. Orange gummy candies. A Freddy plush. A Faz-talker.” He looks around, pretending to think.

Stu squints at the prizes, then looks back at Billy, grin turning filthy. “How much to get double-teamed by you and Henry tonight?”

“Thousand tickets,” Billy says without missing a beat.

Stu counts. Recounts. Frowns. He’s nowhere close.

Billy rolls his eyes, fond to the point of pain. “Free, you big idiot.”

Stu ends up trading his tickets for a palm-sized rubber ball anyway. Billy clocks it immediately--already knows Stu is going to be absolutely unbearable with it.

The animatronics roll into more grunge--deep cuts Henry knows Stu loves. The boys bounce between machines, laughing, shoving, living inside the noise until the night stretches thin around them.

From a distance, Henry and William watch.

William reaches for Henry’s hand. After a moment--just a moment--Henry lets him take it. He doesn’t look over. He doesn’t pull away either.

Notes:

fun fact this Stu is a Cancer, born in July! :^)

Chapter 21

Billy dreams.

He and Stu are back in their Ghostface costumes, plastic masks hot against their skin. William towers beside them in the yellow rabbit suit. They’re hunting--Mike, Vanessa, Abby--moving through Freddy’s with purpose and breathless excitement.

But the building won’t stay straight.

The second Freddy’s bleeds into the first. Hallways double back on themselves. Party rooms stretch too long. Somewhere in the periphery, something thin and black-and-white slips between shadows--spindly, quiet, not hostile. Watching.

William catches Mike first. Lifts him clean off the ground by the throat.

Abby screams and charges, feral and brave, clutching a metal pole. She rams it into the rabbit’s side.

Billy doesn’t understand what he’s seeing--only the sound. A sharp, final click. Metal locking into metal.

William drops to his knees with a strangled sound, hands clawing uselessly at the suit.

Abby doesn’t hesitate. She runs. Mike and Vanessa follow, vanishing down a warped hallway that folds in on itself.

Billy and Stu tear their masks off and scramble to William’s side.

“Fuck--fuck--what’s happening?” Billy gasps, fingers shaking as he grabs at the seams of the costume. “What do we--Will?”

They pull, hard, frantic. The suit won’t budge. Inside, there’s something else--cold, rigid. A skeleton of metal snapping into place around William’s body.

Billy jerks back, hands slick with blood. Panic detonates in his chest.

“Man,” Stu says, voice pitching too high, terror cracking through it, “I don’t think it’s gonna come off.”

“Fuck that!” Billy shouts. He lunges back in, prying, yanking, ignoring William’s cries until he realizes--too late--that every movement is making it worse.

He freezes.

“Fuck. Fuck--” Billy sobs, chest heaving. “No--no, no, no--I can’t--”
He can’t lose him. Not William. Not like this.

A hand settles on Billy’s shoulder.

Charlotte stands behind him, calm as ever. She offers him something--help, clarity, revenge. Mike. Vanessa. Abby. She promises they’ll pay.

Billy doesn’t hesitate. He agrees before the thought even finishes forming.

Charlotte smiles.

Then she stretches--limbs elongating, face splitting into white--and becomes the Marionette. She lunges.

Billy wakes with a violent gasp.

He’s tangled in a heap of bodies--William, Henry, Stu--all warm, all real. His face is wet with tears, breath coming too fast, heart hammering like it’s still trying to escape the dream.

Stu jerks awake with a sharp inhale. “What--what the fuck?” he blurts, already turning, already reaching. “Bills, you okay?”

The movement wakes Henry too. He blinks blearily, pushing himself up on an elbow, hair sticking up every which way. William doesn’t move much at all--just tightens his hold, pulls Billy closer until his face is pressed into William’s chest. He kisses Billy’s hair, slow and grounding.

Billy clutches him like he might slip away anyway.

Stu watches it happen. Something quick and ugly flashes across his face before he smooths it over, jaw tightening, eyes never quite leaving William’s arm around Billy.

Henry rubs at his eyes. “What happened?”

Billy swallows. He feels ridiculous--too old for this, too fucked up to be shaken by a dream--but the images are still clinging to him, sharp as glass. So he tells them.

He tells them about Abby. About the pole. About the sound--metal snapping into place. About William dropping to his knees. About pulling and pulling and realizing the suit wasn’t coming off, that he was only hurting him more. About standing there helpless while William suffered.

Henry goes still.

“Springlocks,” he says quietly, eyes flicking to William.

Billy looks between them. William exhales, resigned, and explains--how the suits work, how they’re both animatronic housings and wearable costumes, how the mechanisms are held back by spring tension that can fail under the wrong conditions.

Billy lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “That’s--” He drags a hand through his hair, breath shaky. “That’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. Why would you design it like that?”

Henry’s mouth twists. “It’s flawed,” he admits. There’s something old and bitter behind his eyes, like memory he doesn’t care to unpack. “Deeply.”

William nods once. “You must’ve seen a schematic at some point,” he says, trying to sound calm, reasonable. “Your brain ran with it. Jumped to the worst possible conclusion.”

He shifts, angling Billy closer, thumb stroking slow circles against his arm. “The suits have held up for almost twenty years,” William adds. “I’m not concerned.”

He means it as reassurance.

Billy doesn’t feel reassured at all.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The day the GED tests finally come feels unreal, like something they talked about for so long it stopped being real in Billy’s head.

Henry drives them to the testing center. He’s calm in that deliberate way of his, hands steady on the wheel, reminding them to breathe, to read every question twice. Stu bounces his knee the whole way there. Billy watches the buildings pass and tries not to think about failing.

It takes seven hours to finish everything. By the time they’re done, their brains feel scraped hollow. Stu slumps against Billy in the parking lot, groaning about essay questions and trick math. Billy just feels empty and tired.

Then comes the waiting.

Weeks stretch thin. Every day Stu second-guesses himself--“I should’ve changed that answer,” “What if I fucked up the science part?” Billy pretends not to worry, but his thoughts spiral anyway. He starts thinking about futures instead. About college catalogs. About majors and minors.

“What do you even want to do?” he asks one afternoon.

Stu shrugs from the bed, tossing his rubber ball up and catching it. “I dunno. Like… a director, maybe?”

Billy nods slowly. “I think I wanna do prosthetics. SFX stuff.”

Stu sits straight up, eyes lighting. “Oh hell yeah. Billy and Stu--horror husbands.” He grins, feral and delighted. “We’ll make the sickest movies.”

Billy laughs, and for a second it feels easy.

The envelopes come on a quiet afternoon. Manila. Heavy. Final.

Henry sets up the camcorder at William’s insistence, fiddling with the angle like he’s more nervous than either of them. “This is gonna suck if we didn’t get it,” Billy jokes, forcing a laugh.

They rip the envelopes open together.

Scores. Diplomas.

They both passed.

Stu lets out a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a yell and launches himself at Billy, hugging him so hard it knocks the air from his lungs. Billy wheezes, laughing anyway, papers crumpling between them. They kiss--messy, exuberant--Stu smearing sloppy kisses all over Billy’s face while Billy looks helplessly at the camera, fond and overwhelmed.

Henry lowers the camcorder. He presses a hand to his mouth, shoulders shaking as he turns away, trying very hard not to cry.

“Oh--Mr. Emily, shit, sorry,” Stu blurts, pulling back.

Henry waves it off, voice thick. “No, no. I’m just--” He swallows. “I’m so proud of you. Both of you. You worked hard. You earned this.”

That does it. Stu’s face crumples and suddenly he’s crying too, laughing and wiping at his eyes, embarrassed and unashamed all at once. Henry steps forward and wraps his arms around them both.

Something in Billy’s chest finally loosens, like a knot he didn’t know he’d been carrying has given way.

Chapter 22

When Billy’s birthday finally comes around, William takes him and Stu tuxedo shopping like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Stu goes loud immediately--deep red with black accents, dramatic and unmistakably him. Billy chooses blue, darker, cleaner, something that feels steadier. They end up matching without meaning to. Billy tries on ties while William stands close, fingers warm and precise as he helps knot one, then another. In the end Billy shakes his head and loosens the collar instead. It looks better open. Easier. Stu settles on a simple black tie and tugs it loose until it sits just right, crooked in a way that looks intentional.

When they arrive at Freddy’s, Billy stops short.

The place has been transformed into a prom hall--lights strung soft and low, tables cleared, the floor polished. New wave drifts through the speakers, familiar and dreamy. The curtains on the animatronics stay firmly closed. Billy will never say out loud how much this means to him, but something in his chest aches all the same.

Stu asks for the first dance, suddenly shy about it, like he might be turned down. Billy just nods and lets himself be pulled close. They sway to Just Like Heaven, Billy’s forehead resting against Stu’s shoulder, Stu’s hand warm at his back. It feels simple. Safe.

William and Henry watch from the edge of the floor, both in black suits. William’s tie is purple, Henry’s orange--subtle, unmistakable choices. They look fond in the quiet way of people who’ve already said everything important.

When the song ends, William steps in, a hand settling on Stu’s shoulder. “May I?” he asks.

Stu hesitates only a second. “Sure,” he says, backing away, though his smile dims just a little as he drifts to Henry’s side.

Every Breath You Take begins to play. William draws Billy in, close enough that Billy can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. Over William’s shoulder, Billy watches Stu awkwardly ask Henry to dance. Henry rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed, then takes Stu’s hand anyway.

“You look very pretty tonight,” William murmurs near Billy’s ear.

Billy shivers despite himself. “Yeah?” he murmurs back, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “You wanna fuck about it?”

William huffs a quiet laugh, then corrects gently, “I was thinking we’d make love.”

The words hit harder than Billy expects. He pulls back just enough to look at him--really look. William is serious. Earnest. William cups Billy’s face, thumb brushing his cheek, and Billy’s heart starts racing like it’s trying to escape his ribs.

William can feel it. Billy knows he can, because he smiles, dimples soft and stupid and perfect.

“Easy, little rabbit,” William murmurs, guiding Billy back in, tucking his head against his chest. “Just enjoy this right now.”

Billy exhales and lets himself be held, the music washing over them, the night gentle.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They pull up to Henry’s house just past midnight, the porch light glowing soft and yellow. Henry and Stu linger on the gravel driveway, glancing back at the car.

“Go on ahead,” William calls through the open window, voice casual. “I’ve got one more surprise for the birthday boy.”

Stu’s mouth twists, reluctant. Henry touches his arm, voice soft. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, steering Stu toward the door. “Let them have it.”

The front door clicks shut behind them.

Billy slides into the front passenger seat without a word. William pulls away slowly, one hand on the wheel, the other settling high on Billy’s thigh--warm, steady, possessive. The touch stays there the entire drive, thumb tracing idle circles through the fabric of Billy’s tux pants.

They leave the town lights behind, winding out onto empty back roads until the sky opens wide and dark above them, stars scattered like spilled salt. William kills the engine in a quiet clearing off the shoulder, nothing but crickets and wind in the tall grass.

Billy’s breath catches, shaky.

“Don’t be nervous,” William says softly, already stepping out.

“I’m not,” Billy answers too fast.

William chuckles, low and fond, and moves to the trunk. Billy watches in the side mirror as he pulls out a thick wool blanket. William glances back, eyebrow raised--coming?

Billy follows, pulse loud in his ears.

William finds a flat patch of ground, spreads the blanket with care. Billy lowers himself onto it slowly, knees folding, still not entirely sure what’s happening. His fingers go for William’s belt on instinct.

William catches his chin, gentle but firm, tilting Billy’s face up until their eyes lock.

“No,” he says quietly. “Not tonight.”

He settles beside Billy instead, mouth finding the warm skin just below his ear--soft kisses along his neck, his jaw, the shell of his ear. When he finally reaches Billy’s lips, the kiss is slow, deep, deliberate. No rush, no edge--just a steady unraveling.

William’s hand slides from Billy’s throat to his chest, palm pressing over his heart through the crisp white shirt. He guides Billy down onto the blanket, following, covering him without crushing. Kisses trail lower--collarbone, the hollow at the base of his throat, the top buttons undone one by one.

Clothes are eased aside with patience: jacket shrugged off, shirt pushed open, pants tugged down and off with quiet reverence. William produces a small bottle of lube from his pocket, warms it between his fingers, and preps Billy with the same unhurried care--watching his face the entire time, eyes dark and attentive.

When William finally presses inside, it’s slow, impossibly slow--one long, steady glide until he’s seated deep. The pace stays that way: deep, measured thrusts that drag perfectly across Billy’s prostate, then the deliberate withdrawal, only to sink back in again.

“Fuck--Daddy--” Billy’s head falls back into the blanket, throat exposed to the cool night air.

“I’ve got you,” William whispers against his skin. “You’re doing so good, baby. So good for me.”

Billy’s breath hitches sharp. “God--dammit--”

Pleasure crests hard and sudden; he cums clenching around William, a broken sound tearing out of him. Tears slip from the corners of his eyes before he can stop them, warm tracks down his temples.

“That’s it,” William soothes, kissing the damp skin. “Let go for me.”

Billy blinks up, dazed, and realizes the stars really are beautiful out here--sharp and endless.

William shifts carefully, sliding an arm under Billy’s lower back to tilt his hips, sinking somehow deeper. Billy whimpers, oversensitive, clinging to William’s shoulders as the slow rhythm resumes.

William cums with a quiet groan, buried to the hilt, pulsing hot inside him. Billy wraps legs around his waist, holding him there, letting him soften slowly.

“Fuck, Daddy,” Billy breathes, still floating. “I love you.”

William presses a lingering kiss to his temple, voice low and certain against his skin.

“I love you too, baby.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Billy’s breath finally slows, tears drying hot on his cheeks as the adrenaline drains away. Somewhere in the haze, he realizes what just happened.

He said I love you.

Worse--William said it back.

William has pulled him close, Billy’s cheek pressed to his chest, fingers combing gently through his hair. The steadiness of William’s heartbeat should be comforting. Instead, it makes something tight and frantic bloom in Billy’s ribs.

Billy blinks, then abruptly sits up.

“Hey--hey, fucker,” he says, shoving William in the chest, hard enough to make the breath knock out of him.

“Ow--what?” William asks, startled, propping himself up on an elbow.

“You can’t just--” Billy hits him again, sharper this time, voice cracking, “--say shit like that.”

William catches his wrists mid-swing and tugs him forward, easy strength, a smile already curling at the corner of his mouth. “Like what?” he murmurs, amused.

“Like--” Billy struggles uselessly, frustration breaking through panic. “You can’t say you love me. That’s not what we do. That’s not what this is.”

William’s brows lift. “You said it first,” he points out, gently teasing.

Billy’s face twists, embarrassment and dread colliding. “Stop,” he says, weak and pleading all at once. He squeezes his eyes shut, turning his face away. He can’t look at William’s eyes--too blue, too familiar, too close to Stu’s. And Stu--God, Stu would feel it, wouldn’t he? He always does. He already gets jealous enough.

“It’s okay, baby,” William murmurs, softening immediately.

“No,” Billy chokes out. “No, it’s not.” His throat tightens, words stacking up behind his teeth. I can’t love anyone. Because loving someone means giving them the power to hurt you--by accident, without meaning to. Especially without meaning to.

“Fuck,” Billy hisses suddenly, ripping his wrists free and scrambling backward. He stands too fast, the night tilting around him, pulls on his pants shakily. “I’m ready to go home.”

William stays where he is for a moment, stretched out on the blanket, watching Billy with an expression that’s almost smug--like he’s won something Billy hasn’t figured out yet. Then he sighs, sits up, and begins folding the blanket with careful, unhurried movements.

A few minutes later, he slings it under one arm and heads for the car, saying nothing at all.

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William drops Billy off at Henry’s without much ceremony. The house is quiet, dark except for a lamp left on somewhere down the hall. Billy doesn’t say thank you. William doesn’t ask him to. He lingers only long enough to make sure Billy gets inside, then stays up in the living room, occupied with something deliberately mundane, giving Billy space without admitting that’s what he’s doing.

Billy heads straight for the guest bedroom first. Empty. The bed’s untouched.

His chest tightens.

He turns and pads down the hall to Henry’s room, pushing the door open just enough to slip inside. Stu is dead asleep, sprawled and warm, Henry beside him. Billy crosses the room and grabs Stu’s shoulder.

“Wake up,” Billy hisses, shaking him.

Stu jolts, knocking Henry half-awake in the process. “Jesus--what--”

“Fuck, sorry,” Billy blurts, already tugging Stu upright by the arm. “I just--I need him.”

Henry squints at them, confused but too tired to argue. “It’s fine,” he mutters, waving them off.

Stu stumbles after Billy into the hallway, blinking hard. “What’s going on, man?” he asks, voice thick with sleep.

“Shut up,” Billy says, not unkindly, just frantic. “Just--follow me.”

They make it to the guest bedroom. Billy shuts the door behind them a little too hard.

Stu gestures at himself. “Can I at least put on pants?”

Billy drags a hand down his face, pacing once. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

Stu pulls them on and sits on the edge of the bed, watching Billy carefully now. “Okay,” he says softly. “What’s up?”

Billy stops in front of him. For a second, he just stares, like he’s searching for the right words and coming up empty. Stu waits, patient, open, worry creeping into his eyes.

Billy never finds the words.

Instead, he lunges forward and kisses Stu, hard and sudden, like it’s the only language left to him. Stu makes a surprised noise but doesn’t pull away, instinctively leaning back, hands coming up to steady Billy as they tumble onto the bed.

Stu doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t need to. He just holds Billy, lets him set the pace, grounds him the way he always does. Whatever Billy needs, Stu gives it without hesitation.

Later, they fall asleep tangled together, limbs heavy, breathing synced.

As it should be, Billy thinks dimly, drifting off with his face pressed into Stu’s shoulder.

Notes:

Fun Fact 2: This Billy is a Virgo, baby! :^)

Chapter 23

Morning comes in slowly, thin light leaking through the curtains. Billy wakes first, heavy-limbed and sore in that dull, familiar way. Stu stirs beside him, then props himself up on an elbow. He reaches out, cups Billy’s face like it’s second nature, thumb brushing along his cheek.

Stu studies him--really studies him--and something in that open, trusting look makes Billy’s stomach turn.

“I told him I love him,” Billy blurts, the words tumbling out before he can stop them.

Stu freezes.

“What?” he says, half a laugh in his voice, like he’s misheard.

“I--fuck, Stu, don’t make me say it again,” Billy groans, dragging a hand over his face.

Stu opens his mouth, closes it. Tries again. “What?” This time it’s sharper, pitched wrong. Billy can hear the crack forming.

“It was a mistake,” Billy rushes, grasping. “I didn’t mean it.”

Stu’s smile disappears completely. “Okay. Okay--so let me get this straight.” He’s talking fast now, words tripping over each other as he sits up, then stands. “You fuck him, you tell him you love him, you freak out--and then you come home and fuck me. Because I’m convenient, right?”

“That’s not--” Billy starts, scrambling upright.

“So what, it’s like damage control?” Stu keeps going, pacing. “Make yourself feel better? God, Billy, you really only ever think about yourself, don’t you?”

Billy just stares at him, blindsided. “Stu--fuck, you’re blowing this way out of proportion. I fucked you because--”

“Because what?” Stu snaps, spinning on him. “Because you love me?” He laughs, broken and sharp. “You only say that when you want something. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

Billy’s mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

“Don’t act dumb,” Stu keeps going, voice cracking now. “Ever since you got your shiny new daddy, I’ve been--what? On standby?” He gestures at himself, furious and hurt. “I’ve been here. Always. Whatever you needed. Your loyal little dog.”

That finally knocks the air out of Billy. The apology is there, burning at the back of his throat--but it doesn’t make it out in time.

“God, fuck you,” Stu spits, pointing at him. Then he storms out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the walls.

Billy’s moving before the sound finishes echoing. He follows Stu into the kitchen just in time to see him stop short, notice William at the table with his coffee.

Everything happens too fast.

Stu grabs a knife from the butcher block, slings an arm around William’s shoulders, presses the blade up under his jaw. He looks back at Billy, eyes wild and bright.

William doesn’t react--doesn’t flinch, doesn’t tense. He just looks mildly annoyed, like someone interrupted him mid-thought.

Henry, on the other hand, stands slowly, hands lifting in a placating gesture. “What’s going on?” he asks, voice careful.

Stu hesitates when he sees Henry’s face--just for a second. Then Billy steps closer and Stu tightens his grip, the knife pressing more firmly.

“Consider this my way of saying I’m feeling a little insecure,” Stu says, mocking, echoing William’s old words almost perfectly.

“Stu,” Billy says, keeping his voice low, steady, like he’s approaching something feral. “Put the knife down. You’re acting crazy.”

For a moment, everything seems to freeze. Even the air feels held.

Stu stares at Billy, really looks at him--and whatever he sees there makes his face crumple. He lets out a sharp, broken laugh. “Oh my God,” he says. “Oh my God--you’re actually scared I’m gonna hurt him.”

“Stu,” Billy snaps, panic bleeding into anger, “you’re holding a fucking knife to his throat.”

As if to prove a point, Stu tightens his grip. The blade presses harder, enough to draw a hiss from William this time. He grimaces, jaw tightening. Billy’s stomach drops straight through the floor.

“Oh,” Stu breathes, voice cracking wide open. Tears spill before he can stop them. “Oh fuck. You really do love him, don’t you?”

“Stu--”

“You didn’t even look at me like this,” Stu keeps going, words tumbling out ragged. “Not after you stabbed me. Not after I almost died for you.”

The truth hits Billy like a punch he didn’t brace for.

Somewhere deep down, he knows it’s right. He never really let himself believe Stu could die. Even afterward--blood, stitches, consequences--Billy had treated it like a close call they’d beaten, not a life nearly lost. Relief that they’d gotten away with it. Pride that it had worked. He’d never apologized. He’d never slowed down enough to really feel it.

His heart pounds hard enough to hurt.

He refuses to examine why William feels different.

“Put the knife down!” Billy yells instead, because yelling is easier. “You’re acting like a little bitch right now!”

He steps forward.

Stu reacts on instinct.

The knife comes down fast, burying itself into William’s upper chest near the shoulder. Everything tilts. Sound drops out.

William moves.

He slams Stu backward onto the table with brutal efficiency, knocking the air from his lungs. In one motion, William wrenches the knife out of his own chest and brings it down--

Hard.

The blade bites into the table inches from Stu’s face, wood splintering on impact.

Stu goes still, eyes blown wide.

William stands there for a beat, breathing hard, eyes dark and furious--but controlled. Very deliberately controlled. He pulls back, steps away, grabs a dish towel and an ice pack from the freezer, wraps it tight, and presses it to his wound like it’s an inconvenience.

Then he looks at Stu.

“Get up,” William says, snapping his fingers once.

Stu raises off the table inch by inch, jaw tight. William doesn't raise his voice.

“Go. Sit.”

Stu obeys. The chair scrapes softly against the floor.

William turns then, crooking a finger at Billy and pointing to the empty seat beside Stu. Billy hesitates only a second before sitting. Henry pulls the knife free from the table with a sharp tug, looks at it like he’s not sure what to do next, then tosses it into the sink with a clatter.

“You too, Hen,” William says, already pulling out the chair beside him.

Henry sits.

William lets the room settle. Then, calmly, he starts.

“Stuart,” he says, measured. “It sounds like you need Billy to be more attentive to your needs. Is that correct?”

Stu folds his arms, shoulders hunched. He sneaks a glance at Billy, then looks away. “I--I don’t know. I’m just--”

“Jealous,” William supplies smoothly. “That’s natural. Feelings like that are bound to surface in a relationship.”

He extends his hand across the table, palm up, waiting. When Stu doesn’t respond, William flexes his fingers once, twice, a silent prompt. Stu hesitates, then places his hand in William’s like he’s feeding it into a machine he doesn’t trust.

William squeezes, warm and grounding.

“What can Billy do to reassure you?” William asks.

Stu swallows. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “Maybe… stop making me feel like I’m second choice. Like I’m only here because I’m convenient. I want him to choose me because he actually cares.”

“Fuck, Stu,” Billy blurts. “I do care. You think I’d keep you around if I didn’t? That I’d waste my time on you?”

Stu wipes at his eyes with his free hand. “I don’t know what to think,” he says quietly.

Billy exhales, the sound shaky. “Man--look, Stu.” He struggles, words tangling. This is the part he never lets himself say. “I love you. Okay? I’ve loved you since we were fourteen, laying on your bed listening to-- fucking Radiohead.”

Stu huffs out a sad laugh, nodding despite himself.

William watches closely. “Does your love for me replace your love for him?” he asks, ever the mediator.

“No,” Billy says immediately. “Fuck no. It’s not like that.” He drags a hand down his face, frustrated. “It’s--shit. It’s like I’ve got holes in my chest, okay? And you guys are different shapes. You fill different ones.”

He grimaces. “Jesus. That sounded cheesy as hell.”

William’s mouth curves, just a little. “You’re doing well,” he says, approving.

William sways slightly, like the adrenaline is finally wearing off and the blood loss is catching up with him.

Henry notices immediately. His face goes pale. “Will,” he says, almost disbelieving his own words, “we--we need to get you to the hospital.”

William gives Stu’s hand one last squeeze. “And how are we feeling now?” he asks lightly, like this is still his meeting to run.

Stu lets out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Like you need to get to the hospital, old man.” He finally squeezes back.

Chapter 24

Later, Billy, Stu, and Henry sit in stiff chairs under fluorescent lights while the trauma team works behind closed doors. The smell of antiseptic makes Billy’s head swim.

“I can’t believe you stabbed him,” Billy whispers to Stu, equal parts awe and disbelief.

Stu grins, slightly apologetic. “You make me kinda crazy, Billy.”

“Fuck,” Billy mutters. “That’s-- that's so hot."

Stu sticks his tongue out.

Billy almost leans in on instinct to catch it between his teeth.

“Nope. No. Not here,” Henry mutters, grabbing Stu by the back of the shirt and tugging him away like a misbehaving dog. Stu laughs; Billy snorts despite himself.

Time drags. Hours pass. Evening creeps in before a nurse finally calls them back.

William’s in a hospital bed, pale but alert, already trying to charm his way out of it. “I feel fine,” he’s saying as they enter. “Really, I’ve had worse.”

“I’m sure you have,” the doctor replies patiently. “But not today, Mr. Raglan.”

The doctor turns to the small, mismatched group clustered in the doorway. Introduces himself--something surgical, something Billy knows he won’t remember--and asks who they are to the patient.

William doesn’t hesitate. “That’s my brother,” he says, nodding at Henry, “his son, and my son.”

Billy and Stu glance at each other.

Stu silently mouths, Which one of us?

Billy flicks his eyes back at him. You, idiot.

Stu straightens. “Yeah--uh, yep. Love my dad,” he says awkwardly, giving a stiff little nod.

Henry rubs his forehead. Billy squeezes his eyes shut.

“Right,” the surgeon says, unfazed. He turns to Henry. “Your brother was extremely lucky. The blade missed anything vital. The main concern will be healing in the pectoral muscle--no heavy lifting, no strenuous activity for a while.”

As the instructions roll on, William’s gaze drifts to Billy’s and lingers. Billy feels it immediately, heat pooling low in his stomach, the implication curling there uninvited.

He looks away before anyone can notice, heart thudding, already knowing recovery is going to be complicated.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When William is released the next day, Henry stays close at his side like he might tip over if left unattended. He helps him into the car with a careful hand at his elbow, jaw tight, expression almost annoyed--but it’s a choice, Billy can tell. A deliberate one.

At Henry’s house, William barely gets through the door before Henry is steering him toward the bedroom and laying down rules. “Bed rest,” he says flatly.

William gives him a smug, sideways look. Henry doesn’t budge. “I mean it, Will. Rest.”

William sighs like he’s been deeply wronged, but he lets Henry help him settle in.

While that’s happening, Billy and Stu sit at the kitchen table. Stu’s fingers drift to the gouge in the wood, where the knife bit deep. He traces the edge of it slowly, staring.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

Billy nudges his knee with his own. “Hey,” he says quietly. “We’re… good, right?”

Stu slumps back in the chair. “Yeah. I mean--yeah.” He hesitates, then adds, softer, “But I meant it. I need you, man.”

Billy swallows and rests a hand on Stu’s knee, gives it a small squeeze. Stu leans into it without thinking.

Henry comes back into the kitchen looking wrung out. He exhales hard, shuffling through a stack of mail. He pauses, glancing between Billy and Stu like he’s gauging the temperature of the room, then lays a handful of brochures out on the table.

“Colleges,” he says. “Local ones.”

Billy looks up. “What?”

“Will picked these up the other day,” Henry explains. “We were going to go over them yesterday, but…” His gaze flicks to the scar in the table. He looks tired. Bone-deep tired.

“Sorry,” Stu says automatically.

Henry raises a hand. “No. No, I’m glad we dealt with that.” He exhales again, then gestures to the brochures. “Go on.”

Billy and Stu exchange a quick look before diving in. Stu lifts one up like it’s a centerfold. “Any that do, like--arts stuff?” he asks.

Henry doesn’t hesitate. He selects one and slides it towards them. Of course he knows. Of course he and William already researched them.

Billy flips it open. Photography. Film. Special effects makeup. Alumni bragging about Hollywood, modeling, practical effects. The mascot on the back page is a jackalope.

Billy nearly chokes on a laugh.

“Dude,” Stu whispers, peering over his shoulder. He gives Billy a look that clearly says, Is this it?

Henry smiles faintly. “You could live in a frat house. Meet people your own age.”

Billy hums, thoughtful--but only for a second.

“You don’t have to rush,” Henry adds gently. “You could always take a gap year.”

Billy and Stu look at each other.

“Fuck no,” Billy says immediately.

“Yeah, no, sorry, Mr. Emily,” Stu agrees.

Henry laughs, the sound startled out of him, warmth breaking through the exhaustion. “All right,” he says. “Then we’ll start applications right away.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They spend hours at it--Henry sitting at the computer with his reading glasses perched low, Billy peeking over his shoulder, Stu bouncing between the computer and printer. Pages get filled, re-filled, printed, corrected, printed again. The printer whirs nonstop, spitting out crisp stacks that Henry aligns with careful precision.

William, officially on bed rest, pretends not to watch from the bed. In reality, he listens to every sound: the scrape of chairs, Billy's occasional swearing, Stu's laughter when something glitches, Henry’s steady voice keeping them on track. He lies there with his hands folded on his chest like a patient saint.

By the time the packets are assembled--thick envelopes, checks tucked neatly inside--Henry looks wrung out but quietly proud. They drive to the post office together, feed the envelopes into the slot like an offering, and then head home.

Once they’re back, Henry immediately veers toward the bedroom. “I’m just checking,” he calls over his shoulder. “Make sure he hasn’t been up.”

Stu disappears into the guest room, already booting up a game. Billy heads for the kitchen, rummaging for snacks--because Henry keeps snacks now, keeps them stocked like a promise.

As Billy opens a cabinet, voices drift down the hallway through the cracked bedroom door.

“No, I’m not sending him in here,” Henry says, clipped.

“Hen,” William drawls, smooth as honey.

“No,” Henry repeats. “They just made up. Give them space.”

“They’re fine,” William counters. “Stuart’s fine. If you’re worried, keep him busy.”

“Will,” Henry says, exasperated.

“What?” William snaps, heat bleeding through the charm. “I’m trying to keep everyone happy. I’m the glue here.”

Henry scoffs. “You keep singling Billy out like he’s your favorite child.”

A beat.

“He already has a partner his own age,” Henry continues. “You don’t need to--”

William laughs sharply, cutting him off. “Oh, now you care about age gaps?” he hisses. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“I’m not doing this with you,” Henry says, tired and angry all at once. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“And what’s that, Henry?” William asks, low.

Henry doesn’t answer right away. When he does, it’s quiet. Firm. “He’s not yours.”

The bedroom door opens. Henry steps into the hallway and nearly runs straight into Billy.

Henry freezes, then exhales. His voice drops into something stern, parental. “Do not go in there,” he says. “He’ll survive.”

Billy nods automatically.

And immediately, deeply, feels the urge to do the exact opposite.

Chapter 25

Billy tells himself it’ll be quick. Just a minute. In and out. Then he’ll go right back to Stu, controller in hand, like nothing happened. It’s fine. He doesn’t even bother sneaking--doesn’t need to. Henry isn’t going to stop him.

Billy slips into the master bedroom and clicks the door shut behind him.

William’s face lights up instantly, all warmth and sharp attention. “Oh, baby,” he croons, smug and pleased. “You always know when daddy needs you.”

Billy hesitates only a second before admitting, “I heard you and Henry.” His voice is quieter than he means it to be.

William reaches out without looking, confident Billy will come. He does. Their fingers lace together. "Did it upset you?"

Billy’s jaw tightens. “Yeah, actually-- fuck him,” he snaps, heat flaring. “Who is he to tell us what to do?”

“Baby,” William murmurs, satisfied, drawing Billy closer until he’s tucked against his chest. He noses into Billy’s hair, breath warm, familiar, grounding. Billy melts despite himself.

His hand drifts, almost reverent, tracing the fresh line of William’s scar. He presses a careful kiss just beside it, then another. “Nothing strenuous,” Billy mutters, mocking, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth as he looks up.

William brushes Billy’s hair out of his eyes, gaze dark and amused. “No heavy lifting,” he echoes. A beat. “Any ideas?”

Billy bites his lip, eyes flicking down, then back up. “I’ve got a few.”

William’s breath stutters--not much, just enough for Billy to notice--and his smile turns slow and dangerous, like he already knows Billy isn’t going to make it fast after all.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Billy slides down William’s bare chest, mouth dragging slow, deliberate kisses over warm skin. He pauses at the soft roll of William’s stomach, nosing along the waistband of purple boxer briefs, breathing him in. The outline of William’s cock strains against the fabric, already half-hard and heavy. Billy mouths at it teasingly, damp heat soaking through cotton, drawing a low hiss from above.

He tugs the briefs down just enough to free him, kisses the flushed tip like it’s something sacred, tongue flicking out to lap at the bead of precum. The taste makes his eyes flutter shut for a second--salt and want and William.

William watches through heavy-lidded eyes, fingers threading gently into Billy’s hair, not guiding yet, just anchoring.

Billy takes him deeper, slow and wet, cheeks hollowing. He pulls back to the head, teeth grazing ever so lightly--just a hint of pressure, a teasing bite that never breaks skin but promises it could. William’s hips twitch; a rough sound catches in his throat.

Billy does it again--soft suction, then that careful scrape of teeth. William’s composure cracks; his fingers tighten in Billy’s hair, breath coming sharper. “Fuck--Billy--”

Billy hums around him, pleased, and repeats the torment: swirl of tongue, gentle bite, pull back until William is throbbing against his lips. William’s head falls back against the pillow, a low, wrecked groan escaping as Billy pushes him mercilessly toward the edge without letting him tip over.

Finally Billy pulls off with a wet pop, lips swollen and shiny, and crawls back up William’s body. William reaches for Billy’s jeans, expecting him to straddle and ride, fingers already working the button open.

Billy stills his hands, reaches instead for the lube on the nightstand, then tugs insistently at William’s boxers.

William laughs, breathless and surprised. “What--what are you doing?”

Billy’s cheeks burn. He struggles for the words. “I thought… I could take care of you. For once.”

William’s expression softens, stunned for half a heartbeat, then a gentle laugh escapes him. Billy’s face starts to crumple, insecurity flaring--he’s laughing at me, he doesn’t think I can--

“Oh, baby, no,” William says quickly, cupping Billy’s jaw. “I’m not laughing at you.”

Billy’s mind has already raced ahead: his cock is smaller than William’s, than Henry’s, than Stu’s--maybe William doesn’t believe he can satisfy him. The doubt only hardens his resolve. He tugs at the waistband again, stubborn.

William’s eyes soften with something unbearably fond. He lifts his hips, lets Billy pull the briefs down and off.

Billy tries to maneuver William’s hips toward him and fails, frustration growling low in his throat. William shifts down the bed willingly, accommodating, voice warm. “It’s okay, baby. Show Daddy what you can do.”

Billy slicks his fingers, slides one into William slow and careful. His mouth falls open at the heat, the clutch of muscle around him. William just lies back, arm crooked behind his head, watching Billy with dark, patient eyes and a small, encouraging smile.

A second finger, then a third. William’s breath deepens, hips tilting subtly into the touch. When Billy finally lines up and sinks in--slow, steady pressure until he’s buried deep--both of them groan.

“Fuck, Daddy,” Billy breathes, overwhelmed by the tight, velvet heat gripping him. He hasn’t topped since Sidney, had almost forgotten how intoxicating it feels to be inside someone.

He starts rocking, shallow at first, eyes locked on William’s face. “You feel so good--"

“Yeah, baby?” William’s voice is pure filth, low and rough. “You like being inside me?”

Billy nods frantically, angling his hips until William’s breath catches--a subtle twitch, a softening around the eyes. There. Billy drives back into that spot, harder.

“Fuck--right there,” William rasps, legs tightening around Billy’s waist.

Billy’s hand wraps around William’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. William’s palm settles over Billy’s hip, guiding. “Just a little harder--you’re doing so good for me.”

Billy obeys, snapping his hips faster, deeper, brutal. William’s head falls back, throat exposed, a low moan dragged out of him.

Billy’s rhythm stutters; he buries his face in William’s neck, whispering brokenly, “Daddy--fuck--Daddy--”

“You gonna cum in me, baby?” William asks, voice dark and encouraging.

Billy tries to hold out, tries to wait, but the heat and the clutch and William’s voice unravel him. He cums with a choked cry, hips jerking erratically as he spills deep inside.

“There you go,” William murmurs, petting Billy’s sweat-damp hair as Billy collapses against his chest, kissing every inch of skin he can reach--collarbone, neck, jaw. “Filling me up so good.”

Billy hides his burning face in the gray hair of William’s chest. “Fuck--I didn’t mean to finish first--”

William laughs softly, arms wrapping tight around him. “It happens. It’s okay.” His voice drops, velvet and teasing. “Besides… now you can bounce on my cock like the eager little bunny you are.”

Billy lifts his head, eyes wide, flushed and breathless and already stirring again at the promise.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Billy lies sprawled against William’s chest, breath still uneven, the world soft and cottoned at the edges. William’s hand moves through his hair in slow, absent passes, a low hum vibrating beneath Billy’s ear--content, proprietary, soothing.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” William asks quietly, like he needs to hear it said.

“Yeah,” Billy answers without thinking, nodding against him. Everything feels far away, pleasantly blurred.

Then the blur snaps into focus.

Stu.

The thought hits hard enough to sting. Billy jolts upright. “Fuck-- I’m sorry, I gotta--" He’s already scrambling, pulling himself together with clumsy hands while William watches, loose-limbed and satisfied, saying nothing, not stopping him.

Billy moves fast through the house, guilt building with every step. He reaches the guest room and stops short.

Stu and Henry are on the floor in front of the TV, controllers in hand. The room smells faintly sweet and skunky; a joint burns low in the ashtray between them. Stu looks up slowly.

“Oh,” he says, thick-tongued. “Hey. It’s Billy.”

He doesn’t smile.

Henry pauses the game immediately, eyes flicking between them.

“Fuck, Stu, I’m so sorry,” Billy blurts, words tumbling. “I didn’t mean to--”

“Nah, man,” Stu interrupts, waving it off with a lazy hand. “It’s fine.” His eyes linger, sharp despite the haze. “Mr. Emily said you were taking care of Will. Chest stuff. Holes, right?”

He uses Billy’s words from earlier, almost verbatim. It lands wrong. It hurts.

Stu pats the carpet beside him. “C’mon.”

Billy hesitates, then sinks down next to him.

Stu leans in and presses a quick kiss to the corner of Billy’s mouth--easy, familiar, claiming without asking. “Can’t wait to go to college with you,” he murmurs, soft but certain.

Billy hears everything underneath it. The hope. The belief that things will change. That distance might loosen William’s grip.

“Yeah,” Billy says after a beat. “I can’t wait either.”

He means it. Even as something tight and aching twists in his chest, like he already knows wanting doesn’t make choosing any easier.

Chapter 26

The next couple of weeks pass quietly, almost deceptively so. William heals. The house settles back into routines. Stu stops bristling at the edges of things, accepts the shape of the situation as it is--for now. And Henry… Henry watches Billy with a look that’s equal parts worry and disappointment, like he’s waiting for something inevitable to finally happen.

Then one night, William doesn’t come over for dinner.

They wait. They don’t say much about it. Hours slide by.

Billy and Stu are half-settled in bed when Billy’s phone rings. William’s name lights up the screen.

Billy answers immediately. “Hello?”

“I need you.” William’s words are thick, slurred, but that’s all he says.

Billy swallows. “Where are you?”

“Home,” William says, and then the line goes dead.

Billy just stares at the phone. Stu sits up beside him. “What’s wrong?”

“I-- I don’t know,” Billy says, already moving, already pulling on his shoes. “He didn’t sound right. He’s at home, but--"

Stu’s hand comes down on Billy’s shoulder, steady. “It’s okay. Go to him. Call me if you need backup.”

Billy leans in and kisses him quickly, gratitude and fear tangled together, then he’s out the door. The drive feels too long, every stoplight unbearable. His hands are white-knuckled on the wheel by the time he pulls into William’s driveway.

He knocks, heart pounding.

It takes a moment. When William opens the door, he’s swaying slightly, eyes unfocused. He grabs Billy like he’s afraid Billy might vanish, presses his face into Billy’s shoulder.

The smell hits Billy immediately--sharp, heavy liquor.

“Hey,” Billy murmurs, wrapping his arms around him. “Hey, I’ve got you.”

William doesn’t answer. He just pulls Billy inside, steering him clumsily toward the couch, holding on like letting go isn’t an option.

They collapse together onto the couch, a tangled heap of limbs and breath. William clutches at Billy like he’s afraid gravity might take him if he lets go. He presses sloppy kisses along Billy’s neck, then drags Billy’s wrists up to his mouth, kissing the knuckles, the pulse points, reverent and desperate all at once.

“What’s going on, Will?” Billy asks, panic threading his voice.

William bows his head, resting his forehead against Billy’s fingers. “I followed Vanessa home today,” he says quietly. “She told me she didn’t want to see me anymore. Said she didn’t need me.”

Something cold kicks behind Billy’s ribs. His mind leaps ahead before he can stop it. “Will,” he says carefully, eyes wide. “What did you do?”

William gestures vaguely toward the back of the house. “She’s in the basement.” He sees Billy’s expression and adds, almost impatiently, “Alive.”

Billy exhales shakily. “Okay. Okay. Then--what’s the plan?”

“Keep her,” William says, like it’s obvious. “Until she learns her lesson.” He kisses Billy’s hands again, softer now. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Or.. A little bonding activity.” He looks up. “You help me put her down.”

The words land heavy, blunt. William’s brow creases, a shadow of sadness that never quite reaches his voice. He looks exhausted without his glasses, eyes glassy and too blue.

“You want me to help you kill your daughter,” Billy says. It sounds like a question, but it isn’t.

William presses a kiss to his fingers. “You’re the only one I trust,” he murmurs. There’s no manipulation in it--just certainty. And somehow that’s worse.

Billy swallows. “Yeah,” he says, too quickly. “Okay. If it comes to that.”

William folds him in immediately, tucking Billy against his chest, kissing his hair, murmuring praise--good boy, I love you--until Billy lets himself sink into it, lets himself believe it.

William pulls back again, studying Billy’s face like it’s a mirror. His fingers trace Billy’s cheekbones, the sharp lines of his jaw. “Sometimes,” he murmurs, unfocused, “you look just like him. Just--if he understood. If he felt it too.”

Henry. Billy doesn’t need the name spoken. He’s seen it himself, in reflections, in photographs. He wonders, dimly, if William is reaching for something he never got--if Billy is a substitute and a confession all at once. It doesn’t stop him. Billy is chasing something too: safety, authority, a warped kind of being chosen.

Billy surges forward and kisses him hard, swallowing the thought. William kisses him back just as fiercely, hands roaming, grounding them both. They end up making love right there on the couch, the house holding its breath around them.

In the basement, Vanessa stays silent. She understands, instinctively, that screaming would only make things worse.

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William stirs before dawn, careful not to wake him. He leans close and murmurs for Billy to stay, to rest. Billy does. He curls back into the couch cushions and drifts, feeling safer than he ever remembers feeling in his father’s house--an unsettling thought, considering someone is bound in the basement.

He wakes to the smell of food. Eggs, bacon, English muffins--never biscuits. The normalcy of it disorients him more than anything else. Billy follows the sound into the kitchen, where William hums softly over the stove. His hair is still mussed, glasses nowhere in sight, blue eyes tired, beard a little rough around the edges. He looks… domestic. Handsome in a way that makes Billy ache.

Billy comes up behind him and wraps his arms around William’s waist, pressing his forehead between broad shoulder blades.
“Morning, baby,” William says, voice low and rough.
“Morning, daddy,” Billy answers, kissing the warm fabric of his shirt.

“We’ll feed Vanessa first,” William says evenly, flipping an egg. “She didn’t eat last night. She must be hungry.”

Billy nods against him.

They fix a plate together and carry it down the basement stairs. The light is harsh down there, the air cool and still.
“Vanessa, honey,” William calls, gentle as he descends. “It’s breakfast.”

Her head snaps up immediately, fury flashing across her face before she reins it in. William crouches in front of her, tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear, presses a brief kiss to her forehead like it’s habit.

Only then does Billy really register the setup: her wrists bound behind her, secured to a metal pole that runs floor to ceiling--too permanent, too deliberate.

“Billy’s going to feed you,” William says calmly, fingers lifting her chin so she has to look at him. “And you’re going to eat for him. Understood?”

Vanessa’s breathing quickens. Her jaw tightens, defiance flickering, then disappearing beneath something resigned and bitter. She swallows hard.

“Yes,” she says at last. Then, quieter, sharper: “Dad.”

William hums, pleased. He drags a wooden chair closer, sits, and gestures for Billy to kneel in front of Vanessa and feed her. Billy does, careful and deliberate--small bites, held steady until she takes them. She never breaks eye contact with him, even as she chews.

“People are going to notice I’m gone,” Vanessa says between mouthfuls. “When I don’t show up for work. Spin class.”

“I’ll handle work,” William says lightly. “As for everyone else--” he shrugs.

“Most people assume you chose to disappear,” Billy adds before he can stop himself. “That you had somewhere else to be. Most people don’t dig.”

William glances at him, approving. Vanessa’s jaw tightens.

“Mike will,” she says, the name slipping out before she can swallow it back.

Both William and Billy still. William’s smile sharpens. “Let him,” he says, almost cheerful. “I’d welcome the opportunity.”

Vanessa bristles, shoulders pulling tight against the restraints.

When the plate is empty, William stands. “I’ll be back for dinner,” he tells her, calm as ever. “Use the time to think about your choices. And the consequences.”

Upstairs, the house settles back into something that almost resembles normal. They eat their own breakfast at the table, the clink of cutlery too loud in the quiet.

“I should probably call Stu,” Billy mutters, rubbing a hand through his hair.

“Tell him you’re helping me with a project,” William says immediately. “If Henry finds out, it complicates things.”

“You really think Henry would snitch?” Billy asks.

William’s mouth tightens. “Henry’s been… difficult lately.”

Billy feels it too--the distance, the tension that won’t settle. He nods and dials. It rings a few times before Stu answers, voice thick with sleep.

“Hey, man. Everything okay? Was William alright?”

“Yeah,” Billy says smoothly. “He’s fine. Just exhausted. I’m helping him with something--might be back and forth for a bit.”

“Oh. Uh--anything I can do?” Stu asks, hopeful, wanting in.

Billy looks to William. William shakes his head once.

“Nah,” Billy says. “Maybe next time.”

“Okay,” Stu says, unconvinced. He knows when Billy’s skirting the truth. “Love you.”

“Love you,” Billy answers, and hangs up.

He sinks back in his chair, breath leaving him all at once.

“You did well,” William says quietly.

Billy looks up. “What do you want me to do?”

“Stay,” William says--and this time it sounds less like an instruction and more like a need. “I’ve got vacation days. I’ll take them. Until Vanessa is more…” He pauses, searching. “…manageable. With you.”

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The next day slips by in a strange, hazy rhythm--intimacy and routine braided together. Billy and William spend long stretches shut away upstairs, surfacing only when it’s time to go downstairs with a plate, when the house demands to be acknowledged. Then the day after that passes the same way, until mid-afternoon, when Henry calls.

William ignores it at first. The phone rings itself quiet while he and Billy lie tangled together, breath still uneven. Eventually the voicemail plays.

“I just thought Billy would want to know,” Henry says carefully, measured. “He’s been accepted. Same university as Stu.” A pause. Then, softer but firmer: “You should let him come home, Will. Before classes start.”

The phrasing lands wrong. Let him come home--as if Billy were being kept. As if he hadn’t chosen this. As if he were something confined.

Billy feels heat spark under his ribs, sharp and defensive. William notices instantly, lifts Billy’s chin, studies his face.

“That’s wonderful,” William murmurs, smoothing it all away with practiced ease. “University. My brilliant baby boy.” He presses a kiss to Billy’s mouth, pride warm and possessive. The anger ebbs, soothed into something quieter, heavier.

When evening comes, William decides it’s time to test things. He sends Billy down alone with dinner.

The basement feels different without William’s presence--too quiet, too exposed. Vanessa looks up the moment Billy steps into view, panic flickering across her face.

“Where is he?” she asks, breath hitching.

Billy hesitates, then tells her it’s just the two of them tonight. Says it lightly, almost cruelly, like a joke that isn’t funny. “Think of it as a date,” he adds, a hollow laugh trailing the words.

Vanessa stares at him as he sets the plate down--really looks at him. The resemblance hits hard then: those same blue eyes, bright and unhinged in a way Billy recognizes all too well.

Billy lets the silence stretch before lifting the fork, bringing it to Vanessa’s mouth. She chews, jaw tight, eyes never leaving his.

“You don’t have to listen to him,” she says quietly.

The words hit like a spark to dry tinder. Billy’s expression shutters, something cold settling in. “You shouldn’t talk about things you don’t understand,” he says, low and warning.

Vanessa doesn’t look away. “I’ve been in law enforcement long enough to recognize co-dependency,” she replies. “Something sexual in nature. And I know what it looks like when someone’s already been punished for defiance--fear gets trained in, whether you admit it or not.”

Billy scoffs. “They teach you that at the academy?”

“No,” she shrugs. “You pick it up. As a cop. And as a psychopath’s daughter.” Her gaze sharpens. “You didn’t say I was wrong.”

Something snaps.

Billy drives the fork into her bare arm. The metal breaks skin; Vanessa cries out. He yanks it free and plunges it in again, harder. Another sharp sound tears from her throat.

“You know what really pisses me off?” Billy hisses, leaning in close. “When people act like they know me.” He twists the fork, smiling thinly. “You think I’m some damsel in distress?”

He twists again. “Huh?”

Vanessa sucks in a breath, teeth clenched, and meets his eyes anyway. “I think you’re in over your head,” she says.

He almost laughs. Billy loves drowning. He'd cut himself and swim with sharks for the opportunity to be pulled under.

Footsteps sound on the stairs. “Billy,” William snaps.

Billy pulls back at once. “She was talking back,” he says quickly.

William crouches, inspecting the wounds with clinical interest. “There are better ways to punish,” he says mildly. “We’ll let these fester.” He pats Vanessa’s cheek. “Maybe then you’ll remember your manners.”

“Dad--”

William lifts the plate away. “You’re finished.” Then, to Billy: “She's done with stimulation for tonight."

They head upstairs together. At the top, William reaches back and flicks off the basement light. The door closes, and the darkness seals in around Vanessa, absolute and complete.

Chapter 27

Notes:

tw for dubcon showering??? Nothing sexual in nature, just deeply uncomfy

William leaves for work the next morning as if nothing is amiss, trusting Billy with the house—and with Vanessa—without a second thought. He doesn’t give instructions. He doesn’t need to. The trust itself is the instruction.

Billy leaves Vanessa in the basement darkness, moving through the kitchen at his own pace, deciding when breakfast happens and what it looks like. Control settles over him like a familiar coat.

He’s halfway through fixing a plate when a presence at his shoulder makes his ears prick. Billy turns—and nearly jumps out of his skin.

Michael stands there, peering over his shoulder at the food.

“Fuck—goddamn it,” Billy snaps, shoving him back a step. “I forgot you live here too.”

Michael smiles, slow and unsettling.

Billy’s stomach tightens. “Where've you been the last few days?"

“I’ve mostly been listening. Dad told me to make myself scarce,” Michael says mildly.

A chill runs through Billy. Listening to what? The thought curdles unpleasantly.

“Well, great,” Billy mutters, turning back to the counter. “Can you do another disappearing act? I’ve got shit to do.”

Michael lingers a moment longer. “You know,” he says, almost thoughtfully, “I always wanted a little brother.” He starts for the stairs, then adds, over his shoulder, “Vanessa’s home. Feels like a happy family again.”

Then he’s gone.

The words linger. Billy stares down at the plate in his hands, jaw tight. Michael doesn’t know what a happy family is any more than Billy does.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Billy brings Vanessa her food and flips the light on. Vanessa squints against the dull brightness, blinking hard. Billy crouches in front of her, clinical in his assessment—the redness where the fork went in, the heat under his fingers, the swelling already blooming.

Good. Exactly what William wanted.

He feeds her without a word, the silence thick and deliberate, then takes the plate and leaves her there, light clicking off as he climbs the stairs.

He doesn’t stay at William’s after. Instead, he drives to Henry’s.

Henry answers the door with a phone pressed to his ear, murmuring something about a computer issue, and simply steps aside to let Billy in like it’s automatic. Like Billy still belongs there.

But he doesn’t feel like he does.

The house feels subtly wrong—like he’s a guest in a place that used to be home. The sensation leaves him unsteady.

He finds Stu in the guest bedroom, sprawled on the bed and flipping through channels. Stu lights up the second he sees him—pure relief, unguarded. Still missing him. Still stupidly in love despite everything.

It makes Billy ache.

They put on Halloween, and somewhere around the halfway point they forget it’s even playing. They’re kissing instead, messy and familiar, Billy sinking into it like muscle memory.

Stu pulls back first. “Okay, okay—yeah,” he says, squinting at Billy. “That was your something awful has happened kiss.”

Billy stares at him. “Shut up. That’s not a thing.”

“It totally is,” Stu says, rubbing his face and sighing. “Just—tell me what’s going on, Bills. Let me in.” His voice is wrecked with exhaustion. Billy’s never heard him sound this tired.

And those eyes—too blue, too open, too trusting—still undo him.

Billy exhales. “I’ll tell you. But if you breathe a word of it to Henry—”

Stu immediately holds up his pinky. It’s childish. It’s ancient. They haven’t done this since the night they agreed on Tatum and Sidney. “Not a word. Promise.”

Billy hooks his own pinky around Stu’s.

“Vanessa’s in Will’s basement,” Billy says, flat and simple.

Stu blinks. Then laughs, incredulous, tongue slipping out. “No way. His own daughter? Jesus Christ. What a fucking psycho.”

Billy sits up, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“So what,” Stu continues, the humor fading. “He just keeps her down there? Forever?”

“I don’t know,” Billy admits. “He said—‘until she learns her lesson.’”

There’s a beat.

Stu shifts closer and drapes his long arms around Billy, pulling him in. “Hey,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to Billy’s cheek. “Thank you.”

Billy knows what he means. Thank you for trusting me. Thank you for not shutting me out. Thank you for still choosing me, even like this.

Billy’s chest aches all over again.

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Days slide by in a strange, careful rhythm. Billy moves between William’s house and Henry’s, back and forth like a tide. Mornings are for Vanessa—feeding her, checking her, doing exactly what William expects while he’s at work. Afternoons and nights are usually Stu’s. Sometimes William loosens his hold just enough to let Billy stay over, and Billy takes it when he can.

Those nights, Billy and Stu lie awake talking—about college starting soon, about dorms and classes and being surrounded by people their own age. About how terrifying it is to imagine life without Henry’s watchful steadiness or William’s looming gravity. Independence feels less like freedom and more like standing at the edge of something very deep.

Vanessa’s arm worsens the way William predicted. The skin grows hot and swollen, pus seeping at the punctures. Her joints ache; she moves stiffly. When William inspects the wound, his expression is distant, clinical. Then, as if flipping a switch, he softens—brushes her hair back from her face with almost parental care.

“You’ve been a good girl,” he says mildly. “I think you’ve earned a shower.”

Billy stares at him, momentarily stunned.

William undoes Vanessa’s bindings himself. She stretches slowly, rubbing her wrists, careful not to provoke him. She doesn’t run. She doesn’t fight. Her eyes never leave his face.

William grips her by her uninjured arm and pulls her to her feet, steering her up the stairs toward the bathroom. “Follow,” he tells Billy without looking back.

At the doorway, William tilts Vanessa’s chin up until she’s forced to meet his eyes. “Billy’s going to help you while I wash your clothes,” he says evenly. “And you’re going to be good for him. Aren’t you?”

Billy catches the fear in her eyes—sharp, bright, matching the tight knot forming in his own chest.

William’s fingers tighten. Vanessa swallows hard. “Y-yes, Dad,” she manages.

“Good girl,” William murmurs, satisfied.

He turns his attention to Billy and snaps his fingers once. “Water.”

Billy moves on instinct, stepping into the bathroom and turning the tap until steam curls into the air, the water running hot as ordered.

William holds his hand out, palm up. “Clothes.”

Vanessa hesitates, face flushing as she realizes there’s no space left to bargain. Slowly, stiffly, she does as she’s told. Billy keeps his eyes wide and unfocused, fixed anywhere but her body. William watches with detached composure, as if this were no more intimate than inventory.

“Go on,” William says, nodding toward the shower.

Vanessa passes Billy without looking at him, steps under the spray, and pulls the curtain closed around herself.

Then William’s attention shifts. “Billy,” he says mildly, tilting his head. “You’re not planning to do this fully dressed.”

There it is—the weight Billy has been bracing for finally settling on his chest. He swallows, throat tight.

“I can trust you with this,” William adds. It isn’t phrased like a question.

“Yeah—yeah. Yes,” Billy answers too quickly. His hands shake as he strips. He steps into the shower, heat fogging the space, William’s presence lingering beyond the curtain even when he turns away.

Billy and Vanessa stand in strained silence, both angled away from each other, until William clears his throat from the doorway.

Vanessa's arms are folded protectively, shoulders hunched. Billy reaches for the soap first, more to break the tension than anything else, and begins washing her carefully, methodically—keeping his touch impersonal, focusing on the grime and the injury on her arm. When William finally leaves the room, the air shifts.

“I can do this myself,” Vanessa whispers.

Billy hands her the soap immediately, like it’s scalding his skin. She turns away from him and finishes washing on her own.

“Do you want—your hair?” Billy asks, voice flat.

“Uh. Yeah,” she says.

He gestures vaguely toward the shampoo behind her. “It’s—there.”

“Right. Thanks.” She reaches for it, works quickly, rinses. Billy stares at the tub until she’s done.

“I’m finished,” Vanessa says quietly.

They step out, each grabbing a towel, movements clipped and careful. Billy dresses as fast as he can, hands still unsteady, avoiding her eyes entirely.

Vanessa flicks her gaze sideways at Billy. “Hey—I need to… use the bathroom. Can you—” She trails off, meaning clear enough. Can you step out?

“Yeah. Right. Yeah,” Billy says immediately, already backing away. He shuts the door behind him and stands in the hallway, hands shoved into his pockets, trying not to think about anything at all.

A few minutes pass. Then footsteps on the stairs.

William comes up from the basement carrying an old T-shirt and a pair of boxers. He spots Billy and moves toward him with quiet intent. Panic flares, and an explanation spills out of Billy before he can stop it.

“She’s—uh. She’s using the bathroom.”

William doesn’t respond. He presses the clothes into Billy’s hands and turns the knob.

Vanessa isn’t using the bathroom.

She startles when the door opens, eyes wide. William crosses the room and takes her chin in his hand, tilting her face up, examining her with cold focus. His other hand lifts, palm open, held just beneath her mouth.

She hesitates only a second before giving in. A razor blade drops into his palm.

William holds it up between them. “This,” he says calmly, “is how you lose privileges.” A beat. “And how you earn more time in the basement.”

What follows blurs together—raised voices, hurried movement, Vanessa struggling into the clothes he brought while William keeps a bruising grip on her arm. Billy doesn’t follow; he can’t. He hears it instead: footsteps descending, the scrape of the pole, rope pulled tight.

The basement door slams shut.

Silence settles over the house, thick and final. Vanessa is left in the dark. No dinner. No reprieve.

Chapter 28

Another week slips by, then another, and suddenly Billy and Stu are on campus.

College swallows them whole. Greek life finds them almost immediately—flyers slipped under doors, upperclassmen clapping them on the back, invitations piling up faster than they can keep track. Fraternities, clubs, parties with names that blur together. It’s easy to fall back into familiar shapes, old masks pulled from storage and dusted off. Charismatic Stu. Caustic, magnetic Billy. Versions of themselves the world responds to.

Before either of them quite realizes how it’s happened, they’re pledging a house.

The hazing is exactly as stupid as promised: warm hunch punch that tastes like regret, a shared blunt passed hand to hand, and then—laughter dissolving into hysterics as they sprint naked across the quad and back again, feet slapping against concrete, lungs burning in the sharp Utah fall air. Billy complains the whole time, swearing and threatening bodily harm, until Stu’s breathless joy becomes contagious and he’s laughing too, doubled over, freezing and alive.

Stu is stupid. His grin is stupid. His dimples are unfair.

They barely make it back to their room before they’re on each other, momentum carrying them forward like gravity.

“Fuck,” Billy breathes against Stu’s mouth, forehead pressed to his. “I love you.”

Stu laughs softly, hands warm at Billy’s waist. “Yeah,” he says. “I love you too, babe.”

Weeks pass. Something in Billy loosens. He sleeps better. He laughs more easily. The weight he’s been carrying—William’s house, the basement, the silence around it—fades just enough to let him breathe.

William calls, asks how campus life is going. His tone is casual, distracted. He doesn’t pry. He doesn’t summon Billy home.

Whatever is happening, his attention is elsewhere—buried deep beneath the house, behind a locked door Billy doesn’t have to open right now.

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Parties start blurring together after that.

They get invited everywhere. Stu throws himself into it with reckless joy—keg stands, beer pong, chants screamed until his voice goes hoarse. He drinks like it’s an Olympic event. Billy, by contrast, nurses the same cup for hours, posted up against a wall or in a corner, watching everything with that sharp, unreadable gaze that draws people in without trying.

Sorority girls orbit him like moths. Bad-boy gravity. Billy laughs, flirts easily, lets the attention roll over him. It feels good. It feels easy. For a fleeting second, he even thinks he might take one of them up on it, just to see if he still can.

That’s when Stu slides in behind him, warm and loose-limbed, arms wrapping around Billy’s chest and shoulders like he’s always belonged there.

“Having fun without me?” Stu murmurs, finger playing at Billy’s earlobe.

Billy’s mouth quirks into a crooked smile. The girls laugh, eyes lighting up—probably convinced they’ve just stumbled into something exciting. Together, Billy and Stu lean into it, charming, teasing, feeding the moment until two of the girls agree to head upstairs and wait.

The second they’re alone again, Stu’s tone drops, all humor gone. He leans in close, breath hot against Billy’s ear. “God,” he whispers, “I wanna slit their throats.”

Billy snorts despite himself. “Funny,” he says quietly. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

Stu grins, feral and fond. “Yeah? You want that?”

Billy loves this—how easily they can still wind each other up, how instinctive it is.

He tips his head back against Stu’s shoulder with a low groan, frustration buzzing under his skin. William’s voice echoes somewhere in the back of his mind, all rules and restraint.

“We shouldn’t,” Billy mutters, more complaint than conviction.

Stu’s hands tighten just a little. “You… wanna fuck them?”

Not even close. Not with Stu pressed against him like this, warm and laughing and unmistakably there.

“Want you,” Billy whispers.

That’s all it takes.

They leave the party in a hurry, half-running back to the frat house, fingers hooked into sleeves and waistbands, laughter breaking through the urgency. By the time they make it to their room, they’re already all over each other, the door barely shut before the rest of the world disappears.

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Billy and Stu lie breathless side by side on the rumpled dorm sheets, leftover adrenaline spills out of them in helpless, giddy laughter.

Stu rolls toward Billy, curling in close, pressing sloppy, beer-sour kisses to his neck, the shell of his ear, the sharp line of his jaw. Billy turns his head and their eyes lock. The laughter fades. God, Stu is gorgeous like this—hair messy, cheeks flushed, blue eyes bright and unguarded.

“This has been really nice, man,” Stu says, voice suddenly quiet, serious.

“Yeah,” Billy murmurs. He lifts a hand, thumb tracing the high curve of Stu’s cheekbone, gentle, reverent. “Just the two of us against the world. Like old times.”

Stu’s gaze flickers; he chews on something unspoken.

“What?” Billy asks softly.

Stu swallows. “Would you… wanna, like… renew that vow?”

Billy’s breath catches. His eyes soften, heart kicking hard against his ribs. “Yeah,” he says, voice steady despite the sudden tightness in his throat. “Fuck yeah. Let’s do it.”

Stu’s eyes widen. “Right now?”

“Right now, baby.”

Stu practically launches off the bed, buzzing with drunk excitement, rummaging through the duffel bag they keep their knives in, hidden under clothes. He pulls out his blade still sharp and familiar. He bounds back, kneeling in front of Billy, and presents it with theatrical gravity, like he’s offering a crown.

Billy takes it carefully, reverent. Stu hops back on the bed and holds out his palm without hesitation, steady even through the alcohol haze.

Billy leans down, presses a lingering kiss to the center of Stu’s palm, then draws the blade across it—quick, clean, deep enough to well blood instantly. Stu’s breath hitches, a choked moan slipping out that’s half pain, half something darker.

Billy flips the knife and offers it back. Stu takes it, kisses Billy’s upturned palm the same way—soft, devoted—then slices. Billy hisses through his teeth, the sting sharp and bright and perfect.

They press their bleeding palms together, fingers interlacing tight, blood warm and slick between them.

“You and me, baby,” Billy says, staring straight into Stu’s eyes, voice low and fierce. “Against the world. No matter what or who tries to come between us.”

Stu’s grip tightens, eyes shining. “I’d follow you to Hell and back, Bills. You and me—against the world.”

They stay like that, foreheads touching, breathing the same air, the old promise reborn and sealed in fresh blood.

Chapter 29

Billy was hunched over his desk, careful and precise as he poured liquid latex into the plaster mold. The room smelled faintly chemical, sharp and rubbery, a scent that's becoming a comfort. Across the room, Stu lay on his back on the bed, idly bouncing his rubber ball against the wall. Thump. Catch. Thump. Catch.

“I kinda miss Mr. Emily,” Stu said suddenly.

Billy’s eyes flicked up, a small, intrigued smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah?” he said. “What do you miss about him?”

Stu stopped bouncing the ball. He sat up, thinking, then shrugged. “I dunno. Everything?” He started counting on his fingers. “His stupid, sad brown eyes. The way he actually gave a shit about us. His junky, warm house.” His voice dipped, quieter now. “His voice when we—y’know.”

Billy did know. That gentle, steady tone. Encouraging, patient. Almost paternal, in a way that made Billy’s chest tighten and his heart flutter every time.

“Let’s go see him then,” Billy said abruptly, finishing the pour and setting the latex aside to cure. He screwed the cap back on with finality. “Fuck it.”

Stu lit up instantly. “Yeah?” he asked, like an overexcited dog, bouncing where he sat.

“Yeah.”

They blasted Sublime the whole drive over, volume cranked high enough to drown out their nerves. Stu drummed his fingers against the ceiling grab handle, jittery with energy. “What if he doesn’t answer, man? We should’ve called first,” he shouted over the music.

Billy snorted. Like Henry Emily was going to be anywhere else at this hour. Like he wouldn’t open the door, surprised and soft all at once, eyes going glassy the second he saw them. Billy reached over and rested a hand on Stu’s thigh, grounding him. “You’re overthinking it,” he said. “It’s fine.”

It was.

Henry answered the door with a crease of suspicion that melted almost instantly into something warmer. “Come in, please,” he said, stepping aside. There it was — the misty eyes. God. Only a couple of months, and somehow it felt like forever.

He offered sodas, snacks. Asked how they were doing, really doing. “We’re great,” Stu said, too fast, grinning. Billy nodded along. “Yeah. We’re good.”

“Can we smoke and talk?” Billy asked.

Henry hesitated only a moment before agreeing. He rolled a joint with practiced hands, and soon they were settled in, tension easing as the conversation drifted. Frat hazing stories. Parties. Film lectures that were somehow interesting despite everything. Billy’s SFX project — a moth-eaten puppet with delicate wings pushing through holes in its face. Henry listened closely, eyes bright with pride.

Time blurred.

At some point, Billy shifted closer. Then closer still. He climbed into Henry’s lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, fingers curling into the front of Henry’s shirt as he pulled him into a kiss — slow, deliberate. Billy broke it only long enough to guide Henry’s attention toward Stu beside them on the couch.

Stu leaned in without hesitation.

Their mouths met, soft and unhurried, heat and closeness building in the quiet room. Henry’s hands steadied Billy at the waist as Billy moved, restless and familiar, the three of them falling back into a rhythm that felt achingly known.

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Billy pulls off of Henry, drawing a low, involuntary groan from Henry’s throat. He grabs both their hands—Henry’s trembling from nerves, Stu’s from excitement—and leads them down the hall to the master bedroom.

Clothes hit the floor in a careless trail. Before Billy fully registers it, he's straddling Henry on the bed, sinking down slow and deliberate. Stu leans over Henry’s shoulder, kissing him deep and messy while Henry’s hand grips Billy’s hip, the other wrapping around Stu’s cock in lazy, practiced strokes.

Stu breaks the kiss first, breathing hard, he reaches for the lube on the nightstand. He shifts behind Billy, straddling Henry’s knees, chest pressed to Billy’s sweat-damp back.

“Fuck, Bills,” Stu whispers, words tumbling out drunk on weed and want, pupils blown wide. “Do you think—can you take both of us? I wanna feel Mr. Emily’s cock inside you.”

Billy stills, breath ragged. Both of them. At once. The idea is insane—Stu has to be out of his mind—but the thought of being stretched that full, claimed by both of them, sends a dark thrill straight through him.

“Fuck,” Billy rasps. “Yeah. We can—try.”

Stu slicks himself generously. Billy lifts off Henry until just the tip remains, thighs burning as he holds himself aloft. Stu presses forward—insistent, careful at first—then harder.

“Breathe, Billy,” Henry murmurs, voice low and warm, fingers digging into Billy’s hips to steady him. “You’re doing so good. Just relax for us.”

Billy tries. God, he tries. But when Stu finally breaches the rim alongside Henry, the stretch burns white-hot. Billy’s head drops forward, vision sparking behind closed lids. He feels like he’s splitting open.

Henry’s praise keeps coming—soft, relentless—thumb stroking Billy’s hipbone. “That’s it. You’re taking us so well.”

Stu pulls Billy’s hips back gently, guiding him down until both cocks are buried to the hilt. Billy curses under his breath the entire way, shaking, until his chest finally collapses against Henry’s.

They give him a moment—just breathing, feeling him flutter and adjust around the impossible fullness.

Billy sits up slowly, dazed, thighs trembling. “Good?” Stu asks, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his shoulder blade.

“I can’t—fucking move,” Billy admits, half-laugh, half-whine.

Henry’s hands slide to Billy’s ass, spreading him gently. “We’ve got you,” he soothes. “Just breathe.”

Stu starts first—slow slides that drag his cock against Henry’s inside Billy. The sensation makes Stu groan, hands gripping Henry’s knees for leverage. It doesn’t take long for the pace to turn hungry; Stu thrusts harder, bed creaking, forcing Henry to roll his hips up in response.

Billy grips the headboard like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered, knuckles white. He twists to glare back at Stu—what the fuck are you doing?—but Stu yanks him by the hair, arching his neck, and Billy loses it completely.

Moans rip out of him, raw and shameless. “Fuck—Goddamn it—Stu—”

His prostate is mercilessly battered; he’s stuffed so full he can barely think. Pleasure coils vicious and fast. He cums untouched, streaking Henry’s chest, body seizing hard around both of them.

Stu follows seconds later, gasping Billy’s name as he spills deep. He pulls out carefully; Billy collapses forward onto Henry with a shudder.

Henry gathers him close, rubbing slow circles over his sweat-slick back while Stu flops beside them, propped on an elbow, catching his breath.

Billy still trembles, aftershocks rippling through him.

“You wanna be done?” Henry murmurs against his hair, gentle. “We can stop.”

Billy shakes his head against Henry’s chest, voice small. “You haven’t even came yet.”

“I don’t need to,” Henry says softly.

The words hit Billy like a slap. Henry—who fights to finish most nights, dulled by age, meds, grief—offering to go without because Billy’s tapped out? Unacceptable.

Billy pushes up on shaky arms, starts rolling his hips again with stubborn determination, forehead dipping to Henry’s shoulder.

“Billy—” Henry starts.

“Shut up,” Billy hisses, fierce. “Shut the fuck up and fuck me.”

Henry exhales—half laugh, half surrender—then flips them. He pins Billy face-down, grabs his hips, and drives into him hard. The wet, obscene sounds of lube and cum fill the room. Henry drapes over Billy’s back, one hand cradling his head to keep it from knocking the headboard.

Billy barely registers Stu beside them, stroking himself lazily, watching with wide, hungry eyes.

Billy cums again—shattered, oversensitive—before Henry finally follows, burying deep with a low groan, hips stuttering through the last few thrusts.

Henry pulls out slow, presses a tender kiss to Billy’s crown.

Billy goes boneless, mind floating, thoroughly fucked-out. He doesn’t even remember drifting off—just the warm weight of Henry’s arms and Stu curled against his side as the dark takes him.

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Billy dreams.

He’s standing in William’s house, and it’s wrong in that way dreams get wrong—too big, too hollow. The ceilings stretch upward into shadow, rooms opening into other rooms that shouldn’t exist. Every surface feels dusted with abandonment. No furniture. No warmth. Just the echo of his own breathing.

Then the sound starts.

Banging. From below.

Not rhythmic—panicked. Fists slamming into something unyielding. Crying, hoarse and torn raw, a voice pushed far past begging into something animal. Screaming until it breaks, then starts again.

“—please—”

Billy’s feet carry him toward the basement door without asking him. The closer he gets, the hotter the air becomes, thick and stale in his lungs.

Someone grabs his hand.

Charlotte.

She’s suddenly there beside him, too solid, fingers biting into his skin. She shakes her head hard, eyes wide and wet, mouth opening but no sound coming out. Don’t. Don’t go down there. Don’t look.

Billy tries to speak, to ask her what’s happening, but his tongue feels heavy, useless.

That’s when he notices the moths.

They drift up from the cracks in the basement door, pale wings fluttering. Except they’re burning—each one carrying a tiny, living flame. They hiss when they pass too close, bursting into ash midair. The smell hits him next: scorched hair, melting plastic, something sweet and rotten beneath it.

Fire.

The basement door creaks open on its own.

Smoke pours out in thick, rolling waves, swallowing the floor. The crying cuts off abruptly, replaced by the low crackle of flames. From within the smoke, a figure steps forward—tall, backlit by orange light that flickers like a living thing.

Charlotte tightens her grip, panicking now. She pulls at him with both hands, sobbing, feet sliding against the floor as if she’s being dragged too. Her mouth moves again and again, pleading, begging—

Billy can’t move.

The figure’s face never resolves. It’s just a void, swarmed by burning moths that orbit his head like a crown. But Billy knows. He knows the shape of him, the way he stands.

William.

He lifts a hand, palm open, fingers curling slowly in invitation.

The fear is there—sharp, paralyzing—but it’s buried under something heavier. Something older. Love, ugly and persistent. Love that doesn’t care about fire or screams or smoke.

Billy reaches out.

The hand snaps shut around his wrist, iron-strong, and yanks. Charlotte screams soundlessly as she’s torn away from him, her grip slipping, fingers clawing uselessly at the air as Billy is dragged forward—

Into the flames.

Billy wakes up choking.

He jerks upright, coughing hard, lungs burning as if he’s inhaled smoke for real. The room spins. Sheets twist around his legs. Stu startles beside him, half-awake, hair sticking up in every direction.

“Fuck—nightmare?” Stu asks, voice thick with sleep.

Billy nods, still hunched forward, one hand braced against his chest as he forces air back into himself. “Yeah. Yeah, sorry.”

He eases back down, staring at the ceiling, heart still racing. The shadows look normal. Harmless. The air is cool, clean. No smoke. No fire.

Thank God it’s the weekend.

From down the hall, the smell of coffee drifts in. Waffles. Bacon. Warm, domestic, unmistakably Henry. Billy swallows, grounding himself in it. Safe things. Real things.

“We can’t just lay here smelling that, man,” Stu groans, burying his face into Billy’s shoulder. “I’m gonna die.”

Billy huffs a laugh, the last of the dream finally loosening its grip. “So dramatic. Come on.”

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, grateful for the solid floor beneath his feet.

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Billy and Stu drift into the kitchen half-awake, shoulders bumping, bare feet scuffing against the tile. Henry is already there, moving around the small space with practiced ease—dividing waffles onto plates, setting out butter and syrup, pouring milk into a tall glass for Stu and coffee into Billy’s mug just the way he likes it.

He looks up when they enter, a little sheepish, a little too pleased. The smile on his face is warm and tentative, like he’s afraid of startling the moment if he names it.

Billy takes a seat at the table. Stu leans in and kisses Henry at the corner of his mouth before flopping into his chair, immediately reaching for the syrup.

It feels… familiar. Easy. Like something that almost fits back into place. Like their family is nearly whole again.

Almost.

“How’d you boys sleep?” Henry asks, finally sitting down with his own coffee.

Stu shoots Billy a look and nudges him under the table. Tell him.

Billy groans and scrubs a hand through his hair. “I had a nightmare,” he admits. “It’s not a big deal.”

Henry’s smile fades just a little. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks gently—concern threading his voice in a way that makes Billy’s chest tighten. Like Billy never chose William. Like he never disappointed him.

Billy stares at the tabletop. He doesn’t want to say William’s name. Doesn’t want to talk about that house, the basement, the fire. Everything’s been good—soft, careful—and he doesn’t want to scorch it.

His thoughts land, inevitably, on Charlotte.

God. He still hasn’t told Henry about the dreams, has he?

“I dreamed of… of Charlotte,” Billy says finally, lifting his eyes to Henry’s.

Something shifts in Henry’s expression. A flicker of sadness passes behind his eyes before he can hide it.

“You did?” Henry asks.

“Yeah,” Billy says. “She was—” He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “She was trying to keep me from doing something stupid.”

Henry lets out a quiet, broken laugh. “That sounds like her,” he says softly. “Always lifting others into her arms.”

“Yeah,” Billy says, then without thinking, “she seems like a sweet girl.”

Present tense.

Henry looks up sharply, eyes glassy now, brows knitting together. Billy’s stomach drops. He can’t leave it there. He can’t not explain.

“It’s not the first time I’ve dreamed of her,” Billy says, fingers still tangled in his hair, unable to stop moving. “It’s like—like I’ve seen memories of hers. And then she’s there for mine.” He swallows. “We’ve played at Freddy’s. Like I was a kid again. And it was… nice.”

Henry’s hand comes up to his mouth. He exhales a wet, disbelieving laugh and pulls his glasses off, pressing his fingers to his eyes. When he lowers his hand, his lashes are damp.

“Fuck, I didn’t mean to—” Billy starts, already apologizing.

Henry lifts a hand to stop him. His voice wavers when he speaks. “Just… if you dream of her again,” he says. “Tell me. Please.”

Billy nods immediately. “Yeah,” he says. “Of course.”

Chapter 30

Billy and Stu spend the weekend with Henry.

It settles into something gentle without any of them naming it—shared meals, late mornings, quiet evenings with the TV murmuring in the background. Henry moves around them like he’s relearning an old rhythm, careful but hopeful, as if afraid the moment might shatter if he grips it too tightly.

On Sunday afternoon, Henry disappears into the garage and comes back carrying the camcorder.

“Hey,” he says to Stu, holding it out with both hands. “Remember, I said you could have this."

Stu blinks, suddenly still. “You sure?”

Henry nods, smiling softly. “Take care of her.”

Stu accepts it with surprising reverence, fingers gentle where they curl around the worn casing. “I will,” he says, earnest in a way that makes Billy’s chest ache. Stu leans forward and brushes a kiss to Henry’s cheek, quick and affectionate.

Henry flushes instantly, color blooming across his face like he’s still not used to that kind of closeness—like they haven’t crossed far more intimate lines already. He ducks his head, trying to hide his smile.

Then the weekend ends.

Back at school, Billy buries himself in work. The moth mask takes shape slowly, deliberately. He paints the base to resemble the Mannequin, but burlap-textured, dingy, aged like it’s been forgotten somewhere damp and dark. He handcrafts the wings one by one, fragile and careful, tearing holes into the mask’s face with surgical precision. Each wing is threaded through as if something inside is trying to escape.

He tells himself not to think about William.

Stu sprawls across the bed nearby, bouncing his rubber ball against the wall.

“We should make a horror film,” Stu says casually.

Billy hums, noncommittal, focused on his brushwork.

“William’s house would make such a good set,” Stu continues, staring at the ceiling. “All those tight corners. That staircase.” He hesitates, the ball pausing in his hand. “Have you… heard from him lately?”

His tone is careful, like he’s poking at a bruise.

Billy stills.

William calls at least once a week. Always checks in. Always asks how Billy’s doing. The conversations are light now. Controlled. Clipped. It reminds Billy uncomfortably of how he used to talk to his father—surface-level, safe, everything important left unsaid.

The distance has given him clarity.

The sick thing is, it’s also made him ache.

“No,” Billy says finally, too quickly. A lie.

“Oh. Okay,” Stu says, easy enough, letting it go. “Well—we can always film here. Or! An abandoned place. Those are always creepy.”

He keeps talking, enthusiasm ramping back up, ideas spilling out faster than Billy can follow.

Billy returns to his work, hands moving automatically. But William’s there now, unavoidable. The sound of his voice. The weight of his attention. The way his hands could command without ever raising.

Fuck.

Billy misses him.

Misses his voice. His hands. The control he wielded like it was instinct. Misses the way those hands could close around Billy’s throat—sometimes metaphorically, sometimes not—and make the world narrow down to nothing else.

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Billy dreams of William.

William’s hands circle his throat, thumbs pressing just hard enough to blur the edges of the world, stars sparking behind Billy’s eyelids. Those sharp, glittering blue eyes lock on his, mouth curved in a feral grin—teeth flashing, dangerous and beautiful. William moves inside him with deliberate slowness: pulling out almost to the tip, pausing, then snapping his hips forward in one deep, claiming thrust that steals Billy’s breath entirely.

Fuck, he misses him. The ache blooms sudden and sharp; tears spill hot down Billy’s temples.

William notices instantly. His grip loosens, fingers sliding up to cradle Billy’s head instead. He leans in close, lips brushing Billy’s ear.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, voice low and steady. “You feel so good, baby. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Billy whimpers “Daddy” over and over, a broken litany, clinging to the words like lifeline.

William murmurs reassurance against his skin.

Until the room around them shifts.

Ash drifts down like gray snow, settling on Billy’s cheeks, his lashes. He blinks up, dazed. Flames lick the walls; the ceiling burns. William’s head ignites—moths swarming the fire in frantic clouds until his face disappears behind wings and ember.

Billy jolts awake, heart slamming against his ribs, lungs burning as if he’s inhaled smoke.

Stu stirs beside him, arm tightening instinctively across Billy’s waist.

“Another one?” Stu asks, voice thick with sleep, rough around the edges.

Billy scrubs a shaking hand over his face, tries to slow his breathing. His cock throbs, hard and aching between his legs, traitorous.

“I don’t even remember it,” he lies, voice hoarse. “It’s fine.”

Stu doesn’t call him on it. He just pulls Billy closer, chest to back, legs tangling, wrapping around him like a shield against the dark and the dreams and everything they both know is still missing.

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Even with Stu wrapped around him, sleep doesn’t come back easily. Billy’s restless for hours, skin buzzing, bones vibrating like they want to tear free. Want coils tight and desperate in his chest—want he can’t indulge. Things have been good. Soft. Careful.

He wants them to stay good.

Doesn’t he?

Morning comes anyway.

They get ready for lecture side by side, toothbrushes moving in unison. Billy stares at his own reflection, unfocused, watching the version of himself in the mirror look hollowed-out, wired too tight.

Then the thought hits him—clean and sharp as a blade.

His eyes snap to Stu’s reflection instead.

“What?” Stu asks immediately, mouth full of toothpaste, concern and excitement flickering together. He knows that look.

“Those girls,” Billy says lightly, like he’s talking about homework. “From the party.”

Stu stills.

“We should fucking kill them.”

Stu’s face splits into a grin. He spits into the sink, wipes his mouth, and leans over to kiss Billy on the cheek. “I knew you’d come around.”

Billy grins back at him—crooked, cruel, teeth bared like a wild animal finally shown the way out.

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They don’t have to wait long.

There’s always another party on this campus—another excuse, another crowd, another darkened house pulsing with music and bodies. Billy and Stu slip into it like they belong there, drinks in hand, eyes already searching.

They find the girls.

Billy spots them first. A flash of recognition, a slow smile. He catches Stu’s eye across the room and tips his chin, subtle. There.

They circle closer, unhurried, like they’re just drifting with the party. When Billy finally steps in front of them, he softens himself deliberately—dials back the sharpness, lets something warmer and more magnetic take its place.

“Hey,” he says, easy and low.

One of the girls flushes immediately, caught. The other narrows her eyes, recognition sharpening into annoyance. “What, you guys disappear last time and think we wouldn’t notice?” she says. “Cold feet? Or couldn’t perform?”

Before Billy can answer, Stu slips in behind him, draping his arms around Billy’s shoulders, chin hovering near his neck like they’re already a unit.

“Well,” Stu says gently, almost apologetic, “it’s kind of a hard topic for my friend.”

He leans in closer, cups a hand around his mouth, and stage-whispers, just loud enough to carry. “The last time he had—” He pauses, then murmurs, “sex—his girlfriend kinda got murdered that night.”

Stu straightens, tone flipping back into sunny sincerity. “Sore subject.”

Billy drops his gaze, shoulders tensing just enough. Sheepish. Wounded. It’s a perfect performance.

The shift is immediate. Sympathy rushes in where suspicion had been. The girls soften, voices lowering, hands touching Billy’s arm, apologizing, reassuring. The bad boy with the tragic past—hooked again.

“We thought we’d make it up to you,” Billy says quietly, glancing between them.

“Yeah,” Stu adds, already turning toward the door, grinning over his shoulder. “C’mon. Follow us. We’ve got a surprise.”

They don’t hesitate.

They follow, giggling, excited, unaware—pulled along by charm and music and the promise of something special, something just for them.

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They drive out to Freddy’s.

Billy knows it’ll be empty—William’s attention is elsewhere now, buried deep in the basement with Vanessa and whatever obsession has taken root there. Freddy’s is a shell again. Quiet. Waiting.

When they pull up, the girls step out of the car, tugging their jackets tighter around themselves as they take in the darkened building.

“Freddy’s?” one of them asks, incredulous. “Seriously? What are we supposed to do in an abandoned arcade?”

Stu grins. “I dunno,” he says brightly. “You ever been fucked over a skee-ball machine?”

Billy immediately smacks him upside the head. “Subtlety, ass hat.”

The girls laugh, delighted by the bickering, already leaning closer to Billy as they head inside.

The place is cleaner than it should be. Too clean to feel truly abandoned. Tables wiped down. Floors swept. Residual warmth lingering from the last time it was used—Billy’s birthday, flashes of laughter, soft music, dancing.

William.

Stu suddenly freezes. “Oh shit,” he says, snapping his fingers. “Duh. Forgot the condoms.”

He points back toward the car. “I’ll be right back.”

Before anyone can argue, he turns and jogs off into the dark.

Billy stays behind, smooth and attentive, leaning in close as the girls crowd him. They’re already kissing him, hands roaming, laughing softly as they press against him, the promise of something reckless buzzing in the air.

Behind them, unnoticed, Stu slips back inside.

The Ghostface mask catches the dim light, blank and gleaming. The knife hangs loose in his hand as he moves with exaggerated care, savoring it.

Billy feels him before he sees him.

Just to mess with them—to heighten it, stretch the moment—Billy suddenly stiffens.

“Fuck—watch out!” he yells.

And Stu lunges.

The knife flashes once, twice—messy, panicked strikes—and one of the girls goes down with a choked sound, folding in on herself like her legs have simply decided they’re done. Blood splatters the floor in dark arcs. The other girl screams.

She runs.

Billy lets her grab him. Lets her drag him through the back halls, past storage rooms and narrow corridors that smell like dust and old grease. He steers her without her noticing, guiding them by instinct—left here, right there—until they burst into William’s workshop.

They slam the door shut behind them.

For a moment there’s only the sound of their breathing—hers high and hysterical, his carefully uneven. Billy presses his back to the door, eyes wide, shaking just enough to sell it.

“What the fuck was that?” she gasps.

“I—I don’t know,” Billy stammers, voice cracking convincingly. His eyes flick around the room like he’s searching for answers instead of exits.

She spins, frantic, scanning the shelves. “Is there anything in here we can use? Anything for a weapon?”

“Yeah—yeah, good idea,” Billy says, nodding too fast.

She grabs a hammer from the rack, hefts it, tests the weight like she’s bracing herself to become someone else.

Billy holds his hands out. “Here. Give it to me.”

She hesitates, eyes narrowing. I found it, that look says. You get your own.

“I’ll protect you,” Billy insists, stepping closer. “I promise. C’mon.”

Reluctantly, she hands it over.

Glass shatters behind them.

Stu breaks the window in the door, reaching through to unlock it with a flourish. The girl shrieks.

Billy whirls, lifting the hammer like he’s going to swing—arm outstretched, body angled protectively, pushing her behind him. Stu advances, knife raised, theatrical as hell.

At the last second, Billy pivots.

The hammer comes down.

She collapses to the floor with a dull, stunned sound, staring up at him in disbelief, eyes glassy and unfocused.

Billy drops the hammer.

Stu steps forward without a word and places the knife into Billy’s waiting hand.

He straddles her, presses the blade to her throat almost playfully, drags it down just enough to feel her breath hitch—

Savor it.

—Something in him snaps. Rage. Want. Frustration. Love twisted into something unrecognizable.

He stops thinking.

When it’s over, Stu is standing there with his mask pushed up, chest heaving, eyes blown wide with adrenaline.

“Fuck, Bills,” he breathes—awed, flushed, far too into it.

Billy doesn’t look at him right away.

He’s still shaking.

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They clean up the way they were taught to.

The way William would have directed them—efficient, methodical, almost reverent. No wasted motion. No talking unless necessary. Evidence gathered, wiped down, disposed of with a familiarity that sits heavy in Billy’s chest.

At the dump, Stu finally breaks the silence.

“Uh, dude,” he says, glancing over. “You’re kind of… soaked.”

Billy looks down at himself. It’s worse than he thought. There’s no version of sneaking back into the dorm like this.

“Yeah,” Billy mutters. “No shit.”

They don’t argue about where to go. The car turns toward Henry’s almost on instinct.

Henry answers the door glassy-eyed, the smell of pot clinging to him. He’d probably been smoking so he could sleep. The sight of them—bloodied, wrecked—sobers him instantly. His expression tightens, disappointment flickering across his face, but he steps aside without a word.

“Come in,” he says quietly.

I warned you, Billy thinks as they pass him. Stu and I are like hunting dogs. We don’t stop. We just keep going.

Without William.

Fuck—why does everything keep circling back to him?

They shower. They scrub until the water runs clear. They change into clothes they keep at Henry’s for nights just like this—planned, even if none of them like admitting it.

What follows is wordless and overwhelming. Too much energy, too much need, all crashing together. Henry tries to keep up, breathless and flushed, nearly overtaken by the boys’ intensity—but he doesn’t pull away.

It’s… nice.

This is nice, Billy tells himself. This is good without William. He has to repeat it, like a mantra.

He definitely didn’t lose control because he misses him.

He thought the killing would help. Thought it would burn something out of him, quiet the ache. Instead it only sharpened it, pressed it deeper into his ribs.

Later, Billy buries his face into Henry’s chest, Stu draped warm and heavy over his back. He closes his eyes, lets the rise and fall of Henry’s breathing ground him.

And he tries—really tries—not to think about what’s missing.

Chapter 31

Stu starts carrying the camcorder everywhere.

It’s obnoxious. It’s endearing. It’s impossible to ignore.

He films hallways, parties, shadows on the wall—anything he thinks might translate later. He crouches, climbs, lies flat on the floor to get “interesting angles.” Billy pretends to complain, but he watches closely, cataloging what works and what doesn’t.

The idea grows teeth.

They start scribbling notes between classes, slapping sticky notes onto the wall above their desk. Rough story beats. Kill setups. Camera tricks. Stu sketches terrible storyboards that somehow make perfect sense to him. Billy refines them, sharpens the edges, suggests mood over spectacle.

“I wonder if we could get Henry to play the killer,” Stu says one night, hanging upside down off the bed, head dangling toward the floor like gravity might shake something loose. “You’d have to do something about his—” he waves a hand vaguely in front of his own face. “—wet cat face. But maybe with your mask,” he continues, undeterred, “and some contact lenses…”

“He does have a good build,” Billy admits, leaning back in his desk chair, arms folded.

You know who would be better, his mind supplies unhelpfully.

William.

Tall. Broad. Controlled. Strong forearms. Big hands that knew exactly how to hold, how to threaten, how to command attention just by existing. The way he moved—measured, intimidating, inevitable.

Billy zones out completely.

“Yo! Bills! Hey!”

A wad of paper bounces off his forehead.

Billy blinks, barely registering it.

“You just checked out on me, man,” Stu says, half-joking but unsettled. Then, quieter: “You good?”

“Yeah,” Billy lies easily. “Yeah. Just thinking about costuming.”

Stu doesn’t buy it. He sits up, concern pulling his brows together. “Bills…”

“Don’t,” Billy says quickly, eyes closing. He can’t handle the look Stu gives him when he’s worried—those sad, earnest blue eyes that see too much.

“C’mon, man,” Stu presses gently.

Behind Billy’s eyes, William is there again—fingers tilting his chin up, forcing eye contact, voice low and unyielding.

Billy exhales, slow and shaky. “Fuck,” he mutters. “I miss him.”

Stu doesn’t ask who.

“You gonna do something about that?” Stu asks carefully.

Billy scrubs a hand through his hair. “No. Fuck no. We’ve been doing great without him.”

Stu nods, because he can’t argue with that. “Chest stuff, holes, right?” he says, echoing Billy’s own words.

“Yeah,” Billy laughs weakly, pressing his palm to his eye.

Stu lets it drop. Shifts the conversation back to camera angles, lighting, sound design.

Billy is grateful for the mercy.

He listens, nods, contributes—anything to keep his thoughts from drifting back to the man who still owns too much space inside his head.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Billy and Stu are tangled together in the narrow dorm bed, limbs slung carelessly over one another, the kind of exhausted closeness that only comes after hours of studying. Notes are still spread across the floor. Finals loom like a threat they can’t outrun. They’d thought leaving high school meant leaving this behind.

They were wrong.

Billy is half-asleep when his phone rings.

He knows who it is before he looks.

Slowly, reluctantly, he leans over and plucks it from the nightstand. William’s name glows up at him in the dark. His chest tightens.

“Hello?” Billy answers, voice rough, dragged up from sleep.

“Billy.” William sounds hoarse. Worn thin. “Did I wake you?”

“Yeah,” Billy says, honest. Then, quieter, “Why did you call?”

There’s a pause. A breath on the other end, uneven.

“I miss you,” William says. His voice trembles just enough to hurt. “I need you.”

The words land like a blade between Billy’s ribs. Clean. Precise. Devastating.

William sounds tired. Hollowed out. Billy has only heard him like this before when he’d been drinking—so he must be again. Billy can see him too clearly: alone in that big house, shadows stretching too long.

Vanessa in the basement.

The thought makes Billy’s stomach turn.

“Is… she still there?” Billy asks.

Silence answers him.

“Come home,” William says softly. “Please.”

Billy turns his head and looks at Stu, sprawled beside him, mouth open slightly in sleep, utterly unaware. Bone-tired. Safe.

“I can’t,” Billy says, forcing the words into place. “We’ve got finals.”

He hangs up before his resolve can crack.

The phone goes dark in his hand. His chest aches like something has been torn loose and left bleeding. He stares at the ceiling, swallowing hard, trying to breathe through it.

Stu shifts in his sleep, instinctively curling closer, arm draping over Billy’s waist. The warmth nearly undoes him.

Tears slip down Billy’s temples and into his hair.

He’s doing the right thing, he tells himself.
For Stu.
For Henry.

For himself.

Even if it feels like it’s killing him.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Classes finally end for the day, and Billy and Stu drag themselves back toward the frat house, brains fried, bodies wrung out from the tail end of fall testing. It feels like they’ve been scraped hollow and left out to dry. All they want is their bed. Silence. Maybe sleep that doesn’t feel like a negotiation.

They push through the front door—

—and stop dead.

William is standing in the entryway, deep in conversation with the house director. He’s laughing, relaxed, charming in that effortless way Billy knows too well. One hand gestures lightly as he speaks, confident, unbothered. Like he belongs there.

Billy’s stomach drops to his feet.

Stu freezes beside him, shoulders locking.

Then William’s eyes find them.

His face brightens, smooth and immediate. “Ah,” he says warmly, turning slightly. “There’s my son and his friend now.”

Fuck.

Billy feels caught between a sharp spike of panic and something worse—something that pulls instead of pushes. Want coils tight in his chest, right alongside dread.

The house director glances between them, visibly clocking the resemblance between William and Stu, nodding to himself like that’s explanation enough. With a friendly wave, he excuses himself and disappears down the hall.

William approaches them, placing a hand on each of their shoulders.

Billy stiffens under the touch.

“What are you doing here?” Billy asks, voice low and mortified.

“I’m here to take my son and his friend to dinner,” William replies calmly, as if stating a fact no one could possibly argue with.

Stu looks at Billy. A whole conversation passes between them in a glance.

Are we really doing this? Stu asks with his eyes.

Billy rolls his eyes back at him. Yeah. We are.

If William had the nerve to show up here—after Billy told him no—then Billy wanted to know why. Wanted to see what game he was playing.

They end up at a restaurant that’s too expensive, too quiet. White tablecloths. Low lighting. Everything polished to a shine. Billy and Stu stick out immediately in their fall-campus clothes—Billy in a white tee and jean jacket, Stu in a hoodie and khaki cargos.

William looks perfectly in place in his pressed shirt and purple tie, Steve Raglan neat and composed.

They sit across from him. Stu’s leg bounces under the table, restless. Billy crosses his arms tightly over his chest, a defensive line he refuses to lower. He wants William—but he’s not going to let him see that. Not after things have been good. Not after everything.

The waiter arrives.

“I’ll have three ribeyes,” William says smoothly, not looking at either of them. “Rare. Garlic-roasted potatoes on the side.”

Billy opens his mouth to protest, but—

“And a glass of cabernet sauvignon for each of us,” William adds, casual and assured.

The waiter nods without hesitation and walks away.

Billy stares at William, furious. William, unbothered, tears off a piece of bread, butters it carefully, then offers the basket toward them.

“Bread?” he asks lightly.

“What are you doing?” Billy snaps under his breath.

“Having dinner,” William replies, as if Billy is slow. Then, with a shrug, “I missed my boys.”

The words hit Billy square in the chest. Sudden. Sharp. He has to look away before it shows how much they land.

Dinner drags.

William asks how they’re actually doing. They give clipped answers. He asks about classes, what they’re learning. Stu eventually loosens, talking about lighting and sound design, camera work, screenwriting. Billy adds bits about sculpting, prosthetics, design theory, film studies.

William listens closely. Seems pleased. Like he’s being let back into something he believes is his by right.

As plates empty and the edge of tension dulls into something heavier, William pauses, fork hovering thoughtfully over a piece of steak.

“I released her,” he says quietly.

Billy’s stomach drops straight through the floor.

“What do you mean you released her?” Billy hisses, leaning forward so hard his chair creaks.

William doesn’t flinch. “I mean she’s no longer in the basement,” he says evenly. “She’s moving back in. Free to come and go as she pleases.”

He says it like he’s talking about letting a dog out of a crate, eyes never leaving Billy’s face, cataloging every reaction.

Billy’s breath locks in his chest. “Fuck,” he whispers. Then, louder, shaking, “Fuck—are you insane? What if she goes to the cops?”

“She won’t,” William says, certain. Too certain.

Billy’s heart doesn’t slow. His mind races, every worst-case scenario stacking on top of the next. “You don’t know that.”

“I thought you’d be happy,” William continues, unerring. “I did it to bring you back.”

That’s it.

“Fuck!” Billy snaps, loud enough that nearby tables turn. He shoves his chair back and storms out of the restaurant. Stu’s on his feet instantly, trailing him without question.

Outside, the night air hits Billy like a shock. The world tilts. He braces both hands against William’s car, breathing hard, chest tight, vision tunneling.

What the fuck was he thinking?
What if she tells the cops?
What if she tells everything?
What if she drags Billy and Stu down with him?

Stu’s hand settles between Billy’s shoulder blades—warm, grounding.

“Hey,” Stu murmurs. “Hey, I’m here. It’s okay.”

Billy shakes his head, jaw tight.

“She’s pissed at him,” Stu continues gently. “That’s where she’ll go first. And if anything else comes up—” He shrugs. “We get our stories straight. We lie. Like before.”

The words steady Billy more than he wants to admit.

They got away with it once. They could do it again. Together.

And if it came down to it—if it was Billy and Stu versus William—

The thought makes Billy’s stomach twist. He doesn’t want William caught. He doesn’t want him hurt. But not at the cost of himself. Not at the cost of Stu.

Billy exhales slowly, forcing the panic down.

In the dark reflection of the car window, he catches sight of William standing just outside the restaurant, watching them. Waiting.

Billy turns away.

“Come on,” he says quietly, grabbing the front of Stu’s hoodie and tugging him close. “We’re walking.”

He doesn't look back.

Chapter 32

Notes:

I have no excuse for this, enjoy.

William, mercifully, stays gone as winter break creeps in. No calls. No surprise visits. Nothing. The silence is almost worse, but Billy doesn’t say that out loud.

Instead, he and Stu rehearse.

They practice what they’ll say if Vanessa goes to the cops. Practice tones, pauses, where to look when they lie. Practice shock. Practice grief. Practice innocence.

It’s frightening how good they’ve gotten.

Henry invites them to stay with him over break, and they take it. The house becomes a cocoon—dark rooms, drawn curtains, snow tapping against the windows. They watch movies until their eyes ache, play video games until dawn. Stu refuses to leave Henry alone about being in their film.

He stalks him through the house with the camcorder, lens unwavering. “Come on, Mr. Emily,” Stu pleads, backing him toward the kitchen. “You’d be perfect as the killer.”

“No—no, I’m sorry,” Henry laughs, flustered, holding a hand over his face to block the shot. “Absolutely not.”

“But Mr. Emily—” Stu whines.

Billy watches from the couch, mouth tipped into a crooked smile. This—this—almost feels normal.

Then there’s a knock at the door.

Billy’s smile drops.

“I’ll get it,” he says, already standing. It’s late. Anyone knocking this late means trouble.

He opens the door—and there he is.

William, bundled in his coat, snow collecting on his shoulders, breath fogging the air. Billy doesn’t hesitate. He shoves him back out onto the porch and slams the door halfway closed behind them.

“Go home,” Billy snarls, hands planted on William’s chest. “Go home before I do something stupid.”

“Billy,” William says. He actually looks hurt.

“Stop,” Billy hisses. “None of us want you here.” He can’t look at his face. Can’t afford to.

William grabs his arms, grip tight, desperate. “What can I do to make it right?” His voice breaks. “Please.”

His breath shakes. It smells like alcohol.

Fuck. Billy shouldn’t look—but he does. Too blue. Too naked without the glasses. Billy wants, violently, to close the distance. To kiss him. To forgive him.

Instead, something sharp and cruel clicks into place.

“You wanna make it up to us?” Billy asks, voice deceptively calm.

“Yes,” William breathes, immediate. “Anything.”

Billy grabs his hand and yanks him inside.

The door shuts. Henry and Stu stare, startled, confused, as Billy drags William down the hall and into the bedroom. Billy kicks out Henry’s office chair and points.

“Sit.”

William does, grinning, obedient. “Okay,” he says lightly. “Now what?”

“Shut up,” Billy snaps. “And stay.”

He leaves the room, heading for the garage. His pulse is steady. Focused. He rifles through a drawer until he finds it—bungee cord. Thick. Elastic.

Perfect.

When he comes back, Stu has followed him, eyes bright with curiosity, reading Billy without a word.

William’s expression changes the second he sees the cord. Interest. Recognition.

Billy meets Stu’s gaze. “Stu.”

That’s all it takes.

Together, they move. Stu takes one arm, Billy the other, pulling William’s hands behind the chair. The bungee cord stretches, snaps tight, binding wrists to the metal frame. William laughs under his breath as it cinches, breath hitching—not from fear, but anticipation.

Billy knots it hard.

Too hard.

“This,” Billy says quietly, standing back, “is where you stay.”

William doesn’t argue.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Billy turns, grabs Stu by the front of his shirt, and drags him in hard. Their mouths crash together—messy, desperate, Stu’s tongue sliding in immediately, moaning low and needy into Billy’s mouth. Hands roam everywhere: gripping asses through denim, yanking shirts up to expose skin, fingers finding nipples and pinching until Billy gasps against Stu’s lips.

William watches from the chair, chest rising with deeper breaths, eyes glittering dark with want.

Billy breaks the kiss just long enough to lean in and whisper against Stu’s ear, hot and vicious: “Let’s fuck him up.”

Stu’s answering grin is huge, sharp, and cruel. Billy mirrors it with his own crooked, dangerous smile.

Stu doesn’t ask. He just scoops Billy up—effortless, strong arms under thighs and back—and Billy lets him, even though he usually hates feeling small. Tonight it serves a purpose. Stu slams him down onto the bed hard enough to knock the breath from Billy’s lungs.

Clothes come off in a frantic tangle—shirts yanked over heads, jeans shoved down and kicked away. Stu spreads Billy’s legs wide, deliberately angling him so William has an unobstructed view. He slicks two fingers and pushes them in without preamble, crooking them deep, scissoring roughly.

“Bet you miss this pussy, old man,” Stu taunts over his shoulder, voice dripping with mockery as he pumps his fingers faster. “God, Billy—you’re so fucking tight tonight.”

Billy’s cheeks burn hot, but he arches into it, spreading wider, letting the wet sounds of Stu’s fingers fucking him fill the room. Stu pulls out abruptly and lines up, sinking into Billy in one long, relentless thrust.

Billy’s head snaps back, a broken cry tearing from his throat. Stu doesn’t hold back—he fucks Billy hard and fast, hips snapping with bruising force, driving Billy up the mattress with every slam. Each thrust punches high, needy sounds from Billy’s chest, his cock trapped and leaking between their stomachs.

Then Stu slows—deliberate, cruel—drawing almost all the way out before sliding back in deep and slow, letting the slick drag and the wet slap of skin on skin echo loud in the quiet room. Their moans mingle, soft and filthy.

They switch positions twice—Billy riding Stu reverse so William can watch Billy’s face as he takes every inch, then Stu flips him face-down, pinning him with a hand between his shoulder blades, and pounds into him until his rhythm stutters.

Stu comes with a guttural groan, hips flush against Billy’s ass, pulsing hot and deep inside him.

He pulls out slowly, flips Billy onto his back, and drops between his spread thighs without pause. Stu swallows Billy’s cock in one smooth motion—no gag, throat opening easily—and sucks hard, cheeks hollowing, tongue working relentlessly.

Billy’s back arches off the bed, hands fisting the sheets. His eyes flick sideways to William in the chair—pants tented obscenely, face flushed, eyes black with desperate, helpless want.

Billy’s lips curve into a slow, vicious smile.

Good.

William deserves to suffer.

Billy moans loud and shameless for Stu, fingers threading tight through his hair, tugging just enough to guide him deeper. His eyes stay locked on William the entire time—dark, defiant, burning with intent. This is what you’re missing, he thinks, vicious and satisfied. This is what you fucked up.

Stu’s mouth works relentlessly, throat relaxed and greedy, and it doesn’t take long for him to harden again, cock heavy against his thigh. He pulls off Billy with a wet, obscene pop, lips shiny, and leans in to whisper hot against Billy’s ear, “Ready to go again?”

Billy nods once, sharp and hungry. “Let’s go fuck on the desk,” he says, voice low, eyes intense.

Stu laughs–breathless, delighted–and together they slide off the bed. They approach William slowly, deliberately. William’s gaze rakes over Billy, raw want plain on his face, pupils blown wide even through the restraint.

Billy grips the chair and angles it—precise, cruel—so William has no choice but to watch every second. Stu presses in behind him, hands spreading Billy’s thighs as he bends him over Henry’s desk, papers scattering under Billy’s elbows. Stu sinks back inside in one smooth thrust, drawing a sharp groan from Billy’s throat.

Casually, like it’s an afterthought, Billy reaches over and presses two fingers against William’s lips. William opens immediately—eager, obedient—tongue curling around them as Billy pushes in, letting him suck and coat them in spit. The wet heat of William’s mouth makes Billy’s cock twitch inside Stu’s grip.

Billy loses himself in the rhythm—Stu’s hips snapping hard and deep, the desk creaking under them—but his attention stays split, drinking in every flicker across William’s face. The faint smell of weed drifts in from the hallway; Henry must be lighting up, nerves frayed. Billy files that away—apologize later.

His hand trails out of William’s mouth, saliva-slick fingers dragging down his neck, pushing the coat aside to press palm-flat over William’s racing heart.

“You want me?” Billy asks, voice soft and dangerous.

“Daddy needs you, baby,” William answers, low and rough, like Billy’s just offered mercy.

He’s wrong.

Billy’s hand continues down—undoing belt and zipper with practiced ease, pulling William’s cock free. It’s hard, flushed, leaking at the tip. Billy strokes once—slow, firm—then twice, thumb swiping over the head, sparking a sharp inhale from William. Then he lets go completely, leaving William throbbing untouched in the open air.

William laughs—breathless, understanding the game perfectly—and the sound is half pain, half admiration.

“Fuck,” Stu groans behind him, hips driving deeper, “you should feel how hot and tight he is right now.”

Billy’s eyes flutter, but he keeps them on William, watching every twitch, every frustrated clench of his jaw. He sinks deeper into the rhythm, lost in the push and pull, the wet slap of Stu’s hips against his ass.

He doesn’t even hear Henry’s heavy footsteps approaching the door.

Henry pushes the bedroom door open with his shoulder, eyes glassy but burning with something sharp and determined. His gaze lands on William tied to the chair, and he strides straight over.

“Hen, so nice of you to join—” William starts, voice light and teasing.

Henry cuts him off. His hand twists hard into William’s hair, yanking his head back with a vicious tug. William’s mouth falls open on a helpless, guttural groan.

Behind them, Stu stills mid-thrust inside Billy. Billy doesn’t even complain—he’s too riveted by the scene unfolding.

Henry leans down, spits directly into William’s open mouth. William swallows, then smiles—slow, defiant, laughing softly like it’s a gift.

“You disgust me,” Henry growls, voice shaking with barely leashed fury. “You just don’t know when to leave well enough alone.”

He shoves William’s head lower, unzips his own pants with his free hand, and pulls out his cock—hard, flushed, angry. Without warning he thrusts into William’s mouth, deep and punishing, giving no time to adjust.

William gags hard, throat convulsing, saliva spilling from the corners of his lips, but Henry doesn’t relent.

“You reinsert yourself into my life,” Henry hisses, hips snapping forward, “act like you did nothing wrong—like you didn’t kill my little girl.”

His voice cracks on the last words. Tears gather hot in his eyes, spilling over as he fucks William’s throat with raw, shaking anger.

“You’ve never taken responsibility. Never apologized. Never given me closure. You just let it fester and then look me in the eye like you know I’ll take you back.” His thrusts turn brutal. “Fuck you. Why do I–still fucking love you after what you did?”

A choked sob tears out of him. He finally yanks William off his cock, leaving William gasping, coughing, face streaked with spit and tears of his own.

Billy straightens slowly, reaches out, and touches Henry’s shoulder—gentle, grounding. “Daddy,” he says quietly, testing.

Henry’s chest heaves. He smells like whiskey and pot smoke. His eyes soften when they meet Billy’s. He presses their foreheads together, kisses Billy slow and careful, like an apology.

“Come on,” he murmurs, guiding Billy toward the bed.

Henry settles back against the pillows, pulls Billy on top of him, straddling his hips. “You remember that one weekend?” he whispers against Billy’s ear, voice rough but steadying.

Billy knows instantly—taking both Stu and Henry at once. A cruel, crooked grin splits his face. He bites his lip, nodding.

“Think you could do that again?” Henry asks, brushing damp hair from Billy’s forehead with surprising tenderness.

Billy laughs—low, wicked. If it means torturing William further? “Fuck yeah.”

He calls over his shoulder, “Stu—get your ass on the bed. I’m taking both of you.”

Stu scrambles eagerly, cock already hard again, eyes bright with excitement.

Billy slicks Henry generously, sinks down onto him with a hiss—then lifts until just the head remains inside. Stu moves in behind him, pressing close, lining up.

It hurts—Billy didn’t have nearly enough prep this time—but the burn fuels him. He braces his hands on Henry’s chest, breathing hard through the stretch as Stu pushes in alongside Henry.

Henry’s palms stroke soothing circles over Billy’s hips. “Breathe, Billy,” he murmurs. “You’re doing so good. Just relax for us.”

Billy doesn’t need to look to know William is straining against the bungee cords—the chair creaks loudly, rhythmically, betraying every desperate shift of his body.

William wants in so badly he can taste it.

And Billy makes sure he watches every second.

Stu and Henry find a rhythm—slow at first, careful, then deeper, more confident. Henry actually rolls his hips this time, a deliberate grind that drags his cock against Stu’s inside the tight clutch of Billy’s body. Stu moans loud and helpless at the slick slide of them together, forehead dropping to Billy’s shoulder.

Stu grabs a fistful of Billy’s hair—exactly how he knows Billy craves it, sharp tug arching his neck back—and Billy’s moan tears free, raw and shameless, echoing off the bedroom walls.

Time blurs into heat and motion and breathless sound. At some point Stu cums again—hard, pulsing deep inside Billy with a broken groan, adding to the mess already there.

Henry doesn’t stop. He eases Billy forward onto his hands and knees, hands gentle on trembling hips, and starts fucking him in long, steady strokes from behind—doggy style, deep and relentless. Each thrust punches a soft, punched-out sound from Billy’s throat.

Billy lifts his head, looks straight at William through dazed, heavy-lidded eyes. His face is flushed, lips swollen, utterly blissed-out and gone. William stares back—jaw clenched, chest heaving, cock straining painfully against his open pants, eyes black with frustration.

It’s hilarious. Billy’s mouth curves into a slow, wicked smile.

“Stu,” he slurs, voice thick and fucked-out.

Stu, sprawled on his side at the edge of the bed, chest still heaving, hand lazily stroking his spent cock, perks up instantly. “Yeah?”

Billy tips his chin toward William. No words needed—the look passes between them like electricity. Go get him.

Stu’s grin turns feral. He rolls off the bed and stalks over to the chair, bracing both hands on the armrests, caging William in. “Aww, you wanna be fucked, Mr. Afton?” he taunts, voice dripping mockery.

William leans back as far as the cords allow, frustration etched deep in the lines of his face, but his cock jerks visibly at the words.

Stu uses his height and strength, yanks William’s pants and underwear down in one rough pull, baring him completely. He starts to hoist William’s legs up—

“Stu—lube,” Billy calls out, trying to sound firm even as Henry’s cock drives into him again, making his voice crack.

“He doesn’t deserve it,” Stu groans petulantly, like a kid denied a toy.

“Stu,” Billy repeats, sharper this time.

Stu huffs, rolls his eyes dramatically, but obeys—grabbing the bottle from the nightstand and stalking back. He slicks himself generously, muttering under his breath.

“You’re lucky he still cares about you,” Stu whispers against William’s ear, low and venomous, as he lines up.

William’s only answer is a sharp inhale, eyes locked on Billy across the room—watching Henry fuck him slow and deep, waiting for whatever comes next.

Stu doesn’t ease in. He yanks William’s hips back hard, forcing his head to snap up. William meets Stu’s gaze then—eyes burning with frustration, humiliation, raw want. Even from the bed, Billy sees it clear as day.

“This is for every time you fucked Billy behind my back,” Stu growls, voice low and vicious. He snaps his hips forward recklessly, pounding into William with brutal force. The office chair creaks violently, rocking on its wheels, threatening to tip with every slam.

Henry sighs against Billy’s sweat-slick back, draping himself over him. “They’re going to break my chair,” he mutters, already resigned.

Billy laughs—low, breathless—and the sound vibrates through his chest. Henry chuckles against the curve of his neck, lips brushing skin. The shared amusement heightens everything between them, warm and intimate amid the chaos. Henry kisses along Billy’s neck, his shoulders—slow, reverent presses that make Billy’s spent body spark again.

Billy cums with a shuddering moan, eyes locked on William as Stu rails him mercilessly. The clench of Billy’s body drags a deep groan from Henry, who feels every pulse around his cock.

After a few minutes, across the room, Stu’s rhythm falters—he buries himself deep and cums with a rough curse, spilling hot inside William.

Henry follows moments later, hips snapping forward one last time as he fills Billy, arms tightening around him possessively.

Stu pulls out slowly, catches his breath, then glances back at Billy and Henry. “What now?” he asks, nodding toward William—still bound, wrecked, cock hard and untouched.

Billy pushes up on lazy, trembling limbs, thoroughly fucked-out and loose. He pads over to the chair, steadying himself on the armrest, and drops to his knees between William’s spread legs.

William looks ruined—hair mussed, shirt and coat shoved aside, chest heaving. Billy meets his eyes, lets him see the mercy in it, then reaches out and wraps a hand around William’s aching cock—flushed dark, leaking steadily.

William’s breath stutters.

Billy leans in and takes him into his mouth—sloppy, eager, no finesse left. He sinks down as far as he can, gagging softly, then pulls back to press open-mouthed kisses along the shaft, tongue swirling over the head, lapping at the slit like he’s starving for it.

God, he missed this—the taste of William, salt and heat and familiarity; the weight on his tongue; the way William looks down at him like he’s the only thing that matters.

Billy moans around him, the vibration humming through William’s cock.

William loses it completely—hips jerking once, a broken sound tearing from his throat as he cums in thick, hot spurts against the back of Billy’s tongue.

Billy swallows greedily, taking down as much as he can, letting the rest spill over his lips as he pulls off slowly, eyes never leaving William’s.

He straightens, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What do you say?” he asks, voice light and teasing.

William’s head tips back against the chair, eyes shut, breath finally evening out. Whatever tension had been coiled in him has gone slack, replaced with something looser, emptied. “Thank you,” he says. It isn’t reverent. It isn’t resentful either. Just said because it’s expected.

“Good man,” Billy murmurs, patting William’s cheek once—gentle, dismissive.

He and Stu work together to undo the bindings. William flexes his wrists, rolling his shoulders as feeling comes back, tugging his shirt straight, reassembling himself piece by piece.

Billy reaches for his hand, instinctive, tugging him toward the bed. For a moment William follows—then stops.

“Not yet,” he says, glancing past Billy. His eyes land on Henry. “We need to talk.”

Henry is already sitting up, composed again, expression unreadable. “I agree.”

They give each other space as they stand, careful, like two men circling something fragile. William follows as Henry heads for the kitchen, their footsteps fading down the hall.

Stu drops onto the bed the second they’re gone, boneless with exhaustion. He pats the mattress beside him. “Bills.”

That’s all it takes.

Billy crawls in, curls into Stu’s chest, Stu’s arms wrapping around him automatically, protective and familiar. The room is warm. Quiet.

Sleep takes them fast.

Whatever conversation William and Henry are having—whatever lines are being redrawn, whatever truths are being tested—Billy is too wrung out to imagine it.

For once, he doesn’t listen.

For once, he lets himself rest.

Chapter 33

Billy sleeps hard—deep, blank, merciful. No dreams, no William-shaped shadows. Just dark.

He wakes to the smell of sausage and buttered pancakes, coffee cutting warm and bitter through the air. For a moment he lies still, letting it sink in. Normal. Domestic. Almost unreal.

Beside him, Stu stretches like a lazy dog, arms over his head, eyes still shut. “Fuck,” he groans, voice thick with sleep. “That smells good.”

Billy hums in agreement and leans over to kiss Stu’s cheek, soft and familiar. “You did good last night,” he says quietly, the words meant only for them.

Stu turns his head, presses their foreheads together. His smile is small but sure. “It’s all for you, Bills.”

Then Stu’s stomach growls—loud, traitorous.

They both freeze for half a second before breaking into quiet laughter, the tension cracking clean down the middle.

“Come on,” Billy says, sitting up and swinging his legs off the bed.

They dress fast and easy, muscle memory and shared space, then head for the kitchen.

William and Henry are already at the table. William sits with a newspaper folded just so, humming under his breath like this is any other morning. Henry cradles a mug, thoughtful, distant but calm. The radio murmurs the news low in the background, snowfall mentioned in passing.

“Go ahead,” Henry says when he sees them. “Fix your plates. We’ll talk while you eat.”

Billy and Stu bump shoulders as they load up—pancakes stacked high, sausage links piled without shame. Stu absolutely drowns his food in syrup.

Together they settle across from the older men, Stu actively woofing down his food.

“So…” Billy starts, eyes moving between them, fork paused mid-air.

William lowers the paper but doesn’t speak. Instead, he looks to Henry, a quiet, deliberate handoff. Henry notices, swallows, and draws in a shaky breath before he begins.

“As you boys know,” he says carefully, “Will and I talked last night. A lot.” He hesitates, fingers tightening around his mug. “And we agreed… we want this. With you. The intimacy. The domesticity. Being part of your lives—if you’ll have us.”

The words hang there, fragile as spun glass. Henry waits, clearly bracing himself, like he needs to hear it said out loud.

Billy glances at Stu. God, seriously? He keeps his tone light, guarded. “Yeah. Sure.” Noncommittal, even if his chest says otherwise.

“Yeah,” Stu adds, shrugging around a mouthful of pancake.

Relief softens Henry immediately. Even William’s mouth tips upward, pleased, controlled but unmistakable.

“But,” Henry continues, straightening, voice firming with effort, “there have to be boundaries.” He looks directly at William now. “Will cannot contact either of you alone. Ever. If he does, this ends. Completely.”

Billy’s eyes snap to William in time to see the faint smile die on his face.

Heat flares in Billy’s chest—sharp, defensive. The instinct to push back rises fast and ugly. Who are they to decide that? The flare is worse because he wants William alone. Wants that singular focus, that attention, selfish and bright.

He exhales hard, scrubs a hand through his hair. Maybe it is for the best. Even if he hates it.

“Okay,” Billy says finally. “Fine.”

“Wait—wait,” Stu cuts in, pausing long enough to breathe. He points at William. “You’re saying if he screws up—” then gestures between himself and Henry, “—we don’t get to see each other anymore?”

“Yes,” Henry says, and it clearly costs him. “We would both step away. Let you live your lives like we never met.”

Stu’s leg starts bouncing under the table, restless, angry. “How’s that fair?” he asks, voice tight. “You’ve been— you’ve been good to us, Mr. Emily.”

Billy hears the strain there, the tears being held hostage.

Henry’s resolve wavers, just a little. “If Will truly cares for you boys the way he claims,” he says quietly, “then that should be incentive enough not to break the agreement.”

Stu stares at him, stunned. Then his gaze slides to William—sharp, burning—and without a word, he lifts his pinky over the table.

William’s eyes light immediately. A soft laugh escapes him, delighted by the simplicity of it. He leans forward and hooks his own pinky around Stu’s, sealing it without hesitation.

Billy watches, chest tight, knowing exactly how much that small gesture means.

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William is good.

Painfully, deliberately good. He doesn’t call Billy alone. Doesn’t ask them to come back to his house. Doesn’t test the edges of the agreement, no matter how often Billy half-expects him to. When William wants them, he comes to Henry’s. When he touches them, it’s with all four of them present—messy, warm, shared. Meals stretch long into the night. Movies play half-watched while bodies pile together on the couch. It’s easy, almost domestic in a way that feels dangerous to trust.

They spend Christmas together.

Billy’s parents don’t call. Not once. He tells himself he doesn’t care, and mostly it’s true. Stu’s parents do call—rambling, awkward, distant—and Stu deletes the message halfway through, jaw tight, eyes blank. Billy doesn’t comment. He just sits closer.

Henry gives them scarves. Simple, practical things, clearly chosen with care—Stu’s warm-toned, soft and bright against his hair; Billy’s cooler, muted, something that fits him too well.

“It’s not much,” Henry says, suddenly shy.

It’s everything. Someone thought about them. Someone worried about them being cold.

Stu hugs Henry hard, arms locked around his middle, face pressed into his sweater like he’s holding himself together by force. Billy watches, throat tight, and looks away before it shows.

William gives them video games. Stu tries—honestly tries—not to light up over it because it’s William, because it complicates things. He fails immediately. Billy notices, of course. He also notices that William stays the night with them instead of going home. Instead of being with his children.

That thought sits heavy in Billy’s chest, sharp and intoxicating all at once.

When they finally settle into bed, it’s a tangle—Stu half-sprawled, Henry careful and warm, William solid and grounding. Billy curls into William’s chest like it’s muscle memory, nose brushing against grey chest hair, breathing him in. When he looks up, William is already watching him. He tucks Billy’s hair back gently, thumb lingering just a second too long.

God. Billy missed this. Missed him.

Vanessa still hasn’t gone to the cops. Whatever William did—whatever he said or promised or broke—it worked. The thought unsettles Billy even as it sends a shiver down his spine. Fear and desire twist together until he can’t tell them apart.

Stu and Henry are both asleep, breathing slow and even. Billy hesitates, then leans in. One quick kiss. Just to remember.

It doesn’t stay quick.

It stays soft. Careful. Familiar in a way that makes Billy ache. He pulls back first, frustrated with himself, and buries his face back into William’s chest like he can hide there.

William’s hand comes up, steady, soothing, fingers combing gently through Billy’s hair.

The hold this man has on him is infuriating.

And Billy lets himself stay anyway.

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As the New Year creeps in—’98 thinning out, ’99 waiting on the other side—William comes over with two bottles of champagne tucked under his arm like an offering. MTV hums in the background, some loud, glittery countdown special that no one is really watching. The champagne goes down easy. Too easy. William keeps refilling glasses, all smiles, all indulgence.

Henry shoots him a look over the rim of his glass.
“What?” William says lightly. “Let them have fun, Hen. They’ve earned it.”

Henry exhales, relents. He knows it’s true. The boys have been wrung dry this year.

Soon they’re warm and loose and giggly, limbs tangling together on the couch, the world pleasantly soft around the edges.

“We should totally do a four-way kiss,” Stu announces as midnight inches closer.

Billy snorts. “What? No. How would that even work?”

Stu demonstrates with his hands, making a clumsy scissoring motion. “Like—like this. C’mon, we can totally all get our mouths together if we try hard enough.”

Billy rolls his eyes, smiling despite himself.
“I’m with Billy on this one,” Henry says apologetically. “I don’t think that’s physically possible, Stu.”

Stu pouts for half a second before Henry slips an arm around him, and he melts instantly, grinning into Henry’s shoulder.

The countdown hits zero.

Billy grabs Stu and kisses him, slow and grounding, everything from the year washing through him at once—relief, survival, affection hard-won. Stu kisses him back with enthusiasm, tongue sneaking in because of course it does.

Across from them, William leans in toward Henry, tentative, respectful. Their kiss is soft, exploratory, like they’re still checking the shape of something fragile. Billy makes a choice then—leans over and kisses Henry next, gentle and sincere. Henry smiles into it, warm and steady.

That leaves Stu and William. There’s a brief pause, a shared glance. Then William leans in and Stu meets him halfway—careful, curious, but willing.

When it breaks, Billy looks away so he doesn’t seem too eager, doesn’t betray how loudly his pulse is beating.

Stu kisses Henry like he’s scrubbing the moment clean, and then William opens his arms.

Billy steps into them without thinking.

The kiss is slow, deep, hungry in a way that feels both new and impossibly familiar. William keeps his hands where they should be, but Billy feels the tension there—the restraint. It makes his chest ache. He pulls back abruptly, like he’s been burned, unwilling to let it show how far back into William’s gravity he already is.

William just smiles and ruffles Billy’s hair.

Billy hates it. Billy loves it.

They end the night tangled together in the bedroom, bodies warm and slack with sleep, fireworks cracking faintly outside as the year finally, fully turns.

Chapter 34

Billy and Stu spend the last stretch of winter break exactly how they like it—camped out on the floor with controllers in hand, the TV glowing, half a dozen empty soda cans scattered around them. Between levels, they talk shop: shots they want to try, story beats, the running problem of casting.

“Henry is never going to cave,” Stu says, groaning as he lets his character die dramatically on-screen. “I swear, I could beg on my knees.”

Billy snorts. “Yeah, well. You’re begging the wrong guy.”

Stu pauses, then squints at him. “Oh no.”

Billy keeps his eyes on the screen, casual. “I’m just saying. William would absolutely say yes.”

There’s a long beat. Then Stu exhales and flops backward onto the carpet like he’s been felled by a sniper. “Okay, yeah,” he admits to the ceiling. “Yeah, I can see it.”

They don’t even have time to overthink it. William comes over for dinner that night, snow still clinging to his coat, easy smile already in place. Halfway through the meal, Billy nudges Stu under the table. Stu nudges him back. Billy gives him a look. You ask.

“So, uh—Mr. Afton,” Stu starts.

Billy clocks the change immediately. Stu says it sincerely now, not mocking, not playful. William looks up, interest sharpening in his eyes.

“Yes?” he prompts.

Stu straightens a little. “We were wondering if you’d want to be the killer. For our film project.”

William’s smile spreads slow and pleased, like he’s just been offered something precious. “Of course,” he says without hesitation.

Henry’s fork pauses mid-air. “Where exactly are you planning to film?” he asks, already wary.

Billy shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “We were thinking William’s house.”

Henry closes his eyes, rubs a hand over his forehead, then exhales. “Fine,” he says. “But I’ll be there. For every shot.” It’s framed like a concession, but it lands like a warning.

Billy meets William’s gaze across the table. Something unspoken flickers between them—anticipation edged with danger.

Stu, oblivious or choosing to be, grins and elbows Billy again. “Dude, the shadows in that place are going to be insane.”

“Yeah,” Billy murmurs, distant already.

His mind has gone somewhere else entirely, William bending him over the banister in the mask. He has to force himself back into the room.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They start filming before winter break is fully over, deciding—strategically, recklessly—to shoot the climax first, while they still have access to William’s house.

The place feels different when it’s being treated like a set. Lights dragged in. Wires taped down. Stu buzzing with manic focus as he sets up shots with Henry, chattering nonstop about angles, sightlines, how the shadows along the staircase crawl just right when you lower the camera and let the banister cut the frame in half.

Billy stays back at first, busy with the mask.

William sits patiently on a chair pulled into the living room, letting Billy work. He’s dressed in an old collared shirt Billy distressed himself—aged purple fabric, frayed seams, carefully placed tears. It fits William too well. The sleeves ride up just enough to show forearms, strong and familiar.

Application is… close. Too close.

Billy keeps his hands steady, professional, even as his pulse jumps. Latex smoothed along skin. Burlap edges pressed into place. Moth wings tucked carefully through the slits Billy cut by hand. He feels like a dog hitting the end of its leash—contained, straining, furious with himself for wanting to lunge.

William doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to. Billy can feel his attention like heat, knows William sees the restraint, the way Billy’s jaw tightens. That knowledge only makes it worse.

“Okay,” Stu calls. “Let’s get the reveal.”

They move into position. Camera up. Lights adjusted. Henry hovering close, watchful.

William steps onto the staircase.

Mask on, he’s something else entirely.

He pauses at the top, one hand resting on the banister. He tilts his head, slow and deliberate, staring down into the space below like he’s already decided someone’s fate.

Billy’s breath catches despite himself.

“Holy shit,” Stu mutters, circling for coverage. “Don’t move—yeah, like that—”

William doesn’t break character. His posture is controlled, predatory, the kind of stillness that promises violence without showing it.

“And… down the stairs,” Stu says.

William moves.

Each step is measured, heavy, purposeful, like he’s descending straight toward the camera to end it. When he reaches the bottom, Stu yelps, adrenaline high. “Cut!”

The room exhales all at once.

“Dude,” Stu says, breathless, lowering the camcorder. “That was insane. I’ve got chills.”

Even Henry looks impressed, eyes wide before he schools his expression.

William chuckles under the mask, clearly pleased.

They keep going—found-footage style, Stu as the frantic center of it all. Running shots. Shaky framing. William looming in and out of view, always just close enough to feel inevitable.

The last setup is the trickiest: the kill.

They rehearse it carefully. Stu positions the camcorder where it would “drop.” William braces him, hands set firm but controlled, the illusion of strength doing most of the work. On cue, William jerks him up just enough to sell it.

“Snap,” Stu gasps theatrically, then lets himself fall flat onto the wooden floor, camcorder clattering beside him.

“Cut,” Stu calls, laughing as he lies there.

William immediately offers a hand.

After a brief pause—just long enough to register the moment—Stu takes it.

William pulls him up easily, still half in character, half not.

Billy watches it all, chest tight.

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They squeeze in a few last shots in the woods before heading back to campus—bare branches clawing at the sky, snow packed down into dirty paths. Stu films Billy moving through the trees, breath fogging, footsteps crunching too loud in the quiet. It’s spare and eerie and exactly what they want.

Back at school, they pivot to the beginning of the film. Normalcy.

Stu films students trudging to class with backpacks slung low, breath puffing in the cold. College kids clustered on the quad, laughing too loudly, stomping their feet to stay warm. A frisbee skids uselessly across frozen grass. Mundane, safe images—the kind that will feel wrong later, once the unease sets in.

Then, like the universe is conspiring with them, a moth lands on Stu’s sleeve.

“In January?” Stu whispers, reverent, zooming in. “No fucking way.”

The moth clings there stubbornly, wings shuddering, absurd and fragile against the Minnesota winter. Billy watches it crawl, a tight feeling settling behind his ribs. Stu grins like he’s just been handed gold.

When they split for class, it’s routine. Easy. Billy heads for the stairwell he always uses—the quiet one, concrete and echoing, tucked out of the way. He likes the isolation. Likes the way his footsteps sound too loud, like he’s the only one left in the building.

Halfway down, something shifts.

Footsteps. Not his.

Billy stops short and spins, adrenaline already spiking, hand half-raised—

William stands there in the stairwell, framed by the landing, wearing the moth mask.

Billy’s heart slams so hard it hurts.

“Fuck,” he hisses, hand dropping to his chest. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Then the rest of it crashes in all at once. William. Here. On campus. Alone with him.

The agreement.

“What are you doing here?” Billy snaps, shoving him in the chest, more panic than anger in the motion.

William steadies easily, then lifts his hands in mock surrender. He pulls the mask off with a slow, deliberate motion and holds it out like a magician revealing a trick. “You forgot this,” he says lightly.

Billy doesn’t take it. Doesn’t even look at it. “The agreement,” he says through clenched teeth. “You can’t—”

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” William murmurs, amusement threading his voice.

Billy’s heart pounds harder, traitorous and loud in his ears. The stairwell feels too small, the air too thin. Want and fear twist together in his gut, indistinguishable.

Billy’s nerves fray, then snap. He lunges forward, mouth crashing hard against William’s, teeth clacking in the urgency.

“Fuck!” Billy growls against his lips, the word muffled and furious.

He yanks back just far enough to snatch the moth mask from William’s hand. “Put this on,” he demands, voice rough, shoving it toward him.

William’s grin flashes—all teeth, predatory—before he pulls the mask over his head. The aged burlap settles over his face, handcrafted moth wings protruding delicately, framing those sharp blue eyes that never leave Billy’s.

Their hands roam immediately—hungry, possessive. Billy’s palms slide down William’s broad chest, fingers threading through the soft gray hair, tugging just enough to draw a low hiss. William grips him suddenly, spins him around, and shoves him forward until Billy’s hips slam against the cold metal stair railing. The breath knocks out of him in a sharp gasp; the impact sends a thrill straight to his cock.

William’s hand fists in Billy’s hair, the other clamping tight on his hip, yanking his head back as he grinds forward—hard length pressing insistently against Billy’s clothed ass. Billy curses under his breath, already painfully turned on, hips rocking back without permission.

William stays silent—no daddy talk, no teasing words—just heavy, ragged breathing behind the mask, soft groans that vibrate through Billy’s spine. The quiet control, the pure taking, is a new kind of thrill.

He bares Billy quickly—jeans and boxers shoved down just enough—cool air hitting heated skin. Billy glances over his shoulder and sees William pull a small bottle of lube from his coat pocket. The fucker planned this.

William slicks himself with efficient strokes, lines up, and pushes in—slow, deliberate, savoring every inch of the stretch. Billy’s mouth falls open on a helpless moan, eyes locked on William’s through the mask’s ragged eye holes, intense and burning.

William’s hand leaves Billy’s hip to clamp over his mouth, fingers pressing firm, muffling the sounds. Fuck. Billy’s head spins, dizzy with it—the grip, the fullness, the danger.

He grips the railing tight, knuckles white, and watches through the small window in the stairwell door as straggling students pass by below, oblivious to him being fucked just feet away. The risk makes his cock throb harder, leaking against the metal.

William sets a brutal pace—deep, hard thrusts that punch muffled moans from Billy’s throat, hips slamming forward with controlled violence. He grips Billy’s hair tighter, tilting his head back further, using him exactly how he needs.

Billy cums suddenly, violently—shooting thick streaks over the railing, splattering down the stairwell to the concrete below, body clenching hard around William.

William doesn’t stop. He fucks Billy through the aftershocks until stars burst behind his eyes, then buries himself deep and cums with a low, ragged groan behind the mask—pulsing hot inside him.

He stays seated a moment, then thrusts a few more times—slow, deliberate—pushing his release deeper before pulling out. Without a word, he tugs Billy’s boxers and jeans back up, trapping the warmth inside before it can leak.

William keeps the mask on, breath evening out behind burlap as he puts himself back together. He lifts one finger to where his lips would be—a silent, shushing motion—eyes fever-bright and satisfied. Then he ruffles Billy’s hair roughly, pats his ass once, and descends the stairs, pushing out the door onto the quad like nothing happened.

Billy sinks down onto the cold step, knees weak, head spinning, cum cooling sticky in his boxers.

Henry and Stu can never find out.

He’s going to have to shower before Stu notices.

Fuck.

That was hot.

Notes:

We're in Minnesota now! (because that's where the movies take place💦) I don't wanna talk about having to go back through and change every Utah mention.

Chapter 35

Billy and Stu disappear into the edit for a solid week.

It’s brutal and beautiful all at once—late nights hunched over the screen, energy drinks stacking up like evidence, early mornings fueled by instant coffee that tastes like regret. Stu vibrates constantly, pacing, rewinding, talking too fast, gesturing wildly. Billy alternates between wanting to grab him by the shoulders and shake him quiet or fuck him just to bleed off the energy.

They cut. They chop. They layer sound until silence itself feels hostile.

When they finally export the final cut, they sit on the bed and watch it straight through, neither of them speaking. The pacing is tight. The sound design hums under the skin. The mood crawls instead of rushes. The killer—William—feels inevitable. Unavoidable.

Perfect.

When it ends, Stu lets out a wrecked laugh and collapses sideways into Billy, arms looping around him. “Holy shit,” he murmurs, then kisses him—quick at first, then lingering.

Billy smiles into it, exhausted and proud and warm all at once. “We did good,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” Stu agrees. “We really did.”

Billy can already picture the end-of-year screening. The looks on people’s faces. The silence after.

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William is good after the stairwell encounter.

He really is. He keeps his distance. No calls. No visits. Nothing that crosses the line.

Until he doesn’t.

A little after midnight, Billy’s phone lights up on the nightstand.

Baby. Daddy needs you.

Billy stares at it, pulse dropping straight into his stomach.

That fucker got a cellphone just to text him.

He types back, furious and whisper-quiet: You got a fucking cellphone???

A second later: You know I can’t come over.

The reply comes almost immediately.

You don’t have to.
Go to your car. Call me.

Billy squeezes his eyes shut, jaw tightening. He glances at Stu, dead asleep beside him, mouth slightly open, peaceful. Guilt pricks at him—but want drowns it out just as fast.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

He slips out of bed, careful not to wake Stu, pulls on his jacket, and heads outside. The Minnesota cold bites hard, sharp enough to steal his breath.

And still—still—his body betrays him, heat coiling low and familiar.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Billy turns on the engine—it's far too fucking cold tonight not to—and lets the heater sputter to life. He stares at the unfamiliar number glowing on his phone, takes a deep, shaky breath, and calls.

“Baby,” William answers on the second ring, voice a low, satisfied purr that shoots straight through Billy’s gut and settles hot between his legs.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Billy says, strained, gripping the wheel tight enough to creak. William is escalating. The agreement with Stu and Henry hangs by threads.

“Yet here you are, calling me,” William replies, amusement curling around every word. Billy can picture that smug face perfectly. He wants to ride it until neither of them can think.

“Will,” Billy presses his forehead to the cold steering wheel, eyes squeezed shut.

“Ah-ah,” William tsks, gentle but firm. “Try again.”

Billy exhales hard through his nose, cheeks burning. “Daddy,” he mutters, embarrassment thick in his throat.

“There we go,” William praises, warm and approving. “Tell me, baby—what do you need from Daddy?”

Billy’s breath hitches. “Wanna ride your face, Daddy.”

William chuckles—surprised, delighted, the sound dark and rich. “Yeah? Want my tongue in that tight little hole of yours?”

Billy lets out a strangled sound. He wets two fingers in his mouth, shoves his free hand down his pants, and pushes them inside himself without ceremony—leaning the seat back just enough to spread his legs wider in the cramped car.

“Fuck, yes, Daddy,” he moans, voice already wrecked.

“Already touching yourself?” William teases, clearly hearing the shift in Billy’s breathing, the soft slick sounds. “My needy baby bunny. I’d suck on that pretty hole, lick you open until you’re sloppy and dripping, until you’re desperate for my cock.”

Billy whimpers pitifully. He’s already desperate—it’s ridiculous how fast William unravels him.

“Make you beg for it,” William continues, voice dropping lower, rougher. “Let me hear you beg, baby.”

“Fuck—Daddy, need you,” Billy groans, throwing his head back against the seat, fingers thrusting deeper. “Please, Daddy, please.”

“Want Daddy to fill your greedy little hole?” William asks, husky now—Billy can tell he’s touching himself too, the faint rustle of fabric over the line giving him away.

“Fuck, yes—please, Daddy,” Billy begs shamelessly.

He wedges the phone between ear and shoulder, reaches down with his newly freed hand, and wraps it around his cock—stroking slow and tight, hips rolling into his own touch.

William hears every shift, every wet sound. He chuckles again, dark and knowing. “Is Stuart not fucking you enough? Are you that pent up, baby?”

Billy’s breath stutters. Stu fucks him plenty—rough and often—but the want for William never dulls. Maybe it’s the secrecy, the risk, the way William owns him with nothing but words.

“Daddy,” Billy whines, high and needy.

“I’d fuck you nice and slow, baby,” William murmurs. “Show you how much I miss you. Let you feel every inch—the drag of my cock as it slides…” He draws the words out, deliberate and filthy. “In… and out… in… and out.”

Billy matches the rhythm with his fingers, thrusting to William’s cadence, cock leaking over his fist.

“I'd grab your pretty little cock and stroke it,” William continues, voice velvet and steel. “You love when Daddy holds it for you, don’t you, baby?”

The “little” twists something angry and hot in Billy’s gut—but it only makes him stroke faster, hips bucking helplessly into his hand.

“Let me hear you, Billy,” William rasps, voice rough with need.

Billy moans—pretty, deliberate, the sound he knows William loves.

“Good boy,” William praises, low and warm.

“Fuck, Daddy—I’m close,” Billy murmurs, pleasure coiling tight and hot in his gut.

“You’re always so pretty when you cum,” William says, and the words shoot straight to Billy’s cock like a hand around it. “Cum for me, baby. Let go.”

Billy strokes faster, relentless, imagining William’s big, calloused hand instead of his own—imagining William’s cock buried deep, dragging over his prostate, filling him up until he overflows.

“God—fucking damn it—” Billy gasps as he cums hard, hips jerking violently. The first spurt nearly hits his own chin; the rest lands in thick streaks across his black Slipknot shirt, painfully obvious against the dark fabric.

He doesn’t even ride the aftershocks. He’s already fumbling in the glovebox for napkins, the crinkle of paper loud over the phone.

“My messy baby bunny,” William chastises fondly.

“Yeah, made a fucking mess—thanks,” Billy mutters, wiping at his shirt, though there’s no real bite in it.

“I’d lick it off you if I were there,” William says, voice dropping lower.

Billy’s brain stutters, fresh heat flashing through him at the image.

“I’d let you fuck my throat,” he offers, realizing William’s breath has gone ragged—he’s still going. “Wrap your hands around it so you could feel yourself inside me.”

William groans, deep and wrecked. “You love Daddy’s hands around your throat, don’t you?”

“Fuck yeah, Daddy,” Billy moans. His spent cock twitches weakly; he wants to touch himself again already. Fuck refractory periods.

“I’d swallow you down,” Billy continues, voice husky. “Take every last drop and thank you for it.”

“You’d take me so well,” William groans, composure cracking audibly. A quiet curse spills over the line—William’s cumming, Billy can tell by the hitch in his breath, the soft, satisfied exhale that follows.

“Thank you, Daddy,” Billy murmurs, fishing his cigarettes and lighter from his jacket pocket.

On the other end, he hears the flick of a lighter, the inhale—William lighting up, something he only does freely in the privacy of his own house, never around Henry.

“We’re going to Henry’s this weekend,” William says. It’s not a question; it’s an order.

Billy’s lips curve into a cruel little smile as he lights his own cigarette. “Miss me that badly, huh?”

William chuckles, soft and honest. “You’ve no idea.”

The words hit Billy square in the chest, unexpected and warm.

“Fuck,” Billy mutters, staring out the fogged windshield, smoke curling around him.

“I’m gonna have to pick up donuts so Stu doesn’t get suspicious.”

William hums thoughtfully. Then, quieter: “I love you, Billy.”

Billy freezes. They haven’t said it—not really—since Vanessa disappeared into the basement.

He hides his face in his free hand, cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Love you,” he says back, voice rough, barely above a whisper.

“Goodnight,” William murmurs, and the line goes dead.

Billy sits alone in his car, smoking in silence, heart pounding too hard.

Goddamn this man for making him feel like this.

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Billy goes out while the hot light is still on and buys donuts, because he needs something tangible as proof of his innocence. He brings the box back to the room, the cardboard rustling loud in the quiet.

Stu stirs immediately. “I was wondering where you went,” he mumbles, eyes barely open.

“Yeah,” Billy says easily, too easily. “Got a craving.”

He did. Just not the kind Stu’s thinking of.

They each grab a donut and sink back into bed, crumbs scattering on the sheets. Stu doesn’t question it—either because he trusts Billy, or because he knows better than to ask. Because asking would mean looking too closely at things that could crack. The thought leaves a sour knot in Billy’s stomach.

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William texts.

Billy checks his phone when Stu isn’t looking—quick glances during lectures, replies typed one-handed in bathroom stalls. Some messages are harmless enough. Good morning, baby. How are you? Others slide straight under his skin, familiar and dangerous, pulling him right back into orbit.

Touched myself while thinking of you between clients.

Need you under me, taking me like a good boy.

Billy keeps his replies short. I’m in class. Trying to focus.

He can practically hear the smile in William’s response. Am I distracting you, baby?

Yes. Constantly.

Billy stares at the screen, pulse ticking too fast, then turns off his phone and shoves it back into his pocket like it burned him. He tries to pay attention to the lecture. He really does.

The weekend can’t come fast enough.

Chapter 36

When the weekend finally comes, Billy insists they go to Henry’s.

Stu doesn’t object—he never does. He genuinely likes Henry. Loves him, really. That realization has been creeping up on Billy lately, quiet and inconvenient. Stu loves Henry, and Billy… Billy probably does too, in his own way. It’s complicated. It’s crowded. He tries not to sit with it for too long.

William shows up that night carrying steak dinners like an offering, a bottle of wine Billy won’t remember the name of but knows is expensive. Of course he does. He’s missed Billy—missed him enough to wrap the gesture in generosity, to make it look like this is for Henry and Stu just as much.

Dinner stretches long and warm. Wine loosens tongues, softens edges. Later, William pulls Henry into a slow, reverent kiss, all tenderness and patience. Stu’s hands find Billy’s waist, familiar and grounding, and Billy lets himself sink into it. This is fine. This works. They can take comfort in their lovers’ affection without it threatening the balance. It still means something. It still feels good.

But when Billy and William finally meet—when their eyes catch, when they’re close enough to breathe the same air—it’s electric. Weeks of restraint snap at once, pent-up want spilling out raw and unfiltered. Billy feels it everywhere, sharp and aching and impossible to ignore.

The pattern sets in after that.

Weeks blur into months, nights folding over each other until suddenly it’s mid-March. Spring break.

Henry invites them over on the first day. He sits Billy and Stu down at the kitchen table like he has something official to say. William is already there, which immediately puts Billy on edge. That combination never means nothing.

“William and I have talked,” Henry begins, calm and deliberate, “and we’ve decided—since everyone’s done so well sticking to the agreement—”
Billy schools his face into something neutral. He does not look at Stu.
“—that William is going to take you boys on vacation. You’ve earned it.”

Stu blinks. “You’re not coming?” The disappointment is immediate and unguarded.

“Not this time,” Henry says gently. “I have work. Besides,” he adds, glancing pointedly at William, “I’m calling this a trust fall.”

William lifts his hands in mock surrender, smiling. “I won’t drop them.”

Billy exhales, something bright and restless flickering in his chest. “So,” he asks, unable to keep the edge of eagerness out of his voice, “where are we going?”

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William rents a house on the fringes of Los Angeles, close enough to Santa Monica that the air smells faintly like salt even from the driveway. The place is obscene in the way only money can be—two stories, glass everywhere, an in-home theater, a pool that catches the light just right. William calls it “networking opportunities” and “a taste of home,” which Billy translates as I want to feel important while I’m fucking you and doesn’t say out loud.

Stu brings his camcorder. Of course he does. He records everything—the flight, Billy pretending not to notice the camera while absolutely noticing it, the front door swinging open to reveal the house. Stu narrates like it’s a documentary, breathless and delighted.

When they hit the master bedroom and realize it’s lined with mirrors—closet doors, behind the headboard, even the ceiling—Stu shoots Billy a look, eyebrows climbing.

Billy snorts, already dropping his bag. “Nothing like seeing yourself fuck in stereo.”

“Dude,” Stu mutters, awed and scandalized in equal measure.

They don’t linger. The beach is calling.

William stays behind, claiming remote work, waving them off like a benevolent benefactor. Billy doesn’t question it. He and Stu pile into a rented Jeep, roof down, wind tearing through them as they head toward the coast.

The beach is already alive—crowded and loud, live music bleeding into the crash of waves, food trucks lining the street. Someone’s selling cheap beer out of a cooler. Someone else is definitely too young to be drinking and definitely doing it anyway. Most importantly, it’s warm. God, it’s warm. Billy can feel the sun sink into his skin like it’s been waiting for him.

They disappear into it, the noise and bodies and motion. Cold beers get pressed into their hands by strangers who grin like they’ve known them forever. Someone offers them a blunt. Ska punk rattles the air nearby. It’s a lot—too much and just enough all at once.

Billy notices things he doesn’t always let himself notice. Same-sex couples tangled together without apology, hands everywhere, mouths careless and open. He nudges Stu with his elbow, subtle.

Stu’s response is immediate: he sticks his tongue out at Billy, shameless, offering.

Billy huffs a laugh and leans in close. “Not yet."

Stu grins, unbothered, already filing it away. Later is more than enough.

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They get crossfaded fast—cheap beer, cheaper weed, both of them a little surprised at how easily it all goes to their heads. The music sounds incredible, like it’s vibrating straight through their bones. The tacos they demolish are, without question, the best food Billy’s ever tasted, grease dripping down his wrist, lime and salt on his tongue.

Night slides in without anyone really noticing. The guitars melt into pulsing electronica, lights blinking on along the boardwalk. Stu grabs Billy by the waist mid-laugh, over balances, and they go down together in the sand, tangled and breathless.

Stu crawls over him, grinning, hair a mess. He kisses Billy’s forehead, then the corner of his mouth, soft and affectionate—and then Billy hooks an arm around his neck and pulls him in properly. The kiss turns deep, hungry, familiar in the way only they are. Their hips roll together without thinking.

Stu shifts, mouths along Billy’s jaw, his neck. He tugs Billy’s shirt up and off, presses a kiss to his nipple, playful and reverent both. Billy jolts when Stu licks his armpit, laughing under his breath, because—yeah. That. A flash of another break, another heat, two unwashed teenage boys in Woodsboro with no one watching and nothing to lose. It hits him low and warm all at once.

Stu groans Billy’s name against his neck. Billy spreads his legs instinctively—and then, distantly, registers movement in his peripheral vision.

Someone’s approaching.

Billy tightens his grip and nudges Stu upward. Stu follows his gaze.

A guy stands a few feet away, a little older than them, drink in one hand, cigarette glowing in the other. He looks relaxed but tentative, like he’s testing the ground.

“Sorry,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “I was just wondering if you guys wanted a third?”

No. Get lost, Billy thinks instantly.

“Nah, man,” Stu says, easy and polite, like he’s declining a cigarette.

“Right—yeah, understood,” the guy says, already turning away, embarrassment flashing across his face. He hesitates, though, then pivots back. “Actually… you two wouldn’t happen to be actors, would you? I’m a production assistant. Supposed to be helping scout.”

Billy and Stu look at each other. Their eyes meet, glassy and bright and suddenly sharp with the same thought.

William was right. Fucking networking.

“We’re filmmakers,” Billy says quickly, pushing Stu off him and sitting up. Stu doesn’t look offended in the slightest—he’s laser-focused now, all jittery attention.

“Like… adult films?” the guy starts, uncertain. “Because that’s not really—”

“No,” Billy cuts in, firm. “Like, legit films.” He takes a breath, then presses. “You think you could get us a meeting with your producer?”

The guy studies them more carefully this time, gaze flicking from Billy to Stu, clocking the eagerness, the hunger. The youth.

“Shit,” he mutters. “You guys are still really young, aren’t you?”

No shit, Billy thinks. He doesn’t say it. He can practically hear the unspoken rest: this town eats kids like you alive.

The PA sighs, scrubs a hand over his face. “Okay. Tell you what. If you can get me a demo tape, I’ll pass it along. No promises.”

“Yes,” Billy says, too fast, then reins it in. “Yeah. That’d be great.”

Stu is vibrating beside him, barely contained. They exchange numbers, hands shaking just a little.

As the guy turns to leave, he pauses again. “Just saying,” he adds, nodding at Billy, “you’ve got a face for acting. And your partner—” a glance up at Stu, “—definitely has the height. Hollywood’s gonna love you two.”

It lands wrong. Like a compliment with teeth.

The guy disappears back into the crowd before Billy can unpack it.

The second he’s gone, Stu throws himself at Billy, arms wrapping tight, laughing into his neck. “Fuck yes, dude,” he breathes, kissing wherever he can reach—jaw, cheek, collarbone—pure adrenaline and joy.

Billy laughs despite himself, the sound startled out of him, and they tumble back into the sand together, bodies fitting the way they always have. The music pulses. The night hums. Excitement crackles between them, bright and reckless, as they sink back into each other, riding the high of it—of being seen, of being wanted, of feeling like this might finally be the start of something bigger.

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Billy wakes to grit in his mouth and the ache of a headache that feels biblical. His jeans are unbuttoned, sand worked into every seam, every fold of skin. Around them, the beach is a scatter of bodies in similar states—teenagers and twenty-somethings groaning, laughing weakly, blinking at the sun like it personally offended them.

“Fuck,” Billy mutters, scrubbing his face with both hands.

Stu is beside him, using his loud Hawaiian shirt like a veil, groaning under it. “Never drinking again,” he declares, with the absolute certainty of a man who will absolutely drink again.

A stranger wanders by with a half-full case and a grin, offering beer like a sacrament. Billy and Stu accept without hesitation. The cans are blessedly cold. They drink too fast. Billy belches, wet and unapologetic, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Nice,” Stu laughs, voice rough.

They sit there for a while, staring out at the water, the ocean glittering like it has no idea what it’s done to them. Stu squints at the horizon and slings an arm around Billy’s shoulders, grounding, familiar.

“We should probably head back to the house,” Billy says quietly.

“Why?” Stu replies. “Mr. Afton totally expects us to be out partying. That’s why he made up that bullshit excuse yesterday.”

William. The name alone tugs at Billy’s chest. The mirrors flash through his mind, sure—but so does the image of William alone in that big, quiet house. He exhales, torn.

Stu’s probably right.

“One more night,” Billy says finally, holding out his pinky.

Stu hooks it without hesitation. “One more night.”

One night becomes three without anyone noticing the shift.

They fall into a rhythm: wake up sore and sandy, eat whatever they can get their hands on, blur themselves pleasantly with cheap beer and shared joints, vanish into crowds of sun-warmed bodies. One afternoon they get swept into a mosh pit, laughing and bruised, adrenaline singing. Every night ends the same way—collapsed together on the beach, tangled and exhausted, only to wake and do it all again.

They meet people everywhere they go: bright-eyed actors, wannabe producers, makeup artists with paint still under their nails, models who talk about lighting like it’s religion. Kids like them. Hungry. Hopeful.

At one point, Stu reaches for Billy’s hand—something in the gesture caught between needing reassurance and claiming space. Billy lets him. Doesn’t question it.

By the third night, people are calling them the horror bros. Billy pretends not to care.

He does.

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By the end of the weekend, they finally drag themselves back to the house—sunburned, sore, dehydrated, wrung out to the bone. They shuffle past the pool in a loose-limbed daze, barely reacting when the pool guy lifts a hand in greeting.

Billy squints at him, then nudges Stu as they cross the threshold. “I swear to God,” he murmurs, “he looks just like you, but with a shitty beard.”

“Shut up,” Stu whispers back, instant and defensive. “No he doesn’t.” Absolute denial.

William is at the kitchen table, newspaper spread open, coffee in hand despite the fact that it’s nearly noon. He looks up when they enter, expression softening immediately.

“There’s my baby bunnies,” he says warmly. “Enjoy yourselves?” The smirk is unmistakable.

Billy and Stu answer with vague noises that could mean anything. Billy suddenly stops short, slaps a hand to his forehead, and groans. “Shit. We need to get a demo tape to this production assistant we met.”

William folds the paper with careful precision, his concern practiced and convincing. “Oh, baby, you and Stuart should rest,” he says. “Let me take care of it.”

Billy hesitates. Even now, even after everything, some small part of him stays wary. He looks to Stu, who looks like a corpse someone propped upright. Billy exhales and gives in. “Sure. Thanks.”

They shuffle to the master bedroom. Stu faceplants on the bed without ceremony, already half gone. Billy rummages through their bags until he finds one of the copies they’d brought—because they weren’t stupid, because this was Los Angeles, because you always came prepared.

When Billy brings the tape back, William catches his wrist gently, presses a kiss to the pulse there, then takes it. Billy leans in and kisses him—slow, deliberate—savoring the rasp of William’s beard against his skin.

“This is really important to me,” Billy murmurs.

“I know, baby,” William says softly. “I know.”

Billy gives him the name and number the PA put in his phone, then turns back toward the bedroom. He collapses beside Stu, who’s already snoring, and lets the exhaustion finally claim him.

Notes:

fun fact the pool guy is Matthew Lillard's character from The Pool Boys, as a treat.

Chapter 37

Billy and Stu wake up sometime close to evening, disoriented and ravenous. The first thing they do is tear through the kitchen. William must’ve stocked it deliberately—everything they like, everything easy. They stack sandwiches too high to reasonably bite into, rip open bags of chips, down sodas like they’ve been stranded for days.

“Oh—shit, right,” Stu says suddenly, patting his pockets. “Almost forgot.”

He produces a small plastic bag, tablets inside bright and candy-colored.

Billy squints at it. “Fuck, Stu—are those—?”

Stu grins, unabashed. “Ecstasy, baby.” He shrugs. “Some guy was tweaking in the bathroom, said he didn’t want them anymore and basically shoved them at me.”

“And you want to take them?” Billy asks. It’s a bad idea. Obviously. Which makes it tempting.

“Well, yeah. With you,” Stu says, naturally.

Billy exhales through his nose. Fuck it. “Fine.”

They press the tablets onto each other’s tongues, wash them down with soda, and sprawl out on the couch to wait. The TV murmurs nonsense in the background.

When it hits Billy, it’s unmistakable. The room doesn’t change—he does. Stu’s presence beside him suddenly feels amplified, electric, like he’s been tuned sharper. Stu must feel it too, because he leans in, lips brushing Billy’s neck, lingering.

“You feelin’ it?” Stu asks.

Billy can’t tell if Stu’s voice is slurring or if time itself is dragging. He closes his eyes, tilts his head just enough to give Stu more access. “Fuck, yeah.”

Everything softens. Everything intensifies. Stu’s closeness feels like warmth soaking straight into bone, and Billy lets himself sink into it, breath hitching slightly as he focuses on nothing but the way being touched feels—safe, overwhelming, good.

Billy trails his hand lazily over the soft fabric of Stu’s pants, savoring the texture, the warmth radiating through it. His palm drifts higher until it cups the hard length straining beneath—hot, twitching eagerly under his touch. Stu’s breath hitches against Billy’s neck, kisses turning wetter, more desperate.

Billy’s fingers find the zipper, tug it down slow, and frees Stu’s cock. It springs heavy into his hand, flushed and leaking. Billy leans over without hesitation, mouth watering, and takes Stu in—lips stretching around the head, tongue flattening along the underside as he sinks lower.

Stu’s hand slides into Billy’s hair, stroking gently, eyes fixed downward in dazed fascination as he watches himself disappear inch by inch into Billy’s mouth. The ecstasy amplifies everything: every drag of Billy’s tongue feels electric, every soft, sloppy suck sends sparks shooting up Stu’s spine. Billy isn’t neat—saliva slicks his chin, he gags a little when he takes too much too fast—but the messiness only makes it better, raw and overwhelming.

“God, Bills… that’s so good,” Stu breathes, voice trembling. His hips rock forward on instinct, shallow little thrusts that push deeper into the wet heat. Billy moans around him, the vibration pulling a sharp gasp from Stu’s throat. He hollows his cheeks, bobs slower now, savoring—tongue swirling around the head on every upstroke, teeth grazing ever so lightly on the way down, just enough to make Stu’s thighs tense.

Stu watches dumbly for long minutes, thumb stroking Billy’s cheek, utterly lost in the sight: Billy’s lips stretched red and shiny, eyes half-lidded and blissed-out, throat working visibly every time he swallows around the length.

Then Stu’s hand tightens in Billy’s hair, pulling him back gently but firmly. Billy’s mouth leaves Stu’s cock with a wet pop, a thin string of saliva connecting them for a second before it breaks.

“Wait—wait,” Stu pants, pupils blown wide. “I wanna film you. You look too fucking good right now.”

Billy pulls off reluctantly, lips swollen, but the idea sparks something molten in his gut. The rational back-of-brain voice mutters that filming themselves on ecstasy is stupid—but the front of his brain, loud and drug-drunk, just screams want to be fucked stupid.

Stu stumbles off the couch, legs unsteady, and Billy follows him down the hall to the master bedroom where their bags are strewn. Stu fumbles with the camcorder, cursing softly until the red light blinks on.

Billy sprawls across the bed while he waits—pants shoved open, cock in hand, stroking slow and lazy. He lifts his shirt with his free hand, fingers pinching and twisting one nipple until it hardens under his touch, head tipping back into the pillows with a soft moan.

“Got it,” Stu announces triumphantly, turning the lens toward the bed.

He pans slowly across Billy’s body—hand working his cock, shirt rucked up to expose pale stomach and chest, face flushed and open with pleasure. Billy locks eyes with the lens and holds it—slow, deliberate, eye-fucking the camera because he knows exactly what it’ll do to Stu behind it.

“Fuck, Billy,” Stu’s voice shakes, raw with want.

He crawls onto the bed, camcorder steady in one hand, knees bracketing Billy’s head. His cock presses insistently against Billy’s lips—hot, slick with precum. Billy opens for him eagerly, hands bracing on Stu’s ass to pull him closer.

Stu films as he sinks in—slow at first, letting the camera catch every inch disappearing between Billy’s stretched lips, the way Billy’s throat flexes and adjusts. Then he finds a rhythm: shallow thrusts that turn deeper, steadier, fucking Billy’s mouth with rolling hips while the lens captures it all—Billy’s eyes watering, cheeks hollowed, soft gagging sounds muffled around Stu’s length.

Billy sinks into it completely—tongue working the underside, lips sealed tight, moaning every time Stu pushes deep enough to bump the back of his throat. The ecstasy turns every sensation huge: the weight on his tongue, the salty taste, the stretch of his jaw, Stu’s fingers tightening in his hair to guide him.

He’s so lost in the rhythm that it takes a moment to register the shadow at the window—the pool guy frozen mid-task, eyes wide, staring straight into the bedroom.

Their eyes lock through the glass, wide and unblinking, and something cold snaps inside Billy’s chest. He shoves Stu off roughly, hands slamming against Stu’s hips.

“What the fuck—” Stu yelps, genuinely startled. The camcorder clatters to the mattress as he catches his balance.

“That pervert with the shitty beard—” Billy spits, already wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, frantic. He scrambles off the bed, yanking his pants up, shirt falling back down as he bolts for the glass doors that open up to the pool.

The pool guy jerks upright the second Billy bursts outside, hands raised in surrender. “I didn’t see anything!” he shouts, backing away fast.

Bullshit. Billy’s vision tunnels. He strides forward, faster, fury and fear and fading high twisting into something lethal.

The guy fumbles for his equipment, leaning down to pull the hose from the pool. While he’s bent over, Billy grabs him by the back of the neck—hard—and shoves. The man’s head goes under with a heavy splash.

He thrashes immediately, taller and heavier than Billy, arms flailing, trying to twist free. Water sloshes over the edge, soaking Billy’s jeans. He grits his teeth, leaning his weight in, but the guy’s almost bucking him off.

Then Stu’s there—silent, sudden—adding his height and strength. Together they pin the man down, hands locked on shoulders and neck, forcing him under until the struggling slows, weakens, stops.

Bubbles stop rising.

They sit side by side on the pool’s edge afterward, clothes drenched and clinging, high completely shattered. The body floats face-down a few feet away, gently rocking in the dying orange light of the evening.

Headlights sweep across the driveway. The rented Jeep pulls up. William steps out, keys still in hand, and walks toward them at an unhurried pace.

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“I leave for just a few hours,” he says, tone mild, almost conversational, “and you kill the pool boy.”

Billy stares at the body, numb. He doesn’t even know where to start.

“You’ve nothing to say for yourselves?” William asks, stopping behind them.

“He was watching us, man,” Stu defends weakly, glancing up. His pupils are still huge, the ecstasy clinging stubbornly even now.

William studies them both for a long moment.

“Well,” he says, calm and matter-of-fact, as if commenting on the weather, “now you have to eat him.”

Stu lets out a shaky laugh after a beat. “Okay, okay—we get it. We fucked up. We’ll clean it up.”

William doesn’t smile.

“You’re going to help me get him into the bathtub,” he says evenly. “Choose your cut. Then you’re going to eat him.”

Billy gags, stomach turning violently. He can’t be serious.

But William’s face is perfectly composed—patient, expectant.

“What the fuck?” Stu blurts, voice cracking. “You’re—you’re being serious right now?”

William’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“Fish him out of the pool,” he orders. “Now.”

Chapter 38

Notes:

TW for cannibalism

Billy’s brain still hums with the fading edges of ecstasy, colors too bright, sounds too sharp, but the cold reality sinks in deeper with every step as they drag the body through the house. Water drips from soaked clothes, leaving dark trails on the tile. They heave the dead pool guy into the garden tub with a heavy, wet thud. Billy braces both hands on the sink, knuckles white, staring at his own sunburnt but pallid reflection instead of the corpse.

Stu can’t stop staring. His eyes are wide, pupils still huge, fixed on the body like he’s waiting for it to move.

“Fuck, is he serious?” Stu mutters, voice cracking. “He can’t be serious.”

Billy clings to the desperate hope that this is just punishment—William’s twisted way of scaring them for getting high and doing something stupid, something traceable. He’s watched Silence of the Lambs a hundred times, heard Hopkins make it sound almost romantic, but the actual thought, the actual smell of chlorine and cooling skin waiting to be carved open, churns his stomach.

William returns from the kitchen carrying a long carving knife and a fork, the overhead light glinting off the blade.

Fuck. Oh fuck.

“Stuart,” William says calmly, not a suggestion, a command. “Why don’t you go first?”

A small mercy for his favorite, Billy thinks numbly.

“Fuck—you’re serious,” Stu’s voice pitches high, breaking on the last word.

William answers only with a slow, expectant exhale, patient as ever.

“Fuck, I don’t know—I don’t know—” Stu’s hands shake as he looks the body over, searching for the least awful option. “Uhhhh—his—his thigh,” he stammers finally.

William nods approvingly. “A fantastic choice.”

He leans over the tub, pushes up the leg of the dead man’s cargo shorts, positions the fork against pale, water-beaded skin, and drives it in. The tines sink deep into the meat of the thigh with a soft, sickening give.

Billy’s stomach lurches. He’s taken apart bodies before—this should be nothing—but watching William slice into the flesh like it’s a holiday ham, steady and practiced, makes the room spin.

Stu keeps muttering—“Oh God, oh fuck, oh shit”—one hand tangled in his hair, the other clutching at his own face, total disbelief painted across his features.

William lays the thick, red slice on the edge of the tub like it’s a platter, then glances over his shoulder.

“Billy,” he prompts, voice calm and expectant.

Billy isn’t thinking about cuts. He’s thinking about how fast he can make this end.

Billy’s eyes roam up and down the body in the tub, searching for something—anything—that feels less real than this. His mind refuses to process it: the idea of actually eating a human being. The thought alone makes his stomach lurch.

“Daddy,” he says weakly, one last desperate plea, voice small and trembling.

William hears the crack in it. His expression softens for half a second before he simply chooses for him. He slices neatly into the man’s abdomen, reaches in with steady hands, and pulls free a dark, glistening organ.

“Liver it is,” William muses, turning it over in his palm like he’s inspecting produce.

Billy gags hard into the sink, the sandwiches from earlier surging up his throat. He grips the porcelain edge, retching dryly, tears stinging his eyes.

He’s still reeling, still half-convinced this is some elaborate mind-game, even as William carries the meat to the kitchen and starts cooking—humming softly to himself, domestic and calm, the sizzle of butter in the pan filling the house.

Billy and Stu sit side by side at the dining-room table, soaked clothes clinging cold to their skin. Stu’s leg bounces frantically under the table; both of them stare at the wood grain like it might open up and swallow them.

The worst part: it smells good. Whatever herbs and spices William uses—garlic, rosemary, red wine reduction—drift through the air and make Billy’s mouth water traitorously.

“Look, man,” Stu finally whispers, voice shaking, “I’m willing to try anything once, but… there’s no way, right?”

Billy doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know. His brain is still scrambled from the ecstasy—thoughts slippery, consequences impossible to grasp. What happens if they refuse?

William returns with two plates. The meat is beautifully seared, sliced thin, arranged with care. It looks exquisite. It smells divine. He sets one in front of each boy, then pours deep red wine into their glasses—slow, deliberate.

Billy reaches for his glass immediately, desperate for anything to dull this.

William’s hand closes gently but firmly around his wrist. “Savor it,” he says, voice low and warm.

The words echo something older—Savor the kill—and Billy’s heart slams harder, breath catching. How dare he make this feel romantic.

Both boys stare at their plates. They glance at each other—silent question hanging between them.

Who gives in first?

“Eat while it’s still hot,” William urges, settling into the head of the table like it’s his birthright.

Billy picks up his fork.

Stu picks up his.

Billy cuts off a small piece of liver with the edge of his fork, holds it up close to his mouth, and hesitates. The smell hits him—rich, earthy, savory, with that underlying metallic tang that makes his stomach flip and his mouth water at the same time. He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at it, and before he can talk himself out of it, he puts it in his mouth.

It’s incredible. Buttery soft, perfectly seasoned, herbs blooming on his tongue, the faint copper note buried beneath garlic and wine like a memory of blood in his teeth after rough sex. An involuntary hum of pleasure escapes him.

He opens his eyes.

William stares back, smug and satisfied, sipping from his wine glass like he’s watching a performance he directed.

Reality slams back in. This isn’t beef. This came from a man.

Billy swallows. The piece goes down rough, lodging halfway before forcing its way into his stomach. Nausea surges hot and sudden.

“Good boy, Billy,” William praises, voice warm with approval.

Beside him, Stu takes his own bite—face twisted in pain—then pauses, eyes widening as the flavor registers. He chews slower, conflicted, then mutters, “Fuck… this is good, actually.”

And what the hell are they supposed to do with that?

“Eat up,” William encourages, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, expectation clear. He wants them to finish it. All of it.

Billy tries to convince himself it’s just beef. Rare, high-quality beef. Nothing else. He closes his eyes again and takes another bite.

Behind his lids, all he sees is William’s hand dipping into the man’s open abdomen, pulling out the warm, slick organ.

He makes it halfway through the plate before his body rebels.

Billy shoves back from the table, chair scraping loud, and bolts for the bathroom. He barely makes it to the toilet before he’s heaving—everything coming up in violent waves, the rich flavor turning sour and wrong in his throat. He retches until his stomach is empty, until there’s nothing left but bile and shaking.

A warm hand settles on his back, rubbing slow circles.

William bends beside him, steady and calm, as Billy spits and gasps over the bowl.

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William kneels beside Billy on the bathroom floor, wiping his mouth gently with a cool, damp washcloth. Billy sits slumped on the closed toilet lid, dizzy and hazy—the ecstasy clings stubbornly to his nerves, fighting the heavy exhaustion that crashes in after his stomach empties itself.

“You’re going to go back in there and finish dinner,” William says, voice calm and certain, edged with just enough gentleness to pass for concern.

“I can’t…” Billy mumbles numbly, lifting his eyes to William’s—wide, pleading, hoping the puppy-dog look buys him mercy.

William sighs through his nose, disappointment clear. “You can, and you will,” he says. “Surely you wouldn’t leave Stuart to finish his meal alone?”

The thought flickers in the back of Billy’s mind—it’s fucked up that he’s using Stu against me—but at the front, he’s too wrung-out to fight it.

“Daddy, please,” Billy begs weakly, letting the word tremble, hoping it softens something in William.

It works, a little. William’s expression eases; he reaches out and tucks a damp strand of hair behind Billy’s ear, thumb lingering on his cheek.

“Daddy will feed you, baby,” William says, like it’s reassurance.

It lands wrong in Billy’s gut.

William straightens, holds out his hand. Billy stares at it a moment, then takes it reluctantly. William guides him back to the dining room, steady and unhurried.

Stu sits at the table, plate almost clean—he hasn’t stopped eating the whole time Billy was gone. Billy tries not to think about it.

William settles beside him, pulls Billy’s chair closer, and slides the plate between them. He cuts a small, careful piece of liver and lifts it to Billy’s lips.

Billy’s jaw stays clamped shut.

William’s free hand rises, thumb pressing gently but firmly against Billy’s lower lip, prying his mouth open. He slides the meat inside, then rubs slow circles along Billy’s jaw, encouraging him to chew.

“That’s it, good boy,” William murmurs. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

Billy closes his eyes. Behind his lids he still sees William’s hand buried in the man’s open abdomen, searching, pulling out the warm liver. Tears prick hot at the corners of his eyes.

He feels ridiculous. It’s just a little cannibalism. It doesn’t even taste bad. He’s just high and oversensitive and wants this nightmare to end.

One bite at a time, William feeds him—patient, methodical—until the plate is empty.

“All done, baby,” William says softly, approval warm in his voice. “You did so well. Let’s wash it down.”

He lifts the wine glass to Billy’s lips. Billy gulps greedily, too fast; a drop spills down his chin. William catches it with his thumb, wipes it across Billy’s lower lip almost tenderly.

William’s thumb lingers on Billy’s lower lip, tracing it slowly, searching his eyes. Billy’s pupils are blown so wide the brown is almost gone, just black pools reflecting the dim light.

“You took ecstasy, didn’t you?” William asks, soft but certain. It’s obvious—Billy leans into the touch without thinking, body still wired, vibrating with the drug instead of sinking into the heavy haze wine should bring.

Billy nods, small and guilty.

William’s voice drops lower. “Do you want Daddy to fuck you?”

The words shoot straight to Billy’s cock like a live wire. He knows the comedown is going to hit like a brick wall later, but right now the only thing he craves is the familiar weight and heat of William and Stu’s bodies—something to drown out the taste still coating his tongue.

He glances back at Stu, who sits slumped forward, head pillowed in folded arms, empty plate pushed away like evidence.

“Need you both,” Billy says, voice rough. He reaches out, fingers brushing Stu’s arm.

Stu lifts his head, looks past Billy to William. Conflict flickers across his face—trying to square what they’ve just done with the fact that Billy still wants the man who made them do it. Billy can’t blame him; his own head is a mess. All he knows is touch feels good right now, and he needs it to blot out everything else.

Time and space blur after that.

The next clear moment finds Billy straddling William’s face, thighs trembling as he rides it slow and desperate. William’s mustache tickles his rim, beard scraping sensitive skin and balls with every roll of Billy’s hips. William’s tongue works him open—relentless, practiced—pushing inside, licking broad stripes, sucking until Billy’s moans come high and broken.

They trade him back and forth after that—Stu in his mouth, William in his ass, then switching. Billy catches glimpses of himself in the bedroom mirrors: flushed, wrecked, cocks disappearing again and again into him, eyes glassy and distant.

He watches William pull Stu close too—hand on the back of his neck, guiding him, making sure he feels good—drawing him back into the orbit like gravity. A dim, drug-hazy thought surfaces: Henry should never have trusted William. They all know better by now.

Maybe Henry does know—and loves it anyway. Loves being pushed to the edge. Loves the danger, no matter how sick it makes him feel.

Billy thinks he understands it too well. He loves William—not soft, not traditional—but something darker, sharper. Something that drags him down and makes him worse.

Eventually they collapse together—sweat-slick, spent, tangled in the center of the bed. Stu curls into Billy’s side, William’s arm drapes heavy across them both, anchoring.

They stay like that, breathing slow and shared, the house quiet around them.

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Billy dreams he’s small again, about ten, standing in the middle of Freddy’s party room. Balloons bob overhead in faded primary colors, streamers sag from the ceiling. Kids crowd around him—some faces he knows from school, most he doesn’t—laughing, shouting, pressing in close. Stu is there, taller even as a child, grinning wide and wild. Charlotte stands a little apart, staring at Billy with quiet disappointment in her eyes.

William emerges from the kitchen doors carrying a large silver platter. Everyone turns. Billy catches the flicker of candle flames and thinks—hopes—it’s a cake.

William sets the platter down in front of him.

It isn’t cake.

A glistening pile of viscera steams faintly in the center—ropes of intestine, slabs of liver, lungs still faintly inflating and deflating as if breathing. Birthday candles stick out at odd angles, jammed into the soft meat, wax dripping pink onto the mess below.

The organs twitch. They’re still alive.

Billy’s stomach lurches.

“Make a wish! Make a wish!” the kids chant, voices rising in excitement. Stu starts it, clapping, laughing. Charlotte doesn’t join. She just watches.

Billy squeezes his eyes shut. I wish it was over.

He blows. The candles gutter out in a puff of metallic-smelling smoke.

“Dig in,” William says, voice warm and expectant, gesturing to the viscera. His eyes stay fixed on Billy.

Billy’s hands shake as they hover over the platter. He can’t disappoint William. He can’t.

His small fingers close around the heart—still faintly beating—and he shoves it toward his mouth, taking frantic, desperate bites. Blood smears his cheeks, drips down his chin. The other kids swarm forward, grabbing handfuls of slick organs, stuffing them into their faces with wet, happy sounds.

Charlotte stands apart, unmoving, disappointment deepening into something colder.

Chapter 39

“Wake up.”

The voice cuts through the dream, sharp and insistent.

“Wake up, Billy.”

Hands on his shoulders. Shaking him.

Billy jolts awake with a gasp, heart slamming, the taste of the dream lingering like poison. It’s still dark—before dawn, the room heavy with shadows. Stu jerks awake beside him at the same time, breathing hard, eyes wild.

William is there.

“Come on,” he says lightly, already turning away. “We’ve got a body and a van to burn.”

Stu groans and buries his face in the pillows like he can still hide from it. Billy just drags a hand down his face, skin aching, head pounding, the dream still clinging to him in greasy fragments.

“Tick tock, boys,” William sings from the hallway. “We’re losing precious time.”

Billy and Stu drag themselves out of bed, pull on clean clothes in silence, and trudge to the bathroom. Together they wrestle the pool guy’s body into heavy black garbage bags, tying them tight. The plastic sticks to damp skin; the weight feels heavier than before. They haul it down the stairs—one on each end—muscles straining, breath coming short.

Outside, the night air is cold and sharp. Stu opens the van, swallows, then helps load it. William doesn’t touch the body at all—he supervises, directs, clicks his tongue when they fumble.

Stu drives the dead man’s van; Billy rides shotgun, staring out the windshield at the Jeep’s taillights ahead. William leads them out of the city, deeper into the night.

“I still can’t believe it, man,” Stu murmurs, eyes fixed on the dark road, blinking slow and tired. “Like… that was real, right? That actually happened. And we still fucked him after.”

“Yeah,” Billy answers, voice flat. He presses his forehead to the cool passenger window. “Yeah, it was real.”

Reality crashes down hard. Guilt, disgust, anger—he doesn’t know who it’s aimed at. At William for pushing them there? At Stu for going along? At himself for not fighting harder, for the part of him that obeyed?

His skin crawls. He wants to scream, to punch something, to crawl out of his own body. William has his mind twisted into knots, and Billy hates it—hates how easily he bends, hates how part of him still craves the push.

William drives until civilization thins to nothing—until the road narrows and trees close in thick and black. He pulls the Jeep onto a dirt turnout, kills the lights, and steps out, gesturing for Stu to park the van nose-first into the brush, hidden from any passing headlights.

Stu cuts the engine. The sudden silence is deafening.

William stands waiting in the dark, hands in his pockets, patient as ever.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

William directs the boys to gather armfuls of dry brush and dead branches from the surrounding woods. They stuff it into the open back of the van, piling it high, especially over the black-bagged shape that used to be a person. The plastic rustles as they pack it tight.

They stand shoulder-to-shoulder with William at the rear doors. He strikes a match—one sharp scrape—and flicks it inside. The flame catches fast, licking along tinder and garbage bag alike. Orange light dances across their faces as the fire spreads, crackling, popping.

“Let’s get out of here before those chemicals catch,” William says quietly, hands settling on the backs of their necks—firm, guiding. He steers them toward the Jeep without waiting for agreement.

The ride back to the rented house is thick with silence. No radio, no conversation. Billy stares out the window, jaw clenched, anger simmering under his skin like a coal that refuses to cool. Stu slouches in the back seat, eyes half-closed, stealing worried glances at Billy’s reflection.

When they reach the house, dawn is just starting to pale the sky.

“You boys can lie back down,” William says easily, already loosening his coat. “I’ll start my morning.”

“I’m up,” Billy says, sharper than he means to.

Stu hesitates, eyes flicking between them, trying to read Billy—does he want space, or backup? Billy meets his gaze and gives the smallest shake of his head. Go. Stu nods and disappears down the hall, exhausted.

William moves around the kitchen like nothing has changed. Coffee grounds. Water. Routine. The normalcy makes Billy’s teeth itch.

Billy sits at the table, elbows planted, fingers laced so tight his knuckles ache.

The coffee maker gurgles. William glances over his shoulder, studying him.

“You’re being loud again,” William remarks mildly.

Billy doesn’t know where to begin.

There’s too much in him—too much anger with nowhere clean to put it. And it isn’t the kind he’s used to, the sharp flash-burn that leaves him shaking and empty afterward. This one is slow. Heavy. It settles in his chest and aches there, constant and familiar in the worst way. It takes him a moment to realize why.

He hasn’t felt like this since the night his world cracked open and he learned the truth about his father.

“You made us eat a guy,” Billy says finally, voice flat, eyes fixed on the grain of the kitchen table.

William hums thoughtfully, like he’s considering a mildly interesting point. “Did I?” he replies. “There wasn’t much resistance.”

Billy’s memory is a mess—drugged, blurred, fractured. He knows that. And still, something in his gut twists, telling him that William is lying, or at least bending the truth until it fits his shape.

“You know we were high,” Billy snaps, heat creeping into his voice. “You took advantage of us.”

William turns fully toward him then. Really looks at him. His head tilts, concern carefully arranged across his face.

“I thought it was a fitting punishment,” William says evenly, each word precise, sharpened. “For doing something as reckless as killing the fucking pool boy.”

The word punishment lands hard.

Billy flinches. A part of him, small and cruel, immediately tries to justify it. Maybe he deserved it. Maybe this was what you paid when you crossed a line you couldn’t uncross.

“And,” William continues, softer now, almost indulgent, “it was over before you knew it. Then Daddy took care of you, like I always do.”

His fingers slide into Billy’s hair, familiar and grounding in a way Billy hates himself for needing. The touch should feel wrong. It almost does. But Billy lets it happen anyway, because he always does.

He doesn’t answer. He just stares, chewing hard at his lip, until the pressure behind his eyes becomes too much. The anger doesn’t burn off—it collapses inward.

He presses his palm to his eye, too late to stop it. Tears spill anyway.

William’s posture changes instantly. The edge softens. He steps closer, tucks Billy’s hair back gently, reverently.

“Baby,” William murmurs.

Something in Billy snaps.

“Fuck—fuck you,” Billy chokes, surging forward and burying his face against William’s stomach, fists clutching fabric like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “Fuck you for making me love you. Fuck.”

William doesn’t push him away. He doesn’t argue. He just pets Billy’s hair, slow and steady, shushing him under his breath, soothing him the way he always does—like this is proof of care instead of control.

Billy breaks down against him, shoulders shaking, grief spilling out raw and humiliating. He hasn’t cried like this in years—not since the night Roman Bridger showed him the tape, not since he understood in one horrible instant that his family was already ruined and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

It feels the same now.

Trapped. Powerless. Loving someone who can hurt him and knowing, with sickening clarity, that it won’t be the last time.

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William holds him until the sobbing breaks down into smaller, shuddering pulls for air—until Billy’s chest stops hitching so violently and the worst of it burns itself out.

Billy barely registers when William lets go.

He watches, hollow and exhausted, as William turns back to the counter. The coffee machine clicks and hisses. William pours a mug, fixes it without asking—cream first, just enough sugar—and presses it into Billy’s hands like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s done this a hundred times before.

Billy drinks because the mug is warm and because his hands are shaking too much to argue. He stares at William over the rim as William fixes his own, calm and methodical, as if nothing has happened.

William sits across from him and extends his hand across the table.

Billy hesitates, then takes it.

His breathing evens out slowly as William squeezes, grounding him whether Billy wants it or not.

“You will always be mine, Billy,” William says quietly.

It lands wrong—not like reassurance, not like comfort. Like a claim. Like something already decided.

Billy’s throat tightens. For a split second he imagines throwing the coffee in William’s face, watching the calm finally crack. Instead, his expression twists—anger bleeding into grief, confusion knotted with something worse.

Affection. Loyalty. Love so warped it feels like a blade lodged behind his ribs.

“Don’t you know you’re my favorite?” William continues, voice soft but edged with something immovable. “Don’t you know I care about you?”

Billy’s breath trembles. The fight drains out of him all at once.

“I—” His voice breaks. He swallows hard, shame burning hot behind his eyes. Fresh tears slip free despite himself.

William leans forward and presses a kiss to Billy’s palm—right over the scar of the blood oath. The gesture is gentle. Possessive. Familiar in a way that makes Billy ache.

Eventually, the tears stop coming. There’s nothing left to cry out.

William gives Billy’s hand one last squeeze before releasing it. They sit there afterward, drinking their coffee in silence that feels almost peaceful—almost earned—like this is what things are supposed to look like when the damage settles.

Chapter 40

Eventually Stu shuffles into the kitchen, hair sticking up, eyes barely open. They eat breakfast without talking, the clink of forks loud in the quiet. The TV murmurs in the background—morning anchors, traffic, weather—until the tone shifts.

Breaking news.

Billy’s spine goes rigid.

The screen fills with shaky footage: smoke, flashing lights, firefighters clustered at the edge of a blackened clearing near the Tri-Cities. A reporter speaks quickly, words tumbling over each other.

“—responded to a brush fire early this morning. Crews are still working to fully extinguish hotspots, but officials say a burned-out van was discovered at the scene. Human remains were found inside—”

Billy’s stomach drops straight through the floor.

His eyes flick to the TV, to the skeletal frame of the van, warped and hollowed out. Burned down to almost nothing. Maybe enough nothing.

Stu freezes mid-bite. Billy can see the thought hit him too—the steering wheel, the door handles, everything. Stu’s prints. Their mess. Their panic.

Maybe it’ll be fine, Billy tells himself desperately. Maybe the fire did its job.

William watches the screen with mild interest, like he’s checking the weather. “You boys did well,” he says, almost fondly.

Billy doesn’t respond. He can barely hear anything over the pounding in his ears.

They don’t move much after that. The TV stays on all day, volume low but constant. Updates trickle in. The fire gets contained. Investigators comb through the site. The body is too badly burned to identify. The van's too hollowed out to connect who it belongs to.

Not clean. But not catastrophic.

Then Stu’s phone rings.

He glances at the screen and swallows. “It’s Henry.” He puts it on speaker.

“What did you do?” Henry asks immediately. He doesn’t sound angry—just exhausted. Like he already knows the answer and is bracing himself for it. “It’s everywhere.”

Stu looks at Billy. Billy looks at William. No one speaks.

“They killed a pool boy,” William supplies calmly, as if he’s filling in a missing detail on a form.

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. Then Henry exhales, slow and controlled.

“Why?” he asks.

William gestures vaguely, inviting them to explain.

“He was watching us,” Billy says. He keeps his voice steady, keeps it simple. He does not mention the drugs. Does not mention the spiral. Does not mention anything that would make this worse.

Another silence.

“Will,” Henry says at last, voice firm in a way that brooks no argument. “Bring them home.”

No one pushes back. Not Billy. Not Stu. Not even William.

The vacation ends there—not with shouting or punishment, but with a quiet, mutual understanding that whatever this was supposed to be has gone too far. They book the first flight back to Minnesota they can get.

Billy watches Los Angeles fall away beneath the plane, sunlit and indifferent, and feels something inside him go cold.

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The first thing Stu does when they get to Henry’s is cross the room and wrap his arms around him. It’s tight, earnest, wordless. Henry freezes for half a second, then returns it, one hand pressing between Stu’s shoulder blades.

Over Stu’s shoulder, Henry looks at William.

He’s trying to read him—to figure out whether this was a failure of trust, whether William crossed a line Henry drew in good faith, or whether the boys acted alone and William simply… let it happen. William gives him nothing. His face is calm, unreadable, carefully neutral.

Eventually Henry lets Stu go, murmurs something about coffee, about talking later. The boys retreat to their room without being told.

Billy and Stu lie side by side on the bed, staring up at the ceiling fan as it turns lazily. The house feels different now—smaller, heavier. The adrenaline has long burned off, leaving only the weight.

“You know,” Stu says after a while, voice careful, “I knew about you and Mr. Afton sneaking around. Before break.”

Billy exhales slowly. He’d been bracing for something like this. “Yeah,” he admits. “Figured you did.”

“You didn’t tell Henry,” Billy adds, quieter.

Stu swallows. “I didn’t want to lose him.” His voice wobbles despite his best effort. “And I was scared to lose you too.”

Billy turns his head, finally looking at him. “How would you lose me?”

Stu stares at the ceiling, blinking hard. “You get pissed at me for pulling you away from Afton,” he says. “Or worse—he keeps contacting you anyway. Takes you away from me. And Mr. Emily wouldn’t be there to keep it… balanced.”

Billy doesn’t argue. He can’t. The thought lands too close to the truth.

“I know how it is,” Stu continues. “I feel the same way about Mr. Emily. I know I can’t give you that, but—” He presses his palms to his eyes, frustration spilling over. “Fuck, Billy. I love you so much. If I could marry you—if we could just live in LA, make movies, have a couple dogs—”

He laughs weakly at himself, rambling now, hope and fear tangled together.

“That sounds nice,” Billy says softly, eyes closing.

Stu turns his head fast. “Yeah?” His voice is small, hopeful.

“Yeah,” Billy says again. He leans over, kisses Stu’s cheek. Stu turns into it, catching Billy’s mouth properly this time, gentle and sure.

It does sound nice. Like something solid. Like a future he can actually picture.

Billy pulls back just enough to hook his pinky out between them.

Stu doesn’t hesitate. He curls his own around it, sealing the promise in the quiet room.

Billy doesn’t let go of Stu’s pinky right away.

“We can’t tell Henry about the whole…” He trails off, makes a vague circling motion with his free hand. “…cannibalism thing.”

Stu’s eyes widen, then he nods emphatically. “No way, man. He’d never talk to any of us again.”

Billy finally releases Stu’s pinky and exhales, tension bleeding out of him.

A beat passes.

“It did taste kinda good,” Stu adds, almost thoughtfully.

Billy’s face does something strange—twists somewhere between disbelief and a reluctant smile. He turns just in time to slam his elbow into Stu’s ribs.

“Ow! What?” Stu wheezes, laughing even as he squirms. “Tell me it wasn’t! If you, like, forgot it was—y’know—man meat—”

“Shut uuuup,” Billy groans, grabbing a pillow and smashing it over his own face like that might erase the sentence from existence.

Stu just giggles beside him, bright and unbothered.

They stay like that until dinner—stretched out, quiet, letting their bodies finally unclench. No TV. No talking. Just the hum of the house.

When William comes home with bags of fresh vegetables and fruit, Billy and Stu have never been so relieved to see anything in their lives.

Salad.

Billy almost laughs at it. In some strange way, he understands—it’s kindness. William knows. He always knows. And Billy is grateful for the buffer, for the absence of meat that would’ve turned his stomach inside out so soon after… everything.

Dinner passes in a subdued calm. Forks clink softly against plates. No one pushes. No one probes.

Until Henry clears his throat and asks, carefully casual:

“So,” he says, looking between them, “how did you boys enjoy your vacation?”

Stu and Billy exchange a look—one of those wordless check-ins they’ve perfected. Their skin is still pinked and tender, sunburn peeling at their arms and collarbones, evidence of a trip that was supposed to be simple.

“Uhhh—” Stu starts, already floundering.

“We had fun,” Billy cuts in smoothly, instinct kicking in. “Partied on Santa Monica beach, met some people, gave a demo tape to a production assistant.” He shrugs like it’s nothing, like it’s all perfectly ordinary.

And it was. Right up until it wasn’t.

“That sounds exciting,” Henry says, and Billy can tell he means it. There’s real warmth there, pride even—but the TV murmurs on in the background, low and unavoidable. National news. Henry’s eyes flick, just once, toward the screen before returning to them. The pool boy isn’t gone from his mind. Not really.

“Have you thought about what you’ll do if the production assistant comes through?” Henry asks gently, smile small but hopeful, like he’s trying to give them something solid to stand on.

Stu looks to Billy, wide-eyed. Billy knows what he’s thinking—LA, movies, dogs, a life that feels bright and far away.

“I don’t know,” Billy says honestly. “I guess it depends what’s offered.”

Henry nods, the smile on his face tinged with something sad, something understanding. Practicality over dreams. He gets it.

Then the TV volume swells slightly with an update.

Authorities now believe the remains found in the burned-out van belong to a man named Roger Sperling, reported missing by his family hours after the vehicle was discovered.

A photo flashes onto the screen.

Billy’s stomach drops. Stu freezes beside him, fork hovering uselessly over his plate.

Billy turns slowly to William.

William is calm. Immaculate. Completely, unnervingly composed.

The sight of it sends a shiver through Billy—unsettling and soothing all at once. Like standing too close to a fire: dangerous, steady, warm.

And Billy hates that some part of him relaxes anyway.

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The next week crawls by with the TV as a near-constant fixture, the volume never quite low enough to ignore. The same report cycles endlessly: the remains found in the burned van are believed to be those of thirty-eight-year-old Roger Sperling, reported missing the same day the vehicle was discovered. No suspects. Foul play suspected. Investigators “following several leads.”

Every repetition feels like a thumb pressed into a bruise.

One evening at dinner, William’s phone rings. He glances at the screen and rises, stepping into the hallway. Billy can still hear him—his voice measured, mild, the perfect balance of concern and surprise. Shock when it’s required. A careful note of gravity. Then, disarmingly, a soft laugh.

“Of course,” William says pleasantly. “Feel free to call me if you need anything else.”

The line goes dead. He returns to the table and resumes eating as though nothing interrupted the meal.

“That was a homicide detective with Los Angeles County,” William says casually.

Billy’s stomach flips.

Beside him, Stu panics immediately, dragging a hand through his hair, eyes wide and unfocused.

“Will,” Henry says, the single word heavy with concern.

“Relax,” William replies, unbothered. “It’s handled. We weren’t even there that night—we were at a club in West Hollywood, remember?” He glances at the boys, a prompt disguised as a suggestion.

Billy narrows his eyes for half a second, then understands. “Oh. You mean the gay club,” he says easily.

Stu blinks. “Oh—oh! Right, that one.” He smacks his forehead. “Yeah, got so drunk on cosmos I almost forgot.”

Henry watches them, the lies knitting together too smoothly, too instinctively. He exhales and rubs at his eyes. “What if they need proof?” he asks quietly.

William tilts his head, unimpressed. “You should’ve heard how uncomfortable that detective got when I mentioned it. They’re not going to dig.”

Henry doesn’t look convinced.

Billy, though, feels something settle in his chest. A dangerous kind of calm. Whatever happens next, he believes—irrationally, completely—that William will steer them through it.

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Billy and Stu go back to school because there isn’t any other option. Classes resume, bells ring, teachers drone on, and everyone expects them to keep moving like nothing split open underneath their feet. So they do. They sit in their desks, crack jokes at the right moments, turn in assignments. Normal becomes something they perform.

The following Saturday evening, Billy’s phone buzzes.

William: Dinner tomorrow. Vanessa, Michael, and me.

Billy stares at the screen a moment before typing back.

Billy: The agreement…?

William: Henry approved. Stuart can come too.

Billy closes his phone and nudges Stu with his knee. They’re sprawled on the bed, a slasher movie flickering across the walls, all synth music and fake screams.

“Hey,” Billy says lightly. “You wanna go to Will’s for dinner tomorrow?”

Stu snorts. “Is he serving people again?”

Billy smacks him in the chest without thinking. “Idiot.”

“To be honest? Not really, man,” Stu says, rubbing the spot with mock hurt. “But you’re going anyway, aren’t you?”

Billy can’t deny it. “Yeah.”

“You’ll come back, right?” Stu asks, quieter now, like it’s a real question.

Billy meets his eyes. With William, it always feels like a possibility that he won’t.

“Yeah,” he says. “Of course. It’s just dinner.”

“And sex,” Stu points out, one eyebrow raised.

Billy rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat in it.

“Jealous?” he asks—dead serious, searching Stu’s face.

Stu shrugs. “Not anymore.” Like he suddenly woke up one day and decided.

The words land soft and certain in Billy’s chest, warming something he didn’t realize was cold. He leans in and kisses Stu—slow, deep, full of everything he can’t say out loud. His thumb rubs gentle circles along Stu’s jaw.

“Love you,” Billy whispers against his lips.

Stu kisses him back, just as soft. “Love you too.”

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Billy goes over to William’s the following evening alone.

The house feels the same—too neat, too quiet, like it’s holding its breath. Dinner is already set when he arrives. They sit around the long dining table: William at the head, Vanessa and Michael beside one another, Billy across from them. Plates are heavy with veal, roasted vegetables arranged just-so, a smear of some green purée Billy doesn’t have a name for. Red wine fills the glasses.

Michael is all smiles. Vanessa barely touches her food. She looks worn down to the bone—eyes dull, shoulders tight, like something inside her never really came back.

“It’s a shame Stuart couldn’t make it tonight,” William says mildly, cutting his meat. It doesn’t sound like disappointment. It sounds like an observation.

“Yeah,” Billy replies, too quickly. “He’s still buried in a thesis for film history.”

He isn’t sure why he lies. William would know if it mattered.

William dabs his mouth with his napkin and turns his attention to Vanessa. “Why don’t you tell Billy what you’ve been up to?”

Vanessa straightens immediately. “Yeah—yes, dad.” She swallows. “I went back to work. I told them…” Her eyes flick to William, checking. “…that I had a mental breakdown. They’re sending me back through training, but after that I should be back on patrol.”

She forces a small smile and lifts her wine glass, using it like a shield.

Billy watches William carefully. Is this where it unravels? Is she going to say too much?

William raises a hand gently, stopping the spiral before it can start. “You’re doing very well, Vanessa,” he says warmly. “I’m proud of you.”

The words settle over the table like a blanket. Vanessa nods, relieved, and drops her gaze into her glass.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

Billy’s phone vibrates in his pocket.

The sound is loud in the quiet room. He pulls it out, already bracing himself.

“Sorry,” he mutters automatically.

Unknown number. His stomach drops.

William looks at him, calm, expectant. “Go on,” he says pleasantly. “Answer it.”

Billy answers without leaving the table, thumb hovering for half a second before he commits. He angles his body slightly toward William, instinctive, like he’s bracing for impact—like this could still be a detective.

“Hello?” Billy says, careful, measured.

“Is this Billy Loomis?” an older man asks on the other end.

Fuck.

“Yes,” Billy replies, pulse jumping. “Who’s asking?”

“Wes Williamson.”

Billy blinks. Once. Twice. The name rearranges itself in his head until it clicks into place.

The producer. That Wes Williamson.

“Oh—shit. I mean—yes. Hi,” Billy stammers, the edge in his voice gone, replaced by stunned disbelief.

There’s a low chuckle on the line. “I saw the student short you and your friend made,” Wes says. “It’s got potential. It’s got teeth.”

Billy swallows hard. “Thank you,” he manages. His heart is beating so loudly he’s sure everyone at the table can hear it.

“How would you and your friend feel about a small budget,” Wes continues, casual as anything, “say… two hundred thousand dollars, to see what you can really do?”

Billy nearly chokes.

Two hundred thousand.

“Fu— yeah,” Billy blurts, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Yes. Yeah, that—that sounds incredible.”

Wes laughs again, fond, indulgent. “I’ll have my assistant reach out. We’ll talk details.”

The line goes dead.

Billy just sits there for a second, phone still pressed to his ear, buzzing like he’s been struck by lightning. Then he lowers it slowly, eyes wide, breath shaky.

“H—holy fuck,” he says, voice breaking into something bright and disbelieving. “We’re going to make a film.”

The words hit the quiet dining room like a dropped glass.

“HOLY FUCK,” Billy repeats, louder, grinning despite himself.

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He has to tell Stu in person—no text, no call. This deserves Stu’s eyes lighting up, his arms around Billy’s neck, the two of them laughing like kids again.

Billy buzzes throughout the rest of dinner, knee bouncing under the table.

The moment William dismisses his children from the table, Billy is across the room. He crashes into William, mouth desperate and bruising, hands fisting in his shirt like he’s drowning and William is air.

William laughs low into the kiss, surprised but delighted, hands sliding down to grip Billy under the thighs. He lifts him easily, carries him down the hall to the bedroom like Billy weighs nothing.

William lays him down on the bed, mouth trailing hot down his neck, across his chest, pushing Billy’s shirt up to kiss bare skin.

“My beautiful baby bunny,” William murmurs against his ribs, voice reverent, “the filmmaker.”

Billy smiles—wide, free, unstoppable. The words light him up from the inside. He’s so goddamn excited.

William travels back up, cups Billy’s face, searches his eyes. Concern flickers there, sudden and sharp

“If it falls through,” William says quietly, forehead pressed to Billy’s, breath mingling, “you know Daddy’s here for you. Always.”

Billy’s smile falters. The words land wrong—too heavy, too certain it might fail. Does William expect it to crash? Hope it does?

“I’m doing this,” Billy says, voice steady, fierce. “And it’s going to be fucking awesome.”

“Of course, baby,” William answers, kissing his ear, his jaw, soft and soothing.

“I’m not leaving you,” Billy adds, trying to read the shadows in William’s eyes. Maybe he’s the insecure one here.

William rubs a slow circle into Billy’s jaw with his thumb. “I know, baby,” he says, voice rough at the edges.

That’s the crack—the tiny fracture that says William isn’t entirely sure.

“I’m not,” Billy repeats, firmer, pulling William down between his legs, grinding up against him, needing the friction, the closeness.

They make love, and it feels mournful.

William pours everything unspoken into it—holds him tighter, closer, fucks him slower, deeper, more passionate than celebratory. Every thrust feels like holding on, like memorizing. Billy’s chest aches with it; this should be triumph, fireworks, but instead it tastes like goodbye.

He clings harder, meets every roll of William’s hips, kisses him like he’s trying to prove something neither of them says out loud.

After, they lie tangled, breathing hard in the dark. Billy stares at the ceiling, heart full and heavy all at once.

Chapter 41

The next day at college, Billy spots Stu in the hallway and all the excitement he’d been holding back comes roaring up all at once. He crosses the distance in three long strides and grabs Stu by the shoulders.

“Guess what,” Billy says, breathless.

“Whoa—what, what?” Stu laughs, a little startled, a little thrilled. His hands come up automatically, settling at Billy’s waist like muscle memory.

“Wes Williamson,” Billy says. “Wes. Fucking. Williamson, baby.”

Stu blinks at him, gears visibly turning. Then it lands.

“Holy shit—no way. That slime actually came through for us?”

Billy just grins, wide and crooked. “Two hundred thousand dollars, Stu.”

“Holy fu—Billy, Billy!” Stu grabs him now, shaking him by the shoulders before pulling him in, kissing his cheek, his jaw, his temple—reckless, ecstatic, not caring who sees.

“Stu,” Billy laughs, fond but gently pushing him back. God forbid anyone in Minnesota get ideas.

“So—is it like total creative freedom?” Stu asks, finally easing up. “Or is there gonna be studio bullshit? Overhead? Notes?”

“Don’t know yet,” Billy admits. “PA’s supposed to call soon.”

“Fuck,” Stu breathes, grinning like it might split his face. He leans in and presses one last kiss to Billy’s cheek. “We’re really doing it. You and me. Billy and Stu.”

Telling Stu was the right call—Billy feels it immediately. The knot in his chest loosens, just a little. Stu buzzes for the rest of the day, practically vibrating through lectures, whispering ideas, scribbling nonsense in the margins of his notebook.

They barely make it back to their dorm room before Stu’s all over him again—not frantic, just overflowing. Laughing, kissing, hands warm and familiar, like anchoring themselves to the future they’ve been dreaming about.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Stu calls Henry as soon as the heat has passed, still breathless, still buzzing, pacing the narrow dorm room like he might lift off if he stands still too long.

Henry barely has time to say hello before Stu barrels straight through.

“Okay, okay—so—remember that producer I told you about? Wes Williamson? Yeah, that Wes Williamson—”

“Stu,” Henry cuts in gently, amused already. “Breathe.”

“We got it,” Stu blurts. “He wants to fund a film. Our film.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Then, warm and unmistakably proud, Henry says, “That’s… that’s amazing news. I’m so happy for you boys. You’ve earned it.”

“Hell yeah,” Stu laughs, holding the phone out toward Billy. “I’m still shaking—Billy, tell him.”

Billy glances at Stu’s outstretched hand. It’s actually trembling.

“He is,” Billy says dryly, though the fond smile betrays him.

“I’m proud of you,” Henry says, and Billy feels the weight of it land—steady, sincere. Then, after a beat, Henry adds carefully, “Have you two talked about living arrangements?”

Fuck.

Billy and Stu exchange a look.

“I mean,” Stu starts, shrugging like this is nothing, “we’ll probably crash on someone’s couch until production wraps.”

“And college?” Henry asks. “If this takes time.”

Stu winces. Billy rubs the back of his neck.

“I guess we try to finish the year and then…” Billy trails off, not quite saying we might just drop out.

“Well,” Henry says, voice gentle but practical, “you don’t have to decide that yet. If you end up moving, there are schools in Los Angeles. Credits can be transferred. We can figure it out.”

Billy hears it then—Henry already adjusting, already preparing himself for them to go. Wanting this for them, even if it means letting them go. It’s the opposite of how William sounded the night before, and somehow that makes it ache more.

“Thanks, Mr. Emily,” Stu says quietly, thoughtful now.

As they’re wrapping up, Stu adds, almost offhand, “Love you.”

There’s a startled noise on the other end of the line—Henry coughing, probably choking on air.

“—I—” Henry clears his throat. “Love you boys too.”

The line goes dead, leaving the room quiet except for Stu’s soft laugh and Billy’s steady breathing as the future settles in around them.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The production assistant–Zach–calls Billy before the end of the week.

He talks fast, like this is all very normal—studio overhead for sets and casting, access to resources, people to smooth things along. Total creative control, technically. Studio heads might have feedback, of course, but that’s to be expected. Filming could start as early as summer, if the boys have a concept ready.

Billy glances at Stu while holding the phone, eyes a little wide.

“Yeah,” Billy says, nodding even though the PA can’t see him. “Yeah, sure. Sure.”

They absolutely do not have a concept.

The call ends and they stare at each other for a beat before bursting into motion. Red Bull cans pile up. Notebooks appear. Sticky notes multiply like spores. Ideas ricochet between them—half-formed plots, brutal cold opens, final girls and monsters and demons that don’t quite follow rules. Billy starts drafting a preliminary script between classes, writing dialogue in the margins of his notes, sketching creature designs in the backs of textbooks. Stu doodles set layouts and camera angles, arrows and exclamation points everywhere, vibrating with momentum.

It’s messy. It’s chaotic. It feels right.

William, meanwhile, needles at the edges of Billy’s certainty. Never outright discouraging—just careful comments, doubts dressed up as concern. Los Angeles is expensive. Studios are fickle. Promises don’t always turn into reality. Billy hears the fear underneath it and can’t even blame him. He doesn’t want to leave William. The thought knots something tight and aching in his chest.

But the dream is there now. Solid. Breathing.

Henry is the opposite. Gentle encouragements. Quiet pride. He asks questions about logistics, not to stop them, but to help. He’s already letting go, already convinced this is what the boys are meant to do.

Billy lives suspended between them—between love that wants to keep him close and love that wants him to fly—scribbling monsters into the margins and wondering how long he can balance both before something finally gives.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Zach tells them to stop circling the edge of it.

“Just take the dive,” he says over the phone. “Move to LA.”

Billy hesitates, says what’s been sitting in his chest the whole time. They want to. They just don’t have anywhere to land.

Zach laughs. “I’ve got a couch. It sucks, but it’s a couch.”

That’s enough. It’s more than enough.

They move what they can’t bear to lose into Henry’s place first—VHS tapes, posters, lava lamps, boxes of half-formed ideas and sentimental junk. The guest room fills fast. Henry doesn’t complain. He just tells them, plainly, that Minnesota will always be home if they need it. No conditions. No guilt.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Valentine's Day comes, William insists on a restaurant.

Henry visibly wilts at the suggestion—something expensive, something with cloth napkins and candles—but he doesn’t argue. William has already decided what kind of night it’s going to be.

Stu talks nonstop from the moment they sit down, hands flying, words tumbling over each other—camera rigs, practical effects, sound design, how Billy’s been sketching monsters in the margins of his notebooks. Henry listens like it matters. Because to him, it does. He asks questions, smart ones, encouraging ones, nodding along like he’s already proud of a thing that doesn’t exist yet.

Then Stu says it.

“—so yeah, once we move out to LA—”

The table doesn’t go silent, but something shifts.

Billy’s eyes snap to William on instinct. William doesn’t react. He cuts his steak with slow precision, lifts his glass, takes a measured sip of wine. Calm. Even. Detached. But when his eyes flick up and catch Billy’s, there’s something there—too fast to name, too sharp to miss. A warning. Or a wound.

“You’ll come visit us, right?” Stu asks, bright and hopeful, aimed more at Henry than anyone else.

Henry blinks, genuinely startled. Then he smiles, soft and a little disbelieving. “When I can,” he says. Like it’s a promise he intends to keep.

He nudges William lightly with his knee under the table.

William doesn’t look at him. “When I can,” he echoes, voice smooth, distant.

The words land wrong in Billy’s chest. Cold. Hollow.

Henry tries to pull Billy back in.

“So,” he says gently, “tell me about the—killer? Or is it a monster?”

Billy answers automatically. “It’s a physical manifestation of the main character’s grief.”

He doesn’t look away from William when he says it. He needs something. A nod. A smile. A crack in the armor. Anything.

Stu grins. “That’s Billy code for sick-as-hell monster design,” he adds, launching straight back into it, rambling about sketches and textures and how Billy’s been obsessed with making it feel wrong in a way you can’t quite explain.

Henry leans in, engaged. William sits back, composed, inscrutable.

William’s foot nudges Billy’s calf under the crisp white tablecloth—innocent enough at first, just a brush of expensive leather against wool trousers. Billy barely glances up from his untouched plate. Then the pressure returns, deliberate, sliding higher—slow, possessive—until the toe of William’s shoe presses firmly between Billy’s thighs.

William’s eyes lock on his across the candlelight, sharp and unreadable, the first direct attention he’s given Billy all night.

Billy’s cock responds instantly, traitorously, hardening against his will. He’s been starved for any scrap of it—anything beyond the cold distance William has worn like armor through appetizers, entrees, wine. Heat floods his cheeks; he shifts in his seat, trying to hide the growing ache.

“I need to use the restroom,” William announces smoothly, rising. “I’ll be right back.”

“Yeah, whatever—same,” Billy mutters, catching the cue, pushing his chair back too fast.

Stu snorts as they walk away. “—and they’re leaving to fuck,” he says to Henry, just loud enough for Billy to hear.

The restroom door swings shut behind them. William moves fast—pins Billy face-first against the marble counter, chest to back, one hand splayed possessive on his waist, the other fisting in Billy’s hair to arch his neck. Their reflections stare back from the mirror: William’s face cool and controlled, Billy’s already flushed and desperate.

William grinds forward—hard cock dragging against the seam of Billy’s trousers—while his mouth finds the shell of Billy’s ear.

Billy whimpers, pushing back into it, craving more.

William doesn’t speak. He yanks Billy’s belt open, shoves trousers and boxers down just far enough to bare the crease between his thighs. Cool air hits heated skin; Billy’s cock springs free, leaking against the cabinet.

William frees himself—thick, heavy, already slick at the tip—and slots between Billy’s thighs from behind. He thrusts slow at first, savoring the drag of soft skin clamping around him, the way Billy’s legs tremble and try to close instinctively.

“Fuck—Daddy,” Billy moans, pretty and pleading, high and needy, wanting William to know how good it feels, how much he needs this.

William’s pace quickens—sharp, controlled snaps of his hips that force Billy forward against the counter with every stroke. The friction is perfect: hot, tight, the head of William’s cock nudging Billy’s balls on every push forward. Billy’s own cock grinds against the smooth marble edge, trapped and aching, leaking steadily.

William’s hand tightens in Billy’s hair, tilting his head back further; the other digs bruises into his hip. He fucks Billy’s thighs harder, breath ragged against his neck, chasing his own release with single-minded focus.

Billy whines, legs shaking, cock throbbing untouched now, desperate for more contact, more anything.

William cums with a low, stifled groan—hot pulses spilling between Billy’s thighs, soaking into the fabric of his lowered boxers. He thrusts through it, pushing the mess deeper, marking him.

Then—nothing.

William pulls out, tucks himself away, zips up. He washes his hands at the sink beside Billy like it’s routine, dries them on a towel, and walks out without a word. The door swings shut behind him.

Billy stands frozen, pants around his thighs, cum cooling sticky against his skin.

The silence crashes in.

Abandonment hits like a fist to the chest—sharp, familiar, the same hollow ache from the day his mother walked out and never looked back.

He barely pulls his pants up before his legs give out. He sinks to the cold tile floor, pulls his knees to his chest, and buries his face in them.

Tears come sudden and unstoppable, hot and silent, soaking into expensive wool.

You know Daddy’s here for you. Always. What a load of shit.

Stu slips into the bathroom a few minutes later, easing the door shut behind him. He takes in the scene at once—Billy folded on the floor, arms wrapped tight around his knees, breath hitching in uneven pulls.

“Bills…” Stu murmurs, already kneeling. He rests a careful hand on Billy’s shoulder, grounding, gentle.

Billy can’t look up. He can’t stand the idea of seeing pity there, even if Stu’s never once looked at him that way. The tears feel stupid, humiliating, like he’s eight years old again and can’t articulate what hurts—only that it does.

William knows exactly what he’s doing. That’s the worst part. It isn’t cruelty for cruelty’s sake; it’s precision. A reminder, clean and quiet, that if Billy takes this leap—if he leaves—he loses the closest thing to a father figure he’s ever had. And somehow, impossibly, it still feels like Billy’s fault for wanting more.

“Hey,” Stu says softly, squeezing his shoulder. “Just a couple more months. Then we’re out of here.” He says it like it’s a victory. Like it’s oxygen.

Billy lifts his head at last. His face is wrecked with it—grief, resolve, anger braided tight together. His eyes are red, but they burn.

“Our movie is going to be fucking amazing,” Billy says. His voice shakes, but it doesn’t break. “People are gonna love us.”

Stu grins, immediate and fierce, like he’s been waiting for that exact sentence. “Hell yeah, Bills. That’s the attitude.”

He offers his hand. Billy takes it, lets himself be pulled upright.

The drive back to Henry’s is quiet. William drops them off without ceremony and leaves. No goodbye. No glance back.

Henry doesn’t ask questions. He just opens his arms, and Billy collapses into them, the last of his control giving way as he cries again—harder this time. Henry holds him like he understands, like he doesn’t need an explanation.

After that, Billy still goes to William. William still lets him. But something has shifted. The warmth is gone. What’s left feels transactional, distant—like a door that’s still open but already closing.

And every time, Billy goes back anyway.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The news of Roger Sperling’s murder investigation fades the way so many stories do—quietly, without resolution. No more calls. No detectives knocking. The anchors stop saying his name. The van, the fire, the body all slip out of the nightly cycle and into obscurity.

It never fully leaves Billy, though. It lodges itself somewhere deep and small, a single grain of paranoia under the skin. But each day that passes without consequence dulls it a little. The silence starts to feel like permission. Like escape.

The dreams don’t stop.

He dreams of the van burning in the woods, flames licking up through warped metal, black smoke clawing at the sky. Charlotte stands nearby at first, watching him watch the fire, her expression unreadable. The smell is overwhelming—burning plastic, chemicals, something sweet and wrong—his eyes sting, his throat tightens.

The fire is bright. Beautiful. Hungry.

Then Charlotte is gone.

Billy is alone with it, and somehow he knows the fire is William. Not his face, not his voice—just the presence. The heat. The pull. He reaches a hand toward the flames, bracing for pain.

It feels like nothing.

That’s what frightens him most.

So he steps forward. Into the fire. Hoping it will finally take him. Hoping it will erase him, or remake him into something that doesn’t hurt like this.

He wakes with tears already on his cheeks, breath shallow, the image of the flames burned into the backs of his eyes.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The goodbyes come in pieces.

Henry holds them like he’s memorizing them, like this is not an ending but a necessary release. He doesn’t cling. He doesn’t ask them to stay. He loves them in a way that wants them bigger than him, brighter than the house they’re leaving behind.

William is different.

William fucks like he’s branding ownership into bone. He leaves dark, deliberate hickeys across Billy’s neck, chest, stomach, the tender skin of his inner thighs—ugly, beautiful bruises that bloom purple and won’t fade for weeks, right as summer heats up. When Billy hisses at the sting, William kisses each mark and murmurs, “Foundation,” light, like it's a joke.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Before the end of the school year, before Billy and Stu move out to LA, Henry has a birthday.

They plan for it the way kids with too much time and not enough money do—counting crumpled bills and coins on Billy’s bed, arguing over whether instant ramen for a week is “technically survivable.” In the end, they pool their allowance and manage to snag a signed photo of Jim Henson, smiling gently with a couple of his puppets tucked in close. It isn’t extravagant. It isn’t new. But it’s Jim Henson, and Henry loves Jim Henson things with a quiet, earnest devotion.

That has to be enough.

Henry invites them over the weekend closest to his birthday. William isn’t there.

Billy notices immediately. Of course he does. The empty space where William should be presses in on him, sharp and accusatory. He tells himself not to think about it, not to tug at that loose thread. His brain hisses anyway—your fault, your fault—and he shoves the thought down hard enough to make his jaw ache.

They show up with a grocery store cake, German chocolate, the kind with slightly smeared frosting and a plastic dome that fogs if you breathe on it too long. Henry looks at it like it’s something rare, something undeserved.

“You boys didn’t have to do this,” he says, already reaching for a knife and forks like the argument is a lost cause.

“Yeah, we did,” Stu says immediately.

Billy lifts the gift bag in his hands and shrugs, a little too casual. “Guess we shouldn’t show him his present, then.”

Henry’s face folds in on itself at that, soft and overwhelmed all at once. “Boys,” he says, helpless, “you really didn’t have to.”

Stu bumps Billy with his elbow, excited and buzzing, and Billy passes the bag over. Henry takes it carefully, like it might fall apart if he’s too rough. He parts the tissue paper, slow, deliberate—and then freezes.

For a second, he just stares.

Then his hand comes up to cover his mouth.

When he looks back at them, his eyes are bright, glassy. He blinks hard, like he’s embarrassed by how much this means.

“So,” Stu asks, rocking slightly on his heels, unable to help himself, “did we do good?”

Henry nods, once, then opens his arms wide—wide enough for both of them, no hesitation. They step into him without thinking.

Billy breathes him in.

Pot smoke clings faintly to his clothes. There’s something woodsy, oily, the smell of sawdust and metal and whatever Henry’s been working on lately. It’s familiar. It’s grounding. It smells like late nights and open doors and being allowed to exist without explanation.

It smells like home.

Billy swallows, his throat tight. He hadn’t realized how much he was going to miss this—him—until now.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The three of them sprawl across Henry’s couch, passing a joint back and forth until the room fills with sweet, heavy smoke and easy laughter. It’s old times again—just the three of them, no complications.

Stu eventually hops up, padding barefoot to the kitchen to steal fingerfuls of frosting straight from Henry’s birthday cake.

Billy stays curled into Henry’s side, head tucked into the warm curve of his neck, breathing him in. He presses lazy, open-mouthed kisses along the skin there, slow and affectionate, tasting salt and home.

“I’m sorry Will’s not here,” Henry murmurs, voice soft with genuine regret, fingers stroking idly through Billy’s hair.

Billy shakes his head against Henry’s throat. He kisses lower—collarbone, chest, the soft fabric of Henry’s shirt—then lower still, nosing along his stomach until he reaches the waistband of Henry’s sweatpants. Who needs William? He has Henry—loving, gentle Henry, who always makes him feel safe.

Henry’s hand settles tentatively in Billy’s hair as Billy mouths at the growing bulge beneath soft cotton, feeling it harden under his lips.

Stu returns, slides in behind Henry on the couch, strong hands starting to knead the tight muscles of his neck and shoulders. Henry lets his head fall back with a low, grateful groan, melting under the dual attention.

“Boys,” Henry tries, the protest weak and half-hearted.

“Just relax, Mr. Emily,” Stu murmurs against his ear, thumbs digging soothing circles.

Billy tugs Henry’s pants down just enough, frees his thick length, and takes him into his mouth without hesitation. Henry’s size stretches his lips wide; he gags softly on the first deep push, eyes watering, but he breathes through it and sinks lower—tongue flattening along the underside, cheeks hollowing as he sucks. He bobs slow and worshipful, saliva slicking the shaft, one hand wrapping around the base to stroke what he can’t yet take.

Henry tastes like home—familiar, comforting, perfect.

Stu gives in quickly. He slides down to join Billy, on the floor between Henry’s spread thighs, leaning in to lap broad stripes up the side of Henry’s cock, tongue flicking over the veins. When Billy pulls back for air, Stu takes over seamlessly—swallowing Henry down to the root in one smooth motion, no gag, throat relaxing effortlessly around the full length. The lucky fucker.

Henry looks utterly wrecked above them—head tipped back, mouth open, chest heaving. “God, that’s so good,” he breathes, voice ragged with pleasure. “You boys are so good to me.” His hands thread gently through both their hair, stroking, guiding without forcing, praise spilling steady and sincere.

Billy focuses on the head—sucking hard at the tip, tongue swirling around the slit, teasing the sensitive ridge—while Stu’s hand pumps the shaft in firm, twisting strokes. Henry’s hips twitch; his thighs tense.

He cums with a deep, shuddering groan—hot pulses flooding Billy’s mouth as Billy seals his lips around the head and swallows greedily. Stu keeps stroking through it, drawing out every last shudder until Henry slumps boneless against the cushions.

Henry doesn’t leave them wanting.

He pulls them both up onto the couch, tangling them close—Billy on one side, Stu on the other. His big, warm hands wrap around each of their cocks, stroking slow and sure, knowing exactly how they like it. Billy buries his face in Henry’s neck again, moaning softly; Stu presses open-mouthed kisses to Henry’s shoulder.

They cum almost together—messy, breathless, clinging to Henry like he’s the only solid thing in the world.

After, they stay curled on the couch—limbs overlapped, hearts slowing, smoke still curling lazy in the air. Henry holds them both, fingers tracing idle patterns on their skin, and for a little while everything feels simple again.

God, Billy's going to miss this.

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The school year ends. Finals blur. Dorm rooms empty out.

Suddenly it's real.

Before leaving for the airport, Henry pulls them both into a crushing hug, voice thick, eyes bright. He lets go before it breaks him.

William drives them there, steady hands on the wheel, face carefully neutral.

Stu is already halfway out of the car, bag slung over his shoulder, vibrating with anticipation.

Billy isn’t ready.

He leans across the console, cups William’s face in one hand, and turns him for a kiss—slow, deep, desperate. When they part, foreheads stay pressed together, breathing the same air.

“Visit,” Billy whispers, pleading quiet. “Please.”

William exhales—a soft, hurt huff through his nose.

“I love you,” Billy says, voice cracking on the words.

“You’re going to miss your flight,” William answers, calm and detached.

Billy’s jaw tightens. He searches William’s face for something softer and finds nothing.

He pulls away slowly, grabs his bag from the back seat, and follows Stu inside without looking back.

The automatic doors slide shut behind them.

Los Angeles waits.

Notes:

Fun fact, this Henry is a Taurus!

Alsoooo this is it for Caught Like A Hare. Only felt right that what I'm planning next should split off into a sequel. If you enjoyed this fic, keep an eye out for Coup Du Lapin to pop up soon. Same toxic polycule, a whole host of new issues. :^)