#[will]

Billy doesn’t know why he’s driving the Byer’s home.

He doesn’t know why he knocks on the door, or why he is relieved when Will answers. All he knows now is that Will was possessed by the Mind Flayer, and managed to fight him off before the whole fucking town had to pay the price. Max has told him some of the stories, but Billy can’t fucking stand talking about anything to do with those few days longer than a minute, so he usually tells her to fucking stop. Longer than a few minutes and Max’s face turns into something he doesn’t recognize and she starts looking at him like he’s some poor fuck who can’t even shake off a few nightmares now.

So, that’s why he’s at the Byers. He thinks. Looking for some sort of fucking explanation, some sort of advice or shit, from a fucking 14-year-old.

And Jesus, the kid is scrawny. He looks like the type of kid he beat the piss out of in grade school, the kind of kid that someone could break in half. And yet, Will is the one who could resist the Mind Flayer enough to avoid hurting people. Killing people.

He’s the asshole who couldn’t.

He doesn’t know what to say, so he stands on the Byer’s porch, a cigarette hanging awkwardly out of his mouth. He pauses, cutting himself off before he can even start. He pinches his cigarette after a second, throwing it to the ground to squish under his boot. He doesn’t know what the fuck to say. What was he planning on fucking saying when someone opened the door, anyway? He looks and feels like shit. All he wanted to do was get in his car to go somewhere, to get out of the house and away from the suffocating rage that swims in his head. He’s not thinking. He hasn’t been thinking these past few weeks. He runs his hand under his nose, and lets out a low chuckle—what the fuck is he doing here?

Lo confesaré cuando dejes de oler a azufre y tus labios dejen de saber “ahumados”.

Algo. Define “gustar”.