#withoutmonsters

His ceiling is cracked. It doesn’t bode well for the roof, to be completely honest, but Billy knows that’s not his problem. His problem is the fact that he can see his ceiling in the first place. He shouldn’t be able to see his ceiling—frankly, he shouldn’t be able to see anything at all. The last thing he remembers is the roof of the Starcourt mall, the stars like pinpricks of light through the shattered gash where the glass once was, Max’s scream, his stuttered, I’m sorry. That’s what he remembers. That’s all.

Nothing to explain why he’s here, in his bed, staring up at his ceiling in California, window open and the smell of the sea coming through. Nothing to explain how he could still be here, be alive, when he had died. Happily, too. Most of what he had felt in the past few days of his life was nothing but a confused horror, the knowledge that he was doing things that he didn’t want to be, knowing that he was hurting her, hurting Max, but he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t stop himself, and then he could. Then—the girl was there; then and you were happy, and he could see her all the sudden, the eyes of his mother smiling down on him as he turned towards the monster and fought back, for the first time in his life, against everything that he had hated so much. He had been glad to go, if that meant that they survived. If it meant that his sister lived to pull herself out of the cesspit that was Hawkins; to get out of the house on Cherry Lane and make something of herself.

Dying had meant that he was free. That he no longer had to walk in the door every day and wonder if that was the day that he was damaged irreparably by Neil, wonder if he would continue to fight or if he would give in to his father’s incessant need for control.

And now—now, he wasn’t. Now, he was caged again, stuck in a house that he shouldn’t be in. Billy shifts, groaning as his body protests, as if every nerve is firing at the same time. It feels like being sore after a particularly bad workout, except a hundred times worse. It feels like he just got beat to hell and then stabbed multiple times, which, okay, yeah, he did. He guesses it makes sense.

He stands from his bed, noting absently that he’s in nothing but briefs, and goes to the window. It’s fully open, the sash thrown up as high as it can go, the breeze blowing in his curtains. When he was younger, he could sneak through it and go explore the night, but that had ended when he had started lifting weights. His shoulders were a little too broad to fit through it anymore. He breathes in, taking in the salt-and-sage smell of the desert meeting the ocean and something rises in his chest and aches, and all the sudden he can’t stand the feeling of being boxed in by four walls. He switches out his briefs for swim trunks and snatches his keys off his bedside table, where he had put them every day since his father had given him the Camaro when he was sixteen. He ducks out his bedroom door, automatically stopping it before it creaks in the last half of the swing, and moves down the hall, silent as a ghost.

Billy had long ago memorized the quirks of this house, each creak of the floorboards and settling groan of the walls. The eight months since he had lived here last had not erased the ten years of muscle memory before that.

He’s out the front door, no shoes on and not even a shirt, not really caring that his feet might get a little torn up by goat heads. He jumps in the Camaro, probably too loudly, knowing that he had a certain protocol for sneaking out and doing it quietly, but not caring, not caring at all, because the ocean is right there and it’s been eight months since he could stand in it; since he could feel the water washing over him and the wet sand sucking his feet in and he needs it, needs it like air, like Steve Harrington’s gasp every time he tripped him and the look in his eyes when he steps up to protect the kids he’s somehow gotten attached to because Steve is, without a doubt, one of the most caring people that Billy has ever had the torture to watch live, and now he’s dead but Steve’s not, and a larger part of Billy’s brain than he would rather admit is knees-shakingly relieved at that.  

He opens up the Camaro’s I6 as soon as he’s down the street, too impatient to care about traffic laws, and now he’s speeding down the 15-minute route to the ocean with the kind of longing living in his soul that should be biblical because he’s never felt like this before with anyone—no one else but Steve and if that’s not ironic, he doesn’t know what is.

He skids to a stop across two parking spaces, probably peeling some rubber off the tires, and throws open his door and staggers out. He barely has the presence of mind to lock the car. But somehow he does, and then his feet are sinking into sand that is still warm from the burning California sun and then he’s staggering into the waves, cold water washing over his legs and he lets out a shuddering gasp and a sob and sinks, down down down, into the water, into the dark, and closes his eyes and lets his body be washed in salt of the sea and for a single moment, clarity strikes him and he’s breathing breathing breathing and he gets it, suddenly.

Max passes it through the open window. It’s smaller than Billy’s, made for a child instead of a young teenager. When Max and her mother had first moved in with the Hargroves, she had been enchanted with Billy’s skateboard, bugging him for weeks and weeks until he had finally let her ride it. Billy would never let Max knows this, but he thought that Max was a natural on the skateboard. He had been considering buying her one as a sort of welcome gift. But Susan had scolded her for it, saying that it wasn’t ladylike for a girl to ride a skateboard. It was obviously something that was meant to discourage both of them from letting Max ride in the future, but all that had done was cement it for Billy. He’d gone out, using the money that he’d earned mowing the neighbor’s lawn, to buy her a smaller one, since his was much too unwieldy for a nine-year-old.

“Come on,” Billy snaps, gesturing again. “We don’t have all night, Max. We need to go.”

Max casts one more glance into the house and then fits herself through the window, slight shoulders ducking through, followed by her torso. Billy catches her arms, grunting as she gives him all her weight. He grabs her waist and bodily hauls the rest of her through the window, clumsily setting her down once her feet are out.

She’s smiling, blue eyes bright bright in the night and a gap-toothed grin wide on her freckled face. Billy raises an eyebrow. “You weren’t this excited about a minute ago.”

Max raises her chin regally. “What do you mean? Of course, I’m excited! We get to go skate! With Tomas and Domingo!”

Billy tries to hold back a smile at that and fails. He had been prepared to hate Maxine forever when his father had first introduced them. Billy had been mean to her the first week, but every sneer was met with one of her own, each pinch and prod met with an answering slap and hit until he learned not to pick on her. But somehow, Max had wormed her way into his good graces, with every wide-eyed stare and enthusiastic cheer for every skateboard trick that he’d learned. He’d even let her go out on his surfboard, red hair fire against the waves and little body surprisingly strong against the movement of the board. She was a natural, just like she was at skating.

Billy snorts. “Tomas and Domingo think you’re a little pest.”

That isn’t true at all. Tomas particularly had taken quite the shine to Max, promising to teach her how to make tamales when Christmas rolled around and murmuring quiet endearments of, “Shhh, mija, it’ll be fine,” when Neil was loud with Billy.

Tomas always joked that he wanted a nice little sister instead of a demon of a twin while cuddling Max, and then Domingo would give that devilish grin and jump on them and start a tickle fight for the ages. Billy would make sure to pull Max out before the brothers got too rough, but then would dive in enthusiastically, laughing and shouting and roughhousing until they were a sweaty, breathless heap on the beach, sand in places where sand shouldn’t be, hair mussed and smiles so bright they rivaled the sun. And if Billy got a little too breathless when he felt Domingo’s hands on him, well, no one had to know.

Max turns her chin up. “That’s a lie, Billy. You’re a filthy liar. I’m telling Mom.”

“Oh?” Billy scoffs. “So you’re gonna tell her that we snuck out in the middle of the night to go skate with Domingo and Tomas? Good luck with that.”

Max pouts. Billy laughs softly, ruffling her hair, before he scoops up his skateboard. “Come on.”

Max picks up her own board and follows Billy through the patchy grass and goat heads to the sidewalk. He places his skateboard down and pushes off, checking over his shoulder to make sure she does the same, and then they’re off. The boards make a ticking noise as they go over each crack in the sidewalk, invisible weeds brushing Billy’s flip-flopped feet as they pass, feeling like spiders in the night.

The air is cool coming off the ocean, the breeze bringing the salty brine smell that opens up Billy’s lungs and makes him feel like he’s floating. He closes his eyes and tilts his face up and lets himself enjoy the freedom from the day.

Max and Billy head towards the skate park near the beach, having arranged to meet the twins at 1. This is not Billy’s first time sneaking out, but Max had caught him last time and insisted on coming or she would tell Neil. So this is Billy fulfilling Max’s pushy request, because his blood curdles at the thought of what Neil would do if he caught Billy sneaking out.

When they are down the block, Billy diverts into the street, knowing that it would be safer than on the thin sidewalk. Max follows him, weaving her board dangerously, teeth bright white and glinting out of her grin. Billy laughs as the board veers wildly and she stumbles off it, feet slapping the pavement loudly as catches herself.

“That’s what you get!” He calls back to her as he pumps his leg and goes faster.

“Asshole!” she shouts back.

They make it to the skate park a little late, Billy boosting Max over the fence before following her. They head into the grass on either side, lined by trees and swathed in dark shadows. Billy whistles shrilly, grinning as he sees two shadows jump.

“Mija!” A delighted voice calls from the side, and then Tomas is emerging from the trees and beaming widely.

Max takes a moving jump from her board, landing hard in the grass and running to leap at him. He catches her, laughing and grinning. “That was good! You timed it much better this time!”

“I know,” Max tosses her hair, shifting her body so that she’s in a princess hold instead of awkwardly clutched to Tomas’s chest. “I’m great like that.”

Tomas laughs loudly. “That you are, little bird. That you are.”

He drops her onto her feet and ruffles her hair. “Oh, hi, Billy. Didn’t see you there. Max was too busy outshining you.”

Billy rolls his eyes. “Oh, sure. Fuck you, asshole.”

Tomas snickers, offering his hand. Billy claps his hand to Tomas’s clenching it into a fist and knocking their knuckles together. “Where’s Domingo?”

“Comin’. He wanted a taco.”

Max brightens. “Can I have a taco?”

“No, Max—” Billy starts, because he knows that if he starts fucking up her food schedule, Neil will have his hide, but Tomas interrupts.

“Sure! C’mon, mija, I’ll get you some. What do you want?”

“Carne Asada. And Pork Carnitas. Oh! And can I get some of their ice cream?”

Tomas laughs. “What, did your mom not feed you or something?”

Max pouts. “I just want some Horchata ice cream, Tomas.”

“I think he might have one or two ice cream sandwiches left.”

Max brightens.

“You know we came here to skate, right?” Billy calls. Tomas flips him off over his shoulder.

Billy huffs, popping his board up and grabbing it, following them to the other end of the park, where they climb another fence and come out on a street where a food truck is parked. Technically it wasn’t open, but the three of them had been regulars for so long that Domingo could knock on the window and the chef (who lived in the back and drove to different cities along the west coast as well as Mexico) would cook them what they wanted as long as they had the money.

Domingo is standing in front of the truck when they walk up, laughing at something the chef said.

“Hey, Tio,” Tomas greets as they stop next to his brother.

“Jesus,” Angel groans as he sees the extra people. “Do you little shits never eat, or something?”

Billy laughs under his breath as Domingo ducks his head. “Please, Tio Angel. We’ll pay, we promise!”

Angel scrubs his hand over his face. “Y’all are the worst, you got that? I swear.”

Doming gave him a bright smile that punched a hole in Billy’s chest. “Thank you so much!”

“What do you want?”

Max perks up, rattling off her order in a voice that is fairly presumptuous, considering it’s the middle of the night and Domingo probably dragged Angel out of bed for food. Tomas adds his own order, leaning his arms on Max’s head and making her grumble.

Domingo catches Billy’s eye. “And a Chicken Tinga and an Al Pastor, please. Oh, and some Refritos and Elote.”

Billy makes a noise in the back of his throat. “No, Domingo, I can’t pay for that—”

Domingo cuts him a look. “I can.”

“I don’t need your goddamn charity—”

“It’s not charity, cabron, I’m just buying you tacos, goddamn.”

Billy opens his mouth but Domingo cuts him off with a finger pressed to his lips. Billy’s protest dies in his throat with a strangled noise. Domingo gives him a secret smile, pulling out a wallet and slapping down a ten-dollar bill.

Angel takes the money and brings back change. “It’ll be out in a little while, shitstains. Try not to make too much trouble in the meantime.”

“Thanks, Tio!” Max chirps, scooping up her board and pushing off.

Angel’s face transforms from long-suffering to fond in a split second. “You assholes are bad for her,” he says, pointing at Tomas.

Tomas gives him a dramatic gasp, placing a hand on his chest for added effect. “How can you say that, Tio? We are teaching her the fine arts of sneaking out and talking food out of even the most unwilling chefs. Those are great skills! She’ll use them for the rest of her life!”

Angel snorts. “Sure, dickhead . Whatever you say.”

Domingo slings a hand over Billy’s shoulder. “So, where do you want to sit?”

Billy has to swallow before answering. “I wanted to skate, asshole.”

Domingo scoffs. “Too late. You get food now.”

Billy grumbles but follows Max, who is waving from a table at the end of the block. Domingo steers Billy that way, Tomas staying behind to get the food. When they reach the table, Domingo sits so that his thigh is matched along Billy’s, shoulder to shoulder and breath brushing Billy’s ear as he looks at him.

“How was Neil?”

Billy shrugs. “Not too bad, actually. He’s been preoccupied with getting Susan settled at her new job, so.”

Domingo nods, leaning into Billy. “Did he give you any trouble?”

Billy shakes his head. They sit like that, matched thighs and breaths even as Max chatters at Domingo about a new trick Billy was trying to teach her. Tomas comes by with the food piled high in his arms: two tacos and a churro ice cream sandwich for Max, four tacos for Domingo, an additional three tacos for himself, and two for Billy. They share the Elote and Refritos among them, using forks provided by Angel to scoops out bites as they chat.

Billy leans more into Domingo, the other boy shifting so that his front is pressed into Billy’s side, one arm wrapped around Billy’s shoulders while the other one scoops stray corn bits out of the container of Elote. The ocean breeze sweeps over them, ruffling Max’s hair and picking up the bag and dancing it across the table. Tomas snatches it out of the air before it can be carried away, laughing as Domingo teases Billy gently about his wipeout on his surfboard earlier today.

Billy leans his head on Domingo’s shoulder, eyes drifting close.

“Aww,” Max teases. “Is it past the old man’s bedtime?”

Billy cracks one eye, glaring at her. “Shut up, Maxine. I’m 13, not 30.”

Max snorts. “You act like a 30-year-old.”

Billy makes a noise in the back of his throat. “I do not!”

Max sticks out her tongue. “Yes, you do!”

Billy gasps, pulling away from Domingo and climbing to his feet. Max shrieks and runs, her little body darting away.

“Get back here!” Billy growls, chasing after her and throwing out a hand to catch her.

She squeals when Billy seizes her torso and tickles her mercilessly, squirming in his grip.

“Billy!” she laughs. “Please! Don’t—no—”