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This wasn't part of the script.
That was one of many racing thoughts in Billy Loomis' brain as he laid on the ground, trying to come to terms with the fact that his movie was coming to an end. What happened should have been impossible. Sidney Prescott should have never been able to overpower him. He was stronger than her, physically. In any normal scenario, he'd have her on the ground, lifeless, blood pooling around her in a cinematic tragedy. But with the cut in his side his partner gave him (He remembers thinking about Stu in the midst of it, wondering where was he, and why he hadn't finished off Randy already because it was just Randy.) fighting proved to be a more difficult task, and now here he was.
They fought for a minute too long he supposes, maybe the audience got too bored. Because as Gale Weather's bullet ripped through him and knocked him back into the living room, he realized he had made a serious mistake. His body collapsed and his eyes struggled to stay open- that is, until they locked onto the body next to him, the body that returned to him his ability to focus.
Stu Macher.
The boy's eyes were dazed, lips slightly parted and face pale, blood sticking his hair to his forehead in clumps and more blood around him, a steady stream from the wound Billy had given him previously. Staring at him now, he realizes he did cut too deep, that Stu wasn't just overdoing it, his actions exceeding his own warning to the blond. It wasn't his fault for assuming, or getting upset. Stu was just an incredible actor- another young one, now lost, and only Billy would sincerely mourn until he too fell, only the ashes of their stardom to remain in their wake, the only evidence that Stu Macher and Billy Loomis were people at all.
Stu's absent eyes drift to Billy's face, and Billy finds himself feeling something like guilt. He did it. He's the one responsible for Stu's burnout. If he had thought a little more, if he hadn't been caught up in the moment, maybe they really could have pulled through with the initial plan. They would have killed the Prescotts. They would have survived the Prescotts. They would have been the final girls to the media, and Ghostface in private.
But then Stu (oh, his Stu, he never meant to do this to him, to have him end up this way,) smiled his toothy, bliss inducing smile like if he wasn't dying, like if he didn't kill him. Billy could only stare back, because Stu was insane, far too gone by now to be thinking right, probably. He's known he's been insane ever since they first met, when Stu told him all about the different hunting knives and how they were supposed to be used. How if you shot a deer in just the right spot it'd fall to the floor immediate and quiet, bright, clever eyes turned dull and still in a short moment. How easy it was to take young, innocent life away.
He misses that Stu, he realizes, and he presses his forehead to the blond's, muttering everything and yet nothing at all to him. Nothing, because nothing he does say will matter anymore. They're both dead men, he thinks. And there's a bittersweetness to the fact. The slashers in these movies never die, and yet here they were, unable to be the slasher, unable to be the final girls, laying on the floor instead like some pathetic victims. He had underestimated Sidney. Underestimated her will to survive, her true nature as the real Final Girl of their movie, something they could never compare to no matter how good of actors they were.
You can't fake being the Final Girl, Billy realizes. The reason they live in the first place is the tragedy of it all, fueled by love and loss among other superficial qualities. Audiences want to feel relief, and if this was Sidney's movie, the most relieving thing would be for him and Stu to be dead, now that they've been revealed as the antagonizers.
They may have been the directors, but this movie belonged to her, now, in Stu's house, covered in Billy's blood. She had taken what was theirs and made it her own.
But despite the thievery, Stu was still smiling, "watching" his face with a distant expression. It made Billy uneasy. This wasn't the Stu he knew. This wasn't his Stu, for his was full of life. Attentive, too, and Billy remembers a time when he would talk and Stu would listen. One last time, he thinks, but when he opens his mouth wider to really speak to him cohesively, blood churns in his mouth, thick and rustic, dribbling down his chin and falling onto their clothes. Wasn't there a time when he would have enjoyed a sight, rather than feeling like he's sinking at the way it tasted, the way the fabric clung to his skin and stained it red?
Was this how their victims felt? How their families felt, when they found out how they lost their loved one? How the person discovering their limp body felt, goosebumps raising on their arms, skin growing cold and eyes widening as if seeing more of the situation would help them understand at all? Billy could have cared less for them, he knows this. Those people were all just a means to an end- they had people to mourn them, to remember them for something good. But him and Stu? They were all the other had.
A hand touched the back of his head, thin and cold. Stu's. His smile was one of those clever ones Billy found he was missing, and his Stu was back with him for just a moment. He was only back to crack some stupid joke on how he looked, with the way the plasma dripped off his tongue and onto the both of them. Billy shakes his head, relieved and wounded all at once.
"You're fucking sick, you know that?"
And the wrinkles at the corners of Stu's eyes were the last thing Billy was able to see, for the gunshot that rang through the air would be the last either of them would experience. He felt the bullet enter his head, and his last thought was how the credits were rolling. Could Stu see them, too? Names scrolling past a blackening background, their opened eyes losing the ability to see being the transitioner into the end.