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The climax was over, Billy realizes, straightening himself out from his hunched position over the mutilated body limp on the floor in front of him. It's still, unmoving nature directly contrasted with Stu's excited fidgeting beside him, and with the way his own chest heaved, coping with the amount of adrenaline surging through his veins. Her permanent stillness so stark in the scene, he recognized, despite the many other things an outsider could focus on. Knowing she'd be the one receiving all the attention left an unpleasant taste in his mouth, but it was just a small price to pay for everything he'd gain by her being rid from the world- his world.
She was formerly known by the name Maureen Prescott, a sweet sound followed by something sharp. It felt bitter on Billy's tongue, something stale and overused, over-hyped, overrated. A fad that was over now, thanks to him and Stu. Woodsborough wouldn't have to deal with someone as distasteful ever again, they should be thankful, though he knows they won't be.
Her blood poured out from her open wounds thickly, pooling around her in a deep crimson puddle, something cinematic in Billy's eyes, like a movie poster, or a still-shot of the scene the killer left for others to discover. And, wasn't that exactly what this was? Their own doing, the start of an entirely different era in their lives. And, for Billy, revenge. Finally understanding all those killers, those deemed crazy by the public, felt exhilarating, and, maybe that made him crazy, too. Maybe he didn't mind one bit. He removed himself from his head to come back to what was in front of him, after all, they still weren't finished. They had to leave, now. The exposition they had planned was a quick one. Take the coat the drunk fool left. Stain it with her blood. Place it in Cotton Weary's car. Get away without anyone seeing them. It should be simple enough- the last part the only concerning one, but they can just lie their way out of it if they end up seen a ways away from the house. Billy's done it before with his dad, when the old man gives him that scornful, suspicious look, and asks him where he went out to the night before, how late he was out. Billy never answered honestly, but he'd rather avoid having to lie, so he just adapted, got better at sneaking out. It was easy. It was always so easy, and this time would be no different, despite the nature of what they had done.
Then, Stu stirred, a hyena grin plastered on his face, the toothy smile something Billy always found charming, despite its tendency to be unsettling to others. Not to him. He could recognize that, in moments he smiled like this, he was blissful.
The blond reached out towards him, pulling him against his chest, the damp, sticky fabric Billy was wearing smearing blood against Stu's cleaner clothes in the process.
"Stu, what the fuck? You're gonna get more blood on you."
"Aww Billy, you care if I get dirty or not?"
"I do, actually. Come on, Stu, let me go. We still have a job to do."
Stu's eyes twinkled with something malicious and teasing as he only pressed closer, his head bending down so his lips were close to the shell of his ear.
"Loosen up, man. We can celebrate a little, no harm in that." And with that, Billy found himself being tugged around Maureen Prescott's limp body, circling her again and again. His eyes never left it, observing what they had done from all angles. Stu's eyes never left himself, with all his empty agitated protests. He feared, if he met Stu's eyes, he'd embarrass himself as he always does.
It's either him or Stu. Not a genuine moment gets shared between them without a joke, a comment, an implication.
They spun around her body God knows how many times, in a makeshift, half-assed waltz. Stu's hands on his waist, his hip, and his own barely touching the other boy's torso. His legs lazily followed after the other's, though Stu was just moving to circle around the still, cold, barely-a-woman on the floor.
Billy didn't want to cause much of a stir. If this was Stu's place, he'd push him off. Call him something that, objectively, wasn't nice to say at all. Stu would play it off, tease him for getting defensive- that's all the other boy ever did, was tease. If Stuart Macher was ever serious, Billy Loomis would find himself a fan of comedies as opposed to horror.
But, they had to stop eventually. They still had something to finish. He grabbed Stu by the shoulders the next time the taller tried to throw him around in his arms, forcing them to a stop near the corpse's head.
"What is it? Party's over?"
"We have to finish up."
"Really? I didn't know that," Stu remarks, and his too-calm voice is laced with sarcasm.
"I'm serious." Stu rolls his eyes at that, a smirk prodding at the corners of his lips, and Billy can't stand it, can't stand that he wants to see more of it when they have responsibilities to attend to.
Billy pinched the bridge of his nose before he shoved the taller away from him, reaching over the back of the couch and forcing the discarded jacket into Stu's chest, some of the blood that ended up on his shirt making its way onto the jacket. Billy liked that- that'd made their fabricated story more authentic. Audiences love authenticity, and oh, they were going to have an audience.
"Just- do what you have to do. We can celebrate after. I'll stay at your place. We'll watch some tapes."
Stu nodded, shrugging the jacket on like if it wasn't a big deal, like if it wasn't some important part of the plan, like if this wouldn't get them off the hook, like if they didn't just kill someone. Billy wondered, sometimes, if Stu really understands the gravity of the situation. He had brought up the idea first, of killing Maureen, and Stu had gone along with it, no questions asked. Billy didn't understand. He thought he'd have to play it off as a joke. But Stu was serious. And then he was entirely serious. And now, here they are.
Billy hated not knowing absolutely everything about the other boy. He knew mostly everything about him, from his name to the tiniest mannerisms nobody else would notice but himself, but them. But he didn't know Stu mentally. He couldn't figure out why Stu did the things he did, said the things he said. Knowing what he'll do or say are different from understanding. Like how Billy knows his father cheated on his mother with the skank on the floor, but he can't ever comprehend why. He figured the blond was just crazy, and that's why he matched him well, being crazy, too. Crazy attracts crazy, or something like that. He never liked that word, 'crazy.' 'Psychotic' had such a nicer ring to it. It fit better. It felt better. It felt like them, like what they'd be called if anyone were to find anything personal out, like what Billy called himself the entirety of the two years he was discovering, learning why he could never be entirely honest again. Psychotic. That's what he was, what he was cursed to be, what he always will be. But it's better being psychotic together than being psychotic alone.
Stu left, then, and Billy doesn't have to look at his face to know he's smiling. He acts so nonchalant, like everything is all just big joke.
Billy hates him.
He hates him and the way he can't focus on something for more than 10 minutes. Not even a movie. His mind is always elsewhere, somewhere Billy can't decipher, somewhere he probably doesn't even know.
He hates the way he teases and nags and laughs at him. Gets on his ass for everything, though he supposes it's payback for how often he gets on Stu's ass, too.
He hates him, yes, but he loves hating him. He hates that he loves hating him because he loves him. He hates that he loves him.
Billy casts one last look at the body on the floor before he leaves, following after Stu at a distance. He figures it'll always be this way, and while he hates being behind, he loves every moment with Stuart Macher, understanding or not.