Work Text:
Billy Hargrove doesn't understand people. In fact he kinda hates most of 'em, forget not understanding.
He's in this shitcan little town in bum-fuck nowhere middle of Midwest America, riding out (or fighting through) his senior year of high school. Moved halfway across the country because his dad remarried and couldn't stand staying in Sacramento, especially since he found out Billy was planning the move to San Francisco after graduating. Because he was stupid enough to leave some information where his dad found it. "Not my son," Neil snarled. "Nobody's goin' to that place who isn't a fag! Are YOU a faggot, huh?!?"
Billy had simply stared back at him.
Neil barely talked to Billy except when swinging on him after that. Flurried flying fists with roaring voice and that was it. Somehow he still conned Susan and her daughter into coming with them, being part of the family. Yeah, right. Maybe he wanted a second chance, since his first was this fucked up - Billy wants to scratch out his throat, he feels burning in his eyes and he chucks rocks and punches trees out here until his knuckles are bloody.
When he isn't pounding on people, at least. But they just don't -won't, can't- fuckin' leave him alone.
And out here is when with a long low whistle "damn, man, I think you could use a smoke," he whirled around, at the back of this school in bum-fuck nowhere to see this pale guy with long brown hair, a grin and raised eyebrows, wearing a black bandana around his forehead and holding out a joint.
Billy starts to snort. "You really trying to give me that?" His tone is the 'you'll back off if you know what's good for you ' one he has perfected since he got here, but this guy is obviously as stupid as Billy is, according to Neil, because he just holds the reefer like it's a serious offering.
"Yeah, looks like you could use it. I have more," with a shrug and a pat at the pocket of his denim vest, this guy just stands here. Or leans, actually; popping one hip out, he almost settles against a tree. After he'd chosen to walk up to where Billy had been swinging on the trunk of another one like some sorta psycho.
He spins, slow and dangerous. That's what he's heard teachers say about him already here: "that boy is dangerous." Telling each other to watch, keep an eye out. Only a step later they'd be saying not to be alone with him.
Billy might as well play into that, right? If that's what people think about him, why not make it real?
Billy now shakes his head, his forehead wrinkles. "How you know I'm not gonna call the cops?" He growls even as he turns and steps closer, head down in his predatory look, as Max calls it. Little turd. Says it's how she knows he's about to beat somebody up.
Either this dude doesn't pick up on it, or he's not stupid so much as brave. Closer now, Billy sees the black polish on his fingernails, the dark shirt with blood and fire and some weird-ass ghost or zombie lookin' thing. He sees a chain, the paleness of but strength in those fingers holding joint out to him. He sees crinkling around deep brown eyes as he leans over and snatches at the thing.
Long brown hair swinging- it's curly, and soft looking, Billy thinks, and internally slaps himself for noticing that. His fuckin' dad was right wasn't he? No. No, fuck that. Billy won't give in to it.
He isn't a fag.
But their fingers touch as Billy snatches the joint and the guy breaks into a smile. Like he doesn't know who this is and what Billy's already into here, that he's the guy who's ready to beat the shit outta you and then drive over you with his car for good measure.
Except that is honestly the most stupid of ass-backward ideas, Billy won't put a single dent in his car.
He looks up at the other before jabbing the joint into his mouth.
Guy fumbles with his jeans, patting at the pockets and saying "here man, I think I've gotta light"
Billy glares, clenches the bud between his teeth and yanks out his matches, leaning down and striking one on side of his boot. He thinks he hears a sigh - or a grunt? From the guy as he catches and stands, shaking match out and inhaling before huffing air hard, sending twin smoke plumes from both nostrils like some fucked-up bloodied fighting dragon.
"...or you do," a swallow, a licking of lips and those brown eyes are staring Billy in the face with an expression that makes him feel a clench in his stomach. Makes him want to fight, because he sure as hell ain't gonna hide. But the guy nods, then, his hair floofing and falling (why is Billy fixated on that? Damn) "Right on, man. I'm Eddie," he introduces himself. Actually puts out his hand like they're businessmen meeting at an office or some damn thing. "Eddie Munson. They call me the Freak around here," and it's a dry drawl but there's something else behind it. Something that burns in his eyes, and makes Billy think maybe this guy is a fighter too.
So he shakes his hand and tells him "Billy Hargrove."
"Ah, you're the fighter," Munson's eyes twinkle and he bites his lower lip. Billy grunts, inhaling before sending smoke blowing again.
"What you wanna see some action?" It's a growl without real heat behind it. The pot has already blunted his rage, taken it from being white-hot to something like a steady fire. It's almost... comfortable, what the hell.
"Oh man, I see it at the Hideout enough," Eddie laughs, this bright sound, as Billy stares at him. "Action, man; there's tons of it. My kind is mostly with my band."
"You play?" Billy doesn't know why he's asking. Why he's talking to this guy even. He doesn't hang out with freaks, doesn't have anything to do with them.
But that was before. Now he's in nowhere America with a burning cut on each one of his knuckles because he doesn't have tape, or rings.
"Yeah, guitar. And I can get what you want - rings, huh?" Billy didn't know he said something out loud. He snaps his face up and glares, but this guy doesn't look scared. It makes something almost wobble in Billy's stomach. Jesus. Get a grip, he snarls at himself, clenching fists and practically crushing the rest of the joint, but it doesn't seem to be that which makes Eddie move - it's a handkerchief (who even carries something like that?) whipped from a back pocket and pressed to the stinging wet spots that have started to trickle and pour blood over and across Billy's hands.
Billy jerks and then he just stares as Munson presses with the cloth and his own hands around Billy's, and it's gotta be proof of how messed up he is that he just...stands there and lets it happen. He lets this guy he just met, what, take care of him?
Why not, it isn't like they'll see each other again.
+++
And then they see each other at school. Billy figures Munson must be in high school, or graduated already, whatever. But he's still surprised to hear a low whistle and see Eddie's bright smile coming towards him in the hallway.
And then they meet up behind the school in the woods again.
It becomes a thing, for them to smoke together, or for Eddie to bring and pluck some chords on his guitar (it's pretty badass, Billy whistles but doesn't say anything else when he sees it) he just watches those nimble fingers at work and grits his teeth so hard he practically gives himself a headache.
"You wanta try?" Eddie asks, once, seeing how intent Billy's eyes are on his hands
"Huh?" Billy snaps. Eddie doesn't flinch or back off or anything. "What the hell are you talking about, Munson?"
Eddie remains unfazed.
"Here, man, you wanna try and play?"
Billy swipes at his nose and then pushes his hands down against his legs. He isn't nervous, goddamnit, he's just surprised - "whatever Munson, you really want to show off this thing," he grumbles, but does go to sit on the bench of the picnic table in this clearing because he can't say no to the guy about this apparently. Well, out here.
Only out here.
(Eddie says it's his place, nobody ever comes out here "except me. And us now I guess, eh Billy?" He was beaming about it, and Billy doesn't even take a swing at him. Even though that level of excitement comes from a fag.)
And then Eddie's sitting on the picnic table, the TOP of the picnic table - behind Billy, he's pulling Billy's arms to wrap around his guitar, and he's folding Billy's fingers and wrapping his own around Billy's shoulder, telling him to just relax, ease up on the death grip, man. "You've gotta make love to her," Eddie's tone of voice is a purr and Billy works desperately not to swear and cut and run because a heat is clenching in his guts and his legs are sweating and he's moving hands clumsily on the chords of some Elvis song his mother had taught him when he was a little kid, and he feels like he can somehow HEAR Eddie's thousand-watt smile as he's encouraging, squeezing Billy's shoulder and tapping his foot and saying "you're a rocker, Billy! Shit if I'd known that-"
"I told you that," Billy snarls, at last twisting away, but only to actually look at Munson again. It's like he can't help himself. What the hell is wrong with him? "I like the Crue, Poison -" Journey, his brain also supplies, but that would absolutely be a faggy thing to say. Eddie is squeezing both his shoulders now and Billy has to work really hard not to melt into his grip.
"Oh, man, you gotta come jam with me and the band!" Cries Eddie.
"I gotta get some rings to be a rocker," he's half-kidding just to get to Eddie, but damn if the guy doesn't clap his hands and nod and say yeah.
It's a while after the guitar lessons and somehow getting rings for Billy that Eddie starts painting his nails. He offered, once, sliding rings on Billy's fingers for him and saying "a little polish on your nails 'd look pretty good,"
"What, you think I'd pull that shit?" Billy growls around the cig bobbing between his lips, letting fingers trail over the metal feather and hook of his earring - hanging in the reddish almost-curly mass of hair that Eddie fixed for him, had tucked some behind his ear and Billy froze as the other shrugs with a slow, small smile.
"You can pull whatever you want to, Billy. I don't mind," Eddie said. And the thing was, those words. He didn't say he didn't care, he said he didn't mind. Which is different and it's enough to make Billy's head spin even as his eye socket throbs for days from the effects of Neil's fist afterwards.
He goes home still wearing the earring and with his new rings on. Hadn't thought about tucking em away, because he's stupid. Even after California, what happened before they left, he's still stupid.
But Eddie had said "Man, Billy, you're lookin' good," in this way that was almost reverent, like he couldn't take his eyes off him, and damn Billy liked it.
Because he's stupid.
Maybe not as stupid as little turd Max, for hanging out with those little shit kids, 'specially that one ballsy little bastard who definitely came over to the house, but close.
Billy also knows he's screwed; or at least he's pretty damn close.