what doesn't kill you makes me want you more
Follows 'you'll never take us alive' and 'our love is like a crime scene'. There will be another part to this series, but I'm probably taking a break before I get to that.
Title from Taylor Swift's 'Cruel Summer' with slight alterations.
Thanks again to BeeLove.
Comments and kudos are always awesome. Enjoy! Happy Valentine's Day!
Chapter 2:
Billy wakes up to the static hum of a VHS tape hitting its end.
He must have dozed off, he thinks, fighting back a yawn. It's hardly a new development – turns out getting stabbed is a lingeringly exhausting affair, there has been a lot of dozing these last few weeks.
"You wanna get that?" Stu mumbles, sounds half-asleep himself.
"Yeah," he agrees, stumbling out of bed to the television. He rewinds the tape, ejects it, trades out Nightmare on Elm Street, the first in a long series of movies planned for this weekend of quiet recovery, for Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy's Revenge. He hits play and shuffles back over to reclaim his spot.
"You good?" he asks, as he settles back in. He's got his chest pressed to Stu's back, their legs loosely tangled together. He settles one arm under Stu's neck, the other low on his hip – well clear of any healing wounds.
"Mm," Stu assures him, leans back into him. "Yeah, perfect."
It's been three weeks since the party, since the murders.
A week since Stu finally got out of the hospital. One of Stu's wounds had started showing signs of infection a few days after the surgery and he'd ended up on IV antibiotics for days, feverish and half-delirious (luckily not delirious enough to say anything that could get he or Billy in trouble) until, at last, he'd started improving. Once he did finally get sent home (which had been thoroughly and professionally cleaned once the police were done with it, and certain items of furniture swiftly replaced), Stu's parents had remained annoyingly present, for once; Billy's dad had kept him on a short leash.
But, finally, today, they had a chance to be alone together. Stu's parents had headed off on a business trip, finally convinced that Stu was fine staying on his own; Billy had finally managed to sneak out.
The media frenzy has died down a bit, now that more details have come out about the case, and Billy and Stu have more or less managed to avoid talking to them at all. It had been a smart move, killing their killer this time. Unlike their first murder, they'd avoided the long drawn out drama of a trial, the risk of someone finding some contradictory piece of evidence. There have been funerals and memorial services and candlelight vigils. They've managed to avoid those, too. They've dodged visits from their classmates, feigning interest and sympathy but really just prying and nosy. There have been a few more interviews with the police – those they did not avoid, navigating the questions expertly, echoing each other's responses without sounding like carbon copies, too rehearsed.
All they want right now is each other. No one questions it, either, willing to accept that they're bound together somehow, now, having survived what they did together. If only they knew the truth.
They lay like that for a while as the movie plays on, but eventually Billy's attention is drawn to the edge of the scar on Stu's shoulder, where it pokes out from under the sleeve of his t-shirt. Billy can't resist the urge to trail his fingers along the line of raised skin – the stitches are out, it's mostly healed now. "I still haven't seen the other ones," he says, they'd been bandaged when they were both in the hospital, and after that Billy had never gotten him alone long enough to ask. "Can I?"
There's a beat, and he feels Stu go tense beside him. "I don't know."
"Why not?" He wonders, doesn't know why Stu would be so shy about scars they both have, that they gave to each other. He catches Stu's hand in his own, maps out that scar, too, with no complaints. Is it just the ones on his stomach?
"One of them isn't yours," he reminds Billy. "You didn't put it there."
Right. The surgery. For some reason, Billy had imagined they would have just gone in through one of the stab wounds, but apparently that's not the case. "Didn't I?" Billy argues. It certainly feels like he's responsible for putting it there, even if it had not been his hands on the scalpel – it had been his hands that had fucked up the stabbing bad enough for him to need surgery in the first place; he'd gone just a little too deep, at just the wrong angle. "It is mine."
With that assurance, Stu shifts, sits up with his back to Billy and reluctantly pulls off his shirt. "Don't say I didn't warn you," he says. When he finally turns to face him, it becomes immediately apparent just what has Stu so freaked out about the scars. There are the wounds Billy gave him, mostly healed up now just like all the others, just like Billy's, but he also bears a long surgical scar that extends from the base of his sternum down the center of his stomach. It curves around his belly button and stops a little below that. It looks a hell of a lot like he's been gutted. The edges of it are still bruised a fading yellow-green.
"Fuck," he blurts out in surprise, which was maybe not the best way to react.
Stu is very much refusing to look at him, staring resolutely down at the t-shirt he's wringing in his hands. "See? I told you, man, it's not like the others."
But Stu's forgetting something important here. "Doesn't matter. You're mine," he counters. Inherently, everything about Stu is Billy's.
Stu finally, finally looks up at him.
"You're mine and all of yours scars are mine," he assures him. "You want me to claim that one, too? I will, I swear," Billy promises, his voice low and quiet. He reaches out and lets his fingers move over the edges of the healing incision, watches the way Stu's muscles jump at the contact. "I'll make it just as much mine as all the rest of them when you're done with all the doctor visits." When they have the all clear, he'll play connect the dots with the wounds on Stu's side. Turn the three disparate stab wounds into a B, like the mark he'd left before. Carve his way between the scar tissue until he's branded for life. He'll drag a blade along the surgical scar, too, until Stu's convinced that every inch of it is his.
"Show me yours?" Stu requests, his hands already playing at the hem of Billy's shirt.
He complies easily enough, pulls the thing over his head and tosses it aside, let's Stu trace his way over the scars he left as long as he wants. Billy's skin always feels like it's on fire wherever Stu touches him, and the neat lines of scar tissue seem overly sensitive. He pulls Stu in for a sound kiss, and they lose themselves in lips and tongue and teeth for some time.
"Missed this," Stu mumbles against his neck - he takes advantage of the fact that he can leave marks now (Billy still has to restrain himself, Stu still has too many follow-up appointments to risk it just yet), and he doesn't let up until he's left a line of suction bruises all along his collarbone. "Missed you."
"Missed you, too," Billy says, pulls him in close and realizes, then, just how perfectly their scars line up like this. He grins and drags the other boy in for another kiss and once again he finds himself tracing over the lines, fingers curving over the stab wounds, moving over the length of the surgical scar.
But it's been three weeks since the party.
Three weeks of sharp pains and sore muscles and exhaustion and too much clinical poking and prodding. Three weeks of no contact and now they finally have their hands on each other again.
So.
"Mm, want me to take care of that for you?" Billy asks when he notices the very clear evidence of Stu's arousal pressing insistently against his hip. He doesn't wait for an answer, already groping Stu through his flannel pajama pants, already edging at the waistband. They are overdue a celebration and while this will not be that, it will still be something, some little relief. He presses more kisses along Stu's jaw and neck and shoulder, whatever he can reach, and lets his hand slip into Stu's pants, taunting, teasing.
"Fuck, please, yes," Stu manages, fighting for every little bit of friction he can get.
But Billy moves away, then, fumbles with the contents of the nightstand drawer until he's found the nearly empty bottle of lube there. "C'mere," he says, and Stu follows willingly as he pulls them back down, until they're settled on their sides again, Stu's back pressed flush to Billy's chest.
He slicks up his hand and takes mercy on the other boy, shoves at Stu's pajamas until they're halfway down his hips, until Stu's cock is free. His hand moves slowly and deliberately over the shaft, coaxing all these pretty little noises out of him. Each and every sound goes straight to his own dick, and he rocks his hips against Stu's ass to get his own relief.
He tries to take it easy, though, because somewhere in those pages of discharge instructions from the hospital is probably a warning not to overdo it and he'd rather not have Stu end up back there, definitely doesn't want to have to explain this. And it's not like they've never gone slow before – he likes the drawn out encounters they've shared, those times he's slowly driven Stu mad with want, waiting until he's insensible and begging for it, until he gets to hear that needy whine in Stu's voice when he gets desperate. Hell, he likes the times Stu's been the one to draw things out. He kept Billy going so long once that they'd lost all track of time, had nearly been late for school. But this is different.
Just long, languid, lazy movements, slow and steady and still making use of all the things he knows Stu's likes.
"Just think," he tells Stu, his free hand catching Stu's injured one, tracing over the sensitive edges of the scar there again. "Every time you touch yourself," he says, drawing out a few especially calculated strokes. "Every time you touch me, it's with this, this thing we did together."
"Fuck," Stu manages, his dick twitches in Billy's hand in response to the idea. "Fuck, Billy, yeah, just like that," he groans, hips rolling back and getting Billy closer, too. "Just like that."
"Yeah?" he asks, his voice quiet and breathy. He adds some new tricks to the mix, working the scars in as much as he can, using their sensitivity to get Stu that much more unhinged. Fingers trail over the raised lines, the fresh pink skin. He gets Stu to tilt his head just the right way, presses a biting kiss to his lips.
Stu's head is still tilted at the perfect angle, exposing the pale expanse of his throat, and Billy has to resist the urge to default to their usual games, to putting his hands on it, stealing Stu's breath away. Easy, he reminds himself, gotta take it easy. "Mine," he says, can't quite keep himself from pressing his lips to it, feels Stu's pulse racing under his skin. He drags his teeth over the spot just below his ear that always seems particularly sensitive to such attention.
"Yours," Stu agrees, "Come on," he says, "Put your hand around my neck already. You know you want to," he coaxes, the bastard, moves just enough to make it an even more tempting invitation. Like he's a fucking vampire or something. "Come on, I'm not gonna break, babe. You've never been gentle with me before, don't start now."
Billy tries to reason with him, tries to resist. "You almost died," he says. Of all the things he's ever done to Stu, he's never done anything that would actually hurt him (stab wounds not withstanding) and he doesn't intend to start now.
"I didn't," Stu argues.
Except, "You did, actually," he says, does everything he can to avoid thinking of how bad Stu looked when he'd called 911.
"I didn't stay that way," he counters. He grabs at Billy's hand, brings it up to his neck, knowing full well what that does to him. "Told you I was never leaving you."
"Damn it, Stu," he grumbles, but he stops fighting, lets his hand close around Stu's neck, just barely holding pressure. Gets off on the trust Stu has in him for this, the lack of fear in his eyes when he catches Billy's gaze. Even the first time, there'd been no fear – he'd gotten his hands on Stu's neck, then, too. He grins at the memory.
"Remember that first time in the shower?" Billy asks. It's still so vivid in his mind, etched there forever as part of their first murder. He remembers the red of the blood rinsing off of them and swirling down the drain, pressing Stu against the cold tile beneath the too hot water, hands on Stu's neck and on his dick, jerking each other off under the spray.
Stu makes some unintelligible noise of agreement, bucks his hips into Billy's hand a little more recklessly. "Of course," he manages, choking the words out around Billy's grip on his neck. "Never gonna forget that." And then, a desperate warning, "Close," he says, reaching back to pull Billy in for another rough kiss, Billy trails along his jaw and neck and shoulder until he reaches the scar there, biting lightly at the tender skin just around it – and Stu comes with a shout at the contact.
Billy watches him come undone, manages to get a hand shoved down his own pants, gets in a few clumsy strokes before he comes, too.
"You okay?" Billy asks, just to make sure. They're both catching their breath, but Stu nods and rolls to his back, leans up to steal another few kisses.
"Perfect," Stu says, the words mostly lost against his lips.
He pries himself away from Stu long enough to clean up and escape the mess of his jeans, opts instead to steal a pair of Stu's pajama pants from his dresser – too big on his smaller frame, barely clinging to his hips. Stu seems to like the sight and beckons him back to bed.
But the television static starts again, so he detours long enough to trade out Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy's Revenge for Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors before he settles back into bed with Stu once more, the two of them curled around each other, still absently tracing over their shared scars.
Billy revels in it, knows it won't be this simple for much longer. Soon, they'll run. He doesn't care where they go so long as it's out of Woodsboro, so long as he gets to wake up like this, with Stu in his arms, right where he belongs.