Billy's heartbeat thuds in his ears, trying, if nothing else, to stay calm - or at least look it. He keeps his focus on Gator, afraid that if he looks away he'll take the opportunity to shoot. There's no guarantee that he won't just do it anyway, but he has to try.
Gator's fingers find his wrist, so Billy shifts to interlace their fingers, giving his hand a squeeze as he stares at him, wide-eyed.
"C'mon, daddy, there'll always be more coke. We just did some the other day," he pleads, thumb circling over the back of Gator's hand. Never mind that technically, Gator's stealing from the law, too. But helping yourself to the contents of the evidence locker is just another privilege that comes with being the sheriff's son. As is being able to put someone in the ground.
Behind him somewhere, Billy hears the knife hit the floor, sighing with relief. This isn't over yet, but Quentin not holding a weapon - useless as it would be here - is a start.
"How about -- our friend here gives us some blow and gets lost, then we can have some real fun and forget any of this ever happened." Yeah, right. Billy's not going to forget about this for a long time.
Billy laces his fingers with Gator's and it's all he can feel for a moment. Palm to palm warmth, so locked and sweet and strange that Gator snatches his hand away, snakebit. He doesn't like that fucking softness - it reminds him of his mother, of what it felt like to have someone who didn't hate him. He supposes Nadine made a close second, wherever the fuck she is. He looks at Billy, confused for a moment, then his face twists with something that's dangerous. His eyes are glassy, and as he pushes past Billy, gun lowering, he grabs Quentin by the back of the neck.
"Get on your knees. Open that mouth." He places the gun to Quentin's head, tapping the end of the barrel against his temple. Once, twice. His stiff against his uniform again, inseam bulging, as he turns back to Billy. He smirks, then nods for him to come over. "C'mon, baby. I know what we need. Let's fuck him. Then he'll learn."
He strokes Quentin's hair before he yanks his head back, looking down into his eyes. "I said open your fuckin' mouth." He taps Quentin's lips with the barrel of the gun. "And you fuckin' do somethin' stupid like try to bite me? And I'll blow your fuckin' brains out. It don't matter to me. Somethin's gettin' sucked."
No knife, but he's ready to claw his way out of here--but Gator is too quick in his step, too strong in his wrist and thumb dug against the base of Quentin's skull. It had been hot enough way back when, being handled, being rocked like a storm. Now, all he feels in the pit of his gut is sourness.
All that frenetic movement burns down to flinching, twitching in his eyebrow or lips to inch away from the cool of the gun. Still a snarl in his mouth, even if his eyes start to water and his voice frays. "You're fucking kidding me. Billy, tell me he's fucking kidding."
Gator jerks his hand away from him like he's touched a hot stove, and Billy winces, expecting a backhand. Instead, he just gets a look like he's the one being irrational here. He's the one being unreasonable when he's the only one here who hasn't pointed a weapon at anybody. His stomach twists as he takes a half-step backward to let Gator pass, eyes wide as he takes in the sight of what happens next.
Billy's been in Quentin's place before, felt that same gun clacking against his teeth, tasted it on his tongue. But he didn't learn his lesson, kept playing with fire, and now? Now everybody's getting burned.
And it's sick, truly sick, how under all of that fear and dread, there's something jealous buried in him seeing Gator do this to Quentin. It's not fair, not fucking fair, how Gator can hold him on such a tight leash when it's not like he's his boyfriend but as soon as Gator wants someone else, he's supposed to just go with it. Billy knows full well that this isn't about that, this is about power, about punishment and humiliation, but the feeling lingers anyway.
"Put the gun down, Gator. Please." Billy swallows as he creeps closer, trying to keep his voice steady. "C'mon. I don't wanna fuck him, you don't wanna fuck him." There have been a few times, both of them strung out on the couch at sunrise, shooting the shit, where Billy thought about crossing that line. But he didn't. Don't shit where you eat - don't fuck your roommate. Duh. Right now, the idea just makes him feel nauseated, especially when Quentin speaks up - tell me he's fucking kidding, and Billy wishes he could.
"Will you leave him alone after this?" he asks, brows knitting together. "I'm talking fresh start, clean slate."
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Gator's fingers find his wrist, so Billy shifts to interlace their fingers, giving his hand a squeeze as he stares at him, wide-eyed.
"C'mon, daddy, there'll always be more coke. We just did some the other day," he pleads, thumb circling over the back of Gator's hand. Never mind that technically, Gator's stealing from the law, too. But helping yourself to the contents of the evidence locker is just another privilege that comes with being the sheriff's son. As is being able to put someone in the ground.
Behind him somewhere, Billy hears the knife hit the floor, sighing with relief. This isn't over yet, but Quentin not holding a weapon - useless as it would be here - is a start.
"How about -- our friend here gives us some blow and gets lost, then we can have some real fun and forget any of this ever happened." Yeah, right. Billy's not going to forget about this for a long time.
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"Get on your knees. Open that mouth." He places the gun to Quentin's head, tapping the end of the barrel against his temple. Once, twice. His stiff against his uniform again, inseam bulging, as he turns back to Billy. He smirks, then nods for him to come over. "C'mon, baby. I know what we need. Let's fuck him. Then he'll learn."
He strokes Quentin's hair before he yanks his head back, looking down into his eyes. "I said open your fuckin' mouth." He taps Quentin's lips with the barrel of the gun. "And you fuckin' do somethin' stupid like try to bite me? And I'll blow your fuckin' brains out. It don't matter to me. Somethin's gettin' sucked."
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All that frenetic movement burns down to flinching, twitching in his eyebrow or lips to inch away from the cool of the gun. Still a snarl in his mouth, even if his eyes start to water and his voice frays. "You're fucking kidding me. Billy, tell me he's fucking kidding."
no subject
Billy's been in Quentin's place before, felt that same gun clacking against his teeth, tasted it on his tongue. But he didn't learn his lesson, kept playing with fire, and now? Now everybody's getting burned.
And it's sick, truly sick, how under all of that fear and dread, there's something jealous buried in him seeing Gator do this to Quentin. It's not fair, not fucking fair, how Gator can hold him on such a tight leash when it's not like he's his boyfriend but as soon as Gator wants someone else, he's supposed to just go with it. Billy knows full well that this isn't about that, this is about power, about punishment and humiliation, but the feeling lingers anyway.
"Put the gun down, Gator. Please." Billy swallows as he creeps closer, trying to keep his voice steady. "C'mon. I don't wanna fuck him, you don't wanna fuck him." There have been a few times, both of them strung out on the couch at sunrise, shooting the shit, where Billy thought about crossing that line. But he didn't. Don't shit where you eat - don't fuck your roommate. Duh. Right now, the idea just makes him feel nauseated, especially when Quentin speaks up - tell me he's fucking kidding, and Billy wishes he could.
"Will you leave him alone after this?" he asks, brows knitting together. "I'm talking fresh start, clean slate."