you're too young & eager to love

I’m over analyzing films again. Scream! How I love you. I don’t even care if most people hate you. You’re so fun.

Stu seems very physically affectionate with Billy. He leans on him a lot and gives him crazy, lusty eyes. He also, very obviously, follows Billy’s lead and doesn’t seem like the more capable of the two. During the kitchen showdown scene with Sidney, Billy hands Stu the gun and Stu presents Billy with the knife …. Which makes me think that Billy is the better knife-wielder. And maybe the one who most directly killed the people?

And Stu says “baby” a lot. Which makes me grin.

Billy’s just hot. In a completely way-too-obviously psychotic way.

Here we go!




“You take a knife…” Stu said, his slyness fading into something more sinister as his fingers plucked at the hem of Tatum’s shirt. “And you cut them from groin to sternum.”




They started with pigs.

It had been Billy’s idea, of course, with his grease-stained hands and raw-bitten nails. Billy knew all types of useful information, but not all of it came from horror movies, as it turned out. He learned how to skin and butcher animals from his father, long before Hank started fucking Sidney’s mother and returning home at odd hours. In a way, it made sense that Billy had known how to use a knife for a long time. He had that look about him.

Stu didn’t. He was too tall and too funny. He’d been the class clown since third grade, and humor rarely required knife work. He was queasy in the woods, nervous, laughter breaking through his chattering teeth, and he still didn’t know where Billy had found a pig to begin with. It was smaller than what he had been expecting, a squirming bundle of pink skin in Billy’s arms. Its nose was wet and its eyes large. It didn’t run when Billy put it down but buried its nose into the dark dirt, content to sniff and push at the worms beneath their feet, the sound of it down there like the sound of a woman being snuffed.

“Shit, man, Billy … I don’t know. I’m feeling a little bit sick over here, man.” Stu runs his sleeve under his nose, trying to be funny but he’s sniveling a bit instead, and he’s reminded of being six and crying over the death of his dog. Dogs and pigs don’t look anything alike, but he thinks it has something to do with the eyes.

Billy’s gaze goes dark, like it sometimes does when he’s angry or frustrated about Sidney blue-balling him or needy for Stu’s mouth around his cock, and the glint of the blade in his right hand is bright in comparison. The pig doesn’t see it, but Stu does. “From groin to sternum, right?”

Stu grins, a wide sloppy, manic expression. He still feels sick but Billy’s hair is falling into his wolf eyes as he twirls six inches of a butcher knife between his fingers and now his dick is a little hard.

It happens fast. It happens before Stu can stop smiling. Billy’s strong hands grab the pig at his feet, one of his fists hitting its head but it’s not nearly hard enough because he doesn’t have a hammer and he isn’t a butcher who really cares about stunning the kill in the first place. The pig is screaming and Stu’s never heard that sound before and its high pitched terror, terror like lightning, and he just wishes it would shut the fuck up because the noise is definitely making him feel worse, his stomach all tangled and knotted, and the thing still screams, screams for its life even as Billy slits its throat in one clean motion, and suddenly Stu gets what Clarice was trying to explain to Hannibal about the lambs.




Billy is not some pansy-ass momma’s boy faggot. He isn’t Norman Bates either, but he does appreciate the sentiment Bates establishes: we all do go a little mad sometimes. And maybe this is just madness too, because the blood on his hands sure as shit isn’t corn syrup, and he can taste copper in his throat when he catches Stu by the back of his neck and kisses him with more teeth than tongue.

Woodsboro is a small town with big morals covering deep lies, and this type of behavior between two boys would be just as bad as a psychotic slasher spree. But just like murder, it feels good. And Billy always does what feels good, trying to sooth that black hole inside of him, the one full of spite and hot anger. He’s taken charge of his own narrative, and it’s the millennium – sexual orientation is on the downward spiral and hedonism is making a come back.

As for Stu, he gives in to pressure easily. He hardly puts up a fight.

It all starts feeling like madness, and maybe what Billy said about mommy issues being passé is true, because motives really are incidental, but the truth is he doesn’t really know what he’s doing or why he’s doing it. He lets Billy guide and mold him, takes the back seat to his direction and steady gaze. Billy, who’s been his best friend since kindergarten, who actually fucking cried in front of him the day his mother split, who said he only liked Sid because he got hard thinking about a knife in her belly and remembering her mother’s screams. Stu knows that means something, but he’s not entirely sure what.

Either way, even the woods and the pigs become normal after a while.

He eventually figures out how to gut them, but his grip always feels a little clumsy on the blade no matter how dull the screams become or how hot Billy’s mouth is on his neck afterwards.

I needed to write something for today.
And then, thanks to a certain conversation, this happened.

-



“I don’t know, man.” Stu is very tall, even next to the trees. He’s dark and lanky and mostly hidden, pacing in a way that suggests nervousness.

Billy hits him on the side of the head with the blunt handle of the butcher knife, an action that is familiar enough because Stu doesn’t even flinch. He still rubs the sore spot though. “A little late for that, don’tcha think?”

It’s their first time, and Stuart has a queasy feeling in his stomach. He thought he’d be okay with blood, and maybe that isn’t really the problem since it’s all over his shirt and his hands and he doesn’t feel faint. His jeans are damp from dragging the body to the woods that line the property. Murder is a sloppy mess. But that’s not the issue either. It’s the way Billy looks, twirling the knife, his head darting up like a wolf whenever he thinks he hears a noise. And how he looked before, inside, using that voice to say those fucked up words that caused the girl to cry and beg and bleed.

Stu’s dick is a little hard.

Billy is clever and he has all the ideas. He’s a planner. So when he licks his lips and turns his wild eyes to him, Stu gets even queasier. A panic, adrenaline type of sickness. Billy hands him the knife and nudges what used to be Allison Docker in her ribs. “Cut her again.”

She’s dead. Stu knows it. But you don’t say no to Billy and when he hands you a knife you better take it and stab deep.

-


When they get back to his truck, Billy is pale and Stu is talking too much. Running his goddamn mouth again.

They both have trouble steadying their breathing.

Stu heads for the passenger side and is about to open the door, but he stops when he hears Billy laughing. Howling, really. But it’s so contagious and so fucking perfect that it makes Stu laugh too, sharper yet just as wild.


-


Billy is blood and blades. Even his grins cut.

Stu turns up the radio when Guns N’ Roses comes on. Just two teenagers driving home, listening to music too loudly, and it doesn’t feel all that different from any other Tuesday night in the end.

Just some more Scream bits. Inspired by viewing it and commenting throughout with my Muffin.

--



Stu asks the questions while Billy improvises. He gets the angry, loud taunts. Or the killing metaphors, though they’re limited to mostly fish prepping techniques (English isn’t his best subject). Stu focuses on keeping the terror rolling, otherwise Billy’s temper would have him breaking through windows far too soon, and Stu’s more about the delayed gratification, the sadistic humor. He lets Billy handle the majority of the skin slicing (except with Casey, that prim bitch was absolutely his).

-

That’s the thing about Sidney – she never follows through with much. This always surprised him, because everyone knows how much her mother was a slut and, well, like mother like daughter, right? (Except not). So he calls Stu on the drive home, all gravel-voiced and playful amusement. His car is already there, waiting, when Billy pulls up into the driveway. They stumble inside, Stu’s tall length like a hot iron beneath his hands, and The Exorcist is playing on TV.

-

Stu eats a lot of Salt and Vinegar chips. The way Billy eats popcorn. It sort of becomes familiar, that sea and grease taste on his mouth mingled with butter. They don’t talk about it – not like how they talk and talk and talk about the murders. They almost can’t stop talking about them, actually. It’s all planning and pre-planning, rough drafts, diagrams, the type of stuff that could be verification of a motive but they either burn or shred the papers. After Billy spends a night in jail, fingers inked as evidence, he starts using his mouth more and talking less.

-

Billy lets Stu pick the movies. It doesn’t matter (they’ve seen everything the rental store has to offer). They have the same taste (The Last House on the Left, The Shining, Psycho). Stu laughs at inappropriate times – his loud, yapping laughter that Billy has gotten used to, just like the faint music coming from the headphones around his neck. Billy was never much of a laugher, but he grins when knives find their way into young stomachs or split open throats.

Just a few because really, why not?
Stu and Billy obviously have the psychotic hots for each other.

Billy's point of view.

---


You're the type of guy that always has an alibi even if the air around you is consistently charged and threatening.

Sidney is pretty in a way that lacks severity and is undemanding. It's the type of pretty you find unsavory.

Stu and you have the same type of eyes. Hungry stares that turn distant, flash unstable. Hidden alongside serious grins and gruff voices. (There's a word for that - psychotic.) Stu's enigmatic liveliness paired with your brooding sobriety.

You like flannel, cotton shirts, and denim jeans. Heavy boots and just the smell of soap on your skin. Nondescript except for your jaw line and the fall of your dark hair against the sides of your face.

There was nothing in you as a boy, so there's nothing in you now. A cold calculating menace fills the missing pieces. By the time you start feeling whole, you've already learned the heaviness of a knife.

He is a pressure against you, tall and lanky. He is an absent scent. Between the two of you, it's all cuts and bruises and laughter that's too dark to be joyous.