Billy isn't sure where he is when he wakes up, or why it is that he's waking up at all. By all accounts he shouldn't be. He died. Yes, despite his sureness that he is dead, that his cold, still heart isn't beating, that his lungs are coiled in on themselves like dried fruit, his lips part, his eyelids flutter, his fingers flex. His joints are coming awake again, moving and creaking like old machinery, his thoughts slowly trickling back to him, first numb and stupid, and then increasingly worried and complex.

His eyes open, but he cannot see, not yet. He feels cold night air on his eyeballs, the crease of skin on skin where his eyelids double, but sees nothing. His lips part like a fish, and he slowly takes in a breath. He feels his lungs cracking open, painfully if he does it too fast, but then his body seems to dampen, once dry like a boneyard and now filled with something, something alive. The air tastes sweet at first, but as his range of taste increases he realizes it is a rotten sweetness, like spoiled fruit. His tongue, spongy and thick, hits the roof of his mouth and threatens to choke him, before he gains control of it and moves it away.

His fingers curl. Then his elbows, then his legs, and then his shoulders can roll, slow and grinding like stones. He's dead; or, at least, he should be.

His vision is blotchy. At first he sees only in shades of red and green, with no contrast, just splotches of blurry color which vaguely denote his environment. It's not quite enough, and his brain isn't yet quick enough to really see it. His skin prickles with new life. He feels all his human sweat and dirt and moisture, suddenly, and it's sort of gross to come back to, but also oddly invigorating.

He blinks, feels his eyelashes brush against his cheek, tastes his lips; chapped, filmy, disgusting, wonderful. He hears his back snap when he arches it, feels each vertebrae start working again, as he bends himself, trying to sit up. Where is he?

He blinks again and this time his vision is better. Contrast is back, although the colors are limited; theres a thing called blue that he's not seeing. He blinks hard, feels his eyes situate smoothly, wetly, in their sockets. He coughs, and something old and foul slides up his throat. He sits up and spits it onto the ground-it tastes like death-and it's dark and muddy, something congealed. He spits again and finds that his mouth is beginning to produce saliva, a sloppy string of it hanging from his lips. He clumsily licks the remains from his lips, even though it's repulsive. Death makes for a terrible, awful hangover, he thinks.

His vision is back, but practically useless. The room he's in is dusky and nothing about it makes sense, thin strips of light filtering in through a boarded up window. He's on the second floor, he realizes, in one of the spare bedrooms. He doesn't remember much of anything-how much time has passed?-but nothing that the world is showing him now is giving him any hints; or at least, not ones that indicate that anything good happened. He knows he's Billy Joe Cobra, he knows he's famous, and he knows he's dead.

"Fuck." he croaks, his voice cracking, moist under the surface. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve; something dried at the corner of his mouth smears away. He's sitting on the bed, legs swung over the side. He's been there for a while. When he looks down, he can see that he's made an indentation on the mattress, roughly human shaped, created by his weight. The legs and arms are bent at weird angles; that must be why his limbs hurt. Ache, really, like everything else. It's a bitch, being alive, he thinks.

The light is off in the room, and most of the lightweight furniture is gone. The window is nailed shut with boards, the only light source, spreading a warm, natural glow over the entire place. Billy doesn't dare stand up yet. He feels pins and needles now, like his whole body has been asleep, and he doesn't think his legs will support him. He's had hangovers kind of like this, and knows his limits. Had he been drinking? He doesn't remember how he died. It's all so surreal and overwhelming that it absolutely underwhelms him, leaving him vaguely numb and disappointed.

His eyes, vision returned, survey the room again. His eyebrows furrow, pulling the taut skin of his face into his first expression yet, which is sort of painful, when his eyes meet the door. It's shut, but not just shut; barely on its hinges, the doorknob locked but hanging open off the side of the door. It's fixed on the other side, where he cannot see, with thick rope. At the bottom of the door is dark brown smear. At first he thinks it's dirt or mud, but his gut recognizes it before his brain does. It's blood, thick and congealed and matted into the carpet. It stinks.

Suddenly, his stomach is in his throat. He tastes foul liquid and bile and, gripping the bed, leans over the side, abdomen convulsing as he heaves slick, dark liquid onto the carpet. His eyes water, and his mind reels, dizzy and disoriented and vaguely disgusted. He doesn't dare open his eyes and see whatever it was that just slid up his throat and onto the carpet; the sound it made was wet, but not like water. It sounded solid. He doesn't want to know what it is, because it tastes like…..

He doesn't want to think about it.

Spitting up the last of it, mind rejecting the texture of whatever it was between his tongue and the roof of his mouth, he leans back up, eyes still shut. He hiccups and it turns into another gag, but nothing comes up. He's all dry.

He's thrown up before, all the time, but never like that. He still doesn't want to open his eyes, but slowly, he does. The room is the same as it was a moment ago, not a dream, just a strange, obstinate reality.

Slowly, he lifts himself from the bed. His legs shake and his whole body seems to lurch, the floor dipping and swelling when he looks down at it. He blinks hard and forces himself not the faint, feet shuffling, the mere act of walking old and strange. One foot in front of the other, let the fall happen, now the other foot. Walking is a mental task now, and he has to think the process out, just as he has to remind himself to breath, although he doesn't think he needs to. When he reaches the front of the door, he carefully steps around the smear of blood, peeking through one of the chipped holes in the door-which looks like someone broke it down and put it back up again-to look out into the hallway. It's dark.

"H-hello?" he says, his voice a quiet rasp, barely audible. He clears it, slathers his mouth with spit, gets better control of his tongue. "Hello?" a bit louder this time, his jaw aching when he has to open it to project his voice.

"Is...is anyone out there?" he shouts this time, perfectly loud and clear, and is briefly proud of himself. He can't really think about any of the things happened to him, not yet; there's too many, each it's own disaster, and he's not ready yet. Right now, he just wants to find someone, anyone, to take care of him. He looks down and grips at the doorknob, which hangs uselessly from it's socket. It'll do him no good. He leans against the door, trying to push it open, but is too weak to even budge it. He starts to panic.

"C'mon, this isn't funny!" he's almost screaming now. He realizes, for the first time, how oppressively silent it is. Everything is silent. No birds, nothing. He whimpers, lip quivering, and his eyes dart around the room. He can't get out the window, he's on the second floor and it's boarded up. He's not sure what would even be out there, anyway, and it's an oddly terrifying thought when he examines it. What does he think is out there? What is he afraid of? What would make him think that whatever he's afraid of is out there? He doesn't know.

"Somebody-!" he's screaming, hands grappling with the door, when suddenly he hears footsteps, light but hurried, thundering down the hallway. He's both terrified and thankful; someone, maybe here to kill him, but someone. He can't be alone, he's lose his mind. He smiles for a split second before the person slams against the door. He yelps and jerks back; he can hear them breathing heavily against the door, the wrong kind of breathing, the angry kind, through clenched, bared teeth.

"Shut up. Shut the fuck up." the person hisses, low and worn, pressed closely against the door. "You shut the fuck up."

Billy scrambles, struggles not to fall, and steadies himself. If he were alive, his heart would be pounding. He breathes hard, out of instinct, and finds walking easier, his mind's functions coming back to him.

"Oh, thank God. You're here, whoever you are, please-"

"How are you alive?" they snarl.

"What?"

"Do I sound like I'm playing games? You were locked up in here. I thought you were one of them. You haven't had a way in or out in a month. You were dead. I made sure." The person seems to back away from the door.

Billy's mouth goes dry. Yeah, he guesses, this person, a guy he thinks, is right to be suspicious. If someone long dead got up and walked around in his presence, he'd be skittish too. Not to mention the blood everywhere. Whatever happened here, Billy would hazard a guess that it wasn't the most calming, therapeutic experience.

"I'm, I'm Billy Joe-"

"I know who you are." their voice goes softer, just a little. Then it's quiet, a long, pregnant pause taking up the whole room. "Am I really this lonely?" he hears the person mutter. "No, no I'm not. You aren't real." they continue, muttering to themselves. "No, you are real. Is this real?"

"This is real." Billy says, trying to keep his tone level. He puts his hands on the door, leaning close, trying to get a look at the person through the hole. "I know I probably sound crazy, but I really, really, just want to know what's going on." a breath escapes him, almost a sob. "One-one minute, I'm partying out by the pool, and then, I guess I died, but…" he pauses. "...here I am, anyway."

The silence is heavy and palpable. Billy's future depends on this guy, who is weighing his option on the other side of the door. Billy bites his lip and hopes against all hope, with more than his cold, dead heart.

"You don't sound nearly as crazy as you probably think." he hears the other person say. Billy exhales a sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing when he hadn't realized they were tense. "I'm...I'm gonna do something stupid, and open this door. If you make one funny move, or any loud noise, I'll kill you." Billy swallows hard, wondering how it came to this. He's meant to be worshipped on stage, not threatened, but now he thinks it doesn't matter. This person clearly doesn't care who he is.

"Okay, okay, dude. You got it, brochacho, that's totally cool." he babbles. It's quiet again, but then he hears a hacking sound at the other side of the door, and the rope falls away to the floor. He breathes out and smiles; this is the first good thing to happen since he woke. The door swings open.

Billy's whole world stops.

"Spencer?"

The kid in front of him hardly looks like the kid who used to hang from his hip at family reunions. He's older, for one thing, in his late teens if Billy had to guess. But it's not just the physical difference, not just the strange scar on his cheek, his disheveled hair, the blood smeared on his shirt. It's his whole posture, demeanor, expression. He seems tense like a cat, eyes sharp, seeing forever. He seems scared. In one hand he has an axe, his arms tight with sinewy muscle, the other hand held into a tight, claw like shape. He looks like he's ready to bolt at any instant, but his eyes move quickly, sizing Billy up faster than Billy thought possible. He's still got those smart, dark brown eyes, and that strange, reddish brown mop of hair. Freckles mix with dirt, pink lips, white teeth.

"I can't believe this." Spencer says, slowly, his posture relaxing when Billy makes no move to hurt him. First he looks coldly skeptical, and then panicked, bemused, his eyes wide and glossy. His grip loosens dangerously on the axe, but he tightens it again. His eyes dart around, unable to focus for too long on anything, too overwhelmed by the whole to understand the parts. He takes a step back and Billy smiles, happy to see a familiar face, much less Spencer's. It's good to see him, or maybe it isn't. He doesn't look good.

"Yeah, I uh…sorry for scaring you." Billy says.

Spencer bites his lip. "You should be dead. You were dead when I got here."

"I think I still am." Billy shrugs. Spencer stares at him for a long, tense moment, and then cracks a wry, humorless, relieved smile.

"You always were really stupid." Billy would take offense, but he's too happy to just see Spencer.

The boy lets the axe sling to his side. He looks up at Billy, and smiles like he's been kept awake for a hundred years. It's unsettling.

"Thanks." he says-thanks for what?-and Billy barely registers the tears in his eyes before the axe hits the floor with a low thud, lodging in the carpet, and Spencer lunges forward. His arms hook around Billy's waist, and drag him into a warm hug. Billy's breath rushes out of him all at once when Spencer buries his nose in his chest, the boy's short, reddish brown hair mashing at his collarbone, strong arms crushing his ribcage. Calloused, hardened hands flex and curl at his back, digging in the flesh there. He feels the sob before he hears it, and realizes it isn't coming from him.

Spencer's warmth seeps into his body and he exhales, first euphoric but then heartbroken, as Spencer muffles a long, despairing wail in his chest. He throws his arms around the boy, the cry rattling in his ribcage, piercing his marrow. It's the worst thing he's ever heard, worse than a baby crying, worse than a sad dog's howl. It's a cry from a place he's never been, but for an instant it slips him toes first into the soul of a soldier, wounded and young, carrying more than his body can support. Spencer's whole weight shifts onto him, legs all but falling out from under him. Billy feels like crying, too, just from the proximity; it sounds like suffering, like loneliness, and it comes from deep, deep in the marrow of Spencer's body. It stains his shirt with blood, sweat, tears and snot, but he can't make himself care. His baby cousin, this little boy; he holds him tight, cupping the back of his head, muttering little nothings to him in ways he didn't think he was capable of. Billy was never good at caring about other people, but Spencer is different. It overcomes him in a tide of confused, aching sympathy.

Billy hushes him, but he doesn't stop crying. Everything is going into it, everything he has; its mindless and complete and terrifying, and Billy lets himself sink down until they're sitting, curled together on the floor. Billy lets himself lay in the congealed blood, lets Spencer smear snot and tears into his shirt, lets the boy cry harder than Billy has ever seen. The axe, lodged in the floor in the hall, sits still and stony. It's a fire axe, heavy and red and rusted with blood. Billy thumbs through Spencer's hair and kisses the crown of his head. It doesn't stop. Some impractical, but insightful part of Billy thinks it never will.

After a while, Spencer wears himself out. He's reduced to tiny, wet hiccups. It's getting dark, and Billy can barely see any more, but it hardly matters. The day is done. It's over, for now, except that it's not. Spencer still jumps at ever tiny sound, every heartbeat, every misplaced breath. Nothing feels safe. The place creaks with the night and Billy rocks his baby cousin back and forth on the floor in the blood.

"Sorry." Spencer croaks. Billy shakes his head. Whatever made Spencer cry like that, it must've meant something. People don't just cry like that. Even Billy knows. Spencer is limp and exhausted. Billy thinks of dragging him back over to the bed. He threw upon the floor over there, but everything seems gross, so he doesn't think it really matters. He supposes he's had worse.

"You wanna sleep?" Billy asks quietly. Spencer had muffled his crying, purposeful even when he lost control.

"Can't," Spencer says. "haven't in days."

Billy cracks a small, supportive smile that Spencer can't see. "Everyone sleeps better after a good cry." he stands, finding lost strength to pick Spencer up. He gently closes the door, holding Spencer, who steadies himself and wipes his eyes, only succeeding in smearing his tears with dirt and making it worse. His eyes are red and tired, swollen and wrought with some worn out, distant pain.

Billy guides him to the bed. Spencer lays down hesitantly, his eyes darting to the boarded up window every few seconds, looking at the door, looking at Billy, jumping when something in the house makes a sound. "I need the axe." Billy doesn't ask why, he just gets it. It's heavy-Spencer must be strong-and something about it makes Billy's head ache. The blood on it has to belong to someone. He doesn't ask.

Spencer makes him put it under the pillow. He rejects the idea at first, but Spencer won't give up on it, so he obeys, and lays down next to the boy. They lay on top of the covers-it's hot, probably summer anyway-and Spencer's breathing slows.

"It's okay." Billy says. He's dead, and everything is a mess, and he has no idea what's happening. Objectively, nothing is okay. "You're gonna be okay."

"That's a lie." Spencer says, but then he presses his warm body up to Billy's colder one, one with no heartbeat. Billy licks his lips and it's deafening in the silence. He curls his arms around Spencer. He's always been content to be ignorant, all through his life and career, so he supposes it won't hurt him to wait one more day to ask what's going on.

Spencer is asleep almost instantly, one hand on Billy's chest and the other clutching at the handle of the axe.

its probs obvious how this is gonna go lmao

actually gonna do a multichapter thing i guess since i have nothing better to do. im not a writer or anything its not even a thing i pursue or am good at so idk how well it. will go. haha.

m for future sex/violence stuff i guess? not sure yet

reviews would be lovely but its ok if u dont want to

uhhh thats it thanks bye ;v;