It takes a couple sparks before his light finally takes hold. He had wandered off to the farest edge of the camp, more as a formality than isolation; second hand smoke is an ugly thing and he’s respectful enough to take it away from the rest of the group. with his back to the fire, he could almost pretend he wasn't here. Almost. There's no infected crawling in the woods stretching out in front of him, wailing in the way they do.
Taking a long draw of his cigarette, he grimaces. A man can dream.
Bill hates this horseshit. He was introduced, crudely, to a handful of his teammates in his first match, and he did not survive. It was a valiant effort on his teammates' part, trying to keep him alive, but his mind was still wired on “fight”, instead of flight.
He didn't go out of his way, per say, to pick a fight, but everytime the killer showed up he’d pack that punch right back at them. It took 2 hooks and a handful of fruitless attempts to beat down on the killer with a toolbox before Bill finally picked up how the game was supposed to flow. Still, he's proud of whatever whooping he did manage to give them. Serves them fucking right.
He decides to sit down. It takes him a while, with the bad knee, but he manages to with a groan. Nothing better to do but smoke and sulk about it, he guesses. Though he wishes the ground wasn’t so cold.
he'd never do drugs, of course — but his dad's cigarettes, cheap beer, weed ... none of that stuff counts as drugs, not according to steve. he wouldn't say he made a habit out of nicotine, in particular ... in fact, he cut back a whole lot, nearly quit entirely, once he cut off his shitty, popular friends. he's out of high school now, after all, and even if he can't go to a good school or get a real job, he might as well grow up in some respects; and when you're an adult, you have the responsibility, the mature state of mind, not to smoke around the impressionable kids who steve always seemed to be spending his time with. it's hard to believe that he only ever used to have a cigarette when he was at one of those parties with all his friends, because in those days before he was snatched up from hawkins, steve only smoked when he was stressed and alone.
... that's another period of his life that's over, though, as reluctant as he's been to admit it. steve likes to pretend that he's confident in everything, both when it comes to his own capabilities and his own future. he did it at home, and he still does it here, even if the destinations he swears he'll make it to are a hell of a lot different now. even if everything is different now ... he acts the same, and for steve, acting the same is just that: acting. he doesn't think he'll ever get out of here, just like he never thought he'd get out of hawkins. (god, he can't even describe how much he now wishes that he'd been right about that one.) but hawkins is gone, this quite literal hell is here to stay, and steve finds himself feeling a lot more stressed and alone than he did at any point in nowhere, indiana.
he isn't sure what motivates him to sit by bill. maybe he still can't stand to see someone go lonely, or maybe he misses the smell of cigarette smoke. maybe he's hoping he'll get to borrow one if he asks, but he's not so optimistic about that one. steve hardly ever finds it in himself to sit all the way down, no matter how tired he may get; instead, he's always crouching, or perching, or anything to avoid letting his guard down. next to bill, completely uninvited, the former jock opts for a sort of half-kneel, one leg on the ground at the other held up. he looks ready to sprint off at any moment, and hell, he might as well be.
"hey," he says, and he gives that signature smile, the one he manages to fake with so much realism no matter how much of his own blood, sweat, or tears are spilled. "where do you get all those cigarettes, anyway? is somebody hooking you up?" it's a joke, or at least, it's supposed to be ... but he really does want to know, if only for the sake of small talk. steve can charm anyone into liking him, or so he'd like to think — even if a grumpy old man like bill. after all, he's steve harrington!
"Hey." bill replies back bluntly. The joke flies past his head for a moment- only a moment, and he chuckles when it clicks. "God, I wish Kid."
He pauses briefly to wonder if what he's about to say is too dark, then disregards the thought and says it anyways. "They come back when I die." He doesn't understand how that happens. Bill assumes that because they were on his person, stashed away in a jacket pocket when he first came here, that the entity simply just… resets him back to the default everytime he dies. No excessive blood on his clothes, and a half full pack of cigarettes in that very same pocket every time.
And it's strange to even say that. 'Everytime he dies.' Like its not a big deal. Not a huge problem. And it isn't, not to Bill. He'll just come back, a reversible inconvenience now. That's how he views it, even if it doesn't make leaving someone behind hurt any less, doesn't make the hook hurt any less.
He glances at Steve from the corner of his eye. It definitely doesn't make it any less unfair, either, that there are people here who have barely reached adulthood. Bill himself is old. He's gone through his own experiences and figured his way out in life on his own. And now he's here, in purgatory hell repeating his own death over and over with someone who, he figures, has barely gotten to enjoy life yet. And for a moment, Bill's heart aches for the other. It's just not fair.
Well, he can't complain, he guesses. Free cigarettes are a mercy the entity does not often provide.
"Why are you asking, anyways? Not a good habit to start."
in some ways, steve feels, being stuck here is a mercy. of course, that's probably nothing more than yet another indication of his perpetual immaturity — nancy, for example, would never feel the way he feels, with her life planned out and her options open. steve ... what was steve going to do with himself before this? he couldn't even get into trade school, his dad wouldn't let him work for his mom ... for all he knows, he would've had shitty summer jobs for the rest of his life, and he would've died the same as he lived: aimless and lonely. here, at least, he needn't worry about the future. he may die over and over, but at least he knows he'll die. it's a predictable cycle, and at this point, that's comforting enough for steve.
he prefers not to think about these things, though, and learned as much pretty early on. it's easier to reflect on the past, or imagine there's some miracle way out of here, or even to let yourself sit at the campfire and lose yourself in the flickering flames. you can pretend this is normal, even when you know it's not. that, at least, is something steve has gotten good at.
there aren't many other things he can say he's gotten good at.
"hey, i used to be popular. in high school. you think i've never smoked?" above all else, it's this degree of self-awareness which most people are surprised to see in someone like steve. he may be stupid, and he may not have any aspirations, and ... well, he'll be the first to say he's more of a waste of space than anything. but he's had a lot of time to think about things, especially here, even if he hates to — and he finds himself cracking jokes about his stereotypical past, as if anyone finds them funny. just like it's easier to pretend this is normal, it's easier to pretend people think you're funny. steve's been good at that, at least, for a very, very long time.
there's no need to pass thoughts like these on to his fellow survivors, though. everyone is dealing with something, and he has the most potent feeling that everyone's something is worse than his. that's fine, though; after all, he'd rather be the one to cheer them up than look to be cheered up himself. it may not seem like what you'd expect from a former jock like steve, but that's just what you do when you're the babysitter. and so, he waves his hand, tilts his head back, looks right at bill and gives him the most reassuring little grin he possibly can, one that actually seems a lot more genuine than the smile he usually wears. maybe he thinks his own jokes or funny, or maybe he just enjoys some one-on-one company. either way, he goes on, "but you don't have to share. you'd probably flip if you saw me smoking, right? like my dad, or something." that's a sentiment that can be interpreted in all too many ways, so steve keeps talking to prevent any real thought on it. "believe it or not, i didn't come over here for a cigarette. just wanted to make sure you weren't over here all by yourself."
as if it matters. but steve is already lonely as hell, so the least he can do is make sure nobody goes on the same. (or maybe this is all an excuse to be selfish, justified so fiercely that even steve has begun to believe his own lie.) "you're old, right? you can tell me a war story or something." there he is — disrespectful steve. it's only another joke, though ... mostly. sometimes, it's hard to tell what he's kidding about, even for him. he'd rather focus on what other people say than what he says, though, so he hardly finds it a problem unless he's forced to confront it, which most people don't care quite enough to make him do.
"Oh, you were? you look the type to shove kids into lockers as a hobby." He's silent for a moment, before he chuckles.
"Nah, I'm just horseshittin' you, kid. You're fine."
It's been so long since Bill thought about highschool. Mainly because it was uneventful. Bill was a straight C's student, at best. And then he left for the military and never looked back. Three wars and a handful of metals -both on his chest, and in his knee- later, and his purpose in life was over. No longer was he William Overbeck, the old soldier that wouldn't come home, but now just Bill. Another long forgotten story, Stuck in dead end job after dead end job. He could no longer do physical labor, his knee wouldn't allow it, and yet he couldn't learn his way around a computer to save his life. So he stuck with his guns. At least the trials gave Bill a purpose.
In that regard, Bill and Steve have more in common than they really realize. They'd be miserable forever, whether here in the fog or in the real world.
His mouth draws into a thin line as Steve mentions being alone. Maybe it's the idea that he might have been noticeably lonesome, or that someone went out of their way to check on him. It's always been him to do that For so long. Take care of everyone else, and in his own way, make them feel safe. It's okay, he'd say, you'll be okay, kid. But you need to get up right now. even now, he still imposes this role upon himself. Keep people safe, make sure they're okay. Whatever it was, it only bothers him for a moment. Son of a bitch. "Kid, you know that people like to be left alone?"
Ah, there it is. Mean ass little kid. At least through all this, Steve's big mouth still works. Did anyone ever teach him how to talk to his elders? he sighs. He has war stories, plenty of them, but zombies are far more interesting, in his opinion. Witches and Hunters and boomers. He taps the cigarette on his knee.
"Guns are a damn good story, but have you ever seen what nature herself can do to a man, son?" He doesn't wait for Steve's answer. He doesn't exactly know how to unpack everything in one story.
"Awful things. I'm not a scientist, I don't know how that shit works." He was told once, a long ago. Incurable. You're immune only on your fathers side.
He assumes that, because everyone else he's talked to is not aware of the green flu, that Steve isn't either. It scares him, partly, because nobody else remembers the end of the world. Nobody remembers the pure hell he went through, the creatures that never stopped coming and eventually led to his death. "Zombies. You've seen a zombie film, haven't you son? Not like this." He grins, but it's more out of the irony. If only they were the shambling, slow undead of a movie.
Despite it all, he picks bits and pieces out of this story. He describes him and his companions barreling through hordes of zombies, fighting in a blaze of glory. He doesn't mention the suffering, the pain. He doesn't mention Zoey crying against his shoulder. He doesn't mention his own death.
"Now, son, Zombies like noise. It's like a pig in shit. So when louis shoots this alarm, you know, they come. We're surrounded." He pauses for dramatic effect. "And it comes. A zombie that stands taller than me- much taller. Two goddamn stories tall! It's all flesh and muscle, tossin' around the normal ones like toys. Ever had a car thrown over your head? Yea, Jesus H. Christ. We were in something awful." And then they killed it.
okay, so he was sort of the type to shove kids in lockers as a hobby, but he'd never actually done it! he's about to say something to this effect, you know, in his own defense — but bill tells him he's fine, and a long breath leaves his lungs. okay, he's fine. it's fine. for as much of a little shit as steve harrington may be, he sure seems to care a lot about what some old guy thinks of him ... and that includes thinking twice, thrice, so many fucking times when he gets a comment about how some people like to be left alone. honestly? steve forgets shit like that. he forgets (and does it all too often) that other people aren't just like him, because despite how hard he tries to be the babysitter, he's still a selfish jock deep down. he'd stared at bill from his perch at the campfire, and he'd thought, i'm lonely, so he must be lonely, too. stupid, selfish steve. the other survivors are probably gonna vote him off into the woods one day, and he won't blame them. bill hates him, just like everyone else. this is why he was only popular in high school, where it was cool to fail every class and not care about anyone but yourself.
stupid, stupid, stupid.
admittedly, steve spends the beginning of bill's not-war story mulling over these harsh self doubts and deprecations. he's not sure when that even stops, but ... well, eventually, he finds himself totally wrapped up in these tales which retell the end of the world, forgetting his own selfish thoughts entirely for at least a little while in favor of leaning forward with this wide-eyed stare, eating up the older survivor's every last word. at least he hadn't been dishonest when he said he wanted to hear some of bill's stories; after all, despite not getting ones he'd asked for, he's so involved in these ones that you'd think he's eight years old rather than nineteen. (he might as well be, since he's got just as much to show for it, but another plus side to listening to stories is that he doesn't have to think about what a failure he is.)
"wow." out comes the single word, so low and distant that he might as well be whispering. it's a lame thing to say in response to all that, but ... well, it's hard to articulate the childish sort of wonder that's already so clearly painted across steve's expression, so he'll just have to rely on that to convey just how effective the older man's tale had been. he pictures the gore, the glory, the thought of people working together like that, and it just ... makes him feel better, you know? as if it's somehow so much better than all the shit he went through before this. as if bill didn't have it much worse than he ever did, as if ... oh. ugh.
here he goes again, feeling bad for himself not even a minute after the grand conclusion. steve squirms. he hadn't cared for a cigarette before, hadn't expected one — and if you're talking about expecting, then he still doesn't, but ... well, damn, he could really use something for his nerves right now. "uh ... " he needs to say something, needs to pay attention, needs to stop being so self-centered if only for another few minutes. " ... sorry. sorry, i got— i zoned out for a second." it's not fair that he can't give bill anything in return for the distraction. what's he supposed to do, offer something up of his own? as much as he'd love to ramble on and on about the demogorgon, or the russians, or even just that asshole who stole his title as the king of hawkins ... he just feels like he shouldn't. he decides to make a joke about it instead, rather than just sitting there like a fucking dumbass. "i'd tell you about something cool, too, but, uh. well. it wasn't super cool when i failed chemistry. or geometry. or ... p.e. or when i tried to save the town, and i just got beaten up by some ugly soviets, or ... hey, how about that cigarette?"
Bill knows when he has captivated someone. They lean a little closer, eyes widen a little wider. It’s the same every time, and in a way, Bill prides himself on how effortlessly he gets people to do it, even when stories have to be squeezed out of him. So he knew that Steve was listening. Not paying attention wasn’t the problem. Bill also knows when something is bothering a person. He learned it in the military, honed it in the apocalypse, and put it into practice in the fog. It bothers him a little that Steve might have been stewing on the ‘Leave me alone.’ bit. He hadn’t actually meant it, not truely. He’s a lonely old man, sorely missing his old company and barely being present in his new ones. Not because he’s sour (well.. Perhaps a little sour.) but because it hurts. Would he be violently ripped away from this world too? Thrown into some other worse place or even an afterlife? So the kid next to him was right regardless. Steve was lonely, and Bill was lonely too. Bill doesn’t stew on it much longer. Steve was a grown man. If he wanted to stew on some snarky comment from an old guy he barely knows, then he can if he wants to. Bills not going to hold the others hand.
His mouth turns down for a second when Steve resumes speaking, sitting on the thought. To ask or not to ask, that is the question. How are you going to tell Bill you saved a town or got beat up by soviets and then try to brush over it? He plays along, for a moment, digging around in his pocket for another cigarette. It wasn’t in a package, unfortunately, so it was a little crumpled, but it served its purpose. Tucking the lighter in the same hand, he passes them over to Steve. “You’ll ruin your lungs. They’re already shit by the time you’re my age, so it’ll just be worse.” it's a hollow scolding, halfway between a joke and a warning. You can’t stop someone from doing what they want to do. Bill smoked in highschool anyways, it’s hypocritical of him to fall on the ‘smoking’s bad’ lesson too hard. Leaning back again. He sighs, setting aside the soviet elephant in the room for the moment. “You know, kid, I don’t want to say, ‘I dropped out, and I’m fine!’ because then I had zombie bastards biting at my ankles for the rest of my fucking life, but, School ain’t nothing but horseshit. You know it, I know it. People aren’t just their smarts. They push that onto you too much, I think.”
He pauses, remembering how Zoey had tried so hard as a college student. Her dreams of degrees and good jobs and a nice little home. Where was she now? Certainly not living what she wanted to live. Spent her whole life being miserable for a pay off that never came. “And regardless, sometimes things just go to hell and don’t work out regardless of what you do to fix it. That’s just the way this world works, I’ve learned.”
“Now, what I want to know, is if the Soviets were involved in the whole town saving shit, or if they were two seperate occasions?”
steve's expression actually brightens when bill hands him a crumpled up cigarette, alongside what steve can only describe as what appears to be a old and faithful lighter (emphasis on the old). maybe he shouldn't look so ecstatic, and god knows he doesn't want to — but if one thing hasn't changed from before he found himself dragged through the dirt and into the fog, it's that he never actually expects those little acts of kindness, regardless of how inconsequential they may be. impressing steve, hurting his ego, and making him smile ... it's all way too easy, especially for someone who's stuck here. so he places the mistreated cancer stick firmly between his lips, uses one hand to make a shield around it as if to protect it from some imaginary wind (it's really out of habit, but the thought is funnier), and lights it. even if he didn't miss this, in particular, something about it makes him feel at home, and he manages to keep listening to bill's every word even as he finishes up and hands back the lighter. somehow, he can't find it in himself to believe that the older survivor is completely right ... he's too convinced of his own failures for that to work so quickly. still, the thought is comforting, the sentiment is appreciated, and there's a thin smile on the former jock's lips long before he gets that first hit of nicotine.
"well," he begins, eyes angled down somewhat as he rolls the cigarette between his lips and thinks. his brows are furrowed in that way they always are when he's actually using his brain for something — a rarer occurrence than it should be, but somehow, it's endearing nonetheless. "i guess nancy saved the town a bit more than i ever did. i was just there — didn't really get what the fuck was going on half the time. i mean, i still don't, like, know all the details, which is pretty, uh ... telling, i guess, but whatever." deep breath in, deep breath out; he watches the smoke enter his lungs and leave it, and it's more therapeutic than he ever remembers it being back in hawkins. "some pretty crazy shit happened while i was in high school, like ... monsters and stuff. y'know, the first time i ever saw the demogorgon — you know that's what the kids named that faceless asshole, right? — it was when nancy and her ... her, uh ... boy ... friend? nancy and jonathan, they were trying to kill it. i was just stopping by to apologize to them for being a dick, i didn't know what the fuck was going on. i tried to call the cops. hah."
he goes into his accounts of his involvement with the demogorgon, then the demodogs ... and then they get to the soviets. finally. "it was after high school. i worked in this stupid ice cream place, we found out there were russians stationed under the mall ... uh, nancy wasn't there for that one. just my coworker, robin, and ... i dunno, it felt out of left field? since they weren't bloodthirsty monsters or anything. i mean, i'm pretty sure it turned out they were there because of the bloodthirsty monsters, but i never really expected to be drugged and tortured by commies, y'know?" he's just rambling at this point, mentally losing his trajectory as he gets caught up on the memories (good and bad) from before he ended up here. god, he misses it.
" ... would you go back?" he sounds wistful, far away ... completely unlike steve harrington. "i mean, if you had the chance to go back home, and leave everyone else here for dead. would you take it?"