The sun is not out.
It's four o'clock on the first Wednesday in July, and the sun should be out. Will isn't sure where it's gone, what it's been replaced with, if it's been replaced at all, and by the time he has all these thoughts, all in a row, one after the other, it doesn't quite matter anymore.
The trees are lit with little fluorescent bulbs, like Christmas lights. He's among the trees, the wreck of Castle Byers a mess of moldy mush in the little clearing he's always liked. He's among the trees, only he's not.
No, he's at Starcourt Mall, the stores empty and bereft. He's standing among the wreckage of everything that's now long gone, everything abandoned and alone, left behind. Only he's not.
No, he's in a dream.
Billy Hargrove is dead. He died three years before, mauled by an Eldritch abomination straight out of a Cronenberg flick. Will saw it happen.
But Billy's standing, clear as day, in the middle of Will's childhood bedroom, in the middle of a dark summer afternoon, and if he's not alive, then he's doing a great impression of a not-dead person.
Will's in his bed. He's by the window. He's laying on the floor, staring at his bedroom ceiling and at Billy, too. All at the same time. The bed. It's the bed. He's on the bed. It's a dream. For certain, it's a dream he's in, because Billy Hargrove's dead and the sun is dark.
His bedroom is made of pitch, but Billy's clear as day, and Will's on his back one moment, on his front the next. Was he wearing any clothes? Because he sure as hell isn't wearing any now.
(And he knows—he knows—there's something here he's missing. It's unresolved shit which gets you dreaming of dead boys in your bedroom. He's just not in the right frame of mind to put his finger on it. He's still in the dream, and later he might not remember this, and maybe, come to think of it, this could have happened before. Has it?)
And he can still see him. Will's naked and on his front on his bed, but he can see Billy Hargrove approaching, stalking the bed, movements steady and even. It's unclear if Billy's naked, too. Will doesn't find it strange that he has no idea whether that's the case.
Will's dick is hard. He's hard at least six times a day, it seems, but now he's painfully and suddenly hard against the scratchy covers, leaking in a little puddle, pre getting caught in his pubic hair and getting dragged down to the tops of his thighs because he can't help fucking a little against the bed. It turns into a rough grind he stops only when one of Billy's big palms lands on a hip bone and squeezes.
Then both of Billy's palms are grasping at him, kneading skin and muscle and bone. His hands are warm. Hot. Close to scalding. Will's sticky all around his crotch.
With the grip he's got on his hips, Billy inches towards Will's crack and pulls at his cheeks until his hole shows. Will can feel it twitching. Winking. He's hot all down his face and chest imagining the sight he's giving Billy. He's still dry, though, but Billy must be reading his thoughts (or Billy is a figment of his imagination), because the next thing he knows Billy's sticky cockhead is in his crack, smearing pre-come around Will's little hole, pushing until the very tip breaches him.
His hole's too tight. The pre-come's not enough. But Will opens around him, milking at his cock, trying to draw him closer, deeper, more than just the fucking tip. Which is when he feels a slimy touch, two of them, on either side of where Billy's dick is fucking him open.
(He knows, instantly, what it is. What they are. It's a dream, so he knows.)
Will can't see where they're coming from, which might just be for the best. He doesn't want to see.
The twin stalks wiggle and squirm in the fine hairs around his hole, wet all on their own, little knobs and suckers prodding at the thin skin where Billy's almost done sinking to the root. Will mewls at the stretch, but can't stop his muscles milking at the thick cock opening him up. Then Billy pulls his hips until he's just got the tip keeping Will open and pounds back in the next instant, vicious and unrelenting and perfect.
Will gets fucked seemingly for hours. The motion has his own dick fucking his mattress unrepentantly. It's a steady rhythm, and more than enough to get him off, even with the burning sting of it, but then Billy suddenly stops to pull out. Has Will pathetically mewling for his cock. He doesn't get it back.
Instead, he gets the pads on the ends of the two stalks prodding insistently at the rim of his hole. He knows what's coming.
The first one sinks in deeper than Billy's cock did, though it's not as thick. It's an easy slide in. Effortless. He feels it in his fucking throat.
It wiggles around inside of him. Doesn't settle. Doesn't quite fuck. It hits his sweet spot relentlessly, however, an insistent pressure every other beat. It's both frustratingly not enough and too fucking much to the degree that he might explode out of his skin any moment.
All too soon the first one leaves him, only to be replaced by the other. This one goes even deeper. Doesn't wiggle around as much. Too soon that one leaves his hole as well.
They take turns. The tentacles coming from somewhere, from Billy maybe, take it in turns to fuck him. He doesn't get Billy's cock again for ages. But it's almost like there are two more dicks giving it to him as well. As if there were three people fucking him at once. It's almost enough.
Without any warning, he's empty. It's sudden. Just as his balls were starting to ache with the need to come. His hole gapes around nothing at all, stretched by Billy's thick cock and left throbbing.
The whine comes from somewhere deep in his throat. He stops humping the bed to concentrate on twitching his hole. Wants it to be inviting. He's too wide to close all the way, but Billy's palms are still gripping at his cheeks. He's presumably watching it all. Enjoying it. Maybe thinking about letting Will have it some more. (If figments of your imagination can even have thoughts. Huh.)
Then Will finally gets it. Finally. Billy's dick feels even thicker, goes even deeper on a long, hard thrust. Has Will moaning and shaking and wiggling around. He's getting fucked immediately, hard and rough and brutal. He's so close to coming he can taste it.
Billy comes first. It's a lot. It's hot. It's a wet mess dripping around Will's balls and bubbling out of his hole with every thrust Billy gives him. He's still getting fucked to within an inch of his life. The tentacles are back to prodding at the skin clutching at Billy's dick. They could easily dip back in. One of them could. Maybe both. Just impale him.
They don't. Not then. It's a close call maybe, but Will's balls are heavy between his legs and his dick is leaking and so... very… close.
The sun is out. It's morning, and Will Byers wakes up with come in his shorts and only a vague memory of a dream.