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He should probably be thinking something along the lines of fear, along the lines of an escape plan. It’s useless. All Stanford can think about is: thirty years ago. It’s happening too fast. He only remembers Bill, and the sky, and the town going to ruins.
Now he’s in a collar and chains and he’s losing his mind. It’s happening too fast. Bill is holding a cup of something purple and it’s happening too fast.
Good people don’t think about love when they’re in collars, but then, most good people don’t mistakenly align themselves with dream demons. Stanford was a good person, once. Maybe he was better than others. It doesn’t matter now. This is his punishment for love. Good people don’t fall in love. Love is just tainting someone until they finally taint you back.
He should be thinking something along the lines of fear. Should be. Should be, but he's not and his mind is numb and he thinks that he would be hollow if he didn't have Bill to hold him down and push him and fill him up inside, fill all the cracks inside of him like thirty years ago. His mind is numb and it's happening much too fast. Bill's free hand is holding him tight by the chin. He can't move, but he wouldn't move if he wasn't being held. He would stay very, very still, and wait for Bill to make his move. That's how it always works. Bill has power over him and he knows it. Maybe it is time for Stanford to let Bill know that he is more than a numb mind and a soft body. Maybe it is time that Bill learned that Stanford has armor. Maybe it is time for them to finally explore.
"Hey old pal," Bill's voice is hauntingly calm.
"What did you do?"
"Oh, you refused to join me, so I had to do something to change your mind. In this case, that something was turning you into a gold statue. You were surprisingly useful when you were inanimate. Maybe I should've left you that way."
His voice remains calm, but Stanford feels like he's swallowed something sharp. It's disgusting, it's disgusting. His voice is a sharp object and Stanford has always loved the dangerous.
"But see, then I found out about the force field."
"What force field?" Stanford asks. He doesn't know anything about that and he wants Bill to go away.
"Oh, you don't know?"
"I don't."
"Quit playing dumb, I.Q. Tell me how to reverse it."
"I don't -"
Bill's eye shuts for a moment and the collar begins to get smaller, choking Stanford and stopping his words. "Yes, you do," Bill says, "you're the only one smart enough to put it up."
"Bi... Bill. I don't know... anything... about... a force field. What is it?"
"You're telling me I'm supposed to believe that you didn't create a force field around the town to keep me and my freaks inside? Do you think I'm an idiot? Honestly, Stanford, I thought you were better than lying to me. I know you."
"If you know me," Stanford hisses, "then you know I don't have anything to do with it. Take this thing off of me."
"I don't know," Bill says. "I kinda like the look of you in a collar gasping for air."
"Damn it," Stanford tries to yell, but it comes out as more of a broken whisper. "Just take this collar off."
Bill's eye shuts again, and the collar disappears.
"Thank you."
"I'm not done yet. Open wide."
Stanford locks his mouth shut, but Bill’s fingers are quick and forceful and slip through his lips like they could so easily unravel him from the inside, and oh - Stanford’s letting him, letting Bill slide into his mouth and pry it open. It should be because Stanford can’t fight him, but it's not. He relaxes his mouth and embraces Bill's fingers slightly, sucks on them slightly, and if he could smile, he would smile in a way this not slight, he would smile and smile and he shouldn't want it, but it doesn't matter.
"I guess old habits stay the same, huh?"
He forces the purple liquid down Stanford's throat, and then Stanford is in what looks like a bedroom. A man sits next to him on the bed - beautiful, blinding. Stanford knows that it's Bill instantly, because this is what he used to dream about. This exact form, this exact bedroom. A light in the dark.
"Why are you doing this?" Stanford asks.
"Because," Bill says, voice calm again, low, igniting something inside of Stanford that's disgusting, disgusting, "if you didn't put the force field up, then you have to know who did."
"I don't know who put it up."
"You have an idea," Bill says, and before Stanford can protest, Bill's (human) hand finds its way to the insides of his thighs. "Don't you?"
Human, human, human. Human. Oh, how fun it is to be human and feel things.
Stanford looks down at Bill's hand. He would move it if he wasn't afraid, if he was able to think about anything other than want and need and hate and S T O P.
"Don't you?" Bill repeats.
"Do you really think I'm this weak?"
"Do you really think you're strong enough to not give in? Like I said, Stanford, I K N O W you."
"You don't know anything about me," Stanford says, a mixture of humiliation and longing.
"You're right! I don't know anything about you now. I guess it's time to fix that."
Bill kisses him, kisses him, like a prayer, like something Stanford has only dreamed of. He hates Bill for this. He hates Bill for everything, but especially this.
This is only a dream, a hallucination. It's not real. It feels real. It's not real. It feels real. It's not -
"Let's get acquainted again, Stanford."
Stanford wants so much to give in, to feel Bill in this (not real) (hallucination) form, to feel something that he hasn't felt in so, so long. Need, want, longing. He hasn't been kissed or touched in thirty years. He hasn't been himself in thirty years. He hasn't felt anything in thirty years.
But it's Bill. Bill who would laugh I told you that you were weak at him, Bill who would enjoy hurting him like thirty years of longing finally fulfilled.
"Just tell me who you think put it up," Bill whispers, "and we can start."
(Maybe it is time for Stanford to let Bill know that he is more than a numb mind and a soft body. Maybe it is time that Bill learned that Stanford has armor. Maybe it is time for them to finally explore.)
"Why do you think you're the one who decides when we start?" Stanford tells him, and pins Bill down into the (not real) bed, kisses him like an angry prayer, like someone straying from faith.
He has armor.
He is more than a numb mind and a soft body, and he's not thinking about thirty years ago anymore. His mind isn't numb anymore. He can only think - want. Punishment. It's my turn now.
He should probably be thinking something along the lines of fear, along the lines of an escape plan, but that doesn't matter now that he has this.
Nothing matters now.