Everything in Billy’s life felt busted. His mom bailed, his dad never let him forget it. Always talking down to him, always reminding him he wasn’t enough. The fights were constant—full of rage and desperation, like if he hit hard enough, yelled loud enough, maybe he’d matter. And the parties? Just noise. Loud music, cheap booze, random girls with perfume headaches giggling as they twirled his curls and he drank 'til his brain fuzzed out.

He never saw himself as a victim. Hell, half the time he wanted the fight. Wanted to feel that sting in his knuckles, the ache in his arms. Pain meant he still had control. Strength. Power. That was the only thing he knew how to chase.

But sometimes it hit him—no one really gave a damn. Not really. And sure, he didn’t want pity. Told himself that every damn day. But a pat on the back wouldn’t hurt. A little kindness.

You gave him that. His quiet neighbour with the soft voice and that smile that somehow made his chest unclench.

You didn’t flinch when he got loud. Not that he ever really yelled at you. And when he stumbled through your window, drunk and mumbling apologies, curling up on your bed with his hands in your hair, you just let him. You grounded him. Gave him space to breathe. Like you saw the wreckage and didn’t look away.

And if that’s what pity felt like, maybe he didn’t mind it so much.

“You alright?” you asked, breaking into his thoughts. Billy blinked, looked at you sitting next to him on your bed. Metallica thrashed from the stereo. His favorite album. You always asked him to put it on, but his dad never allowed that noise. But here—your house, empty and quiet—he could.

Even with the guitars wailing and drums pounding, he felt… calm.

“Yeah,” he said, a quiet laugh escaping as he caught the way your brow creased. “I’m good.”

And maybe this was the closest to heaven he was ever gonna get.