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Billy looks down at the ground, because he can’t look at Marty, not right now. Not while he’s saying this.
“I love you, man,” he says. It’s the truest thing he’s said this week.
And, still staring at his own feet, he hears back, “I love you too.” Quiet, like it’s a secret only the two of them know.
His heart clenches in his chest, just a little.
He’s going to die. Billy fucking knows he’s going to die, and it’s happening today. Probably in a few hours. The movie’s gonna end the way it’s gonna end, and this moment alone is the last he’s ever gonna have with Marty.
So the fuck does he have to lose?
With that in mind Billy moves the guns and Bonny off his lap, curls his hand around the back of Marty’s neck, and kisses him.
He only means for it to last a second. Really he does. Just long enough to expose his last, greatest secret, long enough for Marty to look at him in disgust and get the fuck out of there like he should have done a long time ago. But his lips are so soft and warm and something in Billy says, Yes, and then he must have lost the rest of his mind because his hands are going up in Marty’s hair and he’s kissing him wild and so, so hungry--Been waiting for so long, holy fuck I want you, want you--and he’s got Marty’s taste in his mouth and Marty’s breath on his face and, and--
And then Billy knows he’s going insane because Marty’s mouth is suddenly opening under his, Marty’s tongue is tangling with his tongue, Marty’s kissing him back and that’s impossible, that’s wonderful, that’s way more than Billy deserves. Marty pulls away just long enough to gasp in, “Billy, fuck,” on a breath, and then Marty kisses him again, his arms going around to hold Billy tight to him, his lips molding to his with a kind of heat that Billy never, ever would have expected.
You too?
Oh God.
Don’t ever stop.
And they’re almost, they’re almost getting horizontal now, Marty’s all but climbed himself in Billy lap and if Billy leaned back a bit they would be laying down, Marty would be on top of him. Billy shudders at the thought, mouthing down the line of Marty’s neck, sucking and biting so that Marty’ll have to remember this, have to look at himself and know who he let mark him this way. God, but Billy’s a greedy bastard.
Marty says his name again, soft, the lilt of his accent rolling the word around in a way Billy’s never heard from anyone else, and somehow their lips are together again--like gravity--and Billy’s lost, so lost. Marty can do what he wants with him now, can break him into a million pieces or toss him off the cliff just as long as he never, ever stops this.
Except it has to stop, eventually. Which it does. They need air, after all. And then Billy’s looking at his shoes, the ground, the desert so far below them, anything so he doesn’t have to look at Marty, because his lips are still swollen and damp from Marty licking them, his body’s still buzzing from Marty pressing up against him, and he’s never felt more vulnerable in his life. Everything he’s been feeling for years now, just laid out and waiting for Marty to rip it apart if he wants.
But Marty doesn’t. Instead, Marty’s hands cup around his face and turn it back towards him so he can kiss him one more time, soft and sweet like it wasn’t before, slow, and Billy can taste the ghost of an I love you, somewhere in there, and it makes him shudder, open and raw. And suddenly, everything feels a lot better than it has in a long time.
Marty smiles when he pulls away this time, the kind of warm, eye-crinkling smile Billy hasn’t seen out of him in a while. His thumbs brush absently over Billy’s jawline as he says, eyes all heavy-lidded, “Mmm. You’ve been waiting to do that for a while, huh?”
"Yeah,” Billy whispers back.
That smile again, sweet enough that Billy can feel warmth uncurling in his stomach. “You shouldn’t have waited,” Marty says.
And then Billy’s smiling himself, and laughing a little, and it’s like nothing exists beyond this little bubble they’ve created out of warmth and breath and--and love, Billy lets himself name this thing between them and it’s almost too much to wrap his head around. Marty loves him. Loves him back.
“We’re gonna have a lot to talk about,” Marty says, leaning against him a little. “When we’re done here, I mean.”
And the bubble pops.
Cause Billy’s suddenly remembering why all this, Marty loving him, doesn’t mean a fucking thing.
He’s gonna die when Costello gets here.
He has the one thing he’s ever really wanted.
And he’s as good as dead already.
Fuck.
Marty’s looking at him, waiting for an answer, so Billy forces out, “Yeah. Sure, Marty,” like he isn’t telling the biggest lie of his life. Like they’ll actually get that chance to get out of here and find some hole to curl up in and sort through the years of denial to find what they’ve both been feeling all along, find their version of a happy ending.
It’s so fucking tempting, that thought. It’d be so easy to let this play out in a way that he lived through, so easy to go off with Marty somewhere where it’d just be them. They could--they could be something, if he let them.
But there’s the movie to think about, the ending. He’s been fucking planning on this ending. It’s a chance to finally make his stupid life mean something. A chance to be a part of one of those incredible, meaningful things Marty can create when he pushes himself enough.
And--if he’s real honest with himself in a way he usually isn’t--Marty’s better off without him. Billy knows how fucking crazy things are with him, even before this mess. Marty deserves a chance with someone who doesn’t lie and kill and need like Billy does. He’ll realize it eventually, once Billy’s pulled off this last selfish, selfless act, and he’s got his entire life ahead of him and no psycho friend tagging along behind.
After he’s got over how hurt he’ll be at first.
God, Marty, I’m so sorry.
Billy blinks, hard, so he won’t give something away, and tries to rearrange his expression into something pleasant. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t succeed, because Marty looks at him funny, his eyebrows pushing his forehead up into a worried mess of folds. His lips press together, hard, before he speaks again.
“Just--just keep yourself safe, okay?” Marty says, quietly and so honest that it cuts right into a tender place in Billy’s chest. “Please don’t, you know, get yourself killed or, or anything like that. I couldn’t--I just couldn’t take it if you died.”
And Billy’s blown right out of the fucking water.
Yeah, Marty’s obtuse sometimes. Billy knows that better than anyone. But Marty also knows him, knows how he thinks and feels better than anyone ever has and sometimes he jumps to correct conclusions in a way that really fucking freaks Billy out. And this really wasn’t the best time for him to pull that, not when Billy’s already so strung out and conflicted, so he’s pretty sure the way he starts, all surprised and guilty and caught, is not his fault.
Doesn’t matter though, cause he can see it all come together for Marty in an instant, see his own plan unfolding behind Marty’s eyes all destructive and terrible. “I knew it,” Marty says, his voice rising. “I fucking knew it--”
“Marty,” Billy says, panicking, “just, fuck, calm down.”
“Fucking tell me to calm down!” Marty’s yelling now, angry. “You’re fucking trying to die! Fuck you and your fucking calm down!”
Billy’s head is spinning. This is bad, this is very, very bad. “It’s not what you think, okay, it’s--”
“The hell it’s not what I think! How the fuck did I miss--” Marty shakes his head hard, interrupts himself. He’s really pissed. “You want to get killed, you’ve been planning on it!”
“It’s for a good reason.”
“I don’t care!” Marty grabs him by the shoulders then, and the anger’s changing, growing into something desperate, making his eyes wild. “Don’t you dare, don’t you fucking dare do that!”
Billy can’t think. He has some damn good arguments, he knows that, but it’s all flying out of his head now that Marty’s here looking at him like that, and he wants to close his eyes so he doesn’t have to see anymore but he can’t, he can’t. “You don’t understand, okay, your movie’s gotta end--”
“Fuck the fucking movie’s ending! Didn’t it occur to you even for a fucking second that I’d rather have you alive and with me?!”
And with that last, everything abruptly stops, and they’re left staring at each other, Marty’s harsh panting breaths the only thing splitting the silence.
The seconds stretch into one minute. Two.
It feels like something’s reached down into Billy’s insides and gripped him right where it hurts. He wants to say something wise and profound, like something Hans’d come up with, something that would make Marty understand just how unimportant Billy was compared to what he could make once all this was over. He just wants to help.
He opens his mouth to try to explain that, but the words that come out aren’t anything like what he planned to say. “You, you want me, you for real want me?” he asks, in this quiet and broken-sounding tone of voice, and he feels scraped raw on the inside, barely on the edge of hoping.
Marty looks so fucking scared, like it’s him in danger of dying, and his eyes are all dark and bright and wet when he whispers back, “Yes, yes, I want you, I need you, just, just don’t die, please don’t die, Billy.”
Billy stays perfectly still for a long, long moment, letting that settle in.
Then he says, “Okay. Okay.”
He’s never really been able to tell Marty no.
Marty’s breath whooshes out of him like he’s been punched, his shoulders slumping, and suddenly he’s kissing Billy all over again, his arms squeezing around him tight enough to hurt a bit and he’s whispering, “Promise, promise me,” against Billy’s lips, fierce.
And Billy’s so far gone by now that he just whispers “Yeah, yeah, I, I promise,” and Marty kisses him hard then, sealing the words between them like a vow, and hell, Billy figures, if his plan was gonna get fucked up anyway, this was a pretty nice way for it to happen.
7~7~7
When Costello shows up (unarmed, what the fuck) Billy hits him across the back of the head with one of his guns and knocks him out, and leaves Bonny parked next to his unconscious body. No big final shoot-out for him.
Billy slides into the driver’s seat of Costello’s car, and after tossing away what was left of the bourbon Marty joins him. Billy guns the engine in approval--it was a pretty sweet ride--and points them towards the border. There’s a cheap Mexican hotel in their future, and maybe even a shared bed when they get there. Billy thinks, sneaking a glance at Marty, that he’s looking forward to finding out. Once they’ve both showered and everything.
“We’re criminals now,” he says to Marty, “you know that, right?”
Marty shrugs. “Yeah. It’s crossed my mind once or twice.”
“Like Bonnie and Clyde,” Billy says, pressing down on the accelerator and making the car jump forward just because he could.
Marty’s eyebrows come down in a straight line. “We’re not fucking dying.”
“Yeah,” Billy says, “you made that pretty clear.”
“I mean it, Billy.”
“I’m just saying,” Billy says, “if I had to pick a way to die, it’d be hand in hand with you.”
Marty frowns. “That’s not nearly as romantic as you think it is, Billy.”
Billy rolls his eyes. Marty has no clue about romance. “Whatever.”
They spend the next few minutes in silence. Then--
“Marty?”
“Yeah, Billy?”
“You’re totally Bonnie, though.”
“You’re an idiot, Billy.”
But Marty slides his hand into his, so Billy figures he didn’t mean that much at all.