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Will Hunting was always sharp as a tack and deadly as a switchblade with his tongue, when he felt inclined to use it before his fists, this was always true regardless of the time of day. It had been the case for almost the entire time Chuckie had known him, even when Will was fighting harder battles at home than in their neighborhood.
But something always changed with him when the sun fell to the west and bathed Boston in darkness, maybe it changed most everybody, but Chuckie always thought it changed Will the most.
His best friend always seemed like a darker, more meaner version of himself. Even when he was laughing and shooting the shit with him, Billy, and Morgan at the bars and various hangout spots, there was always a hairpin trigger to something more. Not that Chuckie ever saw it often, but he had seen it enough. Knew he’d protect Will from anything, even if that happened to be the mean thing that coursed through him without assistance of alcohol, the danger that ran hot through his veins when threats were levied towards him or their group.
This part of Will never turned on any of them, not ever, and sometimes Chuckie wondered if he was the only one who noticed it ever bubbled under the surface at all. If Will even knew it was happening to him, if he knew why.
Chuckie was always too chickenshit to ask, choosing to stand by Will’s side as the voice of reason (the only person he’d willingly do that for), the protector, and blunt instrument when Will’s sharp tongue wasn’t quite enough. He told himself he was fine with that.