Billy knows his punches are good, he was taught by a shield to a king. He turns to rest his back against the wall. This time he takes the glass of water. It feels cold and a cold shot of dread runs through him for an instant. He remembers cold showers, more screaming. Being pushed aside mentally and riding shotgun in his head.

Billy chugs the water down before he can think too much about it. It helps. It clears some of his thoughts about those cold showers and hot saunas and burning skin at the poolside.

The glass drops at the mention of friends, smashing against the tile. "I don’t fucking have any. Acquaintances from my world maybe, a couple here, and that’s about it. You wanna talk to people whore friends? Go find Harrington and Munson. Maybe they won’t treat you fucking stupid. Buckley‘s okay. She’s not a fucking Princess like Steve Harrington." There’s a lot of bitterness in his tone that either he can’t hide, or Billy makes no effort to hide.