He hadn’t gone for slutty after all, because it was fucking November and also he was like, ninety percent certain that even on the sketchier part of town he wouldn’t be getting served without a shirt - only ninety because he’d once seen one of the servers crying in the bathroom without shoes on. Still, best not to risk it when shitty coffee was on the line. But garish, he could manage garish. His trailer didn’t have a closet, just a couple of deep drawers under the futon, and his refusal to actually fold anything had been somewhat unkind to the red polyester of his pants, but fuck the wrinkles. The leather jacket low key smelled like mothballs. And the shoes pinched his baby toes, because he couldn't ride his board in heels and he doubted the designer'd had functionality for walking into town all the way from the woods in mind. But fuck it, Billy was fucking successfully garish and about 40mg of diazepam past giving a shit as he sprawled in the back corner booth of the diner.
The dark circles under his eyes wouldn’t have been as noticeable in the summer when he was usually a dusky olive, but he was turning winter-pale, the depressive metamorphosis of the biracial, so there they were. Hey, maybe the pink hair that very much clashed with his outfit and added to the overall garishness would help draw the eye away. It was cool. Billy was as close to cool as he’d been in a while, with the pink-stained fingers of one hand wrapped around a mug of black coffee with about five sugars and the other picking at the ripped edge of vinyl that ran the length of the booth’s seat. He wasn’t a fidgeter, but it was that or keep looking at the place where his palm hadn't really been split open like a seam on sterling edge.