Thinking about pyro!Billy, per usual. How do you think Billy would react to Neil when it comes to his powers? I have the hc that Neil doesn’t know shit about Billy’s powers but can snuff them out with one look, because, although Billy may have an inferno at his beck and call, he’s powerless in the presence of his father. Although, on the other hand… Neil could be the victim of a stress and fear induced bbq. 🤷🏻♀️
HELLO i am in love with this ask sorry for having zero chill and writing you a fic <3
it’s not his fault. billy’s born like that. he’s a kid, laughing until the playmat rug catches on fire, the cars and the roads so charred his mom has to throw it away and tell neil she spilled apple puree on it. it’s the first time billy’s left watching, helpless, while the back of neil’s palm connects with his mother’s cheek. neil’s too busy teaching her a lesson to notice the tiny ball of fire in his son’s hand.
neil’s out of the house most of the day, so he’s none the wiser. billy’s mom fireproofs the house as best as she can, replaces wooden toys with plastic and metal, laminates all of billy’s kids’ books. before she leaves, leaves him behind, she makes sure billy knows never to let his father find out. teaches him breathing exercises to reign in the powers whenever he feels overwhelmed. she does that, at least.
the day billy wakes up motherless, a note is waiting for him, slipped between the pages of his favorite book. he’s not a kid anymore. won’t ever be again. he burns her apology, watches the ashes snow down on the floor. then, he storms into his parents’ room. a few of her less-worn dresses are still hanging in her closet, swaying mockingly at him. he snatches them, goes out to the back yard. he throws them in a trashcan, and then, for the first time in his life, uses a match to light them up. he doesn’t bother sticking around to watch them burn. she didn’t bother sticking around, either. seems to be in their blood.
the fire’s—not billy’s deadliest secret. he’s thirteen, sitting on the beach. not her favorite. not that one. leaning back on his hands, fingers sinking in the warm sand. sal is next to him. close. so close billy has to check in case his father appears in a cloud of smoke to raise hell. he’s sweet, sal. smells of toffee and apricot, and a little bit like his asthma inhaler. when he curls his little finger around billy’s, billy wonders if he could have a puff of that inhaler, feels lightheaded from the lack of oxygen. sal smiles at him, and gets up. it’s almost dinnertime. when billy looks at his palms, charred sand is coating them, like the burned sugar on his mom’s favorite dessert.
he’s always been good at hiding. gets better now, one secret piling up on top of the other. he’s a dead boy. he learns to recognize the same doomed look in other boys. for a while, he gets to be half of himself with them. he only picks up those he’d never fall in love with, and makes them lose their mind with his hands, with his tongue. none of the boys are allowed to touch him. billy pulls out of reach every time, smiles his sweet, sixteen-year-old smile that makes people forget their own name. makes people stop asking questions. every night, he lies in bed, an ache between his legs. the flames are licking at his fingertips, begging to be let out. this house is nothing but thin walls. it would be so easy, billy thinks, to burn it down. he never touches himself, either.
one day, neil announces the move. it’s not fair. billy’s been so careful, and it’s still not enough. the day he says goodbye to the ocean, the fire inside him dies out. everything goes silent. no more crackling and simmering. nothing. he doesn’t go near the beach for the two months it takes neil to uproot them.
without the fire, billy’s—numb. gets into trouble just to feel his father’s rage rain upon him, see if it wakes the flames. nothing works. he gets in the camaro, turns the music up loud to drown out max’s road trip excitement, and doesn’t say a word for the three days it takes to drive to hawkins.
on the first day of school, everything’s blurry. across the parking lot, among an ocean of dull, unfamiliar faces, billy catches two brown eyes watching him. shit, billy thinks, skin boiling hot, no, no, no. the back alley is the second hawkins high spot he gets acquainted with, slumped against the brick wall, breathing like his mom taught him to. the fire’s down to a low heat, now, but. it’s there. billy thought—it was lost forever. the second his lips close around a cigarette, the whole thing turns to ash. he’s too excited to be bothered.
billy can’t get too close, but he can’t stay away. he’s the flame, but harrington draws him in, makes him feel like the moth. jesus, man, harrington says, billy plastered against his back, pretending to be chasing the ball, you’re burning up. billy fakes a pulled hamstring and makes a beeline for the showers, skin sizzling when the water falls on him. behind a cloud of steam, he doesn’t see harrington watching him.
the first time harrington kisses him, billy goes up in flames. an enveloping, full-body fire, licking pleasantly at his arms. harrington pulls back, smiling. so cute, he says, looking nothing like billy’s idea of a boy who’s just kissed another boy, or freaked out by the flames. now that billy’s looking closer, harrington looks like—he’s seen things. just mind the hair, he says, and leans into billy’s touch. this time, billy allows a boy to touch him back.
he gets careless. next time he’s shoved against the wall, his eyes light up, and suddenly neil is pulling back, hissing. billy can see two angry handprints scorched around neil’s shoulders. you know, neil says, in his quiet way that always leads to a bloodbath, i always thought that bitch was crazy when she called you special. but i guess that’s one thing she was right about, you pansy. his arm’s lodged against billy’s windpipe. billy—can’t breathe. this world’s not made for freaks like you, neil says, get the fuck out of my sight.
while waiting for harrington to pick him up, billy sits on the sidewalk and keeps snapping his fingers. nothing but feeble sparks come out. his throat hurts too much, breathing coming out as a wheeze. harrington pulls up, crouches in front of him. lifts billy’s face with a finger under his chin. we should have a witch hunt, he says, start with that asshole. light him up. he pulls billy up, ghosts his knuckles across billy’s face. then his mouth blossoms into a snarl, and billy turns around the find neil watching them. harrington rubs their lips together, giving neil hargrove the finger, and billy—glows brightly.
max shows up at their place with an ugly purple peeking under the collar of her shirt. billy looks at the bruised skin for all of two seconds, and then drives like a madman until he’s pushing the door of neil’s house open, almost tears it off its hinges. neil’s standing in the middle of the living room, billy’s own monster under the bed, and billy falters, for a second, before the memory of max, sniffling to push back tears, reminds him who the freak with no place in this world is. d’you remember that time, he says, you held my palm over the burner, told me i’d went too far? that’s what you did, dad. you went too far. he takes neil’s hands, capable of so much evil, in his, and doesn’t stop until the house is reeking of cooked flesh, and neil’s begging for mercy. doesn’t make up for everything, but. it’s a start.
the day max and susan move to a new place, she calls him. wanna burn it down? harrington’s ear is pressed next to his on the receiver, fingers scratching lightly at billy’s elbow. billy hangs up, presses a kiss to harrington’s temple. how ‘bout it, he says, and laughs when harrington doesn’t wait a beat, says, oh, fuck yeah, kisses him silent.
they’re standing on the abandoned front yard. max brought matches, just in case. with harrington’s arm around his waist, billy’s lighter than he’s ever been. he shakes his head, and lets the memory of rage wash over him, one last time. the fire starts from the ground and licks its way up, until the whole thing’s hidden behind thick, black smoke. he leaves max in charge of calling the fire department, and walks away, harrington’s hand in his. he doesn’t need to stick around and watch it burn. it’s not in his blood.
