Dacre Montgomery Oneshots.

trapped under ice

Billy's skin feels like it's sizzling off, and he's not even in direct sunlight. The heat envelops him so thoroughly he's sure he must be drowning in it, somehow. After months of withering in midwestern winter cold, it feels like betrayal that the blessed summer heat could make him feel so sick. Sweat tingles down the middle of his back, soaking through the shirt he'd thrown on reluctantly when the early afternoon sun had hit his bare back and made him hiss with pain.

And yet, he stays on the lifeguard tower. Not that he'll be much use if someone actually decides to drown right now, but it's not like he took this job to be a fucking hero, anyway. And right now, despite the pain and the fog in his head, a little spark in Billy's mind tells him this is the most himself he's felt since that thing crawled into his head the night before. As the echoing, wordless voice in his head tells him it craves, wants, needs cold, his own voice whispers that giving in is not an option.

If it likes cold, the least he can do is give it fucking fire.

But the struggle plays out with every single beat of his labored heart. Want the cold. Need the heat. Want the cold. Need the heat. WANT THE COLD-

"... come here often?"

Billy blinks fuzzily and L/N's face swims into focus, one hand on the lifeguard tower, down by his feet. He's so pretty, hair done but sticking to his neck and forehead with his own light sheen of sweat, cheeks pink, sunglasses hiding those doe eyes but doing nothing to obscure the stupid flirty smile on his lips.

Billy leans into the added warmth that L/N's very presence sears into his skin, even as it makes his head fuzzy in a different way entirely. He can't answer quick enough. Knows he's in no state to banter like they've taken to doing over the past week or two, flirtatious and almost friendly now that high school rivalries are in the past and the light at the end of the tunnel that is life with his father, life in Hawkins, is nearing. And it's only been that - only the kind of casual flirting that makes Billy feel like maybe dreams can come true, without really admitting that either of them wants anything further - but the way Harrington's looking up at him now, over the tops of his lowered Ray Bans, everything feels suddenly clearer.

Because nobody's ever looked at Billy like that. Not since he was so very young. With that kind of attention and concern and... care.

Billy feels like he's going to pass out. Closes his eyes tight and sits back and does his best to breathe deep even though the heat in the air chokes him, drowns his thoughts with searing pain.

"Billy, hey. You okay, man?"

L/N's hand like is a balm, a tether back to his own mind, when it comes to rest on Billy's burning calf. His eyes fall open and he meets M/N's gaze without trying. And they barely know each other. Barely stopped hating each other a month ago. But, fuck, Billy can't fight this thing alone and Steve is the first person since his mom who's looked at him like that, so-

"Help me," Billy rasps out, his voice dry as a desert but cracking with saliva that pools but doesn't hydrate. His throat tightens even as he says it, the thing inside him roiling at the thought that it might be pushed out. And Billy wants to say more, wants to warn M/N about the monster inside him, the heat, the cold, but he doesn't know how he'd do that even if he was capable of stringing sentences together right now.

Thankfully, despite how big and wide and worried L/N's eyes go at that, how he looks around them like he's looking for a real adult to take care of this, M/N sticks by him and nods. Puts another hand on Billy's other leg. It feels so good, tears sting at Billy's eyes. Fuck, he must look like a mess.