heaven-sent | b.h.

10.

Billy is breathless by the time he reaches his car, glad to find that it is still where he left it abandoned on the side of the road after being pulled over by Powell. He slides in, slamming the door with enough force that he's surprised the window doesn't shatter. He still has anger to burn off, and he hits the steering wheel with his palms until his skin stings.

All of this for Frances fucking Hopper, he thinks to himself with contempt as he puts a  tape in the record player and turns the volume all the way up. He realises soon after that the music is a mistake; his head is throbbing from a night spent drinking, which he still hasn't slept off. Pressing his forehead against the steering wheel, he shouts a series of curse words, thinking again of what he has seen, haunted by golden eyes and pale skin.

For whatever reason, he can't get her out of his head, couldn't even before he saw her eyes change colour. For nights on end he's been trying not to think of her, always failing. He doesn't know what it is, if it's the way her curly bangs fall into her eyes or the way she cradles her camera like it's her child—he has never loved anyone or anything as much as she loves that fucking camera—or the way she says his name as though he's a real person, with real value; a person who's more than just the new keg king or a dick of a step-brother or a fuck up of a son. Billy. He's Billy, or Hargrove if she's teasing, and when his name falls out of those soft, pink lips, eyes burning into him, it's like for once he has been seen, heard; like he has never been real, existed, until now.

And yet she takes it all back in an instant when she makes assumptions. Each time he feels as though she sees something good in him, each time he  reaches out, she kicks him back down again, throwing at him all of the things he really is. And it's not her he's mad at: he's given her no reason to trust him. Better for both of them if he never fucking does. He knows who he is, knows how he must seem to her as he walks the halls with his chest puffed out like a peacock. He can't blame her for pushing him away.

He inhales, starting the engine and driving home. He doesn't rush, instead trying to drag it out as much as possible. He is still confused and angry, his head still swimming in whiskey and images he doesn't understand, and there is nothing good waiting for him at home. He finds that out almost as soon as he walks through the door.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Neil is on him before Billy reaches the fourth step up to his room, his hands on his hips and his forehead lined with rage.

"I stayed at a friends. I thought I'd told you yesterday I wasn't gonna be home."

"Bullshit," he replies, causing Billy's grip on the banister to tighten. "You stink. You've been drinking again."

"I haven't."

"Excuse me?" Neil tilts his head, eyes dark.

"I haven't been drinking, sir," Billy replies, as composed as he can be, though he knows what's coming.

He points a finger at his shoes as though Billy is a dog who won't obey his master's owners. "Come down here."

Billy does, stepping down until he's level with his father. The stairs creak under his heavy boots.

"Where have you been?"

"At a friends, like I said."

In an instant, he's pinned against the wall, his spine colliding painfully with the plaster. Neil raises his fist, his expression falling a moment later when he sees Billy's bruise from the previous day. If he hits him again now, people will get suspicious. He lowers it, though his forearm stays locked painfully against Billy's neck.

"We don't lie in this house," he spits, his face so close to Billy's that his hot breath hits his face. "You better stop lying to me, son. Do you hear me?"

"Yes," Billy answers, his breathing laboured and his voice strained. "Yes, sir."

Neil's grip releases, and Billy coughs, rubbing his neck and avoiding eye contact.

"I want you to go and pick up your sister. She went to the arcade earlier today and she's expecting you. You'll come straight home afterwards."

Billy wants to roll his eyes, but he doesn't dare: not this time. He nods, mumbling his acquiescence, and heads back out of the door before his father can touch him again.

* * *

Billy rests his arm out of the window as he parks outside the arcade, sunglasses covering his tired eyes. He sighs when he sees Maxine on her way to him, Lucas Sinclair watching her from the door. She's gripping her skateboard, her freckled face to the floor.

She gets in without a word. He doesn't look at her: if he does, he's not sure what he will do.

"What the hell I tell you?" he asks quietly, the threat clear in his voice.

"I'm not late," Max replies, red hair falling over her face like a veil of protection.

"You know what I'm talking about."

She stutters, nervous—as she should be. "It's a small town, okay? We weren't hanging out."

"Well, you know what happens when you lie." There is no longer any emotion in his voice, exhaustion stealing any anger he might have had otherwise. It's as though he is watching himself from outside of the car, an actor reading the lines from a script: lines written by his father, no doubt. Sometimes he sounds so much like him that he understands why he is the way he is, can feel the bubbling anger that needs to be released at the expense of the people around him: both of them built like grenades, always at risk of exploding and tearing apart anything that dares to fall into their path.

"I'm not lying," she insists.

Billy finally turns his attention to her, the sister he never asked for, never wanted. "You're a little shit, Maxine."

"And you're a monster," she mumbles under her breath, just loud enough that Billy hears. The word causes him to freeze, and he's glad he's wearing his sunglasses, glad she can't see his eyes.

"What'd you say to me?"

"You're a monster," she repeats, louder, her gaze falling back to the arcade as though she's debating running back into it.

He can't respond, doesn't know how. I've seen monsters, Fran. Hell, I even live with one. Frances had been afraid that she was a monster. It hadn't occurred to Billy until now that he already was one, that he didn't just share a house with one, but a body, too. 

"Screw you," he retorts as his hand finds the gear stick, but the insult is weak and he knows it.

His gaze falls in front of him as he turns the keys, and he falters. Frances is running across the street, heading into the arcade, probably still looking for her father. His eyes follow her, and he pushes his sunglasses onto his head to get a better look.

Her face is blotchy and pink, her hair a tangled mess that ruffles in the wind. She's buried in a thick scarf and fleece jacket, face half-hidden, though he can see even from here the redness in her puffy eyes. She hasn't noticed him or his car, and he's glad.

"Isn't that Frances Hopper?" Maxine asks, following Billy's gaze.

"Yeah."

"Are you two dating or something?"

He shakes his head, freeing himself from her as he puts the car in gear and presses his foot on the pedal. "No," he says, watching her figure retreat into the arcade as they begin to drive. "Never gonna happen."

"Why not?" Maxine presses, frowning.

Billy sighs as they round the corner. "She's not my type, alright?"

"Yeah, right," she mutters. 

He's glad when she doesn't pry, and even gladder that she doesn't see through his lie.