A/N: Written for the prompt "Harry Potter/X-Men, Harry/Pyro, smoking" on livejournal's comment_fic community.
They meet in the park on the hottest day of summer. Harry's sweating through the light t-shirt he'd thrown on that morning, leaving large dark patches beneath his arms and on his chest, but the other boy is leaning against a metal pole of the swing set, a cigarette drooping from his top lip and not a drop of sweat on him. He eyes Harry with something like disdain, but nevertheless offers, "Cig?" He's a foreigner of some sort, though Harry's never been good enough at accents to recognize where he's from. Harry hesitates before carefully picking one out of the half-empty pack. He attempts to lean against the next swing pole, but the metal singes his arm and Harry quickly flinches back.
Next to him, the boy huffs out a laugh, blowing smoke out in irregular bursts of air. He pockets the pack of cigarettes for a lighter, flicks it open, and offers it towards Harry. Harry holds his own cigarette over the flame until he's sure it's lit, eyeing the shark design. "Thanks." The boy flips the lighter shut with a loud click in response and pockets that as well. Harry eyes the smoke dubiously, before bringing it up to his lips like he's seen Dudley's gang do. He carefully inhales a bit, and coughs. "Bleargh."
The boy laughs again, but this time he takes a long draw on his own cigarette and blows it into Harry's face while his dancing eyes stay locked on Harry's. "Pyro," he introduces. It's an odd name, but asking why would take too much work in the oppressive heat. So Harry just nods and responds, "Harry." It's more truthful information than they've traded before.
They stand in companionable silence for a minute or two, Harry trying out his cigarette once more. "You're no good at that," Pryo observes. Harry sighs and flicks the cigarette to the ground, making sure to stamp out the end completely. With the drought, it'd be easy to set the grass on the playground alight. Pyro watches his foot with something like regret on his face. "No," Harry says. "I'm really not." He gingerly sits down on the swing next to Pyro, careful to keep his hands off the metal chains suspending the swing and hissing as he sits down on the overheated tar-like plastic of the seat.
They stay like that until the sun goes down, each lost in his own thoughts. Finally, Harry leverages himself out of the swing, making a face at the pull of sticky-sweat skin. Pyro glances up from his own reverie and flicks a cigarette at the ground. There's a small pile of burnt stubs by his feet, and Harry watches the latest one flare up dimly orange at it hits the ground. "You should put that out," he says. "It might start a fire."
Pyro tilts his head to look at the smoldering ember and sighs. On the ground, the faint light flickers one last time and goes out. Then he lifts his head once more, eyes faintly gleaming in the dusk. "I'm staying in a motel down the road," he offers. Harry looks him over then glances back towards Privet Drive. It's nearly halfway through summer break. Someone might be coming to get him any day now. "Sorry," he says. "Bad time." Pyro nods understandingly. "I'll see you around, then."
Harry smiles. "Yeah." He watches the other boy walk away into the dark and thinks guiltily about flying and letters to his friends and meals in the Great Hall. "See you," he mutters.