Ember — Cain (Wan2talk?)
synopsis — it begins with a flame small enough to fit between his fingers. by the time it dies, something else has already begun to burn.
The first thing you noticed was the light.
A tiny flame flickered against the darkness, painting Cain's face in warm amber before disappearing just as quickly. Then it returned. Again. Again.
He stood outside beneath the apartment building, the familiar oversized hoodie hanging from his frame. The lighter clicked open and shut between his fingers, its flame illuminating the sharp planes of his face for only a heartbeat at a time.
Was he... playing with it?
"What the hell are you doing?"
Your voice carried farther than you intended.
Cain glanced up just as you reached him. Before he could slip the lighter back into his pocket, you plucked it from his hand with a frown.
"What—"
"Hold still."
You caught his wrist before he could pull away, turning his hand over in yours. Your thumb brushed across his knuckles, searching for angry red skin, for blisters, for anything that suggested he had been careless enough to let the flame linger.
Nothing.
You checked the other hand anyway.
Your fingers were cold.
Colder than his, somehow.
Cain's jaw tightened.
"...Don't."
The word came quieter than expected.
He eased his hands from your grasp before you could inspect them any further.
The feeling lingered.
Someone else used to hold his hands like that.
Turning them over with gentle fingers. Checking for scrapes. Burns. Bruises. Whispering that he should be more careful next time.
His mother.
The memory settled in his chest like something rotten.
He hated it.
Not because of you.
Because, for one unbearable moment, your touch had felt exactly like hers.
You turned the lighter over in your hand.
Silver.
The surface had dulled with age, worn smooth where a thumb had rested against it countless times. Intricate engravings curled around the metal—not decorative flourishes, but careful carvings. Tiny crosses. Vine-like patterns. Fragments of scripture so weathered they were nearly impossible to make out beneath years of use.
It didn't look like something Cain would own.
It looked inherited.
You traced one of the faded lines with your thumb.
"...Where did you—"
The words died before they could leave your mouth.
Cain had stepped closer.
Not enough for your chests to brush. Not enough for your breath to mingle. Yet the distance between you felt impossibly small.
You looked up.
Cain was already watching you.
There was nothing remarkable about them. They were the same eyes you'd seen every day.
So why did they suddenly feel...
Wrong?
Not empty.
Not cold.
Just still.
As though something behind them had been watching long before the two of you ever met. For the briefest moment, a thought slipped into your mind—absurd enough that it should have vanished the instant it appeared.
A snake.
Not because his pupils had changed. Not because there were scales where skin should have been.
It was simply... the way he looked at you.
Unblinking.
As though his gaze had neither beginning nor end, folding back into itself until you couldn't tell whether he was observing you... or remembering you.
Then you blinked.
The thought disappeared as quickly as it had come. Cain looked no different than before.
Your tongue refused to move. Your lungs seemed to forget the rhythm of breathing.
The silence stretched.
Neither of you spoke.
Neither of you blinked.
It made your stomach turn.
Cain was the first to move.
His fingers closed around the lighter with practiced ease, brushing yours only long enough to pry it free.
He stepped back.
Click.
The flame bloomed once more, casting amber across the sharp edges of his face. For the briefest second, his expression disappeared behind the light.
Then you blinked.
The flame was gone.
So was he.
Your gaze snapped toward the sidewalk.
"...Cain?"
No answer.
The street stood empty, disturbed only by the evening breeze.
Yet somewhere beyond the darkness—
Footsteps.
Measured.
Unhurried.
Growing farther away.
You stood rooted where you were, lighter's warmth still lingering in your palm even though it was no longer there. "...How..." The question had no one left to answer.
You looked down at your hand. Your fingertips smelled faintly of smoke. You could no longer remember whether you'd ever lit the flame yourself.
@crossaints — shorter than what i usually write. but it's supposed to be unsettling.
