An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
There is fire in those eyes. I see it when we first meet, initially mistaking it for a twinkle of amusement. But it lasts too long, flickers too much. I look at it, and it burns, unfamiliar but in a good way, warm and welcoming and keeping the forest at bay. It is a campfire, bringing strangers together, asking for story and song. But I don’t see it for what it is until I ask the wrong question, get too close to the fire, and I get burned.
There is fire in those eyes. I see it again on our next meeting, when she sits next to me as she works, determined to finish this task. The fire burns like a forge, strong and determined to succeed in her work even if she must bend the world to her will like so much steel. I reach a book she cannot, stoke the flames, and I see her gratitude even as she hammers out the last bar of steel.
There is fire in those eyes. I see it and can only wonder what it is now as she pulls me aside, saying she needs my help. As she explains her prank, I realize it is the fuse of a firework, burning to a spectacular conclusion, a hilarious prank, and then it is hidden by her eyelids as we both roll on the floor, crying with laughter.
There is fire in those eyes. I see it less often now, because she’s decided we’re friends and I agree, and I don’t need to stare into her eyes to hold a conversation, but I see the fire sometimes anyway. I see it when she finds out I love one of her interests, burning like a torch as she leads me to more knowledge about it than I thought there was to know, blending with the joy of sharing herself.
There is fire in those eyes. Sometimes it burns me, burns her, burns like a brand. We are not without our differences and no one is without flaws, but it hurts both of us to mark each other with those flaws. We apologize, running each other’s brands under cool water, healing our relationship, healing ourselves.
There is fire in those eyes. Some days, hard days, days when she has screamed out to the world until her throat is raw and no one has heard, the fire is mere embers. I feed the fire, bring comfort and do my best to create a bubble of peace for her, shielding the weak flame from wind and rain as much as I can.
There is fire in those eyes. I delight in watching when she has a revelation, flames like a Bunsen Burner, taking old elements, things she knows, and mixing them in heat, making something new, taking joy in the way in which the products of her thoughts flow out before her, reacting in the most beautiful way.
There is fire in those eyes. It scares me sometimes, when people go too far, giving her an excuse to respond to all the offenses she’s had to or chosen to silently endure. If I did the same thing, I wonder, would her eyes have the same wildfire in them, rejoicing in my destruction as they do in others’?
There is fire in those eyes. It burns like the hearth, bringing light and warmth and joy, burning with love. I embrace her, including the flames, and I’m so happy to watch them burn, calling me to her, calling me home, and making her my home.
