tinder limbs

His arm raised, curling around Pearl’s shoulders like the tail end of a question mark. Mal tipped his head back, resting his skull against the seat, shifting until he found a position that put his bones at ease, glancing over to catch the way his companion’s features had dipped almost into pity. His exhalation was audible. Her admiration felt illy placed, like the glimpse of blue bird over a funeral and for that he smiled grimly. Within his ribs his heart was a heavy thing, beating limply against the bars of the cage that they lived. “I’m glad you think so,” he returned, willing to let the topic drift free like a helium filled balloon that was unwittingly released— somewhere in the atmosphere it would meet destruction. Mal hadn’t been thinking of his ability, but now it clung to the sides of his mind in the way that grit doesn’t always seem to want to flush straight down the drain. “Why do you think we got these? Why us, why fire, why this?”

He waved his hand in the air, letting his long fingers tangle with the invisible things that played there. Often he likened the things that lived in the corner of one’s plane of vision and the things that tucked under the darkness of a sagging mattress to the secrets that the residents of Colby Harbor kept so tightly bound to their chests. Malachi tucked into the car, shoving the blonde over to make space for his own large form, tall legs folding and unfolding until he found a position that he deemed to be comfortable. He made a face at her question, looking over at her and finding genuine curiosity there, instead of the desire to provoke. “All the time.”

“You can start all the fires but you can’t put a single one out, can you? You’re gonna burn Colby to the ground one day, maybe the whole damn Earth, until it’s nothing but another star to shoo away. The biggest and brightest light.” Violet grinned at this, white teeth flashing in the dark. She tapped her ash over the water, watching as it skittered and spread over the soft, churning waves. “Anyway I can wiggle out of that obligation, or no?”

Someone had once told him that familiarity bred contempt, (perhaps it was his uncle, or maybe even a history lesson in a class he had chanced to attend) but Mal kept the line jangling around his mind, preferring the idea that familiarity bred indifference; he didn’t blink twice at the flash of bare skin as Pearl danced under the soft glow of the moon. His car was a wreck, a twelve year old Jetta who clung to life with a half hearted squeeze. There was just enough room for his belongings and long legs to stretch out, but he also lived in constant fear that the gasoline fumes would rise into the interior and lull him to a unintentional death. (However, he wasn’t entirely sure if fumes would kill him, but the imagery remained.) A deft left of the front and a half hearted peek later before letting it slam back closed was all that he needed, “Yep, there’s about twelve of them.” Mal beamed, opening the right side door for Pearl to climb in.

“Why do you always talk so funny? You know no one really understa––nds you, they’re just being polite when they smile,” the chirping sound of the town’s little rascal went on, followed by the expected squeaking wheels of her little red wagon. At her side was her peculiar neighbour, whom she had tenaciously claimed as an adventure companion; Gabriel, of course, was the opinionless lackey in this scenario. With parallel lines and footsteps tracing their tracks behind them, the pair languidly picked up shards sea glass before placing it on the growing pile in the wagon. “I could utter less if you wish, Miss. Livings—” He started, but his vocals fell flat as he alarmedly tugged her little frame away from the unforeseen fire. With the sudden jerk came the of tumbling of glass, and all the little pieces had scattered close by.

An eerie silence fell upon the man as he eyed the pearl adjacent to her name; his gaze perilous and difficult to read. Clearly, he was not as amused. “Miss Livingston, perhaps we can continue this treasure hunt tomorrow,” Gabriel offered the shocked girl, finally tearing his eyes away from the woman and back to the child at his side. Picking up most of the glass, and helping her on her way, he finally approached. “Good evening, Miss Thorsen.” 

He wondered what would happen one day if the flame bit Pearl. Often he worried that there would come a time where the simplest of comforts would become fervent threats; her ability was like toying with a trapped tiger. Domestication can’t weed out the instinct to bite. She’d asked him once, sliding into his room and wading through the cans of Pabst to the boy who sat miserably in the midst of the sea; she asked him why he’d drink. It was because sometimes, he could feel it in his fingertips, because to everyone else, fire simply burns. “Thank you,” Mal returned, curling her close to his chest, knowing that he didn’t have to parrot the sentiment for her to know that he felt it. Sometimes, it was just nice to hear.

They both had long legs, their matching stride eating up the beach that they had strolled down with little difficulty. Mal sought out the impressions he’d made in the sand before, trying unsuccessfully to sink into them again, leaving a scattered trail that resembled the path of a drunken spider. “Tell me instead of the boy who swallowed the sun whole, or the one who loved it’s warmth so much that he had no fear when he met it.” His face lifted to the moon, “Or tell me about the way that the night cradled him close after his wings melted slick to his skin.” Plucking happy endings from the tale, he turned to offer Pearl a spritely smile, “What tragedy?”

“I wonder if they waste their time chit chatting about penguins.” Her ministrations prompted laughter– he’d always been ticklish, instead of swatting Pearl away, Mal curled his fingers around her own, his larger hand swallowing hers up. The lack of oxygen didn’t seem to kill her flame, his skin glowed a deep red and the light tried to worm its way through the tissue, he felt no burn and for this he laughed. Pearl was a tiny thing, as though her creation had been an afterthought, he tucked her closer in beside him as they turned in the sand. “You are handy to keep around, aren’t ya?” Sleeping in his car meant heading back to his parking spot, now a small fleck of colour against the grey beach. “Are you going to tell me a story?”

“Sweet dreams are made of this,” he crooned, letting the night curve the notes into something sweeter than what they were. Malachi wasn’t a poor singer, but he couldn’t drip honey like his father used to before he learned to suckle whiskey like a newborn. There was a lot of things his father had been good at before he started to drink. Mal’s lips subconsciously clamped shut. “What are they complaining about now? I bet global warming is a hot topic at the moment.” His shoes would be ruined, the canvas sneakers would probably shake out half the beach onto the living room floor when he got home— her question made him reconsider the imagery that cropped up at the idea of home. “Dunno. Maybe the church again. It’s fucking cold at night though.”

“Saw that on a quote of the day calendar,” he teased, letting the words bury into her hair. When he’d first seen her, Mal had been certain that this girl was a ghost, the way that those took extra steps to avoid her had made him think divine– most others thought haunted. This was still an ideal that he held her to these days; dear Pearl full of grace. Callum had religion, Sebastian sought solace in stormy waters, Laura had the crackle of electricity– and he, he had a girl the colour of ash. They walked in silence for the most part, he didn’t like breaking the comfortable quiet, but as the car got further away, a question provoked speech. “What’re you doing out here tonight?”

“You’re lucky, Pearly girl. You never have to be afraid of the dark. You’ll always have your own light.” She shadowed her face with cigarette smoke, the wind whisked away any mask it might create like a sigh, a gentle breath that cooed the shore clean. “I don’t think anybody sleeps that good in a place like this.” Who could sleep soundly when they knew that things were without a doubt not as they seem?

“I’m a dancing, prancing, spinning and winning one woman comedy show,” she tossed back, starting a minute as the end of the cigarette erupted. Obvious shows of power still astounded her, no matter how many years she racked up in this town there was still something so strange and unusual to all of it. Sucking down her mix of toxins and nicotine, she glanced over at Pearl, sooty fingers and pale, almost white hair. “Trouble sleeping?”

He let the words drift away as careless the tide, they’d come sloshing back against the shore one day, of this he was certain– Pearl’s mind was gears and clockwork, nothing was ever gone completely. Mal craved the little light as soon as it was extinguished and he let out a low breath as their walk continued on with only the light of the moon to guide them. “Some say the world will end in fire,” he recited quietly, “Some say in ice.” By her ear he dropped his favourite phrase, one he figured she’d be pleased with, “From what I’ve tasted of desire, I hold with those who favour fire.”

Callum had to laugh, his lips pulling back for his teeth to shine in the dark, letting his shoulders shake a few times. “Yes, they did,” Callum admitted, “And my mom told me not to get lost, so I think I’ve actually followed directions.” He enjoyed his momentary victory in their back-and-forth, but knew it was only a matter of seconds before Pearl stole back the upper hand. There it is. “Well,” he nodded, “You certainly know how to tell a guy you didn’t want company. First the fire, then saying you like being alone.” He shrugged, looking back at her, “The trouble is when the guy can’t take a hint unless it comes in threes, so the ball’s still in your court.” The truth, and he guessed she knew the truth, was that he liked to give people chances to accept company, since many didn’t ask for it when they needed it. He made a face at her assumption, his hand going to smooth down the hair at the nape of his neck, “I wish it was as exciting as having a call to the sea,” he muttered, laughing at himself. “I was honestly chasing a receipt for gum, which…felt a call to the sea. And then fire was very close to me, which brought me here. So–much less cool than being aloof by the water.”

Summer nights at the harbour front were tradition, Violet supposed, inhaling the scents of rotting seaweed and the stink of fish, perched atop of the decaying wood of long abandoned docks. The wind off the water was cold, playing with the ends of her hair and kissing out the end of her cigarette, something smuggled up her sleeve, hidden for no one’s sake but her own. One was never alone by the sea for long, there was some magnetic pull in the water that drew Colby inhabitants to the surf. “Hey,” she called out, pushing tangled strands out of her face, waving to whoever was slowly picking their way through the rounded rocks. In her hand the glowing cherry of her cigarette sputtered out, and she cursed. “Gotta light?”

He delighted in the flame, not daring to touch them– though he wasn’t certain what he loved the glow in her palm, the impossibility of it all, or the satisfaction that tilted the corners of her lips upwards. Once, he’d called her a superhero. Perhaps, Mal still held the blonde to the same regard. A pout formed on her features as she extinguished the fire, thin fingers wrapping around and choking them out, he’d call her Medea under his breath– but he’d never asked what it was like to kill her own children. It was the tone of her words that made him tip his head up, studying colourless eyes. “Why do you think I’d get bored of you?”

Alcohol is an excellent fuel for flame and Malachi was often soaked in it, like linen doused in lighter fluid he craved destruction– in Pearl he could only bask in the warmth secondhand. “She’ll warm up,” the boy said with an unwarranted confidence, their matching long legs taking them out for a walk on the beach. “Show me,” he murmured– words sudden, as though propelled by need, reaching to separate their grip, his fingers gently prying her fingers open. Like they did as children, he’d ask for a spark over and over until they both fell asleep, covered in soot but otherwise unharmed. “Please.”