Ashes to Ashes | Kian + Colette
Kian sat on the front porch steps of the Elliot house, his hands resting on his knees, which were joggling to some unheard beat. He was visibly nervous, his hands twisting in his lap, the sole of his sneaker tapping nervously against the wooden boards. It was too cold to be sitting outside, even with the warm trucker jacket he'd picked up at a Goodwill, but as usual, he didn't really feel it. He noticed the cold, of course, but he suspected that even without the coat, it wouldn't have bothered him much. It was just for show, so people didn't give him weird looks for being outside in January without one.
His nerves weren't doing him any favors. His eyes flickered around at the porch and the dirt with its browned, dying grass in front of him, smattered with the occasional withered leaf, and every now and then, his foot darted out, crushing the small flames trying to ignite here and there before they could catch. The misery that had settled in his stomach since the night of the gala twisted inside him, and he felt his palms warm of their own accord. "Stop," he muttered, shaking them out and taking a few deep breaths to slow his pulse. As long as he kept calm, they wouldn't get out of control, but it seemed he had no way to ensure that anymore.
Like clockwork, the movie reel of the night of the gala jerked into motion inside his head. He'd been able to see almost nothing else since then, and the scenes played out before his eyes in vivid clarity. After fidgeting with his jacket and tie in the mirror for a good twenty minutes, unaccostumed to the formal dress required for the event, he'd been running late to meet Colette. Snow was just beginning to fall as he hurried through the streets, and it wasn't until he heard the screech of tires that he realized he'd walked out into the middle of the street without looking. There was the dull impact of the car hitting him, the asphalt cold and wet beneath his palms. It wasn't serious; even as he sat up, shaking and probing his ribs for cuts or broken bones, he knew that he was fine, but apparently it didn't matter. The hood of the car burst into flames.
There were shouts as passengers ran from the car, and Kian scrambled upright, his hands held out as though he could stop the fire himself. He couldn't, of course. That wasn't how this worked. His heart was thudding away madly beneath his jacket as he tried frantically to do something, anything, but the more he panicked, the bigger the flames got until they jumped, like magic, from the car to his coat sleeve. He flailed a bit, flinging the jacket onto the ground, and then he just ran, trailing bits of flame behind him as he went.
Kian wasn't sure where he was when he finally calmed down, but the streets were dark and deserted. He peered at himself in an empty store window and found his hair disheveled, his white button-up singed and streaked with soot, burns dotting his hands and forearms. By the time he made his way back to the street where it had happened, the car was gone. His jacket was a pile of scorched rags, and after poking around for his phone, which had half-melted from the heat, he left it there. He did go to the gala, standing back in the trees long after Colette had gone back inside, but every time he tried to make himself follow her, his hands shook and sparks flew from his fingertips, until he finally gave up and went home.
So there he was, sitting on her porch like a sad little puppy waiting for her to get home from school. He hadn't called or texted her since then, and while he could have come over sooner to explain himself, could have picked up another burner phone to replace the old one, he hadn't. Frankly, he'd been too afraid he would hurt her. Any faith he'd had in his own self-control had gone, literally, up in flames.
