Not On Fire (Phan AU)

21 | surprise, I'm an arsonist

He holds the lighter in his right hand and an old blanket in the left. It has a story. Grandma gave it to him when he was ten, sent it in the mail, and signed love you with a pen running out of ink. It's blue and white and crocheted with love, according to the tag on the bottom that tells him love is just another word for store bought. His grandma is a selfish bitch, sees him once or twice every five years and sends ten dollars for birthdays and holidays if she remembers. Most of the time she doesn't. She's just another memory he wants to die and as long as he has the blanket that can't happen.

Memories are spread out around him--stuffed animals, clothes, toys, anything he could get his hands on. His bear is in the closet. That memory is already fading but these are too raw, too fresh for him to handle.

Writing had done its job, gotten him buried ten thousand words deep in a story with no outline because his life is too hectic for one to ever make sense, but he needs more than black and white on screens and flimsy printer paper. He needs orange and yellow flickering flames and destruction. Not creation. He's got baggage that won't fit into his new life.

He brings the flame to the blanket, watches as it catches on fire quick and white and blue turns to black and gray. It's pretty and calming, clearing his mind. He's not a drug addict, but he is addicted to this--to the thrill of it all and to the power it makes him feel like he has. It allows him to forget about the passage of time, about graduation looming overhead. He needs a fire in whatever form he can fucking get it.

There's no knock on the door before it's opened, just the sound of a creaky door that alerts him someone has walked in on a very compromising position. Fuck, it would be better if they walked in on him fucking someone. That he can explain. This--what is he supposed to say? Hey, whoever you are, surprise, I'm an arsonist. A fucking pyromaniac. Like that would ever go over well.

It feels like this should be in slow motion. If it was a movie, it probably would be. He'd turn his head, his mouth would drop when he saw who it was, struggle to find a plausible excuse as the person on the other side backs away slowly, hand over their mouth. Too bad this isn't a movie.

It's Louise and she's got confusion written all over her face like she's some book everyone's reading. She's not an open book, but she's been opened. And Dan is desperately trying to keep closed.

"What the fuck!" she says. Thank god that his parents aren't home. Probably let her in before they left a few minutes ago. Wandered around a bit, deciding what she wanted before coming up. But he's just speculating. Can't know for sure because he's not in her head. He wishes he could be sometimes. She's not an open book, hasn't always been this easy to read.

"Shit!" he says, skipping the whole it's not what it looks like speech. It is what it looks like. There's no lie he can come up with to cover what he's doing. Can't say it's for a project for school. She knows his classes enough to know none of them cover burning things in their curriculum. He can't say it's not his own work, but he can come up with a fake excuse for why he has a lighter and a burnt blanket in his hands.

"You should probably start talking because I'm pretty confused right now, enough to confuse you with the arsonist we've all been hearing about."

"Thought you were done being pushy." He should stop trying to hide. Too bad he's never been good at giving in, giving up.

She gives him a stern look, puts her hand on her hip, and says, "This isn't the time. I may be smart enough to know there is no way you could be the arsonist"--not like there isn't evidence to support it, he goes missing every night that there is a fire and comes back with the excuse that he just went on a walk, he hasn't gone on a walk in a while, and there hasn't been a fire in a while but he's not saying that to her--"but that still doesn't help any of this make sense."