oneshot collection [ kaylor ]

le incendie

"Red? Red and Orange would have been more fitting for an album title, because, well, you know..." Selena's voice is light and teasing, but you still roll your eyes and burn her cupcake to a midnight-black crisp.

// In which Taylor Swift is a literal hottie. //

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I watched Heroes. I like Kaylor. This happened. Apparently I can't write fic without someone accidentally murdering someone else, though.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: kinda vauge attempted rape, accidental murder, lots of fire

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Your parents always tell you that you're special, and at age five, none of you realize the weight that holds. All parents tell their kids that they're special, after all, and those words are just some sort of verse from the gospel of parenthood. You beam when they tell you, though, and they ruffle your wild blonde curls and hang your crayon scribble artwork on the refrigerator.

At age six, however, everything changes.

A summer storm tears through the Christmas tree farm, battering saplings and punching against the windows. It's after ten p.m., but you can't sleep and you're curled up in your mother's lap, watching Arthur on TV. But somewhere the storm rips a powerline from its place and the house plunges into darkness and silence. You freeze and wait for monsters or murderers to form out of the leaky sea of darkness and drag you off into the rolling thunder outside.

You nearly panic when Andrea and Scott leave you alone on the couch to hunt for candles. They bring back a few, set them on the coffee table, and then leave to search for the lighter, bickering about who left it where last.

Thunder strikes through the air like a gunshot, and you panic, heart slamming rapidly in your chest. In your terror, you reach for a candle. Your hand feels hot like when you get a little too close roasting marshmallows for s'mores.

And suddenly, the candle lights.

The flame flickers, and you stare at it in shock. Your panic about the darkness and the storm fades into panic about how the flame had ignited.

You reach for another, and this time you watch more carefully. Your hands are shaking, and when the flame lights on the next candle, part of it hovers in your palm, trembling along with your fingers. It doesn't hurt at all, but there's fire touching your skin, so as a reflex, you shriek.

Your parents sprint into the room, and they stare at you and the lit candles and the burning flame in your palm, their faces shocked in the darkness.

"Oh Jesus," Andrea says.

You wonder if Jesus even has a prayer to say for this.

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Your grandmother on your father's side was like you, they explain. A firestarter. Pyrokinetic. Scott is calm. Andrea panics. From six to sixteen, you're wrapped in one of those fireproof blankets. Figuratively, of course, but you definitely feel smothered by it all. But you suppose you can't blame your mother for her panic, because that's just not something that's explained by science, and it takes several years to learn how to control it. Several years, a cluttered box of mistakes.

Age seven, and you accidentally burn the knob of your door to melted brass when Austin breaks the leg off of your favorite toy horse.

Age eight, and you char the pant leg of a boy on the playground who tells you that he thinks your hair looks ugly.

Age eleven, and you accidentally slice your finger attempting to help your mother chop vegetables. The entire dinner goes up in smoke.

You're nearly fourteen before you feel confident enough to say you have it under control. As much as you can, at least. When you jolt awake, cold and sweating from horrible nightmares, your palms still ignite. When Austin makes you angry enough and refuses to stop provoking you, heat pounds right beneath your skin, pressing at the tissue and sinew. But it doesn't happen by accident, no simple flicks of your wrist accidentally burning a hole in the couch upholstery like that time when you were nine.