Pyro

VI

TW: Descriptive violence and blood

Sunny

The question hung between us, Finn's eyes holding secrets I couldn't begin to understand. His mouth opened, perhaps finally ready to give me answers, but fate had other plans. The garage door slammed against the wall with enough force to make the tools on the nearby workbench rattle, cutting off whatever he'd been about to say.

And then time stopped.

Because there, in the doorway, stood a ghost from my everyday life - a presence so familiar it felt like looking in a funhouse mirror - everything recognisable but somehow terribly wrong. The cognitive dissonance of seeing him here, in this place, made my head spin.

That smile - I knew it better than my own. Had spent years cataloguing its variations: the genuine one that crinkled his eyes, the forced one at formal events, the mischievous one that meant trouble was coming. I'd invested hours of my life trying to coax it out when he was down, celebrated like a child when I succeeded. It was the smile that could transform rooms, brighten family gatherings, make everything feel okay when it wasn't.

His face - how many mornings had we shared that bathroom mirror? Making ridiculous expressions while brushing our teeth, fighting over counter space, rolling our eyes at each other's bedhead. The face I'd sometimes wanted to punch when he pushed my buttons or embarrassed me in front of friends, but never could because he'd always manage to make me laugh instead.

He breezed through the doorway, all broad shoulders and casual grace, balancing a pizza box in one hand while laughing at something Kyle said behind him. His eternally messy hair fell across his forehead as he looked down, chuckling at whatever joke I'd missed. Then his brilliant green eyes lifted, met my greenish blue ones, and the world screeched to a halt.

"Sunny?"

The word escaped me like a prayer, or maybe a curse:

"Sol?"

➢ ➣ ➢

Sol

Four days ago

I left Sunny's room still chuckling. The look on her face when I appeared in her doorway - priceless. She's always been easy to startle, though there are certain topics I never joke about. Certain fears that he instilled in her. But this kind of harmless scare?

Pure entertainment. At least for me.

My amusement faded as I remembered today's agenda. I hurried to my room, digging through tangled sheets for my perpetually misplaced phone. Finding it, I dialled a number I'd called countless times over recent months. The dial tone barely finished its first ring.

"If it isn't the famous Solesta himself." That irritating Italian accent. I rolled my eyes - something I'd never dare in person, but hey, phone calls have their perks.

"Shut it, Nick"

"You're moody. Got news?" His chuckle crackled through the speaker. "And don't fucking call me Nick."

"Ooh, sensitive about the name? Don't care, Nick. Just calling about dear old dad's plans today." I knew using that name would get under his skin. But if he was going to mock me with the 'famous Solesta' bit - God, I hate that name, hate everything connected to that bastard - then I'd give as good as I got.

"Get to the point. Some of us have actual work."

"Maybe sample some of your products? Might help with that tension." His irritated sigh was audible. Before he could snap back, I continued. "Fine, fine. I'll be quick. Since you asked so nicely."