seasons. : a fireafy fic

chapter sixteen

(a/n: chapter alludes to self-harm.)

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The leaves of lemon trees have an alluring citrus scent. The plant beckons you close with its lush canopy of glossy green leaves and promise of delightfully sour fruit. But the unsuspecting often forget the branches are also coated in tiny thorns... sharp enough to stab you if you get too close.

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Firey frowned at the wall as he spray painted his tag in orange paint across the white bricks.

It looked like his previous work was painted over at some point. The bricks seemed to have an extra, almost plastic-like sort of layer covering them, and he could have sworn he had painted over this area before.

He was almost positive. The walls near the train tracks were his favorite place to tag.

He mentally cursed the city.

His mood was not the greatest today. 

His mood was not the greatest in general, as of late. Earlier this week, he had gone to the library to meet up with Leafy, but to his surprise, she wasn't there. Which was a little weird, because every time he felt like going over there, she would be sitting on the patio, furiously staring at her screen.

She wasn't there the next day. And the next. By then, he began to get a little worried. He stopped making the sandwiches, because she wasn't there to eat them.

He sent her a few texts, and then a few more. All of them went unanswered.

Also weird.

It was all Firey was thinking about as he spray painted. He gritted his teeth in frustration when the paint can began to spurt only small splotches of orange color, a sign it had grown empty.

Growling, he shook the can, but when he sprayed again, no paint emerged from the nozzle. He threw it on the ground and kicked it away from him, opting to finish the rest of the tag with red. He always ran out of orange, and it always mildly irritated him.

Before he could pull out the red can of paint, the tracks behind him began to screech in the distance, flagging the approach of an oncoming train.

The orange haired boy turned around as the train screamed by him at rapid speed, crunching at the morning frost on the tracks, the horn sounding loudly through the previously still air.

The train reminded him of Leafy once more.

He looked at his watch and sighed in annoyance. It was about 11:00 in the morning. Leafy's genetics class was ending soon, and maybe, just maybe she'd be at the library this time.

He picked his bag off the floor and threw it over his shoulder, deciding to make his way over to the library now. The paint cans loudly clinked together in his bag, irritating him more.

Yeah. He was carrying spray paint in his backpack again.

As Firey walked to campus, he pulled his lanyard from the front pocket of his maroon zipped hoodie and clipped it to the front of his black denim jeans. His face, scribbled out with black marker, stared up at him, judging him.

Firey looked down at it, scowling back at the ink-covered face. His picture had no eyes behind the lines of the marker, but he knew his own face was looking at him.

That made him self conscious.

For some reason, the idea of being judged made him want to run away. His sleeves had been rolled up to avoid the splattering of the spray paint, but he tugged them back down his arms, shielding the world from the scars on his wrists and the paint on his fingertips.