seasons. : a fireafy fic

chapter twenty three

Something was very wrong tonight.

Leafy could feel it in her bones.

She had been at Bubble's apartment, a choice she knew was a mistake the second she made it.

She hadn't just been at Bubble's apartment.

She had been in her bed, feeling hollow, knowing her ex was asleep next to her.

The sheets smelled of lavender.

Previously, this would have soothed her and lured her into a gentle sleep.

But she had been up all night, tossing and turning, and she couldn't shake the gut feeling that something was horribly, terribly wrong. The scent of lavender had only stressed her more.

So, she had slipped out of the bed a while ago, careful not to disturb Bubble's slumber. Firey mattered more.

Leafy had then bundled herself up in her green winter jacket, a staple in her wardrobe during these harsh months, determined to look for Firey for a reason she could not figure out.

Something had been clawing deep within her tonight, shouting at her being to go find Firey.

She had quietly exited Bubble's apartment, unsure of what she was doing, and unsure if it was right for her.

As a result, she was here now, trudging through the snowy terrain of the train tracks, tightly hugging herself in the chilly air.

From the limited knowledge she had of Firey, he had a lot of disdain for how the city handled things, and a lot of disdain for himself. He internalized this, and took his anger out by going out tagging almost every night he was free.

She recalled seeing most of his BURN tags on train tracks. She took the train quite often, and was almost glad she knew the artist so she could track where the hell he went. She concluded that it must be his favorite place to tag, so she'd taken the time to walk out here in an effort to search for him.

She made a mental note: save up for a fucking car. This was stupid.

Her efforts seemed fruitless. She'd been walking up and down almost three stops for almost two hours, and she began to wonder if she should have just stayed home.

The green haired girl suddenly realized there was a bend in the tracks she hadn't seen before. Did the snow cover it earlier? Were her eyes just shitty in the darkness?

She peered down the bend in the tracks and saw they disappeared into an alcove, where she swore she could see a faint orange glow illuminating from the void.

She made her way over to the light and finally, finally found him.

He was erratically spray painting a stationary train car, the flame of his lighter dancing frantically with the frenzied movements of his body. He was grinding his teeth, jittering uncontrollably with some other highly addictive and illegal substance he clearly recently took.

He was here, out in the snow, in only a tee shirt and a pair of jeans. If he passed out tonight, he would have died.

She took note of a series of criss-cross scars on his wrists, ones she had never seen before. None were new, but old, pale with age, the remnants of a battle that he had won long ago.

Supposedly won.

She realized she had never seen him in short sleeves.

Even in the hot weather, he wore hoodies, jackets, and windbreakers.

"Hey, Firey." She spoke quietly, as if she was trying not to scare him. She almost, almost wished she were back in the warmth of Bubble's bed.

The boy stopped spray painting and turned to look towards her, and then lowered his hands. He sniffed, then coughed as if his airways were clogged. He swallowed thickly, and resumed spray painting.