Not On Fire (Phan AU)

26 | there's nothing left of me

The further he walks, the angrier he gets. If Phil hadn't meant that, then he shouldn't have said it. It's as simple as that. Yet Dan's still in the wrong. For being too emotional. He had known that Phil had too much power, too much control over him for a while now, but still, he didn't do anything to stop it. Once he accepted that he was friends with Phil, he stopped trying to distance himself from Phil and they grew closer.

    Fuck.

    He always carefully plans out his fires, picks times that practically no one is awake and areas that no one will easily spot at first glance. This--this, however, is completely and utterly reckless. The overwhelming urge to be at the center of destruction has taken over him. He wants fire, big and powerful, not small and weak. He needs orange and yellow, hints of red. Flickering flames dancing in the wind.

    Writing was supposed to get him out of this. Not On Fire was supposed to take away the desire, shove it in a drawer to be forgotten about. After all, out of sight, out of mind. Yet he is a marionette being controlled by the puppet master. Had fallen into the trap and believed it was a safe haven. But he had been wrong--look where he's ended up.

    His lighter is heavy in his pocket, but the bottle of lighter fluid is even heavier in his hand. They remind him of his purpose. His destiny that he had been trying so hard to ignore. His future isn't formed from his choices; his path was picked before he was ever born. Everyone has their own destination in life unique to them. They can't pick it; they can't fight it off forever.

    Dan had tried to grasp onto the little shred of normalcy that he could get his hands on before it wound its way around his neck, telling him that he could never have it, but he had been weak. He let one little distraction take over his mind, forcing him to relax and let go. With his palm outstretched, that's what he did and that's why he's here.

    Something isn't going to get out of this alive. The question is what.

    The sound of his feet hitting the ground fills the air. Thump, thump. With each footstep he gets closer and closer to beginning of the end, but he can't turn around now. Maybe he had mistakenly heard his name. He can't dwell on that or he really will be screwed.

    This is what he gets for playing with fire. For allowing the truth to be dug up right in front of him. For allowing his book to be open, the pages to be read and put on display for the world to see.

    The air is calm with no wind in sight and it's hot out--just like what you'd expect for a summer night, despite it still being spring. Standing in front of the burning warmth isn't going to be pleasant, but it's what he's going to have to do. Seeing it will calm him. He needs to be calm.

    Like he expected, there's no one at the park when he gets there. It's completely deserted, so he has nothing to worry about. The playground may not be hidden behind trees but he's got the darkness of night to cover him--the absence of light. And right now, he's just cold. The warm parts of him have fled, showcasing the blackened heart they had been covering for, for way too long. He's not beautiful; he's just broken.

    Looking at the playground, it's leaning from, the rotting wood, it's a wonder no one has done anything to it. He's doing good. The structure is dangerous. Can't even support it's own weight. Getting rid of it is for the best.

    He's hyperventilating when he twists the cap off of the bottle. His breaths coming in short and shallow and leaving the exact same way. His heart is racing in his chest, his eyes are starting to water. But he can just imagine the fire and how beautiful it will be. The road to getting there might not be, but the end result is worth it.