hearth

The Arsonist had a warmth to him--something that was difficult to describe, but easy to detect, like the fleeting moment of cognizance in the fog of déjà vu. His fingertips never ran cold, even adroitly toying with his matches on the way to the gallows, when the members of cosa nostra went clammy. His heart pumped blood, passion, and heat in equal measure, and the young man folded in the blaze of his arms knew it well.

Puck closed his eyes.

"They're doused, passerotto," the Arsonist murmured, breath warm--always warm--on his ear. Passerotto: a familiar nickname, and one that fell easily upon him. There was security in surety, in the repetition, the tireless affirmation of love. It meant 'little sparrow,' Puck remembered idly, and it suited him. And more than it meant 'sparrow,' it meant love, endless love... But he spoke not of their union. He spoke of death, death to come. Puck forced himself to refocus. They were doused.

It was true. The smell of gasoline hung low in the summer heat and no longer was it the work of the Driver. Puck swallowed thickly, leaning back into the Arsonist's breast and tilting his head back to meet his gaze with a depth--a fervor--before working his fingers into strawberry-blonde locks, where they stayed and stilled. "I don't think any less of you for it," he responded softly.

How could he? The Arsonist had little contact with the Mafia--the family. When this had all started... he was alone, with a matchbook and a gas can. He knew not those he could spare; he knew only that he must kill. Puck pitied him. He knew what it was to be alone, of course. He, too, had no one: but all that changed when, during that very night, the two had fallen in love after a romantic conversation.

They were never alone, after that, and Puck saw a change in the way the Arsonist stood, in the way he moved, in the way he participated in the village meetings. He had nothing to lose, earlier: the extent of what was expected of him was to survive as long as he possibly could, then throw a match and go quietly to the noose. He'd seen his fate laid out before himself, and he'd accepted it. But now...

The inferno he saw now was not blazing hellfire, but rather burning love, burning passion--and at the heart of it stood Puck, with his cheeks glowing as if by candlelight and a spark in his eyes. Now, he had something to fight for and something to lose, and he'd sooner be damned than let it be snuffed by a short drop and a sudden stop.

"I'll throw it, then," the Arsonist said, and his words sounded like a decision but his eyes searched Puck's for approval.

He pressed his soft, pink lips to the Arsonist's, and it was what he was looking for. The kiss tasted like ash and red strawberry, like a burned bonbon and yet right somehow, and he lingered a moment longer before speaking again.

"Will we win?"

He laughed, a warm, deep thing, sonorous and smoky. "In a heartbeat, passerotto."

Puck smiled, softly, and drew back, finding his cheek on the Arsonist's chest instead, where the pulse in his temple and the Arsonist's heart met and beat as one. The dull thump was enough, for now, a semblance of normalcy and regularity in the wake of the uncertainty and the bloodbaths of the days and weeks past. Again and again, soft but steady, sixty-five times every minute, in sync every time.

They'd win in a heartbeat.

"I'll wait for you."

And he would.