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Crimson eyes shone dully as the moon's light entered through the ajar curtains of his room. His eyes glanced to his side. The night's glow enhanced the long fiery red hair that messily laid on the mattress of his bed, forming an abstract art of waves and curls on the light gray covers. Its artist slept, turned away from him.
His fingers found itself tracing the strands, lingering closely to the small of her naked back. Brick sighed and retrieved his hand.
He should stop.
Brick rubbed at his face angrily. He was a fool, a fool wanting nights like this to be longer, wanting to wake up in the morning with her by his side. A fool that was still madly in love with the person who's now only in his bed because of pity, not want, not desire, not love. No, never love.
That was reserved for somebody else, definitely someone that isn't her... booty call? Though, associating something that sounds as crude as that to someone like Blossom didn't feel right but that's what they are right now, aren't they?
He turned away from the painfully beautiful sight of her, away from the moon's light and into the darkness of his room. The digital alarm clock on his bedside table glowed a neon red 3:48. He had an hour and a half before she woke up and left.
He pondered during that hour and a half. Abour their relationship; the dying flame and fleeting admiration. How the torch she carried for him slowly diminished while his flame only grew stronger, bordering on inferno.
It seems her cold had dampened the fire while his warmth had only made it grew to extreme sizes, the fire was out of proportion. It was too much that it hurts.
It hurts, so he desperately seeked for her. Give her as much of him to give her fuel for the dying flame, only to give too much and now she held a part of him; ablazed before turning into mere ashes. Hurting him even more as he realized nothing would ever make the small lit torch into something like a campfire.
The parts of him he gave turned into dust, still there but impossible to pick up and place back.
Brick may have fire powers, but too much burns still hurt like a bitch. Stupidly enough, he still stayed at the center of her arson, their arson.
Brick remembered when it was only a burning room, he contemplated wheter to escape, bust out the room that had no doors and unbreakable windows. Until he saw her from out the indestructible glass plane, dancing away in the grass and tossing gasoline into the no exit building, then he opted to stay like an idiot.
Brick continued to sink futher into the lit room, into his demise as he fell further in love with her. Watching as she laughed and wishing it was him that made her happy. Watching as she cried, wishing it was him that wiped away her tears. Watching as she boiled in anger and wishing it was him that her fury was directed to; he'd take anything he could get.
Things only worsened when they spent their first night together, drunk and out of their minds. Innocent flirting became soft touches and soft touches became heated kisses. He remembered how they stumbled into his apartment, her body pressed against his warmth as she whispered his name in an intoxicated haze.
They woke up the next day in his bed, with a splitting headache and lull in memory. But their lack of clothes and the garments strewn all over the floor made it clear what events transpired the night before.
It was an accident, really. Merely a in the heat of the moment of their drunken stupor. It was all that was. Brick, as much as a lovesick fool he was, believed it as that, because he knew thinking of the possibilities of why that night ended the way it did would only leave him hurting.
Yet, she came back and the possibilities running through his head was never silenced again.
And then he was screwed.
Brick didn't know why she came back, wanting more.
It wasn't the more Brick wanted per se but he wasn't one to complain, he'd take anything he could get. Blossom made it clear that there would be no feelings involved in their new late night rendezvous.
No feelings, she said, but Brick doesn't follow rules.
His love became a firestorm.
The fire consumned him whole, in burning reds and oranges. Their colors, he thought. Brick found himself associating every thought to her, the pink-eyed heroine never left his mind. She was the reason of his creation, the reason of his anger that morphed into the reason of his happiness. And now the reason of his pain.
It was a love like no other, the first love he felt. Brick remembered the first time he realized he was inlove with her; the clenching of his heart and the suffocating. the burning flame and the agony that came with it. He was used to pain but not this type of agony
He was so fucked, he realized. Further more when the torch she herself had held for him was put out and the agony worsened.
His love is a firestorm, and it was only him that got destroyed in the process.