What It Is To Burn

Love. What a fucking stupid theory. He stopped believing in it when he was young. Instead he believed in bitterness, in cynicism, in the impending doom of all things.

She was something different in the sea of sameness at that school. At first he thought she was the same kind of girl as the others – weak, impressionable, and downright stupid. But as he watched her, he saw something that made him watch more. She was watching him back. He sensed he intimidated her, and he liked that.

It was like cat and mouse. They said little to each other, but their connection was deeper than any he had had before. Just a little look from her, or the brushing of shoulders as they walked past each other was his whole obsessive world for a while.

The first time he kissed her, roughly and unexpectedly, she had slapped him in surprise. Then he kissed her again, and the whole damned affair began.

He made her cry, he made her beg, he made her into a sad girl with hollow eyes. But she loved him for what he was; she loved him for what he wasn't. He pretended to be heartless. He pretended that he didn't notice the way she looked at him when they were alone. He never knew she noticed the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't looking.

He became afraid of himself when she was near. He became afraid of her when they were alone and she smiled that sad little smile of hers. He was vulnerable to her.

The first time he abandoned her was hard. He left her in her warm little world of classes so that be could be part of something where he would matter. He tried not to think about her as he strode through the snow toward the helicopter. He knew her heart would break, and it scared him as he realized it hurt him to hurt her. It was the right thing to do – he wouldn't let himself be hurt by a damned girl. He wouldn't stay in a place where the only joy was snatched in the dead of the night in secret with a girl he could never truly be with.

As he laid waiting for sleep every night, he remembered her face and her soft, mournful kisses. He refused to cry or feel sorry for himself. But he still did, swept away in memory and longing for the feeling of her again. Even though he wouldn't let himself be hurt by her, even the memory of her wounded him over and over again. Strange, isn't it – the things that affect even the most hardened of people.

The second time he abandoned her, he didn't think he was able. He hadn't planned to go see her that time. But he did anyway, after attacking the factory and seeing Bobby. She had looked at him, her eyes giving away the hurt, the hope, the love that she still held for him. He forgot who he was when he was with her – and he didn't want to remember. Together in the dark, he remembered a boy with a smiling face and hopes and dreams. He imagined that boy could make the girl with the sad eyes happy.

She had begged him in tears not to leave. But he had torn himself away, leaving her on her knees in the pain of loss. Times like those made him hate himself – but what else could he have done?

He saw her again as the two sides faced off. He told himself he could care less, and lost himself in the heat of battle. Pride goes before a fall, they say. He fell, losing in combat to the boy who used to be his best friend.

The noises around him had faded, and he heard her shouting somewhere nearby. She had a boy beside her, and she was frantically escaping the world of fire and destruction. He could have called to her, escaped with them. Instead, he laid in the dirt, virtually powerless – but finally, he understood. As his world faded to black, the dark night sky heard him.

I love you.

Kitty looked back as the jet took off. She closed her eyes and pretended she didn't love the boy who cradled flames in his palms.

As his eyes shut, he realized love wasn't a theory. It was the realest thing he had ever known.