Author's Notes: Dust particles linger on my toilet seat.

Okay, I really wasn't going to post this, since I'm a little bit iffy about it, but my friend Winter Ashby (read her fanfics!) said she liked it, and thought I should post it, so...Okay! Hope you people enjoy – this one's for you, Ash!

Disclaimer: I have no money to buy a chocolate bar. I'll never own Beyblade either…at least I have the lint…

Each Night

Each night, she would light a candle.

A simple candle that would be gone by the next morning, burnt and melted down to the core, and he would wonder what her motivation was for such a thing. The scent would linger, and each time, he wondered why it smelled differently each time she lit a new one.

Heat would pool in his hands, and he would stand and watch as she pulled the pieces of the melted object together, only to take out another one and replace it, and to relight it again, and each time, it would last just a little bit longer; taller than the last.

Each night, she would stare.

The flame would flicker for a moment, and she would shield it from the wind with her hand when worried it would be distinguished. But that was trivial and irrelevant, and he wondered why she cared so much.

Her motivation was endearing. But sometimes – in the moments between replacing candles and relighting them – he would wonder what her motivation was. Why the flame was so important to her, he would never know.

Each night, she would sit just a little closer.

And then she would stare again. The flame was something, he realized, that could always come back when it wanted to, whether it be from bad intentions or noble ones; it always came back and burned again. And each night, she seemed to find comfort in this strange realization, and would snuggle closer to the flame's heat, using the candle's strength so that it would never burn her.

But sometimes, it did. Sometimes, she would get too close, the candle not strong enough, and the flame would wrap around her skin a little too much, a little too angry, and she would hiss in pain, before glaring down at the flame and would yell at it, and it would listen with nothing more than a silent flicker, like it always did. But she would just snuggle up again, this time murmuring words of content, and then she would go to sleep while the candle melted slowly, slowly, once again, until it would be replaced once again by a taller one that she felt was suited.

Each night, he saw the look on her face.

When she got welts on her fingers, and burn marks on her hand, he would wince at her glimmering ruby orbs that held nothing but determination, and would watch as she blew lightly at the wound, and would just nod when it would cool down for her to attempt the impossible act of touching the flame.

Because the flame didn't like to be touched, but she wanted to try anyways. And sometimes, he would wonder why she had to be so stubborn and try to touch it, when all it would do is cause her pain with a burn it couldn't help but inflict.

Each night, she would look just a little more tired.

Her patience would run just a little bit thinner each time, but she would never stop cradling the flame that just wanted to be put out. Because she would never allow that, and he would wonder why she would never concentrate on her own fire.

Because sometimes, the flame wanted to sleep, and would sometimes not want to come back. But the flame would always be forced to come back, because she wanted it to, and it would have no other choice, because the candle would always be there to hold up the flame. And the flame didn't like that, so each time, little by little, the candle would melt just a little bit more, its strength being withered down by the flame that didn't want to be.

Each night, she would smile when she saw it grow just a little higher.

And the flame would flicker in anger, but would say nothing, because it simply couldn't. The candle would melt, and the flame would disappear, but the candle would be replaced again and again and again, and would be just a little taller and stronger than from before, and would once again resume in keeping the flame lit that sometimes wondered why she even cared.

And her motivation would continue on and on, and the candle would grow just a little bigger, and the flame just a little higher, and the burns just a little smaller until he came to wonder if she had managed to do the impossible.

And each night, the candle and flame would sit together, and each would grow just a little brighter.