His grin curls like burnt paper. It makes the air smell like smoke and pooling gasoline. Makes it harder to breathe until he's choking on the fumes, breath coming out in shaky bursts that makes his smile quiver. His teeth are the color of kerosene spilt on stained white cloth, smoldering under the odor and the promises of fire lighting along the woven threads. Makes his own breath smell like the exhaust pipe on a car; makes it ready to light like a star with just a stricken match.
Flames dance on his fingertips. They grind against fingernails, turning soft flesh into hardened leather and burnt skin, and they cast the shadows of callouses on the palms of his hands. The shadows flicker and dance, like the twin sister to the flames, and drown ivory skin in ink until the ink is being burnt off too, flaking off in snowfalls of ash and black.
Like burnt paper.