A/N- We had a fire going in my backgarden last night (on purpose, obviously), and it inspired this.
Ianto had always loved fire. Even as a child his favourite night of the year had been Bonfire Night. He would sit at the top of the tallest tree in his garden, and watch the night sky come to life. For as far as the eye could see, there were flames licking at Guy Fawkes' in back gardens, their smoke billowing into the cold night air- beckoning to Ianto. Saying come and watch us. Come and play with us. So Ianto came.
He snuck out of the garden, huddled in a big black coat and gloves, unseen by the world. He wondered the streets alone, looking for the tell-tale signs- the smoke rising high into the sky, the hissing and crackling of damp wood, the distinctive smell of charred remains. He found it soon enough. Cardiff was alight tonight.
He stared at the fire, watching the shapes shift and form something new. Ianto knew there was a pattern, but his twelve year old brain couldn't work it out. He stared for hours, the warmth breathing over his frozen skin.
When the last dying embers finally let go of their glow, Ianto stood back up and crept home again. His father was sitting at the kitchen table waiting for him, belt at the ready. For Ianto's wonder into the world outside the garden fence hadn't gone unnoticed, as his father had followed him and watched him staring as if in a trance at the flames. Then he had gone home and waited for the boy's return. Ianto's screams o apologies were masked by the whip of the belt. Ianto's mother didn't say anything. She never did.
Six years later and his father dead, Ianto went out again. He stood transfixed, listening to the voices of the flames, lost in his own world. Fire had been his only comfort then, his only escape from reality.
This hadn't changed nine years later, when the only person who had ever loved him and saw beneath the blank mask disappeared into the sky. He sort comfort in fire again, listening to its whispering as it ate away at his flesh.
