It's the fire, Will thinks. He's drawn to it, like a moth-- drawn by light and warmth. He equates light and heat with comfort and his parents talking, and friends, and Christmas or Thanksgiving. He knows fire can burn him, but he can't stop himself from reaching for it.
It's the fire, Warren thinks. He's terrified of it, though he'd never tell. He stares at his burning hands with dread. He used to feel the fire flickering across his skin, feel the blisters which don't distort his flesh. He knows he burns. He leaves black marks where his fingers rest.