The golden spark leapt up towards the sky, reaching its heated arms naively for oblivion. Marshall almost hoped that the single flame would fall downward from its pedestal and hop onto his pale brown skin. It would be nice to feel something, even for a mere moment.

Marshall had no mother; therefore there was no one to scold him for playing with matches, no one to tell him he couldn't toy with the switch of an ancient lighter to pass the time. And so he sat cross-legged on the carpeted living room floor, watching the flames skitter upward and then skitter back down again at his command. One of the few figments of existence which actually obeyed.

Bubba wasn't coming back for sure now, and Marshall wasn't sure how to feel about this because his mind was immersed in those flames, and thinking too much made his head hurt and his fingers twitch. No good, having twitchy fingers while playing among fire starters. Or was it? Marshall tentatively inhaled.

Death by fire…It was almost romantic.

Lee had seen that movie, Pompeii, with ex-girlfriend the day it had premiered in theaters. The couple had died not by flame but by magma, which was similar enough in concept in Marshall's humble opinion. Their world was facing massive destruction, and the escaped slave and royal lady were simply snacking on each other's faces as everything they had known died off and became history. Marshall hated that movie.

At last he lay the lighter down after releasing the wheel, and ignored his stomach's incessant grumbling. His home had an alarming amount of old matchbox's, and Lee had gathered each and every one that he could find and surrounded himself with them. Marshall struck up a new match now that he was bored with the lighter, and the fire suffocated the pleas of his agonized abdomen.

Of course, Marshall knew he had been cruel to Bubba, and that his mom probably would have ended up OD-ing to the point of death eventually if he never found a way to stop her. But it was just so nice to have someone to blame outside of himself, so, so nice not to be the only one that he himself hated. Wasn't that the point of having an enemy? An entire being to blame for the tragedy of his troubles.

What wasn't so pleasant in contrast, was seeing the betrayed look on Bubba's face. What wasn't so nice was hearing he deserved to die and willingly exiling himself. But why didn't Bubs fight back? Hell, Bubba was capable of defending himself. He could probably kill if he wanted to, he was tough and strong and beautiful and brave.

Do I make him weak? Am I…hurting him?

Too much thought. Marshall's ignorance of the building flame resulted in a burnt finger.

Lee jumped, tossing the burnt match aside and stomping furiously after it hit the carpet, just to be safe. Fiona somehow had obtained a key to his home, and walked in just in time to see her dear friend shouting and prancing around the living room floor.

A living room floor that was coated in used matches.

After so many instances of entering his home only to receive perpetual silent treatment, Fiona had somewhat become accustomed to handling her corpse of a platonic partner. She would talk to him all bright and chipper, not bothering to scold or plead or say any of the normal things you'd say to a pal with a recently deceased mother. Fiona knew Marshall didn't want that. She knew that he wanted normal, and to be treated as normal even when snot-faced and blubbering and covered in matches. Just until he got beyond this bitter patch.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't see anything if you'll be a good boy and clean up your mess before we both lose it," she chirped, slugging him softly in the shoulder. "And since I don't feel like cooking, we're gonna order pizza if that's cool. I also borrowed all of F.R.I.E.N.D.S from Starchy, so you can yell angrily at Ross with me as he so eagerly partakes of his fedora lifestyle."

Fi dropped her drawstring bag (presumably stuffed with sporting gear and previously mentioned DVDs) onto the saggy parlor couch. But Marshall was far more interested in what she was still holding.

"These were out behind your bushes…don't ask why I was behind your bushes, it's irrelevant."

Marshall did not reply. He had been planning to never speak again, but had slipped up when visited by a particular brat in pink, who tended to make a habit of stimulating such slip-ups. This time however, he did not intend to speak with such a devastating brashness.

"Did Ashley drop by or something?"

Marshall picked at the fabric of his shorts at the mention of such a name. The papering of the bouquet was now torn, and the flowers were caked in soil and small insects.

"'Cause I can just throw them out if you want, but this hodgepodge probably doesn't make the most efficient compost."

Marshall just shook his head immediately, yanking the stems and their proceeding petals out of Fiona's arms. He put all of his dangerous toys away, and joined his jock friend in the kitchen. Marsh didn't own any vases, so they tucked the plants away in a sturdy college football cup and stuck them directly in the center of the dining room table.

"What do you think?"

Marshall examined the disheveled bouquet. No one had ever given him flowers before, and he had certainly not expected a gift from some pretty boy who supposedly hated his guts but was very okay with kissing him.

His cheeks were crimson and a flame, a different kind of flame, and he looked away from his flowers and focused on his bare feet, wiggling his toes in drum-like rotations.

The stems were all jutting out at awkward angles like dislocated bones, the petals were torn like pitifully ripped pages. But they were Marshall's stems and petals, and they had been picked out just for him, and so even if it broke his heart, he thought they were the most beautiful things he had ever seen with his own two eyes.

Marshall looked up from his feet. His face was still ruby red, and his heart was beating fast.

He disregarded his no-speech tactic for the second time that day.

"I think," Marshall said, "that I would very much like that pizza now."