Chapter II: Fire Starter

The warehouse they'd taken up residency in could not have been called a home. It could have been called a dump, a shack, perhaps even a shanty, but a home it was not.

It was one story tall, with a low ceiling and ever crumbling walls. The deterioration made way for termites and cockroaches, mice and all sorts of disease bearing vermin that they could never seem to scare away. The only thing worse than the bugs was the cold, the freezing cold. It was only August and every morning the Flock would wake up shivering beneath their blankets.

The decor matched the condition, unfortunately. It was grey, gloomy, dark and despondent. Which was just perfect, because they really needed to feel worse about the situation as it was. Nevertheless, they'd tried to brighten up the mood with various old pieces of furniture they'd found on the street. It didn't really help that the furniture was often damp and invested with the filth of its past owners, not to mention they were all in various stages of deterioration.

There was an ugly armchair, an ancient couch, some awful smelling cots, a pile of trashed sleeping bags, and a sad looking set of fold away table and chairs. All of which they'd found either in the dump or just before they were fated to go into it. Most would have fallen apart if any more than one person dared to sit on it; some were very close to falling apart anyways.

Sadly enough, furniture was not the end of their troubles. There was the lack of running water, which was a big problem. A disgusting problem at that. Then there was the fact they had no electricity what-so-ever. Which meant no A/C, no central heating, no stove, no refrigerator, no radio, and no light at all. That was just horrible fiasco in the making, because in the winter... Fang didn't even want to think about what would happen in the winter. The summer had been bad enough, but to imagine a New York winter in that filthy dump... That was probably the worst of it all. At least in Fang's opinion.

If there was one good point- Scratch that, if there was any good point at all to the Filth Shack (as Fang liked to call it), it was the roof.

Fang had discovered it shortly after they'd first moved in. He'd gotten in (yet another) fight with Max and had gone off sulking into the dense brush in search of some peace and quiet. Low and behold, he should stumble upon a rickety, steel ladder hidden from sight by ragged weeds and what not. It looked completely and utterly unsafe, as if it hadn't been used in years.

Naturally, he had to climb it.

When he did, he found an amazing (at least, he thought it was) site. Up on top of the Filth Shack was a great pile of junk beneath a forest green tarp, and coming closer Fang recognized the legs of chairs, odd bits of metal and all sorts of miscellaneous items. Including an old radio and broken television. It was so random, and out of place for the area. Most things like this would have been looted before they had been so much as covered. But not this. He thought about telling Max, she'd have some type of us for it, but then he'd have to tell her where he found it and she'd just muck it up. So he left it alone, for the time being.

The tarp and its contents aside, the best part by far was the view. To one side was the Bronx, but to the other was the Harlem River, and across the Harlem was Manhattan. Some of the most expensive real estate in the world. Donald Trump's play ground. Lit up at night, it was completely breath taking. Totally peaceful. It was the type of place movies were made in honor of, books were written for and songs dedicated to. This amazing place he'd heard all about, yet never really experienced. He wanted to, though. He wanted to very bad.

Down below, tempers raged and turmoil ruled the atmosphere. And this was his escape. It was the only thing grounding him at times. It was his definition of perfection.

As far as he knew, he was the only person yet to discover its existence. Though he knew it wouldn't be long before Max found it and ruined it, just like she did with everything else.

But for now, it was his and his alone.

Which was why when Max had stopped screaming about his disappearance (it hardly was a disappearance, he was only gone six hours after all) he escaped to the roof top.

Manhattan looked beautiful that night, with the sky line alight and the river reflecting the sparkling illumination. It was, surprisingly; quiet for New York, and especially for a Friday. But that, Fang supposed, was a good thing. They could be assured that at the very least, the Erasers were at bay.

Clank.

"Hey!"

Fang felt himself jolt as he was hit squarely in the back. Muttering, he turned around to find another pelted rock falling just short of its target.

"Fang!" Iggy called again.

"Yeah?" He replied, peering over the opposite ledge. A story below, he could dimly see the blonde boy in the moonlight. But regardless, he could make out an easy going smirk across his friend's face. Fang couldn't help but feel the corners of his usually frowning mouth turn up at the site of Iggy's nonchalant demeanor; he just had that effect on people.

"Is this a private sympathy party, or may I join in?"

For a split second, Fang paused. This was his place, his place to be alone. If he told someone, even Iggy, it would spoil the whole thing. Yet, at the same time, Iggy wouldn't tell Max, and Max was the one he was hiding from. So it really couldn't do any harm, he reasoned, none at all.

"Yeah, come on up!"

Iggy smiled, "Thanks."

Below, Fang could see Iggy's wings gently unfurl. Their brown feathers glistened in the looming moonlight, and Fang could see every colored patch, every crooked feather and every contour. As Iggy stretched them to full length, Fang couldn't help but be help in rapture. The flock rarely flew in New York, Fang couldn't even remember the last time he stretched his wings, and he'd hardly remembered how long its full span was. His was the longest, which was natural since he was the tallest, and spanned a good twelve to fourteen feet. It was amazing to see, especially in flight. Which is precisely what Iggy did next, as one would imagine.

He shot straight up, quite a bit faster than Fang had expected. Consequently, he nearly skinned Fang's nose as he streaked by.

Then, quite abruptly, he stopped and took a minute to hover just above Fang's head.

"Am I clear?" Meaning, am I going to hit anything?

Fang took a quick step back, "Yep."

And Iggy dropped, landing quite cat like right before Fang.

"Hello, then," Iggy grinned.

"Hello," Fang replied quietly.

"Well, if you're going to be like that," Iggy frowned very disapprovingly, and then without missing a beat pressed his slender fingers against Fang's rib cage and began, to tickle him.

"Stop! Stop!" Fang cried through a horrible bought of laughter as he tried to pull away, but Iggy was much more forceful. As he took one step back, Iggy took two forward.

He was surprised Iggy still remembered how ticklish he was, it'd been a favorite game in their youth. See who could go the longest with a straight face. Iggy always won, Fang was just too ticklish to ever win at such a game. They hadn't played it in ages, not since... not since they were about eight or nine. Fang had forgotten how terribly fun it was.

"Now, are you ready to converse properly?" Iggy asked when he finally ceased.

"Properly?" Fang asked questioningly.

"No mumbling, muttering, etc."

"Spoil sport."

"And proud!"

Fang smirked, "Remember when were little? And we used to play that game all the time?"

Iggy returned the grin, "I seem to remember winning a lot."

"You did," In two short minutes, Fang's mood had improved greatly. Due mostly in part to the tickling, true. But it was also the memories, of the tickle fights, the chicken pox, watching cartoons, -oh! - and the matches!

Fang chuckled to himself, the matches. That was a story.

"What? Is there something you're not telling me about?" Iggy asked in a very annoyed fashion. He was usually left out of jokes, being that he couldn't see a lot of the stuff that was happening that caused the jokes to be so funny. Fang could imagine it got rather annoying after a while, especially since Iggy had a love for being the center of attention.

"Do you remember," He giggled, "the matches?"

"Oh god," Iggy sighed, breaking out into a broad grin, "the matches!"

"Do you-"

"Wait," Iggy interrupted, "this is going to be a long story. I think it'd be best to take a seat before our legs fell asleep."

"Right here," He put a hand on Iggy's upper arm and pulled him towards the ledge, "Just don't lean back."

"Perfect."

"Okay, now do you remember-"

"How we got them in the first place?"

Fang smiled, "Of course!"

From that moment forward, the two were completely lost in the retelling of the valiant story of the day they nearly burned down the School.

Seven-year-old Fang and six- (one month away from seven, as he constantly reminded his best friend) year-old Iggy were quite a cute pair. They both had round, boyish faces, rosy cheeks and innocent, (though deceitful) saucer eyes.

This day in particular seemed to be a trying day for everyone, both experiment and whitecoat. Max had the stomach flu, and had subsequently thrown up on one of her handlers. They'd sent her to her cage early, not wanting to soil any of their expensive equipment with vomit.

After Max left, there was only Fang, Iggy and a young whitecoat, looking back Fang suspected she was simply an intern or trainee of some sort, seeing as she had no idea how to handle either the boys or their younger counter parts.

"That's it, now I'm just going to-" The young woman reached for a second needle, to accompany on the one she had already pressed into Fang's spinal column. Both were filled with suspicious liquids that she was to inject into their spinal cord. Supposedly, this was to increase blood flow. But Fang had reason to believe that the liquids were actually sedatives, seeing as the woman seemed to have reached her wits end.

"No!" Fang cried, swatting her away. The first needle had hurt the young child enough for the day, and he was smart enough to know what was coming next.

"Just let me-"

"No! Don't want no more shots!" And with his peace said, the child hopped off the stool and ran for the door before his handler could even register what had happened.

As he rounded the corner into the hallway, he vaguely heard her say something along the lines of, "Don't want any more shots."

Giggling, the wide-eyed boy ducked behind a chair. He was positively thrilled at his quickness and cunning. And as a group of whitecoats rushed by, looking entirely frazzled, Fang couldn't help but think of the fun Max and Iggy would have had if they had joined him.

When the fuss seemed to have settled (they'd gone off to seal the exits) the brunette boy slowly crept out of his hiding place. He was quite familiar with the hall; he was dragged up and down it nearly everyday. He was also familiar with the next hall over, where they were testing Iggy.

Fully aware that he'd have hell to pay once they found him, Fang quietly tip-toed down the hallway, taking care to hide behind every available chair, tree and portrait. Though he quickly found the trees were preferable, seeing as everything else reeked of disinfectant. Either that or what he strongly suspected was urine.

When he reached the neighboring hall, he was assured that there was a very good chance no one would be there. He was still prepared in case someone had stayed behind, but most of the whitecoats set to handling them were younger, inexperienced workers. The type who would go running in search of another charge, and in the process completely their own.

He wasn't sure which room Iggy was in, so just in case he decided to check them all.

By checking, he meant listening. If he pressed his ear against the door he could make out the noises in the other room, and Iggy was guaranteed to make noise.

The first room was empty, as were the second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth. There were only six rooms in the hall, so Fang figured he had missed something. He went back over the doors, twice in fact. On the third time around, he could hear a faint clicking in the fourth room.

"Iggy!" he hissed through the crack beneath the door.

"Fang!" Was the response, "You got away!"

"Yeah, I did! The whitecoats are looking for me right now, on the other side of the building!"

"Aw, you get to have all the fun," Iggy pouted.

"I came to get you, so you can have fun too!"

"Yay!" He heard Iggy cheer on the other side.

Smiling, Fang jiggled the door knob, trying to get it open. Unfortunately, the whitecoats weren't as stupid as he thought. They'd had enough sense to lock the door on their way out.

"Iggy, the door's locked!"

"Well of course I know that stupid!" Iggy reported, "Just wait a second, I'm getting it open!"

There was a sort of clinking and jingling, and then the knob started to wiggle and jiggle. The wiggling and jiggling went on for a minute or two, but the minutes seemed to stretch into long, painful hours. Every second that he stood there in the open, Fang was that much closer to being found, but he simply couldn't abandon Iggy. After all, the boy was his best friend.

So he patiently waited, hopping from one foot to the other at regular intervals of boredom. Twice, there was a banging sound and a groan, as if Iggy had decided to take a shot at blunt force. Still, the door did not open.

"Hurry up!" Fang hissed.

"I'm trying!" And the clinking and the jiggling continued.

In fact, it continued for a good ten minutes (ten minutes filled with a lot of hopping and "Hurry up!"s on Fang's part, and ten minutes filled with a good deal of "Just a second!"s and "I'm trying!"s on Iggy's) before Iggy finally pushed the door open.

Fang opened his mouth to say "About time!" but before he could, Iggy held something in front of his face.

"Look! Matches!" He said excitedly, waving the small sticks in front of Fang's face.

Indeed they were. It seems that Iggy's handler was a smoker, and a careless one at that. He'd left a package of Koole's and a box of matches on the counter when he'd gone out to search for Fang. The Koole's didn't obviously interesting them at the time, it was the matches.

They'd seen them in use, and knew what they were for, but regardless, they were new and exotic in their small, sheltered world.

"Lemme see!" Fang cried, and swiped them out of Iggy's hand. He fingered their long sticks and red tips for a moment, completely fascinated by the small objects.

Then, he turned back to Iggy. Who was doing a rather odd thing, he'd set them up in a row of three and the far left one then turned to it's fellow matches and seemed to scold them.

"What are you doing?" Fang asked, peering over Iggy's shoulder.

Iggy's cheeks flushed in slight embarrassment, "This is a whitecoat," he said, motioning to the one on the far left, "The other two are you and me. And together..."

He then took the 'Fang' match and the 'Iggy' match and used them to sweep the whitecoat match off the table into the trash. This was meant to illustrate that somehow, the two young boys were going to over take a full grown man. Obviously, this was not going to happen, mutation or not. But it was very fun to pretend.

Fang laughed, and then said, "No, we do this!" And stepped on one of his. This, of course, caused a lot of giddy laughter.

Together, they came up with various ways for the 'Fang' and 'Iggy' matches to torture the 'whitecoat' matches. The poor sticks were put through all sorts of death methods, crushing, drowning, choking, shooting; starvation, various unnamed diseases, hit and run, though crushing remained the most popular. It was the sort of thing a normal seven-year-old might do with dolls, in regards to a teacher or parent who'd displeased them, but instead, Fang and Iggy were playing with matches. Then, he'd never thought that that type of thing was anything but normal, but looking back he realized he'd been a very foolish child.

"Are there more?" Fang asked, after his last match, disappeared into the trash can.

"Yeah," Iggy replied, tossing him the box. Fang reached out to catch it, and as he did his fingers scrapped against the side of the small box. The rough side.

"Iggy!" He cried, as if he had been hit by a sudden epiphany.

"Yes?" Iggy responded, his voice was very blase as he tossed yet another match into the sink.

"Look!" Fang said, not letting his excitement go. He pointed at the rough side excitedly, trying to get Iggy's attention once more.

"Yeah, so?" The redhead responded, giving Fang's discover a once over.

He groaned at his friend's naivety, "We can light them!" He explained. To demonstrate, he took one of the remaining matches and carefully pressed it against the rough patch, careful to keep his fingers clear. Then, hesitantly, he struck it.

Before it'd even been given the run of the sand-papery edge, the match lit, quite suddenly in fact. So suddenly, Fang dropped it in surprise.

"Ah!" Iggy cried and sensibly stomped it out before anything else could catch fire.

"Sorry," Fang mumbled, "Slipped out of my fingers." Even at the age of seven Fang had a strong sense of pride. He would never admit the sudden appearance of flames had completely caught him off guard, instead he blamed it on sweaty finger tips (it could happen!), and decidedly, struck another one. Ready this time for the orange glow that suddenly appeared.

"Oooh," Iggy said, allowing his fingers to dart in and out of the flames.

"Stop that! You'll catch on fire!" Fang said, jerking it away from him.

"No I won't!"

"You will, and then you'll die!"

Iggy pouted, but obliged and kept his fingers a good distance away from the flames. That is, until he got a match of his own, and then proceeded to give himself minor burns and singes here and there at his own discretion.

It displeased Fang that Iggy was being so careless, but he had his own flaming match to worry about so he didn't pay it too much mind. Though he was always careful to keep on eye on Iggy's ever blackening finger tips.

The two quickly found a number of pleasing things they could do with lit matches (aside from the literal fire stroking Iggy seemed to have taken a liking to), such as licking their forefinger and thumb, then pinching the match out, or having flaming sword fights. They even tried to 'eat' the fire, but they quickly realized that a burnt tongue wasn't worth the satisfaction of learning a new trick.

Of course, through all the fun and games of fire, there is a reason small children are not given matches.

"Ow!" Fang cried as the match reached its end and his finger tips.

"Are you okay?" Iggy asked concernedly, looking at Fang's slightly singed finger tips.

"Fine, fine," He muttered, hoping the horrible burning sensation would stop soon.

"You sure? Cause that looks like-"

But what it looked like he would never know because it was at that moment that Fang suddenly realized when he'd cried out, he'd carelessly let go of the lit match. Scanning the room, he saw no immediate fire threat, until he took a chance glance at the counter on his left. On that counter were various medicines, shots, medical equipment and what not. And a clipboard crammed with a stack of papers.

On top of that stack of papers was the match.

Paper is flammable.

That match was lit.

If it wasn't already obvious, the stack of papers quickly caught fire.

Fang swore loudly, surprising Iggy who had never heard anyone is own age swear out loud. But Fang didn't take notice, as he was vainly trying to blow the flames out, as he'd seen other children do on the television. Except those flames were smaller, and on candles. Not the great blaze that had appeared before Fang.

The flames quickly spread to the various flammable medical products and other important papers sitting on the counter, completely engulfing the lone pack of Koole's before either Fang or Iggy had a chance to properly put a stop to the great inferno.

The two children were unsure of what to do, if they left the room they'd be in trouble, but if they stayed they'd probably die. Unless the fire was put out, and they could possibly do that. Maybe.

Thankfully and unfortunately, every room was equipped with a fire alarm and sprinklers. Soon, the crackling of the flames was joined by a high pitched screeching, and then the crackling was put out all together by a down pour of water from above. It reminded Fang very much of the rain he'd seen on the television, but usually it happened outside, as he recalled.

And Fang couldn't help it, he started to laugh. There they were, surrounded by all this charred lab equipment, being drenched by the sprinklers, and Fang just stood there and laughed.

Iggy gave him an odd look, one filled with confusion and worry that Fang had somehow lost his mind, but then, he joined in Fang's own private joke anyways. And that was probably the best memory of Fang's entire childhood, him and Iggy. Drenched in water, laughing.

"I can't believe we actually did that!" Iggy laughed once they'd both had their turn at retelling their greatest hour.

"I know," Fang sighed, catching his breath, "Max got so upset when we got back."

"She complained we always had all the fun."

"Which was not true," Fang said pointedly, as if Max was overhearing the conversation from below.

"Yeah..." Iggy agreed softly. The two sat there momentarily, still reliving the days of secret handshakes and adventures in exploration. Fang more so than Iggy, because he'd ran through these memories all before, he knew them by heart. Especially in the months after they'd gone by, when those memories seemed to be all he'd had.

"I guess we should go now," he said after a moment, "It's getting late."

Iggy nodded, "I can already hear Max screaming," He smiled. But he was probably right, because Max had been enforcing a strict curfew of eight-thirty as of lately, which they had certainly broken.

Moving swiftly, the two unfurled their wings and soundlessly settled unto the ground below. As they did so, Fang felt Iggy's fingers come to rest on his shoulder. Ever so slightly, Fang sensed his pulse rising as he felt the light pressure of Iggy's fingertips against his t-shirt.

Fang noted, as he ducked into the building, that everyone seemed to be asleep. Which would save them a lecture for now, but they'd have hell to pay when the morning came.

Fang over turned a few crates and found their night clothes (sleeping in a pair of jeans was more uncomfortable than it sounded) beneath a grave of long forgotten newspapers.

"Here," he muttered, pressing a pair of flannel pants and a t-shirt into Iggy's hands. Careful not the wake their sleeping companions, the pair crept behind a wall of boxes that served as an impromptu changing room.

Though it was dark, Fang could still see Iggy's outline in the moonlight. But he turned away very quickly, thinking to himself, don't stare, don't stare. Even if Iggy couldn't see him staring, he was sure to feel it.

Don't stare, don't stare.

Once they were both decent, Fang and Iggy crept over to the far corner, where the cots and what not lay. But as Fang moved to curl up in his customary armchair, he found Gazzy dozing peacefully in his usual place. He groaned. All the other cots were probably taken. And looking them over, he found that they were.

Muttering a few choice words to himself, Fang spread a blanket on the floor and prepared for a long, cold night.

"What are you doing?" Iggy hissed, pulling out his bed from the couch. He was the lucky one, with the double pull out bed and all. But it was the only one that'd fit his tall frame. Amazingly, he'd grown again. He was now a full 6'4", and any attempt to squeeze onto a cot failed quite miserably.

"Sleeping," He muttered grumpily.

"What are you, dense? You can sleep with me," Then, catching what he said, quickly added, "in my bed."

No, no, no! Don't do it! His mind screamed, but he looked back at the filthy floor, and realized there was only one choice.

Wordlessly, he packed up his blanket and pillow, spreading them on the double bed instead. It was not uncommon for one of the younger flock members to crawl into bed with Iggy, seeing as his bed was so large, but two more or less grown boys sleeping in the same bed was a different thing entirely. Fang couldn't imagine what would happen in the morning.

He was afraid that Angel would catch him thinking something, something he wasn't supposed to be thinking about. Not that he would, just if he did he didn't want anyone to know he had. If that made sense.

"I hope you aren't still a cover hog," Iggy whispered as Fang slipped beneath the blankets. He was referring to their various "sleep overs" (they weren't really as much sleep overs, after all their beds were only feet apart and pushing them together really didn't make much of a difference) of their youth, in which Iggy would wake up shivering with Fang wrapped in the sheets.

"I wouldn't know," he said honestly, because he really didn't know. He hadn't shared a bed with anyone since he was about eight, and to be completely true, he probably hadn't kicked the habit.

"I guess we'll find out," Iggy sighed, "G'night Fang."

"Night," He said quietly, nestling farther under the blankets. He closed his eyes, praying for the quick sleep he knew wouldn't come. Inside, he knew he'd toss and turn for hours, unable to sleep because laying right next to him was his best friend, who he couldn't stop thinking about, who caused his pulse to quicken, his breath to shorten and his imagination to run wild.

And he was right, because for the first half an hour or so, it was all he could do to forcefully keep his eyes shut and focus on not thinking about Iggy. Then, he fell into a fit full sleep, from which he'd wake up constantly, finding himself closer to Iggy every time.

As he woke, at an hour he would have guessed to be about four, curled up dangerously close to Iggy, he heard his mind scream out, no, no, no! Wrong, wrong, wrong!

Yet his heart seemed to scream, equally loud, yes, yes, yes!

Not going to hurt anyone, he reasoned, daring to pressing himself even closer, It's not like I'm doing wrong. Just trying to stay warm...

A/N: Much more slashy cuteness to follow, some awkward moments, and an appearance from Angry!Max.