"What is he doing?"
Meg looked up from the plate of cookies, licking the crumbs off her fingers as she followed her friends gaze out the back window. She had finally found the strength in herself to allow people round, and Amy had chosen that precise moment to knock on the door. She was Meggie's oldest friend in the town, which wasn't saying much as she had only moved there with her parents a year before she had started university. She had met her when she started working at the local convenience store, a necessary life experience, her father had told her. She had liked Amy the moment she met her, she had a cynicism that Meggie appreciated, a refreshing change from the vacuous high school girls that liked to whisper and sneer at the new home schooled addition to their town. She was one of those people that she could pick up the phone to, not having spoken for years, and nothing would have changed. she was the only one that hadn't badgered her with constant phone calls prying about her well being, questioning her about the man who'd answered the phone, trying to push their way in through the door, their eyes snatching every glimpse of her cluttered living room, desperate for a gleaned piece of gossip to take back to their friends.
She'd come round today, the box of cookies a gift that she admitted she'd only thought of as she'd passed the store and realised she was hungry, but Meg had smiled and appreciated the honesty. They sat together in the kitchen, at the table where her mother and father would spend each morning, the gentle rustle of the newspaper only interrupted by the low conversation as they hit upon an interesting article. They had talked of inconsequential things, who had left the store, which cheerleader had gotten herself pregnant, she had asked her with a brutal observation if she was doing okay because she looked terrible, and Meggie had answered honestly that she wasn't, but in time she would be. The conversation had lulled as their tea became cool enough to drink, the soggy remains of the cookies dusting the bottom of the mugs, and now her focus was drawn to the neat, hedged in garden, to the figure near the fence that separated her house from the fields that led down to the river.
"Something no doubt horrifically dangerous." She muttered, rising slightly in her seat to watch Dustfinger as he rolled up his sleeves. The itch in his hands had become too much as of late, some deep seated urge to throw fire into the night forcing him out into the relative privacy of the garden, snapping his fingers and pushing at the flames with his breath. But years of overlooking his once loved skill and the very real danger that in this world he could not control the flames as well as he could in his own often left her watching him carefully out the corner of her eye. Usually he would just spend the hours spinning weighted sticks, slowly relearning the thrill of whipping the air with fire as an extension of himself.
He must know that she watched him, entranced by the spinning lights as he practiced long into the night, the sight of him lost in his element, a perfection of elegance and grace making her lips curl into a soft smile. Even now she felt an odd comfort watching him carefully tie back his hair, his feet bare in the grass, her smile quickly fading though as she recognised the patterns of his hands rubbing over themselves and she quickly leaned forward and banged on the window, stopping him just in time as he turned his face towards her. She hadn't told him her friend was here, that it probably wasn't a good idea to start calling forth billowing clouds of fire from the ether. He noticed the other figure in the window, brushing his hands hastily against his chest and holding them out to show her the pale skin of his palms, nodding his acquiescence.
Meggie breathed a small sigh of relief, feeling the burning stare of Amy's eyes on her face and the furious blush in caused. She met her eyes over the rim of her mug, the odd frown warranting an explanation. "He's not wearing the right clothes for that trick." She said quietly, which was almost the truth. Dustfinger had a terrible habit of ruining his clothes, singes and scorch marks littering t-shirts and jumpers, but Meggie supposed that she would rather that than the alternative.
"Trick?"
"He…plays with fire." Meggie told her, realising how silly it sounded, the words not enough to describe the beauty and grace of the patterns he made as he moved and turned.
"So, he's what, from the circus?" Amy raised her eyebrow, looking back out at the dark clothed figure.
"Sort of." Meggie breathed softly, remembering when he used to talk about performing, the crowds drawing near, gasping in awe as he entranced them, young and old.
"Oh." Her friend shifted awkwardly in her seat and Meggie realised that she had been making light of the situation. "Wow, bad observation on my part." She smiled at her, obviously hoping she hadn't offended.
Meg waved her hand, throwing off her concern. "Don't worry, it would probably be an affront if he wasn't so bloody good at what he does." She smiled fondly, turning back to look at him, his face the picture of concentration as he had turned instead to swinging the long staff in a particularly dizzying set of moves.
She ignored the silence that followed her remark, choosing instead to watch him, her hands wrapped around the still warm mug in her hands, associating it with the heat that he would form for her when her hands grew cold, still and calmed as they held open whatever book she poured over. She felt the smile spread across her face, unconscious and undeniable.
"You know Meggie…" Amy said slowly, "There's some talk in town…" She paused hesitantly, biting at her lip in an uncharacteristic display of restraint. "About, how odd, well…about how you and…him…"
"Live together?" She finished her awkward sentence, guessing at what she was going to say. She rubbed her hand across her face. "I suppose it is." She said simply. "But right now, it just makes sense." She raised her eyes, looking up and feeling suddenly very tired, maybe she hadn't been ready to let people back into her life. "He's the only thing I have." She admitted quietly, hating the pathetic shape of those words in her mouth as much as the next. "And I'm all he has."
Amy nodded, not in a sympathetic understanding way, but for the want of anything to do in spite of the burning questions Meggie could see fighting to spill from her lips. She didn't have the energy to explain his presence, or the inevitable questions, the lies she would have to tell. What did it matter to her what everyone thought, it wouldn't matter whatever she said, this town loved scandal.
"How old is he?"
Meggie hated her then in that moment, holding back the glare that shone in her eyes as she looked up from where she had been watching her fingers play with the handle of her mug. She wanted to ask why it mattered. But she knew exactly why it mattered.
"I'm not sure." She answered honestly, her voice clipped. She really wasn't, she'd never asked, still faintly disturbed by the fact that he hadn't seemed to have aged a day since she first recalled seeing him all those years ago. She often wondered what that might mean. "Why?"
"No reason." Amy shrugged, her own hands toying with her mug as she held Meggie's eyes with an ominous weight, as though somehow she could see into her mind, could see how sometimes she felt flustered by his scrutinising gaze, or how she would excuse herself from the house under false motives, making unnecessary trips to the shop when really she just needed to escape her own twisted desires.
"It's good though, that you have someone." Those words were spoken with such a clear honesty that Meggie felt her sudden bristling anger fade from her veins, smiling her thanks and trying to ignore the fact that she had even felt herself rise to the bait in the first place.
She didn't stay long after that, she'd only dropped in on her way to work and Meg was glad that her visit were short, not just because she was tired or that the conversation had lulled, but because she missed the quiet, missed the sound of the house creaking and settling as she read, listening to the quiet slide of paper as pages were turned.
He came in when it became too dark to see outside, bringing with him the smell of the night, clean and cold as he collapsed into the chair she now came to think of at his.
She had closed her book carefully, meeting his curious stare, no doubt wondering exactly what she had spoken of. She'd never know that somewhere deep inside him he felt the dark flicker of jealousy that she had conversed so freely with someone else.