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Feuilly’s breath turned to smoke as it hit the air. He raced away from the house, that horrible, wretched house that was embraced by (warm, passionate, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful) flames. His feet beat out a rhythm that was echoed by his heart as he heard the screech of his foster-mother and the howl of the beast that was his new ‘father’. He tore down the street, never stopping, never looking back as his pack bounced against his back. The lighter in his hand weighed a ton. He was afraid. So, so afraid. But also angry. Infuriated. The fury burned like the inferno that raged around the roof of the house.
He rounded a corner and began to shake when he heard the sirens. He looked down to see that he had forgotten shoes. He didn’t have a sweater. He didn’t have a jacket. The cold did not bother him. He just kept on running. He missed the fire. He missed the flames that licked hungrily at his hands and clothes. He looked down at the lighter in his hand and threw it into the gutter. He shrugged himself out of his beanie, which still reeked of gasoline. He threw that into the gutter too. Finally, as he got downtown, he slowed to a walk. There were no more sirens.
It had begun to rain and only then did Feuilly get cold. His red beacon of hair was soon plastered to his face as he found himself curling up in a ball under the semi-shelter of a local bar’s over-hang. With trembling fingers, he reached into his bag and pulled out his picture and candle. He tried to smile at his parents. His lips shook too much. He couldn’t do it.
Rain water mixed with tears as it trailed down his face. He got out a box of matches and tried to light the candle. The wick was wet. It refused to light. But he kept trying until the sobs came. Once they did, he just curled up, around the picture and candle, trying to protect them from the destructive rain. He fell asleep like that. Cold, wet, hopeless, and alone.
Feuilly jerked awake in the cold room, his body covered in cold-sweat. His chest heaved out breaths as he tried to calm himself. It wasn’t working. It wasn’t—
“Feuilly?” A hand reached up, mapping out skin, freckle by freckle. “Feuilly? Are you alright?” The ginger tried to speak tried to do anything besides breathe. He couldn’t. The only answer that Bahorel got was a strangled whimper. That made the animal-tamer rise into a sitting position. Brown eyes rimmed with gold looked down into masked green. He took in the other man’s shaking shoulder and gasping exhales. Large hands made their way up to bare shoulders. “Look at me.” Those words were soft, but they were orders. Feuilly did as he was told, “Breathe with me. Come on, I know you can. In, out, in, out… in… out—” Feuilly wasn’t sure how long this continued, all that he could focus on was the weight of the hands resting on his shoulders, the brown of those eyes, the scar that ran up Bahorel’s cheekbone from a tiger paw that got too close. Slowly, his breathing evened, and he managed to rest his head against Bahorel’s chest.
Thick, muscular arms encircled him, and without thinking he struggled free, kicking back blankets and nearly falling to the floor. “Don’t touch me. Don’t.” Bahorel went still and nodded, waiting for the red-head to calm back down. He did, in time. In time, he let Bahorel cover him back up with blankets and pillows and quilts and covers and anything that the man could get his hands on. Feuilly liked to be warm when he slept. He liked it to be boiling. Bahorel stayed an arm’s length away, hesitant to return, lest he start up another stage of the attack.
“What brought it on?” Bahorel’s voice was loud, echoing in the silence of the room. Feuilly like it. The last thing he needed at that moment was quiet. Bahorel knew this. This was not the first time this had happened.
“Bad dream.” The fire-dancer choked out.
“About what?”
“#32.” Feuilly had been shuffled around 32 times during his time in the system. After all, no one wanted to take care of a kid who rarely talked, taught himself languages, and burned stuff to the ground to watch it crumble into dust. #24, #17, and #32 had been the worst. All of those houses were charred ashes by now. All done by his hand. He was lucky as hell that there had been no witnesses or deaths. Otherwise, he would have no future. He would be in jail. He would have never met Bahorel. That thought terrified him, even if he would never admit it. He wanted Bahorel to reach out and close that space in between them.
He looked up to see golden eyes lit up with bit-back anger. But Bahorel held himself back, even though Feuilly did not want him to now. “You didn’t deserve that, all of the shit you had to go through. You were, are better than the whole damn lot of them.”
Feuilly barked out a laughed and curled up, looking up to the table to see the candle lit and burning. “I burned their houses down, repeatedly.”
“They deserved it.” There was so much confidence in Bahorel’s voice, Feuilly almost believed him. “And besides. If you hadn’t done it, you wouldn’t have met Valjean.” You wouldn’t be here, beside me. The unspoken words hung in the air.
It was true. If he hadn’t fallen asleep he wouldn’t have stayed there, underneath that bar. He wouldn’t have woken up to the rain being shielded away from him by a red umbrella. He wouldn’t have seen the kind grey eyes look down at him with sympathy. He wouldn’t have had the chance to take that weathered hand and follow him into the warmth of a dry studio. He would have never learned how to control fire. Fire had been the catalysis for Bahorel’s and his explosion of a first meeting.
It had been his second try at the batons. He found himself not only fighting to keep his attention on the flaming sticks twirling in the air above him, but also to not just let one fall and burn the whole place down. So when Javert opened the door to the main area, Feuilly’s concentration snapped. He spun around as he threw one and it went flying. It hit the newcomer in the face and his hair caught fire. It had taken a whole lot of screaming and cursing to break through to Feuilly’s haze. Javert managed to get the fire out, but the man had lost a good six inches of hair on the left side of his face. Feuilly wanted to melt into the ground when he saw the look of exasperated frustration on Javert’s face. The older man said nothing though. He let Valjean handle taking Feuilly by the arm, into a much quieter room with no carpets or drapes or fire alarms. Valjean was the one who seemed to understand. Who threw a spare quilt down and let Feuilly go at it with matches and lighters and desperate frustration. By the time he was done, there was nothing more than charred embers on the ground.
Now, Feuilly was not one for apologies, mainly because he had never gotten the chance to during his foster-home stints. There, he had done one thing wrong and been kicked out before opening his mouth. So, he had grown cold, prideful, and unable to be the lesser man because if he did it would bring back the crushing guilt of those previous attempts and forced silences. So he just avoided the new member, the animal trainer who seemed more predator than man. That was fine. Bahorel came to him.
Bahorel grew up in the deserts of the Middle-East with the name Bahadur (hero, warrior, brave). But it had not been bravery that made him change his name when he got to the states. It had been common sense (cowardliness, terror, fear of guns of words and sneers and bigotry). After all, even a French faggot was better than a terrorist. His fear fuelled his anger. Every day, he came home with more bruises for his father to set his sad, resigned eyes on (He had never known his mother. They said that she had died in a road-side bombing. They said she was a beauty, a wonder, a nurse). More black eyes, which led to chipped teeth, which ended with broken and bleeding knuckles. People learned not to mess with him. By the time they got that, he had gotten addicted to the trill of the fight, the feel of bones crushing underneath his finger-tips.
He soon left home. He went looking for the fights. He was one of the few that Javert brought into the troop. The older man, who had been the chief commissioner at the time, had taken one look at him in the jail cell and opened the door. He cuffed the boy on the back of the head and spat out that he would never learn this way. Javert had seen him around the station so many times that he had learned his full name, his real name.
Javert threw him into the back of a police car at the end of his shift. He drove for close to an hour, until the outskirts of the city had passed them by. When he had opened the door for the boy, Bahorel realized that he was on a wildlife conservation grounds. The police officer began to talk to one of the volunteers and pointed to Bahorel. So Bahorel found his new home between tiger, lions, and bears. But he still remembered the man who had helped him when no one else would. So he became Javert’s partner’s animal trainer when the last one was fired. That was how he met the fiery ginger that was Feuilly. Feuilly, the man that should have been made into lava, or a wild-fire, but was instead made into a boy.
Bahorel had watched Feuilly as he had set that quilt on fire with everything he had. He had watched as the other man circled around him with guilt on his face, but was too afraid to get near. Feuilly was very much like a wolf that the conservation had gotten three weeks into Bahorel’s stay. Its name had been Shadow. It had been abused to the point that it was broken. Feuilly did not seem to be that broken, but was close. So Bahorel decided to approach him.
Their second encounter was no less explosive than their first. It had ended in punches, broken bones, and laughter. In Feuilly, Bahorel had found an equal, someone who refused to back down. In Bahorel, Feuilly had found someone who might curse, and kick, and punch him, but would never leave nor let him leave. They were not safe for each other. Hell, they weren’t even remotely good for each other. But they were finally happy. That was all they needed.
Now, Bahorel could only watch in silence as the fire-dancer tore himself apart, lying only a good six inches away. He couldn’t help him. That made him angry. But he kept his hands to himself. Even as he watched Feuilly tremble. He wanted to calm him.
He reached out, through the space, and the time, and the Devil, and God. He hesitated, just so, before trailing the very tips of his fingertips down the pale expanse of the other’s back. He followed freckles, drawing out constellations that Combeferre had once taught him about, but had forgotten until now. He ignored the scars that marred skin, vestiges from the years that he had not been there. He only followed the freckles that could easily be stars. His lips replaced his nails and Feuilly’s breath hitched. By the time he was finished, he had drawn out Virgo, Leo, and Gemini with his tongue. Feuilly shivered each time he moved away from them, leaving only cold air in his wake. Bahorel kissed at the nape of the ginger’s neck, pressing against him once again. Finally, the pieces of the puzzle slotted together.
Bahorel breathed in, “You are safe. I am here.” His hot breath cascaded down Feuilly’s back. It was not an “I love you”, nor an “I need you”, not even an “I want you”, but it was enough. Feuilly had learned to read in-between the lines from a young age. His breathing calmed, and he moved back to push against the larger man’s torso. He looked up at the candle again. It was still burning brightly, steadily, continuously. He managed to close his eyes.