the glass candles are burning; any

[Wayra]

Wayra watched the purple boy with a cold interest. It had been so long since she had spoken to anyone. A year perhaps? Two? She felt like a old machine that had sat too long in the corner, enough oil and it would run, but not without first stuttering and stopping.

Luckily, Wayra had enough presence of mind not to stutter. She did, however, watch him for a little too long and a little too coldly.

Her reaction to him was strange, her reaction to everyone was strange. She remembered how she had been before, smiles and teases, gentle taunts and painless barbs. She had been playful, sweet, hopelessly naive. She was not that simple anymore. Part of her wanted to throw herself at him, part of her wanted nothing more than company. Another part of her wanted to snarl. Another part of her wanted to scream at him to get away, wanted to be left alone in the cold.

It was confusing, this dichotomy, but she hid it beneath a chilly, icy expression. She remembered what it was like, to swirl between fear and elation. The mix was worse than the former.

He moved closer then, and Wayra was acutely aware of her chill, and of his beating heart. Could she stop that heart if she made it cold enough? If he touched her would it burn? And would it be his heat that burned her or her cold that burned him? The blue girl smirked and looked away. She was a fool, now as she always had been. Still, there was her name on his lips, and it sounded even better coming from his than it did from hers. She looked back to him, eyes flashing with an emotion that oscillated between anger and desire. They were, perhaps, one in the same.

After another moment he spoke again, and it was the right cord to strike. The air grew icy between them, then frigid, and Wayra smiled, just a little. It was the right balm to his nearness, the bitter wind and icy blast that blew in his face. With a sickening crack, like the smashing of a femur, a stalagmite rocketed upwards, just shy of where his flank had been a moment before. Wayra smirked. He had said to do it again.

“Do you like the cold, Kirin?” Her voice, flat and deadpan for so long, might have held the briefest hint of satisfaction, if you were in the mood to hear it.