Heatwaves Dreamnotfound (NOT MINE)

Chaoter 12: July

"Cause I'm smart," she says.

He huffs. "Yeah, right. I find that hard to believe."

She pauses in her application of the thin, top-layer of polish. "You hurt my feelings."

"I did not."

"You might want to get going soon," his mother interrupts their exchange, "it's nearly dark enough for the show to start."

"I'm basically done," his sister assures, capping the clear-bottle. "Just don't smudge it before it dries, okay?"

Dream balls up his napkin and begins to stack utensils on his plate, mindful of his purpled hand. "Are they really still doing it? I thought there was a temporary ban cause of the shack that caught fire last year."

His mother extends her plate towards him, and he adds it to the pile in his hands. "I think Roy and his family are still good friends with the sheriff," she says, "so they got the go-ahead."

"Huh." Dream exits his seat with the last of the dishes, and haphazardly carries them to the screen entrance. "Okay, well, if you wanna wait outside for me I'll be there in like, five minutes."

He presses his back to the door to push it open, the metal springs straining audibly with resistance as he steps inside.

"Five minutes?" He sees his sister set down her glass, and wipe her chin. "Slowpoke." 

He rolls his eyes. "You could help, y'know."

They stare at each other through the thinly-netted screen as the ajar door is pulled shut, until his sister glances at the dishes, and looks away dismissively.

He grins.

When washing the ceramic plates, and tossing the red white and blue napkins in the trash, he protects his left hand from water and scrapes dutifully.

He examines the smooth coats with growing fondness as he's later tugged several blocks down the street, where neighborhood parents have set up a small celebration on the suburban intersection. When his sister tosses a smile back to him, he decides he loves the color purple even more.

He eyes the cylinders and dark boards resting on the asphalt, and they share an excited glance.

"Don't get too close," he says, and she rolls her eyes. They stand in the freshly-mowed grass of the neighbor's lawn, darkness cozying around them while the local kids and parents form a small crowd.

A young woman from two doors down passes by them, kindly extending miniature, hand-held flags and beaded necklaces. They murmur 'thank you's and tug the plastic jewelry over their heads happily.

Dream spins the cheap flag in his hand, watching the older neighborhood boys approach the dormant fireworks with keen adult supervision. He remembers sparking the fuse for the first time when he was a kid, holding the long lighter in his small grip and intense responsibility in his mind. He'd been fond and scared, even then, of getting burned.

The wicks light, and the boys scatter away.

Dream and his sister wait. 

The box crackles, then whistles, and the first rocket shoots into the dark air. Their eyes tilt up to follow as it trails a gleaming jet of light.

It climbs, and climbs, until finally exploding in a flowered spread of red and white sparkle against the stark backdrop of the sky. Heartbeats after, a second one combusts, then a third, and the night is filled with such bright color and noise that Dream's chest grows warm.

The burning is beautiful.

He reaches for the back pocket of his jeans instinctively, pulling out his phone with a smile.