Big Book Of Smornby One Shots

I Burn (S)

TW: TW: Major Character Death, Blood, Gun, Violence, Death, Suicide, Swearing, Elemental AU

Smith = Fire elemental
Trott = Water elemental
Ross = Earth elemental

It was clear from the day they met, Alex Smith bought the heat. From his study in pyrotechnics to the blazing hair on his head, Alex was hot, and he burned holes in Ross' vision from the start. It was a nice contrast, the smooth cool surface of Ross' ice stare to the burning flash of Alex's grin, and they instantly clicked. But for all their compatibility, their relationship always had to be centred around a trade, something offered and something taken. Food for warmth, shelter for stories, a life taken for a promise of a new one.

Then came the third, picked up from the side of a dust road somewhere between Texas and Mississippi simply because Smith liked the glint in the young man's eye, selling favours at the curb of the highway. They bought his companionship in exchange for a thrill, and he hopped into the back of their truck with a grin that made Smith chuckle and kick the car into fifth. Chris Trott, he said his name was, a water elemental.

From then on, they fell into unspoken synchronisation. The fire from Smith's breath and the water in Trott's fingertips and the earth underneath Ross' feet matching one another in almost perfect harmony. They made quite a team, in their younger years. Got on like a house on fire.

Governments didn't like them much, their steady reputation for turning up and making a mess growing with every collision with the police. It was never their intent, in the start, only wanting to help out a little. They were certainly powerful enough to lend a hand, Smith wearing fire like gloves, Trott pulling water out of thin air and Ross raising the earth with his footsteps. Pure elementals were rare, but three working in harmony? It wasn't long before frustration turned to fear and higher ups started biting their lips at the mention of the trio.

Ross could remember that night, Trott driving an old pickup Smith had nabbed from a garage in Connecticut and Ross lying in the back with a ginger man curled into his side, staring up at the best night sky Route 66 had to offer. Galaxies spread out before him as Smith slipped one hand onto the base of his spine and whispered hot breath into his ear about a future of bigger, better, sightly more criminal things that would lead them to a life of luxury.

Before he knew it, petty backstreet crime had led to gang violence and bank heists. Stolen vehicles filled up garages they didn't own and new 'friends' came to their doorway like the morning post. The new life brought bullet wounds and drug runs and tears at night that no one saw because they were big now and they had respect and goddamnit they had worked for that and earned that and fuck, they weren't letting anyone take it from them.

The new life also bought Smith, and the fire in his eyes and the heat of his grin burned brighter than ever now. He outshone almost every room with his smile, wooing men and women alike. Almost the perfect business partner, with his charming smile matching Trott's twisting tongue and Ross' broad shoulders, there was no denying their propositions. Smith blazed gold.

It brought him to life, and it also brought him to Ross. The memory of that day was faded like an overused shirt, but Ross could never forget the way Smith's hot breath had turned from his ear to his neck and the way that Smith's hand had moved from the base of his spine to his inner thigh and the way that Smith had been so willing, so fucking cooperative, as Ross had bent him over and pressed sweet kisses to the back of his shoulders.

And God, he had revelled in it. Smith's touch, so hot that it blazed under his skin and imprinted itself upon him, swallowed him whole. It was burning. His kiss and his breath and his hair and his voice and the tone of his skin in the mid-afternoon sunlight lit up Ross' vision just as the day they met. They laughed together under the night's scrutinising glare, and when Ross looked at Smith all he could we were the stars in his eyes and the sun in his cheeks and the crescent moon splitting his mouth open in a dazzling grin.

But for all it bought, the new life had to take. And fuck did it ever. It was only a matter of time before a job went wrong, and a cold day in January rendered Trott weak and Smith completely useless. Racing through downtown Boston with ice on the roads and several police cars on their tail, Ross gritted his teeth as they turned into what he knew to be a dead end. His frozen breaths came in fast and frantic as the car skidded to a halt at the end of the road, cornered by high rise buildings and the law.

With the weight of Smith over his shoulder and Trott shouting at him to run, Ross' mind buzzed into automation. His legs pumped as the held the unconscious pyromaniac tight on his back and sprinted down a dark alleyway, ignoring the sound of gunshots and Trott's shouts behind him. It had gone to shit so quickly, and tears streamed down Ross' face as shouts turned to screams and screams faded to silence.

After the new life claimed Trott, Smith's light dimmed a little. Though the fire in his eyes did not extinguish, it dulled slightly. His grin no longer burned, and when they kissed, there was no searing touch. Smith did not blaze, but instead glowed like molten lava, slow and smooth and inevitably deadly. He returned to normal after a time, but there were nights where Ross would go to bed alone and wake up with a passed out Smith clutching onto his back, smelling of whiskey and women's perfume.

It took a while for Smith to return from his state of dim, but when he came back, he came back fast and hard. It was around the end of the summer, and the two of them had been staying in a small run down apartment in Salt Lake City. Smith had stumbled through the doorway drunk, grabbed Ross by the collar and kissed him with a feverous grin. Ross had smiled back, and pushed the uncertainty out of his mind as he welcomed Smith with open arms. He was back, but he was different.

Smith's touch burned once more, but in a different way. Before, the pyromancers touch ignited Ross' blood and sent fire through his veins. But now, Smith grabbed and pulled on Ross' skin, his teeth nipped and his touch burned like hot tongs, leaving sensitive marks for days. It hurt when their gazes met, because he looked at those vibrant green eyes and saw a man that was burning up from the inside.

A few years passed, and then it was summer again. They lived in a small house in the east side of Austin, just the two of them, Smith liked the temperature. Everything seemed tepid, on the surface, but Ross could sense the itch in the taller man. Ross noticed how he would tap his fingers, or sigh in frustration, impatient about nothing. It was only a matter of time, really.

August bought a heatwave, the hottest in 25 years, the news said, and Smith was gone. There was no note or goodbye, just an empty bed and a news report about a bad case arson in downtown. Some pyromaniac had set himself and an abandoned warehouse alight, locals heard him screaming something about 'a blaze of glory'.

It was as he had promised, from the start. A life taken for a promise of a new one. Smith had given him a new life. One of fast cars and starlight and road trips at 2am. One of bared teeth and gunfire and nightmares where all he could see was ice. But it was also one of glory, of Trott's honest laugh at a particularly bad joke, of Smith's hot breath in his ear and Smith's hand on the base of his spine.

Alex Smith had burned himself out, and taken Trott and most of Ross with him. Ross would still love him, though. It was almost impossible not too. For the fool, delinquent, reckless, daredevil pyromaniac he was. They had made a deal, and both parties payed their due. It was a good run, and Ross wouldn't change it for the world.

Chris slumped against cool ice and smiled, watching his own blood spill from the bullet wound in his stomach. Alex strolled into the warehouse with a grin, lighter in one hand and petrol can in the other. Ross stepped off the cliff with closed eyes and a sigh, landing among his rocky brethren and letting the sea take his body away. The wind in his hair reminded him of sitting in the back of the pickup as Trott drove them from Lincoln to Santa Fe, and his last thoughts were of Alex Smith and that hot breath of his, mumbling bluegrass lyrics in his ear under the watchful night sky.

Credit to rosemusiclive on Ao3