From the Ashes

I don’t know what it is about this stupid year, but Mother Nature must think she’s one funny lady for kicking off the next week of our summer vacation with a straight 6 days of this cold, rainy shit. We don’t do much for the rest of the week. We pretty much sit around camp with the family, and when the rain gets to falling really hard, those grand cabins start to get pretty small. I hear a lot of Roman and Sage’s music in that week, and Sage tells me that we need to get ourselves to a drum set, so I can really hear some music. He plays a little bit of bass, but not much. He and Roman have had a band going since they were young and harbored dreams of big-stage stardom. Of course, they’ve matured out of that mindset by now, but they’re still both very talented. And I think their tweenage-boy dream is cute, when they tell me about it.

I also get to know Amy and her husband, Rob, better in this week. Amy is as sweet and kind as ever, and she tells me many stories about past summers here at camp, as well as many little-Roman stories. Which are just plain adorable. Who doesn’t love hearing stories about their boyfriend from when they were a little kid? Ah, boyfriend. I’m just waiting for that to get old.

Rob, on the other hand, is kind of a quiet guy. He’s really nice, but he keeps to himself a lot. He and Amy have only been married for a little over a year, and have known each other a few years prior to getting hitched. I think they are a sweet couple. He and Roman don’t interact much, but he has very good reasons to have father issues, so I don’t see it as a problem at all.

I also play a lot of little games with Janie throughout the week, mostly dolls, pretend, and a bit of dress-up with my clothes. I’ve never liked other people’s kids, and the thought of babysitting turns my stomach, but Janie is one heck of a sweetheart. I’d babysit her any day.

The only time any of us go out was in the middle of the week, and that was when Roman took me out on a mini-date to go eat lunch on a blanket in the bed of his truck by the Emerald Lakes. That was the only day it didn’t rain this week. It was modest, but it was the best date I’ve ever been on. Roman and I just get along so well, sometimes it slips my mind that we’re in a romantic relationship because we play-fight and horse around like bros so much. The sun actually came out when we were finished with our pick-up-picnic, when I was sitting cross-legged on the blanket with Roman’s head in my lap. The sun lit up the little valley of the small lake for about a half hour, and we got to watch the mist burn away from the surface of the water.

By kicking around the project supplies that were lying in the truck, we were reminded that we have to start that soon. We agreed on next week, after all of the excitement winds down from the next round of fights for the tournament on Saturday.

Or, rather, tonight.

After a day of slinking around camp in anticipation, we head out a few hours after a family dinner. Since it’s the weekend and all, Amy tells us to be extra careful, yet doesn’t give us a curfew this time since we were cooped up at the camp for a straight week. By the time we reach The Gazebo after the bumpy, back-road drive, the tiki torches are just being lit, and kids have already started to arrive by the throngs. We climb out of the truck and pass groups of kids hauling out picnic tables from the middle of The Gazebo to make room for the fighting mat. Roman and I get a lot of stares and a lot of greetings, now that people know who we are. It’s a new thing for me, attracting attention. It happened in those last days of school with my drastic dye-job, but that was all double-takes and stares to figure out who that new girl under the pink hair was. The kind of looks that provoke conversation like “woah, look at that,” or “Allie dyed her hair!” But these kinds of looks... Admiration, wonder, jealousy. It was strange. And I barely did anything except stand on the edge of a mat and cheer Roman on. So I guess it was all because I was The Phoenix’s pillar.

We’re smart this time, and take a look at the bracket and fight order before getting the boys all dolled up with their war paint. Sage and Roman both have matches that fall pretty close to the start of everything, so Mazie and I make our way to the tables of paint.

“Are there different colors? Or is there just black?” I ask Mazie as we stand in line to grab the bowls.

“There are a few colors. Most people just use black, though,” she tells me as we reach the table. I peer down and see the paint bowls divided by color.

“Oh. Duh.” Mazie grabs black, and gives me a wave before disappearing into the crowds of people to go find Sage where we left him. I look back to the paints. The number of colored paint bowls is significantly less, since the majority of warriors use black paint. An idea begins to form in my mind as my eyes move about the colors, and I select black, white, red, and yellow. I carry them carefully through the crowd, two balanced on each hand. When I reach Roman sitting at a picnic table on the grass outside of The Gazebo, I place the bowls behind him. He cocks an eyebrow at me after glancing at the multiple bowls.

“Gettin’ creative tonight?” he murmurs low, the ghost of a smirk threatening to show itself on his lips. I give him a plain smile, lightly touching his cheek in affection as I hope he will agree to what I’m about to ask him to do.

“Grab two of the paints and follow me,” I request softly, my hand sliding off his face to pick up a bowl in each hand and start walking behind one of the sides of The Gazebo. I don’t check to see if he follows, just find a lone table away from the eyes of many. Roman joins me a moment later, when I’m coming back from fetching a tiki torch for light. His smoky gaze is transfixed on me.

“What are you planning?” he asks, watching me steadily as he sinks onto the bench. I move to stand between his legs, hugging his head to my chest and running my hands through his hair. He angles his face up, his lips gracing my neck as he waits for my answer.

“I want to paint your scar,” I whisper, one of my hands moving down from his hair to slide under the collar of his shirt and press firmly against the rough, bumpy surface of his left shoulder blade. He freezes, the touch causing him to give a shudder. I place kiss after kiss on his brow and hairline as I smooth back his shaggy locks.

“Please?” I whisper gently into his hair. He stays still and quiet for a moment. Finally, his hands come up to grasp my hips.

“Okay,” he breathes. I tilt his chin up to place a thank-you kiss down on his soft lips before moving my hands to the hem of his shirt. I lift it over his head, the gesture causing more of a reaction in me than I anticipated. I have to work to keep my eyes off his torso.

Roman turns on the bench, his scarred back facing me. I trail a hand over the marred skin briefly as I plan out my canvas. I lean against him as I reach over his shoulder to dip my hand in the red. Working swiftly and in silence, I figure it out as I go. I use the red, white, and yellow copiously, mixing them in some areas to create fiery gradients across his back, creating flames that twist and follow the patterns of his scar. I glance at the back of Roman’s head from time to time as I work.

“Can you feel that?” I ask him, hoping he’s really okay with this, and not just pleasing me.

“It’s... cold,” he whispers without turning his head. I reach over him to reload my hand in the paint now and then, giving him a kiss on the cheek every time I do. The best way that I give comfort is through affectionate means. It’s how I’ve always been. But he still stays silent the whole time I paint.

When I finish, I take a step back to look at it, both my hands smeared halfway to my elbows in paint. Studying it, I think it looks pretty damn good. The texture of his scars are masked by the paint, yet they bring the flames alive. I stretched the flames to curl over his left shoulder, and around his right side as an extension of the burn pattern. His shaggy hair shifts as he turns his head to the side.

“How does it look?” he asks me, and I smile.

“It looks... magnificent. Thank you for letting me,” I whisper, going back beside him to fan the paint and blow on it. When it’s dry, I snap a picture of it with my small red digital camera to show him.

“You really are The Phoenix,” I giggle as we both peer at the LED screen. Roman gives a low chuckle.

“I told you I don’t die. Born from the fire, Thea,” he jabs me playfully in the ribs with an elbow, and I swat him away before subjecting him to a black face paint job. I finish him up in almost the same style as last weekend, and he gives me the matching lines down my face. I leave the paint on my hands and arms, the splattered and mixed colors looking kind of cool. Roman catches me by the elbow as I start to lead the way back into The Gazebo. Before I can wonder or protest, he whips me around and pulls me against him, his hand clutching the back of my head as his lips fall onto mine. My eyes flutter in surprise briefly, my body easing against Roman’s as his lips shift against mine, warm and desperate. I return his fervent kisses as my heart flutters curiously. He breaks the kiss, his breath falling in gusts onto my face. A question floats on my gaze as I look up at him gently, watching his eyes move intently over my face. I reach up to grasp his neck on both sides, my brow furrowing slightly to match his.

“Roman,” I breathe, my soft tone inquiring as I pull him carefully closer to me. I can feel the rapid pulse under my hands, on his neck, as his forehead drops onto mine. The flustered and slightly uneasy look he’s giving me is starting to disquiet me. His hands slide up slightly on my back to hold me even more tightly against him.

“What is it?” I ask, not hiding any of my concern. He almost stops my sentence short with a deep kiss, holding me even tighter. His lips leave mine with a slightly ragged sigh.

“I-” he studders, and his eyes flicker shut. “Well, I... Just, thank you,” he settles on, and my gaze doesn’t change.

“For what?” I ask.

This is strange... I’ve never seen Roman act like this before, and it looks like there’s something he can’t quite say to me. Which is odd, it seemed like he was really good at getting his thoughts and feelings out there.

“Everything,” he tells me, pressing his lips to rest against my forehead. I blink into the gesture, my eyelashes brushing his chin. Hands moving to hold his bare sides right above the waistband of his shorts, I shift my head to bury my face in his neck.

“Alright,” I murmur.

Roman puts his shirt on to cover his painted back, saving it for his match, and he disappears into the crowd to go find and talk to Sage. I watch him leave from the edge of The Gazebo, my heart stirring with emotion and admiration. I’m pretty sure I grow more fond of that boy every day.

I make my own way through the groups of kids that stand around under the structure, taking our used bowls of paint to a designated bin. I keep a lookout for Roman as I retire against one of the wooden posts on the edge of The Gazebo. Scanning the faces of the masses underneath the torch-lit space, my eyes catch on a smoky pair on the far side. They don’t belong to Roman. But they are boring into me with an intensity that almost startles me. They belong to a tall guy, and I look away briefly with unease before my gaze flits back in curiosity. He’s still staring at me through waves of copper-colored hair, his eyes close to the same color as Roman’s, if not more green. His darker eyebrows rise as he offers me a smile from all the way across the crowd, and I blink rapidly in a questioning response. A dark shadow of stubble covers his lean cheeks, and a thin chinstrap runs along his strong jaw. Two silver hoops hang from the cartilage on one of his ears that poke out from his long hair. He mouths something that I can’t decipher, so I mouth “what?” back, even though it’s a lost cause. I’m terrible at reading lips. He mouths it again with a warm, amused smile, and I shake my head as it evokes a small smile of my own. I give a half-shrug from where I stand, offering an apologetic look. The handsome stranger just gazes back at me, a calm and steady smile on his lips. He holds a finger up in a “hold on” gesture, before starting to make his way through the crowd of kids.

“There you are! Sage is gonna fight soon, come on,” I break eye contact with the far-off guy as Mazie grabs my wrist, dragging me excitedly to the other end of The Gazebo, where the fighting mat is. Her blonde messy-bun bounces ahead of me, leading me through the crowd to stand near the edge of the mat beside Sage. I peer up at his handprint-face, telling Mazie she did a good job with the paint.

“Good luck, Sage,” I say, giving him a firm clap on the back as he grins down at me.

“Thank you, Allie.”

I fall into conversation with Mazie, asking her what she was up to today. She shows me a wicked-nasty bruise on her side, and tells me about her sick wipe-out on a quad earlier.

Once the current match ends, Mazie grabs Sage’s arm.

“You ready, champ?” she beams, and he wrinkles his nose at the nickname.

“As long as you don’t call me that,” he grins. I watch them push their way through the crowd as the last match ends, the winner’s hand is raised, and his title is announced as the winner. Soon Sage’s name is called once the other fighters clear the mat, and I spot Mazie in one corner pumping him up.

“And now we have Sage, The Cannon, against Jeremy, The Bear!” the announcer’s voice calls, and I notice it’s the same thin kid from last weekend. I smile and add my voice to those supporting Sage as the whistle is blown for the start of the match, and The Cannon and The Bear begin to circle one another before making jabs and dives.

“I said, you’re quite a new face here,” chills rocket down my spine as a tenor voice whispers right in my ear, the owner’s lips brushing against it. I whip around, startled, to come chest-to-chest with the stranger from across the crowd. I step back abruptly, bumping into whoever was watching the match behind me, and my face turns hot as I quickly apologize over the noise from the cheering.

“Easy now,” he speaks again, the hint of an accent that I can’t quite place accompanying his pleasant voice. He gives me a gentle smile as he puts a steadying hand on my waist, and I let out an exasperated chuckle.

“Don’t mind my tendency to derp,” I say, wrinkling my nose as he leans his head down to hear and speak to me.

“You’re fine,” he laughs, the crowd pushing at us periodically, causing us to stand toe-to-toe. “I didn’t recognize you when I saw your match last weekend,” he continues, and I glance once or twice at his thick curly hair, his stubble, his lips. His deep, steady eyes always draw me back.

“Oh yeah?” I say, tilting my head up to half-shout in his ear. He nods, the copper-colored hair falling in his eyes.

“I’ve been coming to this camp and these kinds of events for many summers. I know a lot of people, and you caught my eye,” he chuckles with those supple, smiling lips. I run a hand through my fading pink hair and shrug.

“I blame the hair,” I mutter with a half-smile, and he reaches up to brush his fingertips through it. The hair on the back of my neck rises when his touch graces my cheek.

“It is very unique,” he nods with a wide smile. Hand returning to his side, his eyes hold mine in a steady gaze. “My name is Wim, by the way,” he says, and I notice the accent again.

“Allie,” I say, holding a hand out. He slides his into my outstretched one, and as I begin to shake it, he brings it to his lips. I have to suppress a shiver when his warm lips make slow, light contact with the top of my hand. I blink a few times as his gaze disappears behind closed eyes and a curtain of curls. A light flutter of alarm stirs in my stomach. He releases my hand, and I involuntarily rub the top of it with my other hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Allie,” he says with a smile, and I return the formal greeting. “Where are you from?”

“Worthing. It’s a tiny town, no one ever knows where it is,” I grunt, “It’s about 2 hours south here, near Bellport, if you’re familiar.” Wim nods with a chuckle.

“Yes, I’ve heard of Worthing. Roman and Sage are from Worthing,” he murmurs. I give him a nod as I cross my arms loosely over my chest.

“Yeah, I came here with them.”

“I figured, since you are Roman’s pillar,” he says, “Too bad, too, I wish I would’ve met you earlier to ask you to be mine,” he laughs. I raise my eyebrows with a smile and a shrug.

“I probably would have said no,” I growl with a right-hook to his shoulder, connecting with solid muscle. He gives a guffaw, grabbing my fist and pulling me toward him. I raise a brow at him, his amused smile inches from me.

“You might have said yes,” he whispers with a chuckle, and that flutter in my gut returns from the look in his deep eyes. I look away from him with a slight smirk, my attention returning to Sage’s match. I grin when I see him kicking the crap out of a kid who looks like he matches him in physical stature.

“Are you fighting tonight?” I ask Wim, noticing that he doesn’t have any face paint on.

“Later tonight, I am. My pillar isn’t here yet,” he tells me as he turns to watch Sage’s match with me, the front of his arm and side pressing into the back of mine because of the crowd.

Mazie’s on fire, supporting Sage like a WWE coach as he goes for a final lunge, taking the kid down and scrabbling on the mat with him before holding him on his back for a few counts. The whistle screams, the crowds of kids cheer, and Mazie flies across the mat to tackle Sage. I beam with excitement, cheering loudly for the exhausted, sweaty blonde as he gets his name and title announced as the winner, and stumbles off the mat with his arm across Mazie’s shoulders.

“I’m gonna go find Roman now,” I tell Wim, standing up on my toes to shout in his ear. He nods, and I give him a smile before pushing my way through the throngs of people, keeping an eye out for Rome on my way.