set the world on fire; chelsey

WHEN THE SNOW FALLS, around here, it falls hard.

At least the snow hardly lets my footsteps leave a dent upon it's surface, erasing our tracks in the process, and it absorbs the sound of our heels clicking against the ground as we race away from an old tailor shop - the owner stands in the doorway with his fists waving angrily around his head, shouting obscenities that would've made my Mama roll over in her grave. Atticus and I laugh, inflating our lungs with the chilly December air and the sweet scented tinge of mint, as we run away from the man. "It's Christmas!" He hollers in desperation right before we reach a turn in the street. "And merry Christmas to us!" I holler back.

Atticus and I are scampering around corners and colliding into each other with every sharp turn, newly born laughter tingling our lips like the frost that embeds itself on our bedroom windows in the morning. Eventually, in a clearing that might've been a park during the spring, we collapse atop a pile of snow and let our laughter seize our bodies as we grasp onto our stomachs and try to ignore the icy snow dampening our winter coats. We make sure, however, to cradle our newly "gifted" suits on our chests to make certain the black fabric doesn't go awry.



EARLIER THIS MORNING, just as the sun began to make it's slow ascent above the ice capped hills surrounding our home, Atticus shook me awake to go share a cigarette just outside the doorway of our home. As I carefully shielded the flickering flame of a match against the wind to light mine, Atticus leaned against the wall of the house and crossed his arms, "There's a party at the Peregrines this evening." I arched my eyebrow, not bothering to look up at him as I concentrated on lighting my cig without having the wind blow out the fire. "And, we're going." He continued. Still making no attempt for eye contact, I laughed, "And what the hell makes you think we're invited?" With a pinch of two fingers, Atticus extinguished the match, successfully getting me to meet his gaze with my (slightly more) irritated one. "We're not."

I've heard of the Peregrines before, almost everyone has. They're one of the few families in the District who can take comfort in simple (and sometimes maybe even extravagant) luxuries, whether that's a warm bath, or in this case, a bloody Christmas party. I've seen their daughter, too, Hermia Peregrine. She carries herself like a porcelain doll, but she doesn't seem as delicate as one. I was raised never to tell a lie, and I'd be lying if I said I never noticed her before. But, in town, when I pass her by the streets, I keep my eyes on the ground and avert my gaze away from hers because I already know girls like her don't go noticing boys like me.

When I asked Atticus how the hell we were supposed to find clothes to wear (that didn't have any tatters or stains from years of constantly running away from angry shopkeepers who caught us in the act of our theft), he gave me his familiar mischievous smirk, and knowing right away what he was up to, we walked to town with two cigarettes in our mouths and our arms slung around our shoulders, while singing Christmas carols a bit too loud for our neighbor's liking.



WHEN THE LAUGHTER DEFLATES WITHIN US, Atticus says, "We really ought to leave this life of criminality behind, Jacob, theft is a heavy crime deserving of a heavy punishment."

I take one look into my older brother's eyes and see the mischief flitting through them, and I roll my eyes and shove his shoulder, "The day you stop acting like a thief is the day Mama comes back from her grave."

Atticus laughs gently, because neither of us ever really knew her before she was hauled into a coffin and buried six feet beneath the earth's crust. "I'd bet you on that!" He says, before taking out his box of cigarettes and handing me one.

As we laid there, igniting the tips of the cigarettes, I realized we still hadn't greeted each other with the respective holiday formalities. Crossing both arms under my head in content, and stretching my face out to meet the warmth of the winter sun, I told him, "Merry Christmas, Atticus."

"Merry Christmas, Jacob."



I CAN HEAR THE HOUSE before I see it.

The tinkling sound of laughter rimming the edges of pristine champagne glasses, and the shuffling of feet waltzing against a polished dance floor fills my ears like a nose inhaling the fragrance of winter's first blossom. When I see the house with it's bright lights and grand structures, I begin to shrink back into the familiar territory of the shadows, but Atticus's wide and confident strides forward are what pull me back to the surface, and I proudly follow him like a blind soldier obeying the commands of his chief officer. (No one will be able to tell who we are, or where we come from. Of course, our walk is more sluggish, and our talk less refined, but our fine clothing and the night's merry atmosphere should surely shush the party's gossiping tongue for the night, shouldn't it?) And forward Atticus and I go, crossing the threshold, and entering battle.

It sounds like a battlefield in here, with the loud music drumming in my ears and mindless chatter about politics and interior design buzzing in the background.

As soon as we set a foot within the Peregrine household, Atticus and I are both victims to the golden splendor. We walk like dazed prisoners, who were just released from their jail cells after five decades caged between it's walls, and we are trying to absorb the change that's evolved without us even realizing. The sight of the party and the adrenaline of being in a place we know we shouldn't be are both intoxicating.

And if that is intoxication, then the sight of Hermia's lone stance against a pillar is what being drunk must feel like.

I must've been drunk off adrenaline as I trailed away from Atticus and slowly edged towards her through the dance floor - I was a wave and she was the moon, and whenever the ocean receded from the luminosity of her presence, she would pull me back in each time. If shooting stars could feel (and who says they can't?) then I know this is what they'd feel like - a bright scar tearing through the night and hurdling towards earth, not knowing where they were heading, and not caring either.

Then her back was right before me, and I felt the ocean's tide and the moon's pull within my lungs fall short, and the shooting star's race against it's brethren get caught in my throat.

I was a drunk man, alright, because before I could make sense of what I was doing, I did the most courageous thing I've ever done in my entire eighteen years of life, and told a beautiful girl, "Are we just gonna stand around here all night, or will you give me the honor of making every man in this room jealous, and dance with me?"

Girls like her don't go noticing boys like me, but tonight, I'd make sure she would.