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Kremy LeCroux is in love. This is nothing new. He’s been hopelessly in love for years, it was routine by now. Wake up, get dressed, draw on the moustache, make coffee, pine over his unrequited love. It isn’t easy loving someone deep in your bones.
The bed squeaks. It’s a cheap mattress on a rickety iron frame, but they’d slept in worse. Groans spill out from the bedroom, the clinking of chains following close behind. The fire has awakened. Just in time, coffees done. Gideon stomps into the kitchen, half asleep. His hair pokes out in different directions, his eyes not fully open, but he manages his way to a seat at the table.
“Mornin’ Gid” Kremy doesn’t look up, he’s seen this routine a thousand times. Gideon grunts a response. He snatches the cigar case he’d left on the table the night before. Gideon fumbles with the clasp for a moment before it pops open. Smoke fills the room almost instantly.
It used to bug the fuck out of him. Gideon would wake up incoherent and immediately light a cigar. They aren’t nice cigars either; thick disgusting things, the tobacco nearly black with tar. But Gideon had said once that he couldn’t wake up without smoke in his lungs. Cigars are the closest thing he could get to inhaling coal and fire. It was familiar. He couldn’t live without it. So Kremy dealt with everything he owned smelling like smoke.
Kremy sets a metal carafe of coffee on the table with two blue mugs. Gideon pours himself a cup, the cigar still smoldering between his lips. Kremy pops a cigarette from his own silver case. He vaguely waves a hand, Gideon snaps and a small flame appears on the tip of his thumb. The alligator man leans over, fire playing against his scales, and lights his cigarette. They sit in silence, smoke mingling around the room. Kremy slides a paper across the table. Gideon ashes the cigar and unfolds the paper. He reads for a moment, examines the small drawings complete with arrows pointing at entry points and exits. Kremy hears a grunt, Gideon points at a crudely drawn lock. Kremy shakes his head and leans over, breathing in ash. He lifts a claw and points to an X labeled “guard (key)” outside an entry point. Gideon nods. He folds the paper back in half and sets it on the table. The plan is set, time for a heist.
They’re smoking outside of a locked door, nonchalant completely casual like. Kremy is dressed more subdued than usual, his purple pinstripe tuxedo swapped for a slim cut black suit. It looks good on him, all the better holding a black and silver cigarette holder. Ash drops on the ground below, missing his shoes and lapel entirely. He looks confident and important. Gideon hovers just out of the shadows. Flame bright hair combed back slick. He’s in his usual jeans and suspenders, but swapped the soot stained undershirt for a dark gray tunic tucked into his pants. You could almost miss him in the dark, visible only by the tip of his burning cigar. The street bustles around them, the setting sun encouraging shoppers to head home before night fall. Kremy and Gideon don’t move or speak, the plan relies on not attracting attention until they need it. The bank closes at sundown. Gideon turns and looks down the alleyway. The cigar is crushed between his teeth, embers extinguished. He slinks into the shadows. Kremy looks up; it’s time. His cigarette is tossed into the street. He adjusts the black satin tie around his neck. Heels clack against pavement.
Fire erupts. Windows shatter, glass falls in glittering shards, smoke billows from empty holes in a black haze. Kremy is a silhouette in the chaos, all attention focused on the burning wreckage across the street. A clawed hand slips into the pocket of a running guard. No one sees him enter the bank, they don’t see him strut pass the panicking tellers into the safe room. The key slides into the lock, clicks open, and Kremy gleams. His bag is heavy with gold before he hears the second explosion. More screams float in the air, Kremy barely notices. He hefts the bag in his arms, cursing himself for not spending more time on a carrying spell. The gold knocks against steel, Kremy freezes. He thinks he hears footsteps and whispers, the safe door is wide open. The plan didn’t include a third distraction, the second explosion was his cue to leave.
“Fuck.” He quietly shuts the safe door, taking extra care to stay silent. The lock clicks, Kremy whispers an incantation. The bag of gold becomes a large potted plant. The alligator lifts the pot onto his hip, grunting as pounds of gold drags him to the floor. “Fuck!” The plan is ruined. He needs Gideon. Kremy slinks out of the hallway into the main lobby. He palms the keys onto a tellers desk. The room is empty. A crowd had formed outside, everyone running to join the bucket chain. Fire spread down the block. Two explosions had grown to a blazing inferno. Kremy scans the destruction for his partner. His heart pounding in his chest. Gideon was impervious to flames, but not blast damage. All thoughts of gold escape his mind. He runs out into the street.
It’s pure chaos. Guards shout at civilians to either join the chain or evacuate; buckets of water are passed up the chain, a young teenager runs more buckets to the well. His face is covered in soot. Kremy doesn’t care about that right now. In a few hours he can drown in the looming dread and guilt, right now he needs Gideon.
They have a rendezvous point, it’s not far and he could probably make it if he ran. Months ago they’d had a conversation about sending stones or some kind of arcana that could keep them in contact. Of course it hadn’t been a priority and fell in the back log of shit they had to do. Kremy is getting those damn stones when this is all over. He doesn’t want to compromise his position in the crowd, but he is running on pure dread. He lifts his palm to the air, neon purple sparks shoot into the sky. They’re nearly lost in the ash. Kremy hopes it’s enough.
Love is funny. There is a hundred pounds of gold disguised as a potted plant in an empty bank. Kremy knows this, and yet he can’t care. In the wreckage of a building, is Gideon. His body is covered in flames, his clothes are burned and black. Fire licks at the heels of his boots; he is smiling and resplendent. The manacles around his wrists are blazing red. In the fiery hell of his own creation Gideon is magnificent. Kremy’s mouth falls open for a second, he can’t help it. Alligators can’t blush. Right? Cold blood pumps in his veins and he really wonders how human a humanoid could be. That didn’t matter. In front of him is heat like he’d never felt. Gideon winks, the fucking audacity. He jumps from the wreckage, giving an extra hop for cheek. By all the gods, the genasi is gloating. Showboating bastard.
They get the gold. There is sobbing in the streets, fire destroying homes and businesses without discrimination; it’s almost too easy. All of the stealth Kremy had used is completely gone. Gideon is on literal fire, his hair catching flying papers aflame. His veins burn molten lava. Kremy lights a cigarette on the searing genasi’s skin. He points to the gold and briefly wonders if it will melt. But Gid isn’t an amateur, he’s worked as Kremy’s muscle for long enough to control the heat in his body. He channels it into his body, fuel for the next fire. The gold is almost weightless in his arms. The alligator man slips a hand into his partners pocket and fishes out the cigar case. He pops the clasp, pulls out one of the horrid cigars, and bites off the end. It’s bitter and disgusting, but Kremy perseveres. He lights it using the end of his own cigarette. He stuffs the cigar in Gideon's mouth. Two flaming irises meet Kremy’s golden eyes, Gideon smiles and winks. Kremy’s heart skips. They exit the bank through the back door.
The next town is small. That suits them just fine. They need somewhere to lay low. Although Kremy would prefer a city to get lost in, a small rented cottage in the middle of nowhere works. It’s nice. They didn’t take much with them when they skipped the last town. Everything was still on fire, Kremy didn’t want to push his luck sticking around any longer than they had to. Thankfully the general store had the basics, like coffee and cigarettes. Gideon snores like a freight train in their bed. Kremy is awake. The cottage is fine, but it feels so… domestic. He watches the rise and fall of the genasi’s chest. He looks almost innocent. Kremy takes a drag on his cigarette, smoke escapes from his nostrils.
Gold glitters in piles on the kitchen table, a notebook next to it. They had enough to live comfortably for a few months, maybe a year if they stayed in one place. Kremy didn’t think he could handle a year of domestic bliss. The summer air is warm, but Kremy shivers at the thought. A quaint cottage life with a man like Gideon Coal? A man that thrived on the chaotic thrall of flame and destruction needs an outlet. No. Settling down isn’t an option. There is always another town, another mark. Another opportunity to watch his world burn.
Kremy is in love. It’s an inferno that will eat his soul alive. Thankfully, he didn’t have a soul to begin with.