Funeral

It's swirling around them, this confusing mass of tendrils, burning asphalt anger, hot and painful to touch. Fuse has never been safe. They've always been sharp and lean, a knife trying to cut through Spire's water, but now they're hot, steam against Spire's skin, uncomfortable.

Yet for as much as Spire can see, for as much as he can feel, he can't put out Fuse's heat. Spire lives through vision and touch but Fuse needs words. They need calming, placating, monotone words, they need a balm of not pity, but control and guidance. They need Ms. Riley.

But Spire can see the twisting and contorting feelings and they're black with grief.

Spire is scared. He's scared of Fuse's anger and he's scared of his own sour candy guilt, weighing him down like a ball and chain. Champion is a shield, firm at his side, but even he can't protect Spire from this. This black, covering the floor and filling the air like smoke, thick and choking. Because they all need Ms. Riley.

But she's gone...