[ he ignores the comment about his wallet and his condoms, leaving them lying in the sand because delta telling him what to do is not the move. his eyes close for half a second and the next thing he feels is delta blowing his warm breath onto his cold hand. ashe almost snatches it away, his mind tripping slightly on the question about his tattoo. he can't remember if he ever told delta about it, but it isn't hard to guess considering his total lack of close friendships. ]

Yeah. Her birthday. She has mine on her hand, too. Same place. [ he was fourteen when he got the tattoo, a favor from one of his mother's many friends, and he remembers how bad it hurt but more than that he remembers holding his mother's hand and laughing with her in the tattoo shop. every tattoo after that never failed to remind him of that moment.

he wiggles his fingers in delta's grip, a fleeting thought of how soft his hands feel passing idly through his brain. ] There were. There were a lot of them. It wasn't all bad. She would disappear a lot but I knew she'd come back and then we'd do stuff together. Like get milkshakes and build sandcastles and she'd listen to all my songs and sing with me sometimes. She taught me how to braid my hair and how to properly throw a punch. I always knew she had problems and we'd fight, too, but... she was the coolest person I knew. I mean, mostly. Except for when she's flooding the fucking bathroom. One time she threw up in my car and I swear I wanted to shove her ass out the door. And if I ever got sick she was the fucking worst at taking care of people.

[ he stops there, suddenly realizing how much he's said. fucking weed. he pushes up onto one elbow, examining the castle again — fucking f, just like all of delta's report cards must've looked — and then drops his head into delta's lap, closing his eyes and drawing in a deep breath of salty air. ]

What about you and your uncle? Did you guys do stuff together?