[ it's stupid because ashe has said far worse directly to his face, absolutely scathing insults delta can't even recall word-for-word in the moment. i was gonna fuck my friend tonight stings worse than the scent of hot, barbecued corpse, and maybe it's because five seconds ago he had ashe's head in his lap with his hands in his hair, knuckles wrapped in liquid silk.
or maybe he's too on edge and the weed is making it worse. ]
Which friend? [ so flat and monotone that ashe might miss it if he was anyone else — which friend as if he has multiple — except delta's looking directly at the friend he means. his dead ( murdered ) friend, now so close that the smell of rotting flesh overpowers the salty air, turning delta's empty stomach. fucking ashe. like he's anyone to him anyway. that goes both ways.
he'd feel less aggravated with another joint or edible, but the one was all he had and he's not asking ashe for shit now. the smell is oppressive, and delta pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing his eyes shut. if six were here, he'd tell him to remember his breathing exercises. count to five, or was it count down from ten. why the fuck did he never listen to him. why the fuck should he have ever listened to him when he was never around anyway. fucking six. fucking ashe. fucking — ]
Fucking hell. [ one slip to his control is all it ever takes, hairline cracks in the already chipped stone barricade he's built between himself and every world that wants to pop him like gum between its teeth. ashe won't feel the shift, not immediately, but delta feels it as clear as a lightning strike, an accidental invitation extended through the veil by his own hand.
with more force than necessary, he rolls ashe out of his lap, crushing his sand castle in the process. ]
Go fuck your nasty friend, then. You leave. [ he should've been in drama in high school because it's all venom where he feels nothing but creeping panic. ]
no subject
or maybe he's too on edge and the weed is making it worse. ]
Which friend? [ so flat and monotone that ashe might miss it if he was anyone else — which friend as if he has multiple — except delta's looking directly at the friend he means. his dead ( murdered ) friend, now so close that the smell of rotting flesh overpowers the salty air, turning delta's empty stomach. fucking ashe. like he's anyone to him anyway. that goes both ways.
he'd feel less aggravated with another joint or edible, but the one was all he had and he's not asking ashe for shit now. the smell is oppressive, and delta pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing his eyes shut. if six were here, he'd tell him to remember his breathing exercises. count to five, or was it count down from ten. why the fuck did he never listen to him. why the fuck should he have ever listened to him when he was never around anyway. fucking six. fucking ashe. fucking — ]
Fucking hell. [ one slip to his control is all it ever takes, hairline cracks in the already chipped stone barricade he's built between himself and every world that wants to pop him like gum between its teeth. ashe won't feel the shift, not immediately, but delta feels it as clear as a lightning strike, an accidental invitation extended through the veil by his own hand.
with more force than necessary, he rolls ashe out of his lap, crushing his sand castle in the process. ]
Go fuck your nasty friend, then. You leave. [ he should've been in drama in high school because it's all venom where he feels nothing but creeping panic. ]