lighting someone up like the 4th of july doesn't rly seem like ur style esp if we're not talking premeditated one doesn't just set a person on fire in self-defense. that takes effort.
bc it is much easier to grab the nearest sharp object and go to town vs taking a lighter to someone's clothes and hoping theyre flammable idt he was doused in lighter fluid either but i didn't get a good read on him
my mom has a scar at her hairline from when he slammed her face into the bathroom mirror doubt we were the first single mom and son duo he fucked with but we were definitely the last he was a piece of shit and i don't give a fuck about his angry fucking ghost
ok i'm at the beach already if you go past the bonfire there's a little stretch of beach kinda by the woods promise you won't send me any more fucking emojis
[ it's all he sends because he's starting to overthink this and needs to put his phone down. delta knows too much, but the details are still a mystery to him. that's good. ashe can continue to play this off and do his own research on how to get rid of an angry spirit. no need for delta to ever know what he really did that night, and he's not sure why he's in this specific location on the beach because it's far too close to where he dumped the body into the ocean.
it's stupid. it doesn't matter. he idly heaps sand around him while he waits for the edible to take effect, forming the base of the castle and quietly enjoying the balmy breeze moving through his hair.
he doesn't remember when he plopped down onto the sand and started stargazing, but the castle is wholly forgotten while he tries to find pegasus amongst the constellations. ]
[ despite ashe's overwhelmingly weird reaction, delta more or less forgets about his angry apartment spirit the second he closes his phone. out of sight, immediately out of mind.
fifteen minutes later, he's at the beach with a full tank of gas, parking near the boardwalk and walking down a grassy dune toward ashe's location. it's unseasonably warm tonight, but delta is dressed in a light jacket and torn jeans, aggressively kicking up sand with dirty black chucks.
he finds ashe slivered in moonlight, distant firelight burnishing his hair a shimmering copper. how pretty he is is a gut-punch, every time. ]
What's up, man? [ but delta's good at this, an entire nineteen years spent pretending to be someone he's not, just another rich kid with endless privileges, and he can pretend that looking at ashe doesn't squeeze his heart to pathetic mush. fucking easy. done.
he narrowly avoids stepping on his unfinished sandcastle as he drops to the ground next to him, hugging his knees to his chest. ]
[ delta appears out of nowhere, and ashe lifts his head just to make sure he didn't flatten his castle. still there. good. he twists a lock of his hair around one sandy finger when he plops down again, eyes half-lidded. ]
Yep. [ and he's glad for it, because he can finally feel his stresses begin to slide away. the sound of rustling plastic fills his sense as he roots through the back pocket of his jeans to pull out a small baggie with a square of rice krispie inside. also falling to the sand are his wallet and a stray condom, but it only vaguely registers. ] Here.
[ it's nice to have delta here, sort of. he does come with the possibility of being sucked into another dimension, but overall delta can be pleasant to be around. sometimes.
he gestures at the heaps of sand. ] Make, like, a tower. And a dragon.
[ there are too many jumbled up memories in his head and he doesn't know which one he's supposed to be thinking about. there's dumping the body into the ocean, but there's also sitting on the shore building a castle with his mom. he doesn't know how it's possible to wish she was here now while also feeling intensely relieved that she's gone. ]
You know when you asked if I had a best friend? [ he looks over to check the progress of the tower. little to none. disappointing. ] It was my mom. She was my best friend. Like you and Genevieve.
[ this is quietly comfortable. delta sheds his jacket and shoes and socks, hitching onto his knees in front of ashe's unfinished sand castle. he tears the rice krispie wrapper with his teeth and takes a bite as he starts forming the dragon with one hand, long headless body stretching into a semi-circle around the base of the castle.
it's easier to focus on that than ashe's face and lips. less obvious, too. ]
You shouldn't keep your condoms in your wallet. [ god, he sounds like six. he flicks sand from his fingers, popping the rest of the rice krispie in his mouth and leaning over his knees to nudge his wallet with a curled knuckle. ] You dropped your wallet, by the way.
[ while crafting the dragon's head and slithering tongue, he wonders how often ashe has done this, and with who, if anyone. for delta this is every friday night in high school, laid on the beach away from the party with a girl on top of him or his head in her lap, gentle fingers mapping every sparse freckle on his face and nose. it feels tentatively familiar, intimacy dipped in glass. one wrong move or word and everything shatters to the shrill tune of ashe telling him to fuck off forever.
his eyes return to ashe's face when he says viv's name. has he been talking this whole time? fuck. ]
I never really knew my parents. [ never really upset him, either. his parents' former lives are shrouded in mystery because six doesn't talk about them ever and as far as delta knows he has no other living relatives. ashe's relationship with his mother may be fucked beyond repair, but delta can tell he loves her. he almost wonders what that's like. did his parents love him the way ashe loves his fuck-up mom?
two important facts delta learned in the time he spent on his knees sucking ashe's cock: he likes to touch, stroking his lashes and cheeks, smearing his bottom lip in saliva with his thumb, grabbing fistfuls of hair between hissed fucks — and he has a tattoo on his finger, almost invisible now in the dark. delta swings one leg over the castle and scoots closer to ashe, pulling his hand into his lap and turning it palm up.
he hooks his thumb over his finger, brushing sand from the tiny, neatly printed numbers. ] This is her, right?
[ ashe's hands are little ice cubes, so much colder than the rest of his body. he cages his hand in both palms, lips touching his fingers as he blows hot air into the gap left for his mouth. it's stupid and utterly gay, but he doesn't let go. ]
[ 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?
[ it's more than he's expecting, the kind of soft and familial love that delta's never experienced in his life. for a fleeting second he thinks he understands why he stays. every moment with his mother is a numbers game, and sometimes he gets lucky, strikes the lottery and they roast marshmallows on the beach, sharing one blanket. other times he comes home to a flooded bathroom with his mother unconscious on dirty linoleum. how many times has he patched up her swollen black eyes? forcibly taken a bottle or needle from her hand while she screamed at him? tucked her in bed and curled up around her like a child?
delta folds his legs and cards his fingers through ashe's hair, blunt nails lightly scratching into his scalp. a clear, cloudless moon bathes the ocean in silver light. waves like black mercury fade to neon blue as the water creeps up the shore, a bioluminescence only visible at night. the ocean's aurora, is what six called it.
six. there's no way to succinctly sum up his relationship with six. ]
We never really did stuff together like you and your mom. Like, family stuff, I mean. If he wasn't physically gone, he was never really there anyway. [ he'll start with the only truth he knows then, plain and straightforward. if he's bitter, he doesn't sound it. his childhood was spent learning the ins and outs of his abilities, or nights in the wight wood with six by his side, firmly instructing him how to damper his energy so as not to attract all the shadowed, toothy things that that might want to devour him alive, bones and all.
he was ten when he learned he only had twelve more years to live, if he was lucky. he's nineteen now. two more years of luck left. he might already be on borrowed time and not know it. delta doesn't know why six was so afraid of everything in the universe eating him alive when he's doomed to a bad end where his abilities eat him instead. there's no fucking difference. he's going to die. he didn't have anyone but himself to teach him how to be okay with that.
what an asshole.
delta realizes — belatedly, his hands still deep in ashe's hair — that he's shaking. ]
Fuck. It's cold, right? [ it's not. exhaling through his teeth, he leans back and pats down every one of his pockets until he finds what he's looking for, a small baggie with a rolled joint and his lighter. he lights it up with the joint in his mouth, rolling smoke through his lungs and nose like he's starved for it. he should've asked ashe for more edibles.
wordlessly, after three consecutive hits in a row and his shaking subsides, he plucks the joint between two fingers and dangles it in front of ashe's lips. ]
[ it feels like a non-answer, but when he forces his brain to process the words he realizes it's simply the truth. they must not be that close, certainly not as close as he and his mother used to be, but he can't tell if it's delta's lack of a strong bond with his uncle or something else that causes the tremor in his hands. despite the faraway daze his brain is in, he still feels it in his hair. ]
It's not that cold. [ cooler by the water, yes, but not enough to make someone shiver. he briefly considers asking if delta wants to move closer to the bonfire, but that would require both movement and being near people, neither of which he currently wishes to attempt. delta's lap feels like it was made for his head.
the joint appears before him like an angel from the sky. he tilts his chin to wrap his lips around it, drawing in a breath before letting go. ]
It's cool if you don't really want to talk about him.
[ he's fully aware the amount of half-cocked shenanigans he and his mother would get into is outside of the realm of normal mother and son interactions. most people have regular things to say about their family, or nothing much at all like delta. his mother once threw his math textbook out the window because ashe told her he had to study instead of helping her feed the stray cats by the dumpster. ]
What're you thinking about right now? [ he blows a small stream of smoke upwards. ] Something's up with you.
[ kissing him. asking if he wants to fuck in the back of his truck. the ocean. the low, pulsing bass from further up the beach. anything except for what it must feel like to be lit up from the inside, or that he almost died a half-mile from here, pulled to a watery grave by a woman with nails like razor-sharp claws and scales on her hands.
anything except for the man near the shore, too. ]
My head is pretty perpetually empty, dude.
[ delta noticed the man near five minutes ago, shortly after he sat down and started building ashe his sand dragon. he didn't think anything of it because he sees dead men all the time, what's one more dead man in the dark, but he's closer now, and that familiar scent hits him, melting flesh on an ocean breeze. like salted fucking pot roast gone way bad, left in the sun to rot. he sinks his hand into ashe's silky hair and maintains eye contact as the man ghosts across the beach, inhaling a deeper, fuller drag, smoke filling his lungs.
who the fuck. why the fuck — ]
Ashe. [ he almost tells him, but a feeling stops him short, tongue to the roof of his mouth. dead people don't wander, in most cases. ashe probably doesn't know that. dead people linger close to the trauma that caused their death. dead people stay where they died.
unless they have a reason to be in two places.
unless their bodies were dumped.
his eyes slide to ashe's face, soft-edged and deceptively sweet, and strokes his hair from his forehead. he stamps the joint out in the sand and wraps it back in the baggie to throw in a garbage can for later. ]
[ he would've believed delta if he heard that during high school, but he knows better now. delta's head is the opposite of perpetually empty. it's too full, and half of what's crammed in there is shit that belongs in a horror movie script. ashe still has nightmares about the single most traumatic event of his life. he doesn't know how delta even functions with some of the things he's described seeing. ]
No. [ another thing that involves a lot of moving. instant negative. ] No, I don't want to go chill in your car just because you're getting horny. Fuck that. This sandcastle's not gonna finish itself.
[ he rises but only slightly, draped over delta's lap as he reaches out to poke at the dragon, clumsily working the tail into a tapered tip. annoyance bites at him. if delta just wants to fuck then he won't begrudge him for it ( he will ), but it's not why he asked him to hang out with him tonight, though if he had to put it into words, he doesn't know the reason for that, either. chilling sounded nice. now he's not sure.
for a moment he felt nice and now he feels like shit again, the same way he feels lately when he's at home. it's aggravating. everything is so aggravating. maybe coming here was a mistake. ]
I was gonna fuck my friend tonight. Not you. [ he doesn't know why he says it. there's some truth to the statement, but in the end decided that hanging with delta was preferable. but he doesn't verbalize that part. ] So if you want to bounce, then fucking go.
[ 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. ]
[ ashe pops off enough that he knows how most of his usual suspects react. his mother: unpredictable. his ex-drummer: the most annoying fucking laughter ashe has ever heard in his life. his upstairs neighbor that plays dubstep all day: threats of violence that he never sees through. but delta? he hasn't gotten delta down yet. most of the time delta stays on an infuriatingly even kilter that's difficult to react to without looking like he's overreacting. as far as he's concerned, he's never overreacting. he's reacting in kind to dumbass shit that he shouldn't have to be exposed to in the first place.
this is the first time he feels like delta might actually be pissed at him. ashe gets a mouthful of sand when delta shoves him off his comfortable resting place. ]
The fuck is the matter with you? [ he pushes himself up, spitting onto the ruined castle and shaking sand out of his hair. ] You're the one that came here just to fuck around. I was trying to hang for real.
[ something cold creeps along the back of his neck as he stands, an annoying feeling that someone else is watching them, but a quick glance around tells him otherwise. everyone is too involved in their own bullshit to notice that he's about to fucking clock delta right in his fucking face.
he's not. that seems like overkill. he does forcibly brush sand in his general direction while he tries to get his jacket clean, though. ]
I told my friend I was hanging with you, you fucking dumbass. If I wanted to fuck, I wouldn't have even asked you here tonight. I just wanted to chill. The fuck are you so mad about?
[ ashe's temper is a gunshot crack, not a slow-burn bleed, and delta thinks very briefly that he might be fucked. they're both fucked. he wedges his feet into his high-tops, snapping his sand-crusted jacket over his shoulders, and rolls on his knees to assess the damage. maybe it's not that bad. maybe he can still salvage this.
six explained to him once that the veil is a mirror, walls of pristine glass caging the dead in a cold and empty world. sometimes an angry soul can punch through the glass only to come face-to-face with a reflection of themselves, and then another wall after that, and another, and another, and another. the walls never end because the glass self-repairs, and the dead can't join the living. earth's only law, governed by a force higher than any man, living or decomposed.
there are exceptions to this law.
things darker than the dead, from places other than earth, can slip through the temporary cracks, dragging a wandering soul back with it. or, in delta's case, he not only has the launch codes but he's the atom bomb solution to every unbreakable barrier separating earth from all worlds, and he just kamikazed the fuck out of every wall keeping this dead man's grimy hands from ashe's unsuspecting mortal body.
the veil glimmers like molten flame, still reeling from delta's assault, visible only to his eye. he holds his breath as the man draws closer and the smell gets worse. he doesn't have time for this, not when ashe is still here bitching about inconsequential shit. he'll be able to see him soon.
he lurches to his feet and shoves ashe again, harder. ]
Why else would I even be here if it wasn't to fuck? Not like your faggot ass is good for anything else. [ too much, possibly. he spits anyway, at ashe's feet, all unbridled theatrics. ] Fucking whore.
[ he could leave it at that, but ashe isn't most people, and delta can't risk that he won't walk away from this. before ashe can recover from the whiplash of delta's words or being shoved, he grabs him by the collar, hauling him close and hooking a closed fist into his jaw. his lip splits over his ringed knuckles, ashe's blood on the back of his hand. it almost feels worse than the cold sweat dripping down his back, or the impending sense of dread that comes with it.
there's no way he's ever going to forgive him. he'll mourn the butchered corpse of this relationship later, after he's macheted it to pieces.
he shoves him a third time, following him forward as he stumbles. ]
Fuck off or I swear to god I will beat your skinny ass within an inch of your life. No one's gonna miss you if I accidentally break your neck.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
he was burned alive and asphyxiated on the smoke
im not saying he didnt deserve it but he died in ur living room
no subject
this is officially none of your fucking business
fuck off
no subject
i wasn't accusing u of anything
no subject
you think i killed him
can't you see me getting pissed off enough to snap
no subject
one doesn't just set a person on fire in self-defense. that takes effort.
did u kill him
no subject
i'm not saying yes but what if i did
no subject
idt he was doused in lighter fluid either but i didn't get a good read on him
u said he deserved it
no subject
my mom has a scar at her hairline from when he slammed her face into the bathroom mirror
doubt we were the first single mom and son duo he fucked with but we were definitely the last
he was a piece of shit and i don't give a fuck about his angry fucking ghost
no subject
u say u didnt touch him then drop a shady confession
im not going to judge u for whatever happened dude
i just want u to be careful rn in the present
no subject
it's all stupid anyway
i don't give a fuck about this i'm trying to get high and build a sandcastle
no subject
[ not really that sorry because warning him felt right but he will apologize every time to keep the peace. ]
lets get fucked up
promise u wont ditch me
no subject
if you go past the bonfire there's a little stretch of beach kinda by the woods
promise you won't send me any more fucking emojis
no subject
need to get gas real quick
that is a promise i cannot make
no subject
[ it's all he sends because he's starting to overthink this and needs to put his phone down. delta knows too much, but the details are still a mystery to him. that's good. ashe can continue to play this off and do his own research on how to get rid of an angry spirit. no need for delta to ever know what he really did that night, and he's not sure why he's in this specific location on the beach because it's far too close to where he dumped the body into the ocean.
it's stupid. it doesn't matter. he idly heaps sand around him while he waits for the edible to take effect, forming the base of the castle and quietly enjoying the balmy breeze moving through his hair.
he doesn't remember when he plopped down onto the sand and started stargazing, but the castle is wholly forgotten while he tries to find pegasus amongst the constellations. ]
no subject
fifteen minutes later, he's at the beach with a full tank of gas, parking near the boardwalk and walking down a grassy dune toward ashe's location. it's unseasonably warm tonight, but delta is dressed in a light jacket and torn jeans, aggressively kicking up sand with dirty black chucks.
he finds ashe slivered in moonlight, distant firelight burnishing his hair a shimmering copper. how pretty he is is a gut-punch, every time. ]
What's up, man? [ but delta's good at this, an entire nineteen years spent pretending to be someone he's not, just another rich kid with endless privileges, and he can pretend that looking at ashe doesn't squeeze his heart to pathetic mush. fucking easy. done.
he narrowly avoids stepping on his unfinished sandcastle as he drops to the ground next to him, hugging his knees to his chest. ]
You high already?
no subject
Yep. [ and he's glad for it, because he can finally feel his stresses begin to slide away. the sound of rustling plastic fills his sense as he roots through the back pocket of his jeans to pull out a small baggie with a square of rice krispie inside. also falling to the sand are his wallet and a stray condom, but it only vaguely registers. ] Here.
[ it's nice to have delta here, sort of. he does come with the possibility of being sucked into another dimension, but overall delta can be pleasant to be around. sometimes.
he gestures at the heaps of sand. ] Make, like, a tower. And a dragon.
[ there are too many jumbled up memories in his head and he doesn't know which one he's supposed to be thinking about. there's dumping the body into the ocean, but there's also sitting on the shore building a castle with his mom. he doesn't know how it's possible to wish she was here now while also feeling intensely relieved that she's gone. ]
You know when you asked if I had a best friend? [ he looks over to check the progress of the tower. little to none. disappointing. ] It was my mom. She was my best friend. Like you and Genevieve.
no subject
it's easier to focus on that than ashe's face and lips. less obvious, too. ]
You shouldn't keep your condoms in your wallet. [ god, he sounds like six. he flicks sand from his fingers, popping the rest of the rice krispie in his mouth and leaning over his knees to nudge his wallet with a curled knuckle. ] You dropped your wallet, by the way.
[ while crafting the dragon's head and slithering tongue, he wonders how often ashe has done this, and with who, if anyone. for delta this is every friday night in high school, laid on the beach away from the party with a girl on top of him or his head in her lap, gentle fingers mapping every sparse freckle on his face and nose. it feels tentatively familiar, intimacy dipped in glass. one wrong move or word and everything shatters to the shrill tune of ashe telling him to fuck off forever.
his eyes return to ashe's face when he says viv's name. has he been talking this whole time? fuck. ]
I never really knew my parents. [ never really upset him, either. his parents' former lives are shrouded in mystery because six doesn't talk about them ever and as far as delta knows he has no other living relatives. ashe's relationship with his mother may be fucked beyond repair, but delta can tell he loves her. he almost wonders what that's like. did his parents love him the way ashe loves his fuck-up mom?
two important facts delta learned in the time he spent on his knees sucking ashe's cock: he likes to touch, stroking his lashes and cheeks, smearing his bottom lip in saliva with his thumb, grabbing fistfuls of hair between hissed fucks — and he has a tattoo on his finger, almost invisible now in the dark. delta swings one leg over the castle and scoots closer to ashe, pulling his hand into his lap and turning it palm up.
he hooks his thumb over his finger, brushing sand from the tiny, neatly printed numbers. ] This is her, right?
[ ashe's hands are little ice cubes, so much colder than the rest of his body. he cages his hand in both palms, lips touching his fingers as he blows hot air into the gap left for his mouth. it's stupid and utterly gay, but he doesn't let go. ]
There must have periods of some normalcy.
no subject
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?
no subject
[ it's more than he's expecting, the kind of soft and familial love that delta's never experienced in his life. for a fleeting second he thinks he understands why he stays. every moment with his mother is a numbers game, and sometimes he gets lucky, strikes the lottery and they roast marshmallows on the beach, sharing one blanket. other times he comes home to a flooded bathroom with his mother unconscious on dirty linoleum. how many times has he patched up her swollen black eyes? forcibly taken a bottle or needle from her hand while she screamed at him? tucked her in bed and curled up around her like a child?
delta folds his legs and cards his fingers through ashe's hair, blunt nails lightly scratching into his scalp. a clear, cloudless moon bathes the ocean in silver light. waves like black mercury fade to neon blue as the water creeps up the shore, a bioluminescence only visible at night. the ocean's aurora, is what six called it.
six. there's no way to succinctly sum up his relationship with six. ]
We never really did stuff together like you and your mom. Like, family stuff, I mean. If he wasn't physically gone, he was never really there anyway. [ he'll start with the only truth he knows then, plain and straightforward. if he's bitter, he doesn't sound it. his childhood was spent learning the ins and outs of his abilities, or nights in the wight wood with six by his side, firmly instructing him how to damper his energy so as not to attract all the shadowed, toothy things that that might want to devour him alive, bones and all.
he was ten when he learned he only had twelve more years to live, if he was lucky. he's nineteen now. two more years of luck left. he might already be on borrowed time and not know it. delta doesn't know why six was so afraid of everything in the universe eating him alive when he's doomed to a bad end where his abilities eat him instead. there's no fucking difference. he's going to die. he didn't have anyone but himself to teach him how to be okay with that.
what an asshole.
delta realizes — belatedly, his hands still deep in ashe's hair — that he's shaking. ]
Fuck. It's cold, right? [ it's not. exhaling through his teeth, he leans back and pats down every one of his pockets until he finds what he's looking for, a small baggie with a rolled joint and his lighter. he lights it up with the joint in his mouth, rolling smoke through his lungs and nose like he's starved for it. he should've asked ashe for more edibles.
wordlessly, after three consecutive hits in a row and his shaking subsides, he plucks the joint between two fingers and dangles it in front of ashe's lips. ]
no subject
It's not that cold. [ cooler by the water, yes, but not enough to make someone shiver. he briefly considers asking if delta wants to move closer to the bonfire, but that would require both movement and being near people, neither of which he currently wishes to attempt. delta's lap feels like it was made for his head.
the joint appears before him like an angel from the sky. he tilts his chin to wrap his lips around it, drawing in a breath before letting go. ]
It's cool if you don't really want to talk about him.
[ he's fully aware the amount of half-cocked shenanigans he and his mother would get into is outside of the realm of normal mother and son interactions. most people have regular things to say about their family, or nothing much at all like delta. his mother once threw his math textbook out the window because ashe told her he had to study instead of helping her feed the stray cats by the dumpster. ]
What're you thinking about right now? [ he blows a small stream of smoke upwards. ] Something's up with you.
no subject
anything except for the man near the shore, too. ]
My head is pretty perpetually empty, dude.
[ delta noticed the man near five minutes ago, shortly after he sat down and started building ashe his sand dragon. he didn't think anything of it because he sees dead men all the time, what's one more dead man in the dark, but he's closer now, and that familiar scent hits him, melting flesh on an ocean breeze. like salted fucking pot roast gone way bad, left in the sun to rot. he sinks his hand into ashe's silky hair and maintains eye contact as the man ghosts across the beach, inhaling a deeper, fuller drag, smoke filling his lungs.
who the fuck. why the fuck — ]
Ashe. [ he almost tells him, but a feeling stops him short, tongue to the roof of his mouth. dead people don't wander, in most cases. ashe probably doesn't know that. dead people linger close to the trauma that caused their death. dead people stay where they died.
unless they have a reason to be in two places.
unless their bodies were dumped.
his eyes slide to ashe's face, soft-edged and deceptively sweet, and strokes his hair from his forehead. he stamps the joint out in the sand and wraps it back in the baggie to throw in a garbage can for later. ]
You wanna chill in my car instead?
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No. [ another thing that involves a lot of moving. instant negative. ] No, I don't want to go chill in your car just because you're getting horny. Fuck that. This sandcastle's not gonna finish itself.
[ he rises but only slightly, draped over delta's lap as he reaches out to poke at the dragon, clumsily working the tail into a tapered tip. annoyance bites at him. if delta just wants to fuck then he won't begrudge him for it ( he will ), but it's not why he asked him to hang out with him tonight, though if he had to put it into words, he doesn't know the reason for that, either. chilling sounded nice. now he's not sure.
for a moment he felt nice and now he feels like shit again, the same way he feels lately when he's at home. it's aggravating. everything is so aggravating. maybe coming here was a mistake. ]
I was gonna fuck my friend tonight. Not you. [ he doesn't know why he says it. there's some truth to the statement, but in the end decided that hanging with delta was preferable. but he doesn't verbalize that part. ] So if you want to bounce, then fucking go.
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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. ]
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this is the first time he feels like delta might actually be pissed at him. ashe gets a mouthful of sand when delta shoves him off his comfortable resting place. ]
The fuck is the matter with you? [ he pushes himself up, spitting onto the ruined castle and shaking sand out of his hair. ] You're the one that came here just to fuck around. I was trying to hang for real.
[ something cold creeps along the back of his neck as he stands, an annoying feeling that someone else is watching them, but a quick glance around tells him otherwise. everyone is too involved in their own bullshit to notice that he's about to fucking clock delta right in his fucking face.
he's not. that seems like overkill. he does forcibly brush sand in his general direction while he tries to get his jacket clean, though. ]
I told my friend I was hanging with you, you fucking dumbass. If I wanted to fuck, I wouldn't have even asked you here tonight. I just wanted to chill. The fuck are you so mad about?
tw homophobic slurs??? just in case
six explained to him once that the veil is a mirror, walls of pristine glass caging the dead in a cold and empty world. sometimes an angry soul can punch through the glass only to come face-to-face with a reflection of themselves, and then another wall after that, and another, and another, and another. the walls never end because the glass self-repairs, and the dead can't join the living. earth's only law, governed by a force higher than any man, living or decomposed.
there are exceptions to this law.
things darker than the dead, from places other than earth, can slip through the temporary cracks, dragging a wandering soul back with it. or, in delta's case, he not only has the launch codes but he's the atom bomb solution to every unbreakable barrier separating earth from all worlds, and he just kamikazed the fuck out of every wall keeping this dead man's grimy hands from ashe's unsuspecting mortal body.
the veil glimmers like molten flame, still reeling from delta's assault, visible only to his eye. he holds his breath as the man draws closer and the smell gets worse. he doesn't have time for this, not when ashe is still here bitching about inconsequential shit. he'll be able to see him soon.
he lurches to his feet and shoves ashe again, harder. ]
Why else would I even be here if it wasn't to fuck? Not like your faggot ass is good for anything else. [ too much, possibly. he spits anyway, at ashe's feet, all unbridled theatrics. ] Fucking whore.
[ he could leave it at that, but ashe isn't most people, and delta can't risk that he won't walk away from this. before ashe can recover from the whiplash of delta's words or being shoved, he grabs him by the collar, hauling him close and hooking a closed fist into his jaw. his lip splits over his ringed knuckles, ashe's blood on the back of his hand. it almost feels worse than the cold sweat dripping down his back, or the impending sense of dread that comes with it.
there's no way he's ever going to forgive him. he'll mourn the butchered corpse of this relationship later, after he's macheted it to pieces.
he shoves him a third time, following him forward as he stumbles. ]
Fuck off or I swear to god I will beat your skinny ass within an inch of your life. No one's gonna miss you if I accidentally break your neck.
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