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.
[ this cannot be fucking happening. delta did not just call him a fucking fag and punch him in the mouth. he did not just threaten to beat his ass and/or kill him. the taste of blood is sharp, his split lip stinging when he presses his tongue to the cut, turning his stony gaze onto delta.
this is not. fucking. happening. ]
You wanna fucking go? [ he spits blood onto the sand, a caustic laugh bubbling out of him. of course this fucking asshole is just like the rest of his asshole friends. delta might actually be worse. ] Huh? You fucking two-faced bitch.
[ he's glad delta keeps coming. he thinks he can keep shoving him, keep hurling insults at him like ashe hasn't already fucking heard it all, like ashe is just going to sit back and take this like he's still in the ninth fucking grade. it makes it so much easier for him to catch delta across the face with his fist, shoving a knee into his kidneys to topple him into the sand before he can recover.
he presses cold metal against the side of delta's throat, right beneath the cut of his jaw. his mother bought him this switchblade, the same one he got suspended for bringing to school during sophomore year but later got back when he broke into the front office during a friday night football game. it's heavy and familiar in his hand, muted green vines designed in the metal. his mother told him it was for opening bottles at parties, but it comes in handy each time someone thinks they can fuck with him.
he just can't believe it's delta. his jaw tenses, his hair falling forward as he leans in, his knee pushing hard into his ribs. ]
Listen to me, you fucking bitchass snake. I'm not the one to cry to because you can't handle getting fucked in the ass. [ a thin line of red appears across his jaw as he pushes the blade in just slightly. ] I don't fucking care who you are or how many people will miss you. I will fucking gut you like a fish if you ever fucking touch me again. Don't fucking talk to me. Don't look at me. Don't jack off to the memory of my dick in your mouth. I will fucking burn you alive, you lying fucking cocksucker. Now get the fuck out of my s—
[ he snaps his gaze up when a movement catches his eye, the air suddenly pushed out of his lungs when he sees a sight that's become so familiar in his dreams. it's cold. he's fucking freezing like a blizzard is about to tear across the beach, the ruined body of douchebag #47 staggering toward them like he's finally come to make him pay for killing him that night.
ashe hauls delta up by the collar, his hand mashed against his cheek and smeared with blood as he shoves his face toward the sight, his voice rising despite speaking right into his ear. ]
delta realizes his mistake exactly two seconds before ashe rams his knee into his side. everything is a blur from there — the knife to his throat, ashe's face looming over him, every spiteful word delta can't hear and fully appreciate, deafened to white noise under his own thundering heartbeat. time unfolds like a car crash, one moment stretched into infinity, and all delta can do is stare at the headlights of an oncoming disaster, helpless and paralyzed.
the sharp nick to his jaw spurs him back to the present, then ashe's voice in his ear. he blinks, the man's rotting face swimming into focus, and finally he wheezes a pained and belated breath through his teeth, fuck. for someone so small he packs a hell of a fucking punch. ]
I told you to fucking leave, didn't I? [ around a mouthful of blood, his words are garbled, dazed. he drives a clumsy elbow into ashe's sternum, with enough pressure to wind him, and rolls their positions, slamming his wrist into the sand until he drops the knife. everything is spinning, and when he reels away with ashe's knife in hand, he almost topples backwards off him.
sealing a spirit back inside the veil is more difficult when the veil is fucking broken. ashe's old friend is fully manifested, and where the night was almost unseasonably warm just minutes earlier, now every haggard breath steams the air, trapped in a bitter cold that sinks straight to the marrow. delta can't do shit if he gets his hands on ashe, not without hurting them both. his thighs clench ashe's hips, stabilizing himself on top of him as he curls the blade to his palm and slices deep from heel to wrist.
what happens next is an accident. ( that's what he'll claim if ashe ever asks, full eye contact so he doesn't think he's lying. )
his blood hits the sand as the dead man looms over them, bony fingers reaching for ashe's hair. delta thinks of anything except for earth, every nightmare vision he sees on the back of his eyelids when he closes his eyes at night, alone in his bed. anything except for home. anything except for here. down the beach, a woman gazing at the stars will look over at exactly the right time and watch ashe sink through the ground like its made of quicksand, with delta right behind him. she smells like liquor and weed. no one will believe her.
not even delta knows where they are when they blip from earth's dimension into this new, incomprehensible realm. they don't fall, they're just there, ashe's back to a rocky surface and a sky bleeding bright red above them. they're where what once looked to be a pathway leading to a temple made of too many impossible angles, between endless rows of half-collapsed pillars, wind howling like a banshee scream.
here, so far from the veil, the dead man turns to dust. delta can taste him in his mouth, stomach rolling.
fuck. fuck, fuck. ] Don't — [ his voice is lost to the wind. he drops the knife, cradling his injured hand to his chest, and stares down at ashe, stricken with a mixture of guilt and fear. don't panic. he's not done this since genevieve. ]
there isn't time to protest or shout or demand a fucking explanation before he's blinking up at a bloodshot sky, his back pressed to unforgiving stone. the sound alone is enough to drive a person crazy. ashe feels crazy, tearing his eyes from the red horror above him to delta's blood as it drips down his arm, a drop falling toward him to soak the fabric of his shirt.
he told him to leave. was this why? no — he refuses to think about it, refuses to make fucking excuses in the hopes of making himself feel better. fuck that shit. delta said what he said, and the reasons behind it don't matter in their present situation. whatever this situation is.
he hauls the both of them to their feet, one hand twisted into delta's shirt as he looks around and tries to formulate words that aren't fuck or shit or fucking shit. ]
Where the fuck are we? Huh? [ he gives delta a little shake, but not as hard as he wants to because he's bleeding more than should be comfortable. ashe leans down and snatches his blade, clutching it tightly as if he expects a three-headed monster to come rushing at them at any moment. it could. he doesn't fucking know.
at least the ghost is gone. one more second of looking at its melted face and ashe might have thrown up right on delta's chucks.
not that this is any better. why the fuck are they here? is this an accident? is this delta's way of getting back at him? is the story about genevieve even fucking true or did she do something to piss him off and delta dumped her into another dimension on purpose? is that what's about to happen to him?
his switchblade trembles in his grip, his lungs tightening as his breath grows shorter. is this karma? is this what he gets for killing a man in his living room, for watching him slowly die without lifting a finger to help because he'd been too terrified to move? he chokes on the breath trying to escape his throat, the corners of his eyes stinging, and he turns to delta to grasp his collar, shoving him into one of the pillars. ]
What the fuck are you trying to do?
[ a burst of flame explodes directly beside the pillar. ashe flinches, dragging delta away from it without thinking. he lets go of his collar, staggering away and covering one ear with his hand. it's so loud. it's so fucking loud. ]
Shit. Shit. [ the blade slips from his hand, and fire engulfs it before it even hits the stone. ashe jumps back, his face stricken with panic as he meets delta's eyes for a half second.
no. no, no, no. fuck no. not again. never again. ]
Get the fuck away from me. Stay away! [ he takes a step backwards, dragging in a ragged breath before he turns and starts running. delta might be a lying piece of shit, but he can't do that again. not with anyone. no one deserves to die like that.
he's not going to be the reason that delta fucking burns to death. ]
[ delta tells himself he's seen a lot because he has, every day of his life for as long as he can remember. sky-cities that float like balloons above white rolling clouds speckled in black shapes, not birds but fucking dragons. a faerie, once, when he was a boy. a younger boy. nightmare hellscapes, infinitely worse than the one he's blinked himself into now. humans aren't bumps under the bed, or formless monsters in the dark. for all their potential trauma and baggage, humans are uncomplicated. simple. easy to understand. easier to navigate.
so maybe it's the blood loss, then. that would make sense, he thinks deliriously, as fires explodes from ashe's hand not once but twice. he sags away from the pillar, instinctively stamping the switchblade into the rock before the wind can whip burgeoning flame toward his ankles. did he do that? how did he do that?
blood streams down his palm to the tip of his middle finger, splattering his chucks in a rapid drip. as he kneels, he shrugs off his jacket and rips a strip of fabric from his henley. he wraps his hand quickly, staring at the blade. the fire stained the green vines etched into the metal black. he thinks of the dead man in ashe's apartment and on the beach, his burnt skin cracked in blood. i will fucking burn you alive, he'd said.
and delta had thought he was just posturing. ]
Don't panic. We're fine. [ his teeth catch one half of his makeshift bandage, tightening the knot around his hand. he looks up and sees ashe's turned back, disappearing into the graveyard of stone columns. ] Fuck. Ashe!
[ even with ashe's head start, delta closes the distance in a handful of seconds. four years of track combined with a lifetime of throwing himself into high-contact sports and high-tailing it from aggravated cops in the woods, he's fit and healthy. his fingers fist ashe's shirt, and he uses the momentum to propel himself into him, tumbling to the ground with delta on his back. ]
Stop. Stop it, jesus — [ delta is more out of breath from pure adrenaline than he is from exerting himself, rolling ashe on his back and pinning his arms with his knees. his hands grip his shoulders, holding him down. ] You fucking idiot, what is wrong with you? Where the fuck do you think you're gonna go, Ashe?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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
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[ 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. ]
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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?
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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.
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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.
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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?
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[ 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. ]
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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.
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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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this is not. fucking. happening. ]
You wanna fucking go? [ he spits blood onto the sand, a caustic laugh bubbling out of him. of course this fucking asshole is just like the rest of his asshole friends. delta might actually be worse. ] Huh? You fucking two-faced bitch.
[ he's glad delta keeps coming. he thinks he can keep shoving him, keep hurling insults at him like ashe hasn't already fucking heard it all, like ashe is just going to sit back and take this like he's still in the ninth fucking grade. it makes it so much easier for him to catch delta across the face with his fist, shoving a knee into his kidneys to topple him into the sand before he can recover.
he presses cold metal against the side of delta's throat, right beneath the cut of his jaw. his mother bought him this switchblade, the same one he got suspended for bringing to school during sophomore year but later got back when he broke into the front office during a friday night football game. it's heavy and familiar in his hand, muted green vines designed in the metal. his mother told him it was for opening bottles at parties, but it comes in handy each time someone thinks they can fuck with him.
he just can't believe it's delta. his jaw tenses, his hair falling forward as he leans in, his knee pushing hard into his ribs. ]
Listen to me, you fucking bitchass snake. I'm not the one to cry to because you can't handle getting fucked in the ass. [ a thin line of red appears across his jaw as he pushes the blade in just slightly. ] I don't fucking care who you are or how many people will miss you. I will fucking gut you like a fish if you ever fucking touch me again. Don't fucking talk to me. Don't look at me. Don't jack off to the memory of my dick in your mouth. I will fucking burn you alive, you lying fucking cocksucker. Now get the fuck out of my s—
[ he snaps his gaze up when a movement catches his eye, the air suddenly pushed out of his lungs when he sees a sight that's become so familiar in his dreams. it's cold. he's fucking freezing like a blizzard is about to tear across the beach, the ruined body of douchebag #47 staggering toward them like he's finally come to make him pay for killing him that night.
ashe hauls delta up by the collar, his hand mashed against his cheek and smeared with blood as he shoves his face toward the sight, his voice rising despite speaking right into his ear. ]
What the fuck is that?
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delta realizes his mistake exactly two seconds before ashe rams his knee into his side. everything is a blur from there — the knife to his throat, ashe's face looming over him, every spiteful word delta can't hear and fully appreciate, deafened to white noise under his own thundering heartbeat. time unfolds like a car crash, one moment stretched into infinity, and all delta can do is stare at the headlights of an oncoming disaster, helpless and paralyzed.
the sharp nick to his jaw spurs him back to the present, then ashe's voice in his ear. he blinks, the man's rotting face swimming into focus, and finally he wheezes a pained and belated breath through his teeth, fuck. for someone so small he packs a hell of a fucking punch. ]
I told you to fucking leave, didn't I? [ around a mouthful of blood, his words are garbled, dazed. he drives a clumsy elbow into ashe's sternum, with enough pressure to wind him, and rolls their positions, slamming his wrist into the sand until he drops the knife. everything is spinning, and when he reels away with ashe's knife in hand, he almost topples backwards off him.
sealing a spirit back inside the veil is more difficult when the veil is fucking broken. ashe's old friend is fully manifested, and where the night was almost unseasonably warm just minutes earlier, now every haggard breath steams the air, trapped in a bitter cold that sinks straight to the marrow. delta can't do shit if he gets his hands on ashe, not without hurting them both. his thighs clench ashe's hips, stabilizing himself on top of him as he curls the blade to his palm and slices deep from heel to wrist.
what happens next is an accident. ( that's what he'll claim if ashe ever asks, full eye contact so he doesn't think he's lying. )
his blood hits the sand as the dead man looms over them, bony fingers reaching for ashe's hair. delta thinks of anything except for earth, every nightmare vision he sees on the back of his eyelids when he closes his eyes at night, alone in his bed. anything except for home. anything except for here. down the beach, a woman gazing at the stars will look over at exactly the right time and watch ashe sink through the ground like its made of quicksand, with delta right behind him. she smells like liquor and weed. no one will believe her.
not even delta knows where they are when they blip from earth's dimension into this new, incomprehensible realm. they don't fall, they're just there, ashe's back to a rocky surface and a sky bleeding bright red above them. they're where what once looked to be a pathway leading to a temple made of too many impossible angles, between endless rows of half-collapsed pillars, wind howling like a banshee scream.
here, so far from the veil, the dead man turns to dust. delta can taste him in his mouth, stomach rolling.
fuck. fuck, fuck. ] Don't — [ his voice is lost to the wind. he drops the knife, cradling his injured hand to his chest, and stares down at ashe, stricken with a mixture of guilt and fear. don't panic. he's not done this since genevieve. ]
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there isn't time to protest or shout or demand a fucking explanation before he's blinking up at a bloodshot sky, his back pressed to unforgiving stone. the sound alone is enough to drive a person crazy. ashe feels crazy, tearing his eyes from the red horror above him to delta's blood as it drips down his arm, a drop falling toward him to soak the fabric of his shirt.
he told him to leave. was this why? no — he refuses to think about it, refuses to make fucking excuses in the hopes of making himself feel better. fuck that shit. delta said what he said, and the reasons behind it don't matter in their present situation. whatever this situation is.
he hauls the both of them to their feet, one hand twisted into delta's shirt as he looks around and tries to formulate words that aren't fuck or shit or fucking shit. ]
Where the fuck are we? Huh? [ he gives delta a little shake, but not as hard as he wants to because he's bleeding more than should be comfortable. ashe leans down and snatches his blade, clutching it tightly as if he expects a three-headed monster to come rushing at them at any moment. it could. he doesn't fucking know.
at least the ghost is gone. one more second of looking at its melted face and ashe might have thrown up right on delta's chucks.
not that this is any better. why the fuck are they here? is this an accident? is this delta's way of getting back at him? is the story about genevieve even fucking true or did she do something to piss him off and delta dumped her into another dimension on purpose? is that what's about to happen to him?
his switchblade trembles in his grip, his lungs tightening as his breath grows shorter. is this karma? is this what he gets for killing a man in his living room, for watching him slowly die without lifting a finger to help because he'd been too terrified to move? he chokes on the breath trying to escape his throat, the corners of his eyes stinging, and he turns to delta to grasp his collar, shoving him into one of the pillars. ]
What the fuck are you trying to do?
[ a burst of flame explodes directly beside the pillar. ashe flinches, dragging delta away from it without thinking. he lets go of his collar, staggering away and covering one ear with his hand. it's so loud. it's so fucking loud. ]
Shit. Shit. [ the blade slips from his hand, and fire engulfs it before it even hits the stone. ashe jumps back, his face stricken with panic as he meets delta's eyes for a half second.
no. no, no, no. fuck no. not again. never again. ]
Get the fuck away from me. Stay away! [ he takes a step backwards, dragging in a ragged breath before he turns and starts running. delta might be a lying piece of shit, but he can't do that again. not with anyone. no one deserves to die like that.
he's not going to be the reason that delta fucking burns to death. ]
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so maybe it's the blood loss, then. that would make sense, he thinks deliriously, as fires explodes from ashe's hand not once but twice. he sags away from the pillar, instinctively stamping the switchblade into the rock before the wind can whip burgeoning flame toward his ankles. did he do that? how did he do that?
blood streams down his palm to the tip of his middle finger, splattering his chucks in a rapid drip. as he kneels, he shrugs off his jacket and rips a strip of fabric from his henley. he wraps his hand quickly, staring at the blade. the fire stained the green vines etched into the metal black. he thinks of the dead man in ashe's apartment and on the beach, his burnt skin cracked in blood. i will fucking burn you alive, he'd said.
and delta had thought he was just posturing. ]
Don't panic. We're fine. [ his teeth catch one half of his makeshift bandage, tightening the knot around his hand. he looks up and sees ashe's turned back, disappearing into the graveyard of stone columns. ] Fuck. Ashe!
[ even with ashe's head start, delta closes the distance in a handful of seconds. four years of track combined with a lifetime of throwing himself into high-contact sports and high-tailing it from aggravated cops in the woods, he's fit and healthy. his fingers fist ashe's shirt, and he uses the momentum to propel himself into him, tumbling to the ground with delta on his back. ]
Stop. Stop it, jesus — [ delta is more out of breath from pure adrenaline than he is from exerting himself, rolling ashe on his back and pinning his arms with his knees. his hands grip his shoulders, holding him down. ] You fucking idiot, what is wrong with you? Where the fuck do you think you're gonna go, Ashe?
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