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theplanetprince · 2 years

Text

Schrodinger's Adolescent || Ch. 18

Fic: AO3 || FNN

Fandom: Danny Phantom

Rating: Teens and Up

Word Count, as of update (approx): 133k~

Chapters: 18/40 (subject to change)

Relationships:

Dash Baxter/Danny Fenton,

Sam Manson/Tucker Foley,

GhostWriter/Ember Mcclain,

Characters:

Danny Fenton,

Dash Baxter,

Sam Manson,

Tucker Foley,

Cujo,

Johnny 13,

Ghostwriter,

Sidney Poindexter,

Mr Lancer

Additional Tags: Slow Burn, Slow to Update, Canon Rewrite, Post-Reality Trip, High School Setting, Fake Dating (Kinda), Unrequited Love, It's requited but they're dumbasses, one-sided attraction, fluff, I know the content warning is extensive, but I promise there's fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, Danny Fenton has PTSD

Content Warnings: A lot of talk/descriptions of food, mentions of starvation, stalking, inappropriate contact with a minor, assault,

Fic Summary: “Schrodinger put his cat in a box with a bottle of poison. He closes the lid. The cat is alive or dead— In this state, the cat is neither. He leaves the box closed. You are the cat.”

All Danny Fenton wanted was to be normal. He had to work harder at it than most of his peers. Normal wasn’t exactly an option while being the Phantom of Amity Park. Of course, that all changes when Danny accidentally outs himself to his bully, Dash Baxter. Between dances, big games, school plays, and violent biker demons— Danny’s got his hands full. What may be surprising is just how much Dash cares about the human underneath the ghost…

Author's Note: I am beyond relieved to have finished this chapter. I am so glad. It took me all week but I've finally can carve my way forward. I guess I should thank Wes for this one. Wes really changed the direction for this chapter, and I think I owe him that. -Voorhees ✌

Wesley liked the outdoors— No, he adored the outdoors. Home to Wes wasn't limited to the construction of a building. He was never the kind to feel comfortable in one place for long. He had to move, and he had to stretch his legs. He loved climbing trees. That was the big positive he took away from the move to Amity Park. They called it the sticks for a reason. There was so much life compared to the major cities the Westons resided in prior. At first glance, at least. The irony wasn't exactly obvious then.

Whenever the world got to be too much, as it often did when you were a teenager, Wes could just put one hand over the other. Then suddenly, his issues didn't seem so bad. They seemed so small up above the ground. His brothers had affectionately given him the nickname 'spider-monkey' due to his habit of dropping everything when he made eye contact with something he could climb or jump off.

More often than he'd like to admit, Wes would pop open his bedroom window and slide down the rain gutter and walk to the park just like he did tonight.

He walked until he found the tallest tree he could. He elected to climb it until his arms burned from carrying his weight. He didn't hear it when the motorcycle pulled up. No, he was still lost in his thoughts and grief. He was stewing from another fight with his parents. They had busted his chops for his 'attitude' … again. Like Wes wasn't entitled to one after being trapped in this hellhole. Attitude was how you survived.

Resting his back flat against the trunk, he exhaled. Tapping the back of his skull against the bark, Wes turned over the argument once more. He thought about the look of worry on his mother's face. He thought about how his dad never used to shout so much before they moved here—wondering what he could have said differently. What could he have done—?

Did it even matter?

No one even listens to me, anyway.

Not my parents, not Kyle or Easton. Not even Dash…

That brought his thoughts back to the present. What was he going to do about Dash? Why was he so… stubborn?! He had to know the Fentons were bad news.

Wes didn't have friends anymore. Danny made sure of that. But Wes still owed Dash his loyalty— Wes still needed to keep him safe. Wes wanted to cling to whatever he could hold. He couldn't just come out and say it like that, right? Wes and Dash weren't exactly on speaking terms… but…

Why did this have to be so hard?

Wes wanted to be good. He wanted to be true and good. The issue therein, nobody believed it. Nobody thought Wes was capable of such noble pursuits. Most of all, he wanted to be happy, but the world wouldn't let him. Not if the world still had Danny Fenton in it.

Danny Fenton was a stain that refused to fade.

Danny Fenton was a monster.

Danny Fenton had to die, but by some miracle— he couldn't. He can't die.

What's the opposite of a miracle?

Weston could care less who delivered the coup de grâce. He just wanted to be there to witness it. He wanted to know exactly what kind of evil sustains itself for that long without burning up. Maybe it would be like discovering a new element. He wanted to see them open him up. What kind of diseases could you cure with a guy who refused to die? How much money would that be? Had to be enough for a bus ticket out of Amity Park.

It wasn't exactly righteous to wish death upon someone. But since when was it righteous to walk back from your maker?

If people had read the Bible like they claimed to, they'd know it was cover-to-cover murder.

Then again, this wasn't about what Weston wanted. He was just the running joke at Casper high. He wasn't one of the zealots who praised the heavens for opening and gracing them with the Phantom. He was crazy; after all, why should it matter what he wanted?

That's the thought Wes kept coming back to. As if his brain was a one red-light town and every road led back to the same question and the same solution.

If Danny Fenton died… would this all go away?

The question sat there and stared at him. Stared at him with that same idle and taunting expression that the ghost boy did.

Would everything go away? If even for just a little bit? A couple of days at most?

He sat in the tree at least thirty feet off the earth and let the breeze pass him by. The chill made him aware of the tears on his face that definitely weren't there before. Wes wiped his eyes and rubbed his nose. The moon bounced off his pale, skinny limbs, and he mulled over how he got here. He fiddled with his sweatshirt ties. The red cords were fraying at the ends, the plastic parts having cracked. He pressed them between his thumb and the rest of his fist, spreading the threads even thinner. Twisting.

Why did he have to look at me like that? Like I was dirt?

Why is he so obsessed with Danny Fenton all of a sudden?

How could he be so—

"Easy Shadow, easy. We'll go see our boy soon enough. You have to leave them wanting more." There was a chuckle in the dark.

Drawn to the sound of boots crunching gravel and a voice, Wes peered down from his perch. There was someone below him.

Through the bramble and leaves, what the ex-jock could make out, was a man… and something. Something distinctly inhuman surrounded him. It looked like… slime? Like oil animated and suspended in the air. Whatever it was, it shimmered in the borrowed glow of the moon.

It had teeth.

A lot of teeth. Sharp and pointed, like that of a predator, evolved to kill for the joy of it and not for sustenance.

"Yknow, It's gonna be a real shame about that kid… " The biker continued to muse to himself as he put down his kickstand. Adjusting his long flowing jacket as he went, brushing the dust off his leather clothes. He retrieved a box of cigarettes from his pocket and then a lighter.

Clasping onto the paper roll with his teeth, he flicked the metal wheel a few times before a spark caught the tip.

Exhaling a plume of sour smoke, the stranger spoke hoarsely and with the faintest bit of humor, "He really didn't have to make himself such an easy mark. But walking around like that with the perfect body—?"

He stood up, stretching his arms above his head casually and sighing, "With that whole, 'you gonna finish that?' line— it's like the kid was after my own heart."

The stranger snickered.

"Such a shame…" He shook his head, "No one's gonna even know the difference when we're done."

The shadow gurgled a reply to its master, or what Wes assumed to be its master. It seemed to have a rapport with the man, like a pet. It followed the gestures and waves of the stranger's hand.

"What kind of a name is 'Dash' anyway? We're definitely changing that."

As Wesley leaned to his side, balancing himself between an adjacent branch and the one he was sitting on.

Did he just say—

The tree cracked, disturbing the still atmosphere, sending the residents of said dwelling into the sky with alarm. The pine needles rustled as what Wes initially thought of as a sturdy foothold began to rumble.

The duo on the ground snapped their glares up into the night. The moonlight blew out their eyes. Their scleras glowed white like feral animals caught on a trail cam.

Ghosts.

Holy shit.

Wes held his breath. His lips folded into his mouth to hold back a scream. Sweat caressed the curves of his cheekbone and poured down, down, down off his chin, and to the bark chips below. He clenched his teeth so hard that Wes thought he would somehow break through his jaw.

Please don't see me. Please don't see me. Please don't see me. Please don't—

Crickets and cicadas chirped in the stillness.

"Lay back, Shadow." The man took another drag off his cigarette, turning his gaze to his beast, "I don't wanna keep lover boy waiting."

The comment made Wes' stomach sink. There were thousands of ways he could've interpreted that, but none of them were good.

The man chuckled. His deep voice was like trying to fathom the rolling ocean. Yes, it was serene to a point, but it hid so much. It hid too much. Maybe there was a bottom to it… but not one desirable or one that wouldn't utterly destroy you before reaching it.

"Remember, buddy, if you catch it—" A twig snapped as the biker took a few more steps under the tree's canopy. He knocked on the trunk.

He growled, "You eat it. "

The biker departed. Tossing the filter of his expired cigarette to the side, the embers faded into the seamless dark.

Wes couldn't hear him leave, whether that be because of his heart beating in his ears or because the ghost had shed his physical form.

Maybe he didn't leave. He only wanted to lull Wes into a false sense of security.

There were a few seconds at most where the conspiracy theorist didn't move—just a few seconds of doubt.

A few seconds too many as the sentient black mass darted under the tree.

Cautiously, Wes centered himself on his weakened branch. He got his knees under him and perched on the balls of his feet. The tree replied with another sharp crack. He was getting down one way or another. Let it be through gravity or by his agility.

He was on the clock now.

Hands dove into this center sweatshirt pocket. Finding his field notebook, he tossed it—he found his copy of the ghost hunters' almanac. The written word would do little to help him now. The papers he kept with him only rustled in protest.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT!

The thick viscous sound of that animal— that creature— that thing slithering up the tree caused his body to break in goose flesh. It was the sound of the world ending as clouds blotted out all the light. It was the sound of rain falling in reverse. It was the last gasps of the cosmos that no one could perceive in the vacuum of the void.

From the roots, the tree began to tremble as if caught in the middle of a cataclysmic earthquake. He got his back to the wall and limited his window of vulnerability.

It was indescribable. It was the hoofbeats of hell's cavalry.

And it was getting closer.

Futilely Wes called out, "Get back!"

In his panic, the edge of his palm brushed the cool metal of his taser.

Thank god for overnight express shipping.

Unrelenting thoughts racing, Weston realized he never looked up. There was a branch just out of his reach—

The monster wailed in its bottomless hunger. It wove itself into the spaces between the fabric of the bark. Tendrils coiled around the pine needles, and molecule by molecule, the entity rewrote itself into nature as if it weren't a cruel parody. It moved like a disease—Swift as an infection.

All it took was a jump. Just a jump—

Wes snapped his glance from impending doom consuming his foothold to the branch above him. It would be a stretch, but it wasn't like he had any other choice.

Kicking the chip in the branch, more of the white inner flesh became exposed. All it would need is all of his weight coming down on the weak spot.

Knees apart, Wes took the leap.

The branch still persisted.

"C'mon! Dammit!"

One more time, the young man channeled all of his strength to his legs—

The last fibers of the branch snapped with an almost melodic sound. It was so beautiful and terrifying. Terrifying, for a brief moment, he was in the air. He was nothing but mass and matter. One-hundred-twenty pounds of dead weight that hung there in the sky. In anticipation for the nine-point-eight-two per second squared equation of gravity to finish him off.

But Wes caught himself— just barely. Just enough. There was liquid seeping from his hands. Hot and burning.

It wasn't his time yet. There was still work to be done.

Not today.

The impact sent up the gravel in a cloud of dust and the monster down with it.

"Yeah! Bitch! Now you know!" A tight laugh escaped his diaphragm. It punched its way out of him with his victory. He tapped his sweaty forehead on the limb of the tree. Wes repeated to himself, " Now you know ."

His biceps burned as he pulled himself onto the higher hold. He swung his legs and pressed his eroding sneakers against the trunk until he got the upper branch between his thighs. He flipped onto the top side, still trying to catch his breath.

"I-I should've stretched. Whew —" Rolling his shoulders, Wes shuddered.

"Yeah— yeah, I-I definitely pulled something." He ghosted his hand over the stitch in his side, " Aghhh…"

So much ow. Whole lot of ow.

The pulse in his hands only got stronger as warm blood began to rise from his flayed palms. He glared down at his sorry hands. He didn't dare try to make a fist, and he can forget about basketball for—

Wait, what was that?

That awful noise…

Something between an infant trying to form its first words and something being blended between the teeth of an irreparable garbage disposal. The gurgling returned. It was a throaty clicking and rasp of a death row inmate seeing stars in his vision as the injection took hold, as he choked on his own bile. That sound. That awful sound.

It was so close. It was practically all he could hear.

But where is it?!

Then the death rattle evolved into an ear-shattering squeal. Like Wes had left the calm serenity of Amity Park's forest and entered the killing floor of a meat farm. The breath of the monster was as thick as blood and rotting meat. He could hear the links of chain beating against the stained floor as they raised the carcasses to the ceiling. Wes could hear it all despite shutting his eyes tight and using both of his hands to block it out. It's what he would do during thunderstorms or if the curtain plagued his tired mind with shapes of someone that meant him harm. It was all he could do. Close his eyes and pray.

Oh, God, no.

The needles in the tree rustled in weak protest as the dark being darted in and out of the gaps, working in a whirlwind to tie the living down. The spots of green withered into ash, decaying into nothing.

It had latched itself onto the bottom of Wes' shoe like mud, and it chilled every nerve and cell in his body. The stain only grew and grew at an illogical panic-inducing pace. Its spread was uncontrollable. It clouded his vision. It eclipsed him. The Shadow contorted Wes's body against his will.

Forcing Wes to pulverize himself.

It didn't want him. Shadow didn't want Wes. Johnny didn't want Wes. So, it would kill him. It would stop when Wes's remains were no longer entertaining.

Nobody wanted Wes.

It was a few more moments after Wes's abrupt landing before someone said anything.

"Oh, great, that's exactly what this situation needed. Another dead child…" Stephen gestured to the body of the high schooler in front of them. He was tempted to poke the boy with his shoe to see if he would twitch.

The Phantom's initial startle had sent him skyward. He had jumped six feet out of his skin and floated there. Danny didn't say a word. Not even scolding the senior ghost for his barb disguised as levity.

Ghostwriter turned his glance toward his ward, it was unfocused but still burning, "Friend of yours?"

Still gawking at the young living on the ground, it took Danny a few moments to register that Wes was unconscious. That wasn't unsurprising, he did fall from a tree for god's sake—but seeing him there on the ground…

It didn't feel good. There was a pang of unidentifiable emotion that pulled at him. It pulled and kept pulling him further into his memories he was better off abandoning. Guilt? Was that it? Why did it hurt to look at Wes this way? Barely Wes's chest was still moving. The subtle rise of his lungs expanding was the only thing tipping the scales in his favor.

Unnerved that his companion who had talked his ear off the entire journey to this point, Stephen snapped, "Daniel!"

The Phantom's voice exited his body with no coherency. He made a noise but it wasn't a word. It was just in acknowledgement that the other party said something. Danny had dropped from his flight, and landed on the ground jostling from one foot to the other. He moved to his classmate with hesitation. Danny wasn't sure he could do anything to help, but something compelled him to try anyway.

His approach was curious, cautious, and excruciatingly slow.

Lowering himself, Danny tried to sift through thousands of questions and thoughts that all seemed important but held no weight like smoke. Scouring the recesses of his mind for any faint flash of the article Sam made him read for how to treat concussions. Anything he retained from health about first-aid.

Anything… anything at all.

Selfishly, the Phantom had made the assumption he was indestructible. He didn't think he needed to know. There were better uses of his time. For the life of him, Danny couldn't tell you what those uses were now. Off playing video games and screwing around. Not paying any attention yet again. Now his mind was painfully blank.

"What's going on out there?"

His sister's voice brought him back to reality.

"I— Jazz— I-I need you to read me off the steps on how to revive an unconscious person!"

The static crackled across his ear piece, "Wh—"

"Now! Jazz, tell me what to do! I found Weston… I found…" The Phantom trailed off uselessly, his voice was quivering like he was that scared boy in the basement again, " He's hurt real bad, Jazz. "

For all the posturing, for all the bravado— this was the creature everyone in the zone was so terrified of? Stephen crinkled his nose at the scene. The elder would have been so bold as to call the sight… tender.

Ever still woozy and boozy— Stephen had exhaled a burp. He took a respite under the tree, hunching over. The ghost tried to rationalize that he no longer had functioning organs so he did not need to be nauseous but this did little to elivate the feeling. The living world would remind him with no sympathy that he was supposed to be rotting worm food, and by existing in this plane all he was doing was hurting himself.

Why would Johnny choose to subject himself to this willingly? Surely he wasn't that sentimental about this little town.

As Stephen widened his stance and kept his head towards his chest, that's when he saw it.

A book.

A hardback book just sitting face open in the dirt. An unassuming brown leather tome. The cover was upside down or— or Stephen was a little more than half-in-the-bag. He picked it up, and brushed the debris away from the cover. As his marble like eyes scanned the serious typeface to make sense of it, the Ghostwriter began to cackle—

The Ghost Hunter's Almanac, Written by Edna Wickett.

The kid was a ghost hunter! Of course! Irony seems to follow the Phantom just as closely as the shadow of death.

Danny ripped his head away from his task and to his elder, "What's so funny?!"

"A ghost hunter! The boy's a ghost hunter." Stephen guffawed, slapping his forehead with the heel of his palm. His clawed fingers tangled with his curly black hair.

"If you're just gonna stand there and not be any help— can you shut up?!" The Phantom glared at the drunk, trying to find his sister's calm and level voice again.

Danny did as she said with no room for error, listening for a heart beat, seeing if Wes's airway was blocked, it was obvious she was reading off of a website but it was more resources Danny had at the moment. By his unprofessional opinion, Wes was fine— just asleep and banged up. Really banged up.

Danny pleaded with his sister, "Is… is there nothing I can do?"

"... I'd maybe call an ambulance?" Jasmine offered gently, "If Wes' not up and walking around within a few minutes. Just to make sure he did sustain a neck or spinal injury?"

Danny's gloved hand ghosted around his own throat when she posed that option. He blinked rapidly and swallowed. He really hoped it wasn't a neck injury.

"I-I can't leave him here. We can't… No hospitals …" Danny couldn't imagine a good outcome if he were to drop off Wes on the doorstep of the emergency room.

He gripped the living teen by the shoulders and softly shook him, quietly whispering pleas and demands that fell on deaf ears.

Stephen leafed through the book. Curling each page around his claws. It was well-loved. Frantic notes in the margins and highlighter ink that bled through the worn page. The information didn't seem to bridge any gaps, or enlighten the older specter on anything new. He had seen this book in his library as well. The opening passage was etched into his brain.

In regards to the recently deceased… They are to be treated with the utmost respect because at one point they were our friends, our neighbors, our parents, our siblings, our lovers, our children. Soon we will join the choir. It is not a matter of if, but when. This book is to be a guide to navigate the uneven rocky terrain between birth and death. This book is also a warning to those who are not satisfied with answers provided. A warning that must be heeded. Unless you wish to be adopted early into the choir of hollow voices.

Still chuckling, the undead-shut-in took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes, "I don't understand you." His shoulders bounced with his stifled reaction, "I really don't. Why do you… why do you try so hard ?"

"What're you talking about?" Danny barked.

"You know better than anyone that these— People —" The way the author wielded the word you would have mistaken it for poison.

The elder ghost spat, "These people aren't worth the effort ."

"I knew that when I was alive!" He tossed the book at Danny's side.

The book landed with its covers clattering. The Phantom didn't flinch. He knew what it was.

" Stop it, " Danny replied solemnly. He fidgeted uncomfortably. Caught between a lie, or a statement he simply didn't believe. But he wanted to. Danny wanted to believe that Ghostwriter was wrong.

"We're petty, and stupid— so, unbelievably stupid—" Stephen slurred, "Small, and cruel ."

He exhaled breathlessly, "And it only gets worse when we die."

"It only gets worse ."

Danny said nothing. He only listened. Replaying that look on Dash's face. That terrified look kept replaying on the backs of his eyelids. Biting the inside of his mouth, the Phantom was caught between punishment and atonement. As if somehow they were the same thing.

"But that's what I can't stand about you, boy—" Stephen braced his palm against the trunk of the tree, the colors of his form only saturating with his anger, "You think you're better than us. You think you're above it. Don't you?"

The Phantom couldn't conjure a reply. It was better to stay in silent denial, than to keep lying. It was getting harder to breathe, the blockage in his throat refused to wilt. Jazz's voice was in one ear, and Stephen was in the other.

"Don't you?!" Stephen exploded, forming a fist and scratching his nails down the thick skin of the tree, "You deny what you are, and for what?! You think these people actually care about you?!"

He scoffed, "The Phantom of Amity Park! They love you in the same way they love a caged bear. They love you because they fear you. They would feed you their young if you asked and fear the consequences if they didn't follow through. You think they're smart enough to know the difference between a good ghost and a bad one? Yeah, if that's what helps you sleep at night, Daniel—" Ghostwriter mocked his younger, " Congratulations , they love you."

Giving a slight turn of his head, Danny's hateful eyes found the Ghostwriter, his chest heaved with his growing fury, "Got anything else on your chest, old man?"

"You're still an animal." Stephen growled, "And animals need to eat. And you're starving by pretending to be noble."

Brow only knitting, and shoulders tensing— The ghost boy seethed.

"Oh my god, you don't know!" Stephen inclined his head in disbelief, his grey skin dewy with perspiration and reflecting the moonlight. He exclaimed in mutter, "Of course! Of course you don't know."

The Ghostwriter put into small words for the child, "Ghosts are evil. Intrinsically. We are not a part of the ecosystem. Ghosts feed off of misery. So we create it. Wherever we go we hurt people, because that's what keeps us here. We exist as blunt instruments— reduced to repeating patterns and base primal instincts. That's why I never wanted to leave the Ghost Zone…" Stephen watched his physical form jitter and flicker. He stared at his hand, and tried to keep his anger at the forefront of his mind. It was the only thing that anchored him here.

"That's why you're hesitating. Isn't it? It's why you're paralyzed. It's why you're leaving him there in the dirt—to suffer—because you're feeding—"

The gravel shifted as the Phantom's boots agitated the ground as he turned between his two points of focus, "The only thing you should be concerned about, Stephen , is staying out of my way…"

Danny exhaled several glowing cyan wisps from his throat, "You talk too much. Way too much for a man who can't fight his battles."

As the boy snapped back to treating the living, the Ghostwriter could barely perceive the light trail that followed Danny's awful piercing stare. A stare few forget and even fewer survive. The ghost boy exhaled an affirmation only for himself, "I'm not evil."

A toothy smirk curled into the book-keeper's cheek, and it tinted his voice, "And you'd be the judge of that… wouldn't you?'

Over the ear piece, the ghost boy could hear the distinct rattle of a phone vibrating against his sister's desk.

"Wh-why is Dash calling me right now?" Jazz said in between mumblings and rereadings of the article in front of her.

Without thinking, Danny blurted out, "Wait— Wait! Don't answer that! You need to focus and help me—"

"What if it's an emergency?" Her voice collided with her brother's. Jazz didn't let her panic become anything other than background noise, however everything seemed to be happening all at once without rhyme or reason, "Dash'd never call me like this out of the blue, what if it's a ghost attack?"

"Jazz, whatever you do— don't answer that—" Was all the younger sibling could say in the absence of another lie. Danny was desperate for any excuse to keep his sister away from hearing just how screwed up he actually is. Reflexively he clapped over his mouth.

It was the last question he wanted to hear. It was a razor slice around the curve of his quivering, gasping throat, leaving him to bleed out. There was a beat of silence, a beat where Jazz debated if she really needed to know the answer. Her voice was clear amongst the compression of the device, Jasmine asked, "...Why?"

Too overwhelmed with trying to breathe, focusing on not losing whatever semblance of control he had, Danny didn't answer her. He couldn't answer. Preoccupied with not collapsing and breaking into a thousand pieces right here in the dark. He gulped down lungfuls of air but he was still drowning— he knew he didn't need to breathe, it offered no relief like how it did when he was alive. Helpless. Helpless and heavy. Everything was so heavy and closing in on him—

"...Wh-what did…" Jasmine stuttered out, "What did you do, Danny?"

Swollen eyelids fluttering open, Wes stirred. His thin legs began to draw towards his center. His worn sneakers kept worthlessly scratching against the dirt. The ginger moaned in pain, as he summoned all his strength to his arms to prop himself up.

"Hey—Hey, man, hey take it easy." Danny croaked out, "Do-do you r-remember your name and where you are?"

"Fenton…?" Wes blinked his eyes before holding his presumably pounding head into his hands. Weston's vision was waning, but his hearing was pitch-clear-as-a-church-bell-perfect apparently.

"Well, uh, that's uh— that's me technically." The ghost boy replied, with an anxious flutter to his voice. Hoping his creeping panic attack wasn't obvious.

The living teen kicked, and thrashed away, causing a cloud of dust to rise around him. Wes the end of the cut volatile wire with no grounding agent. Danny could almost see how his lungs kept fighting against Wes' chest muscles. Wes shuddered and twitched, he was scared but his anger—? His anger was blinding. Wes snarled, "Fenton!"

Danny wanted to set their petty rivalry aside for a moment, "You took a really nasty fall ther—"

A searing jolt hit the ghost boy's core. His abdominal muscles convulse and flexed wildly without any permission. His body racked with pins and needles. Fire ignited in his blood as his body rebelled against the sensation. Danny's torso hit the ground next.

Coughing, the ghost boy peered up at Wes, holding a device engulfed in blue static in his hand.

"What the hell's the big idea— huh?!" Wes dialed up the wattage of his pocket taser, "Wh-what the hell did you do to me while I was knocked out, you—you freak?!"

Danny spat some grains of sand from his teeth, "That—That, really , h-hurt."

"—Fuck yourself, Fenton," Wes rose to his knees, huffing the entire time, "What's your angle, asshole?!"

"I… I-I di-didn't do any-anything to you," Danny kept repeating. Drool began to exit from his numb face. Two pale rings sprung free from the undead-teen's ribcage. The last of his strength extinguished, Fenton kept writhing as if his back was being used as a butcher's block.

Wes' expression dropped, as he slowly enunciated, " Bull. "

The ex-jock gestured to his face and then the motorcycle, "You invite a couple friends down here, then what? What're you planning? You wanna Hijack some bodies, what for?"

When Danny didn't answer right away, Weston raised the taser above his head—

A hand had clasped around the living boy's wrist. Black claws contrasted Wes's pale flesh. The intense pressure Stephen put on the teen's arm was enough to bruise.

Ghostwriter's face split in two as he let out a devastating wail, " GO AWAY ."

The author's jaw dislocated and fell, and kept falling. It stretched beyond all physical reason. Wes could see into Stephen's gaping mouth curtained with pointed teeth, he could nearly see into his empty stomach. Grey rotted skin barely held Ghostwriter's bones in place.

Wes stumbled back. He stumbled, eyes wide with horror. The young man scrambled and bolted from the scene.

There was a loud crack. Danny assumed this was Stephen setting his mouth back into place. There was a wet click, as the elder specter regained control over his forked tongue.

The Ghostwriter sighed, hearing the haphazard footfalls of the young man tearing away into the night like a spooked deer. He lowered his glance to Danny's hobbled form.

"A resilient little cuss, isn't he?" He adjusted his cardigan and glasses, "I suppose you've both got that in common."

It was lunchtime at Casper high again. Nothing remarkable on the menu today. Something unrecognizable to the human taste palette, yet the school still charged four dollars for. Some chose to forgo the whole thing entirely. Some would eat in their classrooms or the rooms of their favorite clubs. Some wouldn't eat at all if they could help it.

Often the seniors and those with cars just went to the gas station down the hill to get their bags full of all the name-brand junk food they could find. From the track field, the quarterback could see the platoons of cars depart, and students eagerly get their fix. He halted in the middle of his lap, checking his pulse. Pressing his fingers to his throat, he felt his heart struggling to keep up with the rest of his body— just under the pads of his fingers.

At least one-ninety, Baxter decided.

In a glance, he saw the painted lines on the asphalt become vacant as cars peeled out of the exit. Dash blinked and what was beyond the chain link fence that rattled was empty. He was surrounded by emptiness. Sweat cascaded down his body; it clung tightly like a second skin. It burned his eyes. Dash closed them again and cleaned himself off.

What he wouldn't give for just a little rain. The clouds had been heavy and welcoming, but it proved nothing more than to be meteorological red herring. It was pointless to think humans could predict anything. We're just making sense of a world much bigger than us, after all. A world much older and wiser than us. We assigned meaning to such patterns because we were the first to record them. The cold hard truth of it is that the universe is chaotic and, therefore, meaningless.

His heart was beating so hard— he could feel it travel up his spine. Thrumming in his brain stem, as if the momentum would rip him apart. Dash exhaled a breath he didn't know he had been holding, "...Rough start."

It was just like this last night. When he saw the ghost kid standing there. In his room.

There was no point in lingering on it.

He was something of an icon for students at Amity Park. Something about him spoke to the unseen and undying boiling anger in the hearts of teenagers. Anger was the keyword. The Phantom was hardly invested in being a hero. It was more so an obligation than a genuine goal of his. Some were just glad The Phantom was on their 'side.'

…

No one liked it when you pointed out that there weren't any sides. They just wanted to assume ownership of the 'good' ghost. No one wanted to think what would happen if the Phantom one day decided he wasn't a people-person anymore.

There was nothing Dash could have done to stop him. You don't contain a force of nature; you just… pray. This was a ghost town. It's best not to argue that with them. There were theories, of course, but Dash didn't much believe in any of them. That's all anyone had in Amity Park. None of them really stood up under scrutiny.

The ghosts were pieces of people repeating patterns from displaced periods of time. This theory seemed to absolve all the creatures of guilt or even liability for the harm they did to the living.

That one was quite popular with the intellectual head type thinkers. But nothing about last night was routine or ordinary. In fact, the reason why it was terrifying was because the Phantom never did stuff like that. At least to anyone else. Dash believed in concepts he could touch, grasp, and feel, but he didn't trust ghosts as far as he could throw them. Which unsurprisingly wasn't very far. Spirits led to many loaded questions no one wanted to think about. Amity Park citizens were confronted with the inevitably of death every single time they opened their front doors.

Ghosts were the victims of violent or unjustified deaths. Dash would scoff at this like it was a poor joke. Okay. If that's all, it took, explain what happened to the ghosts of those in any war ever? Being something of a hopeless romantic in love with the earth and the people on it— there was the unspoken other side of the coin Dash typically fronted with. The utter pessimism that with the ability to love gives you just equal depth to hate just as hard. Baxter wouldn't admit it so much out loud, but his bitterness came from a place of being so infatuated with people that you hate them for hurting each other. He didn't want to believe that somehow that need to hurt others persisted. Maybe love neutralized that pain, or perhaps it made that hurt more tolerable. We could just be destined to hurt each other no matter what. It's probably why Dash would rather be alone. It's probably why we strive to find the one person it's okay to hurt over and over again.

That's what people do best. Break each other's hearts.

Is that what I have to look forward to when I die?

Maybe this was just projection on his part, but— Dash knew physical pain was such an ephemeral concept. You could outlive pain. You grow from it. You channel that energy somewhere else. Pain was mortal. That was the athlete's perspective, wasn't it? It was the ability to take your hurt and rage into your body effortlessly as if absorbing poison.

Perhaps the ghosts just had unfinished affairs in the living plane.

No theory ever seemed to fit perfectly. It was as if they were all popping seams.

The horrible truth was that gave Dash a knot in his throat. They were all ghost stories in the making.

He opened his eyes and stretched his neck. Looking over his shoulder again to the parking lot. There was a motorcycle in one of the spaces close to the fence. With his leather duster barely grazing the ground below him, the man stood out.

When did he even pull up? Why didn't I hear the engine?

…

There was this pang in his chest, and his blood ran cold.

The man from the woods yesterday. That man… that man sat on top of the machine. He flashed the quarterback a toothy smile and a wave.

Hesitantly, Dash waved back. More accurately, he lifted his hand in acknowledgment of the biker's presence.

Taking two fingers, the man stuck them in his mouth and whistled so wolfishly it echoed across the field.

Well, he's persistent. Shouldn't he be a creep on his own campus?

Dash rigidly walked back towards the main building, quickly stopping by the benches to gather up his jacket and books.

From the fence, Dash could hear the husky voice of the man from the woods call out, "Aw, leavin' so soon, superstar? C'mon, don't be shy!"

Baxter said nothing as he put an arm through his letter jacket. This school had to get better security.

Kwan, whose nose was stuffed deep into a geometry textbook, wearily asked, "Can we please get something to eat? I'm starting to see triangles when I close my eyes."

The metal risers creaked under while the linebacker fidgeted. He seemed unaware of anyone besides the two of them on the field.

Running a hand through his hair, Dash hastily agreed to the solution that would get them the hell out of there as fast as possible. He nodded, "Yeah, yeah, I just need to change out of my gym clothes."

"Are you okay?" Kwan detected the hurried tone.

"It's nothing. Don't worry about it." Baxter pulled his friend along, believing there was strength in numbers, "Let's just get a move on before the line gets too long."

Maybe the man would leave if he could see the kind of people Dash really hung around with. The quarterback would say it was unlike him to be scared, but that would be a lie. Dash knew whatever that guy was up to; it was no good. He was peppering on compliments and flattery to get something from Dash. What that 'something' was, remained to be seen— but Baxter was not sticking around to find out.

"It's nothing, or I shouldn't worry about it?" Kwan picked up their bags, carrying both his and his best friend's books under his arm. However, he was still being dragged along by his superior.

"Dash, Dash, easy, dude!" Kwan pried his friend's wrist off his bicep as soon as they were in the safety of the gymnasium.

"Sorry…" Baxter said.

Kwan's brow pinched in the middle, "Are you sure you okay? Do you, like, maybe want to call your doctor to—?"

"I-I'm fine… just, spooked, I guess." Dash slowed as he reached the locker room door, holding it open for his friend so they could continue their conversation. "But I promise, everything is under control."

Without a better word, Kwan was a good friend because he made Dash feel safe. He didn't ever want to do anything that would compromise that feeling of safety between them.

"You came to my house, drenched in sweat like you just ran a marathon, and you threw up in the yard." Kwan shook his head and bounced the door off his shoulder. His tone was flat, just repeating the facts, following his friend to the lockers.

Dash's eyes fell slightly as he wrestled out of his gym shirt, "I'll replace the wonky flamingo I destroyed with my stomach acid."

"That's not the point, and you know it." Kwan crossed his arms. He watched Dash to ensure he didn't blindly punch himself in his hurry, "You never actually told me what happened last night."

Hunched over by his locker, the captain was just stripping off his first layers and reorganizing his lockers. He reapplied his deodorant.

"It was just… nerves, s'all." The athlete fumbled with the cap and stick, "It's hard being the quarterback in a school where the leading cause of our failure is somethin' called the 'quarterback curse'."

"Is it those snobby Elmerton douchebags?" Kwan threw out the suggestion, prodding for any answer, "Did they jump you or something?"

"No," Dash said tersely. Pulling on his black shirt that he wore last night. Thankfully, it didn't smell like puke. Kwan's mom was nice enough to make sure the kid got his clothes taken care of.

Slapping the tops of the lockers, Kwan was getting frustrated, "Did Wes say something to you?"

The quarterback's face was tense but neutral. Not giving a single indication of his thoughts. He stared hard into the crimson surface as if the metal would start to warp. Barely moving his lips, then just to breathe and say, "Wes and I have nothing to talk to each other about as far as I'm concerned."

Kwan sighed, "Your shirt's on backwards there, Patrick Bateman ."

"Goddamnit."

Electing to look at the wall, so his captain could fix himself, Byun-Ji barred his arms over his chest and leaned back on the bench, "Sue me for caring about your stupid ass. But you're really starting to scare me. So just… tell me that this is the worst of it, and you'll be fine."

Kwan didn't mean to sound so… desperate, but he tacked on an additional caveat, "Can you do that for me, Dash?" Even quieter, Byun-Ji demanded, "Please?"

Baxter knew what his friend was asking for was impossible. What the entire world was asking of Dash just wasn't in his ability to do. He couldn't be 'normal.' He was cracked into so many different facets that Dash couldn't recognize the original anymore. The schism deep within himself was only eroding further and further into nothingness. The Dash Baxter Kwan needed may have existed one point years ago, but… truthfully, Dash has forgotten which traits he's stitched to his eclectic tapestry of people he's become. The leader, the golden child, the one everyone pins their hope to, the canary in the coal mine—

Then the pendulum swings back. He's Mr Johnny football hero. He's every cliche in the book; he's the big bad wolf.

The quarterback wanted off the ride. He wanted to disappear. He was terrified of the day someone got too close to realize how rough the patch-ups were.

Smoothing out his shirt over his stomach, Dash agreed, "Everything's under control."

"That's not what I wanted to hear, but I'll take it." Kwan raised his hands up in surrender before slapping his thighs, "I'm gonna name my first grey hairs after you, y'know that knucklehead?"

Unceremoniously, Baxter hopped into his sweats, covering his shorts with them, chuckling while cinching his waist with the black drawstrings in the band. The lock clicked back into place—

Picking up the letterman, Kwan's eyes caught the bright red patch just above the elbow. The saying on it was applicable 'Fragile! Handle with Care!'

Cocking a brow, Byun-Ji had this incredulous expression.

Snatching it away, Dash shook his head and muttered an explanation, "it's an inside joke with a couple of friends…"

The linebacker said nothing as he migrated to the locker room door.

However, that heavy door burst open suddenly.

Both boys startled in place.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. Weston put his back into shoving the heavy drab door out of his way, using all the strength in his thin and brittle body to get inside.

Neither Kwan nor Dash said anything, despite Wes's careworn stare.

It didn't occur to him until after they stopped being friends, but Baxter couldn't stand it when Wes looked at him. His green eyes bore too close of a resemblance to the Phantom's. It was such a superficial reason— but it was the truth. Dash didn't like to look at him.

"Yeah, don't get up, assholes." Wes exhaled.

He always looked sleep-deprived, but today? God, it was as if he got socked in the face by a pitching machine. His eyes were swollen and purple— leaking discharge of some kind. Little nicks were on his face, which he didn't seem to bother covering. It was like he went one to apeshit with a cheese grater on his skin. A large cut across the bridge of his nose was barely contained within a thin butterfly bandage.

"Jesus, Weston—" Kwan exclaimed and winced.

Dash took a moment to compose himself, "What— what happened to you?"

The sounds of his high tops squeaked against the concrete.

Naturally, Wes wanted to roll his eyes but obviously could not. He shuffled to the sinks to wash his face. He muttered something to the effect of, "Do you want the truth, or do you want the version you're comfortable with?"

There was a beat of silence as Wes stared at them from the restroom area. He turned the faucet on, "I fell out of a tree."

Kwan decided to humor him for a moment, "Did you get any good pictures before you fell? Preferably of that one house, they rent for porno?"

Dash's expression got all folded and irritated at his linebacker's comment.

Coughing, Wes smiled sarcastically, "You wish."

The football players stood awkwardly and fumbled with their belongings for a moment. It got quiet again. What were they supposed to say?

Dash offered with a weak gesture of his hand. Like he was reaching out but couldn't commit to it. As if the commitment was too great. He was reaching out because the bridge of their connection was still actively burning; it wasn't too late for them to save each other.

He quietly instructed without any warmth in his voice, "... You should increase your vitamin c intake over the next few days. It helps you heal faster. Try not to sleep on your side if you can help it. Wrap a towel around your neck to keep yourself in place."

"This isn't my first time being punched in the face, Baxter." Wes splashed some water on himself.

"Just figured you'd want the advice of the leading expert on being punched in the face, Weston," The quarterback shrugged, fiddling with the strap on his book bag.

Wrinkling up his face, Wes pried the bandaids off one by one, turning the surface of the porcelain sink red. He winced, "Keep your eyes on your own work, Baxter. Try not to screw it up this weekend, okay?"

Kwan opened his clenched jaw to say something to Dash's defense but was called off.

"Try to keep your nose clean, alright, Atlas?"

'Stay alive,' Was what Dash meant to say.

Why couldn't they say, 'I care about you'?

'Don't do anything stupid.'

Softening at the nickname, Wes traced the lines on his face. He nodded, "No promises."

Without another word, the pair departed, leaving their classmate to his own devices. What else could they have done? Forced him to the nurses' office? Make him go home? It was clear that whatever his goal was this time, it wouldn't be achieved unless everyone saw. What did unstable people ever want? Attention? Mission accomplished.

Dash didn't know what was in his heart in regards to Weston. Not pity. Not anything positive.

As the football players navigated the turns out of the gym and across the courtyard. The blond passed his palms over the foliage. His fingers caught on the twigs and leaves. Thoughts passing to what Wes said yesterday…

What the hell did he mean by that?

Dash was in danger every single day of his life—

He exhaled at this, though his stress only seemed to sink further into his being.

The cafeteria was amok with underclassmen. The lines hadn't entirely spiraled out of control yet. The menu was some kind of food item. Foodstuff, Dash believed that was the technical term. He couldn't remember the last time he actually looked at a sloppy joe, let alone actually consume one. The cafeteria offered plenty of health-conscious options. Extremely sparse salads. Damp broccoli that was supposed to be steamed. Cut carrots. Some kind of chicken that inspired indifference.

Kwan grabbed a tray for both of them out of habit.

And out of habit, Dash followed along. A routine he had done so often that it was practically muscle memory. It no longer felt like a conscious choice when he spoke up with his order.

Food was complicated.

It's probably a little silly, but Dash couldn't help but think about his favorite food. Eclairs. They were nostalgic. He would split them on the couch with his mother while they watched television. She'd put them in the freezer beforehand so it would make the soft stuff softer. The outside would melt against your tongue, and the cream would escape.

He'd also say tomato soup. Not for any particular reason. Probably because it was the only thing he could cook without screwing up. Canned tomato soup required very little, just the stove to get it going. It was sweet and thick and warmed your chest.

Dash yearned for the days of simplicity but then came the hypocrisy in the form of pancakes. The breakfast people most associated with mistakes and failure. Pancakes were never perfect or circular. They were messy and sticky. The hassle never seemed worth it until it did.

Baked potatoes reminded him of barbecues during the summer. Potatoes were something shared with everyone, chips, fries— it was stock food that stuck to your ribs. They kept you alive when nothing else did. They could be cooked so many different ways they hardly held a resemblance to its original form.

The woman behind the counter in the clear hairnet clicked her tongs and dropped a number of cold vegetables on his organized plate.

Another woman dropped a ladle of chili and mystery meat onto Kwan's plate with white bread.

Dash had trained himself to become nauseous at the scent of grease. His stomach lurched, and bile bit at his throat.

Their usual table in the center of it all. This was done so the A-listers could survey their kingdom. Little did they know their panopticon was only an illusion. They were the natural spectacle. Even when the gods sat high on mount Olympus, they were only as real as the public believed in them. And like those parables of mythology, they were studied, compounded for their flaws despite their responsibilities. As if they didn't suffer from the same sickness as mortals— desirous of everything. Grasping onto things they weren't supposed to have.

High school blows.

It was a fun house with no real theme, just mirrors.

When Dash thought about eclairs, he thought about Danny. It was a natural thought progression of things Dash should not have. He thought about elementary school. He thought about the day he tackled Danny when he wasn't expecting it. Grass stains on both their shirts and faces.

There wasn't so much thinking involved in that process. Just energy that needed to go somewhere.

"Kwan, could I ask you something?" Dash didn't look up from his food tray, only pushing it around with his fork.

The linebacker in question slapped a hand on his captain's back, "Of course. Your mileage may vary, but anything you need. Thank you for choosing Byun-Ji; how may I be of service?"

Dash untensed and rolled his shoulders. Not fully relaxed but approximating it. He cautioned with a laugh, "Um… I'm not really sure how to ask this… but uh, y-you've kissed people before, right?"

A wide smirk broke out across Kwan's face. Amused didn't even begin to describe the near devilish expression that became affixed to his features. Nodding slow, Byun-Ji pointedly agreed, "Yeah?"

"Forget it." Exhaling suddenly through his nose, Dash decided against it, "It's stupid; forget I said anything."

Grabbing his water bottle, Dash could only attempt to drown himself from here. It's not like he could un-ask—

Poking his captain, Kwan all but demanded the details, "Oh, no—no, you've been sketchy and twitchy all week, and you're telling me it's because you've met a girl?!"

Hiking up his shoulders around his ears and fumbling to make himself smaller— Baxter muttered, embarrassed, "There's no girl."

"Tell me everything, dude! What year? What club?" Suggestively the linebacker added with a wiggle of his brows, " Measurements?"

Uh, sophomore, no extracurriculars whatsoever— oh, yeah— and a guy.

"It's not like that ."

"I can't believe you didn't mention this last night! You know my parents are gonna want to meet her— I think they're more invested in your marriage prospects than mine." Kwan grabbed the quarterback's shoulders in an effort to entice more information out of him. However, he was met with silence.

The linebacker leaned on his serious face and bridged his fingers over his face in mock dramatics, "I knew God would answer our prayers about your lack of hoes."

Dash raised his brows and deadpanned, "Har har."

Okay, when astonishment or mockery wouldn't get him anywhere, the duke of Casper high knew when to call in the heavy artillery. Removing his aviators from his pocket with the practiced motion of a federal agent, Kwan solemnly stated, "We have ways of making you talk."

Eyes blown wide— Dash waved his hands in a declarative motion, but it was too late.

Taking a sharp inhale, Byun-Ji kicked up his feet onto the bench. The linebacker leaned on his captain, crushing him with his mass into the corner wall and subduing his protests. Kwan cupped his hands along his mouth to make a megaphone and yelled, "YO! POLLY-POCKET AND HER BAND OF MERRY POMPOMS, GUESS WHO'S GETTIN' HIS V-CARD PUNCHED!?"

The entire cafeteria turned their heads to the noise. Some laughed— actually, correction— a lot laughed. The student body loved their daily dose of A-lister Antics. It gave them something to speculate on in their free time. And by God, when the ghosts didn't attack, students had a lot of free time.

"Kwan, I swear to— I'm gonna kill ya!" Dash shoved against his would-be subordinate, though it was impossible. Kwan was in a totally different weight class. He was fitfully grabbing fistfuls of clothing, hoping to either pull his friend off or slip out of the pin, though no such luck.

This earned the blond a noogie, "Tell me you aren't this bad at talking a girl out of her bra too?"

With a furious groan, Dash knew better than to fight it. He rode out the sharp knuckles grinding into his scalp and fussing up his hair.

Next thing Baxter knew, he was being held nearly horizontally in a headlock, Kwan practically dragging him across the bench. Then he was watching a platoon of kitten-pump pink heels clicking across the dusty linoleum towards their lunch table.

"You have gossip for me, Kwan-cakes?"

Barf.

No one in their right minds would say that Kwan and Paulina were dating. It was more like she was using him to upset her dad, and Kwan could still flirt with anything that showed any interest. The pair seemed to have a mutual contract instead of a relationship. Or perhaps this is just what relationships were to them. Maybe there was a feeling of faint affection and gravitational pull that drew them together. Though boy-girl arrangements never seemed to be Dash's area of expertise. Byun-Ji would often claim to have the best girlfriend ever; Paulina would, in turn, show him off like a prized-show-pony. They never seemed to fight. They liked being around each other clearly. But there was never anything more than that. Their relationship was… primarily gathered by subtext. It was confusing. They were close. Kwan and Paulina were in the way your elbow and tongue were close. Like something about it just didn't quite line up.

Why can't I have that? Why can't I have a fraction of what they have?

It was a more enviable teenage confusion than what Dash was working through.

The head cheerleader set down her burgundy lunch tray and took a seat across from her boys. Her legion of followers did the same thing, each acting as a limb of their host—simply an extension of her brain. If Ms Sanchez needed some napkins, faceless cheerleader number six would be passing up the chain of command. The girls came in near surgical organized lines and fanned out to find any and all available seating. Forcefully nudging lesser students out of their way.

Efficiently, Paulina tore open the plastic utensils that came with her lunch—for some reason, Dash always pictured her future career as being a courtroom stenographer. It was the way she tucked her flat-ironed hair around the curve of her ears and showed off the delicate pink pearl earring in her lobes. Something about it screamed Law and Order . She just needed those kitschy bright red cat-eye glasses—though good luck getting her out of her puka shell jewelry and tattoo choker. She wasn't trendy; she wasn't capturing a moment—Paulina was the moment.

"They were out of those black and white cookies you like, so I just got you two brownies—that okay?" Sanchez asked with a sickly sweet smile to her beaux.

Dash was now imagining blowing his brains out, in case you were wondering.

Happily, the linebacker snatched up the pastries from his cheerleader, finally releasing Baxter.

"First things first, Dash, not every girl likes kissing, so don't worry if you suck at it." Sanchez delivered this charitable donation with about as much passive aggression as possible.

Somehow this is worse than if my parents were to give me dating advice.

"Yeah, if she's anything like Paulina, she'll hate kissing. So just stick to, like, stuff you're confident in. Oh, practice on your hand or like—"

Dash interrupted, "Please, God alive, do not finish that statement."

Arriving fashionably late, Star took her rightful seat across from Dash as she was his cheerleader.

This day keeps getting better and better.

"What's up about Dash's virginity?" Star queried, a bit too loudly for comfort.

Why did I know that was gonna be the first thing out of her mouth?

"Uh, still intact." The quarterback said awkwardly. He was discrete in wanting to shrink to a speck of dust on the atomic level and never be seen by human eyes again.

Robinson smiled, "Oh… that's, uh, good?" She paused to read his growing pained expression, "or uh, I'm sorry?"

Kill me, kill me, kill me.

"Yep." Dash was practically scarlet. His entire body became pink. You could fry an egg on his forehead with the power of pure mortification.

Kwan snickered, "He's got a girlfriend."

"I really don't," Baxter retorted defensively.

"Then why're you asking for kissing tips?" The linebacker was boisterous and slapped the table with an open palm.

"I dunno, just felt like taking a survey! What's it to you?!" Dash weakly shoved him away.

Paulina speedily got through her disclaimer before placing a single leaf of salad into her mouth with precision and poise, "You have to tell us who she is, so I can tell you why she can do better."

"Is that why you didn't have your jacket yesterday?" Kwan badgered some more, hoping to shake out some information.

"Scandalous…" Paulina purred

Dash only groaned in response, burying his burning face in his hands.

"Guys, don't tease him too hard," Star whined, "He's gonna pop a gasket."

"That's not the only thing he's popped— look, he's wearing a promise ring—!" Snatching His right hand, Sanchez directed everyone's attention to the gold band adorning Dash's ring finger.

"Oh no, this is actually a funny story…"

…This drifter gave me a ring because we shared cigarettes— and, wow, that's way too many red flags.

Dash rephrased, "Not, like, funny ha-ha, but unrelated funny."

This did nothing but earn him steely stares from his peers at the table.

Anxiously he rubbed the back of his neck.

"I didn't think you'd be this bad at lying," Paulina muttered with an even level voice, "Yet, here we are."

"So, does she go to a different school or what?" Star pressed a fist into her cheek, trying to fight the irritation that pulled at her features, feigning disinterest.

"I didn't even consider that Star!" Kwan declared, wiping crumbs from his chest and continuing to speak with his mouth full, "Does she go to Elmerton? Is she a Papermaker? A couple'a regular ol' Romeo and Juliets."

This earned a chorus of 'aw's from the background cheerleaders.

Dash dissented, "You guys know that's a tragedy, right? Not a romance? They both kill themselves?"

Like a rabbit, Paulina worked on one salad leaf with delicate little bites, "I can help hide the bodies if needed."

Expecting another round of bitching from their captain bitch, Kwan glanced over to Baxter. But the quarterback was staring off at something just off in the distance from their table at the front of the cafeteria, with a view of the land they reigned over. Following his gaze, Kwan was met with a sea of faceless Casper High students. It was clear Dash was starting at something— someone, maybe? But no one Byun-ji could assign any significance to.

Without another word, Baxter stood up jerkily and off-balance. Taking his tray with him.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the cafeteria, at the table closest to the rear exit to the courtyard, surrounded by trash cans and litter, Sam, Tucker, and Danny had been chatting amongst themselves there.

The goth raised her brows as her hands were preoccupied with her BLT, excluding the B.

In the middle of a joke, Foley saw Sam's eyes shrink towards a shape in the distance.

Daniel, with his face propped on his fist. The picture of an exhausted high schooler in his element. Fenton didn't have to turn his head. He already knew. Danny could detect Dash's aura from yards away, it seemed. Like his ghost sense, this… sensation, this unidentifiable shiver across his atoms— gave him a few seconds to brace. What Danny would be bracing for remained to be seen. Dash didn't scare him. Don't make him laugh. But this unpredictability was becoming tiresome. The anxiety that the quarterback sparked caused every single one of the ghost boy's muscles to tense. It was a bottomless apprehension that left him physically sore. Maybe if Fenton didn't look, then maybe, the trainwreck coming wouldn't be so bad. He wasn't afraid of him but afraid for him. How would Dash embarrass himself today?

The stride was focused and only gained speed as Baxter's target came into view.

Armed with his tray, the quarterback dropped it in the empty space in front of Danny. He was flushed and in a hurry. But in a rush to get out of there as fast as possible, Dash relayed in as neutral a tone as he could convey, "I'm not hungry."

And for added measure, he gave Fenton a noogie. However, it wasn't knuckles against scalp in the traditional sense. Dash more so playfully ruffled Danny's bangs out of his face before making a quick exit out to the courtyard.

Sam and Tucker, in tandem, put on big smirks in the ghost boy's direction.

He threatened under his breath before grabbing a fork and picking up where Dash left off, "Don't even start."

It was a case of excellent timing because Danny was inexplicably starving . Even if it was crummy cafeteria food, it was better than the nagging emptiness in his core—that static vacancy right behind his ribs.

There was something kind of sad about turning the guy who'd, by cliche definition would, steal his lunch money into a delivery boy. Then again, Dash was so loaded he didn't need to lower himself to mugging nerds for their allowance. Was there anything really awful about this kid, or did Danny just imagine it all? Christ, the guy, organized canned food drives and coat donations during the winter— not because he had to, but because he was good at it. How could you hate someone like that? Maybe it was easier to hate him than to think of all the ways they differed. Of course, Dash was popular. Of course! He was easy-going, generous… handsome. Kinda… when the golden sunlight dappled through the tree leaves just outside the window. The way it complimented his hair and olive skin. It wasn't hard to look angelic in that lighting. However, what kind of angel would have a notched nose and a crooked smile?

Hating Dash Baxter was like hating the pop song chorus stuck in your head. He was so universally accessible to hate. The quarterback was a song that wanted to assure you that everything was great and only good times were in your future. Suntans, parties with solo cups on a Friday night, or the cloudless beaches of California. The song called to mind the scent of chlorine-filled pools. All with an air-tight shrink-wrapped beat. Dash Baxter, like any radio party anthem, was designed to be perfect. That's why he needed to be destroyed.

But Dash wasn't perfect. Far from it, actually.

Danny wasn't about to admit that right now.

What was being a teenager besides being angry for no reason? God, he could kill something. And the scary part was that he was in constant doubt of his restraint. Why was he even angry? He couldn't remember. Danny just wanted to stop. For a little bit, at least. The best way he could describe it was in chemical terms. Acidic.

Leave it to the quarterback to just get lean meat and vegetables.

#schrodinger's adolescent #schrodinger's adolescent 2.0 #danny/dash #teddy ghost #swagger bishie #dandash #danny phantom #dp #phic #enemies to lovers #slow burn #mine

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