Chapter 5 - Fool #2
The deflection died before it could form. Ashton's lungs stuttered as the hard press of lips ghosted against his own, swallowing up even the chance of a rebuttal; leaving his throat dry, barren of any lies he could fling back in his defense.
"This is stupid," Ashton finally muttered instead, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. "I'm not here to play games with you."
"Then stop." Dylan huffed. “Why are you so afraid?”
Why was he afraid? WHY was he afraid? Ashton wanted to laugh from the absurdity, to cry, to scream, to grab Dylan by the ears and haul him close and —
He swallowed, old habits and even older lessons stealing all his words.
"I don't get you, Ashton," Dylan said, shaking his head. "You have everything, and it's all fucking handed to you! Why do you act as if you can’t have this too? Man, aren't you tired?"
Ashton flinched as the question sank deep enough to hit bone.
"C'mon," Dylan said, throwing the paper towels in the trash and grabbing Ashton's hand. "Wanna show you something upstairs."
"Upstairs? But we're on the top floor," Ashton pointed out, confused and still reeling a good five minutes behind.
But — and this was the terrifying bit — he didn't let go of Dylan's hand as he led them out of the men's and down the hall.
"Well, there's the top," Dylan conceded, flashing Ashton a mischievous grin. "And then there's the top isn't there?"
And with Dylan's hand still in his, Ashton followed on.
A right, a short hall, then another quicker right; Dylan's hand a reassuring presence the whole way.
One Ashton couldn't admit he wanted anymore than it was one he'd known he needed; an anchor, proof this wasn't some weird dream.
The press of those fingers fit around his own like a lifeline, firm and —
And somehow safe.
It shouldn't be. Oh Good God in Heaven, Ashton knew it shouldn't be. Everything about Dylan was a warning; from his hot pink mohawk to his sharp tongue, from his 'fuck you' attitude to the fact that he was so confidently, openly, stunningly comfortable being —
Gay.
He was dangerous, and beautiful, and unafraid to tell the world exactly what he thought of it — and utterly unlike Ashton, who was beginning to fear he might follow Dylan anywhere he led. And if that 'fuck you' attitude of his turned out to be more than pure bravado?
Just how far are you willing to go?
There was no other answer than the sound of their footsteps on the abandoned, dimly lit institutional tile floor. In hindsight, he supposed that should've been answer enough.
This time they stopped in front of a brown-painted door with an industrial bar handle, above which was pasted a big yellow sign saying "Staff Only: No Unauthorized Personnel".
Dylan hesitated only a moment, as if looking for something, before pushing through the door and taking them up the narrow flight of stairs.
"We're not gonna get kicked out of school for this, right?" Ashton asked over the echo of their footsteps in the cavernous concrete stairwell. "Because my parents would be pretty pissed if that's a fire door or something."
Well, his stepdad would be pissed, grumbling as he wrote out the check for a 'small donation to the school'.
Ashton's mom might not even notice; with Christmas coming up, the station was in full crunch mode, pre-taping holiday segments now to cover the break. Some years it got so bad, she almost seemed to forget she’d ever had a son.
Be one way to get her attention, though, having the police call to say I've been arrested for trespassing…
"Relax, fresa," Dylan said, shoving open the second heavy metal door at the top of the stairs, his mohawk fluttering in the newly unleashed wind like a wild thing lashing its tail.
"First off, I'm Staff. And segundo: one of the professors in this building jerry rigs that door to keep the alarm from going off.
There's no cameras, and it's pretty much the only place on campus without something overlooking it, so they all come up here to smoke where the students can't see and report them for it. "
"Oh," Ashton said quietly as he followed Dylan out onto the building's roof, the gravel bright and sharp as it crunched whywhywhy loudly under his sneakers.
"You, uh — " Ashton wracked his brain for the name Dylan's coworker had so casually dropped downstairs, unable to account for the bitterness lacing his tongue. "You bring Pablo up here?"
"Pavlo. He's Ukrainian, not Hispanic," Dylan corrected him, stressing the ‘v’ as he led Ashton uncomfortably close to the edge.
What if someone sees?
"At least… I think he said Ukrainian? His English is not so good, and our accents kind of clash.”
Ashton frowned, dragging his attention back from the problem of privacy to this new puzzle Dylan had just presented him. “How do you guys understand each other then, if you can’t talk?”
“Who says we talk?” Dylan leered, flashing Ashton an unrepentant grin that sent the heat rushing to Ashton's cheeks; no meaning lost in that far-too-tantalizing expression.
Ashton had hooked up with tons of chicks, and — alright, so maybe not as often or to the extent he'd brag about to the guys. But still, he'd dated around enough to feel like he had things figured out. Love 'em and leave 'em wanting more; that was his motto.
And yet, talking with Dylan now, Ashton had to wonder: how many actually had?
“He’s just a hookup, fresa. Not my boyfriend," Dylan said, and it was odd the sigh of relief that brought to Ashton's lips. "I don't know what his deal is, and honestly? Given everything going on over there, there’s a good chance it’s more than I can handle and still stay on top of my own shit.”
“And me?” Ashton asked, unable to contain his curiosity.
“Aw, you’re easy.” Dylan winked. “You're just fucked in the head."
Ashton scowled. "Gee, thanks."
"I'm serious man,' Dylan told him, gesturing out at the campus and city beyond. "Look where we are. Look at everything around you right now. Did you even notice?"
What?
Twisting to follow the line of Dylan's gesture, it dawned on Ashton that he hadn't been paying attention to anything that wasn't Dylan. It was his words, his face, his hand in Ashton's own that held Ashton’s focus, tuning everything else out as unimportant until Dylan directed him to look.
Below them, the quad was awash in the cheerful glow of streetlamps; the paths and fountain and statues all edged in golden glory.
And in the very center was, hands down, the biggest, gaudiest Christmas tree Ashton’s family could probably convince the school to let them erect on its campus.
It was a twinkly confection of chintzy lights and Instabooklr post-worthy reflective ornaments of a size to rival even his grandfather’s ego; all with an entire department store’s worth of red ribbon tucked everywhere else that could be found.
Even the buildings surrounding the space had been roped into participating, their pale concrete columns bound with an irresponsible amount of greenery and festive red bows.
There was one building among them that had, unsurprisingly, been singled out among the rest; the red and green lights projected upon its surface casting the words ‘The Navarro Center for Mass Communications’ into even sharper prominence.
Beyond it all lay the midnight blanket of the city, with its towering skyscrapers of glossy black reflecting the light of the stars above.
Woven through were rivers and rivers of cars, all taking people to dinner, to shows, or back to their homes.
Free and unafraid to go wherever they wanted, to live their lives how they pleased.
And still Ashton’s eyes kept sliding back to Dylan’s face, to the angle of his cheek, the line of his neck, the glint of the piercings curving around the shell of his ear.
Breath caught in his chest, Ashton watched Dylan watching the skyline, his scowl fierce and determined, as if challenging whatever he saw out there.
“The tree’s pretty with those lights, huh?
” Dylan said into the quiet eventually, dragging Ashton back to face yet another monument to his family’s thirst for attention, for control.
“Everything perfect, everything in its place. They said it was a new one this year. A donation from some company with more money than sense.”