"I'm surprised that you've never been told before…

That you're lovely and you're perfect!

And that somebody wants you!

Fascinating new thing,

—The scene-makin'

Want a temporary savior!

Fascinating new thing,

Don't betray them,

By becoming familiar…"

Every song by this band conjured flashes of the periodic table. Ten songs on this album were used to sort the elements. Alkali metals, Alkaline earth metals, lanthanides, actinides, noble gasses, halogens, nonmetals, and metalloids. Classic Rock was used to dictate historical events; that just made sense. Science, however, was hard to associate with a single genre of music. Metal was the obvious choice, but Dash found that more grating than anything. Science could be soft. Chemistry especially. It was delicate, ornate, and fragile.

Was it weird that he associated Danny with science too? You'd assume that Dash Baxter had an interest in fortune telling, considering how often he thought about the future. He couldn't separate the image of Danny ten years later, surrounded by chalkboards covered in physics equations engineering the next big manned mission to some planet that he discovered. While all the other Ivy-league eggheaded losers were stumbling over themselves, wondering where this guy came from. They would be scratching their heads about how such a genius came from such a tiny town.

Danny's future was to be in a sterile, sanitized, temperature-controlled lab, dressed in white while surrounded by glass. Yes, Dash was aware that engineering and chemistry were two different disciplines— but it was important to the fantasy that you had beakers and test tubes filled with technicolor liquid. Set design, and all.

Kwan-Solo @ 4:42 pm: JSYK, Paulina will literally skin u alive and make u into a coffee table if ur late.

Kwan-Solo @ 4:42 pm: All threats aside, seriously, be careful on that bike. It stresses me out when you don't wear your helmet.

Kwan-solo @ 5:12 pm: Okay, you're officially thirty minutes late. I'm going to round up the search party because I know you would not blow off practice after promising your best friend in the world that you wouldn't. So either you're dead, missing, or lost your phone, or some other horrible fourth thing.

Kwan-solo @ 5:24 pm: Your lack of response does not make me any less annoyed.

Folding his phone up, Dash contemplated how screwed he was. He threw his head back, dangling it off the chair.

Danny waved his hands to catch his warden's attention— "Dash!"

This garnered no response.

"Daaaaaaash!"

Nothing. The jock was busy blasting his ears out.

"You're gay."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Fenton's mouth moving, but no words came out. Just music. Dash wondered why it couldn't be like this all the time. God, Danny Fenton gave him such a headache. His voice especially. How was it that Danny had the deeper voice between them? How was that fair? Ugh .

Dash could spend the day staring out this window, listing off the differences between them, and somehow Dash would still come up short. What did Dash have? Money, excellent grades, colleges trying to court him like a prom date, his decentish face—

Danny meanwhile… Well, he had friends. He had people who cared about him— loved him, even. A family that doted on him. Danny didn't seem to care—how could he not care? How could Danny not care? How did he do it?

An empty water bottle struck the side of his head.

Lowering his headphones, Dash took a deep breath in before uttering a single and vicious, " What? "

Sneering, Danny ordered, "Listen'd to me when I'm talkin' to you, dammit!" He rustled the papers on his lap, "I said I'm done!"

"I'll be the judge of that." The jock snatched up the worksheets. He fanned through them quickly. He was a bit surprised at Danny's handwriting. It was heavy but flowed; each letter had peaks and dives. Like a mountain ridge, there were slopes and hard stops. Dash didn't know why it bothered him. It just did.

The content of the paper was less than great. Dash was pretty sure Danny misspelled the main character's name several different ways. This is saying a lot since the main character didn't have a name. Then there was the startling fact that the novel was called the "most enduring anti-war parables of all time," and Danny seemed to interpret the work as a black comedy. Baxter fanned through the paper for the big 'gotcha' at the end because there was no way a person could be this adamantly unintelligent. Danny was smart—scary smart. Danny could run circles around anyone in their grade where academics were concerned… then why? Was Fenton doing this on purpose?

"You cannot turn this in." Dash covered his face out of pure second-hand embarrassment. Then he winced as soon as his fingers even brushed the airspace of his swollen eye.

The ghost boy pouted— "Who died and made you Lancer Junior?"

"Fenton, you can't be serious with a performance like this!" The starting forward slapped the papers, his eyes wide. Dash had half a mind to be offended on behalf of the fictional deaths in the book. He dug his nails into his scalp, "You can't expect a college to even look at you with your grades the way they are."

Puffing out a cheek, the younger picked at the fuzz on the blanket that covered his legs. Danny mumbled, "What do you care?"

Cocking his head as if he didn't understand the question. A noise escaped Dash's throat.

Danny wanted to slap that clueless look right off his face. He wanted to grab the guy by the ears and scream. However, seeing as the pins and needles feeling progressed to his legs, that would just have to wait. The ghost boy glared at the living teen, "What do you even care?!"

The question was pointed and fatal.

The jock posed with a hand over his headphones, knowing he whatever he said next didn't matter. He was put into the position to lose. Dash didn't like to lose.

"Can't you just be like everyone else and just leave me alone ?!" Danny sniffled and choked through his demands. He coughed, the words coming up half-formed, but the anger carried through. Anger seemed to persist where words failed. He launched into another tirade, "I get it, you can drop the act, Baxter— You and the entire JV team want to bang my sister."

He growled, rolling on his side and curling into himself, "So, stop pretending you give a shit about me."

Lips forming a hard flat line, the jock did his best to keep his mouth shut. In the long run, it would hurt so much less if he kept everything bottled up in the space behind his ribs.

"D'you think I'd be here if I didn't care?" Dash demanded, his fists balling against his lap. He continued, "I'm sorry if I don't feel the need to spell it out for you because I think you're smarter than that—!" He exploded, his face becoming a bloom of pink, "Actually, I know you're smarter than that!"

"But, hey, maybe I'm the dumbass for even trying!" The starting forward cackled exasperatedly, "I've seen how you treat the people who actually care about you! Why did I think I was the exception?!"

For some reason, Baxter's eyes stung. Pinpricks of angry tears burned at the corners of his eyes— what the hell is wrong with me right now? I can't be that worked about this!

Driving his foot into the desk, Dash needed to ground himself in the reality of pain before his anger completely engulfed him, "You know Jazz loves you, right? For whatever reason, she loves you !"

"It's because you're her baby brother. And I know it's annoying, but that's what happens when you care about someone. Yeah, it's annoying; I'm sorry! But d'y'know how many people would kill for that? To be annoyed for the rest of their lives because they know deep down someone gives a shit?"

"... You just live to disappoint, huh?" The jock spat.

Dash knew he shouldn't have said that. He tsked himself, turning his head. However, he was just young enough to get away with it. It was something said in the heat of the moment. It landed like a warhead in the sand. It ticked on and wore at the sanity of those within earshot. Dash wished he could take it back— but it was honest. The truth had a distinct copper and cherry flavor, and it went down hard with warmth and bitterness with a faint breath of sugar.

Staring at the dresser with clothes dripping out of the drawers like wax off a candle, Danny agreed without saying it. He didn't even flinch. He just had to lay there and digest it. Fenton knew what he was. He was a disappointment; shouldn't people be used to that by now?

Bunching his fists into the pillow, Danny flipped it on top of his head, "There's aspirin downstairs."

"...huh?"

"For your eye." Curtly Fenton explained, "There's aspirin downstairs. It looks like it hurts."

"It does," Dash replied shortly.

Neither of them budged an inch. There was something of a silent agreement that if either of them were to move, they would lose. What wasn't clear where the stakes of this non-verbal bet lay. Was it always like this? Yes. Constantly the pair would issue these little challenges to each other. Teenagers were often sensitive, and the things they would change their sensitivities to would vary daily. They were skating razor-thin ice all the time because they were painfully young and boldly arrogant. What they didn't want to acknowledge was how incomprehensibly deep and frigid the water was below. They were testing each other with no purpose. It was clear that they weren't trying to provoke each other, but the tension refused to dissipate. It sat there, heavy as the heat in the small room, swirling around angrily with quiet thoughts that would never leave the confines of their minds. However, it didn't seem to matter.

Danny was sure what Dash thought of him.

With a sigh, the ghost boy questioned, "How— how'd that happen, anyway?"

Dash glanced over at Danny's shape wrapped in several layers of blankets, still shivering away like a tree branch caught in the storm outside. The jock's crossed arms slacked. He planted his feet back on the ground, shook his head, "It—It— ugh —"

Dash ran his hands through his blond hair. The gel he slicked it with was water-soluble, and seeing as raindrops still clung and raced across his body every time he moved, his usual detached, composed, iron image seemed to be failing. Using both of his hands, he lightly shook out the rest of the product, combing it out with his fingers. Baxter rubbed his fingertips, using the friction to remove the tacky substance—his glare would have been better utilized as a knife, "It doesn't matter. I'm fine."

"Oh, please, golden boy." Fenton turned, if only slightly in his direction, "Spare me."

Dash blinked rapidly, completely dumbfounded. His cheeks dusted with a deep rosy red… as if he forgot to breathe.

"You're making that face again, Baxter…" Danny teased, "Were you thinking too hard?"

Yep.

Terrible thoughts. Thoughts I can't do a thing about. I'll just keep it buried here in the center of my chest and pray that it'll go away on its own.

Standing up suddenly, Dash sent the chair flying to the floor. Awkwardly and hurriedly, the jock maneuvered out of the room.

Hoarsely, the ghost boy called after him, "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

"What'reyou, my mom ?! Getoffmyback, Fenton! It's a free country ! Why'reyousointerestedinmyshitallofsudden?! Geez !" It came out in a single block of letters and blubbering mouth noises. Dash stomped down the staircase— it sounded like he almost fell. The jock had the grace of a horse in roller skates.

The fact that Danny could even glean anything from that was amazing. He sat back, even more, perplexed despite his high now waning.

The Fenton's really need to fix their stairs.

How was Dash supposed to function knowing that he wanted to measure Danny's neck in kisses? Danny smelled nice, and Dash was supposed to just live with that. God, how was Dash supposed to survive in these conditions? He was the frog unknowingly being boiled alive until his body began to shut down.

Landing in the entryway, Dash rounded into the kitchen. He needed water. He needed air. He needed to be out of that room. The lights were still off, though now there was a person at the table.

"Jazz?"

She lifted her head out of her arms, "Oh, hey, you're still here."

Dash immediately lowered himself, so she didn't have to strain, "Yeah, why wouldn't I be? I promised I'd help, so…" he scratched the root of his neck, "I'm helping."

She squinted at him skeptically, "Are you sure you're not coming down with something? You're looking a little sweaty? What's with your hai—"

"This?" He gestured to himself, "This is just the occupational hazard of being me. I am a guy…" the jock helplessly shrugged and declared, "Guys sweat. We're disgusting!"

"Are you okay?"

"That's a loaded question." Dash rested his head on his shoulder in as nonchalantly manner as he could muster.

"How's it going up there?" Jazz pointed upstairs with her arched brows.

There was a debate within him to tell her what he saw. Then he would have to explain what happened. And he couldn't emphasize enough why that can't happen. More importantly, he didn't want her to worry. She had done way too much of that in her young life. The jock gave a vague update, "It could be better." Though he mollified her concerns outright, "He's at least pretending to try. So… that's something."

The psych nodded at this, "Did you want some water?"

She reached behind her, the rubber track of the fridge splitting from the frame. The door hit the back of her chair.

"Oh… yeah, sure."

"It's not a problem. The aspirin is by the coffee grinder." The elder Fenton twisted the top for him, and the distinct crack of the plastic cap followed.

Dash ducked to the counter behind him and scanned until he landed on a store-brand over-the-counter white bottle. "Thanks, Fenton."

He threw back two capsules with a swig of crisp cool aqua—it acted as a soft reset. His throat relaxed, and Dash instantly felt better. Staring down at his shoes, he tried to remember when the canvas glowed with their newness. He tried to think about anything else. Dash didn't want to think about how one of Danny's tank top straps kept shifting off his shoulder. He absolutely didn't wanna think about Danny's clavicle. He was so small and fragile; his skin was practically an x-ray. The near-perfect half circle where each half of his collar bone met that's definitely not required reading.

Her hands steepled in front of her face, "What're you listening to?"

"You sure do ask a lot of questions, huh?" Dash retorted with a sigh. The gears in his head kept spinning wildly out of his control. He was sure everyone knew his thoughts as though they were as blatant as billboards along a highway. Reflexively he held onto his headphones.

Jasmine pursed her lips and gave him a look that made him feel like a kindergartner that just got his yellow card flipped to red.

Reluctantly, Dash clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes, "Y'know how you wanted to study subliminal patterns in the brain relating to Pavlov's theory?"

Hastily, the athlete amended, as if he didn't find her studies of neural pathways endlessly fascinating, "—or Whatever— "

Unexpectedly, she chuckled.

Her laugh caused Baxter to tuck his chin to his chest. It wasn't a laugh at something he said, but at him. There was a stark and keen difference between those two camps.

Jazz stifled her reaction with her hand, "You really kept that CD?"

"... Yes?" Dash stared down at his shoes once again, "But—like, it's fine, you can have it back if you need it. I don't really care."

Except he did. He really did care.

"I just have this weird tendency to keep things my friends give me." The starting forward murmured, downing more water.

That's literally the definition of sentimental, moron.

"You think we're friends?"

Dash glanced at her. The question killed him. It killed him in too many ways to count. He pushed him from a tall ledge onto the unforgiving ground. It held his head in a shallow body of water. It burned him up inside. It was like something out of a cartoon. The question was an anvil from the sky.

He cleared his throat and swallowed, but the blockage there wouldn't wilt.

Bewildered, Jazz tucked a long thread of her coppery hair behind her ear, "Er, I mean— It's a bit weird, don't you think? Someone like you being friends with people like us."

"I guess." He said flatly.

Their relationship was built on a house of cards, and Dash really just exposed his whole hand, didn't he? Their friendship couldn't have been just purely transactional. Didn't he mean something to her? Was she invested in his future as he was with hers? They laughed, talked about their hopes and dreams, and it meant absolutely nothing. Isn't that funny?

It was hilarious. Look, Dash is practically shaking with laughter.

His heart hit the ground, and it bounced. And he had to pretend that it didn't hurt.

"You're kind of unfathomable, aren't you?" She looked at him with half-lidded, weary eyes.

Easing back against the counter, Dash was perplexed as he effortlessly hoisted himself onto it, "How do you figure?"

She hummed, "I really thought you'd say 'no' when I called."

A small smile fought its way onto Dash's face. It was faint. It was there one second and gone immediately after. Jazz didn't seem aware of the effect she had on people. He sheepishly admitted, "P-People don't really know me all that well."

"Is it like a rejection thing?"

He nearly choked, "Wh—huh?"

"Like, do you fear rejection?" She asked plainly. Her curious eyes boring a hole right through his forehead.

The jock hadn't really thought before. He never tried to anyway. He didn't want to think about it now.

"Nevermind. You don't have to answer, obviously." Jazz said as though refusing to answer didn't automatically mean 'yes.'

The psych then changed course, "I know it's been a while since we talked and… I don't even know it's my right to even be forgiven— but I'm sorry."

The plastic water bottle crackled in his hand sharply, "What're you talkin' about, Fenton?"

"I think the last time we talked, I accused you of hitting my brother with your father's car." Her gaze focused once again on the ceiling as if pinning her eyes there to avoid giving a reaction, "So, that's there now."

Dash had wholly forgotten that conversation, "... You really thought that I'd do something like that? You were serious?"

"Well, you know how to hurt people, Dash. You're great at hurting people." Using her nail, she picked at a piece of debris stuck to the table absentmindedly.

Jazz sighed, "—But I know better now." She clarified, "I know you better now."

"I'm sorry we—we haven't talked." Jazz said, her voice dusty with wistful thinking.

The starting forward wasn't sure how to handle that information, let alone accept it. Jazz thought that lowly of him?

He was hesitant to defend himself. What was he supposed to say? 'Sorry, I wasn't the complete psychopath you thought I was?'

But the question that did come out was, "Who did it?"

Jazz blinked at him in response.

Dash offered his talents, "D'you know who hurt Danny? I can, uh, have a chat with'em."

With unwavering seriousness, He muttered, "Y'know for peace of mind."

The truth is, she wasn't wrong.

Jazz stared at him with an inscrutable expression. Her brow knitted, but the corner of her mouth unfurled into her cheek. It was the look of someone discovering a puzzle.

Dash scratched his head anxiously, "What's with the face, huh? You said it—I-I'm great at hurting people."

"I was gonna start dinner soon." The elder Fenton rose from her chair, "Did you… maybe…wanna stay?"

Flustered once more with another Fenton's bluntness, Dash made a series of noises— half excuses and garbled answers—

"ACH—!"

Out of nowhere—Jazz threw her head back in an abrupt sneeze. While the interruption itself was startling, the fact that she suddenly vanished made the jock's blood run cold. In the middle of her recovery, it was like Jasmine had blinked out of existence. She was there one second, and in the second it took for Dash to draw his eyes up from his lap, she was gone.

Jazz was gone.