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Asriel blinks, and finds himself sitting in an unfamiliar classroom.
Or—maybe not a classroom. It’s more like a study room, he thinks, though not a study room he’s ever been to, lacking the typical central table and chairs and instead set up more like a—a practice space of sorts. There’s a piano. Of the three other people in the room with him—two monsters and one human, all equally unfamiliar—one of them is sat at the piano and the others have their own instruments, not that he can pick them out, because he doesn’t know instruments.
There is a guitar in his lap. He’s holding it like he knows how to play it.
And a deer-shaped ghost sat on the arm of his chair, kicking her legs back-and-forth in the air, a scowl set across her face.
<No,> Asriel thinks, squeezing his eyes shut. The world is dark and much as he should care, care that he’s gripping his fur just on the edge of too-tight and he might not technically be in public but there’s still those three people staring at him and he has no idea how he got here, the ghost is the main problem. Not-ghost. She can’t be a ghost if she isn’t real. <This isn’t happening.>
<Man, I fuckin’ wish,> the ghost doesn’t say, because the ghost isn’t real. He feels the phantom dig of her pointy chin into his shoulder, the same way Dess used to do when he hit his growth spurt and finally overtook her, as though by hooking all her weight into that one point she’d drag him down by a few inches. <You think I want this to happen either? Now I’m gonna lose an hour of practicing guitar and the respect of the few kids who put up with me when I can only make it like half the freaking time anyways. It’s not my fault! I’m not flaky! I didn’t want this either!>
<No,> he repeats, drowning out her words. Her—nothing. He’s not hearing anything. He’s fine. He’s normal. He is going to open his eyes, and he’ll be back where he was: buttering his toast in his apartment, half-listening to his roommate’s music drifting from xir open door. He has to be there. He has no memories of coming here. He doesn’t own a guitar.
<You know we drove right out of normality like, three years ago,> says the ghost. <It’s so funny you think that’s something worth being. ‘Cause, uh, lemme say? You aren’t going to ever make it! So why bother?>
He is going. To open his eyes. And he will be in his apartment. He just woke up an hour ago. He has three classes to attend today, and he goes to his classes.
<Haha about that,> says the ghost, and the dull thud of her hooves knocking into his chair pound in his head like a heartbeat. It must just be his heartbeat. There’s nobody here to make any other noise. <I skipped those so quick. The day I go to your fucking business classes is the day you finally manage to actually kill me.>
<You aren’t real,> Asriel says. When he opens his eyes the ghost is gone but the room isn’t. Same three strangers. He stumbles standing, letting the guitar fall onto the chair.
“Hey, dude,” says one of the monsters, “you good?”
“Fine,” Asriel bites out. He bends to scoop up his backpack—why did he know it was on the floor near him?—and swings it up onto his shoulder. At least that’s the same, though he has no idea where the pins stuck to it came from, vibrant and colorful against its dark leather.
<You gotta be better about checking your bank account,> the ghost comments, <I’ve got like, four more coming in the mail. Don’t worry, I use my money. I’m not that terrible. I do sometimes front to work.>
<Shut up,> Asriel says, which is stupid, telling empty space to shut up. But it feels—better. More powerful. The ghost’s visage is already gone. He just has to exorcise the stupid voice. Get back to his apartment. He’s been sleepwalking a lot more recently.
The ghost sing-songs, <not sleepwalking!>
Asriel makes it all the way to the door of the room, grabbing the handle and swinging it open. The hallways beyond aren’t familiar to him. Which is. Fine. One of the people still in the room tries to talk to him, but he ignores them, pushing out into the hallways. A labyrinth of a building. Some instinct has him walking to the left.
The ghost flits at the edge of his vision in flashes of russet fur and dark, amused eyes.
<Go away,> Asriel says, ducking his head so he doesn’t have to see her. <You aren’t real. Leave me alone.>
<Whaaaaat?> The ghost dances in front of his vision, and he squeezes his eyes shut before he sees the entirely of her, though it’s not enough to block her out entirely—in the dark of his eyes he can still see the flutter of her eyelashes, the smug sharpness of her grin. It’s not real. It’s not real. <Really? I’m not real?> Her tone is mocking. Asriel opens his eyes only when he runs into a wall, rubbing at his muzzle and walking as fast as he can to the nearest set of stairs. He can hear the thud of hooves behind him. Probably just some other student. Not like it could be anything else.
<That’s so funny,> the ghost continues, <you know, you should tell this to Chara, I think. It’s gonna come as a huge surprise to our roommate when the girl xe’s been living with for the past year doesn’t exist.>
<I’m NOT—not a—girl—> He has to catch his breath at the bottom of the stairs, his heart hammering in his chest. He can feel it when he rests his hand there, through clothes that aren’t his own. A t-shirt he never bought and one of Dess’s old flannels he never brought to college. His heart beats in erratic pulses.
<Oh my ANGEL don’t freak out,> the ghost says. She rolls her eyes, which he doesn’t know, because he can’t see her, because she isn’t real. She rolls her eyes harder. <I’m not public about it or anything. It just sucks fuckin’ balls to have to pretend to be you, Az. You gotta have your egg awakening already. Because you’re killing me. You are killing your least favorite Dess.>
<Not—>
<Uh-huh.> The ghost sounds distinctly unimpressed. She’s leaning against the wall, watching him with narrowed eyes. He closes his own, again. <Keep telling yourself that, bub. See, this is why Flowey won’t hang out with you.>
Nonsense. That’s all it is. The ghost speaks in nonsense words. All numb and cold across his chest, as he sucks in a breath and finally opens his eyes, pushing out of the stairwell and into what he hopes is the first-floor hallway, sparing no second glances for nonexistent ghosts. His wandering brings him to the main doors, and he pushes his way out of them and into the midafternoon sun, shivering into it. He can’t feel it’s warmth—just empty and dull, and his hands are shaking, just a bit. He shoves them into the pockets of a jacket that isn’t his and heads down the sidewalk.
…he has no idea where the bus stops are, up here. No idea how he’s supposed to make it to his next class. The one he should’ve been at—he checks his phone—twenty minutes ago.
<Ugh, fine.> He catches a glimpse of russet-dark fur in the corner of his eye, an annoyed scowl across a familiar face. Too-young. The ghost is always too-young. <It’s like, up this street here. Get on the one with the stupid name. Fucking. Spaniel Street or something. Where’s Flowey when you need them. I’m gonna be so smug when they show up again. I can’t front when Asriel is there my ass. I hate dealing with you. If I go back and someone’s broken my guitar again, I’m actually going to do it this time. No more Asriel front time. I’ll figure out some way to lock you out.>
When the whole of the ghost is in his vision, he sees—nothing. Because the ghost isn’t real, and he knows that. Even if her dark eyes dig into his very soul. Even when her fur is russet-dark and messy, because she never had the patience to bother grooming it all. Even though her hair sits short on her head, feathery at the nape of her neck, just how she used to wear it. The beaded bracelets that litter her arms are all ones Asriel remembers making with her, or being around when Noelle broke out her bracelet-making supplies and they all made a mess of her room. If he squints, he’s sure he could even find the bracelets he made for Dess. But he doesn’t. Because she’s just a ghost, and she isn’t real.
Plus, she’s still eighteen. The real Dess would be twenty-two by now.
<Yeah, and whose fault is that?> snarks the ghost, as he pushes right through it, and feels nothing, because there’s nothing there. <How am I supposed to know what I should look like? You’re the one who got her killed!>
<No,> Asriel says, <I didn’t.>
The ghost’s still glaring at him. He can feel it, except—no. No, the ghost isn’t. Because the ghost isn’t real. Because he’s not seeing anything, or hearing anything. He is going to the bus stop. He is going to make it to his actual class, and apologize for being late. He’s going to take his notes, in the notebook that will be in his backpack, because he packed it. And then when his classes end, of which he will have attended all of them, he’ll finally head back to his apartment. He will send his mother a text, make sure he's still going back to Hometown today. Make sure his roommate will be alright without him.
And the ghost will be there for none of it.
In the end he makes it to two of his three classes. One and a half, technically, since he’s late for one of them. Mostly he doesn’t hear the ghost, which is to say nothing at all happens, because there is no ghost, and there is no hearing. But still. He takes his notes. At least he has his notebooks. He flips past the handful of pages in the middle penned not in his own hand. If he doesn’t see them, they don’t exist, and if he’s totally lost in his lessons—covering concepts as though he was supposed to know about them, have learned them already, when last he remembers they were just starting a new unit yet nothing at all is familiar—then that’s probably his own fault. He really needs to establish better study habits.
Lunch he eats alone at the main dining hall, up on the second level watching the crowd of students below. The ghost doesn’t sit across from him, leaning on the table with her chin resting on her arms, propped up. Whenever he glances to her, she’s doing the same thing he is—watching the crowds.
<Kinda sucks Chara never eats on campus,> the ghost says, and he can hear each of her words perfectly despite the fact that the acoustics are terrible in this building—it’s all chatter and clamor thrown at his ears. <It’s like, I get it, but still. We have a few free passes to let a friend in. Would give us at least one lunch that isn’t sad as shit.>
Asriel, personally, doesn’t mind eating alone. It’s not like he stands out—even at lunch rush-hour there’s a few single tables, or two people sharing who clearly are just doing it because there weren’t any other tables open.
The ghost huffs. <I’m trying to make conversation.>
Asriel takes another bite of his sandwich. Dry and bland. The sandwich station was out of mayo. Out of a lot of things, actually, but it was the only place without an awful line.
<You know, I don’t like this any more than you do.> The ghost kicks at the base of the table. Asriel doesn’t hear when her boots connect. Why would he? There is no ghost, and there is no kicking. <You really make me get all twisted up in my own head. At least when Flowey locks me out of front they acknowledge that I’m real. That the fights we have are actual experiences they’ll remember the next time we talk. But with you it’s just the same thing over and over again. You just gloss over it all. Like since your blank spaces didn’t happen to you, they didn’t happen at all.>
His phone reads 1:26 when he digs it out of his pocket, unlocking it and opening up one of his reading assignments. He’s got fifty pages to read over the weekend—best to get a head start. And—take notes, or something. He…does remember what he reads. He knows he does his homework. He knows he turns it in.
The fact that he’s barely scraping by in most of his classes is—unrelated, probably.
<I wish you’d remember.> The ghost moves in flits and flickers. Asriel stares harder at his phone, the black and white text all blurring together. <I wish I’d get something. You’re the entire reason I’m here, and you don’t even care. You have all the pieces, Az. I wish you’d bother to put them together.>
A text from Mom. He should—respond to that. Figure out what time she’s expecting him to be back by. It’ll be a long drive.
The ghost huffs. It’s just a persistent breeze—he must be sitting near an open window. <It’s pathetic,> says nobody at all, <how torn up you are about her that you literally conjured me out of thin air. And I’m still not enough.>
The rest of his meal passes in silence. When he stands up to gather his things, the seat across from his is empty, as it’s been his entire time sitting here.
From the bus stop it’s about a twenty-minute ride to the stop nearest his apartment, longer if he counts waiting for a bus he can actually fit onto—lunch rush hour also means bus rush hour. Mostly he just remembers sitting down and then getting off the bus, forty-five minutes later. The three-block walk to his apartment passes similarly. A blink, and then he’s there, staring up at his building.
It’s a decent place, all things considered. He technically has three roommates but he only talks to one of them, technically two though it’s easier to lump Frisk in with Chara, seeing as they’re still a kid and all. He’s got absolutely no idea how he and Chara swung the place—presumably xe must’ve been the one to do all the paperwork. Quite frankly he doesn’t really remember befriending Chara, either, though xe says they met in a shared philosophy class Chara still complains about and Asriel knows for a fact he never signed up for. Which is normal, he’s sure. College is stressful! So many assignments, and deadlines, and days lost to empty fog. Who could possibly remember it all?
He hears the ghost snort as he enters the elevator.
<Shut up,> Asriel says. <You aren’t real.>
<Who, me?> He knows she’s grinning, that big, smarmy one of Dess’s, and he jerks his gaze to the elevator keypad and focuses very intently on pressing the button for his floor. And keeps staring at it, just to make sure it works. <I’m a perfect angel.>
He doesn’t look at her for the rest of the ride up, and when he exits the elevator, there’s nobody else inside with him.
For the next few hours he mostly focuses on packing. He was going to do it the night before, but, he, uh. Doesn’t…really know why he didn’t. It probably shouldn’t take so long to pack. He just—keeps getting mixed up. He hasn’t been home in—too long, probably. It’s not that he doesn’t try. It’s just half the time he notices his texts they’re already weeks old, and how is he supposed to respond to them then?
The ghost says nothing at all, sat at the edge of his bed. Her dark eyes watch him, and Asriel ducks and tosses a random shirt from his closet into his bag. Nothing he recognizes. Half the stuff in this room he doesn’t recognize.
It’s nearing five when he finally drags himself out of his room, with a mostly-packed bag. He checked everything off of the list he hastily made, at least, and it’ll—be fine. It’s not like Mom won’t have extra toothbrushes if he somehow forgot his despite checking four times. Behind him the ghost huffs. Asriel ignores it, heading down the hall and to the main communal area.
Chara’s in the kitchen, and guilt floods Asriel’s chest—he didn’t even think that xe’d be back by now. He should’ve remembered, should’ve said hi, at least, if nothing else. And—he always makes dinner for xir. So Chara doesn’t have to deal with the other people who live here.
“I can,” Asriel starts, and Chara turns to see him, tense. “I can, um, take over. With the cooking?”
“Hmm? I’m capable of cooking, Asriel,” Chara says, though mostly xe just sounds amused. The tenseness drops away once xe realizes it’s just him. “What, did you think I would starve for the weekend you went back home?”
“Well—I mean, I sorta planned to meal prep for you…” That’s—that and the packing. How did he forget? He…had a whole week to prepare. What else was he doing this week? What else… “I just—I know you hate being in all the communal spaces, and. I mean, I always cook for you.”
“Sure, you do, but you aren’t always—” Chara cuts xirself off, shaking xir head. “I mean—you are fine, Asriel. I’m capable of surviving two days without your presence. It’s not like I haven’t survived longer. Besides, don’t you have a few hours of driving to do? You should head out before it gets dark. I’m sure those backcountry roads aren’t fun.”
“Right,” Asriel says, swallowing. He makes it all the way to the door before stopping, hand on the doorknob, but he turns back around to face xir. It never feels great, leaving. He—wants to be a good friend. Is doing his best to be a good friend. To not—fail, again, or. “I just, I feel really bad leaving you and Frisk all alone. Actually, um…” He squints past Chara and into the rest of the apartment. He doesn’t usually hear when Chara gets home but he does hear when Frisk comes home, because they tend to play their music really loud. But there’s—nothing. “Where are they? I thought they’d come say bye.”
Chara shrugs. “After-school club. But I’ll tell them you say goodbye. I’m sure they’ll steal my phone to try and text you.” Xir expression softens. “And I’ll be fine, Asriel, don’t worry.”
“Right,” Asriel says, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s just—I mean, you work on weekends, so, like, who’s going to watch Frisk? And—”
“Asriel.” He shuts up. “I can just take the weekend off. And—none of that.” Xe tuts, before Asriel’s even gotten a chance to say anything. “The costs I have saved on childcare because of you mean I can afford to not work for two days. Much as I might miss it. Dess makes me pay her, though I suppose she uses that money to buy my groceries, so.” Chara’s face twitches up in something of a grin.
Not that Asriel notices. Because Asriel—freezes. Did Chara—
No. No, certainly not, Chara doesn’t—know. Her. He just. Misheard, surely. He misheard.
“Huh? Asriel, what are you—” Chara goes stiff. “Ah. I—hmm. Okay. This isn’t…great, but—”
“No it’s fine,” Asriel says, and the words come out in a rush. “You just, I mean, you don’t have to pay me I love watching Frisk, I’m, I’m fine to do it on my own, you know.” Misheard. That’s it. He just misheard xir.
Something twinges in the back of his mind. Right next to the fear seized up in his chest. But there is no ghost, so he hears nothing at all.
“Right,” Chara says. Xe’s tense, now—the sort of tense xe is around strangers, but—not Asriel. Not since they—became friends, somehow. “Right, of course, that’s what I meant.” Xe looks to a point past Asriel. Like xe’s talking to him, but not to him. Like Asriel—isn’t really there at all. Chara’s voice softens, and xe says, “I am sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
A voice that is not Asriel’s but comes out of his mouth says, “it’s—whatever. Not like he’ll fucking remember this anyways.”
And
he is sitting in his car. Outside the sky is dark and thick with clouds, and there’s a single flashing streetlamp, struggling to illuminate the empty parking lot he must’ve pulled over into. The radio has turned to static fuzz.
His cheeks are tear-wet where his hands are bunched up against his eyes, his elbows leaned on the steering wheel. Everything aches, his chest, his heart, his head, throbbing with the coming-on of a migraine, the sort that no amount of ibuprofen can smother. His breaths come in big gulping gasps, and he’s sniffling, pathetic sob-sounds.
Except he…isn’t. He can’t be. He feels…fine. The soul-deep sorrow is some distant thing, muffled. It’s like an echo of an echo of an echo—just some leftover remnants trickling past him.
“Fuck.” The voice is his but he’s not the one speaking. He can hardly even move his hands, smearing across his face. “Fuck,” and he’s pushing off the steering wheel and twisting in on himself, hunched and small. But Asriel hasn’t moved at all, has he? It’s as though he is watching his body from some point to the left. “You didn’t see any of that. Go away.”
Asriel says nothing. He is—indistinct, maybe.
“God damn it,” says the person who is not him, and her next breath is an intentional one, despite its shakiness. “I don’t want to do this. Why do I have to do this?”
She is answered only by silence.
“Okay,” she says, taking another breath. “…please don’t make me regret this, Asriel.”
She—changes. Something changes, and the world snaps back into focus, all the fog and haze of it cleared. Asriel flexes his hands, and feels in them each cracking jolt. His horns are scraping the ceiling, and he slumps down, moving his seat slightly backwards so he has more room to stretch out his legs. The car’s clock reads 8:19 PM. His phone has been set into its spot on the dashboard, though the screen has gone dark.
And, of course, the ghost is sitting in the passenger seat.
His eyes are still wet, when he touches them, rubbing the tears away, and no more fall. But the ghost’s face is splotchy with her sorrow, her knees pulled up to her chest. She won’t look at him head on—he sees her face in halves, her dark eyes narrowed and staring blankly ahead, out the front window. To that dying light.
He says, “you aren’t real.”
<Can you give it a break?> says the ghost. <Just—for one minute. Maybe two if you’re feeling kind.>
“But you—can’t be.” Asriel twists away, and knows the ghost’s stare despite that. He always knows what she’s doing, no matter how hard he tries not to. “You can’t be, I know she’s—gone, and ghosts aren’t real, and—and I’m not…”
<Well, you got one of them right,> the ghost says. Her voice is heavy though she forces lightness. <You know I’m not a ghost.>
“But I’m not crazy!” He snaps, and turns back to her, jabbing a finger into the empty space of her chest, his hand only brushing air, and his fur stands on-edge. She watches him through shadowed eyes. “I—I don’t know how I got out here, I don’t—remember—I go to class and it’s all a blur, even class, I can hardly keep up, I just—I just—I can’t be crazy,” and his voice cracks. “I’m not.”
<What do you want me to tell you?>
“Why are you still here?” he asks.
<Where else am I supposed to go?> Her laughter is weak. <You think I like this any more than you do? All my time is stolen. I hate it. I hate it so much, Asriel, I hate everyone calling me your name and I hate that you keep losing my things and I hate that I didn’t even get to say a proper goodbye to Chara and I hate how much of a coward xe is, leaving me to make you figure this all out, and I hate, hate, hate!
<And I hate that you won’t ever get it!> She slams a fist against the car window. Asriel jumps, though of course there is no sound, no momentum. How could her fist ever connect? <That it’s all just me in here! Flowey doesn’t count, they pretend like they’re all above this, and of course you never will! So it’s all up to me. I never asked for this! I never wanted this!>
In the silence her voice echoes out. His heart is pounding in his chest, some erratic rhythm, and when he swallows his throat is sore. He wants to be anywhere but here. To just—drive. He has no idea where he is, but surely, surely close to Hometown, right? He told Mom he’d be there by 8. Everything will be better there. He’ll be better. None of this…
The ghost laughs, wet. <You’re probably right about that. I’ve never been able to front when you go home.>
“I’m not crazy,” Asriel whispers. “I’m not, I’m not.”
The ghost says nothing at all. Unreality, that’s all she is. When he sucks in a breath his heart is still hammering, but that’s unrelated. It has to be unrelated, he tells himself, grabbing and unlocking his phone, struggling to remember the password. It has to be that he’s just—tired. Hungry. That he wants to go home, and he’s not sure if that’s his apartment or his childhood bedroom, but at least it’s a room.
In his hand his phone buzzes, and he jumps, jerking down to stare at the screen. One…one new text. From…an app he doesn’t recognize. He just uses the basic message app to text—he only ever really texts his Mom and Chara anyways—but this is…
<Fuck,> says the ghost, <no no no I—I turned off notifications, I know I—>
Asriel opens the message.
Dess? Chara’s sent. It isn’t xir first message in this particular chat. Are you alright? Please let me know you’re alright as soon as you are back. You can come home. You don’t have to go back there.
Asriel swallows. The ghost bears down on his shoulders, and he falters, his hand shaking, as if trying to jerk off of his body. But he scrolls up.
The texts go back—months. So, so many months. A year. Year and a half. Two years, which is about when he can remember Chara came into his life, but—even further beyond that. He met xir midway through his freshman year, second semester. But—these date to the first.
It’s mostly—inane. Questions about homework for a class he never took. Accepted invitations for lunch. Pictures of various flowers xe came across. And, as the dates approach the present, there’s—long conversations about things he only catches glimpses of. His own name, cropping up. So much. So, so much. And it can’t be…real. Because that would mean…
That would mean…?
<Don’t be mad at xir.> The ghost’s weight on him lessens. <I mean, I’m mad at xir. But xe really is your friend. That’s not an act or anything, I just—wanted something that was mine. Xe’s the only one who knows. I mean, I befriended xir in the first place. So I think I get this one thing. And xe won’t,> the ghost laughs, dropping back down into the passenger’s seat, <xe won’t just tell you. I mean, xe’s slipped up a couple times. Whenever I’m out it doesn’t matter. But.> The ghost shrugs. <Xe won’t just—sit you down and tell you. About me, about Flowey. That’s something you three have to figure out, xe says. Stupid.> The ghost snorts. <I think xe just doesn’t want to be the one to hurt you.>
Asriel says, “why are you telling me this?”
<It’s not going to matter soon enough.>
She looks so much like Dess, is the thing. In every heavy shift of her body. In the way she tugs her hands through her short hair, some form of grounding, she told him, once, long-ago. Even in the ways she makes herself small—he didn’t often see Dess scared, but when he did, despite it all she’d stay defiant, some sort of final snarl out to the world. All the softest parts of her were tucked away, unreachable, but her eyes still glared out. Her crossed arms sent a message.
“I don’t want to be crazy,” he says.
<I know.> Dess touches a hand to his arm. He feels it feather-light: a mirror of a memory. Her smile is small and sad. <You’ve always been a runner, Azzy.>
He flinches away. “You’re the one who left first.”
<…yeah.> She sighs. <I guess I did. Sort of.> She flops against her seat. <Sometimes I do wonder, you know. If you’re right. How much all of this is just—made up. My memories. My life. You know, I haven’t talked to my sister in three years. My mom, my dad. It’s all—filtered. They don’t know I exist. Nobody does, really. Not even you.>
Dess twists her bracelet around her wrist. He can’t make out what the beads spell—he can’t remember what they made together, anymore. When she meets his eyes they’re sad, even as she laughs.
<See?> She rolls a bracelet between her fingers. <Just like that. I don’t know what it says, either. Just gibberish. I don’t know what she’d be doing, if she stayed. I just…guess. A life twice-removed. It wasn’t ever really mine. I’m not even good at guitar. Though I guess that’s a moot point now. Losing two guitars in one semester is grounds to get kicked out of the class. There’s that gone!>
“Do you like it?” Asriel asks. The question surprises even himself, and Dess glances at him, shock flashed in her face. “Um—guitar. Do you…?”
<I dunno.> She laces her fingers together. <I kinda suck at it, so mostly I’m just mad whenever I go. I’m supposed to be good at music, right? At least at that, but.>
She exists in doublethink. He can see her there, right next to him. But he can also see the view out the window she’s blocking. The light shining through. The empty seat, entirely devoid, just him alone.
<Sometimes,> Dess continues, <it feels like I’m just—going through the motions. Dess likes guitar, doesn’t she? So I keep picking it back up.>
Asriel’s voice is quiet. “Isn’t that the only reason to do anything?”
<Ha. I hope not.> She breathes out. <I’m…sorry. About taking front like that, back at the apartment. I mean, not entirely. You certainly weren’t going to stay and someone had to stop Chara from working xirself into a panic. But—for keeping it. I…I thought I could just get you to Hometown. Wipe my hands of it all. But.> She nods out to the parking lot. <Couldn’t even get close. Just—freaked. And Chara had to comfort me.>
“That’s…fine,” Asriel says. It isn’t, probably. He doesn’t know how he feels. Mostly he just feels tired. His head aches, some dull throb. He’s laced his fingers together. He didn’t even notice. Across from him Dess smiles, a bit. She’s muted, here, stuck in his car, stuck in this dark.
<Ah, come off it,> she says, <you’ll be fine in a few hours. One thing I envy about you, Az. You’re real good at compartmentalizing. I wish I could repress even half the shit you do.>
“I’m sorry,” he blurts. Dess’s eyes widen. “I’m—for leaving you, for not—being there, I, for pushing you away? Back then. Back,” and he swallows. “I’m trying to be a better friend,” he tells her. “To Chara. Be—worth it. Even if I don’t know why xe stays.”
<That makes two of us,> she says. <Azzy…>
“I’m sorry,” he says, again, and he’s crying, for some reason. What is he crying about? “I’m sorry, I—I don’t…I just want us to be okay,” and when he reaches out for her he finds nothing, of course. Her hands are faded and transparent. Two simultaneous images: her sitting right next to him, and the empty space that was never occupied at all. “I don’t know what to do if I lose you again.”
<Ha.> She rubs at her eyes. The corners of her mouth flick up into a grin, hesitant, wavering, and it’s reflected on his own face. Asriel squeezes his own hand and it grabs him back just as tightly. <That’s—the first time you’ve ever done that. Apologize.> His heart beats in his throat. <You know what the dumbest thing is?>
<What?> He asks. He wants—something. Physicality. She’s so young. She’s only eighteen. Why did he ever abandon her like that? When she was terrified and climbing into his bedroom window. Come with me, she said. And all he did was turn away.
Dess grins, real wide. The edges of her eyes crinkle up. <I actually want to believe you this time,> she says. <I know that’s stupid of me. You never remember, and then it’s all up to me again. To hold onto everything that hurts. Everything you don’t want to look at.>
“Dess,” Asriel says, reaching through her, beyond her, folding the empty space of her into his own chest. “I won’t. Not this time. I promise.”
<But Asriel Dreemurr isn’t crazy, right?> She laughs, wet. <You have to really, really want it, Asriel. You have to really want me.>
“I do!” She’s mist in his arms, but he doesn’t let go. “I do, I promise, I’m sorry.”
<It’s really sweet you think you are.> When he blinks she’s gone, too-far, back in the seat, and Asriel cannot reach across to her. <But I know you, what you want. You want her. The real Dess.>
He says, “Dess—”
<Don’t be like that. I’m just going to front for a bit. Make…make sure Chara knows I’ll be good. I’m Dess Holiday! I’m always good.> But her voice falls flat. <…this was a nice talk. I’ll be sure to remember it for us both, okay?>
Again, he tries, “Dess—”
<Don’t worry,> she says, <you’ll be fine.> Her smile twists into something he’s never seen on her before—some emotion he doesn’t have a word for. Something he can taste in the back of his throat. He thinks he can feel her, somewhere there—like gauze against his brain.
She stretches out there alongside his own limbs.
<You’re always fine,> she says, and he doesn’t see her at all, but still somehow he can trace her languid motions, as if she has no care in the world. His own limbs tense up with her fear, all sour. <Aren’t you, Asriel?>
He
has a headache, some pounding thing, beating against the edges of his skull as if
someone is crying. Why are they crying? Why isn’t he
trembling. Big, shaky breaths. Something about it twists familiar, and
Asriel is driving down the long, empty highways.
He doesn’t really know how he got here, though that’s not so strange. It’s easy to zone out when he’s driving back to Hometown—all that sprawling space, on the rattling two-lane roads broken up only by the occasional mile marker, a brief spurt of billboards if they happen to drift closer to civilization.
It’s nearing ten PM. Which isn’t great. He promised Mom he’d make it back by eight. But he’s not so far, now—GPS says he’s only a few miles out. And then he’ll be home.
No ghost sits in the passenger’s seat, not that he has any reason to think one would.
He is the only person here.