Travis
```this rp canonically took place months ago. I was just putting it off. Back to your regularly scheduled programming <3```

The common room was empty; solemn and quiet. The heaviness of the night weighed against the deafening silence that buzzed through Ares' ears. A faint ringing from the loud music that would pound unforgivingly for days on end, leaving only white noise in its wake. 

Ares sat in a plush chair close to a window. Three other chairs surrounded him in a square formation, with a small table in the middle. The room was illuminated with deep blue and black, the sign of the creeping early morning. His elbows were pressed into his legs, as he stared down at the floor beneath his feet. His expression was cold and callous, hardened with a tense furrowed brow. *Why was he even doing this— all of it was stupid.* 

*He doesn't owe anyone an explanation for what he does or how he acts. He doesn't need to be interrogated.*

The boy thought of all the days spent tucked against uncomfortable seats in principle offices with guidance councillors and teachers, all with the same disapproving stare painted on their features. He wouldn't let Owen have that power over him. *He wouldn't let anyone have that power over him, never again.* Ares was the one making the choices; he would be the one speaking. This would be a conversation of his own accord. 

For all his frustrations and anger, deep down Ares knew Owen deserved an explanation. So thats what Ares would do. Albeit, *Very* Begrudgingly. 

So there he was, waiting for him.
Thomas
*One, two, three, four, three, two, one, two, three...*

Owen counted under his breath, the only sound he allowed to slip from him aside from the soles of his sock feet sliding over the floor and the gentle *Clink* Of thumb against fingertip, first to fourth, over and over. The precedent was broken—the pattern had repeated, but something sickeningly unexpected had broken the loop and so the boy with the fist of lead in his stomach as he stepped into the low light of the common room tapped himself another out of the one motion he felt he could control.

It was flimsy, and through the sharp, obscured eyes of his dear friend waiting bent and still by the window it didn't exist, but it would hold.

His shin clipped the edge of the table on his way to the chair nearest Ares, and he silently cursed it—*If there was ever a time to be graceful*, he thought, gold-flecked eyes flitting over the floor looking for invisible tripwires. Heat pressed at the backs of his eyes when he caught himself; this was why they were here, wasn't it? The built-up weight of his silent, *Short-sighted* Misgivings built up over the past months pressed his shoulders down as well, closer to his knees that he pushed to his chest.

Ares had never before let Owen see him like this. The younger of the two tasted the difference between bitter pride and sinking fear—a small, poisoned part of himself said that it *Served him right, the stubborn bastard*; it was quickly crushed by everything else that wondered if they had really done it this time, if the two of them were beyond communication. If they were truly oil and water. 

That thought ached in a familiar part of his guts, rooted deep and red and miserable. He trained his leaden yet alert gaze on this battered and exhausted dog and kept his fingers stuck in this old, old wound, though he was under no illusions of it closing.

Ares had the prickling silence in his scarred hand.
Travis
Ares' raised his eyes but not his head when he heard Owen's footsteps. They were soft, yet sturdy. Owen wasn't reluctant or hesitant, that much was good. Ares wasn't one to talk to someone while they're a nervous wreck. 

The boy was a lead weight in the room. He held whispers of mockery, and the weight of gut punches and unforgiving wounds. The silence was as violent as the eyes that fell under Ares' brow. They watched, stared and peered deep past Owen's exterior. The auburn, burnt like ash from a fire, peeled back the layers that Owen had raised. Despite this, there wasn't malice in his gaze. It was something... Else. 

Owen hadn't spoken. Neither had Ares. 

Ares sighed, cracked his knuckles and leaned back against the chair in which he sat. Something pressed in his throat, a sense of dread and unease. However, these feelings were covered by a thick layer of slick rage that drenched his thoughts like ink spilled over parchment. He didn't have the energy to be *Upset.* That wasn't him. 

"Im not going to get on my knees and beg for an apology, you should know this— and i'm not going to try to justify my actions either. I don't owe you anything. However, I will *Attempt* To make an effort to explain. Understood?" 

His words were to the point, blunt and honest. They weren't snarky, however. He didn't speak in a condescending manner nor was he making an effort to appear better than the one sitting across from him. Despite their differences, Ares had a level of respect for Owen. It weaved itself deep in his veins, hidden under years of mistrust and back stabbers. Ares was always going to put his iron defences first, before that of kinship. A bad habit indeed, but it was one that had kept him safe all these years. 

The one across from him didn't seem like he held anything against Ares. There wasn't anger in the way he sat, or the way he looked at Ares. This made the boy turn his gaze away, only momentarily. *What was the point of this. What was the point.*
Thomas
Owen's hands gripped his legs tighter to quell the shaking. His chin dug into his knee as Ares laid out his intentions, cutting through the uneasy buzzing of the stove light in the distance. *He's phrasing it like this will be a fight.* That wasn't... Unexpected. When Owen was newer to Ares' ways, he prickled at that—he hadn't realized when things were or weren't fights in his eyes, and either created them by accident or walked in unaware; he saw things differently now, though, he realized. Ares wanted his pity about as much as he wanted his anger, but the redhead reasoned that he could tolerate empathy if he bit his tongue.

The same light that softened the dark-eyed boy's features cast harsher shadows on the torn ridges over his knuckles, and the other swallowed the urge to get defensive. Instinct still glinted at his fingertips, rough and uneven like volcanic glass, but if Owen knew Ares well enough to disregard his jagged shell, then surely the inverse was true.

"I-I *Know*, Ares. I'm not looking to snap at you, I'm list-I'm listening."

His words came out a little sharper than intended at first; coiled springs were jarred still under his skin, but he was more tired of it than anything. *Wasn't Ares tired of it?* He said that he was listening, and the sentiment was a gentle one. A sincere truth.

It tasted like an admission of guilt one moment, one that made something pitiful mewl in his stomach. The next, it was an unfairness, *Unearned*, like he would be chiding himself later for allowing Ares this much space. Neither were true, and that scattered his thoughts enough for his line of sight to be a little clearer, if not particularly reassuring. This was both of their mess. Including Ares. Including Owen.

One of them was not the growling beast he presented himself as, and the other was not the frightened prey he was positioned as in his seat. *Breathe deep.*
Travis
Owen's unease surprisingly gave Ares a sense of comfort. At least the other wasn't looking for some huge argument, and the sense of anxiety that followed Owen and tainted every action of his gave the impression that even if he *Wanted* To fight he wouldn't. Old habits die extremely hard for Ares. The boy was unsure whether he would ever stop feeling comfort in being the stronger person. 

In all honesty, Ares couldn't entirely pinpoint why Owen was upset at him in the first place. Usually those who had problems with how Ares acted wouldn't give him the curtesy of a conversation. It all was some big hurricane of sour feelings and anger, and then it would blow up in his face with no further explanation as to why. The whole concept of sitting down and *Talking* About it felt trivial, childish, and most of all unfamiliar. 

However, if Ares gathered anything from the conversation he had with Danica it was that maybe it was better to deal with the discomfort of conversation than to let problems go unaddressed. 

"This is about... Uriel. Right?" Their name came through clenched teeth, and a sneer. Ares then followed it with a deep exhale, clearly trying for once to not come across as aggressive. 

"It bothers you that I don't like them. Even though, you seem to... Quite a bit." This entire sentence sounded like pulling teeth for Ares. His arms were crossed over his chest, he was closed off and clearly not enthusiastic about attempting to figure things out. Yet, somewhere deep down in his subconscious, under the burnt charcoal and barbed wire of past memories and learnt behaviours, Ares knew Owen deserved a conversation like this. 


"I don't get it, I really don't." His tone softened ever so slightly, almost unnoticeable.
Thomas
A wave of fatigue hit Owen in the side of the head when Ares pushed Uriel's name past his gritted teeth. The topic was a tired one, stopping any movement they made like stubborn rocks in the muddy path. Owen's stomach twisted and his cheek quirked, teeth closing around the torn-up inside of it, gnawing in frustration.

He'd be lying to himself if he said that he wasn't more defensive of them now than ever—his head swam day and night with thoughts of their lips crushed like petals against his, their sweet words and sweeter silences, pressed deep into his chest and leaving him as a maniacal stream of melodies and scraps of verse that fell into all the right lines behind his bright, well-rested eyes. He could relay a thousand reasons why, and was every bit as confident that Ares would hear none of them.

Nor should he, when that was not the point.

"It's n-not about Uriel." The redhead's eyes shot a look like the sun through two red-tinted magnifying glasses into the chair behind Ares, sitting back with a huff. "It does b-bother me, but they... They're just where the problem seems to be the... Where it's showing itself the most lately."

Something small and plastic clicked and spun in Owen's fingers as he regarded Ares carefully, so carefully, and debated how to say what he needed to. He held the silence uncomfortably as his mind ran through all the things that seemed true only on the brink of screaming at him. *The problem? You think I'm stupid. You hate Uriel and lash out at me because you think we're the same way you are. Someone told you that, and you still believe them. You comprehend only the reasons why I might despise you,* You, *Who I treasure so much it makes me feel like I'm a bloody __person__ sometimes.* The boy with the sad canine eyes fiddled with his phone, rereading a message Ares would recognize.

_ _
"...'sure I'm aggressive and *Vvvv-*Violent but I'm not malicious,' you said. And I asked-a-asked you why, and you said you would t-tell me."

The words sounded too sharp coming from Owen's painfully earnest tone, the bite of his friend's self-hatred cutting up his tongue and colouring his face with the sickly pallor of regret the instant he read it. It sounded too true when he traced those words with his own shaking lilt, and that made him want to throw up. He squeezed his fidget, letting a hard plastic edge of a button dig into the soft centre of his palm. He stayed put.

"That's w-what... That's what *I* Don't get."
Travis
Ares drew back at the stuttering boy in front of him. His posture straightened, his brow tensed. Something made a sense of danger rise deep in his gut, a sudden sort of feeling. Not the kind that made you sweat with panic, but the kind that made stray dogs growl and bare their teeth out of desperation. Ares would never call this fear, it was defence. 

He gave a quick short exhale, his hair rising on its end. His lungs filled with a bitter batch of air, tinted with what felt like toxins and lead. It stung his throat and made his teeth clench. The muscles in his face tightened, pulling his nose up and his brows down into a wrinkled look of confusion covered with anger. He felt his nails digging into his palm as he lowered his scarred hands from his chest to his knees. Ares wouldn't fight Owen, never genuinely. No matter how violent the dog, a chain around its neck is still a chain. Conflicting feelings and sparking fire within his ribs lit his mind and heart ablaze. All while dead silent. 

Even once Owen stopped talking, dark amber eyes darted back and forth between his. Ares' eyes were thin, slanted downwards into a surveying and critical gaze. Owen's were tilted upwards into a display of anxiety and passivity. Ares knew Owen wasn't saying what he was truly thinking. Ares knew something within Owen wanted to scream, let loose, break and crush everything in his path. No one was as docile and quiet as he was without some sort of drawback. The difference between the two was how they dealt with said violent thoughts. 

"Right." Ares finally spoke. His voice was hoarse and deep, but it wasn't loud. Ares didn't yell here. 
_ _

Silence. 

Ares didn't know what to say. His mind swarmed with millions of thoughts. The explanation was right on the tip of his tongue, it was sour. His mouth opened then closed slightly, over again. What was he risking by letting this information loose? What would he fall victim and target of if he let Owen past his guard? Ares would be lying if he even thought for a second that he *Wanted* To talk to Owen. No he didn't. Ares wanted to raise his fists, push everything back and keep his aggression and violence. Who could hurt him if he let himself relax? Ares couldn't tell which hands were ones that reached out with kindness or with brutality, and never would he take the chance to figure out which one was which. He needed to bite before taking the chance. It was always better to attack first then leave the battle bloody and bruised. 

*Was it?* Ares tensed. Maybe it wasn't. How many innocent people had he hurt. Did he truly care? The conflicting ideas within him caused a raging storm of distress and unease. 

"I don't trust you. I don't trust anyone." Ares turned his gaze slightly to the left of Owen, avoiding a direct stare. *He was admitting defeat right now, wasn't he? He was losing.* 

"... Someone is always out to hurt me. I never make it better. My behaviours are fuel to a fire that I didn't start and that I dont know how to put out." The boy sneered in an anger that wasn't directed at Owen but at the ones who failed him. "So instead of letting myself get burned, I keep feeding it." 

Ares clearly hated this. He returned his gaze to Owen, a stare that spoke of a punishment if he uttered these words again to any other soul.
Thomas
The pressure of speaking next left Owen, and in its absence, he dared take a moment to study Ares. The wicked curl of his eyebrows into his nose was scratched across the canvas of a man much older, harder, jaded and bent than Ares ought to be. Though it terrified him more than a little (nothing terrified Owen only a little) that the gears turning behind that scowl could be deciding to dash him to pieces on the rocks and sail away forever, the boy inhaled tiny breaths of pure adrenaline watching his hard-set mouth move so silently; he had bared a chord to the redhead, one he had struck, and the waves of sound rippling from his hammer pounded in his temples. Ares was *Never* This quiet.

If this was where he lost him, he thought, it would be burned into his mind forever.

And then he spoke, in a voice that suddenly seemed so hoarse from a lifetime of shouting. Ares' words were a collage, ripped-up speeches from people he probably hated pasted over old, stained pictures of a boy that looked frighteningly like Owen, doe-eyed and curled in on himself. He was more a poet than he gave himself credit for, and less of an inventor of horrible things. Both to call himself, and to be. 

He spoke to him in a language he could understand as uniquely as the scowling boy himself did—metaphors of flames, spilling from the stones lining the pit, desperately snapping at anything close because to eat is to bite, and what's the difference when starving? Owen's fire sought desperately to warm, but the like couldn't subsist on blood like it could death.

This was the war himself, laid bare, made strange. It made sense in a corner of his heart, the one that his brain was always leagues behind. Nowhere else.

"You... Y-you talk like someone told you all of this. About yourself," He dared. As Ares' voice wasn't so strong as he would have liked, Owen's wasn't as weak, though it still clipped like a jammed tape.

"N-not, not all of it, just, um..."

_ _
*You do make it better. I'm here because I know you can.* What could he say, though? His word meant fuckall to someone who knew it all to be lies. Sentiments like solid red bricks crumbled to grey dust in his freckled hands in the bonfire boy's line of sharp, furious sight, and he had nothing familiar left to build with.

"Just... The parts about you being horrible."

His already-soft voice broke at the last word; his body, sweat-lined and dense and unwieldy, pulled in on itself not out of a physical pain or a need to make himself small but because of a black hole in the pit of his stomach, Ares' pupils burning in the low light. He couldn't help it. He silently begged forgiveness, for he just couldn't help it.

"No wonder you don't believe me," He murmured, clear as day. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry I must sound l-like, like a liar, to you..."

Their eyes never met, but Owen meant what he said with the whole of his chest. He blinked once more, and shook away the glassy sheen over his eyes. He had made promises to himself to stop letting the aches Ares caused him slide, but did that mean shutting off his empathy? Flying into a rage, proving him right anyhow? That felt so *Wrong*, but so did his usual hound-like forgiveness. From his parted lips, poised to say something further, only escaped a curt sigh. *Dear bishop, this is brutal.*
Travis
_ _ _ _"I *Was* Told those things, I was told how horrible I am. I continue to be told." His voice raised for just a moment before Ares silenced himself. 

 The boy sighed, a ragged sound that tore through his teeth like rough sandpaper. A part of his brow lightened, and his chest suddenly felt heavy. Between his bones, no longer was there marrow but lead and flint. Dared to be lit ablaze but far too heavy for one to carry. The way Owen spoke made Ares feel beyond horrible. The tanned boy sitting armed and prepared across from Owen knew what it felt like to have someone cower in his presence. Crushing the weight of a single person's confidence between his sickly warm fingers was nothing new, in fact Ares did it frequently back home. Ares was a remover of strength, he bore warnings of loss and grief. A bad omen. 

 Yet Owen didn't do this out of fear, at least not a fear of physical strength. He wasn't scared of Ares. Perhaps that is what struck him the hardest. Owen bowed his head in a cry for forgiveness, a dog pressing its chin to the earth waiting for the other to recognize its unthreatening smallness. It was a sorry sight to see, and never could Ares take pride in such an obvious plea. Owen didn't want Ares gone, Owen wanted Ares *Here.* So much so, that he felt the need to spew empty apologies filled with nothing but air and sorrow. Ares' hands twitched with the urge to grab Owen by the shoulders, pull him from the earth and demand him to stand on his own two feet. 

 For all his violence, all his aggression and years and years of communicating through nothing but his shaking hands, Ares could not let this conversation go on with Owen on the smaller side. This was to be equal. 

 "Stop that. Stop apologizing." The deep amber eyes flicked between Owen and something just past the others eyes that Ares couldn't pinpoint. "I can't stand the sound of you acting like this is your fault. Sure I don't believe you but you didn't do this to me." 
_ _

_ _ _ _ *God, did Owen crumble quick.* Ares spoke to himself silently. Maybe years ago Ares would've taken pride in that. The ability to break down stone into sand with nothing but a single gaze. Power was something Ares knew. It was a rope that he couldn't let go of, solid and unmoving, that tugged on his hands in a burning punishment. *Was this power? Did Ares want power here? No, of course not.* This was sick, nauseatingly unbearable and unnerving in every horrible way that could and couldn't be spoken of. 


 "Listen..." Ares pressed his lips together, then opened them again. He was fighting against his screaming mind, the mind that told him to shut his mouth for good. 

 "I dont want to be like this, but here we are. Thats not something *You* Could change." The voice that spoke uttered the words like simple fact. Yet, a melancholic tune echoed underneath the deafening sounds of anger.
Thomas
Ares' insistence cut Owen's urge to coil in on himself like a sharp sickle in his stomach, slicing jaggedly through the cords pulling his shoulder inwards, his head down. If nothing else, Owen obliged out of *Surprise*—none borne of any ill expectations of his friend in particular, but of his visible disgust at his reaction. Normally, Owen made himself small. He did so after saying something that dipped too far, and if he didn't: he tasted the cold metal door of the bathroom stall against his teeth, the phantom gush of hot copper from his tingling lip.

The blow never came.

For all Ares' power, he wanted none that Owen couldn't match; ironically, it was a reason they were there in the first place, a fear of the smaller boy's come to be quelled, though uneasily. Shoving his hands under his biceps and his feet between the cushion and the armrest, he faced Ares with a look like a dog with a lip unwittingly hitched on a tooth.

In the spaces between Ares' words, Owen could practically hear the new pathways growing, stretching, cracking, popping like trunks too sun-thirsty to abide by nature. The darker boy's every choked-out, *Spat*-out word still hacked at him with as little mercy as they did their source, but they didn't land on a blank slate, that *Vicious* Self-loathing didn't mingle with dead silence. Owen's heart pounded against his ribs and those against his palms as the hiss of evaporation tickled the corner of his eye.

"So—but—something has to. Something has t-t-has to give."

Alright, then. If Ares would have none of Owen's sorrow, he could taste his frustration instead, flushed still with with that accursed thick, sweet honey-like feeling. *I want to throttle you,* His words might have implied, *And my heart bleeds when you speak.*

"I don-don't think I'll be letting you step on me, but I'm not leaving you to r-*Rot*."
_ _

A hundred Owen-signature flowery, reassuring affirmations buzzed past his tongue, the sweetness jarring against the taste of oil and sweat and asphalt.

"Because there's... There's so much of you that-that hasn't."
Travis
For all of Owen's attempt, the only thing inside Ares was a sickening sense of dread and discomfort. This conversation never got easier. It was like holding onto spiked rope, barbed wire cutting his palms. Regardless of who, Ares just wanted to let go. Stop trying, let the other hate him. It was always better that way. 

Less of this stupid back and forth. 

After Owen had finished speaking, his typical stutter and the sweat on his brow leaning further into the panic Ares could sense without a doubt. The taller boy just sat. Still and staring, tense with a deep brow. His eyes flickered between things in his head, almost like he was considering his next words. 

The sounds pressed at the tip of his tongue, threatening to break loose. Ares could feel it, his gut urged him to string together the sentence he needed— *Wanted* To say. Yet, his brain cried out in alarm. *Dont be weak, not in front of someone like him.* Ares' mind was rude and callous, yet never did the boy fail to listen.

He sighed dejectedly, looking away from Owen with a frustrated scowl.

"You don't get it."
Thomas
"*You* Don't!"

The clearest sentence that had come from Owen all evening, his half-raised hackles coming up under the blue moon above them. It was impossible for the boy to keep his heart out of his throat, his words bending wetly through it.

"*Fuck* This s-ss-suh-*Stutter*," He cursed under his breath, fist hitting his crossed arm. Everything came out of him garbled and stilted the minute it counted, meanings warped in translation—it was as though he were pulling arteries and trying to see words in the streams, divining digestible explanations from what he felt was inexplicable nature. It wasn't that he hated what he sounded like—in that, he really did try—but the way others read him made him want to tear out his hair.

"I'm c-*Capable* Of 'getting it'," He pushed out, now willing himself to look pointedly at Ares now that the other couldn't meet his eyes. "Y-you said you don't think I'm d-dd-*Stupid*, yeah? Do you think I live in a world where-where nothing, no one is-is ever *Ugly*? Do *You* R-really need to teach me that?"

Through the salt water that flooded in hopeless streams from all the cracks forming in the dam, Owen's voice became steadier. Ares' teeth had hit bedrock under his skin, passionate despite how he flinched, and dug his fingers into his arm, his toes into the fabric of the chair; his eyes burned, irises reflecting red as the light from his scleras seeped into the warm brown.

Owen felt his every vulnerability like a broken bone in a thunderstorm, the liquid maelstrom beneath every gap in his armour. He gritted his teeth, holding the plates apart by sheer will—Ares collided with an immovable object not nearly as unforgiving as he would have pictured one being, but just as stubborn. The redder of the two did not simply refuse to protect those spots as weaknesses; he found his strength worth wielding from the soft places, for the necessity of it, for the love of it.
_ _

And he did love Ares. Far, *Far* Too much to let him be so hardheaded about what Owen knew of his own strength, what he made of his past failures.

He repeated.

"I'm not leaving you to r-rot."
Travis
A slight smirk of amusement pulled at the corner of Ares' mouth. His crossed arms fell as he looked at Owen. An expression of ever so slightly visible surprise and amusement mocked the change in Owen's behaviour. Clearly he wasn't as calm and understanding as he tried to be. Ares had *Known* This, but never did he see that suppressed anger, those hidden fangs, in anything outside of his music. It was invigorating, a twisted adrenaline rush to see him *Almost angry.* 

Ares brought out the worst in people, truly he did, but how else where they made to communicate with him? Ares didn't bother to listen to whines and cries of the patient. The only words that mattered to him were the blunt barks of those who had the strength to stand equal to him. Owen wasn't quite there yet, but he was getting somewhere.

"You get it? Oh yeah, I bet you do." The words came out mumbled with an eye roll. "You're stupid yeah, for trying so damn hard."

Typical for Ares to say, but something was behind those words. Something whispered with something *More.*

"You didn't just... *Leave,*" Finally, he said what was smudged between the lines of his aggression, "You refuse to leave, unlike everyone else." Ares looked conflicted at saying this, yet he pushed it out anyways. 

There a crack appeared. The faintest glimpse into the cause of his actions. The things he said he would explain but refused to, violently with bared teeth. 

"Its annoying. So yeah, you are stupid. You don't leave."
Thomas
Owen swallowed that twisted look on Ares' face with all the grace he could afford, feeling it twist his already sickeningly-wound guts. If his friend had meant it, it would have hurt him so much worse.

Instead, Owen held tightly to his sides as spears flew behind the war god's eyes, feeling some intrigued kind of sick. What Owen refused to entertain as an option was Ares' shivering fear, every time he opened his mouth—he was all hot fear and cold sweat, no less a child desperately lovesick for the world than Owen himself. 

And with that, he saw Ares' snaps for what they were. Why else would he be looking so hard?

"Quit calling me stupid."

His tone was even, short but tired. The other was saying nothing that he hadn't told himself a thousand times; the sting of that simple truth had all but calcified, a statue of a once-devastating beast. Perhaps it did still scare him—its echoing despair and frustration rode out of his body in hot tears, in the pink crescent marks of his nails on his skin, in the roars that the walls of the music room soaked in day after day that were as desperate as they were cathartic—but it was no feeling he hadn't been awash in before, and our hero's palm wasn't yet too slick to grip his shield.

The recognition, in a way, was nice—he always did appreciate Ares' bluntness.

"I'd feel so—*Fucking*—lost here without you," He spat, striking the arm of his chair with his heel. "I'm under *Nn*-no illusions you need me like that, but ev-even when you're trying *So bloody hard* To be a *Cunt*, you mean a world to me that-that I never expected to set f-ffoot in in, in my fu-ffucking life."

His voice had broken twice over, and Owen felt deep in his chest how it doomed him. Ares would surely have reached the end of his rope by then with his tears, despite how it would have broken his chest all over again to leave without trying to make him understand.
_ _

Owen expected that cleaving feeling to be something like loss; instead, it felt like desperation, a truly old kind, reeking of a little alien boy without a mothership begging the earthen creatures to teach him their language in return for whatever of his heart he could give them, all they could take.

For Ares' sake, he held himself together, eyes fixed to a spot on the floor that looked cold and inviting.
Travis
Ares felt something flicker against his bones, the swift burn of a sparkling lighter flame. It stung, but the warmth was nostalgic in ways he couldn't place. Hypnotizing flames, the crackle of pain and a tantalizing need to keep his eyes locked on the unwavering blaze. 

The desire to let the warm flame cure his frost bitten fingers and shaking limbs was undeniable and disgustingly upsetting. Submit himself to the comfort of something he so desperately needs, all while rejecting everything that kept him strong. There was a pride in his resistance to the freezing air that enveloped him. He never crumbled against the snow, even when his hands went numb. The white death meant nothing to his spirit, he knew nothing else. Now, there in the storm, was a fire. A flicker of home, safety, a break from the snow that pelted against his skin like bullets of ice and crystallized cries of pity. Ares wanted to reach towards it, the unfamiliar comfort, the boy knew the cold would kill him slowly and painfully, but what was he without it. Would he be weak to succumb? 

The thoughts raced against his skull, battering with a deafening noise. Ares shook his head with a frustrated sneer and grumble of air. 

This was a desperate display of the crushing habits Ares' frozen fingers were failing to cling onto. 

Without the promise of anything else, anything different, the loneliness and boundless emptiness didn't feel so horrible. Now stood right across from him was the living and breathing contradiction to everything Ares wanted. He never knew how badly he could want someone like Owen— how much he needed him. 

Not yet was he ready. He didn't know why. 
_ _

Ares shot upwards, out of his chair, tense and wound up. Staring down with a rage none could place. Very little standing between Owen and the explosive boy he wanted so desperately to understand. 

"You're lying to me!" Ares raised his voice. "I don't mean anything to you... You're— you're saying bullshit! I could die tomorrow and you wouldn't care!" Beneath his quick paced breath was a hitch in his throat, a falter in his brow. The warmth of anger pressed behind his face, and the sting of sadness made his eyes flicker. 

"You're like everyone else! You'll get sick and fucking tired of me once you realize I. Can't. Be. Fucking. **Fixed.** Im not something that will change for you! Ill never be better— no matter how many people try and tell me I was made wrong!" 

As much as he wanted to deny it, this was display of vulnerability in the only way Ares knew how. 

"You'll... You'll find out that I've been fucked over so hard by my shit life and everyone that thought they could be different and you'll fucking **Leave!**"

His breath was quick, it made his shoulders rise and fall as he spat out this angry spill of years and years of his bones being broken over and over again without ever being healed. Stood across from Owen, towering over him, unmoving, was a display of what happens to those who are given no love, no bandages for their wounds— only the stinging scratches from concrete and the empty whispers of those who wish to change him, fix him instead of help him. 

Behind his screaming eyes, tears pressed against the ember. Threatening to break down everything Ares wanted to portray. *Crying would be detrimental— he'd never recover.*

*Pathetic. Pathetic. You're pathetic.*

"You're a liar..."
Thomas
Ares had startled Owen before, blessed with loud, sudden noises as he was, but he had never made him jump like this. Here was no joke, no *"Ha, got you"*, no end in sight. Half of what he said, what he *Shouted* Into his folded figure even reached his skin before it began to ache badly enough to send a lurching, heavy sob up through his head. His tears were heavy, and didn't fall slowly; the boy's chest hurt, it *Hurt* Like there were knives in it, twisting through everything vital. A familiar wave of heat pushed outward from him, low red light shining through the shirt over his chest and curling protectively over his upper arms under his sleeves. 

In the back of the boy's mind, it growled fearfully as it could find no blades to halt, the onslaught seeping under it still.

His shoulders shook with helplessness, his face reddened with anger, and his hands pushed hard against Ares' chest as he forced his limbs apart in order to create a moment of distance. Owen fought for oxygen, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes as Ares broke every bone he'd been thrown. Everything in his torso was wound so tightly that in between sobs, he feared he might suffocate.

"I'm *Not*, I'm not, *I'm not a l- a luh- a liar!*" He forced first through gritted teeth, building to a shout. "I'm a fucking *Useless* Liar and y-and you *Know* That!"

Though his volume now compared to Ares', Owen's voice was hot mud and desperation. His knuckles rapped quickly against his forearm, venting a frantic pulse.

"I'm not—I don't want to ff-to *Fix* You like you're some *Dog* That—" He hiccuped, practically smelted to his place, his words arcing wildly like solar flares around him. "I'm-I might *Hate* Myself sometimes but-*Guh*, I'm not *That* Kind of m-miserable."
_ _

On the contrary, it was Owen who felt something like a dog, head firmly twisted downward, invisible tail stuck between his trembling legs. It was all coming out of him now, cathartically sharp and painfully reckless, every word as true as it needed to feel in the moment.

"I don't fucking *Care* If you're ever b-better, I n-I ne-ed you *Now*," He breathed, choked nearly to a whisper. His nails dug hard into the backs of his arms now, they boy's skin glowing yet another angry red from beneath.

A single drop of cold sweat fell down his spine.

"I've-I've always t-t-*Treasured* Your b-your bluntness," He panted, lungs stinging. "You want me to leave-to leave so b-adly?" Those deep, mournful red eyes searched for Ares', the rare eye contact sharp and invading. His voice raised a final time to a shout.

"*Look me in the eye and tell me you never want to see me again!*"

A whisper, pure agony. Owen held the final dagger out to Ares, pointed straight at his heart.

"T-tell mm-me, and I'll-I'll never annoy you again."
Travis
For a moment, there was silence. No words uttered over the sounds of Owen's attempted muffled sobs and Ares' heaving breaths.

He held his tongue, stared at Owen's shaking figure, felt his trembling hands against his chest. As if Ares would ever hurt the other. The larger boys teeth were clenched, yet he shook ever so slightly with an unnoticeable fear. He watched the other sob, break down, cower under his anger. And yet, it made Ares so incredibly feel empty. Usually, this sort of power was used against those who deserved to be knocked off the high ground, deserved to taste the bitter dirt now stained with blood. It filled Ares with pride to bring assholes to their knees in his shadow. Not this time. Not Owen. Owen didn't deserve this. 

Ever so slightly, Ares' anger shifted. It twisted into an anger at himself, at what he had become. A disgusted guilt at the way he pushed everyone away so violently. The shame he felt in the fact Owen genuinely thought Ares might hurt him. 

Ares had the audacity to cry about his loneliness when he created no space for those to rest. He did not give those around him a place to stay. He was barbed wire and nails sticking out of floor boards, never creating a home or any welcoming space. 

*Is this what he wanted? Is this what he deserves?* To be alone again, to feel the song of the snow beckoning him towards a life of isolation beneath the ice. He couldn't tell, he didn't know. He didn't know anything. 

Ares closed his mouth, his lips pressing together in a scowl that portrayed a whirlwind of emotions. It ached with disbelief, what was he doing?

"Owen, I—" His voice was levelled, the yell at died out with the ash that smothered it between his lungs. He sighed, cut himself off, and removed his gaze from the trembling boy in front of him. 
_ _

He took a step back, and sunk back down into his chair. A defeated gesture, giving away the intimidation the boy had tried so desperately to hold onto. Ares loved with sharp teeth, he didn't know how to be gentle. He wanted to tell Owen to leave. To run far away, to never look back. Not for any benefit of Ares, but for the benefit of him. Owen deserved more than Ares, more than the cuts and bruises Ares brought with his twisted idea of affection. Ares left destruction in his wake, a clattered and broken attempt at love. He had been told far too many times by far too many people about his hostile nature. How his hands brought thorns and wasp stings. He would not subject Owen to the same fate. 

Ares didn't say anything. He simply looked down at his hands, resting on his knees. Held together tightly. The scars on his knuckles were raised, ugly, and a sign that he was condemned to his violence. 

"I don't want you to be like everyone else. You, or Fin, or anyone else I've grown close to here." Ares looked up at Owen, the same look of anger but this time the most raw display of pain was dashed across his expression. Slowly his anger was breaking down, rusting his edges and poisoning his lungs. 

"... I— wouldn't know how to deal with you leaving. I hate that. I hate that I actually want to be around you. I thought that, pushing you away would help but I just feel worse." Ares ran both his hands over his head, letting them rest against his forehead and temples. The covered his eyes, the shake in his voice. 


"I thought you'd leave, but you haven't and that's different. It bothers me. You're sticking around too long and you're seeing that, I am actually a horrible person. Everyone realizes it eventually— they all hate me. I don't understand you." His voice wasn't angry anymore.
Thomas
Owen, who had never been one to hold his emotions secret, was at his most unreadable standing before Ares with a face streaked in tears. As his storm of a friend spoke, he offered no hints about what he made of his words; he only stared, shaking with every breath.

And the depths of someone he loved so much's pure, unfiltered *Hatred* Of himself was a difficult thing to stare at. As he talked, Ares took his offered dagger and plunged it into his own leg, sitting back with a huff as though the sting made no difference to him anymore, his very self merely a sheath for his array of weapons.

With stilted motions seemingly more spasm than intent, Owen pried Ares' scarred hands apart with his own, which were hot and sweaty and *Strong* Despite the weakness crawling through his very bones. He wrenched the other boy closer and held those hands there, those brutal, torn-up machines of pain, the only hands Ares ever got, and crushed them in his own.

These were the gates. The crystallizations of everything he had been made to be, sickeningly thorough, heartbreakingly well-defended.

Then, he threw them behind him, those gates, catching his beloved friend around the ribs with an embrace that was stubborn and crushing all the way to the fingertips, which dug into his back and grabbed handholds of his shirt. Heading straight for his chest, his heart. Owen's prized gentleness wasn't so soft, here, for Ares' sake; it was fearless, direct, utterly undeniable—everything Ares had inspired him to be.

He shook him once, for good measure, his head colliding solidly with that broad, terrifying shoulder. The copper-maned boy hadn't stopped crying, but his sobs had lessened, tears flowing silent aside from his laboured breathing.

Tears not just for his own sorry self, but for Ares, who truly didn't know the truth of how his every word broke his friend's heart.
_ _

"There's just no reasoning with you, is there," He said, all-but whispered, voice soft and still trembling as it sank into the warm body he clutched so insistently. "Bloody lucky, you are, that we have that in common." He planted his feet.

"I hate you a *Little* Right now, if that eases the shock."
Travis
The sudden gentleness of Owen's hands prying at Ares' wrists, moving his arms to the side was a type of tenderness the boy rarely felt. Not only was Owen attempting, he was insisting. Foreign concept, someone wanting to show that type of affection to Ares. It sent a shock through his body, he wasn't entirely sure how to deal with such a gesture. 


Half of Ares cried out in violent alarm. He hated the softness, took it as the cold uncaring metal of a trap that was luring him in with false comfort. It would snap sooner or later directly onto his bones, break them clean in two and leave him in the dirt. Let him taste the familiar rust, yet make it all the more bitter with the empty promise of what could've been. Ares wanted to shove Owen off, protect himself from the attachment he felt burning within him, run the opposite way before he was ensnared. His breath went quiet, his arms remained at his side as Owen pressed himself into Ares' chest. The firm pressure of the other's arms around his ribs was familiar in a sense. Similar to the way his siblings would hug him, once in a blue moon, but never did an action like this come with such an unsettling emotional weight. 

Ares didn't move. He didn't push Owen away. He couldn't, not as he felt the salty tears soak into the fabric of his jacket. Ares was the product of a cruel world, but even with all the wounds that stung his skin, he simply couldn't do that to Owen. He knew how it felt to be abandoned, left to feel the gravel sink into his palms as he wondered what he possibly did wrong. For all Ares' bite, for each sharp and unforgiving tooth, he couldn't bring himself to be that person for Owen. 
_ _

"I guess not." Owen was right, reasoning with emotions was not something Ares was good at. Not even remotely. The words came out flat, unmoving; they rumbled from within Ares' lungs, a raw sound Owen would definitely hear with his ear pressed to his chest. 

Slowly, Ares raised his arms. He wrapped them around Owen's upper back and shoulders, letting himself return the embrace. It was a firm type of pressure, mixed with the enveloping feeling of the taller boy leaning down into Owen. Ares was not even close to used to this, and felt rather stupid hugging him, but could not turn him away. As upset as he was, it would be far too much. So instead, he simply placed his arms securely around the other, pressing him closer to his chest. Owens heart beat pounding against his ribs. 

"Good, you'd be right to hate me."
Thomas
Ares' arms around his back were stones holding the bonfire in place, the heavy cover of nightfall over sore, stinging eyes. Against him, where their ribs pressed together, something crackled and melted, heat leaking through Owen's shirt; it was a small sound, like glass deciding to fold and vanish over shattering, but it changed the feel of the smaller of the two's body against him.

His arms wrapped tighter around his dear friend, the now-softer curve of his chest raw and craving the pressure with even more of an ache now that his armour was tucked beneath his skin. It still pushed at him, through his hands, through the crooks of his elbows, and his face pressed fixedly into his shoulder, but Owen remembered, slowly, how to breathe calmly again. 

He couldn't imagine Ares' difficulty in embracing him like this, and silently hoped that the fire in the palms splayed over his back were something of a comfort to him. If Ares squirmed, Owen would release him, but the touchier one could rest where he was for an age or two more if he was allowed.

"Maybe," He murmured, after a long time. "But you know I won't for long."

A little laugh punctuated that, not tinged subtly with a strange sadness. Owen never had it in his heart to despise anyone, not truly—not even the grotesque, unworthy thing Ares thought he was. Not when they made such beautiful music together.

"You're my lead guitar," He mused, half to himself. They both knew that he meant it in a sense far deeper than purely literal—they could harmonize, with their metal strings and beautiful distortion, and it did mean the world. More than that. "The *World* Could one day-one day love you like I do. Finley does." His fingers traced feather-light circles between shoulder blades.

"We can *Make it*, Ares."

A plea and reassurance both, spoken with a conviction the timid Owen could only dare muster in a whisper. He spoke of a world far smaller than fame and fortune.
Travis
After about twenty seconds Ares grabbed Owen by the shoulders and moved him, firmly but gently, off of him. The two were still standing close, however. Ares didn't notice the reaction that the others powers had to the embrace, due to him being very in his own head, but the warmth was welcomed. 

"Okay, now you're pushing it." A wry sort of smirk on his face, a tired expression that did not have his usual firecracker bastard-ness behind it. Yet, he was still being insufferable as always. 

The gesture was appreciated, and he'd never say a word about it. Ares needed some reminder that maybe it wasn't the end of the world to be vulnerable. The sun would rise tomorrow, everything would keep living. Nothing crumbled, there were no consequences for compassion. Ares was still learning— this was a good step.

"Yeah... Our band probably wouldn't work if I was like... *Hated* Nation wide." He gave a scoff sort of laugh, a dry expulsion of air. Once again, he would die before explaining how much this band meant to him. Finley and Owen had become so very dear to Ares, and although at times that thought made him want to self destruct, he wouldn't change his band members for anyone else. The taller boy could only hope one day they'd both know that genuinely. 

"I'd sure hope so." 

Ares tapped his hand on Owen's shoulder twice. A solid gesture of brotherhood.
Thomas
Owen's signature lopsided smile was more tired than Ares would have seen before; perhaps, though, it had always been so weighted, brightened by the now-dampened sparks in his eyes. Something in his shoulders was lighter, however, like something had slipped from the air that allowed his spine to bounce back to his true posture.

"Hot-headed sonofabloody *Headache* And a *Stubbed toe.*"

A little awkwardly, Owen returned his gesture after a moment's lag. It wasn't the end of the world, he supposed, if they were on different frequencies sometimes.

"Th-thank you," He blurted. He stared at his feet and pulled at his knuckles, no longer knowing what to do with his hands. "F-for indulging me."

Owen closed his eyes, lingering on the smell of gunpowder, rain-blunted cologne, and metallic studs still pressed into the space around him. It was his turn to feel a little silly, no matter how real and overwhelming his feelings—call it a reflex, maybe, to show remorse for melting out of his shape.

"Now, and... And all the time. *Cachu...*" His fingers lit over his elbows again, forearms pressing into his chest. "You hardly know what it *Means*."
Travis
Ares punched Owen lightly in the shoulders, a sort of rowdy nudge that was a desperate attempt to shake off the pity that dripped from this entire interaction. He may have taken a step in a better direction, but thats all it was, a step. Perhaps one day he would be able to talk like this without feeling a sense to make up for it. 

"Come off it man, you're fine." Ares shrugged slightly. "Im not like... Tolerating you or whatever. Trust me if I actually hated you or didn't want to be around you we wouldn't be in a band or anywhere close to friends." He looked down at him with a softer yet stone-still expression. 

"I don't pretend n shit— too exhausting, too much effort, yknow." 

The taller one laughed slightly at the name Owen had called him. "Being a *'bloody son of a headache and a stubbed toe'* Is my best trait cmon, you know this." Mocking his accent slightly with his palms faced up while speaking, before snickering again. 

He leaned back slightly, feeling the aftermath of embarrassment and guilt, but also a sense of relief. Maybe things would be better. 

"We tight man." 

He held his clenched hand in front of him, inviting Owen for a fist bump.
Thomas
Owen's face was the most bewildered glower Ares ever did see as he knocked his fist into his. The emotional firestorm was already cooling into incredulity—Ares could assure him of all this, and still believe so fervently that the same couldn't be true for him?

*...Oh.*

Suddenly, he and his friend both were the silliest thing he'd ever contemplated. Owen's chest shook not because he was crying again, overcome with gratitude that one of his closest friends didn't hate him, but because he was laughing—a snort, under his breath, and then an exhausted cackle, spilling deliriously from his suddenly-clear head.

"P-pardon me, I—" He wheezed, pressing the heels of his hands into the forming ache in his temples. "I'm sorry, I d-don't-"

He took a deep breath, lest Ares change his mind and throw him through the window (surely as was his right, for being laughed out of what was no doubt the most emotional display of the dark-eyed boy's last handful of years). Still, his eyes sparkled with humour as he pressed his lips together to keep from giggling while he strung his words together.

"D-did you really just watch me disgorge *All that* Just to—to tell me pretty much the same, just like that?!" *Did he* Hear *Himself?*

"Ah, we're similar kinds of *Fucked*, aren't we."

Though his voice was laced with a morose sort of humour, there was a weight to his last sentiment, one that only really sank in after he said it. What a couple of things to have in common with someone—being too fed up to merely *Pretend* To care, and too wounded to believe anyone else possibly *Could*. He snorted again, and thought he might start another round of sobbing.
Travis
"Looks like we are." He snickered. Ares' voice was tired— hoarse from the anger, drenched in sickly bittersweet honey that made his words bubble from his throat with a slow muffled sound. 

The boy didn't want to be angry at Owen; yet the aftermath remained from his display of desperation to cling to the barbed wire that cut his palms. The blood still dripped from his raw skin, rusted his rings and stained his fingertips crimson. Soon it would heal, soon it wouldn't hurt. He just needed patience, from both himself and others. Ares knew he'd get better— even if that voice inside of him still longed for the pain of the spikes wrapped firmly in his grasp. A twisted nostalgia that Ares would both miss deeply and never wish to experience again. 

"Brothers in that aspect, I suppose." A relieved expression on the tan boy's features. 

Things would be better.
Thomas
Owen's head was clearer now, on a lull from expulsions of tears and laughter alike; he was exhausted, but he could hear the sand grating on Ares' throat, the roots still growing in on themselves despite the new ground being so much more accommodating. The Ares before him was a conscious attempt, a delicately drying coat of paint.

He was overwhelmed, then, with pride, in a resolute smile pointed up at his friend that cut into his blotchy red cheeks sharply and strongly. It was the sort of smile that said, *"I know this was hard, and that you know I know, and I care, and not in the way you fear I do,"* That showed the still water behind his deep brown eyes.

He always loved when he could make Ares laugh.

"Honestly. How else could it go?" The pale boy squared his shoulders a little stronger as the two of them walked back toward the stairwell, matching the other's gait.

Things would be better.