Patricia
_ _ _ _ The night was cold. Winter held heavy against the sky. Stars dotted the abyss above Ares' head like paint splatters over spilled ink. They drew him in; the endless cosmos. Not that he knew anything about it, not that he cared. The cold sunk under his skin, his breath puffed out in front of his face in a small cloud of air. It floated up in the moonlight, disappearing against the shine of the constellations overhead. Deep breaths. 

 The boy's bones ached in more ways than one. He had been working out twice as much as usual. Punching trees, walls, anything he could get his fists into. It was a pathetic attempt to remove pent up energy. Something was bothering him, and he didnt know what it was. Perhaps it was how *Well* Things had been going with Finley, *How he didn't deserve that.* His eyebrows tightened over his heavy eyelids. His face was twisted into a scowl, as he flicked his lighter on and off in his hands. 

 It had snowed earlier in the week. There was a light dusting of soft white on the ground and across the roof. The flame stood out against the cold, warming Ares' hands as it flicked on and off in the night. *Click.* Silence. *Click.* Silence. There was nothing but the sound of himself and the emptiness of the night. A sound Ares knew all too well; a sound he despised more than life itself. 

 It was late in the night. He had told no one he would be up here. A perfectly crafted scenario to remain isolated and on his own. Why was he doing this? He hated this. 

 *Click.* Silence. *Click.* Silence.
Roger
Owen stood for a minute in the cold, turning something over in his mind.

His hands rested in the pockets of his leather jacket, but they weren't relaxed; the not-often silent redhead clicked and fiddled as always, watching the distant light flicker on and off against the backdrop of diamonds spilled over infinite velvet.

Lurking hadn't been his intention— reaching high places without slipping and falling thirty feet in the silent, frost-slick woods was closer to it. He wanted to be beneath the stars, and the boy-shaped bonfire welcomed the cold's idle bite at his flushed cheeks, but a new factor was thrown into the mix: did he feel like being alone?

Clarification. Did he feel like being alone or with Ares, staring into space, flicking a lighter on and off, on and off, in the eerie stillness?

Sure.

*What do I need to fear from Ares anyhow*, came a murmur in the back of his mind, the dry crunching of powder beneath his boots marking his slowed strides toward his friend. *I'm in a fine enough mood. I can say something dumb about the stars, or his snake bites gathering frost, he can call me his dearest coward or something. See if I can make him laugh. Maybe.* 

*Shut it. You're friends, aren't you? You'll literally be fine.*

On a night like this, the quiet was a marvel, despite his discomfort in it; the cords of his earbuds disappeared into his collar, and his sharp ears picked up every *Click*. The dull rush of blood and otherwise in his ears didn't drown out the sound of heavy breaths in the dry, bitter cold as he stood next to Ares, staring at his little flame, alive then dead, real as his certainty.

The copper-haired intruder said nothing.

Instead, with a creak of old leather, the hand closest to the not-so-solitary figure shook itself free of its pocket. A warm hand, dusted across the back with cinnamon, tipped at the fingers with a low, softly glowing red, readied next to the lighter; thumb to middle finger.

*Click-*
*Clink.*
_ _

With the second sound, a spark of gold shot through his hand, a map of the veins in his hand, gone in an instant. Owen... Wasn't entirely sure why he elected to announce his presence by snapping his fingers. His arm dropped to his side, still stubbornly glowing against the cold; the light had a faint pulse to it, if one squinted.

It was just a little silly, wasn't it? The boy couldn't help but snort at himself, pointing a soft but wide, off-centre grin at the side of his bandmate's head. Still, not a word.
Patricia
_ _ _ _ Ares paused. His hand went still, he turned to look who had walked up towards him and stared daggers directly into Owen. His eyes were sharp, heavy and violent under a furrowed brow. 

 "Of course it has to be you." Ares grumbled. He shifted slightly in place, and turned back to look absently towards the sky. A part of him wanted it to be Danica. He started flicking his lighter once more. On and off, each time the small orange flame casted a light on the bottom of Ares' face. Paired with his scowl and scrunched nose, the firelight almost made him more intimidating than he already was. If such an achievement was even possible. 

 The clearly frustrated boy failed to look at Owen beyond a death stare that burned holes through his skull. Owen had grown to know Ares better than the stereotypes, and had never seen him directly violent. Except for right at this moment. When Ares flicked a lighter, under a furrowed brow, the scars on his knuckles were painted in a different light. They weren't sympathy inducing anymore. They were a warning. A cry that told those near to step back; leave the bear in his cave. Leave him. 

 Ares wasn't going to hurt Owen. Of course he wouldn't— but there was an energy to Ares that was undeniably furious. Yet, he didn't say a word. Owen had no way of knowing why.
Roger
The unwanted visitor balked at Ares' cold bite, his stomach twisting around a pit of coal now sinking through his centre. That crooked smile fell evenly, sharp eyebrows knitting into an incredulous squint; his eyes, sparks caught in dark amber, flicked away instinctively. *Of course it has to be you.* **Of course it has to be you.** Him, of course. *Snake-eyes*. He wanted to hurl, and melt into nothing, but his stubborn, stinging body stuck.

"Wh- the *Fuck?*"

Owen took a step back, fever rushing to his head. It took a second for the remark to sink in— was Ares expecting someone else? Well, of course he was, but why was he *Angry* That it was him instead? The boy looked for any sign of jest, a 'made you jump,' but Ares was a solid wall of smouldering misery. 

He had seen anger, pain, and idle malaise in those auburn eyes, but to catch a glimpse of them burning black with vitriol was.. Jarring. Especially jarring. Was it because it was from a friend, this time? Was that why it made him sad?

"What's g-gotten into you?!", he blurted, fists clenching in the pockets of his heavy jacket. His voice wavered in surprise, but it was sharp and clear in the frigid night— salt-scratched heels dug into the slippery powder, bracing for his answer. A younger Owen would have turned tail and ran but this one, with spine enough to demand an explanation, held fast to his spot.

Still, he hoped Ares wouldn't notice the shaking beneath his layers of cotton and black leather, and that he might catch the hint of concern in his tone.

"Did, did something happen?"
Patricia
_ _ _ _ Ares stayed completely still. He wasn't seething with some sort of unseen rage, ready to burst at the seems. He was angry, of course, but the kind of slow bitter anger that poisoned his skin and made him want to stay on the roof for the rest of his days. He wanted to sink into the night, set the entire forest on fire, punch a person he hated, maybe break something that meant a lot to someone. He didn't know— all he knew was that he felt like he was being clenched by an iron fist. The way the pressure crushed his ribs, entangled with his bones. It was white hot, painful. He hated the way this felt. 

 The lighter kept clicking on and off in his hands, deep eyes fixated on the small pulsing flame. A gust of cold wind, and it faltered and ducked back into the lighter. Ares closed it, lit it up again. He watched the small orange flame dance, and reach its small arms up towards the deep black ink above the two. With a small snap, the flame was gone. Completely. Ares didn't light it back up, instead he turned and looked over at Owen.

 "If you're going to be pissy with me— you can leave." Ares stared at Owen with an unnerving seriousness. There was annoyance tugging at his furrowed brow, and rage in his scowling lips, but the tone of his voice was smooth. It was deeper than usual, quiet against the rustling tree leaves. 
_ _

_ _ _ _ The silence of the night swallowed his voice, framed his tan skin against deep blue. It was a contrast to his normal environment. Ares was a firecracker boy, bright red and sparking with life and destruction all at once. He was the firework show that brings awe in the black sky, and the raining ash of fire that eats forests and leaves nothing but dust in its wake. He was an impact— he never let himself sink into the background. Except for tonight. Ares' black denim jacket, pulled over a loose hoodie, did nothing to make him stand out. The only thing making his presence known, was the small flame in his hand. A flame that was now gone. 

 "Nothing happened. Nothing that I can pinpoint anyways." Almost opening up, Ares cut himself off and scoffed. "....Im not gonna play doctor patient with you. Why are you up here anyways." 

 Ares was slouched over on a ledge. The roof was concrete, brutalist and scarp. There were many edges to lean his legs off of. Tonight, heavy black boots dangled from the cold grey, and his elbows rested solidly on his knees. The freeze of the winter night was beginning numb his skin. He didn't care.
Roger
Owen's heavy-lidded eyes stared at the lights of Isakstad in the distance as a thick jet of steam left his nose, his lips pursed shut. The heat had rushed to his head too fast; holding it there made him dizzy, and letting it fall again back over his shoulders and down his spine made him feel exposed. *Right. Lean into that.* The smaller boy wondered how he had ever done this without the humming beneath his skin. That... Made him feel strange.

*You're fine. It's not about you.*

"I'm not— *Trying* To doctor you," He mumbled, stubbornly sitting himself down next to his ill-tempered friend. His heels idly tapped against the concrete, and his toes almost got cold.

"Not being pissy either. *You're* Being pissy." *Wrong dialogue option badbadbad say something else—* "I'm up here because I need to be high up and all the trees are slick, and now also now because you're... Smouldering. N-not— not, um." The tapping sped up a little. "Not good to stew in it."

Slouching just a little, Owen trained his gaze on Ares' boots dangling less than an arm's length from his own, looking for any hints that weren't burning glares or jarring flicks of the lighter. In the night, he seemed to be painted over with a wash of melancholy, hues seemingly taken from copper and fresh apples shining closer to rust and dead leaves. Autumn, on the cusp of a frigid winter.

"I'm not busting your balls about it. But I'm not inclined to piss off just yet, either."

The callous tone tasted tough, he decided, like breaking in hard leather, especially when he was still inclined to believe such a situation required nothing but tenderness. It was unfamiliar to be on this end of it, but it wasn't alien entirely— he had been watching Ares closely for a long time, drawing a gestural map of the razed landscape he traversed with such a weight on his brow, such daggers in his eyes.

Owen picked out footsteps where he could, adjusting his stride, fiddling with the buckle hanging from the side of his jacket.
Patricia
_ _ _ _ Ares some what mockingly tilted his head back and forth. Rolling his eyes for a moment, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He held it in his hands, dead silent while Owen rambled on and on. *Just shut up already, you're digging yourself deeper into the hole.* After Owen had stopped, Ares looked at him. The same cold dead eyes.

 "Stole these from Margo, yknow. I don't even smoke. She is *So* Pissed with me, *Still* So many months later." 

 Ares shook his head with a scoff. He placed his hands behind him, and lifted himself up. Now he was standing tall beside Owen, the height difference shockingly obvious. Ares reached his free hand in the box, pulled out one, tucked it between his lips, then rolled his lighter over his knuckles. It clicked over his rings, and reflected the moon light above. The flame flickered to life with a tap, but instead of bringing the fire to the cigarette in his mouth, he held it underneath the box itself. 

 The fire engulfed the box, instantly. It lit up in a bright display of destruction, the orange light danced against Ares' face. It lit up the anger in his eyes as he peered down at the burning flames in his hands. It frankly smelt horrible, but Ares seemed unfazed. So much so, in fact, that when the fire pressed against the palm of his hand he didn't drop it. He simply tilted his head forward, lighting the one pressed in between his lips with the burning box, and dropped the flaming pack to the concrete below. The fire sizzled, and reached for anything left to burn, but once the cigarettes had been reduced to ashes, it quickly distinguished. 
_ _

_ _ _ _ The boy blew a cloud, opposite to Owen, and watched the smoke puff against his cold breath. With a deep inhale, he looked over at the other boy. Ares had the eyes of a viper, staring at a small feeble barn mouse. 

 "I dont smoke, at the best of times. Anyways." He gave a wry snicker, before returning to the subject Owen had been rambling on about. "*Not good to stew in it,* You say? Sure we can talk. Like buddies, pals, even." The tone of his voice was bitterly sarcastic. Poisonous. 

 "Yknow, why does shit fucking suck hm? People are assholes. Nothing happened, I just..." Ares stared down at the ashes. The way they moved slightly with the wind, down below the edge he had been dangling his feet off of. "I hate them. I hate em all. Fuck em, yknow." With his middle and index finger, he held the cigarette, took another deep breath. 

 At least he was polite enough to avoid Owen getting wafted with the smell of cigarettes.
Roger
Quiet clouds of steam pushed impatiently into the night as Owen willed himself to *Stop talking already, that's enough*. Ares, thankfully, was gifted tonight at creating situations that any sensible over-thinker would stop dead before puncturing with half-baked half-truths.

The horrible-smelling box of ash and death hit footprint-scuffed powder with nary a sound, but Owen felt it. Pulling one of his legs up from the ledge and holding it close to his chest, the leather-clad boy thought himself to be much the same; so very small, and charred, discarded. *Piff.*

Out like a nightlight.

Something like a sea urchin shifted uncomfortably in his stomach as he silently mused that he'd rather not feel like that.

Venom dripped from Ares' tone, poking at his eyes peering through the iron grate, and he felt smaller still. He reminded himself that the sneering boy was more than the burning pressure his mysterious simmering elicited behind his eyes, but his leg that still hung over the edge swung anxiously still. Wide-eyed children curled in the ash and the biting cold knew that tone well— *You are not a friend here. You are a fool for assuming so, even after they have told you as much before, and their smiles in your direction are not because you've made them happy.*

Flakes of chipped black lacquer vanished into the night off the ledge. He was doing this on purpose. *Would it kill him to actually tell it to me, just once? Anything at all?*

Owen's voice was lower now, and less clear as it cut through the three beats of silent airtime his deep, faintly aggravated breaths wrenched from Ares' scarred hands and their apparently new filthy habit.

"Well."
_ _

Generally, people telling him what was truly bothering them was better than an obvious lie (was that what this was?), but Owen rarely knew what exactly to do with the blunt honesty he asked for. He wondered how anyone did.

"I'm shit at being one, but I can't seem to get enough of people snapping at me," He grumbled, glaring out at the tree line. Ares could have a little passive aggression out of him, as a treat— that also tasted bitter and rotten, but something ugly and corrosive bubbled deep in his stomach, and holding it there was suddenly nauseating.

*He could always just leave, couldn't he?*

"*Shit*, man, what do I say to that? Every answer tastes like bile. Don't hate everybody, but talking to most makes me feel ill. No it doesn't- yes it does. How— what do you even—"

A muffled growl, and the study in muted copper dug his nail into another and ripped the polish off of it completely; his stomach roiled, regretting it immensely.
Patricia
```retconned, but remaining for brain rot purposes.```