Ghost ⇔ Cake ✓

Two: The Black Hoodie

Luke dropped Ashton off later that night. Ashton would have killed to have stayed with Luke overnight, especially after such a hell of a day, but curfew was curfew.

Luke stalled his car at the foot of Ashton's front steps. His blue eyes were guarded, as they so often were, a mask of charm and elegance that didn't quite match his actual personality. Ashton took his time removing his seatbelt.

"You okay?" Luke asked. He caught Ashton's arm as he reached for the door handle. "For real."

Ashton nodded. "I'm okay." Luke hesitated, and then eventually released his arm, settling back into the driver's seat. He blinked at Ashton under long blonde eyelashes.

"Alright, then," he said, and put his hands back on the steering wheel. "See you later, man. I'll pick you up in the morning."

Ashton just nodded again. One of his favorite and most repeated actions. Sufficient enough to pass for an agreement, a greeting, a farewell, anything you want to make of it. Yet it kept him from having to talk.

Ashton made himself get out of the car, and he closed the door firmly. Luke waited, as he always did, for Ashton to get inside safely before leaving.

Ashton hurried up the steps to the front door, always anxious about making Luke wait, although Luke does it for each of his friends and most definitely doesn't mind. Ashton pulled open the door and gave Luke a half-hearted wave before going inside the house, shutting the door behind him. He stayed there for a moment, listening to the brief silence that followed. He heard Luke's tires crush against gravel as he pulled out of his driveway and back onto the road.

Ashton turned around only to bump straight into his father, and he lept back violently, almost smacking against the front door. His father smelled like alcohol. He recognized the same scent of beer that Michael drinks. Only Ashton's father drinks it out of necessity, not for pleasure.

"Where've you been, boy?" Mr. Irwin said. He leaned one hand against the front door, the other dangling by his side. It held a nasty smelling bottle. "Fucking around with your asshole friends?"

"They're not-- bad," Ashton managed. As usual, he couldn't seem to speak the curse word. "I was at Calum's funeral, Dad."

Mr. Irwin lazily looked down at Ashton's attire, and he plucked at his oversized coat. "The one that got murdered, eh? Got what was coming to 'em after all."

Ashton's heart rate picked up. He didn't say anything, simply glowering at his father as he took a swig from his bottle. The beer sloshed against the sides. Ashton's stomach churned painfully.

He pushed against the door and started to slide past him, but his father smacked his beer bottle by the side of his head onto the wall. Glass shattered and slit his cheekbone, warm, sickly beer dripping down the side of his face. Ashton remained silent.

"Where do you think you're fucking going, huh?" Mr. Irwin said. He dropped his hand and looked at the beer on the ground as though he just noticed it. "Go get me another beer. Make yourself useful for once."

Ashton stepped over the broken glass the best he could, but he could feel them digging into the soles of his shoes. He walked into the kitchen and saw his mother, who sat delicately at the kitchen table as though nothing strange were happening in the other room. She watched Ashton with a weird expression on her face as he grabbed another beer from the refrigerator, something between a blank expression and an odd, half twisted smile. Like she isn't sure whether to console him or ignore the matter completely.

Ashton moved back into the foyer. His father stood there waiting.

Mr. Irwin snatched the beer from Ashton's hand, and then he grabbed the side of Ashton's head and smacked it against the wall.