Chapter Text
Danny woke up itching. A head-to-toe mania, an ache borderline painful, only made worse by a steady, shrill tone cutting through his ears. He couldn't see, and he didn't care because all he could think about was the itch.
He tried to wriggle free and found himself bound. He tried harder. He strained. He pulled. He writhed against non-compliant muscle, against skin too tight and too dry, until the smallest twitch passed over his face. Danny basked in the sensation of glorious cracking. He wrinkled his nose, and more relief sang like a sliver of sunlight. The hint of freedom only made the itch worse.
He clenched his teeth, worked his mouth, and jerked his head until the tightness around his neck gave way. He clawed his hands, flexed his wrists, and his arms mercifully broke free. His shoulders, his chest, the aching skin of his back. He stretched and rolled and heaved, until finally, with a crackling like autumn leaves or a sunburn peeling away or crisp air rushing into the stale rooms of an old house, Danny was free.
The Mansons were kind enough to offer their expansive home for the wake. It was true that they were never enthusiastic about their daughter's friendship with Danny Fenton, but death changes all things.
Danny was anxious. He felt something akin to stage fright, although he floated, invisible, at the edge of the room. Nobody knew he was there. He was the center of attention; a fact that would not change whether he decided to stay or not.
The room was awash in murmurs of spoken conversation and unspoken emotions. They rolled like fog in Danny's senses, more attuned now to the unseen than he'd ever been in life. It was nearly overwhelming, but he didn't let it chase him off. He observed from his perch near the ceiling.
There were more people in attendance than Danny had expected. He didn't have many friends, and his extended family was many, but far between. There were few relatives whom he had met more than a handful of times. There were fewer still who knew him in any way that mattered. Scanning the crowd, Danny picked out Aunt Alecia standing next to —
His aunt looked drawn tight. Out of place. Uncomfortable in her new suit jacket. She didn't visit often, but all of his memories of her were fond. Danny was glad she had come.
He recognized some of the adults as parents of his classmates, and some of his classmates as well. Dash Baxter's blond head of hair interrupted Danny's sweep of the room. He stood awkwardly by the door, looking stiff in his pressed black suit. Danny could guess that he was present only because his parents were friends with the Mansons. It seemed too unlikely that Dash would come because he cared. Quite the opposite. And yet, despite every torment Dash had put him through in the school hallways, Danny found that he didn't mind his bully's presence. A part of him was even pleased to see Dash so ill at ease. A small, incidental revenge.
Danny drifted along one wall and found Mister Lancer standing solemn by himself. Unlike most of the guests, the grief emanating from Danny's English teacher tasted genuine on his tongue. He lingered, breathing it in.
The room was saturated with emotion, but most of the feelings were not what Danny had hoped for. Discomfort was a heavy undertone marked by bursts of sadness and regret. Indifference hung bitter. It was what Danny expected, but he couldn't say he was pleased.
In that sense, Mister Lancer's grief was a reprieve from the noise. Danny settled on the window sill behind him and watched his English teacher shiver, frown, and glance around. Ghosts were common enough in Amity Park that the living residents had begun to recognize the associated chill, and Mister Lancer seemed to be particularly sensitive. The moment of concern interrupted his mourning, and Danny didn't like that. He retreated toward the ceiling to let his English teacher have his peace.
From above, Danny's view of the room brought the focal point front and center. He had been avoiding it thus far, but now he found his eye drawn. A siren call. A finely dressed horror. Himself.
A velvet rope directed guests, allowing each an organized moment of solitude with —
The line was dwindling. Danny didn't know the relative who stood now with her head bowed respectfully. The satin-padded lid stood open, displaying —
There were bouquets of fresh blooms framing the dark polished wood, delicate petals pale as bleached bone. Danny had never liked cut flowers. He hated how they slowly died, the stems rotting silently in their vase on the kitchen table. He wondered if flowers left ghosts, too.
Sam only looked briefly into the casket. She was impressed by the funeral home's work; Danny hadn't looked as lively even the last time she saw him alive. That was saying something, because even now his body was a far cry from life. The hollow cheeks painted with blush, the sunken eyes glued shut, the waxy shine to his skin. The brand new suit whose starched fabric would never chafe, the white lilies nestled around him, filling the extra space in the too-large casket. Sam retreated to her bedroom as soon as her parents’ attention was averted.
She laid on her bed now, wearing the only dress she and her mother had ever agreed on. A book lay open, face down on her chest. She could hear the murmuring voices downstairs, even with her bedroom door shut. No peace to be found.
Tucker was succeeding at distraction, absorbed in his PDA. He lounged in a beanbag, paying no mind that his suit jacket and slacks were getting rumpled.
The guest of honor floated near the window. He was occupying himself, creating tiny sculptures out of ghost ice. Shimmering, misshapen geometries formed a small pile on Sam's desk as he worked each one, then restlessly tossed it aside. The pile was a decent size by now.
Tucker broke the silence. "Should we…" He wet his lips when Sam and Danny looked up at him. "Should we go back downstairs?"
Danny's latest creation evaporated and he wrung his hands. He would have shuffled his feet had he been standing on the floor, but he was no longer tethered by gravity. Danny's body was just a memory now, formed to his convenience. He shifted, loosening his focus and allowing his form to trail off from the waist down in a hazy, wavering tail, coiling with anxiety that didn't show on his face.
His discomfort slipped through again in the form of an echoing reverb in his voice, as if he spoke from inside a cathedral behind a closed door. "We can go down, if you want," he said to Tucker. "I'll just…" and he began to fade from view.
Sam sat up. "We don't have to, Danny. My parents are probably going to yell at me later for hiding, but that doesn't matter. Really," she stressed when Danny scowled. "Unless, "she quirked a brow, "do you want to?"
"I —" Danny's words dried up. He tried to speak again, then frowned, at a loss. He drifted down to coil around Sam's desk chair.
His two best friends watched him with concern. He had been like this since Friday; words periodically escaping him. His brow furrowed, and the shadows on his thin cheeks shifted with the light from his glowing eyes as his gaze tracked invisible thoughtlines back and forth across the room. He fought with himself for another moment, then looked up.
"You guys are sad," Danny observed.
Tucker winced and fidgeted with his PDA. Something like distress flickered across Sam's face before she schooled herself.
"I mean, aren't you?" asked Tucker.
Danny shrugged.
"I'll miss you at school," Sam offered.
Danny laughed, echoing and light. "I won't miss school."
"You say that now," Tucker teased. His grin faded, Danny's good humor going with it.
After another beat, Danny drew himself up and tried again. "You know how they say funerals are as much for the living as they are for the dead?" He crossed his arms over the back of the chair, sunk down to rest his chin, and glowered. "I think they might be entirely for the living."
Sam scooted to the edge of her bed and went to him. The air surrounding her dead best friend was several degrees cooler than the rest of the room, but she eased her arm around his shoulders anyway. Her bare skin tingled where she touched him, made of so much energy and belief as he was.
He leaned in and mumbled into her dress, "I hate this party, but I don't want to leave."
Sam squeezed Danny tighter.