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They're not in Chinatown when it happens.
Sing is aware that he's acting on behalf of the whole gang now, since Shorter is really gone. But even though Sing knows what he knows now (it was a mercy kill; Ash did everything he possibly could have; all of us blame ourselves and we probably always will), he's forbidden from sharing the truth of the matter with the Chinatown boys. With his Chinatown boys.
And so, he agreed to meet Ash on neutral ground, just because there was no chance in hell that Ash's scrawny white ass was gonna make it anywhere in Shorter's territory without someone jumping him.
... Sing's territory, now.
But even if it's his now, Sing still doesn't have the authority that Shorter did. And Sing's not confident that he can keep his guys from attacking Ash if he sets foot in their streets, not when they all still think of him as the white devil who killed Shorter. And if Sing's guys attack Ash, Sing can't protect them. Sing can't keep them safe. Not from someone like Ash.
Not from someone as strong as Ash.
But anyway, some bullshit like this would have never happened to Sing on his home ground. People in Chinatown know the name Sing Soo-Ling—or at least they know Shorter Wong, and kind of remember seeing Sing on his heels a few times here and there.
(Ash was probably on Shorter's heels more than Sing was, but it wasn't for Sing's lack of trying. What Sing would have given to be invited along to the places the two of them went alone.)
And even if some roundeye perv managed to walk far enough into a Chinatown bar to flirt with Sing, half a dozen of Sing's boys would have a gun on him before Sing could even say a second "no" out loud.
But this asshat doesn't quite have the lucky break he might otherwise find himself with, even though he happened to try to get handsy with Sing outside of Chinatown. In fact, Sing thinks, a little starry-eyed at the realization, the guy probably would have preferred Sing's gang. They'd be a hell of a lot less scary than Ash Lynx is right now.
"Ash, come on, he didn't mean nothing by it," Sing tries, even though part of him wanted to pull a gun on the older guy too.
Ash doesn't even glance at Sing, keeping his eyes on the dirty old man the whole time. He gestures with his gun, flicking it in the direction opposite Sing. "Step away from the kid, if you value your life."
The guy hesitates for just a moment, and he moves as if to put an arm around Sing's shoulders.
The sound of a gunshot in the enclosed space makes Sing's ears ring. Or maybe it's just the proximity that has Sing's eardrums screaming. There's a bullet hole in the wall behind him now, right over his shoulder. Right where the guy's hand was about to be.
Sing didn't even see Ash move. And, maybe even more impressive, he never felt like he was at risk of being shot. Not even in that moment where he realized how close the bullet passed by his ear. Not after the moment settled, either. Not as long as the gun was in Ash's steady hands.
"Now, jackass," Ash growls. "I wasn't asking your opinion on the matter."
The guy puts both hands up, finally taking a sluggish step away from Sing. As he does, Sing can smell the alcohol on his breath, almost as if he's sweating it out his pores. "This one yours, then? Got a claim here?" he slurs.
Something flashes in Ash's eyes, and for a moment Sing thinks those are about to be the last words this man ever says. He sees Ash's grip tighten on his revolver.
"Ash!" Sing tries. "Leave it, man. He's not worth it."
Ash still doesn't even glance at Sing, but half a breath later he seems to regain some composure. Their perverted new acquaintance looks back and forth between Sing and Ash, but this time he wisely keeps his mouth shut.
"He's not mine," Ash spits out through gritted teeth. "He's a teenage child, and a person, and he doesn't belong to anyone."
The guy looks over at Sing, almost like he's expecting Sing to come to his defense somehow. Sing, unfortunately, is a little too busy being awestruck. If he were going to be anyone's, he wishes he could be Ash's. Part of him does want to protest Ash's words, if only just to insist that he's not a kid. Ash is only two years older than him, after all. They could be classmates in high school right now.
If things were normal, they could have been classmates.
(Except that Ash would have skipped a million grades and graduated early, and there's no way Sing would be accelerated enough in anything to be in the same class as Ash, but maybe they still pass each other in the hallways. Maybe their lockers are next to each other. Maybe Ash and his track team boyfriend Eiji are Sing's upperclassmen, and maybe they're even in the same class as Lao. Maybe Shorter's in the homeroom class next door. Maybe instead of Lao wanting Ash dead, he just gives Sing a normal-kid talk about normal-kid older boys. And maybe Sing would be embarrassed, but he wouldn't have to stand up to his older brother about it, because he knows Ash would never hurt him like that. Ash would never hurt anyone like that. Maybe Shorter gives Sing rides to school on his bike, and maybe his helmet has a mohawk too, and maybe Sing wouldn't have to watch his body burn and then run from the scene and find himself in a bar half a year later with the kid who shot him dead.)
Another gunshot snaps Sing out of his fantasy world, and his eyes refocus on Ash.
"I'm going, I'm going! I didn't know, man!" the guy yelps, shuffling farther away. He's not screaming in pain, so Ash hasn't actually hit him yet. Sing isn't stupid enough to think that he missed, though he's not sure he can say the same for the drunk bastard who's stumbling over himself at Ash's fury.
(And isn't it a good thing, really, that Sing didn't stay in that make-believe land for long? It would have fallen apart as soon as he tried to imagine why it is that Ash would never hurt him. Most of the violence and terror in Sing's own life can be reconciled with a normal teenage life, as long as he shuts his eyes and shakes his head hard enough. Ash's life, though ...)
"You're really gonna stand there and try to convince me you didn't know he's a kid?" Ash demands.
The poor drunk bastard's wet himself now, a growing dark spot on the front of his pants, and people around them are snickering at the scene. Sing's face flushes at the spectacle he's caused, and he tries to drown himself in his glass.
"Look, man, he's sitting at the damn bar! How's I'm supposed to know that he's a kid when's he's sitting at the bar? Kids ain't sitting at bars, yeah? So I didn't see him's as no kid."
"Save it," Ash hisses. "I don't give a shit what you thought. I know your type. You didn't think twice, did you? You didn't care how old he was. Didn't care if he was legal. Not really. You saw that the kid was five foot nothing, saw that he's small enough you could probably hold him down if you needed to, and your disgusting prick did the rest of the thinking. Your minuscule, ethanol-soaked brain only made it as far as 'jailbait' before giving up control to the stronger half of your instincts."
Sing's face is burning. He knows Ash isn't trying to humiliate him, but that doesn't make him feel any less humiliated. Yeah, Sing is short, even for his age. He always has been. But he's not some damsel in distress, and he's perfectly capable of protecting himself.
(On the other hand, he can't deny that it feels real damn nice to be protected. Especially by someone like Ash. Is that such a bad thing?)
Sing takes another few swallows from his beer. He's always found alcohol disgusting, but it sure does get the job done when he's stuck in his own head. They're lucky that neither Ash nor Sing are strangers to this venue, since there are plenty of bars in neutral territory that would throw them out in a heartbeat with the way Ash is making sure the whole place knows they're underage. But the Chinatown and Manhattan guys both come through this place often enough that no one even pretended to check their fake IDs when they slid past the bouncer.
Ash is still putting the fear of God into that douchebag. Sing isn't paying much attention anymore, but there hasn't been another gunshot, so it can't be going all that poorly. Sing peers at his glass from the side, taking stock of how much he's had to drink. Barely more than half his first drink, and it's just beer. So why does his head feel like it's floating away from his body? When the hell did he become such a lightweight? Ash is gonna make fun of him for this for sure, as soon as he has time for Sing again.
As if summoned by that thought, Ash appears at Sing's side, seemingly out of nowhere. How'd he get here like that? Sure, the son of a bitch has always been wily, but there's no reason to be playing that game in a crowded place like this.
Ash settles a hand on Sing's shoulder, though, and he feels kind and sturdy and warm. So it's not so bad.
Sing looks up at him, watches the way his eyes catch the light. They almost seem to glow, the way a cat's eyes are reflective enough to look like they have their own light source in a dimly lit alley. And they're so green? So, so green. Sing can't stop staring. Even online and in photoshopped advertisements, the most pale-ass white bitches like Ash never have such green eyes. They're always more of a blue-green, or a gray-green.
Thinking about it, Sing wonders if the only other time he's seen such green eyes is on those white girls with the long auburn hair. The redheads that his science teacher said were gonna be extinct by whatever year, back when Sing still attended school. Sing squints up at Ash, trying to picture him with the fiery orange locks of a natural redhead. It doesn't work very well and the resulting mental image makes Sing snicker under his breath.
Ash's other hand lands on Sing's other shoulder, holding him up. Almost like they're slow dancing. Wouldn't that be nice? Sing can't remember if the guy or the girl is supposed to put their hands on the other one's shoulders. Whoever doesn't is supposed to have their hands on the other one's waist, right? Sing tries to envision it, nearly shuddering at how embarrassing just the thought is. Surely the guy puts his hands on the girl's shoulders, because Sing can't imagine touching a girl's waist like that. That's way too intimate, isn't it? It'd be less intimate with a boy. Wouldn't it?
Does that mean that Sing is playing the girl's part in this dance, since Ash—
Ash is shaking him by the shoulders now.
"Hey, kid! Is any of this getting through to you?"
"Ah, 'm sorr'," Sing slurs. "Can we star'over again?"
Ash's eyes narrow, and in a flash of understanding, Sing remembers who else has such green eyes like that. Cats, of course, like he thought of earlier. Probably even the blonde ones.
Ash releases Sing's shoulders, and the skin under his cutoff sleeves feels cold with the absence of Ash's hands. He considers wrapping his arms around himself to make up for it, maybe even holding his own shoulders, but he knows it wouldn't be the same. Besides, Ash is muttering curses under his breath now, and Sing wants him to be happy instead.
Ash is holding Sing's cup, swirling the contents and peering into the depths of the amber booze soaking its way into Sing's cranium. He takes in a breath of the aroma, and Sing's breath catches. He has an idea of what Ash might do next, and while his first impulse is to stop it from happening, he can also feel his face about to spontaneously combust from just the thought of Ash's delicate, full lips touching the same cold material Sing just drank from.
Ash takes a slow, careful sip from the cup, and Sing has to try really hard not to think about backwash to avoid cringing.
Then, with no further ceremony or explanation, Ash overturns Sing's glass, dumping the remaining beer onto the already sticky bar floor.
"The hell?" Sing demands. "Y'know 'at one was mine!"
Ash slams the empty glass down on the bar hard enough that Sing half expects it to shatter, then turns to look at him. Sing can't help the flush that arises now that Ash's full attention is on him. Was Ash really holding him by the shoulders earlier? Why was that more manageable than this? Nothing's changed since then, but Sing isn't sure he could deal with Ash's hands on him again if it happened now. He'd melt, or maybe combust. Or like, what's that thing when something goes from solid to vapor and skips everything in between? Sublime or whatever?
"Sing. I'm sorry you're in this situation," Ash says.
"It's okay," Sing replies automatically. "Isn't it?"
"It's not." Despite the certainty in his voice, Ash doesn't sound angry or scolding. If anything, he kind of sounds comforting. Isn't that funny?
"It's not okay?" Sing echoes.
Ash curses under his breath, throwing the word at the ground. Sing thinks it's shit, but he can't be sure. He wishes he heard it better, because he wants to use all the same words as Ash. It's kind of sad that Lao wants Ash dead and all. Because if not for that, they'd both be such huge influences in Sing's life.
Just like Shorter.
But that thought pangs with a sadness that Sing refuses to dwell on right now. He's taken time to mourn Shorter, and there will be more time in the future too. But for now, he wants to be happy. And he wants Ash to be happy. And Shorter would want both of them to be happy, right?
"I should have killed that asshole," Ash spits out.
"But you don't ev'r wanna kill no one, Ash," Sing insists. "You only do wh'ever you gotta. Like with Shor'. An' like with Arthur. An' e'ryone else, y'know?"
Ash shakes his head, maybe remorseful. That sounds like the right emotion, but Sing's not really sure. "Killing that fucker would be letting him go easy," he mutters. "Sing, he put something in your drink. Do you understand what I mean?"
Sing laughs. He can't help himself. "He can't spike my drink, Ash. 'S already alcohol, ain't it?"
"He drugged your drink," Ash clarifies, quite helpfully.
"Like when you're crossfaded?"
"A little more than that, kid. But yeah. Like when you're crossfaded."
Sing bites down on his tongue. He's never actually been crossfaded before—he's been drunk plenty recently, but he hasn't smoked a joint since before Shorter died. And never while drunk. But Ash just called him kid, and the thought of admitting yet another thing Ash has done that Sing hasn't already has his face burning with embarrassment.
"So what's I'm to do now?" Sing asks eventually, not really bothering to get the right words out in the right order. Ash understands him anyway.
Ash looks at Sing for a moment, but eventually he manages a smile. Even Sing can tell it's forced, which is crazy. Sing is pretty fucked up, and Ash is a damn good liar when he wants to be. So he must not be trying very hard right now.
"Just stay close, kid. I'll keep an eye on you," Ash mumbles. His voice is almost too soft to hear over the thudding backdrop of the bar, especially since Sing's ears are still ringing.
That part wasn't a lie, though. Sing thinks he can tell. If anything, he thinks maybe the lie was that Ash didn't say I'll take care of you or I'll keep you safe. Sing thinks maybe that's what he wanted to say. But that would be embarrassing as hell, so Sing's kinda glad Ash lied a little there.
Still, Sing does want to stay close to Ash. He does want Ash to take care of him. To keep him safe. And he wants to ignore the shouting voice from the back of his head, the one that sounds a whole lot like Lao. The one that's (correctly, but only kinda-sorta correctly) telling him he's getting real cozy with Shorter's murderer.
Sing shakes his head, trying to clear the thoughts, but it only makes the room spin even more. He slides closer to Ash, the way he used to with Shorter. Sing's always been someone else's shadow—Lao, Shorter, and maybe now Ash—but that's never really felt like a bad thing.
Besides, Lao's wrong this time. Sing doesn't have a head for numbers or any of that complicated crap, especially not right now, but he knows he can trust Ash. And Sing isn't some fuckass race traitor either, no matter what the tiny Lao inside his skull says. Sing is doing what's best for his guys.
Sing can't protect them from Ash. He can't protect anyone from Ash. People say if you can't beat 'em, join 'em, but it doesn't gotta be as complicated as all of that. If presented with a losing battle, pick a different battle. Not all the time, but sometimes.
And besides, Shorter trusted Ash. And, hey, even if he's dead now, Shorter still lived a lot longer than Sing has so far. So maybe trusting Ash is the way to go.
Sing wants to trust him. And Sing wants to be close to him.
"Are we—here?" Sing tries to ask. He thinks he forgot a word, but he's already half forgotten what he wanted to ask.
"Do you want to stay here?"
Stay! That was the word Sing forgot. Stay. He shakes his head. "Not here, no. Is that okay?"
"More than okay." Ash wraps an arm around Sing's shoulders, and Sing leans into him. Well, kind of into Ash's armpit, really, due to the height difference. But Sing's confident he's got another growth spurt waiting to happen any year now.
Ash starts to usher Sing out of the bar, and a voice in Sing's subconsciousness tries to scold him again. Saying he should be more careful, that he shouldn't walk out of a bar with an older guy when he's this fucked up. It makes Sing smile, though, and he keeps walking with Ash.
He thinks, maybe, it makes him smile because this time the voice doesn't sound as much like Lao. It sounds a bit like Shorter. And it sounds a lot like Ash.
Sing doesn't remember a lot of the night after that point.
Not really in a blackout way. In fact, he remembers feeling totally okay the whole time. Safe, even. The haze around his memories isn't frightening or ominous. The bits and pieces he can recall are full of laughter, giggling at jokes that surely wouldn't be funny now even if he could remember them. He can envision the feeling of Ash's arm around his shoulders, the way he never touched him more than necessary.
He thinks he pressed against Ash of his own accord, once, maybe just because Ash felt so safe. But Ash just carefully extracted Sing from himself, maintaining only enough contact to keep Sing upright. Sing whined about it, but shut up quickly when Ash offered to carry him princess style if he can't walk on his own.
All in all, it feels like the memories didn't stick in Sing's mind because they were so safe. It's not that he had to block anything out; he simply didn't have to pay enough attention to be able to remember it later. Everything was already taken care of.
He does, very faintly, remember one solemn moment. It stands out against the rest of the night—still barely remembered, but in sharp contrast against the floating, light moments.
"Sorry," Ash whispered to him. "I'm so sorry."
Sing twisted around on the couch, trying to hear Ash better. Ash was sitting on the floor next to him, but half a meter away, not leaning against the couch at all. Even at the time, Sing couldn't remember how they'd made it to that dusty abandoned studio. But it didn't feel foreboding.
He shifted enough on the threadbare couch that he'd had to pull the unfamiliar blanket back up over himself, and he suddenly felt almost nostalgic for a moment that he didn't think had ever actually happened. The closest memory he had was when he fell asleep on long car rides as a child, and woke up to Lao wearing Sing's backpack and scooping him up out of the backseat.
He pulled the blanket—surprisingly soft, he never forgot that part—over the cold spots on his shoulders, and he felt a little bit like he had a big brother again.
"Why's sorry?" Sing managed, after a valiant amount of concentration on the question. But Ash didn't answer. Just averted his eyes from Sing's questioning gaze. He kept moving his lips around the same vowels and consonants (I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry) but now Sing couldn't hear the words anymore.
In retrospect, Sing wonders if it's because he might have already fallen back asleep.
In retrospect, he wishes he'd told another dumb joke, or even just told Ash it was okay. That it wasn't his fault. Whatever he was crying over, it wasn't Ash's fault.
But then, if Sing's wishes held any power at all, Shorter would have been with them that night. And Sing is still trying not to blame himself for the fact that ... that he's not.
So maybe Sing does kinda understand why Ash was apologizing after all.
And maybe he even kinda understands how to help.