Chapter Text
Fatherhood is tough, especially when you're a broke college graduate fresh out of a breakup.
Still, Ash finds some solace in the way his daughters beam at being taken to IHOP, even at three in the afternoon. Plus, it helps keep his mind off the gnawing emptiness sitting in his chest.
Son and Ghosty had practically begged him to go—insisting they were starving, that there was no food at home.
Ash had no choice but to give in. He had to shut them up somehow.
It’s a slow afternoon, so they’re seated almost immediately. Ash is grateful; thanks to his constant need to pamper his daughters and fulfill their every wish, it’s been a while since he’s had a meal. A proper one, that is.
The aroma of toast and bacon in the air makes his stomach growl. If the stares from nearby diners last a moment longer, he might die of embarrassment.
They don’t even need a menu to order. Ash asks them to bring them some pancakes and water, and that’s that. He doesn’t have the money to buy anything more extravagant.
He hears Ghosty let out a small, disappointed noise, but she doesn’t push it. It tugs at his heartstrings. At the last minute, he requests they top his daughter's pancakes with strawberries and a side of whipped cream.
The waitress nods and hands coloring sheets to Ghosty and Son. Ghosty squeals with delight, even though her palette only offers purple, red, and orange crayons. Meanwhile, Son traces her tiny fingers along the windowsill.
“How was school today?” Ash asks, watching Ghosty color outside the lines.
The question reminds her that she’s still in her school clothes. She shrugs off her backpack, then dives back into her coloring. “It was good,” she answers, lifting her head to ask, “Can you pass me the red?”
Ash raises a brow. “What are you planning to use red for on your—" He leans in closer to see her paper. “—pancake coloring sheet?”
“Don’t be silly, Abba,” Ghosty replies, shaking her head for emphasis. Her long, white hair flops into Son’s face, but she continues, unfazed by Son’s complaints. “It’s frosting!”
He chuckles. “You mean syrup?”
“No, it’s—”
Son swipes Ghosty’s hair out of her face. “Stop it! Abba, tell Ghosty to stop!”
“I’m not doing anything,” Ghosty insists, sticking her tongue out and crossing her arms. She makes a point of swinging her hair toward Son. “See?”
“Ghosty, don’t do that to your sister,” Ash says with a snicker. He leans back and puts one arm over his chair, giving her an amused look. “That’s rude.”
Her lips pull back into a frown. Before she has the chance to argue about it any further, the waiter returns with their drinks and a heaping plate of pancakes drizzled with syrup, paired with another plate piled high with whipped cream.
It already smells delicious, and Ash has to stifle a laugh at the way Ghosty’s frustration melts off her features.
She cuts off a piece with her fork and knife and digs in without another word. Ash follows suit. It’s as fluffy and delicious as he could ever hope for. Son seems to agree with the sentiment, because she doesn’t even make fun of either of them for chewing as loudly as they are.
Maybe splurging their money here was worth it.
Before she’s even finished chewing, Ghosty pipes up again. “Abba, I have a question—”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
She puts a tiny fist over her mouth and swallows. “Abba, I have a question,” she echoes. When Ash nods in acknowledgment, she continues, “My teacher said there’s a fair in town today. Can we go? Please?”
Every fiber of his being wants to say yes. Hell, he'd give his daughters the world if he could, even if it sent him into crippling debt.
Yet, looming over him like a dark cloud is the harsh reality of being a single father living off minimum wage.
He's really got to watch his budget.
"Oh… uh, is there a fee to get in?" he asks slowly, fork playing with a piece of pancake.
Her fingers drum against the wooden table, its surface now tacky with spilled syrup. A sticky sheen clings to her hands. Before Ash can object, she’s spreading the goo all over the fabric of her expensive dress.
And yes, forty dollars for a child's uniform is expensive to him, thank you very much! For that price, Ash could refill his meds.
Ghosty's stained fingers pull out a crumpled piece of paper from her backpack. She waves it in front of his face, then slams it onto the table. Her sleeve—now stained with syrup—drags along the paper, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles. It hardly does anything.
As a matter of fact, she's only making a mess. Ash gently pries the sheet away from her, and she appears to have no qualms.
Ash scoffs when he sees how much the fair is charging.
Sixty dollars for only two hours of entry feels outrageous—he feels like he’d rather be robbed at gunpoint. Judging by the images on the flyer, the fair isn’t living up to the price either.
Frankly, it's a rundown attraction. He can tell it's designed for children who won't mind the shabbiness as long as they're having fun. The Ferris wheel in the back seems so dilapidated that he wouldn’t be surprised if it broke down in the middle of a ride.
To make matters worse, that fee doesn’t even cover food. If his girls wanted to eat junk food while they were there and go through the classic rite of passage of throwing up from a ride, they’d be out of luck. Not that he’s keen on that happening.
Basically, it's the biggest scam he's ever seen in his life.
Ash could buy some actual food with that money, rather than waste it on some lousy fair that'll be out of town by next week.
So, he says, "No." Ash shoves some more pancakes into his mouth to keep from saying anything else.
He immediately regrets his words once he catches the dejected look on his daughter's face.
Son wears one too, though hers is more subtle, hinted at by the slight droop at the corner of her mouth.
Ghosty attempts to put on her best puppy eyes. It's a skill that needs workshopping. When she does it, she looks like a depressed hamster rather than anything. "Please? Abba, pleaaaaseee?"
"Ghosty—" Ash starts.
“Can we, Abba?” Son interrupts, her voice barely above a whisper, yet it tugs at his heartstrings hard enough for her to pull him in whichever direction she'd like.
He’s unsure if it's intentional or not. Considering she’s only three years old, it’s more likely the latter. The idea of Ghosty teaching her how to use the skill to her advantage isn’t exactly off the table, though.
"We can't," Ash mumbles, despite how badly it hurts to say. They deserve a father who can actually afford to take them to shitty fairs. Or anything, for that matter.
He cuts another piece of pancake as he adds, "Need to watch how much money I'm spending."
A pout forms on Ghosty's lips. She bounces her leg and cuts her pancake so hard that Ash is almost afraid that she’ll cut through the plate. It draws a few stares, too.
"Whatever," she grumbles. Her fork stabs through the center of the plate before she grudgingly shoves a piece into her mouth. "We didn't need to watch our spending a month ago."
Son glances over at her sister, who is angrily shoveling pancakes into her mouth. She rubs the fabric of her sun-patterned tank top between her fingers.
She looks at Ash, and after taking a small sip of water, asks, “Abba, what happened to Uncle Ewron?”
Ash inhales sharply.
That sharp inhale sticks between his ribs as he holds his breath. It feels as sharp as a knife.
For a moment, it feels as if he can't breathe. Son seems to sense it; her expression softens as she leans over to whisper something in Ghosty’s ear. The anger slowly fades from her face.
His chest tightens at the mention of him, and he pushes the feeling down so fast it almost hurts. He does that a lot these days.
One might say repressing your emotions isn’t the healthiest coping mechanism for, well, everything that’s wrong with you—from your mental health down to your finances. But it's always easier to ignore his feelings than acknowledge them.
If that doesn’t work, he’ll drown them out with some nice liquid courage. Sometimes weed.
Feeling the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins as he downs another shot, only to end up collapsing and vomiting moments later, is far more preferable to the never-ending emptiness in the pit of his stomach.
It's so, so much easier to let it all boil underneath his skill until the temperature becomes too much. Until he breaks.
Son gently brushes her tiny knuckles against his. He barely feels it, but it helps enough that he manages to suck in another breath, as shaky as it is.
"It's… It's nothing for you to worry about," he replies quietly. Any louder would give away how his voice trembles—he doesn't want to worry his girls. A pre-teen and a toddler shouldn't have to worry about their father's love life.
He's always had that habit, he thinks. Being weak for his family. It might've been one of the few things Ewron ever got right about him.
Son gently draws back her fingers. "'M sorry, Abba." She glances away, and Ash can sense the weight of guilt pressing down on her. Among his two daughters, she's always been the more empathetic one.
That’s not to say Ghosty lacks empathy; she just expresses it in her own… unique ways. "Didn't mean to."
Ghosty cuts straight to the chase. "So… can we go to the fair?" Her persistence makes him laugh. She's always had weird tendencies like that, and Ash doesn't think he'd have it any other way.
Oh, fuck it. Who cares if he blows a shit ton of money so his daughters can go to a shitty fair?
Actually, his wallet and his bills, that's who, but he's not thinking of that right now.
Ash smiles at them as he plops some more pancakes into his mouth. He swallows, then says, "Fine—"
Before he can finish his sentence, both Son and Ghosty raise their arms in the air, cheering in unison. While Ghosty spreads her arms wide like she's rallying a crowd, Son's enthusiasm comes through in the lively wave of her hands.
Ghosty bursts out with a chorus of “Thank you!” and “You’re the best!” and Ash can’t help but let out a soft, fond chuckle.
As Ash notices the waiter approaching, he carefully sets aside the napkin resting on his lap. "The fair doesn't even look that nice. I don't know why you wanna go so bad," he opines, watching the waiter take away their empty plates.
"My friends—" Ghosty pauses. "Our friends," she corrects, "—are gonna be there. Grzegorz said he's gonna bring all his dads."
Right. He forgot about Ewron's kid.
Well, all the Hussars technically have custody of him, so it's more of a group effort, but Ash only ever saw him around Ewron. Sometimes Graf.
He fears for how that kid's gonna turn out in later years.
It’s not his place to dictate who his kids hang out with, and he knows he should respect their choices, but there have to be better options out there.
The waiter rounds the corner, and with that, they're gone. Ash leans back into his chair, then slowly, very slowly, asks, "And do you have, uh, other friends besides Grzegorz…?"
Ghosty shoots him a look, half in surprise and half in offended confusion. "Abba, do you not like him?"
Ash clicks his tongue. "It's not that I don't like him, Ghosty. I think you can hang out with whoever you want as long as they aren't, I don't know, an axe murderer or pot smoker. Well, maybe when you're older you can hang out with—"
"Is pot smoking like gardening?" she asks, and Ash hopes none of the diners around him overhear that and decide to call CPS.
"Yeah, sure. Go with that," he gives a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Just don't go around telling your classmates that daddy said that."
She nods, and they fall into a comfortable silence after that. Ghosty shifts her focus back to her coloring sheet as her sister watches over her shoulder.
Before long, the waiter returns and hands Ash the bill. With a sigh, he reaches into his thin wallet. There's not much to his name, so Ash can't give the waiter a tip. He hopes that doesn't make him seem like an asshole.
When they make their way back to the entrance, Ash thanks the staff for the meal, but Ghosty tries to snag a few mints from the counter. He gently swats her hands away.
"I think Ghosty got more pancakes than I did," Son complains as Ash herds them out the door.
As soon as Ghosty steps outside, she dashes toward the parking lot, where cars are still actively pulling in and out. Ash freezes, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He nearly falls flat on his face as he grabs a fistful of Ghosty's dress to pull her back.
Ash really needs to get a leash for her. Maybe some dye for his premature grey hairs while he's at it.
"Oh my god," he pants. "Ghosty, don't do that shit—" Whoops. "Don't do that crap ever again."
She stares blankly at him. "I wanna go to the fair right now! Can we go right now?"
Tightening his grip on the back of her dress, Ash tugs her towards their car. "Okay," he huffs. "We can go now. Just behave on the way there."
Climbing into the back of his car, they, in the nicest way possible, nag him. He slides into the driver's seat, but their yapping doesn’t let up. God, he really shouldn't have let them hang out with his ex as much as they did.
Ghosty refuses to sit in her booster seat, insisting that since she's turning ten, she's a big girl who no longer needs it.
Ash lets out a groan. "Just sit. Don't you wanna go to the fair? Only good girls get to go to fairs—"
"Abba, look, look!" Son yells. Ash looks over his shoulder to find she's managed to buckle herself without any help.
"Aw, good job—"
"I can do that too," Ghosty chimes in. "Look, I'll do it better."
Apparently, all it takes for Ghosty to follow instructions is a bit of competition. Noted.
Ash pulls out of the IHOP parking lot. The girls immediately start arguing over what ride to go on first, and he has to tune them out for his own sanity.
Along the way, the cheerful jingle of an ice cream truck fills the air, drawing their attention. Ash can't help but stifle a pained groan. He can already hear the clamoring of his children.
He watches Ghosty jostle her sister, then point toward the truck. "Do you want ice cream?" she asks.
"No," Son answers. Ash lets out a sigh of relief. "I wanna go to the fair."
Her brows knit together, and she lurches forward, yanking on Ash's sleeve. "Can we get ice cream?"
He shakes his head. "I don't have the money."
Ghosty makes a show of rolling her eyes, huffing, and shuffling where she sits. "But I want it. Son wants it too, she just isn't telling you."
"No, I don't—"
"Yes, you do."
"Nuh uh," Son rebuts.
Ash notices that Ghosty’s mouth is open for a retort, but he’d rather avoid the endless back-and-forth that follows. He jumps in before it can go any further. "I don't have the money," he repeats. "You girls need to pick between the fair or the ice cream."
"But I want both," Ghosty whines, and Ash's face fractures with sympathy.
"Well, in life, there are times when you can't have everything you want." Trust him; he knows all too well what it's like to long for things out of reach—or for that which aren't good for him. People, specifically.
She interlaces her fingers and rests her chin on them. "It'll be cheaper. I'll get the smallest size. Please?"
“Well, the ice cream truck is still on the road,” he shrugs, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “I can’t pull them over.”
As if on cue, the truck comes to a stuttering, wheezing stop along the sidewalk. Great.
He presses on the brake. Begrudgingly, he digs into his back pocket for his wallet, then drops it into his daughter's outstretched hand. "Just go," he grumbles.
She leans forward to press a kiss to his cheek. Then she tosses open the car door and leaps out, her giggles ringing in the air.
Ghosty returns with a small cup of vanilla ice cream, already gulping down a spoonful. She hands his wallet back, and it feels lighter. Flies could come out of it at this point. There's definitely not enough to pay the entrance fee for the fair.
"Are we going to the fair now?" Son asks.
He hides his worry with a smile. "Yeah, yeah. Uhm, do they take credit cards, by the way?"
Both of them shrug. "I dunno," Ghosty mumbles, licking her spoon clean.
As Ash finally maneuvers his car to a stop along the sun-drenched sidewalk, a wave of anxiety washes over him. He pictures the disappointment on his girls' faces when they can't get into the fair they were so excited for because their father is a broke bum.
A pang of guilt stabs at him. Maybe that stop at IHOP, delicious as the warm, fluffy pancakes had been, was a bad financial decision.
Oh, who is he kidding? That was definitely a shitty idea.
He’s practically chewed a hole through his cheek. Ash steps out of the car, the summer breeze rushing past him. He heads to the backseat, where he's greeted by the sight of Ghosty spilling almost all of her ice cream on her dress, which is already speckled with syrup stains from lunch. Beside her, Son looks on in horror.
"Ew," she squeals. Her hands grip the fabric of her shorts tight, as if she's afraid the mess will reach out and ensnare her, too.
"How'd you even…" Ash attempts to finish his sentence, but doesn't get very far before bursting out into laughter.
"This feels gross," Ghosty complains.
"You're the one who made the mess," he points out.
She has nothing to say to that. Instead of a response, she turns her head and peers out the window. Ash spots the shabby fair on the distant horizon.
Suddenly, Ghosty unbuckles her booster seat and flings the car door open. For a brief moment, Ash stands frozen in disbelief. Then his senses kick back in, and he dashes after her.
Soon enough, her little legs begin to tire from running, and Ash, being a fully grown man, quickly closes the gap between them.
They're just about near the fair's entrance now. He can even make out a teenager, no older than sixteen, slumped in the ticket booth, barely hanging on as fatigue sets in. Poor guy. If only he knew it doesn't get any better.
Judging by the way Ghosty beams up at him, she doesn't see anything wrong with what she did. "We're here!" she cheers.
He smells him first.
Ash takes a deep breath of the summer air to calm himself down, to smell the dampness of the grass and the funnel cakes being made nearby—but all Ash smells is him.
That stupid red cedarwood scent—expensive in a bottle. Paired with a hint of bamboo, too, for some reason. Whenever he asked about it, he never got a real answer. As usual.
It closes up his throat so fast that he can’t breathe.
Sometimes, while he's out at work, he'll smell faint whisps of it in the air. It only ever lasts a couple of seconds. Before, he used to whip his head around and search for that familiar set of auburn curls, but he's long since given that up.
This time, it won't leave.
It's not meant to last more than a few seconds, but it doesn't leave.
His chest stutters with each breath he tries (and fails) to take, as if he’s trying to draw air through a bent straw. It hurts to even try. Ash feels his daughter clings to his leg, having somehow made her way from the car to him, but he’s rooted in place.
He casts a glance to his right—a mere flick of his eyes, since turning his head is too difficult.
Ash watches in slow motion as Ewron's eyes widen. Even as he kneels to embrace both of Ash's daughters rushing toward him, that stare holds steady.
In hindsight, Ash should have expected to see Ewron here. Ghosty had mentioned something about his child earlier, and now the little one is clutching Ewron's hoodie. A broken expression washes over Ash's face.
He can only sit there, staring at Ewron as if the world is about to collapse around him and tear him apart. Is he shaking? He can’t quite tell.
Logically, Ash should feel angry. Hateful. That's what normal people feel whenever they come across their ex in public. Sure, there's a tight knot in his stomach, but he wouldn't call that hate.
There's a part of him that feels a hint of yearning woven in as well, though he has no intention of acknowledging it.
Ewron rises to his feet and flicks his eyes up and down his face like he’s waiting for Ash to say something.
He doesn't know if he can.
“You’re here,” Ash whispers. The tightness in his throat makes it hard, but he manages.
The sound of screams from people on rides and the bustle of the crowd fade in his ears. All he can focus on is Ewron's voice as he says, "Grzegorz wanted to go, so I took him. Obviously."
Ash's fingers curl in on the fabric of his sweats. Of course he did. Grzegorz gets everything he wants because his father is a pompous, rich asshole.
Which he didn't mind before, back when they were, you know, but—
He tears his gaze away. "Well, we're going," Ash states firmly, taking hold of Son and Ghosty's clothes and pulling them close. "Goodbye, Ewron." The name drips with venom, a stark contrast to the sweetness it once held.
Practically dragging his kids to the entrance of the fair, he grumbles a bunch of curses under his breath.
The tightness in his face doubles, and his shoulders come up like a defensive shield. He can feel the way his lips quiver. From the threat of tears or anger, he doesn't know.
"Abba?" Son calls, "Are you mad at us?"
Ash closes his eyes for a moment. He can still feel his hands shaking, how his forearms tense and untense against his will. "No. I'm not—I'm not mad at you two, okay? It's just… grown-up stuff."
He lets go of his hold, and this time, neither of them runs off. Thank god. Ash doesn't think he'd have the energy to chase after either of them if they did. Is that bad to say?
"Okay," she mumbles. Ash tries his hardest not to let the guilt eat him up upon hearing how small her voice sounds.
Steeling his expression, he raps his knuckles twice on the glass pane of the ticket booth. It stirs the sleepy teenager inside. "Hi, can we have tickets for the fair, please?" he asks.
The boy doesn’t bother to look up. Instead, he extends a grubby hand through the cutout in the booth and drawls, "That’ll be… um, a hundred and eighty dollars."
Ash blinks. "I'm sorry?"
He cocks a brow. "A hundred and eighty dollars," he reiterates. "It’s sixty bucks each."
A quick peek at his wallet reaffirms he doesn't have the money for one ticket, let alone three. "Oh, um—" How’s he supposed to break the news to his daughters that they can’t go to the fair without setting one of them off in tears? "I don’t have the money."
"I can pay it," a voice chimes from behind. He doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is.
The words: It's fine. We'll just go home to our shitty apartment you left us with. We don't need your pity, are on the tip of his tongue.
They dissolve quickly in his mouth when he notices the way the light in his girls' eyes brightens twice as much and how they run over to Ewron's dumbass kid. Fine. He’ll allow him to pay. Just this once.
Ewron's smile as he does feels like a mockery. It doesn't matter if that's his intention. Ash doesn’t like how it looks on him.
After receiving their tickets and putting on their admission wristbands, they head inside. As he walks alongside Ewron, their shoulders lightly bump. Ash doesn't know why he noticed.
The aroma of popcorn mingles with the scent of damp earth. It reeks. Ash struggles to keep from gagging.
He wipes off his shoulder with a chagrined curl of his lip. "Why'd you do that?" he asks. Immediately after saying it, he cringes. Why does he sound so desperate? Ash isn't desperate. He shouldn't be.
Ash hates that he still has that effect on him.
Ewron shrugs. "Do what?"
Irritation builds up behind his sinuses. Still not exactly anger, though. Why can't he be angry at him for once? "That. Don't play dumb, Ewron."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Even after all this time, Ash can't shake off the frustration that washes over him every time Ewron lies. He doesn't know why. Lying and Ewron are practically synonymous—it's just part of his nature.
It's as if he were a dog, eagerly waiting for a bone to be tossed his way. All he wants is a shred of honesty. Is that really so hard to ask for?
Before he can come up with a response, Ghosty's already pulling him in different directions. That’s how the rest of the day goes. Every time he attempts to pin Ewron down for a clear answer, he gets whisked away by either Ghosty or Son. Hell, even Grzegorz on occasion.
Whenever it's not him being harassed, it's Ewron. Which, to be clear, Ash enjoys seeing. Definitely.
Well, he did. Ewron's stupidly good with children, despite his rather questionable parenting methods. So tender it puts a lump in his throat. Ghosty grabs his hand and tugs him toward the ring-toss booth, begging him to win her a prize. Unfortunately, he fails miserably.
The kids laugh, and Ash finds himself snorting under his breath, a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips.
Eventually, he manages to win her a prize. It's nothing extravagant. Only a frayed teddy bear bound to come apart at the seams any minute, but Ghosty acts as if she'd been given pure gold. She giggles and hides it behind her back.
He learns Ewron fits back into their dynamic too easily. As if he's always been there. It makes Ash want to keel over and vomit.
It's not like Ewron being gentle with his kids is new. When they were younger and drunk on love, if it can be called that, he was practically their second father. Sometimes he'd bring his own kid over, and all three of them would get together to play. They were a family, almost.
Before, it was sweet. Now, it only makes him feel bitter. The kind that makes Ash feel ugly with how awfully it sticks to his skin.
Ewron's probably only being nice because he wants to piss Ash off. Watching him like a hawk is exactly what he wants, but Ash doesn't care. He should say something. The only problem is that every time he tries, his throat closes up.
While they're all sat at a random table—eating food Ewron had to pay for—Son's eyes drift to the very end of the fair. When Ash follows her gaze, a tall Ferris wheel greets him. The same one he saw in the flyer. It's uglier in person.
Her back straightens, and she cranes her neck around to peer into Ash's face. She stays silent, though. After all, Son's never been the type of girl to be direct about her feelings.
Ghosty is the exact opposite. She takes notice of her sisters staring and tugs on Ash's sleeve, as if he isn't a mere foot away from her. "Can we go on the Ferris wheel?"
Simple answer. "No—"
"Sure," Ewron jumps in. The rest of his sentence practically dissolves in his mouth.
Ash stares blankly at him. The cheers from the kids fade into a distant hum in his ears. One of them pulls on his sleeve again, this time with more urgency, but his gaze remains fixated on Ewron.
Why does he feel entitled to respond to his daughter's demands? He’s not their father. Sure, he might've taken on that role a few months back, but things have changed. It was Ewron's fault that it all had to be thrown away.
Well, okay, maybe Ash played a part in that, too—but his was relatively smaller, okay?
The point is, Ewron's acting like he's a better parent than he is, which he isn't. Once Ash picks up a few more shifts and makes some extra money, he'll knock Ewron right out of the park.
"Abba, stop flirting with Uncle Ewron!" Ghosty shouts, tugging on Ash's sleeve one last time.
His brain short-circuits. Ash straightens up so fast that he nearly knocks into Ewron. His face feels warm and red-hot. "W—what?!" he sputters. "Ghosty, what?"
"Oops," she says with a giggle. There's an annoyingly wide grin on her face, and Ash already knows who she got it from. "Didn't mean to yank so hard. 'M sorry."
He can’t bring himself to correct her. It’s not good to let his daughter think that he and his ex are still getting along, but he can't bring himself to correct her.
Protecting her innocence is all. Nothing more, nothing less.
A glance to the right confirms Ewron hadn't reacted to the comment any better than he had. He coughs into his fist. "That's nice, Ghosty." Ewron feigns a nonchalant shrug, but the frazzled expression on his face is as clear as day.
"Yeah," Ash agrees. Ewron looks at him, and it makes him regret saying anything at all. "We should go," he murmurs. He doesn't know who it's directed to,
Ghosty cocks her head. "Huh?"
Ewron looks away, and Ash feels like he can finally breathe again. "Let's go."
All three kids groan in protest. Surprisingly, it’s Grzegorz who pipes up first this time. "Aw, but I don’t want to go. Ash, sir, I really want to ride the Ferris wheel, too. Please?" he begs. It's frustratingly cute.
Ash should say no. After all, this isn’t his kid—why should he care about Grzegorz’s feelings? But he’s always had the habit of doing things he probably shouldn’t.
"Okay," he breathes. "I just—"
Grzegorz interrupts him before he can finish. Like father, like son. "Tata can pay if you don't have the money."
Embarassment burns at the nape of his neck. Does Ewron tell everyone his business or just his kid? Ash shouldn't have told him about his financial problems. Shouldn't have told him about anything, period.
"Abba isn't poor," Ghosty argues. "He's just—er…" Damn. Not even his daughter can defend him.
"Your father is between jobs right now, Ghosty. He's saving money." Ewron finishes for her.
Ash scrunches up his nose. His hand seizes Ghosty's wrist, and he yanks her away from him."I'm not between fucking jobs. I have one already, you—"
He notices the way his daughters are looking up at him and trails off, choosing not to finish his thought.
"Never said you did," Ewron replies bluntly. He's doing that thing where he pretends he doesn't care. It's infuriating. Does he think Ash doesn't know him well enough to know when he's lying?
Ash knows him better than he knows himself. Knew.
"You girls are gonna go on the Ferris wheel, and then we're gonna go home," he grumbles. "We’ve got twenty minutes left of entry anyway."
It’s a lie. They’ve actually got about an hour, but he doesn’t want to be here any longer than needed.
Ghosty breaks free of his hold. "Okay."
They walk toward the Ferris wheel, with Grzegorz moving ahead to skip alongside his daughters, leaving Ash and Ewron trailing behind. They're close enough that their arms brush. From here, he can smell his intoxicating, smothering cologne from here, too. Ash thinks he could drown in it.
There’s space for him to move if need be. He doesn’t take it.
When they arrive, Ash remains silent. Another teenager is manning the booth, and they sluggishly hand Ewron the tickets after he pays. They’re definitely high.
Also, what kind of Ferris wheel charges for a ride? Seriously.
Ghosty and Son run ahead. Grzegorz quickly follows, shutting the door behind him. All three of their snickers can be heard from outside the cart.
The ride operator waves Ash and Ewron forward. "Two… two per cart."
"You just let—"
"Tha's diff'rent," they interject. Their breath reeks of weed. "They’re… k’ds, man. Jus’ let ’em have their… their fun."
Ash isn't particularly in the mood to argue with a teenager who's under the influence, so he grabs Ewron's arm and shoves him into the cart.
At least, that's what he should’ve done. In reality, he steps aside to let him in first, much too polite, and they sit together, much too close. The bar clicks down. Their knees almost touch.
He can feel the warmth of his shoulder without needing to touch it. A part of him wants to, he thinks.
Ash looks ahead. There’s a giant glass pane at the back of every cart, giving them a clear view of the kids in front of them. They’re laughing, but he can't hear what they’re saying.
It makes his heart ache—in the happy way, and in the deceivingly painful one.
Believe him, he's glad that his girls have friends, but he doesn't see why it has to be Ewron's kid. Anyone would be better than Ewron's kid, because then it wouldn't serve as such a painful reminder of what he could've had.
The cart stops at the top. Fine, Ash'll indulge a little. He takes a peek outside the glass, looking down at the fair spread out beneath them; the few people lingering there look like ants from this height.
Ewron shuffles a little closer. Ash remains rooted in place, continuing to stare outside the glass, though he’s not really interested in anything he sees.
After a few moments of suffocating silence, he finally speaks up. “Your kids are good.”
He doesn't know what to say to that. Maybe he should respond with something snobbish and mean, to show Ash doesn’t care about what Ewron thinks and that he knows he’s an amazing father. An amazing person.
Ash stays quiet. His jaw clenches so tightly that his teeth grind against each other.
"I didn't expect them to like me, you know?" Ewron says, rubbing his thumb over his palm, a gesture he only does to ground himself. Or when he's about to say dumb shit. He wonders which one it'll be. "It's been a while."
Ash’s lips press into a thin line as he nods. “Yeah.”
He hates this.
He really, really fucking hates this.
Ash doesn’t want to be alone with Ewron. He can’t. If he is, then he’ll get attached again. The last thing he needs is to get attached again. Dependent. Yet, as much as he tries to convince himself otherwise, he knows he’s already falling back into old habits.
For what feels like an eternity (a couple of months), he's felt so hollow. A mere shell of a person. Being near Ewron makes him feel whole again, just as much as it makes him sick to his stomach.
The heart is a nasty little traitor, isn't it?
He doesn't say anything after that. The bar lifts, and Ash stands up so fast the corners of his visions turn fuzzy.
Ash and Ewron move from the cart into the outside world. Thanks to the summer weather, the sun is so intense that Ash swears the heat has weight. It's never been more welcome. The kids clamber out of their cart, still buzzing about their ride. They notice Ash and Ewron and eagerly rush over, bombarding them with questions about their own. To Ash, it’s all white noise.
Suddenly, their mouths snap shut. He doesn’t care to know why. All he wants is to go home.
Grzegorz's big, beady eyes peer up at him. "Why do you look so sad, mister?"
A tight-lipped smile comes over his features, replacing his forlorn expression. "I'm just tired." Despite himself, he reaches out and ruffles Grzegorz's hair. "You'll get it when you're older. If you make it that far."
Son lets out a gasp. "That's mean."
"Well—"
"Of course we're gonna make it that far. We're gonna grow and be big and strong, Abba. Then we'll get a job and buy a mansion," her sister chimes.
He smiles. It's always nice to hear about his kids' dreams. "A mansion?" he echoes. "That's a lot of money. Are you sure all three of you can afford that?"
Ghosty tilts her head in contemplation. After a moment, she answers, "Yes. A mansion. You'll see, Abba. You need to be patient, okay?"
"I will," he promises. It's always nice to hear about his children's dreams. Realistically, with someone like him as their father, they probably won't end up living in a mansion. Still, he prefers to play along. "I can't wait, though."
"A mansion? I thought it was gonna be a cabin," Son questions, brows knit.
Grzegorz nods. "We're gonna be millionaires, and then we'll donate all the money to your family, because you need it."
The fuck? Beside him, Ewron snickers. Yeah, Ash can definitely tell where this kid gets his attitude from. His looks, too. He wonders if he had a surrogate. A pang of jealousy runs through him at the idea.
Ash doesn't know why. Ewron isn't his—probably never was.
The sound of Ewron’s theatrical, and clearly feigned, yawn derails his train of thought. He stretches his arms overhead. "No dobra, już dawno minęła pora na spanie. Powinniśmy już iść Grzegorz." Pushing past him, he takes his son's hand in his own. Well, alright. It's past your bedtime. We should get going, Grzegorz.
Grzegorz gives a defiant tug. "Ale nie chcę iść! Bardzo dobrze się bawię, a poza tym już prawie w ogóle nie widujemy Ash'a," he whines. At least, Ash thinks he does. He doesn't speak Polish, so he wouldn't know. "Myślałem że się kochacie?"
But I don't wanna go! I'm having a lot of fun, and besides, we hardly ever get to see Ash anymore. I thought you two loved eachother?
Ewron comes to a streeching halt. Must've struck a nerve. Nice. "Nie—nie. Nie zaczynaj z tym. Chodzmy już." No—no. Don't start that. Let's go.
This time, the boy relents. Probably got the hell lectured out of him, then. "Liege wie!" he yells to Son and Ghosty as he's dragged away.
"Liege wie!" they echo in unison. Judging by the way his girls butcher the pronunciation, they don't know what it means.
Ash, however, does. Ewron used to say it to him all the time. Whether it was during moments when he cuddled close at night, afraid of the dark, or more… intimate moments, he would bury his face in the crook of Ash’s neck and whisper it against his skin. Ewron’s hair would brush against Ash's cheek, leaving it itchy afterward, but Ash didn’t mind. He'd bury his face into it anyway.
In hindsight, it doesn't make any sense. Considering Ewron's polish, he has no business saying a German phrase.
But it's fine, because it means nothing now. And that's good. Ash doesn't want it to mean anything now.
Ash watches as their figures shrink into the distant horizon. Ewron glances back at him one last time, and then with a turn of the corner, they're gone. Ash isn't sure how long he remains in place, lost in thought, until Ghosty tugs on his hand.
"Are we going now?" she asks.
"Yeah—yeah." He nods, a little too fast. "Uhm. You girls just go ahead, okay? Abba will be there soon."
Ash unsticks his legs from their stupor. Each step feels heavier than it should, as if he's pulling the weight of the day along with him.
He falls into step with his daughters, and Son uses the opportunity to hook their pinkies together. A semblance of a smile flickers onto his lips. She's such a sweet girl. Ash thinks he doesn't deserve her.
What does he deserve, even?
"Did you like the fair, Abba?" Son asks, a smirk pinching at her cheeks.
Not really. "Of course. I always have fun when I'm with you two." He bends to kiss them both on the forehead.
The overhead lights in the parking lot buzz softly, casting long shadows of the three of them across the pavement. He shoves his free hand into his pocket, searching for his keys.
Notably, the scent that was here earlier has vanished. Ewron is gone.
A part of him is relieved, while the other mourns the loss.
Ash settles into the driver’s seat, and the soft click of seatbelts fills the silence. Son hums a random tune, while Ghosty swings her legs back and forth, her sneakers tapping rhythmically against the seat.
It’s nice, but he wouldn't call it the comforting silence they’re used to. The dashboard lights wash over his face in a muted glow. He tries to avoid looking at his reflection in the windshield. Given how he feels, it won't be a pretty sight.
His car pulls out of the lot, tires crunching over the gravel. Admittedly, the ride home is a blur. Ash is preoccupied with other thoughts.
When they get there, he parks in his usual spot, the one close enough to the stairwell that he can carry a sleeping kid if he needs to. Ash cranes his neck around. Ghosty is awake, though her half-mast eyes show she’ll soon drift off. Meanwhile, Son is knocked out cold.
For a moment, he sits there, hands still on the wheel, letting the silence settle. The soft sound of the kids’ breathing in the backseat is soothing. Nearly lulls him to sleep, too.
Ghosty stirs first, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. “Are we home?” she mumbles. Ash nods.
Then, he opens the back door, and the dome light spills over the kids. Son is curled up sideways in her seat, her curly hair sticking to her cheek and her braids loose. Ash carefully unbuckles her, mindful not to wake her. She murmurs something incoherent and instinctively leans into him as he lifts her.
Stepping out, Ghosty slips her small hand into his, walking closely by his side. The walk across the parking lot is quiet, broken only by the gentle scuff of their shoes and the reassuring weight of Son nestled against his shoulder.
Ash’s arms hurt a little, but it’s a familiar ache. One he doesn’t mind.
The hallway lights flicker, and Ash reminds himself that he needs to report that to maintenance. As he said, the place isn’t fancy, but it’s theirs. It’s home. Ghosty pushes the door open for him, standing on tiptoe to reach the handle. Ash murmurs a thank‑you, shifting Son’s weight as he steps inside.
The apartment greets them with its usual warmth, the faint smell of laundry detergent and whatever candle Ash last lit.
It's lived in.
A life he built, even if parts of it are missing.
Nudging the door shut with his foot, he takes a deep breath to rid himself of the heavy ache that's been suffocating him the whole day. God, he's wanted to be home for so long. He's also hungry as fuck.
Maybe he should make something after putting the kids to bed. If they've got anything left in the fridge, that is. Ghosty pads down the hallway ahead of him.
She’s already half‑asleep, shoulders drooping, but she still waits at the bedroom doorway for him to catch up. With his unhurried hand, he gives a thumbs-up.
Opening the door to her room, Ash carefully lifts Son and lays her down on the bed, easing her onto the mattress. She curls up toward the pillow, her hair spreading out across it. Briefly, she stirs. Ash worries she'll wake up, but she keeps lying practically lifeless.
Kneeling beside her, he brushes a strand of hair away from her face. Originally, he was going to change her, but she looks so peaceful, he'd feel bad if he woke her up.
Son mumbles something as he leaves—something about cereal. Maybe a dream. At least he knows what she wants for breakfast tomorrow, then.
Ghosty stands nearby, swaying a little, waiting for her turn. She hands him her pajamas. He tilts his head.
"Aren't you gonna take a bath first?" he asks.
"No."
She giggles, and Ash laughs along with her.
Ash helps her change, but she’s more awake than her sister, so she tries to help, though it's not very useful. She fumbles with a button, missing it twice before getting it right.
“Got it,” she whispers proudly.
Smiling, he murmurs back, “Yeah, you did."
As he tucks the blanket up to her chin, she reaches up to thumb through his facial hair. "I wanna see Grzegorz and his Pa again."
Her words immediately sour his mood. "Oh."
Ghosty props herself up on her elbows, twisting to fluff up her pillow. So picky. She reminds him of himself. "Mhm. Can he come over? Or can Uncle Ewron babysit—?"
He tries to say no, but the word catches in his throat. Ash's never liked saying no to her.
"Probably not. God, how do I tell you this, Ghosty? Uhm… He just can't, I'm sorry."
Her head falls back against the pillow with a thump, and she frowns. "Please?
It tumbles out of his mouth faster than he wants it to. Almost as if he's searching for a reason to see Ewron again as well. "Well, I do have to go on a business trip for work with Tubbo and Haiper, so maybe—"
The light in her eyes brightens twice as much. "Can he?"
"We'll see."
She cheers as if he said yes.
Rising to his feet, he gently whispers goodnight, then shuts the door behind him. He stands in the hallway in silence afterward.
Rather than make food, he heads straight to his room and swipes a bottle of pills from the drawer. It's half-empty. He's been rationing the same bottle of meds for a few months now, taking them once every week rather than everyday like he should.
It's not healthy, but it's not like he has any other choice. Refilling them is too expensive. He'll be taking the numbness over crippling debt, thanks.
As he leans against the drawer, fatigue overtakes him. His eyelids flutter shut, feeling as heavy as a boulder. Although his bed is just a few feet away, he doesn't bother to get up. He's too exhausted.
The last thought he has before losing consciousness is: I'm so cooked.