cheesin’ @dashmendoza - Tumblr Blog

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DASH MENDOZA ( EVAN MOCK ) is an EIGHTEEN year old from TAMPA, FLORIDA. HE is known around the island as THE HEDONIST because he is PASSIONATE and CREATIVE but can also be SARCASTIC and JEALOUS. HE reminds of chipped painted fingernails, ear-bleedingly loud EDM, empty beer cans stacked into a pyramid.

#wilds.intro #eating disorder tw #death tw #idk ish about graphics do not @ me

ofcallums:

Callum already didn’t like where this was going. What kind of name was Gabriel? It was a dumb name. Following it with Bar-tha-lona and rich kid warehouse parties didn’t help either. Callum had no interest in what privileged dipshits did with their parents’ money. He rolled his eyes briefly when Dash said he played the colonization card to get an in. The mention of free booze did little to help ease how icy he felt about the whole thing. He avoided drinking because he didn’t want it to affect his gains. If he was being honest, the potential of having plenty of people to mock did more but he wasn’t going to say that. It’d probably give Dash more ammo to work with. Callum let out a grunt when Dash described a person he would absolutely love to punch with no hesitation or remorse. A mullet is bad but lilac-colored too? Society was going down the drain. Callum also hated that Dash knew he would be more willing to forget his restraint if this hypothetical partygoer made an ignorant comment about affordable housing. As hostile as Callum could be toward Dash, he couldn’t deny that his roommate understood him a fair amount, regardless of how little he liked to share. He didn’t know how that made him feel. “I’ll go in for 10 minutes. But if I hate it before time’s up, I’m leaving.” That’s as much as he was willing to give Dash.

Callum hated how his stony expression faltered when Dash called him out on his lie, but he forced his brows to slant and he stuck to his guns. “Wouldn’t say I love it… it’s really not all that different from iced coffee,” he insisted listlessly. It was. It was like, nuanced. Or whatever the right word was. Not that Callum cared to figure it out because Dash was soon peering into the fridge to rid of some of the contents on his side and Callum for once was grateful that a topic was so easily moved on from. His lips twisted a little at the food that was chucked into the bin, not being a fan of food waste and all, but it was probably better off with the garbage than in someone’s mouth given Dash’s penchant for forgetting what he had in there. He eyed the soup container on the counter, wondering what kind of soup it was before Dash’s question took his attention. “Uh…” He thought about it for a second. “Yeah. I’m going to the gym.” He’d completely forgotten about that until just now. Talking to Dash tended to do that to him. Always consuming him with some feeling of irritation or frustration until his routine was a distant thought in the back of his mind. “Why?” A smirk. “You wanna come?” It was a joke. Obviously. Dash was built like a twig, and Callum would bet the only cardio he got was whatever bouncing around he did at raves.

Dash blinked in surprise. “Wait—for real?” he double-checked. A second passed and he lowered his voice playfully: “On God? No cap?” He shook his head, his tongue poking at the corner of his mouth to get his burgeoning smile under control. “You’re gonna have a great time. Guaran-fuckin’-teed. You ever have a vodka slushie? Been in a ball pit?” He paused. “Been in a ball pit with a vodka slushie?” If anyone could benefit from an old-fashioned regression session, Dash figured it was this guy. It’s really not all that different from iced coffee. “Fake,” he noted, then gestured to his cup still sitting on the table. “Feel free to finish mine off. I won’t tell a soul.” He nudged the fridge closed with his foot, then reached out to peel back the top of the soup container. Dash huffed a laugh at Callum’s expression.

“See, the way you said that—when you got a little—” Dash pulled the corner of his mouth outward into the mimicry of a smirk. It lasted about two seconds before it stretched into a more genuine, short-lived grin. “Kinda sounding like you don’t think I’ll take you up on the offer. And I’ll have you know that when we did that Presidential Fitness Test in, like, third grade, I got the second highest award for my mile runtime.” Dash conveniently left out the fact that the majority of the class did. There were three awards back then after all: the Presidential, the National, and then the bleak participation award. The latter Dash usually got, but most people fell in the middle when their teacher promised a pizza party if they actually made a real go of it that year.

“And that was just a jumping off point to a life dedicated to keeping myself in peak performance. You’re smirking now, my guy, but wait ‘til I show you up on the fuckin’...” He wracked his head for a piece of gym equipment, but for some reason his thoughts went a little white noise-y. "Whoa, wait. Have you ever seen those old black and white photos of people and they’ve got this massive, vibrating band around their waists? And they’re just cheesing as they get all shaken up? They still got those things?” Dash cracked his knuckle by pressing it into his leg. “Either way, I’m down.” He exhaled on a short laugh as he lifted the container for a quick sniff. Didn’t smell like it had gone bad yet. He looked down at the contents. Looked fine too. “You want some soup with your coff? Classic combo.”

#int #c: callum #only broken up into 3 because i didn't like the look of one small and one large #it's an ~optical illusion~

ofcallums:

“I–” Callum pressed his lips together when Dash pieced together the rest of the lyric. Even whistling the tune. Little shit, he cursed Dash in his head. He was just thankful the pink-headed fuck left it at that and moved on. “I’d rather consume sewage, thanks.” Was it nice of Dash to always extend an invitation to Callum whenever he had somewhere fun to be? Honestly, yeah. But at some point – and maybe this was a ‘Callum problem’ – it got to be annoying. Invitation after invitation felt less like generosity and more ‘hey, look at me, I’ve got a fun place to go tonight while you’re at home watching Netflix and eating boiled chicken… again.’ Callum started saying ‘no’ out of spite instead of any real reason. Maybe he liked trying to bring about a dejected look on Dash’s face. Sue him. The dude smiled too much. When his roommate revealed that the glass filled half way with cold brew was for him, Callum made a face. He’s had cold coffee before. This wasn’t going to broaden his horizon one bit. “Yeah, if you think me taking a sip of this and somehow liking it is gonna make me chill out about your giant container taking up so much room in the fridge, you’re wrong. Half is half.” Now that he’s made his stance known though, Callum curled his fingers around the glass and picked it up, giving its contents a sniff. He was going to prove to Dash that this ‘cold brew’ of his wasn’t as special as he thought it was. He gave the brew a little whirl in the glass and then brought it up to his lips for a gulp. He was sure it would taste the sa– oh. It was… sweeter and… smoother? Mellow but… rich in its own way. It was… good. Oh no. Callum’s eyes widened and he quickly put the glass down. “It tastes the same,” he lied, fixing a frown on his face. “I hope that dumb container wasn’t expensive because it’s a waste of money. Toss a couple of ice cubes into a coffee and you’d get the same thing.” No, you wouldn’t. But he was not going to give Dash the satisfaction.

“Way harsh, bro,” Dash mused, one-part entertained to two-parts revitalized in his goal to actually get Callum to join him. “What’s it got to take?” he asked genuinely. “Like, how ‘bout this: there’s this dude named Gabriel in one of my classes. He’s from like, Bar-tha-lona, and he’s always got an in at these rich kid warehouse parties. No ID, no entry fee — nada.” Dash rubbed a hand over his head. “So I tell him he’s got to make up the whole colonization thing to me and shit. And so he says he’ll put me on a list. Give me a plus one, plus two... whatever I want.” Gabe probably wanted more out of the agreement than to clear his conscious about his ancestors’ wrongdoings but Dash was reticent to tell Callum that. “One night in Bushwick won’t kill you.” And just in case Callum was about to assert it would, Dash continued: “Free booze, plenty of people for you to mock.” Well, free in the sense that Dash would front the money but he didn’t tell Callum that. He was getting good at this filtering thing. “Maybe some straight guy with a lilac-colored mullet for you to start a fight with when he says some wack shit about affordable housing...” he trailed off with a raised brow. Dash smiled. “Or I can get you that sewage you ordered. Hot ‘n fresh.” He shrugged. “Think about it.”

Dash watched as Callum took a hesitant drink, tracking all his micro-expressions as he tasted it. All for a monotone, deep-voiced: it tastes the same. Dash laughed. “Bulllllshit, you love it,” he started but didn’t fight the statement further. He felt he made his opinion on the matter known already. He shook his head. “Listen, I’ve barely got anything in that fridge anyway. What’s it, like—” he stood from his seat to peek into the still-open fridge. Whoops. On his side, there were old boxes of takeout, a couple cans of Red Bull, and a container of soup his Lola froze and overnight shipped to him from Florida. Dash hadn’t touched any of it in a couple days. “C’mon, this is nothing.” He pulled out the takeout and let out a jaunty, little whistle as he tossed it into the garbage to the left of the fridge. Next, he grabbed the soup. “Look: making space. How’s that? Now you can’t toss that thing out behind my back.” He dropped the soup container onto the kitchen counter. It felt kind of fucked up to just throw its contents out too. Dash scratched at his stomach, his skin gone tight for a split second. “Hey, what’s the plan for the day? You one foot out the door?”

#int #c: callum #okay i gave into the impulse #self indulgence before i lose the opportunity<3333 #dream week

ofcallums:

Callum made a face at Dash’s words. Meal prep’s bullshit? Like he knew. Don’t think I haven’t seen you fighting for your damn life choking down some old sweet potatoes, man. It’s mad depressing. Okay, maybe Dash knew a little bit. But Callum wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. “Yeah, well, so is living with you but I’m getting used to that so–” He said instead of making an attempt to defend Meal Prep. Callum let out a huff and watched as Dash moved about in the kitchen, taking not one but two glasses from one of the cupboards. It made Callum’s brows pull together. Was Dash about to chase his cold coffee with a shot? He watched with his brows in a slanted positioned as Dash insulted him from the kitchen table. Callum scoffed before letting out a reply. “Not bored. My day’s full of fun shit.” Like going to the gym and then eating food. Going to practice and then eating food. Watching stuff on Netflix while eating food. Class was a little boring but sometimes the vending machine near his lecture hall had really good snacks so who was the real loser here, huh? Probably still you, a voice in his head said. It pissed Callum off beyond belief so he shot back in attempt to bring Dash down. “Like what you’re doing is so fun. Can’t imagine getting shitfaced all of the time feels great. Waking up with a pounding headache, pissing away all of your money on overpriced drinks…” He wasn’t sure if that’s what Dash did but it felt like a solid assumption to Callum. “There’s like no structure to your life, dude. You’re like… a fucking… plastic bag in the wind or something.” Fuck, did he just accidentally quote Katy Perry?

Dash couldn’t help the fleeting smirk. Getting used to something was a hop, skip, and jump away from maybe even liking it. But for once he stayed tight-lipped on the subject. He didn’t want the guy to take it back or something. Dash reached for the cold brew maker and poured some into the tall glass. With the slight throbbing in his temples, he probably should have opted for something like water first but caffeine intake was on his mental to-do list anyway. Plus, he had a point to make. My day’s full of fun shit. Dash snorted. He was pretty sure he’d never seen Callum ‘have fun’ since he’d known him. The guy was a living, breathing rise and grind meme. “Yeah yeah, drifting in the wind... ready to start again?” Dash finished the Katy Perry lyric with a little whistle of the tune and a shit-eating grin. “But c’mon now, that stuff is fun,” he continued, though obviously it wasn’t all he ever did. He had school, for one, and he joined that animation club last semester. And... okay, maybe most weekends were filled with drinking, dancing, and whatever he could score off this girl in his Knit Structures course. And a handful of weeknights too. The fact that it was a Monday morning didn’t actually escape him, but that was pretty standard for any college kid. Callum was just boring. “You’d know that if you ever, yunno, actually took me up on one of my extremely thoughtful invitations. Like, you should’ve come to this thing last night.” He shook his head slowly. “Shiiit, you would’ve loved it,” he said it like an inside joke Callum wasn’t in on, because he knew full well that Callum would’ve hated the parties he went to with his art school friends. It didn’t stop Dash from asking him if he wanted to tag along now and again though. He pulled the smaller glass in next. “But all right—this one’s for you, champ,” he announced, then filled the juice glass halfway. “‘Cause I’m feeling generous and I wanna help you here with the horizon broadening. One sip and done, I swear to God.”

#int #c: callum #dream week

ofcallums:

God, Dash was pretentious. Callum huffed grumpily when his roommate took a jab at his ‘precious Nescafe’. Nescafe was fancy, alright? It was a step up from whatever generic brand Callum’s mom used to get him back home at least. Just because Dash was used to drinking shit that came out of a coffee connoisseur’s ass didn’t mean Nescafe was bad. “Your shoes give me a stomach ulcer,” he shot back petulantly. Yeah, Callum saw his fucking shoes, alright. Those god-awful loafers. Who did this pink haired fuck think he was? Hugh Hefner? Despite having places to be, he decided to follow Dash into the kitchen. If only to make sure that damn cold brew container was going to stay out and his meal prep stayed in. “Damn straight. Don’t hate on my meal prep just because you’re built like a damn twig. Maybe if you went to the gym once in a while and lived off something other than ecstasy and Grey Goose, you’d appreciate my couscous.” Which again was another attempt at elevating the ingredients that went into his body. Before it was just plain white rice. He was actually trying to be sophisticated now that he lived on his own. Or well, lived without his mom at least. “I’m serious about breaking that pot over your head by the way. Don’t touch my fucking couscous,” Callum warned.

Dash patted his pockets. “Oh shit, wait. Wait, wait. Lemme get my phone out, and then you can threaten me one more time. I just wanna get it on record, yunno? Help the cops with a lead after they find me with a shard of plastic lodged into my carotid.” He quickly dropped the ruse and, after a beat, made a decision. “Also? Meal prep’s bullshit,” Dash announced as if he had any sort of real Opinion on the matter that went beyond the fact the insult might keep Callum in the kitchen for a minute longer. “That stuff’s gonna be so nasty by Wednesday. Don’t think I haven’t seen you fighting for your damn life choking down some old sweet potatoes, man. It’s mad depressing." Dash was mainly on the opposite end of the spectrum: first real meal in the late afternoon, never thinking too hard on when the next one would be. But on the topic of ecstasy and Grey Goose, he became singularly aware of the fact that he had wanted to change his clothes. He lifted the collar of his shirt up to his nose—not too bad, all things considered. Faded deodorant, tequila, dry sweat, and the last vestiges of his cologne. Dash dropped the fabric, glanced at the open fridge, then looked back over at Callum. “Know what you are?” he started again and took a short step toward one of the cabinets. The fridge light halved the kitchen itself; Callum on one side, Dash on the other. He opened the cabinet and grabbed two glasses—one tall, one smaller souvenir juice glass from a cheesy mini golf place called Smuggler’s Cove—and set them down on the sparse counter space. “You are a guy that needs to broaden his horizons.” He closed the cabinet and, with the glasses in hand, turned toward the cold brew left on the table. He dropped himself into one of the kitchen chairs. “Like, what’s your routine, man? Plain rice and chicken, two to three hours spent practicing your scowl in a mirror, then off to some frigid rink. Rinse and repeat. You gotta be a little bored.”

#int #c: callum #as is the norm with things dash says: it could be something he's pulled out of his ass <3

theshanemartis:

…

there was always a 50/50 chance of shane being pissed off at dash any time they went out together. she tried she really did. but sometimes, dash just did things that pissed her off. tonight was one of those nights. she just wanted to have a good time until dash tried to play wingman for her and send a girl over to shane who just so happened to be someone she hooked up with once and then promptly ghosted afterward. sure, that would make this whole thing shane’s fault, but she was still going to take it out on dash for sending her shane’s way.

shoving their way through the crowed bar, shane pushed dash into the small bathroom, ready to bitch him out for embarrassing her like that. of course, he had a secret weapon inside a small plastic baggie. he knew that was her weakness and why she took that 50/50 chance in the first place. when he wasn’t completely annoying her, dash was fun and had always had party favors. not that she would admit this to him, at least not sober. she rolled her eyes when his distraction worked, making her give in, “fine.” she crossed her arms over her chest as she narrowed her eyes at the boy as he went on to defend himself. “okay that’s just stereotyping us and you’re the one with dyed hair here. maybe next time, let me pick the girl before you do some dumb shit like you just did.”

Dash pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek as he nodded once, then a second time more slowly. He turned to lean back against the grimy sink. “Mmmhm, right-o. Message received, loud and clear, Comrade Martis,” he complied like he’d just received marching orders, though it didn’t actually shake the belief. “But hey, give it up to me for a minute,” he continued, gesturing toward himself. “Says a lot about my keen eye, impeccable taste, and how well I know you that I was able to clock someone who’s totally up your alley, yeah? Like, that counts for something.”

He reached into his pocket for his keys, then twirled them round his fingers as he spoke. “Plus, she thought I was cool. Hyped myself up a bit, so she knew you had great taste yourself across the board. Like ‘wow, some chick hangs out with a guy like that? Maybe she’s worth a few minutes of my time.’ That sorta vibe. Ace in the fuckin’ hole for a hot second there.” Until it went to shit, obviously. He narrowed his eyes in a tease. “So you could totally tee up the next one for me when we get back out there. I’ve got this in the bag. Seasoned goddamn pro.” He looped the keyring around his thumb, then opened the small baggie. “You want the first go? Remember, I’m a gentleman.”

#int #c: shane #dream week

ofcallums:

CLOSED STARTER: @dashmendoza CONCEPT: Roommates AU but specifically that conversation we had about Dash’s cold brew maker taking up just enough space in the fridge to make Callum go 🔫😠 WHERE:Cash’s apartment 🥺

Callum has had enough of this. They had both agreed they each had their own side of the fridge. So why the fuck did Dash’s pretentious ass cold brew maker leave little to no space for him to store his meal prep? Who needed this much coffee? And did it have to be stored in the fridge? Just make coffee and throw some ice in it. It was a simple as that to make a ‘brew’ that was ‘cold’. With a grunt, he reached into the crowded fridge and carried out the large container, setting it on their dining table for Dash to deal with whenever he got home. He didn’t mind that Dash didn’t have the common sense to simply put ice into a coffee to make it cold. But he did mind that Dash didn’t respect the my side of the fridge isn’t your side of the fridge rule. With that out of the way, Callum stocked his side of the fridge with his meal prep and closed fridge door shut. Just as he did, he heard the front door open. Speak of the pink-haired devil, he thought. He waited till he saw Dash walk past the kitchen door before whistling harshly to get his attention. “Hey–” He gestured for Dash to come inside the kitchen area and pointed to the large pot container thing on the kitchen table. “Your shit was on my side.” So now it’s out here went unspoken. “I’m going to the gym. If I see it back in the fridge, I’m breaking it over your head. Get a smaller one or learn to like normal coffee like the rest of us.” He moved past Dash to exit the room, making sure his shoulder knocked against the other boy’s as he did so.

It wasn’t the first time Dash had to battle his way through the early morning commuter bustle to get back to his apartment for a change of clothes. He’d woken up in a semi-stranger’s loft downtown, too warm and sticking to a cracked leather sofa. After a few minutes spent staring at the wood-beamed ceiling accounting for every limb, extremity, and each of his five senses, he finally peeled himself up and toward the door. Various other bodies strewn across the room served as the obstacle course toward his Loewe loafers sat alone in disarray by the entryway. Even drunk, old household rules still stuck. The train ride was spent in a daze as he watched men in business suits filter on and pack themselves in like sardines. He fantasized about dropping back into his bed basically the moment he got back, at least for a couple hours. He had like, a shit-ton of work to do. But of course, Callum had other plans.

Dash had barely made it through the door when he heard a sudden whistle, like he was some poorly behaved dog, followed by Callum’s distinctly pissed-off, grating tones. He pivoted his body and turned on his heel, leaning against the doorway between the small sitting area and the kitchen. When he saw his much-beloved Primula Burke perched sad and sweating condensation on the table, his expression fell. “Duuude,” he bemoaned. “C’mon.” His complaints were quickly cut off by Callum shouldering his way by him, turning Dash with the motion so he still faced Callum. “I know you’re like, a total neophyte in this but that’s so offensive, man. My tastebuds’ve fully acclimated to stuff a little classier than your precious Nescafe. I think that junk would give me a stomach ulcer.” He turned and stepped into the kitchen to open the fridge door to actually get a look at the situation himself. Dash snorted a laugh. “Okay, yo, this is bullshit. You don’t need this much couscous in here. My stuff could totally fit if you didn’t pack this thing like some kinda fuckin’ doom prepper. This for your precious gains, bro?”

#int #c: callum #totally ignore first paragraph just nie bein' nie #dream week

@theshanemartis

The bar was dark, dank, and sticky—which meant drinks were dirt cheap, the employees were rude as fuck, and the music was like, nonstop whiny, loud early-aughts alt rock. So in hindsight, Dash should’ve assumed Shane would already be intimately acquainted with half the female patrons there. So yeah, sure, that shit was kinda on him. But a guy deserved a little leniency now and again, especially when he thought he was doing a good deed: hooking a friend up. Or friend by his definition. That was a matter of terminology he assumed Shane would add to the rapidly lengthening list of Bones To Pick With. But it was wingman shit! He took that stuff seriously. Mostly he was just pissed at himself for dropping the ball there.

As they stepped into the bar’s single unisex bathroom, Dash was pretty much ready to get his ass handed to him. To at least slow down that process, he reached into his pant pocket and pulled out the small ziploc bag. “Alright, before we get into the nit and gritty about how I’m a dickhead dumbass bitch or whatever, let’s say a little prayer of thanks for the bounty, huh?” He dangled the bag in front of him, then stepped backward toward the sink. “The guy who lives the floor below me cut me a sweet fuckin’ deal and for real, that’s gotta take some precedence.” He shot her a grin, then turned back to the sink. “Because like I’m sorry, but I’ve just got some kinda facial blindness for when people’ve got that many facial piercings.” He looked at Shane through the dingy mirror on the wall. “And to be fair, lesbians are always dyeing their hair.” Which was sick. Dash supported that, no shade. His hair was the color of Pepto Bismol; he was a total fan. “Know what I mean?”

#int #c: shane #dream week

joecartwright:

the scramble to the fishing boat was hectic. joe spent the climb glancing back at the boys behind them and treating the fisherman’s shouting as ambient noise. none of them were talking about their shopping list so he had no hope of trying to understand them. as he climbed the ladder he prayed that one of the fishermen would mention their shopping list or at least some kind of food. when he got onto the boat his instinctive response was to get up and check to see how the others were doing. but he thought about it and decided to treat himself to a little rest.. he leaned against the taffrail next to dash. “nah sorry, i’m not an embarrassing tattoo kind of guy. i’m more of an admire other people’s embarrassing tattoos kind of guy.” he explained. after all the near death experiences on the island joe decided he could learn to be an embarrassing tattoo kind of guy. he learned that life was too unpredictable to stop yourself from doing things that would make you happy because of regrets you think you’ll have. “i could make an expection if we all got different personalised das boot tattoos. callum’s could be in a runny font like maple syrup, lukas’s could be in comic sans and sawyer could put a cowboy hat on the t. i would model my das after the washing powder logo, you know blue with sparkles behind it. the boot would have be a football boot.”

Dash was obviously absolutely delighted by the massive turn of events, but the feeling when someone went along with your bit was eternal. He grinned wider. “Joe, my guy, your mind...” he trailed off. Dash brought his hands to the side of his head and let out a mimicry of an explosion sound between his lips as his fingers fanned out in time. “Nooow you’re getting it. Yo, that’s growth. I’ll totally draw mockups of this shit.” Glancing to his right down the length of the ship, Dash dropped his palms down onto the deck. German dudes were giving them curious and pitying looks from every angle. If he wasn’t unwashed and flirting with infection, he might’ve dug the attention a little more. He nodded in greeting anyway. Because, like, he wasn’t rude. It kind of sucked only JJ could communicate effectively with them, because Dash wanted to get across pretty much ASAP that he was hungry, thirsty, and would do just about anything for a pain reliever. Like, literally anything at this point.

He tapped his fingers against the floor and took a second to enjoy the feeling. He never thought he’d bask in the feel of hot steel. After weeks of get-all-up-in-your-cracks sand, metal beneath his body seemed like a luxury. He leaned his head back against the railing and closed his eyes for a moment. “Jesus, I hope to God they’ve got TP on this thing. I want one of you to personally kill me if I’ve ever got to use a leaf to wipe my ass ever again.” He cracked open an eye when he heard another rush of loud German. It was definitely one of the more demonic-sounding languages, that was for sure. Annaliese Michel vibes. Dash squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed at them. As it hit him again that they were on a frigging boat, surrounded by their admittedly demonic-sounding saviors, he let out another bark of a laugh. He nudged Joe hard with an elbow, then twisted his body to catch a quick glimpse of the island behind them. “Seriously fuck that place.” He lifted a middle finger over the side of boat as one last farewell to (literal) Shithole Island. “Fuck that beach and that jungle and that damn pig. I can’t believe we got out.” He shook his head, a small laugh escaping again. “Dude, we're out! That’s insane!” He didn’t even care if the Krauts took him to Colditz or some shit. Anything was better than where they had been. Dash held up his hands on front of his face. “Look, my hands—they’re fuckin’ shaking.”

#int #c: joe #sorry for delay i am literally just exhausted all of the time sdkjndsg

closed starter: @joecartwright when: The Resue(TM) where: das Fischerboot

Stepping from the lifeboat and onto the actual big ass fishing boat was a feeling Dash wasn’t going to forget anytime soon. His breath had gone labored as he was half-pulled and half-climbed his way onto the deck. It was wet and cold and there were dozens of dudes shouting in German, their voices overlapping, and literally none of which Dash understood even a little bit. But he knew if he were any one of these guys, he’d be pretty amped too. Talk about a forever-brag, rescuing a bunch of pathetic looking teens off an island out in the middle of nowhere. That was primetime CNN coverage shit.

As soon as he cleared way for more of the Adams to crawl on, he scooted off to the side but stayed on the ground, leaning heavily against the taffrail to catch his breath. After a moment, he laughed—breathless, disbelieving, ecstatic. He nudged his foot against the leg of the next boy to come on board. “Das Boot, motherfucker!” he grinned widely. “I’m so gonna get that tatted.” Dash brandished his hand across his chest. He could feel his heartbeat against his palm. “Nipple to nipple in like, a huge Call of Duty font. ‘D-A-S B-O-O-T.’ You wanna go matchy-matchy?”

#int #c: joe #joedash joedash joedash #forgive me for delay? :clownsimp:

ofcallums:

Callum frowned, confused by the twist of Dash’s features. Before he could angry about it though, the reason for the reaction made itself known. Dash’s mom wasn’t around anymore. Fuck. Right, okay. Sore subject then. Callum’s turn to grimace now. He kept quiet after the reveal, content to listen to Dash talk and talk for the first time in practically ever. Anything to keep from having to say something. But as much as Dash liked to yammer, that only went for so long. Eventually Callum had to speak. “Really?” He started, taking on a lighter tone – voice laced with sarcasm and jest. “Wouldn’t have guessed. You scream history buff to me.” He pushed out a chuckle, hoping it didn’t sound as forced or as awkward as it felt. Truthfully, Callum wanted to say sorry or something of substance in regards to Dash’s mom having passed. Ultimately though, he figured the kindest thing he could do for the guy was to not say anything, knowing that if he was in Dash’s situation that he’d hate to linger on the topic.

At Dash’s joke, Callum tilted his head and shot the other boy an unamused look. A look that said: Yeah, you’re a real statue. The true image of unaffected and unbothered. He shook his head from side to side, figuring he’d let Dash have that one. When the other boy agreed to the hand up, Callum merely nodded. He was glad they didn’t have to go through a whole… thing about it. He was helped and now he was helping in return. No big deal or whatever. Pushing up off the sand, Callum got on his feet and stood at full height again, brushing at the legs of his pants to rid of whatever sand he could before wiping his palms against his shirt. When he felt as though his hands were clean enough, he extended them both to Dash, hoping the other wouldn’t put too much pressure on the one that was bandaged when he yanked him up.

“Good,” Callum said once the Floridian was back on his feet. It felt weird, almost childish, to have a ‘secret’ with Dash but it also felt… necessary. He didn’t want the guy to go around telling everyone that Mean ol’ Marcher knew how to be nice or anything. It was just a major hassle when people thought you could be decent. They tended to expect things from you, and Callum didn’t want to have to deal with anyone’s expectations. With Dash sufficiently helped now that he was upright, Callum released the other’s hands and took a step back. “I’m, uh, gonna go take a leak but I’ll see you back up there.”

Dash was pretty proud of himself. He knew what could be expected once the words were out based on past experiences, but Callum wasn’t like anyone back home — for one, he didn’t even like Dash. But Dash said them anyway, and he didn’t trip over it or anything. And he was grateful Callum didn’t dole out some half-assed sorry in response too. If there was one thing he was surprised by over the last year, it was the irrational way how every other apology pissed him off. Though he had been shocked to realize that sometimes they were kind of nice, like an acknowledgement that something shitty had happened and Dash was allowed to feel shitty about it, they could also truly rub him the wrong way. Depended on the person, or maybe just the timing of it. Or maybe there really wasn’t much rhyme or reason to where he’d land on the topic any given day, so it was probably good that they avoided it altogether. “I know, right? Like I’m up there with JJ for biggest fuckin’ brain on this island — it’s crazy. Y’all underestimate me.”

He tried to keep his face passive but couldn’t quite keep quiet. Never could. “Wow. I get the two-hand treatment? That’s like, an extra effort. I’ve got your number now, Marcher,” he joked lightly, because he definitely didn’t. But maybe he had some insight. Callum was a mama’s boy who punched dudes for saying ignorant shit. That was a bigger picture than the hotblooded, braindead jock blueprint Dash had assigned him from day one. Dash took the help before Callum could snatch it away or give into the impulse to punch him when it popped up for a fourth time. He focused most of his strength on the hand he hadn’t just wrapped up and got to his feet with minimal suffering. When Callum announced he was off to take a piss, Dash huffed a laugh. “Yeah, okay, buddy. Look both ways in case there’s another ‘conda lurking.” Then in the morning they were off. He ran a hand over his head, struggling to figure out how to assuage any Blue-related worries that didn’t involve making a stupid joke. “And I just wanna say it again, like—” He exhaled heavily. “We totally got this, man. We’re gonna find him tomorrow. I’ve got a good feeling about it.” Dash dropped his arm and shrugged, because what else was there to add? “I’ll catch you later.” He started back toward camp but before he was out of earshot, he turned to take just a couple unsteady steps backward in order to call out: “Totally deadass about the snake thing, by the way.”

#int #c: callum #spicy gif placement #good job behaving yourselves cash everyone give 'em a round of applause

ofcallums:

“Don’t got patience for a lot of things but especially that kind of bullshit,” was all Callum had to say on the matter. He hated ignorant assholes, end of. When Dash brought up his mom, Callum tensed, wondering why that was even a topic of conversation until he remembered he had mentioned wanting to appease her by keeping himself out of needless fights. So he relaxed and answered Dash in a level voice. “Uh yeah. She’s all I’ve got. And I’m all she’s got. So… you can say we’re pretty tight.” His mom was his everything. He hated how far away from each other they were right now. Callum couldn’t imagine kind of shit she must have been going through, thinking he was dead because their plane went down. He’d do anything to get a message out to her, to tell her he was fine. A simple ‘Ma, I’m good. Don’t worry.’ “You tight with your mom?” He asked for the sake of asking.

“Yeah? Good to hear it,” Callum responded, for once pleased that Dash was the jokey type. Not that he cared to admit it out loud, but… it helped. Dash’s whole clown schtick. At least when his dumbass digs weren’t directed at him or his jokes weren’t getting in the way of Callum trying to accomplish something. It was good when it was good. He’ll say that much. “I’ll take you to the tree some time. So you can, you know, solidify that judgement,” he added. See? He could joke too, sort of. Even if it was kind of stupid. But he supposed that was the point of jokes. Being stupid as a coping mechanism or some dumb shit like that.

Callum’s lips pulled up at a corner and he rolled his eyes. “A real miracle. Don’t let it get to your head.” Though he said it in a light manner, Callum meant it seriously. He didn’t want Dash thinking that the surprisingly low number of 3 was an invitation for the pink-haired Floridian to get chatty with him on a more frequent basis. He couldn’t guarantee it would end up this civil most times. Hearing Dash say he needed 5 before he could head back to camp, Callum stared at him for a moment. He wasn’t sure what it was – if the moon doing weird shit or maybe some fucked tree poison got into his bloodstream when he decked it – but Callum felt like being generous. “You want a hand up?” He asked, sighing. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

So it was just Callum and his mom. “Sick, that’s — Yeah, that’s cool.” Dash almost grimaced. It didn’t sound like something most dudes would say. He paused a second when Callum offhandedly turned the question around on him, then bit the bullet. “Nah, it’s just me and my dad. My mom passed awhile ago.” He sure as hell wasn’t going to let that sit in the air awkwardly, so he quickly kept talking. He was always good at that. “But yunno, my dad gave me a whole lotta of talk about bonding when I got back from this. Fuck if I know what that means. All that guy does is read those thick-ass books about World War II and yell at the TV when the Miami Heat play,” Dash grinned lopsidedly. “And this might totally shock you, but I’m not really into either of those things.”

The way Callum took a swing at humor was probably one of the better parts of Dash’s day. Like a dog riding on a skateboard, or those videos of elephants painting at zoos, it was a rare enough sight to make Dash wish he had a replay button. He’d probably watch it a handful of times before he fell asleep at night. Don’t let it get to your head. Okay, well, that was like asking the moon to quit it with all that tide nonsense, or for South Tampa to cool it with the taco trucks. But maybe Dash could try and keep it in check. Heavy emphasis on ‘maybe’ because c’mon, the guy actually sorta smiled for once. “Hey, zero worries on that front. When have I ever taken literally anything you’ve said to heart?” Another joke because how else would they have much of this conversation if he hadn’t?

Dash pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek to somehow hinder his surprised expression, then nodded. “Sure. I’m not too proud to accept a little help,” he said. It was all very you scratched my back so I guess I’ll scratch yours, but Dash still felt a bit smug about the offer nevertheless. “Thanks for being so magnanimous.” He wiped his hands on the knees of his pants, brushing any remnants of sand, as he waited for Callum to get to his feet first. It was an instinctive act now, even if they had remained clean throughout the entire process. A lifetime spent on the beach every chance he got prepared him for the reality of sand getting literally everywhere at least. Dash snorted a laugh. “And listen, they’d have to put me under some major duress to get me to squeal. It’s our secret.”

#int #c: callum

ofcallums:

This was starting to feel like one of those ‘the only way out is through’ situations. Callum couldn’t think of another way to get Dash off of his back. After grinding his teeth for a moment, he let out a deep exhale before righting Dash’s assumption of him. “Surprisingly, you are the only person who’s ever given me this much shit for being an asshole.” He shot Dash a hard glare then. Though his hopes that it would make an actual difference in how inquisitive Dash would be moving forward was shockingly low. He took the moment to continue before Dash could get in another one of his… isms.

“I don’t say enough in the real world to find myself in a lot of fights,” Callum revealed. At least not since last year. He didn’t want Dash walking around thinking he was some genetically under-gifted cuck that overcompensated by being overly aggressive and starting shit back home. He wasn’t like that. His aggression was a reaction to dumb shit. It wasn’t aggression for the sake of dominance. “But when I do, it’s only because I’ve an encountered an -ist.” A beat and then he realized he should clarify. “Racist, sexist, classist, you know the deal… I find it hard not to get annoyed at people,” no surprise there, “so I just stay away from them. Works for me. Keeps my brawl count low and my mom from getting pissed at me.” Was that enough? It felt like it was. “That finally good enough for the character profile you’re building?”

Dash playing along to his dig as opposed to taking offense earned something of a barely there chuckle from Callum. He could appreciate someone who knew how to take it on the chin. The therapist he avoided seeing often told him that humor was a great way to deescalate heated situations. Callum could never find it in himself to turn to humor when he was pissed, but he supposed that kind of advice would work for someone like Dash. There was something about the way the other boy admitted he’d gone though real shit – actual loss, in Dash’s words – that had Callum wondering for a moment, curious as to what Dash experienced. Because that didn’t sound like an ‘I lost my favorite vape’ admittance. That sounded like something much more. But Callum wasn’t a nosy person. He wasn’t going to prod. Especially since he knew how much he didn’t like it when people did it to him.

The Canadian watched, as patiently as he could manage, as Dash tried to figure out the whole bandage thing. He wasn’t going to lie though, he got real irritated there for a second when Dash started to undo the bandage. But as the saying went: ‘trust the process’. So he let Mendoza do his thing and eventually the wrap job was done and over with without him having to snap at the other to ‘hurry the fuck up’. Sweet, he thought. Fucking finally. His brows slanted inward when Dash bopped his palm against Callum’s newly bandaged hand in a weird sort of high five. The fuck? But he supposed since Dash did just do something nice for him, without prompt and even after an argument, that the twerp earned that. Callum wouldn’t chew him out for it.

“Mhm…” Callum forced himself to bite back the list he had of everything Dash did that he counted as ‘funny business’. The two clearly had very different definitions of what qualified for that. But seeing as Callum was Callum and Dash was Dash, that should have been expected. “Yeah, I think I only wanted to punch you out like 3 times. It’s usually closer to 10 whenever we interact.” He meant for that to be funny but it was also…. very true. Passive aggressive was better than aggressive-aggressive, right? It was what Callum was resulting to anyway since he and Dash were seemingly trying to keep it civil for the evening. “But uh, yeah. Thanks.” He lifted his bandaged hand up a bit, as if to say ‘for this’. Then he cradled it in his other palm. There was a moment of loitering, of awkward nothingness, just two dudes sitting on the shore under the moonlight in silence before Callum thought to break it. “We should, uh, head back. Get rest or something. It’s a long day tomorrow.”

Dash was surprised—not necessarily because he fully expected Callum to be some kind of bigot, but because he always got the vibe Callum would punch a dude just for having a weird sneeze. And okay, also because he figured Callum had those closeminded jock tendencies too. The way he kept calling Lukas Dash’s boyfriend, for one, had been a red flag. “Wow, alright, plot twist. Callum Marcher: vigilante crusader for social justice." The Captain Canuck moniker suddenly felt even more appropriate. “That’s... actually kinda tight. Yunno, generally.” Florida was a staunch red state, so Dash had met his fair share of intolerant people. Tampa itself was more chill but the moment he drove anywhere else the entire atmosphere shifted. And not for the better. He generally didn’t condone violence, but he sure as fuck would look the other way if any of the assholes he grew up with were on the receiving end of an uppercut.

“You close with your mom?” He asked it impulsively, and definitely without meaning to. But Dash was always curious about people’s relationships with their moms. Dad relationships, for as excruciating as they could be, seemed way more cut and dry. My dad sucked, so now I sleep around. My dad sucked, so now I can’t trust guys. Daddy issues were commonplace. But moms? If you had a bad relationship with your mom, it always seemed like you were way more fucked up. That’s what Dash’s experience had been, at least, when he viewed the people in his life through that lens. “I mean, enough to not want her to be like, peeved with you, I guess.” Realizing he asked Callum a question without answering the one that was posed to him, Dash shook his head and immediately leaned back into a jokey tone. “But yeah, my work here’s done. My best guess is that the tree is a member of that Proud Boys group then, huh? Or like, some knockoff international chapter. It’s all very slowly coming together.”

Dash hummed for show, then his brow shot up at both the admittance and the almost-humorous way that Callum chose to deliver it. See, he wanted to say, it’s okay to unclench and have a little fun every once in awhile. They might be stuck on some shithole island, but the world was ending anyway. Might as well go out laughing, he sometimes thought. Dash grinned. “Only three times? Shit. Okay, that’s an improvement,” he said lightly. “And the fact you've never followed through on any of those impulses? Dude, I think your self control’s gotten a real upgrade. This is huge.” Dash’s guidance counselor in school had a poster on his wall, stating in big, bold letters: ‘SLOW PROGRESS IS STILL PROGRESS. IT MEANS YOU’RE MOVING FORWARD.’ He wasn’t so sure he and Callum moved forward much during this conversation, maybe just a few centimeters—some very brittle centimeters—but it was better than nothing. Ten knocked down to three. That wasn’t so bad.

“Yeah, sure. You’re welcome, man.” Dash stopped picking at his thumb, flexed his hands, then dropped them again. His fingers buzzed with want of something to do. "It wasn’t hard or anything, so. It’s no big deal.” Sort of a big deal. Vaguely selfish motives aside, it still took far more benevolence than he thought he came equipped with when it came to handling dickheads. But here he was. There was a moment of awkward quiet and Dash’s gaze turned back to the ocean and the fractured reflection of the moon. He watched it ripple and move when Callum spoke again. Dash blinked then looked over his shoulder, back toward camp. His voice was a little strained by his twisted diaphragm when he replied, “Totally. Uh, you go ahead without me. If you’re quick, maybe there’ll be like... more fish. Bones for you to pick, at least.” He shifted his injured leg, bending it at the knee, and faced Callum. “Don’t hold this against me tomorrow, but I think my brain just needs like, five extra minutes to gear up to stand and move.”

#int #c: callum #i will not Perceive #or will i....

archirenaux

#mirror.#musings.#when a fc post can also be a musing post? honey! that's kismet #spoilers #just in case <3

ofcallums:

Callum was turning to deep and long breaths to keep his calm whenever something irritating came out of Dash’s mouth. Which was… often. ‘Funny’ remark this, ‘clever’ joke that. It was like he’d die if he didn’t get out the wittiest comment at a moment’s notice. His growing frustration with Callum’s attitude was getting real annoying too. Yeah, Callum was a grumpy fucker. But guess what? Most people just brushed it off. Or chose not to interact. Or hell, even just accepted that that was the way he was. He didn’t see Dash throwing a fit over Sebastian being a dick on a day to day basis. Why was it that Callum was the only one getting shit for having a sour attitude?

“Listen,” Callum started, almost tiredly because he did not get why Dash was so ruffled up about this, “I’m a dick to everyone. You don’t get special treatment. You are, however, the only person who’s ever bitched at me for how I’m not nice to them.” Because this is basically what this was. Dash was whining about being on Callum’s shit list, not even considering that maybe he was doing some pretty consistently annoying shit on the regular to end up there. “This isn’t a me problem, it’s a you problem.” Meaning: figure your shit out because Callum sure as hell wasn’t going to change things up just because it was getting under Dash’s skin.

Personality disorder? His features pulled together to form a disbelieving look. Jesus Christ, who did this kid think he was? A psychiatrist? And Dash seriously wondered why Callum treated him the way he did. It wasn’t like Mendoza was undeserving. Take right now for example. Fucking personality disorder… It took Callum everything not to tell him to shut the fuck up right then. Thankfully Dash thought to take back his words and start on the wrap job on Callum’s hand. It was the only reason he wasn’t decking the kid straight across the face.

“Oh, bad shit’s happened to you too? Like what, you lost your new vape at the last rave you went to?” Callum wished he could’ve bit his tongue but Dash’s little remarks have been getting to him, and with his hand in the middle of being mummified, he could only snap verbally as opposed to his usual physical. He glanced downward and sighed, disappointed in himself for not having better control. Maybe his inclination to lashing out was just as undeniable as Dash’s proclivity to spout dumb shit. When Mendoza claimed he wasn’t satisfied with Callum’s answer, the Canadian wanted to say: well, tough. But he didn’t. See? Holding back. He was capable of it.

Callum’s answer being labelled a ‘cop out’ didn’t sit right with him though. It wasn’t like he was obligated to give Dash a good explanation or anything. But the more Callum tried to convince himself he was okay with his non-specific answer being called a cop out, the more he wasn’t. Even if he wanted to let Dash in on why he was so angry all of the time – which he would rather die than do – he didn’t have the words for it. He actively avoided trying to deal with the root of his anger because he knew all it would bring was pain, and he couldn’t fucking deal with that. Not before when he was just trying to get by and put it all behind him, and certainly not now when things were so bleak and he felt like shit. “You done or what?” He asked.

"Funny. From where I’m standing, it actually looks a whole lot more like a Callum problem,” Dash said wryly. Meaning that you caused it, buddy. Yeah, he heard Callum when he told Dash he was annoying or at least when he very heavily implied it. But Dash wasn’t going to stop being himself just so one dude’s hackles wouldn’t rise. Maybe Callum should just make a better effort to let it roll off his back. He sighed quietly. Or maybe it was just some real chicken or the egg bullshit. Which came first: Dash’s antics or Callum’s dickishness? “But seriously, I find it hard to believe no one’s given you a hard time for being an asshole. Be honest. Is that when the fists start swinging? So they never bring it up to your face again. They just gotta take it because Tough Guy Marcher’ll give ‘em a shiner again otherwise.”

Dash’s shoulders dropped and he rubbed at his eye. He reminded himself that he didn’t want to turn this into a full-blown fight. He reminded himself that this conversation started on the basis of some bastardized good will, the intent to apologize. And he actually pulled the trigger on that too. It probably wasn’t an olive branch but like, a small, singular metaphorical olive in the wake of a monumentally fucked up thing that had happened. He had to stick to that, even if he felt like a dog chasing its own tail during the entire conversation. “Fuuuck, how’d you figure that out? It had my last mango-flavored pod in it too, so I was totally traumatized by the whole thing. Haven’t been the same guy since,” he pretended to lament.

The only person he talked to on the island about his mom was Lukas, and they didn’t really get into details. Lukas just knew it was just Dash and his dad back in Tampa, and that Dash’s mom passed a little over a year ago. The conversation was short and stilted and quickly redirected. Dash never mastered the art of the Dead Mom Bomb Drop, and not because he was afraid of people’s reactions really. He just hated the way it made him feel when he said it: pitiful, jaded, weary—old. The opposite of how he tried to present. But he’d met people since the funeral who came from similar situations, mom-less or dad-less or whatever, and they were as good at delivering the facts as they were at just stating the weather. Conceivably it got easier with time, or just with practice. “Nah, like...” he trailed off. “Yunno, real life shit. Actual loss. That classic depressing deal we all gotta trudge through at some point.”

You done or what? Dash still hadn’t figured out where in the wrapping he lost track of the other end of the bandage, and he planned to use it to tie the whole thing up. “Uh. Yeah, totally, just about,” he said, stalling. He quickly undid the last few wrappings and turned Callum’s hand over, then breathed out a tiny ha! when the other end finally showed itself again. He tugged it out and half-smiled to himself, fully convinced he was pretty good at this wound-tending thing. And it was kind of ironic, he thought, that Callum was one of the people in their group who was most aggravated that it was Dash’s suitcase that washed up. And now here he was, getting his hand wrapped up in something from it. Dash almost wished he had sacrificed one of his more flamboyantly-patterned shirts for this moment.

He redid the work he backtracked on, then tightened the bandage before he tied the two ends together in a secure, little knot. While Callum’s hand was still hovering palm down, Dash knocked his own upward in a sort of knock-off high five. A little to be a nuisance on purpose this time around, a little in hopes that it was dumb enough to lighten the mood a bit. As soon as he did it though, he figured the latter was impossible to achieve with someone like Callum. Sucks. “Check out that teamwork. See? I held up the deal. There was barely any funny business.” Without anything to do with his hands, he dropped them to his lap again and picked at the hangnail on his thumb. “Like, even you’ve gotta admit that it was kept to a pretty minimum.”

#int #c: callum #this length is actually so insane and for what?#for what!

ofcallums:

Callum pushed out a huffy breath. He took offense to being thought of as the kid who bit when things didn’t go their way but the mention of his mom quickly had his reaction swerving in another direction, irritation taking a sharp decline. It was replaced with… suspicion? He stared at the boy for a long beat, eyes narrowed to slits as he wondered just how much Dash actually paid attention to. Then again, Callum felt as though he talked about his mother a fair amount so maybe he shouldn’t be giving Dash all of this undeserved credit. “I wasn’t the kid who bit other kids,” he settled for saying, tone low and grumpy. He hoped to leave it at that but then again, this was Dash he was talking to so chances of that were pretty slim.

“Why does it matter to you?” He asked with an exasperated sigh. Yes, he was angry. People were angry. It wasn’t this rare occurrence. Things like crash-landing on a deserted island and not having a way to get off really heightened that attribute too. Not having proper food to help sustain you while you were on there didn’t help the situation much either. “It’s not chronic,” Callum clarified, not wanting Dash to picture him red and raging as a little child. Like some demon menace his mother couldn’t placate. He wasn’t always an angry person but he didn’t know how to explain that to Dash without sharing some deeply personal things that he wasn’t sure he wanted anyone on this island to ever know.

“People grow up, shit happens, they get angry. It’s not unheard of.” Vague was his salvation here. Callum figured if he gave Dash some sort of answer – not too specific but just enough – he’d quit badgering him about his demeanor. “I wouldn’t have to be so angry if people could be less stupid. It’s not a constant state, it’s a reaction to… idiocy.” If things went the way they were supposed to, if people didn’t have stupid opinions and habits, if people had common sense, if people were less the way they were and more the way he preferred, Callum would be a less angry person. That, he was sure of. “Are you happy with that or what?” He pushed his injured hand toward Dash again. Now that he let Dash in (sort of) on why he was so pissed all the time, could he have his hand bandaged up now? He wanted this over with. He didn’t like that Dash was trying to get to know him on a deeper level. It was weird. And unnecessary.

“Sure. Sounds like something a former revenge biter would say,” Dash noted distractedly. What did it matter to him? Because you make me feel like I’m gonna crawl out of my fuckin’ skin, he wanted to say. The angry huffs, the cutting glares, the disdainful comments—Dash just wasn’t built to withstand that shit. Not for an elongated period of time, at least. He could deal with slight annoyance or brief frustration fine enough, but this was different. And he kind of hated himself for his hierarchy of needs desperately prioritizing his likability over like, eating actual meals most days. It was a fact of his life pre-crash and it set a heavy feeling in his gut that it followed him here, in the midst of all this. He wondered how many days on a deserted island it’d take to beat that out of him, because twelve clearly wasn’t quite yet enough.

“Huh. Why’s it matter to me?” he finally repeated, with the air that he thought the question ought to have an obvious assumed answer. He struggled with the words he wanted to say. On one hand, there was telling the truth. On the other, there was telling just enough of the truth to get his message across without feeling like he was fucking cracking himself open to be openly mocked. “‘Cause I’m one of these sorry assholes who’s stuck here for God knows how long with you. ‘Cause we’ve had a total of maybe like, one and a half kinda normal conversations the whole time we’ve been wasting away.” He scratched at his jawline, procrastinating. “I know you can be a huge dick and everything, but you’re not actually a dumb guy.” He paused, then cracked lightly: “Yunno, in spite of that perma-concussion and all.”

Dash inhaled deeply. Sure, shit happened. He knew that. Life sucked and forced you to grow up and people reacted in a lot of unexpected ways because of it. He guessed that manifested differently for different people, and never had he been more sure that he and Callum were stupid-different themselves. “Honest? That sounds more like a personality disorder to me,” Dash said, talking out of his ass, then shook his head as if to immediately retract the statement. He didn’t want to fucking fight. He was sick of fighting tonight. “Ah fuck, no. Jesus, I didn’t actually mean that.” Or well, he kind of did but he didn’t meant to say it out loud. When Callum thrust his hand between them, Dash blinked. He almost completely forgot what they were doing. After a moment’s hesitation, he started between Callum’s thumb and forefinger and pulled it over to begin to wrap the cotton cloth around his wrist beginning at he base of his palm. The goal was basically to make it look like the boxers he saw on TV.

“But I get it,” he said, glancing back up from his work. “You think I’m a massive idiot. Made that pretty clear—many, many times.” He began to wrap diagonally around Callum’s hand and palm, repeating the motion a few times, then pulled it straight across his knuckles. “Listen, bad shit’s happened to me too, man. Don’t see me acting like I want to spit in everyone’s faces ‘cause of it.” He wrapped it twice around Callum’s knuckles and hesitated, wondering where the other end of the strip went. “So ah... nah. Can’t say I’m totally stoked with that answer. Feels like a major cop out.” But whatever. Blue’s disappearance only served to remind him that these guys were all he had right now. Dash wanted to figure out how they could keep things civil going forward, if only for his own sanity and ego. He thought maybe trying to understand Callum’s warped psyche would help with that. Fat load of good that did him.

#int #c: callum

ofcallums:

A simple question could never be a simple answer with Dash. Callum should know by now that asking him a question was a risk that would probably cost him 20 minutes of his life. But he did say he’d bite. And he was curious on what someone like Dash would qualify as work. Callum had to admit: he was quite surprised by Dash’s first ever job. It was serious shit working in an old people’s home. He couldn’t imagine having to wipe old ass or brush teeth that wasn’t in a person’s mouth. Hell, he couldn’t even imagine having to brush teeth that weren’t his own. So okay, Mendoza got points for that. A solid first job.

As Dash went on to describe every place he’s ever worked at, Callum couldn’t deny that he was surprised. And possibly even a little impressed. The coffee shop thing ruined the impressive streak he had going on though. Especially when he admitted it was one of those places that was specifically designed for Instagram addicts to take pictures at. Yuck. Callum hated social media to be honest. It was why he didn’t have any. Well, with the exception of Facebook. But that was just so he could use Messenger to talk to people.

Callum rolled his eyes. Of course, Dash would roll with a joke and keep it going. “Alright…” He cleared his throat. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do. He could play along. And he could still kind of taste the grilled fish in his mouth. That reminded him to play nice with the guy who was gonna charitably wrap his hand. “I was mad. I needed to get it out. The tree was in the way.” He shrugged, satisfied with that simple and straight to the point explanation. If the tree wasn’t there, Callum wouldn’t have an injury. Done and done. Let him win this hypothetical case now, Judge. Or Jury. Whichever Dash was pretending to be right now.

His brows slanted in annoyance when Dash started to fuck around and prod his finger, watching the other Adam as he stared at the split skin of Callum’s knuckles. What? Has the dude never seen fucked up knuckles before? It’s a thing. He didn’t need to be weird about it. This only furthered Callum’s theory that Dash was a pansy, regardless of whatever asses he’s wiped in his lifetime. “I’ve dealt with worse,” he revealed. “This is barely anything.” And that was the truth. He rolled his eyes at the question and irritation flared within him. “What do you think?” He asked, deadpan, head tilted to the side in ‘seriously?’ manner. The thing with Sawyer, punching a tree just because he was pissed… Not that he was sure Dash had a brain up there sometimes but it wouldn’t take a genius to put it together. It was how he ended up here: his inability to resist getting physical when he had an issue.

The tree was in the way. That was certainly one way to logicize split knuckles. Not that he didn’t think a severe reaction wasn’t understandable in response to Blue’s disappearance, but risking a broken hand still felt stupid. And Dash was an expert in stupid. “Okay then, follow-up question: were you the kid in elementary school who bit people when they wouldn’t share their colored pencils or some shit? ‘Cause I’m betting your mom was called into a whooole lotta parent-teacher conferences.” He sort of remembered Callum mentioning wanting to get back to his mom and if Dash could lay claim to any talent, it was that he actually listened to what people told him. When he was sober. So, there: remembered your mom, Marcher, he thought, like it was any kind of proof that he was a person worth anyone’s time. Literally everyone had a mom. Dash shrugged, feigning an apologetic air, and half-grinned. “Sorry. Gathering some evidence here, yunno? Building a character profile.”

Dash dropped Callum’s hand in a sudden motion and reached for the strip of cloth over his shoulder. He rolled his eyes right back at Callum—exaggeratedly, to make sure he understood that it was a purposeful mimic. “I’m trying to sus out if this pissy version of you is the Marcher Deserted Island Special or just what you’re like on the reg. Now that I’m getting the message that you’re brawling all over the Great White North, guess I’ve got my answer,” he said dryly. Dash had gotten into his fair share of stand-offs at clubs, high and wired and mouthy, but it never came to anything. He never actually wanted it to, and then there was just his dumb luck. His friends intervened, the other person’s friends held them back, or he offered them a bump to make up for it. And then that was that. So he understood escalation at least; he basically escalated every single shitty conversation he ever had. His case in point sat right next to him. But he didn’t think he would ever understand a violent gut reaction. “Is it like, a chronic condition for you—or what? Seriously, honestly asking. No judgement. You’re just the angriest motherfucker I’ve ever met.”

#int #c: callum #dash on his quest to figure out why callum must hurt is widdle feelings #his* even

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