AN

WARNING: You may develop a few OTPs, BROTPs, or NOTPs in this chapter. #sorrynotsorry.
Song on the top because it comes from my personal writing playlist and I want it to be eventually relevant to the book.

Asher is bleeding red and gold.

His face is painted in cheap, shimmery yellow from the corner-store, his cheekbones and forehead were filled out with crimson warpaint, long creases of lines beneath his eyes carve to the bridge of his button nose to his chin.

Rina is beside him, screaming as she holds a bell with red gloves. They haven't sat down once- the both of them were centered in the front row, close enough to talk to Tommy or Tyler when they had the chance to speak. John had them as a constant on the field, until they needed a rest.

"C'mon Defense!" Asher shouted, voice raw as he watched the score board. They were behind by three points, with half-time five minutes away. They could easily win this- Tommy and Tyler could end their last season of high school football with a state championship in less than three games.

"I swear, Buford, watch Tyler's back!" Rina is screaming with him, currently demanding the bulky, just-over-six-foot football player to guard their friend better. He had enough to worry about, from where to go, who to dodge, where to catch. He didn't need number 57 from the enemy team, Ravens, to be running him over like he was a scrawny freshman instead of a strong-limbed eighteen year-old.

The crowd is loud, pushing the limits of ear-aching volume. Somewhere, beneath the stadium, Asher's mother, Sheriff Bravermen, is keeping a close eye on the delinquents who stick to the edges of the chain-link fence instead of the football field's benches.

The cheerleaders, Dove among them, are in the middle of lifting up three of the twelve girls into the air. The screaming from both sides of the stadium has Asher pumping with adrenaline, face flushed scarlet beneath all of the paint on his cheeks. This is what he lives for.

This is what everyone in Hollow Grove lives for.

It's a distant whisper. It's a normal that they hardly get to touch down on.

Sweaty guys, with roughed up bodies and grass-stained football uniforms, made Hollow Grove lookseemfeel mundane, like it was never nationally featured on every news station across America.

"TommyTylerTommyTyler," is a constant stream of shouting along with "6, 9, 6, 9!". The two stars are working off of each other, Tommy throwing the football and Tyler catching it. T-squared. The dynamic duo of Hollow Grove, the two boys who have been featured in 'Louisiana Daily' thrice in the past year, are ripping up and down the turf in a blur of crimson and gold jerseys.

Asher is still screaming when the half-time bell echoes in the stadium.

*

The band is playing 'We Will Rock You', the usual theme-song that gets the audience fired up for the next half of the game. The cheerleaders are sitting, all of them wrapping themselves in blankets brought from home as they try to beat the freezing cold. The only way the weather could worsen could be rain- which, apparently, isn't supposed to begin until after midnight.

Asher is waiting in line- one that stretches all the way from the concession-stand to the very beginning of the turf. Above him, the huge, yellow goal post is reflecting the flood lights of the stadium. He digs his hands into the blanket he bought especially for cold Friday night games.

His pocket is full of two five dollar bills and a handful of quarters, dimes, and nickels (no pennies, as far as he's concerned, he doesn't believe in them.) With chattering teeth, he watches Rina and Tyler, she's talking to him as he stretches out his legs and he looks happy for the company.

Lovebirds. The two idiots were so in love that they didn't even realize it. Sometimes it was heartbreakingly funny, amusing- an enjoyable pass time for Asher, who didn't have that special someone in his life. He's gone through three Valentines days in the high school, very single and very kind-of-but-not-really okay with it.

The both of them sent him away to do their dirty work, but luckily, Tommy asked Coach Reynolds if he could grab a water- we have good ol' H2O right here, boy, you don't need to- with Asher. The quarterback had thrown John a look of I'm-not-going-just-because-I-want-to-spend-two-dollars-on-over-priced-water and nodded to the burrito-blanketed Asher.

He was grateful for Tommy, who was currently jogging in place to keep his blood pumping and his body warm, in the line. He was sweaty, dark curls that usually stick up on the teenager are plastered to his flushed skin and hazel eyes are focusing on Asher's face.

"Looks like my brother is running you straight into hell," Asher says, taking a half step forward because the line finally moved. "Sorry."

Tommy shrugs, smiling with a look that says it's all worth it. "Looks like Rina let you get crazy with the warpaint," the football player tells him, stopping for just a minuscule second to catch Asher's chin with the pads of his fingers.

Asher's glad his entire face is painted red already- because he's almost positive he would've become an even brighter shade of crimson at Tommy's comment. "It's- it's a-uh, big game, and I want them to absolutely know who I'm rooting for," Asher tells the quarterback, worrying the insides of his cheek with his teeth.

"Next game, paint '9' instead of '6', Tyler already has enough support," Asher feels Tommy's hand trace over the chipping number on his cheek, just beneath his eye. His fingers are so warm, tangible heat sinking from his fingertips to Asher's paint-filled pores.

He nods, quickly- absurdly... obviously oblivious to being oblivious. "Win the game and I will," Asher tells the taller boy. Tommy grins at him, that million-dollar smile forcing a gagging noise of holy-crap-too-perfect to escape everyone in a ten foot radius, which included Asher and a few teenagers.

"I," Asher gulps, fingers gripping tighter to his blanket as he trades to level his gaze with Tommy to watch his pleated shoes move up and down on the turf, finding grip in the plastic grass for a few seconds until Tommy rips his other leg down and the second comes up. "Tommy-"

"Hey, I think Sheriff Bravermen is trying to get your attention," Tommy interrupts, the older boy nods to the right side of Asher- to a very pissed looking Sheriff Bravermen, whose eyes are trained onto her seventeen year-old son.

"Shit, what did I do now?" Asher shakes his head. "Keep our place in line, will you?" He doesn't wait for answer, already crossing off of the edge of the turf to the sidewalk where momma bear awaits.

*

"I didn't do it- whatever it is," Asher begins, staring up at his mother.

In dark khakis and a button-up tanned shirt, she stands there in the middle of the concrete pathway with arms crossed- oh, shit, not arms crossed- and one of her leather-booted feet tapping on the cement- oh, shit, not tapping. The sheriff's star hangs just above 'Ashlynn Lapin-Bravermen', the words engraved into the name-tag. Asher tries to forget that his mother owns a gun, a gun that has never been used before- but still, the Glock deserves acknowledgement.

"Asher Xavier Bravermen," for God's sake- she's using his entire name.

"Mom?" He swallows, looking up to Ashlynn with a kicked-puppy look. His voice cracked- his tone was torn apart to help remind him that he was just a teenage boy in the presence of his mother.

"Your father called me," she told him. "You didn't feed Bowser."

Asher exhaled a breath he didn't know he was holding hostage in his lungs out. Bowser was the overactive Lab- German Shepard mutt that Asher had forced his parents to let him adopt after... July Night..., because he wouldn't go to sleep in his own room without his brother Oliver or another living human being in his presence. It didn't matter that he was too old to be scared of the dark- he had a calamitous fear of it, age appropriation be damned. Sometimes still- but Bowser had been there for the worst of it.

He'd lick Asher's face until he was awake for school, owned a deep enough bark that made him sound ten times bigger than what he really was, and had the tendency of thinking he was a human instead of a dog, i.e: he stole food from the dining room table and took up more than half of Asher's mattress.

"Oh," he smiled at his mom.

"Oh? He's a dog, he can't feed himself, Asher," his mother shakes her head. "Responsibility, boy. This is why you don't have a car. If you can't take care of a dog, you don't have the capacity to drive a car and not kill someone."

"Mooom," his voice echoed with a teenager's distinct whine. "This again?"

"Yes. This again," her blue eyes move down to the thing in her son's hand- which happens to be his most prized possession: his phone. Her fingers outstretch, showing her empty palms as she gives him a rogue eyebrow that tells him exactly what she wants.

"Mooom," he moans. "Not my phon-"

"You'll get it back tomorrow, but right now, young man, phone."

He places it in her palm, feeling an almost physical pain as the both of them are torn asunder. "You're a cruel woman, mother," he whispers, shaking his head as she smiles at him and pockets the tiny tablet that holds half of his life in less than six inches.

*

Asher turns on his heels, blanket still wrapped tightly around his shoulders as he makes his way back to Tommy. It's fifteen more minutes until half-time is over, and John is probably growing restless with his star quarterback's absence from the rest of the team.

Shaking his head, his fingers twitch at the ghost of his phone in his back pocket as his shoulder simultaneously slams into a body. His feet go off-course at the sudden force of impact; instead of a straight path to his friend, he's tumbling into the gravel that surrounds the sidewalk.

"Sorry," he tells the man that stands above him, attention fixed on the fallen teenager. "I was in kind of a hurry," Asher gulps, his heels dig into the gravel as he fists at his blanket, fighting to get up and try not to make a fool out of himself in front of this man- who looks out of place here, with a well worn leather jacket that might've been tailored to his arms and his legs covered in worn jeans that lead down to beat-up Timberlands.

The stranger opens his mouth, but shuts his jaw as he just nods at Asher's apology. Suddenly, a hand is reaching out, hanging there in front of Asher's face as an invitation for a help-up. He doesn't know what to say, hell- he's lucky that the man is even giving him any assistance.

Most of the time, he's usually either ignored by anyone save for his senior class and close family, but the hand is still waiting for Asher's grasp.

Must be from out of town.

"Thanks," he takes the outstretched palm, fingers clasp over his knuckles as the man easily lifts him up to two-feet and only nods, he doesn't say anything- the stranger.

Asher can smell the leather of the jacket the man wears, he can see the sharp jaw- the dark hair that contrasts with his light skin. He sticks out like a sore-thumb, everything about him was a beacon to the gray sea of Hollow Grove, heads turn to watch the new specimen that is suddenly present in the small town. Asher gulps, apologizing to him again in a faint voice as he realizes that the stranger is attracting new on-lookers.

He doesn't seem to notice that he was slowly becoming the main attraction to anyone in the stadium, and Asher- Asher never liked attention. He tries to scramble away, smiling politely as he subconsciously commits the man to memory.

Asher's quick study of the stranger discovers his shirt is torn- almost dirty- beneath his leather jacket, and his height is only a couple inches taller than Asher's just-below-six-feet.

The flood lights color out any tiny details, though.

Asher never saw the scars on the hands that helped him up. Or his blue eyes.

*

"Come on, Tommy- I swear to God, Tommy- Tommy, run for it- come on- just a few more yards- Tommy RUN!" Asher is white-knuckling the railing of the stands, hot chocolate ignored and saving the spot where the teenager should be sitting. He grits his teeth, jumping up and down in place as he huddles closer to Rina, both of their voices more than raw as the last minute of the football game begins to count down on the score board.

They're behind by one point- and if Tommy could get it to the field goal, make a touch-down, they'd be one step closer to state. It meant one more guaranteed week of school spirit, of painting their faces red one more time, another Friday night pre-game stop at Reilly's Diner.

"Run, come on Lupine, come on!" Asher's screaming Tommy's last name, kicking up his feet as the winding twenty seconds shines brightly in fluorescent red on the score board.

They're at the farthest goal post, the Hollow Grove's Gladiators end zone is situated where the opening of the forest comes into view like a hand full of trees, grass, and bayou.

And Tommy's feet are shredding through turf.

Tyler has went down; somewhere, he's spitting out plastic grass with a ripped uniform while number 57 is at Tommy's heels, hand about to reach around his waist and- and Asher knows it's over. He can already see 57 trampling over Tommy- who had lithe limbs, who could run a straight mile and not be winded, but would go down just inches away from the much needed point given by a touch down because he couldn't take a tackle by a teenager who was likely over two-hundred pounds of muscle.

But the crowd erupts into screams around him, victorious howls echo through-out the entire stadium as Tommy dives into the end zone, hands first as his body follows and he's scraping his stomach on turf when Asher feels Rina grasp him by the collar to hold him in a tight hug.

She's jumping, they're both screaming, and laughing, and maybe even crying- I won't tell if you won't tell, Rina.

"Tommy Lupine wins the game for the Gladiators with a touch-down- a close one for our boys," the microphone is full of static; the flood lights could be flickering, but Asher blames it on the paint that keeps sticking in his eyelashes.

"We won, hell yeah, we won!" Rina is pumping one fist in the air and the other is caught in Asher's blanket, pulling him closer to her as they discern the waves of what it feels like to be part of a winning team. "Hell yeah, we won, baby!" She's shouting still, as she pulls Asher alongside to the field, to run on the turf and celebrate the win with the rest of the teenagers that are dispersing onto the grass.

They jump over the bench's railing, feet landing just as Tommy meets them half-way, sweaty and exhausted and bleeding. Asher hugs the quarterback, half of his face paint rubbing off on Tommy's cheek, but they don't care- none of them care, they won.

They fucking won.

The stadium's speakers are filtering 'Remember the Name' and Asher doesn't care if it's pretentious, he's happy, Rina's happy, Tommy's happy.

They don't feel cold anymore. The three of them are all wrapped in a strange group hug in the inner-circle of the crowd that is trapping them inside a safe, little crook of people.

It's thirty degrees; Tommy's nose won't stop bleeding and his helmet is cracked; Rina is laughing, jumping on Asher's back as she high-fives anyone who would lift their hand to her.

And then the stadium's lights go out.

*

The emergency lights flicker on, red beams filter through the stadium and for some reason- for some damn reason, Asher freezes where he's at. Rina's still on his back, her arms wrapped tighter around his shoulder, fingers digging into his blanket, and her eyes are wide as she exhales a whisper of muffled surprise.

He can see their breath in the red shadows, he watches the freezing cloud of oxygen diffuse into the air as every soul in the stadium goes silent.

And then it explodes into sound.

It's a white-hot, nail-scratching noise that has Asher scrambling to twist his feet around on the turf to find the source of the cause.

This isn't coming from the people around him, it isn't an echo from the passing vehicles on the road out of town, it's... it's July Night all over again.

Asher drops Rina- she falls to her feet, freezing immediately where she stood; the trio of teenagers stare at each other with wide eyes in the red luminosity, all waiting for directions as they stand together as if they're paralyzed- Tommy, Rina, Asher... they don't know what to do- they don't know if they should be addressing the fear in the pits of their stomaches, or if they should already hit the ground running, if they should keep running and never look back.

Everyone is moving, everyone is tearing asunder as they fight their way off the field. Teenagers are being pulled by their friends, kids that managed to escape their parents' grasp are being scooped up by any open hands, the football team stop in their celebration and push back everyone- push Asher- away from the forest that opens only feet away from the end zone they're all standing at.

Asher finds that his limbs can move, realizes that his feet weren't paralyzed, that the cold didn't actually freeze him- that the sound, that sound- the screeching sound that forced itself into the deepest pit of his mind- didn't bind him to the turf.

So, he moves.

He runs.

Rina is moving like she's trying to get the hell out of Dodge; he begins to trace after Rina- who is the utopia of safety, she's the beacon leading to security- but she's screaming something- shouting her sister's name as she weaves through the crowd on shaky legs.

"Dove! Dove, where the hell are you? Dove!" He can hear her desperate cries, the panic in her voice clear as she rips through people, not caring that she's knocking down half the town in search for her sister- once, she finds one of the cheerleaders, turns her around and pushes her away after she realizes it wasn't her sibling.

Asher doesn't remember the trek from the end zone to the parking lot to be so long- he doesn't realize that the reason why it's taking so long is because something is blocking the way.

Trapped. They're caught like animals.

"Asher!" Tommy is behind him, trembling hand tapping on his shoulder as he turns to the quarterback.

"Tommy, I think- I think someone is- is--" the words dry up in his mouth, they fucking evaporate- they act as if they never existed because Asher Bravermen forgot how to form another syllable.

Asher wants to wake up. He wants to force himself out of this hellish nightmare-- he needs to wake up because he knows he won't survive this- there is no plausible way that Asher will survive this. He already found salvation when he was young- when he was given mercy instead of death.

He doesn't know what it is- if it's a man, if it's a monster, if it's something from the deepest pits of hell- but it's perched- mother-fucking perched, like an animal, like a wild animal- on the field goal. Its hand is wrapped around one of the yellow poles, illuminated with scarlet light.

"Holy shit," Asher breathes out, his feet stop moving- he's stumbling down, he's falling- he fell, on the turf. It's rough against the palm of his hands as his amber irises almost implode as he levels his gaze with the beast.

It's back.

AN

Ah-- it happened so quickly, but action is a main point in this book. I'm sorry if this came outta nowhere. (Thank God it's only a first draft)

That just happened. I wrote this because I couldn't just get this out of my mind and I had an entire free day to write- so I did, and... and... more on Asher's mother, more on Mr. Mysterious Blue Eyes, more on... on this beast.

Tell me whatcha think.