The house was empty, the lights off, the door closed and locked. They tumbled up the stairs, clutching at each other, struggling to reach the top without falling. They never broke apart; if they stopped for a breath they wouldn't reach their destination. Their goal.

It was aggressive, misplaced anger on both sides. One lost a game, the other a ghost. Frustration and unspent adrenaline drove them onward; hatred and anger fueled their desires.

Jackets dripping with rainwater fell in soggy heaps to the steps. The wood beneath them creaked as they fought, stumbling to the second floor in their familiar battle.

They never spoke, not when they first started and not now. They didn't have the breath, the energy, the will to speak. And what would be said? The situation never needed dialogue. Words were meaningless.

Pinned against the door, fumbling for the knob, turning, the door flew open. Falling, they were falling, but caught themselves. The battle would continue, always, until they reached the bed, tumbling onto the soft mattress, a victory decided. A familiar dance. A rule of war. The save point.

It wasn't love that brought them to this position time and time again, what was love to them? Pain and humiliation, heartbreak, disappointment, confusion, regret, betrayal… No, love would never be welcome in their battle; it was far too corrupt a word.

But neither was it lust, nor the need for physical contact. If that were the case they would seek to sate their urges among other, more acceptable relationships.

No, this was a power struggle, always had been, and always would be.

That first time, pinned against the lockers, ready to be thrust into the confining space never meant to hold a human body, he had responded. Pushing off the wall of metal at his back to lunge at the larger teen, knocking him down, pinning him. The first victory.

The lunch room, the snickers, the taunts, too much. He pounced, and he pinned. Another victory.

Like a striking cat, lightning quick, inhuman, he would pounce, he would pin, and he would triumph. And with that conquest he would smile, a feral show of teeth from an animal, a threat, a warning. They would always fight, and he would always win.

Only when they were dead and faded, a distant memory even in the ghost zone; when there wouldn't be enough dust left of their bodies to raise a sneeze from a medium, only then would the battle end.

But that was a long time away, and until then they would fight. At school, at home, in privacy and in public, they waged their never ending war for dominance.

But it always ended the same.


This night was no different.

He thrust his arms out, knocking the other back. They fell. The bed creaked from the weight, but it was unheeded, as is the agonized protest of nature on a battlefield unheard by the opposing armies

The victor triumphed, the defeated submitted. The battle was won, the war would continue…

It surprised many when the outcome was made clear each time. Because one of them would always be the stronger. The least likely, the smallest, the weakest, he would always come out on top.

Still, though the victory belonged to only one, and always the same one, still they fought.

Because Dash hated to loose.

And Danny loved to win.