#(^^ except Owen because I couldn't think of anything different for him - sorry Owen)

[s-grunge]

Redraw of one of my favourite screenshots.

[basil-the-scorned]

Fuse-Chapter 1

AKA FTR since Dynasty has further wracked my brain. Fic is locked so it's being link right over here!

I'll post it like always down below if you don't wanna go to AO3.

Dax lets his body act before his mind has time to catch up. The emotions he wears on his shoulders engulf him and direct what he does and it helps half the time. He has a higher chance when Cash is with him, usually backing him up in agreement. 

He can only point that on Cash's fuse, a bit longer and harder to set off. He hides what he's feeling more often than not, a truth that he only told the reason behind during nights where they both can't sleep because of things in the past that still haunts them when they least expect it. 

The Owen was the first time he accidentally set off that spark, when they haven't faced each other in a long while and he tried to get the upper hand by shoving his hands towards his face. He didn't think about it until he saw that flash of hurt on Cash's face before he flared his teeth at him and Dax found himself getting dragged and chopped to hell and back for the rest of the match.

The word sorry was on his lips that whole night and into the next day. And his partner, who was near silent after despite winning, warned him with tired eyes to never do that again. All forgiven and Dax kept himself straight.

Until Copeland messed his title opportunity to fight with his former friend. And then it hit that he was just going to lean of them once again for some gold and help, like everyone else have been doing and he pushed through it for the greater good. At least with the others, they tried to change. Cope hadn't even attempt to do anything different except try to fall back on them even harder.

So Dax stepped back and let him hit the ground, and he waited for Cash to leave him in the dust. Except he was going towards the stage alone while his partner was the one to stand by Copeland's side instead. Cash, the more understanding one, the one who looked up to the other man a lot more than he did. It left his chest swirling with heat.

That same heat followed him when he lost to that punk of the Death Riders—he still says it was a two count and that Yuta did something. Ref said it was three, he didn't want to believe it and the more they went back and forth, the higher that heat was taking over until the ref was against the ropes and he was still insisting that it was two count. He felt arms wrapping around him and he saw the ref scatter away, and that set off his own fuse to knock them back and face the consequence later.

Except it came sooner than he liked, in the form of his friend looking at him with a similar look of shock that he got from the Owen. Fuse set, ready to explode at any moment now, bigger with every slow step towards him. He was going to get caught in the crossfires bad and he did in a slapped hand and fire staring right back at him.

He was in a empty room that night, at Cash's request. Sleep didn't come easy, his thoughts keeping him up until the sun was peaking over his window. He ate breakfast with him but he couldn't get a start to apologizing before Cash cut him off. "I don't wanna hear it."

"Come on, man-"

"Dax." That same tone that gave him that first warning was back with fire ready to burn him. So he dropped it for now, the unsettled feeling now resting on his shoulders. He was spending more days by the coffee machine than in his bed. He spent the next week coming up with an apology, only for it to go to waste in a few short seconds live.

After Dynasty, we need to talk. Again, Dax was forced to leave it. The room was even colder.

The message was clear: he had to be good, make up with Copeland and play nice to get back on Cash's good side again. Offer that same hand to one he slapped away. He hates that it almost felt like before, some jokes paired with shoulder bumps and late night tequila tasting. Because he felt almost forced to make up to someone who still probably couldn't care less about them if there was no gold to be sought out. And he still felt that weight on his shoulders when Cash hesitates before interacting with him outside the ring.

It hasn't even been a whole month. Despite the snores on the other side of him, he still was chasing sleep. Was the gold going to be worth it? He can only play nice for so long, to stomp out that shorter fuse at the smallest reminder. He can only have a hollow hope that his mind would change.

It didn't. Not even an inch. All he could do was put all that heat and energy into stretching and towards the Death Riders.

And of course, it didn't work. Which was bittersweet—just because he got his way doesn't make the lose sting any less. The cheers for them didn't sooth as much as it usually did. Not when he saw the way Cash was glaring towards the outside path where the winning trio existed out with their own celebrations. Was his anger finally going to be shared, or was he going to be stewing in this alone again?

He didn't believe it until they were walking side by side again, the other person obviously missing and the crowd washed over them in a strange mix of cheers and boos. Later, over some tequila that wasn't his for once, he finally felt something settle between them. Cash was sitting close enough that their knees knocked together when he passed the bottle to him, solid and full to the brim.

He heard Cash clear his throat and try to start saying something that stops just as quickly. Still hesitant, not exactly the same as it's been the weeks before. The way he was messing with the wood beneath the both of them was out of something else.

The crowd's gasp was a warning too late, Cash sent backwards with a loud thud. Everything happened in slow motion for him: the looks, the way he reached out his hand and waited for a reply that came with a sharp rejection.

He closed his eyes and sipped long enough to let the burn seep down to his throat.