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juushikaGhost and Aaron: Master List | Next Update
A few days back, I sat down to rejoin Aaron and Ghost—and everything went to shit. I wasn't really "feeling" their story at the moment—because while things ended well enough last time, Aaron really fucked up and their last argument did a significant amount of damage to their relationship. They're on imperfect terms and have a lot of work to do before things are smoothed over. And these boys are my babies—precious to me and very real, and their uncertain situation was making me anxious. I took them to the park, and they were unresponsive and distracted. I sent them home and tried to get them to start rebuilding lost trust—and they were unwilling to communicate and Ghost rejected all of Aaron's advances (which I was initiating). I felt like shite, quit without saving, and didn't want to try again.
The next day I went back. Aware now of my anxiety and "feeling" their story again, I let them go home instead of meeting at the park after Aaron got off work, and then I sat back and let them do their own thing. At the house, Ghost cleaned for a bit and then played some foosball, because cleaning can put him in a rotten mood; Aaron swam laps in the pool until he was exhausted. And then as Ghost was starting on a new canvas, after Aaron took a quick shower, Aaron went into the back room.
He said hello to Ghost
and Ghost held him close
and moments later they were wrapped in one another's arms, kissing long and slow. Not long after, they made love.
All I did really was cancel actions out of queue. There's a magic here which I can't overstate. Is it odd to experience their story more than direct it? Perhaps. But it is also beautiful. Beautiful, and a reminder too to relax my anxious clicky finger. This is their story, and their troubles to resolve. And as much as it pains me to see them troubled, I have faith that resolve they shall.
Thus beginning another few days.
Cornelius and Gertrude get along better day by day—which of course makes me want to play matchmaker.
(I finally put in a mod which removes the "A Ghost!" reaction, because it queuestomps everything.)
The next morning, Gunther Goth calls and Aaron tells him how sore he is...
From swimming. Or course.
The boys have such magical autonomy that Aaron has been getting himself cleaned and fed before work each morning..
...and he's been swimming laps every night (because you can never be too fit when you may have to run from the police).
All on his own. Many sims are too stupid to manage a job even with prompting, so I'm proud of him.
Methinks he may want to swim a few more laps, though.
Aaron's stolen an awful lot—with AwesomeMod's klepto arrests enabled—without attracting attention.
Then two days on the job, he gets collared.
That night, Cornelius picks up on my desire for more ghostly action and begins with:
"So ... I hear you're dead." Smooth, Cornelius, smooth.
Totally not creepy.
Lady, you are dead. Not undead.
You have no metabolism. YOU DO NOT NEED FOOD.
Two arrests in two days. This is just silly.
(Sillier still that they let him ride in the passenger seat of the cop car.)
And he keeps getting picked up while at work, which slows down his progress towards promotion.
Jail's not too harsh, though. The law goes pretty easy on petty criminals.
This one is just a picture.
But Aaron is making enough money to pay the bills.
And you know, I think he's sort of proud of that.
Shortly after, Aaron finally got promoted.
It was about damn time, according to Ghost. I concur.
Aaron may have shitty luck (and, I suspect, a shitty boss, to run such an obvious criminal organization that the cops just pick workers up at the front door), but he's got clever fingers and he's working hard. Hopefully the path will be smoother from here on out.
Ghost, meanwhile, has been having troubles of his own. For a while, some time ago—after Aaron brought home the second headstone, but before Cornelius made his first appearance—Ghost was having horrible dreams. He often does, but these were worse than normal and bothered him a fair bit. As a result, he had a grudge against the ghosts—and let's be honest, against Aaron too, because denial or no Ghost knows where the headstones came from. It's not likely that there was a correlation between the ghosts and Ghost's dreams, but there was just enough coincidence that he couldn't help but place blame. But the dreams eventually got better.
And now Ghost's relationships with the ghosts is more friendly.
Although being friendly with the dead can be a strange experience.
But lately Ghost's dreams have gone strange again, and he's sleeping poorly.
Tossing, turning, waking through the night. Having Aaron nearby helps, but not enough.
Ghost has yet to share these problems with Aaron—or with me. I have a fair view of his history with dreams and sleep, especially the last time that things were problematic. But I don't know what these are like, or why they bother him. I'll have to wait and see. It's worrisome, though.
Worrisome too that the boys are still on rocky ground. I understated a bit, last time, just how much damage Aaron did to their relationship. (I was half in denial about it, myself.) They're still friendly, still passionate about one another, but the memory of that fight haunts them and they've both treading on eggshells.
So on his first day off since starting work, instead of sleeping in Aaron makes breakfast.
(Stew, to be precise.) And he didn't burn it, for a change!
Ghost preferred it to even more leftover waffles.
(Bigger better for facial expressions.)
Indeed, Aaron dedicated the day to repairing their relationship.
Happiness is: spontaneous, unasked-for backrubs from a lover.
Ghost appreciates the gesture. Yeah, Aaron, you're doing good.
So as hoped for—they worked through their issues on their own.
It's fair to say now that things are much better, thank goodness.
And a few minutes later, they shut themselves in the bedroom.
Or perhaps things are more than just "better." When they finally climbed out of bed:
Ghost said "I love you"—for the first time.
Which is as good a conclusion as any. I could say more, but Ghost speaks for himself.
If you were wondering what was up with my other sims ... well, not a whole lot. As usual when playing these boys, I can't pull myself away from Ghost and Aaron long enough to do much with anyone else. A few pics, though:
When I say that all my inactive sims walk around in exercisewear...
I am not kidding. I wish I were kidding. But I'm not.
Subtlety, Dominic. You seem to have lost yours.
(Expressions better bigger.)
No one can resist the sprinkler! It's a bit silly, honestly.
This is Wednesday, Billy, and Goku, who normally don't much get along.
And Manson and Sarah are dating now!
Still no progress for, er, anyone else—see aforementioned inability to switch away from Ghost and Aaron for long.
As for the promised fic: Since Ghost's dreams are acting up again, I figure the storybit for this time should be on the same topic. Unfortunately this is one of the longer snippets, but the one I planned to share doesn't yet feel finished and the one after that is a bit much sex to jump straight into, so we'll stick with one that at least won't feel out of place. Ghost isn't usually like this—he doesn't swear so often, he's rarely this angry—but he's under trying circumstances. As such:
Storybit 02: Ghost dreams of death.
1600 words
Takes place around the same time as this entry, although the effects are more apparent in this entry.
No romantic content, mention of sex, some violence and swearing.
* * * * *
It's one thing to have a ghost walking around the place, and another entirely to dream about death—but ever since the second headstone appeared in the backyard a week ago, Ghost has.
Ghost has never begrudged his mother for his odd name, but he's starting to now. He hates the repetition: ghostly Ghost living in a house with a ghost. Goddamn his mother, and goddamn Aaron too.
Goddamn Aaron in particular for this mess. Ghost is cleaning the tub in the master bath, and even though it's another thing he ought to be immune to by now, today is full of surprises and he's fucking flabbergasted that one man who is, as far as Ghost can wager, competently in control of his own bodily functions can make such a wretched mess of a room in just a couple of days. Ghost doesn't care too much about having things clean—which is a good thing, given the condition of the house—but he's pretty sure the toilet's about to grow legs and walk off, and the tub isn't much better. There's no excuse for that. This is the price he pays for the best friend he's ever had, and he's willing to pony up—but right now, he's not very happy about it. He's angry and he's tired because these last few days, the dreams have been bad enough to keep him awake.
They're not frightening. There's not much left in Ghost's head which could frighten him—he's seen it all before. Really what worries him is that he cares about the dreams at all, because he swore to stop that long ago, and up until now he's pretty much succeeded. But these last few days he just can't keep the thoughts of them out of his head.
Every night, Ghost dreams about dying. His dreams are always twisted, often violent, and death is no surprise. Still, these dreams are unusual. In his last, the night before, Ghost was shot from behind by a man just outside of the science facility. Dream-logic didn't give him a reason to be there, he just was—loitering out front. He walked towards the building and looked up at the wide glass doors, and saw there his reflection, glowing white, and behind him a shadow, black coalesced to the shape of a man. He knew, knew at first sight that this man had come for his death—the thought of it made his heart thump in his chest, a low and shallow sound.
It does the same now and Ghost shakes his head, scowling and scrubbing hard at the tub's drain hole.
In his dream, Ghost walked away from the doors, and his shadow followed. He went to the fountain, stood before it, and there they were again, a blur in the rippling water, white and black. There was a woman seated on the fountain edge, reading a newspaper; she looked up at Ghost and they exchanged nods. Ghost asked her for the time and she told him, and Ghost knew that she could see the dark man behind him, but paid him no mind. The man was supposed to be there, he was as natural as a cloud in the sky—but, oh, much darker and not so distant.
Ghost leaned a leg on the edge of the fountain, pressed his hands to his knee and stared off into the distance. His peripheral vision swam with dark and light, dancing on the surface of the water. There was the sound of people exiting the building and chatting near the doors, the sound of wind in the trees, and it was all so calm and pedestrian except that Ghost's skin was swamped by tingling waves, leaving his hair raised in its wake. The sensation was disconcerting but surprisingly pleasant, a near-sexual pleasure of anticipation.
Ghost finishes with the tub and finds a brush to clean the toilet. The air is cold, his shoulders are tense, and he scowls.
They stood in silence, Ghost and his shadow, in his dream. The fountain pinged with falling water, and a breeze brought a spray of it to shimmer on Ghost's prickled skin. And then there was the feeling of metal on the back of his neck, so cool and smooth that it felt oiled as it slid up to his hairline. Ghost took a long slow breath, and he could feel everything: the droplets on his skin, the metal of the gun, the air filling his lungs; blood in his veins, the prickle of his nerves, the throb of his erection pressing against his fly. The landscape was a green so vivid it stung his eyes; the sky was clear distant blue, glowing with the sun.
The gun twisted against his neck and there was a metallic click that must have been the safety eased off. Ghost had drifted to a place somewhere beyond words—halfway through his work Ghost puts the toilet brush down, sinks to a crouch and folds his head into his arms—but there were hundreds of them buzzing in his head, a litany of thrill and thanks. Yes, he wanted to say. No. Wait. Now. Beautiful. And thank you, bless you, I love you. Wanted to sink to his knees and kiss the boots of this man who held a gun to his head, wanted to make love to him here on the edge of the fountain, his head falling back into crystal blue water and his skin alive under the pressure of a gun. The world shone around him and his eyes watered and in his dream Ghost was smiling.
Now, in the bathroom, he pulls into an even tighter ball.
Ghost knows just what it looked like when his shadow pulled the trigger. A kinetic flash, almost visible. A spray of red to dye the air. Blood trickling down the fountain's metal rings. Water swirling, swimming, into a pale pink. The fold of his body, thumping over the edge of the fountain. The spread of his lifeless arms in the water. His shadow departing. Ghost saw none of it, of course, but the images were alive in his dream-mind as the moment pulled out, lengthened, stretched until it was prime to break. His lungs hurt for want of breath, and he felt that it as clearly as the sun on his skin and the grit of the concrete under his raised boot.
The dream ended with the gun firing.
It's not death that bothers Ghost. It doesn't bother him, doesn't frighten him, it just is what it is. But to long for one's killer like a lover—
Upon waking, Ghost had almost been thankful. He had been speechless and still, lying dazed under the covers. Then he was suddenly ravenous, his stomach growling but his skin itching too, his eyes burning, desperate with a need to go, touch, do, see. Even dirty and dingy, the walls of his bedroom were vivid around him. His bedding was smooth, his tank cutting uncomfortably into his underarms, it was like the dream again: such resolution, such detail; he had turned new eyes on the world. It was beautiful.
Beautiful, and chilling. Because what follows life is death.
Ghost swears, "Fuck," and shakes his head within the confines of his arms. And then there's a knock on the bathroom door. Ghost jumps, swears again, and in his haste to rise knocks the toilet brush out of where it rests in the toilet bowl and then stumbles and slams his shoulder on the wall. The clump and clatter don't go unnoticed.
"Woah. You okay, man?" Aaron's voice is muffled on the other side of the door.
"Fuck. Yeah, no, I'm fine. What is it?"
"I'm heading out to the grocery store and just wanted to see if you needed anything—seriously, Ghost, you okay? You sound all shook up."
"I'll live," Ghost tells him, and then rolls his eyes at the irony.
On the other side of the door, Aaron's hand is hovering over the doorknob, but he shakes his head and drops it. "Okay then," he says. "So, anything from the store?"
"Cheese," Ghost says. "I think we're out." After an awkward pauses he adds, "That's all I can think of."
"Ah, good call. Will do." Aaron pauses too, and they each wait for each other to say something. On his side of the bathroom door, Aaron worries the inside of his labret with his tongue, then swallows. "So I'll be back eventually," Aaron says.
Ghost nods and then remembers Aaron can't tell. "See you."
Ghost finishes cleaning the toilet, wipes down the sink, mops up a puddle that lurks around the back corner of the tub, and then the place almost looks clean again. Aaron is still out when Ghost is finally done and Ghost isn't sure if he's relieved. He's glad not to have to explain himself, but he doesn't trust himself alone in the silence of the house. He turns on the TV but that doesn't really help, so he cooks dinner to keep himself occupied.
He doesn't know quite where to place the blame. Maybe death has always been seductive, and Ghost didn't realize it until now. Maybe the graveyard populating the backyard has started weird thoughts running through his head. Maybe he's not as immune to his crazy dreams as he pretends, and that's all it is. Or perhaps it's that this town is as strange as he is, for all that it looks like wholesome suburbia. It's a town full of ghosts, with Ghost in it dreaming odd dreams every night.
Ghost burns the tomato sauce he's heating and the whole thing is such a mess that he just throws it away. He's exhausted, and lets Aaron cook when he comes home not long after. They watch TV, Aaron chatting idly and Ghost dozing. That night, Ghost dreams that he throws himself from a cliffside into the deep, frothy sea, and he wakes up so frustrated he could cry.
Ghost and Aaron: Master List | Next Update
A few days back, I sat down to rejoin Aaron and Ghost—and everything went to shit. I wasn't really "feeling" their story at the moment—because while things ended well enough last time, Aaron really fucked up and their last argument did a significant amount of damage to their relationship. They're on imperfect terms and have a lot of work to do before things are smoothed over. And these boys are my babies—precious to me and very real, and their uncertain situation was making me anxious. I took them to the park, and they were unresponsive and distracted. I sent them home and tried to get them to start rebuilding lost trust—and they were unwilling to communicate and Ghost rejected all of Aaron's advances (which I was initiating). I felt like shite, quit without saving, and didn't want to try again.
The next day I went back. Aware now of my anxiety and "feeling" their story again, I let them go home instead of meeting at the park after Aaron got off work, and then I sat back and let them do their own thing. At the house, Ghost cleaned for a bit and then played some foosball, because cleaning can put him in a rotten mood; Aaron swam laps in the pool until he was exhausted. And then as Ghost was starting on a new canvas, after Aaron took a quick shower, Aaron went into the back room.
He said hello to Ghost
and Ghost held him close
and moments later they were wrapped in one another's arms, kissing long and slow. Not long after, they made love.
All I did really was cancel actions out of queue. There's a magic here which I can't overstate. Is it odd to experience their story more than direct it? Perhaps. But it is also beautiful. Beautiful, and a reminder too to relax my anxious clicky finger. This is their story, and their troubles to resolve. And as much as it pains me to see them troubled, I have faith that resolve they shall.
Thus beginning another few days.
Cornelius and Gertrude get along better day by day—which of course makes me want to play matchmaker.
(I finally put in a mod which removes the "A Ghost!" reaction, because it queuestomps everything.)
The next morning, Gunther Goth calls and Aaron tells him how sore he is...
From swimming. Or course.
The boys have such magical autonomy that Aaron has been getting himself cleaned and fed before work each morning..
...and he's been swimming laps every night (because you can never be too fit when you may have to run from the police).
All on his own. Many sims are too stupid to manage a job even with prompting, so I'm proud of him.
Methinks he may want to swim a few more laps, though.
Aaron's stolen an awful lot—with AwesomeMod's klepto arrests enabled—without attracting attention.
Then two days on the job, he gets collared.
That night, Cornelius picks up on my desire for more ghostly action and begins with:
"So ... I hear you're dead." Smooth, Cornelius, smooth.
Totally not creepy.
Lady, you are dead. Not undead.
You have no metabolism. YOU DO NOT NEED FOOD.
Two arrests in two days. This is just silly.
(Sillier still that they let him ride in the passenger seat of the cop car.)
And he keeps getting picked up while at work, which slows down his progress towards promotion.
Jail's not too harsh, though. The law goes pretty easy on petty criminals.
This one is just a picture.
But Aaron is making enough money to pay the bills.
And you know, I think he's sort of proud of that.
Shortly after, Aaron finally got promoted.
It was about damn time, according to Ghost. I concur.
Aaron may have shitty luck (and, I suspect, a shitty boss, to run such an obvious criminal organization that the cops just pick workers up at the front door), but he's got clever fingers and he's working hard. Hopefully the path will be smoother from here on out.
Ghost, meanwhile, has been having troubles of his own. For a while, some time ago—after Aaron brought home the second headstone, but before Cornelius made his first appearance—Ghost was having horrible dreams. He often does, but these were worse than normal and bothered him a fair bit. As a result, he had a grudge against the ghosts—and let's be honest, against Aaron too, because denial or no Ghost knows where the headstones came from. It's not likely that there was a correlation between the ghosts and Ghost's dreams, but there was just enough coincidence that he couldn't help but place blame. But the dreams eventually got better.
And now Ghost's relationships with the ghosts is more friendly.
Although being friendly with the dead can be a strange experience.
But lately Ghost's dreams have gone strange again, and he's sleeping poorly.
Tossing, turning, waking through the night. Having Aaron nearby helps, but not enough.
Ghost has yet to share these problems with Aaron—or with me. I have a fair view of his history with dreams and sleep, especially the last time that things were problematic. But I don't know what these are like, or why they bother him. I'll have to wait and see. It's worrisome, though.
Worrisome too that the boys are still on rocky ground. I understated a bit, last time, just how much damage Aaron did to their relationship. (I was half in denial about it, myself.) They're still friendly, still passionate about one another, but the memory of that fight haunts them and they've both treading on eggshells.
So on his first day off since starting work, instead of sleeping in Aaron makes breakfast.
(Stew, to be precise.) And he didn't burn it, for a change!
Ghost preferred it to even more leftover waffles.
(Bigger better for facial expressions.)
Indeed, Aaron dedicated the day to repairing their relationship.
Happiness is: spontaneous, unasked-for backrubs from a lover.
Ghost appreciates the gesture. Yeah, Aaron, you're doing good.
So as hoped for—they worked through their issues on their own.
It's fair to say now that things are much better, thank goodness.
And a few minutes later, they shut themselves in the bedroom.
Or perhaps things are more than just "better." When they finally climbed out of bed:
Ghost said "I love you"—for the first time.
Which is as good a conclusion as any. I could say more, but Ghost speaks for himself.
If you were wondering what was up with my other sims ... well, not a whole lot. As usual when playing these boys, I can't pull myself away from Ghost and Aaron long enough to do much with anyone else. A few pics, though:
When I say that all my inactive sims walk around in exercisewear...
I am not kidding. I wish I were kidding. But I'm not.
Subtlety, Dominic. You seem to have lost yours.
(Expressions better bigger.)
No one can resist the sprinkler! It's a bit silly, honestly.
This is Wednesday, Billy, and Goku, who normally don't much get along.
And Manson and Sarah are dating now!
Still no progress for, er, anyone else—see aforementioned inability to switch away from Ghost and Aaron for long.
As for the promised fic: Since Ghost's dreams are acting up again, I figure the storybit for this time should be on the same topic. Unfortunately this is one of the longer snippets, but the one I planned to share doesn't yet feel finished and the one after that is a bit much sex to jump straight into, so we'll stick with one that at least won't feel out of place. Ghost isn't usually like this—he doesn't swear so often, he's rarely this angry—but he's under trying circumstances. As such:
Storybit 02: Ghost dreams of death.
1600 words
Takes place around the same time as this entry, although the effects are more apparent in this entry.
No romantic content, mention of sex, some violence and swearing.
It's one thing to have a ghost walking around the place, and another entirely to dream about death—but ever since the second headstone appeared in the backyard a week ago, Ghost has.
Ghost has never begrudged his mother for his odd name, but he's starting to now. He hates the repetition: ghostly Ghost living in a house with a ghost. Goddamn his mother, and goddamn Aaron too.
Goddamn Aaron in particular for this mess. Ghost is cleaning the tub in the master bath, and even though it's another thing he ought to be immune to by now, today is full of surprises and he's fucking flabbergasted that one man who is, as far as Ghost can wager, competently in control of his own bodily functions can make such a wretched mess of a room in just a couple of days. Ghost doesn't care too much about having things clean—which is a good thing, given the condition of the house—but he's pretty sure the toilet's about to grow legs and walk off, and the tub isn't much better. There's no excuse for that. This is the price he pays for the best friend he's ever had, and he's willing to pony up—but right now, he's not very happy about it. He's angry and he's tired because these last few days, the dreams have been bad enough to keep him awake.
They're not frightening. There's not much left in Ghost's head which could frighten him—he's seen it all before. Really what worries him is that he cares about the dreams at all, because he swore to stop that long ago, and up until now he's pretty much succeeded. But these last few days he just can't keep the thoughts of them out of his head.
Every night, Ghost dreams about dying. His dreams are always twisted, often violent, and death is no surprise. Still, these dreams are unusual. In his last, the night before, Ghost was shot from behind by a man just outside of the science facility. Dream-logic didn't give him a reason to be there, he just was—loitering out front. He walked towards the building and looked up at the wide glass doors, and saw there his reflection, glowing white, and behind him a shadow, black coalesced to the shape of a man. He knew, knew at first sight that this man had come for his death—the thought of it made his heart thump in his chest, a low and shallow sound.
It does the same now and Ghost shakes his head, scowling and scrubbing hard at the tub's drain hole.
In his dream, Ghost walked away from the doors, and his shadow followed. He went to the fountain, stood before it, and there they were again, a blur in the rippling water, white and black. There was a woman seated on the fountain edge, reading a newspaper; she looked up at Ghost and they exchanged nods. Ghost asked her for the time and she told him, and Ghost knew that she could see the dark man behind him, but paid him no mind. The man was supposed to be there, he was as natural as a cloud in the sky—but, oh, much darker and not so distant.
Ghost leaned a leg on the edge of the fountain, pressed his hands to his knee and stared off into the distance. His peripheral vision swam with dark and light, dancing on the surface of the water. There was the sound of people exiting the building and chatting near the doors, the sound of wind in the trees, and it was all so calm and pedestrian except that Ghost's skin was swamped by tingling waves, leaving his hair raised in its wake. The sensation was disconcerting but surprisingly pleasant, a near-sexual pleasure of anticipation.
Ghost finishes with the tub and finds a brush to clean the toilet. The air is cold, his shoulders are tense, and he scowls.
They stood in silence, Ghost and his shadow, in his dream. The fountain pinged with falling water, and a breeze brought a spray of it to shimmer on Ghost's prickled skin. And then there was the feeling of metal on the back of his neck, so cool and smooth that it felt oiled as it slid up to his hairline. Ghost took a long slow breath, and he could feel everything: the droplets on his skin, the metal of the gun, the air filling his lungs; blood in his veins, the prickle of his nerves, the throb of his erection pressing against his fly. The landscape was a green so vivid it stung his eyes; the sky was clear distant blue, glowing with the sun.
The gun twisted against his neck and there was a metallic click that must have been the safety eased off. Ghost had drifted to a place somewhere beyond words—halfway through his work Ghost puts the toilet brush down, sinks to a crouch and folds his head into his arms—but there were hundreds of them buzzing in his head, a litany of thrill and thanks. Yes, he wanted to say. No. Wait. Now. Beautiful. And thank you, bless you, I love you. Wanted to sink to his knees and kiss the boots of this man who held a gun to his head, wanted to make love to him here on the edge of the fountain, his head falling back into crystal blue water and his skin alive under the pressure of a gun. The world shone around him and his eyes watered and in his dream Ghost was smiling.
Now, in the bathroom, he pulls into an even tighter ball.
Ghost knows just what it looked like when his shadow pulled the trigger. A kinetic flash, almost visible. A spray of red to dye the air. Blood trickling down the fountain's metal rings. Water swirling, swimming, into a pale pink. The fold of his body, thumping over the edge of the fountain. The spread of his lifeless arms in the water. His shadow departing. Ghost saw none of it, of course, but the images were alive in his dream-mind as the moment pulled out, lengthened, stretched until it was prime to break. His lungs hurt for want of breath, and he felt that it as clearly as the sun on his skin and the grit of the concrete under his raised boot.
The dream ended with the gun firing.
It's not death that bothers Ghost. It doesn't bother him, doesn't frighten him, it just is what it is. But to long for one's killer like a lover—
Upon waking, Ghost had almost been thankful. He had been speechless and still, lying dazed under the covers. Then he was suddenly ravenous, his stomach growling but his skin itching too, his eyes burning, desperate with a need to go, touch, do, see. Even dirty and dingy, the walls of his bedroom were vivid around him. His bedding was smooth, his tank cutting uncomfortably into his underarms, it was like the dream again: such resolution, such detail; he had turned new eyes on the world. It was beautiful.
Beautiful, and chilling. Because what follows life is death.
Ghost swears, "Fuck," and shakes his head within the confines of his arms. And then there's a knock on the bathroom door. Ghost jumps, swears again, and in his haste to rise knocks the toilet brush out of where it rests in the toilet bowl and then stumbles and slams his shoulder on the wall. The clump and clatter don't go unnoticed.
"Woah. You okay, man?" Aaron's voice is muffled on the other side of the door.
"Fuck. Yeah, no, I'm fine. What is it?"
"I'm heading out to the grocery store and just wanted to see if you needed anything—seriously, Ghost, you okay? You sound all shook up."
"I'll live," Ghost tells him, and then rolls his eyes at the irony.
On the other side of the door, Aaron's hand is hovering over the doorknob, but he shakes his head and drops it. "Okay then," he says. "So, anything from the store?"
"Cheese," Ghost says. "I think we're out." After an awkward pauses he adds, "That's all I can think of."
"Ah, good call. Will do." Aaron pauses too, and they each wait for each other to say something. On his side of the bathroom door, Aaron worries the inside of his labret with his tongue, then swallows. "So I'll be back eventually," Aaron says.
Ghost nods and then remembers Aaron can't tell. "See you."
Ghost finishes cleaning the toilet, wipes down the sink, mops up a puddle that lurks around the back corner of the tub, and then the place almost looks clean again. Aaron is still out when Ghost is finally done and Ghost isn't sure if he's relieved. He's glad not to have to explain himself, but he doesn't trust himself alone in the silence of the house. He turns on the TV but that doesn't really help, so he cooks dinner to keep himself occupied.
He doesn't know quite where to place the blame. Maybe death has always been seductive, and Ghost didn't realize it until now. Maybe the graveyard populating the backyard has started weird thoughts running through his head. Maybe he's not as immune to his crazy dreams as he pretends, and that's all it is. Or perhaps it's that this town is as strange as he is, for all that it looks like wholesome suburbia. It's a town full of ghosts, with Ghost in it dreaming odd dreams every night.
Ghost burns the tomato sauce he's heating and the whole thing is such a mess that he just throws it away. He's exhausted, and lets Aaron cook when he comes home not long after. They watch TV, Aaron chatting idly and Ghost dozing. That night, Ghost dreams that he throws himself from a cliffside into the deep, frothy sea, and he wakes up so frustrated he could cry.
Ghost and Aaron: Master List | Next Update
