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metamorphosis2012-01-11 08:18 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2012-01-11 08:18 pm
Entry tags:
281;
Title: chiller
Characters: Luca Milda, Spada Belforma
Rating: G
17/365. sssome shitty ghost au.
The freezing chill that envelops is the same chill that wakes him up; he doesn't move, doesn't breathe, and that's obviously what gives him away because the chill moves to the right and settles in front of him, just a foot away. The same grin he's woken up to for the past four days fades in from the darkness and the grey eyes glint like polished steel, a little warm and a little hard. They go through the same song and dance that's been happening for the past four nights; Luca blinks sleepily and reaches out to touch the green hair wonderingly (it's a color that's been gone for at least eleven years) and the apparition disappears, only to reappear a few feet away. This time, though, he feels his fingers go through him and he widens his eyes, startled; it feels a lot like moving your hand through a thick, cold mist, and he shakes as he withdraws his hand and tucks it under himself. The grin stretches wider as Luca introduces himself. There's a pause, like he's waiting for the ghost to say something, too, but after a moment, he does; just a first name (Spada) but that's good enough for him.
“How long have you been dead?” is the first thing he asks and Spada scowls. “That ain't the kind of thing you ask a ghost, man! We're a sensitive kind of people.” Luca stares at him, not believing him for a second, and Spada rolls his eyes.
“Probably about ten years. How long you been alive?”
“Fifteen. How old were you when you died?” Luca shifts closer and sits up, drawing the blankets tighter around him; it grows colder and colder the longer Spada stays around, and it makes his skin pin and prickle, irritated with the sheets.
“This some kinda version of twenty questions? Seventeen.”
Seventeen... That's just a few years older than him, he realizes, and he leans forward. The closer Luca gets to Spada, the less he seems to be there, as if looking at him from a distance is the only way to see him and everything else is too close and not allowed. He doesn't stop, though, and Spada doesn't move, and he can't see him anymore (he can see the shadow of him, the shadow, the outline, the silhouette-- but he can't see anything substantial and it makes his brow furrow more) but he knows he's there because it's cold, nigh freezing, and the blanket's no help anymore so he lets it slip off as he slips onto the floor and folds his hands in his lap. The words are heavy on his tongue and in his throat because he'd like an answer but doesn't feel as if he'll get one (not this soon) but he has nothing to lose, does he?
“How did you die?”
Spada doesn't answer; he just shrugs and floats up, as ghosts are wont to do, and the higher he goes the better Luca can see him. He grins and tips his hat to Luca and shrugs again.
“Somethin' stupid. Stop worryin' for the dead, kid. There's not much you can do anyway.”
“B-But if you're here --” and his voice comes out too louder, too insistent, too whiny – “if you're here then you must have a reason, right? People don't just become ghosts because they want to! They have-- something holding them back from moving on--” and he doesn't realize he hasn't breathed once while he's been talking, so he pauses and catches his breath, closing his eyes a little and feeling his shoulders slump in defeat. “...Right?”
Spada lets him catch his breath before he answers, watching the boy slump a little and calm down and listen, like a rabbit in the brush, for the sounds of his parents waking up (or the lack of, as it turns out, and Luca breathes a sigh of relief before turning those questioning green eyes on Spada, waiting for his answer).
“Man, you're nosy.” And it's not really an answer, not at all, and Luca's about to say something but Spada waves a little and points to his bed. “G'night, dumbass.”
And then he's gone, and Luca feels his room race back up to seventy degrees, warm and safe; he hates it, though, wants the cold back (the chill that announces the ghost's presence), and stubbornly pulls the blankets off his bed and throws them on the ground, laying on his bed without them and trying to imagine that it's still here, that it isn't pleasantly warm and fifteen minutes to six, that he hasn't wasted most of his night waiting for Spada to come around like he usually does and that he doesn't have to get up to go to school despite it all.
Characters: Luca Milda, Spada Belforma
Rating: G
17/365. sssome shitty ghost au.
The freezing chill that envelops is the same chill that wakes him up; he doesn't move, doesn't breathe, and that's obviously what gives him away because the chill moves to the right and settles in front of him, just a foot away. The same grin he's woken up to for the past four days fades in from the darkness and the grey eyes glint like polished steel, a little warm and a little hard. They go through the same song and dance that's been happening for the past four nights; Luca blinks sleepily and reaches out to touch the green hair wonderingly (it's a color that's been gone for at least eleven years) and the apparition disappears, only to reappear a few feet away. This time, though, he feels his fingers go through him and he widens his eyes, startled; it feels a lot like moving your hand through a thick, cold mist, and he shakes as he withdraws his hand and tucks it under himself. The grin stretches wider as Luca introduces himself. There's a pause, like he's waiting for the ghost to say something, too, but after a moment, he does; just a first name (Spada) but that's good enough for him.
“How long have you been dead?” is the first thing he asks and Spada scowls. “That ain't the kind of thing you ask a ghost, man! We're a sensitive kind of people.” Luca stares at him, not believing him for a second, and Spada rolls his eyes.
“Probably about ten years. How long you been alive?”
“Fifteen. How old were you when you died?” Luca shifts closer and sits up, drawing the blankets tighter around him; it grows colder and colder the longer Spada stays around, and it makes his skin pin and prickle, irritated with the sheets.
“This some kinda version of twenty questions? Seventeen.”
Seventeen... That's just a few years older than him, he realizes, and he leans forward. The closer Luca gets to Spada, the less he seems to be there, as if looking at him from a distance is the only way to see him and everything else is too close and not allowed. He doesn't stop, though, and Spada doesn't move, and he can't see him anymore (he can see the shadow of him, the shadow, the outline, the silhouette-- but he can't see anything substantial and it makes his brow furrow more) but he knows he's there because it's cold, nigh freezing, and the blanket's no help anymore so he lets it slip off as he slips onto the floor and folds his hands in his lap. The words are heavy on his tongue and in his throat because he'd like an answer but doesn't feel as if he'll get one (not this soon) but he has nothing to lose, does he?
“How did you die?”
Spada doesn't answer; he just shrugs and floats up, as ghosts are wont to do, and the higher he goes the better Luca can see him. He grins and tips his hat to Luca and shrugs again.
“Somethin' stupid. Stop worryin' for the dead, kid. There's not much you can do anyway.”
“B-But if you're here --” and his voice comes out too louder, too insistent, too whiny – “if you're here then you must have a reason, right? People don't just become ghosts because they want to! They have-- something holding them back from moving on--” and he doesn't realize he hasn't breathed once while he's been talking, so he pauses and catches his breath, closing his eyes a little and feeling his shoulders slump in defeat. “...Right?”
Spada lets him catch his breath before he answers, watching the boy slump a little and calm down and listen, like a rabbit in the brush, for the sounds of his parents waking up (or the lack of, as it turns out, and Luca breathes a sigh of relief before turning those questioning green eyes on Spada, waiting for his answer).
“Man, you're nosy.” And it's not really an answer, not at all, and Luca's about to say something but Spada waves a little and points to his bed. “G'night, dumbass.”
And then he's gone, and Luca feels his room race back up to seventy degrees, warm and safe; he hates it, though, wants the cold back (the chill that announces the ghost's presence), and stubbornly pulls the blankets off his bed and throws them on the ground, laying on his bed without them and trying to imagine that it's still here, that it isn't pleasantly warm and fifteen minutes to six, that he hasn't wasted most of his night waiting for Spada to come around like he usually does and that he doesn't have to get up to go to school despite it all.