A second oneshot while I got distracted from Addressed to You. I apologize in advance for the sappiness/angst of this fic; I keep thinking it takes place shortly after P3/P3P, before FES. It was inspired by an art piece I saw in the Nuit Blanche that was set up in the town I live in. For "mood music" I was playing "Isolation Part 1" by Pulusha on repeat one . . . OTL

Disclaimer: Persona 3, Persona 3 Portable, their characters and terms (c) Atlus

If Ghosts Could Speak

Evening sun filtered in from the cracks of the blinds, splashing thin lines of fiery light into the otherwise dark room. A tall haggard figure lay on the bed, gaunt and unshaven face buried into the pillow. Nothing in the room stirred save for the soft rise and fall of the man's chest. Nothing made noise save for the clock on his nightstand, quietly ticking away the day.

He'd kept this general position for days, forsaking his usual practices of living up to the scoldings he used to give about healthy eating. He wasn't even sure of the exact timing; had he been here hours, days, or weeks? Months even? Not that he really cared. In fact, he couldn't even care about much anymore. Not eating, not speaking, not even getting up. He didn't even have the energy to get angry. Just reflect on what had been, what could have been, and sleep to try and gain some reprieve from the unbearably heavy ache that lanced through his heart each time it beat. It wasn't a physical ailment, but it sure as hell felt like one.

There was a knock on the door, shattering the stillness of the room. A voice muffled through the wood, calling his name in a tone laced with concern. His childhood friend, checking on him as he did everyday, possibly more. When there was no answer, the person outside shuffled away. The man within wondered bitterly, briefly, when the dense idiot would finally give up and realize that he wouldn't answer. He didn't want to, didn't have the energy to. Didn't have the anger to. Just wanted to lie here, drift between sleep and lucidity, and hope that he'd fade away . . .

The flaring hues of evening gave way to the dim velvet of night. The light was artificial now, coming from streetlamps and houses and the passing cars outside. The clock kept ticking, the white noise falling on apathetic ears. Everything was still.

Little did the man know that he was being watched. Not by anything or anyone tangible, but rather a singular girl dressed in nothing more than a simple sleeveless white gown that reached just above her knees. From her vantage point, her entire body emitted a gentle glow, but as she was as insubstantial as smoke, she shed light upon nothing. Scarlet eyes gazed sadly, apologetically, upon the prone man.

She had been priveleged to come here through the power of the only company that she had where she was meant to remain for eternity. This was possibly the only time she would have to come down like this, and she had gone to see her friends. All of them were still grieving her earthly passing; the males especially seemed to be taking it harder, but like her female friends they were managing to cope for the time being. She could hear it, though. Their desire to see her again, if only one more time. A pang had gone through her as she listened to the voices of their hearts.

"If only I was a machine. Then perhaps I would not hurt so . . ."

"You were the first girl I honestly felt this way towards, and now . . ."

"If only there had been another way!"

And all she could do was weep silent tears that did not exist.

So now she drifted in his room, as soundless as everything else. Gazed down at him with eyes that looked as if they wanted to shed tears but could not do so due to the nature of her existence. Yes, amongst all her friends, his heart had been the one that called most strongly. It was true, what he said. When they had met in September, he had been the one seeking to leave with no regrets, intending to leave her behind; now she was the one that had departed without regret, and he was the one who remained. She still had no regrets. She'd found the meaning of her life, and had acted to fulfill said meaning. But that didn't stop her from feeling guilty for leaving behind her friends without word, without rhyme or reason.

The heart of her love had gone quiet for the most part now, its cries for release and its ponderings on the idea that being one of the Lost might not be such a bad idea. Now in sleep, all his heart whispered was her name. Sorrow clenched at her own and she drifted closer to the man's sleeping form. A pale hand - almost opaque, but not quite - reached out to stroke the brunette's cheek, sunken from days without food; as she expected, it simply went through him, separated by their planes of existence. So close, yet so far.

The young man's heart murmured her name again.

"Shinji," she wanted to call back, wanted to say. But all that happened was her lips moving, forming the shapes of his name.

Eternity, immortality, invincibility, transcendence. Some of the many perks to being a spirit. But for her, those things could not outweigh the burdens of being a soul. Insubstantiality, invisibility, the inability to shed tears . . . the inability to speak. "Psychics" and "seers" were phonies, each and every one of them. The dead did not speak. They couldn't. It was as impossible for a ghost to speak as it was impossible for a human to live without oxygen. This was a fact of her current existence that she had come to accept, and yet seeing her beloved in such a state right in front of her caused her an emotional agony so great it felt like a physical one.

All those things she wanted to tell him, to comfort him with, to scold him with, to love him with clamoured in her heart, clawing at her throat and demanding to be voiced. On her first day as a lingering spirit, her silver-haired senpai's heart had been worrying about his friend, after he'd found the bottle of sleeping pills hidden in the other man's room. In a very wise maneuver, one that the girl had been immensely thankful to the boxer for, he'd quietly disposed of all the pills but kept the bottle there. The next morning the boys had found the open bottle on the men's bathroom floor and a portion of the glass on the mirror spider-webbed with cracks.

Since then she'd kept a close eye on the youth, alert for any more suicidal activity. The next thing he'd tried to do was bleed himself out. In a supernatural act she'd managed to prevent the razor from even touching his skin, destroying the blade in his hands in the process, and her other senpai had later confiscated the other bladed objects of the dorm. After sulking for a day he'd tried to jump off the roof; again, he was thwarted by her influence when her desperate silent cries had alerted the subconscious of her friends and they'd all rushed up to stop him. It had taken all the boys and Mitsuru to wrestle him to the ground, where he finally gave up when his childhood friend had dealt him a punishing uppercut and a well-deserved verbal flogging.

"Enough is enough, Shinji! You think she'd be happy that you're trying to off yourself?"

And after that he'd shut himself in his room and simply just given up, refusing to move from his place on his bed.

She wanted to tell him to stop moping, to stop BSOD-ing and get a move-on. He was so much stronger than this; she refused to believe that he would so willingly let himself go like this. She didn't expect him to forget, or to fully recover from the grief, but she most certainly didn't want him to just wallow and waste away like this. He'd always been the one to pull her up. He was always the lone wolf, doing things his own way but always helping the team. Where was that attitude and independence and obstinacy now? Go back to your old snappy self, please. But of course, no words were spoken.

She wanted to tell him she was sorry for breaking her promise of not crying over and over again during the time he'd been in a coma. His words to her - "So don't cry, got it?" - had kept returning, reminding her that he'd told her to keep smiling, yet she'd shed tears anyway. Even though she'd spent Christmas with him, she'd gone out with her senpai to see the lights at Paulownia the day before. The pale-haired young man had done it out of kindness, out of his own unrequited feelings towards her. It was most likely because she was his best friend's lover and their expedition leader; he was trying to take care of her as he'd been taught by his fellow senior, at least take her mind off of their situation and her beloved's absence, if only for a little while. It had worked, at the time. She'd genuinely smiled when she'd received the music box, and she was incredibly grateful to the man for doing his best to cheer her up. The gruff brunette would have probably not minded it, probably even would have encouraged at the time since it was probably nothing more than a pity date both ways. But somewhere deep inside she'd felt as if she was betraying him for even agreeing to go out with another man. I'm sorry for not smiling. I'm sorry for not staying fully failthful. I'm sorry for leaving you behind. But of course, no voice was heard.

She wanted to tell him she was thankful. The second time she'd encountered him with her classmates, he had saved them from a dangerous situation, given them valuable information. Then in September, when he'd finally agreed to rejoin SEES, she'd never gotten the chance to thank him for it too. Even though he'd done it only so he could face his regrets with Ken, his contributions in the group had been invaluable. There were so many times she was certain that she wouldn't be around if he hadn't intervened. The time he'd allowed himself to spend with her, the fact that he'd willingly opened up to her; those weren't things to be taken lightly from that man, and she was grateful to him for doing it. For letting her into his life. Thank you for your love, for your strength. Thank you for your protection, and thank you for being with me. But of course, no sound was uttered.

But above all else, she wanted to tell him she loved him. She loved his strength, both mental and physical. She loved his voice, rumbling quietly like distant thunder. She loved his hair, which was surprisingly soft. She loved his hands, calloused and weather-worn but gentle and warm. She loved his arms around her, so strong, so protective. She loved his eyes, those dusky-brown orbs that couldn't hide emotions from her. She loved his lips, slightly chapped but sensuous and soft. She loved him, all of him, for who he was: gruff, cynical, short-tempered, tough-talking, stubborn, enigmatic, sensitive, easily flustered, warm, caring, protective, loving. All his flaws, all his strengths, and everything in between. There wasn't a thing she disliked about him. I love you, Shinji. I always have, and I always will.

Alas, she was a ghost, and ghosts could not speak.

An otherwordly presence behind her, and she turned to meet a pair of sombre ocean blue eyes. The dark-haired youth needn't say anything, merely gazed at her with eyes that apologized and wished that there could have been another way. To this she simply nodded, knowing why he was here. Her lingering was over. It was time for her to truly take on the mantle of the Great Seal. Death personified turned and vanished from view, knowing that the girl would follow shortly after her final good-byes. Turning back to her sleeping love, she felt the prickling pain of threatening tears, tears of which she had none to shed, just as she had no voice to utter. And even as she felt like she was suffocating, she took everything she wanted to say and condensed them down into a handful of simple sentences.

"Shinji," was what her lips shaped noiselessly. "Thank you. Please forgive me. Get up. Stay strong. Live for me. I . . . I'm sorry . . ."

Choking back a soundless sob, she turned to leave, unable to mouth anymore. The rustle of fabric.

"Mi . . . Mizuki . . . ?"

His voice was husky, coarse, barely more than a croak. But it was enough to make her turn. He'd lifted his shaggy head from the pillow, and his dusk-brown eyes were wide with disbelief, reflecting her own expression of surprise. Could he . . . ? The man was already rising, still staring straight at her.

"Mizuki . . . is that . . . you?"

He could. He could see her. If only for these few precious moments, he could see her. But she was already beginning to fade. Still, she turned and gently cupped his unshaven face in her intangible hands. His own calloused ones rose to touch her, only to go right through her. Her weak smile faltered but remained, and she poured as much emotion and sincerity as she could into her next words.

"Good-bye. I'll always love you, Shinji."

The space between them melted as she pressed her ghostly lips against his. She was only able to accomplish this for a brief moment, for in a faint flare of light she was gone.

~Owari~