The pen taps rhythmically against the blank page as he stares at the lake. Whatever will had possessed him five minutes ago seems to have disappeared like the frosty mist of his breath. The blanket he sits on is rough to the touch and scrapes against his ankles slightly, the muddy grass squelching unpleasantly as he shifts. The blanket had been a good idea. It isn't the nice, pretty kind - some picnic blankets are - it's the coarse kind, the colour faded and the edges frayed with age. The blanket had been a good idea, but coming outside barefoot and with no coat had certainly not. Again, he questions the will that had possessed him five minutes ago to do such a thing. The only thing keeping me here is not wanting to walk back through that mud, otherwise… He sighs, looking back out to the lake. The day is decidedly grey, as is the surface of the water. It is still, empty - the ducks must be holed up somewhere warm. I wish I was holed up somewhere warm, he thinks wryly, scowling at his reflection. The first page of the new notebook in front of him remains blank, devoid of any blemishes or broken images. The silver tip of the pen catches the light as he taps it against the page again before looking out at the lake once more. Something, anything, anything will do.
Something shifts in the air. His breath catches in his throat as his eyebrows furrow. He feels lightheaded suddenly. He must be lightheaded, because he is sure he can see someone standing on the surface of the lake. With a sharp click, he begins to scrawl furiously on the page, not even looking down or bothering to keep it neat at all. Whatever it is that his mind is dreaming up, he takes it. He watches, captivated, as she twirls across the water. Her arms move around her and he recognises the movements as ballet, but it is a casual dance; no pointe work or rigid arabesques, all flutters and ripples and the swishing of a pale dress. And as she dances, he writes her, turns her into a heap of fragments and builds her up again, and he hardly knows what he scribbles as he does.
Suddenly, she pivots, her thick, loose curls whipping around as she turns to face him, standing very still. She looks small, her limbs thin, her fingers curled slightly as her arms hang at her sides. Her eyes look large in her small face, very large, large enough to stare right into the deepest nooks and crannies of his soul. He holds her gaze, his scrawling ground to a halt. A thin mist rolls over the surface of the lake. She disappears.
He blinks; once, twice, three times. He is alone again, the fancy gone and his pen held immobile over the messy page. He looks down at it. His writing is almost illegible but he concentrates for a few minutes, managing to make it out and rewriting it on the next page, before breathing deeply. The afternoon air tastes damp, heavy on his tongue. It's going to rain. The fog of his exhale dissipates as he looks down at the blanket, dreading the thought of walking through the mud but knowing he must. The notebook falls closed as he shifts into a crouched position to stand.
"You write really nicely."
He freezes in his movements. He hadn't heard anyone walk up behind him, and he certainly hadn't noticed anyone read over his shoulder. He turns, ready to spit fire.
The flame dies pathetically in his throat.
From a distance it had been difficult to make out any solid colours, what with the misty air between them, but up close he can see every dark freckle sprinkled across her nose. He can see the dark, silver strands of her curls and the faded silver of her skin. He can see the dull grey of her eyes, which he is sure shouldn't look so empty and should be more vivid, more lively. He can see the lumps of muddy grass behind her, stares at them right through her translucent form.
She fiddles with her fingers, floating backwards a little, the tips of her toes only brushing the grass. "Um…"
He stares unabashedly, struggling to swallow. The white dress she wears looks more like a length of fabric, wrapped around her with the ends knotted at the base of her neck. Like a sheet.
Like a shroud.
He bolts. He bolts, and he doesn't stop running until he's over the threshold and the door slams behind him, he doesn't stop until he's sitting on the doormat with his back against the closed door, staring at his muddy feet.
Despite the few hours between the harrowing encounter and now, he still can't fathom what happened. The only thing he does know is that the weight of guilt sits heavily in his chest. The least he could have done was say something after he had written about her so shamelessly, as if she were his to turn to and fro with the flow of ink from his pen. Instead, he had run away. I really am a coward.
The wind howls outside, the rain pounding the windows. He had left his blanket, notebook, and pen outside. They were likely soaked through by now, the pathetic remnants of his idiocy hopefully disappearing into the lake as running ink. He could have stayed. He didn't have anything to lose, or anything better to do. And she seemed… nice. It feels weird to be thinking about a ghost's personality.
Ghost. The word remains at the forefront of his mind, and he feels stupid for it, but he knows that that's the only thing she can be. He won't repeat the mistake of assuming she was a figment of his imagination - clearly, that hadn't worked out well the first time.
He sighs, pulling the blanket - a nice one this time, thick and soft and woolly - closer around him as he sits cross-legged on the sofa. I don't have anything better to do. The thought feels forlorn, inadequate. Years ago he had had so many plans for the future, as a child, many of which were grossly impossible but still existed. Now… nothing. He can hardly string words together, and when he does, look what happens! He smiles wryly to himself. God, or luck, or whatever governing force there is, seems to be working against him. He hadn't even realised how empty his life is until a ghost had appeared before him, of all things. You would think that it would be obvious.
The wind howls again, the window frame shaking slightly from the force of the gusts outside. He stares at it, the dim light of the lamp next to him doing nothing to help him see. He pauses in his thoughts. He takes a breath, then another. He grumbles, letting his legs fall off the sofa and getting up to walk towards the thin sheet of glass, not knowing what to expect when he looks out but finding himself holding his breath anyway. He peers through, shooting back immediately and falling on his behind, eyes wide.
She is there. In fact, he had been almost nose-to-nose with her before falling clumsily. She floats outside his window, head quirked to the side and a nervous look on her face as she fiddles with her fingers again. He releases the breath he was holding; somehow, it is much easier to fathom her presence when her personality shines through every motion no matter how dull her eyes are. She's… sweet. The thought feels fitting. Warm.
She points towards him, jabbing a little with her finger. A simple question. He's not sure why he stops to think about it, particularly after spending hours mentally kicking himself, but he can't help it. The thought of a ghost outside his window still hasn't fully sunk in. Another deep breath. A slow nod. She nods in return, reaching towards him.
Her hand slips right through the glass.
FINALLY posting this fanfic which was meant for fakiru week, but, well… procrastination.
Anyhow, it's a multi-chapter fic based on the fakiru week prompts, and a ghost AU, obviously, which means that there will be sad parts. Please don't read if you are triggered by the topic of death, discussions of suicide (don't worry, not a spoiler, she didn't kill herself but it may be discussed), and anything of that sort.
Also, as a notice, it's not like... super romantic fakiru or anything like that, and you'll see why. There may be a bit, but not that much. Plot stuff. Until next time!