Starlight.
---
He decided that he might as well sleep under the stars. No one would stop him, right? He was a sick little boy; his cheeks all flushed red, his nose dripping like only a one possessing youth can drip.
He'd be damned if they tried to stop him.
Taking a thick blanket to wrap around his shoulders, the boy, named Edward for his now-dead father, strolled down the street, his chin high and flaming red. His dark bronze hair was unusually longer then was the fashion those days, but all of the neighborhood boys had been doing it; it was sign of independence. Girls had loved it too.
Like any of that mattered now.
The skin along Edward's nose scrunched up as he passed the new cemetery, the scent of decay not a nice thing to smell when you were about to die. A shiver of fear ran through the boy, and he clung tighter to his frail body.
The horror choked him, stole the breath away from his lungs, making him wheeze. But no one looked over at the coughing Edward; it was so familiar to hear coughing these days, no one even sent you a worried glance anymore.
Suddenly, the air seemed less full of smog and gunpowder. Edward let a small, wizened smile slither onto his lips. Moonlight broke through the clouds, and his pupils dilated within his green eyes, the sudden burst of silvery light scratching at the weak retina.
But, dear God, he was close! He started to pick up the pace, first jogging, then running, then sprinting. The blanket soared behind him like a cape as flew down the dark path, his shoes barely touching the cobblestones.
Finally, he arrived at the old graveyard. Edward didn't even have to look for the headstone anymore; he knew everything by heart.
There it was: Edward Mason, born 1890, died 1917. A Man among men.
Edward put down his blanket, right beside the grass that grew in front of the headstone. If he closed of eyes, and kind of shifted a certain way inside the blanket, it was almost like lying beside his father again.
He had done this many times, even before he had gotten sick. He had liked spending time with his father, the calmness it had brought to his mind. The sadness sometimes came back, but most of the time Edward felt a certain… serendipity in the meetings.
Edward's father had been the one to teach him how to play ball. How to run like a pro, how to catch a fish, how to treat women.
His father had taught him how to live.
A wave of pain overtook the fragile boy, and he clung to the headstone, chills shaking his body. It would probably be the last time he would visit his father while he could still breathe, Edward reckoned. But that would be okay. Because, he knew his father would be there with open arms at the gates, and they would embrace.
Edward was glad no girls were around… since he began to cry, his tears glowing in the starlight.