Author:GhostAngel
Title: Sweeping 1/1
Status: Finished
Archive: sure ^_^
Rating: PG,for Heavy angst factor
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Poppy Z Brite, they are NOT mine and never will be. This is not even going to be close to her writing and is written merely for entertainment purposes. I dont' have any money to sue or be sued, so rest assured. ^_^
Summary: Steve and Ghost--50 years later.
Notes: A bit inspired by how old Steve and Ghost would be after 50 years. Its bittersweet. Dedicated to Khirsah and Ulrika.

Swish...Swish. The sound of the wicker broom never failed to calm Ghost as he swept the front porch. He wondered mutely if it calmed anyone else. He thought maybe that is why the old did it. It had been fifty years, and Ghost surely counted as an old man. He never thought he would live this long. He set the broom against one of the rotting rocking chairs and went inside.
His grandmother's house was dusty, and no matter what he did, the dust just settled like a shroud around them. Ghost thought it might mean the house knew more about them...about the length of their lives. He tried to keep the house quiet, dusting the grime away from the faded bookshelves and the rickety table, but it just came back the next day. Dust made him tired. Ghost just stood there for a moment, trying to remember how the house looked when he had first come here. But it slipped from his mind like sand. Like so many memories did nowadays. He hated not being able to remember them...like something precious had been stolen from him each time he could not remember. He could see the dust in the air, floating though the sunlight lazily, making the sunlight a thing that you could almost touch.
Ghost sat at the kitchen table and looked out of the warped windows. The glass had slipped down over the years, and his view of the pine forest behind their house was wavy, like a half remembered memory. He thought he saw someone out there, flitting among the trees, watching. But he shook his head and closed his eyes, rubbing them with worn wrinkled fingers. When he looked up, they were gone.
Clack...Clack. A trembling hand touched his white hair.
Shakily, Steve ran a hand though the Ghost's long, silken hair. Ghost had not cut it since that fated autumn. The only memory in Steve's mind that was still clear. Everything else he tried to remember was like mud, muddled and blurred like each memory had been smeared in his brain. He sat down carefully, feeling for the chair beneath him.
His carved wooden cane made a faint click as he set it in the chair next to him. Ghost didn't even look up, and Steve carefully followed his sad eyes to the window, and then the blurry, green smear of the forest out of the window. He wondered what Ghost saw out there.
Ghost sat very still, afraid that Steve would blow away if he just exhaled hard enough. Like dust. Steve did not know he was dying, and Ghost knew it would be soon. One day very soon he was going to wake up...and Steve would not. It reminded him so bitterly of his grandmother's death, and he wished just once that he did not know this. He didn't want to know that he would be alone. Ghost could feel the terror well up inside of him. He didn't want to be alone...he didn't have anybody else. All of their friends had died or moved away years ago. They were the only ones who remembered the Sacred Yew...the only ones alive in Missing Mile who had ever played there. He did not know he was crying.
Steve felt Ghost's shoulders heave beneath his cheek. He was always so quiet when he cried. He got up slowly, grabbing his cane, and walked around to face Ghost, offering him a hand that was just as worn. Ghost leaned against him, burying his face in the soft flannel shirt that Steve wore. Steve held him tight; it was the only thing he really knew how to do. Together, they walked towards their room.
Light tried to insinuate itself between Ghost's thin eyelids.
He turned his head into the curve of Steve's cold shoulder. Ghost sighed shakily and let the darkness creep into his consciousness.