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The field is covered in flowers, delicate petals stretching valleys worth of color and hue across the hills near crumbling ruins. Letting the sun grace the vast expanse of buds with its smile. Cascading it’s radiance below as George steps from the inner stairwell, gliding his way to linger by the cobblestone archway he has deemed his entrance for a minute or five, and then proceed to step onto the soft dewy grass. Feeling the sensation it leaves on the soles of his feet.
This is the place that the (now former) King of the greatest and most powerful kingdom has learned to call home for almost a year now. Sipping his tea delicately, burning his lips and tongue in the process, he stands there. Patiently and in no rush whatsoever to finish quickly. Savoring this day as he would have done with a good book. George realizing how nice the wind feels and that the sun is so warm against his face and shoulders. How good it feels to hear the quiet, save for the rustle of the grass and the soft chirping of birds above him.
This would be blissful, George thinks to himself, blowing softly on his tea and taking another sip. Looking at the fields below with longing, If only I could see the fucking colors of the flowers themselves .
The former king sets his teacup down, emptied of its contents by now, and heads inside to grab a small hand knitted shawl he had received from a very important friend: Ghostbur. Wrapping it around his birdlike frame, George almost passes by the tall mirror at the corner of the stairs without looking at it. Almost , he thinks as he turns toward it, truly looking at himself for the first time in a while. Frowning as he does so.
His eyes are too sunken in and his skin looks nearly paper white. The bags that have settled under his eyes look almost a putrid, dark purple. Taunting him with the hours of sleep he missed out on due to nightmares. Always the damned nightmares, echoing inside his ribs like ghosts. He lifts up his shirt to look at said ribs, their presence very much pronounced due to George’s new diet consisting of potatoes and rare consumables such as veil and cake Ghostbur brings around when he invites himself over.
George always finds he is comfortable with Ghostbur’s company.
Finally averting his eyes from the mirror (muttering a few last words of hatred for himself), George looks down at the scar on his hand as he trails down the stairs, swiping his thumb across the white line. Grimacing at the painful history it resurfaced from the corners of his broken mind. He feels his heart breaking, and the former King knows he’s too tired to piece it together again today.
Maybe I can just pretend it’s whole right now , as he goes down the crumbly stone steps of the ruins, skip a few in childish fashion. Going to the part of the stone interior George has deemed the “kitchen area”, which was not much more than a makeshift metal furnace and spaces inside the ruins George found held lots of food in it, the brunette decides to make himself an early lunch, since the sun tells him he has long since missed breakfast. His stomach growls in protest, humoring George greatly that for once his mind and his heart (as well as his stomach) can finally agree on something.
Taking out ingredients such as cheese, potato, and even (to the brunette’s surprise and delight) a few cuts of pork left, he starts to search for his only good sharp knife. Scouring his little nooks and crannies of hollowed out stone. Pausing his own search when George finally finds his knife, as well as a tan object near it.
Gripping the object with a soft grip, George’s frown of confusion turns into a soft smile. Remembering that this is Ghostbur’s picnic basket he had meant to return to the ghost soon. The brown and white patch cloth on the inside tickles his arm as George slips his arm through the handle. Letting the curve of the handle rest delicately in the crook of his arm.
Going back into the kitchen, knife in hand, George looks at his selection and turns his attention to the window. Looking at how beautifully blinding the sun looks as it scatters it’s light onto the fields outside. No less beautifully than when George looked at it in the morning.
Forming a plan of action in his mind, he practically skips to the stone with his strewn ingredients. Swiftly cutting potatoes, pork, and other cuttable food items as he hums a song or two, searching the crevices of his memory fondly of the last time George had done something this soft. This freeing.
“Maybe we can invite Ghostbur. That would be nice.” The brunette thinks aloud as he wraps up a wedge of cheese in coarse cloth. When George is satisfied with the security of his cloth folding skills, he proceeds to focus on delicately setting potato-ham sandwiches and small glass jars full of watermelon and lemon flavored water inside the basket. Shifting the items ever so slightly to prevent even one of his picnic options from being squished or ruined.
Suddenly, as George is setting the last of his food items inside the basket, he feels a sharp pain embed itself into his fingers. Pulling his hand away quickly, the brunette shakes said hand out. After deeming the pain merely a dull throbbing, George proceeds to look at it closer, flipping his hand face up and face down repetitively. Eyeing the skin meticulously, the brunette finally stops his investigation, finding that he has a splinter on the fleshy pad of the underside of his ring finger. George presses the sliver of wood (twine?) experimentally, letting out an involuntary hiss at the jolt of pain it strikes up his nerves. He makes a small tsk! tsk! sound, internally chastising himself softly for being so careless.
After trying (and failing) to get the splinter out, George gives up for the time being and accepts that the fragment shall stay in his finger until he can acquire the proper tool to remove it. Opting instead to grab his basket, once again connecting the twisted twine arch of the basket’s handle to the space where his arm bends. George grabs his last item of interest from inside another crevice: a large, soft quilt, almost the color of the cloth he’d used to line the wicker basket. Embroidered with hand stitched lily of the valley stalks. The whole plumeau is expertly brought together with golden thread weeping in glowing splendor. George only uses this for extra special occasions, such as this. He wouldn’t want to ruin the gift his only friend gave him. He wouldn’t want to ruin one of the only traces of his kingdom George has left.
Stepping outside to greet the sun and the ebbing fields adjacent to him, the brunette starts to take careful steps into the field, being wary of burrs and grass seeds that would stick to his bare feet if he wasn’t. Slowly turning into more unbother stepping as George enjoys the feeling of the green grass tickling the soles of his feet again and looks at the chlorophyll causing stains to form on his toes and heels with childish glee. Eventually, George finds himself practically running towards a large hill with a giant towering oak, the sun glowing brighter it seems and the delicate stems of the pretty blossoms swaying harshly. Filled with the tiny, yet rushing gusts caused by the brunette’s sprinting.
Chest rising and falling harshly, George grins as he sets the wicker basket and the quilt in a gentle mess, putting both arms up to let his palms come to rest upon the top of his skull. Closing his eyes as he takes in the soft breeze passing him by. Cheeks flushed with copious amounts of cherry red, George laughs to the sky. Softly, at first, then erupting into a loud uproar of howls that would have shaken the world (if that were even possible). Feeling his chest settle, his heart stop racing as fast, and feeling the adrenaline leave his aching bones, George opens his eyes. Realizing he still has to straighten up his quilt and make the space he is occupying look less crowded, George readily busies himself with setting things appropriately. Deciding to hum again because it made him strangely happy to do so.
Finalizing the last of his arrangements (mostly shifting the basket’s angle every 2 seconds and flattening the corner of the quilt while glaring at the wind for creasing it), the brunette is finally satisfied, letting a relieved sigh as he fishes a potato-ham sandwich from the assortment in the basket. Delicately unfolding the cloth that binds it and letting the sandwich free, before gently taking a nibble at it. Looking at the mesmerizing dance the flowers around him perform for the sun. The scent of the blooms collectively is intoxicating.
The hairs on his neck bristle up suddenly and George is overcome with the terrifying awareness of someone watching him. His hands are shaking as he slowly reaches for the basket, aiming to find the knife as he’s sifting through his edible loot. His fingers feel the familiar worn roughness of the leather that is fraying off the knife’s handle. Quickly and fearfully swiping it from under his jars of sweet drink, rushing behind the giant oak he was using as peaceful shade and clutching the tiny semi-dull blade to his chest like a lifeline. In a way, it is his lifeline right now, he ponders as his breathing becomes painfully irregular and his heart starts throwing itself against the inside of his ribcage. The aura of security fading as George’s thoughts swarm with one name.
Dream.
Dream.
Dream .
George tries his best to not give any signs he’s there. Not wanting to get caught so easily, by Dream or anyone else. So the brunette thinks of when he was at his quietest. Sneaking sour raspberry tarts from the baker using the furnace systems as a quick getaway. How George held his tongue at Eret’s coronation, only allowing himself to speak in congratulations of his brother and in fondness for his kingdom, instead of lamenting about how the crown should have been placed on his head instead. How George cried silently in his own dungeon, his only listener being the moon that shone coldly above his cell, mocking him when he had no words to give back.
George tightens his grip on the handle of the dagger, his knuckles turning a stark white. His eyes are darting rapidly like a frightened deer, trying and falling short of coming up with any proper ideas on how to combat a god . Besides one:
Run and Charge.
So that’s what George does as soon as he hears the grass close by to his hiding spot get rustled and disrupted. Rushing with a cry of passion mixed with the liquid courage that had dribbled itself carefully into his heart, washing the fear that was sloshing about moments prior in a raging flood. Holding his knife in a grip meant to injure at best and kill at worst.
However, this attempt at reckless self-defense makes George promptly fall face first into the grass, cursing as he does so. Releasing his grip on the knife due to his body incoordination. Looking at his chest and other parts of his body, crestfallen in knowing his clothes would be stained green for a long while.
“Oh, dear me. I’m so sorry I startled you, my friend. Let me help you up?” a soft echo and a translucent hand are the first things George hears and sees past his post-crash daze. Rubbing his head as he looks at the smiling, yellow sweatered and beanie-clad Ghostbur. Feeling the corners of his own lips rise softly in equal parts apology and happiness. George finds himself sighing in relief, his heart and his mind at peace once more as he grabs the ghost’s hand, hefting himself up to meet his friend’s gaze.
“It’s alright. Truly,” George furrows his brow in mock anger as he takes his dagger from the ground, and settles himself on his quilt. Casting a mourning glance at his barely eaten sandwich as several cardinals were fighting over it’s remains, “However, a warning would be nice, Ghostie.”
Ghostbur’s expression seems to brighten, smiling widely as he laughs at this revelation, and George loosens his expression at its fullest, letting himself laugh alongside his friend. Finding himself feeling lighter than the former king had been in weeks .
Ghostbur’s company always seemed to make the darkness go away for a short while, and George was grateful for that much.
“Do you want something to eat? I have pickled carrots, potato and ham sandwiches, more items,” The ghost hovers and sits on the quilt with his friend. As George fishes his hand into the basket a little too quick and yelps in pain due to upsetting the position of the wooden splinter in his finger. Shit, the former king shakes his hand to subdue the stinging fuzz setting in.
Ghostbur jumps a little and the sound, George notices from the corner of his eye, and the ghost gently takes the smaller boy’s pale living hand in his grey transparent palms. Which George finds he gives his hand willingly to his friend without struggle, like he would have done if someone else grabbed it. Ghostbur just looks at the splinter with a curious gaze, determining the best angle in which to pull it. George’s heart starts hammering again as he thinks of how painful it would be, and he starts to pull his hand away, but the ghost squeezes it reassuringly. Softly.
“Woah, woah, hey! George! I’m not doing this on purpose, I swear,” Ghostbur looks a little desperate for George to believe him. And George finds himself calming at the sound of this softness he hears. Stilling him as Ghostbur slightly grazes the area around the splinter, “It’ll get infected if the piece stays there. And then you’ll really be in for it unless you have medical supplies to treat an infection. Do you have those?” George only shakes his head side to side and Ghostbur hums in acknowledgement.
George shuts his eyes as he waits for what Ghostbur’s plan of splinter removal will be. But nothing could have prepared him for cold (yet gentle) lips on his finger, effortlessly and almost painlessly slipping the sliver of wood from its nest of flesh. The former king winces, however, when he feels the splinter hitch in its place slightly, trying to hold on somewhere during the operation. Only looking up afterwards to see Ghostbur proud hum a muffled tada! as he holds the splinter between his teeth. Joyously grinning as George claps; smiling even as the ghost spit the sliver out of his mouth and back into the earth where it belonged. Covering it for good measure so George would never have to think of it again.
A nice sentiment, but George’s thoughts on the splinter were long gone, replaced with the feeling of gentle lips on his time-roughed hands. The former king turns red at the thought of reliving that again, looping in his mind like a paradox.
“So, my friend, have you ever heard of astilbe?” George looks onward as his phantasmal companion hovers toward the edge of the hill, beckoning the younger man to his view. Following Ghostbur, the smaller sees a cluster of reedlike flowers, practically colorless to him.
“Can’t say I have, Ghostie. Mind telling me about them?” This was their tradition every time the two would meet. Ghostbur, George had learned this early on, had an affinity for flowers. Loved how they looked, smelled, and, most of all, how they seemed to have so many variations of words with only their petals. So the spirit would tell the smaller brunette about the language they speak. The different meanings always fascinating George just as much as the vast memory the ghost had of these small, yet expansive details.
“Well you’re in for a treat, Gogy! Let me tell you!” The former King snickers at the nickname, trying his damn hardest to not spit out the sugary slosh of watermelon and citrus in his mouth. Puffing his cheeks out and placing his three larger digits to cork his lips tightly.
“The astilbe, also known as the feather flower, is a very niche type of flower. They have the softest little petals (thus, the moniker of “feather flower”). They’re also strong flowers. Very resilient little rod-flowers indeed!” George absorbs the spirit’s ramblings as hungrily as he did his sandwich. The brunette twisting a white looking variant of the feather flower between his forefinger and thumb.
“..Stands for letting someone one (most likely a beloved) that you’ll wait for them. No matter how long it takes.” The smaller brunette looks at Ghostbur, not registering all the boy had said.
“Would you please repeat yourself?” Noticing the boy’s skin turn aflush with a blue hue and the usually soft-spoken Ghostbur be replaced with a stuttering transparent mess. It’s adorable as the former king merely leans close to the ghost, purposefully batting his lashes ever so slightly to see the reaction on his face. Ghostbur merely looks away and, no, that would not do for George. He knew he would need to go bigger if he wanted to see the true extent of the ghost’s flustered nature.
“Something amiss, my friend?” George lays on his stomach and looks up at Ghostbur, setting his head in one palm as the other moves to snatch a couple of small grapes. Gently taking one into his teeth and slowly chewing it. Making sure his companion saw how relaxed the younger man was as he showed off his throat subtly as he swallowed it.
There was something about this that George found interesting. New , even. And the former King quite liked how the ghost was looking at him in embarrassed awe instead of lust-filled hunger. How he mumbled a soft I’m sorry, it was rude of me to stare as he went back to looking at the flowers instead of immediately taking his lips in demand. It made him feel deserving of soft touches instead of hands to his throat. Loved in soft ways instead of neglected hung-string love.
George finds he would quite love that, if he could believe in it easily.
“Oh! George, look, aren’t they pretty!” George sits up quickly, wanting to miss not a second with his friend. Eyeing the way that Ghostbur hovers to him, smiling as he presents him his latest findings.
“They’re so rare, I didn’t think I’d find some here. But, I was proven wrong, how lovely it feels. I found three out of this whole field and I want you to have them!” George takes the flowers into his hands happily and immediately wishes he hadn’t after he turns to look at them. His blood stops cold and he feels the remnants of something harbor within his aching bones. Cold and hurt. Cold and hurting.
“Canna lilies.” George takes the blooms within his hands, feeling the soft red and orange petals. As radiant as fire, he’s learned. The sight of them leaves the younger brunette with a sickening taste, encasing his heart within a siege of wildfires. Burning him with memories he never wanted.
“Yes, they are. Hey, I believe you could identify even more rare blooms. You were King once right? So you must’ve had a royal garden. Did you have a royal garden? I bet it was lovely.” Suddenly the clouds have seemed to grow darker, casting shadows across George’s face as every word from Ghostbur hits a different type of nail into his metaphorical coffin. Ghostbur isn’t catching on to the shift in the mood yet. Making George angrily shove items into his picnic basket, and leaving Ghostbur to his ramblings, leaving the god forsaken flowers behind on the hill.
The former King gets as close as he can to his ruins before he hears shuffling and Ghostbur calling his name. Trying his best to just ignore the ghost, not wanting that torrent of rage to go onto his painfully unaware friend. George knew how sensitive he was to these things. So George rushes himself, not caring whether or not he got earthly debris on his feet at this point. And the worst part is that he was so close to clutching the opening stonework when Ghostbur gets in front of it. Happily handing George the cursed canna lilies, making the shorter brunette glare at the semi-crushed flowers.
“Oh, George, I’m glad I found you just in time! You know, you left the--” And that’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Sending the former King into a rage, as he tears the lilies, heaving rabidly as he does so. Watching as their petals and stems start to shift into twisting bodies. The warmth of the sun feeling like an all too familiar inferno and the intensity of the rushing wind felt like the lustful whispers a familiar lover whispered into his ear. Plunging him into the darkness of the night, even though it was the middle of the day.
“Don’t. Leave, now,” Ghostbur tries to reach out, but George steps away. Showing how the shards of grief can become powerful enough to push everyone he loves away.
“But, I--”
“ Did you not hear me? Go away. Go away and forget,” George takes the shards of his anguish and turns them into a glass sword. Stabbing and hitting a still heart that no longer beats. And, yes, it is terrible to feel satisfaction at this, but even as he sees the ghost falter, “You’re good for that much.” They both don’t have to do anything, much less say anything. All has been revealed.
George figures can hate himself later; call himself the monster Dream saw in him in the lone hours of midnight.
“I..I’m going to go,” George numbs at the voice Ghostbur has, and he knows it all too well. The smallness and the quiver in his jaw. George subconsciously tries to reach out to his friend(?) and the ghost sinks into himself, “I’ll just go forget again. Just as you said I do.”
Ghostbur starts to take his leave, but turns so George can see the liquid hurt come from his eyes. The tears falling in pitiful puddles in the dirt as they rush down Ghostbur’s cheeks. All satisfaction is replaced with grief as the smaller of the two tries to form words. None coming out the way he wants them to.
“Friends don’t tear each other’s petals apart. They help each other grow. Being near flowers so often now...I thought you would have known that.” And with that, Ghostbur leaves with barely a trace. Sending George to crumple on the stairs as his thoughts yell at him ceaselessly. The tears pouring in tempo with the steady shower that had come from the sky, dampening his clothes and obscuring the entirety of the sun in near-black clouds.
As he goes inside after a good while, letting the rain trail down his sins one by one in droplets, George could have sworn that he saw a familiar white mask in one of the puddles. The thought merely left him though, just as Ghostbur had. Just as everything he had ever loved had eventually left.
And, as history repeats itself once more, it was all George's fault.
⚞🎕⚟
The rain doesn’t cease. Even as George wills the clouds to part and let the sun show its radiance (to no avail). Tossing the thin canvas cover haphazardly around his body, George makes the mistake of turning to look on the other side of his room that was not the wall. Seeing the beautiful quilt from weeks prior, laying in a lazy pile on the floor collecting dust brought tears to the brunette’s eyes as he stared at it. Slowly registering all the hurt he had caused.
It was such a beautiful day, His mind stabs at his heart in an accusatory manner, You ruined it. You ruined him . George groans in tired anguish, turning over to stare at the wall mindlessly again. Bringing the thick canvas up from his clavicle to the part of his neck the Adam’s apple resides.
Eventually, George does get out of his bed. Leaving his comforter as twisted and messy as his thoughts were. Making himself busy with clearing the dust off of the stone surfaces he uses to try to push the regret to the back of his mind. As he grabs the pile of clothing that were in desperate need for a washing, George notices something fall from the pile of linens he was carrying, and drops said linens in favor of catching the foreign object. Immediately recognizing the alstibe’s feathery petals as they gently brushed against the skin of his palms. George continues to stare in amazement at the resilience of the plucked blossom, even as he’s a little too close to the window and feels the cold wet of stray raindrops against his skin.
Looking to the rain outside the window (if you could call the tiny hole in the stone that), George gently twirls the stem of the feather flower gently, looking at the slightly droopy state of the bloom in his hands. Letting a sigh escape his lips as he steps outside, the brunette remembers Ghostbur’s half sentence, about waiting for someone and that the flower delicately spacing his thumb and pointer fingers apart represented waiting for someone. No matter how long it takes.
Now, George hated waiting. He had waited all his life for things to shape up for him and, when they finally did, he was left disappointed all over again. A vicious cycle had started, rearing its ugly head at George whenever it deemed necessary. However, if Ghostbur could wait on him, he could at least do the same.
And so he does just that. Making his way to the outside of his ruins, the soft, yet hardy alstibe in a gentle hold. Cupping his palm over the small bloom so the rain didn’t hit it much. Finally relaxing as he takes a seat on the semi-wet surface that he constitutes as a porch. Thunder roars somewhere in the distance, but it doesn’t scare George. He knows there’s a lot scarier things than that.
The brunette licks his lips, looking to the sky, so unsure of what to say. “This may fall onto deaf ears. Drowned out in the pouring rain and the thunder coming with it, but I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for saying those horrible words and I can’t take them back. I know that,” George finds that he’s crying again, and he doesn’t care. For the first time in his life, the brunette finds that he doesn’t give a shit because this is something worth crying for, “But, please, I beg of you, don’t leave me alone. How long do I have to wait? Will I have waited long enough?” George looks around to see nothing but puddles turning into ponds on the ground and the rain still pouring ceaselessly as it had in the morning.
“Show me something that tells me you’re here. Or that it’s worth it to wait on you, since you thought it was so worth your while to wait on me.” George sits back, tucking the feather flower behind his ear and waiting for something and expecting nothing.
“My dear, I don’t think I could ever stop waiting on you.” Tilting his head up from his mindless staring at the ground, George sees a familiar ghost in front of him. Eclipsing his sadness with jovial laughter, the former King finds himself rushing to Ghostbur. Surprising them both when George realizes he can hug his friend without worrying about spiritual transparency.
“I hope I’m not too late, then, if you’re still willing to wait for me.” George nestles himself in the other boy’s shoulder, not caring about the chill the rain has set upon his own body or the fact that Ghostbur doesn’t have a heartbeat. He’s met colder embraces from people who have felt so warm. Their hearts still beating inside their chests.
“Always.” And George nearly melts at how soft the word sounds coming from his friend’s lips. So much conviction behind that single word than Dream could ever have behind his millions of sweet nothings. Silently, George decides to respond to Ghostbur’s one word with another of his own. Standing on the tips of his toes, the smaller of the two gives him a kiss on the cheek, to show how much George loves him.
George finds that the sigh Ghostbur lets out is beautiful. That Ghostbur, in general, is beautiful. Even when the former King feels weary (like now) and Ghostbur starts to feel a little less solid, George finds he loves him all the same.
Even as his eyes fluttered shut and George felt his body feel nearly weightless, not realizing he himself was already on the cusp of sleep. Feeling the support of what feels like the ghost’s hands on his shoulder blades and under his legs. Even as he is being set on his bed and feels a gentle warmth on his forehead as he sleeps, the nightmares that usually come to haunt him replaced with fields of endless alstibes. Ghostbur holding his hand and telling George just how beautiful he is compared to the sea of feathery petals around them.
⚞🎕⚟
Ghostbur bites his lip anxiously as he looks at the broken, gorgeous man. Sleeping contently in his bed at last. The bags under his eyes seemingly fading as George got more and more sleep. It gives the spirit more time to think about things spirits don’t tend to want to think about. Things such as love, for instance.
Looking again at his sleeping beauty, Ghostbur hovers over him. Squinting subconsciously as the sun starts to shine, even though he really didn’t need to. Not having human weaknesses and most working faculties a living breathing being should have. George would have been excited to see the sun come out after days of rain. Ghostbur knows his friend has missed it so.
Fumbling with his fingers anxiously, the ghost decided to quickly kiss George’s forehead, eliciting a sleepy smile from the former King. Ghostbur knows that if he had a heart still, it would have fluttered at the sight of it.
The spirit stays near George the entire time his love slumbers, only leaving when George starts to open his eyes.
Waiting isn’t so bad if I know you’ll wait for me, too.
⚞🎕⚟