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Ghost basks in the sun like some kind of lizard, Roach by his side. Ghost’s steely eyes run over Roach’s lithe body, a strange admiration for the way his bronze hair gleams in the sun.
Any moment, this could all be cruelly ripped from Ghost’s grasp.
Ghost wants to deny the idea of such happening.
But he knows it can.
It’s happened before.
And just a he crawls out of his grave, upon him stands fate, a grin on their face along with a cruel kick to Ghost’s face.
Who said Ghost would go down without a fight?
The way muscle ripples under Roach’s tan skin, is something so mesmerising to Blitz. Roach’s soft, brown, puppy-dog eyes are some Ghost could never compete with. His are cold, icy and sharp.
Ghost cherishes the way the sun kisses Roach’s skin so perfectly, freckles like clusters of stars. Ghost could map out constellations if he wanted.
Ghost’s skin is littered with scars, blemished, imperfect.
Ghost loves the way Roach’s voice is magical. It’s light and joyous, as beautiful as the bluebird’s song.
Well, that was when he could still speak.
Ghost still blames himself for what happened that day.
Ghost’s voice is rough like the crow’s, an omen of doom.
Roach’s presence is like early morning, grass still damp, overhung by the remnants of cloud.
Ghost’s presence is as dark as the thunderstorms, large, loud and booming.
“I don’t think I see you the way others do, Ghost. You’re like a thunderstorm. But I think thunderstorms are beautiful.”
“You’re like the sun, y’know?” Ghost murmurs, his hand intertwined with Roach’s.
Roach looks at him, grinning.
“As in I give people diseases, burn retinas and kill?”
“You wish, but no. As in you nurture the world, keep us alive. Hell, this world would be a hell of a lot darker without you, obviously.” Ghost deadpans at him.
“Yeah but being a force of nature that doubles as a weapon of mass destruction sounds way cooler.”
“Whatever you say, Sunshine.”