Chapter Text
Relizations often permeate the mind at the most inconvenient times.
Like when you’re plummeting to your demise.
Or while you’re contemplating the entirety of your existence.
Or when your lack of corporeality prohibits you from laying a mere finger on the one you love.
Existing as a ghost came with a variety of drawbacks [that could be mistaken as plussides, but do not be fooled], in comparison to having a physical form. There was no longer any need to consume nutrient, and yet Knife found himself longing for the flavor, the relish, the savor upon his now ineffectual taste buds. He could metaphorically float to the ends of the earth, but he was confined to the perimeters of a mansion. He could phase through solid surfaces; opening doors was now a chore of the past-
And yet, he couldn’t touch her. It didn’t take long to figure out that he couldn't anymore, that he took those brief snippets of contact between them for granted, insubstantial, even.
It ate at him, like an infectious disease, unable to be cured. His fingers itched to be placed upon her, to intertwine them with her own and memorize the groves in her prosthetics, to cup her podgy cheeks, to card through her locks, to do so much more and yet he could not.
It truly wasn’t fair.
He was positive that Suitcase shared his plight, that she yearned to be privy to even the most fleeting of touch, but merely refused to act downtrodden. She shivered if Knife’s tail wrapped around her ankles, her wrists, subconsciously, like she bore shackles of iron rather than he. But she never made a fuss, never protested even if the utensil himself object that they part. Most likely to appease him, as he’d grown progressively more clingy as of late, and it wasn’t like he was complaining, no! It..just didn’t feel authentic. Physical contact was a core drive in relationships, right? How could they reasonably sustain one without being able to touch!?
Suitcase chuckled blithely despite herself, cocking an eyebrow. “You sound really touch starved, you know that?”
“Wh- c-..can you blame me?!” Knife stammered, unintentionally raising his voice, amplified by the adjoining echo. Suitcase didn’t commit on his over-the-top reaction, or even requested that he lower his tone. She just gave him an infuriating sympathetic smile, holding off on the teasing remarks. For now, at least.
“No, I can’t,” Abruptly, she dropped the chaff, the somberness in her tone allowing undertones of uncertainty to seep through her facade. Her gaze veered to the luminous sky above, stars similarly gazing upon them with pity. Suitcase couldn’t blame them, and she couldn’t blame herself for personifying inanimate entities.
“I can’t hold your hand. I can’t hug you. I can’t even..kiss you. I never-”
“Got to,” Knife finished her sentence for her when she appeared to hesitate, whether that be due to her bashful nature, or her inability to utter such a string of words. The swinging of her legs, dangling over the jagged edge of the roof, seemed mechanical, a distraction.
“..yeah,” Suitcase croaked, nearly choking up before she blinked back prickling tears, and forced herself to continue. “Even though I wish we could go back in time, well, actually we could, but-”
“What?” Knife interrupted, to which Suitcase ignored him, albeit to not lose her train of thought. He hopefully didn’t take it personally.
“-Test Tube said that’s risky for reasons that are too complicated for me to tell you,” They shared a chortle, a genuine chortle that they cherished. Knife drank in her wobbly grin like fine wine, and Suitcase got to witness the rare intervals in which Knife gave a smirk.
But once their collective laughter tampered off, the air became so thick with tension you could choke on its murky tendrils.
“..when I touched you in the middle of hallucinating, it stopped,” Knife shattered the silence with the real cause of his malaise. He was vague, but Suitcase was no stranger to ambiguity. “I’m not..able to do that for you anymore.”
If their conversation was under any other circumstance, Suitcase would’ve snorted. The ghost gave her the impression of a sopping wet cat. Uncharacteristic. Pathetic in an oddly.. endearing manner, but she had more class and self awareness than to laugh at such a moment between them.
“Remember our first talk up here?” This caused the utensil to perk up; the desired outcome. “I started to hallucinate. You made it stop, even if your hand went through me,” The sensation hadn’t been particularly pleasant, but it caused her to snap out of delirium in record timing.
“But- but that doesn’t count! I didn’t actually touch you!” Knife remonstrated, extenuating his hand motions to emphasis..whatever he may be expounding upon.
“And? That doesn’t change anything.”
“Yes it does! It doesn’t..it doesn’t feel the same!” He was correct in this department, but regardless, Suitcase did not wane in her outlook.
“..you’re right. It doesn’t. But that’s ok,” She offered an outstretched limb to him, which despite his retorts, he took up as if her wrist were a lifeline. She could feel each individual fingernail dig into her skin, coupled with a phantom sting, yet no crescent marks were left behind after the fact. She liked to pretend there were.
“Things will be different, we’ll be different, but..we can adapt, right?” No response was needed, but he nodded for confirmation, which made her beam internally.
“Your efforts, your desires, y’know, scratch that, our desires, matter to me. I promise. Just..don’t let it bring you down, okay?” And with those words, so eloquently strung, yet so straightforward, had Knife stricken with a realization, an epiphany, even, with her calloused palm clasped within his own. No longer a shackle, but a bind.
He can’t touch her, truly, he can’t kiss her, truly, but he can do it in spirit. In loving memory.
And that was enough.