Ghosts


Girald was kneeling, looking up in reverence at the young man standing above him. His eyes were darkened in awe, his entire body poised elegantly. He could feel all of himself, the fabric of his breeches stretched over his thighs, the slight cold of the buttons on his shirt cuffs as they brushed his wrists, a stray curl of golden hair touching his cheek. His hands were clasped beneath his chin, which was tilted up, as his gaze remained on the boy's face.

They almost looked alike: the same golden hair, blue eyes, the same defiant air. But no. The other's hair wasn't really the same as Girald's, for it was less curls and more straight. It was lacklustre where Girald's was bright. The other's eyes were darker, sadder, hopeless more. And he was too thin. Wrapped in a too-thin coat, holding it about himself tightly, shaking rather, the bones in his hands and fingers were too clear. Still beautiful, though. He was still the most beautiful man Girald had ever seen.

He knelt beside Girald, taking his hand. Their fingers interlaced mechanically, as their lips met briefly.

"Je m'appelle Michel."

"Girald."

Michel sat back, pulling his hand away. "You don't really look so much like me."

"No..."

"Not my reflection."

"No."

"So I'm dreaming."

"No."

Michel's eyes flashed suddenly, dangerously, and he tensed, going rigid. "Yes, I am. I never have anything real. You're not real. Why should you be? You're what I could have been. You're the one who was never hurt, the one who doesn't hear voices in his dreams. You're the innocent one, the free one."

Girald reached out to touch his cheek gently. "No, I don't belong to you. You don't understand. You're my dream. Oh, but you're beautiful."

"Yes, I'm fine, aren't I? Very beautiful." His voice was bitter, and hurt Girald's ears. "I'm dead, that's what I am. Grantaire's always telling me so, and it's true."

"Grantaire?"

"Yes, Grantaire. The bastard. He won't leave me be. He knows I'm dead. Everyone else is blind to it; Phillipe's blind, but he can see. But damn him, I'll keep my coat and be buried in it, though it's not enough to force out the cold."

Girald bit his lip. "I'll make him leave you alone."

"Oh, come now. How? It's impossible. It won't happen. Forget about it. --You're lovely. I must've looked like you once. A long while ago."

"Je suis desole."

"Stop being sorry all over the place."

"Je suis -" he stopped himself.

"It's warm here."

"Yes..."

Michel looked him straight on then, fixing him with dark, lonely, misery-filled eyes. "May I stay here?" Still the tone was rough, embittered, belying those eyes.

"If... if you'd like."

"Merci. You're a god." He stood, ignoring the soft crack of his knees, and sat on the bed. "Dreams are such peculiar things."

Girald nodded silently.

"Ah well. Bonne nuit." He lay down abruptly, pulling the coat closer about himself, and closed his eyes. Girald dragged himself to his feet, feeling rather light-headed, and brushed back Michel's hair. He smiled faintly, and whispered:

"Bonne nuit."

A strange image was dancing before his eyes. Michel was draped over a barricade, the way it looked in his mind, a trail of blood ebbing from between his barely parted lips. It was impossible to tell where the wound that had caused the blood was, for there was no other trace of injury.

It was the image he saw whenever he looked in the mirror.


Chapter Seven.
Back to Chapter Five.