I'll Share With You My Heartbeat

twelve

Lennon wasn't a deep sleeper. He was quite the opposite, actually. But when the first chill branched across his spine and shook him from sleep, he froze, too nervous to acknowledge whoever's in the room.

Perhaps it was the ravenhead's state of body that caused this. No one cries out with glee when they feel a pair of eyes staring at them in their slumber. So Lennon stayed still, leading the ravenhead to believe he was still asleep when he wasn't.

Heat rushed to his cheeks when he realized ghostie was trying to make him more comfortable, tugging the blanket cozy around his shoulders. Luckily, the dark kept his blush hidden.

He focused on breathing, but his ears were high on alert. Ghostie was quiet. Too quiet, even for a ghost. For a second, Lennon even believed that he had left because he couldn't pick up on a single sound.

Until he heard it.

"Kieran."

More than a few seconds was needed for Lennon to comprehend what was said. When he did, he couldn't help but jostle into a sitting position, eyes wide with shock.

The ravenhead was gone. The room was vacant.

Kieran rang in his ears like a mantra, taunting him.

Kieran, Kieran, Kieran.

Lennon's fists sank into the pillow the ravenhead had graciously provided him with.

He had just given him his name. Kieran. His name was Kieran. Kieran was his name. Kieran.

Lennon couldn't help but feel like it was another fraction of his imagination. But the name suited the ravenhead perfectly. The sculpted edge to it. The way his tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth when he recited it. The name was jagged but softened at the end, and the image of the ravenhead matched flawlessly.

"Kieran," he said aloud, tasting it.

Lennon had spent his entire life dissecting things. But never a name. Perhaps the significance of it made it worth dissecting.

"Kieran."

He pursed his lips and walked out to the hallway, just to check if the ravenhead had stayed. He didn't. But he abandoned him with the gift of trust.

Lennon grabbed a marker from his pencil case and rolled up his sleeve.

He will not take this lightly.

__________

Mankind was birthed out of nature's womb. It's simply a form of alchemy, the kind of magic that required no explanation. The sun spun gold threads in its free time, the soil was your first home and puddles were your first mirror.

If you stretch your arms out like the wingspan of birds, you'll feel the energy surge from the branches to your bones— a bond choreographed by the wind.

Kieran did so. He held his arms out in an unperceived embrace. But he felt nothing. No thrill. No warmth. Was it death that stood in his way? But if that were the case, it was certainly ironic to bury the dead six feet underground.

The ravenhead lowered his hands curtly, jaw set, familiar with the feeling of defeat. Even the universe rejected his presence. He belonged nowhere.

Even the trees seemed to pivot away from him. But at least he wasn't alone.

The smell of pine sliced through Kieran like a needle, piercing his lungs. "Oh," he coughed, "Wow."