Tracks

Bridge

Content warning for suicidal ideation.

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The year progresses, and the chill of autumn causes the sky to darken. Jacks sees the eyes of the ghost in the colors displayed around the abandoned house, bright orange alongside red and gold. Stepping over the tracks and finding himself in a new town– Jacks decides it's time to supplement his wardrobe to suit the dropping temperatures, warmth settling onto his face as he finds his way through the door of a small shop. Sorting through a coat rack by the window, his eyes scan the thick fabric of each article, wanting something memorable, preferably with a small twinge of color to it. He finds an earth tone with a red woven in– only to draw back and catch sight of the ghost on the other side of the street through the window, legs crossed on a bench, reading a newspaper. Jacks holds back a giggle, fully expecting Goethe to materialize at some point– given the amount of people going back and forth through the street. Jacks buys the coat, the shopkeeper giving him a discount on a deep orange scarf– shrugging both articles on as he makes his way across the street, Goethe nowhere to be seen. The newspaper he was reading sits neatly folded in the seat of the bench, a hint of coal dust on its pages.

"Throw that over the tracks for me, will you?" Goethe's voice is close by, causing Jacks to jump.

"The paper?" Jacks picks it up, reading the date. Tuesday, October 31st, 1933.

"I like to read them all the way through when I can." Goethe notes, with a hint of vulnerability in his voice.

"Cute." Jacks smiles, tucking the folded paper under his arm. "Perfect day for some trouble." He adds, acknowledging the date. Goethe laughs.

"Isn't that right." He smirks, trailing Jacks as he walks.

Jacks makes his way further down the sidewalk beside a tall row of buildings, the cold air still piercing at his skin. Wrapping the scarf higher up around his face to cover it, he notices a bright array of colors just a few shops ahead as he looks up. He approaches their source, a busy flower shop with several displays out on the brick of the sidewalks. Noticing a well-stocked bucket of bright orange and red celosia, Jacks stops to admire. People line the displays, picking flowers out of buckets and examining their petals. Jacks does the same, bending to get a closer look opposed to removing the flower and getting his hands cold and wet. A couple stands on the opposite side among a bucket of roses, the man pressing a kiss to the forehead of the woman beside him as he holds his free hand around her waist, calling her pet names with a wide smile on his face– his eyes full of the woman and nothing else. Jacks feels his expression drop, averting his eyes with a twitch of his brow. He pulls away quickly from the shop as his chest tightens, and his eyes start to sting.

"Fucking hell. Am I seriously about to cry over this?" He wipes his eyes with his sleeve as he walks, turning into an alley.

"Damn it..." He breathes out as he starts to slide down the brick, sitting on the ground with his head in his knees.

It hurts. His face burns as tears flood from his eyes, concealed by the ball he hugs himself in. How long would he have to wait for something as simple as that? A gentle touch, an affirming hand, a nod to the intimacy that will follow in private– something he'd never get as long as he'd be alive. Something he'd never get, even when he's alone with him. He'd die before feeling his touch. Seeing him. Sharing the world with him. He wants everyone to know just how much he loves his ghost– how much he wants him, just how much he'd do for him. Anything. But what does he have, right now?

"Goethe..." He chokes the ghost's name with a squeak as he looks up towards the roof, silent, withheld sobs wracking his body. He can't feel or see the ghost, who sits in front of him with his hands placed tenderly onto his shoulder and midsection.