Deathshipping Oneshots and What-Not

Perfect

His white hair was soft, bouncing through the crowds silently. I pushed past those that attempted to deter me. Though I couldn't see them, I knew his brown eyes were sparkling with joy of life.

He was perfectly created, which I marvelled at when a sudden opening showed his crafted profile. I followed him into the mall, the masses of human life lessening, thinning as we were swept along. My eyes were trained on his perfection.

We were on the usual route, to his usual favourite place—the bookstore. As expected, he browsed the occult books, sweet, delectable countenance bright and living. I was always in love with him, come frowns or smiles, whether he noticed me or not.

Another man joined him, green-eyed and also of light-coloured hair, dark bags beneath his eyes, cup of coffee in his hand. It was mixed with two shots of espresso and one sugar. That is, it was if he was being consistent.

They embraced, a flawless innocence marred by this scum. No one should touch him. He was too untouchable.

Perhaps he felt my gaze, for he turned, frozen smile belying quiet fears. I held onto his eyes with my own, hungering and thirsting for him to know me as I knew him. I moved closer, centimetres of shuffling thrill.

But he quickly went back to his other half, the one that seems to be his shadow. They flowed out of the bookstore; I followed them.

Then there are more crowds, not realising he has denied to grace them with his presence. He's always glancing over his shoulder, as if he knows that I'm here, that my existence hinges on each delivering breath of his.

It's when the scum also looks to me that I melt into the crowds, satisfied with my glances and shivering fantasies for now. Once he's alone, that is when I will watch over his perfection once more, unceasing in my love for him.