Valentyne Josias Bristol

I watched Allister, my Alli, as he slept.

If I had a tangible form, with blood coursing through my veins, I know I'd turn a deep red at this very moment. Yesterday, after a year of trailing Stuart McAllister or Allister, I had finally confessed my love. He was too stubborn to deserve any proper courting methods. If this had been 1888 and he had been of the feminine persuasion, I would have properly penned my emotions; starting with a 'Dear Miss McAllister," and ending with a "Lovingly and sincerely, Valentyne Josias of Bristol." But Allister was a man and physically I was lacking in comparison. He had the advantage of height over me, and he had a stronger musculature. My father had always said that I was too thin, too short and too lean. I never deluded myself on my feminine features; I had been given my mother's large gray eyes, her heart-shaped porcelain face, and her luminous sun-coloured hair. As a boy, I was never one for cricket or rugby and rather chose to write or read the Classics. And even now as a mere figment, my soul had retained my youthly appearance. It made it quite clear why I had ended up bound between a blanket and two constricting arms.

"I can't fucking believe I paid one hundred and eighty dollars a night for a hotel room I'm not even staying at," Allister grumbled as he threw back the sheets of his old bed. I sat at the edge of his bed looking over the pictures of him as a young boy.

"You made your mother quite happy by agreeing to stay," I nearly whispered the words as my eyes seemed glued quite permanently to the image of a shirtless Allister. He then promptly unbuttoned his jeans and tugged them off leaving them on the floor. I couldn't help by frown.

"Yeah, she looked happy. But at least I got you to stop fucking whining like a pussy," he paused, pouting; "She's your mother, Allister. Hark! Alas! You breaketh her heart. Woe is me." He let out a deep chuckle as he finished and sat down next to me. I couldn't help but bite my bottom lip; here was this half-naked, perfect yet intolerable man. He was in his undergarments!

"Allister, I do not say 'Hark,' 'Alas,' or 'woe is me.' You very well know I am not Hamlet, Romeo, or some other tragic Shakespearean male." Despite my discomfort at his lack of clothing and the nearness to which he sat next to me, I still could not help but retaliate. "And I am not a pussy, as you put it. I had male genitalia and still do. And do not leave your clothes strewn all over the bloody floor." By this time, my voice had rose significantly from when I had started and my face had moved quite close to his. It had all been an involuntary response to my discomfort.

"Why can't you just say, I'm not fucking Bill or I have a cock!"

"Because his name was William not 'Bill.' And I don't have a cock; my father was a merchant not a farmer."

"Stop acting like a little shit. This isn't the fucking 1800s. I swear it's like you have a goddamn stick up your tight ass 24/7."

"I like speaking the way I do. I grew up this way; my parents taught me respect and elocution. Why are you so intolerable? You keep blaming me for being stuck up but you're stubborn! I wouldn't even comprehend calling someone I love a 'little shit.'"

"Someone you love?"

"Yes, I've never used such vulgarity with yo—" Had I just admitted to loving Allister?

Yes, it most certainly seemed that way.

This is exactly why, you see, I had ended up in this position, wrapped tightly in a fleece blanket with Allister's arms to hold me in place. He had fallen asleep, quickly, after bundling me up. And he had left his jeans on the floor! I'm sure he did it purposefully just to spite me. He is utterly vulgar and he snores. It's not loud but it is deep, rumbling in his chest before it sounds through his open mouth, partnered with a warm breath that causes the hairs at the nape of my neck to quiver. Well, rather, I'm sure they would quiver if air affected my form. There are few things that were tangible to the intangible. A Medium is but one thing on a list of very few, though even that was not without its consequences.

"Are you saying you love me, Val?" Allister's voice had gone near quiet, something that was very rare. But I couldn't be bothered to meet his eyes. My father was right, I am too effeminate. If I was a true man, I'd have met Stuart McAllister's; well I'd call them lovely, eyes and said, "Yes, I do." Instead, I showed my cowardice.

"Val? Do you?" I quivered now; my opacity is often affected by emotions. I suppose it makes sense, when you think about those who haunt in rage or for love. Invisibility is a great cloak. An evener greater advantage when you've dug yourself into a very embarrassing hole.

"Goddammit, Val. I'm fucking talking to you. You are NOT going to disappear," he paused, grabbing my chin, forcing me to look at him and keeping me from vanishing.

"Fuck your freezing!" And I couldn't help but laugh, as he withdrew his fingers, wide-eyed and startled. Ghosts are cold, unnaturally so.

"Are you alright?" I asked, hoping to change the topic of our current conversation. He only nodded, dark eyes meeting mine. And this is why I couldn't look at Allister. It isn't that his eyes are some unnatural color, some beautiful shade of amethyst. No, his eyes are a dark brown, deep and rich, but common. However, within Stuart McAllister's eyes there is a fire, one that keeps me from lying, and one that keeps me from leaving. It's why I've haunted him for so long.

"Val. Do you?" he asks again even softer than before. Maybe he doesn't ask at all, maybe his lips just move to form the words.

"Yes…well…of course. Of course, I do. It's…I mean, I can't help it." When I come undone I rant, as you see. Allister simply quirks a brow. "Yes, alright. I love you."

"All you had to say was 'yes'." His face moves nearer, slowly. He's careful about it, eyes on mine questioningly. He doesn't grab my lips and kiss me full on. He waits, hovering close, till I tilt my head upwards. I can feel his warm breath against my…I don't have skin. I do feel it though. I feel it when he leans, closing the gap until the flesh of his lips are against mine. It's so painfully slow. I want his tongue to part my lips, to take my mouth in, passionately. Sadly, a few seconds is too much. He pulls away, attempting to smile but only shudders.

"I love you, too."

So you see why I'm wrapped in a blanket. I'm too cold for Allister to touch for too long. I'm not an imaginative vampire who's cold like smooth marble. My cold isn't tantalizing or inviting like freshly fallen snow. Have you ever gotten a chill, one that runs up your spine like the pads of invisible fingers tips? Have you ever walked to encounter an explainable sensation that causes Goosebumps to rise on your arm? I'm that kind of cold. A cold that is eerie and creepy. You have to have the gift, the sixth sense, to touch my kind. Even then, the Cold is too much to handle for longer than a brief moment. I suppose it makes sense, a precaution to keep us from getting too attached to our state of being. Ghost forms are only temporary. We are all meant to pass on after finishing our business. I have no unfinished business.

Allister grumbles something indistinguishable in his sleep. His grip on me tightens, as his eyes flutter open. Even in the darkness, with just the sliver of light gleaming from under the shut door, I can see his eyes. My mind dwells on those eyes more than other things, not just color or the fire, but poetic metaphors come to mind. I am a child of Romanticism after all. Today, I compare those eyes to the earth; her soil which brings forth such life. Eyes like earthen paths that hold the wisdom of all those that have tread there. Such deepness in those eyes, like Earth's indeterminable deepness that leads to a burning, heated core.

I am unhinged by Stuart McAllister.

He just stares, watching me and waiting. He seems to be contemplative. Part of me itches to comment, to make some comment contrasting the beauty of Christmas to his rudeness. These are but maneuvers I use; wit was always the sign of a sharp mind at home. They always achieve their goal: getting Allister to succumb to a whim of mine, lightening the conversation and such. But there is an ambiance that has settled upon us, a deep connectivity between brown and grey. This is a conversation without words. Comfortable silence is not a paradox.

Merry Christmas, he says, silently, with a look to the 'electric' clock. The numbers 1, 0, 0, illuminated green, stating the time at one o'clock. He smiles.

Merry Christmas, I say with just my eyes.

"Never understood the Christmas Carol before. A piece of preachy bullshit fed to children. But I get it now; it was the ghosts that make it appealing."

"Really, Allister, it is all about the spirit of giving. Charles Dickens's was a brilliant writer. His choice of diction was beautifully crafted, not preachy." Allister rolls his eyes at my words. His grip on my form loosening momentarily, as his hand moves over the blanket from my shoulder blade, along the curve of my spine, to cup and squeeze my…

"Allister!"

"Scrooge was one lucky bastard.

A/N: A piece of the story through Val's ghostly eyes, this time. Italicized scenes are flashbacks.

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