Alive (Ghost!Canada x Reader)

They were always there – watching and waiting with their large, probing eyes, disconnected apparitions of falsehood. Each spirit differed from the next through traits that varied from their often archaic clothing, to their sex, to the simple way their lips moved when they mimed inaudible syllables, interrupted by ancient, habitual fears bubbling to the surface. Several seemed only to be terrified of the world they had forgotten the same moment that they had breathed last, and existed in apprehension of reality itself and of a place they couldn’t leave, attached to it by something far greater than an existence of flesh and blood. Others were excitable, and always laughed in a strange sort of merriment and peculiar mirth (although, perhaps they had been already driven mad), looking on to the lively faces of the living and wringing their hands as if in want, curious in their demeanour and even more so in their actions.

No less, every one was impossible to understand, and even more so to believe.

It was every full moon that they came and stood and observed. On those nights, they would make themselves known and present in the world they didn’t belong to; they were too fleeting and thin and deprived of all substance. The idea of such a scheduled rate of presence seemed foolish, almost too cliché that they should be bound to the moon itself, but Matthew knew that only in the light of such a strong cosmic entity could they make themselves known to the world, as only that was enough to fuel their limbs. They lived by the moon, following its cycle and being dependant on its continuous routine for when they could speak and when they could blink. It was always there, always watchful and wary, as they were. Something about not even being alive had made them slaves to something very like themselves – never generating light and life, but rather reflecting it in a pale imitation, lifeless and cold. None of the spirits knew why life for the dead always proved to be such a unrewarding and feeble existence. Why could it be, after all, that death had rendered them so without freedom, as if they were being punished for alone having died? The children, the young girls seldom fed, had never once committed a substantial wrong.

At times, Matthew found himself believing that maybe, just maybe, it was all just a game of being selected as condemned wanderers, unable to enter the life beyond, and he was merely unfortunate. Existing outside of the very plane of reality had granted them nothing when it came to being able to roam, and being able to gaze upon and touch the skin and hair of those still alive - like they once had been, years ago. Yet Matthew didn’t even fight it any longer– he was only thankful that he wasn’t like many of the others that had been wanderers for hundreds of years. He was fortunate. He’d only lived within the moon’s domain for a century, having no ability to ponder or be careless, but at least not being as wearied as the others. He had no right to begin to understand why the others were constantly suffering for their excruciating yearning.

None of them had ever asked to live on, he knew. It was what could be called a curse, possessing and controlling each and every one of them to live in such a way that they had never desired, the infliction of it forced upon them from the moment they took their final, gasping breath. Their circumstances of death played no part in this orchestration, in this balance of space and time and the hesitation that lay between, holding them back from Purgatory. There was no way to go on, to leave the world behind, unless they were one of the few blessed ghosts that would gradually fade away, their trials at last ended. Matthew had almost lost his own hope in his time, and he was ashamed of it.

Yet, there had to be something to be grateful for, as Matthew still treasured the sight of the moon – not because of what it promised, but because of how beautiful it was. Truly, there was little to appreciate otherwise, when his vision was almost permanently clouded by a cold fog, and he barely had anything to distract him from the overruling presence of the full moon. So he treasured the rain and the shadowed droplets glistening against stretched, transparent skin after autumn had departed. He treasured recollections of homely emotion, of embraces and kindness that had slowly become a presence lingering only in the very corner of his mind; sometimes, he fancied that it brought him a connection, or a grounding to the human world, even though it was not tangible.

He was one of few of his kind that also enjoyed seeing the ways the living would go about their lives. He felt no resentment, no odd sort of hatred because of the fact he couldn't feel the same delight and tenderness humans could surround themselves with constantly. He only felt curiosity. It was a strange, otherworldly inquisition that only made him long to speak in their company and witness for himself the touch of a human being.

One of the first and only humans he came into contact with was a girl – youthful, intriguing. She, too, seemed fascinated by the moon – at night, he would tread softly from his place amongst the trees, soundlessly over the pine needles and leaves to look upon her, wondering over the way in which her eyes narrowed in the presence of the stars and she breathed, enriched by her childlike passion for something so, so far away, and so beyond anything that she as a human being could ever wish to touch and hold and ponder.

Sometimes he would hear her voice, smooth and clear, speaking to someone else - who, he didn't know, but he was content enough to close his eyes, and imagine the silhouettes behind the window pane. Still the very sound of it filled him with an emotion he, with dread, identified as integral desire. He longed for notice and human company without the presence of the other walking, dead shadows and empty tones he was surrounded by, day after day, belonging to his fellows. He wanted to be able to touch them, to feel their breath, to be comforted by their heartbeat.

Perhaps, however, he would have his chance, or come near enough to believe he might have stood a chance - for soon there came a strange day. There came a very peculiar day when she wandered and drew a bit too near to the forest; a bright evening when she unintentionally brought herself fully into sight.

What could he do but stumble in his rapture? Thus, he forced himself forward to greet her, attempting to lay aside his timidity and his apprehension, if for a minute in time so that he might see her closer. How long had it been, after all, since he had the opportunity to indulge in human company? Once assured, he walked free of his prison of knotted roots and oaks, into the air with an eagerness he felt almost uncharacteristic to his personality – a personality that usually consisted of being content to observe, peacefully taking things as they came without complaint, never daring to long for more.

There was a moment of waiting, the most partial sort of second given over to fear, a moment of inward prayers and feelings of stupidity, and then she turned - an ordinary human being, present in the flesh, looking at him and truly knowing he was there, and for a moment all realisation of the fear plastered across her face vanished from his thoughts and acknowledgements. It was real.

He looked her in the eyes and he smiled, and for a moment in time he was certain something in her face softened, as though his patient air had calmed her preconceptions and supposed outcomes of the meeting. She didn’t scream, didn’t shout or make a fuss of his presence alone. She only watched and waited, a living reflection of the ghosts she didn't seem to know dwelt amidst the trees, as if dwelling in a single, very particular thought consisting of uncertainty and a willingness to at least give him the benefit of the doubt despite her instinctive hesitance.

What a strange girl, he mused, the idea cycling through his mind again and again, hastened by the continuance of her unusual and tranquil composure.

“Who are you?”

Her voice bordered a stammer, but he paid it no attention, too overjoyed was he to hear her voice, each word spoken to him - however, despite his disbelieving and wordless countenance, the elation spinning through his mind, he did not allow the ecstasy to breach the skin, and endeavoured to reply so soon as his feelings settled and he found his voice, determined that she should remain as long as he might keep her there.

“Matthew.”

He spoke in a tone that seemed almost strangely ordinary, as one would answer to a question about the weather or state of the roads. Her eyes did not leave his face – perhaps she was amused, he dared to think, but she was too steady in her observance for that. Disquiet slowly creeping in upon his conscience, his gaze, previously gentle, found itself scanning every part of her, preserving the moment and her appearance as best he could so that he might remember it for longer than a day. If he could maintain that, then... well, perhaps he would be content.

“Are a ghost?”

The question (as confidently and sharply as it was spoken), with reason, startled him. Wasn't she afraid, at least by then, given his uneasy words and what he presumed to be a terrifying appearance?

He paused, thinking for a moment, as though he, himself, had forgotten the truth of it quite some time before and hardly knew his own reflection or his own chipped voice, let alone his very being.

“Well, I died a long time ago. I can't remember how. I live here now – with them.” His hand gestured vaguely in the direction of the field and the forest beyond, the movement stiff and numb. “I don’t think I could leave if I wanted to. I mean, of course I want to, but... it's too hard."

He hated the words as soon as they escaped his mouth. They were timid. They were unstable. They were garbled.

Yet, she seemed persistent, or at least determined to finish what she had begun, and so she spoke again.

"Why aren't you happy?"

"Why would I be?"

Maybe, he spoke in such a way that his words seemed too much like a retort, or a rebuke, but he was taken aback by the ignorance of the question, in such a way he was left utterly perturbed.

"You don't have to worry about anything, do you?" She laughed, and the sound seemed to stab into the unearthly quiet of the night. "Look at what you're doing now - you just appeared out of nowhere to talk to me, of your own will. I've seen you over in the forest sometimes. My God, I'd give anything to live like you, Matthew. But you look so sad all the time. You all do. Don't you know how lucky you are, not to be alive?"

Matthew, without a doubt, had never heard stranger, more perplexing, or more insulting words. How clueless could a living being possibly be? How on earth, after all, could such thoughts as those even manage to infiltrate her mind, let alone plant their seeds until she was so mindlessly convinced of something so utterly wrong? Did she really have no idea of the trials of the dead?

She really was the strangest girl, living or dead, that he'd ever encountered.

But it was in contrast to all his misunderstanding, his stares of curiosity and disbelief, that he found the words were dawning on him - they seemed desperate and wanting in the strangest of ways. Part of him felt like he should have jeered at her for such a strange proclamation, but he could only consider her eyes, her lonely and barren expression and how she seemed purely to desire something she could never have within her grasp. After all, was he so different?

“You don’t understand,” he said softly, contradicting in his tone as he shook his head, his body for a moment feeling yet colder than the norm as he fought to speak the words. “You’d never want this. It’s so hard-“

“I’m tired of life, Matthew. I’d trade anything to be in your place. Don’t you realise how free you are here? You don't have to worry about anything - no judgements or money, or any of that. Why aren't you happy?"

Another smile, but this time Matthew found it nothing but saddening and disturbing.

“I don’t think you understand,” said the ghost. His voice was melancholy, almost pitying her, realising just how oblivious she was in her approach of him, with her hasty reasoning and ignorant thoughts. “I never feel warmth, or love - none of that. It's lonely and empty and it's so clear as time goes on that you've been wiped from people's memories. They don't know you anymore." Matthew continued, voice becoming bitter, thickened by a century of quieted protests and discontent brewed beneath the surface. "I always envied your humanity! You know I used to see you in the field and wish more than anything that I could be like you, and you don’t know it. You don’t realise your luck.”

“Neither do you.”

Matthew’s head pounded, a shudder cascading through his body.

Could it be that she would forget her humanity?

“I loved you,” he murmured, swallowing hard, almost surprising himself with how oddly quiet and wanting his words sounded, and how they were complete worlds away from all the strangled mutterings he heard so frequently drawn from the frigid throats of his kin, and from his own sharp anger projected from those last words. “I loved you because you had humanity, and that was all I ever wanted. It's been far too long since I've felt what it's like. I wanted nothing more than to live in this place, not existing on the edge of another, and to feel that same warmth of blood and breath that people have. But... but that’s now how things have to be, is it?"

“Life isn’t freedom, Matthew." Her voice was little more than a whisper, hoarse and otherworldly to his ears. “I thought you'd know that." Her laugh was humourless by then, so much so that it was almost unpleasant. "You watched me for so long, wishing you could take my place, but you’re unhappy because I want the same?”

He fell silent, but rather than drop his gaze he allowed his eyes, stretched and wide and pale as they were, to drift to the moon. Something in his face seemed to change, his eyes glistening as they studied the great silver circle, marred and undesirable. For a single moment he felt a blinding fury, an anger and a pent up frustration with the matters of the world and of spirits and of humankind. He hated what he was, and what he had become.

"You'll be grateful one day. I don't ever want to see you here."

Perhaps it was that she'd given up on arguing with him, or that she simply believed he was too maddened or otherwise delirious and unseeing to understand her emotions, but she didn't have the heart to reply. Matthew could only allow his lips to twist into a rueful smile, weak and thin as the gesture seemed, his fingers reaching forwards tentatively to close over hers, quite as though he intended some sort of kindly symbolism. She didn't resist. She didn't speak. She only watched, with a tight throat and a blank stare, but that alone tore at Matthew's every sense. He couldn't hesitate, though. He couldn't let her live on without knowing.

Carefully, he studied the marks of her hands, the ridges and whitened knuckles and how whole she was, how vulnerable and human she felt underneath fingers that for a century had only felt snow and the same desolation that rang in his skull. His thumb brushed the lines upon her palms, his touch gentler than anything the living could ever create. 

She was torn, conflicted, unsettled and angered, but all he could do was touch his fingers to hers and try to speak in the remains of a voice that was once pure and alive, constructed of chiming syllables and a soft lilt. If only she'd understand. Maybe then she'd feel like meeting him, a pathetic apparition, had been worthwhile. Maybe she'd even change and grow to believe his words - after all, if anything, and if she could only give him one single thing from all the stupid, damnable years of longing, maybe she'd listen to him at last.