Dead Man and a Battery

He’s aware that he’s a decidedly odd being. Unique, in his way. There’s never been a question of that. Sitting at his desk, more freelance work than he really wanted to deal with piling up, he mused that perhaps that was his ultimate issue.

Charta rarely spared thoughts about his own internal being. He is who he is, and that’s that. Except.. it’s been changing lately. That boy, the ghost, was affecting him. Yesterday it had been anger and today, before he’d fallen to sleep, something Charta could only assume was pride. It’s.. curious. The way these emotions are bubbling up sets his curiosity alight. What would it take to feel Rage? Happiness? Sadness? Could he feel love or lust? 

He keeps a journal. He’s always kept one. Of the few possessions he has in their shared abode, a trunk of filled notebooks, is evidence of the longevity the habit has seen. In this most recent diary he’s been writing about his bondmate, Winston, and the side effects of fusing ones soul to that of the deceased. Because, make no mistake, Winston is quite dead. Which was another curiosity. 

A dead man and a battery. A soft snort escapes him. Boiling it down that far may have muddied things, but it did technically answer the question. Still, there are more answers needed. Why now, months later, has he been experiencing emotion? Is it the tie to Winston itself or just a byproduct?

Sometimes.. sometimes it’s not even his emotions he’s feeling. Instead an echo of Winston’s current state washes over him with no chance at resistance. College tests and the piles of homework that set his tears flowing often find Charta thankful for his own inability to cry. He didn’t need the already upset young musician to see just how strong the effect and bond had become. 

Looking away from his desk to the couch, where Winston had dozed off studying, Charta sighed. He stood to cover him with a blanket, carefully slipping the book from his hands. He didn’t wake, instead shifting deeper into the old couch in a slumber only students well know. It was endearing. His growing fondness frightens him… and yet..

“You’ll be the death’a me ahs Ah am, Winston Prescott.” Charta whispered against his hair, leaning down to press a secret kiss into the white strands. 

As he walks away he glances back over his shoulder, smiling. “I cannae sae tha’ I mind.”