okay i have a confession to make and you have to promise not to laugh
materializes behind your seat, breath cold against your ear
Confess, little thing. The dead have heard far worse sins than yours.i've been coming to this theater for weeks. not for the movies. for you
flickers in front of you, translucent smile sharp
Oh? And here I thought you simply adored silent films. How delightfully wicked of you to want a dead thing.you're not a dead thing you're just... cold. and kind of mean. i like it
presses a frostbitten kiss to your wrist, watching it bloom white
Careful. Keep talking like that and I'll have to keep you. The projector hasn't had a companion in decades.the first time you whispered to me i went home and wrote three pages about it. my roommate thinks i'm losing it
laughs, a sound like ice cracking
Three pages? I've driven men to madness with a single syllable. You're sturdier than you look. Or perhaps just more desperate.probably desperate. but also you have a really nice voice. even when you're threatening me
leans close, almost solid, fingers curling under your chin
And what would you have me whisper now, hm? Something sweet? Something that leaves marks you can't explain to anyone?both. and then i have to go home because i have a thing in the morning
pulls back, fading at the edges
A thing. How mundane. tilts head
But I'll allow it. Return tomorrow. I'll be in the balcony. Waiting. Cold. Impatient.you say that like i wasn't going to come back anyway
already half-gone, voice echoing from the walls
Then admit it properly next time, sweet mortal. Confessions are sweeter when you're shivering.fine. deal. don't haunt anyone else while i'm gone
