we scream our very souls free
Haunt is an inconstant thing, fickle in the same way the distant breeze is. They are too much a part of the moment, the here and the now. But he is the one constant, the lodestone to which they still touch, even if it is infrequent and forgetful. It is easy for Haunt to forget that time seems to pass differently for those like their Misfit. Easy to forget that perhaps he is no longer content being the cliff against which they break from time to time.
If Haunt were a different sort of creature, they might have reflected on this with the somberness it deserves. But Haunt is not a different creature, so it is all too easy for them to assume Misfit will be happy to always be the eye of the storm that is Haunt.
As though waking from a dream, Misfit comes alive beneath the shadow creature’s less than tender ministrations. Haunt is thrilled, moving against him with a renewed eagerness. His teeth are blunt against impossibly dark shoulders, a perfect foil to the sharpness of their own. As Misfit shifts to speak in a throaty whisper, Haunt’s yellow eyes fall to his, ears twitching as the shiver-inducing timbre of his voice reaches them.
And they laugh. They cannot seem to help it in the face of such a silly thing. “I always have been, haven’t I?” Haunt replies on a lilting voice, eyes gleaming in the darkness. They erase the distance Misfit had put between them. There is something dangerous in their voice now, a darkness that has always been there, buried deep. And when they speak, it is a growl against his gray skin. “Or is it you who have changed?”
Haunt, for all their foibles, is a jealous creature. Not of his body (for what else is a body made for, if not to be shared?), but of his soul. That Haunt had claimed for themselves long ago.
@[Misfit]