#ghost chapter 17

The low complaint of bedsprings steals the satisfied smile from the corners of your mouth, and your stomach drops at the deliberate shift of the mattress. But you exhale your silent relief a moment later when it becomes apparent that he’s merely rolling over to retrieve something from his nightstand. You hear the wooden slide of a drawer, the light patter of searching fingers, and then he’s turning back to face you; hair ruffled and a tentative little smile on his paint-smudged lips.

“Orange or Apple?”

You blink at him once. Twice. Before your gaze drops to the two boxes in his hands, and the nature of his question truly registers.

Juice boxes. Juicy Juice juice boxes no less. Nostalgic warmth fills your heart, and it settles alongside the affectionate glow that only continues to brighten the more you get to know the man behind the papal paints and flowing robes.

You peer up through your lashes to meet Copia’s gaze, a shy curl upon your lips, “Apple, please.”

He appears pleased with your answer.

Like the gentleman he is, he promptly removes the straw on your behalf, (momentarily losing it within the rumpled folds of the blankets with a muttered “goddammit”) before piercing the small foiled hole at the top of the box and offering it out to you.

A soft “thanks” accompanies your backwards shuffle as you prop yourself up against the headboard next to him; shoulder to shoulder.

The quiet is comfortable, until it’s broken by a generous, rattling slurp. Copia clutches his own box with both hands, ample lips pursed around the straw with the enthusiastic force of his sucking. Both the sight and sound draws a giggle from you before you can help it, and he cuts you a wide-eyed, sideways glance, before swallowing his drink with a sheepish, “Eh, sorry…Orange is my favourite.”

“I can tell,” you grin.

A flash of self-consciousness crosses his mismatched gaze, but you’re quick to dispel such a thing from the soft depths of his eyes by resting your head upon his shoulder and taking a generous, noisy slurp of your own drink.

You sense him relax beneath your temple, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world to cosy up closer. So you do.

“I like apple,” you muse aloud, “but I think blackcurrant is my ultimate favourite.”

The weight of Copia’s cheek sinks into the crown of your head, and his breath breezes warm through your hair.