noir tugs the other along with him by the others shirt, making sure the other was following him along in the woods, yes they were in the woods and getting lost there. and he stops at a certain spot, it's a clear area and it's so beautiful, it's so quiet, no one around. â do you ever just, want to get away? â he says with a soft voice, walking towards the middle of the area, letting go of the others shirt and it's middle of the night, his attention up at the sky. â the stars are so beautiful. â
âThat question is too vague, little writer,â Han wants to quip, but the line misses the tone the reaper would have wanted to add to it. The atmosphere wasnât right for a mocking comment, or even a joke that was meant to save himself from the eyes of Noir, rather than actually be delivered because of whatever sense of humour Han liked to display.
Right now it feels more like the right moment to remain quiet. Or speak softly, gently, as if afraid that they may bother the wind if theyâre too loud.
To anybody else, anybody who still had a beating heart, getting lost in the woods might be a scary notion. Han doesnât belong to that fraction, doesnât belong to the living, so for him, walking around in unfamiliar areas in the middle of the night, was a way to pass the time and not something thatâd actually bother him.
If it wasnât for the writer.
Without the writer, he would have felt nothing but quiet appreciation. He would have kept silent, both inside his head and outside his lips, simply letting his gaze wander, his mind free of all those thoughts that seem to have made a nest in an already restless mind.
But with the writer, itâs like not a part of him could truly calm down, while actually feeling calmer than heâs ever felt before.
Just being tugged along like that, had made the reaper frown, stare down at the kid as if he had grown a second head, or perhaps only because he couldnât wrap his head around the notion that the living was making him feel something.
But he had ignored it. Tried to, at least.
But now? Standing there and watching both stars and moon seem to race one another as to who could illuminate the young livingâs features sooner, it felt like nothing at all and everything there was, was happening inside Hanâs chest at the same time.
When in reality, a dead man shouldnât feel anything remotely close to that mess.Or anything at all.
He stands right next to the living, hands in his pockets, gaze trained intently onto the writerâs features as if staring would be enough to provide an answer to this situation.The only one he gets is one he doesnât want to think.
So he sighs and looks up at the sky.âThey truly are.â
