I'll Share With You My Heartbeat

four

His words startle him into a halt and Lennon with his lack of an attention span accidentally walked right through the ghost. "Sorry," he apologized anyway, a cold shiver shredding through his body.

Kieran's hand was pressed against the wall, staring hard as if he was summoning his memories, willing them to come back to them. He failed.

"Lennon."

"Yes?"

"I need you to talk."

The boy's eyebrows crunched at the untimely request. "Huh?"

"I need you to talk to me— ask questions. As many as you want. Just don't stop talking."

Lennon stilled. It had always been hushing and pained reminders to be quiet. It had always been organizing his thoughts and revealing the only ones that mattered before he bored someone to death. Never— never this.

"Did you just ask me to talk your ear off?" He needed to know his mind wasn't playing tricks with him.

"Yes. Go on. You've already done it on our walk here. Might as well continue."

Lennon let out a half-giggle, half-snort. "If you insist, Bartholomew."

Kieran huffed like he was offended. "Which part of me looks like a Bartholomew?"

"I don't know," Lennon admitted, an added skip in his step as he gestured at the curtained doorway near them, "But I do want to know where this leads to."

"The main stage." Once again, the words spill out of his mouth like an unleashed secret.

"Have you been here?" the chestnut boy interrogated as he pushed the cloth out of his face and ducked under it. They were enveloped in denser darkness, no window to provide them light. The stale odor of leftover popcorn and sweat reached his nose.

Kieran's answer came automatically. "Yes," he spoke, "Go on, Lennon. I need you to jog my memory."

Unfortunately, the boy took a different path. "Have you lost your memories, ghostie? Is that what happens when you die?"

"No, Lennon." Kieran treaded carefully towards his voice, just as blind as he was. He didn't know why he was so afraid to trip and suffer a concussion despite having achieved immortality.

"No?"

"No."

"Then what are you forgetting?"

"Dying doesn't mean you lose all your memories. I just died differently." He purposely kept it vague. "Lennon, ask me how I've been here."

The boy obliged as he felt along the walls for a switch. "How have you been here?"

"I was a backup dancer for a Don Quixote performance th-three years ago?" Kieran spluttered, the end of his sentence tilting up into a question. He shocked himself with the revaluation. "I was a... dancer?"

Suddenly, the room flooded with brightness, Lennon's finger on a light switch as he gawked confusingly at the ravenhead. They mirrored each other's expressions.

"Close your mouth. I'm just as shocked as you are." Kieran cursed under his breath, hands trembling as he stepped over the metal poles laid on the floor. "What even is Don Quixote?"

"Do you want me to ask you?"

"No!" he rushed to say, frantic, "I don't need to dig any deeper. I just needed to know why this place seemed so familiar. That's it. That's all I need."

Lennon could see the fight in him. The inner conflict that seized his jittery movements. The fear that controlled his clenched fists. Maybe the term lost soul was most fitting, but he had not a clue how death worked. If death was supposed to bring people peace, Kieran certainly didn't look at peace.

"Let me help you," he murmured, lathering each syllable with thick sincerity, "I'm serious. Let me."

"No."

He had it coming. It didn't puzzle him any less though.

Lennon frowned. "Why?"

The ravenhead rubbed his eyes as if a ghost was capable of being tired. "Lennon, we've reached the end of our deal," he steered the topic away, "You've brought me here. Thank you. Now take a picture of me to hold up my end of the deal, and then please, leave."

God, that was cold.

Defeated, the chestnut boy merely nodded. He approached the place where heavy curtains hung in sections and motioned for Kieran to follow him onto the stage.

"No." There it was again— the fear.

"I want my subject to stand on the stage," Lennon stated, presenting his client voice, "Please cooperate."

Hesitation latched onto Kieran's chest, his eye twitching involuntarily. Lennon resisted the urge to clap when he eventually stepped forward.

Standing on the elevated stage in front of a sea of empty seats stirred something in the ravenhead. There was a pit in his stomach where the butterflies' wings had wilted— except he never knew there were butterflies in the first place.

Lennon had launched himself off the platform, searching for the right angle to shoot. The opened skylights provided rays of warm sun as Kieran stood cold in the middle of it all.

"So," the chestnut boy started after a long, awkward pause in their conversation, "You're a dancer."

Kieran visibly cringed.

"Wanna pose for me?"

Kieran met his eyes through his viewfinder. "I can try."

Lennon waited patiently as he shifted around, adjusting his limbs effortlessly even though his wary expression told a different story.

"You're a natural," he voiced his encouragement.

Kieran had his arms raised in an oval above his head, left foot pointed outward. He felt incredibly insecure in his skin and Lennon noticed immediately.

"It's okay," he coaxed, lowering his camera for a moment, "Everyone gets a little nervous in front of this guy for the first time." He jostled his camera. "Take a deep breath and pretend I'm not even here. It's just you and the stage."

But that was exactly what Kieran didn't want. The essence of this place was drilling into him like a dully-sharpened blade.

"Just take it." His words came out harsher than intended.

Empathic, Lennon did as told, fixing his depth of field before capturing the shot.

Kieran's arms fell immediately, cradling into his chest to stop himself from violently shaking. He watched the chestnut boy stare down at his camera.

Lennon made a noise of bafflement.

"What?"

He approached the edge of the stage and showed the ravenhead his screen.

There, in the middle of the stage and the gorgeous streaks of sunlight, in the spot where Kieran had posed— stood nothing.