A Ballroom Dance

alright im gonna just copy my tags from ao3 here so you know what youre getting in to lol. i dont know why wattpad is the way that it is: 

Dancing, Mild spooky body stuff, angst, horror-esq, but not too bad, regards Ghostbur as more of a true ghost than his actual wholesome character, GHOSTBUR VERY OUT OF CHARACTER, teeth(blech), again its not TOO bad, its just like, a little unsettling, Dancing together in a ballroom, user doesn't like wattpad can you tell, it's not DubCon because in reality Wilbur could have left any time he wanted too, The Revolutionist and the Ghost (sounds like a tarot card lol), Creepy. 

Notes:

Please follow the artist who did the cover, @kis.tigris on insta. SHES AMAZING !!!

The song I listened to while writing this (and the song that is playing as they dance) is the Howl's Moving Castle theme:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UwxatzcYf9Q

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Ghostbur took Wilbur by the hand. "Do you like to dance?"

Wilbur did not really know the answer to such a question. When have I ever danced. The ghost took the silence for an answer and let music start playing from a record in the corner.

"You will dance!" he said, eyes bright and filled with a childlike wonder- if it weren't for the unmistakable look of death that always lied underneath them.

"How did you do that?" Wilbur asked, referring to the melody that was now echoing onto the walls of the little room. His demeanor was serious but that did not stop his counterpart from pulling him forward until he was forced to take a step or stumble instead.

Ignoring the question, Ghostbur raised the hand that connected them and rested his other one on the man's shoulder. "I will teach you how to dance." His face glittered in the overhead light and his skin was pale, shining unwholesomely like splintered glass in an accident. Wilbur wanted to run.

Instead he let the ghost release his shoulder and pick up his hand. Ghostbur touched the palm delicately. He looked at it like there was something he could see there before placing it firmly at his waist. Instantly Wilbur shuddered.

It's side... is that... The ghost had no flesh like Wilbur had ever known before, his skin seeming to writhe and reject even a very gentle touch as his hand molded to fit. Still, as the ghost leaned in to him and he took a deep breath, the scent of deep ocean waters and sickly sweet rot filling his mouth and nose until he almost choked, he found himself pressing his hand even closer to the broken piece of spirit in his hands. His spirit. His instincts rebelled against the creature in his arms but he could not bring himself to let go.

The music picked up just as they had settled into place, the tune crescendoing

Ghostbur's smile was light as air contrasting to his counterpart's furrowed brow and near grimace. They began dancing. The ghost's steps were deft and striking like the venomous sting of a scorpion, each footstep meeting its mark onto the floor with a lofty precision. Wilbur stumbled and shuffled, struggling to follow Ghostbur's moves. His body was heavy and human. Ghostbur lifted him a little as he moved, almost by accident.

"Do better," said the ghost, breath burning into the crook of Will's neck.

Wilbur tried to mimic the footsteps, reciting the patterns of the motions in his head until he learned them.

It was both distracting him from Ghostbur and helping him keep time, so he kept doing it even after he had them down.

The music really was lovely, he marvelled at how something so pretty could come out of something so brutal. "Did you make this song yourself?" he asks Ghostbur.

"No," it hums back, "It was sung to me. In limbo."

"By who?"

"You!" He smiled and his teeth were startlingly white- although Will was used to them by now- and set into his face strangely, like they were placed there rather than they grew. But still so young.

As young as I am, Wilbur thinks to himself as he tenderly sways the ghost, But I am not young.

When Wilbur fails to respond or ask any more questions, Ghostbur giggles in his ear.

Ghostbur steps forward, Will steps back, his foot clicks on the floor and Ghostbur's does not. But he still feels the ghost in his arms like he would a person.

They spin, and the room spins with them. It is the ghost's doing, he knows. His coat sways with the motion and Ghostbur reaches up to touch the white streak in his counterpart's hair. Wilbur's eyes are hollow and tired like they have been for some time, the look reminding the other man of a ship sinking into the sea. Long fingers brush the revolutionist's face lovingly.

By accident or in response, Will runs his hand down Ghostbur's back. He freezes in fear and nausea when he reaches the place between the shoulder blades. The music changes in Will's ears, the fear that he was swallowing down slowly surging up in him. It prickles at his skin as he caresses the sword wound that he had died to, no longer on his own body. The flesh is soft and wet like it was newly broken and he wonders what it looks like beneath that blue knitted sweater.

He pushes the ghost away. Or, tries to. Ghostbur silently resists, his face not changing from his expression of passive delight.

Eventually, though, just before it seems like the man is going to break down, Ghostbur leans forward and presses a kiss to Wilbur's cheek. It's soft and easy and carries no more force than the beat of a butterfly's wing. Will is still holding him for a moment after he has the ability to let go. Next thing he knows, he is alone.

At some point the room stopped spinning.