The one thing about the dead is they've got nothing left to lose

Michael looked beautiful while he slept. Youthful, even—like a small child, nose wrinkling in disgust at the vivid visuals that riddled his dream-like state. Ashen, blond locks cloaked his twitching eyelids, full, pink lips parted as small breaths emerged. He was a twitchy little fucker while he slept, legs randomly jerking in staggered intervals. The sight alone was enough to generate a series of giggles from a very awake Winona.

Nonetheless, she laid by his side—lithe little frame curled into a miniscule ball atop the aging mattress. Her knobby knees rest against his pajama pant-clad thighs, curious digits constantly claiming the natural blond locks as she pinched the hair between her dainty fingers, yanking them away from his sealed eyelids. He was a deep sleeper, and on numerous occasions throughout the night, his fingers unconsciously brushed against hers as they agonizingly twitched.

Winona resisted the undying urge to wrap her arms completely around the boy, to draw him close to her chest and play with his hair. Truthfully, she was afraid of crossing some kind of imperceptible line. Although she'd known him since the very moment he'd taken his first breath, Winona was nothing but a stranger to the small, shy boy. For now, at least.

Michael's eyes suddenly opened, his black pupils dilating as he adjusted to the harsh, early morning rays that were beaming in through the dusty, sheer curtains. The boy let out a lengthened groan as he rolled onto his back, throwing his arms above his head as he sprawled out in an undeniably satisfying stretch. Winona couldn't help but think that Michael looked precisely like a lazy cat who had just woken up from a nap, and she let out a soft giggle at the ridiculous thought.

"Are you laughing at me?" Michael playfully accused as he rolled over in order to face her, resting his head in the palm of his hand.

"Maybe, just a little," Winona drawled, breaking out into an eye squinting smile that would inevitably give her away. Their playful, childlike banter almost made it seem like they'd been friends for years, instead of hours . . .

"How'd you sleep?"

"Great." Michael gloated, curled fists vigorously rubbing at his crusty eyelids. "How did you sleep, Winona?"

"I haven't slept since 1987." The girl grumbled, avoiding Michael's perplexed glare. His jaw hung low, eyes incessantly blinking in a shy attempt to steady his vision. Winona warily rose.

"I-uh," she stammered, scattered thoughts bombarding her brain as she took several steps backwards. Michael's gaze laid glued upon the awkward girl, petite hands fumbling with the front pockets of her jeans. "Have to go. Maybe I'll see you again tonight?"

The young boy smiled—broadly, a white, cheeky grin strung across his large lips. He perched himself up on one elbow, the stiff bones audibly shrieking beneath his flesh as he ushered a confident: "Please."

"Please, what?" Winona teased, hovering the sealed doorway, fingers threading around the icy handle. Michael looked like a little lost puppy buried beneath the sheets, his knees drawing up towards his chest, bright blue gaze faltering.

"Please stay with me. During the nights." He whispered. "Every night."

Winona smiled, a taut, toothy grin. If she were alive, she was almost entirely certain that her cheeks would've flushed an amorous scarlet from his words.

"Deal."

With that, the youthful young lady fled from the room, stare fixated on the ground beneath her sneaker-clad feet as she abruptly encountered a particularly pissed Ben Harmon. His dark brows were drawn together, resembling that of a furry, untamed caterpillar, a sight almost amusing to the girl, who stifled a laugh.

"Oh," she chirped, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Morning, Dr. Harm–"

"Stay away from him." Ben firmly interjected.

"I'm sorry, what?" Winona spat, arms folding across her chest like a tantrumatic child.

Ben steadied himself, seemingly trying to gather his thoughts as he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, his eyeballs squinting shut while letting out a frustrated and lengthened exhale. When the usually kind doctor's caring eyes finally opened, Winona could clearly see the conflict that resided within their depths. On most occasions, the girl viewed Dr. Harmon as a father figure—and truthfully, he was the best one she had ever had. Dr. Harmon had been there to talk through her emotions about her family, about Jack, about his offspring . . .

"Winona, you know that I care for you as if you are my own daughter," Ben started, his tone dripping with knowledge and professionalism. He was speaking to Winona as if she were a mentally fragile patient of his. "But, this boy has had absence growing next to him for his entire life. Everyone who he has ever loved is dead. What do you think it will do to him when he fully grasps what the reality of having a deceased girlfriend means?"

Girlfriend girlfriend girlfriend girlfriend—

Winona's lips strung together in a hard and angry line before she opened them to speak, positively livid that Ben Harmon had gone and tarnished the one good thing that had happened to her in nearly thirty years. "I held him when he was a baby, Ben," Winona seethed, the 5'2 girl standing as tall and defiant as her absurdly small frame would allow. "I'm not–"

"I saw the two of you," Ben lowly spoke, tilting his head downward in inspection as his eyes reflected something that looked a lot like sympathy. Conflicting emotions swirled within Winona as hot, unwelcome tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. As much as she didn't want it to be true, Ben was inevitably right. Winona knew she would never be able to walk out of this house on a regular day with Michael, let alone do all of the important things with him that people were supposed to do together. That couples were supposed to do.

Just when the girl turned on her heel in order to flee from the shameful situation, Dr. Harmon's strong and weighty hand claimed the bony expanse of Winona's​ trembling shoulder, effectively spinning her around into the comfort of his fatherly embrace. It was difficult for her to begrudge the man's words when they had merely been uttered out of good will, and Winona knew that he was trying to protect her heart as much as he was the lost and lonely Michael's.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Harmon," Winona whimpered into the soft material of Ben's black, cotton shirt, the evidence of the sadness that had spilled from her eyes falling onto it like the sprinkle of barely noticeable rain drops.

"Don't be sorry, little bird," Ben cooed as he lovingly petted the palm of his hand over Winona's dark locks of hair. "You deserved so much more in your life than what you've been given."

⁂

Invariably, Winona sat upon the bitter pavement, legs tucked beneath her bottom as staggered intervals of wind threw her hair astray. The sun had drifted beneath the horizon a sheer thirty-three minutes prior, and an eerie, ebony darkness currently cloaked the area. Winona wondered what it would've been like to experience such a darkness in reference to her death—truthfully, any kind of perdition would have been better than the odious purgatory in which she currently and perpetually lived.

"Winona?" A small, sheepish voice spoke from beyond the doorway. The ghostly girl craned her neck, shifting her weight upon the dusty concrete as an additional burst of aggravating wind blew several strands within her eyes.

Michael Langdon stood several feet south, clad only in an old gray t-shirt and navy blue boxers. Goosebumps trailed along his legs, courtesy of the cold concrete beneath his bare feet as Winona rose.

"Ready for bed, Michael?" She sheepishly cooed, her tone resembling that of a protective parent.

He eagerly nodded, however, his eyes were speculative as the girl proceeded to walk back inside​. It was as if those enchanting orbs of his could see right through her—like they had found each other somewhere within a dream, and he already knew the secret behind every emotion she could attempt to mask.

"Why were you out there all alone?" Michael asked, his curled hair dipping down into his vision, eyelids hooded in observation.

Winona bit her lower lip, staring down at the floor as she recalled Ben's words of advice. She had isolated herself outside in an attempt to quell the need to succumb to her own selfish wants. She had promised Michael that she would stay with him at night—that she wouldn't leave him alone. It ate at the girl from inside out—like a family of starving termites had taken refuge in the pit of her stomach with the knowledge that she would be breaking a promise to the beautiful boy when the words still felt fresh on her lips.

Just nip it in the bud.

"Michael, I-I just can't do this. I'm sorry." Winona defeatedly exclaimed, shoulders profoundly sagging under the weight of her vague admission.

She could see the recognition of her words flash across his face as his expression quickly drifted from confusion straight to hurt and disappointment. Winona didn't quite understand why her heart literally broke clean in half when Michael's lips formed into minimal pout, lower lip trembling ever so slightly as he averted his gaze away from her. She could practically feel the shame that cloaked him like a scaly, second skin that had formed and taken over due to the painful scars of rejection.

"I see," Michael whispered, sniffling. "You think I'm bad, too—a freak."

A plethora of words danced along the tip of Winona's tongue, numerous phrases of immense adoration just begging to be brought to life in order to paint a picture of just how special Michael truly was. She could fill up the entire sky with the vibrancy of colors she had never known existed until the moment she had looked into his eyes for the very first time.

"No, Michael," Winona frantically muttered as her fingers greedily claimed his wrists in order to prevent him from walking away. Michael hesitated, his eyes darting from where they were connected and back up to the sorrowful conflict that was clearly etched onto her face. Although he was lanky and lean, he towered over her tiny self—like an elegant effigy.

Winona took a steadying breath before she spoke, knowing full well that when she eventually crossed this rickety bridge, it would surely fall apart behind her. There would be no going back—even if she wanted to. She wanted to spill her innermost thoughts to him, to dwell upon the beautiful blue eyes that sucked her in from the very first moment she'd seen them.

"You're not a freak, Michael. There's good in you. I see it. Dr. Harmon sees it."

"Why did my Grandma leave me all alone?" Michael interjected, blinking back blinding tears. Constance's deceased body riddled this thoughts, a swarm of entirely unwelcome memories consuming his skull. Michael tore out of Winona's weak hold, fingers tediously tearing at the flushed flesh of his jaw, bare feet stumbling back towards the sealed bedroom door.

"Because," Winona began, claiming his bony wrists within her grasp, assertively tearing them away from his pretty face. "Because she's a fucking coward, Michael. She took the easy way out."

But for what reason? What had Michael done to drive her to such a situation as suicide?

"It's all my f-fault," Michael revealed, stumbling over his words as his broad-shouldered frame sunk to the floor. "She d-didn't like my gifts. I-I–"

Winona raised a brow, falling to her knees before the blubbering boy. Her thumb met his hot cheek, swiftly wiping away the fallen tear.

Suddenly, their glares interlocked; Michael's red-rimmed eyes glistening beneath the spectral glow of the moonlight, which bled through the cracks in the curtains. A general sensation of unease riddled her bones at his macabre stare, razor-sharp jaw clenching as he spat out an irate: "I'm a monster."

Winona weakly smiled, helping an objective Michael to his feet as she murmured a reassuring, "you can't hurt me, Michael. I'm already dead. And even if I wasn't–"

Winona paused, gently gauging Michael's perplexed expression as the pair shuffled towards the empty bed, settling against the wrinkled sheets.

"–I'd trust you. I know you'd never let me in harms way. You're a good guy, Michael. I have absolutely no doubts about that."

"But, you don't even know me." He countered, worming his way beneath the sheets. "How can you trust someone you don't know?"

Winona smiled—a broad, toothy grin, before easing into the bed beside him, frigid fingers curling around the satisfyingly warm flesh of his forearm.

"Michael," she began, pausing briefly to clear her throat. Don't blow this, Winona. "I've known you before you even knew yourself."

The duo laid in a happy heap that night. Michael stayed awake well into the witching hour, his slender fingers frivolously fiddling with hers, almost as if to inspect the sheer differences of their bodies. He was entirely enthralled—to say the least—about how incredibly dead she was, but also, how extremely alive she actually appeared.

"You're so cold." Michael observed, slipping his fingers between hers as they momentarily held hands. Winona smiled at the innocent gesture, a knobby knee colliding with his. At this, the boy impulsively jerked away, a guttural gasp creeping up his throat.

"How can you be so dead but look so alive? How can I touch you?" He added, sounding childlike and short, his fingers detaching from hers as his palm rotated to meet her face. Just as he'd expected, her flesh beneath his hand was ice cold.

"Do you want to know why?" Winona whispered, claiming his hand in hers. Bleakly, Michael nodded, his scruffy curls audibly scratching against the pillowcase, icy blue eyes agape in wonder.

Timidly, the woman brought his reluctant grasp down to meet her chest, seemingly towards her concealed breast, but primarily hovering the hidden hole where her heart used to freely beat. With an equal unison exhale, Michael's wide palm collided with her chest, digits unvaryingly spread as he awaited the stout rhythm of her heart. However, that familiar feeling never came.

Mortified, Michael tore his hand away, widened stare fixated on his buzzing fingers. Winona's eyelids briskly fluttered, an extremely weak attempt to conceal the fat, bothersome tears that threatened to emerge. His mouth was parted, soft sighs showering the quivering skin of his lower lip as Winona shyly spoke.

"I died on Halloween night, back in 1987." The woman began, rotating her frame in order to lay on her back. "My boyfriend Jack and I were reckless and idiotic. We broke into this house because we thought we were being rebellious, and hell, it would've made a great story to tell to our friends."

She paused, fiercely shaking her head from side-to-side as she audibly scoffed. The thought of her death was a particularly pitiful memory, one that she preferred not to recall, but nevertheless, she felt this undying urge to spill all of the gory details to the boy beside her.

"Our plans were impure. We'd snuck upstairs to one of the bedrooms and started to initiate in some wildly inappropriate things—don't worry, I'll spare you the details. Anyways, during this time, we'd become well aware of the out-of-place noises that occured. And then the cops showed up, so everything just kind of went to shit from there."

Michael watched, completely entranced as Winona willingly revealed the story of her tragic death, his fingers aching to inch back towards her freezing self—to worm their way between her dead digits and hold on tight. He felt safe with her—sane, even. All the young boy ever truly craved was that of authentic affection, and it was evident that the everlasting entity beside him would shower him with more of it than he could ever imagine.

Winona craned her neck, impossibly dark eyes meeting a shaken sea of blue as Michael sympathetically smiled.

"I wouldn't have abandoned you like Jack did." He suddenly said, the bold statement oozing from his mouth with complete confidence as Winona stifled a sob.

"I know, Michael." The girl replied, brushing a tempestuous piece of hair from his eyes. "Go to sleep. It's late. I'll be here when you wake."

Winona's thoughts were crabbed and sallow as the bitter blinking of starlight shimmered through the window. She knew the time would come in which the boy laying next to her would no longer crave the solace of her night time company, but as she looked upon Michael, who had so effortlessly fallen into his slumber, digits still forming a lax cradle around her own, she was inexplicably grateful that they lay nestled together underneath the foreboding glow of the clouded moon—even if it was only for a little while.