By Phosphor, with input from other Ghosts
Last updated: 2/28/23
"What even are we? To each other, I mean."
Gleam felt the others turn their attention to his question. He sensed Sable opening her eyes from where she was resting. Behind him, Plume hummed thoughtfully, as if he hadn't heard this question a dozen times before.
"Well, I don't know," he said. "But does it matter? Does it need a name?"
He carded his fingers through Gleam's hair, and Gleam sighed and leaned back against him. Sable didn't speak, but he could feel her seconding Plume - her thoughts were a mix of exasperation and fondness, like a puff of warmth against his skin.
Around the three of them, the barely-perceptible mindsea swirled, eddies of feelings and ideas and impressions, both too fleeting and too vast for words. If he focused, he could make out a pattern, a harmony - one of contentment, and belonging, and mutual trust, and love.
"No," Gleam said. "I guess it doesn't."