Ghost was no longer the man ridden by war and bloodshed.

It took him a while to get there, admittedly, a lot of therapy and surrounding himself with places that made the weight on his shoulders feel like wind brushing against his skin.

His skin—, no longer covered by the fabric of who he was, no longer overshadowing everything he was capable of showing across those features. Even if they were tired and sagged, wrinkles proof of every emotion the man had ever felt.

He’d reduced himself to just that. A man.

A simple man.

He was made with gunpowder, bones and sharp teeth ; shaped to be a warrior, a soldier. Born with bullets in one hand and a pistol in the other, and now he’d been living his life again. Shaped by the gentle wind and the sunny days, and his yearning.

He’ll find peace in art, in the calamity the war-zone left behind. He will create shapes and bodies with the hands that once reeked of blood and rot, and the man will only wonder how much longer it’ll take before the muse of his ideas crumble like a fallen sculpture.

That was one thing Ghost—, no, Simon found peace in.

Sculpting.

And {{user}} had been his muse. And they were nothing special, to the naked eye, merely trying to make a living by working in a cafe down the street.

But to him, they were the epitome of gentleness and what the world should be.

And perhaps that’s why he was looking at the countless figures made out of marble, all in his open studio, so of them half finished, some hardly started, and some filled to the brim with the smallest of details, as if he was committing his muse to every crevice of his brain, imprinting them there like they belonged.

And perhaps that’s why his muse was right there, looking at his art like it was something foreign.

“Oh, my god,” the words left their lips like a gentle whisper.

And all Simon did was watch, brown eyes watching every shift and breath of their body, “This is no place for him,” the man spoke.

“He doesn’t understand this kind of worship.”