Hello, Everybody!

This was written for CHERUBIM101 on DeviantArt as my half of an impromptu art trade. The story is based on her two-page fancomic entitled "Living Part of My Soul." It is sooo cute and her artwork is sooo good!

Go find her and read that comic.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hanna is Not a Boy's Name, nor any of the characters/location therein. I also do not own the story, as it is a novelization of another artist's work. I do, however, own anything that is left.

My Living Soul

Hanna Cross would be the first one to admit that he was not a morning person. He never had been. He would always wake up dazed, still out of it. Most of the time it would take him at least a good half hour before he even began to be semi-functional.

And it didn't help that he was pretty much blind without his glasses.

Such was the case that particular morning as he rolled over to try and get his bearings. Bleary-eyed and uncoordinated, he groped around on the dirty floor in an attempt to locate the very objects that would allow him to see. Mrreh… need… bathroom… (Yes, coherent thoughts; what were those again?) His fingers finally brushed against plastic and glass and he wrapped his hand around it. Sitting up – rather awkwardly, and getting tangled with the covers in the process – he brought the glasses in front of him and began the arduous task of figuring out which way they went on his face.

Quite by chance, he looked up for a moment towards the foot of his mattress. He was excepting to see the blurry, orange light of his friend's eyes. What he did see, though, was slightly different. Okay, radically different. There was a figure there, yes, but from what he could make out that figure was neither green nor glowing in any way. He stared, eyes wide.

His first thought was, Who the hell? But as he looked harder he could just make out the familiar orange shirt and black tie, the shape of the face, the hair style – minus the white streaks that reminded him so much of little wings. All the same. Even the book perched in one long-fingered hand. (Not that he could actually see the title, but he recognized the shape and color. And besides, it was a book.)

Then the stranger turned his head to look at him and his breath caught in his chest.

That was Galahad. Holy crap that was Galahad! Except he wasn't dead. No, instead, he looked…absolutely normal. In place of dry, green skin, there was natural flesh; soft and lightly tanned. Where luminescent orange once was, there was now a pair of – what looked like – light brown or hazel eyes. There were no stitches anywhere to be found. Not even a band-aid. The only remnant of his original dead state was the expression on his face, which Hanna could make out more clearly than anything else. It was one of slowly growing concern the longer he gawked.

What, what, WHAT?

The redhead made a startled choking noise in the back of his throat, flailing a little as his mind tried feebly to wrap itself around this strange new sight. Unable to maintain proper balance and once again getting all wound up in his blanket, the poor man fell over backwards onto the mattress, twitching slightly.

Once he was able to actually think again, he shot right back up with a muted grunt. He relocated his glasses, (they had landed somewhere near his right foot) picked them up, and shoved them onto his nose. A look of determination plastered itself across his face. This was too weird. There was no way what he had seen was real…was there? He was almost hesitant to look.

He tentatively raised his head. Staring back at him, with an air of mild anxiety, was his roommate; dead and green and covered in scars. His normally emotionless features were turned downward in confusion. Not alive. Not even close.

There was silence as they both just looked at each other. And then Hanna burst out laughing. He doubled over, wrapping his arms around his stomach and ducking his head to hide his embarrassment. Wow. He knew he wasn't the most coherent person in the world when he was sleepy, but this was just plain stupid! How on earth could he ever have thought that his friend had miraculously returned to life overnight? He shook his head. I must be hallucinating or something.

He righted himself and got to his feet, still chuckling. As the resident zombie looked on in bewilderment, he waved his hand in a 'never mind' fashion. A sheepish grin slid into place on his lips. "I'm just…gonna go use the bathroom now," he mumbled. And with that, he wandered off in search of relief before his bladder ruptured, leaving his undead companion staring after him.

Well, at least he was awake now.


The dead man watched, perplexed, as the skinny ginger headed for the door to the apartment's tiny bathroom. He was thoroughly uncertain as to what had just transpired, but he figured that it must just be something to calk up to the hour. Hanna was never the type to be much in the way of lucid so early in the morning.

He set down his book and started for the kitchenette. Since his employer was up and about, he might as well make breakfast. Before he did, though, his gaze landed on a small white object resting serenely on the floor beside where he had just been sitting. The paper crane that Hanna had made for him. He smiled softly.

He had read somewhere – like with most other things, he couldn't really remember – that the soul was purest just as the dawn broke. And that the eyes, the windows to the soul itself, could see beyond the physical veil for just a few moments, just as the sun came over the horizon. Innocence of vision.

Sometimes, he thought to himself, I wonder just what Hanna sees in me at times. He reached out and stroked his fingertips across the paper wings of the crane.

Perhaps it is the living part of my soul.

Musical Muse: none