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Ghoul isn't sure when he fell in love with Party Poison.
It's not hard to fall in love with Party. It's not hard to fall in love with his raucous laugh, his dye-stained neck, how he looks when he squints into the sun. It's not hard to fall in love with his nimble fingers or the face he makes listening to music on his battered old Walkman. It's not hard to fall in love with the way his mouth twists when he's trying to tell an embarrassing story about Kobra Kid and smoke a cigarette at the same time. Fun Ghoul suspects all of them are a little in love with him, in their own ways. It’s charisma, he supposes.
If he had to really think on it, probably he's been a little in love with Party ever since they first met, when Party knocked him out cold in the middle of a bar in Zone 3. Maybe that's a little fucked up, but fucked up is what Ghoul knows best.
Show Pony is a different situation. He's a different class. Everyone knows Show Pony; he's a legend, patron angel of the dustlanes. A vision in white and a nuclear warhead, armed with a bubblegum blaster and a smirk (not that you can see it under the visor). He’s almost unreal.
Ghoul's even less sure of when he fell in love with Show Pony, but he figures that's what must have happened. It's the only sensible explanation.
--
The campfire is warm against Ghoul's right side, and Jet Star is quietly plucking at the strings of his battered guitar (he doesn't know too many songs, especially not ones that sound good on acoustic, but he's doing alright). Ghoul’s comfortable, he’s got his eyes closed, he can hear the pleasant crackle of the flames. It's so peaceful that he feels he might get lulled to sleep.
From what he can hear, Kobra's just dropped his pack of smokes into the fire, and there's a scuffle as he and Jet try to fish it out before it combusts.
Ghoul ignores them, focusing only on the feeling of Party's fingers carding through his hair, brushing against his scalp. He’s lying on the ground, head in Party's lap as the other sits cross-legged before the fire. Party's fingers trace around Ghoul's hairline, dip to rub in gentle circles on his forehead before returning to tangle in his hair.
“You must really love me if you're touching hair that hasn't been washed in this long,” Ghoul jokes, looking up at Party.
Party, for once, just smiles at him instead of cracking another joke back. In the background, Kobra and Jet rescue the cigarettes and return them to safety. Everyone lapses back into silence, huddled around the small fire in sleepy contentment. Party keeps playing with Ghoul's hair. If Ghoul closes his eyes, he can pretend they're alone.
--
Being with Party wasn't always so hard. In the beginning, it was anything but, it was the easiest thing in the world, it was fun. Ghoul remembers feeling carefree, sneaking in playful kisses and quickies whenever they could get away with it. But that was before it meant anything serious; that was before Ghoul was in love.
It wasn't like he had planned it. The first time, it was a total surprise, unexpected and spontaneous and a whole bunch of other words that meant it had come like a baseball bat to the back of the head.
It wasn't that Ghoul hadn't been wanting it to happen, he was just surprised that Party wanted it too. Wanted it enough, apparently, to push Ghoul down on the hood of the Trans Am in the middle of fucking nowhere and ravish the hell out of him.
Afterwards, they fell into a bit of an arrangement. They didn't fuck that often, really, only when there was no one else around and they were both about to explode. But it was a good system. They told each other it wouldn't be an issue, they wouldn't let it turn into a problem. They said they wouldn't feel, and even though Ghoul has failed at keeping that part of the promise, he is determined to uphold the rest of it.
He can’t lose this family. He can’t be alone again, go back to his life before the crew. He knows he can’t lose Party, self-destructive as that certainty is. He doesn’t care if Party doesn’t feel the same. It’s better than not having him at all. It’s better than being alone again.
--
Pony is tall, taller than Party and Ghoul both. He’s not quite as tall as Kobra or Jet, but he somehow manages to give the appearance that he towers-- but maybe that's just Ghoul.
Ghoul isn't alone with Show Pony very often, and when he is, he doesn't always know how to act. It's difficult for him to feel at ease with the guy; Pony always seems to give off this vibe that he knows a little more about you than you yourself do. He's friendly, sure, got a heart of gold, but Ghoul never really knows where he stands with Pony. He wonders if Party feels the same way, if Pony gives that vibe off for everyone-- but again, maybe it's just Ghoul.
--
Ghoul caught them, once. Well, almost caught them. Maybe if he'd walked in a few minutes later.
Party had Pony pushed up against a desk, with the other's purple lipstick smeared down his neck. They'd both turned around as soon as Ghoul opened the door, and for a second everyone just stared at each other.
Then Ghoul slammed the door shut, harder than he had intended to, and practically ran from the scene. His face was on fire. Hell, his whole body was on fire. As he hurried away, Ghoul realized he wasn't sure if he felt more embarrassed or turned on.
He tries not to think about that incident too much, but he fails with regularity.
He thinks about them all the time, burning up with jealousy and desire all at once. He wants to be the one to get caught with Party-- no, with Pony-- hell, with both of them. He wants to get pressed up against the desk; he wants to get lipstick trailed down his neck.
Ghoul wants a lot of things. He doubts he's going to get any of them.
--
Ghoul has no idea how he managed to get conned into this, and chalks it up to Pony having supernatural powers. Mind control, he thinks, that's the only way he could have gotten into this position, standing wobbly-kneed on an empty stretch of road outside the radio station, wearing a pair of bright yellow roller skates. He's got bright yellow kneepads on too. It's a nice touch.
Pony skates circles around him, literally, spinning and twirling closer before he skids to a halt in front of Ghoul. “Let's blow this pop stand, sweetheart,” he says in a comically suave voice, and holds out a hand.
Ghoul laughs and takes it, letting Pony gently pull him along the dusty asphalt. Pony lets go after a bit and Ghoul wobbles on by himself, with Pony calling out words of positive reinforcement and tips on how to not faceplant into the ground. Eventually Ghoul thinks he sort of gets the hang of it, and he starts to glide faster down the road, a tiny tendril of excitement beginning to unfurl inside his chest.
Then he trips over something, he can't even see what, and irrevocably loses his balance. Letting out a startled yell, he tumbles forward and lands hard on his outstretched arms. It stings, but not a crazy lot. Ghoul pushes himself into a sitting position as Pony swings over and bends down to look at him.
“You dying?” he asks, pointing at the hand Ghoul is cradling to his chest.
“It’s no big deal. Barely bleeding.”
“Want me to kiss it better?” Pony asks seriously.
Ghoul laughs because he doesn't know what else to do, and after a moment, holds his hand out.
Pony takes it gingerly and presses a kiss to Ghoul's scraped palm. He seems to linger there for a little longer than is strictly necessary, and Ghoul's stomach jumps. Pony always makes him feel like this, like his feet have gotten kicked out from under him, like he's been shot with a Cupid's arrow.
Hell, he thinks.
“There,” Pony says, releasing Ghoul's hand. “You're healed.”
“Thanks,” Ghoul says.
“I am a professional, after all,” Pony replies, helping Ghoul stagger to his feet again. “And my professional opinion is that you need more practice. Get your ass out there.”
“I guess it's doctor's orders.”
“Damn right, sweetheart.”
--
Party is leaning up against the counter with a magazine, his hair pushed back and his hipbones jutting out. He's chewing the inside of his cheek as he flips through pages. After a few seconds of watching him, Ghoul gets up and wanders over to the counter. He pokes Party in the side, just to say hi.
Party looks up, smiles, and hooks his fingers into Ghoul's belt loops, tugging him closer. Ghoul puts his head on Party's shoulder.
“What’s that?” he asks. Now that he can see it, it doesn't look like a typical murder mag, or anything you can buy at a Ded Peg station, really.
“It's a zine,” Party says. “Pony found it for me.”
Ghoul ignores the second part. “A what?”
“It’s, you know--” Party lets go of the pages with one hand to make a vague gesture “--art.”
Ghoul makes an interested noise and peers more carefully at the zine. To him it mostly looks like a lot of crayon scribbles and cutouts from newspapers. It's cool. It's art.
Party's neck is very close to Ghoul's mouth. Ghoul is a little tempted to kiss it.
He returns his gaze to the zine as Party turns a page. Jet walks in, wiping his hands on a rag, which he then throws at the two of them, just to say hi.
--
There’s something in Ghoul’s hands. He looks down to see that it’s a white gun. He’s wearing white gloves. Everything is as it should be.
Ghoul raises the gun and points it in front of him. His hand is shaking. Why is it shaking? What’s wrong with him? He drops the gun and presses his hands over his eyes. Fuck. Fuck. What’s wrong with him?
When he opens his eyes, the floor is covered with bodies.
They’re grey, faceless, limbs twisting around each other, and Ghoul screams. Dead hands start grasping at his legs and he tries to kick them away but they’re so strong, his body is useless, he’s being dragged down into the blood and the guts and the bones as the corpses start melting around him. He closes his eyes and sees twin smiling faces imprinted on his eyelids and he can’t stop screaming, he can’t move his legs, he can’t do anything--
Ghoul sits bolt upright, cracking his head into something so hard he sees stars. “Fucker!” yelps a voice. Ghoul is still shaking, his chest heaving and his hair stuck to his face with sweat. “Party Poison?” he rasps. It’s too dark for him to see, but he knows Party's voice like his own name.
“Yeah, honey, I’m here, it’s fine,” Party says. Ghoul feels a hand reach out to stroke the hair off of Ghoul’s face, and leans into Party’s touch. “Did I hit you?” Ghoul asks.
“Uh,” Party says. “Yeah. Conked me but good. Right in the forehead.”
Ghoul laughs weakly. “Sorry.”
“No big deal,” Party says easily, and then there’s a rustling sound and Ghoul feels an arm wrap around his shoulders and solid warmth all against his side. Gratefully, he leans into the embrace, still aware of his heart beating at about a million miles per hour.
Party makes a humming noise and says, “You wanna talk about it?”
“No,” Ghoul says.
“You wanna talk about something else?”
“No.”
So they just sit together in the pitch darkness, Ghoul with his head on Party’s shoulder, everything silent except for the sounds of their breathing. Ghoul doesn’t feel tired, and he knows about Party’s problems sleeping, so he doesn’t feel any guilt over keeping the both of them up. It’s just kind of nice, to sit here in peace and shove the fragments left over from the dream into the locked-off corner of his brain. He has too many bad memories. He’d rather focus on the good moments, like this one.
“Remember how we met?” Ghoul says on a whim, tilting his head to try and look at Party’s face.
Party snorts. “How could I forget? I’m sitting at a bar and all of a sudden Kobra’s freaking out at me because he’s just seen the dude who burgled us last week making eyes at the bartender.”
“And then you knocked me out,” Ghoul reminisces.
“Well, I did yell at you first and call you a lot of names.”
“Yeah. God, we were dumb,” Ghoul giggles.
Party laughs back. “I'm pretty sure we're still dumb.”
Ghoul makes a clicking noise with his tongue. “Yeah. Sounds about right.”
--
Party has bruises a lot. Not the fighting kind, the blue and green and yellow ones they all have, from jumping out of cars and getting into fistfights and all manner of violence, not the ones they wince at and brag about to the others. These are small red-purple marks, unmistakable.
Ghoul sees them on Party's collarbone, or on the small of his back when he stretches and his t-shirt rides up. He can barely tear his eyes away from the few glimpses he catches. Ghoul knows Party must have more, on places hidden beneath his clothes. His chest. The inside of his thigh. Ghoul wants to see them. He wants to add to them, leave his own mark on Party.
Ghoul doesn't even know for sure that they're Pony’s. He knows Party sleeps around. Not as much as Ghoul, but hey, Party's not trying to fuck away his feelings. Then again, maybe he is, how the fuck should Ghoul know. Not like Party talks to him about shit like that anyway. Not like Party talks to anyone about shit like that anyway.
--
There are a few holidays that manage to survive in the Zones, even if the traditions sometimes get a little mangled, or if the stories behind them are lost.
One of these holidays is St. Valentine's, and Dr. Death Defying’s station dedicates the entire day to playing nonstop love ballads, calling it “Dr. Sweet Loving’s 24 Hours of Romance”. Party's had the radio blaring in the Diner for the entire day, getting Kobra to dance with him to various sappy songs.
Now it's late at night and Party's still got the damn thing going, camped out in a booth with the machine on the table and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, sleepily nodding along to the music.
The song comes to an end and the Doctor's voice comes crackling over the airwaves.
“This is the last tune of the night, dear listeners. Not only that, but it's been specially chosen by our resident legend, Show Pony, and at his request it goes out to a certain scrawny redhead who better have his ass tuned in right now, you know who you are.”
Ghoul's eyes flicker over to Party, who has a tiny little smile creeping over his face, though he's trying to cover it up with his hand. Jet hoots and elbows Party in the side, and Party gives up on trying to hide his smile, letting it beam out across the room. Ghoul stares at the floor.
“Listen closely, all you lovecats out there being gooey on this fine winter's night. Grab your baby, do a little slow dancing if the mood takes you. This one's organic honey.”
It is a pretty mushy song, Ghoul thinks, huddled in a chair off to the side of the booth. Real old-fashioned gush. But Party seems to appreciate it; he's got his eyes closed and he's even humming along, for chrissakes.
Party is special enough to get a song of his own. When the fuck has anyone done anything like that for Ghoul? When has anyone ever given enough of a shit to do stupid romantic stuff for him? Ghoul's so jealous it hurts.
Fuck Pony. Fuck Party. Fuck this song. Ghoul stands up and goes outside and chainsmokes until he doesn't want to break the radio anymore. Once he's done that, he chainsmokes until he doesn't want to break Show Pony's nose anymore.
--
Ghoul tries to find comfort in pretty boys and fiery girls, letting them do what they want to him, pretending it's more than it is. If it's hard, and fast enough, he’s sure it can drown out his thoughts, he can forget about the whole mess just for a second. But every time, he finds himself seeing cherry-red hair and skinny knees, or gentle smiles and liquid brown eyes.
He beats himself up for it afterwards, feeling guilty and dirty and ashamed. He shouldn't be using these people just to try and make himself forget. It's not fair. It's not right.
But he doesn't know what else to do.
--
Ghoul is sitting at the bar, nursing a whiskey, and Party and Pony are dancing.
He can catch glimpses of them through gaps in the undulating crowd, and even though he tries not to look, he can't help himself.
They seem totally lost in each other, blind to the club around them, and Ghoul's so envious he could spit. Pony's hand is on Party's waist, Party's fingers threaded through Pony's hair. They're mostly just swaying together, giving each other stupid little smiles.
Ghoul wonders how they think of themselves. It's obviously more than a casual thing. Are they partners? Boyfriends? Do they call themselves something deeper? Do they even put a label on it at all? Ghoul wants to know. Even more than that, he wants to be a part of it, whatever it is.
The dance floor is getting dirtier, now. Everyone's moving faster, hands becoming braver, and Party and Pony are not to be outdone by the other dancers. Their movements turn feverish and frenzied, all swinging hips and grasping hands, and Ghoul feels burning deep in the pit of his stomach. He takes another drink.
He wonders what they're like together. They must be pretty rough, he thinks, watching them dance. Passionate. He closes his eyes for a second, imagining despite himself visions of wide-open mouths and entwined fingers. Smeared makeup and tangled sheets and clothes forgotten on the floor. He shivers.
Ghoul opens his eyes again to find that Party and Pony have stopped dancing and moved to the outskirts of the throng, still out of earshot but no longer in the middle of the thrumming crowd.
Pony's curled all around Party's body, murmuring something into Party's ear. Ghoul figures he's asking Party to come home with him, and feels his own grip tighten on his glass.
Party draws back a little, making a conflicted face. He's probably thinking about the car, about what he's going to do with Ghoul. He wants it, but he's wavering. Then Pony leans in again and says another something into Party's ear.
Within twenty seconds Party has bounced back to the bar. “You can take her back, right G?” he asks, tossing the keys to Ghoul. Wow, Ghoul thinks, Pony must have some exciting shit planned if Party's willing to trust someone else to drive his precious fucking car home.
“Don't worry about me, I'm pretty sure Ponyboy can ship me back home tomorrow,” Party laughs, as Pony snakes an arm around his waist and squeezes him close.
Ghoul resists the urge to punch that stupid grin off Party's fucking face, downs the rest of his drink, and bites out a terse, “Sure”.
Party doesn't seem to notice Ghoul's tensed shoulders (or maybe he's doing it all on purpose, says a nasty voice lurking around in the back of Ghoul's skull) and kisses Pony's cheek before they saunter out the door together, looking beautiful and perfect. Ghoul's chest clenches at the thought of them.
Fuck them. Fuck them both. Ghoul smashes his glass on the floor before storming out of the club, ignoring the angry shouts of the bartender, only just remembering to grab the fucking keys before he goes.
Outside, he stands in front of the car, Party's car, clutching the keys so hard he can feel them cut into his hand. His throat hurts. Ghoul wants to dig the keys into that paint job Party loves so much. He wants to smash the car's windows. He wants to find someone and have them fuck him on the hood, just to fucking spite Party. He stands there for a few minutes in silence. He thinks he's shaking but he's not sure.
After a while, his shoulders suddenly go slack. He wipes a hand across his face, surprised to find some wetness there, and loosens his clenched fist.
He starts up the car and goes home.
--
The next time Party touches Ghoul, it's not slow or romantic. It's a handjob in the backseat of the car, but Ghoul's so far gone it might as well be rose petals and a queen-sized mattress.
Ghoul knows that afterwards he's going to feel used and dirty, but mostly he’s going to feel so fucking tired. He's not sure how much longer he can keep this up, but all Party has to do is crook a finger and Ghoul's there, desperate for him, desperate to be touched. At the moment, however, he doesn't have the room in his brain to think too much about any of that.
Party's straddling his lap, mouthing at Ghoul's neck, one hand up Ghoul's shirt to play across the skin of his chest and the other shoved down Ghoul’s jeans. He's fast and he's dirty and Ghoul's panting so hard he can't breathe, can't speak except for the word, “Please,” ripped involuntarily out of his chest with every movement of Party's skin against his.
When Ghoul comes, he bites his lip so hard it bleeds, and Party wipes the blood off with his forefinger before sticking it into his own mouth. Ghoul watches him and feels his chest tighten with something he can't describe. Then Party grabs Ghoul's hand, licks the palm in one quick motion, and brings it between his own thighs with a sharp exhale, startling Ghoul out of his head and back into motion.
While they're getting their breath back, sprawled in the backseat, sticky and sweaty and strung out, Party kisses Ghoul on the cheek. It's a surprisingly sweet gesture. It just makes Ghoul feel sick.
--
Party has another vision.
He just freezes up all of a sudden and falls over on the floor, and when Jet tries to pick him up, he starts screaming so loud it’s horrible, it’s awful, he just screams and screams and screams until suddenly-- he stops. Goes limp like a ragdoll, as Kobra rushes to his side and grabs his hands.
“What did you see?” Kobra asks him quietly. Party doesn’t reply, just shakes his head wordlessly and makes a painful sound in his throat. He shoves his face into Kobra’s shoulder and breathes raggedly.
All Ghoul can do is stand there, feeling useless.
--
Sometimes Party makes Ghoul want to scream. His cocky grin, the swagger in his gait. He thinks he’s fucking invincible. He thinks nothing can touch him.
He’ll get shot in the gut and just wave a hand. “No big deal,” he’ll wheeze, sweating from pain but still laughing it off, “I’ll just respawn.” Broken bones are hilarious. Bloody noses are a breeze.
He’s a fucking idiot. He’s dangerous. It’s like he doesn’t give a shit about anything. Sometimes Ghoul worries so much he wants to cry (though he'd die before admitting it).
Ghoul tries to bring it up, tries to be gentle about it, but Party just dismisses him, acts like he’s getting worked up over nothing, and then Ghoul just gets so fucking angry that before he knows it, they’re fighting, shouting and throwing things and he just can’t stop.
Every time, Ghoul thinks he can handle it, and every time, they end up just like this.
“What, you got a death wish or something?” Ghoul yells, slamming his hand down on the counter. “That it? Huh?”
“Shut the fuck up!” Party screams at him. “No! Fuck you, you don’t get what I’ve seen!”
“Oh, and how am I supposed to? You never fucking talk!”
“Oh, and you do?” Party hisses. A dangerous tone creeps into his voice, going scarily quiet. “You think we don’t notice you stay out all the time? You think we don’t notice your dreams getting worse? You think I don’t notice how you don’t fucking look me in the eye anymore?” He starts stalking closer to Ghoul. “I let you be, I leave you alone, I think, ‘he doesn’t want to talk, I’m not gonna push him, some things you just need to keep to yourself’ and what do I get from you?” Now he’s standing toe-to-toe with Ghoul. “Get off my fucking dick,” Party snarls. “You’re nothing but a fucking hypocrite, Fun Ghoul.”
It stings. But mostly it just pisses Ghoul off more. He stares straight back at Party Poison for one beat. Two beats. Then he aims right for the conceited bastard's jaw and tries to knock him flat.
Party sees it coming, though, and blocks it, grabbing Ghoul's wrist with one hand and the collar of his shirt with the other. He leans in close, his nose almost touching Ghoul's.
“Oh yeah?” Party says quietly. His breath is hot on Ghoul's face. “You gonna hit me?” His grip on Ghoul's wrist tightens painfully. “I don't fucking think so.”
Party grabs a fistful of Ghoul’s hair and yanks it, suddenly, jerking Ghoul’s head to the side; then with his open other hand he cracks Ghoul across the face. But before Ghoul can even react, Party’s stalked straight out the door.
Cradling his stinging cheek with one hand, Ghoul listens to the growl of the engine starting up and the squeal of tires on asphalt. Typical.
When Jet and Kobra get back, Ghoul tells them Party just went out to get something. When Party himself returns, hours later, Ghoul cloisters himself alone in the storeroom and takes inventory for the rest of the night.
--
At this point it doesn't even matter what the fights are about. Ghoul just wants an excuse for Party to talk to him, even if it's screaming insults. He just wants an excuse for Party to touch him, even if it's a clenched fist colliding with his cheekbone. Hell, at this point, maybe Ghoul's convinced himself to like the pain.
This one’s gone a little differently than usual, though. One second Ghoul's got his fist up to swing at Party's face, the next Party has Ghoul slammed against the wall, one hand pinning Ghoul's wrist above his head, the other slipped between Ghoul's legs and pressing up, hard, and fuck, this is what Ghoul needed.
Ghoul can't even moan, he just gasps raggedly and feels his hips stutter forward by themselves. Party bites at his shoulder, his neck, even sucking Ghoul's lip into his mouth and biting that too. He seems determined to leave a mark, and Ghoul is entirely willing to let him.
He whines as Party removes his hand and uses it to pin Ghoul's other arm along with his first. His grip is tight. But Ghoul has no intention of going anywhere.
Party kisses him, for real, finally, and Ghoul goes weak. “Anything, anything,” he breathes when they part, babbling and barely aware of his words. Party shuts him up again by shoving his tongue back into Ghoul's mouth.
He slides his thigh between Ghoul's and Ghoul immediately grinds down, gasping and writhing. Party lets go of his wrists then and Ghoul brings his hands up to grasp at Party's back, fisting in the material of his shirt. Party just presses his thigh up harder as Ghoul rocks on it, his hands so tight on Ghoul's waist it hurts, but Ghoul doesn't give a shit as long as Party doesn't stop.
He glances up at Party's face and sees his eyes, totally wild, fucking intense and manic and that's what finally drives Ghoul over the edge; he comes in his jeans, shuddering all over and digging grooves into Party's back even through the shirt.
Ghoul only gets a few seconds to recover before he finds himself on his knees, staring up at Party through his hair and panting. Without a word, Party unzips his own jeans, and, well, Ghoul can take it from here.
--
Sometimes Ghoul thinks Pony knows. About how Ghoul feels. Just the way Pony looks at him, something in his eyes. Something in his smirk-- his hand on Party's waist.
Ghoul not sure if it's cruelty or kindness that Pony doesn't bring it up. Either way, it fucks with his head. He feels like a mouse being toyed with before the cat gets bored and breaks the rodent's neck. But that's assuming Pony actually does know, and it's not just Ghoul's feverish imaginings. Of course, the latter is far more likely. Pony's not that cruel.
Ghoul kind of thinks he’s going nuts.
--
He's watching them. He can see the shapes of their bodies twisting together in the night, hear their pants and moans. He knows it's them.
He walks to the bed and throws off the sheet, and underneath there is nothing but a tape recorder, playing back the sounds of their breathing and their murmured words. Ghoul suddenly feels very foolish for having been tricked by a tape recorder. He reaches down to pick it up, but before he can, the room shifts and he's on the floor, and the two of them are there again but this time Ghoul's not a voyeur, he's a part of it and he can feel two pairs of hands stroking across his body, two mouths touching his skin. He arches into their touch, begging them for something, he doesn't even know what, but they don't say a word.
Ghoul wakes up alone with his hand shoved into his shorts, a sticky mess all down his thigh, and a miserable feeling of guilt coursing through his veins.
--
Ghoul leaves. He takes Kobra's bike in the middle of the night and just starts going. He heads towards the inner Zones, figuring that at least there he knows where to find a drink. It feels kind of fitting in a sick, asshole-ish kind of way, that he's leaving their lives the same way he came into them: stealing something. Only this time it's something a little bigger than a few cans of Power Pup. It doesn't matter, he's out of their hair for good now.
At least, that's the plan.
What actually happens is he tries to sneak out to the motorbike and finds Jet and Kobra already waiting for him, wearing matching expressions of stony determination. Jet has his arms crossed in that “don't you dare try me” way of his.
“Going somewhere?” Kobra asks, like he's some TV cop apprehending a suspect.
Fuck’s sake. “I'm leaving.”
Jet tips his head to the side. “Are you now. What a surprise.”
“Yeah, total surprise,” Kobra agrees. “It’s not like we found your crappily-hidden backpack full of supplies the other night.”
“Just get out of my way,” Ghoul hisses desperately. “I have to go.”
“Why?” Kobra says quietly.
Ghoul doesn't answer.
“Well,” Jet says lightly, “If you don't wanna tell us right now, there's no reason you can't stay here and talk about it in the morning. Party will be back then, you can talk to him too.”
Ghoul considers arguing, but he knows there's no point. He doesn't stand a chance. The fight goes out of him, and he lets them shepherd him back to bed without a word.
--
“So what the fuck's this thing I hear about you trying to steal Kobra's bike and abandon us?” Party says coolly, leaning up against a doorway.
Ghoul almost drops the can of beans he's holding. He was checking its expiration date and found that it was best before the Analog Wars.
“What, I go visit GoGo for a night and you figure that's your chance to escape, huh?” Party continues, pushing himself off the doorframe and walking over to Ghoul.
He’s too close, all up in Ghoul's personal space. It's almost claustrophobic. “Leave me alone,” Ghoul mumbles, his tongue lying in his mouth like a dead thing.
“No,” Party says angrily. “What's wrong with you? You go all aggro and start picking fights all the time with everyone, then one night you try and sneak out and leave? What happened to you?”
“I didn't mean.” Ghoul stops, swallows hoarsely. “For this to happen.” To fall in love.
He takes a breath. “It's for the best if I just leave.”
“I don't care,” Party says in a low, fierce voice. “I don't give a fuck.” Ghoul wonders if he'd still say that, if he knew the truth.
Party continues, “I don't care what's going on with you, you're part of this crew and we’d kill for you and we'd die for you and we're not going to just let you leave. No amount of stupid fights is gonna change the fact that we love you. You don't wanna talk right now? Fine. But you're not skipping out on us. No way.”
Ghoul starts to say something and Party just steamrolls on: “Don't give a fuck if you say it's for the best. The best thing is you being right here with us. That's the goddamn fucking truth.” He steps forward and grabs Ghoul's face in his hands, strokes his thumbs over Ghoul's cheekbones. “You're stuck with us, baby.”
Ghoul feels a lump starting to form in his throat. He knows Party’s right. He can’t give this up. He can’t give them up for anything.
--
There’s some kind of show in town, Ghoul’s not quite sure what it is. When the rest of them get excited to go see it, Ghoul just shrugs, says he feels a little tired. Maybe he’ll just hang back, maybe go visit the station. He wants to see if they’ve got any mail anyway.
They don’t object, but Party touches Ghoul on the arm and gives him a worried kind of smile before leaving. They’ve all been a little careful around him since he tried to run away. But he’s done with that idea, done with that way of thinking.
But he can't keep living like this.
--
“I need you to keep a secret for me.”
Show Pony looks over his shoulder at that, raising an eyebrow quizzically. Ghoul just stands there, clenching his fists nervously and feeling like he might throw up. Pony looks him up and down, and then spins the whole chair around so he can properly face Ghoul. His brow creases in concern. “What kinda secret, yellowjacket?”
Ghoul passes a hand across his forehead. Better just come out with it. “I’m in love.”
Pony grins. “Well, shoot, congratulations, loverboy. Who's the lucky honey? Do I know them?”
Ghoul shakes his head, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He feels hot all over. “No,” he chokes out, “I mean-- you do-- I--”
He takes a shuddering breath. “It's Party Poison.” He pauses miserably. “And it's you, too.”
There's a long, excruciating silence, and then: “Oh, Ghoul,” Pony says quietly.
“But it's okay,” Ghoul continues desperately, “I mean, you don't have to worry. Because I know it's not going to happen and I'm not going to pretend.” He risks a glance at Pony, who just seems to be staring at him evenly. “So it's not going to be a problem, you see? I mean, maybe I'll never be over it, but maybe I will.”
He continues, wringing his hands, “I just needed to get it out, you know? 'Cause keeping it all in, it was fucking-- fucking poisoning me. I'm gonna try to move on, I swear, but I couldn't do it with all these secrets weighing me down.”
He scrubs his face with his hands. “I'm sorry. I didn't know who else I could say this to.” He freezes, then looks at Pony a little desperately. “But please don't tell Party. Please don't tell him.”
Slowly, Pony nods his head. He won't tell. Relieved, Ghoul lets out a breath. “Thank you. Thank you. I should go, if you wanna forget everything I just told you, go ahead, I'm sorry, I'll get out now,” he babbles, and turns to leave.
Then Pony leans forward in the chair and catches him by the wrist. “Hey,” he says softly, looking up at Ghoul with those warm brown eyes. “It’s okay.” Ghoul stares back, blood rushing in his ears. Pony strokes a finger over the back of Ghoul's hand in a comforting sort of way and looks steadily at him. “Really.”
He pauses, and his gaze softens. “I hope you find someone.”
Ghoul shrugs hopelessly and feels a hysterical little laugh bubble out of his chest. “I already did. It didn't work out.”
He shakes his hand out of Pony's grasp and leaves.