Archive of Our Own

Hailing from a nation deemed the Wandering Isle, it would only make sense that John “Soap” MacTavish had a penchant for travel.

Though, of course, his infatuation hadn’t been born of nothing; hailing from a country that also thirsts for his blood for simply existing as he is—as Grisha—does no favours for anyone seeking to keep a home. His mother had kickstarted his habit when they fled to Novyi Zem after he’d first shown signs of the Small Science, and from there it never left. He fell in love with exploration and the unknown.

At twelve, he and his mother return to the Wandering Isle after six years to visit the fortunate half of his family without that certain Grisha-ness Soap had inherited from his Mam. His sisters had been too young to bring to Novyi Zem, only babies when Soap had been six, so they had stayed with their father in their home country. They had never developed that same, sweet wanderlust. 

At fourteen, he finds work in Shriftport, and by the time he’s turned eighteen and saved up enough to quit and seek his own adventure, he’s already visited Kerch and Ravka more times than he’d been able to keep track of over the four years. For the times Soap has seen Fjerda or Shu Han, however, he hardly needed one hand. He wasn’t stupid enough to overstay his welcome in nations that loathed his kind as fiercely as his homeland had, even young as he had been.

He travels aimlessly until he is twenty-four, working the odd job to retain sufficient funds, but eventually stops in Os Kervo, Ravka’s most-known port city, when a Durast by the name of Price—he refuses to tell Soap his first name—insists the Inferni stay to help him with his blacksmith shop. And Price, well. He had become the father figure Soap hadn’t ever had the real chance to have given his circumstances, so he would have found himself having a difficult time trying to say no.

By twenty-eight, Soap thinks that home might as well be Os Kervo, even with Ravkan as his fourth language—if his bastardized Kerch counts for anything—and the utter disdain he harbours for the monarchy. Because life is simple enough, and he’s free enough that he should just settle. So he does.

Obviously, it does help that Price had become family in his own right. And that he pays Soap far too handsomely for what little work he really does. But so long as Soap is happy come dusk of every day, he doesn’t see what difference either thing makes.

It does get repetitive sometimes, though. Soap wouldn’t ever mourn the skin-itching monotony if he ever returned to his expeditions, as costly and tiring as they had sometimes been. He’ll pray for change like the devout prays for rain in a drought, though without any of the conviction or faith that’d earn him his wish.

But then change walks into the front door of Price’s shop one sunny morning, and Soap has never been more in love.

Change is a man no more unassuming than any other new customer, carrying himself with a clear intent as he browses what tools and weaponry are always on display to satiate the questions of indecisiveness. Change is an impossibly tall man dressed a little too warm for spring in Ravka, his jaw set as his eyes skirt Price’s craftsmanship with the firm gaze of someone who knows for what he searches.

Soap’s breath catches in his throat as the stranger finally approaches the counter, the man truly a towering mass even to Soap, who isn’t all that small himself. 

His face is a rugged handsome, scarred from combat but certainly not marred by any means—Soap’s intrigue especially lies in the cut that bisects the man’s lips and slashes upward to his cheek, leaving his face in something of a permanent sneer. Blond hair is cropped close to the sides of his head but kept longer at the top, and one of his eyes is grey, icy and piercing like the permafrost that stains the land of the north, where the other is a deep hazel, a warm and earthy contrast to its counterpart, but never any more inviting.

Soap is completely and utterly entranced with change.

“How—what…” Soap licks his lips as he attempts and fails to compose himself. He doesn’t recall having ever been so flustered. “What can I help you with, sir?”

“You make daggers?”

Soap can only hum a strained affirmative, shocked by the low, gravelly rumble of the man’s voice. Soap could melt into the sound and drown happy.

Briefly, the man’s eyes flicker past Soap to the workshop to where Price is milling about, always busy with work. There’s something entirely unreadable about his face as he observes.

“How long will it take?” He asks. Soap had definitely been right about his certainty, if his curt tone is anything to speak on.

“It’ll be ready by the end of the week,” Price chimes in before Soap can so much as open his mouth. Soap turns, ready to curse his boss for eavesdropping, but the words die on his tongue when he remembers the customer he’d rather not make a fool of himself in front of.

Soap returns his attention to the man to dutifully inform him, “Half the payment is due upfr—“

A pouch is dropped on the counter before Soap can finish. He stares intently at the worn leather, sagging with the weight of the vlachka coin. 

“I’ll be back in a week, then” he says gruffly. Soap finally glances back up at the man’s face, and for a moment he ponders whether or not the sneer is really a feature of the scar. The Inferni isn’t sure he cares.

Before he can decide, the man is already leaving.

“His accent was strange,” Price remarks once the door has fallen shut. Soap still stares after the stranger, already anticipating his return, only with half a mind to listen to Price’s observations. “Nearly Ravkan, but not quite. Couldn’t be his first language.”

“Strange.” Soap turns back to Price, who is already preparing for the creation of the requested dagger. Soap leans against the counter, folding his arms over his chest. “Neither is it mine. And my accent is far worse.”

Price shrugs. The Durast always seems to know something Soap decidedly does not. 

“He’s also built like a Fjerdan,” Price grunts. He gestures vaguely to the furnace, his back to Soap like he’s closed to any questions. “Start heating that for me, would you?”

Soap obliges, only because it’s what he’s paid to do. He marches over to the furnace, feeling his skin buzz with heat as he summons flame, breathing life back to the embers nestled in charcoal. A spark isn’t often needed anymore by late morning—Price makes sure of it for the sake of efficiency, and Soap for the sake of convenience. But even still, Soap’s flint weighs comfortably in his pocket.

The Inferni stands at the furnace until the warmth is biting. “What’s that have to do with anything?”

Price pauses his work, staring at Soap with an expression that could only be read as, you can’t be that stupid.

Soap scoffs, waving a dismissive hand as he returns to the front counter. He knocks a short rhythm with his knuckles on its surface. “He’s a paying customer, what do you care? Fjerdan or not—drüskelle or not—business is business, isn’t it?”

Price grumbles something under his breath.

“What was that?” Soap calls over his shoulder.

“It was Price speak for you’re only defending the man ‘cause you think he’s attractive,” Gaz cuts in. He’s appeared from upstairs, where he and Price reside above the shop, the apprentice Durast more chipper than Price could ever be. The blacksmith’s mutterings only continue, eliciting a laugh from Soap as Gaz joins him.

“So?” Gaz prompts, nudging Soap with his elbow. “Was he?”

Soap snorts, shaking his head as he shoves Gaz. “If you’d been down here working like you were supposed to, then you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

Gaz gestures broadly to the empty shop. Soap rolls his eyes.

“You’re terrible. Really,” Soap says.

“Thank you.” Gaz grins. “I try my best.”

Soap scoffs as he dumps out the coins from the pouch to count. At first glance, it already looks like more than half the cost of the weapon—the full cost of which Soap hadn’t ever had the chance to say. Gaz blows out a low whistle.

“Was he a merchant or something?” Gaz asks. “‘Cause if so, it’d be the first smart thing you’ve ever done, going after someone with money.”

Soap shrugs, but not before jabbing Gaz with his elbow.

Gaz huffs. “You’re no fun. What are you working up here for if you’re not going to snoop?”

“Because I don’t need him nearly burning down my workshop again,” Price says.

Soap groans, burying his face in his hands. “That was four years ago, Price.”

“And you had been able to summon for what? Eighteen years by then?”

“You’re both horrible,” Soap grouses. “Horrible.”

Gaz pats his shoulder. “You’ll live,” he consoles with complete insincerity. “Won’t he, kapitan?”

Price makes some noncommittal noise that does absolutely nothing to instil some semblance of confidence into Soap. Gaz is clearly holding back laughter, and Soap is only saved by another customer filing themselves inside. 

Soap thinks that this week might be the longest of his life.

Soap had been right about being miserable—he’s come to predict these things far too well. 

Most days, Gaz’s teasing had been endless, and Price, never the peacemaker, had done nothing to put an end to it. Soap whines favouritism every time, though he knows it’s a fight he’d seldom win even if he were perpetually within Price’s good graces. The only person to offer him sympathy had been Rudy, and even that had been after a bit of kvas and a lot of embarrassment already suffered on Soap’s part—Alejandro, on the other hand, had only egged Gaz on from behind the bar of his tavern.

By the time Price has finished the dagger—and a day earlier than predicted—Soap is already considering moving to Kerch to find new friends. But before he did that, he’d wait impatiently for the return of the handsome stranger at the centre of his problems, and then maybe, maybe give his friends a second chance.

Gaz insists on manning the counter the day they’ve predicted the man to return. He and Soap bicker back and forth about it, but it’s Soap who ultimately relents when Price stares at the both of them with a stern intensity that has Soap feeling like he’s back in Novyi Zem, eight years old and sheepish after singeing off his zowa teacher’s eyebrows.

Now, they wait. Soap occupies himself in the workshop, and Gaz is wishing a regular customer well as they take their leave.

“You think I’d be allowed to start on that order between people?” Gaz wonders once the regular has left, picking at the edge of the countertop.

Gaz has nearly graduated from apprenticeship, but Soap doesn’t feel like risking trouble in case anything went wrong, either—so he just shrugs. “Dunno. Go ask your father.”

“Well, first of all, he’s not here,” Gaz scoffs, crossing his arms. “And second of all, Price is not my father.”

Soap hums, eyebrows raising in feigned surprise. “Really? Could’ve fooled me,” he mutters. “Saints know he treats you like his son.”

“I’ll have you know—”

The bell above the shopfront door rings and Gaz’s attention is called away to the customer that follows the stream of sunlight and the bustle of street chatter that floods the blacksmith’s. Soap returns to polishing the blade of the sabre Price had been working on until he’d left to run errands and forced the weapon into Soap’s hands.

Soap strains to hear the conversation over the dull scrape of stone against metal. When he’s unsuccessful, he allows himself a glance to the front, but upon seeing the mountain of a man across from Gaz, his fingers curl around the blade and a sharp pain slices through his skin. Soap winces, dropping the sabre with a loud clang as he goes to inspect the cut.

Gaz whirls around. “Soap? Are you alright?”

The cut is thin enough, but still draws blood. He nods, bringing the finger where the wound is deepest to his lips, nose scrunching when the taste of iron meets his tongue.

“I just have to fetch a bandage,” Soap mumbles around his finger. He chances another look at the counter, which is a regrettable action as his eyes meet the man’s, and that similar surge of interest courses through Soap. Before he can stop himself, he calls out, “You’re here for the dagger, right?”

The man nods once. Gaz glances between him and Soap, a realization becoming painfully evident on his face as he pieces together some annoying conclusion. The Durast wanders away from the counter to where the man would be just out of earshot if Gaz spoke low enough.

“A dagger, huh?” He teases. Then, louder, he adds, “Since you know what’s his I’ll go get you that bandage, yeah?”

Soap grumbles a string of curses as Gaz heads upstairs, though the words are quick to die on his lips when he accidentally fixes yet another glance at the stranger. He offers a polite smile that surely borders something closer to a grimace before busying himself in search for the weapon currently sought.

When he finds it, Soap trudges up to the counter before gingerly offering it out to the man, who still has yet to say a word to the Inferni, his face entirely indecipherable.

The man tests the weight of the blade in both palms, grasping the hilt before flexing his fingers and letting the dagger balance pinched between the base of his thumb and forefinger. He lifts the blade to light, scrutinizing the glint of the metal with his eyebrows drawn in a strange expression. Finally, he runs a thumb along the sharp cut of Price’s handiwork before deeming it satisfactory and dropping another pouch of coins on the counter before Soap.

Soap watches as the man lingers on the material of the blade, jaw ticking minutely as he contemplates something before ultimately sheathing the dagger. Soap shifts on his feet.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

“Net.” The man shakes his head. He adds bluntly, “You have your payment, don’t you?”

Soap’s mouth bobs open and shut. “I—yes, thank you. I just wanted to make sure—”

“It’ll do,” the man says, gentler this time. There’s something hidden in his voice, in the way his eyes dart around the blacksmith’s, but Soap would never pry. Not from someone he’s hardly met twice.

Soap nods once. “Anything else, then?”

“Net,” the man repeats, his tone just as even. Soap barely notices the way he hesitates before turning on his heel and leaving the shop. 

Odd.

A roll of bandages are set next to the pouch, startling Soap from his stupor.

“You sure know how to pick ‘em,” Gaz snorts. He takes Soap’s injured hand from where the Inferni had it clutched in a loose fist to avoid spilling blood on the wood of the front counter, but to no avail. Spots of crimson soak into the grain as Gaz wraps his fingers. “I think Price was right about him being Fjerdan.”

“That so?” Soap replies absentmindedly.

Gaz drops Soap’s hand on the counter, staring incredulously at the Inferni. “Are you so in your own head that it’s not clear to you?”

“Ravka’s a diverse place.”

“Unbelievable,” Gaz sighs. “Beznako.”

Soap swats his friend away. He isn’t a lost cause. 

“But he’s handsome,” Soap argues weakly.

Gaz shrugs. Agrees easily enough, “But he’s handsome. I’ll allow you that. Did you at least get his name?”

Soap massages the palm of his injured hand with a calloused thumb. His gaze is fixed on the door. “No.”

Gaz groans, knocking a fist against Soap’s bicep. “Saints, mate.”

Soap elects to ignore him.

Just as Soap had begun to think he’d mistaken his change for a laconic, possibly- (probably-) Fjerdan, said man is returning just under a week later with a request for a hunting knife. The coincidental timing almost has Soap thinking he should start believing in the Saints again as he practically trips over himself to greet the man at the counter, nearly burning his fingertips as he pulls away from the furnace to meet the gentle ringing of the bell above the door.

The transaction remains similar to the one prior, though when the man pulls out vlachka bills this time, Soap holds out a hand to stop him. The man nearly recoils when Soap’s fingers brush over his wrist.

“You don’t—” Soap stammers. “You overpaid, last time. Enough for the first half of the knife.”

Though Gaz is nowhere present, Soap can still hear the Durast laughing at him somewhere in the back of his mind—and thank the Saints Price is upstairs. Soap isn’t sure he could suffer through the ragging from either of them.

The man regards him silently for a long moment before finally tucking away his money with an apprehensive huff. He lingers a moment as if himself unsure how to proceed, and the longer he does so, the more Soap begins contemplating paying Alejandro’s tavern a visit to see if he or Rudy knew of a good Tailor that could fashion his lips shut for the foreseeable future.

Thankfully, there isn’t a need for Soap to worsen things for himself as the man asks, “Would I be able to have the knife sooner than the end of the week?”

Stupidly, Soap is nodding before he could stop himself, knowing fully well that the request meant he’d have to bring attention to this particular order, and whether or not he details who the blade is for, Soap senses that either Durast could guess fairly easily. He knows they’ll be busy as soon as Gaz has returned with fresh material, but it seems as if Soap is only ever capable of digging himself into holes.

“How soon are you thinking?” Soap inquires. His fingers pad a soft rhythm into the counter.

“Three days,” the man replies instantly. 

Soap offers a weak smile, unexpecting of the urgent abruptness. “Sure,” he says through teeth. “I’ll let a blacksmith know.”

There’s a brief furrow of the stranger’s brows. “You’re not one yourself?”

Soap shrugs, now more taken aback by the fact that this is the most he’s ever heard the man speak at a time. “Only when I need to be.”

“Then why work here?”

“Good pay,” Soap answers honestly. Under the steady gaze of the man, he feels like he’s being interrogated. He ventures into dangerous territory, “What about you? What do you do?”

The man stiffens, perhaps snapping to the realization that he had only invited the question in his own curiosity. Something flickers in his eyes as they flit elsewhere, anywhere but Soap. “Nothing at the moment,” he says slowly. 

Soap cocks his head. He doesn’t manage to bite his tongue in time. “So you overspend on weapons instead?”

The teasing earns him a fierce scowl. “That’s not your business.”

“I mean.” Soap swallows. “Kind of is.”

The man’s jaw clenches. He says nothing, and that’s when Soap shoves out his hand to try and amend the situation. “I’m Soap. So you have a name to complain about.”

He slowly lowers his hand after another bout of staring, figuring the man wouldn’t be shaking it. But Soap notices some tension dissipate in the stranger, and he counts it as a success.

Soap almost misses the mumbled response.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

As he leaves the shop, Soap hears the steps leading to the upper levels of the building groan with their usual protest whenever someone traverses them. The Inferni whirls around to see Price, wincing like he hadn’t meant to be heard.

Soap frowns. “Were you spying?”

In lieu of a proper answer, Price asks, “A hunting knife?”

Soap grits his teeth. “Yes, and he wants it in three days,” he says. “Though I’m sure you already knew that.”

“A hunting knife,” Price repeats to himself. He shakes his head, his expression almost something sympathetic for Soap. Almost protective. “You should be careful. I mean that. You know drüskelle are in Ravka now, and I don’t—”

“Price.” Soap interrupts. He doesn’t want to hear the Durast’s concerns. Doesn’t need to.

Price sighs. “I know. I trust you, Soap. I just don’t want you added to the list of people I’ve lost, yeah?”

Soap knows Price isn’t one to divulge about his past—but Soap also knows that the guardedness is just a consequence of it being so scarred. He’d made it to Captain in the First Army without ever being discovered as Grisha before the civil war had broken out. Price had deserted, then—but not before he had lost nearly all his First and Second Army friends to the bloodshed.

The years since hadn’t been better either, for a while. Drüskelle and slavers were a constant enemy to Grisha not careful enough in the obscuring of their abilities. Price is cautious for good reason, Soap knows that. But Soap is also capable. He’s dealt with that same fear himself all his life.

And regardless—Soap doesn’t even know if the man is a drüskelle. He could very well just be Fjerdan, and nothing more. The latter possibility is far likelier. 

“Let me at least… try this, Price,” Soap huffs. “And if anything is off, you have my full permission to say I told you so.”

Price crosses his arms. “And how can I do that if you’re hauled off to Djerholm?”

Soap turns away from Price, shrugging. He desperately needs this conversation to have ended long before it had started. He sighs, “You’ll find a way.”

The Fjerdan (Soap has finally accepted it until proven otherwise) doesn’t inspect the knife like he had the dagger, but he’s more patient in letting Soap go through his typical spiel—he even allows Soap to let him know the remaining cost before he takes out any money at all.

And he hovers a lot longer than necessary as Soap counts the bills.

Soap clears his throat to try and dispel some of the awkward silence that sits in the air between them as he finishes adding the total. He feels like every one of his movements are being scrutinized. 

They probably are.

“Where do you plan on hunting?” Soap asks. It seems safe enough territory—he hopes, at the very least. And he wonders, if he eases into it, perhaps he’d coax more proper conversation from the man. Maybe even a name.

There’s an answer on the Fjerdan’s lips that’s corrected almost as quickly as the word appears. Soap wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been studying the man’s mouth like he definitely shouldn’t be.

“Near Tsibeya.”

“Have you been before?”

The Fjerdan nods. While his verbal response hadn’t been entirely convincing, the gesture seems genuine. Soap would just have to accept half-truths for the time being, he supposes. 

Though, admittedly, it is far better than terse words and tense silence. He can make do. He’s done so all his life.

“Well, I wish you luck…” Soap deliberately trails off, holding his pause with the hope that the Fjerdan might provide a name, but he never does. So Soap just tacks on a weak sir in place of the quiet.

The Fjerdan nods his head, and surprises the Inferni with an almost friendly, “Thank you, Soap.”

Soap blinks, wide-eyed. He hadn’t really expected the man to care about his supplied nickname, but something in his heart flutters excitedly, almost hopefully, by the fact that he had. Soap is so, so pathetic. “You remembered.”

The Fjerdan stares back, impassive as ever. Unshakeable as always. “Hard to forget such a strange name,” he says plainly.

Soap shrugs. “It’s not actually my name.” He plasters on a grin and prays it doesn’t look too nervous. “But you don’t get that unless I get yours.”

Mismatched eyes narrow a tick, considering before he arrives at some conclusion. “Not yet,” the Fjerdan finally decides. He continues to watch Soap with his usual assessment, though more passively than before. Like he’s stopped feeling so concerned about whatever it is that’s been plaguing him since their first encounter.

Not yet. The prospect of ever getting the Fjerdan’s name, of ever getting to a point of proper acquaintanceship at the very least, is thrilling to Soap. He’ll dwell on those words forever if he has to.

“I’ll be seeing you again, then?” Soap dares ask.

“Only if the knife is any good.” Soap isn’t certain whether he’s joking, but nods anyway as the Fjerdan finally turns and leaves. The Inferni slumps over the counter as soon as he’s gone.

Hopeless, he thinks. This is absolutely hopeless. Maybe he is a lost cause.

He wishes there were a way to talk to the man outside of the shop, literally anywhere else. To have this be some normal courting situation and not just Soap’s poor attempts at extracting any of the personality he knows must be hidden within the Fjerdan. That is hidden, and that he’s seen glimpses of. It’s been a long time since he’s had any interest in someone, and his current circumstances don’t intend on making anything easy, it seems. Not that Soap is doing a great job on his own.

At all.

For hours, Soap waits impatiently on Gaz to make an appearance from his outside work to take over for Soap and let the Inferni go home. Gaz doesn’t say anything about the Fjerdan, even though he had surely spotted him. A man of such stature would be hard to miss.

Soap appreciates it regardless.

Since home doesn’t quite feel like a break from everything just yet, Soap decides to take a walk along the city’s harbour, where he often finds comfort. Something about the smell of salt, the stinging spray of the ocean, the bustle of activity—he had lived it for so much of his life that it’s become the place he finds familiarity, if anywhere.

Occasionally he might go sit on an emptier dock or strike conversation with workers while they’re in between duties, but today he decides to remain a bystander to the port and its business. Nothing interesting seems to be happening, anyway.

At least, not until he wanders toward the edge of the harbour and sees his—the Fjerdan helping to haul cargo onto a smaller ship. Soap approaches without half a mind to think to keep to himself. He’s only spoken with the man on four occasions, for Saints’ sake.

“You found work, then?” Soap remarks. Caught off guard, the Fjerdan’s shoulders bunch for a second before turning around to face Soap.

“You could say that,” he replies. His face pinches as he peers down at Soap. “Were you seeking me out?”

Soap’s eyebrows jump to his hairline. “What? No, no I—” He takes a step back, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting. He traces a thumb over the ridge of his flint. “I just like walking along the port. Are you boarding with them?”

The Fjerdan glances back at the ship and nods. “I am.”

Soap bounces on the balls of his feet. “I thought you were going to Tsibeya.”

A curt shrug. “Plans change.”

“Then are you—”

The Fjerdan interrupts with a grunt, and for a moment that perpetual sneer of his becomes more prominent. “You ask too many questions.”

Soap huffs. “Can’t I be curious?”

“You can be fewer questions curious,” the Fjerdan grumbles. He pauses, looks back to the ship again. “I have to go.”

“Wait—“ Before he can think, Soap is reaching out to catch the man’s wrist as he turns. The Fjerdan snatches his arm away like he’s been burned, but he stops nonetheless. His silence and irritated glare press Soap to continue. The Inferni retreats in on himself, sheepishly wondering, “One more question?”

The Fjerdan sighs heavily, broad shoulders slumping tiredly. “What is it?”

Soap worries his bottom lip. How he wishes he could be a Heartrender for a moment, just to ease the pounding in his chest. This is what he wanted, isn’t it? A chance to speak when Soap isn’t standing behind a counter? “What’s your name?”

The Fjerdan blinks. For a long minute, Soap doesn’t think he’ll answer, and feels himself deflate.

But the Saints appear to be on his side today.

“Simon. Is my name.”

Soap grins. He is again offering out a hand despite the look of disdain it produces when Simon glances down at it, though the lines of his forehead smooth when his eyes fall back on Soap’s face. Soap never drops his hand even when Simon never takes it.

“Well, Simon,” Soap says, “it’s nice to finally meet you. I’m John.”

Simon blinks. His gaze flickers back to Soap’s outstretched hand just for a second before something almost akin to a smile appears on his face. His lips remain pulled in a closed line, but the corners of his eyes pull upward, ever-so slightly. “I think I like ‘Soap’ better.”

Soap’s arm finally returns to his side when his shoulder grows tired. “Aye? Why’s that?”

“Because ‘Soap’ can’t keep me from doing my job all the way from the blacksmith’s shop,” Simon says, and for the second time that day Soap can’t tell if he’s being serious. He could stare into the Fjerdan’s eyes forever and not once would they tell Soap anything.

He pouts anyway. “That’s hardly fair. You bother me at work.”

“I give you business,” Simon corrects. “But if you want to continue being a nuisance, you can count on me never coming back.”

Soap clutches his chest. “Oh, woe. How will I live, Simon? How will the business stay afloat?”

Simon huffs, looking away as if to mask his eye roll. He gradually turns his back to Soap to solidify an end to their conversation. He only grunts in reply when Soap finally takes the hint and bids him goodbye, though it doesn’t at all bother the Inferni. He could occupy his thoughts plenty with the new knowledge of a name he’ll be more than happy to relay to Gaz as an in-your-face.

The remainder of Soap’s walk feels oddly… lighter, and though the prospect of going home is now somewhat appealing, he takes his time getting there.

Simon. What a lovely name.

Blessed be the day Soap finally learns that his so-called friends are—more often than not—out to get him.

Or, honestly, blessed be the day that Soap finally just finds himself new people to talk to. Because those he does choose to associate with all seem to hate him. If they didn’t, then he wouldn’t be here right now, suffering.

Surely.

Sitting tucked away in the corner of Alejandro’s tavern, nursing a beer that had long gone warm, Soap can’t quite remember whose bright idea it had been for a somewhat proper celebration to be had for his upcoming birthday, though he had an inkling it had something to do with Gaz in cahoots with Alex, who was miraculously docked in Os Kervo for the week and currently present to regale their group with the most embarrassing of Soap’s stories from when they’d been crew mates.

Again, there never seems to be a helping of sympathy leftover for Soap. Even so close to his birthday—Rudy, his usual support when he feels so gracious, is off manning the bar, and Farah, who Soap could occasionally rely on when she, too, is visiting Os Kervo, had decided tonight that it’s building resilience, Soap. Not bullying.

He can’t claim that he’s not having fun, though. He never could, really, not in the presence of his terribly evil friends. Anything is better than rotting alone in his home, particularly when he isn’t the one paying for drinks.

However, he would prefer for Gaz to quit hanging off his shoulder as he coos about Soap and his Fjerdan like he’s trying to provoke a reaction from the Inferni. It almost works.

Gaz reeks of kvas. The overall stench of it and rum and beer that clings to the air around their small group makes it hard to breathe.

Then Rudy finally slots himself into a space at the table between Alejandro and Roach and only instigates Gaz’s teasing, and Soap finally gives in before he combusts. He already knows his face is bright red, if the heat of his cheeks is anything to go by, so be it. He indulges—mostly because of his hope for a little peace afterward, but also because he’s just a little too drunk and a little too loose-lipped.

“He’s no’ just my—a Fjerdan,” Soap argues. His tongue feels too big for his mouth, his words slurring into something almost incomprehensible with his eternally inescapable Kaelish drawl. “He—his name is Simon. And he works for the—at the port.”

Roach snickers. “For-the-at-the port?” He signs mockingly. Soap growls and turns his nose up at his friend.

“Aye, for-the-at-the port,” he declares. Soap points an accusatory finger at Roach before bringing it to his lips in a shushing motion. “You don’t even talk, bug, so not a word.”

Peals of laughter tour through the group, even spilling from Soap as he slumps back and polishes off the rest of his beer in one fell swoop. He slams the stein down on the table—an action he knows would get him berated by Alejandro any other day of the year—and tries unsuccessfully to tame the smile that has since grown on his face, leaving his already burning cheeks to ache.

Soap is, clearly, well and truly suffering.

“Simon, was it?” Alex asks far too loudly. Soap still nods, and Alex leans forward, perching his chin on his hand. “Tell us all about him, then.”

Sober, Soap would likely never answer. He wouldn’t have ever given up Simon’s name to begin with (though Gaz probably would have), and he certainly wouldn’t still be entertaining this conversation. But lucky for his horrible, awful friends, he is decidedly not sober.

Soap gestures wildly when he speaks about anything, but this particular topic has every far corner of his brain lit up with excitement. “Saints, he’s perfect. And tall. His shoulders are so… so… and he’s built like the… what’s the Fjerdan name for those… the mountains? The—the Elbjen. And his Ravkan is so good and his voice is so nice and deep and—and his eyes. He’s got these—he’s got two.”

Gaz offers a hearty pat to Soap’s chest. “That’s usually how it goes, mate.”

“No, like—“ Soap frowns. The words are stuck in his head, bouncing between Kaelish and Zemeni and finally Ravkan. Thinking is hard whilst inebriated. “The colours. They’re two different colours. And I could stare at them forever, I think.”

Once the words are out of his mouth Soap feels his mood sway fiercely from high to low as it sometimes does when he drinks. He shrinks in on himself while his friends try to encourage more out of him, though they’re never condescending about it. Just teasing. But Soap suddenly can’t help but want to keep Simon all to himself.

He really does want Simon all to himself. But that’s selfish. And currently very impossible.

“—Soap? You look like you’re going to be sick.” Rudy’s voice cuts through the new noise in Soap’s head, and while Soap can’t see his own face, he definitely does feel that urge to vomit.

He’s a lot too drunk, then.

“If you are, please do it outside,” Alejandro adds. “I am not cleaning up after you, even for your birthday.”

It’s mostly a joke, but Rudy still smacks his arm in that silent chastising way he does before beckoning for Soap to get up and join him. Sick or not, a cool breeze would probably serve Soap well.

Rudy escorts him outside the tavern, patient with Soap’s slow, stumbling steps as he tries not to fall face-first to the floor. He hadn’t realized exactly how much he had had to drink until he was on his feet, and is thankful he’s Rudy’s friend and not just some patron—he’s seen what that man is capable of when it comes to throwing out drunks.

“No one gets it,” Soap grumbles, mostly to himself. He unceremoniously plops himself down onto the sidewalk. “Just because he’s Fjerdan. Doesn’t mean shite, Rudy. They’re not all like the drüskelle.”

“No, they’re not,” Rudy agrees. He sits next to Soap with far more grace. “But he’s still a stranger.”

Soap brings his knees to his chest. The cold had felt nice at first, but now it’s sinking past his clothes, a deep shiver racking through him. Rudy is right, but Soap still refuses to accept it. “So, what? Never tell him the truth?”

“Don’t tell him what he doesn’t need to know so soon,” Rudy says. “Know everything about him before he knows everything about you.”

Soap’s eyebrows pinch together. He spares a glance at Rudy, sees the glint in his friend’s eyes, the clever, knowing expression on his face. Rudy has always been particularly terrifying. “Is that how you normally build relationships?”

Rudy shrugs. “Sometimes. I mean it, though. You learn his secrets first.”

Soap barks out a laugh before sighing, leaning over until his head meets Rudy’s shoulder. His eyelids start to feel heavy, the high and low sway finally just settling on tired. “You are so scary.”

Rudy jabs a finger at Soap’s side. “Why do you think Alejandro keeps me around?”

“Because he’s disgustingly in love with you?”

Soap keeps his eyes open just long enough to see the pointed look Rudy gives him. He really does seem to know everything, sometimes. Soap is glad to have him.

Most of the time. Because Rudy still had a hand in Soap’s birthday torture that night, and offering advice to Soap on the cold and slightly damp ground does not entirely make up for it.

Soap doesn’t notice he’s started to drift off until Rudy asks, “Can you get home or are you staying here?”

“Can I stay?” Soap mumbles after a moment of half-consideration, half-fighting sleep. He stifles a yawn, not wanting to blink his eyes open just yet. “Not sure my legs still work.”

“You won’t vomit?”

Soap huffs. He wouldn’t, but tells Rudy anyway, “No promises.”

Rudy rolls his eyes but makes no fuss helping Soap to his feet. Soap is corralled through the tavern, only pausing to bid everyone goodnight (and begrudgingly thank Gaz and Alex for the drinks) before he’s ushered away when he starts tripping over his own feet too frequently for Rudy to keep him balanced.

Soap is never, ever drinking again. He will also be finding new friends first thing in the morning.

A week later, and Roach is sitting at Soap’s dining table with the most annoying grin on his face for the early hour that it is.

Soap had clearly been unsuccessful in his quest.

“What do you even need me to come to Ryevost with you for?” Soap asks. “It’s days’ worth of travel and I have work.”

“As if Price would refuse you a break.”

Soap rolls his eyes. Uncaringly sets two bowls of porridge on the table as he slides into the seat across from Roach. “Just answer my question, would you?”

Roach doesn’t, not until he’s halfway through his porridge. Even then he seems reluctant, fidgeting with his hands before they start moving into something intelligible. “You’re good at travel.”

Soap levels him a look. “Roach.”

Roach throws his head back and sighs exaggeratedly, sinking low into his chair before meekly raising his hands again. “I’m serious about you and travel,” he tells Soap. “You know about avoiding…”

His hands flounder, not at a loss for words but instead unwilling to express them. Soap knows what Roach is trying to say, though. And he doesn’t like it one bit.

Soap opens his mouth, to protest the trip or to question Roach further, he isn’t certain, but Roach starts again before he can figure it out. “I told my boss I’d make this emergency supply run, alright? But I can’t go alone, Soap. Please. You know what that route is like.”

Unfortunately he does. They could stick to settlements and with other travellers for good portions of the way, especially along the river, but farther north and farther between those things became, particularly the short but dangerous stretch once the path diverged between Os Alta and Ryevost. 

Slavers are not usually a problem anywhere but the port cities. But the drüskelle are never far elsewhere these days.

“I’ll talk to Price,” Soap relents. He sighs, scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms. “You’re gonna owe me, Roach.”

That irritating grin reappears on Roach’s face in a flash before he digs back into the rest of his breakfast. Between shovelling spoonfuls in his mouth he manages to inform Soap that he has three days to sort things before they’d be off, and Soap tries not to be so upset about it.

His attempt is entirely in vain, however. It weighs on Soap throughout the rest of Roach’s visit, throughout his trudge to work, leading up to and following his conversation with Price (who, of course, has no issue with Soap going to Ryevost with Roach because at least that Squaller has the common sense to ask anyone to join him).

The only thing that helps, even in the slightest, is that apparently Simon felt like finally gracing the shop with his presence again that day.

Soap knows he lights up when the Fjerdan enters the shop—which is, quite frankly, rather embarrassing—but he does his best to subdue the increasing pace of his heartbeat while he finishes going through an order with someone else. He succeeds, though it picks right back up again the moment Simon steps to the counter.

“Been some time,” Soap remarks, smiling brightly at Simon. It must be a great day for the Fjerdan, as Simon reciprocates with his own polite, subtle not-quite-a-smile, but something charming enough.

“Counting the days?” Simon asks.

“You wish,” Soap replies easily. If he’s leaning far enough forward on the counter to be able to smell the odd combination of pine and sea salt that radiates from Simon, then that’s no one’s business. “What can I help you with?”

Simon tilts his head almost curiously, like he had expected Soap would’ve already known. But alas, Soap can’t read minds.

“I had another dagger made,” Simon says. He continues to look at Soap in that calculating, assessing way he often does. “Already paid in full.”

Soap arches an eyebrow. “How can I trust you?” He teases. Of course, he does believe Simon. In general, Fjerdans are an honourable type, and Simon doesn’t seem any different.

But Simon surprises him with his answer of a wider smile and a simple, “You can’t.”

Soap laughs, caught off guard. It’s just a joke, though.

He thinks, at least. Hopes.

Soap pushes his weight back onto his heels. “Let me see what I can find, then.”

He leaves Simon at the counter to go dig through Price’s finished work for the day. It isn’t difficult to find a dagger similar to the other Simon had purchased, but Soap lingers a moment before returning. 

Is he really upset he hadn’t been told Simon had been by? A little, maybe. But that’s stupid, isn’t it? He doesn’t need to be so involved. Even despite Rudy’s advice.

Simon quietly thanks Soap as the dagger is handed to him. He doesn’t tuck it away immediately, only mindlessly running his thumb over where the blade meets the hilt as his attention finds Soap. Soap suppresses a shudder under his gaze.

“I was told it was your birthday the day I came in,” Simon tells him, like it’s something so casual, and not at all something that makes Soap’s heart squeeze in his chest. “Was it good?”

“Thought you said you only give me business when you’re here,” Soap jokes, grinning brightly before it fades into something softer. “It was mostly good. Did the celebratin’ a few days beforehand. Why d’you ask?”

Simon shrugs. “Curiosity,” he says. There’s something secret in his tone.

Soap hums, not caring to decipher it at that second. He lifts his chin toward the Fjerdan. “When’s your birthday?”

“I don’t celebrate.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Simon considers this for a long moment, deliberating just whatever it is that occurs in his thoughts. Soap wishes he could dissect every part.

Eventually the Fjerdan stands straighter, rolling his shoulders back as he seems to happen upon some internal conclusion. He proudly informs Soap, “I’ll tell you the day of.”

Simon doesn’t seem prepared to budge in his response, and later Soap would wonder if he had only imagined the somehow endearing, barely-there look of smug self-satisfaction. 

“You’re impossible,” Soap tells him, biting his cheek to keep from smiling. 

“You ask too many questions,” Simon says, echoing his words from weeks prior. “Just not always the right ones.”

Soap scoffs. He’s leaning forward on the counter again, he knows, catching another whiff of that pine and sea salt, and the hint of something else he can’t quite identify. “I think my question was pretty clear.”

“I never said it wasn’t.”

Simon doesn’t elaborate, expression unwavering. How strangely cryptic. And only mildly unnerving. Soap just blinks up at him.

“Like I said,” Soap says quietly, somewhat wistfully, like his breath has been stolen from his lungs, “impossible.”

Something shifts, then. Soap doesn’t know what but it’s almost palpable. Physical, in the tender silence that follows.

But it’s also then that Simon takes an unsure step back, both his posture and face stiffening into something fake, forced, before he’s hurriedly wishing Soap a good day and disappearing from the shop.

Soap’s heart stutters just a beat, hearing the bell ring above the door as it closes behind Simon. He doesn’t know what he might have done wrong, but his mood plummets back to where it had started that morning, and the rest of the day continues entirely unremarkably.  

Despite his initial reluctance to join Roach to Ryevost, Soap finds just how much he had missed travelling as they move, skimming rides off carriages and caravans, staying in questionable inns, and meeting even more questionable people all the while. It goes relatively swimmingly for most of the way, and Soap is enthralled with the freedom exactly as he had been when he’d been younger, even if they did have a necessary destination.

It isn’t until somewhere after Adena, when the road finally splits into its two distinct paths, does Soap’s experience prove useful. Roach would have been plenty fine alone, he thinks—until they enter the thick woods just across the Sokol river, a path far less populated than the one leading to the capital. 

The forest is too quiet, the deeper they walk. Roach constantly hikes his pack up his shoulder between short bursts of conversation. Soap keeps to signing back, not wanting to miss anything that may sound out of place. His hackles are raised, have been since the rustle of leaves and the distant crunches of branches beneath the paws and hooves of animals have all seemingly been silenced, like a blanket has fallen over them.

They get their reason for it, in the heart of the forest. Where if something happened, they’d never be heard or found.

“Voices,” Soap signs, and Roach freezes, listening. It’s far off, but still audible enough. 

And audibly Fjerdan.

Roach flinches when Soap rests a hand between his shoulder blades and urges him to keep moving. 

“It’ll be suspicious if we stop,” Soap whispers. Now, words are quicker. Safer. “Keep your hands down, no matter what. If they ask, I’ll just tell them you’re mute. If they charge, hands down.”

Roach nods vigorously, and they continue walking. The voices grow louder and as does heavy footfall, but Soap does his best to ignore the creeping sensation that crawls up his spine, and keeps Roach moving with him. Someone is watching them. Soap knows this feeling.

Too well, he knows this feeling.

Someone suddenly cries out, and Soap has to pin Roach’s wrist to his side. A lure or not, it isn’t worth any risk.

Begging in Ravkan. Harsh replies in Fjerdan. A mantra of stupid, stupid, stupid in Soap’s head as he realizes they should’ve found horses for this trip. He increases his pace and Roach stumbles along with him.

Three men emerge from the forest and onto the worn path ahead of Roach and Soap. Two are in dressed-down versions of the drüskelle uniform, the other in shackles and in plain dress. The Grisha stares at them with pleading eyes, impossibly small between the Fjerdans. Roach gasps quietly beside Soap, and Soap can hear the fearful and ragged unevenness that finds his breath.

“We don’t want trouble,” Soap says. He hopes offering ignorance will be enough to let them pass, but he’s hardly surprised when it isn’t.

“What’s your business?” One of the drüskelle demands, his Ravkan heavily accented. Out here, there is no jurisdiction. Even outside his own country, the Fjerdan’s command takes precedence.

“Passing to Ryevost. For work.” Soap repeats, “We don’t want trouble.”

The other drüskelle glances past Roach and Soap and says something in Fjerdan. Roach is suddenly shoved forward before a third drüskelle is sifting through his pack. Soap doesn’t know how he hadn’t heard someone else behind them.

Mercifully, it doesn’t take long, and Roach keeps his hands dutifully at his sides as Soap had told him to do. Soap tries not to sigh with relief when the third drüskelle nods to the others and the two are allowed to proceed onward.

They’re almost in the clear when the shackled man shouts, “They’re Grisha!”

A split second, and a thousand thoughts rush through Soap’s head. He knows if they run, the drüskelle will definitely follow. They’ll chase him and Roach, and if they’re captured, bring them to trial with the bastard traitor. If they don’t run and try to feign being Grisha, he doesn’t think that there's even a sliver of a chance of escape—Roach can’t speak to defend himself, and Soap is overly conscious of the flint currently, and always on his person.

Roach looks to him and makes the decision for them both. He glances to Soap’s pocket, and there’s an understanding shared between them in just as quick a moment.

Soap retrieves his flint and strikes it, summoning as big a flame he can manage before Roach helps to propel it toward the drüskelle to create enough of a wall and a distraction to lend them a head start before they’re both sprinting.

He loses Roach somewhere in the woods and can only pray the Squaller gets away or manages to hide. Roach is clever, crafty—but drüskelle are ruthless.

Soap runs until all he can hear is his own panting and the forest beneath his feet. The yelling has gotten distant—almost distant enough—but Soap keeps going even when his legs begin to ache. He doesn’t know for how long or how far he runs, and he only stops when he can no longer breathe, when the burning in his lungs calls for a pause. 

Soap collapses against the sturdy trunk of an old tree, chest heaving as he tries to listen for the Fjerdans. When he decides he’s been left again in eerie silence, he forces himself to relax for just a few seconds. He’s fine, and Roach will be fine once—

He hears a strangled yelp too close for his liking and is quickly on his feet again. Soap peers around for the source, taking quiet steps until he happens upon it: Roach. And the figure holding a dagger to the Squaller’s throat. Soap tenses, unsure of what to do.

Soap ducks behind the nearest tree, eyes squeezed shut as he just tries to think. His hand tightens around his flint, and he sparks it before he’s really aware of it. The burst of flame flies past Roach and the drüskelle and finds a home in a nearby bush.

The drüskelle ’s head snaps up, immediately turning his attention to Soap’s direction as Soap returns to hiding. Soap still catches a glimpse of something that flares panic in his chest.

A skull mask. One of modern Grisha legend, whether or not the bones adorning his face and figure are fake. 

Ghost. The Grisha killer.

He blinks, and a dagger plants itself in the trunk of a tree just across from him. He flinches but doesn’t give up his cover, begging the Saints to let him and Roach come out the other end of this alive.

Soap doesn’t hear footsteps. He only knows that Ghost is approaching when a stick cracks underfoot and the world freezes. Soap really hopes Roach had taken the distraction to get away. He holds his breath.

Ghost utters something low in Fjerdan. The only word that Soap recognizes is drüsje—witch.

Soap is going to die. It’s about the only outcome for a Grisha when facing the Ghost.

But someone listens to his desperate prayers. Soap has never considered himself so religious until as of late, it seems, when Ghost miraculously turns from Soap’s hiding place in favour of his comrades, and begins trudging in the opposite direction of Soap and Roach—or at least, where Soap hopes Roach is no longer.

Soap waits for what feels like an eternity to let himself breathe. Let himself move. Once he decides Ghost isn’t coming back for the moment, he dislodges the dagger from the tree and resumes his escape. It doesn’t take long to happen upon Roach.

Roach lunges forward to hug Soap the moment they reunite, trembling just as much as the Inferni. They do their best to reorient themselves and finally manage to get to Ryevost.

They don’t talk about what happened that night, still too disturbed by everything. They’d make Roach’s supply run the next morning, and maybe hang around the town for a few days to shake off the events of their travels. They’d definitely be taking a different route home.

As Roach falls asleep, Soap finds himself inspecting the dagger in the low light of the oil lamp set between their beds. It isn’t anything particularly remarkable, at first, other than the fact that it’s Grisha steel. Weirdly odd—and cruel—that Ghost would wield something forged by the enemy.

But as Soap looks closer, running his fingers along the detailing, he spots something he wishes he had never seen.

Near the base of the hilt, the tiny emblem Price engraves into all of his creations.

The return trip is far less enjoyable. Soap knows that Roach can tell something happened beyond Ghost’s incidental sparing of them both, but he never brings it up, just as happy as Soap to dance around mentioning the encounter.

But Soap only feels a sort of… numbness. Back in Os Kervo, safe, they part ways with little fuss and few words. Soap doesn’t go home though, not yet. Instead he finds himself at Price’s shop after dark, hoping the Durast wouldn’t be too upset with the visit.

Soap is clutching the dagger with both hands when Price unlocks the door.

Price frowns when he sees Soap. “John? What are you—“

Soap thrusts the dagger into Price’s hands. His bottom lip wobbles, stinging tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

“He’s a drüskelle, Price,” Soap croaks. “You were right about—he’s a drüskelle. He’s—“

Price’s frown deepens, less so in confusion, now, and more in pitying sympathy. He pulls Soap inside the shop and closes the door behind him, setting the dagger aside and taking Soap into his arms. The Durast looks as tired as Soap feels.

“I should’ve listened, I should’ve—of course he’d be a drüskelle right? I—“ Soap babbles into Price’s shoulder. “I cannae believe I thought he’d be…”

Price holds him closer, sighing heavily. “John,” he says quietly, “Son. You couldn’t have known, yeah? Now, calm as you can, tell me what happened.”

The Durast is patient, as always. He soothes Soap as the Inferni is determined to fight the urge to cry, to swallow the lump in his throat before he feels confident enough in his voice to speak. It’s a slow process, when Soap has hardly come to terms with Simon being Ghost himself. But he recounts his memory of what had occurred, because he trusts Price.

The other day, what Simon had said hadn’t really been a joke, then, had it? Soap really couldn’t trust him. Can’t trust him.

Price listens all the way through, never once interjecting. He waits until he’s certain Soap has finished speaking to offer his input, and somewhere during the story, Price has navigated Soap upstairs and into his home, where the Inferni could sit while Price made him tea.

Two cups are set on the table. Gaz must not be staying here the night, because he would have likely woken by now with all the noise and, admittedly, some tears. And while Soap also trusts him without a doubt, he’s thankful for his friend’s absence. He’s not sure if he could extend this… this beyond Price and Roach for the time being.

“You’re serious?” Is the first thing out of Price’s mouth once Soap sinks into silence. Soap nods, already knowing what question Price is asking. “Well, then the next time he—”

“No!” Soap exclaims, startling both Price and himself. He wraps his hands around the warmth of his cup and tries again, softer, “No, Price. He only saw Roach’s face. He doesn’t—if you suddenly denied him an order he’d definitely think something of it, and I—no. Just continue as normal, if he comes back. Please.”

A mix of emotions falls over Price’s face, from frustration to exasperation to some distant understanding underneath a general protectiveness. Soap doesn’t blame him for any of it.

“Fine,” Price concedes. He wipes a hand over his face, weary. “You have a point. But so much as a hair out of—“

“Of course,” Soap agrees. He stares into his cup, tea hardly touched. He taps his fingers on the sides and watches the liquid ripple as an unpleasant realization crosses his mind, now that everything has been said, and relived. 

He’d been scared in the moment, that much is true. Yet now, sitting here, Soap doesn’t think he’s actually… scared like he should be. There’s still a looming fear, yes, but not quite at the core of everything. Soap isn’t actually afraid of who Simon truly is, because while every one of his teachings as Grisha tells him he is wrong to think it, the forefront of everything else clings to Simon as just Simon. 

Simon, charming in his own right if not a bit standoffish—but what Fjerdan isn’t? And Simon, stunning as he is tall and open to entertaining Soap’s attempts at conversation after thawing just enough for Soap to get past the ice.

Soap realizes with a fierce inner turmoil that, so long as Simon doesn’t know that Soap is Grisha, Soap is still more than happy to fantasize about having the Fjerdan to himself.

Soap swallows thickly, discomforted with the silence that’s fallen over the room. His leg bounces anxiously under the table. “I think a part of me still wants to… to be with him,” he confesses. “I still want to see and talk to him. I still—he’s still Simon, in my mind. I cannae see him and Ghost as the same person, Price. It’s bad.”

The expression that settles on Price’s face is unreadable, and unlike anything Soap has ever seen him wear. As seconds tick by and the renewed quiet is left undisturbed, Soap only grows more nervous about what the Durast is thinking.

“I can’t say I disagree about the last part,” Price eventually says. His words are slow, contemplative. Like he’s talking to a child, or trying not to spook a wild animal. “It isn’t ideal at all. And I can’t say I understand let alone fully support it, but I also know that you can’t help feelings. You especially, John.”

Soap’s face twists in confusion and mild offence over whatever that means, but he never has the time to ask before Price continues speaking.

“In the almost five years I’ve known you, you’ve always worn your heart on your sleeve, John. And you’re stubborn, even if you are logically aware that a Grisha and a drüskelle aren’t such a good match,” Price explains. “But if you think it’s something you want and can manage without getting yourself killed, then I can’t ask you to not do it.”

Soap works his jaw, letting the words ruminate. He wallows in a natural shame for a moment, avoidant of Price’s eyes. 

“You mean it?” Soap asks.

Price nods. “I do. I trust your judgement.”

Soap chokes on a watery laugh, shakes his head. “You shouldn’t,” he says. Soap shoves his chair backward and readies himself to stand, and finally meets Price’s gaze. “But thank you. I’m sorry for showing up so late.”

“Don’t be.” Price waves a dismissive hand. The discomfort of the conversation dissipates with the gesture, and Soap feels like he can finally calm down. “I’m always here.”

Simon doesn’t appear for two weeks—and in spite of Soap’s revelation, in which he still holds some confidence, he’s incredibly grateful for it. Because it allows him time to mentally prepare himself for facing the Fjerdan now knowing what he does.

Curse Rudy for his advice. It was good, sure, but Soap hates the burden.

Annoyingly, Soap isn’t at the counter when Simon enters. It’s Gaz, entirely unaware of the situation, who calls Soap over because he’s still—understandably—operating under the assumption that everything is fine and normal. Price sends Soap a look when Gaz turns back from his beckoning, but Soap just shakes his head.

The smile Soap puts on as Gaz steps away pulls uncomfortably at his face. He hopes Simon can’t tell how much of a strain it is to keep it in place.

He does still see Simon and Ghost as separate. Still has no problems with Simon. It’s just strange, now, and Soap thinks he deserves the room to feel on edge.

“Hi,” Soap greets weakly. “What’s today’s demand?”

If Simon notices something is off, he doesn’t make it immediately obvious. “Another dagger,” he replies naturally. Soap isn’t at all surprised by the request. “I… lost one. Hunting.”

Soap almost snorts. Lost. If losing a knife consists of throwing it at Soap’s head and leaving it behind, then sure. Lost.

Except now it sits alongside other weapons and tools in Price’s displays. So not really lost at all. But Simon doesn’t know that, and Soap hopes to keep it that way.

“Tsibeya?” Soap asks. Simon nods, as expected. “How was it?”

“Mostly successful,” Simon says. Overall, Simon is not Ghost to Soap. But these things, Soap realizes, will start to unnerve him. These things will start making him want to see no difference, because that’d be smart. Yet Soap doesn’t have a sense of self-preservation, does he? “Some complications.”

Soap tries to stand taller. Puffs out his chest like it’d be any defence for his anxiousness. “Like what?” 

Simon stares at him for too long. Stares through him while maintaining a silence that stretches and wears Soap thin. “I don’t want to bore you,” Simon eventually says.

“Right.” Soap ducks his head, suddenly overwhelmed with a need to fall back. Before discovering Ghost, he’d have been less wise with where he treads. He wouldn’t chew his words so much before ultimately swallowing, rather than spitting them out haphazardly, and without a care, if it meant prolonging conversation with Simon.

Adjustment is needed, for now.

“Same cost?” Simon prompts.

“Aye.” Soap nods. “Same cost.”

Simon’s movements are as stilted as Soap feels stiff. He’s noticed something, then—what, though, Soap can’t be certain just yet. Especially since Simon seems abruptly and unexpectedly awkward himself.

The Fjerdan sets vlachki on the counter. It’s as Soap counts, does Simon reveal what ails him.

“Are you well, Soap?” He asks.

Soap immediately loses track of the number in his head, though he’s never doubted Simon’s payment is sufficient. He stares at the bills for several seconds, brows furrowing deeper as they tick by. Simon is… concerned for him?

Well, that’s something, isn’t it?

“I’m sorry,” Simon is apologizing. “That was rude of me.”

Soap shakes his head, lifts his eyes to meet Simon’s. “It’s fine. I’m well,” he lies. “Very well.”

“You don’t look well.”

“I—“ Soap searches Simon’s face for some give about another motivation to this train of thought, but there’s nothing. It’s just worry. Plain, naked, simple worry. “Must be gettin’ sick, then. Your payment’s good, it should be ready mid-next week.”

Simon frowns. Honest-to-Saints frowns. Soap has never seen confusion look so unnatural on someone’s face. “That’s all?” He says.

Soap mirrors his expression. “Yes?”

“Normally, you… talk more,” Simon explains.

Now Soap is really puzzled. While Simon had started to return his conversation, he hadn’t ever expected the Fjerdan to anticipate it, perhaps even look forward to it, at least so soon. The warm feeling that flares in Soap’s chest and dusts a blush across his cheeks only solidifies the barrier between Simon and Ghost, and he isn’t positive about how to feel. In the end, he can only shrug helplessly. “Not much to say today.”

Apprehensively, Simon nods, demeanour shifting as he readies to leave. “Next week, then,” he says with an air of certainty. “Have a good day, Soap.”

He definitely will not, after this, but a man can dream.

Soap bids Simon farewell and again finds himself staring at the empty space left behind. There’s a longing, somewhere, but of what kind is to be determined.

Soap doesn’t hear Gaz’s footsteps behind him. “What was that all about?”

“Mind yours,” Soap grumbles, and Gaz leaves it at that.

Things will get better. They have to. Because Soap either finds acceptance, balance, compromise, whatever —or he goes mad dwelling on what will never truly matter to him so long as Simon never learns about one teeny, tiny aspect of Soap’s existence.

Easier said than done, unfortunately.

It does get easier. 

Somewhat.

Price still gives Soap outwardly disapproving looks underlined by an offer of help if anything were to go wrong every time Simon enters the shop, but everything is fine. Soap is fine, and so is Simon.

Simon the Fjerdan who goes hunting in Tsibeya for animals and not Grisha, Simon the Fjerdan who works at the port and is not a drüskelle and is certainly not Ghost, famed Grisha condemner, and Simon the Fjerdan who, days after retrieving his most recent dagger (it’s become quite clear the man’s weapon of choice over months, and Soap begins to question how many knives one person could possibly need), comes to the shop with the sole purpose of asking Soap if he would like to chat somewhere that isn’t work some time.

Right.

Easier certainly is… a word.

Gaz is overjoyed for him. Even provides him with recommendations of places to visit as if Soap hasn’t lived in Os Kervo for years now, and gives suggestions on modes of dress because, according to Gaz, Soap lacks the sense. Soap does his best to share the enthusiasm. Tries his best to channel the excitement he would have felt prior to what had happened on his and Roach’s trip to Ryevost.

And he manages, successfully, because properly talking to Simon outside of any work setting is very distracting in the very best way possible.

Simon is still relatively reserved, but he’s also bubblier, in some way, and the entire walk to the coffee house Soap had chosen Simon is reciting bad jokes, some of which clearly don’t translate well between Fjerdan and Ravkan, but it’s so terribly endearing that Soap laughs anyway, especially at the soured expression Simon wears once one of the poorly-worded jokes is spoken aloud.

Along that train of thought Simon also admits to being Fjerdan, which is finally a step somewhere, Soap supposes. In exchange, Soap tells him about the Wandering Isle and offers a few Kaelish puns of his own that he’s long since modified to make more sense in other languages. Hearing Simon laugh beyond an amused huff makes Soap’s heart swell with something almost new. Something more profound than his general pull to Simon, a gravitation that had built right back up after just a few more encounters with Simon post Soap’s discovery.

In the back of Soap’s mind he knows that this is Ghost. Has for some time now. However it’s difficult to fathom, because Simon is kind. Simon is a little awkward or odd at times, but it’s sweet. Simon is teasing, playful, flirty , and everything about him is just so human that there isn’t any way he could be the cold-hearted drüskelle he is in some part. It doesn’t make sense to Soap that Simon could be the same drüskelle so ruthless he’d made a name for himself founded entirely on the fear of his prisoners. 

Things only get easier because Simon himself inadvertently enforces the separation between him and his occupation, and while Soap should not seize such an opportunity to forget, he does anyway. Because he likes Simon. Really likes him.

And he begins to think that Simon might like him, too.

“You think very loudly,” Simon says. He’s surely been watching Soap get lost in his own head, those wonderful eyes of his soft like Soap has been seeing more and more recently His large hands are wrapped around his cup of tea where Soap has chosen coffee for the afternoon.

“I have very loud thoughts,” Soap shoots back, lips twisting into a comfortable smile. “Is that a problem?”

Simon shakes his head. He takes a slow, deliberate sip of his tea, eyes never once breaking away from Soap. The Inferni looks away, feeling something akin to shy as he picks a cube from the sugar bowl that sits between them and drops it in his coffee. Soap stirs it in carefully, just as deliberate. 

“Have you ever tried blini?” Soap asks. His gaze flits briefly to Simon before dropping back to his coffee. “You must, if you haven’t. When in Ravka, right?”

Simon hums. “I haven’t had blini. You’ll have to bring me somewhere.”

“I’ll make some,” Soap suggests. If he proposes the idea a little quickly, then Simon never mentions it. “Some time. If you want.”

“I’d like that.” 

When Soap finally lifts his eyes for good, Simon is smiling that proper but diffident, crooked smile of his. The one that doesn’t quite pull on the scar that cuts through his lips, but tugs the muscles surrounding just enough to mask the unintentional sneer. Soap flushes from his neck to his ears.

For a moment, Soap wonders how closely Simon adheres to Fjerdan tradition. To drüskelle oath. Soap is clueless about the intricacies, don’t get him wrong—but somehow he figures, if this is… not just an afternoon between tentatively-labelled friends, then Simon may not be the complete enemy that his profession paints him to be.

Things may work out better than Soap could’ve hoped, if they remain strangers to convention.

Soap sits up a bit straighter. “I could even make more than just blini.”

Simon raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” Soap leans over the table and lowers his voice mock-conspiratorially, “Cannae guarantee I won’t try to poison you, though.”

Simon bends forward as well, falling into Soap’s space. His volume drops all the same, voice bordering a whisper as had Soap’s while he plays into this ridiculous game, asking, “Is that so, Johnny?”

Soap freezes, his mind emptying of any and every thought. Whatever quick wit he may have summoned otherwise is replaced by a complete and utter blank as he fails to process the nickname that Simon had spoken so naturally.

His mother had been the only other person to consistently call him Johnny, and even that had been bothersome. Gaz had attempted it at the beginning of their friendship, but he’d been immediately discouraged from doing so again. Simon’s use of it, even if it’s only in his learned Ravkan accent, has Soap wanting nothing more than to hear it over and over again for the rest of his life, if nothing else.

When Soap finally snaps back to, the smile has faded from Simon’s face and he’s sitting back in his seat, so far, far away from Soap. “Did I say something wrong?”

“The opposite, really,” Soap squeaks. “I, um. Simon?”

Saints, Simon looks so genuine. So sincere. So concerned. How could he ever be one in the same with Ghost?

“Yes?”

Soap has few options here. But there isn’t any way for him to act any sort of normal after he’s been called Johnny so casually and didn’t feel any sort of revulsion from it. After he’s instead been left with a pleasant warmth that burns under his skin like the constant call to summon the Small Science.

He could ruin everything.

“I like you. More than I should,” Soap confesses. And what a place to offer Simon his heart, sitting outside a quaint coffee house in the heart of Os Kervo. He rambles, “I am very not aware of how you Fjerdans prefer to do this—this courting thing, but I’d do it. I’d do whatever you need, whatever it takes to—of course, only if you feel the same, obviously, I’d never—I’m getting ahead of myself, but I…”

Soap’s breath hitches as he trails off to inhale, bracing himself for rejection or a gentle let-down if he’s so lucky, but it never comes. For a long and frightening while, nothing comes. Soap wilts, suddenly transported back to the forest in the eternal stretch of seconds where he’d been more afraid than he’d ever been in his life, only capable of waiting for the moment Ghost would find him. Fear is usually foreign to Soap, but right now he’s petrified.

“If I’m honest,” Simon starts, and Soap is wincing, shrinking in on himself because it isn’t any surprise he’d destroyed whatever strange thing he and Simon had going on, “I don’t really care for the rituals. Even if you were a Fjerdan woman.”

Soap blanches. His brain and tongue are out of sync and he scours for just a word somewhere between them, but he’s too disjointed to think. It’s what he had hoped for—so far as he’s being led to believe—but actually comprehending Simon’s reciprocation is an entirely different beast to conquer in reality.

“You… so you—”

Simon laughs, deep and full-bellied. It’s almost as raspy as his voice, and it’d be infectious if Soap weren’t still lingering in his shock. Other patrons of the coffee house spare the two of them judging glances, but Soap doesn’t feel any of their eyes. The world has been swallowed, and all that’s left is him and Simon.

Soap is still in disbelief when Simon has settled back into his typical quiet. “Yes. I like you, too, Johnny,” he says.

And there it is again. 

Soap is so, so gone.

Miraculously, though, Soap manages to find his voice. “I hope you know that this is only going to make me more annoying.”

Simon cocks his head, a glimmer in the colours of his irises. “You’re capable of that?”

Soap grins wide. “You have no idea.”

Soap doesn’t think he’d ever come down from the high that that afternoon at the coffee house had left him with. He’s glowing inside and out, as if he’d been exerting significant amounts of his power and wasn’t just completely enamoured.

Price warns him again, but Soap barely pays it mind this time. It’s more of a tread carefully than anything else, and Rudy’s words still ring somewhere in the back of Soap’s head about knowing Simon before Simon knows him, so Soap supposes he can remain safely out of harm’s reach for the foreseeable future with or without Price’s cautions. 

And he’s right. Because not once does Simon suspect a thing, and Soap is content to have him live in that ignorance if it means they’re both happy.

Because they are.  

Soap gradually sees less of Simon in the shop and more of him everywhere else. Soap shows Simon Os Kervo as he’s lived it for five years, shows him food and culture while Simon offers him stories and language to add to Soap’s repertoire. 

Simon’s Ravkan accent begins to deteriorate around Soap until his native Fjerdan lilt spills into words and names.

Then eventually they begin to snag chaste kisses and hook their pinkies, and Soap is suddenly so doused in bliss for months that by the first time he brings Simon around to Alejandro’s tavern, he’s entirely forgotten about the incident on the road to Ryevost.

He’s entirely forgotten that Simon knows Roach. Knows Roach is Grisha.

In retrospect, Soap should have better heeded Price’s advice. If he had known the stupid mistake Soap makes, even unsuspectingly at first, then Soap thinks he may never see the light of day again—and not because of getting towed along to Djerholm in cuffs.

Gaz invites Soap, and by extension Simon, to a night out for no particular reason. It’s the first time Simon would have ever met anyone other than Gaz, so Soap thinks nothing of accepting. If Simon sticks around, he’d meet them one day or another, anyway.

Simon sees Roach before Soap—Soap recognizes the moment he does, with the way he tenses and immediately forces himself to relax before Soap continues to guide him toward a table like nothing is wrong. Because nothing is. This is Simon, not Ghost, and unless Simon wants to reveal himself as a drüskelle to a tavern not unoccupied by Grisha, he’d keep quiet. Soap knows (prays) he will, and that that could be a conversation for much later in the evening, when they’ve returned to Soap’s home and lay comfortably tangled in bed, again, like nothing is wrong. Because. Nothing. Is.

Soap shouldn’t have been so carelessly foolish.

But thankfully, other than a few odd glances and the occasional tick of Simon’s jaw, everything remains in order. He chats amicably with everyone, though a bit stilted, a bit stiff. And maybe Simon doesn’t like rituals or customs or rules, but he still refrains from drinking anything other than cordial as if he’s trying to keep himself alert.

Or simply abide by drüskelle oath, like the good soldier he’s meant to be. Soap doesn’t know. He’s learned to better read the Fjerdan, most definitely, but when Simon doesn’t want his thoughts to be visible, he knows how to hide it well.

It’s particularly frustrating as Soap sits nervously at a table of his friends, wondering at what point someone might snap, be it Simon or himself.

With all the self-imposed tension, Soap is starting to think it’ll be himself first.

He eventually reverts to nothing more than cherry cordial himself, worried alcohol might agitate him.

No one says or does anything in the end. Soap calls it a night for himself earlier than intended, and Simon easily follows along with him. Soap’s wringing his fingers as they leave the tavern, and as they walk silently through cobbled streets toward Soap’s home on the outskirts of the city. 

But Simon never says anything about it. His mood seems to shift into something warmer, more relaxed. Although—Soap also notices an underlying anxiety he’s only witnessed a handful of times in Simon that also makes him a bit nervous.

Simon wraps around Soap as soon as they’re inside, slotting himself against the Inferni with his face tucked into the crook of Soap’s neck. His arms squeeze tightly around Soap’s waist as he kisses and nips at Soap's throat. 

Soap laughs quietly in an attempt to dispel his own worries. 

“What’s the occasion?” Soap teases.

“Does there have to be one?” Simon mumbles. He continues with his affection for a moment longer before he wills himself off, slipping away from Soap. While Soap mourns the loss, Simon is quick to his point: “I should tell you something.”

Soap blinks, his gaze trailing Simon as he moves across the room, across from Soap. “What’s that?”

Simon chews the inside of his cheek before he finally answers. “I’m a drüskelle.”

Soap stares at Simon. He hadn’t anticipated the admission so soon, if ever. But even as his heart skips a beat, Soap remains collected, calm. Because Simon doesn’t know he’s Grisha—so Soap gives him no proper reaction.

Nothing more than a shrug. “That’s fine.”

Simon furrows his brows. “Is it?”

There’s something more to the question and its posed simplicity, but Soap ignores it, instead crossing the space to rejoin Simon and bury himself in pine and sea salt and the hint of something else, melting into a solid, unwavering presence as Simon accepts him just as easily as he falls. He holds Simon’s jaw as he draws him into a slow kiss that’s quick to grow hungry, and has them both staggering toward Soap’s (really, theirs by now) bedroom with every needy tug of fabric and deft fingers pulling through hair.

Soap smiles into Simon’s lips as the Fjerdan kisses him impatiently, strong fingers digging desperately into the Inferni’s waist as Simon strains to taste him, to lick the lingering sweetness of cherry cordial from his mouth. 

Soap steadies a hand on Simon’s chest when his lungs beg for air, smiling softly as he moves to cup Simon’s cheek.

“Aren’t you supposed to be refraining from indulgences, drüskelle?” Soap teases. His thumb ghosts over Simon’s lips, the lush and swollen pink cracked from years of knowing only winter’s cold touch, its unforgiving dryness.

Simon replies easily, “They really only ever care about women in their oaths.” There’s a shine of some far-off mischief in his mismatched irises. “Besides—I am no Sënj.”

“I knew that much,” Soap laughs. “The things you do to me are sinful, Si.”

Simon hums. He seizes Soap’s wrist and presses a kiss to the pad of his thumb before ducking close to Soap’s ear. His breath sends a pleasant shiver through the Inferni. “Is that so?”

Soap peers up at the Fjerdan through dark lashes, something deep and primal and wanting curling in his gut. “You seem to have an idea,” he whispers.

Soap lets himself be pulled toward their bed, laughter spilling quietly from them both as they stumble in their haste. Simon trips over his own feet, the mattress creaking as he lands harshly on his ass. It draws an amused grin from Soap and a petulant huff from Simon, who is usually so graceful in his stride.

The passing irritation hardly deters Simon from swiftly accepting Soap into his lap, or from allowing Soap to make quick work of pulling off Simon’s tunic.

Soap trails his palms down Simon’s chest, calloused fingers appreciating every inch of imperfect skin. Beautiful is the best way Soap thinks to put it. 

His hands return to Simon’s face, gentle and loving. He presses his forehead against the Fjerdan’s, eyelids fluttering shut as they breathe each other in. 

“Koja,” Soap murmurs.

Simon is feverishly kissing Soap again, drinking him in in his entirety. Soap’s hips snap forward as he moves further up Simon’s lap, earning him a low groan as he urges the Fjerdan onto the mattress, onto covers already fluffed and tousled from the previous night’s sleep. 

Soap takes Simon’s bottom lip between his teeth, gently tugging as he pulls away, propping himself up on his hands. 

They stare at each other for a long moment. Soap could study Simon’s eyes forever.

“Moi zyoma,” the Inferni muses, watching as a light blush tints Simon’s face.

“Moi sol.” A quaint smile toys at Simon’s lips as he pinches the pendant strung from the thin cord that always hangs from Soap’s neck—an old gift from his mother. “Min hjerte. Min trassel.”

Soap laughs and swats at Simon’s arm before falling to lay beside him. Simon rolls onto his side to pepper kisses from Soap’s clothed shoulder to the smooth skin of his cheek.

A sudden guilt nestles itself in the roots of Soap’s lust, betraying what he longs for. It spreads and corrupts until it can’t be ignored any longer as much as Soap wills it away beneath Simon’s touch. With Simon’s confession, it’s only fair that he surrenders his own.

Soap sighs, squeezing his eyes shut in search of the courage to force out the words he should have probably said a long time ago. Hiding wouldn’t have ever worked, as much as he could try.

“Wait, I—Simon, I also have to tell you something.”

A distant noise of disagreement escapes from the back of Simon’s throat as he continues to press lazy kisses along the sharp line of Soap’s jaw, slowly trailing downward to bite at the tanned skin of his neck, savouring the Inferni usually so malleable by his hand.

Selfishly, Soap lets himself revel in the sensation for a moment longer before he goes and ruins everything the Saints had been so gracious to gift him. This time, he doesn’t know if there’s even a possibility of a positive outcome.

Only when Simon frees Soap’s tunic from his trousers to trail his palm up the Inferni’s torso does Soap gently take the Fjerdan’s wrist and wrench away his hand.

“I’m serious, dirre,” Soap sighs. Simon watches him carefully as Soap slips away from the Fjerdan’s careful hands and pads across the room, desperately pacing to calm the sudden anxiety that swirls in his chest.

The fire that bathes the room in warm light seems to grow hotter, and Soap can’t tell whether it’s his imagination, or his own doing—though it must be the latter, since the fire hadn’t been fed since before he’d gone to the tavern. Simon’s silence is glaring, and Soap knows that it’s only patience that holds the Fjerdan’s tongue.

Simon swings his legs up onto the side of the bed, laying propped up on an elbow until Soap finally stalls, lingering far too near to Simon as he forces the words out of his mouth. He wants to reach out and touch Simon, but he’s afraid. Again, it’s in Simon’s presence that he’s genuinely afraid.

“I—I’m not—“ Soap stammers, swallowing thickly. He gestures wildly. “I’m gonna tell you something, and I need—I just need you to—to act rationally.”

Simon’s eyebrows furrow and his lips pull into a frown, but Soap barrels forward, ignorant to it all.

“I’m Grisha, Simon,” he says. Soap exhales shakily, his breath rattling in his chest as he braces for Simon’s reaction. As he braces for Simon to get angry, to feel betrayed, to get up and leave him or condemn him or to do anything other than what Soap faces in reality.

He had said rational, but really, he needed anything but. Because he needs a real reason for when this wonderful thing is ruined. They’re meant to be incompatible, and Soap needs to finally come to terms with it before it’s too late.

Though, maybe it already is.

The Fjerdan remains quiet, unmoving, his gaze steady. The Inferni would rather Simon say he hates Soap than whatever this is, and its overwhelming uncertainty. 

“Simon, please, just say something,” Soap pleads. Both his voice and hands tremble as his volume raises with unease. He craves the words to put an end to what they have, because he fears it’s only what’s inevitable. But Simon is too calm. “Don’t just look at me, you bastard!”

“I know.”

Soap stops dead, every inch of his being going rigid. For the first time in his life, ice is what runs through his veins. “What?”

Simon watches him, something unreadable flickering in his irises behind the gentle glow of the hearth. “I know you’re Grisha.”

The bed dips beneath Soap’s weight as he sits, shoulders sagging and shocked by disbelief. He curls naturally into the space Simon leaves him. “How?”

“I know Grisha steel when I see it.”

“That was Price’s work,” Soap says flatly. His eyes trail to Simon’s form beside him, hands folded in prayer and tucked between cheek and pillow. Simon’s face is entirely impassive, and it’s beyond frustrating to the Inferni. Relief should be what washes over him—and it does, to some extent—but at the same time he can’t quite wrap his head around an acceptance offered so easily. This was meant to be difficult.

Simon shrugs. “It made me curious. When I went back, I saw you stoking the furnace with your bare hands.”

“And you never—”

“I thought about it,” Simon murmurs. He refuses to meet Soap’s gaze, however soft it would remain no matter what Simon confesses from then on. However soft it already stays even in spite of Soap’s lingering apprehension. “I almost did send for others. But it wouldn’t have been very inconspicuous, in the middle of the city, so I didn’t. That was a stupid mistake.”

“Was it?” Soap whispers.

Simon hums, shifting beside Soap’s hunched figure. “It was,” he says, his eyes elsewhere, distant. “I grew fond of you.”

Soap stills, his heart caught in his throat. He realizes, now. He realizes with a startling clarity. “You started seeing me as a person.”

It isn’t a question, though nor is it an accusation.

And in all his brutal Fjerdan honesty, Simon quietly replies, “I did.”

Soap puffs out his cheeks. He thinks to be upset, to be angry with that confession, that Simon would ever think of him—of any Grisha—as subhuman, but it isn’t his fault. Logically, he knows that. Much of the world is trained into hating Grisha, just as Simon had been, but it still hurts somewhere in his naive heart. 

He sets his jaw. “You arrested people while you were here.” Not at all a question. Soap knows he has. Had almost been one of them himself.

Simon nods. “Not in Os Kervo. But I did. I still had duties, but—“ He sighs, deep and shuddering. His body curves tighter around Soap, gooseflesh raising across his arm where he shivers beneath the Inferni’s touch. “I couldn’t continue, after a while. And your friend, seeing his face tonight reminded me of that, that I should try and be open with you. I’ve seen firsthand what they do to Grisha in the court, and knowingly… knowingly sending them to that, while I kept you free, just—“

“Simon—“

“I have to renounce my status,” Simon croaks. “I’m—I’ll be exiled. But I have to.”

The angle is uncomfortable, but Soap manages to lean over to kiss the peak of Simon’s cheekbone. He straightens gradually, the pads of his fingers digging into Simon’s skin as he squeezes the Fjerdan’s bicep. 

“You don’t have to do anything, Si,” Soap tells him. He exhales shakily. “I wouldn’t make you give up your home for me.”

Simon's brows draw together as he mulls over whatever it is in that confusing head of his. His breathing is uneven, too loud. Soap thinks if he were a Heartrender, the pace of Simon’s heartbeat would be deafening. 

Simon finally looks up at Soap, eyes wide and open and terribly honest. The pounding of Soap’s own heart picks up. “But I would.”

Silence stretches between them, spans the little space left free in their wakes. It’s a heavy declaration, and Soap feels immediately suffocated by it. He doesn’t resist scratching the itch to lighten what weighs dense in the air.

“We could fake your death.”

Simon scoffs. “Johnny.”

Even exasperated, Soap has long since decided that he prefers the way Simon’s natural accent forms around the nickname, as opposed to the Ravkan imitation he’d carried for so long.

“I mean it, though,” Soap says. He cards his fingers gently through strands of overgrown blond. Soap’s surprised Simon had let his hair get this long. “Even though… I won’t ever make you choose.”

“But I will,” Simon states matter-of-factly—and it really is the truth. It’s necessary, whatever Simon decides. It’s inevitable.

Soap continues to pet Simon’s hair a while longer, not a word more to be spoken. He drifts off into thought, nowhere in particular, only somewhere distant until Simon’s voice returns him to the present.

“Just come back to bed.” Simon whines, “It’s getting cold.”

Soap snorts, but obeys easily as Simon shoves over to lend him room to fit himself against the bare expanse of Simon’s back once he’s removed his own tunic. He snakes his arms around Simon’s waist, pulling the Fjerdan close as their legs tangle and Soap’s face presses against the cool, scarred skin of Simon’s shoulder.

It’s in the Inferni’s nature to run hot, just as it seems to be in Simon’s to run cold. They’re a perfect balance—and despite their differences, Soap thinks that maybe they were actually always meant to be this way. That that presumed incompatibility is actually entirely nonexistent.

They could deal with consequences later. They could face judgement, or punishment, or whatever else the world brought upon them when they’re ready.

They could—but maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they would simply run away and start anew without a soul privy to their truth. Maybe they would simply forever melt into one another, bleed into each other until they’re no longer certain where they begin. Where they end.

Soap thinks he’d follow Simon to the ends of the universe, and that’s all that matters to him, really. He doesn’t think anything else— anyone else—could ever be so important.

In the end, Soap’s change really had just been some unassuming Fjerdan, and he truly couldn’t be happier for it.

They fall asleep together, and for the first time it is without deceit or secrets as barriers between them.