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In hindsight, even though it worked out in the end, it was probably a bad idea.
After all, none of them had the best history with loud noises off-duty; the years of active combat had encouraged all of the 141 to stay constantly vigilant. No matter whether they were on the battlefield or somewhere that seemed much safer, they had to watch out for every possible threat. It wasn’t as simple as separating what they do on-duty and off. Every little noise, every movement, could be the difference between life and death. That wasn’t something easy to forget.
But it was summer, and they had free time, and Gaz wanted to go see the ferris wheel they had set up a town or two over, and Price was never good at saying no to any of the 141. Soap had been dragged into the whole affair by Gaz, and had in turn dragged Ghost with the promise of buying him a drink or two. Ghost, like Price, was never good at saying no; that is, if the person he had to say no to was Soap. So he had reluctantly agreed, and now he was lying on a blanket, waiting apprehensively for the fireworks to begin.
Soap settles down next to him, pressing into his side. Ghost looks around, as if there is someone to catch this small moment, but no one is looking at them. Instead, the crowd is focused on the sky as it darkens, waiting patiently for it to be illuminated with fireworks. With a careful inhale, Ghost lets himself relax. Soap is warm against him. It’s a quiet and careful reminder that he is still alive; that they have both made it.
“Price is on the carousel,” Soap says, barely hiding the smile that twitches on his lips. Ghost hums, but he’s sure Soap knows about the smile he keeps hidden under the mask.
“How’d you manage that?” Ghost asks. He wants to reach out a hand to card through Soap’s hair, but he stops himself. There’s too many people here; too many people that can see. It’s not that Ghost’s embarrassed. He’s not. It’s just that doing these quiet things out where everyone can see makes them real in a way that can be lost. So he stays where he is, lying on his back on the raggedy picnic blanket Price had conjured up, and he concentrates on the way Soap’s chest moves up and down as he breathes.
“I didn’t,” Soap says, and there’s the grin Soap knows so well, “Gaz did.”
Ghost raises his eyebrows. “Really?”
Soap shrugs, and he shifts, somehow pushing even closer to Ghost. He’s not as tentative about these things as Ghost is, but he knows how Ghost feels about it, so he keeps things simple. Quiet. Maps out each movement, and lets Ghost initiate most things.
That knowledge alone makes something hot and ugly burn in Ghost’s lungs.
“Gaz said he needed someone to go with him,” Soap says, and Ghost can feel his lips against his neck as he laughs. It makes him inhale sharply. This is something too—too much to be shared here, where anyone can see. This ought to be something that Ghost can take and box away into a little corner where he will never have to think about it again.
But in the end, it is Soap, and he is beautiful, and he deserves to be shown to the world. Ghost wraps a careful arm around him. It’s dark, anyhow; rain clouds are pushing on the horizon of the sky, drowning out the remaining light of the evening.
“Fireworks’ll probably start soon,” Soap whispers. With his hand around the back of Soap’s neck, Ghost can feel his pulse against his fingertips. It’s like some sort of salvation, here in the darkness of the fair. A moment just for the two of them.
Ghost grunts. “Probably.”
As if Ghost’s words have set the fireworks into motion, right that moment, one of the fireworks explodes up into the air. Ghost jerks, unprepared for the noise, but Soap snakes a hand around Ghost’s wrist, his thumb on his pulse.
“Look,” Soap says, taking their joined hands and pointing up at the sky, “There they are.”
The sky is an incredible combination of fire, reds and yellows and blues, bright against the dark background. Ghost can hear the faint sounds of the crowd in shock, but he cannot concentrate on anything other than Soap and the sky. His pulse has slowly calmed down, and he’s prepared for the next firework to go off. Soap looks into his eyes, and he smiles. It’s a small motion, but here, in the tall grass, it is the most beautiful thing that Ghost has ever seen.
Soap pushes closer, and Ghost wraps an arm around his waist. Finally, here in the darkness, he lets his hand carefully move through Soap’s hair.
“It’s beautiful,” Soap says, eyes trained to the sky, watching as the fireworks explode above them. In this soft moment, Ghost has never felt more like Simon Riley.
“Yeah,” Ghost whispers, and he cannot take his eyes off Soap, bright and lovely and everything he could have wished for. In this moment, they are together, and they are safe and alive and everything is okay. Soap hums, and he turns into Ghost’s gentle hold. His hair brushes against Ghost’s neck. “It is.”
Soap is looking up at the sky, but Ghost only has eyes for him.