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Ghost of thinks about death often. The concept nearly consumes him. He is surrounded by death and at that it is, and whenever he pulls the trigger, he can feel it in the recoil. Such a natural concept never seems to escape him.
Death is common in the military. War is everywhere soldiers go, and it follows them wherever they roam.
Even home base, it seems.
There’s a funeral, preparation for one, at least. One of the soldiers Price mentored, his name familiar in the golden plaque it’s engraved on. Ghost happens to pass by as they unload the setup, and something in the back of his head brings his legs to a hold.
There are flowers. A lot of them. There’s something captivating about the way they flourish; a myriad of colors bringing life to a declaration of death. Ghost forgets you’re beside him in those moments, and you find yourself following his gaze amongst each stem and petal that decorate the soldier’s casket. It makes you curious, so you ask.
“What’s your favorite flower?”
His gaze snaps away from sharp thorns and glistening anther. You see the way his eyes sweep across the room before he continues walking, almost as if he’s checked if others noticed his behavior. Doesn’t want others to think he’s grieving, life is too short and death is too prominent.
He doesn’t answer until you’re long gone from the scene; you’re perched against his headboard, his gear ruffles the sheets.
“Never thought of it.”
—
Ghost ponders your question for a while. He studies every flower that passes him, not many, being that he’s nearly always away from the comforts of normalcy. Yet, when he does find one, you’d see him crouched down beside it, simply gazing, nothing more.
He never touches them. When you ask why, he shrugs, going silent for a moment before turning his gaze away from you.
“Don’t wanna ruin ‘em.”
Hands such as his hold so much blood that he fears they’ll taint everything they touch. You feel the same way, sometimes. It’s a dangerous way to think, and it worries you.
After a strenuous deployment, you decide to buy some seeds from a department store, and take him out to a barren plot of land on 141’s base. You remove your gloves before poking some holes into the soil. The crumble makes you grimace, but you begin tearing the tops of the packages off regardless. Ghost’s eyes land on the picture laminated in the one you hold; the flower is blue with a yellow stripe in the center.
“You like these?”
You smile, motioning for him to take his gloves off as well. He hesitates for a moment, a few to be exact, before placing them beside yours. A sigh of relief holds itself within your chest when you see it.
“I do.” You answer, dumping a few into his palms. “I was told the blue ones represent hope. Isn’t that sweet?”
He nods, pinching seeds and dropping them into the ground. His hands shake. You smile regardless, and he continues. When he’s done, you cover them in soil, a warm feeling arising in his chest as you do so. It scares him, but it comforts more.
In a few weeks, you check back, and a tiny patch of blue decorates an otherwise dead field. He doesn’t think of them as his favorite, but he finds himself staring at them when you fight. It makes the hopelessness he feels seem a little more bearable.
Little did he know, you were calling him the entire time, and he didn’t answer. When he’d found out you’d been injured, he promised to answer whenever you called, even if he couldn’t be there.
After a rough mission some time later, you wake up to find a bouquet of blue lilacs staring back.
—
You find yourself wandering amidst the small patch of land months after planting the lilacs. Flowers grow in neat clusters everywhere you look, and you can see Ghost attending to a fresh batch of buried seeds. Barren hands run gently against tempered soil, eyebrows furrowed lightly against bone. You crouch down beside him, glancing at the small pile of packets that lay at his feet.
His eyes carry a look of solemn, and he’s focusing as hard as he does when he draws a weapon. You say nothing, opting to rest a hand against his shoulder instead. He softens at your touch, turning to you once the seeds have disappeared into the earth.
“Roses were my mum’s favorite.”
Simon Riley remembers when she would buy them for herself when days were hard. Ghost remembers the nights they were torn up and squashed under a dirty boot. His father would rather decorate their home with bruises and nightmares rather than flowers.
Roses are not his favorite. He thinks about if often, but he still doesn’t have one of his own. Not even when he imagines himself six feet underground. In that vision, he sees a mahogany casket, a plethora of blurred faces, and no flowers.
—
Ghost chokes on his breath, spitting a chunk of blood onto his uniform. He feels what his enemies do when he’s paralyzed them with a bullet: Unmoving, heart thundering, mind racing. He feels something that he doesn’t often, and it nearly sends him over the edge.
He’s thinking about you, and he knows what he’s feeling is morning other that horror. The fear of not seeing you one last time constricts his chest in a manner that has his throat sputtering for the toxic fumes that keep him on the edge of living. He thinks back on the life you spent together, the way you pulled him out the darkness that had consumed him and filled the hole that remained with light. Everything and anything in between.
He thinks about the times he felt most safe in his life, with you in a garden miles and miles away from home. Such a reminiscence touches him deeper than any other memory and he feels as if he’s finally managed to find the respite he’d been searching for.
After what seems like an eternity, Ghost feels the vibrations of your boots thudding against the ground, and you’re at his side within moments. Words fail him as he sees your eyes widen, hands fumbling to rip his chest plate off of him.
It’s a bullet, 50 calibers and lodged into his right lung.
“You’ll be okay, Simon.” Your words are wobbly, and he can hear in your tone that you don’t believe yourself. “Just… push through it.”
Tears start to flow, and you realize sooner than later that he won’t be making it out of this without some sort of divine intervention. Your heart and all that you are ache, hands working deftly to bandage the hemorrhage that fights you. However, the blood just won’t stop flowing, and you cry harder, holding a ripped patch of gauze to your mouth to muffle your sobs.
In that moment, Ghost reaches up, sliding his mask off his face and setting it in your hands. His body defies it, but he pushes himself up nonetheless, wiping stray hairs and streaks of dirt off of your skin.
“Bury me with roses, yeah?”
His voice is weak, laced with smoke and not his. It’s a fight against impending death; he stifles the terror that rips thorough him by clamping his fingers over yours.
“Some irises, too.”
You say nothing. His lips meet yours, and you kiss him until his blood runs cold.
The memories that carry on with him matter more than a meaning that doesn’t, so he chooses to die with his own sentiment.
Roses are not his favorite. Irises aren’t, either. You’d never know, but Simon Riley doesn’t need a favorite, because he loves you, and what you love he loves.