Chapter Text
Simon is deeply touch starved. He’s empty, a vessel waiting to be filled with something- fresh, nourishing, relieving. The inside of his walls is made of ceramic, the old kind that cracks if it is not watered. He burns- the cold inside him burns- for a spark of warmth. A drop of softness, the little explosion of contact.
Ghost would rather shoot himself than ask for it. Not that he knows how. Not that he would be able to stand it. Just like ancient ceramic, he’s been buried for too long. He’s not functional anymore. The second an unknowing naked hand touches him, he’ll dissolve. Dust to dust. He feels like that already. He’s broken, disassembled. It’s just that all of his pieces are still leaning against each other, seamless, waiting for the next person who touches him to crumble into a pile of sharp edges. Something impossible to glue back. The moment a finger grazes his skin, moving him out of the comfortable grave cocoon he has let form around him, he’ll disappear.
But archeologists find centuries old ceramics every day. Some of them are even fine. Good enough to be displayed at the British Museum. Whole enough to be recognizable. They never touch ancient objects without gloves, though. Noting fragile can handle a gentle touch. Greater, harsher forces, though? Those ceramics have survived earthquakes. They have been stepped on and covered in debris of history; and they are still good enough to be displayed. They still work as a sample of the real thing, the original one, the one that was used daily, that actually worked.
Simon is an archeology site. Under the Ghost thick layer of dirt, there’s history. His remnants. And they’re made of ceramic. Ceramic that is deteriorating rather quickly. He isn’t able to handle a gentle touch- he craves it too much.
He goes for the kind of touch he cand stand. The one he understands. The safe one. Too strong to get to him, too harsh.
Ghost can’t stand caresses. So he settles for punches instead. After all, they involve contact too, don’t they? Skin is skin; hands are hands. That’s the only way he can find. The only touch he is familiarized with. And there is only one being capable of the earthquake he needs. So he asks you to spar.
When he feels close to crumbling, when he can practically see the dust particles leaving his body, he finds you. Under the mask, he’s seconds away from dissolving. He keeps it hidden, of course. Simon would hate asking for something he needs. His solution is to turn the tables.
“Gotta work on your CQC. It was a miracle you won your last fight. C’mere.”
You always say yes, even though it’s never a question. Your smile- sharp, blinding, steady- is the opposite of him. Not like old ceramic, at all. It glimmers with the daily use, strong to the extent of bearing soft things. He envies you a little. What use has being able to endure torture if he can’t take a kiss?
So it’s your hands he asks for. He can’t afford the silky, open palms, but he’ll get the prickly knuckles. He’ll take the kicks if he can’t have warm legs hugging him; and he’ll gladly accept suffocating arms around his neck instead of your little, angelic embrace.
He might have gone extinct a long time ago, but his ruins are still there. And it’s your earth-shattering force the only one that gets deep enough to reach them. He doesn’t really mind it does that through blows. He knows how to take them. He’s thankful, even. They prove there can still be movement as deep down as he lays.
He asks you to spar, and after you’ve hit him all you can, he feels less fragile.
Your fists secure all the layers between his ceramic corpse and the surface. You stomp on the dirt, heavy boots covering him in a dark, comfortable numbness.
Ghost doesn’t know anything sweeter than your blows. They are calculated, vibrant, careful. Never cold. You’re always so full of life. Your knuckles let out whatever you’re feeling: frustration, happiness, need to prove yourself. He, on the other hand, feels like a vampire, feeding on whatever you have to offer. Sometimes, even though he doesn’t even admit it to himself, he lets you connect a punch to his jaw. Just to know how it’d be like. If he closes his eyes, Simon is almost certain he can feel your open fingers splayed across his naked face.
It lasts less than a second, and it’s blatantly false, but it’s enough for him.
Enough to keep the ruins together, cracks invisible- even if they are still there, even if he feels them. Enough to breathe and feel the oxygen lighting his sore muscles up. Enough to relax his body a tiny bit, just enough so that he isn’t on the edge anymore after your sparring sessions.
When you get too tired of fighting him (it’s always you; he would never put an end to your touch), he watches you stretch. His eyes drill into your body. He makes sure you do everything right, that you don’t hurt yourself. That’s what he makes you think, anyway. What he wants to believe himself.
It’s not because he’s wondering how far around his body your arms can stretch. He’s not trying to figure out the texture of your hair, or how it would slide against his naked cheek. It is definitely not because he’s picturing your silhouette, relaxed and vulnerable, under his sheets in the dark of the night. Not at all.
If he did, it’d be like wielding a shovel. Like stabbing Ghost’s chest, like taking him apart, layer by layer of crumbled debris. Like brushing away the dust, the years of history. Like uncovering Simon, cracked and stuck, and trying to get him out of his grave. No, he doesn’t look at you for any other reason, because, if he did, it’d be like exposing whatever is left preserved of him to the abrasive air that leaves your heaving chest, letting the burning sun of your smile turn to dust the poor remnants of him.
And he can’t take that.
So he takes what he can, and lets the cold inside him be warmed up by your smile, distant enough not to burn him.