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“How long d’you reckon we’ve known each other, Lt?”
It’s one of those quiet sort of nights, ones that drew Ghost from the solid concrete solitude of his designated bedroom and into the crisp winter air. There was hardly a cloud in the sky, rare for times like these in a dreadful place like England, the stars burning quietly, winking at him from their very own spot in the endless galaxy; untouchable and free.
Tonight he’s chosen to abandon his usual seat by the heavy double doors leading outside the barracks to lie in the dew-damp grass and gaze at the endless night sky.
Johnny had joined him, of course, Johnny had joined him. Since the first night he’d sought refuge from his mind’s fervent attempts at breaking his last remaining vestiges of sanity and found the Sergeant smoking a lonely cigarette, Johnny had joined him.
It was a wordless arrangement, one born of demons that clawed at fatigue-weakened minds and ghosts of the past that have come to haunt the present. Soap didn’t ask why Ghost knocked on his door at 0300 sweating buckets and in return, he didn’t ask why Soap knocked on his door at 2450 with freshly split knuckles.
They had a mutual agreement to anchor, to offer silent comfort to the one person who made them feel whole again, sitting far too close to be casual in the process.
Toeing the line wasn’t an adequate phrase for the dizzying push and pull he and Soap had fallen into, rather, they waltzed on the fence of just friends or more, limbs entangled in such a manner that you couldn’t tell one being from the other. It was true, Ghost had found himself engulfed by a raging bonfire, and Lord did he intend to burn.
Suffice it to say, the question had caught him off guard, but he thought about it regardless. Officially, they had met nearly five years prior, a lifetime passed between then and now, somewhere stuffy and humid. He hadn’t thought much of his Johnny back then, just another face in the crowd, a voice among many.
They’d been stationed at the same base just before Soap’s promotion and worked together, but not closely, for three weeks before Ghost was shipped somewhere else. Fate would have them together many, many times before the creation of the 141, enough for Ghost to familiarize himself with the man’s antics, and enough for him to dread them.
Not that that had lasted very long, anyway.
“Long enough,” is his sharp-witted reply, “Why? Plannin’ our anniversary, Sergeant?”
Soap huffs, “You wish, clarty bastard. Just thinking is all.”
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
“Har-fucking-har. Proud of that one, sir?”
“Immensely.”
He probably deserves the harsh smack of Soap’s backhand on his stomach, but he’s too busy stifling his laughter behind pinched lips to feel the strength behind it.
Lazily, he turns his head, taking in the sight of Soap against the backdrop of early morning. His electric blue eyes twinkle in time with the stars above them, dark hair draped over his forehead and sprawled messily in the grass, a small, absent pout on his pretty pink lips. Didn’t he know how the very sight of him rendered Ghost speechless — breathless?
Then Soap turns his head too, rests those irresistible blues on Ghost’s weak, weak form, and keeps them there, looking but not searching. Admiring, maybe.
Ghost clears his throat, always the first to look away in their frequent staring contests, his heart a quick staccato behind his ribs. “Don’t keep us waiting then, Johnny, what’s got your panties in a twist?”
“My panties are not twisted.”
“Sure actin’ like they are.”
Soap levels him with a blank stare, before rolling his eyes with the heaviest sigh Ghost had ever heard someone produce. It was annoyingly endearing, Soap’s love of theatrics.
“I’ve come to realize I know fuck all about you, Ghost.” The Scot turns on his side, hand tucked under his head, so Ghost does the same. “I know you’re reliable and that you’re trustworthy. I know you’re a bleedin’ great shot and a even better leader, but I don’t know anything about you ‘cept how you like your tea.”
It’s not something Ghost had ever deemed important, but he wasn’t surprised it was something Johnny would care about.
His story was one of pain from the very moment he opened his eyes, nothing but hardship and heartache to keep him company on lonelier nights. He’d only not considered telling Soap because he never asked. But he would, without question, he would. He’d bring the darkest parts of himself into the light for Soap to run his endlessly gentle fingertips against, to accept without judgment.
“Well,” Ghost murmurs, “What do you want to know?”
Soap considers this for a brief moment, “I wanna know the deep stuff.”
“Deep stuff?” At Soap’s nod, he questions, “Like what?”
“Like…what’s your favorite color, Lt?”
This was where he would normally poke fun at Soap, rib him for the juvenile question, and turn on his back to watch the stars again. He couldn’t, though. Not when Soap was laid straighter in anticipation, how he leaned forward a bit waiting for him to answer, and it struck him that Soap wanted to know him. Simon. He wanted to know the small things, the intimate things, God, Soap wanted to know him.
Not for the first time Ghost is struck with the want to press his clothed lips to Johnny’s and breathe him in as best he can. He wants to trail his fingers down Soap’s cheek, cup his face in bare palms, and press the gentlest kiss to the ever-present furrow between his brows. He wanted, burned with it, desperate for any scrap of attention Johnny would throw his way, following on his heels like a dog to his master.
Ghost wasn’t used to the want, nowhere near acclimated to it. He was an asset, a weapon, a thing with a big red stamp that marked him as property of the government. Machines didn’t get to want, there were only orders, then rest, then more orders, day in and day out.
How do you begin to accept humanity when you’d spent the better half of your life being convinced you were without it? How do you learn to be soft when the world has hardened you to survive?
For a moment, he thinks of his brother.
Tommy was as hot-headed as they came. Stubborn, opinionated, not afraid to punch the biggest guy in the yard straight in his dick. The drugs had made it worse, made him downright insidious, a spitting image of the man they’d sworn not to become, his mum had become the already grieving witness to her son’s path to demise.
That’s when Simon stepped in, threatening to throw him out just like he did their old man, watching as an uncharacteristic soberness washed over his little brother, right next to fear.
He had gotten his act together, in the end, built his life back up, and got back on his feet. Then he met Beth, and it was like a switch was flipped. He had been okay before, but this girl had made him want to be better, be good. It was like a whole new person had emerged from the carcass of the little boy he once knew, a man with pink cheeks, wide grins, and nervous giggles.
Simon got to see that boy who once was the strongest of them both crumble at the sight of his newborn son, watched his hands tremble as he took him into his arms, watched him cry and kiss his wife on the forehead. Tommy had healed, had learned to want, and had been happy.
Couldn’t he do the same?
Ghost’s hand was falling asleep under the weight of his head, but he didn’t dare move it; he didn’t dare stop looking at Johnny for a second. He thinks he can be soft for him, even if he has to teach himself how.
There’s a single beat of silence before Ghost answers, “Blue. Light blue, like the sky with no clouds. Or the ocean.”
The beaming smile Soap sends him is worth feeling the air leave his lungs, his chest aching with his heart’s need to jump out of his chest into the steady hands of the demolitionist.
“What’s yours?” He asks, praying his breathlessness didn’t carry into his voice.
Soap’s smile turns wistful, “Orange.”
“Like an explosion.” Ghost finishes for him.
“Precisely, Lt. You know me too well.” Then, “When’s your birthday?”
“May 16, 1990.”
“Getting up there, eh? Suppose you can’t stay young and bonnie forever.”
“Fuck off, I’ll be pretty ‘til I drop.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it. What kinda music do you like?”
“Not much these days, but I listened to Evanescence in secondary school.”
It continues like that until the sun starts to peek over the distant hills surrounding their home base. The stars dissolve into lavender and sherbet orange, and Soap’s nose and cheeks are the nicest shade of pink Ghost had ever seen, bitten by the frosty air.
He’s captivated, utterly and completely. It should be embarrassing, the way his eyes fought his brain to drink up as much of Soap as they could, but instead it was comfortable, natural almost, to rest his weary gaze on Johnny and find him already looking back.
Sometimes he wished Soap could read his mind, could hear how Ghost yearned for the warmth of his calloused palms, could hear how Ghost adored every little thing he did, could hear Ghost need him terribly. It’d be easier, surely, if he didn’t have to unclog his throat every time he came close to uttering his true feelings, and Soap could hear just how much of Ghost’s life revolved around him.
Telepathy didn’t exist, though, so Ghost had to pull his big boy pants on and make a move. God, why did he have to make the move?
They’ve shifted closer, in the silence, just looking. If he tries hard enough he can smell Soap’s milk and honey body wash under the mask, and he gets the strangest impulse to sink his canines into soft skin, to tear it from the bone.
His eyes dip to Soap’s lips, indulgent, and he sees the Sergeant clock the subtle movement.
“Can I ask you a question now?” His voice is rough, strangled, he knows that’s just the effect Soap has on him.
“Anything.”
Ghost swallows, “The mask. Take it off?”
Soap’s eyes widen, before melting into liquid lapis, obvious excitement buried by something far gentler than, “Show your face?”
“Affirmative.”
They sit up like they have all the time in the world, wet shirts making them shiver.
First, Soap’s hand meets Ghost’s shoulder, slowly dragging paths of flame up Simon’s skin until his pinkie brushes against his collarbone. It’s with equal parts hesitation and eagerness that he begins dragging the mask up, taking in each minute detail revealed in broad daylight. The cold air slaps Simon harshly but all he can feel are those warm, warm, hands, one brushing his hair back and the other heating the nape of his neck in its embrace, finally where they belong.
He doesn’t even notice his mask falling to the ground, too busy leaning into the touch of safety.
He watches Soap watch him, quiet but content. Johnny traces his features over and over, landing once on the faint smattering of freckles painted over the bridge of his nose, then twice on the tiny beauty mark just above his top lip. His expression is open, and stunned; Simon will blame his red ears on the weather.
The sky is as grey as the day before, now that dawn has broken, covered in dark clouds that spelled bad news for Johnny’s knee and Simon’s knuckles, but they pay no mind to it. The morning has long since started, and their fellow soldiers are up and moving with the world, but they stay on the wet grass a little longer.
Soap sighs a ragged, happy thing, cradling Ghost’s jaw carefully. “Anyone ever told you how bloody fuckin’ gorgeous you are, Simon?”
Ghost bares his teeth in a grin, relishing the way that world-consuming blue gets swallowed by the hungry abyss of his pupils, “Only everyone all the time.”
“Cunt.” Johnny grumbles.
“Dickhead.” Replies Simon, cheeky, before swooping down and capturing those mesmerizing lips with his own.
If they miss their morning duties and the better part of lunch then, well, they’d take whatever punishment Price had thought up, and find each other afterward.