Chapter Text
The library at St. George’s College was a quiet place, even in the daytime. But at night, it turned into something else entirely—a hollow cathedral of stress and silence, inhabited only by those too anxious or too broken to go home. John MacTavish, known better around campus as Soap, fell somewhere in between.
He was here almost every night, hunched over his laptop, eyes bleary, drowning in his engineering coursework. He didn’t mind the solitude. He’d grown up in noise—siblings, cousins, drunken football nights in Glasgow. But lately, he craved the quiet. It made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he could breathe.
And then there was Simon Riley.
Soap didn’t know much about him—just that he went by "Ghost" for some reason no one quite understood. Always dressed in dark hoodies, headphones around his neck even when they weren’t plugged in. Pale, tired-looking, always carrying battered paperbacks instead of textbooks. Philosophy major, Soap thought. Or maybe literature.
He always sat in the same corner table, under the flickering light near the emergency exit. And Soap, without really realizing it, had started sitting where he could see him.
Not close enough to be obvious. But close enough to watch.
Tonight was no different.
Soap was trying—trying—to finish his thermodynamics notes when he looked up and caught Ghost rubbing his temples with a trembling hand.
Not just tired. Painful. Something deeper.
Soap chewed his lip. Watched as Ghost coughed into his sleeve—long, hard, his whole body shuddering with it. And then he kept reading like nothing happened.
That had been happening a lot lately.
Soap stared at his untouched coffee. Then back at Ghost.
Then stood.
He walked over before he could stop himself.
“You know there’s other places to spiral besides a haunted library, right?” Soap said, voice low and teasing. “Pub’s open till two.”
Ghost didn’t look up. “That a pick-up line?”
“No, but I can do one if you like.” Soap dropped into the chair across from him. “You come here often?”
Ghost finally looked at him. His eyes were darker up close, rimmed red with exhaustion, the skin under them bruised-looking. But his mouth twitched.
“You’re not funny,” Ghost said flatly.
“I’m hilarious, actually. You’re just immune.”
A pause. Then Ghost said, “John MacTavish. Engineering, right?”
Soap blinked. “You know my name?”
“I sit here four nights a week. You talk in your sleep.”
“Wait, seriously—?”
“No.” That small, sharp smirk.
Soap grinned, warmth blooming in his chest. “Dickhead.”
“Annoying twink.”
“Excuse me, I’m at least a muscular twink.”
Ghost laughed, short and soft. It faded quickly. He coughed again—rough, deep—and turned away from Soap as he pulled his hoodie sleeve to his mouth.
Soap’s smile dropped.
“You alright?”
Ghost nodded too fast. “Fine.”
“You sure? That cough sounds like it’s trying to kill you.”
“I said I’m fine.”
The words hit like a wall. Soap swallowed, tried not to let the sting show.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Well. I brought an extra granola bar if you want one. Energy efficient and disappointing. Like me.”
Ghost looked at him for a long second. His expression unreadable. And then—
“...Yeah. Alright.”
Soap slid it across the table and watched as Ghost unwrapped it with shaking fingers.
He didn’t eat all of it. But he ate some.
They didn’t talk much after that. Just sat near each other, surrounded by textbooks and silence and the warmth of something neither of them had words for yet.
But as Soap left that night, he turned back.
Ghost was still watching him.
And for the first time in weeks, Soap smiled all the way home.