Chapter Text
You’ve got my body, flesh and bone
The air was alive with tension, Soap’s very nerves on fire with the palpable excitement. Sweat trickled down his neck, his back, sticky and cooling, shining under the stage lights as he jumped around. Gaz’s energy was positively ferocious as he drummed away on his raised platform in the back, and it was infecting Soap, spurring along the blood in his veins at an alarming speed, heating him up even more. Yet Soap was looking at Ghost, his steady gaze contradicting the restless itch in his body.
Ghost, who was to his right, bent over the microphone in his hand, pouring himself into it. Price stood right next to him as unphased as ever even with fingers racing along the strings, the polar opposite of his bandmates who couldn’t seem to calm down. Ghost, who was unfurling from his scream and jamming along with Price’s guitar solo, giving him the centre of the stage to work his magic. Soap kept to the beat as he approached them, grin already wide on his face, even when he could practically see Ghost’s raised eyebrow under the mask.
Soap was so, so warm, but he circled Ghost, stopping behind him as Price’s solo ended and the hypnotic synth took over. He stepped into Ghost’s space, trailing his hand along his side. Ghost didn’t pull away, so Soap wrapped his arm firmly around his torso and dragged him closer. A burst of air was forced out of him when Ghost’s back collided with his chest, bones and muscle pressing against him. His fingers had a life of their own now as they found the dip in Ghost’s throat and pressed into it, felt the racing pulse there, counted it for as long as he dared, then they trailed downward. Ghost’s stomach twitched beneath Soap’s touch as he mapped out the line of his torso, all the way from between his pecs to his belt, only stopping once cool metal hit his overheated skin.
Ghost leaned into him when Soap’s hand splayed over his abs instead of venturing lower, and Soap could feel him shake with what he could only assume was laughter. It made Soap give a frazzled laugh of his own, and he wondered if Ghost could feel the hot puffs against his neck. Then the moment was over; Ghost grabbed Soap’s hand and disentangled them, using his grip to push Soap towards what was supposed to be his side of the stage. Soap went with a grin, one ten times more insufferable than when he’d first approached. Ghost rolled his eyes as he raised the microphone to his mouth and started singing again.
Caught in ebb and flow
Soap was panting as he sat down on the stool placed in front of the keyboard, absolutely winded by the previous song where he’d fought to stay by his microphone when all he’d wanted to do was run around and bang his head to Gaz’s immaculate drumming. But the song relied on his screams being consistent and on time, so he’d been forced to stay still for far too long. By the time his vocals were no longer needed, he’d exploded with pent-up energy. Price had laughed when he’d jumped in circles around him, and it didn’t take long before Soap managed to rope him along to pester Gaz. Ghost had remained by his own mic stand, holding onto it for dear life as he sang, guitar dangling in the space between his body and the stand, practically begging for Soap to play it. So, he’d done just that – he’d abandoned Gaz with air kisses thrown over his shoulder and ran over to Ghost, a wicked smile on his face as he’d sidled up to him, making sure to leave it to a pause in the lyrics before he reached around his torso, grabbed the guitar, and strummed without touching the strings. Despite trying to time it perfectly, Ghost’s voice had been light and amused when he’d attempted to scream, quickly breaking away from the mic to gather himself. Soap had stepped back after that and fist pumped towards the audience, laughing along with them.
Now? Now he was no less enthusiastic, but he was thankful for the opportunity to sit and crack his fingers, stretching and flexing them. He reacquainted himself with the song by playing a quick rendition of it in his mind, placing his fingers on the keys without pushing down. Ghost drank water just beyond sight of the audience as he waited for the cue. Gaz and Price were hunkered down on the edge of the drummer’s platform, chatting between themselves, Price playing a soothing tune on his guitar. Once confident in his memory, Soap gave Ghost a thumbs up. The crowd cheered as the lights came back on and Ghost entered the stage again, taking his place by the microphone stationed near the keyboard, breaths deep and even, getting a feel for the song as Soap began playing. It started slow and quiet, something akin to comforting, almost sweet, until Soap slammed his fingers down on the keys and put his entire torso into it, closing his eyes as the intensity engulfed the hum of the venue.
Soap opened his eyes when the piano slowed and Ghost started singing, his gaze already waiting for Soap’s. It was overwhelming, the heat of it settling deep in Soap’s chest, gripping his throat in a caress that nearly choked him, but he did not dare to look away. He kept playing, kept rocking back and forth with the flow of the song, kept waiting for Ghost to either let him go or keep him there forever. Soap would comply with whichever option Ghost chose; he was at his mercy and more than happy to be there. Still, he couldn’t help but be slightly disappointed when Ghost closed his eyes as the chorus hit, focusing on conveying the lyrics rather than trapping Soap in his stifling gaze. But Soap would comply. He, too, looked away, directing his attention to his hands, finding solace in the choir of voices that joined Ghost’s and nearly drowned him out. Only nearly. Soap still picked him out from the harmonised mess, following the string right back to him, unable to stay away, drifting back to his blank mask.
Their eyes met again. Soap could hear the smile in Ghost’s voice. He held his breath, only able to breathe again when the last keys rang out and his hoarse, frantic, desperate sigh was eclipsed by applause.
Burn yourself into me
“John,” Gaz said as he gaped at his phone, smile lines running deep around his eyes with barely contained laughter. Both Soap and Price turned to him, expectant. He waved Price off and waved Soap closer. He turned his phone around. “Have you seen this?”
It was a thread on some social media Soap had deleted long ago – he couldn’t deal with it all once they had started gaining traction, and all that was left of his online presence now was a private facebook account he used to keep up with family – and the first thing he noticed were the pictures. They were of him and Ghost on stage, too close to be explained away, a dopey grin on Soap’s face, a suggestive hand on Ghost’s chest, exasperated yet warm eyes dulled by a skull mask. Soap’s eyes flicked to the text, and what he found there made him lean back with mortified delight.
“I haven’t,” he answered, drawing out the syllables as Gaz’s mouth trembled with the strain of containing his amusement. Soap eased him out of his misery by laughing first; it was a shrill, delirious thing. Gaz was not far behind, although his came from the chest and echoed around the green room.
Price sighed and chimed in, “I’ll bite – what is it now?”
Soap sobered immediately and chanced a glance at Ghost, who was still lounging in a chair with his eyes closed, going through his pre-concert ritual. Soap had asked about it once, and all Ghost had given him was a long look followed by ruffling his hair. Soap had ducked his head to hide his blush, and it’d never been brought up again.
“Take a wild guess,” Gaz said, clutching at his stomach. Price eyed Soap.
“Those two get outed?” he asked and pointed in Ghost’s general direction. Gaz wiped tears as laughter exploded out of him. Soap was finding it less entertaining by the second.
“There’s nothing to out,” Soap objected. He’d been aiming for calm and calculated, but his voice had come out high and defensive, and Price only smiled with pity shining in his eyes.
“Yeah, you’re not shy about it,” Gaz added once his laughter slowed enough to get a complete sentence out.
Soap groaned and flung himself against the sofa. Price put a comforting hand on his shoulder, but he was laughing along with Gaz, and Soap couldn’t even blame him.
“Just friendly banter between two bandmates,” Soap grumbled, feeling like a child when he crossed his arms over his chest.
Gaz nodded sombrely. “What’s a bit of sensuality between mates,” he said, still nodding, obnoxiously so. A moment of silence passed, then Gaz shot up from his slouch, making both Soap and Price jump. He typed frantically on his phone and murmured, rather distressed, “Does anyone ship us?”
Price chuckled as Soap squawked and launched into action, trying, fruitlessly, to pry Gaz’s phone from his hands. Gaz escaped the attack and ran, Soap not far behind, and the green room filled with sound as they yelled at each other and used any furniture at their disposal to trap the other. Ghost sat in his chair and cracked one eye open to watch, only to heave a tired sigh before going back to his ritual. Soap couldn’t decide whether he was thankful for that or not, but he didn’t get enough time to properly consider it; the door was cracked open and a head popped into the room, beckoning them to follow. Gaz shot Soap one last grin as he pocketed his phone and jogged away, slipping out the door with Price on his heels. Soap huffed and waited for the heavy weight of Ghost’s hand on his shoulder before he, too, left for the stage. What he didn’t expect was for Ghost’s hand to glide along his t-shirt until his arm rested around his shoulders, holding on as they were met by whistling and clapping and humid air clouded by smoke, only letting go when they were forced to, parting with a reassuring squeeze and lingering fingers that seemed hesitant to lose Soap’s warmth.
Rain down on me
Soap allowed the bass to swing in the air in front of him as he leaned into the wave of the crowd, smiling down at them from the stage, mimicking playing the piano they’d opted to have a recording of instead of making Soap’s life a living hell by playing it live. He’d have to switch to the bass at the most inopportune times, and he had a scream to perform while the keyboard still needed his attention. While a microphone by the keyboard could’ve fixed that particular issue, Soap had always found it hard to sing while playing the piano – he was, somehow, completely fine when the bass was involved, but he chose to not question that. So, now, he found himself with a bit of free time to entertain the audience and give his raw fingertips a rest. He mouthed the lyrics as Ghost sang, backing away from the edge with hands clapping in front of him, urging the crowd to follow his lead. Soap collided with a body as he walked backwards, and he needed but a glimpse in his periphery to know it was Ghost. He moved to step away, but a hand settled on his hip, and Soap froze.
Ghost’s voice penetrated Soap’s earpiece as he got closer, mouth right next to Soap’s ear, and he could do nothing but melt into Ghost’s chest. He continued clapping along to the beat, missing one or two when Ghost started tracing his hipbone with his thumb, but he recovered quickly enough – he fucking hoped – and then Ghost’s touch was gone and Soap was about to miss his cue and goddamn it.
Soap whirled around and wrapped his fingers around the microphone Ghost was holding, pulling, forcing Ghost to bend to accommodate for Soap’s shorter build. Ghost frowned at him; Soap grinned and waited for his moment. He watched Ghost’s lips form the words beneath the mask, the same words resting on the tip of Soap’s tongue, dormant until the cue sounded in his earpiece. Soap got closer. Ghost’s chest heaved with stuttered breaths.
It was over as quickly as it had started. Soap’s part was done, he was stepping back, fingers sliding along the bass instead of Ghost’s gloved hand –belatedly, Soap realised. He’d been too distracted to play and scream simultaneously. Gaz was going to have a field day with this one. Hell, even Price was raising a knowing eyebrow at him. Soap didn’t dare to even glance in Ghost’s direction, so he spun to face the audience, playing it off with the flair he was known for; throwing himself into it, jumping around and egging everyone on, bobbing his head until it hurt.
It was only when the song ended that Soap looked at Ghost again. As the lights dimmed and the band prepared for the next song, Soap smiled and winked, and Ghost – well, Ghost rolled his eyes and ignored him, but Soap’s stomach fluttered anyway.
I am yours in the end (so won’t you fall for me)
Gaz offered his hand with a bow, and Soap took it with a bow of his own, allowing Gaz to aid his descent off the stage to join the audience. Price was already waiting by the barricade, arms crossed over his chest and watching his bumbling bandmates with fond exasperation, simultaneously giving the closest fans the utmost attention, and Soap would never understand how he managed to balance it. Soap was absolutely absorbed the second he got close; not one moment was spent even wondering what Ghost was getting up to behind him, all he could see were the happy faces and chummy fist bumps, some hands even reaching forward to offer him things. He noticed one thing in particular: a piece of red plastic that looked suspiciously similar to a skull he’d seen many times before. A skull he had, in fact, inadvertently burnt into his retinas, and now he held one in his own hands, similar yet distinct with pronounced, angry brow ridges and a different shape to the nasal cavity. Soap happily accepted, giving many thanks to the person who’d crafted it and decided to gift it, and he smiled bright and broad when the immediate crowd cheered as he put it on. The straps were a bit difficult to manage on his own, but after Gaz offered his help and the mask was situated comfortably on his face without being too itchy – he’d acclimate; if he didn’t, he swore to himself that he would wear it for the rest of the concert anyway – Soap finally turned his attention away from the crowd to find Ghost towering above him. He was gripping the microphone stand like a lifeline, head hung with deep breaths coursing through his body, and then, as if he’d felt Soap’s eyes on him, he straightened and began singing.
It was a simple song, all things considered. It consisted of Ghost’s voice and overlays to make it sound robotic, the entire backing track construed entirely by the echo of his voice with tiny, almost imperceptible bass notes that Soap didn’t have to play live. Despite these things, it was one of Soap’s favourites. Maybe it was the simplicity that got to him – the way the lyrics drove the song – or maybe, as Gaz had so helpfully pointed out once, it was the fact that Ghost’s vocals were the only thing to focus on. But Soap never dwelled on it, he simply leaned back each time they got to this part of the setlist, and he enjoyed it. He enjoyed watching Ghost along with the fans at the barricade, he enjoyed rocking to the rhythm with his bandmates, he enjoyed singing the lyrics with his entire chest, and, most of all, he enjoyed the way Ghost looked at him. Like he was begging, like this took everything in him to perform, like nothing else mattered – like Soap was the only thing that still existed, the only thing worth looking at. It left Soap breathless, yet he kept singing, and Ghost kept staring, and, when it was over, Soap climbed back onto that stage and had to pretend it never happened. It thrilled him and killed him and he wouldn’t have it any other way, not as long as it meant having this one moment on repeat where they locked eyes and Soap could swear he saw an endless night sky. Soap was always the first to break, to look away, to shatter the illusion before he could get lost in it. Ghost granted him the grace of not acknowledging it afterwards, and it went as an unspoken betrayal of what their dynamic was supposed to be. If Ghost could be so forgiving, Soap would savour these moments and never ask for more.
But, somehow, it was different that particular night. The weight of Ghost’s attention was smothering in its intensity and Soap could not look away like he normally did. All the lines that were usually reinforced with barbwire were crossed, and what would normally be scrawled on paper to burn was being etched into stone. Still, Soap could not look away; he was trapped beneath the gaze of this begging, fraying, desperate man, and each lyric was a knife to Soap’s heart. Still, he kept singing, and the stars were blinding him and he was lost, and not even Price’s arm around his shoulders could bring him back.
Soap hardly noticed when the song ended, when Ghost’s lips stopped moving and he stepped away from the microphone. All he could see were Ghost’s eyes and the way they never left his. The way their breaths synchronised and the applause was nothing but a dull rumble, muffled by Soap’s rapid heartbeat in his ears and the echo of a voice that was no longer there.
Gaz stepped in front of him. Snapped his fingers in front of his eyes. “Soap!” he yelled, laughing, grinning, knowing. “Let’s go!”
Soap was on stage and starting the next song in a few short minutes that felt like seconds. Ghost was no longer looking at him, and that felt like an irreparable loss.
I need you closer, closer, closer
“That mask of yours,” Ghost said that particular night after they’d exited the stage and collapsed onto the closest available cushions. They had ended up alone, Gaz and Price off to secure food with an agreement to rendezvous at the hotel. Soap and Ghost had not gotten that far yet; they were too busy melting into soft pillows and groaning in contentment. Soap hadn’t even bothered to take the mask off, and Ghost was staring at him from the other end of the sofa.
“Cool, yeah?” Soap beamed, gesturing to it. “Fan gave it to me, probably wantin’ us to match.”
Ghost hummed in response as he tugged at his own mask, sliding it up and off. Soap looked away instantly, even though he had seen this thousands of times before. It still felt like he was intruding, like it wasn’t meant for his eyes. It was true to some extent, because Soap could not look at Ghost’s face directly after a concert without turning bright red and floundering for words for the next couple of minutes. Honestly, it was humiliating, and Soap would rather not desecrate his own reputation more than he already had. It also reminded him that he should probably take his mask off as well.
Soap reached for the plastic.
“Johnny,” Ghost said, and he was leaning forwards, across the cushion that separated them. Soap could only watch in astonishment.
“Simon,” he replied, trying to keep his voice steady, but his throat was dry and it came out scratchy, barely above a whisper. He coughed and tried again. “Kyle’ll have a field day with this whole thing.” There hadn’t been a moment of peace since Gaz had discovered the underbelly of the fandom, and Soap could already imagine the posts he would screenshot to torment him with. “He hasn’t bothered you too much I hope?”
“It doesn’t bother me.” Ghost was right next to him now. Soap failed to stop himself from gravitating closer, nudging Ghost’s knee with his own and leaving it there.
“Really?” Soap asked, once again astonished. “Because I’d love to give Kyle a good beatin’, bastard is practically beggin’ for it.”
Soap glanced at Ghost. There was a muted smile, but one eyebrow was arched, as if he was waiting to tease Soap. He decided to beat him to it.
“Oh, but maybe you like it, eh, Ghostie?” Soap shifted to face Ghost so he could better lean into his space, grinning like an idiot and batting his eyelashes as he waited for the wanted reaction: a grunted laugh and a lowered eyebrow. Neither happened.
Instead, Ghost tipped his head back to stare down his nose at Soap and, somehow, arched the eyebrow further. Soap’s grin immediately softened, but he did not back off. “Just banter between bandmates, right? What’s not to like.”
“Right,” Soap breathed. He licked his lips to subdue a smile that felt inappropriate with how elated it was. “So, you do like me?”
Ghost’s head lolled forwards, almost knocking his forehead against Soap’s, who felt every puff of air wash over his skin. He couldn’t help it; his eyes flitted down to Ghost’s lips. When he looked back up, Ghost’s eyes were devoid of the amusement that had previously been there. What remained was something akin to confusion or apprehension, perhaps even a question lurked there, but Soap couldn’t decipher it, and so he had no answer.
The look – whatever it was – passed, and Soap watched it morph into something entirely unreadable. He took it as a sign to break whatever moment they were having and back off.
Ghost followed. He followed until Soap’s spine was pressed against the end of the sofa, and he followed when Soap curved against it. They were chest to chest, nose to nose, and there was nothing about this that was funny to Soap, but he laughed a little anyway, and it prompted Ghost’s gaze to land on his mouth, and Soap was desperate to close the distance, but he couldn’t move or breathe and Ghost was so close but not close enough, and Soap could feel each beat punch itself out of his heart and through his veins. He ran hot with the forceful, steady pump of blood, and he knew that, beneath the mask, he was absolutely flushed.
A warm, calloused hand settled on the side of Soap’s face, merely resting there with that same unspoken question. He answered by carefully sliding his nose along Ghost’s, slotting their faces together, their lips a breath apart. Ghost kept his gaze locked on Soap’s eyes as his fingers slid along the edge of his jaw, and then he was leaning in, and Soap had to remind himself to not bite his bottom lip to shreds, to find another outlet for his nerves, and then his hands were moving of their own accord to Ghost’s waist, and right as Soap’s eyelids fluttered shut and his fingers twisted into the fabric of Ghost’s shirt, a vibration rattled the end table behind his head.
The warmth emanating from Ghost’s face disappeared in a flash. Soap didn’t dare look at him as he reached for his phone and answered Gaz’s call.
“Hiya,” came Gaz’s chipper voice, “food’s ready, we’re on our way to the hotel.”
“Thanks, mate, see ya in a bit,” Soap answered, pulling himself off the sofa while saying his goodbyes and hanging up.
“John and Kyle?” Ghost grunted from his end of the sofa. Soap glanced at him – refusing to process the details of him, like how his blond hair was flat from the mask, or his stagnant hands, or the faint blush on his cheeks – and nodded.
They dressed in silence, and while that was entirely normal for them, Soap felt there was something distinctly different, a tension they usually ignored that had grown out of proportion. Soap wanted the normal silence back, the one where he’d steal glimpses and smile to himself and Ghost would sigh and shake his head and intentionally bump into him. Not this, where Soap could barely look at him and Ghost kept drifting away, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it, because pulling Ghost back to properly kiss him might just make it worse. Soap couldn’t tell what he was thinking, couldn’t read his face like he usually did, couldn’t risk doing the wrong thing. Soap figured it would be best to let Ghost decide what happened next.