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Bandanas didn’t do much to cut the bite of the nighttime desert.
Ghoul tugged his higher over his cheeks and nose, feeling the skin tingling with the cold. He was quick to rebury his hands in the pockets of a jacket he’d stolen off one of the tables in the diner, something windproof enough to keep him warm.
Normally, the four wouldn’t go as far as to have someone play security guard for the night. But BL/Ind had turned the heat up, racking up piles of bodies in the name of public sanitation. It was hard to miss the kind of people they were going after too, the kind of people who had mops of curly hair or wore bright red leather jackets. The kinds of people that dyed their hair bright colors or wore stolen vests.
The message wasn’t in the piles, but the people. The Four weren’t stupid, far from it. Ghoul liked a puzzle, but the solution to this one made him a little sick.
Because there was one common thread among every massacre.
Tucked among the body bags, there would always be one smaller than the rest.
It was almost always empty, because nobody that small wandered the Zones anymore. Kids made themselves scarce by any means possible.
All but one.
Ghoul knew parading her around had been risky, but he hadn’t been prepared for the way his stomach dropped the first time he’d seen a body bag so small.
Jet had stepped forward to take it in, a shadow cast over most of his face. The sun had begun to set, harsh angles painting the scene in a bloody orange. Arms folded over his chest and jaw set, Jet seemed to be at a loss.
Behind him, Party had gone pale, their face set in a grim line. Their fingers grazed Ghoul’s arm, hesitating before letting them drifting upwards to settle on Ghoul’s shoulder. Reassurance, but for who, Ghoul didn’t know.
Kobra’s boots crunching across the sand was the only sound in the moments that followed, up until he was within view of the bag. Then, Kobra had paused, eyes hidden behind the sunglasses Ghoul swore were welded to his face. Nothing changed much outwardly, but Kobra’s mouth had set into a rigid, twitchy line uncannily similar to Party’s.
Out of all of them, it was Party who stepped forward first, kneeling beside the bag and brushing their fingers along the zipper. It’d taken them a second to find the tab, tucked just behind where the head rested. They’d already checked every other bag, collecting masks and trinkets to leave with the Witch. But this one was different, and needed special treatment.
The hesitation before Party opened the bag weighed down on the whole group, tension wriggling around their shoulders as Party finally tugged at the seam and let the plastic part.
It fell open easily, and Party visibly startled, jumping back when something bloody and limp shifted to the side within the plastic. Ghoul wasn’t proud to say that he’d also jolted, reaching for his blaster until it hit him that bodies, at least living ones, didn’t move like that.
He’d moved forward, Jet tensing as he’d passed, to kneel beside Party, who’d already taken the sand bag in their hands to turn it over. Looking for something, anything. It didn’t make much sense, and Ghoul voiced as much.
“Who the hell does that?”
Kobra’s nose had twitched with a sneer, but he’d remained firmly planted where he was, pulling his jacket tighter to his body.
“Sunshine Central, obviously. It’s a message.” Jet’s nose had scrunched as he’d leaned forward, trying to get a better look at the bag Party’d been scrutinizing.
“They’re threatening Girlie,” Party’d muttered, brow furrowed. Their eyes had traced the patches of blood staining the fabric of the sand bag, handprints outlined with red along the sides. Smeared where the bag had been poked and prodded into something resembling a person.
So, when they’d dropped by Gertie’s to pick their Girl up, everyone had agreed; her safety took priority. Things would have to change. Hence, where Ghoul found himself now. Perched on the roof of the diner, trying not to freeze his ass off while keeping watch.
Nothing interesting ever happened when Ghoul was on lookout. Last week, Jet’d spotted a couple of drunk rebels wandering within a couple hundred feet of the diner. A fight had broken out among them, and a boring night shift turned into Jet sitting back and watching what was supposedly the fight of the century. Plenty of missed shots, slurred insults, and, the cherry on top, a pair of soiled pants.
Ghoul was not jealous. But it’d be convenient if someone could get hammered and piss their pants in a heap somewhere near the diner, just so Ghoul’d have a reason to stay awake.
Caught up in lamenting his boredom, Ghoul’s fingers were slowly but surely freezing off when the sound of boots finding purchase on vinyl and metal echoed behind him. His head whipped around, though he had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t a Drac.
Ghoul was right, naturally, as a mop of tangled red hair slowly came into view. Party was terrible at scaling the diner’s walls, something they bitched about every time it was their turn for the night shift.
Ghoul watched Party slip on the same ledge another four times before he gave up and moved to help them.
Party cursed under their breath as they tried to wriggle the heel of their right boot into a small vent, scrambling for purchase against the smooth wall. Ghoul loomed over them, waiting for them to finally look up. They only lifted their head when Ghoul’s body blocked out the moonlight, forcing them to stop scrabbling at the side of the diner.
“You gonna help me or are ya just gonna fuckin’ stand there?” The bitterness of their words didn’t match the way their fingers clung to the edge of the roof, not quite stable enough to pull themself up without risking taking off the side paneling.
Ghoul rolled his eyes, but stooped to grab at Party’s forearms, pulling them up with a grunt. Their boots scraped against the wall, then dangled briefly in the air before finding the solid concrete of the roof.
“You wouldn’t need help if you just learned how to climb shit like a real man.”
“Good thing I’m no man.” Party snarked, leaning forward. Ghoul’s hands were still wrapped around their forearms. Their head clunked lazily against Ghoul’s shoulder, lips already pursed with a question on the tip of their tongue.
“How’s the night treatin’ you?” They asked, shuffling forward in their thick boots and worn t-shirt. Definitely not appropriate for the weather. Party’s pants were just as loose and thin as the shirt, and the goosebumps along their arms was just another sign of their poor foresight.
Ghoul pulled them closer after debating whether or not to let them face their own consequences, dragging them into some semblance of a hug. “Boring. It’s always boring, P. Jet’s still holdin’ last week over my head, the fucker.”
“Jet’s a rotten bastard. You gotta layer to spare or are we gonna hafta get familiar?”
Ghoul debated kicking Party off the roof and making them get their own jacket, but there was no point. “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”
Ghoul unzipped his jacket, briefly releasing Party to jam his hands into the coat’s inner pockets. He pulled Party back into, this time to wrap them in the windproof fabric. They wiggled closer, standing nose-to-nose with Ghoul and sharing every soft puff of breath with him.
Touch was something the Zones forgave as easily as a body breathed. Nobody blinked twice if you were all over the people around you or if you didn’t want to touch anybody at all. So no, Ghoul didn’t feel weird about being so close to Party. Their face was alright, it didn’t burn to look at, and they smelled vaguely of sweat. Ghoul couldn’t judge, not when he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a proper bath. The twinge of it reminded him that they were just as alive as he was.
Ghoul got antsy just standing there, so he shuffled them around until the two of them were perched back where Ghoul had been sitting before Party had interrupted, this time with Party practically on his lap so that they stayed within his coat.
The silence they settled into was better than sitting alone, Ghoul supposed. Party’s breath tickled against his collarbone, their fried, frizzy hair brushing against the underside of his chin in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Ghoul’s fingers absentmindedly tightened and loosened periodically against Party’s waist, where his hands had settled to keep them as close as possible.
Burying his face in Party’s hair was second nature, inhaling the chemical scent of hair dye mixed with stale pillow. Something Ghoul had come to associate with Party, with every breath they shared after dark. Ghoul never had to think about it when he was with them, just that they were warm and real in a way he could coexist with.
Party shifted, the crown of their head knocking lightly against Ghoul’s chin until he let them finally look at him. Their noses brushed, and the quiet settled around them just as comfortably as the stars dotting the sky.
For a beat, maybe more, Ghoul wasn’t counting, they shared a breath. Then, Party leaned in, pressing their lips to Ghoul’s with the kind of warmth Ghoul chased too often. A shiver trickled down his spine, but this one had nothing to do with the cold.
Party’s lips were chapped and rough, the outer skin cold from exposure. But their affection was warm, and Ghoul found himself leaning into it, tugging them ever closer even as they pulled apart.
Party didn’t say anything after the fact. Neither did Ghoul. His forehead, however, had dropped forward to rest against Party’s temple. He’d like to thread his fingers through their hair, but his hands were still twisted in the pockets of the coat keeping Party warm.
By morning, Party clambered back down to the main room for breakfast, leaving Ghoul on the roof. Despite having his jacket back and all to himself, it wouldn’t be enough until Party was back with him, warming him up with a closeness he couldn’t take for granted. There wasn’t quite a word for it, Ghoul’d never been one for labels, but Party meant something to him. A lot more than a friend.
When Ghoul climbed down from the roof, positive no Drac would have the gall to attack at the ass crack of dawn, he found Party in one of the diner’s booths, already digging at a can of PowerPup. He plopped down beside them, shifting to lay his head in their lap and letting his legs dangle off the edge of the seat. When Party’s free hand came to scratch gently at his scalp, Ghoul folded an arm over his face and took the chance to drift off before the morning really began.