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The pub is dim and grimy. Ten minutes out from base, it's crawling with the military type. though not as many as the weekends, and there's a more popular one for the folk looking to mingle with civilians. but this one is cheap, convenient, and easy enough to keep an eye on all the exits.
Ghost fits right in, so does Johnny. Johnny, a clear and important distinction from Soap. dressed down into civvies, not the man ghost easily guides through a battlefield, this time Johnny has the upper hand. experienced in being a person in a way ghost never will be. Jeans and a compression shirt, he sloughs off war, or conceals it's marks on him until it's nothing more than a nice conversation starter when someone points to his tattoo.
Ghost rakes his eyes up the scot while Johnny downs the last of his drink. He looks like the kind of lad who could score a pretty bird without much effort. they like the 'dangerous' feel of a man who knows how to hold a gun.
instead, he sits with ghost, tucked into a hidden booth away from the bigger crowd.
He wants ghost to play pretty bird tonight.
Johnny has made that much pretty fucking obvious, from the way he looks at ghost during training, to the lingering touches and soft whispers of admiration into silent comms.
Soap wants to get ghost under him.
the thought brings with it that strange rush of nostalgia. Johnny likes the same drink Simon's father did.
Simon's father. it feels strange to think about him, just looking the memory over in his mind has ghost feeling small and bad bad bad.
it's cruel to make johnny the source of Ghosts absolution, or, it might be. ghost hasn't understood what people consider right and wrong since he was a wee kid hitting children on the playground.
but ghost wants a body over him in the sick way a crack baby wants more of the thing that made it what it is. the alcohol burns his throat, jeans feel weird where they bunch and pull taught over his knees.
Ghost has never been a good flirt, in his experience he never needed to be.
still, he settles a warm hand on soaps thigh, digs his fingers in until the flesh dimples. intimate. needy.
a shiver runs up Johnny's spine, blush deepening. he spreads his legs just slightly, despite the fact they are still in a public space. half the folk here surely know what they are. it's not like when ghost first joined, no one would beat him openly for touching another man, but a "stray" bullet might hit him next time he's on the field.
"yeah, L.T?" Johnny asks, all confident and unbothered. he's halfway to sporting a rager in the middle of the bar, shamelessly trying to encourage the hand higher.
ghost swallows, thick. "yeah. c'mon Johnny, i want you."
ghost has never seen the inside of soaps apartment before, never had a reason to before now.
he nearly laughs at the posters hung up on the bedroom walls. some of the his fathers favorite bands. when ghost was a bit older, his father bolder, simon would lie down against faux-leather in the backseat and listen to his fathers music through the shitty radio.
"fuck, simon—" soap huffs when ghost slips off the bed to fully undress. it's horrible. uncomfortable. he doesn't want to be seen like this, least of all by soap. he wants to remain pure and mysterious and more concept than human a calloused hand shamelessly reaches out to grope him, and simon thinks of the parties his dad would host.
he thinks of the creatures that would slip upstairs with booze on their breath and nothing nothing nothing inside them. they all knew him well.
ghost was a temptress before he was a person.
before he could spell his name, before he knew what the colors of his blocks were. maybe not so directly, or at least he doesn't remember anything that young, but it seemed he was always destined to be what he was.
soaps sheets smell like a vaguely floral detergent. the lamp next to his bed casts everything in a warm yellow light. soap lies into ghost like a great jellyfish. heavy heavy heavy.
Soaps body pressing simon into the mattress, pinning him there like an unruly animal, cock pressed between his cheeks.
if simon closes his eyes, it's all there again.
living in the same house as a zombie. taking it to bed to keep it from tommy, playing carcass for it to feast on. his father liked it best when he struggled only for a bit. liked to feel like a real damn champion. simon's father. the conqueror. the lover. the rapist. the guardian.
soap shudders and groans and thrusts into ghost, two hands holding his lieutenant by the hips, keeping him pinned prone to the mattress. the bed creak under the weight of them. he really loves ghost, that much is obvious even to simon.
he kisses simon wet and messy, something his father never did. lovers kiss, boy. you aren't a lover.
slowly, simon ruts back into soap. he wants to be good. he wants to be a good son, if his dad would let him. soap mutters something in approval above him but it gets lost in the drywall of simons mind. lost in the flies above the kitchen sink and the empty orange bottles in the bathroom cabinet. lost lost lost it's always fucking lost no one cares to find him.
in the moments after, ghost will hold soap tight, will kiss him one last time before he slinks off to the shower to scrub the shame from his skin. condensation pools in the corner of soaps bathroom, already water damaged.
he'll be gone before soap wakes.
he won't admit to soap he hardly remembers what happened. he'll smile and play the pleased partner. he wonders if he used to blush like johnny does under his fathers attention.
the thought makes him sick.