Chapter Text
Simon hates losing control.
Simon hates losing control.
Simon hates losing control.
Simon hates losing control.
But the amount of shots he downs won't help him regain the part of him he left with Soap, it won't bring back those seconds, minutes, hours they spent pressed together, and the fact that he did enjoy it, in a way. Not like he enjoys killing, or like he thrives in the fear of his enemies, but something purer, something he must've felt as a when he was younger.
He doesn't remember much about his youth, but he knows he liked that warm feeling, until life tore it away so violently it left a gaping hole. If Soap is closing it, does that mean that Simon owes him his life? Or does that mean he's bound to die soon? He shouldn't care.
But Simon hates losing control.
The alcohol warms his throat, and the more he drinks, the clearer his vision becomes. It was simply a mistake. Everything was, and that mistake can only be blamed on one person.
He can't remember why he promised. His thoughts are clouded with rage and memories he doesn't want to think about. He doesn't know why he's enraged, if it's the Whisky or the situation, if it's the weather or his whole life. He knew that by walking too close to the sun he'd end up burning himself, but nobody told him the sun could look so innocent, so harmless.
The rage isn't physical, this time, it burns from the inside, refusing to come out, as bad as Simon tries to scream or punch it out of his system. It stays, as still as a statue, deeply seated in his stomach, a large knot that feels as tight as if it was a thread.
And the cigarette he grabs with trembling unfocused fingers doesn't help, the bit of skin he burns with the flame doesn't pull him out of his cycle, and even the strong smell of the smoke doesn't do anything to clear the fog in his head. It has nothing to do with pleasure. Simon regrets.
And he hates losing control.
He hates losing control so much.
Nothing works as planned when he loses control.
The alcohol doesn't taste strong enough, or maybe his tongue isn't working properly, maybe if he had spent less time teasing and tasting Soap's skin he wouldn't be here now. Maybe if he had been able to stop himself from running hands and teeth all over his body, he wouldn't be sitting here, trying to drown his thoughts in a shot glass. They're way bigger, they won't die.
But his skin smelled warm, hot with fever and sweat, that he wasn't the cause of. His lips were soft, maybe softer than the times before, or maybe Simon's own became rougher, dryer. He brings a hand up, fingers touching the cushion-like surface. Yeah, maybe they got worse, maybe he bites them too much under the mask.
He took it off, and Soap closed his eyes. What would he have done, if he had opened them, if he had stopped obeying, if their eyes had met? Why is Simon so scared of showing his face? If he's scared about judgment…well, that wouldn't make any sense, he's never cared about what others may think about him. He's a murderer by profession, the only gazes he's used to are those filled with fear and horror. He doesn't care what people think of his appearance.
He doesn't care what Soap thinks.
He doesn't.
Care.
Or maybe he does. Maybe Soap is important, even though he has no reason to be. Soap doesn't even know his real name, why would he deserve seeing his face?
Could he guess it?
And then what? What happens once he knows that?
He can't let go of that part of his privacy.
******
John feels like he just went through a fever dream, and the only reason why he can say it happened for sure is how much the blanket smells like Ghost. He couldn't define it, but it is here, filling his senses as if he was still there. But he left, he ran away, again. John doesn't blame him, he probably would've done the same. And it's not like this is supposed to mean anything.
But John doesn't move, because the scent could disappear, and surprisingly, he feels that he would be sad if it was the case. He's clinging to memories of teeth and tongue on his skin, memories of warmth against his lips, and the many marks that will disappear eventually. Maybe he should tattoo them.
The lamp is on, he sees it behind his closed eyes. He can't remember if they were ever in the dark. He could open them, he knows Ghost is gone, but he replays the scene again and again, and opening them would ruin it.
What time is it? Is he hungry? He's sick, he can't be hungry. Will Ghost be sick too? What will happen, then? Should he be worried? Should he care?
It takes him some time, maybe minutes, less probably hours, to finally sit up and open his eyes. His head is still pounding, now that he thinks about it, and he's still covered in sweat, although he's unable to say if it comes from the fever or from Ghost. He massages his temples, but it does nothing against the pain. He contemplates laying down again, but he feels like he’s been in that position for too long, and he might forget how to sit or stand.
Standing makes him feel like he just downed a bottle of strong alcohol, his vision blacks out for a second and his legs shake like they forgot how to carry him. But it passes after a minute or two. Still, he hurries to sit down on the chair closest to the table, the cloud in his mind feeling so real he wonders if he could taste the rain, if it ever started.
What's certain is that the blank paper and the cloud have the same color, and he can't seem to make it change. The longer he stares, the less ideas he has. Maybe he should just draw the cloud and the rain, then lick the paper to see if he can taste the water.
This makes him laugh a little, because he can't tell if he was serious, for a second. He'll blame it on the fever, or maybe he's really starting to go crazy and he could use a therapist.
There are a bunch of reasons why he needs one, the first being that he's been kidnapped, and he tends to forget it, mostly when his lips are pressed against his abductor’s. What would he tell her? Yes, it would have to be a woman, someone that reminds him of the women in his family, the ones he hasn't seen in years, the ones he doesn't talk to anymore. He's not sure he wants to change that. He's not sure Ghost would even let him change that.
She would have eyes as blue as his own, and long braided hair, and she would be as loud and annoying as his sisters were, when they were kids, talking his ears off until he finally confessed what had hurt him. How he had hated it, but how he misses it now.
He's not sure where they are, now. They moved, he knows that much, but they didn't tell him which city, or which country. Or maybe they did and he forgot.
He should draw them. He should remember them enough to do something remotely good looking. The blue eyes and the braids. The blue eyes.
Cold and blue.
He doesn't remember more, so he draws eyes and braids, eyes in braids, braided eyes. Maybe they didn't even wear braids, maybe he's just imagining it, maybe they were bald. Maybe he never actually had a family. That would explain a lot.
He's born from dust and disappointment, along the flesh and bones and all the things needed to create a functioning human being.
The previously blank page is filled with multicolored hair and eyes, and he already forgot why he had started thinking about it. Now it just looks creepy.
John stands up, throwing one last look at the page before walking to the bed to lay down once again. Thinking nonsense is tiring, and he falls asleep seconds after closing his eyes.
He dreams about eyes and braids, and other things he thankfully won't remember.
******
Simon's fingers burn, even though they're underwater, even though a cloth separates them from Soap's skin. It's their proximity that makes him feel like he's in the heart of a volcano.
He wants to apologize, although he's not quite sure why. Many shots and cigarettes haven't helped him make up his mind, and he seems to be more confused than he was before. For a second, after it happened, everything was clear, when his brain stayed out of the matter, when he didn't think about his actions, when he was letting his heart take control over him. He was fine, then, and he didn't try to avoid touching Soap at all costs, as if the smallest contact could turn his hands to ashes.
Soap isn't looking at him either, and even if he was, Simon would probably miss it, knowing he's been staring at the wall and blindly washing him. Why is he even washing him? He knows how to do it himself, doesn't he? Or did Simon just need an excuse to touch him more, while also finding excuses to not touch him? Does that have anything to do with control, or is it fear that is turning the gears inside his mind?
They don't speak either, but that doesn't really change from how it was before, so while it feels a little foreign, Simon isn't bothered more than that by their silence. He's bothered by his thoughts, by how much place they take in his head, and by how good they can swim in the alcohol he ingested. He won't go as far as saying he's drunk, but he should be full enough to not think at all, which isn't the case.
Would standing up and leaving now be the same as giving Soap the reigns? Or would he panic and try to follow him out of the bathroom? Would hitting him again solve the issues he has with himself, or would spiraling down violent behaviors just ruin everything more than he'd wish it to?
The burn on his fingers doesn't subside, and it reaches the place where his heart is, the place he locked up under tons of chains, the place that had to never be opened. The place Soap reached so easily.
It doesn't hurt, or at least, it isn't a pain he's familiar with, and that is terrifying. He knows the feeling of a bullet through his chest, he knows the feeling of a knife in his leg, he knows every type of pain there is on earth, the pain of a good beating, the pain of a loss and whatever nuances exist, but the pain he currently feels isn't definable, this pain hurts where he can't feel anymore, where he doesn't want to feel anymore.
Those blue eyes that he meets without really wanting to, that look back into him, and into his soul, he imagines. He tries to close the door, he tries to pretend he never let him in, even just on the porch. He should've never been able to even look inside him.
"Stand up." He says, reflecting his own order, and he can't help but look at Soap like he never had before. It's weird, how many thoughts can cross one's head, how many images flash behind his eyes when he blinks, how memories have anchored themselves in every crevice of his brain.
He grabs the shower head and turns the water on, hesitating for a second if he should turn the water in his direction and drown his thoughts this way. Would Soap save him or would he use that chance to run away? The idea of testing him crosses his mind like a bullet train, never quite stopping to allow him to really think about it.
******
John isn't sure what Ghost is thinking about, he's not even sure what he's thinking about himself. Is he relieved, to know he's not the only one who feels embarrassed about standing there? Ghost looks at him differently, his gaze lingers where he doesn't dare his fingers to do the same. John wouldn't mind, but he's not going to explicitly ask for it.
The water hits his body, slightly colder than it usually is, and Soap knows it was made consciously because he saw Ghost move the faucets lever. He doesn't say anything, freezing the intimacy in between them must be the best thing to do, and he's used to being tortured, so that's nothing. At least that's what he repeats in his head as his teeth click together, a sound that somehow reminds him of heavy rain.
He's pulled out of the bathtub when he's deemed clean enough, when he's drooping wet with cold water and sneezes roughly half of his brain. Ghost looks at him like he's about to comment something, but the words never come out, or maybe they do and the water in John's ears keep him from hearing them. He's wrapped in the usual towel that seems to harden day after day, and today it feels like a sheet of cement, when compared to the warmth of the taller man. He regrets having had a taste of that poison, because everything sounds empty now.
"Are you hungry?"
John nods, although he's not sure what he's supposed to be hungry for. He can't tell how long he stayed in the basement, or how many days ago they shared a heat. It doesn't matter, he'll eat whatever Ghost puts on the table, as always.
"Wait in the basement, I'll come get you when it's ready."
Again, John nods before sneaking out of the bathroom as fast as his wet feet allow him. The last thing he wants is to fall in front of Ghost, it would be painful physically and emotionally. He already feels inferior enough, there's no need to add more.
There's something like embarrassment tugging at his heart as he lets himself fall into the mattress, wrapping his whole body in it. He copies a statue in its immobility, eyes wide open. His hair is far from being dry and droplets of water fall on the mattress and run down his temple, some threatening to land in his eyes. He blinks them away, and the water replaces tears, because John doesn't feel like crying. He has no reason to cry. Or rather he has too many and wouldn't know where to start.
******
Simon inspects his hands, arms, chest, back and even legs for any marks left, and newer scars, any burns, because the pain is too great to not be physical, it has to come from somewhere. He doesn't like seeing his old scars in broad artificial light but that is an issue he can think about later.
He should be thinking about what to cook instead of ways to remember what he wants to forget so bad. What happened is in the past, hanging onto it so desperately will only flood him with emotions he's not ready to let in yet. He didn't spend years of his life building walls around himself for some insignificant dust to crumble them with just one touch.
Simon is the one who left marks, he's the one who couldn't help but bite and suck and tug on Soap's skin, and he pinches his lips thinking about it, as if not seeing them anymore helped him cope with the truth.
Wasn't he also leaving marks on him when his hands closed in fists, wasn't he scarring him in a way more violent, when his nose broke, or his face bled? What is different about now and then, except the way of doing?
He puts his clothes back on when his inner monologue finally stops and leaves the bathroom as if flames were licking the walls. He really hates seeing his body. What did Soap think about it, about the scars? They had a conversation, he knows, but he doesn't want to play it again in his mind. Did it have anything to do with his body in the first place? Maybe he's too self-centered. It's better to be, when everything around dies down like flowers near a fire.
Cadavers of cigarettes lay in the ashtray, as well as the bottle and glass that were supposed to be his escape. He might as well have opened the door and walked out, that would've probably worked better. He throws the cigarettes away and puts the glass in the sink, to wash or use later. His choice will be based on how well the meal with Soap goes.
It feels like a date, like a new season, but he never wanted the previous one to end, when they were weary of each other, when the only way they touched was through punches and hurtful silences. It was peaceful in a way that satiated Simon, a way that resembled the battlefield, when sound means death. He doesn't like the silence they have now, heavy with unsaid words, heavy with remindings of that night, or was it day? He doesn't like silences that are so loud it hurts his ears, he doesn't like silences that keep talking when he tries to drown them, he doesn't like silences when Soap is here, in his head, in his heart, and no amount of screaming would make it go away.
Focusing on the food only helps for a minute, because all his moves are routined by years of living alone, and the less he thinks about the cooking, the more he wants to stab his own head. Maybe he should bring the food to the basement, like he did before, when the only feelings he had towards Soap was some sort of obsessive ownership.
Yes, that's a good idea.
Simon prepares everything, then walks to the basement door, a smile tugging at his lips that he wills as genuine as it isn't. He should be happy, he wants to go back to their first days, he wants to go back to the silent treatment. He wants it, brain-wise, but his heart sings another song. Oh, how he hates Soap for digging out all the things he had so carefully buried.
But the more he stands here, the more his idea of stepping back into the past sounds stupid. Soap isn't the same, he isn't scared anymore, at least not in the way he was when a simple click of his tongue was enough to make him fall to his knees. Did he accidentally train him to be a copy of him?
Still, he opens the door with the plate in hand, and quite easily spots Soap laying down, rolled into his blanket, eyes opened and blinking slowly. Simon is spotted immediately, and Soap frowns when he sees the plate but doesn't make any effort to stand up.
"I'm eating down here?"
Simon shrugs, placing the plate on the square table. "Honestly, I thought it would be good for me."
"At least you're honest. Do you regret it?"
That's a question to which he doesn't have an answer yet, and maybe never.
"If you want to eat outside the basement, just bring the plate up, the door isn't locked."
And he walks out, because if he stays longer, he might do the things he's trying to avoid.
******
John wonders if he should feel hurt or relieved as much as he wonders where he should eat. Here, alone, or in the kitchen with a stranger he's slept with? Would what they did be considered a one night stand? Why is he even thinking about that? He doesn't know Ghost more than he knew him before, and the new things he knows about him left him with the fever, so the pieces of memories he has in his mind don't really make sense.
He chooses the stairs, the middle, so he doesn't have to make a choice apparently too hard for his tortured mind. Getting out of the blanket may be harder than finding solutions to his newly-arrived problems, and after a minute of fighting with his own body, he escapes the prison he had created himself, hair sticking up, half dry. Again, he needs to ask Ghost for a cut.
He looks at the content, and his mouth fills with saliva before he even has time to grab the plate. There's a piece of salmon surrounded by rice, like a little volcano, and next to the plate, disposed like a restaurant setting, a fork and a fish knife. John can't help the laugh that shakes his whole body, a laugh that quickly turns to tears, and his body is shaken by sobs. He doesn't know why he cries, he doesn't know if he's happy, sad, relieved or just stupidly emotional.
When he's calmed down enough, he takes the plate and sits on the stair, right in the middle. He put his blanket as a makeshift pillow under his butt, and it works well enough for him to deem it a good eating spot. The fish tastes delicious, and using such a uselessly-utilitarian knife fills his heart with joy.
He takes his time, and by closing his eyes, pretends to be in a restaurant, the walls made of glass, the table in front of him too big for him alone, but he is the only one sitting there. In the distance, he hears the cook preparing the next entry in the kitchen. If he focuses enough on his sixth sense, the one of having partially lost his sense of reality, he can smell the different plates other people have ordered. People that aren't here, but if John had been able to pretend Ghost was here when he wasn't, how hard can it be to just imagine random features?
When he opens his eyes, he's a little disappointed to see the same walls, the same floor, the same bucket. He stares at it until his eyes burn, willing lasers out of them, like in the superhero movies he used to watch. He could ask Ghost for TV time again. The bucket doesn't disappear, even after minutes of shooting imaginary lasers at it, and John soon gives up, finishing up his plate before standing up, walking up the stairs and opening the door slowly. He spots Ghost in the kitchen, back to the door, hand already reaching for his balaclava. So, no face-reveal yet.
"How did you even hear me?"
"So you admit trying to sneak up on me?" Is Ghost's answer, and John rolls his eyes.
"...No."
There's a moment of silence when John walks into the kitchen, putting the plate in the sink, next to the shot glass. He doesn't comment on the serious alcohol issues Ghost has.
"I need a haircut."
He doesn't need to see it, to know that Ghost is staring at him, the shivers under his skin are enough. It prickles like a thousand needles, a sensation he's now used to, after months of living under his gaze.
"You do."
It is stated as obvious, like John is stupid for not having mentioned it earlier. Maybe he is, maybe he had other things on his mind, maybe he'd think about his appearance more if he was allowed to look at himself more often. He's not mad because he's not sure he'd like seeing the result of abuse on his face, even though it healed, physically.
"Now?"
John turns around to look at Ghost, then down to his finished plate. He too used a fish knife to eat, and John stops the smile that threatens to appear on his face.
"Go in the bathroom, prepare everything, I'll be there soon."
John nods and walks out of the kitchen.
Being alone in the bathroom allows him full use of the mirror while he prepares all the things they will need. He feels like it's been an eternity since he was able to look at his face, and the reflection that is sent back to him feels estranged, as if the man on the other side came from another lifetime, as if the John there, and the Soap here were different entities, and the one living in the physical world was taking over. If he punched the glass, would he be able to take back the parts of himself he lost to the monster?
He sits on the toilet seat, looking down at his nails, and at the burn scars on his palms. The one he was before would be impossible to get back, because the body he has right now, with marks and scars, resembles in no way the one he had before. It's a lost cause.
******
It's the same sensation as going on the front unprepared, the same knot in his stomach, the same headache and deep-rooted fear, except this time, it barely makes sense. As far as he knows, Soap isn't carrying any heavy weaponry, and even if he was, the chances that he'd know how to use them are low. So why is he in such a panicked state? Why is his heart beating so fast, as if to prepare for a sudden heart attack? Is his denial of feelings becoming so obsolete that even his own body pains to believe it?
Is he being betrayed by his own self?
The fact that he wasn't able to show even remote violence shows it, doesn't it? He's gotten weaker. What would his family say, if they knew? And surely, no military base would want a soldier filled with useless emotions.
It's all Soap's fault, he's sure of it. The way he looked at him, the way he got more confident day after day, as if he had unlearned everything Simon had tried to inculcate him with.
His fist slams the table, and by that, the edge of the plate, sending the cutlery flying down on the floor in a loud clatter. But even that isn't enough, breaking objects isn't enough, Soap wouldn't feel it. He needs to feel the same despair Simon is going through.
He promised. He promised. He promised. He promised. He promised. He promised. He promised. He promised. He promised. He promised. He promised. He promised. He promised. He promised. He promised. He promised. He promised. He promised.
That's what he tells himself as he walks to the bathroom, with the unwavering resolve of making Soap regret his actions. And maybe they will spiral down into what they had just crawled out of, maybe it will be back to square one, but maybe square one was the easiest of all, when the silence wasn't loud, when the atmosphere was the same as on the field, where words meant death.
"I prepared ev…"
The tone begins happily, until Simon grabs a fist of his hair, bringing Soap's head down against his knee, once, twice, until he feels like the state of his face resembles the state of his own heart. Until Soap breaks into sobs, probably confused and hurt in all the ways he could be.
When he's gotten all the bad things out of his system, Simon kneels in front of Soap, in the same way he had done previously.
"I'm sorry, let me clean your face up." He grabs a cloth as he says so, wetting it and cleaning the blood off. It all went so fast that he's not even sure it really happened.
"D-did I do something wrong?"
He didn't. Or maybe he did, Simon isn't quite sure about it. He didn't explicitly break any rules, but he did make Simon feel ways he tried his best to never feel again, so surely that is a good reason to be punished.
But he broke a promise, even if just for a few seconds. Should he ask for forgiveness? Maybe Soap forgot all about the promise, maybe he'll think, like Simon did when he stormed in the bathroom, that it was just a return to the source.
"I don't know."
The conversation ends here, and the rest of the cleaning is done in complete silence. Real silence, the one where even thoughts don't dare speak up. Simon likes it, he feels at peace, he feels in control. But how sad it would be, to have developed their relationship to this point only to destroy it.
******
Pain brings back memories like an opened faucet flooding his mind, and John feels nauseous each time the cloth touches his skin and the smell of blood fills his nostrils. He doesn't cry for long, because he knows very well that it could've been worse. At least, that's what he tells himself. He's good at pretending, he has learned from the best situation, where showing how in pain he was resulted in more suffering.
"L-let's cut my hair, yeah?" His voice shakes and his fingers tremble where he places them on Ghost's face, over the balaclava, and he so would love to dig his nails in and tear the man's skin off as revenge, but he doesn't, be it by fear or pity, or both. Instead, he smiles his most sincere smile that looks as fake as the others, but for that part they'll both have to play pretend. They're good at it.
"Yeah, let's do that." Ghost answers as he gets back up, throwing the bloodied washcloth in the sink and quickly rinsing it under cold water. As it always was before, there's barely a caring look from Ghost, and he goes on with the hair cutting as if it was a duty.
John stares at a spot in the bathroom as if he was trying to see through it, his fists closed on his knees, fingers white with tension and lips pinched together. He may pretend, in his head, but there's nothing more uncomfortable than being lied to and treated like he had been, there's nothing worse than going back to the nightmare his life was.
He wants to understand but doesn't dare ask, even less when Ghost is holding a sharp object near his face. How fast would a slip from his hand go? How quickly can a trained murderer stab his neck and leave him to bleed? Where is the limit, if promises are so easy to break?
John's hair falls on his shoulders and on the floor. There's a saying that hair holds memory, but he's certain that his hair doesn't hold anything, because cutting it doesn't change anything to his situation. He still remembers everything he wishes he wouldn't.
He brings a hand up to his face, to the puffy area under his eye and to his nose. It's not broken this time, but it sure hurts when he touches it. He'd love to be mad, stand up and walk out and slam the door behind him, or even, a wish from his wildest dreams, punch Ghost back twice as hard, kick him to the ground until he's a crying mess.
"What would happen if I hit you back?" He asks, for reasons he himself ignores. Ghost looks at him, one eyebrow raised in surprise and amusement.
"Try and see? I'll let you try and hit me once, when we're done cutting your hair."
That must be a trap, surely, but John nods, almost eager to possibly get revenge. He sees a smile in Ghost's eyes, or maybe he imagined it.
After his haircut has been freshened, he steps in the shower for a quick rinse.
"I'll give you some clothes, we'll go outside."
"So you can humiliate me in front of others?" John asks as he's being dried.
There's a pause during which Ghost must be thinking about his next words.
"Hm…humiliate…? No, I just don't want you to knock stuff down."
"What do I get if I hit you?"
This time, he can't have imagined the laugh he hears when Ghost answers, "You won't."
It fuels his will to win, although a part of him already knows he holds no chance against a trained soldier.
******
Simon lends his clothes to Soap, again. He doesn’t know how many times this happened, and how it makes him feel, to see someone else, someone he took in against his will, wearing his own clothes. Maybe he’ll never know, maybe he’ll never want to know.
He’s standing in front of Soap, arms on each side of his body, relaxed yet aware of everything around him. He knows he won’t have to overdo it because he knows Soap hasn’t received any sort of training, be it now or before, when he was still a free man.
“I’m ready.” He says, eyes focused on each of Soap’s moves, on the rhythm of his breath and the amount of times he blinks. He’s nervous, Simon can see, and there are a few good reasons he could think of.
“You don’t look ready.” Is Soap’s contra argument, then a deep breath and a shaky exhale. Does he regret ever coming up with such a silly idea?
“I don’t need to look ready, but if you wish…” Simon brings his arms in front of him in a defensive position, and immediately Soap shakes his head.
“Actually, not looking ready was good.”
“I thought so. Are you nervous?”
“You promise you won’t hit me if I touch you?” Soap asks, stretching his arms and shoulders for the thousandth time.
“You won’t even come close to touching me, but yes, I promise.”
Finally, Soap launches forward, arm ready for an uppercut Simon had seen coming ages ago. In a matter of seconds, he’s in position, arms up and elbow blocking the blow. Usually, he would hit back, but he promised not to hurt him again, even just to defend himself. Would it even count as defense, if there was no danger to start with?
“Again, please.” Soap breathes out, almost desperately.
Simon nods, and he's at it again, so much so that they end up having a one-sided fight where Soap attacks and Simon only defends and blocks. He has to stop his muscle memory and reflexes from hitting right back, and that self-control exercise somehow feels like a punishment for not keeping his promise. Serves him right, maybe.
It lasts a few more minutes, a few more punches, before Soap falls to his knees, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.
"How?!" He looks up, eyes wide with incomprehension and confusion. "How did I not hit you once?" He doesn't sound mad, just frustrated, and Simon finds it funny. He doesn't find a lot of things funny, but this is one of them.
"Close combat training. Years of it."
Soap looks at him for long seconds, as if he was expecting it to have been a joke, but Simon stays dead serious as he dusts his shirt.
"Teach me."
"You like punching me that much?"
Soap wouldn't admit it even if it was true, so Simon doesn't await any answer. Which is why the nod he gets as an answer surprises him a little.
"Getting back at me, huh?"
"It's not as if I'm really hitting you." Soap shrugs, rotating his wrists to relax them.
Simon can't disagree with that, at least for now. And maybe this kind of fight would help him control himself too, maybe there's something for both of them in it.
"Let me think about it. Let's go back inside."
******
It felt good. Exhilaratingly good, like what he imagines a line of coke to feel. His hands still shake a bit from the adrenaline and he holds them close to his chest, a laugh, no less than hysteric, deforming his features. He's alone in the basement, once again naked.
"Fuck… John, what the hell?!" There's disbelief in his voice, and if he had a mirror, he'd probably stare at himself with horror and pride. He must have gone crazy, but Ghost was crazier for accepting, or well, almost accepting. Still, John can't help how giddy he feels, how fast his heart beats.
Not only that, but the pure terror, each time his punches were blocked, the fear of reciprocity, of getting hit out of habit rather than as a consequence. This feels like a rush of whatever substance he's drunk on, that makes his heart refuse to settle down, that makes him want more, so much more. It's like he's taking a bit of his life back, a part of his choices and actions from the hands of his abductor. Sure, he'll probably never beat Ghost in close combat but the low percentage of chance, even if it scratches the area below zero, motivates him highly.
Then, there's the possibility of Ghost simply refusing, and John isn't sure he's ready for it, not when he's clawed himself to that idea so strongly he's sure any other answer than yes would physically hurt him.
They're not that far yet.
Right now, he should think about how thirsty he is. Ghost started leaving bottles of water in the basement, although John isn't quite sure when he started, or when he even brought them down, it's as if they had always been there. Logic would have it be since the start of his training, and for him to bring them during the night, but for the second point, that man is a shadow of himself, and he could be standing in a corner, invisible to John's attention.
He opens the full bottle, the cap doing a light cracking sound when the plastic bits holding each other break. Those are sounds that remind him of a normal life, the ones that contrast the most with the sounds of torture and cries he sometimes dreams about or hears in his head.
He drinks directly from the bottle, emptying half of it before setting it back on the table, then sitting on the chair and exhaling slowly, his heart finally calming down. He doesn't need the blanket, he's sweaty and his skin burns from the inside out. He's sure his cheeks are red.
He touches them, grazing his wounds and hissing in pain. It's as if his taste of revenge had made him forget the reason why he had asked for it in the first place.
There aren't any rules keeping him in the basement, but there isn't anything allowing him free access to the bathroom, now that Ghost is back, so he opens the door to the basement widely and waits. He doesn't call Ghost, something about bad memories holding his voice back and clamming him up.
He doesn't have to wait long before he's spotted by the monster.
"Hungry?"
John shakes his head, then gathering the courage he needs to ask for non-essential things, he whispers, "Can I use the bathroom mirror?" Somehow, before he was beaten up again, he would've simply sneaked out. But even though Ghost promised again, a part of him pains to believe him, and that is the part that is murmuring right now.
"Sure, then you can come to the kitchen, I prepared something."
John hums, although he's not hungry, and goes into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. For a second, the small part of him that is still resentful thinks about grabbing the scissors still laying on the edge of the sink and trying to attack Ghost, but the bigger part of him, the one functioning on logical outcomes, knows it would be suicide.
He catches his reflection in the mirror, and instead of pride and horror, he's met with deception, against himself or Ghost, he couldn't tell. The stream of tears that run uncontrollably down his face sends him back to the past, and the more he tries to stop them, the stronger they become. He wipes them angrily, some of them landing on his lips, and he licks them off, tasting the saltiness.
It makes him think of the sea of freedom he'll never get to swim in ever again.