Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Life is full of surprises. Simon knows that much, because all the unexpected events in his life were things he wished he’d never seen. But he was gifted with sight, a sight that has been witness to many unfair situations. If he had to choose, he would rather close his eyes and ignore them all, pretend like people don’t exist, or like he himself doesn’t exist.

The lightless surroundings provide a sort of safe space Simon loves more than anything he’d ever be confronted to. The hobbies he’d been forced to try at school all seemed boring compared to spending hours under the cold, midnight rain. He’d always been sort of a loner, misunderstood by many, his family included. 

He forgot about them now; he killed them in his dreams and for all he knows, those dreams turned real. He knows how they sound when they scream in rage, it can’t be far from the tortured howl they’d let out if he shot them. He sees them, wide-eyed, staring at their son, their precious son holding a gun to their forehead, pressing the trigger without an ounce of hesitation. He hears the blast, pictures their head bursting like an overfilled air balloon, and blood splashing the area around them. He sees his blood and brain matter stained t-shirt. It’d be white, and he’d keep it as a souvenir.

It never happened, which isn’t good, or bad. It is just a fact that Simon has never had the courage, or the need to go back to his family just for the sake of wiping them off the face of the earth. He has other things to do. One of them is bird-watching. He’s not watching birds, per say, but his new neighbor. He shouldn’t, he knows that much, but something inside him has taken an obsessive interest to the man, and Simon can’t help but stand in the middle of the tree provided shadows, as still as a statue for hours on end. 

He knows many things about his neighbor, without having exchanged a single word, save for the usual good mornings and weather small talk. Neighbor’s name is John Mactavish, age unknown, but Simon assumes he’s in his thirties. No pets, no girlfriend or wife, no kids. He drives a classy charcoal colored BMW, cream white leather seats, chrome rims. Simon could recite the license plate by heart, he could describe the prints left by the wheels and draw them with his eyes closed.

His kitchen smells like newly bought candles and laundry detergent, his bedroom is filled with whiffs of generic men perfume and what smells like longly used bedding, but Simon’s favorite place, the roots of the most pleasant fragrance he’s been given to inhale, is John’s bathroom. If there was one place he wouldn’t mind being stuck in, it’d be this one. First, the walls are an immaculate white, and the tiles that ornate the lower part seem to have been polished one by one. They reflect light like they’re made of it and Simon has had the urge to taste them. He's never given in to such weird craves but he's always just a step away from doing it, just one glass of Bourbon too many. 

The bathroom floor isn't anything special. Made of another set of tiles, cream colored, they mismatch the whole atmosphere of the room, as if everything else has been renewed, leaving them old and mainstream. Simon doesn't mind, because a coffee colored fluffed up rug covers three quarters of the surface, so the old flooring can easily be ignored. 

Simon has set foot in all the other areas but the bathroom has always been a no-go, because the rug would give his position away, his presence, and it isn't what he wants. Not yet. He has plans, and they can only be executed if John stays oblivious to all the stalking. It is, first of all, the whole purpose of stalking, to not be seen. 

He's always careful, knows exactly when his neighbor wakes up, the exact amount of coffee in his white "Best Dad Ever" cup he got as a joke gift from one of his friends. Although he has no children to be a best dad to, it has become his most used tableware. The rim is a little broken, just over the first D, on account of the dishwasher. 

Simon wonders if John likes to pretend he owns a family, a wife and a son. The wife would be taller than him, with long hair halved in two tight braids. She'd wear dresses even in winter and would smoke those manufactured mint flavored cigarettes, the ones that taste like a bad brand of chewing gums. Their son would have a basic name, one that is so common he'd feel like the whole neighborhood carries it, and he'd wear low priced clothes coming from second hand stores, the ones that smell like they haven't been washed since the former owner wore them. 

Yes, John likes to pretend, or Simon likes to imagine that he does. 

It takes him ten minutes to finish his cup of coffee, unsweetened but with a dash of milk, before he hand-washes and dries the cup, dishwasher be damned, and makes himself ready for his work day. Simon knows a lot about John's life, the exception being where he works and mostly, what exactly his functions are. 

The car makes a satisfying roaring sound when it starts, the wheels screech against the concrete and John leaves his avenue without a minute of delay. 

08:00AM. Everyday except Sunday, and he always comes back roughly ten hours later. It is never precisely the same time but close enough that Simon doesn't need to worry about him showing up unexpectedly at his own door. 

Today is different. Today is a big day for both of them, one isn't aware of it but if Simon has learned one thing from his family, it's that surprises are always the opposite of what one would await, and they're never good. 

Breaking in isn't hard, he's done it many times, so much that he wonders if John purposefully overlooks it or if he just trusts his alarm system a little too much. Simon knows the password, he's hacked into the program thanks to months of costly online lessons. He's lost money but he's gained skills, although he's unsure if he's done it the legal way or if he had risked having the law enforcement banging at his door. 

It doesn't matter. What matters is that he's inside. The shades are always pulled down, which is incredibly helpful. 

Simon has prepared everything, from the drug he'll use, to the gloves he'll wear for the occasion. He opens the shelf holding the powdered coffee and grabs the packaging, opening it and taking a breath of the strong aroma. 

He empties the content of the tiny zip bag he had gotten from the dealer down the corner. It doesn't matter what drug it is, it only matters what it does to him, and the result should be him, collapsed on his kitchen floor, tomorrow morning. 

When he deems the powder mixed enough that it isn’t visible to the human eye, he puts the coffee packaging back where it was. He stands in the kitchen for a few more seconds, memorizing every little detail. The chairs are all pushed under the table, as if nobody ever used them. It adds to Simon’s belief that John has a whole family made up in his head. 

He can’t stay too long, although he knows his neighbor won’t be here for another set of hours, he can’t risk anyone else seeing him. Not that this neighborhood has ever cared about each other. 

Simon leaves the house through the same door he has used to enter it, with the same confidence as if he owned the house. Which, if going after his own logic, he already does. 

He doesn't immediately go back to his own place, it would be boring. He walks around, counts the trees ornating the street. They wanted to bring nature to the area but all the trees seem to just have been copied and pasted. They look fake. Maybe they are, the leaves are always a vibrant green. It can't be natural. 

Simon doesn't work. Well, yes he does, or he couldn't pay the rent to his house, but is it not a job he likes to talk about. It does not fit in any sort of small talk with strangers, and he believes that the only friends he's ever had died on said job. It still crushes his heart to think about it, so he pushes the memories so far in the back of his mind that he sometimes forgets he's had friends. It was another life. 

He feels a drop of water fall on his wrist. It has started raining. It does not feel the same as when he is alone, at night, but rain has always been relaxing to him, so it doesn't matter what time of the day it comes. 

And the neighborhood is calm enough that he feels like he is the only man alive. Sure, the old man is peaking out his window, people-watching in a more acceptable way, and he hears children laughing and running under the rain, but he can ignore them. He'd hear them even if he went back inside. 

He's still forced to go back home after a while, if just for the sake of hunger and needing a long hot shower. 

******

The day has come. Simon has been awake for a while now. The alarm clock next to his bed shows 04:00AM. John is not going to wake up for another two hours, but Simon can't seem to sleep. His heart is beating fast, pounding inside his head and wrists. Excitement, apprehension…mostly excitement. 

He couldn't explain why he needs to have John with him, almost like a trophy, and he couldn't tell what he'd do with him once this happens, but one sure thing is that he won't back up now. He can't. He'll think of his next steps when the first one succeeds. 

The shades aren't pulled down yet, John always closes them when he's about to leave, which won't happen today. Simon wonders if his workplace would mind him missing work. He knows his job doesn't allow him to miss a single day without a really good reason. It's good, that he has a few days off. He'll think about how he's going to organize their lives once he starts working again. 

****** 

The coffee doesn't taste like it usually does. John checks the expiry date at the bottom of the package. It should still be good, so why is it tasting so bitter? Maybe he didn't rinse the cup well enough? That must be it. 

He doesn't finish the coffee and empties it in the sink, setting the mug on the counter. 

At first, it feels like he's turned away from the counter too fast. Then, he feels like he's downed a full bottle of his strongest alcohol. He knows it's not the coffee. No, he knows it's the coffee, but not because of the date. 

Is someone trying to poison him? He should throw up, he knows it's the best way to get the drugs or poison out of his system, but his legs give up under him before he has time to grab the border of the sink. 

He collapses on his kitchen floor, his head hitting the cold tiles. Before he completely loses consciousness, he hears the doorknob rattle. Someone is going to come help him. 

Black boots. It is all he sees before his eyes close, as much as he tries to keep them open. It’s like he’s been hit by a brick. His instinct tells him those dark boots do not belong to any sort of help, but to danger itself. 

******

Simon puts one knee on the floor and stays still for about ten seconds. He looks around, then down at his watch. “You’re going to be late for work, John.” He whispers, unsure if his words reach the unconscious man’s ears. The clock shows 07:36AM. He has about twenty minutes time, in theory, to bring John to his house, take his car keys and move the car somewhere else. If he manages to get John out of his house, moving the car shouldn’t be too stressful. He can always walk back. He will have to restrain his neighbor well enough that the idea of escaping doesn’t even cross his mind. 

Simon is suddenly thankful for the years of training he’s had. John is heavy enough, and wouldn’t let himself be carried that way, if he had a choice. 

He needs to hurry, because the whole area is starting to wake up. He could’ve done that on a sunday, but John doesn’t drink coffee on sunday, for whatever reason. Well, maybe today wasn’t the best day, as everybody’s working, but then again, that neighborhood wouldn’t bat an eye if they heard gunshots. Simon has never tested his assumptions, he’s just pretty sure of it.

The front door is the easy way to go, but also the one where he risks being seen the most. Going  through the backdoor is the hard way, because Simon doesn’t know if breaking the knob would trigger the alarm. 

He looks outside. Moving the car and then moving the body sounds better. 07:44AM. Nobody is going to check who is driving the car, or where it goes, right? 

His mind fully set on that new plan, Simon sets John’s body against the counter, quickly checking the man’s pulse. Alive is always better. He then walks to each shade, pulling them down until the whole kitchen bathes in darkness. 

“I can’t have you call for help…” He thinks out loud, looking around. John’s phone lays on the living room table, the one that looks like it’s made for a whole family, not for a single person. He grabs the phone and pulls the whole thing apart, then takes the sim card and the battery out. The sim card snaps between his fingers, and he drowns the battery under the sink water for as long as it takes him to fasten John’s wrists to the foot of the counter. Sometimes, home designers really think about everything. 

The rope, this one comes from his actual job, fits tightly around John’s wrists. Simon knows many knots, from the loosest to the ones impossible to undo without cutting them. He chooses something right in the middle. John wouldn’t be able to break free, but Simon wouldn’t need to waste the rope by having to cut it. 

He also pushes a ball of fabric, a shirt he had actually stolen from John’s wardrobe, into the man’s mouth, so far that he wouldn’t be surprised if it made him gag and heave a little. 

Simon stands up and looks down at the abstract art he’s created. John is still unconscious, barely breathing, and the gag doesn’t help at all, but it’ll have to do until he’s back and can move him to his place. It’ll be better, he nods to himself before walking out of the house. 07:56AM, he steps inside the car, taking a few seconds of the short time he has to breathe in the cheap men's perfume scent and the leather seats. This car is either new or well taken care of. 

He’s observed John leave his alley so many times, without knowing how it’d feel to have the machine vibrating right under him. He will engrave that sensation in his mind.

******

Lint and dust spread on John's tongue as he slowly regained consciousness. His wrists hurt, his rear is numb and tense at the same time, his legs tingling and painfully stiff. He looks around. Nobody. He needs a moment to remember what happened prior to that situation. 

He breathes deeply through his nose, the cloth in his mouth pushes his tongue down and he knows he can't speak, but it is no reason to panic. Staying calm is the first best thing he can do right now. 

Analyzing his situation comes close after. He knows he's sitting against the counter of his kitchen, he knows that the thing digging in his wrists is a nylon three strands rope, one used in the military amongst other places. The type of knot is hard to define, he can't touch it in this position. He guesses that the shirt in his mouth is one of his. He's been observed. 

The door opens. He hears it more than he sees it, and those same boots he had seen before fainting appear in his field of vision. He doesn't show any signs of fear until the man, a rough 6'4" tall, with shoulders large enough that John knows he's not just working out for fun, stands in front of him. He's wearing a balaclava and only his eyes are visible. 

John swallows the lump in his throat, or tries to. The shirt is in the way and he almost chokes on it. The man approaches and kneels in front of him. "Already awake? That won't do." 

His voice is roughed by years of smoking, and the hand John feels against his cheek has lost its softness. The knuckle punch John registers against his temple too. 

****** 

Simon didn't mind to punch him that hard. Bullshit, he could've hit harder, with the risk of killing him before even having a bit of fun first. That is not the plan. 

He loosens the knots and rolls the rope around the intersection of his thumb and index and this elbow, then sliding it over his shoulder before lifting his neighbor aka new found toy off the floor. He throws one of John's arms around his shoulders and holds it in position, sliding one of his own arms around the man's back, under his armpits. 

"Would've been easier if you were a woman." He mutters as he walks out of the house. At least, if someone spots them, he can pretend they had a rough night and he's just bringing his friend to his house because this place is a mess. The shades are down, nobody is going to check if he's telling the truth. 

He walks along the tree-filled avenue, and if he gets weird looks, nobody seems to notice the dangerosity of the situation. Sure, John just looks wasted, head hanging low, but Simon thought he'd meet a little more resistance from those strangers. He won't complain. Did they even know someone lived in the house?

Reaching his door appears to be more exhausting than he thought. Dragging an unconscious body as if it was still awake is something they never taught him during his training. Maybe he should've asked his superiors. 

He lets him fall on his couch and lets out an out of breath "welcome home". He hears the voice of his superior yelling at him to stand straight and not act like a pussy in his head. He ignores it for a second before straightening up and walking to his kitchen. There isn't much to be proud of around here, except for the knife collection displayed in his living room, and the bullets he's been shot with laying in a clear cased box on the only shelf he placed near the entrance door. 

If John's home smells like candles and men's perfume, Simon's house smells like cigarettes and detergent. It is not a pleasant smell, but he is used to it. His walls have taken a yellowish taint he can't seem to get rid off, not to say he's stopped trying the moment it didn't work within the first hour. Patience isn't a word he's familiar with. 

"Alright Johnny, sorry I can't give you a tour but that's not where you belong." He talks to deaf ears. This time, he doesn't try to pretend he's already awake and carries him over his shoulders. "I've prepared a little something for you." He voices, fully knowing he's not being listened to. "Hope you enjoy." 

He pushes the door to his basement, tempted to let the man fall down the stairs for a second, before deciding to be a little nicer about it. Breaking him immediately upon arrival would be cruel. 

Simon organized the basement room as best as he could, and with as much comfort as a rudimentary place would allow. The walls are white enough to seem clean and the concrete floor is a medium gray. Placed in one corner is a mattress he bought just for that occasion and a little makeshift nightstand stemming from an old wooden box. 

On the opposite side, a table fills the space,  two chairs pushed under. One for Simon, one for John. Simon smiles at the thought and lays John face down on the mattress. He was careful to take the most comfortable one.

He grabs one of the chairs from under the table and pulls it next to the bed, sitting down on it. Before doing that, he was careful to lock the door and bind John's hands behind his back. He wishes that this phase will be over soon, as he doesn't want to damage his skin. 

He waits. He has all day, at least today. It won't be like that everyday, but it won't matter at first. John is in his learning phase, Simon will have to be strict. 

"Oh." Simon realizes that John is still forcefully munching on his shirt, and he feels sorry for not taking it out sooner. He knows nobody would hear him scream here, if he ever thought about howling for help. It makes him think about his dead parents. The one he hasn't killed yet. 

****** 

John opens his eyes and the first thing he spots is the emptiness inside his mouth. The shirt has been removed, and although he still tastes lint on his tongue, those aren't as horrible as the nauseous feeling he got from having his mouth stuffed full. 

The second thing that teases his senses is the cigarette smell, strong and eye-watering. He hates it. His eyes shift to the left and he sees that same man, that same mask, this time lifted over his lips. He's smoking, staring down at him like someone would look down at a poor dead bird. John can't read his expression, but he seems satisfied. 

"Awake?" The man asks, and John feels forced to nod. He doesn't know why he's here, but he's pretty sure it's not to become friends. 

"Good." 

John doesn't answer, his eyes are fixated on the cigarette slowly burning its way to his kidnapper's lips. He can turn it all the ways he wants, it won't change the fact that he's been abducted. 

His arms hurt, they're numb like his ass was when he was sitting on his kitchen floor, and his shoulders are pulled back in a way that makes him need to crack a few bones. He can't move his arms, just barely wiggle them. He could try and stand up, make a run for it, but that man is taller, and the door is most probably locked. 

"Why am I here?" John asks, tongue furred and throat burning. He can't tell if it's because of the smoke filled room or if the poison is gnawing at his flesh. Both scenarios are unpleasant. He's not even sure it's poison. Wouldn’t he be dead already, if it was?

The man doesn't answer. He holds the almost fully burned cigarette between two thick fingers and puts it out against John's palm, who lets out a hiss of pain. He didn't want to damage his skin, but he has to learn. If he's good, Simon won't have to mark him too much. 

"I am pretty sure I haven't allowed you to talk." He sighs before standing up. John tries to stand up but a booted foot between his shoulder blades stops him from moving any further. 

"Try. Just try to escape and I will smash your head with that same boot." 

It is said in a deep, calming voice. A voice that is not fitted to say those things, but at the same time, John pictures him as a villain without an ounce of hesitation. He flops back on the bed. He wants to ask if he can at least be freed from the rope, but he'd rather have numb arms than a crushed skull. One would be pretty irreversible, the other is just really uncomfortable. 

"Ghost. My name is Ghost." 

John hears it, but doesn't dare give any signs that he understood. He knows it isn't his real name, but he's aware that it will become a reality to him. 

The room is cold, he's hungry but can't say anything about it. His stomach gives him away, and Ghost seems to hear it, because he walks to the stairs and says, "I will get you something to eat. Wait here." 

As if he had a choice. 

The door slams shut.

"Ghost." He whispers, when he hears the lock click into place. "Ghost." He lets it roll on his tongue. It tastes like the bitter coffee from this morning. "Ghost." Five letters, each seemingly innocent, but ghosts are vile creatures. "Ghost." It makes him nauseous, it revives the burn inside his palm, the tension inside his body, the pain inside his throat. 

"Ghost." He sighs, finally fully understanding his situation. The only way he's getting out is with a cracked skull. 

Fanart from EOY on Twitter by @DoktorsTweeter: Here

Thank you again Doktor <3

Chapter Text

Simon lits another cigarette as he nonchalantly walks to his kitchen. He pulls the balaclava off his face and throws it on his lone one-seat sofa. He should order another one, when John behaves a little more. He wants to show him around, although, again, there is not much to be shown. 

Simon runs a hand through his static hair, the fabric of the balaclava worsening an already existing issue. He's read a lot of tips to get rid of them but hasn't tried any. There is no point, if he's going to wear it most of the day. 

He washes his hands under warm water and dries them on a clean towel. He should put some hand cream on, but it'd come in the way, and he hates the slippery feeling when he's wearing gloves. On the other hand, he still has one day off and his skin could use the moisture. 

He can think about it while preparing the food. He can't wait for the time John will get to try his cooking, but for the meantime, he will get whatever holds the longest outside the fridge. If he's good, maybe, maybe Simon will think about adding a mini-fridge to his little basement apartment. 

******

John waits, and while he waits, he replays the events from this morning. At least he thinks it was this morning. He has no way to tell time, no windows on the outside world that could hint him on how early or late it is, and no clock hanging on the walls. So, he guesses time, based on his level of hunger. 

It is useless to think about it, he knows his stomach won't settle without food but he can't really walk out and get it himself. Patience is a virtue, they say. John is pretty confident that whoever said that had never been in his situation.

He can move his legs. He could stand up and walk around, but the promise of a crushed skull floating at the back of his mind stops him in his plans. It feels like pain has been embedded into his body, like someone has knitted his veins and arteries together so tight, that even the slightest movement makes him wince. 

It feels like hours before he finally hears the lock rattle and the door open. He wants to look but stops himself, not knowing how much movement is enough movement to become a threat to himself. 

"I brought you some food." Ghost says, walking down the stairs slowly enough that John knows he's doing it on purpose. "Hope you're hungry." 

John has learned his lesson, it is still stinging the palm of his left hand, so he stays silent and waits for Ghost to place the paper plate as well as a box of what he'd qualify as snacks on the table. There's just enough to last a few days, and John knows he'll have to count his portions. 

"I'm going to untie you, alright? One wrong move and the boot is in your face." 

John nods shortly. He watches Ghost open the different packaging and cans before walking back to him. He presses a thumb against the cigarette burn and John holds a pained moan. He doesn't see him smile, but he can picture the grin under the mask he's wearing. 

The ropes are unfastened and John lets his arms fall on each side of his body, a relieved sigh escaping his mouth. He doesn't want to sound like he's content with being freed, because as much as he is, it doesn't balance the fact that he's still kept in a basement, with a tall man with boots as weapons. 

That thought would've sounded crazy a few days ago. Yesterday. He would've thought he's being paranoid, and watched too many action movies. John has never wished to be an actor, so why was his life turning into a horror movie?

He hears the nylon ropes hit the ground next to the bed and looks down at them. What are the chances that he's fast enough to grab them and use them as a choking device on his abductor? His arms hurt, so he'd say close to zero. He gives up before even trying. 

"Sit up." Ghost says. It's an order, and John pushes himself up on trembling arms, the stiffness in his limbs is nothing compared to the way his stomach seems to have started to eat itself. He sits cross-legged on the mattress. Ghost takes his wounded hand and examines it. He doesn't apologize, just coldly eyes the round blister before letting go of John's hand. 

"The food is on the table." 

John sees it. He's not blind, but he knows his legs won't hold him. He can't ask for help, although he'd have the voice for it. 

Gathering all the strength he has left, he crawls on four, on trembling arms and numb legs, under Ghost's cold, but still somehow mocking gaze. 

He pulls himself up on the only chair near the table, the other one having been moved near his bed earlier. He allows himself another sigh of relief when he finally sits down before his eyes shift down to the paper plate and the multitude of food, from cold beans to dried meat. He turns around and looks at Ghost, feeling like he should ask for permission. 

******

Simon looks down at John who is desperately crawling to the food. He's not smiling, and if his eyes are shining, it isn't because of the stars in them, but simply because of the remains of smoke in the room. He observes attentively as his neighbor climbs up the chair like a toddler who'd have trouble keeping balance. 

"That should last you the week." 

Simon says, pointing at the snack filled box. A week, or less. Maybe more, if John is really good at portioning his food. 

******

After saying that, Ghost left the basement once again with the promise of coming back to clean him up. John is not sure what he means by that, and has decided to bathe in ignorance until that moment is unavoidable. 

The dry meat tastes like any generic dry meat, and the beans seem to have bathed in flavor enhancers for days. John swallows the urge to throw up. He doesn't have the luxury for it, and surely, Ghost would make him eat it all back. It takes him a long ten minutes to eat half of the canned beans and two slices of dry meat, before disgust wins over hunger. 

He knows the food tastes bad for a reason. Ghost is asserting control over him that way. He has two choices, force the food he's been given down or starve to death. He won't get anything else. 

The door opens again, and this time John counts how many steps it takes Ghost to reach the bottom of the stairs without turning his head to look at him. Fifteen. It won't help him out to know that, but he felt the need to be aware of it. 

Staying on that chair for that long is starting to hurt his rear, but standing up doesn't cross his mind, not when Ghost is behind him, his presence towering over him like the sword of Damocles. He wouldn't be able to stand up anyway, he still doesn't trust his legs. This added detail just gives him another reason to stay seated. 

"Are you done eating?" He asks, and John nods once again. Nodding is fine, it doesn't result in threats and violence. 

"Can you stand up?" 

This time, John leaves a few seconds of stillness before he shakes his head. 

"Crawl back to the bed then." 

******

Simon sits on the chair near the bed while he waits for John to reach the bed. He doesn't mind waiting, in that case. It is amusing to see him struggle that much for something as trivial and easy as getting around. He’s a grown man, but what Simon is witnessing right now comes closer to how a baby would crawl around. He doesn’t laugh, but he does find it funny.

After a minute, which must have felt like days for him, John is finally laying down on the bed, eyes closed, out of breath. He usually is pretty fit, but right now it feels like he’s been climbing mountains bare handed. 

Simon plunges a towel in the water bucket he had brought along, which John hadn’t noticed, if the look of pure horror he gives him is anything to go by. His eyes say it all, everything but that , but Simon doesn’t take it into account when he starts undressing him.

John's skin is awfully soft under Simon’s rough fingertips, which forces him to be much more careful if he doesn’t want to accidentally bruise it. He doesn’t meet a lot of resistance, but John doesn’t fully accept his fate either. He doesn’t fight it, but he also doesn’t make it easy for Simon to undress him. It pulls a sigh out of his lips, and he stops to stare at him. 

“John.” 

It makes him cease all movements, all pseudo resistance, to stare wide-eyed at Simon. 

“That’s your name, right?” Simon asks. “John Mactavish.” He then chuckles as he removes his shirt with such ease that he wonders if John turned into a ragdoll. 

******

John feels bile rise up from his stomach to his throat. It was a thing, to be kidnapped, it is another thing that the man undressing him knows his full name. He forces himself to swallow the burning liquid. He can’t feel sick right now, he can’t waste the food he’d just ingurgitated. He can’t make this man mad. John knows the boot isn’t a threat, it will happen, should his behavior diverge even the slightest. Those are only speculations, but he doesn’t need nor want to verify them. 

He’s fully naked. Ghost has folded all the clothes with a meticulousness that has John shivering. Or it might be the cold. 

Ghost wrings the excess soap water out of the soaked towel and starts by rubbing the middle of John’s chest. The familiar scent throws him off and he glances at the bucket, his life almost flashing behind his eyes as he realizes Ghost had stalked him for a long enough time to learn what his favorite candle scent was. In any other situation, from any other stranger, John would’ve thought it was a coincidence, but coming from that man? He’s a hundred percent positive it was all planned.

The cloth is warm against his skin, John can’t complain about that, and Ghost is excessively thorough with his scrubbing. 

Ghost’s mask isn’t a deep black. It is closer to an ashy dark gray. It is a close knit, thick enough that it must keep him warm during the cold months without hindering his breathing. His eyebrows and lashes are honey blonde, his eyes a medium brown. The color doesn’t hide their emptiness. John can’t read his expression. They make eye contact, and for that short instant, the cloth that had slid down to his stomach stops moving. It is like staring into a mirror. All John sees in a reflection of himself. 

He opens his mouth, then closes it, looking away. 

“Ask. One question.” Ghost speaks, voice low, as he resumes the scrubbing.

John still hesitates for a few seconds, then his mouth opens independently from his will. He could ask why he’s here, like he had tried a few hours prior, he could beg to be let out, he could even scream at the top of his lungs, now that he’s been allowed to speak. But his fear chooses something else, and with a voice far too small to be his own, John whispers. 

“Why do I have to call you Ghost?” 

Ghost’s shoulders spasm in what appears to be a laugh, although John doesn’t hear it. It was a stupid question, one that doesn’t matter at all. He doesn’t know why he asked it. He must’ve panicked. 

The cloth reaches his most private parts, and John feels all his pride be swallowed down by an invisible force; shame. 

“Because you using my real name would mean you’re equal to me.” 

After that, none of them speak for as long as it takes for Ghost to rub John’s entire body, front and back, with the towel. However, John’s mind runs a mile per minute, trying to find a meaning to Ghost’s answer, one that is hidden between the lines. One that he is maybe unable to understand now. 

The towel is put back inside the bucket and John watches as Ghost stands up. He grabs the bail of the bucket and lifts it off the floor. “I’ll be back.” 

John doesn’t doubt it. He’s always been back. 

******

Simon pulls his face cover off once outside of the basement and takes a deep enough breath to fully inflate his lungs. His heart is beating fast in excitement, and he can still feel the sensation of John’s skin under his fingers, only separated by a towel. He’s giddy, although he’s unable to express it. He exhales, then walks to his bathroom. 

The size of it is similar to the one in John’s house, but it is bare of decorations. Everything is clean, too clean to not be suspicious. Simon wonders if someone has died here. Maybe his parents. He empties the soap water inside the bathtub, watching it swirl through the drain. He then rinses the bucket for long seconds before feeling it again with warm water. 

The mirror overlooking the sink gives him a reflection of him that he refuses to see. He should’ve kept the mask on. 

He closes the faucet and carries the full bucket back to the basement.

John hasn’t budged from the position he had been left in, on his stomach. He’s staring at the wall, or the table, Simon can’t tell, and his toes are flexing, as if trying to discreetly get the blood flowing in his longly unused legs. 

“Stand up.” He orders, as he sets the bucket down in front of him. 

******

John moves his head just enough to have Ghost in his field of vision. He doesn’t move, for the first few seconds, but when Ghost grabs the bucket, John understands that he has been given a choice. Step off the mattress and be rinsed in another corner of the room, or stay there, and sleep on a soaked mattress. This raises another question: What will happen, when he needs to use the toilet. 

He urges that worry in the back of his mind and pushes himself off the mattress and on shaky legs. He walks a few steps, then looks in Ghost's direction. His finger is pointing to the corner, and John goes there, feeling like a kid that had just been punished. His stomach rumbles, louder this time, and he eyes the snack box still proudly located on the table. He regrets not shoving the entirety of those canned beans down his throat. 

He sees Ghost grab the bucket from the corner of his eyes, but his focus is set on the food. He doesn’t know if seeing it worsens or appeases his hunger, but he can’t take his eyes off of it. 

He gasps, when the water hits his body. It isn’t too cold or too hot, and he knew it was coming, but maybe somewhere in the depths of his mind, he had thought that Ghost would be as nice about it as he had been with the washing. 

The water runs down his body, pooling at his feet. John’s entire body shivers, this time because of the cold. He looks down at the goosebumps emerging everywhere on his arms and probably on other places he can’t see. He stays still, waits for Ghost to throw another wave of colder water, or bring a dry towel and wrap him inside. 

None of those scenarios happen. Ghost just sets the nearly empty container down and sits down on the chair, as if the effort had exhausted him. 

John doesn’t dare move, but his teeth are chattering uncontrollably, and he wraps his arms around his body. 

“You know you’re allowed to move?” Ghost frowns, and John’s eyes shoot up. 

“Wh-what?” 

Oh. Mistake. 

John can’t swallow back the words he’s already spoken, and he surely can’t explain why those words slipped out of his mouth without using other ones. He’s fucked. 

Ghost is fast. He’s incredibly fast when he grabs the bail of the bucket, which John only now realizes is made of metal, and swings it full force until the bottom rim meets his cheekbone. The hit is precise, calculated to the millimeter, entrenching a wide crescent-like cut in his skin and sending his head to the side. John wails, bringing a hand to his cheek. Blood runs through his fingers and he stares in horror at the stained metallic surface. He can’t say if his cheekbone is broken, all he knows is that the wound pulses under his fingers and tears make his vision blurry.

“I’m sure I had told you not to speak without permission.” Ghost sighs, as if he had just confiscated a game from a capricious child. He sets the bucket down and walks to John who flinches so hard he almost falls to his knees. 

“You brought it upon yourself, don’t act scared now.” He says, as he pulls John’s hand away from the cut. The cut isn’t deep, but the bruise around it is wide and reaches up to his eye. Ghost winces internally, but doesn’t show any pity. The blood flows down for the sole reason that face injuries tend to bleed more, but he will survive it. 

“I was nice enough, could’ve targeted your nose.” 

John looks at him through teary eyes, the pain hurting his entire head. The skin under his eye starts swelling, and blinking starts to hurt as much as the cut itself. 

****** 

John’s cheek didn’t break in a million pieces, although the force of the hit vibrated through Simon’s arm. Maybe the bucket wasn’t solid enough. There was blood, lots of it, and a wail that sounded like an animal had been shot. Overdramatic. But no broken bones, no holes. 

Simon leaves to grab bandages and fill the bucket with cold water, using ice cubes from his freezer in it to drop the temperature a little more, and also grabs two clean cloths. He comes back to John curled up in a ball on the mattress, body and breath shuddering with the force of his sobs. John who startles when he hears the bucket touch the concrete, but doesn’t move. 

 ******

“It might burn a little.” Ghost whispers, the tone in his voice soft and full of care. John ignores it. All he can think about is the pounding in his cheek and how he must get out of here. As soon as possible. 

The cloth against his cheek is cold, soothing. It is strange that the one bringing him comfort is the same person who caused the distress. John couldn’t say how he feels about it. It can’t be good. 

When the wound is cleaned, Ghost makes him sit down and wraps his face, including the cut obviously, in bandages. He knows what he’s doing, and John wonders in what field he works. He can’t ask. Maybe that would’ve been an interesting question. He may get other permissions to speak. 

“It should be fine for now. I’ll go buy some gauze and band-aids later so you can actually eat.” 

The change in tone makes John sick, confused, angry. How can this man nearly rip his face off with a bucket one second, and care about if he eats or not the next? It makes him want to scream. He doesn’t. He stays eerily silent, so much that he can’t tell if he stopped breathing or not. He doesn’t care, he might as well die on the first day. 

Except dying isn’t that easy, and his rumbling stomach doesn’t fail to remind him that. He’s hungry. He hates that he’s hungry. He also despises the way Ghost looks at him, or the way he frees his mouth by gently tugging on the bandages, as if it’d repair the pain he’s caused. 

He’s enraged, when Ghost stands up and grabs the pack of dried meat, as if he was about to feed a dog. He wants to scream when Ghost sits down on the chair, and taps the floor in front of him to get John closer. Wrath against his own weakness is all he feels when he crawls between his legs, waiting to be fed. Chewing hurts, but he ignores the discomfort as much as he can. 

The meat tastes like iron, but that might be the blood in his mouth. He’s sure he swallowed a tooth, when the bucket hit him. He doesn’t want to check. He stares at Ghost’s stomach, his eyes following the lines of his abs. 

“You understand why I did that, right?” Ghost asks. John is tired of those questions. He doesn’t understand, but he nods. 

“If you don’t follow the rules, there are consequences.” He then continues, and John keeps staring at his abs, not even chewing anymore. He’s not sure he can even swallow the food if Ghost keeps talking. 

John feels a hand running through his hair, and he knows it’s not his. His eyes start to burn, but he doesn’t shift them from Ghost’s stomach. Maybe if he stares long enough, a hole will form there. 

He wants to cry, hard.

******

Simon’s fingers brush John’s hair back, but they stick back into their original position. This pisses him off to no end. The sides of his head are shaved at one millimeter. Simon had never paid close attention to it, but John takes good care of his appearance. Well, now, with a wide cut in his cheek that will surely leave a scar, he would look less appealing to strangers, but Simon doesn’t care. He could have all the scars in the universe, he’d still be his favorite thing to have in the universe. 

His brows are thick. Simon runs his thumb over them, and John closes his eyes tight. 

“I’m not going to gouge your eyes out.” He reassures, but his eyes don’t open. Simon’s mind wanders. What would it feel like, to plop someone’s eyes out of their socket? Would the eye burst before it’s out, or would it slip out with the right amount of pressure? 

His hand continues its little exploration, careful not to touch the wounded side of John’s face. His other cheek is rough, where his fingers meet the beginning of a three-day beard. He has yet to decide, if he wants it gone or not. 

John’s lips are soft. Or Simon's fingers are too rough, so their softness seem to be increased tenfold. 

Simon resists the urge to force a finger inside John's mouth. He doesn't want to scare him. Doesn't desire him like that. Not yet. Maybe never. John isn't behaving well enough to be desired. 

Hours have passed since he brought John here. He had promised himself to keep him as intact as possible, but what can he do, if he keeps breaking the rules?

Some may say he has anger issues he should take care of. His superior says that a lot. He's not violent, if people listen to him. They're the problem, not him. 

"The ease with which you kill is disconcerting. You lack emotions, Riley." 

He hears that phrase in his mind every time he looks in a mirror. That's the image he hates, one of a cold-blooded killer. He's not cold-blooded, he's just never been told how to experience emotions. They're all the same, pale copies of each other. Killing is his job, he can't cry for every man or woman he strips of their lives, he can't pay respect to every families, can't share their sorrow. He doesn't know how to. 

Simon emerges from back from the pool of thoughts he's been thrown into, and removes his hand from John's face before standing up. 

"You should get a bit of rest. I'll bring the band-aids tomorrow after work."

John looks at him like a deer in headlights. Simon wonders in how many pieces he can rip the deer apart, if he drives fast enough. 

*******

Hours. It takes hours for John to find peace. 

He's alone, he should be relieved. He can talk to himself, if it pleases him, he can sing, he can count the sheeps or turn into one, and Ghost can be the big bad wolf. 

He can count the interval between each beat of his heart, he can count his fingers and toes, he can count the tingles around his cut. 

He can stare at the ceiling and imagine which room is overlooking his. Is it Ghost's bedroom? He can try to guess the color nuances around. Ghost's balaclava was an ashy dark gray, his shirt, something like a washed out olive green. His eyes, a medium brown, his lashes a honey blonde. 

He can calculate the angle and force with which he's been hit. He needs something to write for that. Next time he has a chance, if he remembers, he will ask for a pencil. 

He's alone. He can do many things. But he doesn't. He brings his wounded hand closer and examines the blisters, the burnt skin, the redness around, the dried blood. 

He tastes the blood in his mouth. His eyes water when he blinks. He's pathetic. He doesn't need to hear it from anybody else, he knows.

Another issue peaks into his thoughts, as if he didn't have enough already. He needs to pee. He's been holding it for long enough, not wanting…daring to ask Ghost. The bucket is still here. Still half full with icy water. This would be a waste of water. 

Didn't Ghost say to call him, if he needed help? John isn't sure anymore. He doesn't want to experience another bucket episode. Would peeing in the bucket be source of another violent outburst? 

John doesn't know what to do, and his bladder can only hold that much longer.  

Chapter Text

Simon hears his name being called. He'll need to instate a rule about that, or he feels like John will be tempted to scream his name at any time of the day and night. 

Pushing himself off the bed, Simon puts his boots, the shirt he was wearing and his balaclava - he's already wearing a pair of sweatpants, that should do - and walks back to the basement. Although tired, he doesn't shuffle his feet and walks with as much confidence as force, when he had hit John in the face. 

He opens the door. The basement is bathing in darkness, and for a second Simon awaits for John to jump at him and pull him down the stairs. None of that happens. Simon wonders how bad he'd have to punish him if it ever crossed his mind to hurt him. 

John is sitting on the chair, the one Simon usually sits on. He doesn't like that, but chooses to ignore it. 

"You called." 

John looks up at him, tears in his eyes. Simon notices those tears don't come from the pain in his wound, but from something much more natural. Still, even after guessing the issue, he waits for John to voice it. 

"What can I do for you?"

John doesn't pipe a word but holds his crotch harder. Simon is starting to feel his patience slip through wide cracks. 

"John, if you don't talk I'm leaving."

"I need to pee!" John whines between gritted teeth. 

******

John can't really hold it any longer. He doesn't have a choice, because something in the back of his mind tells him that if he wets himself, he'll be the candidate for another beating. 

"You could've told me, instead of staring at me with those eyes." Ghost rolls his eyes, and John almost retorts something, pressing his lips together to stop himself from making the same mistake again. 

Ghost then proceeds to turn around and walk back up the stairs. "Come on." 

John looks down at his naked body, and with all the good will in the world, tries to ignore how inhuman it makes him feel. He could as well be crawling on all four. 

Standing up reveals to be a little harder than John thought. His bladder takes the sudden upright position for a sign to relax. "Fuck." He whispers to himself, taking a deep breath. It hurts. He should've asked earlier, but he didn't really feel like he was allowed to. 

"Hurry, I want to sleep." Ghost calls from the top of the staircase. 

John walks as fast as his full bladder allows him, and once outside of the basement, he looks around. 

Ghost's house is plunged in darkness, if not for the light coming from under the closed door facing the basement door. Must be his room, John thinks. 

He's led to the bathroom, and if he ever thought for a second that Ghost would give him privacy, those thoughts are cut off as soon as he stands at the door frame, shoulder supporting his body against one of the frames. 

"Hurry." Ghost urges. 

John thinks he's going to feel ashamed of having to pee in front of another man, and that it will stop him from doing so, but his need ends up being stronger, and the first trickles hit the toilet bowl. It feels good, almost making him forget where he is. He still feels Ghost's eyes on him. 

"We'll set hours for toilet breaks. And don't call me during the night anymore. Actually, don't call me unless it's a life or death matter." 

John nods. He can't really do much more than obey and hope that his reactions don't bring him another bucket to his face. 

He washes his hands, then looks at Ghost, who seems to have gotten taller. John has maybe shrunk in shame. He's still naked, and Ghost is fully dressed. His face houses a wide cut, Ghost’s one looks void of any scars. From what John has seen, at least. 

"Let's go back." 

John throws a last look at the bathroom. He eyes the bathtub, imagining taking a warm bath. His eyes shift to the wide window, which he imagines jumping out of. He'd take a run for it, scream for help, naked. People would be forced to help him. 

"Stop thinking about ways to escape John, or I'll have to lock you in the basement and let you piss against the walls." 

John feels a shiver run down his spine. He's sure it will happen, and he's sure Ghost is able to read his mind, so he turns back from the window and follows him back to the basement. 

At least, his legs support him better than a few hours ago. 

Ghost opens the door and when John starts going down the stairs, careful not to trip, he hears the door slam shut and the lock fall into place. 

He can't see anything, but he knows the mattress is on the opposite side of the stairs, and that he has to be careful because the bucket filled with water is somewhere near it. He can't waste that water. 

Testing his way across the room with the tip of his toes, John moves forward carefully, his hands following the walls. It takes him a good three minutes to reach the mattress, where he's finally able to lay down and try to sleep. How late is it? John couldn't exactly tell, but he knows it's nighttime. 

Now, John has time to think about what he wants to do. But can he really escape? And then what? His only escape would be the door. He’s seen the padlock, he could risk an attempt, risk another bucket to his face. Freedom is worth any amount of pain. 

He can walk, meaning he can probably run. He has to. His survival instinct will kick him into the fastest sprint of his life, and if he flaps his arms, like he did as a kid in his parents’ garden, he might be able to fly.

The door wouldn’t be the hardest part. John knows how to pick a lock. He doesn’t know how the house above him looks. Not fully. He hasn’t seen any doors leading to the outside. Windows. He could jump out of the bathroom’s window. 

******

Maybe Simon should stop smoking. That’s what he thinks about, laying down in his bed, back against the header, lit cigarette between his lips. He doesn’t chase sleep tonight, and sleep stopped chasing him long ago. He stares at his door, thinks about what he wants to do, now that John is in his possession. Is it weird to say it like that? He has a drag of the poison, and exhales the smoke. It doesn’t help him think, but it distracts him enough. Stopping now wouldn’t be good. He can’t do that.

The alarm next to his bed shows 02:00AM by the time he decides to get out of bed to get some fresh air. He grabs his black winter coat and puts his balaclava in one of the large pockets. 

The air is cold against his naked face, and he inhales deeply, looking up at the night sky. Tomorrow, John will have the basement for himself. Actually, Simon won’t be home for a few days, but that’s something he kept to himself. He doesn’t need to be aware of it. Maybe he should break both his legs, to avoid any escape attempt. That would be damaging, but safe. 

Simon still needs to think about it in depths, before he takes any stupid decisions. He also needs John to trust him, by any means. He needs him to realize that he doesn’t have a choice, that Simon is the only reason he’s alive. It may take more than a few days. 

Or he could simply chain him up. He would need chains, sure, but he can buy them before going to work. He’ll just have to get them around one of the pipes in the basement and lock them around his ankles. Shouldn’t be too hard.

Smoking may help him relax, but fresh air definitely has the gears in his brain working. 

“What time do you need me tomorrow?” He asks, when his superior answers the phone. 

“First of, fuck off, it’s like 2AM and secondly, we leave in the evening, so be ready for us to pick you up in the afternoon.” 

Simon may have forgotten that not all of them suffer from severe insomnia. “Sorry.” 

There’s no goodbye, just a prolonged beep announcing the end of the call.

******

It may be the craziest decision he’s ever taken, but in his situation, any decision he’s taken has had its fair share of craziness. Walking up the stairs as silently as possible and controlling his breath are easy things to do. Testing the door by rattling it, then listening to any sort of reaction, any steps coming from the outside, is also a child’s play. 

Things get tougher when John actually has to force the door open. He makes sure that Ghost isn’t close, without being able to gauge how far he actually is. The door gives in pretty easily, and John pushes it open, millimeter after millimeter, unable to tell if Ghost will jump at him from the ceiling, or wait for him, arms crossed, bucket’s bail hanging around his fisted fingers, ready to slam him again.

None of it happens. The corridor is silent, the door to Ghost’s room is closed, and no light seems to shine from under it. 

John lets out a relieved sigh, but doesn’t drop his guards. He looks behind the basement door, the walls are stripped of any decoration, like the rest of this house. He tests the floor for any creaking, and makes his way to the bathroom. No light coming from there either. It should be reassuring. It is not, John has no idea if Ghost is in his room, or anywhere else. He doesn’t know if he sleeps late, or not at all, or if he’s currently snoring his way into pleasant dreams. Does this man dream? Those eyes would tell the opposite. 

The bathroom door opens with slight friction, and John stops for a second to look around. The living room is empty, and he takes a few seconds to observe the lack of decoration. It is one of the things that makes him wonder who Ghost really is. How can one not own any personal items? He only notices something shining, which could be many things, few of them not really reassuring him. 

He keeps pulling the door open until the gap is wide enough for him to slip through. 

******

Simon sees it before he hears it. The shadow against the corridor wall. He sighs. Not because he’s pissed, no, but because he has to think about another way to punish John. Violence doesn’t seem to work. Not that Simon thrived at the idea of hitting or mistreating him. 

John’s survival instinct must be strong, or really weak. Simon would’ve thought that he’d wait at least a few days to learn to know his surroundings. Is that one form of despair? To be so eager to see the light that one is blind to the danger around them?

Simon wanted to stop smoking, but John won’t make it easy. 

Another question that is brought to Simon’s mind, as he puts his mask on over his head, is how someone can be so bared of common sense. He’s not saying that John is stupid. No, he’s seen a huge amount of stupid people, those who perish because they lack the brain to understand danger. John is not stupid, if he was, he’d be way more beaten up, he’d be missing a few parts, bearing a few holes. John is just confused, and that is fine. That is fine, as long as he obeys Simon’s every order. 

He walks to the bathroom window and waits. Surely, the window opens, and John, in all his pathetic glory, climbs over the rim. 

“Is fresh air what you wanted?” 

John stares, the deer in his eyes ran away, and there stands a man, whose many emotions have been blended into one. Fear. 

It brings Simon back. Fear, he knows that emotion inside out, where it comes from, where it goes. How it sounds or stays silent, how it speeds or stays still. Sometimes, it hurts, and when it does, that’s when Simon knows he’s fucked. A fear that hurts is dangerous. Simon believes he doesn’t fear anything anymore. He’s spent his childhood being scared, and the world has lost its colors, but at least, all the ghosts from his past have vanished. His parents are dead, in his mind.

Simon doesn’t want to bring painful fear to John, but it doesn’t mean he won’t do it. 

“Your wound didn’t even have time to heal, and here you stand, already wanting new ones.” 

He sighs as both his hands hold John’s head. He does try to resist, but Simon doesn’t spend days on the battlefield to lose against one scared man. A man who doesn’t have any training, who doesn’t know the human body as well as he does. Resistance is futile, Simon recites in his head, as he slams his arms, as well as the head they’re holding, down against the window. The sound John’s nose makes when it breaks seems to echo through the neighborhood. The gargled scream reaches the sky and falls back into deaf ears. 

“John…John, when will you finally understand? Didn’t I tell you that I’d crush your skull with my boot, if I saw you misbehave? Did you already forget? Silly you.” 

******

His ears are ringing. John is confused for a second, the change in position and speed making his head dizzy. He doesn't register the pain immediately, but he knows something is wrong. He heard the crack too. hThe effect of said sound only reaches his senses with a few seconds of delay, the scream he had heard came from him, ripping the sky in half. 

He stumbles back into the bathroom and catches himself on the border of the bathtub. Ghost jumps through the window far too easily for it to be his first time. John is still dizzy, his eyes burning and nose bleeding. It hurts, but the pain isn’t the worst factor. Pain is nothing, next to that freezing sensation he feels in his heart, when he looks at him. Pain vanishes in the background, but blood chilling fear takes its place, and John can’t think of any escape way. He just stares, like a bird would stare at a lion in a jungle. 

“Please…” He hears himself say. It’s like he doesn’t own his body, it’s like he’s watching from one corner of the bathroom, hiding in the shadow where nobody can see him. But Ghost sees him, he’s seeing everything, reading him like an open book. The book is howling in fear. 

******

His parents were always loud, always screaming or throwing things around. Simon has always hated how it hurt his ears, how he had to hide under his bed, scared that one or the other projectile would hit him instead of the wall. Sometimes, he was the target. Fighting back was never an option. He had seen the way the control over his life had been taken away from him and now, John wants to do the same. He can’t let that happen. 

He’s trying his best, desperately. He never meant to hit John in the face the first time. He had done it to teach him a lesson. John is the one who should’ve thought before speaking. He knew he wasn’t allowed to. He knew that the only place he could freely walk in was the basement. Sure, it’s not the biggest room in the house but…John had his freedom there. 

Why must people always seek what they don’t own? Why can’t they just enjoy what they already have? 

John is looking at him with wide eyes, a look that reminds Simon of how he’d stare at his dad, when the man had a belt in his hand, or any other object that would serve him to beat his son. Maybe all that brutality he craves comes from years of suffering, maybe he is seeking revenge through other people. Maybe he should listen to his own advice. 

Simon observes the way John curls on himself, the way he holds his nose, the blood spilling from between his fingers and landing on the tiles. He’ll make him lick the floor clean. He kneels in front of him, a hand reaching for his chin. He sees the way John flinches back. Simon’s fingers wrap around the unhurt skin, lifting John’s head up to examine the broken bone. It’s bad. It sends shivers down his spine. Simon can’t pinpoint the source of them, if disgust or excitement. 

“We need to fix that.” 

He stands up, holding a hand out that John has no choice but to take. Simon brings him to the toilet and closes the seat, letting him sit on it. 

“It’s going to hurt.” He says, before grabbing the nose between thumb and index and pushing the bone back in place. It won’t undo the break, but at least John will be able to breathe normally, and not like an old water boiler. John stays silent, but Simon can read the pain in his eyes. 

“Wait here.” 

Simon turns around and leaves the bathroom, positive that John won’t try to escape again, not yet. Doing it would be suicide, as he’s not sure how many more traumas to his face the man can take. Simon won’t hesitate to kick his face with his reinforced boots. 

Simon doesn’t have any more ice cubes, but he can take one of the packages in his freezer. It’ll work to soothe the pain, at least a bit. 

******

Nauseating. The pain is nauseating, thumps behind John’s face with rhythmical intervals. He doesn’t dare touch his nose to check if it’s been replaced properly, he doesn’t dare inhale too hard, choosing to breathe through the mouth rather than his nasal cavities. If there’s something left of them. His hands are trembling slightly, and he grabs his thighs to stop them. 

He can’t let terror direct his next moves. He can’t allow the cold sensations in his veins to be the reason he fails a second time. Now is not a good time, because if John fails now, Ghost is going to destroy his skull, be it with a boot or a wall, a bucket, the floor. Anything - John feels it, anything will serve to bring him closer to death. 

It’s been barely a few hours, sadly, and yet, John recognizes the pace of Ghost’s steps, their heaviness, the sound of them against the wooden floor, the clack , clack , they do, that seems to resonate through the whole house, but really, it must be knot in his stomach speaking. 

John feels like the princess trapped in a tower, while Ghost assumes the role of the dragon, possessive over something he didn’t own in the first place. John belongs to no one, and even less to a man who took him away without an ounce of discussion. Would John have accepted, if Ghost had asked nicely? Of course not. 

He knows nothing of the man. He doesn’t even know what he looks like behind the mask, except for those eyes, those bone-chillingly cold eyes, yet feel with unspeakable emotions, emotions that don’t belong inside a human, brutality that has only been seen on battlefields. 

The footsteps approach, and John doesn’t dare look up, opting for his own hand, giving himself time to scrutinize every little detail, the nails he should’ve cut by now, the hair on his phalanxes, the wrinkles of skin atop each knuckle. 

His hands are surprisingly unhurt, but John can see the outlines of the rope he’s been restrained with, that left red dips in his skin, like a three dimensional tattoo he had never asked for. 

“Head up.” 

He hears Ghost say, his voice barely a whisper, but the ring in John’s ears make it seem as if he had been yelled at. He doesn’t mean to startle, he doesn’t want to look like a scaredy cat, but Ghost reads his facial expressions like they’re written on his forehead, and he takes advantage of them. 

Fear controls people. John hates to agree with it. 

“I’m trying to help you, don’t look at me like that.” 

Help him? John almost scoffs, then swallows his backtalk again. It tastes bitter, like a too strong coffee, like a drug-filled coffee, actually. His words are chewed and swallowed like they aren’t worth being spoken again. Anger burns his throat, fear makes him want to throw up, and the pain, oh, dear pain , acts like a blockage. Pain saves his life, holds him back. 

The cold compress, that John understands is only some frozen peas, or whatever Ghost had in his freezer, feels like a balm for the ache so deeply encrusted in his face.

He doesn’t want to see the positive sides of those moments, he doesn’t want to acknowledge that Ghost is skilled in both hurting and healing. 

He doesn’t want to see the human behind the monster. 

John looks at the light casted by the moon on Ghost’s face, the eerie shadows it creates on it. Even then, he looks more human than ever, and this scares John so incredibly more. He’s not a crybaby, yet tears run down his face all the same. 

“Don’t cry, John, I’ll take care of you, you will learn.”

Chapter Text

John is back in the basement he so strenuously tried to escape. The walls seem to have converged while he was out,  and what looked like a decent room has turned into a vulgar prison. It is the same room, John realizes, the same dirty white walls, the same mattress, the same bloodied bucket. 

John brings a hand to the cut on his cheek, the sting a cruel reminder of the reality of his situation. He won't wake up all sweaty in his own bed. He might never see the comfort of his own home again, for all he knows. 

The door opens and John looks up from the mattress. 

"Aren't you hungry?" Ghost asks, pointing at the still mostly full snack basket. 

John shakes his head, although he could start licking the floor, and his stomach has started hurting because of how empty it is. He refuses to touch that food. 

Ghost shrugs. "Last chance to eat with your hands." 

John stares at him, confusion reflected all over his face. 

"I'll tie you up. Gotta go to work." He says, grabbing the rope on the floor. John looks at the rope, then at his already pretty badly marked arms. He bites his lip hard, inhaling sharply through his nose. It hurts. Breathing hurts. 

"Can't have you try and escape again." Ghost continues, as he motions for John to turn around. "Last chance." 

John does as told, eyeing the table and the food but not moving towards them. 

Ghost ties his arms behind his back with a skilled, fast move that has John certain of one thing. He's done it multiple times. John has so many things he'd like to know about that man, too many, knowing he's barely allowed to speak.

"You'll manage, if you're hungry. The bucket is still filled with water. Don't drink too much, you won't be able to go to the toilet, unless you pee on the floor." 

Those words. They sound too real, they stab John’s chest like a sharpened knife, and the blood that spills has an aftertaste of freedom. John stares at that freedom, slowly slipping out of his chest cavity, out of his mind, out of his grip. 

He wants to hurl, scream, wail like a newborn, beg. He wants to be able to speak, argue, fight, and have one chance at changing the outcome of his life. Instead, he stays silent, looking down at his naked body, down at his feet, the concrete. Down until there’s no downer, until the tears in his eyes run down his cheeks, some of them directly falling to the ground. 

******

Simon doesn’t comment on the tears. He doesn’t comment on the despair he sees in John’s eyes. He’s tried to get him to listen, he tried to make him behave. It failed. If John had been even a tad bit more understanding, a tad bit more well-behaved, Simon would’ve allowed him to live upstairs. He can only do that much. Four days aren’t a lot, four days aren’t the usual months he spends out of the house. 

“Don’t cry.” 

******

It is said with a lack of emotion that has John’s blood run cold. Don’t cry, while I hurt you. Don’t cry, while I slowly tear apart what had been your life. Don’t cry, John, it’ll only be more painful.

He fights back the tears, because what point is there in wasting the water inside his body? What point is there in keeping all that water? John isn’t sure of anything anymore. 

He doesn’t even notice when Ghost leaves him alone, only lifting his head when he hears the door slam shut and the lock fall into place. Again. 

One second, one minute, ten minutes. John stares at the wall next to the mattress, counting the little dents, running his eyes along all the color nuances, the darker spots that could be dust or blood, or both, or none. Twenty minutes. His body is frozen, the hunger eats at him but the knot in his stomach stops him from swallowing anything. Even his own spit makes him gag. It tastes like iron. 

John can only lay on his stomach, his untouched cheek against the cold mattress. His shoulders hurt, but the greatest pain comes from his heart. A deafening pain that has his entire body shaking. He only realizes a few seconds in, that he’s screaming. He howls, sobs, until snot runs down his broken nose, wetting his top lip, until saliva stretches from his opened mouth, until his whole face hurts. 

He calms down when his voice breaks, when his own body tells him to shut up. He listens. Nothing. This room is soundproof, or nobody cares. Ghost may have killed everyone. Or they’re in a forest, lost in the middle of nowhere. He knows they’re not, he saw the street outside. He saw freedom like an object in a display protected by movement activated lasers. 

Thirty minutes. Hunger will become an issue, more than the way his face pounds or the way he can feel every muscle in his arms. 

He forces himself on his knees, looking around, as if an opening would suddenly appear, as if freedom would take human form and bring him away. 

The snacks stand proudly on the table, the opened dry meat pack, the opened can of beans. John can’t use his hands. He should’ve taken the chance Ghost left him, he should’ve stuffed himself full. He approaches the table slowly, as if going too fast would make it vanish, as if the food risked turning bad if he rushed it. 

He leans down, his teeth closing around the lid as he tips the can on the side to spill the content on the varnished surface. At least, it’s roughly clean. Cleaner than the floor. John closes his eyes, because if he doesn’t see, he can pretend he’s not eating off the table like a dog, he can pretend those beans don’t taste like sweet chemicals. He can pretend the churn in his stomach isn’t nausea. 

With his eyes closed, John can pretend he’s home. 

One hour. The churning hasn’t stopped, and John presses his lips together so tight they hurt. He can’t lay down, he can’t lean forward again, or all the food he forced down his throat will force its way back out. 

He stands in the middle of the room, eyes fixated on one spot on the stairs until his vision becomes blurry. He waits for the sickness to pass, like one would wait for a miracle. His stomach hurts for other reasons now, and John wonders which one is worse.

John can’t afford to waste food, as bad as it tastes. He can’t afford to waste anything when he has no idea when Ghost is going to come back. Tonight? He has no sense of time right now, tonight could be a second or hours away. 

Seconds become unclear, minutes feel like hours and hours seem to never pass. His surroundings stay the same, the luminosity in the room stays the same. Close to none. He’s spent enough time to know where each object is placed to the millimeter. 

He knows where he has to feel, for his toe to touch the cold surface of the metal bucket, where he has to kneel and lean forward with utter care, in case his now settled stomach decides to act up again. Throwing up would be bad already, but throwing up in drinkable water would be horrendous. 

He thinks about the least shameful way to drink, before realizing that he's already naked, on his knees with his face in a bucket. The way he drinks, lapping it like a dog or sucking the water through puckered lips, should be the least of his worries. 

Still, he stays motionless for another minute, until his calves start hurting, before finally deciding that licking the water would take too much time. Sure, sucking it means getting most of his face wet, which will get the water dirty, knowing he's only gotten a rough wet cloth pseudo-shower, but it is the fastest way. 

Fast. Does John want to go fast? If he drinks it all now, what will be left for the next hours. Days. Weeks? 

John wishes to sleep the time away, close his eyes and open them back up days later, fall in a comatose state, an illusion of liberty. But closing his eyes means replaying what has happened during the few hours he was in Ghost's company, it means regretting the sounds, words, that left his mouth, but he might have screamed as well, the result would have been better. Different. Maybe worse. 

Three hours. Two. Four. More? 

The day will be long. What time did Ghost leave? When he tried to escape, it was night time. How late? 

He looks down at the bucket, again, choosing to act and look like a dog for a second, to save water. If his idea will lead to drastic changes in his survival chances, or if he's just wasting his time? He couldn't tell now. 

The water tastes like what the ice in a freezer would taste like. The water has a taste and that would be a problem if John had any other choices laid in front of him.

John looks around, up, stares at what he can see from the ceiling. Not much. 

Is there a reason for the lack of light? Did Ghost think it would scare him? Render his life more difficult? Confuse him? It's working. 

He's not scared of the dark. At least, he wasn't. 

Laying on the mattress on his stomach feels like he's being pinned down by invisible forces. He tries to sleep, having nothing else to do, but his thoughts keep him awake.

Counting invisible sheeps doesn't help, but exhaustion ends up washing over him all the same. The sheeps vanish into thin air, like the chances of freedom he had hoped to find, as he closes his eyes, hoping to never wake up. 

What pulls him out of a dreamless sleep is a need, one that has him screaming inside before he even opens his eyes. 

He looks around, confused as to where he is for a second, unsure of the time of the day. His guess would be noon. Not that it matters. 

John can't keep his mind off Ghost. He fights the thoughts, tries to ignore the guilt eating at him, for if he had just shut up, his face wouldn't look like he fought in a gang, his cheek wouldn't burn. He doesn't have a mirror to look into, but by the feel of it, the bump of skin, he can immediately tell that it will leave a nasty scar. His broken nose might never heal straight. What is he going to tell people, if he makes it out of here alive? How will they stare at him? With how much disgust? 

John is glad he doesn't have a mirror. 

He counts the seconds in his head for a while, then his breaths, deep, steady. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. The need hasn't subsided but he does his best to distract his mind from it. He’d hold it for hours, at home. He should be used to the pressure in his bladder.

John had never thought that not knowing what time it is would mess that much with his body, his mind. He never thought that being alone in the darkness would result in him missing the company of his abductor. He never thought the boredom would make him wish Ghost was here, abusing him, brutalizing his face. He tried his best. Not John. John was a horrible person. 

The tears burn where they meet the cut, and wet the mattress he laid back on. The need is stronger than ever, and for a second, John thinks about relaxing his body. He’d have to live here with the consequences, but that might be the least bothering one. 

He opens his eyes, unsure if he fell asleep or if he just blinked for a second too long. He turns his body to look at the door, still cruelly shut, and lets out a sigh that makes the walls tremble. The walls are moving. They’re shivering like leaves in the wind, and the silhouette of a man pushes through them. John stares in pure horror, tries to stand up, but the ropes seem to have fused with the bed. The pressure in his bladder feels like millions of knives have been stabbed across his stomach. He tries to scream. Nothing. He tries to breathe, but the air turns into liquid metal, stuck in his throat, suffocating. 

John opens his eyes and stands up hastily. He can’t really see it, but he knows the bed is wet, he feels the dampness on his legs and his stomach. Fuck. He can’t remember the nightmare he had, but being here feels more and more threatening. He’s not scared of the dark, monsters don’t exist, at least not those he sees in horror movies. Humans are the most dangerous creatures. He has no reason to fear the dark. 

He has no reason. 

No reason. 

Fuck.  

He really wet himself like a little kid, and the need to have someone, anyone , hold him has his body shuddering. Ghost . Even Ghost could hold him and he wouldn’t mind. 

John stands there, still like a statue. His body dries quickly enough, or maybe he just stood there for hours on end. Maybe weeks have passed, and he just stood at the end of his soaked mattress, maybe Ghost died in his living room, and that explains why the door is still shut. Maybe John himself died, and this room is what Hell looks like. He wouldn’t be surprised. He would be relieved, if it meant he was finally free. 

One thing serves to tell him that he’s not dreaming, or dead for that matter. His stomach hurts from hunger, his cheek burns because of the tears, his breath is still painful and he tries his best to minimize his air intake. 

He tries his best to stop thinking about his shameful accident as he walks to the table and sits on the chair there, pulling it away from the table with one foot. It is not comfortable to sit on it with his hands tied back, it is not comfortable to feel the cold wood under his naked butt, but John manages. He has no choice. 

The food taunts him. It seems to never go bad. It already tasted expired the first time he tried it, must be the reason. There’s other cans and packs in the basket, but John can’t open them without using his hands, can he? 

He has to think for long seconds, before coming up with an idea that is as clever as it is a disgrace for the man he is. Using his feet, grabbing the basket between his toes and placing it on the floor, grabbing one of the packs to pull it out of the basket, then stepping on it to make it pop open. Of course, trying to bring the opened pack back on the table would most probably fail, so John falls on his knees, leans down on the floor and eats off the floor. He doesn’t even taste the food, just swallows it down as fast as humanly possible, begging for his body to keep it down. Hours must have passed since the last time he ate. 

He can’t finish everything now, he can’t risk running out of food before Ghost comes back, if he ever comes back. Something in a corner of his mind keeps screaming that he will never come back, that he’s been abandoned because he wasn’t grateful enough.

Ignoring that voice becomes harder every passing second.

John stands up on shaky legs, wondering how many minutes have passed since he woke up, since he wet the bed. Does he want to lay back down in his own filth, or would staying awake for an unknown amount of time save him the embarrassment? Will the stench dissipate, by the time Ghost comes back, or will the man notice how dirty he’s been? Will he receive another hit with the bucket? Will Ghost kick his head with his boots, will he slam his head against one of the walls? Will he use the ropes? Will he simply ignore it? 

Oh, how he wishes he’d just ignore it. How John prays to a sky he can’t see, to a dark ceiling, to a freedom so out of reach. How he begs on his knees, to a God, any God. Oh, how his chest hurts with the realization that no God is powerful enough to bend the walls of this prison, no God cares enough about him to give him a chance to escape. 

John lost count of the seconds in his head, he lost count of the breaths, but the pain remains. And regrettably, it becomes the only thing he can hold onto to not lose his mind. 

He drags his feet on the ground, his body meeting the filthy mattress with a loud thud. It doesn’t matter anymore, if it’s clean or not, if Ghost beats him up because of it, if time passes or if he’s caught in a loop. 

John closes his eyes, unable to tell how many days have passed.

Maybe the day is repeating itself, because waking up always feels the same. Eating the same food, with the same taste, the same texture, on the same floor hurting the same two knees, scraped and bloody and hurting . And John wants to scream at himself for being thankful for the pain, he wants to shake himself awake, out of that abyss he’s falling into. Thoughts that weren’t welcome before fill his mind, 

He’s not that bad. He tried to help. You were the one who deserved the brutality, John. Learn your lesson. Be thankful he didn’t kill you, even when you ignored the rules. Be thankful your face doesn’t look worse than it is, be thankful that he didn’t cut parts of you, be thankful that he lets you speak, sometimes. 

And he screams to make them stop. He doesn’t scream for help, for nobody would risk their life for an insignificant man, but he screams louder than his thoughts, louder than the pounding of his heart, louder than the ache in his face. 

It doesn’t bring anything, John knows it. It doesn’t make minutes pass faster, it doesn’t tell him if the sky is clear, if the sun is out. It doesn’t help his situation. It doesn’t cut the ropes pulling his arms back, it doesn’t soothe the pain, it doesn’t suppress the hunger or the needs he wishes he didn’t have. 

It doesn’t suppress the horrendous feeling engraved deep inside his dna, that Ghost will not come back. And that feeling is worse than anything he went through. 

Being alone, cut out from the rest of the world, is way more scary than having been kidnapped by an unstable man, John concludes, and that thought makes him giggle, it makes him giggle and cry, and sob and scream, and the rage he feels deep inside feels like the liquid metal he dreamed about. He remembers now, the walls closing, the silhouette. 

He misses his abductor. So much. So fucking much. 

He stares at the wall next to the makeshift bed, which dried completely, so an hour must have passed. Maybe. It stinks. John sighs, closing his eyes. He already felt like a dog, when he had to eat off the floor, but having to sleep in his own filth makes him feel lesser than dirt. The chair he sat on seems to have more worth than he’ll ever have. 

He’s not tired, but he forces sleep upon him. He doesn’t have much else to do. 

When Ghost comes back, he’ll do anything for him. He’ll stay silent, turn into one of the walls of the basement, or into one of the rare pieces of furniture contained in it. That’s a promise he makes to himself.

Chapter Text

John regrets his entire existence when his eyes open, he resents the world, death itself, for not taking him away, for letting him survive another duration of time. He doesn’t care anymore, how many hours, how many minutes, seconds. Hell, it could’ve been weeks. 

He could try opening the door again, but something tells him Ghost has reinforced the lock. Something like the dread of disobeying and suffering the consequences once again. John just stares at the door for enough time to be able to separate the outline of it from the shadow it’s engulfed in. He can’t tell if his eyes are getting used to the darkness, or if his brain simply remembers what everything looks like under weak light. 

He hears footsteps. 

Tap, tap, tap…

He listens, kneeling up in his bed. He got used to the stretch in his muscles, the numbness in the tip of his fingers, the dryness of his skin and the stench surrounding him. He ignores it all, only focusing on what he hears, or believes to hear.

Tap, tap…

They come from right on top of him. They seem to walk in a circle, as if Ghost was pondering coming down to see John. John wants to scream and beg for him to come down, that he’ll be good this time, won’t try to run away. The sound stops.

John holds his breath. 

It starts again, this time right next to him. 

Tap, tap…tap, tap…

Nobody is standing next to him, nothing but darkness and the bucket. John stares at it for long seconds before shaking his head and exhaling the air trapped in his lungs. He’s starting to hear things. He can’t, he won’t make it any longer if he starts imagining things. 

John shuts his eyes tight and inhales deeply, trying to calm the erratic beating of his heart. 

Ghosts don’t exist. 

Tap, tap, tap…

“No. Nope. Not doing that. Shut up.” He mumbles to himself, laying down on his side, bringing his scraped knees to his chest. He can’t cover his ears, but something tells him that even if he did, he’d still hear the sounds, the footsteps, louder, closer, as if someone was stepping on his soul.

His mouth is dry, his deep breaths don’t help the pounding of his heart, or the footsteps resonating throughout his entire body. 

Tap, tap, tap, tap…

John opens his eyes wide, expecting to see Ghost staring at him. Nobody stands there, not even a rat or any rodent. 

“Fuck. What is wrong with me?” 

He doesn’t know who he’s talking to, maybe himself, maybe the sounds in his head, or maybe the ghost who apparently lives in the basement with him. Believing in some sort of entity feels better than admitting he’s losing it. 

He can ignore the ghost, but he can’t ignore the hunger. He doesn’t try to know what meal time it is, he just stands up, a shiver running under his skin when the steps match his. After a few box breathes, meant to help him relax but failing miserably, he walks to the pack he had previously opened, falling to his knees with a pained grunt. 

The steps stop. They stop for the time he eats, devours the food and forces it down. It stops when he drinks too, lapping the water like a street dog. 

He learned his lesson. He won’t let his bladder fail him again. His clothes are useless, he can’t put them back on, but he can at least use them as makeshift toilets. He doesn’t have any other solutions. 

He will still hold it as long as he can, until the pressure in his lower stomach hurts too much to bear, until he has no choice but to ruin the last particles of pride he held onto. 

Shame will become his best friend, it will become the one thing that knows him inside out, the one thing that dug itself a place so deep inside John’s guts, he won’t be able to get rid of it even after Ghost’s return. If he ever comes back. 

John buries those thoughts under the shame, he ignores the burn inside his heart created by that fear of abandonment. It’s dumb, really, to hope for the presence of a monster, to see salvation in said monster, to feel like a princess in a tower. If he had longer hair, he’d jump out the window, or he’d wait for the prince charming to come and save him. 

Is Ghost the prince? 

Tap, tap, tap, tap…

John looks up, stares at the ceiling where the footsteps seem to come from. Not the other side, just… the ceiling. As if someone was walking upside down. Alright. He lost it. 

He can’t help the laugh, hysterical and desperate, shaking his entire frame until he falls to his knees. Nothing is funny, yet his body spasms with the force of his chuckles, his eyes feel with tears, and when his brain can’t differentiate happiness from despair, it mixes both, and the tears of laughter turn into heart wrenching sobs. He’s alone, he’s allowed to be loud. 

Throwing a tantrum, rolling on the floor, kicking his feet, screaming in anger like he sometimes did when he was a kid, until his mom would pick him up and hug him. If he does it now, would Ghost come and pick him up? Would he magically appear, lock him in a tight hug while holding his breath? John knows he stinks, he can barely stomach his own body odor. That might be the worst part. Each breath taken through the nose not only hurts but also fills his mouth with the taste of his own sweat. 

Apnea not being a durable solution, John has no choice but to get used to the bitter taste on his tongue. He doesn’t know what is worse, the smell or the dry sensation on his skin, where the pee dried, or the itch, one he can’t alleviate because his hands are out of use. If he starts thinking about it, he’ll never get out of that train of thoughts circling around his mind. 

Tap, tap, tap, tap…

“I can walk too, you know, I can even run.” He answers the sound, because what else can he do? Maybe talking to the ghost will somehow bring Ghost back faster, maybe if he talks loud enough he'll hear it and come back mad and filled with brutal thoughts. Maybe the slam of the bucket against his other cheek will put his brain back into place, because it seems to have seeped out his ears. 

Maybe if he chants his name like a prayer, he’ll come out of one of the walls, boot in hand, and beat his face to a pulp. 

Maybe if he believes it hard enough, he can summon him like one summons the demon. Ghost must be that kind of creature, so with a little blood and a lot of luck, it should be possible. Right? 

Krr, krr, krr…

Scratching sounds. John looks around, expecting to see an animal, even though he knows he’s just imagining those sounds. The scratches come from the door, and John sees it open slightly. He knows it can’t be real, because even wide open, no light comes from the outside. He closes his eyes and turns around, ignoring the door. But the door moves right in front of him, wide open, yet still plunged in darkness. 

“What kind of joke is that?” He asks himself, his brain, the nerves in his body that seem to have frozen in fear. 

He’s not scared, no, he’s terrified. 

He shifts his body another ninety degrees, eyes closed. The door stands proudly in front of him, opened, mocking him, mocking his vision of reality. 

“Fuck!”

John speeds back to the mattress and lays down on it, keeping his eyes closed. He doesn’t dare open them, doesn’t dare check if the door is still there, if his brain is done playing with his sanity or not. 

He falls asleep, at some point, surrounded by the reek of every bodily fluid and the sounds, real and fake, satiating his mind. He doesn’t fall asleep because of exhaustion, but to escape a reality that has turned into his worst nightmares, but he can’t escape the dream realm, and the door follows him there too.

Waking up in cold sweats would be fine, if John was in the comfort of his own home, in his bed, under his duvet. Not here, not in the cruel cold of a basement, surrounded by darkness that only helps him recall the details of his nightmare. 

John stands up, the shivers under his skin unceasing as he walks to the table, each of his steps uncertain, filled with the apprehension of hearing those damn imaginary footsteps. He doesn’t dare look up at the door, doesn’t dare look at anything but the floor he can barely see. 

He’s not hungry, although his stomach claims food. He just sits down on the chair neighboring the table and stares at his thighs. He doesn’t know how long he stays there, still as a statue, but he knows time will pass anyway, and that’s all he’s asking for.

Tap, krr, krr, tap, tap, krr, krr…

The sound gets louder, more frequent, and both the scratching and the footsteps mix together, as if the entity had decided to bang and claw at the door. John keeps his eyes riveted on his thighs, his nails digging in his palms, the numbness duplicating the intensity of the pain where little crescents form. 

He counts. He counts the hair on his thighs, the little pieces of skin that detached themselves from his wounded knees, the dry spots. He counts whatever he can count, his toes, multiple times. Ten, always ten, never less and never more. 

He counts the seconds, he counts his heartbeats, his fingers. Ten too, no more, no less. He counts the bones in his body. He can’t feel them, but he knows where they are, and he counts his organs, two of them being incredibly loud right now. 

When he’s out of things to count, he starts telling himself stories, reciting his morning routine, before ending up in this place. His coffee, his car. He wonders where it is, if it’s still in front of his house. Ghost wouldn’t risk that. The stories are about demons and blood, deep wounds that are invisible to the eyes, and the more he talks, the more detailed they go. He doesn’t talk to anyone, but the door, the footsteps, the bucket on the floor, himself .

The bucket grows spider legs proportional to its size, and John watches in horror as it starts walking around. It’s not real . He knows, but he can’t take his eyes off that one hallucination, that one trick of his brain. 

Closing his eyes is almost not enough anymore, because the images follow him behind his eyelids. 

Krr, tap, krr, krr…

John doesn’t think he can cry more than there’s water in his body, yet here he is again, with tears running down his face. He lets them fall, licks his lips when they reach the top one, but doesn’t try to calm himself down. He watches the bucket, which is of course still at the place he left it, and not moving around like he had fantasized seconds ago. The door is where it has always been, locked close. 

“Alright, John. Calm down. Nothing’s moving around, you’re just going crazy.” He laughs, exhaling shakingly through the remains of tears. He can at least convince himself that he’s fine, that Ghost will be back soon, that he’ll make everything better. He’ll maybe get a bath, or a wet cloth against his skin, rubbing the dirt off. He’ll get to stare into those honey eyes again, he’ll get to feel skilled hands taking care of his scraped knees. 

Yes. John is sure of it. He just has to wait for Ghost to come back and his hallucinations will stop. The lonely feeling will dissipate, and the fear of abandonment will be filled by his presence. He’ll be good, silent, dead to the world but alive to the only man who seems to care. 

He can wait. He’s been waiting for an eternity, he can wait for another one, if he must. 

Tap, tap, tap…

The sounds resume, this time louder, as if someone was stomping the floor right on top of him, as if Ghost was jumping on one foot at a time. The sound gets so loud that John fears that the ceiling will break, and whatever fantasy he made up in his head will fall right in front of him, real as his own flesh. 

Nothing. 

John breathes out, only realizing he had been holding his breath when his chest starts hurting.

The ceiling doesn’t collapse on top of him, but the footsteps don’t stop, they resonate around the whole basement, on the floor, the walls, the ceiling. 

At least the scratching stopped. At least, that. He’ll only go mad from the footsteps or hunger. He hasn’t decided yet. 

He stands up, again. Laying down, sitting down, standing up, sitting down, laying down. A full circle, the only circle he can do, the only useful movements to not rust from the inside. He can kneel and walk too, but it doesn’t make up a lot from the time he has at disposition. 

He kneels on the mattress once he has reached it, and with a sigh that could make the walls tremble - he does not check if they do, he lays down with a loud thud. He closes his eyes before he can witness any other illusion his brain would be keen to create to keep him awake.

The caress of a feather against his skin, first growing from a dream, then rooting itself in the reality of the darkness surrounding John. The caress feels like fingers running up his arm, turning into a tight grip that has his eyes shoot open, suddenly too aware of their surroundings. 

He doesn’t dare move, but he can feel the hand, or whatever his brain has decided to imagine, slowly shake his body. It’s not moving, yet it is, and John keeps his eyes open, fixated on whatever he can see, meaning nothing. He stares at that emptiness, stares at the non-existent person the hand must belong to. He can’t push it away, he can only lay there, motionless, his breath as silent as it can be, his air intake almost too low, making him dizzy. Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that he doesn’t know when he last ate. He was hungry and he ignored it, he was thirsty, yet all his mind could focus on was the walking bucket and the moving door. 

“I should eat.” He whispers, as if the illusion could hear him. He knows it’s not real. He’s been aware of it since the sounds started, yet he is uselessly careful, moving only little by little, holding his breath as if exhaling too loudly would anger the image his brain had created.

The grip on his arm doesn’t falter, even when he’s standing, and it holds the same strength, the same pressure as Ghost’s hand. He doesn’t know why he knows it, but he knows, and the hallucination that he was sure had been created by his brain turns into something he can’t pinpoint. A reality he doubts yet doesn’t want to stop believing in. 

He reaches the table and waits. He waits for the grip on his arm to loosen, waits for the false reality next to him to allow him to eat. He waits, although he knows nothing will happen. He waits, for seconds, and minutes, and hours, standing there, in front of a table carrying all the food he needs to survive, yet he doesn’t touch it, because the grip didn’t agree, because the grip stayed so cruelly silent.

And although his eyes are opened, it feels like he closed them, and although his legs are strong enough to hold the weight of his body, it feels like the floor under him opens, and maybe it is his imagination, but the grip is released and he’s swallowed by the concrete. His eyes are wide open, yet all he sees is black. Not darkness, just pitch black, like layers of paint behind his eyes.

He collapses on the floor. He knows because his chin hits the hard surface and he bites his lip, he knows because his entire body hurts. 

And before losing consciousness, he sees a silhouette next to him, one that could be real, one that could come from inside his mind. He wishes for it to be real, he wishes for Ghost to be back.

Chapter Text

Simon knows what darkness does to untrained men, he knows how dangerous isolation can be, how cruel time confusion is, when one has no idea how long seconds last, when one can’t make the difference between sunrise and sunset, because darkness doesn’t tell, darkness is silent, darkness is lethal. 

He opens the door to the basement, letting the light flood the stairs and part of the small room. His eyes set on John’s body, unconscious, covered in dry patches and his face covered in blood, from the cut, from the broken nose, from the fall. He looks like a corpse. Simon walks down, doesn’t rush, because he sees the slight uplift of his chest. John is still breathing. 

What catches Simon by surprise, although he should’ve seen it coming, is the smell. He looks at the mattress, and the weak light coming from the door shines on a darker outline, soaked in the fabric. He ignores it, for now. His eyes fall back on John. He understands the dry skin, now. 

Kneeling next to him, Simon looks around, the food on the floor, the bucket, half empty, where the water turned the lightest pink. John fell forward, most probably hit his chin on the concrete, unable to stop the fall with his hands. Simon can only guess why he fell, but it isn’t important enough that he bothers. 

He doesn’t try to shake him awake, just unties his arms, watching them fall, one would think lifelessly, on each side of John’s body. Simon rolls him onto his back, studying his body, the paleness of it. 

“You know nothing about survival, do you?” He asks, knowing very much that no answer will come from the unconscious man. 

Simon pushes John's body up in a sitting position, to be able to carry him on his shoulder. For a short instant, he wonders what would've happened, if John had been awake. Would he have smiled? Cried? Simon likes to imagine, like he did John's family, and he imagines John smiling at him, all teeth out, huge grin turning his eyes into crescents. Simon also thinks about him crying fat tears, desperate tears, scared tears, the ones that burn the eyes and turn the white part red, the ones that make snot run out of the nose. Would John's nose bleed, if he cried too hard? 

He lays John on his own bed. He'll have to change the bedsheets, but for now it'll do. 

Simon leans closer to John's face, tracing the cut on his cheek with the tip of his fingers. It needs to be cleaned. His whole body needs to be cleaned. A sigh escapes his lips, maybe he should've allowed him to move around inside the house, but the risk was too big, and John wasn't behaving well enough to be given that much freedom. Simon straightens up and walks to the bathroom, confident that even if he woke up, John wouldn't have the energy to run away, if he even thinks about it. 

He grabs gauze and bandages and sets them on the sink, then walks back down the basement and grabs the bucket. There's still water inside, and he throws the content all over John's face, flooding his own bed. 

******

John gasps, the cold water splattering all over his naked body. He looks around, unaware of Ghost's presence at first. He's confused, the surface under him isn't hard or cold, and he's not plunged in darkness. 

It takes him second, eyes staring at the window, the blue sky, the sun, before he understands. He's out of the basement. How? 

He turns his eyes to where a silhouette stands, and for a moment, he doesn't believe what he sees, he doesn't because his brain played so many tricks on him that he doesn't know what to think anymore. 

"I need you awake."  

Hallucinations didn't talk, right? They were so cruelly voiceless that it drove John mad. He lifts a hand up, trying to grab anything that would prove him that Ghost is standing there, but he's too far, and John hears himself whine in frustration.

Ghost is looking down at him, and John reads in his eyes that he knows exactly what he went through, but he doesn't have it in him to be mad, he doesn't have it in him to resent him, fear him. He just wants someone, anyone, to tell him he's not alone anymore. 

Ghost comes closer, and John feels his hands, he feels them realer than the grip on his arm earlier, warm on his skin, and he's lifted up the bed. He'd cry, if he could, but his eyes stay impossibly dry and he just stares at the window, the sky, until Ghost carries him out of the bedroom and to the bathroom. 

He's real. Ghost came back. 

******

Simon sits John down on the closed toilet seat, leaning his back against the wall so he doesn't fall forward. He then gauges his state once again before going to the bathtub, turning the water on. 

He sits on the edge of the tub, watching the water run out of the faucet, not too cold, not too hot. Anything would feel good for John anyway. 

"Can you stand?" 

John looks at him, then shakes his head. Simon nods and stands up from the tub. He opens a drawer, takes disinfectant and cotons out and walks to John again, kneeling in front of him. He soaks the cotons with disinfectant, and with one hand in his hair to keep him from moving, starts cleaning the cut. John hisses, the cleaning revives the pain, and his head moves to the side. Bad idea. 

Simon stares at him, one look, and when John moves again to avoid the burn, slams his head against the wall behind him. 

"Stop. Moving." 

******

John bites back the "sorry" that was about to escape his lips. For some reason, he thought Ghost would be nicer, treating him like something precious, and maybe he is, because he's at least cleaning up his wounds and drawing him a bath, but the aggressive core is still there, deeply implanted, and any wrong move he does will result in more pain.

Still, he's safe. He feels safe. He's out of the basement, and the light flooding the bathroom, tells him at least that it's daytime. He wants to ask how long he stayed alone, but the answer might scare him, and he's not allowed to talk. He's just allowed to silently thank Ghost for taking him out of the basement, although he knows, deep down, buried under tons of denying, that he was the one who locked him there. Ignorance is the best medicine against heartbreak, John thinks, so he ignores the obvious and holds onto the one thing that keeps him alive. The monster himself.

The tub is filled with water and Ghost sets the cotons on the floor, standing up. He offers his hands to help John stand on his feet and lead him to the tub. 

"Step in." 

He doesn't ask if the water temperature is fine, and John knows he doesn't care, he knows his well being only matters enough that he doesn't fall dead on the ground. If the heat peels his skin away, or if it freezes him is of no importance. But the water is fine, and John sighs, finally feeling a semblance of freedom. He must remind himself, innerly, that even though the ropes aren't binding his arms back, although he can move his limbs and stretch them, Ghost is still holding him tight, his grip on him similar to invisible chains. Ghost breaks him and sticks him back together, again, again, again, until the shape he takes fits his expectations. 

Ghost wets a washcloth and squeezes soap on it, the same soap he used to roughly wash him the first day, and John looks at the bottle, the beige liquid reminds him of sand, for some reason, and the light-blue color of the plastic must be the sea. He'd love to be a bird. 

The cloth rubs his arms first, and he holds them out of the water, his eyes not letting go of the bottle of soap, his mind not letting go of the idea of flying around, free. The cloth goes up and around his shoulder, down to his back, where Ghost draws large circles. The sea water would taste too salty, the sand would stick to his feathers and the sun would be too hot, but he'd be free. The cloth goes down his other arm, Ghost stood up to reach there, and he casts an almost menacing shadow on top of John. A cloud is hiding the sun, dark, filled with thunder and rain. If John was a bird, he'd have to hide. He can't, there's nowhere to hide. He isn't a bird, he can't fly, he can't be free. 

The cloth slides down his torso, his stomach, under the water, and to his dick. The bird forgot how to fly, because lightning hit his body, and the resulting pain wiped his memories away. The cloth slides up the inside of his legs. There's no soap on it anymore, the water ate it all. The bird falls, and John holds his breath, because no bird would survive a fall that high. His pride flies out the window when the cloth reaches under, cleaning his hole. The bird crashes into the water, the force of the impact breaking all its bones. Ghost is looking at him, and John looks down, biting his lip so hard to keep the tears from falling, that he tastes blood on his tongue. He doesn't know if he cries because of the bird, or because his intimacy lies between the hands of a man he knows nothing about. 

******

The water blurs with dirt, and Simon sets the washcloth down, grabbing the shower head and pulling on the stopper to let the water drain. He stands up, motioning for John to do the same, and the man obeys, eyes wet with unshed tears, lip bitten down to blood. Simon knows why, but he doesn't mention anything about. There's no need. He'll learn by himself.  

When John stands up, Simon turns the shower head on, cold water hitting John's body and making him yelp and almost falls back down in the tub. 

He doesn't say or do anything about it, because he already sees the way fear crosses John's eyes as he stands straight, all the muscles in his body tensed. The colder water doesn't help, but Simon doesn't want him to relax. If he did, the trip back to the basement would be a shock. 

He stops the water, placing the shower head where it belongs. 

"Step out." 

John does and Simon pats him dry with a rough towel. The towel doesn't stay on his body for long and he's left naked in the middle of the bathroom, while Simon places the towel back on the rack. 

******

"Soap." Ghost suddenly says, as his eyes lay on the bottle of freedom and broken birds. 

John looks at it too, confused. It is indeed soap, but he's sure that's not what Ghost meant. 

"Your name. Nickname, call it whatever. Soap." 

He looks at the beige liquid, wondering what Ghost sees in it that would remind him of him. Did he see the bird too? He doesn't ask, just nods, because there's nothing he can say. Even if he had disagreed, he wouldn't have been able to voice it. 

Soap. It sounds clean. He could've had it worse. But having his name taken away feels weird. He looks at Ghost, unsure of how to react, if he awaits a smile or any rictus. 

"You must be hungry. You barely ate anything." Ghost says, and John looks at him before nodding. He could use food, although he's not sure it will stay down. Ghost walks out of the bathroom. 

"Move, Soap, I won't carry you around all the time." 

John hurries, his legs still a little weak but able to carry him out of the bathroom. He looks around, seeing Ghost standing in front of the basement door. John shakes his head, stepping back, back against the wall, as if it'd hide him from Ghost's intense gaze. 

"I'm not asking you, Soap. Go back down." 

John shakes his head again, with more energy, and Ghost comes closer, standing one step away. 

"Soap." 

John knows. He knows very well, but the idea of going back to the darkness makes him sick. The stench too, the soaked mattress, the half eaten snacks discarded on the floor, the dirt. He knows that refusing again will hurt, yet his head moves left and right, and his wounded cheek is met with a powerful fist, one that sends his head flying to the opposite side. 

"C-can't!" John chokes, spitting the blood that had pooled in his mouth. 

He knows he's not allowed to talk, but he has to try and beg for Ghost to take him anywhere but down to the basement, down to the hallucinations. 

"Please! I'll do anything, just, please !" 

******

Simon doesn't listen, and when asking politely fails, he grabs Soap by a fist of his hair, pulling him to the basement door before opening it and pushing him inside. He watches the man stumble down a few steps before catching himself on the wall, steadying his position. He slams the door before Soap can look back at him and walks to the kitchen, pulling his balaclava off. 

He prepares something for Soap, a few fruits cut in little bite size pieces, crackers and orange juice. He sets in on a tray and walks to the door he hadn't locked, only to see it open violently. He sets the tray on the floor and walks there, meeting eyes with Soap. 

"What are you doing?" 

Soap looks up at him as if something had been chasing him down.

" Please, Ghost please not the basement!"

Simon looks behind Soap, at the suffocating darkness, and lifts the man's chin up, meeting his gaze. 

"I will keep the door open, but you have to go back down. If you try to leave again, I'll keep you in the darkness for days, again. I'm sure it wasn't the best experience, was it?" Simon smiles, the softness of his voice a horrible contrast to the cruelty of his words, and Soap shakes his head, stepping back down. Simon does as he said, leaving the door wide open. 

He goes back to get the tray of fresh food and brings it down on the table, Soap staring at him, then the door, but not moving from the chair he sat on. 

"Eat." Simon says as he walks back up to get a trash bag. He gets rid of all the old food, still under close surveillance. Soap doesn't touch the food, but Simon doesn't force him. He'll eat, eventually. 

******

John doesn't know what is worse. Being locked up, unable to leave, or seeing freedom so close and yet being more locked up than ever? At least, Ghost is cleaning around him. He went back up to grab the bucket and the water smells like lemon, and John watches him brush the floor with a push broom. 

"You ruined the mattress." 

Ghost says, and John swallows a lump in his throat. Will this result in pain too? 

"You'll have to sleep in it until I know I can trust you to not ruin everything you touch." He looks around, chuckling. "It might take some time, but try to leave up to your new name, Soap ."

John retains a relieved sigh. He doesn't want Ghost to think he expected worse, because he knows how capable he is of doing worse. Sleeping on the filthy mattress can't be worse than being washed by another man, right? He still feels his hand, although separated by the cloth, over his entire body, and the shiver resulting from that memory is far from what he would describe as pleasurable. He says nothing, because talking hurts. He's come to a point where the words don't even bother forming in his head, they just vanish as soon as he thinks about them. 

He brings a hand up to his cheek. The blood sticks to his fingers and he grimaces in pain where the contact burns almost more than it did when Ghost cleaned it. He won't hesitate to ruin what he worked so hard to do, John realizes,  and this scares him a lot more than the basement. 

He doesn't dare complain about the reopened wound, doesn't dare mention that he's in pain, even wordlessly, no, because a full bucket would hurt a lot more. He just observes, his hand reaching for the plate where apples and pears have been cut and neatly placed, and he takes them, one by one, chewing for way too long before he swallows them. The thought of them being saturated in drugs goes through his mind, but he ignores it. The apples taste like apples, what more would he wish for? 

John taps his foot on the floor, loud enough to catch Ghost's attention. He turns around, both eyebrows raised. 

"What?" 

John stays silent but stares at the door, then at Ghost again. Ghost looks up at the opened door for a few seconds. 

"The door?" 

John nods, then gestures a wide opening with his hand. 

"Oh. If it'll stay open?" 

Another nod, and Ghost shrugs, but doesn't answer. John wonders if he'll be able to sleep, if the door stays closed. He doesn't want to stay awake for hours, he doesn't want to be confused again, he doesn't want the door to move again. 

"Please?" He whispers. 

"You're talking a whole lot today, maybe I should gag you."

This is enough to shut John up, and have him focus on the plate. 

"Alright." Ghost looks around, the floor humid with soapy water. "Let me get a wet mop to rinse all that." He says, casually, as if talking to a friend. John doesn't know why he nods, Ghost isn't even looking at him. 

They're not friends. John doesn't know what they are, he can't place a word on their relationship. He doesn't know if he can even talk about any relationship. He just knows he's alive because Ghost is nice enough to feed him and give him a place to sleep. He's nice enough to bathe him. Nice? John can't tell if nice is the right word. 

Ghost comes back with the mop and the bucket filled with clear water, and John stares, still as a statue, as he rinses the floor. He doesn't bother lifting the mattress off the floor, and the water seeps under, soaking the underside. John wants to say something, but the words don't come, they stay stuck in his throat. The gag. He risks a gag in his mouth, and this idea has his hands trembling slightly. Ghost wouldn't just gag him, he'd tie his hands back to stop him from trying to take it off, he'd leave him there, for hours, maybe days, hungry and cold, the heat of his body evaporating off him. He'd leave the food there, to teach him a lesson. John has no proof of that, but his imagination is enough for him to stay silent. 

******

Simon leaves the basement once again, staring for long seconds at the opened door before deciding that it would be a good way to test Soap's will to obey.

He walks to the bathroom and empties the bucket in the tub before filling it up again, this time for Soap, to give him enough water, although he’s not sure he’ll drink it. Giving him bottles and glasses is useless, too humane. Simon sits down on the edge for a second, and he tries to remember how Soap’s skin felt under his fingers, he tries to remember how cold his skin was, how the muscles felt when he rubbed them, how supple the flesh was. He closes his eyes, his balaclava held tight between his fingers. 

When he opens his eyes again, he puts his balaclava on and brings the bucket back to Soap, placing it near the bed. He knows the fabric is soaked, he can see it, but he knows Soap won’t have any choice but to sleep here. He seems to have accepted it already. 

“I will keep the door open tonight. If you try to escape, I will make sure that the gag is so deep inside your mouth that you choke on it, and I’ll slam your face against the walls.” He says, rubbing the wall with his hand. “Pretty rough surface, it’ll hurt.”

Soap nods and looks at Simon with wide eyes, wide and scared, wide and so annoying to look at that Simon breaks eye contact, walking back up.

He sits on his sofa, mask off once again, fumbling in his pocket to get his pack of cigarettes out and pull one out, lighting it a few seconds after. He leans his head back against the backrest of the sofa and closes his eyes, blowing the smoke out. He listens to Soap stand up from the chair, he listens to him walk around, the sound of his naked feet against the concrete almost relaxing. He can almost picture him laying down on the mattress, as if he had forced him to, as if telling him not to escape meant not moving from the bed.

Simon thinks about buying Soap a light, but that thought disappears by the next draw on his cigarette, replaced by thoughts of how easy it is to break a man, how weak most of them are, how exciting the idea of molding someone to his taste is. Soap is no different. Or maybe he is a little, maybe he’s breaking faster than Simon thought he would, maybe he can see in his eyes how thankful he is towards Simon. For what? He couldn’t say. There’s nothing to be thankful about, even he’s aware of that. He had promised himself to not hurt him, yet it is all he’s been doing for the past week and a half. 

Or has it been more time? 

It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Simon has what he’s wished for.

Another drag on his cigarette and he opens his eyes, watching the smoke float up. The walls are stained a very light yellow but he doesn’t care. He stares at them, his thoughts going to a near future, and as his eyes go down to his hand, seeing the balaclava held like an anchor to life, Simon wonders if one day, Soap would be broken down enough to see his face.

******

John stares at the door, he stares at it and thinks about the bird, the bird who broke its bones. He knows it’s not real, yet it hurts inside, it hurts his heart, it hurts his soul. Now, John knows that if he were a bird, he’d be one with broken wings, one unable to fly, one held in a cage, and Ghost would be his master, the one feeding him, the one keeping him alive. 

And as he closes his eyes, he wonders if caged birds ever dream about being humans.

Fanart from EOY on Twitter by @DoktorsTweeter: Here

And fanart by @Hanbyeo0526: Here

Thank you again <3

Chapter Text

John is woken up by sounds coming from upstairs. He shifts on the mattress, his back hurting slightly, but he ignores the pain to force himself in a sitting position. He listens carefully. Ghost is moving things around, because John hears shuffling and clinking. Or maybe he’s just washing the dishes in a rather aggressive way, or maybe the fact that the door is wide open makes everything seem louder in the usually silent space. John stands up, slowly making his way to the stairs and climbing them or rather crawling up them to see outside without being seen. He doesn’t see much from where he is, for the doors are all partially closed, but he does hear water, so he must’ve been right. It doesn’t change much to his situation, to know that Ghost is doing the dishes, as he’s still cruelly chained to the basement. Putting even the shortest amount of skin outside the boundary of that opened door might result in the loss of one or multiple senses, and pain. Always pain. 

He walks back down the stairs and back to the mattress, sitting down on it and waiting. He’s good at waiting, he has nothing else to do anyway. The light casted by the door barely manages to reach this corner of the room, and John finds himself in a grayish area, not dark enough to be scary, but not light enough to be comfortable. At least, all he does here is sleep. The table standing in the other corner is illuminated like it’s right under the spotlight, and the food on it, alas unappetizing, seems to have been placed there for decoration. Ghost took away most of it, but he left what was still good, at least in theory. John still wishes to eat real food, he wishes to be good enough for that. 

The casted light is filled by a silhouette, the shadow spreading to the entire room, rendering it a few shades darker. John looks up, somehow expecting to see a difform monster rather than Ghost, and wondering why they seem to have so much in common. The hallucinations may still have quite the grip on his mind. 

Ghost watches John, as if he knew he had dared a look outside the basement, but says nothing about it. 

"Come here." 

It isn't said menacingly but John doesn't hear the difference anymore. Ghost could be whispering right in his ear he'd react as if he has been yelled at. He stands up again, his back screaming at him to find a better sleeping spot, or at least a better sleeping position, and he once again pretends not to feel anything, like he pretends not to feel the burn of the reopened cut, or the bothering whistling inside his nose when he inhales too deeply. He's alive, that must be the most important. He's a crushed bird but he's alive. 

He tiptoes his way up the stairs, and the more he nears the other man, the less differences he sees between him and the difform monster. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, yet the image doesn't budge. He's not weird looking, he doesn't have tentacles growing from his back, but there's something about his aura, the way he stands, the way he looks at him that resembles how a creature would look at its prey. When he stands right in front of him, two steps lower, Ghost steps on the side to allow John to walk past him, which he does with utter care. He watches his feet, unable to really tell what scares him about going out of the basement. Maybe the open door adds an invisible barrier, or the idea that he could try to escape again, for some unknown reason, sends him back to his first and, may he remind himself, last attempt. He doesn't want to die or provoke another avoidable wound, so why would he test the devil himself? 

Ghost leads him to the bathroom again, and John thinks about the bird again, and the soap. Soap is his new name, he knows, it's also the name of the bird…maybe. Is he a bird or is he confused? 

Ghost has him sit down on the toilet seat and he looks at the bottle of beach scented soap, wondering if the bird smells like it too, or if it smells like blood and crushed bones. Ghost must know what this smells like. John must smell exactly like that. Does he enjoy it? Would he lick the blood off his face if John let him? Maybe even without permission, because he'd have nothing to say. He's not allowed to talk. 

John's gaze follows Ghost around, watching as he grabs a clean cloth and wets it with hot water, if he bases his observations on the vapor rising from it. 

"It'll burn." Ghost warns, kindly enough, before wrapping John's lower face in the wet cloth. The unwounded part of his face revels in the comfortable heat, but the open cut on his other cheek doesn't seem to appreciate the treatment as much, although it isn't as painful as John thought it would be. It is just weird and uncomfortable, nothing worse than what he's already been through. 

Ghost is close enough that he hears him breathing under the mask, kneeling low enough that John could look up on him, but he knows exactly where the power lies and wouldn't even think of changing it. His gestures are gentle, slow, careful not to hurt him although his hands have brought him more hurt than comfort in the past days. 

The cloth is pulled away, and Ghost stands up, his presence looming over John, forcing him to look up. The masked man walks to the sink, opening the cupboard to take an electric razor out. John wants to ask why he cleaned his wound, if he didn’t plan on touching it, but his mouth stays tightly shut. 

Ghost plugs the shaver in the socket located between the sink and the toilet seat John is sitting on and sets the item on the edge of the sink. 

John opens his mouth, then closes it after thinking for a few seconds. Even if he doesn’t like the result, it’ll grow back. Or maybe Ghost will allow him to give his opinion on his new beard style. He should consider himself lucky that he’s being taken care of. 

The razor buzzes when Ghost turns it on, which almost makes the other man jump in surprise, too lost in his thoughts. John stares at the bottom part of the window frame, his entire body shuddering. He wonders if it’ll only be that window, or any window he’ll see from now on, that will remind him of the pain of a broken nose. He’s glad the basement has none of those. It already has the bucket to evoke the wound on his cheek, that’s more than enough. 

“Chin up. I’ll start by shortening this mess on your face.” Ghost says, voice void of emotions as he brings the shaver close to John’s face, the motions staying conscientious. The feeling of the vibrations against his cheek feels almost pleasant, relaxing, and John looks away, unable to sustain Ghost’s intense gaze. 

The cut doesn’t reach his beard, but he does feel the thrumming inside it, and the sensations are weird, to say the list. He doesn’t say anything, just pinches his lips and stares at the bottle of soap while the machine eats the length of beard hair Ghost isn’t fond of. He wonders what would’ve happened, if he had refused to get his beard cut. 

It takes Ghost roughly ten minutes, maybe less, to shorten his beard. He sets the machine down after turning it off and watches the hair that has fallen on John’s arms and thighs. “You’ll need a shower.” Ghost says casually to which John shows no reaction. It doesn’t matter what he thinks, if he thinks. 

“Let me clean up the edges.” He then says, grabbing the shaver again, this time taking the attachment off and using the naked vibrating blade to clean up the edges, starting by the top of his cheeks, just under the wound. He’s good at what he does, John can at least say that much. 

When Ghost is done, John stands up, and after a nod from the other man, walks to the sink. He stares at his freshened beard in the mirror, finding a semblance of normality immediately destroyed by the mark on his cheek and his crooked nose, cruel reminders of his lost freedom.

Ghost is standing behind him, diagonally, so that when John looks at him, their eyes meet. 

“That’s better.” 

John is still naked and still sleeps in the basement, but alas, his face is clear. 

******

“Go back to the basement, when you’re done staring at your reflection.”

Simon orders before leaving the bathroom. He has things to do, like go out, inhale some fresh air, smoke, although he had promised himself he would stop. He can reject the fault on Soap, on how stressful those days have been. He's doing better now, he can be trusted or he's too scared to disobey. He sees it in his eyes, the fear, the apprehension before each movement. Simon knows how scary it is, to face a monster, because it is even scarier to be one. 

When he's outside, in front of the main entrance, he dives a hand in the pocket of the jacket he slid on, taking a lighter out and a lone cigarette. The pack stayed inside, to limit his consumption, although he isn't sure of how useful that trick is. It doesn't change much, if he smokes inside too. 

He blows the smoke up, looking at the cloudy sky, the people walking their dogs, the kids. The neighborhood isn't dead, so he sometimes wonders how nobody heard Soap scream. It's good for him but bad for the other. 

The smoke of his cigarette is almost the same color as the clouds. Simon chuckles at the thought. The wind ruffles his hair, and at this instant, he misses his balaclava. It stayed inside too, because nobody can see him here, nobody cares to see him. 

Another drag, another exhale of smoke. He wonders how dark his lungs are, how young he'll die, what Soap will do, if he collapses on the floor right now. Escape, maybe, or would he fear Simon's dead body as well? 

The cigarette burns, the butt glowing red each time he takes a drag. He takes his phone out, checks his messages. One day he might be able to take Soap with him, show him off, or introduce him to his coworkers. If he did that now, the chances of him screaming for help at the first occasion he'll get would be too strong. 

He knows Soap is still in the bathroom, he knows he won't try to escape again, not through the window, not with how much disgust he looks at it, as if the window was the direct cause of his broken nose. Simon wonders what he thinks about when they look at each other, he wonders what goes through his mind, when he bores holes into his masked face. 

He lets the cigarette stub fall to the ground and walks back inside, letting the last puff of smoke add to the already dirtied walls. He sighs, looking at the bathroom light, still on. It's been a good ten minutes. If Soap doesn't want to go back, Simon will work around that situation. Forcing him back would only ruin his effort to make him docile.

He silently makes his way to the frame of the door, observing the way Soap looks at his reflection, face close to the mirror, observing every little detail. Simon doesn't say anything. He's not breaking any rules.

"Wanna eat some real food?" 

Soap startles and looks in his direction as if he had awaited anyone but him, before nodding. Simon sees the confusion in his eyes. 

"I'm just in a giving mood, it won't be happening too often." He explains, a lie he has no problem threading. He cooks every day, he could feed Soap every day, but he doesn't deserve it, the wounds on his face prove it. 

Simon can almost hear the vocal answer escaping Soap's mouth, but the man presses his lips together, swallowing back the words. Is he wondering how he would've punished him? Simon smiles under the mask. 

"Sink edge, chin, you would've lost a few teeth, maybe. Unless the sink broke first. I wonder who would win." 

He looks at the way Soap's face falls before he catches himself and looks at his already difformed features. He caresses his chin, checks his teeth, as if words were capable of making real damage. 

"Let's go to the kitchen, Soap." 

******

John almost felt the pain in his mouth, when Ghost so calmly enounced what would happen to him, if he dared talk. It sends chills inside his body, cold sweat pearling down his naked back. He's still the man who kidnapped him, still the brute who could crush his head with his foot without any emotions showing on his face. John needs to remember that. 

But he takes care of you, John, he feeds you, he's nice with you, you're the one breaking the rules.

He stares at his reflection with a hate he had never developed against himself and follows Ghost out of the bathroom. Yeah, he's at fault, he's the reason Ghost gets mad, he's the one who's too self-centered to listen, obey . 

"I was about to make fries." Ghost says, lifting his balaclava over his nose and sticking a cigarette between his lips. John looks at him, then at the food, the words burning his lips like the cigarette probably will if he lets them escape. 

"And steak, that's alright for you?" 

John nods, because there isn't any other valid answer, and Ghost would probably ignore him is he was against it anyway. 

"You can sit down." 

A rectangular table fills a corner of the kitchen, four chair, for one man. John wonders if there were other people here, before, if Ghost once led a normal life, and if yes, what changes him? Where does the monster come from, and is the human still caged inside? 

He sits on the chair at the end of the table, turning his back to the door but able to see the counter and Ghost's back while he cooks. He looks strangely normal, and John fears that he'll wake up in the basement, alone again. He wants to ask him if it's a dream, he'd have his answer fast enough. If the knife he's using to cut the potatoes hurts when he starts talking, if his skin breaches on impact, when he throws it, it means it wasn't a dream. But Ghost wouldn't kill him, not with a knife, no, he would smash his head against the table. Everything is a weapon. 

John listens to the sound the knife makes when it means the cutting board, the rhythm with which Ghost cuts the potatoes. Is there anything that man can't do? 

The kitchen is quickly saturated by the stench of cigarette, although the door and windows both are open. Will the food taste like the smoke? Is he doing that because John doesn't deserve good food? Is he trying to turn him into a smoking addict?

Whatever the reason may be, John can't complain. He'll have something different that the packaged food, something directly prepared by Ghost. Is it a good thing? He can't tell. It must be as good as being taken care of by the hands that hurt him. 

Ghost opens a drawer and takes a sheet of baking paper, placing it on the oven tray he has taken out minutes earlier. John watches, he's invested, the view changing from the boring walls of the basement. It's fascinating, how much joy those simple things bring him. How much sadness too, because he had them, in his pas life. It was before. John shakes the thought out of his head. 

Ghost places the lengthwise cut potatoes on the tray, adding oil and salt to them before pushing the tray back in the preheated oven. He then twist the oven timer to thirty minutes and walks to the fridge, taking the paper wrapped meat out. 

"Medium alright?" 

John doesn't really understand what the point of asking is, if all he can do is agree. Ghost never stated explicitely that John wasn't allowed to disagree, but he doesn't want to test it out, not now. 

Ghost turns his back to John once again, this time preparing both steaks. Both. Two. Ghost bought food for two. 

John is confused, his heart beats a little faster. He thought about him? No, it must be a coincidence. He wouldn't bother buying him good…unless he had planned to feed him today. Which means that the giving mood wasn't a giving mood, but a follow up of his plan. John doesn't knows what to think, how to think. 

He should just enjoy those few hours of semi-freedom. 

The thoughts are pushed in the back of his head when the oven timer goes off, and a smell of freshly fried potatoes fills the kitchen, mixing with the unpleasant smokey scent. The blend creates a savor so strong it coats John's tongue when he breathes it through his nose. 

A plate is placed in front of him, with one full steak and fries. 

"Eat slowly, I'll make you eat your puke again if you throw up." Ghost says before sitting down at the other end of the table, facing John who looks down at the suddenly less appetizing plate. Ghost only gave him a fork, and when he looks up at him, he gets the answer to his silent question. 

"Do you really think I'm going to risk giving you a weapon?" 

John wants to promise he won't do anything, that he'll behave, but it turns out to be harder, without words. He taps on the table to get Ghost's attention on it, then scribbles on it, awaiting the man's reaction. It takes him a few seconds to swallow the food in his mouth. John wonders where the cigarette went. 

"You want to write? To communicate?" 

John nods, stabbing a few fries with his fork and bringing them to his mouth. Silence reigns for a few minutes during which Ghost seems to be thinking about the pros and cons of having to buy paper and a pen. 

"What would you even say?" 

John shrugs, he just wants to be able to answer when Ghost asks him a question, because he feels like nodding his head off makes him lose the bit of humanity he still has.

"No. Not now, you'll talk when you deserve it, when I know you won't scream for help. You don't need to write." 

But he won't call for help! He's learned his lesson, the pain in his face is enough for him to understand that outside is off-limit. He's naked anyway, the despair of the first days has died down to a toxic routine he's slowly getting used to. He won't try to escape anymore, he promises, but silent promises don't reach Ghost's ears. 

The fries taste like fries, not cigarettes, and John eats them slowly, one by one, taking the time to chew. He doesn't touch the meat for now, he'll have to eat it with his hands, which would lower his status to 'undeserving of basic cutlery'. That isn't the best way to feel like a human being. Is Ghost trying to turn him into an animal? How does John need to act to gain the man's trust? 

John looks at him, the lifted balaclava. How does that man look without a mask? His eyes are intense, cold, calculated. John wonders what it takes for a man to have irises so bared of emotions.

He knows he should be scared, he knows that sitting naked in the kitchen of a stranger isn't the definition of safety, but he's eating, he's been freshly shaved and Ghost told him he'd get a shower to get rid of the little hair on his body. They're not that itchy, but John can't wait to rinse them off. He doesn't rejoice in the idea of Ghost touching his entire body again, but he can ignore that part, right? He'll learn to appreciate it. Yeah. 

When all the fries are gone from the plate, he has no choice but to hold the meat between his fingers and bite down on it. It tastes good. John can feel Ghost's eyes on him, observing him almost meticulously. He wouldn't be surprised if the masked man suddenly wiped a notepad out of his pocket and started writing down his observations. 

He doesn't finish the whole steak, his stomach full before he reaches half of it. He looks up at Ghost, setting the meat down, fingers wet and red with fat and blood. 

"Done?" 

It's almost normal. It is so much more normal than being in the basement all day. Maybe Ghost will allow him to sleep here too? He doesn't know where, but not the basement. He promised to buy a new mattress too. John weirdly wants to trust him. 

Ghost stands up and John mirrors him, following him out of the kitchen, leaving both their plates on the table. Will that also be part of their routine? No, Ghost said it was something that wouldn't happen too often. 

"Step in the tub." 

John obeys, standing in front of the other man as he grabs the shower head.

******

Simon turns the water on and wets Soap's entire body and face, thoroughly getting all the beard hair off. He then grabs the beach scented soap, the one Soap stares at like it told him a story and squeezes a good amount on what will end up being Soap's washcloth. Maybe he'll wash him with just his hands, but for now he lets the man keep a minimum amount of pseudo-intimity. His private space doesn't exist anymore. 

Simon rubs Soap's entire body, from head to toe, from back to front, with the same professionalism a nurse would use. He doesn't desire this man, he doesn't desire what he already owns. Sometimes, he thinks of kissing the man, sometimes he thinks of bending him over, but it has the same effect on him as when he imagines flying. It is pleasing, but his body won't react to it. It'll change, maybe. It's fine if it doesn't. The most important part is that Soap is with him, what they do barely matters, but he has to stay next to him, forever. 

The cloth makes the soap foam faster, and the scent reaches Simon's covered nostrils. He put his balaclava down. He needs to brush his teeth after that, when Soap is back in the basement. He hates the aftertaste of food and cigarettes. If he stopped smoking it would solve his issue. 

Soap is looking away, he's staring at the window, again. Simon turns to look at it too, then at the trees standing outside. There's a bird nest on one branch that must be empty. Is Soap thinking about the birds? 

When he's foamed up, Simon takes the shower head and rinses the washcloth before turning the water to Soap's body, rinsing it entirely. Soap is looking at him with tears in his eyes. He doesn't wipe them, he waits for them to run down his cheeks. 

"You'll get used to it, Soap." 

Simon is a little surprised, when Soap nods, as if he wanted to get used to it. He can't be that close to breaking, can he? Well, it's true that Simon put him through quite the trial, it's true that he forced him to muteness via countless brutal ways. Really, he shouldn't be surprised to see him fold so fast. 

When Soap is rinsed, Simon sets the shower head back on the holder and grabs the towel, patting his body dry. Soap knows he won't get the comfort of a fluffy towel wrapping around his body, he won't get the comforting warmth of anything. 

"Step out. Go back to the basement." 

Chapter Text

!!This chapter contains implied/referenced self-harm. Not in details, but I'm still putting that disclaimer!!

Simon stands in front of the wide open basement door, looking down at the darkness. Silence reigns in the house, the only thing being heard is the wind, outside, and his own breathing, although for that one, he’s the only one aware of it. Soap must be asleep. He looks at the time. 2AM. He’s definitely asleep.

He walks down the stairs, slowly, taking his sweet time because he knows that even if Soap were to wake up, he wouldn’t say anything about his privacy being stepped on. He doesn’t have any. Simon sits down on one of the chairs, supporting his chin with the palm of his hand, elbow on his knee, and he stares at the sleeping form, or at least what he can see of it. Soap is plunged in darkness, the ceiling light in the corridor doing nothing to illuminate that corner of the basement. Simon wonders if he’d keep his sanity, if he was imprisoned in a dark place for most of the day. 

The urge of touching Soap’s skin just to know how it feels under his fingers is strong. It must be different than with the washcloth, different than when he hits him. He doesn’t mean it, he never means it. He trusts that Soap will be better, more deserving of gentleness. 

Simon pulls his mask over his face and stands up after a few minutes, he then crouches down, grabbing the edge of the mattress, and with one swift movement, lifts it up. Soap falls on the concrete with a thud, eyes opening suddenly, shock and pain plastered on his face as he looks up at Simon, confused and barely awake. 

“Wh-wha-” 

Silence is loud, sometimes, but silence after a mistake is the loudest. Simon looks down at Soap, eyes reflecting nothing, but arm automatically moving, his hand gripping the backrest of the chair he was sitting on, and with a gesture that seems to be imprinted in his muscle memory, brings the item down on the other man’s frame, like he would bring a swatter down on a fly. The chair is heavy enough that Simon knows Soap felt it, and light enough for him to have full control over the strength of the impact. The loud crash, as if all his bones broke, echoes through the small room, and cold chills run down Simon’s spine. 

“I’m not sure why you always provoke me, Soap,” Simon says, crouching down next to the naked man, looking at the scratches and bruises starting to form on his torso. “but I’m starting to think you’re enjoying the pain.” 

Soap looks at him, lips pinched together, tears running down his face. Simon hates them, he hates how they remind him of his own suffering. He’s doing that for him, so why is he crying, why does he look so lost? 

He straightens up, throwing the chair away, his blood boiling with rage but his face showing none of it. The mask would hide it anyway. He inhales deeply, diving a hand in the pocket of his jeans to pull his pack of cigarettes out, staring down at the man laying on the floor, still as a statue, eyes fixated on him as if trying to apprehend his next move. Simon takes one cigarette out of the pack, then lifts his balaclava over his nose, and with eyes reflecting annoyance, places the filter in his mouth. He really hates it, he hates that Soap fuels this bad habit of him. 

He places the mattress against the wall then walks to the chair he just threw and drags it back in front of Soap, sitting on it before lighting his cigarette. 

“Soap, Soap, Soap…” He shakes his head, taking a drag of his cigarette, and letting the smoke escape with his next words. “How bad must I punish you for you to learn?” 

Simon watches at the burning end of the cigarette, then at Soap. “Show me your hands.” 

Soap knows what's coming but still presents both hands, palms up. The old cigarette burn has left a round scar, lighter than his skin. Simon holds the wounded hand, looking at the owner of it. "I don't want to hurt you, but look at how you're behaving." He takes the cigarette between his thumb and index and presses it hard over the scar, burning the skin again, and with eyes as cold as ice, watches the way Soap's face twisted in pain as he does his best to stay silent, despite the scream forming in his throat. 

Simon sighs and lifts the now crushed tobacco stick, staring at the burn on Soap's palm. He'll take care of it after he gets rid of the mattress. 

******

"I ordered a new mattress." Ghost changes subjects, as if he hadn't been torturing him seconds earlier. John looks at him then at the mattress, then his palm, processing the whole situation. The only reason Ghost burned his skin again was because of that mattress? Because he dared be surprised to get rolled off of it at…sometime in the middle of the night? Talk about unfairness. 

He looks up at Ghost from where he's still lying down, watching as he drags the mattress up the stairs. He didn't mention when the other mattress would arrive. He could've been lying about the ordering part too, John can't tell for sure. 

John is startled by the sound of the door slamming shut, and the lock falling into place. No. No no no no no no no no he can't do that, he can't lock John back in the basement, without a mattress! Not when he's gotten used to the opened door, not when he had been somewhat of a free man! John knows that he did it to himself, he knows he should've stayed silent, that Ghost hates hearing his voice. He doesn't know why, he doesn't want to know why. 

The stench of the cigarette makes him cough, his eyes watering, so he closes them, leaning against the wall, as sat on the cold and hard concrete. He can't sleep anymore, because of the darkness, because of the pain in his body. That leaves him a few hours to think about his situation. 

How is the outside world? That's crazy how a shut door can make such a difference, how being plunged in darkness, unable to see the corridor outside takes a toll on John's mind. He surprises himself thinking about the bath time he's had, the shower, the steak and fries. They were good, those times. Ghost is good when John behaves. He doesn't know how to apologize, he doesn't know how to tell the masked man he's sorry for not obeying. He doesn't know if it's his survival instinct speaking, or the need to be appreciated by his kidnapper, or the loneliness that comes with being alone in a basement. He can't see the burn on his palm, or the bruises on his chest, but he feels them, and they feels like his own mistake.

An eternity passes before the door opens again. Hours, actually, because behind the man at the door, the daylight shines. John wipes the tears that had escaped his eyes, surprised that he'd had so many tears to offer. He was stronger, when he was free, cried much less than now, was much less trapped in a basement too. 

"We need to clean that burn." Ghost says, leaning against the door frame. John stands up and walks up the stairs, eyes riveted on the floor, unable to hold his gaze. 

He's led to the bathroom, again, sat on the toilet seat, again. 

"You know why I do that, right?" 

John nods, this time he understands, this time he knows he has to do better. 

"Why? You're allowed to talk, choose your words carefully." Ghost takes John's hand and starts by cleaning the burn under cold water. John thinks about the situation, he thinks about what triggered Ghost's fit of violence. 

"I wasn't allowed to talk and I still did." 

It feels weird to say a full sentence after so long, it almost hurts his mouth, his brain, to have to form words, use his tongue, and hear his own voice for more than a short second. 

"See, if you behave, I might let you talk more." Ghost says as he dries John's hand before applying a balm on the wound. "Don’t touch anything with that hand. The bruises on your chest will go down, it’ll hurt a bit for a while but I can’t do much for them." 

John nods. He's tired, he wants to ask Ghost if he can have the filthy mattress back, or anything to sleep on. Ghost must see the lack of sleep in his eyes. 

"The new mattress should arrive today." 

Is it going to be delivered? John wonders, but if his expression would've lightened a few days ago, now he surprisingly doesn't care, because if he tries to escape or beg the delivery men for help, he's sure he'll have multiple deaths on his mind. His own included. It sounds like a very bad idea, so he pushes it out of his mind. 

Yet, a part of him still wants to hold onto the possibility of being saved, as unrealistic as it sounds and looks. He looks at Ghost then down at his hand. If they outnumber him, which they will…maybe… 

But getting his hopes up is useless and dangerous, so as soon as the thought comes back, it vanishes again. 

It doesn't keep John from thinking about it when he's back in the basement. At least that way he can ignore the darkness surrounding him. He closes his eyes, sitting on one of the chairs, the one near the table, and starts imagining how things would unfold. 

Strangely enough, it always ends in Ghost killing all of them. 

******

Simon sits in the kitchen. He can see the basement door from where he is, so he looks at it, as if expecting Soap to bang against it or try to open it. Does he want that? A little. 

Boredom makes him sicker, it forces twisted ideas inside his brain, makes him wonder what would happen if . There are many ifs, most of them implying hurting Soap. If he forces the door open, what would hurt more? How hard must he throw the pan to make him stumble back down the stairs? 

He really needs to stop smoking, but that doesn't stop him from taking another cigarette out of the pack. He's almost out, he'll need to go buy some. Or maybe that can be his nth attempt at ceasing that bad habit of his. 

No, he'll go buy some, for the safety of his own well being. Funny, how something that is presumably killing him softly is the one thing keeping him in check, calm enough to not end up hurting himself. He took his hoodie off and stares down at his left arm, the marks on them that he covered with tattoos. He can see the scars under them, as black as the ink is, they're whiter. He wants to cut his arm off. 

With a sigh, he rips his eyes off that part of his body to look at his hands, their roughness, how much pain they've inflicted. If they had a mind of their own they would try to strangle him. If he had the strength to do it, he would hurt himself to the point of no return. Maybe the cigarettes do just that. 

Simon looks at the mask bundled on the table, and with the cigarette in his mouth, shakes it to straighten it, laying it flat on the table. 

He doesn't know what he'll do, when Soap finally acts like he had planned, when he's dependent on his every move. He doesn't know how he'll have to act. 

The balaclava hides so many things, yet it looks so small, laid there, it looks like any inflammable piece of fabric ever. He wants to burn it. Simon wants to burn Ghost, but he won't because he's nothing without the mask. 

The sun shines on the black surface, accentuating the shadows, each fold of the fabric. Simon sighs again, leaning back against the backrest of the chair and massaging the bridge of his nose. He honestly has no idea who he is anymore, who the master of this body is. 

The one brutalizing Soap has never been Ghost. Simon knows that. Even if he's always wearing the mask, and he's not sure if it's to conceal his face, or to hide, Simon is the one who hits, the one who hurts. Ghost is the one who heals Soap, himself. Ghost only exists because Simon is a danger to himself and others, because Simon can't control his impulses, because Simon would kill, and he does kill. 

He stands up, grabbing the mask and putting it back on, then hurries to his room to grab the first jacket he can find and slide it on. He then sits on his bed for a moment, watching the smoke released by the burning tip. This stuff is supposed to kill him? He'll have time to remember about each panel of memories he'd love to forget. 

He's cold-blooded, emotionless, but the child inside him isn't. If he can snap someone's neck without a blink of his eyes, if he can punch a man for talking without feeling much but a slight pain in his knuckles, if he can witness bloodbaths without feeling nauseous, it's because the child he locked away inside him is doing all the screaming, crying, throwing up. He's never learned to heal his inner child, but he's learned how to pass all the suffering down to him. 

It's been a long time since Simon Riley has been capable of empathy towards himself. 

Too deep. Those thoughts are going deep down a Hell hole, and Simon isn't ready for that. His superior had told him to go see a therapist, to tell them about all those dreams, those haunting memories. Oh, they wouldn't get it. 

Simon pushes himself off the edge of the bed, walking back to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of Bourbon. He won't lie, he knows it's too early, but if those thoughts don't shut up, he might as well use the magic mixture to make them. 

Just one glass. Just enough for his throat to burn. 

"Fuck!"  

******

The loud crashing sound accompanying the anger filled "fuck" stop all scenarios building inside John's head. He listens, he listens and he hears something that should make him happy but somehow doesn't. Ghost is in pain, he's angry, and John can't help but think he's the one who did it. Guilt eats at him, a guilt he can't scratch away. 

He stands up from the chair he's sitting on, his asscheeks are numb but his back screams in pain again. He ignores it to walk up the stairs and press his ear against the door, listening closely. The sound stops, and John wonders if he dreamed it, if it was part of the scenario in his head. He wants to open the door to be sure, but he knows it's locked. Or he assumes it is. 

Something unfamiliar towards Ghost washes over him. Something like pity, sadness, compassion, and John pushes those thoughts down, tries to drown them, but they claw at the walls of his mind, that Ghost needs someone, and that he can be the only person to provide comfort. 

He shakes his head. He can't start thinking like that. Ghost has been the one hitting him, the wounds on his face are enough proof of it. 

But he takes care of you, you're the one who never wants to learn. 

True. No. Not true. Not. True.  

John bangs his head against the door to get those ideas out, only mildly surprised when the door opens with the same force it closed with earlier. 

He looks up from where he's sitting down on the higher step, at Ghost looking down at him. 

"Your side cuts are getting long. It looks unkempt. I'll cut the mohawk too, while I'm at it." 

John can't hide how confused he is. He heard the crashing, the scream, but Ghost doesn't look like he just had an outburst. He looks in control, like he did all those other days. He wants to ask what this was about, if it was just another of his hallucinations.

The more he stares at Ghost, the more confident he is that he must’ve dreamed it. 

Until he sees the broken bottle on the kitchen floor and the liquid it contained splashed against one of the walls. Ghost threw a bottle against a wall, this was the source of the loud sound. John could've guessed it, but he didn't want to believe that his outbursts could be so…violent. 

He walks past the murder scene in the kitchen and follows Ghost in the bathroom. He's already prepared everything, the shaver, the scissors, and for a second, John fears for his life. He fears another snap of mood, and the scissors that were made to cut his hair would end up stabbed into the side of his neck. 

"Sit down on the floor in front of me." 

John obliges, because as fearful as he is, he knows not to worsen this man's anger. 

******

Simon isn't keen on cutting hair, except his own, mostly because he's too anxious to let anyone come close to his face. He can make an exception for Soap, because he won't be going outside anytime soon. 

He starts by the sides, bringing them down to nine millimeter length. That's the easiest. With the naked blade he cleans up the sides, keeping his opposite hand in Soap's hair each time to direct his head. 

"Your hair is soft."

Simon doesn't know why he says it. Is he feeling bad that Soap may have heard him lose control, or is he just in a complimenting mood? He's never had anyone witness him in this state, never had to justify himself for breaking stuff he owned. Now, he'll have to explain, or just plainly stop. He can't stop, because to stop this he needs to talk about his past, and that he refuses to do. 

So, he pretends he never said anything about Soap's hair, because the man isn't allowed to answer anyway, and if he doesn't answer, it means it never happened. 

With a wet comb, he combs Soap's hair back, wetting them enough to be able to cut them properly. He then grabs the pair of scissors, and cuts some of the length away, like he'd do on his own hair. The texture isn't exactly the same, Soap's hair seems softer. Or he's just remembering his own hair rougher than it is. 

It's relaxing to cut hair, the same gesture again, again, again, until the hair is at the desired length. Simon is tempted to cut more than needed, just because it helps him focus, helps him not think about anything but what he's doing right now. Maybe in another life, he would've been a hairdresser. It is hard to imagine now. 

He sets the pair of scissors down on the edge of the sink, letting the comb slide in sink bowl. 

"We need to get the hair off your body again, get in the-" Simon is cut off by the doorbell ringing. He looks at the general direction of his house entrance, silent for a second before he looks down at Soap, placing his index on his own lips as a silent order to shut up. 

He then washes his hands and leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind him before taking his balaclava off. He may hate showing his face to people, but he can't risk them becoming suspicious of him because of a mask. 

He opens the door, greeting the man holding the new mattress with a sign of his head. 

"Mister Riley?" The man asks, and Simon nods. It is his name, although the connection he has to it are blurry, something about his past and the wish to forget. 

"I'll need a signature here." 

It's almost scary, how much information about him is being registered by stupid deliveries like this. The signature he gives is a false one, because he knows they'll never check, they don't care. Simon looks at the car, at the driver who stayed inside. 

The delivery man nods to himself as he checks the information before lifting his head up again. He's shorter than Simon, roughly Soap's height, maybe even shorter, so he has to look up. He must know that his question sounds stupid, seeing Simon's stature, his muscles visible even under the jacket he's wearing, but that must be part of the job. 

"Do you need help with the mattress?" 

Simon shakes his head so they leave and Simon carries the roller mattress inside. 

******

John hears the door and adrenaline rushes through his veins. Someone is outside the house, someone who could save him, set him free, help the bird fly again. But something stops him from jumping out the window, screaming for help. Not the fact that he's naked, no, but the fact that he'd be leaving Ghost alone with his demons. He knows how stupid it is, to have empathy for that monster, and he knows that his thoughts are getting blended together. 

The pain that seemed inflicted for no reason suddenly finds its source in John's misbehavior. If Ghost wanted to hurt him out of pure pleasure, he wouldn't have taken care of him like that, right? Right. 

He risks opening the door for a few seconds, while Ghost is talking to the other man. He can't see him, Ghost is much taller, but he does see his abductor without his mask. He's blonde. Ghost is a honey blonde, hair short and sticking in all directions, maybe because he took the mask off shortly before. John can't help but stare, sitting down on the floor to avoid being seen as he observes what is happening at the front door. 

He sees it, his chance to escape, his chance to walk freely outside again, but he stays still, and when Ghost closes the door, John doesn't feel sad, strangely. He hears the car drive away with a freedom he doesn't want anymore, because of all the failed scenarios in his head. He doesn't want to drag strangers into this mess, as if it had all been his fault. Maybe it is. 

Maybe the bird got so used to staying in a cage that it forgot how to exist outside of it. 

Chapter Text

John would think he’d get used to those hands roaming all over his body, he’d think routine would turn those embarrassing times into something he’d just go through before going back to the basement, but there's no way he can stop those hands on him from feeling like a million needles scraping his skin. Ghost isn't ruthless when he runs his skin, and the washcloth separates that hand from his skin anyway, but his other hand is always placed somewhere on his body, either his shoulder, his neck or his lower back when he's washing the front or his torso when he's washing the back. John is pretty sure this isn't necessary and Ghost only does it because he can't say anything against it. 

He tries to close his eyes, think about something else, but even the storm and the bird crashed on the sand can't do much for him right now. He feels too much, and that sense makes him sick. How long has it been? Hard to say, he doesn't know how long he stayed alone, never had a chance to ask. Ghost wouldn't answer him, or maybe he'd lie, say he was never alone. He opens his eyes to stare at the bottle of soap, somehow a little annoyed that his nickname is based on some body cleaning product.  Could’ve been worse. 

Ghost doesn't warn him when he turns the water on and John startles, swallowing back a gasp. He still doesn't know if sounds of surprise count as talking and he surely does not want to test it out now. Ghost can't be this cruel, John wants to believe there's at least a tiny percentage of humanity inside that man. Maybe as tiny as a needle hole, but still. Maybe he can dig more out of him, maybe there's a way to make him less a monster and more the person he really is. John can't do much when he's treated like less than a dog, he can't help if he's locked in a basement, he's useless without a voice. It doesn't stop him from thinking about it. 

The water gets most of the cut hair out of his scalp and goes over his face, forcing him to close his eyes and hold his breath.

"Sit down on the edge." 

John follows the instructions, sitting on the cold edge of the bathtub. He guesses it'll be easier for Ghost to wash his hair, if that's the plan.

Ghost takes the generic shampoo he bought at a too suspicious generic store where nobody cares if he's wearing a balaclava and squeezes the liquid in his palm, they rubbing his hands together before sliding them in John's hair. Those are the moments that don't feel so bad, the moments that John could enjoy, if only they weren't paired with painful memories. Those fingers working the shampoo to foam in his hair are the same hands who pressed the butt of a burning cigarette against his palm. They shouldn't feel good. 

Ghost is thorough in the hair washing without trying to make it incredibly pleasing for John. There isn't any head massage, just methodical circle rubs and nails against scalp but it's fine, at least he's sitting, at least he has a semblance of privacy.

It doesn't last. It never does, his intimacy is always ripped away from him as if it was never important, because it never was and never will be in the eyes of his abductor. John knows it's all about control, a control Ghost wouldn't have if he was allowed to wear clothes, hide the bruises on his chest and his private parts behind them. He can't do much for his face, he gave up the idea of ever hoping to get out of here without huge scars to remind him of this experience. He’ll call it an experience for the sake of his well being, although a nightmare would fit better. 

Do you really want to get out?

Of course John wants to be freed, he wants to be able to speak as he pleases, he wants to be able to dress and go out, back to his life, back to work. Work. Are they looking for him? 

And if he let you speak and dress yourself, would you want to get out? 

John thinks about it while Ghost rinses his hair, but no concrete answer appears in his mind. He doesn't know, and he's scared of himself for that. He feels the towel pat his body and hair dry before he has time to register that the shower came to an end, and he lets himself enjoy the tiny amount of warmth provided by the towel before he's enveloped by the bathroom's ambiant air. The hot water raised the temperature a little, but John knows it won't last, because as soon as the door opens, the warmth is sucked out of the room and John is left naked and cold, like always. Routine. Uncomfortable, unfamiliar routine. 

"We need to get the new mattress down to the basement." Ghost says when he walks out of the bathroom and to the rolled and plastic wrapped mattress. John follows him with his eyes but doesn't move from his spot. He then turns his head to the basement door. A wave of disgust blankets his stomach when he thinks about the darkness he'll be sent back to. At least the mattress is clean, it'll be like the first day. 

John doesn't want it to be like the first day. He doesn't want to feel like he failed all over again. It's a torturous thought, to remember that if he hadn't drank that coffee, that morning, this wouldn't have happened. He looks down at his own body, at his burned palm. The disgust is replaced by sadness. He's not angry, anger brings nothing but more anger, and he knows how Ghost is when he snaps. No, his heart is drowned in the tears that won't come out of his eyes, and he may not suffocate, because none of it is real, but the sensations stay the same nonetheless. 

Ghost drags the mattress and leans it next to the basement door.

"Bring it down." He orders, and John walks to the mattress, opening the door to the basement himself, breathing in the dusty smell, letting himself be engulfed by the darkness. He can feel the bile rise up in his throat when he looks at the mattress that he swallows down, doing his best to ignore the cold shiver that ran down his spine. He couldn't tell why it makes him feel sick, he just knows it gives him an impression of novelty or repetition he doesn't like. 

The mattress isn't light and John does his best to not fall down the stairs as he walks down slowly, step by step, planting both feet on one step each time before continuing. He's not looking at Ghost but he can feel his stare on him and it burns like cigarettes. The sensation of the plastic wrap against his naked torso is unpleasant, painful, and the pressure the mattress exerces on his bruises makes him want to just let it roll down the stairs, but that's not what Ghost wants, so John inhales deeply, and keeps walking down the stairs until he reaches the bottom. 

He lets out a relieved sigh, allowing himself a second of respite, leaning against the standing rolled mattress, his chest expanding with each big inhale of air. He never thought bringing a simple mattress down could be so exhausting, and he knows it has to do with the lack of nutrients in his body. He wasn't this weak before. Is Ghost using that to control him as well? Isn't it enough to touch his body as pleased and keep him away from anything resembling a piece of fabric? John can curse and sulk in silence, but he can never revolt. 

He looks up at the door, it is still opened but Ghost is nowhere to be seen. Did he leave John to try and open the protective layer with his bare hands? It may work, Ghost hasn't cut John's nails in a while, and hasn't allowed him near any sharp objects. Maybe if he keeps them long enough he'll be able to dig a hole through the walls. A stupid idea, or maybe just a hopeful one. 

But Ghost does come back with a pair of scissors that he throws in John's direction. The land on the concrete right next to him and he picks them up, the idea of throwing them back to hurt the other man crossing his mind like a full powered train before vanishing back, overtaken by the fear of failing and getting it back ten times worse. And what would be worse than being stabbed by a pair of scissors? John doesn't want to think about it. He focuses on the wrap instead, cutting it open and freeing the mattress, letting it unroll on the floor. He stares at it, the emotions fighting inside of him are nothing positive, he's not relieved about having a new mattress, he's not happy about the gift, he's just confused about being treated like a somewhat normal human being, and he looks at the item like one would look at a weird painting in a museum. 

Ghost is still standing on the stairs, looking at the mattress too before he nods to himself like he did some good action, then goes back up, slamming the door shut. John kneels on the mattress, then lays on his back, his torso still bruised and hurting. He doesn't like it. He doesn't like new things, he doesn't like the smell this mattress has. For once he's grateful about not being able to talk, because a "thank you" would've been hard to say. He doesn't see anything, but he feels the fabric. He sits up, then, because Ghost closed the door - didn't lock it though - and the basement is plunged in darkness, John has to guess his way across it until he finds one of the chairs to sit on it. It's not even late enough to sleep, it was day time not even seconds ago…or minutes, hard to tell. He just doesn't want to lay down on this mattress. It's too nice of a gesture, it doesn't look like Ghost, it isn't him. 

It must be a way to break him, like he did when he left John alone for days with just enough food and water to not die. John ignores where the tears come from, he ignores why he starts panicking. He's possibly trying to find a twisted meaning behind a simple display of attention. 

The scissors are still laying somewhere on the floor and John kneels down to find them. He doesn't want to hurt himself, he's never wanted to and he's already wounded enough. He just wants this mattress to not be as perfect as it is right now, he's undeserving of perfect, it makes no sense. When his fingers touch the cold metal he lets out a weird strangled chuckle and grabs the handle, walking on all four to the mattress. Ghost will most definitely hit him, he'll get very mad if he destroys what he just bought, right? And then what? John lets his hand fall back down, a defeated sigh leaving his lips. He doesn't know what he wants, he doesn't know where to place himself in this situation. He's been so used to the brutality that his mind can't comprehend this, the mattress, the gentleness of the gift. 

He throws the pair of scissors across the room, listening to it hit the wall and fall back on the floor with a metallic clank. He then launches half his body on the mattress, the other half still on the concrete before a heart broken sob shakes his frame. He doesn't know why he cries, in fact he doesn't know anything and thinking about it hurts his head. He doesn't care if Ghost hears him, he wishes he could lock the door from the inside, he wishes he could decide when to be locked up and when not, he wishes he didn't have to go through all this. 

The tears blur his vision but they don't stop him from hearing the door open. Was he that loud or is Ghost coming back to retrieve the scissors? Check if John tried to kill himself with them. Would he be sad? What does it even matter? But Ghost doesn't even look for the scissors, he sits on the mattress. On John's mattress. And his hand lands on top of his head, he runs his fingers through the freshly cut hair, and each second of it, John thinks he's going to try and pull his hair out but it never happens. It never happens and there's something so wrong about it, so sickly disgusting. He wants to scream, ask why everything is changing, why Ghost is acting like nothing's wrong, like he wasn't beating him up with a chair hours ago but he stays silent, lips pinched together. 

"You don't like the new mattress?" Ghost asks, but John doesn't answer. 

"You know it's your own fault I had to buy a new one. Spent money for your sake and you're trying to be ungrateful?" He clicks his tongue then chuckles, his hold on John's hair going from gentle to firm. "I don't think you have a say in anything, Soap." He spits, lifting the man's head so his tear streaked eyes can look right back at him. "Are we clear?" 

John feels the oh so familiar fear twirl inside his stomach, forming a knot in it and his throat as he nods, Ghost's fisted hand hurting his scalp. He looks at the man, the way his eyes shine so dark. This is him. This is Ghost. 

He stands up, looking down at John, then at the scissors that are laying on the floor, opened in an X shape. He walks to them and picks them up, examining them closely. Then he shoves them in the pocket of the hoodie he's wearing today before leaving John alone for the second time. 

This time he lays on the mattress on his left side, not bothered by the wound on his cheek anymore. He stares at the wall although he can't see much of it, his fingers tracing forms on it like he would on someone's skin. Is it possible to befriend concrete? Can it be his confidant, would it answer his questions? John has time to answer all the stupid questions that cross his mind, he has time to swirl into madness, and maybe that's what Ghost wants. He turns on the other side, his fingers swiping the floor as he stares into nothing. Ghost didn't bring new snacks, maybe he wants John to die from hunger, maybe he has planned to feed him actual meals. He'd poison them. John is sure of that, or wants to believe it, that everything he'll eat will be packed with drugs. He refuses to believe that Ghost would be anything but mean to him. 

The steak was fine though…maybe a little too much for his overall pretty empty stomach but nothing he couldn't bear or that would make him sick. 

He's mad at his brain for being so confused, mad at himself for allowing it to be and mad at Ghost for being so volatile. He doesn't even have time to be scared of the basement when all he can think about is how bad the mattress feels, not only physically but also emotionally. It's wrong, it's so wrong and he has no idea why he laid back on it. He should stand back up, spend the night walking around, or he can sleep on the floor. That's better. Yeah. He’ll do just that. 

But the floor is hard and cold and it hurts his body more than the bruises on his chest do when he presses on them, so that solution works for only a couple minutes before he sits back up, hissing in pain and frustration. Everything's unfair, his own reactions too. He couldn't tell who is to blame for his train of thoughts, who he should curse, if Ghost or himself or the four walls he's trapped into. 

He stands up and leans against the wall, banging the back of his head against it until the pain rings inside his entire body like a blaring alarm. He got used to it, so it must be right, it must feel right. John closes his eyes as tightly as possible for a second, biting his lip hard enough to dent it as he tries his best to fight back the tears. He's tired of crying, he's tired of being tired. When he opens them back up, the basement seems to be darker than it was before but only for a short period before it settles back to the usual blackness. John lets himself drop down on his ass, huffing. It hurt. Everything hurts in a way or another, what's more of it? 

He doesn't know what time it is, he doesn't know if he spent ten minutes or ten hours sulking and complaining about his own thoughts and existence. When did he last eat? Did he eat? Will Ghost come back and give him snacks or will he be forced to stay hours without eating? The last time he did it didn't end well for him, and he's not sure he wants to be in that same situation again. 

But he was in Ghost's bed, a real bed with covers and a pillow and a frame and a header, a real bedroom with windows and a door that isn't locked and furniture, although not much, but still. Something closer than what a human being would need, not a forgotten cargo. 

Ghost did say to call him if he ever was in a life or death situation. When he thinks a little harder about it, he's not about to die. Not yet, at least. He can wait for a little longer, maybe try to sleep the time away like he always does, until the door slams open and Ghost forces him to his feet to go shower or bathe or eat or whatever bullshit he's decided. 

It's helpful, it's "self"-care, although John thought the self part meant he'd do it himself. He knows how to wash himself, but he feels like he's about to forget, if Ghost keeps doing it for him. One can't forget the basics…unless one can. Feeling the control of his own body slip through his fingers only to be caught by a masked man he knows nothing about has weird sensations blooming inside his body. Something like an anvil that slowly rips his insides open, falling deeper down, making him bleed innerly. It's heavy and uncomfortable, and it feels like another hallucination, but John knows it's not. 

Maybe it's hunger, maybe he should call Ghost, or try to get his attention by shaking the door until he opens it. Or he can sleep it off his mind, off his body. For that he'd have to lay down on the mattress. 

He inhales deeply, holding his breath for a few seconds before he exhales, a frustrated whine following as he kneels on the mattress and lays on his stomach. He hates that the mattress is comfortable enough to not hurt his chest. He hates that the mattress is comfortable, period. The other one was too, before the accident, but then it was more fit to his situation. Did he like being embarrassed? No…no he didn't but it's never about what he likes. If it was he wouldn't let Ghost control his every move, how long his showers last, how long he can wrap himself in a soft and fluffy towel. If he had a say he would get to eat with a fork and a knife, cut his food like any normal person would do, he would be able to speak, give his opinion, be angry or sad or happy without fearing an item being thrown at his face and body. If it was about him, John wouldn't be here in the first place. 

He turns on his side again, facing the wall, then on his back, trying to find a position that would shut his brain up and let him sleep. If he closes his eyes without opening them again, he'll end up winning the fight over his thoughts.  The mattress makes him hyper aware of how naked he is. It's never been a problem. Scratch that, it is still a huge problem but John got used to it. He's getting used to a whole lot actually. There isn't much he can do about it. 

Those are the last words he thinks about before sleep finally hugs him away from reality, and John will decide when he wakes up again, if the nightmares he's had are better than his current living Hell. 

******

Simon sits in the kitchen, staring longly at the pair of scissors, wondering if Soap would try to hurt himself if he had left them there, and if he'd try to stop him if it were the case. 

The answer doesn't come like an illumination, and the object doesn't answer his silent question. He couldn't say if he'd be sad, if he woke up one day to find Soap bathing in his own blood. This too, stays unanswered by the pair of scissors. 

Simon takes a cigarette out of its pack and lights it. That's a few minutes closer to death. That is a pleasing thought to have. 

Chapter Text

Simon opens his eyes, the remnants of his nightmare floating in the back of his mind. He dreamed of his parents, the ones he may have killed, and they haunt him like corpses whose brains he's shot out of their heads.

The bedroom is still plunged in a false darkness, the grayish light of the moon illuminating the space just enough for Simon to realize he's lonely. He looks at the closed door, the shadows of his rare furniture stretching against the walls and floors, the life outside his windows invading the privacy of his room, the shadows trying to catch him. His parents could be outside, walking aimlessly with brain matter oozing out of the holes in their head. He doesn't want to check. He doesn't want to know if the dream reached reality. 

He looks to his left, pondering for a long minute if he should turn the light on or if he should just close his eyes tight enough to not see the images inside his head. 

He looks down, at his blanket covered body, his mind wandering to all the little details about it, all the things he's the only one to know, all the wounds he's been inflicted. He's holding his mask in one hand, like children would tightly hug their pushed toy after a nightmare. It makes no sense, a piece of fabric won't save his life. As if a cotton filled toy could. 

Still, useful or not, it helps him focus on something that isn't dream related. It helps him focus on reality, not all the ifs his brain is creating, the things that may be truths or may be lies. He doesn't want to think about them, he doesn't want to think about anything. 

He doesn't look at the time, he'd be too annoyed if only a few hours had passed since he closed his eyes to fall asleep. Instead, he stares at the ceiling, and counts the seconds. 

When he reaches one minute, and sleep still teases him by how far it is, he sits up in his bed and looks down at his mask. The moon outside and the dark sky tell him that it must be the middle of the night, but they might be lying. How did Soap survive so long in complete darkness while untrained?

Simon leaves his room and takes a look at the closed basement door, somehow awaiting to see it wide open. An idea pops in his mind but he pushes it in the back of his mind, right behind the nightmares and unwanted thoughts. 

The cold night air that hits his face tastes like freedom and the cigarette he takes out tastes like his own mistakes. He needs to stop smoking, but that'll be a problem for daytime Simon, like he tells himself each day of the week, each week of the month and each upcoming year of his life. What good is there to stop when he's already destroyed so much of him? 

He forgot to take a long sleeved covering and the wind is sending shivers over his arms and neck, that he ignores as best as he can. 

Anyone would head inside when the cold is too much to bear with, but Simon starts walking around the house, hands in the pocket of his sweatpants that he put hurriedly before head outside, because who knows who'd still be awake at this time of the night, and having both his arms and legs freezing doesn't sound appealing. 

Simon stops in front of the bathroom window and looks at it for long seconds, then twists his head to the nest in the tree Soap stares at each time he's able to. Is there something about the nest? Something about the birds? This nest looks abandoned. Does Soap feel abandoned? Surely. Simon did rip him away from a tranquil life, he's aware of that. If he regrets it? Oh, he's regretted a lot in his life, but going after the person he's obsessed over for so long isn't one of them. He’s much aware of the fact that it should be one of the first things he should want to change about himself, but there's something about owning the man that has a great sense of satisfaction washing over him. 

Not pleasure. Never pleasure. Pleasure feels like something too simple to be the result of such complicated emotions.

The tiles shine under the indirect light, and if he focuses enough, Simon can feel the softness of Soap's skin where he holds him when he rubs his body with the soapy washcloth. Maybe next bath time he'll use just his hands, to know what it's like to stroke his skin without barriers. Maybe then he'll know how pleasure feels.

He shakes his head, as if to get the thoughts out of it as quickly as possible, and when his cigarette is almost completely burned, he lets it fall on the ground and steps on it before finally heading inside, the difference of temperature pulling a relieved sigh out of him. 

He walks to the kitchen, where the alcohol stain still dirties the wall, where the broken pieces of glass lay scattered across the kitchen floor, like a trap for his mind, like an invitation to step on them, jump on them until the whole kitchen tiles are painted red. 

Simon turns the light on and avoids the broken glass to sit down at the table. He resumes the position he held before he slept. The scissors still lay on the table, and as much as he stares at them, they don't talk to him. 

He should clean the glass, Soap might get hurt. He should also get him clothes. He's been nice enough. A shopping trip would be an idea, but a bad one. How is he supposed to keep him in check if people are around? If every corner offers hundreds of ways to escape. He’s not saying Soap would escape if he could, but he doesn’t want to try his theory.

But he doesn’t need to be thinking about that right now. Getting the glass off the floor is more important. 

He couldn't say how long he spends picking up each piece one by one, by laziness or fear of making too much noise, or as a punishment against himself, against his outburst of anger. He can't remember where it came from, why he was so negatively impacted that the only way to soothe the tension was to destroy something. It just happens, and he has to live with the consequences. He always tells himself that he won't act like this next time, but he knows very much that his body acts before his mind, and by the time he's thought of his reactions, they lay broken on the floor. Like Soap. Soap is one of the many objects he tried not to break, but to no avail. Soap is solid, he bruises and fissures but never completely breaks. At least physically. Simon knows about his mental state, he knows it's weaker than it was before. 

He looks up from the floor to see the first ray of sun reach for his kitchen, like fingers stretched to caress the surface left cold by the night. He stays there for a minute, kneeling next to his anger, silently staring at that one strike of light crossing the kitchen, watching the dust dance around and twirl. He wonders if being a piece of dust or a ray of light would bring him peace. He looks down at his hands, at the little cuts on his fingers, at the longer cuts on his arm, then at the glass he didn't yet pick up. It is not too late to dance on it like the dust dances in the sun. The way the light reflects in the glass makes it resemble a dance floor. A messed one, alas, but does Simon deserve anything even slightly better than the worst? 

He won't dance on the glass, that would be stupid, but the idea is holding hands with his parents and they're all staring at him, as if daring him to do it. He closes his eyes and presses the palms of his hands against them until the images in his head stop being so clear. He tries to overpower them with thoughts of floating dust and sunlight rather than guns and broken glass. 

He's killed so many people and he's felt nothing about it, no fear, no regret. It's his job, he wouldn't do it if he wasn't ready for it, he wouldn't hold a gun to their heads if he couldn't live with the consequences. It isn't killing his parents that scares him, it is the certitude that is so deeply anchored in his mind, that they are immortal,  that keeps him awake at night. And like in his nightmares, they walk around, headless yet with the same disappointed look in their non existent eyes. 

Simon stands up and walks to the sink to wash his hands and get the blood off. The cold water stings a little, but it is nothing compared to the tear in his heart, or the pounding in his head. He could blame it on the lack of sleep or on his immortal parents. The rest will have to wait until he's in the right state of mind, until the sole of his feet stop tingling at the idea of stepping on sharp glass. 

He doesn't know better comfort for his panicked state than to go in the basement and watch Soap sleep, watch his face contort when he dreams, or his body shift into another position. It is fascinating, and Simon wants to touch him, feel his warm and soft skin under his cold and rough fingers. He wants to caress his skin like he'd run his fingers through a fluffy carpet.

He doesn't give into his wants. Not yet. He doesn't want to scare Soap, he doesn't want to eat away the little privacy he has left, the one he ruins as soon as they step inside the bathroom. He can at least allow Soap to have his body to himself for the night. He wouldn't know what to do anyway. Touch him, sure, and then? Simon isn't looking to pleasure himself through Soap's despair…or is it what he wants? See him writhe under him, cry and beg. No. The idea sounds nothing close to attractive. Does Soap expect him to be like that? Is he apprehending that exact moment, when his naked fingers will make contact with his naked skin in another genre of stroking and rubbing? Would Simon need to explain that he has no interest in doing that?

Sure, Simon wouldn't mind laying down next to him, holding him tight like he'd hold his balaclava, but that's it. It's too early, though. Way too early. 

So, he just sits on the chair he used to beat him up and looks at him sleeping. He doesn't know why but it brings him peace. He leaves the door open, so the light caresses Soap's face. It'll wake him up. It'll leave Simon a few seconds to decide if he wants to bathe him without a washcloth or if that too would be a plan set too soon. 

"Good morning, Soap." He says when the other man finally opens his eyes. His mouth opens for a second and Simon feels adrenaline coursing through his veins – maybe that's pleasure, but no sound comes out and his mouth closes. Soap stares at the ceiling, as if gathering his thoughts, remembering where he is and replaying scenarios in his head where he hates coffee. Simon would’ve found another way, if Soap had hated coffee. It has been quite some time since he's had one, actually. Would it be a great reward? If Soap is good, he'll get a cup of coffee and be allowed to sleep outside of the basement. Where? Simon hasn't thought about that yet. 

"Your nails are getting long." He points at Soap's hands and the man holds them up to observe what's been stated. "We need to cut them." Simon says as he stands up. Soap knows he has to follow him.

Simon looks at the man sitting down on the toilet seat in front of him, wondering if he’ll ever get used to walking around naked, or if maybe it already doesn’t bother him anymore. Those thoughts come and go, and he mostly ignores them like he does his own health when he chain smokes an entire pack in a day. It doesn’t matter. It’ll only make him fall a little further, when he’s finally allowed to act like a human being again. 

“Give me your hand.” 

Soap’s hands are softer than his and Simon is thorough and careful in the way he cuts the man’s nails. He could let them grow, he wouldn’t mind it, but having control over tiny things is how he breaks him slowly but surely. 

He’s getting better. It’s been quite some time since he misbehaved, so Simon could be nice enough to let him have one thing he had taken away from him. 

“What would you say, if I allowed you to speak again?” He asks, and sees the way Soap’s face lights up before darkening again, probably afraid of it being a trick of some sort. Simon wouldn’t be so cruel, right? The silence stretches and Simon shakes his head, his patience thin, even when he tries to be nicer. “Come on, Soap, answer me.” 

There is something in the man’s eyes, something like relief mixed with fear, or maybe apprehension. Simon wonders why he wants him to speak, if out of boredom or because he misses having someone to talk to, and not just a living doll as basement decoration. Would his choice be based on what he answers? Maybe. Would he hit him again, if the answer doesn’t fit his expectations? He’s never tested the solidity of the sink, it might be a good reason. Soap would lose all trust in Simon and in himself. Is that worth the risk? 

Maybe minutes go slower when one is impatient, or maybe Soap doesn’t trust his voice, maybe he’s scared of being lied to, or maybe the trust Simon thought he had built was just an illusion. Maybe silence is anchored so deep in his bones words feel like knives cutting his tongue in half and scraping the inside of his throat. Does speaking hurt? If it does, how bad? 

Can he feel the pain of all the wounds he’s been inflicted all at once? Simon wonders, and while he wonders he continues cutting his nails. 

“Don’t play with my generosity, Soap. I asked you a question, I await an answer.” He whispers, but he knows it holds the same threatening aura as a gun against Soap’s temple, as a bucket swung full speed to meet his unwounded cheek, marking it for life, surely. 

When Soap’s voice comes out of his mouth, it sounds unsure, as if words were jammed in his throat from weeks of being unable to express himself freely. Simon was nice enough to let him ask questions, or answer him a few times, but Soap was never allowed to give his opinion on things, never allowed to ask or demand anything. And maybe he’s saddened by his own choice of words, or maybe he’s moved by the permission he’s had to speak, because tears form in his eyes and he tries to blink them away.

Simon wants to wipe them off, and this time he doesn’t stop himself, he’s hand reaching for his face. Soap flinches back, his voice coming out in a whispered rush.

“I don’t know, please don’t hit me!” 

And Simon looks down at him, hand floating mid-movement. Fear is rooted inside him. 

Fear is rooted inside him. 

It means Simon can do anything he wants, Soap will listen to him, he will obey. 

He has broken the man apart. 

“I won’t hit you, I promise.” Simon whispers, unable to tell if he means it or if he’s just being carried away by the situation. He likes the way Soap’s wet eyes shine under the artificial bathroom light, he likes the way he tries his best to keep still, although his hands tremble a little. Simon holds them, even when he’s done cutting his nails.

“Really? Never again?” Soap starts to trust his voice a little more, although it still comes out as a whisper. He’s looking up at Simon with wide eyes, tears creating wet streaks on his skin where they run down his cheeks, and when Simon nods, a sob tears through the room.

Simon doesn’t want to tell him that it might not be true, that his brutality sometimes overpowers his thoughts, and that what he promises right now might fall into a void next time he gets annoyed. 

But for now, he’ll let him cry happy tears, if it is what they are. 

******

John can’t hold back the tears, even when the logical part of his brain tells him to be careful, to not trust a man that has no problem hitting him when a sigh leaves his mouth if he deems it too loud. He pushes that thought away and holds onto the good side of the deal, the one where he’s able to ask for food when he’s hungry or ask to go to the bathroom. 

There’s one thing he’s wanted to ask since he’s been abducted, but he chooses to ignore it for now. He wouldn’t risk having his permission to talk ripped away because of some dumb question that wouldn’t change anything about his situation. 

Still, knowing the answer would maybe bring him some sort of peace. 

Chapter Text

It's been a few days since John has been allowed to talk, yet he never dares more than a few words at once, never dares speak his mind if there is even the smallest chance of it leading to an argument, because he still remembers how painful it was, to go against Ghost.

He’s standing in the bathtub, again, and that repetitive routine is starting to get on his nerves. Sure, if he was by himself he would have to shower every day, but at least he’d be alone, and not with a stranger who suddenly decided they had to be intimate for him to stay alive. A lot beaten up, but alive nonetheless. 

John looks down at his body, at the washcloth drawing circles on his skin. He’s seen it a thousand times, maybe even more, but he still can’t get used to how invasive it feels. He could ask him to stop, if he wanted, he’s allowed to talk, but being able to talk doesn’t cancel the fear of it, funnily enough, it doesn’t erase weeks of painful consequences. John might never have been as silent as the moment he’s been allowed to make sound. It’s like the words try to hide in his throat, under his tongue, so that when he opens his mouth no sounds come out. Maybe he forgot to turn the volume higher, or maybe the batteries of his voice box died with how unused they were. 

He tries to relax, inhale deeply and exhale his worries but they seem to be rooted in his core, like they’re a part of him, as if he was born with the unease and tension he feels, as if his whole body had turned to bone. 

Because Ghost drops the washcloth, and the rough pad of his fingers are in direct contact with his skin. 

John doesn’t react immediately. He doesn’t know how to react, because all Ghost does is wash him, the routined movements don’t change, the soap doesn’t smell any different, but the barrier between their skins is gone. John looks down at his body, at the foreign hand he can see tracing large soapy circles on his torso. It’s not more or less intimate, Ghost isn’t trying to soften his moves, they’re as rough as with the cloth, but they feel unusual, unfamiliar. 

“Wh-...” There’s a pause, a gathering of John’s thoughts, of the best way to word that sentence to be as neutral as possible. “Why did you drop the washcloth?” He speaks, murmurs, can barely hear himself so he can’t tell if Ghost heard him. 

“I want to feel your skin under my fingers.” He answers, and the silence that follows is filled with unease, confusion and everything in between. John doesn’t know why he hates it more than the washcloth. Really, nothing changes, those are just fingers, and Ghost isn’t touching him any differently. 

“What if I don’t like it?” He murmurs, then bites his tongue, scared of having stepped over some invisible boundaries. It would be quite unfair, if Ghost was allowed limits while John was forced to fold under some rules set for him. 

“If you tell me you hate it I would pick the cloth again.” Ghost says, and as a matter of fact, picks the cloth back up to continue washing John’s body. 

That easily? John is confused. Pleased, for sure, but confused. He wants to push his luck, so after a minute of silence, when Ghost grabs the shower head, he opens his mouth again. 

“If I say…I want to shower alone…would you let me?” His sentence and intersected, as if saying it too fast would trigger something inside the beast he’s faced with. The beast is looking at him with cold eyes. 

“No.” 

Well, at least it’s clear. John can’t be mad, he got the cloth back for as long as it takes for Ghost to drop it again, maybe two days from now, maybe two weeks. It would change a lot of the dynamic, if John is permitted to refuse things that are forced upon him, but he can’t help and wonder what lays behind that friendliness, what plans Ghost has playing in his mind, and how they will unfold to end up being a bigger nightmare than what he’s endured until now. Or maybe he’s just being a little paranoid. 

******

Building trust to better destroy it when the time comes? Or did Simon really wish to respect Soap’s boundaries? Isn’t it too late for that? The wounds on his face would say that, but the relief relaxing all his features says otherwise. It is never too late to build something new over all the broken pieces, never too late to give the impression that everything will be fine. Everything is fine. And if it ends up being worse, he’ll blame it on him, on his behavior, like he’s always done. 

He was able to enjoy Soap’s soft skin under his fingers for a short time, and the sensations are now printed under his fingers, inside his brain. He’ll remember the texture, the plushness of his relaxed muscles, and the tensed outline of them when Soap realized what was happening. Simon can’t lie, he liked the short panic he saw in his eyes, the confusion of a prey being face to face with a new predator, not knowing how to act yet being led by an invisible force screaming for them to escape.

What would’ve happened, if Soap hadn’t been allowed to talk? Simon isn’t even sure why he let him use his voice again. It makes everything more difficult. Maybe for the excitement, maybe out of boredom. He asked himself the same question earlier, yet no better answer crosses his mind. 

He watches the water hit Soap’s skin, rinsing the soap off, some of it splashing on his clothes. If he could shower alone, what would Simon do? How would he control him? Those questions don’t need answers, because they’re not part of reality, but just some distant What Ifs Simon can just ignore for now, forever. 

“Alright, step out.” He says, setting the shower head back on its base. He grabs the towel and pats Soap’s body dry. 

“Can I…keep the towel?” Soap asks, and Simon looks up, swallowing an annoyed sigh. This was a mistake, but a mistake that he can’t take back so soon. Building trust. He needs to build trust. 

Silence is no answer, but silence is what Soap gets until Simon decides how well he allows himself to treat him, how bad it’ll hurt when all of it falls apart. What’s the comfort of a towel compared to all the pain he’s been through?

“You can.” He says as he wraps it around Soap’s shoulders. 

******

John may be able to talk without having his face sent to another dimension or without feeling the pain of all the bones in his body being crushed, but he’s not treated any better. The towel makes a really bad pillow and his voice doesn’t create light, so he’s still stuck in the dark basement. Talking ends up being the last thing he would’ve needed. 

The towel makes an even worse blanket, barely covering his body and somehow feeling colder than the air around. It smells like the soap Ghost uses to clean him, and also a little like Ghost himself. The thought that maybe he uses the same towel crosses his mind but he disgustedly pushes it away, ignoring the sharp shiver that crosses his spine. It wouldn’t be worse than the idea of being washed by another adult…or maybe it would. John doesn’t want to compare two uncomfortable scenarios. 

Instead, he stares at his hands. There isn’t any reason behind that, he’s not trying to see anything, but focusing on futile things helps him ignore the obvious malaise rooted in every bone of his body, because he still sleeps surrounded by all the items that brought him suffering, staring at him as if they had eyes. He doesn’t need to see them clearly to feel their presence in the room, like he didn’t need to see the bucket and the door to hallucinate them moving. He knows where each item is, because except for the chair that Ghost used to beat him up, none of them have moved. 

Would Ghost allow him to not sleep in the basement, if he asked nicely? 

John wonders if the bucket still carries his blood like a war stain, he wonders what Ghost did with his clothes, the ones he had to use as a…no, he doesn’t want to think about that either. He prefers thinking about positive situations, like the towel or his voice, or the daydreams where he’s allowed outside, where he and Ghost go shopping for tons of new clothes. He and Ghost, because somehow, even when he tries to avoid it, he can’t help but include him in all of his scenarios, as if John’s private sphere wasn’t his alone anymore.

Maybe he’s just confused by the pleasant way he’s been handled, maybe his heart is taking a liking to a man, just for being treated normally, like a human being. He can’t be that dumb, can he? He remembers wanting Ghost to comfort him, after the days spent alone in a pitch black basement, he remembers craving his touch, craving a hug from him, so yes, maybe he’s that dumb, because the yearning hasn’t died down although he’s been pushing it in the back of his mind. Maybe John didn’t mind the skin against skin contact that much, and maybe it was what scared him the most. He’s not supposed to enjoy it, he’s not supposed to want it. 

Like always, sleep seems to be the best escape from his own mind, so he forces his eyes shut and waits until Morpheus accepts to steal him away. 

******

If boredom was the source of that rush of kindness, what will happen when Simon decides he isn’t bored anymore? What will he do of Soap’s voice, when he’s tired of hearing it, when his body reacts with anger before his mind has time to relativize the situation? Telling himself it’ll all be fine doesn’t change the pounding of his heart. He never meant to hurt him, really, although he did nothing to stop himself. He just…healed what he had broken, as if it could change the outcome. He can blame it on the mask all he wants, it’s not it. 

He needs to show his face to Soap. There is no reason for that other than trying to get that guilt sticking to his skin off by rubbing it until he bleeds. Guilt. No. The illusion of it. Simon doesn’t know what guilt feels like but he knows the definition of it, and it fits very well to that current moment, to him sitting on the kitchen chair, the same as always, staring at his mask, the same as always. Guilt fits like a puzzle piece that he cut himself. He makes it fit because it makes him feel a little better. He doesn’t know emotions, but he observes how they appear in others. 

He’s killed many people, knew that their families would be sad, but his own sadness never showed itself, because it had never been part of him. He’s never been told how to be sad, how to be happy, how to not push the yucky feelings inside him to the wrong extreme. Punching goes faster than talking it out, killing is better than trying to find a common ground. 

Simon looks at the time on his phone. Would it be too late for a shower? Time is a concept, he would stay awake for days on end during missions, would eat dried food at two in the morning, waiting for his target to cross the field, so time doesn’t matter. 

He stands up and stretches his body, looking at the moon for long seconds before turning his back to it and leaving the kitchen. 

The hot water feels like a balm on his body, it feels like he can forget about everything and focus on that instant, on the comfortable darkness surrounding him. He doesn’t want to turn the lights on, he doesn’t want to see his body, there is nothing to see. Or there is too much. His fingers feel the bumps and changes in texture where they meet his scars. He wonders if he hurt Soap to make him resemble him a bit more, or because he was jealous of how smooth his skin was. He must’ve thought of how unfair it was, that the man seemed to have a normal life while his must’ve been a replay of someone’s nightmare.

He could stay immobile for hours, just enjoying the warmth, the hug of water while the moon watches him in his most vulnerable state. The moon sees everything, it sees Simon for who he really is, it sees the pain he tries to hide to the best of his ability. Simon hates the moon. Maybe that is one reason why he never turns the lights on when he showers, maybe that is why he insists on washing Soap, because he doesn’t carry the scars of life and the only marks he bears are the ones Simon gave him. Soap belongs to him, and like a dog clutching a bone and growling at whoever dares approach, he will hold onto the man with all his might.

Still, there is no lust, no desire. He read the definitions and it never fits, he doesn’t want to own his body like that, he doesn’t want to cuddle him or kiss him. Actually, he’s not sure what he wants. Touch him? Sure, because feeling Soap’s soft skin under his fingers is like eating his favorite food. 

Simon turns the water off and grabs the beach scenting soap, the one he uses on Soap. He owns other fragrances but for some reason, smelling like Soap for tonight feels right. Is it morally wrong? Maybe, but with all he’s done, it might be the least wrong thing he has ever done. 

Ah, he misses the smell of blood Soap used to emanate, he misses when the bathroom was filled with the scent of disinfectant. He misses the fear in those blue eyes, the tears piled up in them, the snot and saliva rendering his face such an ugly mess, but Simon has learned the hard way that some people love ugliness, it tends to mirror their own heart. Simon is pretty sure that his own heart is ugly too, because someone rubbed off on him. He scrubs the thoughts away with soap. He’s tempted to drink it, to wash his insides too. 

The water rinses the soap but not the pain, it’s been carved too deeply into his skin, into his soul, but it feels good to pretend for a few minutes, it feels good to imagine a life without nightmares. 

******

John is woken up from his dreamless sleep by the door of the basement opening. He doesn’t immediately open his eyes. It’s not the first time Ghost sits down next to him just to watch him sleep, and as much as it scared him before, he learned to live with it and plainly ignore it. It doesn’t mean he forgot the pain in his body, for all the times he was woken up by surprise and dared to make a confused sound. It won’t happen now, he’s allowed to speak, he’s allowed to be surprised. 

The chair moves and John stays still, too still to not be suspicious but he can’t bring himself to care. Ghost won’t punish him for not moving, right? There’s a voice telling John that he’d find anything to hurt him if he felt like it. The chair clicks on the concrete when it’s set where it’s needed and John doesn’t need to look at it to know that Ghost sat on it. He awaits anything, from a good morning to a bucket of cold water, although he’s pretty sure that it isn’t morning yet. 

But silence is all he’s met with, and he wonders if Ghost caught him being awake and just pretending to sleep. He doesn’t want to open his eyes, for maybe the ghost will vanish if he ignores it hard enough. But that ghost is alive and wishing it away is not enough. 

“I know you’re awake, your breathing pattern changed.” Ghost’s voice finally echoes in the basement after what feels like a lifetime. John opens one eye, not seeing much more than he did with his eyes closed

“It changed?” John speaks, still weirded out by the lack of pain following each one of his words. Somehow he expects the bucket or the chair to start attacking him, led by an invisible force, fueled by his own fear. 

“It sped up when you heard the door, probably. Are you still scared of me?”

Yes would be the logical answer, even more when Ghost sits in the dark, and all John can hear is the coldness in his voice. 

“I…I don’t know.” 

John can’t see the expression on Ghost’s face. Couldn’t, even in broad daylight, because that man either hides them really well or doesn’t portray them at all. That serves to render him scarier. The silence following his answer just helps greaten that fear.

The “Why?” Ghost asks comes minutes after, when John almost convinced himself that the other had faded away into one of the walls. 

What a strange question to ask. Isn’t it obvious? 

“Because pain is all I’ve been faced with since you took me away from my daily life.” John whispers, as if scared to hurt Ghost’s feelings, as if his behavior could be excused or as if John himself was at fault. Maybe he was.

He awaits an apology, as fake as it can sound coming from the mouth of the man who’s been beating him up for a sigh but all he's met with is the deafening sound of darkness. He’s able to talk, but that doesn’t mean he’ll have anyone to listen to him or acknowledge his suffering. 

No words cross those lips, and John starts to think that this kind of pain is greater than any bucket to his cheek or window to his nose. 

He closes his eyes again and tries to stop the tears from running down. He doesn’t know what he expected or why he expected it. He doesn’t know why he thought Ghost had kindness hidden somewhere behind that armor of indifference. He can’t explain his disappointment.

Chapter Text

Simon knows too much about the pain he caused Soap by staying silent, by refusing to give him what he awaited. 

He may lack understanding of emotions, but he knows them enough to guess that Soap was hurt. More hurt than what a punch could’ve inflicted. He also knows that it does nothing to him, for the empathy he’s supposed to feel has been erased out of him by the unfair life he's been part of.

A small corner of his mind wants to beg for forgiveness or at least try to make it better, another part of him is satisfied by the results. Soap is under his control, what more could he ask for? Knowing that, what would a little more kindness do to him? It is as if it had the opposite effect of what was desired, as if Soap’s fear of him grew exponentially with how much care he’d been faced with, as if he was so used to being punched that the mere idea of having a somewhat normal day was worse than anything. Simon can understand. He knows how it feels to be confused by changes. 

Pushing himself out of the sofa isn’t that hard, although his night was short and he ended up absentmindedly staring at some documentaries for most of the night. Before he goes down to the basement, he goes through his morning routine, brushing his teeth and washing his face, avoiding his reflection as much as he can because he hates it, because it reminds him of who he is. He doesn’t even know why the mirror is still here. 

There’s something about seeing himself, his naked face, the blonde lashes and brows, the spiky hair, the sparse beard he sometimes doesn’t shave just out of laziness, because nobody would see it anyway. He touches his cheeks, to check if they’re real or if they’d melt. They don’t. His fingers are cold after he washed them with cold water. He doesn’t like the scars on his face, he doesn’t like their origin.They’re a part of him now, and he can’t change it. Ripping his eyes off his own reflection is surprisingly hard, because he could stay there for hours, despising each little detail of himself.

A sigh escapes his mouth as he grabs a towel to dry his face, the balaclava finding its usual place over his features once again. Today isn’t the day Soap will see him. It may never be the day . He walks out of the bathroom with a weight on his chest he can’t get rid of, but he remembers it was always there, today is just one of those days. 

“We’re going out.” He says after he opens the basement door, leaning on the frame and looking down at what he can see. 

“Why?” Soap asks, voice filled with confusion and worry. 

“For many reasons. Mostly because I said so, and we need to buy some…furniture for your place.” Simon explains. Soap has been tortured enough, he deserves to feel like a human again. Just a little bit. 

“Anything I want?” 

Simon thinks for a bit. Soap isn’t deserving of too many things at once. He should already be happy he’s allowed to see the sun and feel the wind on his face. He looked outside, and the leaves were swirling around. If they’re unlucky, it might turn into a storm, but that’s an issue for the future. 

“Two items.”

“Am I supposed to go out naked?” 

Simon rolls his eyes. “I’ll give you some of my clothes.” 

He doesn’t see Soap’s expression, but he can guess his surprise or satisfaction, maybe a mix of both. 

Soap walks up the stairs, his eyes shining like they never did before. But the happiness stops there, because the rest of his features are frozen in a serious expression that seems to have carved his features over the days. Simon lets Soap walk to the bathroom while he goes grab a few clothes in his wardrobe. It’s weird, how sick the idea of sharing his clothes makes him. The issue isn’t Soap, the issue is sharing. He doesn’t have a choice. Having him walk around naked would attract attention. 

He grabs the first things his hands touch, not caring about aesthetics. Everything is a nuance of black anyway, and it’s not like Soap would complain about style.

Walking back to the bathroom, he finds the man sitting on the closed toilet seat, looking down at his hands only for his eyes to shoot up when he hears Simon walk in. 

“Got you some clothes.” Simon says and throws them on Soap. “Get dressed, we leave soon.”

Soap stares at the bundle of clothes on his lap and bites his bottom lip hard enough for it to hurt. He doesn’t say anything, just stands up and puts the clothes neatly on the toilet seat, starting with the pair of underwear, his eyes going from it to Simon, back to it. 

“They’re all clean…but go commando if you don’t trust me.” 

“I…trust you. I think.” Soap whispers before sliding it on. Simon nods, watching as the other man gets dressed. It’s weird to see him wearing clothes and he wonders how Soap feels, if being covered after all those weeks feels liberating or imprisoning. He won’t ask, but he’ll wonder about it for a long time. 

The sweater and jeans are a little big on him, due to their size difference, although it doesn’t make him look stupid, it just…covers everything. It is sort of cute, Simon would admit. He walks closer and kneels down to roll the cuffs of the jeans. 

“You’ll close your eyes until I say you can open them. If you disobey that there will be consequences. And they will hurt. Can I trust you?”

******

John nods. He knows that despite the sudden generosity, Ghost is and always will be a man capable of the worst things. They don’t reach him, they don’t hurt him. He trusts Ghost to hurt him really badly, if he dares not following the orders. 

The clothes feel like he’s the him from before, like he could step outside and join his car, drive to work, have a normal life. 

He knows it’s all an illusion, and that it is limited in time, but he can enjoy those few hours of real life before he goes back to being a pet, because that’s still how he feels, although he’s been allowed to talk. 

Ghost stands up and leaves the bathroom, probably to go grab shoes for them. It gives enough time for John to stare at his reflection in the mirror, stand on his tiptoes to see as much as possible of what his body looks like with clothes. He almost forgot. Fuck. He could cry but he swallows back the tears. The scar on his cheek and his crooked nose make him look like some sort of freshly released prisoner, but right now he doesn’t care. All he accepts to see is how normal he looks. 

Ghost comes back with a pair of shoes for him and John sits down on the toilet seat to put them on. They’re a little too big, like the clothes, but he can still comfortably walk in them. It’s been ages, a decade, an eternity. Soap can’t help but tippy-tap on the floor to test them, feeling silly for the burst of joy exploding in his chest. 

“Come on, let’s go.”  Ghost grabs his wrist and John immediately closes his eyes, letting himself be dragged around. Would that be considered trust too? Ghost wraps him in one of his coats, a cigarette smelling coat that has him scrunching his nose in discomfort, but he wouldn’t dare say anything about it.

He knows they’ve reached the outside when the temperature suddenly drops, and he feels the wind on his face and neck, the cold infiltrates all his limbs and he feels a shudder cross his body. He wonders if Ghost is cold too. 

John counts the steps. He doesn’t know why he counts them, it doesn’t really matter, but he does anyway. They take a left turn after twenty steps, then stop again after fifteen. John hears the familiar sound of a car unlocking and the door opening. He’s pushed inside and feels the seatbelt over his chest and lower stomach before he hears it click into place. It reminds him of the basement door’s lock. He ignores the sudden unpleasantness and puts it on account of the cold rather than the memories inscribed in his mind.

He hears the door slam close and he tightly keeps his eyes shut, fighting the urge to watch what Ghost is doing, for the idea of pain isn’t appealing enough for him to risk breaking such a simple rule. Trust starts here, right? The more trust he gains, the more freedom he’ll get. That’s how it works. 

The other door opens and Ghost sits behind the wheel. John can’t see, but he can picture what is happening, he can link a noise with an action, he can imagine he’s the one driving. 

“You can sleep.” Ghost says as he starts the car. John feels it turning left, and he can’t help but wonder what he would see, right now, if he opened his eyes. He’s only seen the forest behind the house, never more than that. But he keeps them closed and tries to relax as much as he can, letting the car sounds and the constant movements lull him to sleep. 

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps before he feels a hand on his thigh, squeezing it. Looking at the time doesn’t help, for he has no idea when they left the house. They could be minutes away, or maybe days. He wasn’t even tired but he knows he slept deeply, because for a second he forgets where he is and looks around confusedly.

“We will start with the items. You can get two things.” He hears Ghost’s voice and looks at him for long seconds, the gears in his mind turning full speed. 

“Uh…A blanket…” John pinches his lips,weighing the best decision between a lamp and the right to keep his clothes. Would that count as a whole item, or would he have to choose one specific piece of clothing? 

“I can do that. Anything else?” 

“If I ask for clothes, would the whole outfit count as an item?” John risks the question, as stupid as it sounds in his head. 

“That would be too easy, wouldn’t it? One piece of clothing would be one item. If you behave properly, we’ll do those little escapades from time to time.” 

John nods to himself, staying silent for a few seconds before making a decision. 

“I’ll take a lamp…please.”

Ghost hums and opens the door, telling John to get out by himself. It’s true, it would be weird if he helped him, knowing that people are around. John could scream for help, but for some unknown reasons, there’s something stopping him from doing so. It may be the trust they talked about. It isn’t the fear of failure, he knows that much. It doesn’t reassure him to think about it, but he pushes the discomfort in one corner of his mind and steps out of the vehicle, stretching his limbs like he would do when going out of his own car. This too sends a wave of nostalgia to flood his heart, and this too is ignored and pushed in a corner of his mind. He doesn’t need to miss his old life, because he knows he won’t see it again, as many escaping possibilities he sees around him, none of them are worth breaking the trust he’s created between them. 

He follows Ghost inside the mall and looks around, the lights and music feeling almost surreal compared to the darkness and silence he bears with on a daily basis. He can’t help but walk from window display to window display to check the different clothes or decorative items. He sees a candle holder and can’t help but think about how well it would fit in his house, placed just in the middle of the table in his living room. 

As much as he’s tempted to ask Ghost to enter the shop, he doesn’t, and quickly rejoins him, matching the pace of his steps to walk beside him, until he maybe says something like “I never said you could walk next to me.” or something similar. It never comes. Ghost isn’t even looking at him and seems to be walking with a goal in mind. 

******

Simon would lie if he said he didn’t hate the crowd. He’s not extremely anxious when walking outside, but he’d rather stay at home. He can see Soap looking around, walking to each storefront to look at the prettily displayed items. He lets him do it, he doesn’t care, something tells him he won’t try to run away. Simon can’t help but wonder what he’d do, if he started running. Would he dare throw the knife he took for safety? Because trust is nice, but certitude is better. 

“We’re going here first.” He says loud enough for Soap to hear from where he has his hands and nose pressed to a window. Simon can’t help but roll his eyes, biting the inside of his cheeks to stop himself from smiling. He can’t be smiling, he has no reason to. The goal isn’t for him to get all giddy and happy watching the other man exist. He doesn’t have a goal.

As soon as they enter the store he looks for a salesperson because the idea of aimlessly walking around until he walks in the lamp aisle by chance would be a waste of time. He finds a woman and ignores her judgemental look, for apparently, wearing a balaclava outside isn’t the normality, but he believes that the bulkness of his upper body stops her from rolling her eyes or mumbling to herself because the look lasts a millisecond before it is replaced by the most toothpaste-ad kind of smile, as fake as her nails, Simon notes, but he brushes the thought aside. 

“Would you be nice and tell me where I can find the lamps?” He asks, not bothering to smile. The saleswoman points in a direction. 

“Almost at the end, on the left.” She says before going back to her occupations. 

Simon follows the given instruction and sure, he sees a line of lamps displayed, from simple to fancy enough to find their place in a castle. He’s not sure the basement is good enough for those lamps, they’d feel…trapped. 

Soap is standing a little further, looking at the light bulbs and different lampshades. He turns to Simon, his thumb pointing at one of them. “This one looks nice.”

The lamp has a gray triangle shaped shade, a round black metal base and a thin black pipe made of the same material, obviously. It would fit perfectly on the nightstand. He’d have to check if the cable is long enough, but that can wait until they’re home. 

“Sure, but you carry it.”

Soap nods and takes the lamp, holding it like a trophy, the expression on his face unmistakably one of delight. Simon shakes his head a little and walks out of the aisle. He’s seen the one where blankets and pillows are kept and he goes there, not waiting for Soap to catch up. He can leave him at least that amount of freedom. He’ll come running as soon as he’s called, that he’s sure of. The idea of having a clicker to call him back makes him chuckle, but the thought doesn’t leave his mind that easily, and he surprises himself thinking about it a few minutes later when Soap stands close to him. 

“I was wondering something.” He says as he grabs a fluffy rolled blanket. 

“Yes?”

Simon hands the blanket to Soap before walking away, the other man walking on his heels. 

“What were you wondering?” 

“Nothing. I’ll tell you later, maybe. Let’s go pay, then we’ll go eat somewhere, I’m hungry.”

Simon doesn’t need to look back to know that Soap is following him closely. They pay, and before they go look for a restaurant in the mall, because he knows there are enough inside to not bother going to the city, they drop their purchases on the backseat of the car. 

They walk back inside quickly, because the wind has picked up in intensity and the cold seeps under their clothes. “I’m in the mood for something healthy.” Simon says when they walk to a map of the mall. 

He spots a restaurant whose name sounds like health itself. “Let’s go eat there, alright?” 

Of course, Soap nods, because freedom stops where Simon decides, and as much walkaround he’s been permitted, as much control he’s being put under, because each of his words are equal to commands. 

But Simon can’t help but wonder if Soap feels like he’s being ordered around, or if this is now part of a routine, and being outside feels like a reward more than anything. Maybe the stars in his eyes could give him the answer he awaits, but they never reach his lips, never pull them into a smile, and if he hadn’t seen that shine in his eyes in the basement, he’d almost think it’s only the refraction of the mall’s strong LED lights.

As if it mattered. There are many things that would affect Simon’s heart and mind if he thought about them. For example, the nightmares that torture him, or the memories of his childhood. Not Soap being possibly happy and hiding it as best as he can. Even though his heart seems to beat faster, it is nothing but an illusion, a result of their little walk, a physical response to an outside stimulus, not a feeling developed towards a man he wants to keep for himself. It makes no sense. Simon needs to stay in control, and if there’s one thing he’s learned it’s that emotional reactions are never welcomed in rational situations. 

******

They stop in front of two yawning glass doors, each of them halted by a right-angled door stopper. The restaurant seems modern while also totally fitting into the mall persona. It looks like it’s seen it all but has been renovated multiple times to fit a trend, or multiple. It looks newly old, or oldly new, he can’t decide. Ghost steps inside, the air shifting for a short moment, or maybe it is an illusion, as soon as every person in the restaurant looks up at him before going back to what they were doing. Mostly eating. John doesn’t check the name of the restaurant, but it smells like fish, meat and spices and a few other things he can’t pinpoint. 

A waiter spots them almost immediately. They spot Ghost, his height towering over the whole area would make it hard to miss him. 

“Hello!” The waiter says gleefully, as if each client was special. Well, in a sense they are, they all bring money. 

“A table for two.” Ghost says, and they’re brought to a table in a corner. They sit there, facing each other, and a wave of cold shivers crosses John’s spine for the cold gaze he’s met with doesn’t falter when they’re outside. Ghost doesn’t try to fit in, he doesn’t try to appear friendly. Yet there is something incredibly attractive about him. Maybe it is the madness of being stuck in a basement for so long, maybe the outdoor air is making John lose his mind. 

Two menus are placed in front of them, snapping John out of his train of thought. Maybe if the train crashed, it’d be better, but for now it just peaceably stops, waiting to be started back in the near future. He looks down at the menu, scanning the names and description of each plate before setting his choice on what looks the least healthy, sausages and potatoes. He couldn’t tell if he’s really hungry or if he’s just craving normality to the depth of his stomach. He knows it is temporary, like he knows the food he eats will be rejected in a few hours. 

“What are you taking?” John dares to ask, and Ghost looks up from his menu, silent ruling for an instant before he opens his mouth. 

“I thought of beef. A tartare, maybe, with salad. You?” 

John’s train of thoughts starts again, with one realization that hits him with the weight of a ton of bricks. This is ephemeral. This won’t happen tomorrow and he’ll be back in the basement, naked, cold. It makes him nauseous but he pushes the feeling aside. 

“Just a salad. Yeah.” He tries to smile but he knows the smile doesn’t reach his eyes and appears as tense as he is. Ghost doesn’t comment on it. Actually, he doesn’t say anything until the waiter arrives to take their orders, and when he’s gone, the silence between them sounds louder. John is allowed to talk but it’s as if his throat is glued close and his attempt at words result in a forced exhale. 

He can’t get rid of the discomfort in his chest, the sickness in his stomach, the rawness in his throat. It will all go back to what it was tomorrow, or even tonight. He knew it even before they left. The items he bought are for the basement, not for his house. How stupid was he to get charmed by the idea of being free for a day? What does it change for the upcoming weeks of captivity? Yet, even knowing that, he doesn’t try to stand up and run for it. 

He doesn’t try because a part of him thinks it would make Ghost sad. An irrational part of him, but one he can’t ignore. He just…wishes he could sleep some other place than the basement. He could ask, when he’s gathered enough courage to do so. Who is he kidding? Ghost wouldn’t even let him finish. John’s actually the luckiest man on earth for having been allowed outside, with clothes . 

The train of thoughts filling the silence in his mind is once again stopped when the plates arrive. He can’t tell how long they’ve waited. He doesn’t know what Ghost did while he was lost in the meanders of his own mind, but he hasn’t been called out on it, so it must be fine. 

The greek salad placed in front of him looks delicious, he won’t deny that, and it looks like something he could eat without puking it back over the table. Still, he takes a deep breath to calm himself. 

“Are you alright?” Ghost asks. He’s pulled his mask up over his nose, a bit further than usual, and gets a few confused stares from the other customers. John ignores them to focus on the nano millimeter more he gets to see of the man’s face. He can see the edge of a scar, one he wants to ask about but that would be stepping too far onto boundaries he knows nothing about. 

“Y-yeah…just…I was thinking of something.” John admits. Thoughts aren’t prohibited, he doesn’t need to elaborate on them, he can just silently eat his salad and call it a day, trap it in a box and throw it into the abyss, to be forgotten or treated as a dream rather than reality, because it will hurt to know it really happened, it will injure the very concept of humanity he’s been stripped of. 

The food has a taste of false freedom that makes it less enjoyable to eat, but John eats it nonetheless, because he has nothing to lose and he’ll forget how it tasted in a few hours, maybe minutes or seconds, if he’s lucky. He almost misses the over-sweetened taste of the canned beans, because they were clear on one aspect. He’s Ghost’s prisoner, nothing more, everything less. 

******

Simon looks down at his beef tartare, memories of the happy snippets of his childhood flooding his mind. They were rare, but they happened, but they’re always accompanied with faceless silhouettes, as if Simon refused to acknowledge they happened, as if he tried his best to hold onto the worst flashbacks to excuse his obsessional behavior. Therapy may be a good idea. His superior has said it, and he knows he’s a man of trust, a man who only wants what’s good for him, a man who has no idea how Simon really is. It’s better so. He’d certainly lose his job if people knew. 

He blocks his thoughts with food and trivial conversations with the very man he took away, stole from the right to make his own decisions. 

“We will go somewhere special, after we eat.”

“Where?” 

“You will know soon enough.” Simon answers to the burst of curiosity. After that, they finish their plates in the same silence that has ruled their table since the beginning. 

When they have paid, they leave, walking back to the car. 

“Same rule as when we came. Close your eyes, open them when I tell you. Disobeying will have consequences.”

Soap nods and his eyes fall shut as soon as he’s buckled in the car. Simon hears in his breath that he relaxes and can’t help but observe his features for a few seconds before starting the car. He has an idea that popped in his mind when he saw the candle on their table. Very romantic, he’d say, but the idea that he had thanks to them is nothing resembling love. He just wonders why he never thought of it before. Or maybe he did, actually. His thoughts tend to get mixed up. 

He turns the radio on, letting the music fill the silence. Electro music that for some reason, supports the scenario in his head perfectly. He surprises himself smiling and immediately bites it back, staring ahead. He can’t get ahead of his ideas. What if he fails? Oh but, Simon has never failed to destroy. 

Soap’s eyes are still closed when they stop in front of his house. Simon parks the car right in front of it, but far enough to have a whole view of the house. 

“Do not open your eyes until I tell you. Are we clear on that?”

“Yes.” 

“Good. I’ll be back.” Simon says, opening the door to get out of the car. He walks to the house, a wave of nostalgia crossing his body and tugging at the corner of his lips. He won’t lie, he misses staying there for hours, touching each piece of furniture. A last tour won’t hurt. He can even walk inside the bathroom. He smiles, this time a real smile, one that shows the few teeth that are missing. He takes his mask off, the shades are still down, nobody will see him. He takes his shoes and socks off, placing them at the entrance before he walks around, inhaling deeply. The house smells less like Soap, because it’s been too long since he lived there. 

The bathroom carpet is as soft as he’d imagined, his bed comfortable enough that Simon ponders taking it back home, although it would be dangerous and a foolish way of getting caught.

When he’s done frolicking around he finally walks to the kitchen again, taking one last look at it before turning each stove on to the hottest setting. He then grabs the cup he’s seen him drink out of for the entire weeks he’s been stalking him. It still looks the same, with the same “Best Dad Ever” print with the same dent over the first D. Simon would’ve been surprised, if it wasn’t there anymore. It must be of great importance. Soap will be happy to see it, for he’ll lose the rest. Simon puts his shoes back on before he grabs a pan - he knows where they are - and the first cooking oil his fingers touch. He fills the pan with olive oil, enough to make whoever investigates the fire think it was a cooking accident. He could’ve smuggled a corpse, but corpse would mean evidence, and evidence is always bad. 

He places the pan on the stove and walks out of the house, his balaclava covering his half-smile. He’s never been that satisfied. 

He sits back in the car and waits. They’re far enough that even an explosion wouldn’t reach them. 

Simon places the cup in the other man’s hands.

“Tell me, Soap, can you guess what this is? You can’t open your eyes yet.”

******

The surface is cold, there’s a handle, a rim that seems to be broken at one spot. John doesn’t need more than a few seconds to know it’s the cup he used to drink from. It’s. 

It’s the cup he used to drink from.  

“It’s my coffee cup. I…” John stutters before his following words die down in his throat. He doesn’t know what he was about to say.

“Good job, you’re pretty good at this game.” Ghost smiles. He smiles, John hears it in his voice. Ghost is happy, sickeningly so. “Can you guess where we are?” 

“In front of my house?” John asks, praying for it to be the wrong answer. What are they doing here? Why did Ghost bring them here? Why couldn’t they just go back to the basement and be done with it, let him pretend it never happened.

“Correct. I have a surprise for you. You can open your eyes.” 

John does so and looks at Ghost, his balaclava hiding his features, but he knows. He knows that he has a smug smile on his lips. He looks out of the front window to see his house like he remembered it, because houses don’t really change anyway. 

“Are you going to set me free?” 

“Oh, no, and you wouldn’t want to go inside right now, believe me.”

And as if on cue, an explosion rages from inside and John stares at it in disbelief. He stares at it while pinching his arm, because it can’t be true. It can’t. He can’t just lose it all and be confronted with it. There was something soothing in knowing that if he ever made it out, he’d be able to go back home, find a semblance of routine. Now what? 

John doesn’t even try to silence the sky tearing furious scream he lets out, he doesn’t try to hold back the tears as he watches the flames eat his house alive. He clutches the cup with all his might, the tears blurring his vision until all he can see is orange, just orange, everything orange. 

“Why?” He whispers after a few minutes, voice full of sorrow and regrets. He looks down at the cup, the urge to throw it inside the house strong, but he resists it. It is the only thing proving he had a life before Ghost.

“Because you belong to me, John Mctavish.”

Chapter Text

John can turn it as many times as he wants in his head, he still has no answer to why it happened. Ghost has let him keep the cup, and he’s staring at it as if it would hold the wisdom he needs to comprehend his situation. It doesn’t hold shit but the emptiness John feels around him, inside him. The lamp has been placed on the wooden box turned nightstand and the blanket is folded on his bed. He hasn’t touched any of them, because when he closes his eyes, the bright orange he sees is enough to light up an entire street.

Ghost took his clothes away as soon as they stepped inside the house and allowed him to open his eyes only when he was back in the basement. He knows the moon is up outside, and he imagines it reflects the flames that ate his house up, mockingly so. It’s been some time since the incident, yet John can’t stop the silent tears that run down his cheeks. He doesn’t pat them dry, for new ones would immediately form. He doesn’t see much of the cup in the darkness, but knowing it’s there, between his hands, is almost too much. 

John sets it down next to the lamp and grabs the cable. 

“Ghost!” He screams, his rage seeping through. He doesn’t care, he’s allowed to be enraged. 

No answer, but John hears the door open with a slam and there stands the monster. 

“I don’t know where the outlet is.” He says, looking up. Ghost’s frame looks menacingly still, as if he could jump him anytime or disappear in a twirl of dust only to reappear behind him like some sort of supernatural creature. 

“Use your senses.” 

And the door slams shut. 

John doesn’t understand the sudden change in behavior. The door had been left open for days before it suddenly went back to being shut, but he can’t remember what he did wrong to get the old treatment again. He must’ve done something to piss off Ghost badly enough. The thought of him not being at fault doesn’t ever cross his mind. 

He kneels down on the concrete, his face close to the wall to see any sort of opening. The thought crosses his mind that there was never a possibility to plug anything in the basement but John pushes it away and keeps looking around. And sure enough, after pulling the mattress a little further from the wall, he sees one. He’ll have to move the nightstand to the other side but that’s a little sacrifice to do, if he wants to see. 

Using both his hands, one feeling for the holes in the socket, the other leading the plug pins to the right spot, he manages to push both parts together after some fumbling and cursing. 

Light flooding the basement is something John thought would never happen. He can see everything, from the dried blood where he collapsed to the dried blood on the bucket that Ghost never cleaned. The bucket is a light metallic gray, the handle made of the same matter, thin enough to cut into the skin if the bucket is filled enough. Did Ghost hurt himself when hitting him? Would it be called fairness? John kneels next to the now empty bucket and touches the rim, the round edge keeping his fingers safe, as hard as he tries to push against it. 

He looks at the chair next, the one Ghost used to beat him up when he dared speak. It is dark brown and light enough to be carried around with one hand at arm’s length. Ghost is much stronger than he is, so the fact that he slammed the chair against him with such ease isn’t a wonder anymore. 

John stops in his tracks. Light is fine, it is amazing, it allows him to see. 

Does he want to see? 

Wasn’t it already painful enough in the dark?

John sighs and lays down on the mattress before grabbing the cable and pulling it out of the socket. Yes. At least the pitch black abyss surrounding him helps him ignore the world around him. It helps him not see the suffering he’s been through, and if he can’t see it, it doesn’t exist.

Sleep is another way to get rid of the thoughts that cross his mind, the flashbacks of normality he had, pictures of his house floating in the back of his memories like a movie being replayed again and again. 

If only he hadn’t had that coffee. 

It feels like he has only slept for a few minutes when the door opens again, and this time he doesn't pretend to be asleep, he watches as Ghost walks down as if he owned John’s time as well as his privacy. 

“Let’s eat breakfast together. I know you don’t eat breakfast, but let’s just make an exception.” 

John doesn’t try to understand how Ghost would know about his eating habits, or which timeline he’s referring to. Sure, he doesn’t really enjoy oversweet beans and dried meat for breakfast, but who would. He’s also never sure about the time of the day, so breakfast, lunch and dinner mean nothing to him, unless he’s in the kitchen eating with the other man. Is that a sort of reward? He can think of it as one. 

Ghost leads them to the kitchen, a place that has seen it all, if John believes the many sounds and screams he’s heard coming from that very room. He’s only witnessed the rage once, with the broken bottle, that has since then disappeared, but it is like the room remembers, and the atmosphere shifts slightly. Nothing makes up for it, not even the prettily bedecked table. Two plates, clean cutlery, still no knife for him. Even less now, John supposes, because he would use it to attack Ghost. John knows he wouldn’t, he doesn’t have the energy to be that mad. 

He ignores why he grabbed the “Best Dad Ever” cup, but he’s holding it in one hand, like a connection to the past, or because he subconsciously wishes for a coffee. 

“Sit down.”

John obeys, or maybe his stomach forces him to obey. It’s the first time he’s allowed a real meal two days in a row. Losing his house seems to have been the needed sacrifice to finally be treated like a human being. 

Punching himself in his head helps him get his ideas straight as he pulls the chair closer to the table and watches at the content inside the plates. French toasts, berries, whipped cream and standing in the middle of the table, disturbingly alone, a coffee pot. It looks like a bad joke, or like a very misplaced celebration. 

“Uh…” John starts before deciding that asking about all of that would be a bad idea. He knows all too well how bad ideas are received in this house. “Thank you for the meal.” 

He could swear he saw a smile, or maybe he just wanted to see one. He still can’t explain why he tries so hard to see the human inside the monster, and why his brain fails to comprehend the situation, or link this man with the loss of his house. It’s not that he doesn’t know Ghost burnt his house, it’s more that he doesn’t want to believe it happened. He saw it, and he still remembers it very vividly, but the more he thinks about it, the less sense it makes. 

“Eat.” Ghost motions with a hand, his mouth already full. This is too normal. His house can’t be in ruins if they’re eating breakfast like they’ve known each other for years. He wants to go back, check for himself, but he’d need Ghost’s permission.

Looking up at the man, the way his eyes are fixated on him, watching his every move, John decides against asking anything and focuses on the food in front of him. It’s simple but great. 

Ghost grabs the coffee pot and pours John his coffee. 

“How long…did you stalk me?” 

“Enough to know about all your habits.” 

John nods to himself, as if it changed anything, or as if Ghost was deserving of any sort of applause.

“Did…did you really burn my house down…or did I dream of it?” 

This time, Ghost stays silent for a little longer, as if he was thinking hard about which words to use to not hurt John. “Whatever you’d like to be real.” 

“I’d like the truth.” 

“Eat.” Ghost cuts the discussion short and John sighs before going back to the french toast. It’s not long before he opens his mouth again, 

“Can I have a knife?” 

“No.” 

John can feel that he’s starting to get on the other man’s nerves, and deep inside it is what he wants. He wants it  to excuse the loss of his home, he wants Ghost to hit him, so the idea of him having destroyed everything he’s ever had - apart from a cup - fits better. But Ghost has more self-control than he’s ever had, or maybe they’re too far apart and he doesn’t want to move, or maybe asking for a knife is not the more anger inducing question.

There must be something John can do to punish himself. Him. Ghost. No… Who does he want to punish? He stares at the cup Ghost filled with coffee and decides that he can only blame himself for drinking coffee. No. It makes no sense. The person he wants to blame and the one he needs to blame are different…so what’s the right answer? 

“If I didn’t drink coffee…would I have been safe?” 

“Hm…I would’ve found a way, but your addiction to coffee did make it easier.” Ghost answers, with a calm that makes the room shiver in fear. John realizes it’s his chance to talk, as he hasn’t been stopped yet, nor hit, which surprises him a little. Sure, Ghost swore to not hit him, but if emotional violence counts, it means he’s already broken his promise.

“Why me?”

“You were alone. Eat .” Ghost’s voice comes out dry and at the verge of annoyance. Just a little more. A little more and John will feel the burn of anger on his body. The tool doesn’t matter, as long as it hurts. The worst punishment would probably to not be tortured physically. 

“You bought me a lamp. I don’t want it anymore.” John says at a last attempt to unleash the beast, get at least something thrown at him, or a kick to the calve from under the table. Nothing. Nothing and the pain boils inside John’s body like water left on the stove for too long. He stands up violently enough to send the chair on the floor. 

“Why did you have to do that?! What have I done to you that you felt the need to fucking destroy everything I had?!” John surprisingly doesn’t scream, but his voice is full of tears, full of anger. He just doesn’t know who to direct it at. A part of him believes that Ghost would have a good reason, a good explanation. He grabs the full cup, its content spilling on his hand and the table. It’s hot, but not as hot as the rage he feels. “This shit is the least important item of the house, I don’t give a shit about that cup!!” This time, his voice is louder and he throws the cup against the wall, the coffee leaving a brown stain all over the kitchen in its wake. 

They stare at each other for a long, long time. Ghost stands up and it’s like John’s anger vanishes, only to be replaced by the familiar fear of being beaten to death. He remembers Ghost’s promise, which seems more powerful than the one he made to not hit him. John feels the tears run down his cheeks and he wipes them with the back of his hand, opening his mouth for no words to come out. They’re blocked in his throat. He messed up. Fuck. He messed up. 

He looks at the broken cup laying on the kitchen floor, like an example of what he’ll look like in a few seconds, when Ghost destroys him like he did the house. 

John watches the other man approach, close, so close. He shuts his eyes tightly, as if being blind to suffering made it any better. 

He awaits the brutal impact, the excruciating pain, the scream he’ll let out when his bones are broken one by one. He’d be capable of such horrors, John knows. He’s sure of that. 

He surely wasn’t expecting arms around him, holding him close, Ghost’s chest against his back. He doesn’t try to fight it. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t try to fight it, or why he finds comfort and warmth in that embrace. 

“I’ll fix the cup, don’t worry.” 

“It’s not…” John starts, but a click of Ghost’s tongue is enough to shut him up. 

“Let’s go take a bath.”

John nods and lets himself be led to the bathroom. His body knows the way, he could walk there with his eyes closed, but he keeps them painfully open, barely blinking. He hates that he doesn’t feel disgust for having the other man this close to him. It’s been so long since he’s had a little bit of human warmth, it’s been so long since he felt like a human himself. He’ll hold onto that illusion, as unhealthy as it is. 

“Sit down, I’ll prepare the bath.” 

It’s like Ghost is ignoring his desperate call for help, it’s like he’s blocking out everything and forcing John to do the same, and it works, for reasons he ignores. John thinks about his outburst like a far away memory, like a dream he's had last night, and the more he watches the bath fill with water, the more their routine takes the front row in his mind, the less sense his house burning down makes. Even though he’s sure he heard the blaring fire truck sirens a little earlier, those must’ve been for someone else. He’s not alone on earth, although it does feel like it, when he’s lying in his bed in the basement.

The water has a therapeutic effect on John’s soul. Or maybe he just didn’t sleep long enough because his dreams were filled with burning colors and the sensation of having lost control he can’t get rid of, even while sitting on the toilet seat in his most familiar surroundings. It’s his reality. It really doesn't matter, if his house exists or not.

“Come here.” 

John rips his eyes off the full bath to look up at Ghost, staying still for long seconds before he finally pushes himself in an upright position. He tries to read whatever the other’s eyes have to tell, but it is as hard as it was in the restaurant. They send shivers down John’s spine with how cold they are, and for a second, he surrealistically wonders if Ghost can feel how cold they are. What did he go through to lack the warmth every person he’s encountered has had? Not the warmth that makes them alive, but the one that shows humanity. It’s not that Ghost lacks humanity, but it is hidden, so deep inside that he’s sure he himself forgot he has it. 

John steps into the hot bath and once he’s comfortably seated, he closes his eyes. He can feel Ghost come closer, hear him kneel down next to the bathtub. 

“Will you apologize, at least? For destroying everything.” John asks, as if he had accepted the outcome, as if he was ready to forgive, as if his house wasn't that important. He still holds onto the belief that it was a dream, because it's easier to cope with that thought than to be aware of how horrible it would be, if he really lost it all. 

It is barely a surprise to be answered by nothing but earsplitting silence and John lets out a frustrated sigh, finally opening his eyes to look at Ghost as his hands land on his naked body. There is something incredibly scary in the way John isn’t even bothered by the foreign presence. He’s used to it. 

“You don’t know how to apologize, do you?” 

Maybe he’s becoming a little too overconfident, maybe he will regret spitting those words and this will be his last bath. Death might be better than whatever living nightmare he’s going through. He tried pinching his skin so hard it bled, yet he never woke up in his own bed. 

Silence, again. 

“I can show you, if you want. It’s easy.” 

John’s voice is full of anger he barely tries to hide. He’s not yelling, but he could as well be. It would make more sense if he was. He sits up in the bath, Ghost’s hands following him as if they were stuck there. They’re massaging spots on John’s body that have him sigh in relief. John is pretty sure he’s not being washed, he’s being soothed, comforted, and he resists the urge to find peace in those well placed pressures. Too well placed to be a coincidence.

John wishes he could scream louder than the pain in his chest, but it wouldn’t make any difference, it wouldn’t affect Ghost in any way. He wonders what would hurt the man enough to make him crumble, what would damage the wide hole he has in place of a heart, because John refuses to believe a man like him owns a heart. 

“You just have to say, “I’m sorry for destroying everything that made you you, John.” See? Easy.”

“Soap.” Ghost says it with a tone so warm it’s almost as if someone else said it. Ghost doesn’t talk with warmth in his voice, he talks with authority, he talks like he’s about to kill John in his sleep. 

“Your name is Soap.”

“You didn’t listen to half of what I said, did you?” 

John realizes how normal their situation looks, except from the whole being bathed by another man scenario. He could’ve almost let a laugh out, but he didn’t, because there’s nothing to laugh about. 

“Would it make you feel better, if I apologized? Would you forgive me?”

Ghost asks a really pertinent question as the pad of his fingers insist on a knot between his shoulder blades, one that has John grimacing in pain for a few seconds. He doesn’t try to understand why he’s being treated with such care. Is it part of a plan? Is Ghost so keen on being forgiven? 

“I wouldn’t. I’ll hate you until I die, but at least you would’ve apologized.” 

He’s answered by a hum, one that could mean many things, or nothing at all. 

“Stand up.”

John looks up at Ghost, who followed his own words and is now towering over him like a menace he knows to be real, but he doesn’t move. Is it a suicidal tantrum or a revolt against a man who took everything from him?

“Soap.” The tone is a warning, but John ignores it, a smile almost making its way on his lips.

“Are you going to hit me, if I disobey?” 

“I might take away your right to talk and then hit you when you speak, but I’m sure you enjoy being able to bitch around, so you tell me.” 

There is something scary in how light the timbre of Ghost’s voice is, something like a threat floating over John’s head, a dagger so sharp he feels the burn of a cut before it even touches him. He stands up, unsurprisingly choosing safety over a fight he’s bound to lose. 

“See, not hard.”

“I hate you.” John spits, looking straight ahead, and straight ahead is the tiled wall. “I hate everything about you.” 

He hopes to hurt whatever feelings are left inside Ghost, he hopes to annihilate them like the man so easily, cold-heartedly did to him. 

Ghost’s hands stop in their motion and he lets out a sigh. 

“Do you hate me or the idea of not being able to go back to a normal life anymore?”

John weirdly doesn’t have an answer to that. Does he hate Ghost or the situation he put him in? Looking out the window doesn’t help him, yet he stares at the bird nest that overlooks them. 

Birds build new nests when the previous one gets too old, or when it gets destroyed. John just needs to do that, build a new nest. How hard can it be? 

He’s barely aware of the towel that is wrapped around him for a short second as he’s led out of the bath. He doesn’t remember having been rubbed with soap, but again, he’s been staring at this tree and the nest it holds for a few minutes now. 

“Will I ever be free again?” John asks as he looks at them in the mirror. He remembers how he looked with clothes on, and the contrast is almost comical. 

"I think you already know the answer to that, Soap."

"I hate you." This time it's whispered, a wet laugh following, so fake it sounds pre-recorded, and John stares at his own reflection, at the tears running down his cheeks. 

Ghost stands silently behind him. A loud, uncomfortable, sorrowful silence.

Chapter Text

Static. Time seems to have stopped right after John went back to the basement, to his unplugged lamp, to the soft blanket Ghost bought for him. John doesn't like how well he's treated because he can't make sense of it. It is hard to admit that he was getting used to being punched for making a sound, and that suddenly being able to hold entire conversations without feeling any pain is a foreign sensation. He would beg for Ghost to hit him, beg on his knees with tears down his face, to find a semblance of what used to be normal for him, but instead of that, he sits on his mattress, in the dark. 

Even the blanket feels like a lie is being wrapped around him, as if it would vanish in flames and burn his skin along the way. John hates fire. He hates it as much as he tries to hate Ghost, to no avail. It is strange to not be able to despise someone who has ripped him away from his life, his routine. 

John lets out a sigh, shifting his whole body to face the lamp, staring at what he can see of it before stretching his hand forward, blindly following the cable until his hand wraps around the plug. He roughly knows where the socket is, so plugging the lamp is easier the second time. He turns it on, taking his surroundings in. 

Everything is better in the dark, for sure, but seeing what happens around him, avoiding nightmarish hallucinations, is also a good reason to keep the lights on. 

Or maybe he’s just trying to make himself suffer, for Ghost apparently decided to treat him right. 

John falls asleep with the lights on, somewhere between early afternoon and late night, and as much as the dark confuses his sense of time, he learns that being surrounded by light poses the same issues.

He’s woken up by the door opening and steps coming closer. 

“You left the light on. I thought you didn’t want to use it.” Ghost says, gesturing to the lamp.

John stays silent for long seconds, just looking up at the man who seemed so menacing in the dark of the basement, the man who seemed to fuse with the shadows, becoming almost invisible. There was something scary, about them both standing in the lightless basement, that John didn’t experience when they were in any other rooms. Something about the small escape chances being reduced to zero down there. Now, it’s as if the light opened up new routes, even though John knows that, despite being suddenly nicer, Ghost wouldn’t hesitate to hurt him if he tried running away, promise be damned. 

“I changed my mind. Why are you here?” He doesn’t mind his voice sounding so dry. Lies. He wishes it would sound even dryer, hurt Ghost like sandpaper scraping his skin, his eardrums. 

John hates that each time he tries to find reasons to despise the other man, his brain floods with memories of all the time he’d been taken care of, as if the pain was less valuable than the warm baths, as if the unwanted touching was less important than the food.

As always, he pushes the thoughts aside, choosing to focus on whatever today has to offer. Ghost is looking at him with barely concealed excitement. 

“Today’s a very special day.” 

John would lie if he said he had any idea about date and time. His phone has been taken away and Ghost doesn’t seem to keep any calendar around, or if he does, it must be in his bedroom because John hasn’t seen it. 

“Is it?”

If seeing Ghost being nice was already on the fantasy side, seeing him excited is a whole new kind of weird. John dreads to ask what makes him so happy. 

“We need to get you ready.” 

John’s question is completely ignored, and he doesn’t push it. If Ghost affirms it is a special day, there is nothing John can do against it, as bad as he wants to get on his nerves again. There is always a whole world between what John plans to do and what he ends up doing, by fear of getting hurt. He tried to convince himself that being in pain was normal, that it was what he had been used to for weeks, maybe months, but each time he thinks of it, of how bad his face or back burned, his will to suffer dies down, replaced by the comfort of being treated like a human being. 

It is ingrained in their routine, the trip to the bathroom to take a shower, the patting dry before being either sent back to the basement or, if he’s lucky and Ghost is feeling generous enough, being sent to the kitchen to get something to eat. It’s not necessarily breakfast, because their shower time is never at the same hour every day. John wonders if he does that to confuse him more, or if Ghost just takes care of him when he’s in the mood to do so. 

Today must be a good day, because not only is he allowed to keep the towel around his shoulders - John doesn’t really try to hide his private parts, he knows how futile it is, Ghost has seen him naked many times before - but he gets to enter the other man’s bedroom. At first, he stays at the door, as if the room would swallow him alive only to spit his bones out, like in some sort of silly horror movie. 

“Come in, sit on the bed.” 

******

Events from yesterday still play in Simon’s mind like an old cassette, and he wonders what made him keep his calm. A fear of hurting Soap? I couldn’t be, why would he suddenly be scared of hurting him, when it’s all he’s been doing since he stole him away from his everyday life? The promise? It is a good reason, but not the one, because promises can be broken, and they’re never as strong as impulses. 

Simon wonders if he’s slowly getting attached to the man, in a different way than just wanting to own him like some sort of trophy. It is hard to wrap his mind around the idea that someone could dig their way to the most hidden part of himself, although he isn’t sure Soap did much to be loved. It’s even quite the opposite. He’s seen the way he’d been trying to piss him off just to get an ounce of violence out of him. 

That’s it. That’s the reason Simon could keep his promise. The pain in Soap’s eyes was worse than it had been when he was physically hurt, the illusion of betrayal was greater. Simon is a simple man, and seeing Soap in pain without even having to touch him is way more rewarding than having to hurt his own knuckles to teach him a lesson he never seemed to want to learn. If he did, he wouldn’t have so many wounds on his body, would he? 

Simon looks back to see Soap sitting on his bed. He never allows anyone to enter his room, and he couldn’t tell why he suddenly chose that Soap was deserving of that. 

He pushes those questions aside as he grabs a few clothes he thinks would fit today’s event. He’s aware that Soap probably doesn’t have any clue of what day it is, and maybe he’ll never know, celebrating something he can’t name. It may be better so, at least to Simon. The decoration in the kitchen will give it away soon enough, Soap can bathe in ignorance a little longer. 

“Here, put that on.” He throws a black dress shirt, certainly too big on Soap, a reminder that he doesn’t own anything around here. While he puts the shirt on, Simon searches around for a pair of dress pants, if he even owns that. He’s playing dress up, living parts of his childhood he had missed, in the most fucked up ways. He knows it’s wrong to use another human being, considering that today, Soap gets a rank higher than trophy or toy. 

“And that one.” He says as he throws what resembles slacks the most. For a second he wonders if he ever bought any colorful clothes in his life. What did he wear as a kid?

“Uh…underwear?” 

Simon shrugs, taking the first pair he gets his hand on and throwing it on the bed next to Soap. Today is a special day, Soap gets to be treated a little better. It’ll only worsen the contrast when they go back to their daily life. 

When Soap is dressed, Simon walks to him, adjusting the collar of the shirt. He can feel him flinch a little and avoid his gaze. 

“You look…presentable.” Simon says after a few seconds of proximity and silence. The thought that he could lean forward and kiss him crosses his mind before vanishing, and he suppresses a smile. Not that Soap would be aware of it, as long as it doesn’t reach his eyes. He doesn’t think any of his smiles have ever reached his eyes, for the happiness he felt was never enough to brighten his whole face. He thinks about revealing his face to Soap a lot these days, but never enough to act on it. 

When Simon deems Soap ready, he tugs him out of his bedroom, his shoulders dropping in relief for a reason he doesn’t try to understand. Actually, he knows exactly why he’s relieved, and there’s no need to think too hard about it. 

Simon isn’t wearing anything too unusual, he’s been too used to the kind of clothes he wears on a daily basis to change his habits for one single day. Well, maybe it’ll change. 

He leads Soap to the kitchen, pushing the door open and letting him step inside.

******

John looks around, simultaneously pleased by the beauty of the decorations and impressed by how far Ghost is willing to go to reach whatever goal it is he is trying to reach. He doesn’t need to think much to know what special day it is, but he does turn to Ghost with a confused expression, his mouth opening in silence for a few seconds before closing. He can either ruin that moment in a matter of seconds or shut up and enjoy what Ghost has to give. Staying mute shouldn’t be a problem. 

“What do you think?” 

John looks at the table, covered in plates he knows weren’t ordered in any restaurants. He must’ve spent hours on it. Why? Does it bring him joy, to mess with his mind like that? John can’t imagine Ghost being sincere in things that don’t require his fist in his face. 

“It’s…nice?” 

He doesn’t want to tell Ghost how admirative he is of the effort, because it would mean he acknowledges this situation as something positive, something to remember when things go south once again. A voice inside his mind is telling him that this truce they have will only last until it ends. 

John's eyes land on the fairy lights casting a pink light on the table and the kitchen walls. He feels trapped inside a movie or inside the chapter of a book where everything is fine, where everything is dreamy. It's not real, Ghost is pulling a prank on him, breaking him apart just a little more. 

He's led to his attributed chair and sits down, unable to stop himself from inhaling the magnificent perfume all the different plates create together. Ghost sits on the other side of the table, as always, and lifts the bottom of his balaclava. 

"Here." 

John is offered a knife, one that isn't pointy and dented like a steak knife should but enough to be able to roughly cut into the meat. He takes it, thanking Ghost with a sincerity that doesn't fit the basic gesture. John hates how every normal thing feels like a rare item he has to collect day after day, as if he was held captive in a cruel video game. 

Ghost starts eating, and John feels obligated to copy him, eyes fixated on his own plate, thanking whatever God decides to make today a special day for him. He doesn't care to know why Valentine's day is special, if it has anything to do with love, he just cares that it is one of the rare complete meals he'll get, and this time he plans on finishing his plate and more. 

"Did you…cook all that?" He asks, mouth full. 

"Yes." 

John could almost forgive him for the arson. Which he knows is completely dumb, there's no way a few delicious plates compare with the loss of an entire house. Did someone call the police? Is there anything being investigated? If yes, how would they even think of checking the neighborhood. A part of him wishes someone saw them, the other one, deep rooted, wishes to keep Ghost to himself, or for Ghost to keep him close. 

"It's good. You're a good cook." 

"That happens after living alone for a while." 

Another surreal conversation that could pull a laugh out of John if he wasn't careful enough. 

"Ghost?" 

This is strange. Saying his name out loud is strange, it tastes like puke in his mouth, burns his throat and hurts his head, yet fills him with a sense of comfort and protection. 

Ghost looks up, his fork mid air. 

"Will you tell me your real name, now that I can't escape anymore?" 

John doesn't know why he asks that. It isn't that important, he doesn't need to know that information, yet he looks at Ghost with the hope to get an answer. 

"No." 

He's only barely surprised by the answer. 

"Would you show me your face?" He continues, slowly bringing the vegetables he stabbed with his fork to his mouth, apprehending the answer. 

Ghost puts his fork down, his eyes meeting John's. "You want to know a lot of things, don't you?" 

Is it a reproach? It sounds like one. John slowly shakes his head. 

"Don't lie, Soap." 

"Sorry. I'm…curious." 

"I can see that." 

Ghost doesn't take his mask off, but he does dig a hand in his pocket, fishing his pack of cigarettes out, pulling one out and lighting it. "You know, I wanted to stop smoking." He says that as he exhales the smoke, and John watches it float up, stagnating in the room. "It failed completely, and I tend to think it's your fault." 

John doesn't say anything. He knows nothing he'd say would be welcomed right now. 

"I feel like I have to punish you for that." 

Pain is the first thing that comes to John's mind and he squeezes the fork in his hand, pinching his lips together. 

"But today's a special day. I don't want to hurt you. Which doesn't mean it won't be painful." Ghost stands up and John feels a knot form in his throat. Even if he wanted to speak now, no words would come out. 

The more he nears him, the more John feels like he could vanish anytime, overcome by fear or whatever negative emotion Ghost's proximity tugs out of him. When he stands right next to him, John has a horribly hard time swallowing his spit. He gave up on the food a few seconds ago. 

John's chair is pulled back and turned to face Ghost, who leans a little closer. 

"Open your mouth." 

John hesitates a few seconds too long and Ghost clicks his tongue. "You don't want me to burn your face, do you? Open." 

His mouth opens as if activated by some outside forces. Fear must be one of them. 

"I know you don't smoke. Let's play a game, if you don't cough, I'll allow you to eat real meals and sleep upstairs every day for a week. If you cough…hm…" Ghost straightens up, thinking for a few seconds before his eyes land back on John. "You'll go back to the snacks. What do you think?" 

Oh, John sees how much fun Ghost is having. He sees it very well. He knows he doesn't have any chance, he can only hope that he doesn't cough. 

"F-fine…" 

Ghost places a few fingers under John's chin, taking a drag of his cigarette before leaning down, blowing the smoke in his mouth. They've never been so close, but John has no time to think about it because his throat starts burning as if he had tried eating ashes or sand, his eyes water as he tries to hinder the cough that threatens to escape. Ghost steps back. 

"You really want that reward, don't you? I understand, today is a special day after all." 

John knows he has lost when he opens his mouth to inhale fresh air, immediately being sent through a violent coughing fit, his eyes filling with tears, pleads and begs spilling from his mouth before he can even think of stopping them. 

Ghost lifts his chin once more, cooing. "I know, shh, but a game is a game, hm? Don't cry, Soap." 

John inhales shakily, looking up at Ghost, at the way the expression in his eyes never seems to change. 

"Enjoy your last fancy meal, and happy valentine's day." 

Ghost presses their lips together shortly, taking John by surprise. The kiss is too short for him to react, but long enough that he has time to process it. 

His heart skips a beat. What is happening? 

Chapter Text

Simon had picked all the broken cup pieces off the floor and had placed them on the windowsill, ready to be stuck back together when he'd have time. 

Apparently, that moment is now, in the middle of the night. He sits down and observes the pieces for a while. The cup is smashed, the end result won't resemble the original design and it will be unusable, but at least Simon would have done his part. He knows Soap didn't ask for it, but he also knows he's at the verge of breaking. 

The kiss. Simon touches his lips. Soap's ones were soft. It didn't feel like anything, but it was a comfortable sensation. His heart didn't skip a beat, like it always does in fiction, he didn't wish for more or feel the urge to pull Soap closer. He doesn't even know why he did it, or if he'd want to do it again. 

Yet he can't help but let his mind wander, his thumb absentmindedly caressing his bottom lip, wondering what Soap thought, if he felt something, if he'd want to reiter it. What would Simon say? Would he accept, for the other man’s sake? As if he suddenly cared about the man's emotions. 

Simon takes a cigarette out, lighting it to smoke his thoughts away. It empties his mind, relaxes his body. Soap missed a whole new life, which, sure, would've only lasted a few days, but isn't that better than nothing? 

Exhaling the smoke and sticking the burning cigarette between the index and middle fingers of his right hand, Simon grabs two pieces of the cup that fit together, the two pieces forming the word best . He looks at them for a second. What are Soap's best memories? The answer isn't important. Simon could surely guess his worst. 

Putting the cigarette in his mouth to have both hands free, he grabs the tube of glue and opens it, covering the edge of the broken piece with glue before pressing both parts together. It would probably feel the same to kiss the cup than to kiss Soap, if he had to do it again. Would he grow to like it? A part of him wishes so, the other part doesn't really care. But like smoking became an addiction, maybe kissing Soap will turn into a habit or a routine. 

It felt better to touch his body while washing him. His skin is soft, warm and sometimes he can feel the shivers that run under it. His lips were soft, warm, but different. He doesn't know what was different, but something was. 

"No need to think that hard about it." He whispers to himself, taking another piece of the cup and repeating the same actions until the cup is roughly patched back into one whole piece. It's far from perfect, but it fits Soap. It is covered in cracks, only barely resembles what it was supposed to be and can't serve the role it was designed to anymore. Yes. It looks like Soap. 

Simon stands up, holds his cigarette between his thumb and middle finger, and takes the cup before walking to the entrance, placing the cup next to the bullets, on his souvenir shelf. He can't help but throw an eye at the deformed bullets, the time stopping for a few seconds as flashbacks flood his mind. The short time is enough for the cigarette to burn him, snapping him out of his thoughts. He turns back and after throwing the stub of the cigarette in one of the ashtrays around the house, goes back to his room, laying on his stomach on his bed. 

He can't choke himself. He tried as a kid but his brain would always beg for air before he could pass out. Even if he did pass out, he can't really choke himself when unconscious. He has no idea why he's thinking about that right now. It popped in his mind when the traumatic war related events died down. 

Simon grabs his phone, unlocking it and opening his conversation with his superior. It's been quite some time since he's been sent on a long lasting mission. How would he manage Soap while being away? If only he could bring him with him, but the man would need months of training to even have the tiniest chance of being enrolled. 

Locking his phone again, Simon rolls on his back and stares at the ceiling for a second before sitting back up. Sleep refuses to open its arms and he isn't about to force fate. He slides to the edge of his bed and stands up, walking to his closet. There, at the bottom are a pair of dumbbells he sometimes uses, when just smoking isn't enough to shut his mind up anymore. The dumbbells sure are less harmful, but they never work by themselves. Simon lights another cigarette before he grips them, focusing entirely on doing the right motions, feeling his muscles work. 

At least it gets his mind off the bad stuff for a while. 

******

Weird. It was weird. His throat still burns, even hours after, and his heartbeat seems to worsen the more he thinks about what happened. He can't really place words on how he feels. Confused, maybe. Comforted? Did Ghost kiss him because he lost the game? What would've happened if he had won, if he had been able to hinder the cough long enough for Simon to grant him a week of great food? Would he have been kissed too, or was it a sort of loser price? 

John decides he's had enough of thinking about it and lays down on his mattress, wrapping himself in the blanket. Ghost took his clothes away as soon as the special day came to an end, right before sending him back to his basement. His, yes, he might as well write his name on the walls. He's not sure sleeping upstairs would make a huge difference. He'd have to sleep in Ghost's bed, right? Would the man sleep in the basement? It would be fair. 

The light is still on. It makes him think of the fairy lights. It was pretty, he can admit it. Ghost put a lot of effort in preparing that day. Should he be pleased or scared? He's being nice, not hitting him anymore, and apart from the house and the obvious lack of privacy, which John feels won't change, Ghost is doing great at being a decent roommate. Being constantly exposed is an issue John came to be used to, and although he sometimes wishes it would stop, it doesn't pose the same problem it did a few weeks prior. 

Does it make sense? Did he really end up just accepting his situation? The times he had tried to escape is a distant memory taking place in another timeline. It feels like ages ago since Ghost hit him with the bucket and the wound, although long closed, still left a white scar across his cheek. A reminder. 

Maybe John could ask Ghost for a mirror. He doesn't need one, their daily trips to the bathroom should be enough of seeing his face, but he wants to see how much he can ask of the man before he snaps again. 

Does he want the brutality again, or does he just need to adjust to the kindness like he had to do with the violence? He doesn't like the string of questions and wonders popping in his mind. The brightness of the basement doesn't shut them up. Would he have hallucinated if the room had been lit up? How bad? 

He turns the light off, finding a weird sense of peace when the basement is swallowed by darkness. He still doesn't know what he likes most. 

Would Ghost let him keep the door open again? 

John's fingers come up to his lips, his thoughts going back to the kiss, to the way it made his heart race. 

Somewhere deep within, he craves more, he craves the proximity, the sense of protection, as fake as it might be. Ghost's lips are a little dry and his breath reeks of cigarette, so really, what is there to like? John wishes he had an answer. Maybe he just lost his mind along the way. With all the things he lost it wouldn't be a surprise. 

He wants to get revenge. On the game. Just on the game. He gave up on getting revenge on his freedom when the reason he wanted to be free vanished into thin air. Ashes and ruins, memories he'll forget when he's old. If he lives long enough. 

Why didn't he scream for help in the mall? He knows Ghost had a knife, but would he have killed him, if he had ran away to some security guard? Something tells John that nobody would've believed him. He was wearing a whole balaclava to hide his face but it was cold, so nobody batted an eye. 

There's no point in thinking about it right now. 

He doesn't like not knowing what Ghost looks like. Well. He's seen his eyes and lips, he knows about the tattoos although he's never had a chance to fully see them, and he knows the color of his hair, yet the mask always hides parts of his face, and he lacks liveliness in his eyes.

He wants to ask Ghost about it. He wants to hear the story behind everything, behind his weird behavior. He wants to know Ghost like Ghost appears to know him. Isn’t it a bit unfair that John's privacy has been trampled on while Ghost stays protected behind high walls? It sure is. 

He'll get a whole lifetime to think about it. A whole lot of sleepless nights.

******

Simon isn’t really fond of spending an entire night awake, but he’s also even less fond of the nightmares that wait in a corner of his mind until he lets his guards down to attack. His tiredness will be reflected in his lack of patience, and maybe, after days of sleepless nights, his body will catch up with his promise to never physically hurt Soap again, and things will go back to how they were. Maybe. 

His lone sofa is waiting for him, and he would sit on it if his mind didn’t wander back to the kiss again. It didn’t feel like anything, so why is he thinking about it? Why can’t he let go of the memory? 

It feels like he needs an excuse to go down in the basement in the middle of the night. Now everything is different, yet Simon can’t place words on what changed. Sure, he knows how it feels to kiss Soap, but then again, he knew how it felt to touch his body, he knew how it felt to hit him, hug him, invade his privacy. Why does it suddenly feel like his own barriers have been stepped on? 

He stands in front of the basement door, balaclava in one hand, his moves stopped by the rush of thoughts that flood his mind. He thinks too much, and that much can only be silenced by alcohol. If he wants a drink, he’d have to walk back to the kitchen and abandon the idea that has been floating in his mind. 

He places a hand on the door handle and slowly opens the door. The room is plunged in darkness but it doesn’t mean Soap is asleep. He’s been so used to darkness that seeing the lights on is rare enough that Simon wonders why he wasted money on a lamp. The blanket comes in handy, though, because Soap’s always wrapped in it when he’s in the basement. Simon doesn’t necessarily see it, but he can hear the soft fabric shuffle on the concrete when Soap walks around. Right now, it’s completely silent. 

He walks down the stairs, and stops on the last step, looking at where he knows the bed is. Soap is awake, he hears it in the way he breathes. 

“I know you’re awake.” 

“I am. I can’t really sleep.” 

“It’s not unusual. You’re rarely asleep when I come into the basement.” Simon says as he walks to the mattress. 

“You notice?” Soap asks, but there isn’t any surprise in his voice. Maybe he himself didn’t believe in his acting skills. Simon doesn’t see the necessity in answering that question. 

Instead, he crouches down next to the mattress. “Move to the other side.” He says, and Soap listens, because he always does, almost as if the threat of violence still lurked around, ready to be summoned. Simon sits down on the mattress, and for long seconds, the basement is plunged into utter silence. 

******

Ghost rarely sits down on the mattress, he’d always taken a mean pleasure in towering over John, probably to show him their difference in power. They would be even, if John sat up. He doesn’t, and wonders for a short moment, if he’s unconsciously trying to appear smaller, so as to not upset the monster that has been temporarily tamed. Would poking at its sides with a stick be prudent, or would it get him eaten alive? 

“Why are y-” 

“Close your eyes.” 

John opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. Instead, his eyes shut and he waits. He waits for what seems to be an hour, a day, a month. Whatever time means, here. He patiently waits, long enough to wonder if Ghost didn’t just stand up and leave, although he knows he would’ve heard it. 

Ghost grabs his hand, pulling him in a sitting position, and John startles a little. He surely was not expecting the man who found a way to resort to emotional pain so as to not break his promise to be so careful in his gestures. Does he even remember the promise, or is it just pure chance that he hasn’t yet been beaten to a pulp? He’s starting to get used to being able to express himself, and even though he tried to lie to himself by thinking he’d prefer for Ghost to return to his normal self, which means nothing, really, he realizes that what scared him the most, was the change it implied, to be treated like a human being while also lacking any semblance of privacy. It’s confusing. 

“It’s a shame that you lost the game.” 

John doesn’t answer, he also doesn’t resist it when Ghost lifts his hand up. He apprehends what will happen next, and if the urge to open his eyes is strong, the urge to obey beats it. 

“I don’t want to show you my face, not yet, but I guess you can have a…how is it called…loser’s prize?” 

John has no time to fear for his life before his hand is placed on what he guesses to be Ghost’s cheek. 

He’s cupping his abductor’s face. He’s touching a part Ghost refuses to show him. 

“Why?” John whispers, his fingers caressing the bearded skin. It’s a few days long, Ghost is the type to shave, he’s seen him clean shaven a few times. He can’t help but imagine him with foam on his cheeks. This thought makes him smile a little. He’s glad Ghost can’t see it, he feels like he’s betraying himself by being happy about such silly details. 

“Don’t ask me. To be fair to you, maybe.” 

Is it really comparable to all the torture John went through? No. But he’ll live with it. His fingers slide over his jaw, his chin, while his thumb caresses the same lips that kissed his own a few hours earlier. They’re dry. John doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he lets his thumb continue its route up along the man’s nose. 

“Has someone seen you without the mask?” John asks, feeling the jagged edges of a scar on his nose. He follows the curve it does right under Ghost’s bridge. 

“A long time ago, yes.” 

“What’s this scar?” 

“Work.” 

John hums. “Can I use both hands?” 

It’s a dumb question, but he asks it, to be sure. Sure of what, he couldn’t say. Does he care about Ghost’s well being? Should he care? 

Ghost hums and John lifts his other hand, cupping the other man’s face, sliding both of them up until they reach his hair. They’re surprisingly soft,

“You have blonde hair.”

"I knew you were watching us." 

"Why didn't you…punish me?" 

"Because there was never a rule stipulating you weren't allowed to see the back of my head. You stayed where I left you, that was fine by me." 

"What would you have done, if the delivery guy had seen me?" 

"You'd have someone's blood on your hands." 

John can't say if it's a joke or not, and doesn't dare ask more. He trusts that Ghost could kill on demand, he believes he does it already, if the bullets laying on the shelf near the main door are hinting correctly. 

After another set of silent minutes during which John tries to learn the contours of the other's face, he opens his mouth again, and in a murmur barely loud enough to be heard. 

"You are strange, Ghost, and I don't know how to react to you anymore." He takes a deep breath. 

"And it scares me more than anything I went through in my life." 

John doesn't talk about the way his heart missed a beat during the kiss, and he certainly won't mention the way it is beating faster right now, as the pad of his fingers stroke Ghost's skin. 

After a few more seconds, he finally pulls his hands back to himself. He doesn't open his eyes, not until Ghost tells him he can, or until he hears the door open and close. 

"You piss me off." He hears Ghost say, before he feels familiar fingers under his chin and lips crashing against his. It's more violent than the short press of their lips he got for that special day and it feels like his mouth will bruise and hurt for a while. 

John can taste the smoke, he can taste the fire in Ghost's mouth, and it has an aftertaste of destruction.  

It's their second kiss within only a few hours and John is starting to wonder if Ghost is experimenting around, or if he's having issues only their proximity could solve. 

The kiss lasts longer, long enough for John to have a chance to react to it, close his eyes, let himself make the mistake of enjoying it for it could be the last time Ghost acts so nice. Maybe it is a trap, maybe he will regret it, or he may even come back to that memory when things unavoidably go back to the worst they had been. 

He dares bring his hands back to the man’s face, his fingers sliding featherly over his skin, holding him there. He never opens his eyes, although being so close to him makes it harder to not look. 

But apparently, that wasn’t what Ghost had intended, because the distance between them grows suddenly as John is being pushed away. He doesn’t need to look to know that Ghost is walking away, and his fears are confirmed when he hears the door open and slam shut, leaving him alone in the dark basement once again. 

John lays back down, keeping his eyes closed. They burn, and he knows it has nothing to do with the cigarette smell. 

******

It has nothing to do with pleasure. 

Is it control? 

It is power. Just power. 

At least, it is what Simom thinks, but his life has been filled with lies and betrayal, so how honest can he really be to himself? 

It feels better to pretend that his heart has been ripped out of his chest than to accept he could feel something for Soap. The last time he let his emotions take the reigns, rather than his brain, is the time he ruined his own life. 

Chapter Text

Simon is forced to look in the mirror to shave, as much as he hates seeing his face, as much as he hates the reflection that is being sent back to him, deformed, monstrous. He sees his parents, the zombies, he sees war's marks and scars embedded into his skin, his DNA, his entire existence. He's not Simon, and maybe he actually never was. Maybe his parents named him Ghost, maybe they didn't name him at all and someone came up with a generic name. Maybe he isn't alive, nor dead. He's just the shell of someone he doesn't know. 

The razor slides over the foam, cutting the beard as close to the skin as possible without scraping said skin and turning his face into a bloody mess. Maybe he deserves to be turned into a bloody mess. Death doesn't seem to be that welcoming to him. He's a fighter, he's sturdy, he won't die easily. 

"You're good at your job and death doesn't seem that fond of you, Lieutenant." 

Oh how he had hated those words, how they had made him feel worse than the actual wounds, how they had carved in his mind the idea that even a bullet through his head couldn't kill him. He doesn't want to try it, but he believes it enough that he doesn't fear guns as much as he should.

Simon winces when he cuts his jaw a little, distracted by his own thoughts. The small cut burns a bit but he ignores it, resuming his shaving. He hates how much the face bleeds for the tiniest cut. Dramatic. 

His thoughts jump from war memories to Soap. Soap, who he has locked in the basement like he would lock a traumatic memory away, only coming down to give him food and water. It's been a few days and too many packs of cigarettes since they kissed. The cigarettes don't erase the taste of his lips, and locking him down there doesn't help him forget. It's the opposite. The more he tries to not think about it, the more his lips remember. He touches his cheek, where Soap had held him close right before he panicked and backed out. 

He panicked? 

For what? 

Simon rinses his face in hopes to clear his mind at the same time he clears the shaving foam off his skin. It doesn't work, and when he looks up at himself, he remembers how soft Soap's lips were, how careful he was with his hands, how good that kind of warmth felt. He doesn't want to feel it. He refuses to feel it. He has to drown it. 

He dries his face and walks out of the bathroom, staring at the basement door for long seconds as he passes it to enter the kitchen. There he opens the cabinet where he keeps all the drinks he shouldn't drink, all the strong beverages that make him forget what he's supposed to be, do or think. They make him forget about war, about Simon who apparently never existed, and about Ghost whom he created because Simon doesn't exist. 

Bourbon. Always Bourbon, and always in a rocks glass, always half a bottle to get his brain fuzzy enough that even a door handle is entertaining. It's bad that he needs so much. It's bad for his work, it's bad for his health, although he’s not sure about the second one. 

He wants to get out of here. He wants to be sent on missions.  

"If he knew about this he'd fire me on the spot." Simon chuckles to himself as he one-shots his glass, the burn of the alcohol barely felt. Nothing feels anymore, even the scars that used to hurt, even the memories that used to make him sad, even the nightly nightmares that used to force him awake, scare him. It's not that it doesn't happen anymore, but it's part of his life. Not sleeping is an inherent part of his routine. He doesn't remember what he looked like without the dark bags under his eyes. Was he once a good looking man? Maybe he still is. He just doesn't see it anymore. 

The second glass goes down as fast as the first one, if not faster. He left his balaclava in his room. He doesn't know why he left it there, he'll have to get it before he goes to see Soap. The man needs a bath, the basement is starting to smell like sweat and must. Of course, he let Soap go to the bathroom when he needed to, not needing a repeat of the last time he left him alone, although that was more to teach him a lesson. 

He stands up after the third glass, his movements scarily precise. His body is used to the substance, almost functioning better with it. He hates it, but he hates thinking and remembering even more, so maybe it's a win-win situation. Or a lose-lose one. He will lose everything if someone learns about his bad habits. 

Simon walks to his room, again standing a few seconds to stare at the basement door, as if he expected it to suddenly open. He pinches his lips, the sensations of fingers on his cheeks a little stronger than before. Perhaps the alcohol is amplifying his sensations. Maybe his mind is fighting not to be shut up. He sighs and tears his eyes off the door, slamming his own door shut after he enters his room. He stands there, in the mocking sunlight, his shadow stretching far behind him, as if trying to escape him. Yeah, if it could, his shadow would probably run away. He wants to run away from his own body, sometimes. 

••••• 

"You know smoking will ruin your health." 

"So will a bullet to my heart, Roach, I don't see your point." Simon laughs, lighting his cigarette under Gary's disapproving stare. If a gun won't kill him, he'll slowly approach death's cold embrace using those tobacco sticks he learned to love. 

"And when I try to smoke you tell me I'm too young…" 

"Because you are. Listen to your elders." 

"Sure. I'm so glad they managed to conserve you so well, you look pretty much alive for a fossil." Gary laughs, body folded in half when Simon grunts and rolls his eyes. It almost feels like they're just having fun between friends, if he forgets their surroundings and the gear they're wearing. If he forgets the far away explosions too. They can hear them even on base, like a reminder of death. Simon takes a drag of his cigarette and looks up at the gray ceiling.

"What did you plan to do when you get your leave?" Ghost asks without tearing his eyes off the ceiling. 

"Visit family, I think. It's been a while." Gary sighs, flapping the smoke away from his face with a hand. "You stink, Ghost." 

"Keeps the enemies away." 

"It'll keep me away too." 

"You'd never leave me even if I stopped showering for a week." Ghost grins. 

— — —

"You'd never leave me." Ghost whispers, holding Gary's bloodied body close to him, the gunshots and screamed orders making his ears ring. "You're not allowed to leave me, you're supposed to visit your family, asshole." 

No answer. Of course, dead people don't talk. With a shaky sigh he lets go of the body, standing up to lean against the wall of the building behind which he had dragged them. He's out of breath, or maybe he's just trying to hold back the scream he wants to let out. Death be damned. 

"Ghost to Price, Roach is down." His voice is cold, calculated, so as to not let the sadness escape and be seen by the world. He looks down one last time before walking away. One life may have ended but war won't stop for that matter.  

"Gaz didn't make it either." His captain answers, and Simon feels another part of himself being ripped apart. 

"Alright." Not alright, nothing's alright. He's lying, pretending he isn't touched, pretending he doesn't care that much. 

"I will tell Roach's family." Simon talks again, walking through empty streets. He has to be careful, he knows snipers tend to hang on roofs and behind windows. Maybe he should tell them to shoot. No. He has to tell Gary's parents about what had happened. 

"You don't need to, Ghost. And don't try to take revenge all by yourself. Meet us at the extraction point." Price answers, his voice sounds like a warning. Simon doesn't like to be warned about stuff he knows to be dangerous. 

"I want to. And remember, death doesn't want me. Who had said that?" His voice is barely a whisper and he pulls his knife out of its holder, stabbing the enemy soldier with much more force than he had needed.

"Nikolai, when we grabbed you out of a collapsed building, I believe." 

"I'm starting to think he was right." Simon whispers. "I'm on my way, just gotta take some of those assholes down." 

"What did I say about revenge?" 

"It isn't revenge, I'm merely cleaning the streets." 

"Ghost, I can hear you stab them." 

"They're like parasites, you have to be firm. But I can miss the spot by a few inches and watch them wriggle in pain like worms. Which do you prefer?" 

"I know it hurts, Ghost." 

Simon cuts the conversation short by switching channels. 

••••• 

Those memories taste like earth on his tongue, like the blood he could smell around him, on him. The smell isn't gone, it never goes away, it never stops being traumatic, even if he tries to convince himself that he's used to it. The only difference is that he stopped showing others his reactions, which made him stop being himself all over. 

He's holding his balaclava tightly, like a souvenir or a punition, like a blessing or a curse. He has to wear it to hide who he doesn't want to be, to help pretend, to help make himself believe everything's fine. 

A sigh leaves his lips as he stares outside, as if the clear sky and the shining sun had any effect on his past, as if those two still and far away objects could come closer and embrace him with peace. He doesn't know where to find peace, for it is not within himself. Soap? Can Soap bring him peace? Would he be willing to bring him peace? Simon doesn't want it, he doesn't want to allow him closer than what he's already permitted. He's already opened up too much. 

Is it fair? Nothing is fair, fairness is a foreign word, because fairness wasn't there when he needed it the most, and if it was, wars wouldn't exist. Fairness is a hypocrite. 

Simon only wanted to grab his balaclava, he never meant to remember. He's out of his room in seconds. 

His phone chooses to vibrate during those few seconds, and he picks it up, no words crossing his lips.

  "Ghost. We need you deployed in Moscow."

"How long?" 

"A month or more if things get tough."

Simon pinches his nose bridge and closes his eyes tight. He doesn't want to ask when, and he doesn't have to because Price continues. 

"Need you on a plane in two days."

"I need…" Simon starts, then remembers he can't talk about Soap to anyone or he'd be in huge trouble. So far he's aware, kidnapping has never been a praised action. Sure, he could pretend that Soap is a friend of his, his house cleaner, his boyfriend. Not his boyfriend. Not even when it warms his heart a tiny bit. "I'll get ready, I guess." 

"Alright. And Ghost, I want you alive at the end of the mission." 

"You know I'd live through the worst." 

"I know. Bye." 

"Bye." 

Since when has his superior stopped calling him by his real name? When was the last time Simon showed him his face? Ages ago, a century, a lifetime? Maybe he also forgot who Simon was, maybe they all forgot. Soap sure doesn't know. 

He shoves his phone back in his pocket and walks outside of his house. He needs to announce to Soap that he won't be there for a month. He needs to allow him to walk freely around the house, he needs to trust him. He knows he won't escape, he has nowhere to escape to. He wouldn't dare. 

Simon wants to scream but his lips stay tightly sealed. There is no wind to chill him to the bone, but the sun is hiding somewhere out of his view and the temperatures are too low to go out wearing only a t-shirt. 

He needs to get ready. He needs to talk to Soap. 

He needs to face his actions. 

It can't be worse than a bullet through his chest, can it? 

Though standing in front of the basement door sure feels like standing in front of a line of armed enemies. He stares at it as if it would spit on his feet or suddenly turn into a shotgun and shoot a hole through his stomach. The knob feels cold, as if nobody had touched it in a long time. He knows he went to give Soap food or allow him out, but not often enough that the door handle would remember. 

He turns the lock and opens the door. Some days, the basement bathes in light, but now it is as dark as a pit. Simon checks his phone. Not late enough for Soap to be fast asleep. 

"Soap." 

No answer. 

"I need to tell you something." 

Still nothing. Either he is sleeping or Simon is just being ignored. 

He walks down the stairs and around the mattress, using the brightness of his phone screen to light up the entire room. Soap is looking at him, his eyes red with what Simon guesses to be tears. 

"You could answer." He says, not once mentioning the tears, not once saying sorry for what he did. 

"You could give me a bath, allow me to shower, allow me to g-" 

"You can. I'm being deployed." 

"De- what do you mean deployed?!" Soap stutters, fumbling for the lamp cable to turn the light on. He stares at Simon, at what he can see. Simon knows he's trying to imagine his features under the mask. 

"Military, we're being sent on a mission." 

Why does he feel the need to explain so much? Is he trying to get Soap to forgive him? Why? 

Soap stays silent for a while, as if trying to put some order in his thoughts. When he looks up, Simon reads the fear in his eyes. He reads the many questions that cross his mind and before Soap has time to open his mouth, he cuts in. 

"A month. Maybe more. I'll ask for someone to send you food each week. You'll have to cook, though, but I believe you're capable of that." 

"What if… what if you die?" Soap's voice is small, almost sounds worried, but that couldn't be. 

"Die? I wish I could, but death hates me." 

Simon ignores the relieved sigh, he ignores the tension leaving Soap's features as much as he brushes the slight acceleration of his heartbeat aside. He remembers the kiss and it makes him turn around and walk out. He told Soap. That's the most important part. 

He shuts the door behind him and exhales hard. He wills his heart to go back to its normal rhythm, he wills the knot in his throat away, he wills his focus on the present time and not on memories of how his lips tasted. 

He lets himself slide down the door. Everything was better when there was physical pain involved. Everything was better when he left his emotions out of the equation. Everything was better when he could pretend he didn't feel a thing. Emotions aren't a thing he's familiar with, they feel like a stranger took over his body. He's never been able to read them or analyze them. He knows what bad situations feel like, he knows that he's satisfied when they wrap a mission faster, but he can't differentiate the nuances. All or nothing, or something along those lines. 

His mind wanders to Roach. It wanders to the mission he so selfishly survived. Will this one be the same? Will he also lose everyone? He doesn't care about the squad he's going with because he decided to not get attached to anyone anymore - he's already failing big time - but it would piss him off to once again be one of the few who have the chance to go back home.

He shouldn't think about Roach and he shouldn't think about Soap either. 

•••••

Simon waits in front of the white door, his heart pounding, his eyes threatening to pop out of his skull, letting a cascade of tears escape. His entire body hurts, the weight of guilt hard to carry. He waits until he hears steps come from inside the house, until the door opens and what had started as a smile drops to a knowing face. 

"Evan, come to the door." 

Simon knows Roach's mom, Isabelle, and he knows too much about the pain she's feeling, even before he announces the bad news. He sees the silent tears that roll down her cheeks.

When Evan joins them, his features are too serious to not be a mask put over his emotions to not let them spill. Simon wants him to spill them, punch him, yell at him for being alive and not their son. 

"Roach…I mean, Gary didn't make it." 

Obviously, or else Simon wouldn't be standing there with his stomach knotted so tight it hurt. 

It takes a second, not even, for him to witness loss, for him to see how bad he messed up by not being the target of that bullet. Nobody would've missed him, at least.

"I'm sorry." He whispers, barely loud enough to be heard over Isabelle's sobs. Evan looks at him with pain where Simon wanted to see hate, and understanding where he wanted to see confusion. 

"We knew the risks." He says, a half-smile barely making an appearance on his face. The smile doesn't brighten his gloomy expression, it doesn't clear the sadness. 

"I'm sorry." Simon repeats again, then turns away and walks out before any tears have a chance to slide down his face. He swallows back the grieving. He has no rights. He should've been the one dying. 

•••••

Simon stands up and walks to the main door, grabbing his coat and car keys. He needs to prepare everything for Soap to live alone, and that starts with a way to contact him. Soap needs a phone. Maybe other things too, things he used to enjoy, hobbies he used to have. Simon knows them all, he knows more than he'd ever admit to Soap. 

The way to the next mall, the closer one that would've given their position away, is only a few minutes away. For the short time he sits behind the wheel, Simon has time to think about what would've happened if Soap had opened his eyes. Would he have ripped them out of their sockets to punish him? Would he have sacrificed the gifts he wanted to give him, or would he have worsened the actual lack of comfort? 

He doesn't have time to think about an answer and he's not quite sure he wants to. He parks the car in one of the parking lot's empty spaces, pulling his body out of the confines of the vehicle and walking inside the mall with a determined goal. He wants to make Soap happy, so he doesn't think about escaping. But is it the only reason? He'll pretend that yes, it is. 

******

"I got you some stuff for the time I'm absent." Simon tells Soap as he empties the contents of the plastic bag onto his mattress. Soap looks down at the different items, then up again. 

"You can go through it, but I got you some art supplies, paper, a sketchbook, pens and whatever I could find. There's not everything but…yeah. I did my best." 

There's something in Soap's eyes that Simon can't really understand, a sort of shine in the blue of his pupils that can't be explained by any light, yet the rest of his face is so disturbingly void of emotion, as if he was trying to block out any feelings. It's not as if Simon cared. 

Seeing that he won't get any answer from the other man, which he will admit annoys him a little, he resumes his explanation, getting the burner phone he bought out of his pocket. Soap looks down at it, his expression still a mystery to Simon, although his mouth forms a surprised "o". 

"I want you to answer all my calls. I added my number." Simon says as he places the phone between them next to the pile of pencils and markers. "Are we clear?" 

Soap nods, staying silent. Simon wonders if he awaits an apology, or if he suddenly decided to go back to his mute times for another reason. He's not ready to apologize because it would mean he faced his actions, and with how fast he's trying to run away from them it sure isn't the case. 

Simon stands up. "Will you talk to me before I leave?" 

Soap looks at him, then down at all the things laying in front of him, and with a whisper as forced as his lack of emotions seems, he finally lets a "thank you" escape his lips. 

"That's not-" Simon starts before deciding that he probably didn't deserve much more. He doesn't know what to think about the twist forming inside his body, he doesn't know how to ignore it. He has no idea how to stop himself from getting attached. It's good that he'll be away for so long, then maybe his mind will forget. 

Forget like he's been trying to forget his past? 

"I'll leave you to it." 

Soap doesn't say anything and watches as Simon walks up the stairs and out. 

They don't talk to each other at all after that partly one-way conversation, and Simon, powered by his inability to face his own actions, flees the house like a thief in the middle of the night. 

******

The next day, John finds a note on the kitchen table; he reads it, comfortably wrapped in his blanket:

"I'll be back. Don't think about escaping, I got my eyes on you." 

He looks around, knowing very well that no cameras have been placed in the house. A chill still runs down his spine, and an inexplicable fear lays deep within him. For a second, he doesn't dare move because for a second, he dared forget who Ghost really is. 

Chapter Text

tw: suicidal thoughts.

The first day isn't that much different than the previous day had been, for Ghost had decided to not interact with John, and John hadn't begged him to. It was maybe better so, it was like it had been before, when Ghost seemed not to care. Or is the fact that he cares while completely ignoring him worse? 

John has the whole house to himself. That's good, right? Even if the house brings up bad memories, even if he's conditioned to only go to the rooms he's always gone to, even if he stands for minutes, hours, in front of the bathtub, somehow expecting to hear Ghost's voice ordering him to enter it, and when this voice never comes, he turns around and walks back out. 

He's hungry, and for the first time since he's been here, he gets to open the fridge. It looks normal, nobody would believe Ghost is someone who abducts people. Or maybe he is the first and last to suffer that treatment. It's hard to tell. There's the rest of the meal they had a few days ago, and John grabs it, heating it on the stove. He then sits at the kitchen table and looks at the other empty chair. Would that be considered freedom? Will he be free if he's constantly thinking about him? 

"Stop thinking and eat, Soap." 

That is probably what Ghost would've said, so John says it outloud, doing his best imitation of the other man's voice. He then starts eating, slowly, and in his mind, he pictures Ghost, balaclava over his nose, staring right back at him. He pictures him standing up and walking closer, a determined yet cold look in his eyes that sends chilling shivers down John's spine. He remembers how surprisingly warm his lips were. For some reason, he had imagined them cold as ice. John shakes his head, shoving more food inside his mouth in hopes of silencing his wild daydreaming. 

He looks out the window while he chews and swallows, then down at his phone. There's something scary about having a phone, something about being watched. Maybe Ghost did something good by destroying all his belongings. 

He's surprisingly impatient to receive a call. 

******

Simon’s first thoughts, as much as he tries to deny it, are about Soap. They’re about what he could be doing. Would he try to escape? Would he look around the house? Simon hasn’t forbidden him, but something had told him that Soap wouldn’t attempt anything too daring. He’s still scared. Maybe more scared, maybe terr-

“Riley!” 

Simon snaps out of his thoughts, looking at his superior with a frown. 

“If your focus is this bad we may have to send you back.” Price says, and what sounds like a bad joke is entirely serious, Simon knows it. 

“I will be focused. The mission starts tomorrow.” 

“And you should get as much sleep as you can.” Price pats his back and leaves, abandoning Simon in the middle of the base. He knows it, and could navigate around with closed eyes.

The barracks he’s been assigned is away from the rest, as if his sleep was worth protecting, as if he was more important than the other soldiers. Maybe he is. He likes this idea. Soap wouldn’t have a choice but to agree. Soap. Again. 

The room is plunged in darkness, which sends his thoughts back to his house. He doesn’t regret accepting the mission, he regrets what he did before he accepted it. He doesn’t turn the lights on before laying on his back on the bed, eyes wide open and staring out the window. This time, he can’t drown his thoughts in alcohol. He’s allowed to smoke, but he’d have to go outside, and walking all that distance for a few minutes of pseudo-death isn’t worth it. Not yet. 

Simon checks the time. Early enough. He forgot to ask when they’d have to leave but he trusts his insomnia, or maybe Price himself, to get them on the road on time. He should call Soap. It’s probably too early to call Soap. It’s worth a try, no? 

He stares at his phone for long seconds before setting it aside. Then, a few breaths and staring at the ceiling later, he grabs it again, scrolling through his sparse contacts and pressing the one he saved as home .

He couldn’t tell why he saved it as is, and he has yet to find a reason not to change it. It doesn’t matter. 

It beeps once, twice, thr- 

“...” 

Simon hears breathing on the other side. 

“Soap.” 

For a few seconds, he’s answered by silence, then a deep inhale on the other side and Soap’s voice, a murmur. 

“I didn’t think you’d call so early.” 

“I have to make sure you don’t destroy the place.” Simon chuckles. He doesn’t mean to, it just happens, and it seems to surprise Soap as much as it surprises himself.

“I won’t destroy a place I live in.” 

Soap is right, he lives there, he has no reason to go all berserk on this place. He can’t. 

“Where are you?” 

******

Your place. John wants to joke, but instead he says the truth. He’s sitting in the kitchen, and before that, he was in the basement, but the connection there was too bad. 

“Can I ask what the mission is?” 

“No.”

Well. At least it’s clear. John swallows back a disappointed sigh, as if knowing about Ghost’s war life was important. It shouldn’t be important. John has to remind himself where he is, and what he is to the other man. It seems like his mind is voluntarily pushing the truth away, holding onto how the kiss felt, how the small moments of normality felt. He got you a blanket . He hit you for speaking .

John shakes his head, focusing back on the conversation. 

“You should go to sleep, it’s late.”

John hums, and the line beeps in his ear. 

He should go to sleep. But where? It’s not like Ghost is seeing him right now, he should sleep in Ghost’s bed. Who is he joking, he wouldn’t dare enter the room without permission.

He stands in front of the basement door, wondering what Ghost is thinking– even more so after the kisses they shared– before opening it. Did he plan it, did he ask the door what it thought about it? Has the door seen more than it could take? John looks down at his blanket covered body, the only piece of pretend clothing he’s allowed to wear. He’ll have to ask Ghost if he can borrow clothes, in case someone were to knock on the door. Nobody is going to, but who knows.

It’s only been one day, how is he going to survive a whole month? He’s alone in a house that doesn’t belong to him, knowing very well, even when he tries to deny it, that his own possessions have been burned to the ground. He gets food every week, sure, but it’s not the same as having Ghost here, cooking for both of them, or when he’s in a bad mood, letting John eat the snacks he always keeps somewhere in the kitchen, alone in the basement. 

He should be used to being alone, it’s been his reality for a while, and he’d hate to think he’s gotten too attached to deal with a little loneliness on his own. He already hates that urge he feels to call Ghost back. 

******

The helicopter is annoyingly loud, even when the sound is muffled by his headset. Simon doesn’t bother learning the real name of any of the soldiers that form his squad, and doesn’t try to start any sort of futile conversation with them. They’ll die, probably, like they all do, because he has to live with the horror of always being the last to live. Price is an exception, but Price reads too much into him and Simon doesn’t like how close he tends to get to the truth. 

“Stay focused, Riley.” Simon hears in his headset, and he turns around to see his captain nodding at him. He keeps his eyes from rolling in annoyance and with a voice as dry as the desert, answers “Yes, Sir.” as he steps in the helicopter, sitting to his designated spot. It’s not really been designated by anyone but himself, but they all know it’s where he sits, when going on missions. 

They’ve had the whole briefing, that he focused so hard on, so as to not think about Soap, that he can still remember all the words in all the right orders. That’s some sort of talent, maybe. They have to stop a weapons deal in Russia, and of course he and Price are going to work together. First week will be observation, then they’ll have to reckon what they saw and make it make sense. Find names, that’s always the hardest part. Tort- interrogate the suspects. He knows lots of great ways to get answers to his questions. 

Simon feels eyes on him and he looks up, seeing the captain looking at him. His face may be covered but his gaze is intense enough to be felt. It’s as if he’s trying to find answers without asking any questions and for a few seconds, Simon feels like he’s the one being interrogated.

The flight is long, he could sleep, but instead his mind wanders to Soap again, and although his eyes are closed and his back leaned against the wall of the helicopter, he’s wide awake, wondering what Soap is doing, if he’s misbehaving, if he’d even dare think about it. The motor has lulled most of the other soldiers to sleep, or maybe it is the insomnia and days spent without any rest that have gotten the best of them. Simon takes a strange pride in having enough thoughts to last him a whole night, or multiple. 

He doesn’t know how many hours have passed since he left the house, but he knows it hasn’t even been a day…has it? It doesn’t matter, Soap will have enough food to cook for the next four weeks. Thinking about the mission possibly being prolonged wouldn’t help, right now.

******

It’s been three days since their first call, and although John knows pretty well that Ghost is busy, he can’t help but be worried. He shouldn’t be worried about a man that has hurt him, but his brain doesn’t seem to want to see it this way. He’s sitting in the kitchen, like he is every time he wakes up, because he can, and also because it’s the place he’s spent the most time with Ghost apart from the bathroom. Speaking of which, he needs to take a shower. 

It’s been four days since he’s needed a shower, maybe more. When was the last time Ghost bathed him? He stinks. There’s no other word for it. He’s filthy in all the wrong ways, and even his blanket that he drags everywhere he goes has started to absorb the smell of his body. 

The thing is, John doesn’t dare shower alone. Not that he forgot how to…or maybe he did, but mostly because he got used to foreign hands on his body, and using his own feels like breaking a silent rule. He doesn’t know which one, because Ghost has never forbidden him to wash himself. It had just become normal for Ghost to shower him. 

John is ashamed of the physical blockage he feels each time he tries to step in the bathtub to take a shower, the pain he feels in his body, as if Ghost was there, watching him with disappointment in his eyes. 

The phone stays silent, not once ringing, even when John stares at it for minutes on end, praying for the sound to fill the room and his head.

John stands up after a while, realizing that staring at the phone won’t make it react. He walks to the fridge, opening it and taking all the ingredients needed for his next meal. He’s not hungry, and the odor he emanates may stop his hunger forever, but he still wants to cook, even just to forget about his situation, about Ghost, about how much he actually misses him. Or maybe he misses showering, simply.

He can thank the years he’s spent living alone for being a decent cook, he can also blame those years for having been kidnapped in the first place. His Best Dad Ever cup didn’t save him from the worst part of his life. He’s still bathing in it. 

He stands where Ghost always stands when he cooks, back to the kitchen, yet overly aware of what John does. The amount of times he tried to stand up and leave the kitchen in the earlier days only to be dryly told to sit down, as silent as he tried to be. He stopped trying. Even now, when he’s alone, he hears a voice telling him to wait for permission before leaving the room. If he listened to it, he’d be stuck in the basement for a month. 

So why can’t he ignore the sensation of showering alone? Why does he need Ghost to tell him he can? Would finding an answer bring him peace or would it hurt him more than needs to be? 

“Fuck.” John sighs as he lets himself fall on his knees, banging his forehead against the kitchen cupboards. The metallic handle hurts when it hits his face but he doesn’t care, he wants every thought of Ghost out of his brain, he wants his body to listen to him and not a man who isn’t even there, a man who has never been any good to his health. 

******

It’s freezing cold. Simon hates how cold it is, he hates that even when wearing a balaclava and a beanie, his ears and face feel like they’re made of ice. His whole body feels like an icicle, like each step he makes would risk him losing a limb. It’d stay back, a lifeless heap in the snow, while he’d walk on, too numb to notice.

Even the hotel they’ve checked into feels like it’s been built with ice, so although the inside is warmer, Simon still feels like he’s been sent to the depths of the north pole. Maybe he has, maybe they lied and he’ll see a polar bear walk around during the mission.

For now, all they have to do is “visit”, learn the streets, the avenues, the cul-de-sacs, to be able to notice any change in the daily life’s routine. It can’t be that hard to stop a weapon deal… except it can. There are so many people, so many suspects, and Simon sees exactly why they chose that part of town for their transactions.

“How do we spot them in the first place?” Simon asks, although he could answer that question on his own. He’s just trying to make conversation to avoid having to talk about himself.

“We observe, and when something seems out of place, we notify it.” Price answers, “But you know that, don’t you. You’re acting like you have something to hide.”

Simon looks at his superior, pushing all thoughts and emotions that may cross his mind far away from him. 

“I don’t know what I would be hiding, Sir.” 

“I just hope it won’t interfere with the mission.” Price sighs as they walk down a pretty busy street. Whatever they see today they won’t be able to act on anyway.

“I hate how much you know me, Sir.”

“Can you please stop calling me ‘Sir’ each time you talk to me? See, that’s why I say you’re hiding something, you’re acting like someone put a stick in your ass.” 

Simon wants to punch his own face for letting his thoughts make him forget how to not be emotionally constipated. 

“Sorry.” 

They stay silent for most of the day after that. At least Simon doesn’t have to pretend like he’s not keeping a grown man in his house against his will.

When they come back to the hotel, in the evening, Simon walks to his room without even saying good night to any of the men he supposedly works with. All he can think about is how long it’s been since he last called Soap. He had promised himself to call him as much as possible, while also fighting with the fact that if he calls him, he’ll have to think about him, and that goes against all logic.

Still, he can’t risk Soap feeling alone enough to attempt to escape, because if he did, Simon would have no way of punishing him.

The line beeps one time before Soap picks up, and to Simon’s surprise, a smile stretches his lips at the sound of the other man’s voice.

“It’s been three days!”

“It has? Sorry for making you wait.”

******

John swallows the knot in his throat, the tears that threaten to fall out of his eyes, and the urge to beg Ghost to come back. He’s being selfish, or he’s tired of his condition.

“Can I ask you something?” 

“I can’t talk about the mission.”

“No,” John stutters, he doesn’t care about whatever it is Ghost is doing. “Can you…” He sighs, head hanging in a frustrating mix of need and embarrassment. “...allow me to take a shower?” 

The line is silent for a few seconds and John worries Ghost hung up on him. 

“You want my permission to shower? You need it?”

John nods before realizing Ghost couldn’t see it, and murmurs an ashamed, “Yes.”

“Sure, go shower. Use your soap and go back to the basement after. You shouldn’t be out of it during the night.”

“Yes, I know.” 

Ghost makes an affirmative sound and their discussion cuts short, be it because John has to shower or because Ghost has nothing to say. There’s never a goodbye, John already stopped hoping for them. 

He sets the phone on the kitchen table and walks to the bathroom, once again stepping in the bathtub, this time with the goal of washing himself thoroughly to get rid of days of dirt and sweat. He’d need to wash his blanket too at this point, but for now it stays folded on the toilet seat. 

John turns the water on and lets it hit his body, closing his eyes to imagine Ghost holding the handle, putting the shower head as far as Ghost would put it and on for as long as he would too. He’s been conditioned, he’s aware, and he can’t do anything about it. There’s that dread, that little voice that tells him that if he does one thing wrong, Ghost will magically pop in front of him like some otherworldly demon to beat him for disobeying. The promise doesn’t matter, John only needs to remember the pain he felt. 

The water is warm, it feels good after so many days, and John allows himself a few seconds more. Cheating, but Ghost doesn’t need to know about it. He won’t know about it. It’s the first time in forever that he showers alone, and although he should be happy, all he can think about is how Ghost does it. He hates it. 

Grabbing the bottle of soap, he squeezes a good amount on the washcloth he grabbed prior to the bottle, shortly wondering why he uses it if it’s his own body. Because Ghost does, obviously. John sighs as he starts rubbing the soap onto his skin with the washcloth, very much feeling as if Ghost was here, observing him. 

Torso, arms, armpits, legs, dick, ass. Those last two are and will stay the most pride breaking parts to have washed by another man, but John got used to it. Doing it himself feels more wrong, it feels like his hands shouldn’t touch there. It’s his, yet it isn’t. 

He doesn’t give himself time to think about it, immediately grabbing the shower head to rinse himself and step out of the bathtub as if it had bitten him. He grabs his towel, the uncomfortable one, although he sees Ghost’s towel, seemingly more fluffy, or maybe it’s just his impression. 

Like Ghost does, John just pats himself dry before placing the towel back, ignoring the cold chill that crosses his body as he grabs his blanket. It still stinks. He can’t go out to wash it. He hasn’t seen any wash machine here, meaning Ghost doesn’t own one. He’s going to have to wait for Ghost to use the blanket. Fuck. 

John walks down to the basement, dragging his blanket behind him. He leaves it on the back of one of the chairs and goes to lay down on the mattress. He’s cold. He was getting used to that additional heat, but then again, he can probably get used to the cold again. He’s done it once.

******

“We already have their transaction spot. We need to find out where they trade weapons, or sell them, whatever they do.” Simon says, sitting on the only chair in his captain’s room. They’re using a secured phone to communicate with the others, even though Simon hates it. If someone’s listening, they’re fucked. He knows nobody’s listening, but the thought won’t leave his head.

“We can’t really act now, they’re surrounded by civilians,” one of the soldiers starts, Simon forgot his name, maybe he should learn it, if they’re going to wrap this mission with success. He’ll learn it on the flight back home. “Almost like they’re using them as meat shields. It’s as if they knew we’d be coming.” 

“They probably had intel from someone.” Price says, not voicing the possibility of a mole having infiltrated their ranks. That would endanger the mission. If the Russians knew someone was observing them and trying to stop them, Simon would relive the failed mission he tried so hard to bury under years of stoic behavior. 

“We’ll stop them without creating a mess.” Price adds, this time he’s watching Simon, a promise between them. 

“Don’t say shit you can’t assure, Captain.” Simon dryly says. He’d be better back in his own room, going over the information they have alone, than needing to be on a phone call, knowing they possibly had been spotted day one. “Maybe aborting the mission would be the best way to avoid this ‘mess’ you’re talking about.” 

Price ignores him and goes over everything they have, creating a plan to which the other soldiers add their ideas or opinions, all the while Simon stays silent, staring out of the window at the night sky. It’s a few hours earlier for Soap, he’d probably need to call him after this meeting. Simon still can’t believe Soap asked for his permission to wash himself. It makes him feel some type of way. 

“It’s going to be 'capture and keep alive', this time.”

“How do you want us to capture a whole gang in the middle of a crowd?” Simon sighs. He doesn’t even know why he’s asking, he should just desert that whole mistake and go back home. He’d risk his job, but at least not his life. 

“Don’t act like you’ve never done it, Riley, and stop being weird like this. It’s like you’re begging to be sent home.” Price says, and for that he muted the line so the others don’t hear. 

Simon stares at him for long seconds, words stuck in his throat. This man is reading him like a book, this man has known him before and after the incident. It’s dangerous.

“I am not begging to be sent home, I am telling you that this mission will end like the other one did, and I am not in a mood to lose more soldiers to your unsuccessful strategies.” 

“Maybe it was too soon for a mission like this, but we can’t go back now and we need you to conduct the operations. You’re the lieutenant, never forget that.”

“Oh, you bet I won’t ever forget it, Lieutenant Riley managed to kill his best friend because he was too selfish to back out of a mission.” 

They stare at each other and the second after, Simon rushes out of his captain’s room to dash to his own, slamming the door shut. He’s breathing hard and lets himself slide against the door, ending up sitting on the floor. He’s never said it out loud. It feels weird to admit he murdered his best friend- or that he even had one to begin with- as much as it relieves him from a weight he’d been carrying for years. 

He closes his eyes, exhaling all the air in his lungs and fishing in his pockets to grab his pack of cigarettes. Smoking inside is prohibited but right now, he doesn’t care, he needs it like a parched man would need water. He still makes the effort to walk to the window and open it, sitting on the windowsill and looking down from the third floor, if he’s counting well. Would jumping from here kill him or would it simply hurt really badly? It depends which part of him touches the ground first. 

Simon ignores the fine that awaits him if he’s caught and lights his cigarette, the smoke rising up in the dark sky, part of it getting in the room. He doesn't care and leans against the window frame. He feels like a teenager again, somehow, breaking silly rules that would cost him a part of his pay rather than a limb or a life. That feels liberating. 

He needs to call Soap but his mind is elsewhere. How long has it been?

******

John is going crazy. Another three days without any call, radio silence, like he’s being punished for staying a few seconds longer in the shower. He needs to ask Ghost for permission to wash his blanket. He needs to find a way to wash it by hand. He could fill the tub with hot water and soap and soak the blanket in it. For that too, he needs permission. 

He’s been tempted to enter Ghost’s room alone for a while. He had already been in here once, when they went to the mall, but he hadn’t gotten the chance to really look around. He isn’t allowed to look around. Ghost would beat him up again, or worse, kill him. So he rips his eyes off the closed door and walks to the living room, the part of the house he’s never really been allowed to see. 

He stops in front of the TV, looking at it for a few seconds, wondering what Ghost watches. The sofa doesn’t look comfortable, they’d probably need a new one. He looks around at the sparse furniture, his eyes landing on his reconstructed cup. It doesn’t look like it could hold any liquids, and it’s next to a collection of bullets. John doesn’t want to know what those bullets are. 

The phone rings, just as he looks out the window through the closed blinds, very clearly recognizing the neighboring house. He answers the phone, torn between sadness and relief as he stares at the cruel facts. If he had tried a bit harder, he could've run away.

“You’re in my neighborhood.” 

“I don’t think I’ve allowed you to look out of the windows.”

“You’re the last house on the street, that explains the forest.”

“It doesn’t change anything, Soap. Go back to the basement.” 

“It doesn’t change anything.” 

The call ends. John feels a sob wreck his body as he falls on his knees. 

Chapter Text

John's eyes burn with unshed tears, as he stares at the blinds, the ones that separate him from freedom. Of course, he could leave, of course, he could break the door with whatever falls under his hands, but the fear pins him inside this house, his wild mind coming up with memories of the pain that keep him from taking such a dangerous decision. 

He stands up after a few minutes, his eyes land on the broken cup again and he takes it, supporting the bottom in case the glue doesn't do its job properly. The item reminds him of his past, of the freedom he once had, as if it had been decades since he had seen the sun. Maybe it has. Time passes weirdly, as if Ghost was the one controlling the clock, making the day as slow or fast as he wishes. 

John sets the cup down, focusing on the glass case holding a few bullets. He doesn't dare touch it, his inner voice telling him that Ghost would see it, worse, he would feel it from wherever he is. They look intriguing, even more now that John knows what Ghost's job is. He wonders how many scars cover his body, how scarred his mind is. 

Has he lost someone to the war? Does it explain his behavior? Could John forgive him? How would he react, if he lost someone to something so brutal? Would he try to find comfort, or would he, like Ghost did, ruin someone else’s life to make himself feel better? 

Those are questions he doesn’t want to answer right now. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to. It would mean digging deeper into what Ghost tries so hard to hide, it means accepting that there is a human behind that mask, it means accepting that he’s getting attached. 

Does it also make him a monster, if he finds warmth in their proximity? He needs to shut down his brain or the questions are going to drive him mad. He only knows one place for that. 

John wonders why the basement looks darker, when he’s alone. He wonders why he’s reminded of those days of nightmare, and a knot forms in his stomach as he stares at the bucket. He can go out when he wants, he’s not stuck here, but apparently, his erratically beating heart doesn’t understand that. It’s been so long. He should be used to it, but he can’t help but crave Ghost’s presence. 

******

For once, Simon will have a good reason not to think about Soap. He has to focus on what's in front of him, he has to observe, listen, see without being seen. He's good at it, he's aware, but being good is tricky, being good means his mind risks getting distracted. It never happened, before Soap, but Price has noticed the change too, so Simon can't pretend it's not happening. 

He shouldn't have kissed him. 

He takes a deep breath, pushing his thoughts in a corner of his mind he won't check until the mission is a success, until he's punched all his frustration into the enemy's face, until the blood covering his knuckles overpower the taste of Soap's lips, that even cigarettes don't seem to make disappear. 

"We won't risk an earpiece," Price had said, and had held his shoulders between firm hands, "so I count on you to do your job properly. I don't know what's going on, but I don't want to risk the life of innocents because of your bullshit." 

Simon sometimes hates how truthful his captain is, he hates how his words feel like daggers to hearts too soft, but that's exactly why he's so rough. Soft hearts aren't made for war. Simon clings to the icy cold heart that beats into his chest, so selfishly keeping him alive when everything should've killed him. 

He doesn't want to disappoint Price as much as he's disappointing himself, so after a last cigarette, he heads to the inside of the warehouse, seemingly abandoned from the outside but very much active on the inside. 

There's no reason the mission should go badly. He can't die, right? So why does he fear for his life? The atmosphere shift is palpable, as if he had entered another dimension. Maybe he did. Nothing makes sense, none of the weapons, all illegally acquired. He just needs names, he needs to infiltrate the enemy's line, get what he wants, and vanish once again. Easy.

They gave him cash. Enough to appeal to the Russians, enough to make a deal, or maybe he's just going to get killed with one of those guns as soon as he opens his mouth. Here, wearing a balaclava doesn't make him impressive, it just hollows out his presence, makes him one of a whole. He can't say if he's thankful for that or not. 

They're all seeing what Soap saw for months, but they're free, they're not scared.

******

John doesn't want to count the days, he doesn't want to count how many meals he's eaten. He's skipped enough lunches and dinners for the days to be confusing, and he's lived without any indication of time for months, so why should he be bothered now?

But he is bothered, and he does count the days, and the larger the number gets, the more anxious he gets. The more he waits, without getting any phone calls, without any proof that Ghost is alive, the more he thinks he shouldn't have mentioned the neighborhood. He couldn't explain why, but he misses Ghost, he misses another presence inside the house, he misses the human contact, although it is debatable if Ghost is to be considered human. 

But is John considered human, then? Does he still have the privilege of calling himself worth anything? He didn't try to run away, he didn't call for help, didn't yell at the top of his lungs when they were outside. Is he worth more than the doormat Ghost wipes his feet on? Does he want to be worth anything? Or does he want to go back to the routine they created? Or worse, to the violence that used to be part of their lives? 

Maybe he's important to Ghost, in ways he doesn't understand, in ways Ghost doesn't know how to display. Maybe the kisses were more than an attempt to control him again. Maybe he's just delusional and refuses to see the truth. 

John's eyes have landed on Ghost's bedroom door more than he'd like to admit, fingertips burning with the urge to open it, look inside. He's seen the room, he's sat on the bed, but being alone in it would be different, it would taste like stolen privacy, and maybe he'd understand what went through Ghost's mind. If he even wants to. 

His fingers curl around the handle, but he doesn't push down. The fear that Ghost is omnipotent is still lingering in his mind, bigger than any other thought. The fear that the phone will ring as soon as he steps inside, and John won't be able to lie, are the things that make him take a step back, leaving the door closed. 

Turning back, he walks down to the basement again, ignoring the fear rooted deep down in his bones. He left the door wide open, somehow expecting Ghost to fill the space in the door frame, watching him with that air of superiority, knowing full well that he’s the one in control, even when he’s hours away. 

******

"We have our target." Simon says, already positioned.

'It won't change the root of the issue.'

"Our job is to get rid of the target." is his answer, and their discussion is cut short for a moment. Until it's not. 

'What's happening?' 

Simon stays silent, knowing exactly that Price doesn't care about the target. He's asking about him, asking him to share what goes through his mind. Simon doesn't want to do that. 

"Area is calm for now." 

'You know that's not what I'm talking about.'

Simon lets out a dry chuckle. "But that's my answer anyway. The area is calm for now." 

On the other side, there's a long seconds of silence before Price speaks again. 'Was there a storm?' 

"There was one. And I'm still waiting for the rainbow, but it won't show up." Simon whispers, watching through the scope at the man he has to kill. 

'The sun is still missing.' Price answers, his words holding a deeper meaning that Simon doesn’t want to understand. He does, and that is the worst part. 

"It is. Target moved." His voice comes out dryer than he’d like, like sharp knives through the radio.

'Can you shoot?' 

"Yeah. That's gonna create a mess bigger than us." 

'Sometimes you have to create the storm to see the sun.' 

The gunshot resonates through the entire area, and before Simon can acknowledge the screams, he stands up and leaves. 

"The storm I created destroyed the sun." 

There’s no answer for a few seconds, then Price clears his throat, as if to erase the last words he’s heard from his memories.

'Come back, we're done here.' His voice is firm but warm, it feels like a blanket Simon isn't deserving of. 

"Copy." 

Simon leaves the rifle behind, as well as the thought that he survived once again. Another mission, another success, and the curse continues to stick to him. 

'You did good, Lieutenant.' 

"I'm good at destroying things, Captain." 

He cuts the communication before Price has a chance to answer, and as he’s going down the stairs, because using the elevator would be too risky, if it even still works, he sheds the upper layer of his clothes, exiting the building wearing colors too light to suit him, and a neck gaiter that let the blonde of his hair shine in the twilight. 

He gets rid of his clothes in a container, shortly looking around before making his way back to the main street, as if nothing had happened, as if he didn’t just kill someone with a bullet through their eyes, as if, for a second, time didn’t stop. Pretending is a skill Simon has mastered years ago, but like any other skills, he’s bound to get rusty. Overthinking it must be the first step.

The ride back to the hotel feels like it lasts forever, the ringing in his ear, the bullet traversing the sky in slow motion, lodging itself right where Simon had aimed for, tearing flesh and skull and brain matter. His precision is clinical, lethal, and the ice imprisoning his heart protects him, or rather renders him unable to feel anything. He stopped feeling since emotions killed his team. 

The taxi stops in front of his hotel, and he gets out after paying the driver. He then looks up at his window for a second, then a little higher, to the moon. The mocking moon who’s seen it all. 

He climbs up the stairs, skipping as many steps as his legs allow him, and once he reaches his floor, stops for a few seconds to catch his breath, slowly walking back to his room. It’s as he left it, before he took that man’s right to live, before time stopped, before he pretended he was fine. But he’s good at it. 

Cigarettes never help. Or maybe they do, they help like putting a bandaid on an amputated leg, they boost the pretense, make Simon feel like he’s got everything under control, even the time of his death. He wonders which one will eat him first, if the carbon monoxide or the guilt he buried deep inside him for so long?

He knows he needs to talk about it, and he knows who would be more than happy to listen and help, but denial helps him pretend, and if reality hits him hard, he’ll have nothing to pretend anymore. He’s not ready to face the truth, he’s not ready to be human. Price would understand that too, right? 

Simon sits on his bed, staring at the closed window. He needs to talk with Price. But first, he wonders how Soap is doing, how he's holding up, alone. He knows he didn't try to escape, he's broken beyond that, but still. He should call him. 

He grabs his phone, staring at himself for a few seconds in the turned off screen before unlocking it, his muscle memory pressing on the last contacted person on his phone. He waits, lit cigarette resting between his fingers, stinking up his room. He’ll be in trouble for that but weirdly, he doesn’t care. 

“Hi.”

“...Hello.”

******

"Have you showered?" 

"No. It's not the same." John whispers. He's sitting on the floor, his cup in one hand, the phone in the other. 

"What do you mean?"

John inhales sharply before exhaling slowly, willing the shameful words out of his mouth. Maybe if he admits it out loud, he'll realize how stupid it is. 

"My hands don't feel like yours." 

Ghost doesn't say anything for a few seconds, and when he speaks again, his voice is deeper, almost wrapping John in warmth. 

"Want to shower while we call?"

Saying it out loud didn't change anything. As little sense as it makes, John still feels like his own hands aren't made to take care of him. After a few seconds of hesitation, John whispers. 

"Yeah."

In a voice too shaky to be his own, yet it sounds exactly like it is. He stands up and walks to the bathroom, informing Ghost when he's there. 

"Alright. Put the phone on the toilet seat."

John obeys, and once it's done, steps inside the bathtub, grabbing the showerhead, following each of Ghost's instructions, his fingers touching his skin precisely like Ghost would, following a path, a routine that John had never noticed. If he closes his eyes and listens to his voice, he can pretend Ghost is standing right next to him, silent yet so loud, his presence overwhelming. 

"I don't want you to be mad at me…" 

On the other side, Ghost pauses his instructions, exhaling sharply. 

"You left without saying goodbye. You…didn't bathe me before that. I don't know what to do. I m-" 

"Don't." 

Ghost's voice is firm, the tone allowing nothing but obedience, but John ignores it, and with a lump in his throat that makes the words hard to say, keeps going. 

"I miss you."

John is aware it makes no sense. He even hates that he said it out loud, and he hates the silence that follows even more. He hates how much he craves the other man, how he got used to his presence, so much so that his absence feels like a hole in his chest. 

"Soap." 

It's a warning. A threat too, maybe. Or a promise. Promises can be threatening too. 

"I wanted to go in your room." 

John says as he grabs the shower head again. 

"Why?"

Ghost doesn't seem annoyed, or if he is, he's hiding it well. Or maybe he knows John didn't go there so getting angry wouldn't make sense. 

"I wanted to… feel your presence." 

There's a chuckle on the other side of the line, one that conveys nothing but pain. John wonders what Ghost thinks. 

"A presence, hm. It's been a long time since I've been present, Soap." 

"It's been a month." 

"I meant…it's been a long time since I lived instead of surviving."

"Is that why you took my freedom away? So I could make you feel alive?" John laughs, disbelief painting his words. 

He doesn't get an answer to his question, but before hanging up, Ghost says four words that tighten the lump in John's throat. 

"I am your freedom."

Chapter Text

The mission is over. Simon should be relieved, he should be able to go back to his everyday life, but it’s been a long time since he’s been able to separate his life from war. It’s as if they fused together, as if his kills were mirrored in his personality, as if he without a rifle made as much sense as a rose without petals. 

“Come on, let’s go for a drink.” Price says, patting his shoulder in a way that wills itself protective, or at least a tiny bit fatherly. 

“If you wish to make me talk you’ll have to torture me.” Simon mumbles, his voice nothing above a whisper. Price hums and takes a few seconds to answer, as if he was trying to weigh all the possible answers before choosing one. 

“I just want to know who I have in front of me.” 

It’s Simon’s turn to hum and stay silent. He doesn’t even know who he’s facing when he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t know how to live without his mask on, he doesn’t know where his human stops and where the monster starts. He doesn’t know if there’s an ounce of humanity left inside him. 

Price brings them to a bar. He didn’t tell the other soldiers about it, and Simon knows he’ll want to talk, but he’s not ready, or even willing to do so. 

“Sit down.” The captain’s tone doesn’t leave any space for arguing, so Simon sits at one of the free tables, a little away from the rest of the crowd. 

“If you expect me to-”

“What do you want to drink?” Price cuts him, and Simon looks at him with a raised eyebrow, wondering for a second if he got it all wrong. Maybe they’re just going to share one last glass before going back to their own lives. There’s no way any of them know about Soap. 

Simon looks around. He can see the reflection of the bar in the windows, he hears the loud voices, the glasses clinking and the deep laughs that make for a good time. 

“The usual.” 

Being left alone leaves him all the privacy he needs to start thinking about what he’ll say, about what he’ll talk about. It has to be something Price wants to hear, something that makes sense, something that includes someone who hurt Simon by disappearing, or a situation that traumatized him enough that he’ll be able to talk about it with all the emotions left inside of him. The rest of it seems to have deserted his mind. 

“I have nightmares.” Simon starts as the captain places a glass of bourbon in front of him. He grabs it and takes one sip, allowing the liquid to burn his throat, although the days where he would cough because of it are over. 

“Don’t we all?” Price sits down, twirling the content of his own glass around before looking up at the lieutenant. “Tell me about them.” 

Simon sighs, gathering his thoughts as he takes another sip of the beverage, keeping it in his mouth before swallowing and looking at his captain. 

“I dream about war, about death, whatever portrays fear.”

“Roach? I know you haven’t forgotten about him, as hard as you try to pretend.” 

To that, Simon stays silent. He doesn’t break eye contact, but his mouth doesn’t open and he keeps his lips shut tight, daring Price to try and force them open. He has nothing to say on that matter, nothing he wishes to remember, nothing he’d wish to change if he could. Gary’s death happened, and the guilt has eaten at him for years, and he’s sure that if he lets his guards down, it’ll jump him like a starving dog, shredding his flesh to pieces, tearing the last bits of his heart. 

“I don’t try to pretend.” Simon says between gritted teeth. He covers the anger with a half-smile, although he’s sure Price sees right through it. He’s able to read him, see the little changes, the shifts in personality. The storm. He knew about it. Simon wonders what he’ll have to do, when he’ll know too much. SImon doesn’t want to think about it. 

“Do you ever take your mask off? The skull part. It looks fused to your face.” Price chuckles, but they both know how serious he is. Simon shrugs. “I took it off after I sniped that man.” 

They’re silent for a while after that, and Price only picks their conversation up when both their glasses are empty. Simon is only half listening, the other half of his attention lost in his own mind, in the house where he left Soap, wondering how it’ll be, when he comes back. Will Soap jump on him and try to hug him? Does Simon want that? 

Actually, Simon doesn’t know what he wants, he doesn’t know where he’s going with Soap, what he wants to do, if not lash out on him each time he’s too angry for a bottle of alcohol to do the trick. He doesn’t want to ask Price for advice, simply because asking advice about kidnapped people isn’t really the best idea to stay out of jail. 

“You’re not listening.” 

Simon looks up and shakes his head. “Sorry.” 

“What’s on your mind?” 

The lieutenant thinks for long seconds, then after a deep breath that he holds for a second and a sharp exhale, and after choosing words that won’t cause him any issues, he starts telling his twisted story, with words that make it sound normal. He talks about Soap like he’d talk about a pet, he talks about the torture as if someone else had done it. “The previous owner was cruel”, he says, with all the fake emotion he can gather in his voice. He talks about the baths, about how the dog used to stay eerily calm, fearful, fight or flight mode activated, but never active.

“Is it alone in your house?” 

“Someone’s taking care of it while I’m away, don’t worry. It has everything it needs.” 

Simon talks about his worries, that the dog won’t recognize him when he comes back, that it’ll panic, and try to run away. Maybe it already has. There’s a hand on his shoulder, and a look of compassion in Price’s eyes. 

“If you’ve saved it, it’ll know, it’ll recognize you for sure. You’ll have to show it to me, yeah? What’s the name?”

Simon bites the inside of his cheek for a second, head down. “His name is Soap, because we bonded through bathing time, and I didn’t want him to have the name his previous owner gave him. It…would be linked to trauma, you know?” 

Like his own name is? Maybe. Does Simon relate to that imaginary dog more than he’d like? Does he resent that previous owner, or does he want the dog to go back to him, learn its lesson, taste blood on its tongue. 

“I’m glad Soap has you now.” 

“Yeah…” Simon nods, signaling for the waiter to bring another glass. “His life wouldn’t be the same without me.”

******

John could swear he could’ve felt his ears ringing for a second. It stops as quickly as it came, but the sensation lingers for a little longer. He turns the light next to his mattress on and looks around, somehow expecting Ghost to stand there. 

He feels alone, there’s no denying it. Pretending his hands are Ghost’s isn’t enough anymore, thinking about the pain he was inflicted doesn’t help him relativise his absence, it doesn’t help him get out of the cycle that’s been created around him. The more he tries to remember how dangerous Ghost is for him, the more he remembers about the fond memories they shared. The more his body screams in horror at the tortures it has gone through, the more his heart tightens as thoughts of their shared kisses flood his mind. 

If he looks in the mirror, he can see the scars left by weeks of abuse, if he looks away, he can forget about it and only remember the good times. Does he want to? Or is he using it to cope with the emotional pain? He wishes Ghost were here, because if he was, he wouldn’t have time to think about what he wants or doesn’t want. He’d just have to follow his lead, walk on his heels like a lost puppy. 

Ghost was right, on the phone. He is John’s freedom. Not the sun, not the wind blowing through the leaves, not the right of seeing other people. Just Ghost. John doesn’t need to see anyone but him, he doesn’t need to hear anyone else’s voice but his. Oh, it is fucked, it is so incredibly fucked, but what would he do if Ghost never came back? What would he become? He’d stay here, like a stranded whale, he’d be unable to go anywhere but right there, because the world without Ghost isn’t really worth seeing, it isn’t worth walking though. 

Because Ghost cut his wings, he made sure he wouldn’t try to fly. John may even have forgotten what his real name really is. Soap sounds better anyway. 

******

The spinning blades of the helicopter force Simon and the rest of his team to keep their heads down when climbing inside. He never really wondered what would happen if he jumped as high as he could. Would the force of the wind decapitate him, or would he just receive a strong slap on the face? Part of him wants to try out, another hangs onto life a little too much. That part, he needs to get rid of. 

“The mission was a success.” Price tells him, patting the space between his shoulder blades like a proud dad would do his son. It may not mean much for the other soldiers, but their victory now is a tiny revenge on their failed mission a few years back. The revenge tastes bitter on Simon’s tongue, like gunpowder and blood. Not his blood, not the enemy’s. Gary’s. Would he be proud? What did he think, as he knew he’d die? Why didn’t Simon try harder to save him? Why didn’t he try to run through the bullets? Why does he keep surviving?

“Yeah, I’m glad.” He lies as he steps into the helicopter, sitting next to another soldier. He forgot their names. He doesn’t want to remember them. He knows what remembering does to the heart, once the people are gone. Sometimes, he wishes he could disconnect his brain from the rest of the world. It’d stop the nightmares. 

He lied, when he told Price he dreams about war and death. It’s been a long time since those things scared him. No, now he dreams of his past, of the things he so desperately wants to forget, but darkness won’t let him forget, it shoves the memories down his throat, and they taste like poison. And Simon tried to throw them up, he tried to scratch the poison off the walls of his throat, but it always came back, and when puking wasn’t enough, Simon started drowning them in alcohol. The alcohol doesn’t wash out the poison, it makes it worse, but it also makes Simon forget it exists. 

“Wake me up when we’re there.” He tells Price, closing his eyes. He doesn’t fall asleep, but he tries to relax as best as he can. The ride will be long, he doesn’t need to pay attention all the way.

******

John hears something outside the door but doesn’t dare move from where he’s sitting in the kitchen, a plate of noodles covered in tomato sauce in front of him. The door opens, and after a few seconds, it closes. Nothing, then, as if Ghost was listening, as if he was checking for any escape attempt. John is proud to say he didn’t even try to escape. He doesn’t want to.

“Here you are.” Ghost smiles, his balaclava pulled up above his nose, a cigarette in his mouth, not yet lit, like a preparation for upcoming stress. He approaches John nonchalantly, his behavior almost too calm, and John watches him, the hair on his body sticking up as a shiver runs down his spine. Ghost’s smile drops when his fingers grip a fist of John’s hair, and after his other hand moves the plate out of the way, John feels a strong pressure on the back of his head, and seconds later, a sharp pain in his entire face as blood runs out of his nose. Ghost holds his head up, facing him, eyes colder than they were when he left, maybe. 

“You looked outside, didn’t you? How was it?” 

John doesn’t answer. He could taste the blood on his upper lip if he ran his tongue across it. 

“Do you want me to refresh your memory and wipe the blood against the living room window?” 

John shakes his head, and with a trembling voice, tries to explain that he saw the cup and accidentally saw outside. He knows it’s a lie, he knows he looked through the blinds, he knows he should’ve kept his hands to himself. And he knows Ghost knows it too. 

“You really do your best for me to break the promise, don’t you?” 

“S-sorry, I won’t do it again, I promise!” John can feel the tears burn his eyes, he can feel his heart beat faster for all the wrong reasons, and the pain pounding inside his face, like a fresh reminder of what Ghost is capable of. 

But the violence vanishes when the grip of his fingers disappears, as if it was never there, only leaving a faint lingering pain in John’s scalp. 

“Let me see that.” Ghost hums, grabbing the paper towel John had planned to use to wipe tomato sauce from around his mouth, and not blood from his nose. “Hold that to your nose, the bleeding will stop.” 

Are they back to square one? Square zero? Or maybe it isn’t a square, but a circle, and they’ll come back to that scenario every time. John looks up, doesn’t dare speak more than what he needs to. 

“How was the mission?” He dares ask, voice made nasal by the towel obstructing his nostrils. That reunion wasn’t what he was expecting, but then, he should’ve seen it coming. The nice act was just a facade. Ghost hasn’t changed, John just got used to him. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself. He can’t help but wish he could hug him. 

“It went well for us.” Ghost answers, sitting down on the vacant chair. 

“Tell me about it?” If John ignores the blood saturating the paper towel, everything’s normal. Maybe it was just a one time thing, maybe Ghost lashed out. It’s his fault for looking outside anyway, so he can only blame himself for the throbbing inside his nose. He hopes it’s not broken again. 

“I can’t tell you much about it, but we didn’t lose anyone.” Ghost says, picking up the fork John was using and rolling the spaghetti around it, bringing it to his mouth. “Hm.Tastes good.” 

John could swear he saw a smile. It almost makes him forget about the pain and the blood staining his fingers through the now soaked towel. 

Ghost looks at him for a few seconds, and after swallowing the mouthful of spaghetti, brings the fork down next to the plate. 

“Let’s go take a bath, yeah?” 

John could cry. Finally, his routine is back, finally his life starts again. 

******

Simon wouldn’t admit it to himself, but he missed feeling Soap’s skin under his fingers, he missed rubbing the dirt off, he missed lingering a little too long on some parts of his body, knowing fully well that Soap wouldn’t dare say a thing. The parts are nothing private, no, just the small of his back, or the muscles forming his upper arm. With a little training, Soap could be a beast. But he won’t make the same mistake twice. He won’t risk another life. 

He grabs the soap, squeezes a good amount in the palm of his hand, and starts washing Soap’s body, everywhere. Part of him expects Soap to say something, tell him that he can shower himself, but those words never leave his mouth, as if he was somewhat relieved to feel Simon’s hands on him again.

And Simon would be a liar if he said he wasn’t relieved as well, he’d be a liar if he pretended having Soap close didn’t bring him comfort. He’d be a liar if he said being brutal with him didn’t send a wave of satisfaction through his body. 

“You disobeyed.” 

Those words are cold, sharp, like an icy blade, and he feels Soap tense under his fingers. As if the pain in his nose wasn’t enough. It isn’t. Simon wants Soap to obey to his every word, he wants Soap to ask for permission to breathe. 

“I don’t want to break my promise, but you have to learn.” Simon starts, his warm hands contrasting with the coldness of his tone. “I don’t want to hear your voice for the next seven days.” 

******

John feels sick. His heart tightens and he lets tears flow freely down his face. Although Ghost hasn’t broken his promise, it’ll only take one sound from him to bring pain upon him, and it’ll be his fault entirely. 

John thinks about the bird who’s unable to sing, and the bird thinks about the human with the cut vocal chords. 

The rest of the bath happens in silence, like it did before. 

“I’ll give you a pen and a notepad.”

John knows he shouldn’t be thankful for that, but he is. He’d thank Ghost for allowing him to exist in the same space as him, really.

Chapter Text

They were supposed to run into each other's arms, they were supposed to tell each other how much they loved and missed each other. This was the plan. John can't even remember why he's not allowed to talk anymore, all he knows is that he hates it more than the first time, because he had a taste of what a relationship with Ghost looked like when words were part of it. 

The fairytale crumbled so fast John doubts it ever existed, maybe the surreal phone calls were nothing but a dream, maybe he never owned a phone, maybe Ghost was never gone in the first place. Maybe he was never allowed to talk. Oh, what the brain is capable of to cope. 

The basement is the only constant thing in his life, now more than ever. It's the only room he can consider home without lying to himself, the only spot in the house where he's allowed to be himself. He hates how comforting the darkness has become, he hates how well he sleeps on the mattress, now that his guilt has subsided. It's not that he doesn't think everything is his fault anymore, but he's learned to shut down his thoughts for the night. 

He's being punished because he disobeyed, because he broke Ghost's trust like Ghost broke his nose, and maybe it is unfair, but John doesn't see it, he doesn't even think about it. He deserves it, period. 

If he hadn't said anything, he wouldn't be sitting in the basement right now, and maybe Ghost would've told him about the mission in detail. Or maybe he would've read the lies on his face and punched him even harder. Would he have cut his tongue off? That thought sends shivers down John's spine. 

How far would Ghost go? John can't help but wonder as he stands up from the mattress to go sit at the table. The pens and paper are still where he abandoned them, discarded on the small table. Some pens have rolled to the ground and John stares at them without picking them up. He sits down, takes a page from the pile and one gray pen and puts the rest on the floor. He stares at the blank page, as if waiting for ideas to appear on it magically. 

Could he draw Ghost just from the memory of his touch? Is he talented enough? Does he remember enough? He already can't remember how soft his skin was, or if he felt any scars there. He remembers the kiss, can almost taste it on his tongue, but how does one draw savors? John closes his eyes, extending the hand holding the pen up in front of him, trying to create a mental image of what was under his fingers. It's been weeks, he's allowed to forget, but he doesn't want to. Holding onto delusions is what helped him go through hard times, so forgetting them feels like a betrayal to himself. 

Ghost has a gaze that could pierce through any barriers. His cheeks are as soft as stubbles allow it to be. John remembers a scar running over his nose, he remembers his lips being dry, but maybe he made that last part up. Would it be sick for him to wish for another kiss? Ghost would probably refuse anyway. When did his nightmares turn into dreams? He must've lost it, or he's just touch starved. Yeah, it makes sense. He misses Ghost's hands on his body. He knows he shouldn't, because although the delusions have eaten at his brain, he's still well aware of how wrong his situation is. It's just so much easier to stop fighting it, so much easier to surrender than to fight a force he knows is stronger than him. 

Ghost has the aura of the men who have nothing to lose, and it is scarier than anything John has gone through. He knows Ghost could kill him, and he knows it would only take a step too much past the limits he set to set the bomb off. How much worth is John's life anyway? Surely more than his house, or else he'd be part of the ashes and ruins. Ghost wouldn't kill him for a futile reason, he'd really have to mess up big time. 

Ghost smells like cigarettes, but it is only to mask the underlying scent of blood following him everywhere. John has been forced to like it, or at least not mind it. He wonders how it feels to kill someone. Did Ghost's hands shake the first time? Has he ever missed a target? John wants to ask about all the scars, he wants Ghost to tell him about that time when he was still human, and why the joy in his eyes faltered so much that he wouldn't blink in front of a bloodbath. Could John even look at it? 

He's trying to picture Ghost without a mask and with a heart, as fake as it is, but it doesn't fit. His cruelty is too overpowering for John to even imagine him having more than a gaping hole in his chest. Who or what ripped the part of Ghost that was still human? Probably the same entity that stole his name. Did Ghost forget who he was, or does he just not want to remember? His head is filled with questions he has no answers to, and the paper is as white as when he placed it on the table. Maybe Ghost would agree to sit down and serve as a model. What time is it?

******

Simon should've known how good it would feel to finally give in to his urges. He wants to believe that he was waiting for a good reason, something that wouldn't make him feel too guilty, if at all. Soap was at fault, after all. If he hadn't been curious, this wouldn't have happened, or maybe Simon would've found something else to accuse him of. He's not saying that Soap deserves to be mistreated, he's just acting according to situations, mirroring the other's actions with violence when words stop working. But he takes care of him too. If only he was a little more thankful. 

"I forbid you from talking, not from going out of the basement." He says as he stands in the doorframe,  looking down at the well-lit basement. He sees Soap staring at a white paper sheet. "Drawing?" 

Soap looks at him, lips pinched together in a thin line. Is Simon trying to get him to talk? Would he be capable of the same brutality he used before? He hasn't lost his ability to fight, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't grow a little attached to the man. Maybe too attached, if his ideas see the light. There's a possibility they won't. 

"I told my superior that you were a dog." He tells Soap as he walks down the stairs, dragging the second chair close to the table and sitting on it. He wants to make Soap sit on the floor, to remind him of what he is, but he doesn't do it because he wants to see what he plans to draw. 

Soap looks at him with a raised eyebrow, and even without words, Simon understands what he wants to say pretty well. 

"I wasn't about to tell him I kept a human being in my house." 

Soap frowns, then looks down at his blank canvas and scribbles in one corner. 

"Why? Because it would raise way too many red flags." 

Soap stares at him like he wants to hear more and Simon sighs, fishing his pack of cigarettes out as Soap rolls his eyes. 

"Don’t roll your eyes at me." Simon groans. "What do you want to hear first?" 

Soap looks down, tapping the back of his pen against the table rhythmically before writing something down. Simon reads it and chuckles. 

"You want to know who my superior is? Now, that's something very private to ask. His name is John Price." 

Soap points at himself. 

"You? No, you're Soap. Come on, ask me something else, it is entertaining." Simon exhales the smoke, knowing exactly that the smell will stain the room for long after he's gone. Is it another way of torturing Soap? Surely. 

Soap writes something else, and Simon shrugs upon reading it. "Yeah, I don't usually invite people in here, much less keep them to myself." 

"I don't know why you in particular. Why not?" 

"You didn't really have a life before now, did you?" 

The pen almost rips through the paper as Soap writes "I did" with so much anger Simon expects him to open his mouth and yell it at him. His arm already tenses, reading to slam Soap's head down against the table. He's grown quite fond of that move. But Soap stays silent, and Simon relaxes with his next exhale, closing his eyes for a second. 

"You need to take a bath." He then says after a minute or two of silence. "And you really need some lotion, your body looks as dry as sandpaper.  

Soap shrugs and pushes the word-filled paper off the table, watching it slide to the ground with the rest of the items. Maybe to annoy Simon, or maybe simply because the space on the table is too small.  There's no way of knowing, unless Simon asks, which he won't. Instead, he stands up, stubbing out his cigarette against one corner of the table before motioning for Soap to follow him. If there's one thing that won't change, whatever the amount of brutality, it's their care time, the bathing, the shaving and every other thing Simon does to keep Soap looking his best despite the blood and scars covering his face and body. 

Sometimes Simon wonders why he cares so much, and sometimes the answer seems evident, as if written across Soap's forehead. 

Right now, when he watches him curled in the blanket, which really needs a good wash, all he can think about is how weak Soap looks, how he wouldn't survive without him. But would Simon survive if Soap wasn't around? He didn't really feel that happy during his time away, his thoughts were flooded with memories of Soap, as if he was more important than his work. Simon shakes his head to get that thought out of his head and walks to the tub, turning the faucet on after putting the plug to stop the water from draining. 

"Are you angry?" Simon asks, for no particular reason. Or is he looking for an outlet? Nobody died during their mission, they did well, so why does he feel the need to take control over someone else's well-being? Or is Simon trying to detach himself from the emotions he's felt, the ones he realized he couldn't ignore when they were all he thought about. Would a punch to Soap's face make Simon forget about the proximity they had a month ago? Would seeing him bleed from his nose and mouth erase the sensation of their lips pressed together? One he couldn't forget, one he's been dreaming about. 

Soap shakes his head slowly, clutching the blanket a little harder, like he's using it as a shield against Simon's words. He's staring at the water, eyes awestruck. Surely, a bath must feel like a reward after a month of showering alone. Oh, how Simon has broken him. 

"Are you not angry or are you scared to tell me you are?" Simon turns the faucet off and pulls his sleeves up, diving a hand in the water to check the temperature. He feels generous enough to give Soap a warm bath, or is it the guilt of stripping him from his rights? No, it couldn't be it. Soap is just another man, he's like the soldiers he kills when he's ordered to, he's like the faces he forgets when he doesn't see them for a while. 

Except he isn't. 

"Come on, step in." 

******

John drops the blanket and approaches the tub and Ghost with all the care of a scared animal, eyeing him to make sure he doesn't step on the floor the wrong way. He knows the man is a mystery to understand, he knows about the mood swings, he knows about the brutality, but for some reason he thought it was an issue of the past, something he could bury and ignore. When he thinks about it right now, he wonders how he could've believed something so surreal. 

He wanted to believe it. He was holding onto the tenderness like a drowning man holds onto a buoy, he was and still is willing to go through the pain if it means he gets Ghost's healing hands on his body, as little sense as it makes. 

Ghost doesn't do anything when John steps in the water, and he lets out a sigh of relief, as if he had expected for him to hurt him. Has he lost the trust he has in the other man? Did he ever trust him? Yes, he did. And if he's being honest with himself for a second, he still does. More than he ever trusted himself, more than he'll ever trust anyone else. Ghost would kill for him, as much as he'd kill him if he messed up, and as scary a thought as it is, it strokes John's ego the right way. 

The water is warm and John lets himself sink until the water reaches his chin. It feels like a warm blanket, better than the one he's been dragging around the house. He dares close his eyes for a second, only opening them back up when he feels a familiar hand on his torso, stripped of any washcloth or separation. He knows that he would’ve panicked a few months ago, but now a sense of comfort washes over him, and he realizes how much he had missed Ghost’s presence. It’s like he knows John’s body better than John himself, or has his brain been so thoroughly washed that he thinks Ghost’s hands feel better than they actually do? Thinking about it gives him a headache, he’s allowed to stay ignorant to a few things, as long as they don’t hurt. Actually, even if they do hurt, John has discovered that he’s quite resistant to pain. 

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” Ghost says, the bottom of his balaclava still pulled up above his nose. He hasn’t tugged it down after his smoke, for a reason John ignores, but at least he gets to stare at the man, match his features with what he felt under his fingers, and give life to his imagination. He wants to rip the man’s mask off. Instead, he just nods, watching as the hand strokes his torso cautiously. It’s not soaped up, but John says nothing about it. There is nothing to say, for words have been pulled out of his mouth.

Ghost ends up grabbing the soap to wash John’s body when he’s tired of roaming his hand around, as if trying to relearn each curve. Maybe he forgot how it felt? John can’t say the same about himself. He’d never forget the burn of Ghost’s harsh hands or the warmth he felt each time those hands were soft on his body. Those memories are carved deep in his bones, in his soul. 

The bath happens smoothly, Ghost doesn't talk much, but then John is sure that talking to a wall isn't the most interesting experience to have. He can see that being a bit boring. 

"I'll wash your blanket tonight." Ghost says as he makes John stand up to rinse the soap off. Today, he won't stay longer in the bath, but at least he gets something else. He hasn't forgotten Ghost's comment about how dry his skin is. John even wonders if it's an excuse to touch him more, or if the quality of his skin really worsened during that lonely month. 

Ghost helps him out, wrapping him around the same rough towel, as if to make a point, that some things won't ever change, even if Ghost turns into the nicest human being. John doesn't mind, he's used to feeling the fabric almost burn his skin, as if Ghost was trying to tear off the upper layer of his body, clean him off impurities that aren't physical, punishing him for the lies and omitting, if there are any. 

"Go wait in the basement, on your bed." 

John nods and scutters down the stairs, not looking behind to see where Ghost goes or if he stays in the bathroom. The thought that he's turned his back to a killer crosses his mind too fast for him to acknowledge it.

******

Simon pulls the balaclava over his mouth again before looking for the lotion he wants to use. He knows it's somewhere, abandoned in the back of the cupboard under the sink, or maybe in his room. He never uses it, or too rarely, but he knows he hasn't thrown it away. 

He likes keeping things even when he doesn't need them. This must be why he tends to live in the past, reminiscing memories as old as he is, and thinking about things he can't change anymore. His hand closes around a bottle and he pulls it out of the cupboard, nodding to himself. Sometimes, keeping items from the past has advantages. More often than not, it's a useless kind of pain. 

Simon walks down the basement stairs a few seconds later, to find Soap laying on his stomach, face hidden in his arms. Simon stays still for a few seconds, allowing himself to openly watch the naked man, wondering if something changed between them, since the kiss, since he wasn't there for so long. It is confusing to realize how much someone can be missed while still being alive.

"Don’t fall asleep." He says, as much to keep Soap awake than to push his thoughts away. He kneels next to the mattress for a second before changing his mind, and without a warning for Soap, straddles the back of his thighs, pinning him to the mattress. He can feel Soap's whole body tense, and the idea that fear floods through his veins does something to him. 

"Relax, the floor is too hard." 

Simon is a liar and he's incredibly good at it. He's seen worse than hard concrete, he's stayed still for hours over sand and rock that made his skin bleed through his clothes. But now, he wants comfort, he wants control. And he'll get control over Soap like a wave overpowers the shore, shaping it beat after beat, stroke after stroke, forever transformed to fit the sea. 

Simon opens the bottle, sitting back on Soap's thighs with all his weight as he squeezes some lotion directly on his back. Soap gasps, surprised by the coldness, but doesn't say anything. Simon isn't sure if he'd do anything, if he talked now, but he doesn't need to know that. 

Soap's skin feels soft under his fingers, and Simon's knowledge of human anatomy makes him a pretty good masseur, knowing which spots to press on to relax the body. He can hear Soap sigh, content, eyes probably closed again. Simon doesn't comment on it, just focuses on spreading the lotion equally on his entire back before moving down, scooting his whole body as he massages the lotion into Soap's ass, the back of his thighs, his calves, while fighting a newly appeared urge. How would that skin feel against his lips? 

"Turn around." Simon orders as he stands. He won't straddle Soap this time, it would be much too intimate, even more considering what has been going through his mind, but he doesn't need to pin him down now, Soap knows how to behave, because he knows Simon won't hesitate to hurt him to be obeyed. He wouldn't mess with him when his most sensitive parts are displayed, right?

Rubbing the lotion on Soap's torso feels weird. Having to massage the same spots again and again, adding more lotion each time, until the skin is hydrated enough feels a lot like overstepping boundaries. Simon just hasn't yet decided whose. The more he rubs Soap's skin, the warmer it gets, along with the palms of his own hands, and the more he stares down at Soap's body,  the more he feels the man's eyes on him, screaming things that can't be heard. 

"Don't look at me like that." Simon warns as his hands descend on Soap's right leg, rubbing the lotion in the whole length before moving to the other one. 

"Sit up." 

Soap obeys, and for a second, their faces are close, and Simon is brought back to the kiss and forced shotgunning. Their eyes meet, and the smug look in Soap's eyes disappears as quickly as it came to life. 

"You like playing with fire." 

There's a silence so loud it rings in Simon's ears. 

"Give me your arm."

Soap extends his left arm first, and Simon feels his gaze on him again but ignores them, focusing on rubbing lotion into the skin. He motions for the other arm, doing the same before looking up, meeting Soap's gaze once again. It'll become dangerous at some point. 

"Close your eyes." 

Soap opens his mouth before immediately closing it, pinching his lips together as he exhales loudly through his nose. Simon doesn't need to hear words to know that Soap's annoyed, but he won't ask why. He's pretty sure he has an idea, and he's unsure how pleased he is by it. If he lets Soap talk, he's scared he won't like what's being said. It makes no sense, because it's what he wanted, full control over Soap's emotions, so why is he scared of his own success? 

Soap's eyes are closed and Simon squeezes some lotion on the tip of his fingers before placing spots all over the other's face, starting with his forehead, noticing how long his hair have gotten - he'll have to cut them sometime this week, his cheeks, where the scar seems deeper than he remembers, the tip of his slightly crooked nose and his chin. He then uses his fingers to rub the lotion in, being overly gentle when he goes over the scar, feeling the squishy softness of the skin there. He doesn't feel guilty about it, or rather he does, but he's used to this sensation. He's felt guilty for worse, for killing fathers and mothers, always wondering how the orphaned children would look at him. 

Soap is alive, at least. Marked but breathing. The scars don't stem from honorable wounds, Hell, they don't even stem from an honorable person, but they're here and they won't be going anywhere. Soap is condemned to remember this part of his life long after it's gone, if it ever goes away. His eyes are still closed, and Simon wonders what he's thinking about, or what he's seeing. 

He wonders what he would first see if he closed his eyes right now. Would his mind be flooded with the violence of his job or the gentleness of his times with Soap, after the brutal phase? Would he dare to check which of them comes first? 

But most importantly, which thought is the scariest? 

"You can open your eyes, we're done." Simon says that when he's already standing near the staircase, ready to flee the cause of all his confusion. That's not what being in control should feel like. His grip on Soap may be strong, but the grip Simon has on himself feels slippery, and he fears that by trying to stop him from feeling anything, he forgets about his own emotions. He may have forgotten it, or maybe parts of him flew along those bullets he shot, but he's still a human being, or at least part of it. 

If he wasn't, Soap would’ve died a long time ago. 

Follow me on Twitter!

Chapter Text

John feels relaxed, like he never has been inside this house. His muscles have been turned to putty, and the only overactive part of his body is his heart, beating out of his chest erratically. He struggles to wrap his head about what just happened. Ghost left so fast, it could've been a dream, his warm hands on John's naked body just a result of a daydream, and the slightly flowery scent coming from old memories. Yeah, there's no way Ghost just gave him a massage. 

John allows himself a few minutes before he stands back up. The door is closed, but he's pretty sure it's the middle of the night. He can't remember if his bath was minutes or hours ago, time is just a jumbled concept inside his mind, one he long stopped trying to understand. 

After a few seconds of just standing in the middle of the artificially-illuminatedbasement, John walks to the table and crouches down to rip a corner of one of the sheets laying on the floor. He then takes a pencil and writes in his best handwriting. 

Can I come out?

Before going up the stairs and knocking on the basement door from inside. He'd almost laugh about it. 

Ghost opens the door after a few seconds and John holds the piece of paper at eye level, leaving him enough time to read. 

"To do what?" 

John shrugs and points to the living room. He saw the TV when he went there, so he draws a square in the air. 

"Watch TV?" Ghost raises an eyebrow. 

John nods. Ghost seems relaxed so he's not as scared as usual to ask him small rewards. 

"Aren't you being a bit greedy? I gave you enough drawing material to last you weeks." Ghost rolls his eyes, but there's something missing, like a looming threat or a dark aura. John tries to analyze his behavior, but he's faced with a wall, although one softer than usual. Maybe he can dig into it. As to experiment, John starts pouting, and Ghost stares at him, a furrow in his brow. 

"What?" 

John shakes his head, face expressionless, and lifts a finger, silently telling Ghost to wait. Which he does, surprisingly. John scutters down the stairs to grab a black pen before running up, full stopping in front of Ghost before plastering the paper on the wall to write a cursive ' please? ' that he then shows to the other man. 

Ghost pinches the bridge of his nose over his mask and John lowers the piece of paper, slowly backing off. 

"I swear you're more annoying when you don't speak." He looks up, immediately stopping the thought that had started to form in John's head. "No, it doesn't mean you're allowed to talk. I said a week, it'll stay like that."

John waits for a few seconds for Ghost's answer to his initial request, only half surprised when he refuses and sends him back to the basement. "Draw a TV and stick it on the wall, if you please."

John swallows the sigh that threatens to escape him and shifts in a semi-circle before walking down the stairs, steps heavy with disappointment, and the pout he had wiped off of his face reappearing, although unseen by Ghost. 

It's been so long since he's watched a movie, and right now he'd even watch the ones he hates the most, hell, he'd watch a kid's channel to learn the alphabet if that's the only thing he'll allow. John just wants to sit in front of the TV for some time, pretend like he's a normal human with normal hobbies. 

He stares at the table, the unfinished portrait he drew of Ghost staring back at him. John can't be mad at a drawing, he can't even be mad at the real man, and although all he wants to do is sneak into the living room, he knows that breaking the rules so openly would get him more than his ability to speak taken away. 

So, he sits on the chair, and rips another page off of the sketchbook with barely concealed anger. The paper hasn't done anything, and there lies the issue. With the black pen he had used to write his plea a second time draws a large square taking the whole page before coloring it inside like a kid would, holding the pen with such force he's surprised it doesn't bend between his fingers. 

Of course, the inked tip ends up disappearing inside the body of the pen, and John throws it in frustration, staring at his half drawn TV, made of paper and ink, where no images move, and the more he stares at it, the more his vision blurs, until he can feel streaks of wetness on his cheeks. He's been through worse, it shouldn't even faze him, yet he finds himself crying silently, the only witnesses to his small breakdown being the inanimate colored pencils and Ghost, the flat one. His eyes seem to have softened, but maybe John just imagined it. 

It takes him a few minutes to stop the tears and the hiccups, and when he's calm enough, he drags himself to the bed, laying down on his stomach, face buried in the blanket. He wants to scream but he's not allowed to. All because he looked out the wrong window. 

******

Simon isn’t sure he’ll be able to get rid of the warm sensation carved in the palm of his hands, even if he tries his best to push Soap away as far as his arms will allow. He has no real reason to keep him from watching TV, because there’s nothing he needs to hide anymore. For all he knows, he could leave the main door wide open and watch what happens. His guess is that Soap would just stare at his freedom as if it was kept behind a glass wall, or as if he himself was imprisoned behind one. But would freedom offer him as much as what Simon gave him? 

He sometimes wonders on which side of the glass wall he stands himself, if he once stepped over the line, if he, too, is captive to another greater force. Where does freedom start? Where does it end? Is there a sign carved somewhere in space that would give him a clear answer? His house isn’t a prison, so Soap can’t be imprisoned in it, yet his basement became a kind of jail, but only for Soap, because if Simon went in it, he could always come out. The space around Soap could turn into a four-walled high security prison, if Simon decided so. 

Actually, the house isn’t the prison, Simon is. He serves as the guard and the walls, because even when Soap is walking outside, seemingly free to the eyes of strangers, there’s always this invisible leash around his neck, the one that stops him from running away. Simon doesn’t even want to think about what he’d do if Soap really tried to run away. But they’re past that, now. Soap wouldn’t even think of freedom the way he used to. Freedom isn’t outside anymore, it lies in between those walls. Freedom became everything but the basement. 

Simon smiles to himself, tapping his pack of cigarettes against the table to have one jump out. He thinks for a minute, then stands up from where he sat in the kitchen, unlit cigarette between his lips. He opens the basement door, staring down at the empty chair. He walks a few steps down until he’s able to see him, laying down on the bed, as still as a statue.

“One hour.” 

He sees the half blacked out square, the paper almost ripped through with the force applied on it, and he also sees the discarded pen, still opened, and the tip pushed inside. 

“Don’t destroy what I buy for you, Soap.” He sighs, and Soap turns around to stare at him, conveying all his rage silently. He doesn’t need to speak, the frown on his face is loud enough already. 

“I said one hour, don’t waste it staring me down like that, the clock is ticking.” 

Soap hurries to stand on his feet, but before he can run past him, he’s stopped, and Simon whispers with a soft but firm voice. “If you break another pen I’ll make sure to punch your nose in its socket. Are we clear?” 

Soap nods, face turning pale for a second before he resumes his ascension out of the basement. Simon is on his heels, like a shadow engulfing the other man. And the air Soap breathes must have an aftertaste of danger. 

Once they're seated - Simon on the couch, cigarette still unlit between his lips, and Soap  between his legs, on the floor - he grabs the remote and turns the TV on, going through the different channels until he finds something he's interested in. Soap will have to do with what he has. 

******

John didn't take his blanket with him, be it out of anger or simply because he forgot. He got used to the warmth and now the hair on his arms is sticking up, his skin covered in shivers as he brings his knees closer to his chest, staring at the TV and the images dancing on it. He's not sure what they're watching, and he doesn't really care, he just wanted to do something normal, something he used to do everyday when he was on his own. 

He knows not to ask for a chair, or to share the already too small space on the sofa, although after a while of sitting down, his back starts to hurt. He doesn't want to push Ghost's kindness and most of all, he doesn't want it to turn into anger. If John thinks he can finally understand him, or that they have some sort of a silent deal, he's also aware that it could all crumble to nothing if he pushes too hard. 

So, he distracts himself from the pain by staring at the TV, because he asked for it, so it is his fault for not thinking it through. Of course he wasn't about to sit on the couch, it's logical now that he thinks about it. If he spends most of his time in the basement, he surely won't be treated like much of a human outside of it. He should be thankful that he gets to eat food at the table and not on the floor like some wild mut. 

Or maybe today is a good day, maybe luck is on his side, because Ghost stands up and makes his way to the kitchen. 

"You can sit on the couch until I'm back." 

John doesn't need to be told twice, and he even dares mouth for his blanket, to which Ghost shrugs and nods. Luck must really be on his side. 

He curls up as much as he can on the small surface, knowing very well that this comfort won't last, but he allows himself to relax while he watches the movie that's playing in front of him. Of course, Ghost doesn't take more than a few minutes to come back, blanket in one hand, lit cigarette slowly burning in a twirl of smoke between his lips. John is about to fall back down on the floor as fast as he can, but before he can, Ghost stops him. 

"Stand up." 

John obeys, as always, and stands as straight as a soldier in front of a superior, whole body tense. 

"Relax, I'm not going to hurt you." Ghost says, wrapping the blanket around John's shoulders, the smoke making the man scrunch his nose.

"You really should be used to the smoke by now." 

John shakes his head, a pout forming on his lips that he hopes won't annoy the taller man. But Ghost says nothing about it and just shifts their positions, to sit on the sofa. John is then pulled back and lands on the other man's lap, holding his breath to avoid any sound from escaping his mouth. If he had been allowed to speak, he probably would've yelped in surprise. 

Ghost's hands wrap around John's waist, holding him close, as if John would dare move even the tip of his fingers. He's never been more confused. It's different, less intimate than the kissing or the massage, yet holding the same tension, or maybe more of it. 

"Your muscles are going to cramp if you keep being so tense." 

John tries to relax, but a voice keeps running through his head, telling him that if he puts his defenses down, he's bound to make a mistake, and it would ruin everything. Ghost already warned him about the pen, so what would happen if he let out a word? He still remembers the pain of the bucket vividly, although it has been weeks, if not months. 

Still, he lets himself lay back, back against Ghost's chest, hands timidly holding his forearms. He looks down at the tattoos covering one of them, letting his eyes follow the different lines as he tries to come up with a story for each of them. He doesn't ask about them, and probably never will. It has nothing to do with fear, but he feels that they aren't close enough in that sense for him to start asking about that part of his life. 

There's so much he wants to know, so many questions going through his head, in an unfair manner, now that he can't speak. When will the week be over? Would Ghost be so mean and never tell him the time, or send him in the basement to never come back out, so he can choose how long the week will be? Why would he do that after being so nice? Or was his kindness a trap? Was it to make John lower the barriers he had created around him? 

The arms around his waist feel a little tighter, until one of them uncurls and Ghost grabs his cigarette, blowing the smoke to the ceiling. He then presents the tobacco stick to John who looks at it and takes it. 

"Should we play another game?" 

John nods, nothing could happen that hasn't already happened. If he smoked it, would that count as a kiss? Why is he even wondering that? 

"If you finish that cigarette without coughing, I'll cut the punition short and allow you to talk." Ghost says, and John can almost hear a smile in his voice, but when he twists his body to look back, his expression is as serious as ever. 

John can't let a chance like that go, even if it burns his throat, even if it takes hours off his lifespan, even if it turns him into an addict. Words against health, the choice is already made. What would the man he was before say to that? 

He doesn't really care about him right now. All that matters is that he's holding his chance to speak again between his thumb and index, and slowly bringing it to his lips. So what if he gets too used to it and asks Ghost for more? Or worse, if Ghost makes him enjoy it just for the pleasure to take it away. 

He avoids thinking about it as he takes a first drag, immediately feeling the irritating sensation in his throat, the one that makes him want to cough it out, but he resists, closing his eyes and focusing on holding his breath. He knows if he inhales now he'll be caught in an uncontrollable coughing fit, and he'll lose the opportunity Ghost gave him.

"Turn around, sit on my lap facing me." Ghost says, a few seconds after John's first drag, to which the man naturally obeys, shifting positions and facing Ghost. When they're eyes meet, John immediately looks away, hurriedly taking another drag of the cigarette, as if to distract himself from something more dangerous. 

"Don’t look away, Soap." 

John immediately meets Ghost's eyes again, breathing the smoke right on his face because he doesn't dare move his head to the side. 

"Do you think you'll win the game?" Ghost asks in an almost teasing manner, as if he was about to do something that would make him lose, as if he had already planned the outcome of the game they started playing. Although John is sure Ghost is the only one who would find it entertaining. 

But John nods, taking his third drag of the cigarette, slowly but surely getting used to the uncomfortable burn in his throat. He doesn't feel like he's about to cough his lungs out anymore, but he's still careful, avoiding large air intakes that would break the inner balance he's found between him and Ghost's addiction. 

His heart is beating hard, though, be it because of their proximity or because he's almost naked, with only his blanket to serve as a barrier between his non-existent pride and the man who ripped it from him. Heart that misses a beat when Ghost slides his hands under the blanket, placing them on John's thighs, resulting in the man almost choking on his most recent smoke intake. But he doesn't, and he dares a smug smile in Ghost's direction. He's allowed, his freedom is at stake. 

"This was just luck." 

Ghost keeps his hands where he put them, squeezing the flesh, tongue clicking in annoyance. "You need to gain some muscle mass." He says after squeezing a little harder, and John looks down at his thighs, then up at Ghost, keeping the thought that if he had eaten properly instead of surviving off snacks and bucket water for months he would've probably had more muscles to himself. He can't really say it out loud anyway. 

"What do you think?" Ghost looks at him, as if his opinion mattered, but John knows that the only answer he'll accept is a yes, so he nods, again. The hands leave his thighs and John pulls the blanket around himself a little tighter. The cigarette is almost completely burned, and Ghost grabs it, taking the last drag before stubbing it out in the ashtray next to the sofa. Now that John is more aware of his surroundings, or rather now that he's somewhat allowed in the living room, he realizes the amount of ashtrays laying around, like it's a collectible. He also sees the slightly yellow-tainted walls. 

"Great job." Ghost says, tearing John out of his thoughts. There's a few seconds of silence, during which John holds his breath, because as long as Ghost doesn't voice his permission, it's as if the game never happened. 

******

Simon is tempted to tell Soap that the game was a joke, and that the week isn't over. 

After all, all he's always done is play with Soap's emotions to avoid his own.

Chapter Text

John’s been sent back to the basement, as if Ghost did his best to avoid giving him any reason to talk, because having permission isn’t worth anything in that case. John isn’t mad, and even if his blood was boiling he wouldn’t openly express it. Not that Ghost would hurt him for it. 

Maybe that’s the issue, the lack of consequences, the sudden freedom. There’s nothing to fear anymore, and that makes everything a lot scarier than it was before. It’s too calm, like the heavy heat before a storm. John observes, cradled in a corner like a scared pup, wishing to turn into the wall he’s pressed again, in his mind. In the basement, he’s alone, but in his head, Ghost took up most of the space, as if he owned the place, as if John had no reason to think for himself. Would he even be able to? 

That fearful version of him is torn between the comfort that is brought by their proximity, and the underlying risk any misplaced word or action could possibly bring down on him. So, maybe not having anyone to talk to isn’t such a bad thing. 

******

It feels like something is missing. Not the cigarette between his fingers, or his balaclava securely held inside his other hand, squeezed so hard it would pop if it was a balloon. Maybe it is Soap’s presence that is missing, but if that was the case, it would make Simon more human that he intends to be. Nobody taught him to miss people, he’s got his fair share of heartbreaking news and held back tears. He didn’t cut off his emotions for the man he kidnapped to slither into his heart. In fact, maybe it is time to let him go, allow him to just open the door and leave, or escape, whatever he’ll want to call it. 

But Simon knows he’s broken him, like that cup, before putting him together in a way that rendered him useless to society, useless to himself. That cup won’t hold any liquids without it seeping through, like Soap won’t be able to take care of himself, and would most likely die under a bridge if he was left alone. It is a sad thought, but a thought Simon is proud of. He created his own Frankenstein, his own creature made of pieces of himself that he carefully stuck onto another person’s mind. Does he see himself when he looks at Soap? 

What does he even see when he looks at his own reflection? He knows he’s human, although that is to prove, sometimes, because humans surely don’t kill other humans that cold-heartedly. So maybe he’s some sort of hybrid, maybe he too is someone’s Frankenstein, and maybe that someone is also someone’s Frankenstein, and the world is filled with evil broken creatures, who think they’re the master, but really they’re not. The cigarette burns with the fire of his thoughts, and he stares at it, counting the seconds it takes to reach his skin. The slight pain he feels is barely there, and even his furthest childhood memories seem to hurt more.

There is no point in lighting cigarettes if he’s not going to smoke them, yet the routine can’t be that easily broken, and he catches himself staring at them while reminiscing his past, rather than worrying about shortening his future. There isn’t any guarantee it’ll work anyway. With the luck he’s had in his life, cigarettes are bound to extend his life.

The sigh that escapes his lips is louder than he had intended, and for a second he wonders if Soap would be able to hear it. How much does he actually hear? He’s not sure how soundproof the walls are, as he’s spent much of his life here alone. Does he hear him wake up in the middle of the night in cold sweats? Does he hear the shower run when the moon shines the strongest? Does he listen to the back and forth Simon does in the house, when sleep refuses to welcome him? Does it hold any importance?

When he thinks about it, which he does a lot, he wonders why he started all this, what the end goal is. He never thought that far. There is no end goal to this, it ends when he dies, and death is running away from him, so really, it is infinite. Simon sometimes wonders if he’s immortal, although cursed would seem more realistic. 

He has the feeling he thinks about all this a lot more now that he has someone to take care of, someone who’s only seen his tamest side, the one that isn’t covered in blood, the one that, even when violent, doesn’t resort to guns and knives to solve his problems. Would he kill for Soap? Would he willingly go through the mess of cleaning up blood in a setting where blood surely doesn’t belong? That’s something he’d like to never find out, but in theory, probably. 

The chair he’s sitting on creaks when he pushes it back, and for a short moment, Simon wonders how much time he has before this house falls apart, as it seems to only be held together by bad memories and cigarette smoke. Soap shines like a thousand stars in that darkness. Even after everything he’s gone through, Simon can never bring him down to the void he’s seated in, as if that spark of hope refused to give up. Actually, maybe Soap gave up long ago, but Simon’s idea of hope is so clouded he wouldn’t even recognize it if it was right in front of him. That too, is a sad thought to have. 

Standing up in the middle of the kitchen, eyes riveted on that long abandoned bird nest, Simon inhales, feeling his lungs fill up with the life he so hardly tries to avoid. It is unfair. He’d been told that Hell would be the only place he’d be welcomed in, so maybe that’s it. Maybe he doesn’t deserve to die, because Hell is right there, somewhere between his hurtful past and long-lasting future.

Soap needs to eat. Simon should get started with the cooking. He’ll need the energy for what is planned later. 

******

John thinks about what his life would’ve been if all this hadn’t happened. He doesn’t know why he thinks about it, as it wouldn’t change the outcome. It’s not like he can go back in the past and somehow not drink coffee. Although the idea is tempting, but then he’d need to go even further in the past and never leave his house, then he wouldn’t have been stalked, and maybe even further, to the moment he chose to come to that part of town, and actually, if he wasn’t born at all, he wouldn’t be here now, so really, all he can blame is his own confidence. 

The pencil drawing he did of Ghost is staring back at him, with eyes more emotional than they really are. He hasn’t yet mastered that emptiness in them, the way they seem to hold so much, but a wall has been built between those emotions and the outside world, that same wall that seems to be sucking John’s own emotions out of his body, replacing them with something cold, something that makes him wonder if what he lived really was that horrible, now that he’s not living it anymore. 

Art is all about expression, but the lines and shades spread on that paper are as expressive as the paper itself, and leaving the paper blank would’ve probably conveyed more than those black and gray drawings ever will. Still, John can’t help but stare at them, adding shades here and there, darkening the already rather somber sketch, until all he can see is a black blob of intertwined lines, but even that seems more human than the model he based it on. But really, can he pretend to be more of a human himself? It seems like he’s been turned into a pet, or a decorative object, only taken out when really needed, with a voice serving as an accessory. But one gets used to it, and alas, he’s alive. Although the air he breathes is dusty and musty, it is nothing less than air. His mind remembers the pain his body forgot, and down here, he has no mirrors to observe the damages, but if he runs his fingers over his face and body, he can count the scars. He doesn’t do it, because it would create unnecessary suffering. 

“Dinner’s ready.”

John jumps in his chair and whips his head in the door’s direction, seeing Ghost standing there, balaclava on his face. John looks down at his drawing, then grabs it and holds it up, as if comparing the lines, even though he can’t see the model’s features. Ghost doesn’t wait for him to answer, and seconds later, he’s gone, as if he had never been there, and only the wide open basement door tells John he wasn’t dreaming. 

When they’re sitting in the kitchen, facing each other, John’s blanket wrapped around him like an armor, he’s reminded of all of the events that took place here, seemingly seconds ago, although it must’ve been weeks. He remembers the sound of the cup breaking in pieces, he remembers the look in Ghost’s eyes, the disappointment flashing in them, as if he had somehow failed to tame the beast. Or maybe it was what had been needed for the wildness to run away, leaving an obedient humanoid in its wake. 

A small part of him may still be missing the brutality that came with Ghost in the past, but a bigger part relishes in the peace he feels, although constantly threatened, as he watches him set the table, paying attention to every little movement, every cue that could be seen. He can’t miss any of them, because the part of him that still curls under the fear, that same part that seems to enjoy the way things are now, is overly vigilant, because a relapse is never out of the way, not with everything Ghost carries with him. It’s heavy, although invisible, and if John looks at it for too long, it feels like he’s carrying it too, and there’s nothing pleasant about carrying the burdens of a complete yet familiar stranger. That’s the moment he realizes how little they know about each other.

“Eat instead of staring at your plate.” 

It’s as if John forgot that the man facing him wasn’t part of his train of thoughts. He’s almost tempted to reach a hand to check if he’s palpable, but instead of that, chooses to grab his fork - knives are once again banned from his side of the table apparently - and start eating. He pays no attention to what’s on the plate, or how salty or sweet it tastes. Right now, he could be eating cardboard and he wouldn’t bat an eye. He’s lost, physically, mentally, emotionally, so lost that he’s created his own new ways, mastering the art of pretending that everything is fine, that his heart doesn’t beat faster, contradicting his brain who screams at him to leave. It’s as if his brain and heart had read two different stories about the same man, debating inside him about who’s in the right and who’s in the wrong. It hurts his entire body, makes him wish he was asleep so he wouldn’t have to take part in this tiring inner fight. 

“You cut my food…” He realizes outloud after a few more bites. For a second, he’s scared he misunderstood his right to talk again, and his muscles tense, at the verge of cramping. But when all Ghost does is nod, John’s posture visibly relaxes, and he keeps eating, as if nothing had been said. If he stays silent enough, maybe time will pass faster, maybe John will manage to get his heartbeats to slow down. Ghost is nobody to admire, he’s nobody to love, even less after all he’s done, and yet, he’s as charming as he is dangerous, and his lips taste like blood, they do, and they’re as soft as a braided rug, but braided rugs are better than the concrete of the basement, and his size engulfs John like a teaser of Hell, like he’s made of shadows and death, but it is peaceful, surprisingly so, and John often catches himself longing for a bit more than just the few seconds of comfort he gets here and there. It is so wrong but it feels right.

“You remember the training I mentioned?” Ghost asks, stupidly so. John's sense of time may have been deconstructed to a mere suggestion, but there’s no reason he’d forget something that happened literally a few hours ago.

“You did mention me needing more muscle mass.” John says, regaining confidence in his voice.

It is as if he’d never stopped talking, but overconfidence tends to be tricky, and a tongue click from Ghost is enough to put him in his place, reminding him that he is nothing, barely considered human in those walls, or even outside for that matter. No human being walks naked, wrapped by a blanket that visibly stiffens with the dust it’s covered in. John sneezes, just to prove a point to himself. That blanket needs a wash. 

“Don’t act smart now, Soap. The training starts tomorrow morning.” 

“How early?” John asks, hoping that the question doesn’t trigger any sadistic side to Ghost, maybe a bit too late now. 

“I’ll wake you up, don’t worry.” 

There’s a tone John doesn’t like, and a voice inside his head whispers to him to go to bed early, if he wishes to get at least a few hours of sleep. He can’t tell the time, but more sleep is better than less, so after putting his plate away, like Ghost so gently ordered, he runs back to the basement, as if it was a luxury hotel room. For all he’s experienced, it may be the most comfortable place he’s been, without counting those few minutes he was sitting on Ghost’s bed. Maybe one day he can- 

No, not going in that direction. 

John lays down and forces his eyes shut, waiting for sleep to take over. He apprehends the upcoming day, but not as much as he did talking, or breathing too loud when he first got here. This is what freedom looks like, now, in a sense. Just a room made of concrete, with the bucket his only companion, when the beast itself doesn’t show up. He’d love to pretend he didn’t get used to it, but the mind is an amazing actor, tricking even its owner into believing in impossible things. 

Chapter Text

Droplets of rain cover the window, blurring the outside view, and the rhythmical tapping provides Simon some sort of peace, as if his house was cut off from the rest of the world, as if he could send Soap outside, without fear of losing him. As if water rendered them invisible, because it works in the fantasy world, it worked in his childhood, when he'd simply close his eyes to hide and his mother would pretend to look for him everywhere even though he was right in front of her. Those are the good times he vaguely remembers, the ones where his voice couldn't betray him, where words weren't as powerful and actions held little to no importance. They flee as soon as they appear, those memories, leaving Simon to stare at a blurry landscape, the dripping windows serving as replacements for his forever-dry eyes. 

But emotions have no place in today's planning, and before he has time to feel sorry for himself, his mind is filled with ideas, things he could demand from Soap, ways to train him into becoming stronger, yet so obedient that he won't even realize the chances such strength would give him. Simon is confident in the fact that he won't try to escape, as confident as he is that if he does indeed try, a bullet should be enough to stop him.

But he doesn't want to kill him. Maybe he did, at some point, in the beginning, when he kept disobeying and talking when he wasn't allowed, but now, even if he broke a thousand rules, Simon wouldn't lay a hand on him. It makes no sense, he knows it, because Soap is the same as every man he's eliminated in his career. A mere human, the sort that is so easy to get rid of, and yet Simon's heart thinks differently. That's the issue, his heart started thinking, as if it had any right to decide. 

It's early. Behind the rain veil, the sun is barely up, but Simon is already dressed and ready to start the day. He's not too sure about Soap, but it shouldn't matter, he had been warned. 

He's only half surprised when he sees the man sitting on his bed, blanket wrapped around his shoulders, in a position that shows him that he's been waiting for the door to open for some time. 

"Are you motivated or did you just not sleep at all?" 

Soap shifts his gaze in his direction, as if he had just now realized that the door didn't open on a ghost, and blinks slowly, willing the dryness out of his mouth by clearing his throat. 

"I know I closed my eyes but it feels like I just blinked. I don't think I slept." He says, a yawn punctuating his sentence. 

"Well then, stand up, I'll give you some clothes, we're going somewhere else." 

Simon doesn't wait for Soap to follow him, he knows he'll come when the fog in his mind dissipates, when the tiredness subsides just enough for him to register the words. During that time, he walks to his room and grabs clothes to give him. It'll be the second time, maybe not the last, but that thought is pushed in some corner of his mind. He doesn't like the idea of appreciating sharing his clothes with the man he tortured, it's not how it's supposed to work. 

They're all black, the clothes he chooses, because he doesn't have any other color, and he didn't wash the clothes Soap was wearing that day. He should, maybe, instead of keeping them neatly folded in the back of his closet, like a trophy. But it holds memories, and soap would wash them away. It is a funny thought, somehow. 

A few minutes after he's done, Soap appears in the doorframe, his form hidden by the blanket, but Simon still lets his eyes linger, imagining what he'd see if the blanket fell, remembering the curves of his body, how his skin feels under his touch, made slippery with soap and water. He needs a haircut again, although the long mohawk suits him. He'll think about it later. If he morphs him enough they won't have to hide anymore. Nobody is looking for him anyway, he made sure of it. 

"I'll bathe you after. Sit down." 

Soap does as told, and Simon hears the contented sigh that escapes his lips when his bottom sinks a little in the mattress, as if the simple act of sitting on a bed was the most satisfying feeling. It must be, with how relaxed Soap looks, as if he'd fall asleep if he closed his eyes for too long. For a moment, the thought that he may be going too far, forcing him to train on little to no sleep crosses Simon's mind, but like the few good memories of his past, they barely make it to the shore before being brought back to the depths of his mind. 

He kneels in front of Soap, sliding the underwear on, as if he was unable to do it himself. But Soap doesn't complain, he doesn't even bat an eye at the situation, because after months of being bathed and taken care of, being dressed just seems to be the logical follow up. But Simon's hands stay on his skin longer than needed, feeling the warmth, a forbidden joy. 

The pants come next, and the shirt and socks last. It is strange, to see him as dressed as he is, it looks like a costume, an act of routine that is so fake he wonders if people will even believe it. Not that they'll meet anyone to verify that theory. 

"Have you ever been on a bike?" He asks as he stands up, and Soap shakes his head. 

"Do you trust me?" 

"Do I have a choice?" 

Simon thinks for a second, then shrugs as he searches through his closet. "Not really." He turns around, holding a blindfold, almost able to hear Soap silently wondering why he owns something like that. 

"Come here, turn around."

When Soap has his back to him, Simon slides the blindfold over his eyes. 

And he shouldn't like it. 

He shouldn't feel warmth slither under his skin. 

There's a pause, minimal, just a second where the time stops and Simon is reminded of the taste of Soap's lips, before the clock ticks again, louder, echoing through his entire body. He sighs, like he's spitting the thought out of his system as he ties the blindfold securely. 

"Alright." He leads Soap out of the room.

******

Even with his eyes wide open, John can't see more than the blurry darkness in front of him, as if he was sent back to the lightless basement, which doesn't sit quite right in his chest. His heart is beating a little faster, this forced throwback to the past feeling like needles under his skin, sharp pain and blood. His mouth is dry, so he doesn't try to talk, and his thoughts are a mess anyway, he wouldn't know which words to choose. 

Having his eyes covered must be the least painful torturous treatment he's received, yet it seems much more impactful than the physical pain. He's left in the middle of what he guesses to be the living room, or he could be outside under the porch. Was there one? It's a little cold, as if the window was opened, or the door. John doesn't like being in the dark. 

Something slides up his arms, a jacket thick enough to pass as a winter coat, and he hears the zip of it closing, knowing by logic that Ghost stands close. There's a moment where nothing happens, but John hears sounds of steps and doors opening and closing. He doesn't move, barely breathes, as if blindness attracted monsters. His sight was incredibly good when he was abducted so it doesn't add up, but right now it makes sense. Movement equals danger. 

The hand Ghost places on his shoulder doesn't surprise him, he's way too focused. He also hears the chair being pulled behind him and sits on it before even being asked, although the slight push down on his shoulder was clear enough. 

He looks down, although he doesn't see anything, and imagines what Ghost must look like right now. Does he have his balaclava off? He wants to ask. He doesn't. 

"You'll have to hold tight if you don't want to fly off the bike." Ghost says as he ties John's shoes.

John nods, because there's nothing to say about it. He does have a choice, he could let go completely and risk his life for a freedom he's not sure he wants anymore, or he could hold tight and let Ghost bring him to where he wants. The choice is quickly made. 

Now, they're really outside, and John feels light rain hit his face, like a cold caress. He wonders if anyone is around, and what Ghost would tell them if they saw him blindfolded. 

There's loud music, suddenly, right into his ears, loud enough to be at the edge of being uncomfortable before he feels what he guesses to be the helmet be placed over his head. He's cut off, and panic starts to seep through every pore of his being. He hears the visor clap down, and his only thought is that if Ghost left him here, he'd be too terrified to even think of taking the items off himself. For all he knows it has all been glued down and locked and his skin would rip if he tried to tug it off. 

But Ghost guides him on the bike, using touches, pulls and pushes to make himself understood without having to talk, because even if he screamed, John probably wouldn't hear it.

John doesn't know what kind of bike he's sitting on, he didn't even know Ghost owned one, but then he also ignored that he killed people for a job for the longest time, so is that really surprising? And even if he asked now, he wouldn't hear the answer, so there's no point in doing that. His mouth is still too dry for the words to come out anyway. It's like he consumed sand or ashes. 

John knows Ghost got on the bike as well when his body leans forward, chest meeting back, and his first reflex is to wrap his arms around his waist, gripping his shirt. The fabric is soft, and John realizes that Ghost gave him the protective gear, and although wearing only a shirt may be uselessly dangerous, he can't say anything about it. 

The music lowers in volume for just enough time for Ghost to explain the signs and tell him to tap his leg if he goes too fast. How considerate. 

John barely has time to hear the engine rev before the music comes back and he's sent back to his bubble, cut off from the rest of the world. The music is soothing, punctuated by guitars and drums and it loops again and again, the only moments he hears the outside being the pause between the end and the new start, two seconds for him to listen to the bike or the wind and the rare cars if there are some.  

Not seeing anything isn’t as scary as he thought, mostly because Ghost seems to know what he’s doing. No novice would trust themselves enough to drive a death machine in just a shirt, right? But Ghost is a man full of surprises, that’s something John learned over the months. 

John feels a tap on his left thigh and lets his body follow the leaning of the bike when it turns left, imagining Ghost’s approving nod, or maybe he’d say something like “good job” or “well done”. John doesn’t really know why he’d want to hear that, but it seems to make him happy. The bike leaning so close to the ground sends a wave of nausea up John’s throat that he has to forcefully swallow down. He may not be scared, but his body surely doesn’t appreciate the motions. He almost tastes the concrete on his tongue, the smell of gasoline burning the back of his throat, but maybe he’s just making it up in his mind.

******

The remote place they drive to, in the middle of the forest, apart from any city, reminds Simon of his own training days, when cries for help were left unheard, when sweat, tears and blood mixed with earth and leaves, and the birds and insects were the only witnesses of the torture a man had to go through to join the military. Was it a choice or an escape? 

He stops the bike next to a tree and takes his own helmet off, leaving his balaclava securely over his head, of course. He feels Soap's body shiver against his own, as if he had absorbed the vibrations of the machine only to give them back when all calmed down. Was he scared? Was he confused? He can barely stand on his feet and Simon has to hold him by the shoulders, leading him to the neighboring tree for him to lean against. 

"We're here." He says as he takes Soap's helmet off, the music he had blasted in his ears echoing through the forest for a short second before silence comes back. He then tugs on the knot, freeing his eyes from the darkness. 

He's hardly surprised when Soap hunches forward, emptying the contents of his stomach on the rained-on dirt, a discomforted whine leaving his lips. 

"Your body didn't like it, I'm sorry." 

He is, in a way, but the consequences don't really matter, he couldn't let Soap see the way or hear anything familiar. Not that it would change their situation, but he would lose a bit of the control he has. 

He could've taken the car, but maybe he sadistically liked the idea of making Soap sick, the idea that agony takes many forms, most of them invisible to the naked eye. 

"Come on, let's go." 

Soap looks at him as if he had just told him to down a whole bottle of poison, the horror and disgust barely concealed, but his muscles get in motion, and even if his eyes scream the opposite, his body listens and they walk in close proximity, a little deeper into the forest.

Simon stops where the trees aren't too agglutinated while still providing enough coverage. Nobody comes to that part of the forest, but he'd hate to be surprised by exceptions.

******

The first thing he hears is the chirping of birds, and the crackling sound the leaves make under his boots. He doesn't know if he got used to being naked, or if he's simply too covered, but he's already sweating, the cold sweat running down his neck and spine, his forehead a little damp and his feet floating in a hot surrounding, as if his shoes had been filled with heated stones. He hesitates a second before tugging on the zip of the jacket, allowing air inside even if he doesn't completely take it off. 

That's the moment Ghost chooses to turn around, of course. 

"You can take it off." He says, and it sounds like there's almost the beginning of a smile in his voice, like a dust of happiness that even a sigh could blow away. John would like to take this dust and cherish it like the rarest jewel, for some reason. 

But it is so small, so imperceptible that John wonders if he didn't dream it. There’s a lot of things he wishes he would've only dreamed about, a lot of blood and swallowed screams he wishes were part of a movie he wouldn't play in. 

When the jacket is off, Ghost takes it, which surprises John. He doesn't mention it though, he'd hate for him to change his mind and give it back to him. 

There's a snail on the floor and it cracks and squelches when Ghost steps on it, apparently unaware or uncaring of his surroundings. Nature means nothing when it is covered in blood. 

Nature isn't pretty when it only serves as a cover, when earth doesn't smell like vegetation but like the corpses buried under. 

"Here." Ghost stops, John right behind him, looking around. Nothing changed, the trees are green, the birds are singing something about freedom, and John envies them. 

He envies them as much as he enjoys his current life, both feelings perfectly balanced on a thin line, one that Ghost is tugging on, stretching the separation between freedom and captivity until John is unable to tell which is which. 

He's told to sit down in the dirt, and there's something bothering about the fabric of his jeans sticking to his skin and the cold wetness seeping through them. This wouldn't happen if he was naked. 

Ghost kneels in front of him, seemingly unbothered by the humidity and far enough to allow John to bring his legs in front of him, slightly bent. He then holds his calves before saying, or rather ordering with a voice firm enough to make a rock shiver. 

"How many crunches can you do?" 

John doesn't know, he's never even really thought about it. He knows he was pretty active, so he would've probably reached a good number before his body started feeling tired, but this was before and right now, he feels like lifting a leaf off the floor may be too much. 

"I don't know." At least he's honest, and Ghost seems to appreciate it. What would he have done if he felt that John was lying? 

"Alright, let's start with thirty." 

It seems like a higher number than necessary, even more so in their barely made-for-it environment, but John lays down, hands behind his head, the humid leaves and grass sticking to his fingers when he curls his body up a first time, then never letting go. It's cold, distracting, making John want to stop to pick them off and throw them further away, but the floor is covered in them and nature always wins. 

So, he ignores it, his hands and hair taking the color of their surroundings, his clothes feeling like a second skin he'd love to rip off. By the tenth crunch, his shirt slides up his back, allowing dirt and leaves to violate parts that aren't even supposed to touch a forest's ground. 

Ghost is looking at him, counting, his hands so tight around John's ankle that it wouldn't be a surprise if they heard a crack. 

By the twentieth crunch, it starts raining again. John feels his muscles start to wake up, and his stomach burns, but that must be because he threw up. That's his fault, he could've kept it in, he was just being dramatic. Pushing through the pain was much easier when his entire lifestyle wasn't what it is now. Mental strength allowed him to push his limits, now fear took its role and the only reason John doesn't slow down is because he's being watched by the guardian of hell, or at least one of its representatives. 

Ghost isn't smiling, but he's satisfied. John doesn't think he remembers a time where he genuinely smiled, without holding back, without violent thoughts crossing his mind. He may not see his lips, but he would've seen it in his eyes. He thinks about the portrait he drew, the inaccurate guesses that seem to fit so well. He'll make another version of it, a happy one with colors and nice expressions. 

When he's reached the last crunch, he lets his body fall back in the despised dirt, not caring about how wet or sticky it is anymore. 

Ghost is already up on his feet, and John lets out a whiny complaint when he's told to stand up too. 

"We've only just started, Soap." 

The words "I hate you" threaten to spill out of his mouth, and they taste like dirt, blood and acid reflux. It doesn't matter if he means them or not. 

******

Simon looks around, thinking about the best he can do with what he has. Going to a fitness studio didn't even cross his mind, there are too many people for his liking and the remote chance that someone would recognise Soap, although quasi non-existent, still stops them from freely going around. Even if they could, he's not sure he'd allow it. 

"Let's work on your core." He says, observing the way Soap's expression changes, their eyes meet for a second before he looks down at the dirt, and Simon knows what he's thinking. 

"You know how to do a plank?" 

Soap nods, eyes still fixed on one leaf on the ground, like he's trying to lift it through telekinesis. It takes him a few seconds to tear his eyes away and do what he's told, using his forearms and the tip of his toes as support and letting the rest of his body float over the wet grass. 

Simon walks away, trusting that Soap wouldn't dare cheat, right? If he did, Simon would be very mad and they both know how it ends. 

"Still holding?" He asks from a little further away, picking up the heaviest rocks he can find. 

"Yes." Soap breathes out. His body must be screaming after months of not moving. 

Maybe what Simon is about to do would be considered torture, but who would tell him to stop? 

When he comes back with the heavy stones, Soap looks at him with horror, apparently knowing exactly what Simon has in mind. 

And maybe he does know because it is obvious. Simon sets the rocks on the ground right next to Soap, almost dropping one on his hand – that would've been satisfying, before picking them up one by one to place them on his back. 

"Keep your posture and don't drop them." He says, voice as cold as the wind that suddenly started blowing. The rain has stopped, but the leaves hold some water that drips here and there. The stones fit perfectly on Soap's back, and the strain showing on his face may be more satisfying than the blood that used to cover it. He's not hitting him, so they're fine, right? It's training, he went through that, he survived it. Soap will be fine. 

"It's heavy…" He sounds breathless when he says it, and a little like he's about to throw up again, but nothing comes out, probably because he'd have to lay down in it. 

"I bet it is. It'll be heavier if I drop it on your head." 

He won't, he promised himself, but he can't help the threats that leave his mouth, he can't help how good it feels to terrify Soap to the core. The way he looks at him for a second before dropping his head, a pained moan echoing through the empty forest, mirrored by the singing birds, now that the sun is shining again. 

Simon's shirt is drenched by the rain, and the trees stopped some of that water to serve it later in small quantities. The water makes the fabric stick to his skin, which annoys him more when the wind makes his entire body shiver. He might as well take it off. 

******

John’s body burns with the effort he has to make to not collapse into dirt and leaves, sweat already pearling down his temples, mixing with the droplets of water that got caught in his hair. He’s barely able to breathe, with the weight crushing his lungs, and breaking his bones for all he knows. 

He catches Ghost taking off his shirt from the corner of his teary eye, the black on white contrast disappearing. He could turn his head a little, strain on his muscles just enough to make them scream a little louder, but something stops him. He's not sure Ghost wants him to look. 

"How long?" He asks, his body shaking with the effort. 

"Until I decide you've had enough." Ghost answers, and John hears the familiar sound of a lighter. The wind blows the smoke in his direction, which Ghost can probably see, but the idea that he'd move to avoid it is too surreal. 

It takes another couple of minutes before Ghost allows him to let go and collapse on the cold floor, the rocks heavy on his back. They're taken off him while he tries to catch his breath, coughing in between inhales. 

"Calm down, you're fine." Ghost says, rubbing his back as if he hadn't put weight on it seconds earlier. John takes a deep breath, pushing his confused thoughts aside before pushing himself off the floor. He's dizzy, nauseous and hungry at the same time. His mouth is dry like sandpaper, his tongue heavy, and the only reason it hasn't fallen out yet is because his lips are tightly sealed. 

He wipes the beginning of tears with the back of his hand and waits for Ghost's next orders. Ghost and his cigarette. Ghost and his scar covered torso. He must realize what John is looking at because his eyes follow John's, and a low chuckle is heard. 

"War, y'know, it's a rough thing." 

John nods, his words pushed in the back of his mind, scared to come out wrong. 

"It's not that bad." He keeps going, as if John had asked. "I killed them." 

It is said so coldly, and it sends a glacial shiver down John's spine. He knows it's no exaggeration, he knows Ghost has blood on his hands, and probably on every part of his body, but hearing him say it so clearly is completely different than just imagining it. 

"Do some squats." Ghost suddenly changes the subject and John needs some time to register the words. He was still stuck on imagining all the ways Ghost had killed. 

"How do you want me to do them?" The fact that he doesn't stutter or that his voice doesn't tremble is a mystery, because it all has now become so real, realer than the pain, somehow. 

"Turn around." Ghost motions with the hand holding the cigarette. He's sitting with his back against a tree, legs opened and bent, his knees serving as support for his arms. 

John does as told, feeling the cold gaze of a man who has seen it all on his back. But having his eyes on him is not as disturbing as he wishes it was. He's used to it, and though it's now clear he hasn't seen some of the worst things Ghost can do, he hasn't been killed yet, so it can't be that bad, right? 

The first squat already feels like his body is about to give up, like his legs aren't made to carry him anymore, and he has to dig into his last remnants of energy to push himself back up, the dizziness not subsiding and making everything around him blurry. His vision does black out here and there, but he doesn't tell Ghost. 

He can't tell if Ghost is watching him for the form or just to enjoy the view, and honestly he couldn't care less, because all he can focus on is his breathing and how hard it is to fill his lungs. 

The second time he goes down his entire body burns and the nausea waves come back stronger, but he pushes through it, be it by fear or pride, that one isn't clear yet. 

"Don't push yourself too much, Soap, we still have to go back."

John cranks his neck to look at Ghost and see him tap the space next to him, silently beckoning him to sit down. 

"Break time." 

John doesn't need to be told twice. He almost stumbles down, a long sigh escaping him as he's finally allowed to relax. The ground is still wet, and his body is still in pain and feels as heavy as the stones, but at least he doesn't have to move. 

He sits with his legs crossed, back against another part of the tree, eyes closed for a second. He imagines that Ghost closes his eyes too, exhaling smoke into the air. 

"I know you want to ask me something, so ask." 

John stays silent for a few seconds after Ghost's words. 

"Why 'Ghost'?" He had already asked, a lifetime ago, when things had just started and had gotten a very unsatisfying answer. 

"Because I don't exist."

"You're right here."

"You're taking things too literally. I have no documents to tell that I exist, no birth certificate, nothing." 

"Why?" 

Silence, again, as if John had exceeded his word quota. He knows he won't get answers anymore, so he just listens to the wind, the birds, the few insects flying past them like they have somewhere to go. 

"Can we go home?" He asks after a moment, when listening to birds and insects starts to get boring. 

"Sure." Ghost stands up, helping John to his feet before starting them back towards the bike. 

******

He puts his helmet on before taking care of Soap, putting the blindfold and loud music back and leading him to the bike. This time, Soap has no issue complaining, but Simon even ignores the "I hate you" he hears. Maybe it was the wind. It would be better for both of them to pretend it was.

Chapter Text

Call me when they bury bodies underwater, it’s blue light over murder for me.

The ambient air lays heavy upon John’s chest, reminding him of the stones, but maybe even heavier. His head feels like it’s about to explode, the pressure in it barely allows him to form thoughts, and those thoughts gravitate around the fact that he doesn’t feel good at all. He’s sweaty, even though he’s been laying still for the past hours, eyes wide open, staring at an invisible spot in the darkness. The light would burn his retinas, render him blind or at least put him in a lot of pain. 

His body burns with a sensation he despises, and each time he inhales, he feels the air burn his throat and chest, like a thousand needles. His eyes water when he blinks but he doesn’t have the energy to wipe the tears, so they pearl down his temples and on the mattress. The blanket covers his body, yet his skin is as cold as Ghost’s emotions. The warmth seeps through his pores to escape, and he is left behind.

His labored breath sounds old, as if it had to sustain a body that was already on the verge of disappearing, and honestly, it is how John feels. 

“Not feeling better?” 

He hears Ghost’s voice from so far away he wonders if they’re in the same dimension. He feels like he’s thought about it before…or maybe it was a dream. He tends to dream about him a lot. 

The heavy footsteps approach, making the whole basement tremble. That’s not true, but that’s what John imagines in his delirious, pain-filled mind. 

The coughing fit that takes over stops him from answering, but then, would Ghost need an answer when seeing his state?

John sees him approach and sit on the mattress before laying a hand across his forehead and humming. 

“You’re feverish.” His voice is breathless, as if he had run here. Why would he run such a short distance? And that’s not like him to be out-of-breath after so little effort. 

John thinks about it, then thinks about how much he’s suffering. The former thought is soon enough forgotten as he closes his eyes, melting into the warm hand that runs through his hair, pushing it away from his sweaty forehead. He doesn't question it, he doesn't question the sudden proximity when Ghost lays down next to him, because all that fills his head is the incessant pounding of his heart, like a hammer against his skull, and the attention he gets feels a little like an unexpected healing balm. 

******

It wasn't supposed to happen, or at least, it wasn't supposed to go so far. Maybe Simon lost control, maybe seeing Soap breathless made him think about things he shouldn't think about. Sometimes, poison tastes the best. 

Soap's body burns under the blanket, hot to the touch, sticky with sweat, and Simon's mind wanders to places he thought he locked away lives ago. They poke at his barriers, scratching them just a little, just enough for him to be aware of it. And he lets himself get lost in his head, with one hand holding Soap's hair back, the other one tracing circles on his arm. 

He hears a whine, barely audible yet so pathetic, and he stops for a second. 

"Are you too hot?" 

"I don't know…" 

"It's good to sweat the fever out. I'll make you something later, and bring water." 

There's a long silence before Soap breathes in, his exhale coming out as a dry cough that must ring through his head. Simon doesn't say anything, just keeps his motions going. They're in the dark but his eyes are wide open, although his mind is somewhere else, and his movements are almost robotic. 

"Why are you doing this?" 

Simon doesn't know himself. He'd say that he wants Soap to heal so he can go back to training, but even he doesn't fully believe it. But for what else? Because he cares? If he started caring, who would send him on missions? 

He lost everything he cared about. 

"You need to go back to training as soon as possible." 

"I meant…the cuddling." 

Simon stops moving, as if he had been caught red-handed stealing something. His fingers slowly detach themselves from Soap's skin, but it ends up making him whine louder. 

"Don’t stop, please." 

It's like they're magnetized with how fast they lay upon his skin again, resuming the circles across his arm. 

"My mom used to say…" Simon starts, but then decides that Soap doesn't need to know about him. 

He loses everything he cares about. 

"My mom would always bring me tea and honey when I was sick. I'm not sure what tea it was," Soap laughs, but it comes out dry, and his throat must feel like sand.

It must be nice to remember things from the past without feeling like they're covered in blood and dirt, or like they shouldn't be talked about by fear of unlocking other less pleasant memories. If Simon talks about his mother, will he necessarily need to talk about himself too? Will he have to avoid mirrors for the rest of his life, or burn his face to a crisp until all he can discern are the holes that used to form his features? 

He'll continue to lose everything he'll care about. 

The hand Simon was moving up and down Soap's arm descends a little lower, touching his hand, and for a second, the thought of them holding hands crossed his mind. Those thoughts, as fast as trains, as ephemeral as a dream, as painful as a knife through his chest. 

He takes his hand off as if something had burnt him and instead wraps his arm around Soap's body, holding him closer. 

******

John's back burns with Ghost's body heat, but he doesn't say anything, doesn't even move to try and create some distance between them. He's been wanting proximity, something soothing, something opposing what he had known for the past months. That same kind of proximity he got when he was allowed to touch Ghost's face. 

"Tell me about the bullets instead." He dares ask, immediately sensing the way Ghost's entire body tenses, his fingers digging in his scalp, not painful but uncomfortable.  

"No." Is the only word he manages out, as if it hurt to say it, as if he was about to burst into tears if he said anything else. 

John doesn't push it. He doesn't know why he asked, he just started thinking about it, and maybe the fever turned all his filters off. That's his excuse. 

"Sleep", he hears him say, but he can't close his eyes when his mind is filled to the brim, memories dancing to the rhythm of his pounding headache. 

"Next time we go on the bike, can I see? I won't try to escape, I promise." 

"Sleep." Ghost repeats, this time with a little less patience in his voice. John knows when not to push, because a promise is only as strong as he teases it. 

He forces his eyes close, feeling a warm hand on his chest, motionless. He counts all the surfaces where their bodies touch, the blanket sliding lower than it was before. Sure, he's burning, but he doesn't want to move. This feels great. 

*******

Simon doesn't see them, but he knows Soap's body is covered in scars. A part of him feels sorry, but the other one, the one that gives him his identity, is too detached to care. He doesn't know what he's doing here, when he could just stand up and leave. He needs to shower, he needs to drown in his own loneliness but he can't do that if he's holding someone. He needs a smoke too, but that one can wait a little longer. He can't say why he came down here in the first place. 

He needs to get some water for Soap, but first he has to wait for him to fall asleep, which he hasn't quite yet. He may hate his career in the military, he may hate how much it carved out parts of him that were still human, but at least it gave him the capacity to listen, and right now he's listening to Soap's breathing, and that's the breathing of someone who pretends to be asleep. 

"You're playing with fire, Soap." 

"Explains why I'm burning inside." 

Simon doesn't laugh, but he places a hand on Soap's forehead. He's more feverish than before. 

"Wait here." He says, realizing how stupid it sounds right after saying it. Soap is in no state to stand up. Simon can't help the guilt that tugs at his stomach, one he's too familiar with. He pushes himself away from Soap's body and gets off the mattress, leaving the basement as fast as humanly possible after grabbing the bucket still standing in the middle of the room. He saw it when he opened the door earlier. 

The first thing he does is fill the bucket with cold water and grab a cloth to put it in. The second thing he does is stare at his bedroom door and think about bringing Soap up here. But he hates it, he hates the thought of someone else laying on his bed. It happened once already, not again, and most of all, not under these circumstances. It would feel too real, make him too human, which would destroy the years he spent being turned into an emotionless killing machine.

So, he goes back to the basement, turning the lights on upstairs and keeping the door open to see something, because as good as he is at navigating dark places, he doesn't have infrared vision yet. 

Soap is laying on his side, in the same position Simon had left him, so he pushes on his shoulder to turn him on his back, meeting half closed, teary eyes. 

"I feel like shit." 

"You look like it too." Simon wrenches the cloth out of excess water before placing it on Soap's forehead. 

"I thought you were gonna leave me alone." Soap whispers, either because he doesn't dare say it louder, or because his voice doesn't allow it.

And Simon wants to believe that he would have no problem abandoning him in the basement. He's believed in a bunch of fake things during his years of existence, so what's one more? 

"I'm not a monster." Simon shrugs, setting the bucket a little further to avoid knocking it down. 

"You are." Soap says with a voice too calm for it not to be the fever talking. 

Simon doesn't answer and just grabs one of the chairs to sit on it. Their eyes meet. 

"What made you a monster?" Soap asks, and Simon doesn't like how this question sounds, how it hits hidden parts of him he refuses to talk about. 

"Close your eyes." 

"I can still talk with my eyes closed." Soap says, eyes tightly shut. 

"Then shut up." 

It barely lasts a second before Soap talks again. 

"Maybe I'm not the one who needs a cold cloth on their forehead." 

"You're annoying." 

"I've been told that." 

Simon sighs and flips the cloth so the colder side is on Soap's skin. 

"You'll regret it." 

"You already made me regret my existence, I'll be fine."

There’s no words fitted enough to answer Soap, so Simon just lets silence take place between them, as if it would slowly take away the power of his last words. He wants to ask what exactly has been regrettable about his life, but he knows he won’t like the answer. So instead of digging into things he never wants to see, he focuses on what he can do to make Soap a little more comfortable, so as to hinder more regrets slithering their way into his life. 

He knows he’s at fault, as much as he tries to deny it, as much as he pretends that everything he’s done was for his well-being, his happiness. 

Whose happiness? 

How can he feign to know about someone’s joy when he can’t even grasp his own? When all he’s known about positive emotions were the ones he saw on TV, or the stories he’d been told, from a past he’s no longer part of. If he claws long enough at the walls surrounding him, he can sometimes see the light behind the darkness, but it hurts his nails, and to see a speck of that light, he bleeds profusely in an effort to fight through the painful memories. 

Simon wets the cloth again, the silence now heavy, crushing his sides like a road roller. But it’s never worse than it once was, when the silence sounded like flying bullets, when their missing voices filled the space in his mind, when sitting in the darkness felt like being stabbed again and again with the reality that he had failed them. 

He hates those bullets, he hates that he can’t get rid of them. They’re a part of the past, but they’ve inserted themselves into his present and future, like leeches sucking away his will to live while poisoning him with the curse of surviving. He doesn’t believe in ghosts, he doesn’t believe in life after death, because he refuses to find himself back at square one with his whole life to be lived. He’s had enough of life, he’s had enough of how wrong it can go. 

“Regrets are a part of life.” He says after what feels like an eternity, and he hears Soap chuckle, like that dry sound he made earlier, one that lacks emotion, one that stinks of sarcasm. 

“Is that what you tell yourself to avoid feeling guilty?” 

“Maybe.” Simon flips the cloth again, and this time, his fingers linger on Soap’s skin, hot with fever. “Now, try to sleep.” 

******

John closes his eyes but doesn't fall asleep because Morpheus seems to be avoiding him and his fever. The cloth on his forehead warms up in seconds, and he wants to tell Ghost, but his tongue feels foreign, as if it had been placed there by mistake, too big and heavy to fit his mouth, too rough for his own throat, like a threat to himself. 

Behind his eyes, he tries to imagine pictures, but his head hurts and all he sees is black. What does Ghost see, when he closes his eyes? 

He doesn't even hear him breathe. The only way he's sure he's still sitting next to him is because he didn't hear him walk away, but even so, he can never be sure. He knows how good Ghost is in stealthing. It scares him every time he thinks about it. 

After a moment, John hears Ghost move around and is tempted to open his eyes but chooses against it, maybe to protect Ghost's privacy, had he taken his head cover off. He wonders why he cares so much about that, maybe he's apprehensive of what he might see.  

The mattress dips and the next second John feels Ghost pressed against him once again. He doesn't dare move, barely dares to breathe and keeps his eyes religiously shut. His mouth opens, but this time the words take seconds to come out. 

"You'll end up catching a cold too." 

He couldn't explain where the sudden worry comes from, if he felt that Ghost needed some help, or if he'd always been the type to care for others. 

He never really cared for anyone, did he? And he never had anyone to care for him. Ghost would be the first man to ever give him that much attention, and as dangerous as it might be, he's starting to appreciate it more and more. 

"Death doesn't want me, I doubt your fever will even think of approaching me." 

John turns to face Ghost, his eyes still closed, and places his hand on the man's cheek. 

"If you're sick, we'll know that sickness is stronger than death." 

There's a pause between them, and John knows Ghost is looking at him, he can feel his burning gaze and can almost read his mind, because they must be thinking the same. 

"You're weird." 

John doesn't open his eyes, but he feels Ghosts hand against his own before the balaclava slides up, allowing him direct contact with his skin. He still remembers how it feels from the last time he touched it. 

"I'm not the one who kidnaps people though." 

Ghost chuckles, and for some reason it makes John smile and automatically slide his thumb over Ghost's mouth. 

"Your drawings, they're pretty." He says, and John feels his lips move under his finger. 

"I'm not sure about that, the lines are messy." 

There's tension, he thinks, or maybe it is one-sided. Something tells him it isn't. 

"That's the most accurate part." He whispers, and John feels a shiver crawl up his spine when he feels a hot breath against his skin. 

"Inside?" 

Ghost hums. 

"I think you messed me up inside too." John adds before tugging him closer, their lips crashing together. He doesn't care if the tension comes only from him, he doesn't care if Ghost ends up pushing him away, he simply couldn't resist the temptation anymore. 

He feels Ghost smile against his lips, like a predator savoring its prey, and he knows his eyes are open because he still feels the burn of his gaze, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters, not even his own life, not even what he'll think, when the fever subsides and his thoughts are no longer a mess. 

Their lips part just long enough for Ghost to tell him to keep his eyes closed whatever happens, and for John to hum in response. Maybe he craves physical contact, maybe he's simply lost it, or maybe a bit of both, but as soon as they kiss again, and Ghost pushes him on his back, John has his arms around the man's neck, and it feels almost natural. There's a knot forming in his heart at the idea that he would fall so deep as to need his abductor so close, but the heat enveloping him is greater than the discomfort. 

"I'm already burning…" He whispers when his lips are freed once again as Ghost creates a thread of feather kisses against the - he would soon learn it - quite sensitive skin on the side of his neck.  

"I know, and I'm about to make it worse." 

John wants to open his eyes, watch Ghost as he kisses down his naked body. 

"Why now?" John asks right before a gasp escapes his mouth, when Ghost's lips wrap around one of his nipples. 

"Hm…it's something about timing and circumstances, I think." 

"Because I couldn't fight back if I wanted to?" 

"I'm not that type of man." 

John wants to ask what type of man he is, but the timing and circumstances Ghost was talking about would vanish, leaving only coldness between them. But the heat is addictive, like a strong drug, and though he had never tasted it before, it feels like it belongs in his system. Maybe it is part of the messy lines inside of him.  

He's not sure he wants to name what he currently feels 'pleasure', because he has forgotten where it comes from, what it means exactly, to be pleased. At most, he's used to the proximity, he craves it because it's the only thing he can crave, because Ghost is the only human being he has seen for months, and he can only desire what is in his reach. 

But even if it isn't pleasure, or even if it's a clone of it, the way his body burns, the way Ghost lips seem to brand his skin doesn't change. 

"Do you do that to a lot of people?" He asks, soon after exhaling a moan. Ghost pushed his legs apart, and he remembers no time in his life where this happened to him, probably because he'd never been in this position. 

"I used to." 

Is it jealousy that pinches John's heart? Why would he be jealous of a past he'd never been part of? Even more, when the present he does participate in was never consented. But it hurts, for reasons he ignores, because he's way past reasonings and the messy lines mess with his mind, burning holes in his thoughts the way the pen burns them in paper. 

And he can try to tape them back together, but it would look ugly, so he'd rather just leave it as it is. 

Ghost's mouth cuts off John's train of thoughts and it crashes into the echo of his moans as his skin is bitten and licked, marked only for them to see, only for them to know how strong the bond holding them together is. It is obsessive, yet so controlled, and John keeps his eyes shut, because maybe it is a dream – it sure feels like one – and if he opened his eyes, Ghost would disappear and he'd be alone again. He doesn't want to be left behind anymore. 

Maybe that's the reason why he feels for the other man, grabs whatever he can grab only to realize that he'd taken his shirt off, or whatever he had on. He didn't pay attention to that detail. 

"Are you naked?" He asks, the breathlessness in his voice a reflection of the surprising excitation that takes over him. 

"Not quite, but my shirt is off, I'm sure you felt it." There's amusement in Ghost's voice, and maybe a sprinkle of fondness. Or John is just projecting the things he'd like to hear, which would be quite easy, because where Ghost's emotions should be, lays nothing more than a blank canvas, waiting to be painted, waiting to experience something other than the eternal block towering over it like a threat. 

At least, that's how John sees it. The canvas isn't blank, it is filled with messy lines, and they don't make any sense, and maybe Ghost tries to untangle them, maybe he needs help to do so, but who could he ask? John isn't qualified for it, he isn't part of the past that needs to be fixed, he may not be part of the future. 

He's part of the present, he's here, on this mattress, in a room illuminated by a lamp they bought in the mall, when the idea of escaping was still somehow in reach but already so far. Now, the thought of it sounds stupid, like a drunken bad idea, because again, he'd never been under someone's care so intensively. 

Maybe the only reason the bird fell from the sky was because he couldn't fly in the first place. And what would he have become, if nobody had saved him?

Ghost's hand slides into his and pulls it gently until he can feel the soft texture of his hair. John's breath catches in his throat, and a voice inside him screams at him to open his eyes. He knows he won't see much, and most of all, he knows he'd break his trust, but feeling him so close makes it harder to see the consequences of such an act. 

"I want to see you." He states, then waits for Ghost to stop everything he's doing, maybe to lecture him about listening to orders, maybe to hit him. But none of that happens. 

"Not yet." 

"When?" 

John doesn’t get an answer, and he wonders if Ghost even had one ready, or if the silence comes from the fact that he doesn’t know. Has he shown his face to anyone? Does he always need time to show people what he looks like? Or is John the only person who hasn’t had the chance yet to see what lays behind the mask? Surely, people from his past must know, and again, the pinch of jealousy makes itself known. He ignores it, trying to focus more on the pleasure he feels rather than the thoughts running back and forth in his head. How can he enjoy himself when his mind is filled with unanswered questions? 

******

Soap’s skin is burning his tongue, almost uncomfortably, but Simon doesn’t stop marking it, creating hickey after hickey until all he can see are red and blue spots going from his neck to the inside of his left thigh. He tries his best to ignore the questions, to stop Soap from speaking too much. If it becomes too much, he can always gag him. He honestly never thought the man he hurt would be confident enough to ask all those questions, and he can’t help but wonder if he did something wrong, by promising to never hit him again. It’s not like his knuckles don’t tingle at the idea of feeling the crack of a nose, or the resistance of a jaw. 

He knows how those things used to go, when he used others to get rid of his own frustrations, when he traded trauma for sex, and it always seemed to work right in the moment, but never the following minutes or hours, when he’d leave people alone, no notes, no calls, as if he had never existed for them, and they never existed for him. It’s different, with Soap, he can’t run away after, he can’t pretend nothing happened, and he can even less pretend he doesn’t exist. He’s made him exist in a world he created piece by piece. 

Simon doesn’t approach Soap’s crotch, because it’s not that type of intimacy. He’s not sure what type it is supposed to be, but the idea of touching him here has nothing appealing, because again, even when everything ends, they’ll still both be here, linked by the chains Simon locked around their ankles. Had he planned it? No. Does he regret it? Even if he did, it’s too late. Would he try to destroy the restraints? Not necessarily. Soap wouldn’t survive it. If he left him outside, how long until he died of hunger, or took his own life, for nothing would make sense anymore? There’s too much space outside, it is scary to go there alone.

His kisses go up again, following the same they did going down, until he reaches Soap’s lips again. This he can do, and he likes it, there’s no denying it anymore. His lips are soft, too soft maybe. He wants to bite them. Actually, he wants to bite every part of his body. That’s not torture, right? He promised to never hit again, but this wouldn’t fall under that category. Oh, he doesn’t want to resist those impulses. 

The surprised yelp Soap lets out only confirms what Simon knew all along. He loves hurting him. 

“Sorry.” He says, although he doesn’t mean it, and the apology loses all its substance when he reiterates his action a few seconds later, this time taking the soft skin of his tummy as target. It is satisfying, at least for him, to hear Soap cry out each time his teeth sink in too violently. It must be even worse with his eyes closed. 

“I don’t like that…” Soap whines, voice tainted with discomfort. 

Simon runs a thumb over the different bite marks before reaching back up for another kiss, feeling the way Soap instantly relaxes. 

“No more biting, I’m done.” He murmurs, a lie through his teeth that he knows Soap catches on with the way his eyebrows furrow, and even with his eyes shut, he can see the annoyment in them. 

“Promise.” He pouts, and Simon can't resist kissing that face expression away. He knows there's no coming back from it, as much as he wishes there was. He can't run away anymore, or pretend his heart isn't beating faster than usual. He's not sure he enjoys that fact very much. 

"I'll try to." 

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. 

Chapter Text

The sun is barely up, acting as a silent witness.

Simon's fingers tingle like thousands of ants are crawling under his skin, and shaking or rubbing his hands doesn't help much. His body remembers the sensations, like an addict getting his fix on drugs again, or an alcoholic sipping on a glass even though he had assured he’d stopped. 

Simon feels like he's betrayed himself more than he did Soap, and the tingling is his body screaming at him. Bodies aren't meant to scream. 

He isn't an alcoholic, nor an addict, even though the glass of bourbon and the cigarette he holds between thumb and index would beg to differ. It isn't the same, even though he drinks everyday, he still has control over his actions, his words, his behavior.  

Those are just comforting items to him, like sweets are for others. There's nothing wrong with needing comfort more often than not. Nothing. 

And it's been a long time since alcohol actually burned his tongue and throat. Now, it feels more like a pimped-up juice. 

He drinks to avoid Soap, and if he avoids Soap, he won't hurt him, and if he doesn't hurt him for long enough, maybe he'll forget Simon broke his promise. 

Yeah, that's a good plan. Soap is in the basement, and Simon is in the kitchen, and they can stay apart from each other until they both erase that glitch from their respective memories. 

Maybe Simon should've let Soap hit him once or twice, for good measure, but he knows he would've responded to the hit with an even bigger blow, sending Soap to the ground once again. He takes pleasure in it, and maybe that is his biggest issue. He likes it, above all desires and promises, he finds joy in violence. 

His fingers tingle again, as if to support his thoughts, and he slams them against the table, wincing at the pain. 

One more glass won't hurt. 

But he's not an alcoholic, or he would resemble his dad too much. 

******

There's a strange distance between them, something more subtle than the walls obviously separating them. He feels it deep inside him, like a weight bringing down any joy or comfort he had felt and replacing it with that same unease instilled in him when he had first landed here. 

But it isn't the same, he knows how gentle Ghost can be, despite the events of the night before. He knows about his two-faced personality, but he has yet to decide if it makes it worse or better. How does one draw a confusing man? 

His face doesn't hurt as much anymore, but John feels the wound, he feels it because he knows it exists, and he attached all his emotional scars to it, even though he has many of those wounds, older- and for some of them- more painful. 

A man like that doesn't keep promises, a man like that just increases the time between episodes and plays make believe until reality catches up. John should've known. Maybe he knew and didn't catch the signs early enough, or maybe they weren't in a language he could understand. 

All that is left for him is to blame himself, because blaming a monster for eating is stupid. And he was allowed to try and beat up the monster, but someone gave him a mere stick to fight a dragon. For that too, he can only blame himself. 

Maybe training with Ghost isn't enough, maybe if he keeps overworking his body until he spits blood he'll reach his level and they'll get to fight on an even playing field. The training already feels like torture, but shouldn't he be used to that level of bad treatment? Didn't he go through worse, hasn't he been hit with every piece of furniture laying around? He's sure that if Ghost had had the strength to lift the sofa, he would've been hit by it, too. 

But he's treated well, other than the occasional misdemeanor that he probably deserved. He's given homemade food, he's washed and taken care of, almost like a doll, and maybe he should even be thankful for not having been thrown out yet, because he's not the best looking one. 

John can't help but want to see Ghost, he can't help but worry about the shot glass that he seems to see each time he enters the kitchen, as if it was suddenly part of the decor, or an extension of Ghost's hand. He doesn't wish to feel pity for a man that treats him badly out of habit, but his inner guilt would scream at him for not doing anything, or at least try to. 

But what is there to do? He knows people who don't want help won't be helped, and something tells him that Ghost is too proud to admit he's in deep trouble, or maybe he doesn't see it, maybe being a professional murderer stripped him of common sense. Killing people instead of taking care of himself, as if the taken life added to his own lifespan, as if nothing could hurt him anymore, because he carries the blood of others on his hands. 

Talking to him about it would probably feel like trying to have a discussion with a wall, and Ghost already feels unreachable on his best days, so how would that feel with a subject he won't want to talk about in the first place? 

But he has to try, doesn't he? If he doesn't, he'll consider himself a worse human being than Ghost is. Because if there's something John has never doubted, it's that his abductor is bad, he's bad to the core, and all the gentleness he shows off is comparable to a thin veil barely covering the horrors he's capable of. And the veil tore. 

Does that mean he doesn't deserve any help? Maybe, and maybe John is only acting out of selfishness, for fear of being beaten once or twice again. Maybe if Ghost drank less, he would control his impulses, and even if those words sound like a joke in his head, John holds onto them like a holy grail. 

He stands up, wrapping his blanket around him and slowly walks up the stairs. He knows the door isn't locked; Ghost stopped doing that, for a reason John forgot. Something about the promise, maybe. He opens the door, looking around. Usually, at this point, he'd sneak into the bathroom, but not now. He walks on tiptoes, slowly approaching the kitchen. He knows Ghost will hear him, or heard him already, but he waits for him to voice it, tell him to go back, or anything that would allow him to just give up on this stupid idea and go lay down in the basement. 

But nothing, Ghost stays silent until John is in the doorframe, then turns around, staring at him with eyes that seem to have seen everything and regret it. 

"Are you hungry?" 

John looks at the table, the ashtray, the bottle of bourbon already half emptied and the smoke rising from where Ghost probably holds his tenth cigarette of the hour. The smoke grips John's throat like a threat, and he stops himself from coughing. 

"No." 

Even if he had been, the kitchen smells like the opposite of appetizing, and he refuses to have Ghost cook anything in the state he's in. 

"Are you hungry?" He asks Ghost, who looks down at his pseudo meal and shakes his head. 

"I have everything I need." 

"That doesn't look like everything one would need." John sits down, feeling a surge of confidence taking control of his words. He holds out a hand to take the bottle, and although Ghost watches all his moves with the focus of a hawk, he doesn't do or say anything. 

"May I?" 

Ghost looks like he's having an inner fight between the need to pretend he isn't affected by the fact that someone else is touching his bottle, and the need to snatch it back and hold it close. 

"No. I don't want to have to carry your drunk ass down to the basement." 

******

Soap looks at him, then the bottle, and shrugs, leaning back against the backrest of the chair. 

"I'm not mad."

If lies had a tone, it would be that one, Simon is pretty sure about it. He knows a lot about lying, he’s done it his whole life, be it with family, friends or strangers. Lying about his situation, lying about his emotions, about his problems. 

“Would you say something, if you were?” 

If there’s one thing Simon knows how to do, it’s read people. And what he reads on Soap’s face and in his body language, is that he’s everything but “not mad”. He’s tense, trying to pretend everything’s fine, but the bottle on the table, like a witness of horror, is enough to counter this make-believe.  

Soap stays silent, as he had thought, and Simon holds back a smirk, because it would be unwelcome, and probably turn into a too big of a smile, for the situation they're in. They're gauging each other, like a predator and a prey, like two faces of a coin so desperately looking in opposite directions. They don't understand each other, or maybe they understand each other too much for words and emotions. 

Soap's eyes keep going from the bottle to the cigarette, as if trying to choose which one would be more dangerous, silently judging Simon's habits. Simon doesn't like to be judged. 

"I still won't give you the bottle." 

"Why does…" Soap starts, as if he hadn't heard Simon. "Why does everything always revolve around you hitting me, you making me sick-" He looks up, and Simon sees the reflection of the artificial light in Soap's eyes, wet with unshed tears. They won't fall, not yet- "you controlling me?" 

Simon heard that question already, maybe from Soap himself, maybe from someone else. It doesn't matter, what matters is that he doesn't like being asked why he acts like he does, because he can never give an answer satisfying enough, because he doesn't have an answer, and whatever he'd say in those moments would taste like lies. 

"You can run away." He says, and it tastes bitter, it tastes like a dare, like a reason to break his promise once again. 'You can run away, but if you do, I will find you and make you regret ever trying.' 

Soap looks at him, as if trying to read between the lines to avoid the trap if there's one. 

"Do you…" There's a pause, like Soap has been hit in the stomach and the words are made of blood, as if speaking now burned something inside him. "Do you think I'd make it, without you?" 

Simon, although knowing what Soap means, feigns confusion.

"Why wouldn't you?"

Is it torture, to push someone to the edge and hold them above the darkness with a thread? 

He could cut it, but that world just before despair holds the most potential, and it is a perfect playground. 

Oh, how he missed that rush of adrenaline, when all he could see in Soap's eyes was the fear of being beaten again. Even though it is barely visible now, it is here, like a souvenir resurging from the past. 

Does he really prefer this, to the intimacy they had built? Or does he want both? Does he want some sort of balance, between peace and horror? Does such a thing exist?

******

Why wouldn't John survive outside without Ghost? When asked like this, the question sounds dumb. John has to think of why he thought about it in the first place, why he doubted his capacity to live alone, like he had done for most of his life. 

His life. But his life isn't his anymore, so how can he take care of something that isn't his? 

"Because I don't own my life anymore." He says, like evidence, almost adding a shrug because it is how unimportant it sounds, when he says it. It's so easy to admit. One plus one equals two, as much as John's life slipped away through his fingers as soon as Ghost had his eyes on him. 

"Who owns it, then?" 

John can't say if Ghost is playing, or even enjoying this conversation. He crushes the burning tip of his cigarette in the ashtray before lighting another one, and John follows the smoke up to the ceiling. He wants to answer that a demon owns it, a demon to which he never intended to sell his soul, but now he seems unable to detach himself from it, as painful as it is. 

"Someone I hold very dear, for  reasons I ignore." 

There's a tense silence, like the stillness before a thunder, and John waits, holding his breath to avoid creating a tornado. Was that a confession? It didn't feel like one, but nothing feels normal here. 

"How stupid." Ghost answers, pouring himself another glass. 

John can't disagree, even hearing himself makes him want to gag, but the only way he can explain his incapacity to leave, is the fact that his heart acts like an anchor. Not one he had wished for, sure, but one nonetheless. 

He could say they complete each other, and to an extent it would be true, but that extent is what is eating John away, consuming him like acid. 

"Love is stupid." John chuckles. 

"This isn't love." Ghost says, and that is true, but what difference does it make, if their definition of love isn't right? Who will have something to say against it? 

"You asked me why I couldn't leave." 

Ghost hums, emptying his glass. "Your answer is stupid, but I'll accept it." 

"Would you want me to leave?" John asks, playing with the stub of one of the cigarettes in the ashtray. 

"I'll kill you, if you leave." 

"If that isn't love…" 

"You're really looking for trouble." 

John laughs. It's crazy how fast his brain is able to forget the most traumatic events, as if they had never existed. 

"We need each other." He says, for some reason, and Ghost looks at him, with eyes as cold as ice.

******

"If I allow you to talk, what reasons would I have to hit you?" 

Simon asks in a whisper as he puts his dirty clothes in the washing machine, his phone in his left hand, from which Soap's voice rises. Bringing him here would've been foolish, with all the people around. Who knows if one of them knows him.

"I don't want to have to be silent again." He's using the phone he had been given, when Simon went on a mission. 

Simon slams the door shut, pushing the right buttons to start the machine. In the midst of his clothes, Soap's blanket adds a pop of color to all the black twirling and turning in the tumbler. 

"Do I get to hit you whenever I feel like it?" Simon whispers, to avoid being heard by the people walking around. 

"I am touched that you ask for my permission, and will use that chance to tell you no." Maybe it is because they're far apart, but there's confidence and boldness in Soap's voice. 

"This was a rhetorical question. But I won't hit you." 

"This sounds like a lie." 

"I thought of other ways to hurt you." 

The line is silent. Silence is the loudest they can be, silence holds more words than could ever exist. 

"Which ones?" Soap asks, probably after weighing the consequences of knowing the answer. 

"Burns."

Again, nothing, for long seconds, but Simon doesn't hang up. 

"This will hurt." Soap whispers, as if he too had people walking around him. 

"It will leave scars, and they'll remind you that I exist." 

"I can see that you exist. I can hear it, too." 

"Would the memory of me be anchored deeply enough, so that you wouldn't forget me, even in the afterlife?" 

******

This conversation is surreal, but everything has been, so what difference does it make? 

John thinks for a while, the phone laid on the table in front of him. He's sketching his own body, following the lead of the conversation and adding burn marks everywhere, but not before asking Ghost what kind of burns they would be.

"Cigarettes." 

"I don't know how to draw that…" He mumbles to himself, and Ghost catches it with too much ease for comfort. 

"You want to draw that? I'll show you." 

"When are you coming back?" 

"In a few hours." 

John doesn't say anything about missing Ghost and just hangs up, setting his pencil down next to the started drawing. He stands up and goes to lay down on his mattress, his body covered by one of Ghost's shirts. It's strange how easily Ghost shares his clothes these days. Is it to ask forgiveness for the future nightmare John will go through? Or maybe a token for his presence, a way to chain him to this life even more. 

He already feels like he's walking in moving sand, no chance for him to escape now. 

Strangely enough, he doesn't mind. Or if he does, he buried that discomfort with the rest of the negative emotions linked to his situation. If he doesn't feel them, then they can't hurt him. It makes sense, when he doesn't think too hard about it. 

His thoughts have been all over the place anyway, and if they had hands, some of them would probably try to shake him out of that trance, try to free him from a cage he himself created. Because Ghost has barely anything to do with his decision. Or is it that John's fear is rooted so deep, nothing would change even if Ghost wasn't there? 

He's not scared. He was scared, but that’s a story of the past. He's used to it, he knew what to expect, he knew who Ghost was and how heartless he was capable of being. 

John lies to himself, he lies until his erratically beating heart calms down, until his jaw relaxes, until his fingers stop trembling and he's able to hold back the tears and sobs. 

He's not scared of the nightmare that is unfurling in front of him, for him to step in. 

******

Simon doesn't drink outside. He could, nobody would be here to stop him, except his own conscience. Maybe if Soap was with him, maybe then he'd be able to relax and enjoy a glass of whatever alcohol they would serve in whatever bar they would go to. But now is not the time. 

He's welcomed back by silence itself, echoing against walls and furniture and filled by his own steps when he walks inside his house. If he didn't know better, he'd say the house is empty. The sun gives it a little life, but it stopped breathing long ago, and both their presence feel more like an old recording of a heartbeat, something that should belong to the past but is forced into the present. 

Simon doesn't remember what this house felt like before it didn't feel like anything. 

"I washed your blanket." He says, as if talking to the house itself. 

A few seconds later, Soap opens the basement door, eyes void of anything, one hand held up and grabbing the air. For a second, Simon can't help but admire the softness of his gestures. 

"Should we wash you too?" 

Soap seems to climb out of the pit of thoughts he had fallen into, and nods slowly. 

Simon can see the words hanging from Soap's lips, the ones he wants to say but doesn't know how to.

He doesn't say anything either, just hands Soap his blanket and lets him enter the bathroom first. The blanket is carefully folded and placed on the toilet seat, and Soap hurries to take the lended shirt off. There is no sense of privacy anymore, it disappeared somewhere along the way. 

Simon prepares the bath, filling the tub with lukewarm water and grabbing the almost empty soap bottle. 

"I need to buy some more." 

He can hear Soap whisper an apology, as if he was at fault for needing baths and showers, but if Simon stopped trying to block out any outside stimuli, he could admit that he too finds satisfaction in their routine. 

"Step in." 

Soap does as told, his body automated by months of obeying, his mind barely aware of the movements he’s doing. He’s staring at the empty bottle, mumbling what Simon guesses to be apologies over apologies, as if his words were able to create new soap. 

Simon lets him, he can’t read minds, but he can see quite clearly that Soap is trying not to cry, not to shake in fear, or maybe apprehension. What do they want to call that? They both know what’s coming, but none of them want to start the conversation. Simon isn’t scared. Why should he be scared? He likes hurting others.

Is Soap comparable to others? 

He needs to make up his mind. 

But his fingers on the soft skin remind him of their bodies pressed together. 

He can’t go back to the promise, he broke it already. 

When he licks his lips, he can taste him on them. 

Soap already doesn’t trust him anymore, so why stop here? 

He likes the fear in those eyes, but somehow, he liked the pure adoration better. 

Did he? 

He needs a drink. Those thoughts are annoying. 

“Where will it start?” Soap asks, cutting through the fog of Simon’s thoughts. 

“What?” He tries to not sound too confused, although he’s sure that with the way Soap is looking at him, he knows that he wasn’t really aware of his surroundings. 

“The cigarette burns, where will they start?” 

Simon thinks, he thinks so much his head starts hurting, or maybe it is just the amount of alcohol he drank today. 

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Is that even true? He had decided on a part of his body, a part nobody would see, a part only they would be aware of. Does he want to keep that a secret? Wouldn’t it be better, to make everyone aware of what Soap is to him? But it would create issues he doesn’t want to deal with. His head hurts a little more. 

That part is the cause of their relapse. His relapse. The reason why Simon felt trapped in his own emotions, the ones he had so carefully pushed away. It is the source, the genesis of all their problems, and that, since the very beginning. At least, in Simon’s memories. His head is pounding, thoughts clamming together into nonsense. 

******

John looks down at the water, as if the small waves he created with his body held the answers to the questions roaming inside his mind. He’s not sure what he wants to ask, or know, because knowledge brings consequences he doesn’t want to deal with. Ghost’s fingers on him don’t feel the same, but they don’t feel different either. Maybe John is the one who changed. Surely, he would’ve felt a little more tense, having hands wandering all over his body, as he does now, or as he did the past few months. He remembers daydreaming about the bird, he remembers the nest, on the tree outside the window. It’s not there anymore. Did it fall? Maybe the branch wasn't strong enough anymore to hold it, maybe the bird came back to carry it somewhere else. Maybe there was a sign for him to read, that he missed completely because he kept his eyes riveted on the monster curling over him, the monster that felt the leash he was holding slip between its fingers. 

"Stand up." The monster says, and his breath impregnated with alcohol reaches John, and all John can think is how everything was different, before. Ghost didn't drink as much before and he can't help but wonder if he's the cause of that, if the promise was more harmful than it should've been. 

He stands up, eyes focused on the water slowly swirling away. It'll reach the sea. He too, would like to fit in the canalisations and be spat out in the sea, sometimes. 

"Do you think water is aware that it's water?" 

He asks, while Ghost rinses him. He knows, in some corner of his mind, that this isn't the way things should be, but blindness and denial often help him get through his days, and he's convinced himself that this is the right way. He's convinced himself that he isn’t anything without Ghost. 

"Maybe." 

"What would you do, if you were water?" John asks, for no particular reason. The tub is empty now, and the few droplets that didn't make it to the siphon will evaporate in a few minutes. He wonders if they're sad, to die here.

Ghost sets the shower head back on the wall, not immediately answering the question, as if he was thinking about it, or as if he was trying to understand the meaning of it. 

"I wouldn't have a conscience, if I was a liquid." 

"Yeah, but imagine if you had one. If I was water, the burns wouldn't hurt." John says, a thought that just popped in his head like a lightbulb in those cartoons he watched as a kid.  

"I see. Step out." Ghost says, stepping back a bit to avoid getting damp. He wraps the towel around John and pats him dry. "Pain isn't that bad." 

John almost disagrees, but then he remembers what Ghost's job is, how much he must've suffered. He too, must be in a pool of denial. Maybe they're swimming in it together. 

When they're done, John is sent back to the basement with his freshly cleaned blanket. It should be something positive, but John isn't sure he likes the fact that it doesn't smell like it did before. He feels like a frustrated kid whose favorite stuffed toy went through the torturous washing machine. 

He doesn't know how long he stays, laying down on his mattress, eyes going from the ceiling to the door, torn between the need to make his blanket smell like it did before, and obediently stay here because he had been asked to. 

******

The TV is on, as it sometimes, rarely, is, and Simon is sitting on his sofa, eyes seeing the screen but not really watching it. He thinks. He couldn't tell about what, but his headache hasn't totally disappeared, and he still blames it on the endless train of thoughts attacking his mind. 

There's something different about smoking in the living room and the kitchen. Simon doesn't know what exactly, if it's the atmosphere or the view, but he doesn't totally feel at home. Maybe because this room is full of memories of who he was, and the kitchen is full of memories of who he pretends to be. He doesn't know why he's sitting here. 

The documentary playing on the screen would've been his reason, and it would've worked if he had paid a second of attention to it, but he can't even tell what it is about. 

Is he waiting for Soap to come up? Wouldn't that be losing control too? If Soap makes his own decisions, if he's allowed to make choices, what use were the months of breaking and remodeling? Still, Simon can't help but keep the basement door in check, just in case.

The smoke doesn't look the same, when it contrasts with the moving images behind it, his body doesn't feel the same when it is leaned against the soft fabric of the sofa, rather than the hard wood of the chair. He's burning, his whole body feels like he's about to go up in flames, like the cigarette will ignite something it isn't supposed to. 

Taking his shirt off doesn't help, although it helps him feel less sticky. 

‘If you get sick, we'll know that sickness is stronger than death.’ He remembers Soap saying, when he was laying down with a fever. 

Simon isn't sick, he's never been. He just forced a little on his alcohol dosages. And the weather outside is hot, too. 

Sickness can't be stronger than death, because death stripped him of too many things. 

He lays the t-shirt on one of the armrests and lets his head fall back, closing his eyes. He's not relaxing, the fire hasn't dissipated and he needs to keep an eye on the cigarette between his fingers. He can't relax now. He's also listening to the house, to what is happening behind the basement door, if ever something happens. 

He blindly gets his hand on the remote, turning the TV off, because silence is better than useless noise, and it is never totally silent. The house speaks, the house is full of memories, and they scream at him words he feigns not to understand, but they scream louder, and sometimes his only way to pretend is to close his eyes, because if he doesn't see the house, he can block the memories. 

Why hasn't he burned everything? How long does he plan on feeling guilty about things he can't change? How many packs of cigarettes does he plan on smoking, how many glasses of bourbon does he plan on drinking before he realizes that it won't bring any of them back? 

He stopped counting as soon as he stopped coughing. How long has it been? Does time pass the same on earth and in hell? People who kill for money never jump high enough to reach heaven. Maybe he should start digging now. 

"Come here." He says to Soap, who he had heard coming somewhere between heaven and hell. 

"Do you have eyes on the walls?" 

Simon doesn't open his eyes, and he swallows back a chuckle. "I have eyes on you, Soap, always." 

He taps his lap with his free hand before bringing the other to his lips to take a drag of his cigarette. Soap sits where he's been asked to, and only then does Simon open his eyes. "You left the basement." He says, stating the obvious. 

Soap nods. 

"For any valid reason?" He asks, and tells Soap to grab the cigarette pack and lighter for him before he can answer the question. Once Simon's in possession of both items, he sets them on the sofa next to him before looking back up at Soap. 

"My blanket doesn't smell like before." 

It is mumbled, as if he was ashamed to give such a reason for disobeying. 

"It doesn't? Hm…that doesn't sound like a valid reason at all." 

Simon places his thumb on Soap's lower lip, and his mouth opens, as if worked by a mechanism beyond his control. Their eyes meet, and they could just break the distance, but Simon doesn't allow it, not anymore, for as long as he'll be able to hold it. 

"Stick your tongue out." 

******

John knows what's about to happen, but he doesn't know if he should take that as a punishment or as anything else. What would 'anything else' be? He doesn't know either. 

His fingers grips his blanket and he holds it closer, as if it could protect him from the pain, as if it could render him invisible. It doesn't, Ghost's eyes are still very much on him, and his thumb still very much holds his mouth open. Not that John would close it, not with the risk that Ghost would mark his face instead. 

There's something in the air, something that, John feels, will vanish when pain replaces it, so he holds onto it with all his might, and when the red glowing end of the cigarette presses against his tongue, and his eyes burn with tears that end up rolling down his cheeks, John tries to ignore everything but that thing floating around them, that thing he'd like to call desire, or love, if he's crazy enough. 

Chapter Text

Coffee powder smells amazing, but eating it doesn't necessarily taste that good. Mixing it with hot water is better, but some people still hate it, unless it is mixed with sugar and milk. 

That's a weird thing to think about. 

That's a weird memory to have. Why is he thinking about it? 

The counter is clean, and when he's done drinking, he sets the cup in the sink and rushes to leave his house, because he always waits until he has to almost run to his car. That's the way that feels right. 

Right, the cup, it still exists. It is broken, like a reflection of his current state, but it still exists. 

Maybe the house feels lonely when he isn't there. Maybe it stops breathing, maybe it steps back into the shadow of the surrounding trees. 

Did it feel pain when it burned? Or was he the only one whose heart tore in half? 

He's out the whole day, almost never coming back to eat lunch, and the house stays abandoned, bare of any life, if the insects that visit him sometimes don't show up. He kills them anyway, as they are not a company he wishes to have. 

If he had come home to eat, would he have spotted the danger before it was too late? If he had left the insects alive, would they have warned him? Or was it too late already? 

His car is pretty new, he was finally able to buy it with his own money that he had saved for years, and it felt like a lifetime to him, because he hadn't known any other lifestyle but to work to get what he wished for. 

Maybe he should've put cameras on his car, on his walls, in the trees around. Maybe he should've built a fortress, maybe he should've known, simply, that horrible things don't only concern people around him. 

He runs half naked from the bathroom to the kitchen in a panic because he forgot something on the stove, and the smoke fills up the space faster than he can run, even when the pan is rinsed and set aside. 

What did the burning house smell like? Was it worse? It couldn't have been better. He can't remember, that part of him is soaked in dark ink, and he's not yet ready to rinse the burnt parts off. 

His bathroom always smells good. He has a thing for perfumes, a thing for always feeling fresh and ready to go, as if he could've been invited to an important meeting any second. It's important to always be prepared for unrealistic occasions. 

Ghost stole his love for nice scents from him, and he stole his joy and anticipation. Maybe the insects would've told him to prepare for the unpreparable. 

When did he think about the bird- the one that dies and is crushed, and somehow never reaches heaven or hell- for the first time? It was bath time, for sure, when foreign hands roamed over his body that had never been touched by a man, and barely by any woman. It burned. It still burns, but he learned to ignore it. He's learned a lot since he arrived here, yet some things still don't make sense, like the constantly changing rules of a game they're playing. He's not sure there's even a game, or maybe it is a labyrinth with walls constantly moving and forming, and the exit appearing further and further, as if it was trying to run away from him. 

Or is he trying to run away from the exit? 

The bird gave up too, when the burning hands were replaced by burning lips, it gave up helping him, when it realized John didn't wish to be helped anymore. But he needs help, he needs the bird back, he needs it to see where the exit is, even if he doesn't walk towards it immediately, because the warm lips are addictive and the walls become thicker, and the fog of his mind intensifies.

He needs to know freedom is around, even when he ignores it, even when he closes the door to his cage himself, because Ghost asked. He needs to watch the skies, even when his eyes are blindfolded, he needs to scream for help, somewhere in his mind, even when his mouth is shut, even when he starts to feel good, next to Ghost, next to the monster he is. 

He needs his past self to still be here, even as a memory, even as the torn page of a burned sketchbook, a rough sketch in a corner of his mind, half erased, full of holes, because the more he tries to think about his past life, the more he realizes how much it hurts to be faced with everything he's lost. 

Sometimes, the smoke coming from the kitchen still reminds him of his house. 

How does the danger become the comfort? 

Why does he worry for Ghost, about his behavior, about his bad habits? Wouldn’t it be better to let him die? Let his corpse rot in the basement and live upstairs, like a normal person. He could never get rid of him, there's too much attachment. Would he visit his corpse when it is still fresh? That is a dark thought to have. 

And his tongue still burns, it feels sticky and weird when he swallows, and the taste of ashes clings to his throat even after he emptied a whole water bottle. He could ask for another one, but right now he doesn't want to move. 

Is he mad? He's mad about the blanket, he's mad that it smells like any generic blanket, he's mad that the months of memory imprinted on it were swallowed by a washing machine. Maybe it'll break, with all the darkness it inhaled.  

He can't remember if he had a comfort item before. Maybe it was the cup. Maybe he had kept a stuffed bear from his childhood. Maybe he didn't have a childhood. 

Maybe he was born as an adult in a basement. 

It hurts his head to try to remember, and it hurts his heart when memories still manage to filter through oblivion. So, he pushes them further back, but they still linger, like dried glue that doesn't quite slough with the first wash. 

He needs to scrub harder, wipe his memories until not even his own name is left, until all he can remember is a black hole, and in the center of it, the monster that haunts his dreams and nightmares. 

It had been so long since he had last smelled the scent of detergent, and he's not sure if he likes it, or if it only brings back memories of the past he tries his damn best to forget. At least it smells different from the one he used. Or maybe not. It's hard to tell, after such a long time. 

Ah, what month is it? The basement doesn't have windows, and the artificial light doesn't indicate anything about the weather or season outside. The last time they went out… was it a day ago? A week? A month couldn't be, time doesn't pass that fast. Or does it? Sometimes, seconds feel like minutes, so why couldn't hours feel like seconds too? 

He can ask Ghost about it, later, when he decides not to sulk about the blanket anymore, when he decides not to drown in his own head. 

Not yet, though, he has a lot more reminiscing to do, a lot more painful parts of his life to dig out. Not painful in themselves, but rather in the fact that they won't happen ever again, because he's broken beyond repair, he's broken beyond what is acceptable, to be welcomed into society. He's a shadow of himself, and by extension, a shadow of the monster. 

Who is he? Who was he? How did others see him? His friends, if he had any, or his family? It's like he refuses to remember, it's like he forgot everyone, as if the punches and kicks he received destroyed parts of his identity. 

He still remembers his name. He remembers it like a far away memory. Soap sounds better anyway, it sounds clean, it sounds right, like the name of a man that never makes mistakes. 

That's what he wants to be, that's what Ghost should see in him. 

It doesn't matter how important he was before, or how missed he might be by the people that were wiped away from his memory. What matters is what Ghost thinks. 

It is useless for him to pretend that he's still his old self. But it hurts in parts of him that aren't supposed to feel pain, it hurts in ways that even pain can't describe, worse than the hits, worse than the burns. It hurts like drowning in an acid bath, although he's never been exposed to such torture. In dreams, he was. Long gone, the time he dreamed about freedom and happiness. 

What does freedom even mean? At what point does freedom turn into something else? How big or small must the cage be? How many times did he wonder that, since being forced to live here? 

The walls he had elevated around him were futile, they crumbled so fast it felt like they were made of dry sand. Or maybe sand would've held better, maybe there would've been some damage, if he had thrown a fistful of it in Ghost's eyes. 

He still doesn't know his name. 

How impossible it sounds, to not know the name of a man, yet have touched him more than he'd ever touched anyone. 

He barely knows his features, the only hints he has are based on touch, and touch may convey a lot, but it doesn't help seeing someone in the dark. Does he regret not knowing? Is there an urge inside of him, to find answers to questions he shouldn't even ask? 

Yes. 

Yes there is. 

Living without a face isn't surprising, a lot of people hide behind masks and screens, but living without a name sounds like a hustle, so there must be someone out there who knows his name, someone important enough for Ghost, for the man behind the mask, provided that there is a man, behind the mask. 

This also feels like a headache, to think about, but John can't help it, like he can't help wanting to refer to himself as Soap, rather than John, because nobody calls him that name anymore, and Ghost surely won't start yet. 

They're not far from each other, yet they feel miles apart. Him and Ghost, or him and his other self, the one that still leaves for work in the morning, he's not sure. 

Chapter Text

It always rains, when Simon wants to take a walk, and he’s always forced to shield his cigarette with one hand. Or maybe not always, but enough for him to notice. Maybe he’s the one always choosing the worst times to go out, maybe it has something to do with the curse that sticks to his skin, or maybe he’s just an unlucky man, like he was an unlucky child.

Or those things have nothing to do with each other and weather isn’t controlled by some higher force. What could be a curse is his striking resemblance to his dad, as if his mom had had no say in his existence at all.

He doesn’t like his parents very much, or if he does, he can’t remember how it’s supposed to work, if they’re never here, if they never were here. Or were they here too much? It’s confusing. 

Was it his mom, or his dad, who told him that smoking would kill him? He’s pretty sure that the bullets that cross his body are more dangerous than a stick filled with tobacco, but apparently parents always know better. He doesn’t think his parents ever knew better.

There’s this house, the one that is going up for rent somewhere down the street. He likes to watch the people visiting it, families, couples, going in and out as if the house was a whore, only waiting for people to step inside it. It reminds him of his teenage years, when he would sneak into those brothels when he was too bored by the abuse floating around him like a heavy smoke, always stagnating near the ground. If he couldn’t stand to his feet, he was bound to inhale it, along with the kicks and punches, and the objects that would fly his way even if he wasn’t necessarily the target. Maybe his childhood was as shitty as his adulthood is, except nobody dares hurting him anymore, because they know, consciously or not, that he wouldn’t mind killing them.

The house looks at him, with its window eyes, like a dormant monster that breathes so slowly nobody hears it. Simon’s house has never once felt alive, it agonizes in rhythm with the violences happening inside it, like a churning stomach ache and a need to throw up all its content. Maybe it’s his house he should’ve burned to the ground. 

He remembers from the past, he remembers the house because he watched it every day, for hours. Still, the ruins seem to breathe too, and Simon would find it stupid to envy a concrete construction, but he does nonetheless. 

Couples, families, single men and women, he watches them all, sitting on a bench, hood covering his hair and hiding his eyes, looking like a shadow in broad daylight. He’s never owned colored clothes, and in his head, in the part filled with imagination, everything he touches withers, everyone he talks to dies, and everytime he loves, his heart breaks a little more. He’s learned indifference to survive. 

It is unfair that his indifference didn’t save him from obsession, it is unfair that one man ruined all his plans, it is unfair that he was unable to close his eyes and walk away, this one time.

The visits always happen at the same time, on the same days, and Simon waits outside, on that same bench, wondering why nobody ever comes to talk to him or ask him to leave. Maybe they’d wither too, if they came too close. Maybe they somehow see his tattoos from a distance and think he’s part of a gang, or maybe, if they have good enough eyes, they see the scars under his clothes. But he likes the peace, he isn’t mad about it. 

He can tell what the house likes, or at least he likes to imagine he can, and in his abuse-filled head, he imagines that the house hates families, because they’re always fake- they always put up that facade, and houses can’t breathe properly if there are too many walls inside. Maybe that’s why his house doesn’t breathe at all, because they’ve failed in pretending everything was fine. 

The house likes single people, and Simon likes them too. They come with an empty canvas, and maybe, if he observes them long enough, he’ll be able to copy the way they live, and again pretend to be someone he’s not. But he knows that violence lives in his veins, along with his blood and plasma, and that he won’t ever really get rid of the urges he has. That’s why he’s in the army, that’s why he’s always been told to see someone, but words that can’t be spoken, can’t be heard. 

The homeowner is pretty old, old enough to maybe be Simon’s grandfather, old enough to die tomorrow. He’s shaking the hand of a young man, maybe younger than Simon, or maybe the same age. He’s always been bad at guessing. He seems strong, the type to go to the gym every two days and have a diet made exclusively of protein shakes. 

Something in him wants to study him. 

If he had never sat on that bench, maybe he would’ve never seen Soap, and if he had never seen him, maybe he would’ve died on the field, for he would’ve had no reason to come back home. So what if he had been saved? Did he want to be saved?

He’s good at being invisible, disappearing into thin air, becoming unimportant to the people around him. It’s a survival instinct, it helps him avoid the punches and the stagnating smoke, it helps him stay on his two feet. It helps him not exist. He never wears the skull outside, it would scare people, it would make him visible, and it would remind him of the deaths he caused, directly or not. He doesn’t like the skull, he can’t even tell why he kept it, and he surely refuses to remember where it came from. 

Simon tends to forget that part. Has Soap seen that part of his mask? He couldn’t tell. Maybe he did, maybe not. It doesn’t really matter.

Studying a human being can’t be that different from studying a bug. The first step would be to simply observe them in their habitat, write their habits down and act accordingly. Never come too close, or they could get scared and run away. If they ever come in contact, Simon will nod and leave, and maybe appear as reserved and introverted, which is genuine enough, because he never could be something else.

But there’s something that makes his heart beat faster, the longer he watches him scurry around in blissful ignorance. An insidious thought, flickering to life deep within and illuminating his darkest, most hidden parts. It rears like a sort of sick personal challenge, a way to verify if everything really does die around him. It is stupid, as stupid as thinking that houses breathe. But that isn’t going to stop him.

Something in him wants to break him.

They should've warned him that alcohol would be the one thing ruining his life. Or maybe not the alcohol, maybe his own existence, maybe the thoughts that run in his head like a broken record, that he's not worth it and never has been. That even death wouldn't welcome him, and it explains why he so miraculously survives all his missions while others drop like flies around him. Is it how they chose his call-sign? Seeing him come back alone when he left accompanied, carrying the dead, or more generally, carrying death itself on his shoulders. 

He can’t tell when his interest shifted so powerfully, when watching from afar wasn’t enough anymore. When the desire to observe became the desire to grasp and horde, to own for himself. To be close.

John MacTavish. That information had been easy to find, it’s written all over his personal documents, and also on his letter box.

A few months of observation proves to be enough to have a detailed plan of every pattern in this man’s life, from his work schedule to his daily routines. Even down to his preferred coffee brand. And from it all, he begins to learn how he can seamlessly alter it. To break it off its current track and set it back down on a new one without raising suspicion. But one difficulty interferes with his almost-perfect strategy. How would he get rid of a car? The hacking lessons don’t tell a lot about items outside of computers, and as much as it helps to be able to send a false resignation letter, it doesn’t help a lot to hide big four-wheeled machines. 

He's watched enough movies to be flooded with ideas as to how he could get rid of a car, although most of them would require editing and special effects, which don't exist in real life. He knows no magician skilled enough to make a car disappear behind a curtain, he knows no spell strong enough either, so while he sits and observes, the gears inside his head turn relentlessly, until one idea, just one, may pop inside his brain. 

Simon learns a lot about John while he thinks about a plan, he learns that he's alone and that nobody ever visits him. He learns that if coffee was a drug, John would be an addict; an ironic thought to have, given Simon himself is the first to abuse substances, like his body has been abused . He learns about John’s workplace, about his interests in art, and about his talent in it, too- but that's mostly after he becomes confident enough in his knowledge of John's schedule to start slithering into his unoccupied home, uninvited and unseen. It becomes a routine, something Simon does while he isn’t away on missions. 

He swishes the contents of his glass around- the third one- and pretends they're shots, but he shouldn't be able to drink them that fast. He's used to it now, has been for quite some time, it is written on his features, it is written in the way his eyes stopped shining. But that may come from somewhere else. 

They don't talk about it because there's nothing to say, there's nothing to save anymore, and there was never anything salvageable. 

Simon learns about John's dreams, about his complicated relationship with his family, about his goals in life and how hard he worked to afford that house, although it is just a rent, and the owner could die tomorrow. 

He was an art major, John. He could've gone on for longer if his family didn't hinder him, if they didn't throw him out. Simon doesn't look into it, he has no interest in knowing that man's family tree, and they could all die for all he cares. 

What hurts, if it is even pain, is the lack of anguish he feels, or rather doesn't feel, when he takes someone's life. He shouldn't be so indifferent, he shouldn't take a human being's life away as easily as he does, as if they were mere insects. He knows this.

He likes knives more than guns, he likes the way they slide on or in flesh when they're sharp enough, he likes the bloody gurgle they make when they try to scream, which he can't hear when he shoots them with a gun. He likes the control he has over the item, as if it was a prolongation of his own arm, as if he had been born with it. Maybe he was, that would partially explain the abuse. It was simply revenge, because he hurt his mother. 

He likes how the blade feels against his skin, although he stopped using it on himself. He still bears the marks, the only ones that are self-inflicted, and maybe the ones that hurt most, even though they’re the shallowest.

John likes sketching and watercolors, he's good at drawing portraits and landscapes, and he puts a lot of care into his brushes, almost treating them better than he treats himself. The brushes are soft, and Simon wonders if his hair is too. He never dares breach that intimacy, even when he watches him sleep, even when he spends hours inhaling his scent, thinking about all the things he wants to do to him, holding his clothes close to his nose.  

He doesn't do that anymore, he can't do that anymore, the clothes have burned along with the house, and now, Soap smells like his soap, and sometimes like Simon himself. Does it fill him with a sense of possessive pride, or does he regret not capturing his scent in a jar? What would he have done with it? 

The most realistic scenario would only work if John wasn't home, and left his car behind, which never happens. So, he needs to take care of him before he makes the car disappear. 

He can think of a lot of things he would've done with the jar, none of them being morally acceptable, none of them being as good of an idea as what he did, although stealing a scent comes with less responsibility and backfire than stealing a man's life. Maybe he should've thought about that before acting. 

"Ghost?" 

Simon turns around, seeing Soap's head peek out of the basement door and towards where he sits in the living room. Have his thoughts summoned him, or did it happen by chance? 

"Yes?" 

Their exchange is calm, too calm, as if nothing had happened, as if no promise was broken because it had never existed in the first place. Simon swallows a sigh of relief as he waits for Soap to speak. He's not sure why he would be relieved, for there's no guarantee that he's been forgiven. If one can lie, so can the other. 

But Soap doesn't answer, and Simon can almost see the mechanism inside his head starting up, his thoughts forming words that try to roll on his tongue, but they don't, and he stays frustratingly silent.

"What can I do for you?" Simon reiterates. He'd never thought that the patience he's learned on the field would be useful now. 

The alcohol shines a gold tinted color under the sun, and for barely a second, Simon risks a look at the window, where the sun peaks between two clouds, and he can't help but compare this circle of light to the man who finally manages to speak. 

"The blanket." It is said in a whisper, and sure enough, in Soap's hand and thrown over one shoulder, is the famous blanket. 

"Yes?" 

"It still smells like laundry detergent."

Simon doesn't say anything, he knows Soap isn't done complaining, he can see it in the way he tortures his bottom lip. 

"I don't like it." 

It is easy to open a car door, with the right keys. It is easy to get the keys, when their owner is locked in a basement. The mission is a lie, or maybe only half of one. Sure, he has goals to reach before the few days he allowed himself are over, and sure, there's a chance he may never come back, but knowing the training he underwent, there are no reasons at all for it to happen. 

He collects the car from where he initially hid it and then drives it far enough for it to be seen as theft, and leaves it in a neighborhood in which he knows the car won't stay whole for long, even more if it looks abandoned. He helps his case a little by ripping the license plates off with the knife he carries before throwing them in a nearby container.

Coming back home isn't as complicated as he thought, mostly because he didn't think about it at all. He knows those neighborhoods from his childhood, he knows where and who to ask if he ever needs urgent help, he knows where to steal if he ever needs some vehicle, and he counts on that for later.

"It doesn't smell like it did before." 

There's almost a pout in his voice, and Simon exhales what resembles a laugh, though only to him. 

"What do you want me to do? Sleep with it?" 

There's a pause, a few seconds, but they extend to infinity as Soap's cheeks take a rosy tint, like they did when Simon’s mouth was all over his body. A wave of heat crosses his body, and he downs another shot of whisky to blame it on it. 

Soap doesn't answer with words, but by pushing the blanket in Simon's lap and running back to the basement. 

"Won't you be c-" Simon starts, but then remembers that he’s made him spend the most of his time here completely naked. And the door slams, so Soap wouldn't have heard his question anyway.

He holds the blanket at arm’s length just to look at it, before placing it on his lap again, pouring himself another glass. 

His skin was pink, and the marks on his body oscillated between red and purple, the ones coming from hits or hickeys, the ones coming from abuse, in whichever form. 

It is dark enough that Simon can't see his own shoes, but he doesn't need to see to succeed. All he needs is to be prepared, to know his surroundings enough to be able to move around with his eyes closed. He only has a few hours everyday, because John is waiting for him, or at least, for the food he provides. Owning a human is really like owning a pet, they're not fond of people in the first months, but he'll heat up to Simon’s presence, he's sure of it.

Gathering information about someone he has no interest in proves to be more boring than he had anticipated. Getting a name and address is as easy as if he had been given those in person. Joseph Turner, a wife as wrinkled as him, two grown kids, long since flown from the nest; their photo albums show a family constellation straight from the movies- unrealistically happy, at least for Simon. Maybe they'd pretended the whole time too, maybe they were as good as his family was, and if the two had ever met, they could have had a fraud competition.

But they don’t look like they’re faking it, even when their adult children come over to visit- they don't have that heavy smoke on the floor of their house, no yellowing stains that bely any chronic, ugly truth from the past. There isn’t that passive blood smell he knows too well, fresh or stale. Do they deserve to die? Simon won’t think about it. Who is he to decide? If anyone deserved it, it would be him, yet he’s the one holding the weapon. 

He doesn’t know how he’ll proceed yet. Blaming it on a leak sounds easy in his head, but he doesn’t own any house plan, and he can’t risk blowing the whole neighborhood for an elderly couple. Simply murder them would leave marks, or would at least force him to meticulously clean every stain and print he could’ve left behind. Snipe them? Again, a good idea in his head, but too much preparation required, and hours he doesn’t have, not if he wants his new home-bound pet to survive. Although he could give him enough food to last for weeks, that wouldn’t help him adjust to his new life.

Killing sprees are easier in the middle of the battlefield. 

The blanket is soft, but maybe less than it was before it went through a thorough wash. Simon strokes it with his free hand, the other one balancing the glass and his newly lit cigarette. It belongs to his identity, the smoke, the smell. He knows Soap won't come out now, not until he allows it, or until he goes down to bring him the blanket. Should he sleep with it? Wear it like Soap does? Maybe cover it in his spend? Which side of himself does he want to present to Soap? 

Or if he simply repeats all the events that happened since he bought it, maybe it would smell right again. What is right, anyway? 

The night has its own perfume and Simon thrives in it, like flowers under the sun. He doesn't need friends nor family, he doesn't need anyone beside himself, and John. John is special in ways he can't explain, he has something others don't have, he's malleable, pliant, a pleaser at heart, and Simon is good at breaking pleasers, at folding them too much for comfort. Why? To take revenge for the control he lost? Maybe to feel like he's taking back the years of his life that were stolen from him. Although, that's not for sure, and those years will never come back, no matter what he does, no matter how many other lives he ruins.

It starts raining again, and Simon looks up to the sky, almost expecting it to smirk down at him. The hair on his forehead curls with the humidity and he pushes it back into his hood, wiping his face with his sleeve. The Turner family is eating, and Simon is watching them from afar, with rain as his only companion. 

Sleeping with it seems more reasonable. Not that he lacks the desire to stain it, but if they barely even kiss, how would Soap feel about a cum-soaked blanket? Honestly, Simon doesn't care, or maybe a small subconscious part of him does, one he pushed so far away he doesn't hear it, but it's there, screaming at him to be normal for once in his life, even if for just a night. 

But the sun is still as high as the season allows it, in the sky, and its light reflects on the color-shifting leaves of autumn. It's pretty yet cold, and the heat of the sun never reaches the ground. Maybe if he puts Soap outside, the temperature will automatically rise. That's a debate to have with his drunk self. 

How do people die in the most natural, non-natural way possible? A bullet between both eyes would be the easiest, or a well placed slice of the throat, but those are man made, and he'd have to hide for his whole life. Although he's already a ghost, and barely outside during the day, he doesn't want to be hindered by thoughtless actions. 

That's when he sees the couple's car, and the idea locks itself in his mind like evidence. Accidents happen.

The night is still far away, so nothing stops him from grabbing a weight from his room and returning to the couch, then dutifully wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. If he trains, he won't drink or smoke, and his thoughts won't run wild. Makes him wonder why he doesn't train more than he currently does. 

Sweat pearls on his forehead after a few sets, and he wipes it with the blanket, waves of heat he can't blame on the alcohol anymore rolling through his body. Is it the idea that Soap will smell his most intense musk, or the dirtying of something that was clean, that turns him on? Does it matter? Now the idea of jerking off on it is closer to winning, and Simon contemplates it for a while. 

It brings him nowhere, to think about doing it, to think about how badly he wants to touch Soap like that, yet his fears stop him, and the chains wrapped around him- though invisible to the human eye- tighten each second he dares put his intimacy on a plate. Whatever it is, that holds him back, whoever is at fault, whenever it started. He was fine…or at least, he's still fine, with women, as far as he knows. 

It's physical. The theory of doing it turns him on but it stops here. As soon as he moves a finger, he freezes in his own disgust, cold sweat making him shiver, as if his blood had turned into ice. Sleeping with the blanket is safe, training with it is fine too. Nothing else. 

Does he want to call Soap back here? He didn't mention anything about his tongue hurting, was he too shy? Or too traumatized, maybe. 

"Soap, come here!" He shouts, loud enough for him to hear. Maybe it'll freak him out, maybe he'll beg for something he ignores, or maybe he'll stay cloistered in the basement, in what he now describes as his safe place. 

To Simon’s surprise, Soap comes up, although a little hesitantly, and he doesn't beg, simply waits for him to talk. 

"How's your tongue doing?" 

"It feels weird." 

There's silence between them again, and Simon taps his lap, a silent order that Soap knows he can't ignore. 

"It'll feel weird until it heals."

Soap hums, sliding onto Simon’s lap like he's been told to. 

******

Ghost smells like a mix of sweat, cigarettes, and his usual go-to drink. 

"You should stop drinking." He says, and he's met with eyes colder than darkness. 

"Forget I said anything." He then adds, and pinches his lips shut. He should sew them, make sure he never says a misplaced word ever again. But he meant it, even if it's hard to hear, and he's sure Ghost knows it, even if denial reaches his chin and he's almost drowning in it. People like him always know, but they always ignore the signs. 

"Open your mouth." Ghost says, and Soap's muscles react before he does, his jaw relaxing and lips parting. He feels fingers in his mouth, fondling his tongue, caressing it before slowly pulling it out of his mouth. Soap doesn't move, even when his body heats, even when he knows he's blushing, and he doesn't close his eyes, because the hold Ghost's stare has on him stops him. 

He ignores what they’re doing, unsure of what Ghost is trying to prove, and why he's trying to prove it now. A lot must have happened in his head before he decided to act on it. 

"I thought about something, and it pissed me off." He says, not letting go of Soap's tongue, therefore stopping him from answering. So, he stays silent, waiting for an explanation, or none, if that's what pleases Ghost. 

"I thought about doing things to you."  

Soap raises an eyebrow, feeling drool pooling at the tip of his tongue. It'll drop on their laps if he doesn't close his mouth, but Ghost doesn't seem to care. 

"What pissed me off is that something scared me off, as soon as I thought about it. And it keeps fucking happening."

This time, Soap's tongue is freed and he swallows the saliva that had gathered in his mouth, wiping his lips with the palm of his hand. 

"You touched me already." 

"It wasn't intimate." 

"It sure felt like it." 

"You couldn't have known." 

Soap frowns. "Why?" 

"You were sick, everything was different, even our conversation. It wasn't real." 

"It sure felt like a dream. I was burning from the inside and you were talking about your parents, I think. I remember that part." 

They're looking at each other, like captivated by invisible forces that operate above them. 

"Then we kissed, for some reason." Soap whispers. 

They could stay in that bubble they created, or they could break it and pretend this isn't happening again, they could let their hands roam, explore, touch, or they could push each other away and go back to being distant. 

"Why did you call me here? I was drawing." That's a lie, he was freezing without his blanket. 

"To solve my issues." Ghost answers, the hand that was in Soap’s mouth gently curled around the side of his neck. 

"Am I solving anything?" 

"No. You're making them worse." 

"Why?" 

"Because I want you." 

They don't kiss immediately, but the tension between them is electrifying, worse than when the fever controlled most of Soap's actions. Maybe because he's fully capacitated now, maybe because he wants it too, maybe even more than Ghost, or maybe for some other reason. 

The hand around his neck moves to his throat, tightening enough for him to feel it, but not enough to feel dangerous. Then, Ghost lifts his balaclava in a way that doesn't break the bubble, and their lips meet once again, tongues melting against one another. 

He's already naked, there's nothing to take off, nothing that blocks Ghost's other hand from going where it pleases, no blanket to serve as barrier, and the scariest part is that Soap isn't sure he minds. 

Those are the hands of a killer, he tries to remind himself, but they feel great on him, gentle, as soft as their roughness allows them to be. Soap lets his eyes fall shut, and Ghost's lips leave his own to slowly descend on his neck, filling the spaces that the hand doesn't touch with kisses and marks. 

Soap dares one hand on Ghost, on his shoulder, holding it for support while the other stays limp on his own thigh. He throws his head back, more forcefully than willingly- for comfort, he'll tell himself- not because he wants more.

Ghost's right hand stays around his throat, while the other follows a path known only by him, tracing shapes on his body, and more particularly his chest and tummy. 

"Are you going to stop now, like last time?" 

"I didn't stop here last time, and it would be cruel if I did." 

While saying that, his left hand falls on Soap's thigh and stays there, still, for enough time, until Soap groans. 

"Yes?" 

"You said you wouldn't stop." He pouts, and there's a smirk on Ghost's lips, one that would've been visible under the mask too, he's sure. 

"I could make you beg." 

"You're the one who's scared to touch me." 

"Watch your mouth." Ghost warns, and it goes miles over Soap's head. 

"Shut me up." He teases back, maybe signing his own death sentence. But Ghost doesn't say anything, he acts, and Soap lets him act as much as he wants. They both need it, for reasons more or less healthy, more or less toxic. 

Soap would lie to himself, if he assured he was confident. He isn't, all this is as new to him as it is to Ghost, and he's also weirded out by the idea, although he tries his best not to show it. Not because they're both men, but because of the circumstances, the whole situation. They shouldn't share that sort of intimacy, he shouldn't be attracted to the man who punched him inches into his own death. 

He'd try to trick himself into thinking he's been manipulated, and perhaps it's the case, or just an excuse to feel like he still holds the reins of his own life. 

Ghost is slow in his movements, his long fingers going over the same spot again and again on his naked body, until every square of skin has been touched, and if he wanted to touch more, he'd have to open him up and plunge his hands into his entrails.

He's careful, a stark contrast with his closed fists, with his usual strength, the type that throws Soap on the floor with no effort, making him feel like he's nothing. And he is, in a sense, because things that exist don't lose their names. Soap looks down, eyes fixed on Ghost's crotch. This is another of their very noticeable differences, Soap being naked and Ghost being fully dressed, sometimes overdressed, with clothes that aren't always made of fabric, with barriers lifted high around him, like the walls around a castle that is in ruins. 

Soap sneaks a hand between his thighs, not to touch himself but to place it on Ghost, the contact sending a shiver from the tip of his fingers to his toes, and he has to bite his lip to not let out a gasp. They look at each other, they stare, get lost. Words aren't needed, they don't mean much, they're not enough to describe everything that is happening. Soap doesn't beg, at least not out loud, but his teary eyes have the same effect. 

Ghost lets him touch, for an instant, before pushing the greedy hand back, eyes reflecting too many emotions for it to make sense. How does he feel? How do they feel? Confused, needy, touch-starved. Maybe everything all at the same time, and they can barely keep up when their lips meet again. Soap wants to pull on the balaclava- he can close his eyes if Ghost doesn't want to be seen, he can be good like he was when his feverish state had nailed him to his mattress. 

"Please…" 

So, he begs, unsure for what or who, or if he'll regret ever asking for it, but it doesn't stop him, lips pressed against Ghost's, words muffled but still comprehensible. Still, he's being pushed away. 

"Please what? You're going to have to be a little more precise." 

Ghost is a tease, because he broke their intimacy just to mock him, but Soap is soaked too deep in that pseudo-pleasure to care, he's too far gone to let it reach him and make him back off. 

"The mask, take it off…" He craves a vision of the man who has stolen him, as if Soap were a vase from a museum, only to place him in a room as insignificant as a basement. What will he do then? What will he think? He's terrified, but curiosity won over long ago. 

"Show my face?" There's that smirk again, and Soap wants to wipe it from his lips, tear it off or kiss it away, he has yet to decide. 

"Yes." He nods to support his word, and he's ready to find synonyms and a bunch of reasons why he deserved to witness the realness of the human under the mask. 

"Not yet." 

"Why? Are you scared I'd run away after seeing you?" 

Ghost doesn't answer, and Soap doesn't list all the reasons, because the hand comes back around his throat, this time holding him tight enough to cut blood, and after a few seconds he's lightheaded. 

"Didn't I warn you to watch your mouth?" 

"I'm not sure, you always hit me so hard, it made me forget things." Soap laughs, voice strained partially from the choking, but mostly by the hand that wraps around his cock. 

"You're funny, aren't you?" 

Neither of them are laughing, they're both fighting to keep their senses about them, like animals fighting to keep the upper hand in a fight that shouldn't have taken place to begin with. They don't bite, but they claw, dig their nails into each other's skin until one gives up, until one moans for more, until one folds under the weight. 

"If I'm good, will you show me your face?" 

"Why are you so keen on seeing it?" 

"I deserve it." 

"Do you, now?" 

Soap nods, controlling his breathing as best as he can when Ghost starts moving his hand up and down his shaft, slow enough to not quite be satisfying, always keeping him on that line between frustration and pleasure. His thumb rubs against his slit, and he has to fight with his whole body to not let his eyes roll back, or his hips thrust forward, aching for more. 

But he’s bound to lose, because the gap between them closes faster than he intended, the prohibition of their actions carved deep into their minds, like a threat, or at least a promise that those will lead to darker times. It wouldn't be logical, for everything to be solved through them sharing a space and invading each other's privacy. If they had known, goes the saying, but knowing everything sounds boring. And what would he have done, in his incapacity to run away? 

"It would be too easy if I said yes now." Ghost says, but he could've stayed silent because Soap isn't really listening, the pleasure too loud in his body for anything external to reach him. He only hears his own heartbeat, pounding fast in his chest, leading the beat to a melody only they can perceive. 

He doesn't want it to stop, not yet, not when they already failed so many times before to create this bubble, when it wasn't time, when Ghost still had those walls around him secured with barbed wires. They're still present, those walls, although thinner, and Soap wonders if they've been weakened consciously or if it is just a result of coincidence. He wants to keep that memory, those sensations of their bodies pressed together, in a corner of his mind, safely locked away with all the good things that have happened, away from the daily horror, away from the psychological mistreatment. It would surely push him deeper into his own demise, but he's willing to sacrifice that, just for a few hours of freedom. 

The hand around his cock speeds up and the control he has over his body slides away, slowly but surely. 

"W-wait, when can I see it?" He asks, between gasps and moans that he couldn't hold back, even if he tried. His whole body heats up, his mind can't focus on anything else but that hand, and his nose is filled with a scent too familiar for comfort. He's a stranger, a murderer, an abductor. He knows so little about the man whose hands are possessing him. 

"Well, when I decide is when you can." Is what Ghost says, jerking Soap off to stop him from talking. At least that is Soap's guess, but he needs much more to be silenced. 

"Are you scared?" He whispers, trying to ignore the pulsing heat in his lower stomach, hands closed in tight fists, one still on his leg, the other clawing Ghost's shoulder. " Ah- " 

******

Scared? Simon isn't scared, he doesn't feel fear, he impersonates it. If anyone should be scared, it'd be Soap. He's just careful. His face is probably plastered on walls, in picture frames, surrounded by a family he attaches no importance to. His face is a pale copy of his father's, a mere sketch, a disappointment. Nobody needs to see it, not even himself. Mirrors are lethal, they remind him of things he refuses to see, they remind him that bullets aren't strong enough to annihilate him, and that he's not desperate enough, it seems, to end his own life. Maybe there's that thread that holds on for dear life. He doesn't want his reflection to be mirrored in eyes as pure as Soap’s, he doesn't want to see the slow change of expression, from pure bliss to pure repugnance. A change he witnesses in himself every time he’s unfortunate enough to catch his own reflection and see his father staring back. It is not fear, it is insecurity. 

He's the one in control, he's the one using his fingers to melt the man straddling his lap, making him lose all footings, whatever he tries, whatever he clings to. 

What terrifies him is how bad he wants it, how much he craves proximity, more than he ever craved a drink or a smoke, as if Soap was made of all the substances he was ever addicted to, leaving Simon no possibility to resist. His lips taste like something he has known for a long time and somehow never experienced in all his years on earth. 

Body and mind clash in a fight for justice, a fight that would make no sense for those around, if anyone was to witness it, it’s between him and himself, between his brain and his heart, two entities he thought he dominated, but really, how much power over them does he truly hold? 

Lost in thoughts doesn't mean he's not focused on Soap, it doesn't mean his eyes aren't boring holes into his skin-turned-pink, covered in a layer of sweat, his eyes closed and mouth slack with ecstasy. He's enjoying himself at the hands of the man who made him suffer the most. How intriguing, how twisted the human mind is.

"Are you about to ruin my clothes? That wouldn't be very nice." He says, looking down at the beads of precum pearling out of the tip.

Soap shakes his head frantically, tightening his fist around Simon’s shoulder, enough to make him grunt. It doesn't stop him, though, the slight discomfort helps him stay grounded, because feeling Soap's heated skin under his fingers feels like a spell, something bewitching, something he can barely fight against, as hard as he believes he can. He's touched it, multiple times, maybe more than he should have, and in ways that never quite reflected how he really felt, in their brutality. At least, when he started feeling things for the man facing him. 

He sounds pretty, his little moans and grunts, the way he tries not to move, not to let the orgasm wash over him. Is Soap still aware of the possible consequences to his actions? Consequences that have already reared their ugliness several times before. Is it etched in his blood, written in his genetic code, maybe even in the stars floating above them, when the night is the darkest. 

Simon won't let him fight against it. 

"Let yourself go, I won't be mad." He husks, his voice bathed in sweetness and care, surprising him quite a bit. Not that he's unable to imitate that tone, but he's never felt that sincere using it. If he freezes now, they won't have another chance, they won't be as close as this anymore. Why? Because he wouldn't allow it, he wouldn't risk appearing so vulnerable again. Does he want to stop? Let go of that soft skin, where mostly his fingers and sometimes his lips, trace circle after circle, learning the texture until it is an integral part of him. 

Soap listens, and once he's allowed, starts rolling his hips, fucking his cock into Simon’s hand. Gone, the bratty comments, gone, the proud smirks, only delicious despair is left, and Simon watches, closing his fingers around his shaft a little tighter. He doesn't look down, but rather at the frown on Soap's face, the furrowed eyebrows, the bitten lip that holds the moans back as best as it can. A painting sent from Hell, a sorcery that holds him in a death grip, and he lets it happen. 

"That's it…does it feel good?" 

Soap nods, slowly letting go of his bottom lip to form words, or at least try to, and the gasps following a barely comprehensible mumble go straight to Simon’s cock. 

"Want to know what I was thinking about, apart from making you crumble on yourself?" 

A nod, again, and Soap's eyes open, even if just halfway. 

"I wanted to cum on the blanket, make it smell like me. Taste like me ."

He has nothing to lose, they both have lost everything already, they can't go deeper than this hole they’ve dug. 

Soap's reaction is worth seeing; the way his cock twitches in Simon's hand, the way his whole body collapses on itself, falling forward against Simon, forehead pressed against the shoulder he was crushing for support, fingers closed around fists of his shirt, breath quick and erratic. " Fuck- "

Soap comes in hot spurts over Simon’s hand, and Simon’s fingers slide against each other with ease. He rubs them together until the information reaches his brain: that's Soap's cum, and he wants more of it. He wants to see him break.

"S-sorry…" He hears Soap say, and he pulls him out from where he hides in his neck, taking in the blush on his face and his evasive eyes. They don't make eye contact, Soap avoids him and Simon isn't fond of that.

"Look at me." 

Simon brings his clean hand up to cup Soap’s face, feeling the heat of his cheek against his bare palm for a few seconds, before sliding it around the back of his head to comb his fingers through the outgrown hair there, the motion finally stopping when he’s got enough to hold Soap's head firmly in place. 

"That was so fucking hot." 

******

"I didn't mean to-" Soap doesn't finish his sentence, a moan ripping through his throat when Ghost wraps his cum-covered hand around his cock again. He tries to scoot back to stop it, but Ghost's hand in his hair stops him, and the lips crashing against his stop him from talking more. 

He's overwhelmed, mind unable to focus on anything but the burning sensation in his body. He opens his mouth when Ghost's tongue probes against it, they kiss deep again, the hand around his cock moving slowly. 

It lasts hours, or maybe seconds. Soap lost count, time doesn't make sense anymore, only his desire, the lust that replaced the blood in his veins and controls each and every of his actions. 

"Can I touch you too?"

He's met with reluctance at first, but then Ghost takes Soap's hand and places it on his clothed crotch, a silent agreement that pleases the naked man more than he'd like to admit. Again, murderer, kidnapper, all those things. 

But he doesn't let all that stop him, not when they've come this far, not when the fortress has finally let its guards down, granting Soap a look at a side of Ghost he had never seen, and even if he can't witness the blush on his face, even if he's not sure there's even one, his wild imagination makes it real enough for satisfaction. 

"You're hard…" He points out, more to himself than to Ghost. If he says it out loud, it'll stay true, it won't fall into that dream abyss that seems to swallow everything he’s ever wished for since being trapped here. 

"I'm still human, when it comes to that." 

"Who would've thought?" He chuckles to hide his nervousness. 

He hesitantly takes Ghost’s cock out and stares down at it for long seconds, letting his senses grasp the situation before slowly reaching for it with shy fingers. He's never touched a man, and although he feels the warmth of his shaft, he still struggles to believe what he's doing. Surely, Ghost will stop him, verbally or physically, he's just teasing him, or worse, testing him.

He's not stopped. Not even when he starts moving his hand up and down, slowly, eyes so focused on what he's doing they burn with how little he blinks. He doesn't want to do anything wrong, doesn't want Ghost to feel even an ounce of discomfort. He should know how it works; he knows how to pleasure himself, but he also puts Ghost on a pedestal he doesn't necessarily belong on, elevating him to a God, God of the Below. 

"Tell me if I do something wrong." He whispers, only to look up at him and see his head leaned back on the backrest of the couch, eyes closed, fabric gathered over his nose. It would be so easy to take it off. 

"Go faster." He grunts, his mouth staying half open. 

Soap speeds up, shivers spreading through his body at the mere idea that Ghost feels pleasure. He's human, humans have needs, it should be normal. 

Nothing is ever normal, their relationship isn't, this situation isn't, his emotions aren't. He doesn't want it to stop, though, he doesn't want to let go of that inner heat, of that consolation, as fake as it is. 

He doesn't know if that abnormality is what causes him to take initiatives, but he slowly wiggles his way off Ghost's lap, as slow as possible to keep him from opening his eyes. If he opens them, the whole dream may fall apart, the bubble may break, leaving them in an unwelcome coldness. 

Ghost doesn't open his eyes, sure, but he does ask what Soap is doing, his voice sounding like a rope being thrown around his neck. Soap freezes for a second, gathering an answer in his head that wouldn't make him appear desperate, although they're pretty far past that nervousness. 

"I want to try something." He says, placing his hands on Ghost's thighs. He's never touched him like that, with a softness angels will sing about. Realizing that makes him slow down, think twice about his actions, their consequences. "....if I’m allowed.”

Ghost remains silent. Soap decides to interpret his lack of a response as permission to carry on.

“...Can I undress you?" 

It is a perilous question, and the balance between both possible answers isn't fair. There's an eternity of silence before Ghost finally nods, and Soap hurries to pull his pants down before he changes his mind again. 

Seeing him half naked feels like a sin in itself, like a forbidden vision that will burn his retinas if he looks at it for too long. He risks a hand on Ghost's naked thigh, feeling the soft duvet of hair under his digits as he massages the spot he chose to explore, his other hand hesitantly searching for Ghost's. He's not stopped in his tracks, but Ghost's hand doesn't close around his, not yet, at least. 

"Stop me, if you don't want it." It probably doesn’t need to be said. He knows Ghost won’t hesitate to show him where he goes wrong, if ever needed. But he says it anyway, right before he lets go of Ghost's thigh to hold his cock up, mouth closing on the tip. He's answered by a moan, and a curse that travels down to his lower stomach. Pleasure doesn't feel the same in that setting, and his heart beats to a dissonant melody, but it beats faster than ever, almost painfully. It is not the love of romantic comedies, it is not the love they see on TV or hear in songs; it is unique, poisonous and possibly lethal.

He can’t quite pinpoint what he awaited for a taste, maybe something fundamentally bad, to echo the roots of their routine and make everything sensical, but it does not reflect his expectations. It tastes bitter, sure, because he couldn’t have hoped for anything sweet, but to go as far as to say he hates it would be a lie. It’s addictive, the way his tongue slides against the head of Ghost’s cock, the way the fingers he has curled around the base press just a little harder against the main vein running along the underside, and Ghost sighs, thrilled. Soap can’t see if his eyes are close, but he feels the gentle pressure of a hand on his scalp pushing him down, inciting him to keep going without ever using words.

Soap doesn’t resist, he couldn’t defy forces greater than him, the lust running in his veins, a thirsty beast that possesses him. He lets his lips fall further down Ghost’s cock, teary eyes closed. Comfort feels different, the stretch of his mouth around the thick girth isn’t a sensation he’s familiar with, nor is the hand in his hair, pushing his head down a little more forcefully. 

“Fuck, Soap…” He groans, and Soap can hear impatience slip in his voice, a menace of something bigger, more intense, and it shows in the way Ghost’s breath quickens, in the way his body tenses, imperceptible to the eye but reasoning so loud in his heart. He knows what awaits him, in minutes, maybe seconds, when Ghost’s gentle manners are replaced by something more carnal, something that resembles him better. 

The change doesn’t take long and Ghost slightly changes his position, feet planted on the ground as if they were about to grow roots, the hand that was barely holding Soap’s hand, finally securely closing around his fingers. Soap is warned hastily, as if waiting longer would’ve had a negative effect. He barely has time to adapt before he’s pushed down, practically choking on the length, the hand that was around the base of Ghost’s cock shifted to his thigh again, nails digging in the flesh as a vengeance for the sudden discomfort. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels raw against the inside of his throat. 

******

Heaven wouldn’t feel close to that.

It's surreal, the bliss he feels, the heat overcoming his whole body that even thoughts of filth couldn't have reproduced. He doesn't try to be gentle, he does nothing to soothe Soap, because he reads no sign that he should stop, no sudden gag reflex. His cock slides down his throat as if it were made for it, and Soap takes it obediently, his moans sending waves of pleasure along Simon's spine. 

"Fuck, you feel amazing." He praises, words falling out of his mouth before he thinks about them. Soap appears to enjoy the compliment because he gets more eager, slowly taking more until his nose is buried in the trail of hair on Simon’s lower stomach. It makes him stutter, the sudden overwhelm, and his hips buck forward uncontrollably. 

"Let me fuck your mouth." He’s not asking for permission, although he can hear an edge of despair in his own voice that he wishes fell into deaf ears. Soap must be too far gone to notice, with a cock down his throat and a fist tugging on his hair. It must be a lot at once. 

Simon doesn't know what overtook him, where the abrupt desire came from, but he knows that now that he's tasted it, he's hooked. Hooked but terrified, because the control he kept for so long shatters like glass, in pieces too small to be picked up and patched up again. He could pretend, like he does so well, that all that is simply the result of months of abstinence, but pretending only works so far, when the heart doesn't take part in the game, when each touch, each kiss, doesn't feel like a needle stab, subtle but painful where it lands. He could close his eyes and tell himself he's dreaming, but that too wouldn't work, for the hours of sleep he's able to enjoy wouldn't be enough to make an entire dream last. 

Soap doesn't even resist when Simon lets go of his hand, sliding both of his own around Soap's head, holding it still before slowly fucking his way in and out of his throat, grunts turning into low moans, and his head once again thrown back, eyes half closed. Pretending doesn't work when they're so deep, it doesn't work when they're unable to think, only letting pure instinct dictate their next moves. 

He fucks Soap's mouth until his lower stomach tightens, then stops, breathing deeply. He wants it to last, he wants to enjoy every second of it, just in case it ends up being a dream, or a one time occurrence, for his own mind would stop him with a knife on his throat, if he ever attempted something similar again. His mind, or memories of the past.

He edges himself a few more times, using Soap as a human fleshlight for his own satisfaction before he stops completely, pulling Soap off his cock and lifting him up again with strength he owes to years of training. 

"You're so good…best mouth I've ever fucked." 

Soap looks at him, dazed, drool running down on his chin that Simon catches on the tip of his fingers before pushing them back into Soap's mouth, feeling his tongue burning hot. 

"Fuck me." He whines, and it could be a plea or  an order. A basic need, a logical continuation, the following page of the story they're writing. 

Simon looks around, the sofa surely isn't the best place to do that. 

"Here?" 

Soap shakes his head, and pleasure must be clouding his judgment because he points to the door that stays selfishly closed, the room that never sees the light, the room that is packed with entities of the past. 

"No." It is dry, emotionless, and it almost breaks whatever intimacy they’re sharing. 

"Why?" 

Almost but not quite, not when Soap lurches forward, his lips so close to Simon’s ear that he can hear the slight tremble of his breath. 

"I'll make it good, I promise." 

"Why not the basement?" 

Soap shakes his head, and it's Simon's turn to ask why. 

"You always end up running away…leaving me alone. And I don't want that, not now." 

Simon can't deny that fact. However he tries to word the reasons in his head, none of them make as much sense as him being scared to get attached, him avoiding intimacy at all costs. But what would he avoid now? When they've come this far, when they've touched every inch of each other, learning dips and curves, what is there to leave behind? 

"I've been in your room already, I've seen it, and I promise it doesn't scare me." 

Thoughts jam around Simon's head but Soap pushes them back with a kiss that tastes just like a drug, a theft of his identity, of the person he thought he was. But he can't accept, or rather, he doesn't know how to. It shouldn't be that big of a deal, to fuck someone in the room he sleeps in, and yet it feels like an offence to his deepest privacy. 

Unease seeps under the most secluded corners of his body, a reminder that the trauma he lives with daily isn't as superficial as he wills it. 

But a part of him trusts Soap, a part of him believes that having him there will make everything better, give him an anchor to cling onto when he feels like drowning. He doesn't expressly agree but he stands up, carrying Soap to the door, eyeing it for a while, fingers frozen in place, digging into Soap's skin to leave marks. 

"...I can't." 

"You can,” Soap murmurs, wiggling his way out of his arms. “Just close your eyes…"

Simon doesn't know when he allowed their dynamic to shift, but he knows that the panic eating his insides stops him from thinking straight, so he listens, letting himself be vulnerable for once. Things will balance themselves with time, when they're back to their usual routine. Now, he closes his eyes, with the distant knowledge that Soap could use that chance to betray him, or even kill him. The latter would be quite bold of him.  

But none of that happens, and after hearing the door open, he's gently pulled inside. He can tell Soap turned the lights on by the yellow background on his eyelids, and he can tell he's looking around by the short pause in his steps. Simon feels his hand being taken again and he's pulled to the bed. 

"That’s it. Lay down…" Soap says, and Simon actually listens, baffled by his own willingness. It is a room, filled with nightmares, sure, but just a room. 

He never would've thought they'd come that far on the same level playing field. 

When he lays down, Simon barely has to wait for a few seconds before Soap is straddling his lap again, body leaning forward until their lips meet once more, hands flat on his chest for support. 

"See? Nothing horrible happened." 

Simon doesn't hear mockery in Soap's voice, not even a smile, so he slowly opens his eyes, seeing the man's face close to his. 

A halo shines around Soap, his naked body gleaming under the artificial light, but also under the daylight cascading in through the windows. The sun would be jealous, Simon is sure of it, and maybe this thought is silly but it makes something inside him soften, something he thought he had lost to wars and losses.

******

Did he do that to get revenge on months of suffering, or to try to heal that speck of humanity hidden under hideous layers of violence? Soap's not sure. He wants to get back at Ghost for every dent and scars on his body, but not like that, not when they're both under a spell. He wishes to believe that he isn't a mirror of his abductor, that he kept that empathy inside him. When everything else was being broken, he held onto it like a buoy in a raging sea. 

Or maybe he did it out of egoism, to fulfill his own desires and ignore Ghost like Ghost had done so many times before. But revenge must be consumed cold, when he's no longer a prisoner of their relationship. 

But does he want out? Isn't the cage too comfortable to move? Doesn’t their skin sliding so easily against one another feel more like home than the ruins of his house? It isn't a fair fight, he knows it, and it never was. 

His hands slide under Ghost's shirt, pulling the fabric up enough to get a glance of his toned upper body. It makes sense, for him to look strong, for his muscles to be defined, creating relief on his skin, like a drawing, something Soap will try to copy on a piece of paper. 

Ghost lets him touch, eyes riveted on him with a concentration that makes Soap dizzy. It's another kind of shyness, not caused by physical nudity but rather by the ease with which Ghost seems to read him, as if words had been written on his body and Ghost took his time reading them. 

He takes as much time bringing a hand up, caressing Soap's cheek as if it was the last thing he was able to touch. It's bothering, to feel those rough hands turn so careful, to have this duality leading their exchange. Soap won't complain, he won't ruin the moment, not when he explicitly expressed his needs, when he finally managed to force Ghost to stay. 

The hand brings comfort, but not the type of comfort that heals. It’s intoxicating, pulling Soap in with a death grip, sucking his soul in, if he still has one. It is comfort that tastes like blood, like burns on his skin, something nobody sane would accept, but it is all he knows now. 

He leans down again, and he too cups Ghost's face, a few fingers slipping under the mask, a few staying on the surface. The urge to pull it up is strong, but he resists it, preferring pressing their lips together for the hundredth time, at least. He lost count as he never really counted how many times they kissed. He never planned to go that far, never planned for anything to actually start, and maybe he hangs onto those kisses to make what is happening now last. For them to stay close forever. He knows that when this bubble breaks, their chances of intimacy will be low, he knows Ghost will run, like he always does.

But can he blame him? Is Soap in a position to judge, he who tried so hard to avoid the obvious, he who tried to stay who he wasn't anymore? 

"Have you ever done this with a man?" He asks, curiosity gnawing at his bones like a greedy beast. The answer wouldn't change much to his needs and desires, but he can't help but wonder. 

"No." Ghost says, unbothered, or maybe embarrassed, but he's a good actor. 

Soap wants to say he'll show him how it's done, but the only manly experience he's had is in his own room, with his own hand. It can't differ that much, to touch his own body or someone else's, he just has to beware Ghost's reactions, let them guide him on the right path, like a northern star that doesn't glow. 

"Me neither." He whispers, mostly to soothe his anxiety, and possibly reassure the monster under him. It never happened, them both in that position, Ghost looking weak, splayed on the bed. His eyes stay cold, though, and every time their gazes meet, Soap feels a shiver, a recollection of the trauma he stacked in the back of his mind, like reflux in the back of his throat. 

He doesn't know where to start, where to touch, for the puzzle to make sense. They were two pieces too different to ever fit together, but Ghost snipped bits away, molding Soap to just what he needed. The worst of it is that they're both aware of it, yet they pretend it doesn't happen. 

A deep breath, and his courage gathered, cheeks a deep red and hot under Ghost's fingers, before he finally makes his first decisive move. They don't have anything to prepare physically, and their minds are broken enough that a bit more pain wouldn't feaze them. 

Soap now knows that excitement has a smell, a taste, but no face. He could beg again, to his knees even, but something tells him that nothing would change, or worse, it could stop everything and he'd be left alone one more time, one time too many. 

If Soap's mind burns with the amount of overthinking he does, his body burns with something else, a fire that licks his most sensitive spots even before Ghost gets his hands on them. Ghost, who suddenly decides to reinstate his control and switches their positions, landing on top of him. It makes more sense, something as small as a bird, broken to the bone, couldn't possibly dominate the devil. 

"I thought you'd never move." Ghost says, and annoyance is so audible in his voice Soap can almost see it. "So I had to take over." He adds, as if he needed to explain his reasoning, as if Soap's body didn't already belong to him. 

He's all teeth and claws as he descends his way across Soap's body, his possessiveness showing, in case there was ever a doubt. Soap feels the last particles of his resistance falter, his back arching off the bed as his nipples are mistreated once again by Ghost’s mouth, and he feels more like an object than a human being. His moans echo through the room, ricocheting off the walls and coming back to him like the filthiest hymn. His eyes are closed, doubling his sensations, the way pleasure enters his body, the heat that undulates through it, making him feel the stars rather than see them. 

He can't compare it to anything he knows, because the settings aren't the same, the way his mind shuts down yet runs full speed confuses him, and he finds himself actively trying to let go, enjoy the moment, but he's constantly reminded that it will indeed end, when Ghost is done with him. 

"Don't stop," He whines when Ghost grips his thighs, pushing their bodies closer, cocks rubbing against each other. It sends spikes of heat in his lower stomach, burning his volition, pushing him close to the edge again. 

Soap's arms swing around Ghost's neck, to hold him close, or for support. He might melt through the bed if he doesn't cling onto something, he might burn to ashes if he doesn't keep anchor with reality, because all that's happening looks so surreal, he dreads being in a dream.

But Ghost doesn't seem to ever want to let go either, with the way he's biting him, the way his fingertips dig into Soap's skin, leaving white marks for a few seconds, hurting. They only know pain, they communicate through it when words aren't strong enough, when their eyes don't speak loud enough. 

"Fuck me…" He repeats, with more fervor, as his patience thins. If he waits a minute more, he may go crazy. 

"Soon." There's an abrupt pause, and a word that stays stuck in Ghost's throat. A threat, or a praise? His name? Soap doesn't ask, he imagines whatever suits him best and smiles to himself. 

Soon comes when Ghost decides. 

******

They complete one another, magnets that try so hard to repel and be repelled, only to end up closer than ever. Simon senses it in his bones, like a forethought of what will happen if he doesn’t stop it now. But they’re too far along the ride to get down, they’re too close to the vertiginous descent to even think about leaving now. It would leave them shaken, unable to know right from wrong. He’s already disoriented, when it comes to the man under him, the man who made him see things he did his best to ignore, the man who opened his eyes by the mere force of his presence, the man that made him evolve through destruction. And he’s terrified by it, by the power those eyes have, those hands on his face, over the mask. He’s never felt so naked, so defenseless. Soap did nothing but follow his intuition, he couldn’t have planned all of that, right?

Soap couldn’t have prepared his skin to taste so irresistible as Simon’s tongue moves along it, dizzied by the lust owning his senses. Their souls intertwined, flaming with ecstasy, the innocence that held them apart long gone, for it never really existed. They were based on suffering, on blood and cries, and that part doesn’t change as Simon digs his teeth in all the suppleness of Soap’s body, listening to his broken moans, his restlessness as his hands fling almost too violently to catch a fist of the back of Simon’s mask, tugging on it with no wish to uncover his face, but rather force him to hurry. 

“Keep your eyes closed.” He orders, fully aware that even if Soap opened his eyes now, he’d probably forget what he would see, when his senses are saturated with sensations he’d never think of.

There’s a small nod, barely perceptible, and surprise painting Soap’s features as Simon tugs off his mask to place it over Soap’s head, covering his eyes with the fabric. If he were to open them now, he wouldn’t see much. 

“It smells like you.” Soap whispers, inhaling deeply. 

“You like it?” He asks, picking up where he left off, savoring every second, the hands he had used as support against the bed joining his tongue again in making Soap produce more depraved sounds. 

“It feels good…” 

“It’ll feel better.” He promises, lowering his hands until they’re on Soap’s thighs again, massaging them as he slides up them to reach that one spot he shied away from since they started. It’s not that he’s scared of touching another man’s ass in a sexual way, or maybe he’s apprehensive of it, fears to hurt despite doing it from the start. But it’s not the same pain, it hits parts of one’s privacy that have already been beaten up inside Simon.

“Tell me if it hurts too much.” He adds, letting his index gently touch Soap’s rim. He doesn’t push it in immediately, taking his time to explore, learn every curve, every texture, as if it was any different than the plethora of bodies he’s touched throughout his life. It may not be different, but it sure feels different. Maybe the situation, maybe their dynamic, or maybe something else, something that lays deeper inside them.

The nervousness is quickly replaced with intrigue as he notices the slight change in his moans, the gasps, the voiceless pleads as Soap rolls his hips, seemingly doing his best to get something, anything inside him. Eager, starving for a touch he rarely had, if not ever. Simon can only withstand the temptation for so long.

He uses Soap’s precum as makeshift lube, not wanting to cause unnecessary pain, but also not wanting to stop what they’re doing for something as futile as this. The first finger slides in with some resistance and Simon takes his time to make it fit, monitoring all of Soap’s reactions, the slightest frown that would mirror too closely the face he made when he was really in pain. But he never makes those faces, and the only discomfort that shows on his features manifests as whiny moans. 

The fingers of his other hand curl around Soap’s length, to balance the pleasure and pain, which works pretty well because the sounds he hears are a combination of gasps and whines that even confuse the author of those noises. If they could see each other, Soap’s eyes would probably be unfocused, maybe even closed. He likes to imagine the intensity with which their eyes would meet, now, when pleasure washes over Soap like a heavy veil, keeping him nailed to the bed, unable to do anything else but ask for more.  

“Greedy, are we?” 

Simon takes advantage of his own experience, his knowledge of the human body and his sense of observation to lead Soap to where he wants him, to pure obedience. 

“Ready for another?” 

Soap nods, his hands closing around a fist of Simon’s bed sheets as his back arches, either begging for more or trying to avoid being touched more, deeper. Does it feel too good? Are tears painting his cheeks, hidden by the fabric? Fuck, just the thought that Simon will wear his mask again after that makes his cock twitch. They’ve never been so connected, even when they kissed, even when they laid together in a bed, none of that felt the same. 

For the second finger, he uses his own saliva as lube, spitting directly on Soap’s hole and getting a surprised yelp as reaction, which makes him chuckle. 

“It’s not funny.” Soap pouts, but that expression quickly disappears when Simon pushes two fingers at once inside him, the hiss replacing it going straight to his cock. Maybe a bit of pain isn’t too bad. 

The third finger is added rather quickly, and Simon’s patience falters a little more when Soap doesn’t stop moving his hips, meeting each of his careful thrusts. 

“You’re right, this isn’t funny.” It’s much more than that, it’s much more than what Simon ever thought it would be. It hits a part of him he thought he had locked away, and that thought kills him slowly, ripping his heart open for Soap to step in, as much as he tries to keep it closed. What they’re doing now, he could tell himself a thousand times that he’d do it with anyone if he was drunk enough, but it wouldn’t be true. Lies don’t suddenly reflect the truth if they’re told enough times. 

But he keeps repeating it in his head, that Soap is just a man that he happened to pick up against his will, just a man that’s lived for nearly a year in his company, always close but somehow also very far, locked behind walls like Simon did with his own emotions. Just a man that made him see what humanity looked like when it was threatened, just a man that made him crave the taste of another human being, the touch, the proximity, the connection. Lies can’t tell the truth. 

His heart beats faster, the cage around it melting slowly but surely, uncovering a part Simon had forgotten as he leans down, pushing his fingers as far as they can go and capturing Soap’s lips with no warning. He’s welcomed like water in the desert, Soap’s mouth opening eagerly, their tongues meeting like they missed each other. Simon feels Soap’s moans in his mouth, his arms being once again thrown around his neck, stopping him from leaning back. He doesn’t want to, even though he has to use his core strength to not collapse on top of him because his balance is a little off. Maybe that’s also why he trained so hard in the military. Maybe his fate already knew what would happen ahead of time. 

Soap doesn’t let go of neither his lips, nor his neck, sealing their position even when Simon pulls his fingers out of him and straightens out his other hand from around his cock to place them on Soap’s hips.

“I didn’t plan to train today.” He mumbles against the lips ravishing his own.

“Lies, I saw you lifting weights.” Soap affirms, putting space between them for a few seconds that seem to last a lot longer. That pause is heavy with something Simon can’t quite name, and it heats his body. “I really wanna see your face.” 

“Later. Maybe.” It isn’t a promise, nor is it a way to silence him, but rather a way for Simon to think about it, weigh the pros and cons, but mostly the cons because he can’t see any pros. What would it bring Soap to see his face now? What would it bring him to show his face now? They’re past that, aren’t they? He’s been pushing his identity away for too long, and sometimes he too forgets that he has his dad’s traits, and his mom only left him the blonde hair he doesn’t care for. It’s too dry, too light, too anything that could be wrong. 

“Later.” Soap repeats, as to project the word into reality. 

Simon nods, even though Soap can’t see it, and tells him to hold his thighs, placing the tip of his hard cock against his hole. 

“No condom?” 

“I don’t need those for what belongs to me, Soap.” Are the last words Simon says before thrusting in, feeling Soap clench around him, mouth opening in a silent moan, eyes probably open wide in shock. Is it too much? Not enough? Simon doesn’t want to hurt him too much, so he stays still, waiting for Soap’s breath to come back to a roughly normal rhythm. 

“Breathe.” He whispers into his ear as he leans down once again, slowly rolling his hips when Soap’s breathing stops being interspersed with whines, although he really likes hearing them. 

When Soap is calmed, he allows himself to go a little harder, pulling half of his length out before pushing it back again, cutting Soap’s breath a few times. Simon too, would love to see his face, the way his eyes roll back with each thrust, pairing with his opened mouth making the prettiest sounds. He doesn’t need to ask Soap if it feels good, he just has to observe. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight…” He rasps, letting his head fall against Soap’s collarbone, soon feeling the man's hands tangling in his hair. 

******

Soap doesn’t think he’s ever felt like that. Having Ghost’s scent so close to his nose makes his brain short-circuit in a way it never had before. He's drunk on a cologne he thought he knew and was used to, his senses melting to leave only his most basic chemical reactions, and he's unable to think coherently, the only word filling his mind to the brim is more , he wants more, he needs it. 

It hurts for a bit when Ghost thrusts inside him with the gentleness of an indulging beast, but soon enough, that pain is replaced with something else, a heat, a drug. Maybe he too isn't more than just a beast craving its load. Maybe they both go beyond their human forms to turn into entities, sex hungry like vampires crave blood, like zombies crave brains, and he'll dig his teeth deep enough to leave marks. 

Ghost's hair, he doesn't remember touching it that much, he doesn't recall running his fingers through it, holding fists of it so that the heat he feels burning inside him doesn't liquefy his entire body, because the in and out motions feel like a fire starter, something that will inflame him if he's not careful. 

He feels his hot breath against his skin, hears the grunts, the curses whispered under his breath as Ghost lets himself go, renouncing all self-control. Soap doesn't own much more, they're both lost in something that was bigger than them from the start, something they so desperately tried to push away, something that transcended violence. Love wouldn't be strong enough, but obsession…they're obsessed. 

Soap's breathing hitches when Ghost speeds up without a warning, and he tugs a little harder on his hair, eyes rolling back before he can even notice it. He knows Ghost can't see him, and he regrets it a little. He doesn't want to betray him, though, so he tries his best to rely on his imagination to draw the lines of the face of the man who is balls-deep inside him, as crude as it sounds. 

He uses touch, letting his fingers slide from the back of Ghost's hair to his ear, the side of his neck, up to his lips. It makes him slow down, and Soap feels him lift his head, with a probably confused look on his face that makes him smile innerly. 

"What are you doing?" He asks as Soap continues his little adventure, fingers ascending along the straight arch of his nose. He's not stopped in his tracks. 

"Learning you through touch, if I can't see you." 

He feels Ghost pinch his lips for just a second before he leans closer - his hands don't tell him that, just the kiss he feels over the balaclava that had slipped over his mouth at some point, one that makes his lips stretch in a wide smile he can't keep to himself. 

"What was that for?" He asks, suddenly giddy, the ninth cloud impossibly closer. It wasn't just any kiss, it was the definition of care, or something resembling it, something Soap wishes he could grab and hold close. 

Ghost doesn't answer, probably because he himself doesn't know, or because he doesn't want to put words on his actions, maybe to stop them from being real. 

But Soap doesn't let that deter him, he savors the sensations, the butterflies in his stomach and the pure happiness that seems to install itself in his body, among demons and monsters. His sorrow is too great for a second of blissfulness to get rid of it, they are too far down the pit for the sun to reach them, but he finds comfort there, in those arms, with those lips against his, or his skin, with those fingers touching him like he's never been touched, grazing his heart with an attention so sharp it hurts. 

Ghost starts moving faster again, hips slapping against the back of Soap's thighs, making his breath hitch each time he tries to inhale, and his body arch with each thrust. He doesn't own himself anymore; freedom is obsolete if he doesn't have a body. 

Soap feels his eyes roll back again when Ghost decides to curl his fingers around his throat again, his own hands falling from his shoulders to land on the bed, fisting handfuls of sheets and tugging on them to stay anchored. 

Is it too much? Not enough? Does he want it to end or to go on forever? What if they stay stuck in here, what if they can't live without it, what if the basement looks colder than it was before? What if the blanket they abandoned behind smells too much like Ghost and it fucks him up. What if it's too late? 

His thoughts slowly subside to be replaced by the emptiness of overwhelming pleasure, when Ghost rams his cock right into that one spot all men have, one that turns his vision white, mouth opening around moans he wishes silent, but echo through the room like a myriad of notes. 

"F-fuck, Ghost!" He whines, lifting his right arm to grab Ghost's shoulder, nails digging in the skin, but he doesn't seem to mind, too lost in his own world to even look up.

"You feel so good- Fuck , don't clench around me…" Ghost grunts through his teeth, his movements becoming more erratic for a few seconds before slowing down again. He's panting, they both are, and their breaths mingle when Ghost pushes the balaclava up slightly and they kiss again- when they eat each other alive. 

"More…" Soap pleads against Ghost's lips, the tears burning the back of his eyes threatening to spill any second. Oh, how he would love to uncover his face, for their eyes to meet, for their emotions to come to the surface. 

What expression is Ghost making? Are his brows furrowed, is he biting his lip to stop the sounds, apart from the low grunts and curses making it past his lips? How is his other hand- the one not choking him- placed on the bed? 

Ghost's fingers feel rough against Soap's skin, like blades. He's careful enough to loosen his grip every now and then, before Soap feels too lightheaded, as if he could feel those things, or as if he knew roughly how long someone would be able to bear it. 

Soap doesn't have enough focus left in him to study his thoughts, so he lets them float away, unsure of what filled his mind, if not for Ghost and the cock ramming his insides. He’s shaped to what Ghost wants, shattered and remodeled to fit in a box in the palm of his hand. Shivers and heatwaves taking his body apart in ways he can't comprehend, ways that make him see stars. His mouth opens on another moan, louder, more desperate, ricocheting through space and time to come back to their ears, and if they could see each other, a fire would form between them, from the friction of their bodies, from the desire they have for each other, a craving no substance could put to ease. 

Ghost gives in, letting go of the last threads of self-control as he slides his hands around Soap's thighs, pulling his cock out before pushing it back in with a force that has Soap black out for a second; just long enough for his body to relax completely, the pleasure pit inside him growing to reach godly dimensions, because he can't compare it to anything on earth, nothing feels like he's about to die and be reborn, nothing feels as dangerous as the man topping him, losing all control. 

Nothing is as lethal as an unleashed monster. 

But Soap asks for more by rolling his hips, meeting each thrust, begging for it to go deeper, reshaping his insides if needed. He doesn't know what possesses him, for he never reacted like that to anyone, never felt this spellbound, obsessed with the ecstasy provided to him. 

His moans are swallowed by yet another kiss; their teeth and tongues clashing again, their breaths caught in the back of their throat by their excitement. 

Ghost's right hand lets go of Soap's thigh, sneaking between their bodies to curl around Soap's cock one more time, jerking him off quickly, and Soap guesses that Ghost must be close.

It takes a few more minutes, at most, for Soap’s back to arch off the bed one last time, as he paints the monster's fingers in white for the second time in a few hours. 

Ghost follows a few thrusts later, marking Soap’s insides to own him, like an inner burn mark. 

******

Simon looks down at the figure splayed under him, suddenly unsure about how to proceed, how to care for this man, how to give him everything he needs. He stares at the mask covering most of his face, his mask that he took off and put there in the heat of the moment. He doesn't touch it, he doesn't move immediately, no; he freezes in realization. 

It takes him a few seconds to gather himself again, slowly pulling out of Soap and laying next to him. 

"Don't open your eyes." He says, a weird feeling taking over him, one he doesn't like, one that tastes like regrets. Again. He wants to hate himself, to stand up and disappear, but he forces himself to stay for at least a few minutes. 

He takes his mask back. Soap's eyes are closed under it, so he takes his time putting it back on. 

"When will I see your face?" His voice comes out small, out of breath. 

Simon has no answer to that, none he finds fitting enough, so he stays silent. 

Time passes, seconds, minutes, maybe hours before Simon sits up, a sigh that could make walls tremble leaving his parted lips. Another few seconds of contemplating, or rather fixing the door, and he stands up, a glacial shiver pearling down his spine as he looks around. They did it in his room. 

They had sex in his room. 

And it is taking him all his strength to not collapse onto himself. 

"Can you stand up?" 

Soap turns his head in his direction and shakes his head. Simon rolls his eyes, unable to tell if he's seriously annoyed or just pretending, and walks toward the man on his bed, carrying him bridal style. He's still naked, but that's the least of his issues. He just needs to get out of here, out of this nightmare-filled jail.

"Shower or bath?" He asks.

"I…have the choice?" Soap looks up, the beginning of a smile on his lips. 

"Yes." 

"Bath." 

Simon puts Soap down on his feet when they're inside the bathroom, telling him to let the water run before leaving the room, closing the door behind him.

Ayo, updating my main socials on here: Twitter, Discord: Sidiann

You can come talk to me anytime!

Chapter Text

"Mom, the monsters are back." 

No reaction. His mother is smoking next to the opened window, looking up at the dark blue sky, her focus miles away from the little boy standing in the door frame. 

He waits patiently, that his mother deigns turn her head, hum, acknowledge his existence, but nothing, no words of comfort, no supposed motherly instinct. 

He waits for hours, maybe, fists opening and closing around nothing. He's too old for comfort items, his father had said, he's a man, he had added, as if it was explanatory enough. And it must have been, because when Simon opened his mouth to retort something, his words tasted like blood and his face hurt for days after. 

When waiting brings nothing, he steps in the kitchen and walks to the table, sitting at the chair closest to the woman, or the wax figure standing there, still as a statue, with only her arm lifting a cigarette to her lips, and Simon envies the attention that item gets, as if it was more alive, as if it wasn't killing her slowly. 

"I don't like them." He tells the wind that engulfs itself in her hair, maybe it will listen, maybe it will answer. "They scare me." He adds, then there's a pause and he crosses his arms on the table, putting his head in the hole he formed. "Dad is still scarier though." He whispers. The wind had good ears, he’s sure it could even hear his thoughts. 

She's watching him, he can feel her eyes on top of his head, burning holes in his brain to try and communicate via telepathy. Simon looks up and her features difform with disgust, the change too minimal to be seen, but he sees it in her eyes. 

He's not wanted, he's a mistake, a pale copy, trash. 

"The monsters are back." 

"Go to bed, Simon, before your father comes back." 

Her voice is cold like the night, and she has one arm out of the window, the butt of the cigarette falling out of the house. If they're lucky, it'll catch fire, but the grass outside is too wet, it rained during the day. 

"I don't want to sleep there." 

He has his mother's cold voice, and his father's anger issues, because he's known nothing else, because they probably never lulled him to sleep, and he fell asleep to the sounds of fighting in the house. 

"Your father will be home soon." She repeats with other words, a threat of sorts that's meant to scare Simon, but it doesn't work, because he can't be scared more than he is, because if he adds more he'll die. 

"If he sees you up, he will beat you like last time." She whispers, as if she was worried for her son, but Simon knows better than to believe that any emotions other than anger and disappointment could be directed at him. He feels her hatred from where he sits at the table, he smells it like he smells the new cigarette she lights up, even though the window is wide open, because they smoke so much, his mother and father, that no amount of fresh air could fade it. 

His body remembers what his mind locks away, the bruises and cuts tell a story he keeps silent. 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She sounds disinterested; it suits her better. Simon hears familiarity in her voice, in her gesture, the way she turns to look at him for a second before focusing back on the night sky. 

“Will you come with me?” He asks. A dumb question he already knows the answer to, but he’s been told that perseverance was well seen. At least, in other families. 

“You’re old enough to go to bed by yourself.” 

Again, with his age. When was he ever too young to do something? When was he ever treated like a child, allowed to have toys? He feels old, even though he’s seen nothing of the world; he feels like he’s already died in his sleep and came back to life in this nightmare, or maybe he never woke up and this life is his personal hell. 

He could as well stop existing, they’d probably not even notice. 

Simon pushes the chair back, the legs squeaking against the tiled floor, and his mother hisses in annoyance. This too, sounds familiar. 

“I’m going, I’m going.” He says, walking back.

“Good night.” She says, and Simon doesn’t believe anything good will happen, in that room of his, but he still runs there before his father sees him. 

It is pure darkness, darker than the night, darker than humanity should allow it; and it is void of joy, void of warmth. That must be the reason the monsters love coming here so much. Simon sits on his bed for a few minutes, listening to what is happening, listening to his mother, to her walking around now that he’s gone, as if her mechanism got stuck each time he approached, only to loosen up when he was far enough. He doesn’t mind, this is normal. 

If he runs away, will someone chase him? 

He hears the main door unlock and hurries under the covers, hiding body and head, eyes tightly shut and breath held. He waits for his father to come, like he always does. Open the door and stay at the frame like a menacing shadow. He counts the seconds, sometimes they reach minutes until the shadow disappears and he’s left to his own darkness. He doesn’t believe in ghosts, he has seen worse in this house. 

When he’s certain his father won’t come back, he slides out of bed and closer to the door, ear pressed against the wood to listen to what happens on the other side. He doesn’t really need to be that close, their screams always reach his bed, but he likes this spot, he finds comfort in the cold floor, void of any carpet, void of anything that could show that a child is sleeping here.

Simon doesn’t understand what they’re screaming about, but he’s never heard them talk normally to each other after dark, or even before. They probably go at each other’s throat when he’s out of the house, because everytime he comes back from school - how lucky he is to be allowed there - he chokes on poisonous air when he opens the door. He and his mother are quite similar, in the bruises they bear. 

He stays there the whole night, listening and falling asleep at some point, on the cold floor near the door, like a dog. Maybe he would’ve been better off as a pet, maybe they would love him more, if he barked instead of spoke.

******

There’s a hole in Simon’s heart, where love should lay, reflecting the hole in his knee, the result of a fall - or was he kicked down? He’s laying face down in the gravel, eyes wide open, holding back the tears that his father hates so much. Behind him, steps can be heard, heavy, determined, and soon there's a hand on his shoulder, gripping him firmly to pull him to his feet. His knee is bleeding but the pain doesn't reach him, he's too focused on his emotions, on not letting them show on his face. He's a man, after all, and men never cry, even when the tears burn at the edge of their eyes. 

"Come on, let's go." The voice sounds tenebrous in Simon's ears, as if it was talking to something deep inside him. It is an order, one he could never disobey, even if he was missing a leg. He limps for a few seconds before the look his father gives him tells him that men never limp, feeling pain isn't allowed, showing it even less. 

"I'm fine." He tells his father, or his knee, and even starts running to push the facade to its limit. He wants to scream, with how much it hurts, but he bites his tongue and holds it, trying to pretend the burn isn't there. 

"Good." His father answers, and Simon wants to throw up even more, because he smiled saying that word, and his smile looks uglier than any facial expression available in his inventory. 

To other families, it may seem like Simon is being encouraged, taught that falling isn't the end of the world, but what Simon learns the most, is that a fist can hurt more than gravel if thrown hard enough, and that the wall in his room would be too hard to sleep on. He's been thrown against it enough times to tell. 

He never asks to be carried, even when his feet hurt from walking too much, even when sweat sticks to his skin like a second layer of clothes, even when he's exhausted, stumbling on everything the ground has to offer, face and hands dirtied with dirt and blood. He never asks for help because the answer is always the same, so he stopped asking. 

When they're back home, he undresses as fast as his cut hands allow him to and runs to the bathroom, leaning against the door with all his weight to keep it closed. They took the key away, to stop him from locking himself in. Privacy isn't a known word in this household. 

"Simon, we're eating!" He hears from across the house. His mother. 

"I'm showering!"  

And then comes the countdown, the usual three minutes he gets to clean himself, barely enough to scrub the mud off his face and hands. If he takes too long, his father opens the door and drags him out, ready or not. 

If he dares complain, he gets punched, or thrown, or both if his father is in a bad enough mood. So, most days, he eats naked and ignored by both his parents, like he's a picture in a frame. 

When he's done eating, he's sent back to his room where he can finally get dressed, and stays there until the next morning, or until his father, or on some rare occasions his mother, asks him to come out. If not, he stays there for hours, watching out the window, staring at the ceiling, or playing hide and seek with himself. It's a bad game, he never really knows who lost or won. 

******

Sometimes, when the night is darker than usual and the stars don't shine as hard, Simon sneaks out of the house with a stealth he's perfected over the years. If he's too old for toys, he must be old enough to walk outside alone, but adults still look at him with concern. Maybe it's because his face is often swollen, red and blue, one eye half closed from the beating he got minutes before. He doesn't even know why he's hurt that much, he doesn't care anymore. 

"Young man, what are you doing alone so late?" A woman asks him. She must be younger than his mother…maybe nicer. He stares at her with his cold eyes, no words leaving his tightly shut mouth. Maybe she's nicer, or maybe she's even worse. 

"What's your name? We need to find your parents." She continues. Her nails are long. Maybe she's a monster too. 

"Kid? Your name?" 

He shakes his head. 

"I can't help you if you d-" 

He doesn't hear the rest of the sentence, he starts running out of instinct, before his brain could process it, and only stops when he's out of breath, wheezing and coughing, holding himself up with a hand against a building's wall. He looks around after a minute; he hasn’t been tailed. Did he expect her to start chasing him in her heels? Even his mother wouldn't run after him in sneakers, so why would a stranger go through so much trouble?

He should go home. 

If he's lucky, his father won't have noticed his absence. Simon excels at sneaking out, but still has to work on sneaking back in without being heard or seen. One day, he'll be so invisible he'll turn into a living ghost. 

Tonight is another failure. He laughs to himself, for what awaits him must be a synonym of hell. The main door is wide open, and in the frame stands a monster, tall and broad. It's been waiting here for hours maybe, and smoke rises over its head. Simon knows it's a cigarette, but his mind runs wild; he's a kid, after all. 

"Do you ever learn?" He hears as he walks closer. He can't avoid it, he can't run away. 

"I'll do better next time." 

Tears don't threaten to spill anymore, they've dried up with the rest of him. He's too old to cry. 

Too young to hit back.

His father's hand is large enough to engulf Simon’s face, choke him, maybe, but he never does that. He doesn't want him to die, surprisingly; Simon learned that from his multiple trips to the hospital, because he's so clumsy he keeps hurting himself. Sometimes, he wonders if strangers see through their charade, or if they're completely blinded by his father's charming smile. Because that's one quality to have, when hitting a child, to be able to hide the monstrosity behind a wide grin. Simon always wants to roll his eyes when he sees the act, but he knows he'd appear impolite, and that would get him another beating. He'd love to say he's used to them, but they still hurt like they did the first time; as if he was caught in a loop. 

His head turns violently to one side when his father's hand meets his cheek, once he's been pulled inside the house. Nobody wants to see a child misbehave, nobody wants to see the dark side of this household. They're a bonded family, bonded by broken chains, sticky with blood. 

One slap isn't enough, he won't learn, it won't stay in that stupid head of his. He's heard that enough to start believing it, and if slaps aren't enough, kicks are added, and he's punched until there's no air in his lungs, until he chokes on his own spit, until the tears are forced out of him, just so his father can comment on how weak he is, because men don't cry, even when they're being beaten halfway to death. 

"Go to your room." His father says, lighting a cigarette, as if he was the one needing to relax after all this. 

Simon stands up on trembling legs, unable to grab anything around, for he'd only stain the furniture, and it is more important than him. 

He walks to his room with the tiny amount of confidence left in him, as fake as the rest, and once he's behind the door, lets himself fall to the floor. 

It hurts, and he gasps as silently as he can, while waiting for his father to go back to his own room so he can sneak into the bathroom and tend to his wounds. 

******

"The monsters." Simon says when he enters the kitchen, like every day this week, because the nightmares got worse, as if growing older made them grow stronger. His mother still ignores him, and sometimes he wonders if she also forgot his name, or that he is her son. He turned twelve about a month ago, but he feels much older with the way his body threatens to collapse at any given time. He's held together with hate and a will to survive he doesn't quite understand. 

She doesn't ask him to go back to bed anymore, she doesn't pretend to worry anymore; she stopped caring somewhere between his tenth and eleventh birthday, as if her responsibilities as a parent suddenly went away. He's not sure he remembers her name either, not sure he wants to keep calling her anything. Maybe she can be a picture in a frame. 

Simon sits at the table after having grabbed a bowl of cereal, even though it is not time for eating. He watches his mother, who for once isn't smoking, but holding a glass of bourbon in her hand, slowly sipping on it. Alcohol is usual here, he doesn't think he's ever seen water bottles; if he wants a drink, he gets it from the tap.

"You should stop drinking." He used to tell her, and she would either shrug or not answer, so he gave that up too. Now he counts how long it takes for her to finish a bottle, and if she downs it before his father comes back, he wins, and if he wins…well, he still gets beaten up for being in the kitchen in the middle of the night, but at least he gained some sense of satisfaction. She's always watching him, never lifting a finger to help, never comforting him afterwards. The only thing that stops her from being worse than his father is that she isn't physically abusive with him. 

He tries to forget about them, at night, replacing his nightmares with a dream where he would get rid of them, a world where they wouldn’t exist, and where the only memory he’d have would be of them screaming, howling in despair. He closes his eyes and imagines their faces, if he were to hold a gun against their foreheads and press the trigger. He thinks about it a lot, when he’s left alone, unsure of what is the most painful: the bruises or the solitude? 

“I think you and the monsters would be friends.” Simon tells his mother while chewing on his food. His jaw hurts, he put a lot in his mouth. That reminds him that he’s still a kid, stupidly. She doesn’t say anything, though, even when she sees him struggling to swallow, even when he coughs and runs to the sink to get some water, she still sits on her chair, legs crossed like she’s some kind of actress, and Simon thinks she has to be, to stay in a household like theirs. 

When he’s emptied the glass and set it on the kitchen counter, he turns to his mother, face grave yet still painted with that layer of innocence all kids have, and he wonders who painted it there, because nothing he’s ever seen could explain it. 

“Would you be happy if I died?”

Sometimes Simon would rather hear the head-hurting screams rather than a silence so loud. 

******

Time flies, they tell him, and it soothes all the scars. He feels like an eternity has passed and his wounds are still gaping. Is he doing something wrong?

They don’t bake cakes, for his birthdays, they barely even acknowledge them, so Simon often sits alone, on his bed, holding his mother’s lighter and a cigarette he stole from her - they wouldn’t notice the smell, the whole house is infused. He uses both items as a substitute for his pretend chocolate cake with sprinkles, the one he always sees in that one bakery, a few buildings after the brothel. He doesn’t enjoy his birthday cake this time. Sometimes he does, it really depends on how he feels. 

******

Simon never gets anything explained to him, none of the things he learned were thanks to his parents, and he often wonders if they do that to keep him in the dark, or if they just know nothing about how the world functions. The latter wouldn’t be too surprising, knowing how weak their bond is. What they can’t understand gets destroyed, and maybe that’s the reason Simon lives each day he’s alive with new bruises on his body. It is just the result of misunderstandings. 

They never talk to him about anything, he’s just a decoration in the house, a plant, something they have to water to not let it wither, but the issue wouldn’t be the withering, but the consequences of such actions. 

She’s pregnant, Simon learned about it a few months ago, or rather heard it. They’re not discreet, never were, and even though he’s heard from classmates that sex was supposed to be this cool experience, all he feels when he hears the moans and grunts echo through the house is an incredible urge to run away and throw up the contents of his stomach. He hides under the bed, when it happens, as if it would save him. 

They never wanted to send him to school, but that would’ve meant keeping him home and teaching him everything, and that, they wanted even less. 

He learns a lot at school, mostly that not smiling makes everyone avoid him like the plague, which he doesn’t really mind, he’s used to being alone. At least they don’t beat him down to the ground. That’s good enough. 

When he walks back, he often takes as much time as he can, wishing for the minutes to turn into hours, the hours into days, so that his way to his parents takes an eternity, and maybe, just maybe, they die before he reaches the door. 

It never happens, even after a thousand wishes on all the stars in the night sky. The stars must be too far, deaf to his despair.

Waiting for so long often results in the sun going down while he’s still outside, and he stares at the sky in awe, the colors so pretty yet reminiscent of the way his skin oscillates between reds and blues, colors he learned to be abnormal for any human being. He remembers thinking everybody had those marks, when he was still too young to understand how wrong they were. 

There’s a street he likes, because it is constantly busy and illuminated at night. He could live there, lean against one of the building’s walls, watch people walk by, come up with a life for each of them to forget about his own. On that street, there’s a brothel, lit red as blood. The door is always open, and Simon can see the women pass in front of it, sometimes with a man on their arm, sometimes with their heels in one hand, hurrying from one side to the other. He doesn’t walk in, he just observes; sometimes from the window, sometimes from the other side of the street, and he stays there for hours, maybe days. It makes no difference, his parents probably forgot about his existence anyway, like he wishes he could forget about theirs. 

“Aren’t you a little young to be peeking inside here?” A woman draped in a yellow cardigan asks. The color doesn’t suit her, and the lipstick she wears looks like she bit her lip to the flesh. She reminds him of his mother, mostly because she’s smoking. 

He looks at her for long seconds, then, without peeping a word, turns around and walks away. He doesn’t want to speak to strangers, not because he’s been advised against it, but because he refuses to create new relationships; all they do is get destroyed, or destroy him. 

The house is silent when he finally stands in front of it, hand on the doorknob, listening attentively. The stillness is tricky, the monster could be hiding in a corner, unheard yet brutal, and Simon feels like the hand that already appeared so huge to his little face doubled in size. 

When he pushes the door open, the entrance is bathed in darkness and the light of the moon reflects off the furniture. He took his shoes off outside, breath stuck somewhere between his lungs and his throat, eyes strained to see in the dim room, because turning the lights on would be the same as playing Russian roulette with a fully-loaded gun. He learned about that mortal game from his drunk father, who tells him all sorts of horrors like anyone else would tell a joke, with those dead eyes lighting up for an instant. 

“Would you play that game, Simon?” 

Simon hates when that man says his name, it creeps him out. 

He’d play it, the game, and he’d point the gun at their temples. 

He’s gotten better at sneaking in, and makes it to his room without waking anyone up, or at least, without being heard, if they’re awake. They must’ve known he wasn't home, they can’t be that ignorant about his schedule. They’re playing with him, he’s sure of it. 

The woman in the yellow cardigan, maybe she would be a better mother. 

******

Simon doesn’t have a favorite color, but he’s getting used to seeing the crimson-filled door frame, as if the inside of the building was on fire, each time he comes back from school. He also waits for the woman in yellow to come out before walking away. The first time she didn’t come out wearing yellow, he didn’t recognize her, but she did, and shooed him away with a click of her tongue. At that moment, Simon paid more attention to her features, the dark brown of her eyes, the auburn of her hair, her eyebrows giving her a constant surprised expression. He doesn’t know if she’s pretty, but she looks nothing like his mother, so by definition, she must be. 

Now, he’s old enough to know that she’s a prostitute, or rather, old enough to understand the meaning behind it. She gets paid for sex, and even though his father treats his mother to all the names synonymous with it, he’s never given her any money for it. As far as Simon is aware, anyway.

"You again? Don't you have a home to go back to?" She asks, one eyebrow raised for a second before she furrows them and with a motion of the hand, silently tells him to fuck off, for lack of kinder wording. 

Simon walks away, face blank of emotion, but his interest for this place spiking up. When he's home again, as always sliding through the door like a ghost, and laying down on his bed, he imagines how his first time in a place like that would be. All he knows is that it must be warm and loud, not like this house. 

******

"Where do you go after school?" His father asks, his face severe, but it’s all that’s ever been directed at him, so his expression doesn't really scare him. Once, he was terrified by his father, when his hand was bigger than his face. Now, he's scared of his own reflection, of how much it has started to resemble him, and how much tearing his skin off starts to sound like a good idea. 

"Like you care." He mumbles, looking down. Not for long, though, not when his father grabs a fist of his hair and yanks his head up, his other hand landing in a fist against his cheek. Simon looks up at this monster, and hates himself more, the more they stare at each other. 

"Look at me when you answer." 

Simon looks, he looks until his eyes burn, but no tears ever spill out of his void. 

"I said, like you care." He repeats, voice clearer, and the second punch hurts much more. It is unnecessary and makes him want to run away, but he can't, not without money. He refuses to be a parasite to society like he is to his parents. 

He doesn't need to run, he's sent to his room as if he was still ten, and again, like always, he sneaks in the bathroom when all is calm. 

He despises the mirror for reflecting his features so clearly, despises his eyes for being so good at seeing, and the world for birthing him. He hates that he exists only to be ignored, that people look at him with pity or disgust, that he's still too young to be useful to anyone. When he turns sixteen- and that’ll be soon enough- he'll leave, go live under a bridge, in the brothel, anywhere but here. 

******

Simon is informed his mother gave birth the moment he steps in the house, after hours, maybe days outside, in a rather cold way, from his father. She elected to give birth at home, just as she had with Simon, apparently. Something about people asking about the bruises on her body annoys his father. 

“Your brother is here.” 

Simon doesn’t look at him for too long and almost turns around to leave, abandoning the innocent baby in the arms of the monsters, because he doesn't have the courage. He knows how wrong it is, to be so selfish, but he stopped caring long ago, stopped listening to the adults who told him to live a righteous life, choose the right path. How can he do such a thing, when the map he’s been given was meant to misguide him?

He’s not capable of loving someone that is his own flesh and blood, just like his parents seem unable to love him. Or was he loved, when he was still a baby? Maybe he's the one who ruined it all by not being good enough, by never understanding the pain he goes through and the reason it exists. Maybe he's at fault for being alive, at fault for stealing the household, the space. 

“He'll sleep in your room.” 

Simon's father adds, a few seconds later, and Simon pinches his lips, stopped in his tracks. Whether he agrees or not doesn't concern them, that his sleep schedule will be ruined is his problem alone. He knows it too well. 

He wishes he was back outside, at the brothel, somewhere where none of them exist. He wishes for the ground to swallow him whole. 

He doesn't ask what the baby's name is; he likes to think that he doesn't care, and pretends that seeing him cradled in his mother's arms doesn't rip a hole in his heart that he thought was already gaping. He learns that day that pain is limitless. 

She looks at the baby with loving eyes, with a pride Simon never remembers being directed at him, and he stands there, in the door frame, feeling like he's too much, something they've waited to discard for something new, and the lack of love for the little creature in her arms turns into hate, a hate so deeply rooted he's convinced he was born with it. 

He hates his little brother more than he could ever hate himself. 

When she looks up, the light on her features slowly fades. 

“His name is Tommy.” 

Violence rushes through Simon like an urge and he closes his fists tightly. 

“Come greet your brother.” She beckons him, and he would've refused if he didn't feel the shadow of his father behind him. He walks slowly to the edge of the bed, staring at this replacement, this living merchandise only here to fulfill his parents’ ego. 

He leans closer, face blank, one hand cupping the oh so small cheek of his little brother, and after a kiss on his forehead, meant to show something, he supposes, he mouths something that will stay between them for the rest of time. 

‘You shouldn't have been born. I hate you.’

He turns to his mother with the ghost of a smile on his lips. “He looks like you.” 

He turns to his father, the smile disappearing completely, and no words come out, none that wouldn't be insults and screams. He walks past him, expecting a hand to grab his hair and yank him back, or maybe choke him and throw him on the floor, but none of that happens; his father just enters the room and sits next to his mother, his brutal hands so careful towards the newborn. 

******

Simon learns to tolerate the toddler, not love him, never, even when he asks for hugs, even when he sits so close to him he can smell the shampoo in his hair, a reminder of what he didn’t have. They treat him good, for now, shower him with the love they apparently stored inside them, never to be shared with the older child. 

He learns to adapt his sleeping schedule to the cries, use the few seconds he can close his eyes like they’re his eight hours of sleep, use the times he’s outside to catch a nap, somewhere on a bench, against a wall, at school, wherever his family isn’t. 

School… It’s been some time since he went, since he sat down to learn. He doesn’t have time for that, school doesn’t pay him to escape this household, it doesn’t teach him how to counter a punch or how to calm a screaming child. It doesn’t tell him how to love, and what love is supposed to mean, it doesn’t tell him how to exist when the people that should matter the most to him feel like they’ve been placed there by mistake. 

He gave up long ago and nobody was there to catch him in his fall, not even the woman at the brothel. She wouldn’t know how to help, because Simon doesn’t know how to help himself. 

“Go put Tommy to bed.” His father says, and Simon looks at the child looking up at him with huge eyes, like they’re about to pop out of their sockets. He hates him. 

“Come here, let’s go.” 

Sometimes, when they’re sitting together and Simon tells Tommy a story about monsters that never ends well, the younger sibling traces the different bruises on his brother’s body - often the arms or legs - and asks if the monster did it. Simon always nods; he’s the hero of his own story, and he always dies at the end. 

“I don’t want you to die.” Tommy whispers. 

“I won’t…or maybe I will. I don’t know, stuff like that can’t be decided.” Simon answers as he carries his brother to his bed. 

“What is death anyway?” Tommy sits down on his bed and cradles the stuffed bear his mother…their mother bought for him. It takes some time for Simon to think of an answer.

“I think…I think it’s when mom and dad look at me. That feels like death.”

Tommy probably doesn’t understand what he means, but that’s not important. Simon hates his brother.

…but maybe not enough to let him rot in an environment like this one. 

There’s no good-night kiss, no good night at all and although the loathing eats his insides like they’re made of honey, although he resents the very innocence of his brother, the way he’s treated so much better than he ever was or ever will be, Simon promises himself right then and there that he’ll get Tommy out of here before violence corrupts his sinless young soul into what it has made of him. 

******

Darkness surrounds Simon like the night engulfs this house, when he thinks of helping others, or when he thinks of reaching out for help, and it swallows him before the ground does, following him to the depths of his nightmares. He can’t escape it, it is a part of him, a shadow walking so close behind him he can barely see it, but he knows it’s there. 

It is here when he grabs the phone book and browses through the pages, in search of that one number that’s meant to save his brother like he could never be saved. It lurks over him, whispering all the worst scenarios in his ear, like a demon on his shoulder, like an echo of his father’s voice. 

He memorizes the number when he finds it and puts the book back where he found it, looking around the room to see if he’s been spotted, but the house is as calm as never, in an almost worrying manner. Maybe he’s too used to the cries and screams ringing through each room, maybe that stillness also feels like death. Too calm isn’t good for him, it makes the shadows grow on the walls, and they eat at him like parasites. 

Simon tiptoes back to his room, closing the door behind him as silently as possible and sliding under the covers of his bed. He listens to the silence, to the thoughts in his head, so many of them that he barely understands. He should be too young to think about everything that crosses his mind. What do normal teenagers think about? When was his childhood stolen from him? Did he ever have one? 

Did he even deserve one?

Chapter Text

Darkness looks darker in a lone setting, and sometimes, even light feels like darkness if the solitude is great enough. How can intimacy vanish so quickly, as if it had never existed, and be replaced by a hole, an empty feeling, a pain spread across dimensions. 

Big looks bigger when the point of view is right, and bigger looks giant when the mind holds onto the impossible. Sunlight does not reach the corners of a broken mind. 

He's alone, as alone as lonely can be, maybe more. He’s been left behind and his chest tightens as he holds back the tears that threaten to fall, for nobody to see. He's past the tantrums, he's past the violence and the heart-wrenching screams. His loneliness lacks company, and the sun is too far to hug. The monster on the other side of the door turned to ash, he heard it crumble in its silence, he felt it like a slice of a knife across his soul, like regret seeped through his pores, a forbidden drug that causes hallucinations that taste too much like reality. 

He hates it. 

The water would turn cold if he let it run to fill the bathtub, if he waited for an eternity for him to come back, for their shared moments to be real once again. A lie can only feed itself for so long, a dream can only exist with one’s eyes closed, a fairytale can only exist in books, and he’s pretty certain that the book of his life was burned with all he owned. 

The sun ricochets against the tiles, never on his mind, never in his eyes, they’ve darkened, light sucked out of them by a hungry beast, swallowed by the darkness that lies still but attacks quickly. He never saw it coming. He regrets not seeing it coming. He regrets being blinded by thoughts that things couldn’t get worse as they are. He dwells on the past, the chokehold it has on him tightening, and his lungs pain to fill with air. He breathes air that tastes like fear and stings like water in his nose, and his throat is raw when he tries to cough it out. It is blood that splatters the walls of his subconscious. 

He’s naked, exposed to invisible witnesses that judge him like he’s in court, and they stare at him, feed on his weakness, and he realizes that truth also needs sustenance, but he’s not sure which one is easier to feed, which one is most greedy. 

When his eyes are closed and all he sees is black, he’d expect to escape all his fears, but they slide through the darkness, guided by their sense of smell, guided by that same greed, and it guides them right to him. He can’t run away from himself, he can’t run because he’s being kept inside. 

One hand on the doorknob twists it, his heart following the motion as he pushes the door open. He can’t let the water turn cold, he can’t betray their routine, as wrong as it is in the first place.

“Ghost?” He calls, listening to the silence that screams back at him, ringing in his ears like a sickening creaking. His ears fall on the floor and so does his body when the energy that kept him up and functioning suddenly collapses, because if the monster itself breaks down, how is he, a mere human, a mere victim, supposed to stand? 

He sits there, the menace, and Soap stares at it for long seconds, trying to wrap his brain around the situation, trying to understand what is happening inside his own mind, trying to understand the need he has to wrap his arms around the man that made him suffer so much. 

“Ghost.” He repeats the name, to see if it tastes any different, maybe sweeter. 

It doesn’t. 

It doesn’t and Soap is confused, he doesn’t know how to react, doesn’t know where the boundaries are, how much he’s allowed to touch before the trigger springs out. They had sex, but maybe that was a dream, maybe that was part of Ghost’s book, maybe he has no rights to even mention it. 

He wants to mention it, he wants to understand. 

He takes a risk by sitting down on the sofa next to him, expecting a violent reaction, eyes like lasers directed at him, a punch, a kick, a repeat of the bucket against his cheekbone. He’d even go grab it, if Ghost asked.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, worried. Worried? Worried about himself, surely, about not being taken care of properly, if the monster can’t even endure its own existence.

Ghost turns to him, and his eyes reflect an emptiness so thick Soap pains to see what's behind. The man hides behind his lack of emotions, he hides like a coward, unable to stand his position. Isn't he supposed to be a killing machine? Aren't the scars on his body proof of his fearlessness? Or does courage crumble in on itself when hands roam around his naked skin? 

Has Soap clawed at Ghost's walls too hard? Has he uncovered flesh, splattered the blood of his subconscious onto the already stained conscience of the man sitting next to him? He knows nothing about his past. 

“You can tell me.” He pushes and pulls at the boundaries, tests their solidity, scratches the flesh under the wall. Is it revenge? It wouldn't be enough to be considered as such. Maybe one day, when Soap grabs the bucket in the basement and sways it in a wide arc until it meets Ghost's face, sending him stumbling across the room, maybe he'll lose teeth, spit blood out, maybe that will feel like revenge. 

They've fused together, sweat sticky on their skins, hands and mouths sliding so easily against each other, and yet they don't touch now, they don't breathe the same air, they don't exist in the same dimension, and Soap's calls stay unanswered. 

“Did I do something wrong?” He starts doubting. Did he read the whole situation wrong? Was there never any desire between them? Was he projecting his wishes onto the man who had stolen his life? Can the prey turn into the predator, if the timing allows it? 

“Nothing. There's nothing to tell.” He says, but his voice sounds like the opposite, like there's something inside him begging to be heard, something he locked so deep down, until he forgot its existence. 

Soap claws a little harder, nails getting dirty with morbid curiosity and a dash of sincerity. 

“It can't be nothing, you left me in the bathroom to come sit here.” He doesn't add how pathetic he thinks it is, how unfair, how maddening for him to be stuck even in that semblance of freedom. He wants to wrap his hands around Ghost's neck, maybe his own, and press hard until he hears a crack, but even that wouldn't give him his freedom back. 

“There's nothing you need to know.” He shifts his words, and Soap pulls out an invisible knife when his nails aren't strong enough to keep peeling layers of walls and flesh, and he stabs the knife into that barrier like a man possessed by a newfound will, a taste of something close enough to the freedom he so deeply craves. 

“Would I see you as weak if I knew?” He plays a dangerous game if the knife isn't sharp enough, or if Ghost turns it back against him. 

“You're really digging into things you don't want to know.” 

“Bold of you to assume you know what I want.” Drinking a bottle of poison and waiting for the effects must be similar to provoking Ghost, so Soap waits for the inevitable consequences of his actions. 

Because then, maybe, possibly, if violence sneaks its way back into their routine, his heart will stop beating so hard for all the wrong reasons, he'll stop feeling like he owes Ghost something. 

Or would he rather try to find beauty in horror? Dig as deep as he can go, because logically, there must always be light behind darkness, both can't exist separately. 

There's a pattern that is tangled, a rhythm in their lives that is dissonant, unpleasant to the ear, and yet they repeat it every day, and even when they try to differ from it, it chases them, like a starving predator spotting the last prey left. This pattern of fear, violence, and uncertainty imprisons Soap in a wheel from which he tries to run, but all it does is spin faster. Sometimes, he thinks he's close to finding a normal life again, when they kiss, when Ghost acts nicely, when they touch, but he learns soon enough that those positive moments feel like a speck of dust compared to the flood of negativity that will be thrown at him. 

And that flood starts with a hand, a fist, and a cheek, his cheek, meeting brutally. 

“Do I really need to go back to square one? Who allowed you to be so annoying?”

He should've seen it coming. No, he saw it coming, he just wished it wouldn't happen, wished their intimate moments meant something.

Do they not? Or was it not obvious enough? Were their kisses, his obedience and submissiveness not good enough? Or was he manipulated all along?

He doesn't want to believe that last thought. Not only does he not want to, he refuses to, as much as children refuse to believe that Santa Klaus doesn't exist, because if not a red big man, then who is supposed to put all the gifts under the tree? 

They're innocent, and maybe, if he tries harder, he can throw himself out of that wheel and into that innocence that seems so simple to acquire when life doesn't get in the way. 

His mouth tastes like blood, and he's reminded that in front of him sits a soldier, a killer, whose force is proportional to how bad his mood is. 

“Sorry.” He whispers, jaw sore and tears threatening to fall.  He's pulled back months prior, and it hurts. It's never hurt like that, it's never hurt so much that he felt like his skin was slowly peeled apart to access his heart. He looks down at his hand, the little bit of blood not doing the pain justice. It sure feels like he's lost gallons of blood with that one blow. 

And like it always happens, after the violence comes the comfort, and Soap hates himself for relaxing into it, he hates himself for sighing in relief when the hand on his cheek becomes soft, caressing the skin, and again, a sentence he must've heard a million times, and it must carved in his DNA. 

“I thought you had learned, Soap.” 

There must be a word stronger than pain, encompassing all the negative emotions one can feel, a word that is a scream, that embodies despair. A word he could cry to nobody, to the invisible judges in the bathroom, for if there is no such word, Soap doesn't know how he can bear this. 

******

He hates himself.

No, what he hates is the version of himself he's become, the mere copy of the man he so sincerely hated. And what he hates most is how comforting he finds it, to be in control, so brutally so. Didn't he want to change? Didn't he promise that he'd change? 

But that control is liquid between his fingers, useless, running through as he tries to catch it, and as soon as the action is printed into reality, the consequences follow immediately. 

He's sorry. He doesn't know how to say he's sorry. He's never known how to say he's sorry. 

His mouth opens and closes like a gasping fish outside of water, and he chokes on his own mistake, and it slices his throat with its sharpness, and he bleeds onto himself. He bleeds so much that his whole body can taste it, and his tears are blood too, and the saliva in his mouth turns red, he's red all over, he's never been so red, never tasted regret so strongly on his tongue. 

But it's too late to apologize, too difficult to explain the reason behind those actions, and the words are missing anyway, they're missing because they haven't yet been invented, because he knows sorry isn't nearly enough. 

The hand he places on Soap's cheek wants to shake but he doesn't let it, he locks it in position, pours cement inside it, pours cement inside his body and soul and builds back the walls Soap had so gently taken apart. 

This can't happen. They can't happen. Not like that, not until he's his own person, and not just a mirror of his father. Never, actually. Never ever. 

Is he alive? 

“Let's get that cleaned up.” 

It is a leap in the past, a jump so big it breaks their legs, gets them stuck right back in the toxicity they thought they had escaped. It is as if trauma wasn't so easy to push away, as if it held onto them so tightly, with so much force, that the scars resulting were like a branding. 

Simon sits Soap down on the toilet seat and memories flash behind his opened eyes. He's lost, he doesn't know what to think, he doesn't know where to place himself between worry and indifference. He doesn't know if he's the punisher or the protector anymore, if the mask isn't a strong enough separation. 

They don't speak as Simon cleans the wound. They don't look at each other either. If they can be too aware of each other, they can certainly ignore each other's existence for a few moments. 

Those moments, Simon wants to make them last for an eternity, he wants to die before he remembers who he hurt, and who hurt him, but the memories are too vivid, and they burn like they did on the first day. He knows how bad it hurts, yet he makes others suffer, maybe because it is easy, because all that strength he pretends to have is just cowardice. 

He wishes to be loved too, he just doesn't know how. 

“I was thinking about my childhood.” He says, when the silence pressing on his chest gets too heavy. Isn’t he a soldier? Hasn’t he been trained to endure such torture, not cave the moment it gets too uncomfortable? He bleeds out of every pore and Soap catches him as he liquefies. He doesn't cry but it breaks inside, his heart, his soul, something. Everything. He doesn't cry but maybe he should, if only he hadn't forgotten how. 

“How was it?” Soap asks, but he's on his guards, and his voice is no louder than a shaky whisper. 

“I don't know, I have nothing to compare it to.” 

“Why did you hit me?” There's anger this time, anger that overflows and tips over Soap's eyes, turning into tears. 

There's a part of Simon that wants to comfort him, and another part that is annoyed, so annoyed, so fucking annoyed. How dare he cry when he himself doesn't know how to? 

“I don't know.” 

He knows alright, he just doesn't want to admit it, or simply talk about it. He doesn't want to open that gate because he's scared of how dry the hidden side will be, how much the memories resurfacing will consume him, and turn his solid form into loose sand. He's scared of the human inside him and tries to push it away with the only blockage he knows of, the only thing he's learned, the only thing that works. 

Being good at hurting inadvertently made him great at healing, he knows how to sew a cut, he knows how to not leave marks for the world to see, he knows how to appear harmless, even though the smell of the blood on his hands is overly present. He sees it, when he looks up at them, at night, laying on his back in the dark. It drops on his face, and his hands melt with the blood, and he keeps his eyes open because if he closes them his whole body will melt, or be crushed by the weight of his own existence. 

He's reminded of how much he doesn't understand why he's here, why he wasn't choked to death as a kid, why nobody saw the danger he was to others, why they were all charmed by a smile, a simple smile. They can't see it now, Soap can't see it now. He won't ever smile again anyway. 

“Step in the shower, I'll clean you.” 

Soap listens even more when he's hurt, and it would be easy to fall into that devil's circle, so easy that it makes the tip of Simon's fingers tingle and for a second he has the urge to slam Soap's head against the wall, like an urge to sneeze, and that scares him more than all the bullets he's avoided. 

He turns the water on, warm, maybe to be forgiven, maybe because he can't remember how he's supposed to treat him now because he confuses two extremes of the same line. 

He remembers even less how to touch his body, how much is not enough, and how enough is too much. 

“Tell me if…” He starts, then stops. He doesn't know how to react anymore, he doesn't know anything anymore, why they're here, why they had sex in the first place, why he let himself lose control, like he never had any to start with. And violence wouldn't change the past, how frustrating, how infuriating. 

If Soap had never stopped fearing him, where would they be now? Would he have touched him in the same way? Or would their intimacy have been a reflection of their dynamic, terrifying and hurtful? 

He can't remember the man he was, or the man he wasn't, or the man he would've been if his childhood had been exemplary. 

“How was your childhood?” He asks as he cleans Soap's body, the attentive motions familiar enough that he doesn't have to think about doing it right. 

“Hm…normal, I guess? You said it, I have nothing to compare it to either.” 

Simon chuckles, it is short, it is dry. It feels bad, like watching himself in the mirror, like holding a dead friend in his arms, like stabbing his own chest. Is his heart broken? How can it be broken if it doesn't exist? He has lied to himself for too long for it to suddenly appear again, heavy between his lungs and threatening to break through his rib cage. 

“My father hit me.” Simon says, as casually as he's able to without his throat closing. Why now? Why is the man he kidnapped the man he confesses all of his secrets to?

“My dad didn’t, but sometimes he got mad and I thought he was scary.” Soap answers, and Simon hums like he understands. How nice it must've been to be only scared in theory. 

“I think he started hitting me when I was around seven…six? I don't know, it was early.” The faucet can't be closed now, even though no water flows, Simon feels the sand of his statued form slowly detach itself. 

Soap knows when to stay silent apparently, or maybe he has nothing to say to that. 

“Sometimes he'd grab me by whatever he got his hand on first and would throw me against a wall.” It is cold, it hurts in ways it wasn't supposed to. He did his best to block whatever this is, he did his best to be no one. He thought it would be easy to not feel, since he never learned how to. But maybe he simply never learned how to control what he feels, and what he pushed away piled up inside him and is now overflowing. 

He talks before he can think, and the thoughts turn into words that are made of sand. He  sees them fall to the ground and form little piles, and tries to grab them again, push them back inside him to not lose the man he’s become, because who is he supposed to be, when all the sand lays on the floor? 

Would covering his face still be useful, once he's broken and beat? Would bearing a code name still make him feel stronger, once he's twisted until his spine snaps? Because it sure feels like it will at some point. Not physically, of course not. He's strong physically, he can carry boulders, physically, he can avoid bullets with that body of his and the bullets that cross his body in more or less straight lines refuse to kill him. 

He's fine, physically, and he would be even better if it was the only thing he had to rely on. 

He's fine mentally too, he promises himself, he promises the six-year-old child who saw his childhood be slowly covered in rot, ruined by vanity and violence. He can't break that promise, not when he's spent so many years filling his part of the deal. We forget, and if we forget, it has never happened. 

So why is he remembering? Worse, why is he putting words to those parts of his life that were meant to stay hidden? For what, or for who, is he exhuming them? Surely not for him. 

“You're repeating a circle.” Soap whispers, and he sounds a little like a therapist. 

“Thank you for telling me that, really, I never noticed.” 

******

There's no way to know how Ghost will react from one moment to another and it fucks with Soap's head, makes him overthink his words, his tone, how to say whatever he wants to say so he won’t end up all bloody and bruised. He thought that time was over, he really did. 

He put his hands over his eyes and ignored the obvious signs, the fact that abuse never stops with a snap of his fingers, the fact that if it happened once it will continue to happen endlessly. Maybe violence is a drug, maybe the reason Ghost can't stop is the same reason he can't stop drinking. A circle, a wheel that spins faster and faster and faster and faster and he's dizzy but it doesn't stop and he's about to throw up. It slowed down when Ghost stopped hitting him but it never stopped, it slowed down when they had sex but it never stopped. It will stop when it's too late, when he's not breathing anymore. How did he end up here? 

He's too caught up in his thoughts to notice the water running down his body, too busy trying to find ways to solve their issues to realize he's being dried, and Ghost holds him close for an instant, and he apologizes in their proximity, even though they both know it will happen again, in a day or a month, it doesn't matter. Time can be molded however they please, and the kisses and whispers won't heal the scars. 

He had dreams. Did he? Somewhere along his ride, maybe, and he was forced to partially give them up. Ghost was nice enough to feed his passion but even that is not sufficient, nothing compares to freedom, and Soap forgot how it feels to be free.

He sees his reflection in the mirror, he sees his eyes reddened by salty tears, he sees himself trying to stay on the surface but the current would make it so easy to simply let go. 

Ghost relapsed and they fell even deeper. It is hard to breathe underwater. 

Chapter Text

Betrayal is a shape-shifter. It takes many forms, it sneaks everywhere. It is there where no one awaits it, it is untouchable. It is invisible, yet it hurts like a brick when it hits. And Soap should’ve known it would come, like the sun comes up at dawn, like an exhale after an inhale or how he’s been taught fire burns. 

He sits in a silence so heavy his breath gets stuck in his throat and he coughs his worries like he’s choking on something he was forced to swallow long ago. He hoped for a better turn of events, but hoping doesn’t bring any results. He could keep hoping all he wants, the punches would still hurt and his heart would still bleed profusely on the floor like his chest is torn apart, and he tries to breathe but the air doesn’t come and he feels his whole body convulse like the bass in a song he hears loud in his ears, in his brain, in his veins, in his soul. He falls apart, piece by piece, like a puzzle that is stuck together by the mere force of what-ifs, by the mere force of possibility and dreams and naivety and again he should’ve known, if only he had opened his eyes, if he hadn’t been blinded by the fire that burned inside him. It took abstract forms controlled by the wind or by time or whatever it is that brought him where he is in his life. He is filled to the brim with regrets. 

The basement bathes in darkness. Tranquility is the gate to madness. Soap stares at the stairs that go up to the door that is locked, never ready to open. He stares but he doesn’t see their outline because the lamp stays off so his thoughts can eat at him without being bothered. His eyes are wide open but he’s blind to his surroundings like he’s trying to force himself to live in a dream he knows has shattered before he could even put his fingers on it. 

When he blinks there are tears in his eyes. He ignores where they come from, for he feels like he’s cried himself dry. There is no surface for them to reflect on, no witness to see him be weak, no arms for comfort, no presence and no voice that tells him to be strong, that those moments will pass and that happiness awaits on the other side. He doesn’t know what that other side would be, if freedom or death or something in between, if he’d be happier if he stabbed Ghost’s chest until it resembled the dirt under his shoes when they walked in the forest. 

He should try to sleep. 

But when he closes his eyes the thoughts get bigger like a wave that pulls back on the shore, draining the water, his energy, mental and physical, so he ends up not sleeping at all. Still, he lays on his mattress and pulls the blanket over his head, as if the darkness wasn’t dark enough, as if he needed to block out any lights that could come if the door ever opened, but he already knows it won’t. Ghost doesn’t care enough, or his pride is too great and he stands on his throne looking down at the mess he’s created. Does he like it? Does he find pleasure in despair like he’s found it in the heat of their bodies intertwined together, like branches of a tree made of ashes and fear? Does he jerk off at night, using narcissism as lube? Is he proud? 

Morpheus becomes a myth the more Soap's eyes refuse to close, the more his body resists the relaxation that seemed so sensical before. His eyes stay desperately open, and he doesn't blink, unable to move. But his heart races, what is left of it, it races faster than he can follow, it is erratic like when they kiss, it is out of control like when it is filled with fear, liquid, sliding everywhere, a vapor he inhales. 

He has been dirtied. His body bears the evidence of his sully, marks that oppose though they bloom the same colors. Passion and violence are two sides of the same coin, and he's the one who threw it, he played with fate so he can only blame himself. Or should he call it love and hate? What difference does it make if they kiss with passion or with intent to kill? If the punches are used to control or make Soap fold to Ghost's will, what importance does the side of the coin have, if the result never changes? 

Time doesn't pass, it stagnates over him like a cloud that is full of rain, and the rain are his tears, the ones he forced himself to stop. He still sees the invisible judges, the ones that tell him he's at fault, the ones that remember that time he wanted to die. He doesn't want to die anymore. He doesn't know what he wants, he's confused, lost. 

He should try to sleep. 

But there aren't enough sheep to count, there isn't enough imagination to tire his mind and he's left behind as his body gives up on him, but his mind won't shut up, it keeps thinking and it circles at full speed like the wheel he's caught in, and he replays all that happened to him since he ended here, and the more he plays it, the blurrier it becomes, so much that he can't differentiate reality with his own wishes. Did he notice Ghost before? Did they talk before he was abducted? Has he seen his face? 

In a marathon, his mind would win, it never stops running, it never stops hurting. Even when he gives up and turns the light on, even when he goes to sit at his table and sketch his thoughts away. They look like nothing, not a face, not a landscape, not any forms or abstract art. They look like pain has taken form, like it has shifted to stain the paper. Soap needs to ask Ghost for more paper, there's almost none left. 

The door is still closed, still locked. Or maybe it isn't, maybe he's just convincing himself it is, maybe it is just an excuse because he's scared of what would happen if he went out now, if he dares open the door, because no promise is protecting him anymore. 

Rules and promises are the same, they exist to be broken, they exist to be trampled on like trust between people. 

Is it normal for Soap to miss him? Is it normal that the physical pain of a punch feels much less painful than the mental pain of being apart for too long? Is he in love? Is that love? What does he know about love, even? 

Loud screams and blood splattering, a passion red as they kiss, as they fuck, as they fight against the world and stab each other's backs. Is that it? 

Obsession, stalking, violence and kidnapping. Abuse so brutal it marks the soul directly, abuse so brutal blood ends up looking like juice, like a hit isn't much if death stays away. Is that it? 

Values forgotten, dreams buried deep when all that is said tastes like a lie, when promises can never be trusted, when an unsaid ‘I love you’ sounds like high-pitched laughs, like the creak of a metal door, like something unbelievable. That is it, right?

Eagerness, hope that dies as quick as it appears, and blood that never has time to dry, wounds that never really heal, tears that never reach the ground but instead become stagnant, hanging clouds. Yes, that is it.

It sounds like heaven on the surface, but heaven soon turns to hell when layers are scratched and they've been scratched for a while now. No bandages can stop the bleeding. 

He really should try to sleep. 

******

A reading of the lines in his hand would tell Simon that he's a murderer. The dark red blood seeped between the folds and cracks, making them easy to see, making him easy to read. 

It is not the blood that is the scariest, nor the slight pain in his fingers, nor their plummet back to square one on account of a broken promise. He’s certain it’s none of that that makes his heart stop, that makes his hands tremble, that makes him feel like he'll collapse if he ever stands up. 

The sun gave up on him. There is nothing to lighten the inside of an undead body, there is nothing to keep alive when the soul falls apart. Alcohol is enough to sustain the shell and the moon, in its sarcastic glory, cheater and stealer to the sun, fits Simon's overall mood a lot better. 

Did he ever promise he'd stop drinking? Like he promised he'd stop using violence as an outlet? But the bourbon has replaced the blood in his veins, and it forges the memories of his mom, the ones he wants to forget, or maybe not. Who was she? Who is she? Did she love him and did he love her? Or was she just a piece of furniture, sitting like a decrepit goddess on her throne in the kitchen, as if her body was screwed to the chair, as if the chair provided all the nutrients. He wants to throw up. 

Will he ever forgive if he never forgets, or will his old age offer him the liberation he’s been craving since he’s been able to walk? Never to escape, feet stuck in concrete and body flexible to the punches and hits, to the screams and insults, deaf and blinded by so-called love and all its synonyms. He’d been told, as a kid, that love and hate are mixed, that they’re made of the same fabric, the same ingredients, and the poison resulting is deadly, wherever it comes from. 

The walls, they listen, and they move in rhythm with the beat of his heart, even though it’s missing. It’s been gone for years, for centuries, for life, and Simon isn’t sure he was ever alive, if being alive doesn’t mean suffering to no end, if it doesn’t mean being there where he’s never wanted, if it doesn’t mean wishing death would shoot him in the head with one of the calibers he brought to war, the ones that killed enemies but never turned against him because he is immortal, really, he believes it and God avoids him and Satan even more. He has surely been sent down to earth as a punishment for something his father did, or maybe his ancestors, and if he wants freedom he must beg for forgiveness, but instead what he does is repeat the mistakes he had promised the heavens he wouldn’t repeat. He’s a mess. 

He’s too far gone to be saved, yet he wants the saving and he wants the forgiveness. Because he won’t forget, even when he’s too old to hold a gun to his head, even when his immortality vanishes and he’s left alone, hurting, hated by the man he forced into his life because he hasn’t known any forms of loving other than the one that is hammered and shredded and lied and makes all the limbs tremble like leaves in a storm.

He’s a liar, a cheat, and like the moon he steals the light of others to shine in ways that he couldn’t manage if he had to rely on himself solely. He’s made of self-doubt, violence and horror, he’s been sculpted in sand as dry as a desert and he holds himself together by pretending he’s fine. He avoids therapy because it doesn’t help, or at least it’s what he has been told for so long that he didn’t even try to see for himself if the words of his father could ever be wrong. But he was a liar too, as well as a cheat, like it runs in their genes, like he was never able to be someone sweet, like he was made to kill, like he was made to hurt. Like father, like son, two murderers, one reflection. 

Though his father had never taken any lives, he was cruel enough to let Simon believe that he wasn’t worth anything more than all the suffering he got. And that is murderous, just like shooting a gun, and it hurts for it doesn’t kill, it doesn’t spare, it does something else entirely. It destroys, it turns confidence into anxiety, it turns happiness into insecurity, but how can Simon know about all these emotions if when a tear escaped, the pain that followed was greater? Yet he copies the behavior, he, the first who should know how the victims feel, he, the first to beg the sky for it to finally end, who begged all the Gods he had read about in books, the creators of seas, thunder and clouds and all of the things that don’t even exist. 

Easiness is the reason, the excuses he gives when he stares in the mirror and looks at the monster with fatherly features that smiles back at him and tells him he’s a man, a real man, a strong man, an abusive figure. And the scars on his face show something he won’t see, and the scars on his arms show the attempts that failed, because he is immortal and no blood flows in his veins. He’s made of self-doubt and sand, and if he falls apart, he’ll just have to create another shell to fit in and keep on pretending, until the Gods are tired of playing with him like a puppet. He doesn’t cry. 

He doesn’t cry because sand doesn’t produce water, because all his tears stayed in his past, stuck behind his eyes when he felt like they would pop out any moment, when he felt like breathing became harder by the second, when the hand of the monster encircled his throat. He’s aware it happened, that the fear was right there but he wished it was a nightmare. He remembers praying in his dream or his head, he remembers wishing death wasn’t too painful, he remembers begging for it to go by quickly, he remembers nothing and everything at the same time. 

He was six and too young to understand the pain, he was a teenager with murderous intent, he was a young adult that went to war because war can’t be worse than the father he had, and the loss of a soldier feels like nothing, right? If his heart is made of self-doubt, horror and sand, it can’t break in pieces, it can’t take any forms, so it can’t hurt him at all when he loses someone. 

He had never heard such a titanesque lie before, because when he lost his only friend, it sure felt like his heart was made of flesh and blood. It stopped, for a second, maybe even less, but it felt infinite, and he wanted to scream to the world, to his dad, to the bloodied body he’d dragged back that he wished he knew how to cry, how to feel. Because fuck, does it hurt to ignore all those things they teach kids when they’re young. But Simon’s never been young. He was born with a knowledge of abuse that even trauma envies. 

He’s been taught, it’s instinct, he has learned, he was forced, there were consequences. If he cried it hurt more, if he smiled it felt worse, if he talked he would die before even living, if he tried to escape his demons followed him. 

He was forged, molded, destroyed, manipulated and was made to believe that all that happened was because it had been decided by forces above him, father and mother. It is easy to lie to a child who believes that if the color of blood and love are the same, it’s because punching is the fondest way of showing affection. 

His young self realized that it wasn’t the case, that people who hadn’t spent their lives avoiding violence and insults used other, sweeter means to show that they cared. It made him think, but thinking and acting aren’t really the same. He could think of flying without ever moving, he could think of dying and still keep on breathing, he could think about love and still drench his fists in the blood of the one he fell for. 

He fell hard, broke both legs, yet he refused to admit he’d ever surrendered to the feeling. He’d felt his heart start beating, the same one he had pushed far away inside him, the same one that had stopped and betrayed its existence when he was too hurt and knew nothing about feelings. 

It’s crazy, maddening, how the human brain functions. The way it copies unwanted behaviors is frustrating, the way it never stops thinking is tiring. 

Simon isn’t made of self-doubt, horror and violence. He isn’t made of sand dryer than a desert, and his heart is here, present, beating. It isn’t buried deep, like he wishes it was, because he is human, made of bones, flesh and blood and he’s not immortal, he’s just alive and unwell. Yes, he is traumatized, yes, he wishes to die, yes, he wishes his dad would’ve killed him those days, yes, he regrets the death of the friend he once had, yes, he’s mad, yes, he wishes he knew how to cry, yes, tears taste like salty water, yes, it hurts in his chest when his body convulses with sobs, an earthquake of emotions. 

And he screams when the moon is the sole listener, when the bourbon does nothing to soothe the fire inside him, the typhoon of emotions that make him nauseous. 

And he cries to the moon, to the Gods, to his father, asking why he ever deserved to suffer. What did he do as a kid that provoked the anger of a man he knew nothing about? What in his innocence made his father hate him? What in his purity made his father lose it? What had he ever done without even knowing what life was all about, what it meant to exist? 

The moon doesn’t answer, the moon keeps on shining like the cheat, the liar, the thief that it is and Simon looks at it and compares it to him. 

He isn’t made of sand, he isn’t immortal, but he’s a cheat, a liar, and a thief, all at once. 

Chapter Text

“Breakfast is ready.” 

It is said as if nothing happened, as if nothing went down the drain, as if they were never so close that they exploded into a million parts of themselves. 

Soap looks up from his hundred sketches, so clustered he can barely differentiate where they start and end. He can barely say what he had in mind when he drew those faces. Do they resemble someone he knows? Are they meant to represent Ghost? 

“It is ready now.” 

And the door closes as if it had never opened, but Soap doesn’t wait to be sure he hasn’t dreamed it before pushing his chair back and running up the stairs. He doesn’t want problems, even if all looks good, like Ghost forgot about what happened. He doesn’t forget, he just lets it pile up until it translates into more violence, until the only language he speaks is the one with teeth and fists. 

When he opens the door, the hall is empty but he can hear noise coming from the kitchen, and he walks there like an unwelcome presence, on tiptoes, ready for whatever awaits him… 

Ghost is sitting at his usual place, looking at the trees outside. His face is unreadable with the mask and Soap tries to imagine what he looks like right now, based on what he was able to touch. He wants to ask again, when he’ll be able to see the features of his abductor, but now may not be the best time. Instead he sits down with piles of broken glass down his throat, stopping him from talking and breathing correctly. It takes the shape of anxiety, to sit there, facing the monster, to not know how loud is too loud, how silent is too silent. Ghost doesn’t look at him immediately, but Soap knows his presence has been acknowledged, like the predator who waits patiently for its prey, and the prey is conscious of the danger. But it needs to eat all the same. 

The plate lays there, oblivious to the tension, an inanimate object unaware of its surroundings. Oh, how Soap wishes to be a plate, in another life. He can’t help wondering if the food has been poisoned, if the stillness around them is just an alarm sounding loud and clear to his deaf ears. Is his hunger a good reason enough for him to risk his life? But Ghost wouldn’t kill him now.

Still, the uncertainty persists, and he pushes through it with a fork to his mouth, eyes fixated on the man across from him, the man who won’t look him in the eyes, the man who is lost in thoughts that dance in the trees outside. What is he thinking about?

The food doesn't taste poisoned but the trust that has crumbled can’t be built back in seconds. His face still hurts and his heart has been dipped in ice. Why won’t his lungs expand past the fear of being so close to a man he’s so confused about? Where does the pain stop, where does the comfort start? What are they to each other? If kisses are bites and touches cause pain, what is he supposed to do? Shouldn’t it be simpler? 

“Is it good?” 

Soap doesn’t want to die. He clings to life like the last snow clings to the shade, as he watches parts of him drift away in chunks. He misses the times when violence was clear, he misses the times when he knew what to await. He misses the times when his heart felt more clearly about the demon in front of him.

He nods and the thoughts rattle in his mind. He's a pale copy of the man he had wanted to be, and he doesn't remember what he was meant to look like, who he would've been if he was walking outside freely. He's wondered that multiple times, but no satisfying answer is presented to him, and he stays ignorant to a nonexistent future. His imagination can only create so much.

“There's more, if you want.” 

Soap looks up at the monster that seems to have melted at the edges, one raised eyebrow witnessing his surprise. Does he expect an answer? Is it a trap or an excuse to hit him? Soap pinches his lip, unsure. 

“No, thank you.” He whispers, as if it would influence the force of the hit. 

Nothing happens, and maybe it is worse. He waits for a reason to keep the trust down, and Ghost looks for the pieces to build it back, but the walls are fragile and Soap sees through them, he sees the infinite ways it could break again. 

He's looking at one of them, one he wants to hold closer despite everything, one he wants to cherish, ignoring the thorns that cut his skin, the hisses that are meant to scare him away. He's aware of how stupid it sounds, how nonsensical it is, even to himself. He could stand in front of a mirror and give himself a thousand reasons why this will never be a good idea. 

But he's in love, like love is when it is made of shards, when it smells like blood and rips his insides apart, like it hurts with each heartbeat and makes him dream of death. He's in love like he's in pain, like he wants to scream it and throw up all that is inside him. He's in love when he stares into those eyes that have seen everything, he's in love for all the wrong reasons, he's in love because he has no other way to stay alive, he's in love because freedom is not meant for him. He's in love but love is not in him. 

When the plate is empty, Ghost stands up to wash it, and only then does Soap notice that he was the only one eating, which makes his tentative fears that much more plausible. 

He risks it all when he asks Ghost why he didn't eat, of course without mentioning the poison that would've theoretically ended up in his own food. 

“I ate earlier.” Comes the answer, clear, concise, and most of all with no place for any back talk. 

Soap doesn't try to push it further, because testing the limits is scary, even if he's supposed to be used to the consequences. The pain will always be here, and his instinct will do all it can to avoid it. He nods, sharp and almost imperceptible before turning on his heels and heading to the basement, without being asked, because where else would he go? 

“We're going out tonight.” 

Out? Soap turns his head, already at the basement door, and stares at Ghost with confusion painted all over his face. What does “out” mean? Training? Is he going to push him off a cliff? Sell his organs? 

“It's been a while and you need a bit of sun…or fresh air, at least.” 

Sun during the night would've been quite surprising, and Soap holds back a laugh by pinching his lips. Ghost must see it but doesn't comment on it.

“Where are we going?” He asks, whispering again in case the volume of his voice controls the brutality of possible consequences. 

“I'll let you choose.” 

That's rare. Soap raises an eyebrow before shrugging. Even if he chooses, it won't mean anything until they actually reach the place. He has no rights, the last decision will always belong to Ghost. 

The basement door closes behind him in an echoing slam that makes his heart skip a beat. 

He forgot what it means to be able to choose. 

*******

Simon couldn't explain why he's allowing Soap so much freedom to think for himself. For both of them, even, in this case. To be forgiven for months of torture? Maybe to celebrate their second Valentine’s Day together, as if it was something worth celebrating? There's no point in thinking about it, he'll only waste energy he doesn't care to expend. His sleep schedule has worsened past a point he never thought he'd reach in his ruthlessly scheduled adult life. He's scared of sleeping alone and he blames it on Soap, of course, because before him Simon was used to the silence, or at least he could pretend better.

Now all he thinks about is how it felt to hold someone in his arms, feel the heat of a breathing body against his, opposed to the lifeless corpses he desperately tried to bring back to life. A beating heart against his chest, warm breath on his neck, flesh that doesn't harden because blood still flows in those veins. Soap is alive, and Simon is clutching that fact like it's his last truth. The world can crumble, as long as this heart doesn't stop beating. 

He's not in love. That's the first thing he tells himself. He's…interested, obsessed, possessive…not in love. 

Even if he was, he would stay deaf and blind to it, because the idea of cherishing someone only reminds him of how pathetically fragile humans are, how easy it is to lose everything. 

Simon hears the door open before he has time to drown further in his depressive thoughts and he looks up to see Soap standing at the frame of the kitchen door, the slam of the basement door still echoing for half a second before silence settles again. 

“You chose?” 

Soap nods but doesn't say anything. The silence stretches.

“...I can't read your mind, what is it?” 

There's whisper, so barely audible it could've been the wind outside. Simon looks out the window, there's no wind. 

“A flower field.” Soap repeats a bit louder and Simon raises an eyebrow. 

“Why would you want…? Fine, we can go. Let's get you dressed.” 

Simon stands up and Soap scurries to the forbidden room - except sometimes when it becomes the allowed room. He stands in front of the bed, waiting for orders, or permission to exist in the vicinity of this place he would call sacred, but all Simon sees is the pain he feels each time he closes his eyes. 

Simon fishes clothes in his closet and throws them on his bed, nodding when Soap stares at the clothes and him alternatively. 

“Get dressed.” 

There's hesitation. Right, the last time they got out Simon was the one doing everything, but he feels like their dynamic has changed, and even if he gained back all the privileges of a free man, Soap wouldn't run away. That is what comforts Simon in letting him be independent, at least for a few things. He's not yet ready to let him leave the basement for more than a night, or allow him to bathe by himself. 

Simon watches Soap put his clothes on, the ones that keep that cigarette smell even after multiple washes. He doesn't mind it, but he sees the little frown on Soap's face. 

“You already wore that, don't act like it's bad.” 

“It wasn't that bad the last time.” 

“...Why a flower field?”

“Flowers are pretty.” Soap murmurs, and Simon can see the small smile curving his lips. He can't tell if he's being made fun of or if it's a serious answer. 

“It sounds absolutely boring.” 

“I can go alone.” The smile tilts into a smirk. 

“Nice try. That's not happening.” And saying so, Simon walks out of his room and towards the door, grabbing his jacket and car keys. 

Soap is quick to follow, toes on Simon's heels, like magnets drawn to one another, their attraction a synonym of rejection, trying so hard to stick together when everything should hold them apart. Or is it the case? Are they really that close?

******

There's a rule that Soap knows, that never leaves his thoughts: he's not allowed to see where they're going. Is it a lack of trust or just a safety measure? Would Soap be tempted to escape if he knew how close he was to civilization, who their neighbors are? He doesn't think so, but Ghost knows better. Always does.

So, he closes his eyes and lets himself be guided to the car, waits until the passenger door opens in front of him and uses his sense of touch to find the seat. He hears the door slam shut when he's inside and he jumps a little in surprise, even though he should've expected it. 

The silence that briefly muffles the footsteps outside is broken as the door opposite of him opens. The seat makes a rustling sound when Ghost lands behind the wheel, and Soap tries to picture every motion, the way his hands look, the way his eyes focus on the road. He's still wearing his balaclava, of course. Does he wash it sometimes? This thought brings an amused smile to Soap's lips that he hides by turning his head to the window. 

“I did some research.” Ghost breaks the silence as he starts the car. “There’s a field about an hour away from here. The flowery kind you might enjoy.” 

Soap hums, eyes still closed as he tries to imagine what his surroundings look like, what flies past them as the car speeds up, how many trees, houses, street signs. He’s not sure he even remembers the scenery, it’s been so long since they’ve been outside, and the image of the last time he got to look outside the window is as blurry as the memories of his house. He might forget who he is, if Ghost keeps him away from mirrors for long enough. 

It unveils a sort of sadness that doesn’t bring tears, but rather tolls deep within his hollow core, so deep that if he thinks of something else, he can ignore it. He knows it hurt more, before, when he was still so much more to himself than just a vaguely human shape in a basement. Now, it summarizes his whole existence, his whole personality, and nothing - not even their little escapade - could change this outcome. 

The trip is silent, for the most part, although sometimes Ghost describes what is around them for a reason Soap ignores. Is it to mock his temporary blindness or to make him feel less alone in the dark? He could disobey, he could crack an eye open, maybe Ghost wouldn’t even notice, maybe he’d be too focused on the road ahead of them. Or maybe he’d see it immediately, step on the brakes and slam Soap’s head against the dashboard. There's no knowing in advance, so he doesn’t risk it. 

One thing he does risk is feeling for the window button to open it, which Ghost doesn't acknowledge, though it is obvious he notices the sudden thread of fresh air engulfing them. 

“Is it warm enough to open the window?” He asks, a tinge of sarcasm in his voice. 

“The car smells.” Soap replies, just loud enough to be heard over the wind, folding a little more in the far corner between his seat and the door. 

“Does it? Open the glove box.” 

Soap does as ask, feeling for the handle before pulling it open. He doesn't know what Ghost is looking for, but he knows his hand is now rummaging around whatever is inside the compartment, eventually withdrawing two objects into his lap.

“You really think you can touch my car without permission, now?” Ghost chuckles, an empty, dead sound that doesn't convey anything funny. 

“N-no, I'm sorry.” Soap mumbles. If only he could open his eyes, if only he wasn't still terrified of the man next to him. Still, or once again, he's not quite sure. The few hours where they felt closer seem to have been part of a dream, or some acidic height. Was he drugged, maybe? 

“Close the window.” 

Soap has a rough idea of what the items in his lap are, and what Ghost's punishment will be. He isn't mad, he can't allow himself to show any emotion, for they could turn around and go home, never to talk about the outside world again; so he takes it, because he has to. If he repeats it in his head until the words don't make sense, he'll go through it like it's nothing. 

“You can open your eyes.” 

Positivity in despair? A flickering candle in the darkness? Or simply sadism, pleasure ripped from the furthest depths of pain. Soap looks down to see a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. “I don't…I'm not a smoker…” 

“Oh.” Another dry chuckle that scratches the wrong parts of Soap's brain. “I didn't notice, we must not live in the same house.” 

Soap pinches his lips for a second before taking the pack in one hand, flicking it open with his thumb. It's almost empty, which means Ghost uses that car a lot, or smokes a lot in one trip. He hasn't smoked yet, but Soap couldn't say how long they've been en route. He doesn't dare peek outside the window, he's too scared Ghost will gauge his eyes out if he sees something he wasn't meant to. 

“There's a first for everything, right?” Ghost extends his hand, index and middle finger apart, and Soap places a cigarette in the space in between- “You too.” -and Soap does the same, putting the rest of the pack back in the glove box.

He stares a long time at the lighter, as if a flame would magically appear, and swallow everything in its heat. He's not scared of fire…he doesn't think he's scared of fire. Maybe he is. It would make sense for him to be. But not such a ridiculous flame, one that is barely holding up against the wind, if he were to hold the lighter outside of the car. 

“Hurry.” Ghost loses a patience he surely didn't have in the first place and Soap rushes to make fire appear, like sorcery. He regrets mentioning the smell of the car, rather than the scents of nature. He surely wouldn't have reacted like that. He can only blame himself, now. 

The worst part isn't Ghost smoking, that's something he sees everyday, so much so that he could count all the times he hasn't been smoking or drinking on one hand. No, the worst is that he too must smoke, he who coughed his lungs out when Ghost blew smoke in his mouth. And he can't escape this situation, never, so he must face the consequences of his actions, no matter how unfair they may be. 

The flicker of the flame looks like it is dancing, happy to finally unfold its beauty to the eyes of a fearful man, in a car he can't get out of, in a life that is more of a trap, a prison without bars that extends so far that even the horizon is part of it. When he lights the cigarette, it glows red, like the eyes of the monster that has its baleful gaze set on him at all times, even when he isn't directly looking. He's always lurking from the shadows. 

Of course, Soap coughs after the first draw, and Ghost laughs at it. It’s something Soap rarely hears, the sincere sound, not the mocking, cruel one that usually resonates through his entire body. What filled the space for  a few seconds was something genuine that could’ve come out of any entertained person. But Ghost isn’t human, he can’t be human, it would challenge all of Soap’s beliefs, all the reasons he hasn’t lost it yet. It takes him by surprise, more than being sucker punched would. He almost forgets what he has to go through. 

“You laughed...” He says, hesitation present in his voice.

Ghost looks at him, brows raised. “Did I? You must've imagined it.”

Even knowing he’s being lied to, Soap doesn't push it further. He knows those mood changes are just sparks in a vast void, vanishing as soon as they appear, elusive when Soap tries to hold onto them. He’ll simply add that moment to his good memories, to the times Ghost acted somewhat normal, for when tricking himself into pretending their relationship is normal is easy. It’ll help him relativize when he’s faced with pain again, find a reason to forgive the mistreat he’s forced to go through.  

But when Ghost's smile slackens, Soap is reminded of his current predicament, of the cigarette still burning down slowly between his fingers, of the smoke elevating, trapped between closed windows and the headliner. It creates a grayish cloud that irritates Soap's eyes, and surely Ghost's too but something tells Soap that he's unsurprisingly used to it, because he doesn't seem to be distracted by the smell or uncomfortable feeling. 

“You have to finish it, you know. Letting it burn away is cheating.” 

Soap rushes to bring the cigarette to his lips again, hoping that this time, he'll get used to the smoke entering every pore of his being, although a part of him wants to hear that low laugh again. It was weirdly comforting to know that his seemingly-heartless abductor is capable of emotions, although he probably doesn't know what their exact functions are, or when to use them. 

“Are you trying to turn me into a smoker?” He asks, dispelling the smoke with his hand, which amounts to nothing in the enclosed cabin. 

“Me? You brought that upon yourself, Soap. I did nothing but teach you the consequences.” 

Soap hums, as if he understands where Ghost is coming from, but really, he doesn't. Isn't it a little overkill to punish a comment, as disparaging as it was, with a full-on addiction? What's next? Will Ghost make him an alcoholic if he dares break a glass? No…he'll probably use the broken pieces to cut him. Which one is worse? 

What Soap doesn't like is how certain he was that Ghost had changed, only to be faced with his decidedly unchanged abuse, apart from the fact he gets hit less often than before. He just replaced most of the physical aspect with something less direct, less tangible. It doesn't make it better, it makes it different. 

He wants to ask when they'll reach their destination, but he's scared that opening his mouth will lead to another bad outcome for him. 

An eternity passes, before Ghost finally opens the window.

And the wind outside pains to evaporate the saturated ambient air, and Soap relates to this a lot too much. He too struggles to blow away all the negativity, all the bad things he had to go through just for the sake of living. Or surviving…at least , not dying. Ghost wouldn't kill him; that's one thing he's pretty confident about. He won't die from the hands of his abductor, but he might die from some wicked butterfly effect. 

Ghost rolls the window up after too little time, but Soap refrains from speaking his mind, he's just grateful the car smells less like an overflowing bar and more like a terrace at a restaurant, still uncomfortable but not downright lethal. 

Their journey lasts long enough for Soap to get used to the smell anyway.

******

If Simon had to put a word on how he feels right now, the first that would come to mind is tense. Tense to the point of breaking, or maybe snapping, because men like him don’t break. He’s not allowed to, he hasn’t been trained to weep his way through life; his dad showed him the right way and blinded him to all that was different. 

But Soap is so different, he cries, he laughs, he backs off in a fear that reminds Simon of the times where his heart was open, a fear he now pushed far down enough to pretend it doesn’t exist anymore. Soap is more human than he ever was, his heart beats so strongly in his chest, it feels so alive that Simon worries it’s somehow affecting him, warping him to think that maybe opening up isn’t so bad. 

It’s worse than bad. It’s a weakness and nobody wants a weak soldier in their ranks. Loving someone means losing them, for only the bad parasites stick to his skin. 

Maybe this escapade will help ground him, push him back into the box he filled so well, before he broke his own standards by forcing another person to stick around. Was that what he had planned all along? Why did he even do it in the first place? Why put himself through such an endeavor? He has no trouble hiding bodies, but a living person? This is a mess, a bad idea, always has been, but…he can’t help it. The idea of being apart sends chills down his spine. 

“We’re here.” He says as he parks on the curb, promoting Soap to open his eyes. 

Beside them, a flower field stretches for an infinity, and in the distance, some sparse dots for the few houses in the area. Even if they crossed paths with someone, nobody would bat an eye. He knows Soap would never betray what they have. He’s too scared to take a chance, or even think about it. 

“It’s so pretty…” Soap whispers, as if nervous to spook the flowers, to which Simon shrugs, because flowers aren’t that important, and beauty is only subjective. Maybe he’s jealous, maybe he wishes he could see the world like Soap does, be filled with positive emotions where only hollowness resides. He wants to tell him that the flowers won’t even notice he’s there, maybe to break that bubble of happiness he seems to be forming so effortlessly, maybe just to be petty. 

Maybe he should stay in the car instead of accompanying Soap, but a bit of fresh air might feel good, fresh air that doesn’t smell like gunpowder or pollution. It still takes him a while to leave the proximity and safety of his car, even though Soap has already beelined for the middle of the flowerfield, having what appears to be the best time of his life out there. He did ask before bolting out like lightning, bound to obedience as he is. But seeing him run almost freely sends a spike of anxiety right through Simon’s stomach. 

Still, the picture looks great, all the colors contrasting with the usual scenery Simon is faced with most of the time. 

Flowers might not be important, but they are nice. 

There’s something about seeing Soap go so far that sets all of Simon’s senses on high alert, so his tension doesn’t really subside. The plush spring of the grass under his shoes makes him feel a certain way, a way that others may describe pleasantly. But all it reminds him of are the times he had to crawl in tall grass, unseen and barely breathing, death looming over him like a weight ready to crush him at the first second of inattention. 

“Don’t walk too far away, Soap.” He says, in a voice too calm, even to himself. He can’t let panic control his actions, not when he trained for situations worse than walking in a flower field. Why does it make him feel like that? What is so different? Does he feel the intense need to protect the carefree shape that lives in another dimension, one that isn’t overcrowded by thoughts of everything that could go wrong, every danger that lurks around the corners. Would he consider himself one of those? Or does he selfishly want Soap by his side, regardless of what the man thinks or wants?

“What’s too far?” Is the answer he gets, accompanied by a smile too big for the man’s face. It’s like he’s faced with another person, one that has no issues with life, one that hasn’t been broken, and it is quite unsettling to see. Does he regret what he did to Soap? Not really, and regretting his actions wouldn’t change them anyway. They’re stuck in that dynamic, and one step off their perilous path, although temporarily gratifying, will only bring doom in its wake. 

“Too far is when I call you back.” 

******

Soap shrugs at that and turns around to walk a little further, until he feels like he’s free, like the man behind him is just part of his imagination and the only reality he’s in is one where he’s in his kitchen, drinking his daily cup of coffee…or maybe another alternate reality where they’re in love, a love based on strong roots and not the sound of bones breaking and pitiful cries. 

Now, that's an intoxicating thought. Dangerously so. Soap is no stranger to the power of delusion- never really has been, if he's being honest. Even back when he was a free man, the power of his imagination kept him going at times, the ability to picture an existence less lonely.

It works for a while, pretending, because the sun is shining, and it wouldn't shine so bright if everything wasn't okay. At least this is the excuse Soap forms in his head, to trump his own mind into believing everything is fine. It's always fine, he's lucky to be here, to have Ghost by his side, to not be alone. 

Perhaps those sharp eyes don't pierce his skin, they caress it. Perhaps they watch him with warmth and fondness, not dark intentions. Not paranoia. His presence doesn't forebode, it centers Soap, steadies him where he fumbles. Maybe Ghost got him flowers from here once, and brought them on a date. Tucked one behind his ear as he gazed at him with love instead of emptiness. Maybe those eyes haven't been dimmed by what they've witnessed, they reflect all the colors of the field as he walks alongside him, hand in his own-

“Come back.”

He falters when he hears that familiar rough voice call him back, the one that has his blood freeze in his veins for a split second. There's a strong force that turns his body around, something outside of his own will, like his body belongs to the man smoking under the tree, like his brain has been wired to follow only his orders, like the monster became his god. 

“Coming.” He says, but doesn't sit next to Ghost once they're close enough. He stands and stares, then looks back for a second. He pretends, but pretense isn't enough to shape reality for long. It's all a lie, the intimacy, the love. Maybe even his own existence became a lie, something molded to please Ghost. Soap knows he's been broken beyond repair, he knows he can't live without his company. He fell too deep, there's no climbing back up. 

And no amount of flowers can ever make it better. 

Fuck, he wants to throw up. 

“Can we go home?” 

Chapter Text

Can one's own name be forgotten? Can one’s own life be made of fragments, placed randomly in a vast sea of nothingness? Is it possible to be someone, when one's identity is erased by uncontrollable forces? Who is that man, in the mirror, who smiles but doesn't feel joy, who cries but doesn’t feel sadness? 

It's funny that he remembers his name, yet it feels so unfamiliar. It sounds like something that hasn't once belonged to him, something he stole, or someone stole for his sake. 

It is painful, to be no-one, to be discardable and replaceable, to be a pale copy of someone else, someone he once was. The pain is a weak echo that never dies down, and the echo gets louder when silence takes over. 

Maybe the mirror is mocking him, sending back an erroneous reflection of him, or maybe his eyes are tricking him, maybe he looks nothing like that, maybe he is nothing, just a shell that breathes, skin almost corpse colored, and the energy that floated in his eyes long gone. 

He never meant for that to happen, for him to feel aversion for his own body, the scars that cover him from head to toe, make him look like he went to a war he knows nothing about, risked his life in an allegedly safe environment. He never held a gun but it sure feels like he'd know what to do, like the coldness implemented in his heart would allow him to press the trigger without hesitation. Can someone else's cruelty be contagious? 

He doesn't remember what he looked like before, he doesn't remember if his nose has always been crooked, or if he needs to blame the multiple blows he received. Does it really matter? Would his life quality be increased if he had an immediate answer to all those questions? 

No. That's the immediate answer. There's nothing that could improve his living conditions, and at this point, even freedom sounds like a far away utopia. 

The worst part is that he can't bring himself to blame Ghost for whatever is happening, even though it's all his fault, even though he's the one who drugged and took him. A part of him is thankful for still being alive, because on a scale of importance, life is more important than freedom. 

He has no idea what he's doing in the bathroom, why he sneaked in there just to stare at himself and judge his reflection. He also doesn't know why Ghost hasn't barged in to throw him back to the basement, and for a second he wonders if his abusive alcohol excess has gotten the best of him. That thought doesn't comfort him at all, it worries him, but he still hesitates to go check, as if not seeing it could help him pretend nothing happened. 

Thankfully, the familiar rumbling of heavy steps makes itself heard after seconds of silence, seconds that might’ve been minutes or hours. The shadow fills the door and even though he expected it, Soap freezes, forgetting how his muscles move, tongue heavy in his mouth. Their eyes meet in the mirror and something explodes, but nothing happens. It explodes inside, somewhere behind Soap’s heart, somewhere he can’t see, but he feels the pain. He doesn’t remember how to act, he doesn’t know which reaction is expected, which facial expression. What are they to each other, now that they share a semblance of intimacy and freedom? 

When the shadow sneaks closer, like it’s floating on the tiled floor, Soap turns around, unable to back down further than what the furniture allows, he can’t fuse with the material, can’t vanish in a puff of glitters, or broken bones, he must stay here and face the consequences of his actions. 

Again, what are they to each other?

“Why are you here?” Resonates a voice, deeply bored and unimpressed. Not violent, not angry, as if Soap was just a misplaced object, and it’s not a big deal, it just needs to be put back in the correct spot. 

Soap doesn’t have an answer to that question, he himself doesn’t know why his steps brought him here, instead of staying in the safe comfort of the cold basement. He doesn’t know why he stands here, blanket at his feet, body exposed with all the scars painted. His mouth dries with the lack of words that cross it, his brain and heart run at high speed, quick, a word, a sound, anything, before the calmness shapes into something else, before the silence takes the form of a fist that falls down on him like thunder. 

“I…was just checking something.” He says after too long. He's not sure this answer will be satisfactory, but Ghost just shrugs. 

“Well, go back if you’re done.” 

Soap nods, fleeing the bathroom like he’s guilty of murder. 

“By the way, we’re going out tonight.” Ghost adds before disappearing in a corner, probably going back to the kitchen. Soap sometimes wonders if he dreamed the bedroom door ever being open. 

He wants to ask why they’re going out, but he feels like it would be spilling oil on a yet to come fire, and he doesn’t want to risk the peace for something so silly. He’s spent months of his life in utter ignorance, what’s a few more hours? 

Before he has time to ponder about his knowledge of the situation, the basement door opens behind him. “Actually, we need to go buy some stuff.” 

This time, Soap can’t contain his curiosity. “We?” 

“You need new clothes.” 

This becomes more confusing the more time passes, and Soap wonders if he landed in the dreamworld, and the real him is still asleep, covered in blood and bruises, dried tears streak on his cheeks. 

“Why?” 

“Why not.” 

It’s not like he can give his opinion, really, so whatever the reason is he should just roll with it. He nods, walking to his mattress and laying on his stomach. “When are we leaving?” 

“When I call you.” 

Soap hums, closing his eyes as if he hadn’t done anything but sleep the past hours. Actually, he’s not sure he slept. 

******

Simon tries to remember how long it has been, since they went out in public. The blurry memory of their first escapade in the outside world crosses his mind like a high speed train, something he can’t and doesn’t want to catch up with. The past stays in the past, or something along those lines. If only he could follow his own advice for the things that really matter. 

They don't need to buy clothes per say, or at least Soap doesn't need anything, he can always borrow from Simon's closet. No, the reason they're going out right now is so Simon feels better about himself, about being the monster. He can't be much of a monster if he brings Soap outside to see people, right? He’s not really sure why he planned all that…he’s not even sure he planned anything. He acts on instinct, something he’s done his whole life in order to survive in a world that doesn’t want him.

Those thoughts make him want to drown in alcohol, but alcohol has stopped working for a while now, so it wouldn’t change anything. How great it felt, to be able to forget his own existence for a few hours. 

His somewhat peaceful retrospection is interrupted by a presence behind him, one he brought along, one that stopped shining bright for some reason. Maybe it's part of why he brought him out? To save that spark inside him, the spark he was the one to put out? So, who can he blame but himself? 

They haven’t spoken a word since they left the house and the silence starts to weigh heavy on Simon’s shoulders, but he doesn’t know how to break it, how to start a conversation, how to pretend that their relationship is normal. So, he pinches his lips and inhales sharply, entering the first clothing store he spots. Soap follows like a shadow, like a zombie attracted to deeper darkness, barely conscious of his surroundings it seems. Simon can only blame himself. 

Trying to lift up the mood would be useless at this point. Soap appeared fine when they were home, maybe because he was trapped, and now he’s getting a taste of something he won’t have. It’s cruel but it’s too late to go back. At least that’s an acceptable enough excuse for him. Simon would never admit he failed in a mission he set for himself. Or maybe seeing this whole situation as a simple mission was his first mistake. 

“Black would suit you.” Simon says to shut his running thoughts up, grabbing a t-shirt of that color, handing it to an unreactive Soap who barely registers it. It’s not really that black would suit him or that Simon is into any kind of fashion, but black hides every blood stain and his whole closet is already that color anyway, so why change now? 

Soap nods like he doesn’t care, like he isn’t allowed to care, and Simon would be lying to himself if he denied the truth of that silent statement. The pain in his knuckles would remind him how bad he is, in reality, when he tries to atone for his sins but all he does is dig a deeper grave for himself. Is he even trying to be forgiven? 

Next, black pants, jeans, camo, it doesn’t matter. They’re not here to look good, they're here so Simon can atone for his sins in a one-way manner. A half-hearted attempt at forgiveness. Or maybe a wish to conceal Soap’s identity even more, make him look and act like Simon does, make him a copy rather than a person with a unique identity.

Who needs an identity, when stuck in a cage? Caged birds never learn how to fly. 

“Go try that on.” Simon sends him away with the certainty that a broken man wouldn’t come up with ways to escape. He’s had many chances since they entered the mall, never taking any into consideration. It makes him wonder if he remembers that he was once a free man, or if that part of his life is just a blur in a corner of his mind. Sometimes, Simon wonders if he can feel regret, and if wondering that is a form of regret. 

He’s left with himself, while Soap is gone, and no bottle of bourbon to keep him company while his thoughts eat at him like hungry beasts. Thoughts he doesn’t understand, feelings he can’t name, emotions that aren’t sorrow or anger when he thinks about the man behind the curtain, the man he gave a sort of privacy that he’s never given him before. The need to stand up and dress him up like he’s a child is strong, but people are around, he can’t act like they do when they’re at home, he can’t be the master to his pet. He can’t believe he told his captain Soap was his dog, and how stupid that was. How lucky he is, that John hasn’t caught up to the lie yet, and hopefully never will. 

The first thing Simon notices when the curtain opens is how weird it is, to see Soap in clothes that will belong to only him, like he’s allowed something of his own for the first time. What’s even weirder, is that Simon is the one who allowed it. Again, he’s not sure what he's trying to achieve. Who is he trying to impress? God? He stopped believing in that guy a long time ago, when foreign blood first splattered on his skin, or before that, when he felt the pain of being born at the wrong place. 

“It looks fine.” He says, as a compliment or just to fill the silence between them, and Soap nods to that even though Simon is pretty sure he hasn’t checked himself out in the mirror. 

“Don’t you want to see how you look?” He asks…why does he ask? Why would he care how Soap feels about how he’s dressed? It’s not like he’d allow him to change into something else. Would he allow that? Those thoughts scare him. How much he’s starting to care is terrifying. Or did he care from the start? Was Soap a tool to become more human? A failed experiment, for Simon is sure he lost even more of his humanity. He lost the skill it takes to see Soap as a human with thoughts and habits of his own. No, that Soap doesn’t exist, that Soap disappeared in the ashes of his old home. He doesn’t know why he starts laughing, there’s nothing to laugh about, and it hurts when it shakes his entire body rhythmically, like he’s rattled around like a child’s toy, and his stomach hurts like he’s about to throw up. Soap is watching him, he can feel it, intense, confused, and his whole form motionless, like time stopped around him. It is a strange scene, worthy of being displayed in a museum, or a circus, the laughter and the suffering, the fake fun and the real pain. 

When it stops, after too long, Simon is out of breath, nausea still clinging to his stomach and throat. Soap is still looking at him but his head hangs low; he would never dare appear superior to the man who could send him flying against a wall, once they’re back home. 

“We’ll take that, right?” Simon stands up, and Soap nods before hurrying back behind the curtain, getting changed back into the borrowed clothes. Does he look at himself in the mirror this time? Or does he close his eyes tight to be sure to not see the reflection being sent back to him? 

It takes a few minutes for the curtain to open again, Soap holding his new clothes over his forearm, a spark shining for a second before disappearing again. Simon wonders if he's happy, or if he suddenly remembered they would have to go back at some point. He hasn't said a word since they left. Is it a sort of revenge? Is he trying to punish Simon as well as his capacity allows? 

“Do we need anything else?” Simon asks, maybe genuinely, maybe just to try and get a sound out of Soap's mouth. It's frustrating, a punch in the face kind of frustration. But he can't now, and he can't at home either, he already broke this promise once. Does it even matter? Is something deep inside him telling him to stop being violent? But he's known only that since he was a kid, who is that strange version of him with softer edges? 

“No.” It's barely audible, it could've come from the wall itself, or from someone else in the store, someone who has nothing to do with their conversation. Simon doesn't like what he can't understand, he doesn't like the sudden change in Soap's behavior, he doesn't like silence when he doesn't provoke it. 

“Did you say something?” He gives Soap another chance to speak louder, but the chance is missed when all Soap does is shake his head. Simon takes a deep breath, clicking his tongue, dissatisfied, but it seems to go over Soap's head, or maybe it hits him right in the stomach, there's no way to know what is going on in his mind. How frustrating.

“Let's pay and get out of here.” 

******

Is it because they haven't gone out in public for a while? Because his whole DNA sequence changed? He was terrified, deer in headlights terrified. Not of Ghost but of people, of strangers, of how they perceived him. He wanted the floor to swallow him whole, he wanted to vanish.

Now he's home and he feels like he can breathe again, but he sees in Ghost's eyes that the man isn't pleased at all, and his guess is only confirmed when a hand slams against the wall behind him, next to his head. Bad habits never die.

“Care to explain the silence? Were you giving me the silent treatment?” And the stillness that follows stops where Soap hears his own heartbeat, so loud that it’ll surely burst his eardrums, and the tension grows between them, a rubber band pulled to its limit, one exhale could make it break, so Soap doesn’t breathe at all.

It is better so, if he collapses dead and doesn't need to face the consequences of being confused, of not knowing if sounds were allowed, of not knowing how loud is too loud, how much silence equals pain. 

Their eyes meet, they don't let go, Soap doesn't blink and the burn is more and more present. He looks like a helpless prey at the hands of a cruel predator, one that made him believe, for the shortest time, that there was something other than pain and torture awaiting him, but now his world closes around him like a heavily secured cage. 

Soap wants to apologize on his knees, but does Ghost want that? Does he want words or silence now? Does he want smiles or tears now? Does he want comfort or violence now? 

Is there a path ahead or are they stuck here? Back to square one although it never felt like they moved that much from it? The thoughts running through his head make him want to cry, throw up, jump from a building, and his head will explode and no blood will drip, only false memories, only illusions and delusions.

But the darkness dissipates when Ghost steps back, like he was the one casting a huge shadow over Soap's entire existence. 

“We don't have time for that.” He says, as if they were partaking in some free time activity. Soap doesn't say a word, lips pinched, blinking the pain away from his eyes, trying to stop his legs from giving up. He can't show how scared he was, he can't risk Ghost turning back to the monster he was in the beginning. 

“You can go back to the basement, I'll tell you when we go out.” 

He didn't know they were going out, but he doesn't have much choice to beging with anyway.

******

This setting makes no sense.

Why did they go buy new clothes if Soap was going to wear Ghost’s old suit anyway? Why? And why isn’t Ghost hiding his face? The lights in the bar are too tame to allow a detailed image of his features, but still, if Soap was to lean a little closer, he’d probably see all the outlines he only got to guess through touch. 

What are they doing here? Why are they both so well dressed? Why is seeing the blonde reflection in Ghost’s hair making his heart beat so fast? It’s not love, it’s not admiration…is it the realization that Ghost is more than a shadow in a door? He doesn’t smile when he talks to the barman, but his teeth show, somehow more than with the balaclava, or maybe he’s imagining it. They’re not sharp, his teeth, they look normal, they didn’t turn into fangs capable of tearing his arm off. It was easier, when his fears didn’t seem so unfounded, when the line between safety and danger was thick with blood. Now it’s mysterious, like a room plunged in darkness. He’s not fond of darkness.

Are they waiting for someone? Are they just here on Ghost’s own accord? Are they celebrating something? His kidnapping anniversary? Ghost’s birthday? When is it? How old is he? Ho-

“Simon, as darkly dressed as ever, I see.”

Simon? Who is Simon? Ghost moves, turns around to the voice, face expressionless as if it wasn’t a big deal, to have his name revealed in such a casual manner. Soap on the other hand, looks as if he’d just eavesdropped on a forbidden secret, and he doesn’t dare look up until a hand on his shoulder makes his heart skip a beat in the worst way possible. 

“Who is your fellow?” The stranger asks, and Soap has to bite the inside of his cheeks to not give in to his instinct to bolt out of the building. 

“Johnny.”

The name’s said so easily, like he was never stripped of his right to own it. Soap feels like he’s been thrown in a fire, with no ways to escape, gasping for air when only smoke enters his lungs. Is Ghost allowed to play with his humanity like it’s just a stress ball, shape changing after each squeeze?

But who is Johnny anyway? It’s not him anymore, Johnny doesn’t spend hours in a basement, Johnny isn’t covered in scars and old bruises, Johnny isn’t dependent on bad influences. Johnny died long ago, so who is Ghost referring to? 

The stranger laughs and it sounds warm and comforting but Soap doesn’t dare smile. 

“I wonder if it was on purpose.” 

“How could I guess someone's name before knowing them, Price?” Ghost rolls his eyes, and Soap feels like he's in a fever dream, and if he pinches his skin hard enough he'll wake up in cold sweats. It would make more sense than whatever is unraveling in front of him. Ghost seems so relaxed, a semblance of a smile stretching his lips, and the man he talks to hasn't lost his grin, as if he saw nothing of the cruelty inside Ghost's heart. Who is he? 

“Oh, my name is John, Simon should learn to stop calling me by my last name outside of work, don't you think?” A hand is extended and Soap stares at it before hesitantly grabbing it. Here goes a punch in the face for later. The handshake is firm but it doesn't hurt and Soap doesn't worry for his fingers. He worries about the cold stare on his back, though, one that sends chills down his spine. 

But work? This man works with Ghost? Simon? He doesn't dare ask about the name, is it a code name? Does it mean anything? He has so many questions but none of them will ever cross the barrier of his sealed lips, sealed by the man behind him, the man whose shadow just extended, and Soap suddenly pulls his hand out of the handshake like he's been burned. 

“Let's sit down at a table.” John says, not waiting for any form of agreement before walking to one vacant table. Ghost follows, and Soap too, like a lost puppy. What is happening? How much does John know about him? About them?

Soap sits next to Ghost, a distance that would allow him to observe the unhidden features with precision, but he doesn't dare turn his head or eyes, and prefers focusing on a scratch on the table he can barely see. 

“I was pretty sure you were seeing someone, Simon.” John laughs, and Soap freezes, and maybe his heart stops. 

“Was I that obvious?” Ghost laughs. He laughs. He plays a role so well even Soap wants to believe it for a second, but it's all a lie, they're not together like that. If he tries to smile now, he might cry. If their eyes meet now, he might scream for help, so he keeps staring down, down at his own hands, down at the scars on it, from cigarettes and bucket swings he tried to stop. 

“Well, you were so fast to go home after every meeting and you were barely focused on some missions. You still did your job well, but I was suspicious.” John shrugs, and Ghost's teeth still haven't turned to fangs. Weird. 

“I can't hide anything from you.” 

Soap doesn't know how to react. Is he supposed to nod along? Does John expect him to show how happy he's supposed to be? 

“So, where did you meet?” 

Soap’s throat burns, nausea overcomes him when he thinks of how they met. 

“Oh, we were neighbors, we met in the street.” 

Well, it's not entirely false, they probably crossed paths a few times before.  

“And now you live together?” John asks, curiosity peaked, but he hides it well behind his serious manners. The smile has dropped a little. 

It's too easy for Ghost to lie, he's a real actor, he's a real monster. 

“Well, his house burned down because of a gas issue, or something like that.” Ghost turns to Soap who immediately nods like someone pressed a button to activate the motion. 

“I'm glad nobody was hurt, then. And I'm sorry for your house.” 

Soap shrugs. “It's fine, it was just a house.” Really, he's fine, even though his whole life was in it, even though the accident was arson, and the culprit smiles like innocence itself. Sickening. 

A glass is placed in front of him, one he didn't order, and he looks at Ghost for a second, catching a glimpse of the man's face. He doesn't look like a monster, oh how frustrating it is, no third eye, no fangs, no double rows of teeth, no weird skin pigmentation. He looks human, he is human. How can he be human? And he has a name, he's been given a name. Monsters aren't given names. There's a knot in his throat he can't seem to swallow, and the tears are harder to hold back.

“Drink, I bought it for you.” Ghost says, and John chuckles. 

“I would like to see that gentleman side of yours at work.” 

“Fuck you, they don't deserve it.” 

Soap risks it, the second punch in the face, when he asks how Gh- Simon is at work. The pressure of a simple gaze is crazy. He can feel how bad Ghost wants to just slam his head down on the table. Their promise makes no sense, if it ever had, it has become obsolete when Ghost decided it wasn't of use. The question now is how long he'll continue lying to himself. 

But shouldn't Soap be satisfied with the lack of violence? Shouldn't he be happy to share those intimate moments, as short and fake as they are? 

He's satisfied, in weird ways that make little sense. But he's known Ghost violent, and he knows that that peaceful act is nothing but an act, an attempt at being normal, but the bucket swung with such precision, and the punches hurt just enough to be bearable. Ghost is made for violence. He's not made for peace. 

“Well, he's a little on the cold side, but he does his job so I'm not complaining. Did you stop drinking so much?” He then adds, motioning to the half full glass in front of Ghost. 

“No, can't beat such a habit.” 

“To be able to and to want are two different things, Simon.” 

“Then I don't want to beat it. Helps make it through.” 

Soap feels like a heavy conversation has started. 

“Therapy would help you too.” 

Soap wants to nod, scream that yes, alcohol and domestic violence aren't tools to make it through a hard path in life, but as the main tool of relaxation, he shuts up. He hasn't been puched in a while and he's already probably earned two blows. 

“Don't even jump down that cliff.” Ghost warns, and finally, his true colors peek out, the cold in his eyes that shuts John up immediately, and the chill wind stagnates in the middle of their table until John slams the table with his hand and lets out a forced laugh. 

“Now I know why they all listen to you without ever talking back, you are scary, Riley.” 

Yeah, a fever dream, it wouldn't be realistic for Soap to know about Ghost’s entire name, his entire identity, the human in him. So many questions flood his mind, starting with the most basic to the deepest hypothesis. Questions he'll never be able to ask, for once they're back home he'll go back to not knowing anything. He wonders what is most frustrating between knowing too little and not knowing at all. 

Does he regret coming here even though he had no say in the matter? Acting like a real couple, playing along to a comedy he didn't prepare for, in an unfamiliar setting? He counts the consequences on the tip of his fingers, the amount of pain he'll feel. It won't necessarily be physical, if Ghost manages to pretend for a little longer, because Soap doesn't trust their promise anymore anyway. He thinks about his mug, for some reason, and for other reasons he starts searching for cracks in his own skin, because maybe he turned to porcelain. When he looks up John is looking at him, maybe with an ounce of worry in his eyes. Soap smiles to dissipate it, blames his silence on his shyness and it's accepted, because shy people are more prolific than beaten up people. 

What looks like a fever dream more than the situation they're in is the memories of their skins pressed together. It must've happened, it felt real, yet Soap doubts his own experience. Why is he even thinking about that? He's not listening to what they're saying, assuming Ghost wouldn't let him talk too much, in case he says something jeopardizing. 

They're talking about work, people who died… why would they? Wasn't it meant to be a fun encounter? But then it's Ghost, he's surrounded by darkness, of course death would be his main interest. Ah, another flood of unanswered questions crash against Soap. 

“You talked about a dog, didn't you? Some months ago.” 

A dog? Soap sees Ghost tensing before the discomfort vanishes and a lie rolls off his tongue like it's been waiting for its moment to shine. 

“I had to give it back, we didn't get along.” 

They had a dog? 

“What was his name again…Ah yes, Soap, a slippery fella.” John laughs at his own joke and Soap stares for long seconds at the man next to him. Weird, still no monstrous features have deformed his face.

He was the pretend dog? He can't help the snort. Another consequence awaits, maybe, when he leans closer, eyes closing out of habit, and whispers a bark in Ghost's ear. 

Ghost who freezes for a second, but Soap couldn't say if he's mad or trying not to laugh. Tonight's events are surreal enough as it is. 

“Sharing secrets huh?” John interrupts them. What exactly did he interrupt? Soap's not sure. They did look like a real couple for a second, and the thought of it makes his heart beat faster again. 

He needs to ask why they bought new clothes.

“I was thanking him for the clothes he bought me.” Soap says, running a hand in his hair. Bad influences are easy to catch on, lying isn't that hard. 

“Oh, Simon buying things for others? That's unheard of.” 

It's still weird to hear a name instead of Ghost.