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As soon as Ghost saw the hotel, he knew it was going to be shabby. When he entered his room, he spotted flickering lights right away. They were producing a barely noticeable electric buzz; it was setting his teeth on edge, incessant and riling.
Squeaky floor, footsteps. Soon his roommate to be, John McTavish, appeared behind him, playfully shoving a fist in his shoulder as a greeting. Ghost barely registered the comment Soap made about the room, something along the lines of “Steamin’ Jesus”, as he came in and looked around. Ghost also ignored a glance Soap shot him when he was passing him in the doorway. He decided he didn’t have the headspace to think about how it made him feel.
Despite the atrocious journey in the chopper they just went through, Soap didn’t seem to lose his spirit, his brisk step and a lingering smirk indicated so. Ghost didn’t share his good mood in the slightest; in fact, that day he felt particularly shitty, shitty and exhausted. He normally wouldn’t mind sharing a room with Soap. Furthermore, it would suit him. Today though, he didn’t feel like minding his behavior so that he doesn’t look for a second too long or say something out of line. Frankly, he didn’t feel like anything, except his own quarters and sleeping meds he left there.
Even the smallest and most insignificant things that he usually wouldn’t pay any mind to were now riling him up, adding to the uneasy feeling in his chest that has been building up for some time. Breathe, he reminded himself, exhaling through his nose. He put his duffel bag down, inspected the sheets on the bed he chose. At least those seemed clean.
Ghost shrugged his jacket off, rolled his shoulders and stretched a bit, aiming to wear off the tension that the journey left in his body. His neck popped when he leaned his head to left and right. It brought him a bit of relief, he twisted his upper body, producing a couple of cracks too.
“Fuckin’ hate this sound”, mumbled Soap, frowning at him. Ghost held his gaze, just long enough to crack his knuckles too. Long enough to notice Soap swallow and roam his eyes.
“Deal with it”, grumbled Ghost in response, turning his back at Soap and deciding it was enough of overthinking his body language.
Was he overthinking it though, or was there just something about it, lingering beneath the professional surface? There was always a pit in his stomach when he was alone with Soap or when they were working together, not an unpleasant one at that. Ghost always noticed his presence or absence, always paid mind to whether he was also participating in an event, mission or even goddamn lunch. Ghost caught the man plainly staring at him a couple of times. And as for Soap’s continuous glances, they hardly ever got round Ghosts’ attention.
Soap took his shirt off. “Mind if I shower first?” Soap asked, digging through his bag. He raised a brow when Ghost didn’t reply.
“Go ahead,” Ghost barely looked up. Thoughts in his head were cramming together. Breathe, in, out. He couldn’t afford to snap now.
Soap locked the door behind him after cursing in Scottish at the sleazy bathroom. Ghost almost didn’t hear him. In, out. Stand up, open the window. In, out. He fetched a cigarette from his pocket, lit it. His eyes blankly slid past the “no smoking” icon on the doors. He was dizzy all day, but at the end of his second cigarette his vision blacked out for a second, the rhythmic pounding in his head soared and deafened him. He shut his eyes tight, gripped the windowsill and pressed the side of his face to the cool glass, praying that it stopped.
He hadn’t slept in two days, if you exclude two hours on the chopper he managed to slip out of consciousness for, a restless and fitful distortion of cognitive functions in his brain. He’d refused his meds earlier; now he regretted it — and the pills were out of reach. He extinguished the cigarette, tossed it carelessly out the window, suddenly disgusted with it. A gust of cool air brisked him up a little bit.
He leaned against the windowsill, idly staring at a cockroach scrambling through the room and disappearing behind a ripped dado. He didn’t even want to wonder about other locators of the room aside from him and Soap, the exotic insects of the Middle East were suddenly crawling through his imagination, climbing up his calves, up his shirt, in his ears. He rubbed his eyes, then leaned over the cool glass again.
Ghost reminded himself that it’s temporary, that they’ll leave this infested place shortly. Their team was sent on a mission to Laos, where their objective was believed to be hiding, but their helicopter had to perform an emergency landing in Iran due to an upcoming thunderstorm. Thus, they were placed in the nearest shithole of an air BNB and were told to be ready to leave at any time. Unfortunately, a local forecast wasn't predicting a soon clearout, which meant that they were stuck there.
Ghost wanted to scowl at the weather and disregard it, tell the pilot to keep going, but sadly he wasn’t in position to give orders. Fucking lieutenant rank. He just wanted to get to Laos as quickly as possible, kill whoever had to be killed, go back and make himself pass out on Zolpidem, get some decent sleep for once. He hadn’t felt this poorly in some time.
The water in the bathroom stopped running and soon, Soap emerged from the doors in a rather grand manner, shirtless, a halo of humid smoke quickly dissolving behind him. Ghost followed his smooth movements involuntarily, it wasn’t his conscious choice to observe the way his back muscles flexed when he ran a towel through his wet mohawk and scratched his nape. Only after a few moments did Soap realize he was being watched by a pair of hazel, tired eyes.
“What” mumbled Soap, shooting Ghost a look above his tan shoulder. Ghosts’ motionless presence seemed to hover, pollute the air with unnecessary weight. As if it wasn’t heavy enough with the promise of a torrential rain of the Persian Gulf storm that was to break the sky in half above their heads. His glare cut through the space in the room like a laser blade, the arch of his furrowed eyebrows dictating its trajectory, which happened to go right through Soap. The man almost got goosebumps on realizing the exclusiveness of this look. The electric blue of Soap’s eyes locked with the hazel of Ghosts’.
It was hot and humid in the room; outside, everything fell silent. Somewhere, masses of cool air sweeping from northwest were colliding with moist and billowy ones trailing from the coast, electricity sizzling on the occluded front. There was a full low pressure system milling about, not just a minor localized convective cell squall.
Ghost broke this scintillating eye contact, fled. Look for spare clothes, get shower gel, get toothpaste. The dictatorial style of his mind took over, as always when his fuses were on the verge of blowing.
He felt Soap’s scrutinizing eyes on his back as he made his way to the bathroom and flicked the lock. He gritted his teeth, gnarled, annoyed with himself. He did precisely the thing he wanted to avoid doing. Let his thoughts flow uninhibitedly, as if he didn’t know which way they would head.
Ghost started undoing straps of his gear, untangling all the intricate and deliberate pieces that served the purpose of making him more deadly, a killing machine. He knew them by heart, every buckle, every clasp. It was so easy, blatantly and squarely his. He knew his way around, he could probably undo them all even in a coma.
His mind though, his mind was a prison he didn’t even know the way around in. He hated how powerless he felt in the wars he waged against himself, hated the thoughts that were only his in theory. He hated how weak it made him feel when he couldn't even control them. Illogical, it was. His own thoughts, abysmal sea of torment. Like he chose this.
Not keeping busy and tired, exhausted even, left room for the thoughts. They gradually piled up the longer he was deprived of distractions. He chased the blissful moments of peace when he forgot that there was fire on the front lines in his head. Working out to failure, running until he almost vomited - at those moments he felt terrible physically, of course, because no matter how much you train, at some point you reach the moment when your muscles or lungs give out. But pushing past those moments is when he entered the blissful mode of absolute silence in his head. Fighting for breath, gathering all his strength for one last rep, that was the only time he was free from his mind.
Ghost turned on the tap, having to change the burning setting Soap left it on. He collected little pieces of information about Soap throughout all the years they worked together, they clung to him like a limpet. That's why he knew that Soap would always take broiling-hot showers and leave the bathroom flooded and steamy. That he liked his coffee black and slightly cold.
That somehow, with his good looks, ease of manner and humor, he never had a girlfriend.
Cool water hit his shoulders, reinvigorating after the journey, providing a break from the still, hot air. Ghosts’ head felt stuffed, reflexes dead-slow. Fog on the mirror and on the glass, a fever dream he must have had someday, maybe even in a different life.
He scrubbed his body down with no tenderness and no intention to derive any kind of pleasure from it, it was just an impersonal chore, tick it off and move forth. The texture of his scars was unbearable against his palms. He wanted to feel somebody else’s touch so as not to be the recipient of his own skins’ texture.
Towel, clothes… mask. He was glad he took a spare one, he didn’t particularly feel like wearing the dirty one on his now-clean face. A handsome face he couldn’t bear to look at. He resented how it stayed the same after the things he went through, how his eyes never changed expressions when he tried for a smile to reach them. Scars, a flagrant reminder of the moments he would pay his lifetime’s worth of earnings to forget. Nose, crooked from raging violence and injustice. Seam on his lower lip, outturn of God’s absence. Teeth, always clenched because all relaxation ever brought him was more pain.
Black military hoodie and soft sweatpants brought him an ersatz of comfort. Funny how I still care about clean clothes, given that I was buried alive and left to die, he thought to himself with a kind of unsettling amusement.
Ghost left the bathroom welcomed with the same scrutinizing look he was seen in with. Soap was sitting on the edge of his bed, checking his phone, his leg once again jerking up and down in a bugging fashion. Ghost didn’t pick the look up, tossed his utensils back in his bag and retook his ground at the window in the corner. His cigarettes were still there, on the windowsill, waiting and looking exceptionally inviting. Mindful of the scanner in Soap’s eyes he was now subject to, he rolled his mask up to the bridge of his nose and lit one, taking a capacious drag.
Just like before, air barely moved, setting everything still and silent around. Only once in a while Ghost could feel weak gusts of wind on his face. The storm was forming, Ghost couldn’t tell exactly how he knew it but he did.
His fingers started trembling. He clenched the cigarette filter between them, crushing it. The last two drags were scratching against his throat, like sandpaper.
„Ever thought about quitting?” Soap’s quiet, hoarse voice cut through the air. „Lung cancer’s not exactly the most reputable way to go if you ask me.”
Ghost slowly slid his look through the room to settle it on Soap’s eyes. Taking his time with responding, he tried not to notice how defiantly tight was the shirt he was wearing. Smoke still hovered around Ghosts’ head, even though he had already finished the cigarette.
„What do you care,” he muttered, looking away, out the window. There were blinking lights on the landing runway far away from them, then a perimeter fence. Ghost studied the vicinity and assessed how long it would take him to hop the window and get to the fence. A habit.
Soap just quirked a brow, unsure what to do with being put off like that. He slowly got up, tidied some stuff laying around his bed, just to keep his hands busy. Ghost watched him out the corner of his eye but looked away, surprised, when Soap decided to approach him.
The window was wide and tall, its windowsill on the level of Soap’s hips. The man leaned against it, crossing his arms. Ghost met his eyes, with a bored yet curious expression.
„Wanna give me one of those or you’re just gonna stare at me?” snorted Soap, tilting his head. Ghost frowned in confusion, but hesitantly started getting a cigarette out of the package.
„You sick or something?” Soap continued on. „You look like dogshit and are extra grumpy lately, even for you.”
Ghost fought the urge to smash his head against the wall. He didn’t know why he wanted to do that. He wasn’t even angry with Soap. He was just frustrated, he realized. Looking at Soap’s body in the goddamned shirt, he thought that he might actually know why.
Fuck. He hated how human and derogatory it was.
Ghost ignored his previous remark.
„You don’t even smoke,” he said plainly instead, grabbing a lighter, again trying not to look too long or say the thing he wanted to say. Soap’s full lips wrapped around the cigarette. It looked odd, smoking didn’t suit him, Ghost thought.
Lighter flickering broke the short silence that fell. Soap lit the cigarette from the offered flame. The tips of their fingers brushed for half a second when they were covering it, and the other half of that second, they made eye contact that made Ghosts’ insides boil.
Soap took a drag, cleared his throat, and took another. Ghost was watching him closely. What was that in his eyes? When Soap looked away, Ghosts’ thoughts raged on. What did I get that look for?
It was always the thing between them, these coruscating moments, subtle enough to pass for being friendly, yet laced with double meaning neither ever clarified. They were flying blind for months now. All their little, not-exactly-flirty banters just made the two of them question their sanity when they thought back to them later. Ghost lost count of how many times he thought to himself “am I fucking imagining things or going crazy”.
He was terrible at this; reading between the lines, cracking a code of hidden signals. His own cluelessness terrified him.
There was only one thing he was absolutely positive about – something about Soap was inexplicably attracting him. And had to fucking know what it was.
“You’re staring,” pointed Soap out, looking straight ahead, into the horizon line.
Ghost swallowed. Now or never.
“Good thing you like it.”
God, he wished this was easier.
Soap’s hand froze halfway to his mouth. He went still, the cigarette slowly burning out between his fingers, particles of ash swirling down and settling on the windowsill. Was that too much, Ghost panicked, ice-cold shivers went through his spine. Did I just ruin everything?
Soap faced him slowly, carefully even. Ghost was closely watching him, his head resting against the wall, eyelids half closed, eyes keen. His crossed arms, cigarette burning out between his long, pale fingers. The twitch of the corners of his lips as he put on a subtle, almost playful smile, Soap felt his blood drain away from his face.
“This thing got me lightheaded or am I imagining things?” asked Soap after a good while. Adrenaline started rushing, but not enough to set his veins on fire - not yet.
Ghost forgot to exhale. His heartbeat in his ears was the only thing grounding him.
He decided to reach for Soap’s cigarette just to do something, and unobstructed, he took a greedy drag. Nothing will make him lightheaded now, Ghost thought. Smoke poured out the corner of his mouth, near the place where his thin scar was. Soap idly hooked his look onto it, and Ghost knew.
Months of tension had led them to this exact moment. Months of dread of either being too blatant and then rejected, or being too vague and dismissive that it would make this thrilling thing they had die down. Balancing on the line was, in fact, thrilling, but at some point one of them had to slip.
Having found himself at that point was terrifying for Ghost, but god did it stir something on the bottom of his chest. Even despite the fact that he had absolutely no idea what to do or say.
Ghost was halfway into the cigarette when Soap suddenly came alive from the reflection he seemed to have fallen in. He made a decision.
“Put that out.” Not a plea, not even a request. An order.
Ghost was a soldier. He followed orders.
He extinguished the cigarette on the windowsill, threw the butt out the window. Soap was tense but oddly collected. Focused.
“Answer me. Am I imagining things?”
Holding the intense eye contact Soap made was harder than SAS selection. He held it though, the air condensed under the force of their looks. A lightning bolt broke the sky in half.
Ghost didn’t hesitate this time. Now or never.
“I ask myself the same question.”
Soap exhaled shakily, Ghost could almost see the air escaping his lips. He leaned his forearms against the windowsill, ran a hand through his mohawk. His moves were twitchy, they lacked the precision they were usually marked by, Ghost noticed that right away.
Rain finally fell, heavy air gave way to a relieving, cool moisture. A sharp crack of a storm rolled over them, but neither of them paid it any mind. Soap was still facing away, his handsome profile on display for admiration. Ghost scanned the figure next to him, taking in Soap’s still-damp mohawk, his straight nose, tan skin, neat shave...
“Say something, Johnny,” pressed Ghost, his voice rumbling in his chest so low that Soap could feel the vibrations.
Soap flinched. Oh, there was plenty he wanted to say. Just not now.
Soap pushed himself off of his forearms and stood up. Something palpably changed in the air around them, the atmosphere seemed to have dropped to a more intimate level. It was a heavy setting, one that uncovered secrets lingering beneath whatever walls the two of them built, leaving the secrets bare. Evident.
“I don’t feel like talking,” he murmured, voice low, almost swallowed by the storm. Ghost’s breath caught in his throat when Soap took a tiny half-step in his direction. Warmth was emanating from him, warmth and something Ghost couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Soap’s eyes were searching, pure adrenaline was running through his veins now that they were being honest. There wasn’t even a trace of his previous pensiveness lingering within his features. Just pure, undivided attention and longing, so powerful it almost overwhelmed Ghost.
“You’re too close,” Ghost breathed, almost in an amused tone. He obviously didn’t mean it and it was apparent. It was more of a last safety stop than any actual attempt at intruding whatever was going on.
Soap leaned in just a centimeter closer, his breath caressed Ghosts’ jaw.
“Funny. You haven’t moved away,” he mumbled, smirking, now too close to look him straight in the eyes because of the height difference.
Outside, kilometers away it seemed, the storm raged on, rain pounding steady rhythms against the ground. A lightning illuminated Soap’s face for a split second, his smirk gone. He was wearing an unguarded expression, engulfed by the moment and proximity.
Ghost looked down, tilting his head. His vision felt foggy, pale lashes obstructing his view just slightly enough to confuse this moment with a memory of a dream. Soap opened his mouth, briefly looked up before he pressed just the tips of his fingers against Ghosts’ stomach, urging him to lean against the wall.
This slightest touch was enough to set Ghosts’ nerves on fire, it was like a jolt of electricity traveling through his spine. He couldn’t remember when was the last time he was touched just for the sake of it, deliberately. His back hit the wall, Soap in front of him climbed onto his toes.
He was so close, his smell, his face, his eyes, his lips Ghost always felt guilty looking at. Ghost’s heart was hammering against his chest. So many times nothing had happened that now he had trouble believing that his actions actually had effects.
His gaze flicked between Soap’s eyes, he suddenly forgot how to look into both at the same time. They conveyed resolve, his look was firm, almost serious. Ghost started this whole thing, but he didn’t expect Soap to pick up on the vibe as fiercely. He almost felt intimidated.
Almost.
“Don’t stop,” breathed Ghost.
The fingers against his stomach started pushing against it again, and before he could tense his abs in a counter reflex, Soap pressed their lips together, probably harder than necessary.
A stroke of heat washed over Ghosts’ entire body, he felt as if he had been electrocuted. For a very short moment, he froze, too shook. His mind went completely blank. He gave the kiss back, slowly. Testing. Soap’s palms against his stomach were burning him, even through his hoodie.
When Ghost suddenly broke away from the kiss, there was a question in Soap’s eyes. Question and desire.
Ghost looked him straight into those eyes with a look Soap has never seen before. Ghosts’ lips were parted and slick, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
Soap’s palms trailed around his jawline, down his nape, blunt nails digging into his skin when he shoved him into the window frame. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t get away – he was completely towered over. Ghost kissed him again, passionately, sloppy, impatient, grabbing a handful of his mohawk.
The driving rain just out the window started feeling impossibly distant. Every move that Soap made sent fiery waves across Ghosts’ body, he was dazed.
Their kiss got more heated, Soap’s palms slipped under his hoodie. Ghost felt them creep up his back. He worried he might black out, that’s how good it felt to finally feel it. He sighed into Soap’s lips, grabbed his hips. They broke away to catch their breath, Soap licked his lips, pushed his hair back.
Then Ghost was right back at him, twisting their tongues together. The kiss was dirty but neither of them cared. They both ached for it to happen for so long. Soap was taking full advantage of it, brazenly trailing his hands across Ghosts’ body under the hoodie, up his abs and chest… Ghost was almost shaking from pleasure.
Not in his bravest dreams did he expect his delusions about Soap to come true. It all felt like a fever dream, evanescent and leaving a dull ache behind. Soap’s warmth emanating from him and his intoxicating proximity proved that it was actually happening.
They kissed a little more before Soap slowed down. His teeth barely grazed against Ghosts’ neck as he was putting his head down to rest it on his shoulder. The rapid rise and fall of his chest was the reason for a sly smirk that curved his lips. He tucked his face into the crease of his neck to hide it.
“So you wanted to do that too,” snorted Soap, palpably complacent.
Ghost raised the corner of his mouth. “For too long.”
His fingers were swirling through Soap’s hair, brown strands still damp. Soap closed his eyes.
“Now what?” Soap murmured into his hoodie.
Silence fell for a moment. Driving rain seemed to have been flooding the hotel. Soap enjoyed the weight of Ghosts’ arms around him. The feeling of safety they brought him.
“What do we do now, Ghost?” Soap distanced himself slightly to face him. As content as he was, his thoughts started racing. Everything has changed now.
And Ghost? Ghost, to his own surprise, found his mind completely quiet. As if something has made all his thoughts settle downwards . He was just happy, right at that moment.
“I have no idea,” he just said. He was studying the color of Soap's eyes.
“You’re aware we’re both gonna lose our minds now?”
Ghost took a breath. For a moment, he really tried to think about it all, but he just… had a really strong conviction that everything, just for once, is going to be alright. And that was enough for him.
The dangerous spark that always danced in Soap’s eyes sank a little, he was obviously worked up about what had happened. He leaned against the wall, sighing. Ghost wanted to share his newfound laid-backness with him. He stroked his cheek, carefully, apprehensive even. Soap’s eyes widened.
“I’ve been out of mine all my life. And you risk your life for a living, so I think we’re not gonna go more mad from… this”, now he stroked Soap’s neck faintly, admiring the way he leaned into the touch. Their eye contact felt different now that they both knew.
Ghosts’ lips curved in a faintest resemblance of a smile. “Just listen to the rain.”