Angst - Tumblr Posts

A Losing Game Part 1

Paring: Oikawa Toruu & Iwazumi Hajime

Genre: Angst with minor fluff

Synopsis: A broken heart is all that's left I'm still fixing all the cracks

-We're the best of friends.

Don't you mean were?

Huh? Well he could never stay mad at me too long. We always forgive each other in the end.

What if the end never comes?

There's always an end.

An end to what exactly?

The losing game of course.

Parts: Pt. 1 , Pt. 2 ....more coming soon

___________________________________________________________

~Lost a couple of pieces when I carried it, carried it, carried it home~

When did the panic attacks start?

“Funny of you to think someone like me could ever have one of those.” Right because funny was the way to put it right? No, no it was not. In fact, the only thing Oikawa found funny was how many times he found himself curled up somewhere lost in his own thoughts, his own imagination, his own hell. Funny

You know you cannot lie to me, right?

He is right he cannot lie to him. After all he has been coming to these sessions for years. He usually always told the truth so what is different now? Oh, right the difference now is that he believed in the lies himself. He does not know when it started, but he knows whatever he is shielding himself from would shred every ounce of sanity he desperately held on to. So why now? Why is he turning on himself? Why can’t he keep his mouth closed? Why can’t he protect him from his self?

“I cannot remember where or when they started. Every one of them just seem like one big blur, almost like it never happened. There was one, one that I can never seem to shake. It was not my proudest moment. I was practicing my serves when…”

*Mentions of past events*

“Oikawa-san please show me how to serve.” There he was in all his glory. Kageyama Tobio. I didn’t exactly love him, but I didn’t- well no that was that. It’s like he was put there just to destroy everything I had. Sure, we were on the same team, but with him around it’s like I was slowly being replaced, and of course I couldn’t have that happening. He thought he was better than me I just know he did. He made a mockery out of me, acting as if he looked up to be me just to pull the rug up from under me whenever he pleased.

“Get away, get away, get away don’t come over here!” I didn’t know what I was doing, it wasn’t my fault I couldn’t control myself. Didn’t he see that? Didn’t he...understand that? I was stressed, I was upset- No! I was angry. So. Damn. Angry. I’ve worked my ass off over, and over, and over trying to achieve it, trying to win. Didn’t he see how far behind we were? It didn’t matter how many times we won, or how many trophies we bought back. It wasn’t worth a damn thing if we couldn’t beat the one person, the one team holding me, holding us back. “Calm down, you dumbass!” Suddenly, he was there, like my guardian angel stopping me from doing wrong.

“Sorry”

It was all I could think, I could say. One thing I’ll never know was if I actually meant it. Why would I mean he was the enemy right? “Kageyama, I’m sorry, but we’re done for today.” I could barely hear the words exchanged around me. “Oh, okay.” That’s all he had to say. There he goes mocking me yet again.

“The change up today was to clear your head. You need to have more composure!”

“Right now, I can’t win against Shiratorizawa, so there’s no way I can have composure! I want to win and go to nationals, to win I need to-”

“I this, I that. It’s annoying!” Before I could get a word in, I felt a powerful impact hit me. He headbutted me. “Do you think you’re fighting by yourself !?” You’ve got to be kidding me, you dumbass! If you think how you’re doing equals how the team will do, I’ll punch you!

“You already did!”

“There’s no one on our team who can’t beat Ushiwaka one on one! However…”

He went on to tell me how we have a team for a reason, that we can do it together. I didn’t know how much I needed that pep talk, but it sure as hell made me feel better.

Being there for you made you a better person wouldn’t you say?

Without him I would be someone way scarier than that person who was there that day in the gym. He’s my…anchor.

You seem to alternate between past and present tense. Do you think your past struggles may still have an influence on you to this day?

I-well no it’s just that…we made a promise. A promise that the both of us will go to nationals together, and I intend to keep that promise. I will keep that promise.

Oikawa are you aware that you graduated 2 years ago.

I made a promise.

~I’m afraid of all I am~

It’s just- what if I break that promise? What if he gets tired of waiting, and doesn’t want to be around me anymore? I can’t even stand being around myself for too long.

~My mind feels like a foreign land~

I always get lost in my head, and I feel like I can never find my way out.

~Silence ringing inside my head~

But when he’s around there’s nothing but silence because he knows just the right things to say and do to make my brain quit torturing me.

~Please carry me, carry me, carry me home~

I don’t know what I would do without him. If there’s something wrong he’d figure it out before me. If he thinks I’m overthinking things he’ll yell at me to snap me out of it or give me a hit on the head to help pull me back to reality. To a stranger it seemed so violent, so random, but to me I’m nothing but grateful. He’s my safe space and being around him feels like home to me.

Haven’t you been feeling lonely since the fight?

How could I feel lonely when we’re always together?

Masterlist

Join my taglist to be notified for your favorite post :) -> Taglist

symbols: A- angst F- fluff H- headcanon D- drabble

F- fanfiction I- imagine

-Haikyuu! Masterlist-

Aoba Johsai-

Oikawa - A Losing Game: Pt. 1 , Pt. 2 /A-F

Iwaizumi-A Losing Game: Pt. 1 , Pt. 2 /A-F

Karasuno-

Nekoma-

INarizaki-

Shiratorizawa-

Fukurodani-

More characters and shows coming soon..

A Losing Game Part 2

Paring: Oikawa Toruu & Iwazumi Hajime

Genre: Angst with minor fluff

Synopsis: A broken heart is all that's left I'm still fixing all the cracks

-We're the best of friends.

Don't you mean were?

Huh? Well he could never stay mad at me too long. We always forgive each other in the end.

What if the end never comes?

There's always an end.

An end to what exactly?

The losing game of course.

Parts: Pt. 1 , Pt.2 ....more coming soon

_______________________________________________________

~I’ve spent all of the love I’ve saved~

If you could describe the relationship how would you describe it?

Well, he’s my best friend of course.

No, I mean in detail. How would you describe it?

Um, I guess I would say that we’ve been together since we were kids, and no one could ever come between us. I love I admired him in every way possible. He has the ability to make everyone around him look up to him and see him in the best way possible. Even in the worse moments he could make me laugh and smile. Without him I wouldn’t know how to function. It’s like he gives me purpose. He…is my purpose.

~We were always a losing game~

Did you ever stop to think that your feelings were more than just best friends, maybe platonic or lovers even?

As if! The day I admit to having feelings for him would be the day I die. Although I can’t say the same for him.

~Small town boy in a big arcade~

Let’s talk about something else. You loved volleyball, loved it enough that you used it as a stress reliever correct?

It’s the only thing apart from him that keeps me sane apart from him.

Even with the major competition you had?

Y-yes even then.

~I got addicted to a losing game~

For something that kept you sane, it took a lot from you both mentally and physically.

Well yes but it was worth everything in the end I mean it was…wasn't it?

You seem to have had a lot of rivalries, but they never stopped you from quitting and why is that? Why did you continue to play? Continue to hurt yourself? Continue to push forward why?

Why wouldn't I keep playing. I'm the captain, and as a captain you should never give up. I made promises, I worked my ass off, and what good would that all be if I gave up doing every little obstacle. It will be for nothing. I refuse to be a failure...I can't be a failure.

~All I know, all I know~

You do know there is nothing wrong with losing right? It's ok to lose.

Of course, it's ok to lose, it's only ok because you don't have a choice. We don't have a choice in life, in the games, in anything! It's ok to lose because sometimes you already lost…but me? I'm so damn tired of losing. I'm done losing I can't lose anymore I hate it; I hate it, I hate it…I hate it. If I lose one more thing I'll go insane! Just because it's ok to lose does not mean that it won't fucking suck to lose. I'm so tired losing.

~Loving you is a losing game~

First it was that's stupid boy Kageyama stopping me. He was in my way all the time, and once I felt like I got rid of him, then it was that stupid, stupid, stupid team Shiratorizawa. At first, I thought it was just pure luck for them. I thought maybe they had a small advantage. I thought that all I had to do is practice, practice, practice. I thought that was all it would take to be the best, and to win, because after losing over and over again I realized I wasn't the best. I had refused to give up. I refused to be beaten, embarrassed, humiliated. I made a promise to my team; a promise to go to Nationals and every single year it was always them that got in the way. They snatched the golden ticket right from under us no matter what we did. No matter how good of captain I thought I was, it wasn't good enough. That's why I refuse to give up I can't give up because of that promise to my best friend, and I can't just break that promise you don't understand. I can’t break this promise it means everything to me, to us. Just when I thought we could finally do it there he came again, that stupid Kageyama with his stupid team. I just- I don't understand I thought I was the only one who could be great, but I kept getting pushed back further and further, one after the other it just never stopped. The red lights never stopped flashing. The voices never stopped! I don’t want to stop. I just wanna be great, I just wanna win I need to win for me and Iwa.

~How many pennies in the slot~

One thing I could say that is very repetitive in all the conversations we've ever had since we first met, is that you seem to show more and more love towards-

Don't say it, don't say his name I already know…

You seem to be really ashamed when discussing this certain topic. Why is that?

Ah, nothing like a little angst before bed

Update: yippee I'm done

the Goat

wouldn't it be fucked up that when the Goat gets the Purple Crown he immediately hunts down Lamb and violently tries to attack them., screaming and shouting they did this to him.

Then the Goat freaks out and starts hyperventilating and crying when the reality of the situation sinks in.

He's not happy the Purple Crown picked him, he's fucking scared and terrified of what this means. Instead of accepting that he's been chosen for his true nature, he wants to blame the Lamb for it all. After all, he talked to them a few months ago, their godlike germs must've gotten on him. Or they released the Purple Crown to be cruel.

He was rather violent and hot-headed as a doeling, he nor his parents knew why he was so aggressive. He threw tantrums, broke horns, broke limbs, and pushed and punched fellow kids. He even once bit a Priest when they mistakenly called him by the wrong name. A cold fire burned within him, and his parents were afraid (and deep down inside he was too) he'd never live a normal life, and would someday be banished from the community. But he couldn't stop himself, he was just so... so... angry at nothing. At everything.

However when he was chosen by his successor, her Master (which is the same species as the Mystic Seller) he was taught discipline and ways to calm himself. He grew out of his temper and roughness thanks to schedules and discipline, though he is rude to those who worship the Gods.

He's devoted to his Master because it pretty much soothed his rage, gave him not only powers, a halo, but a new title and shed his old identity. He was essentially reborn and would gladly spend a hundred years being its mouthpiece until it desired a new Messenger. He knew its true name, he knew its prayers inside and out.

After all, it is an ultimate being, one who can see the threads of the worlds, time means nothing to it, it can never age or die, even if it is forgotten about. Heretical Gods and entities that lurk in the world are beneath it and its kind. To become a worshipper of a God is a sin and heavily frowned upon.

So to lose his halo, to lose his title of Messenger, is horrifying on its own, he is now a false idol that the Priests lectured against. But... he's lost the one thing he turned to to help curb the aggression within him. He cannot remember its name, for mere mortals and Gods cannot comprehend its true name, nor the true name of the others,

He's also lost his community, a sadistic twist to what he feared all along. What his parents had worried about came true, just not in the way they expected.

And worst of all, the thing he once called 'My Lord' and sent prayers to, said absolutely nothing before his halo was replaced by the Purple Crown in his sleep. It essentially iced him out, and he'd later learn it only picked him to instill piety and discipline within him for the cycle that will never be broken. It nudged him to learn about the past and the mistakes that had been made by his predecessor. He had essentially been groomed to become a better God of War, not a Messenger.

Ooo, love this trope.

trope that makes me crazy.png

Here is a poem I wrote after chapter 395. Its a togachako poem from Himiko Toga's pov.

I see your eyes, so impassioned and meek

I’m filled with a longing, I must beseech

Your understanding of my nature, a leech

And the grave satisfaction I fervently seek

Previously constrained by an unforgiving society

I embarked with ambition to be authentic and free

In the foundations of my understanding, I knew no one would save me

But yet in you, I found something new

Mercy

Your sacrificial love is unabashedly pure

You endear me to a safe haven, a home, secure

A life deprived of your joy, is one I can’t endure

So I give my life to you, the final, irrevocable cure

Make no mistake of the love in my final actions

May time not tarnish your magnanimous passions

I ask you to appraise my soul in rose tinted glasses

I pray the smile that gained your favor, remain cherished in my absence

This is the part two from Ochako Uraraka's pov. (Also is this how posting works? I'mnew to tumblr. Is this how to add a part two?)

Your desires were misguided

Your mistakes were taboo

But your smile full of adoration

Bred the fondness I still hold for you

The wicked you committed

I know, fairly well

But my love for you is irrevocable

Untarnishable, this spell

Within the darkness there was good

In you, there had always been

Unmistakable, in your final acts

In the kindness for a friend

I couldn't save you that day

So I will cherish you past the end

I will never forget your tragic fate

And to your grave I shall tend

The acceptance you always wanted

The love that you deserve

Is in my bleeding heart

And in the tears that vision blurs

I have a new name of endearment for you

To replace other's words of chagrin

Ambrosine,

May your new life begin

Here is a poem I wrote after chapter 395. Its a togachako poem from Himiko Toga's pov.

I see your eyes, so impassioned and meek

I’m filled with a longing, I must beseech

Your understanding of my nature, a leech

And the grave satisfaction I fervently seek

Previously constrained by an unforgiving society

I embarked with ambition to be authentic and free

In the foundations of my understanding, I knew no one would save me

But yet in you, I found something new

Mercy

Your sacrificial love is unabashedly pure

You endear me to a safe haven, a home, secure

A life deprived of your joy, is one I can’t endure

So I give my life to you, the final, irrevocable cure

Make no mistake of the love in my final actions

May time not tarnish your magnanimous passions

I ask you to appraise my soul in rose tinted glasses

I pray the smile that gained your favor, remain cherished in my absence

When Crowley fell, he tore a hole in the sky. It has been the moon ever since.

He watches it sometimes.

So this comic was so fun to draw and I'm really excited to make it. However, I realized real quick that the process of making comics is long so I hope yall can understand if it takes long to upload. I could cut back on the detail, like keeping the line art black, but I want to put my best foot forward. So please enjoy this sneak peek at part one of my SM comic. 

I’m back with another Lloyd au yall :)

So Oracle!Lloyd au!

I was watching a vid and the audio inspired me lol

So basically after the whole Lloyd absorbing the dragon magic thingy, he just becomes Oracle Lloyd.

He sees the past, present, and future. And like also other possibilities that could happen. And just Oracle stuff, like having visions(that makes sense). And this other stuff, but like obviously Lloyd’s personality changes heavily because of this.

And now he has no idea how to act, because he isn’t really this all knowing wise man who’s serious and confident. He’s this anxious kid who’s a very overprotective dad and brother. He’s not always serious, he’s definitely not all knowing and wise. He’s sweet and caring, and has unresolved anger issues. He’s holding a grudge against so many people he’s fought because he’s been seriously hurt by them. He’s scared, and he has abandonment issues.

He’s not anything an Oracle would act like, he’s emotional and wants the best for everyone. He’s not an Oracle, so he gets an identity crisis. He questions everything about him, and what makes it worse is he can see what happens in the future. He knows what happens when he makes certain decisions, like this one. He doesn’t want this power. Because he can also see how much he’s hurting everyone else.

And over time he has to learn to live with it, he has to learn how to be an Oracle and not lose himself. Because he has loved ones, he has kids. He has a family, and he doesn’t want to lose them to him being an Oracle.

And that’s my wrap of this Au, my hc for it is he ends up being this really cool sensei type figure, and he’s really cool looking. But is super sweet and has your best interest at heart, and he’s a super cool dad. But he isn’t afraid to break hard truths to people. Keep in mind this is just how I see him ending up, I would love for yall to tell me how you see him ending up!

Enjoy this beautiful au, stay safe! And write some good angst!

⚠️WARNING⚠️

!SELF DEPRECIATING THOUGHTS, SU!C!D@L IDEATION, BRUISES, IMPLIED SH!

He went sparring with the furniture in his room. :)

(Without Words)

(Without Shadow and Background)

Free Falling

includes: Dabi, Hawk, Endeavor

warnings: Mentions of suicide, nightmares

length: 1,082 words

There was a gleam in the blue eyes as they gazed over the city from above. The bottom of Dabi's long jacket fluttered against his scarred ankles as the smokey breeze whirled around him. The gut-wrenching smell of decay and burning body's turned the air stale, and his mind numbed as he thought about what he had lost.

It was happening again, history repeating itself as he was left with no solution.

The all too familiar pain, fear, and soul-crushing hopelessness coursed through every fiber of his being while he watched his world burn. 

A snarl sounded from behind him, the demanding voice making his body tense even after all of these years. "Your base is nothing but rubble, your boss is dead, your friends have been locked away in the most secure asylum this side of the world. You have no one else on your side, no more hideaways left standing for you to flee to. Surrender, Dabi."

Dabi chuckled softly, but the sound appeared to be unsteady as he turned to face the person he despised. Blazing blue eyes locked onto the number one hero, his father, Endeavor. 

"Have I ever surrendered to you, Enji? Even after the endless days of training, the beatings, the insults… Have I ever given up?" Dabi breathed, fingers twitching by his side as he started to mentally prepare for the pain his godforsaken quirk brought. 

Endeavor's face hardened and the beard of flames on his face seemed to flare up furiously. 

"Who are you?" Endeavor practically demanded an answer as he stepped closer to the villain. Dabi took a step back towards the edge of the building, determined to keep the distance between them. 

“Isn’t that a shame,” Dabi muttered with a scoff while his hands clenched into a fist. “Can’t even remember what your fucking son looks like, can you? You never did bother to care about such trivial things anyway.”

Endeavor froze almost instantly, his facial features violently contorting into mixed emotions of confusion and something Dabi couldn’t quite place. Was it fear? No, Enji couldn’t possibly fear anything. Dabi had learned that lesson a long time ago after personally putting his father through hell. 

“Touya,” Endeavor’s quiet realization was cut off suddenly by his son's sharp tone.

“You don’t have the right to speak my name,” he spat, blue flames sparking in the palms of his hands for only a second. He grimaced, never breaking eye contact as he spat out blood from the corner of his mouth. “Not after what you’ve done to me.”

Endeavor swallowed around the lump in his throat before moving closer, abruptly stopping when Dabi moved his heels to the edge of the building’s rooftop.

“Take even a step towards me, old man, and I’ll jump,” Dabi threatened, eyes narrowing almost daringly.

And suddenly, Endeavor remembered the frantic, fearful, yet determined look that Touya used to always glare at him with. A heavy sigh left him as he stood tall, not moving an inch as he watched his son closely.

“I thought I had lost you for good,” Endeavor admitted under his breath, watching as Dabi snarled like a rabid animal. 

“You have,” Dabi remarked without missing a beat. “Touya is gone, all thanks to you and your god damned dream for me. You’ve killed him, and nothing you can do will change that.”

“And you’ve killed countless innocent lives,” Endeavor growled. “What did they do to deserve death?”

Dabi gritted his teeth as he forced the tears from his eyes by sheer will. “What did I do to deserve you as a father?! What unspeakable evil did I commit before I was born to get you of all people as a parent?! Mom didn’t do any wrong- I didn’t do any wrong! So why,” His voice broke as he bared his teeth. “Why was I unfortunate enough to have you shove your goals down my throat after you couldn’t achieve them yourself?”

Endeavors throat felt dry as his eyes followed the trails of blood seeping from Dabi’s staples and scar lines. The sudden outburst had torn his burned skin. Endeavor didn’t know it, but this happened quite often, though typically when Dabi was alone.

“I needed to make you stronger,” Endeavor said coldly. What did Dabi expect? He knew his father was heartless.

“So I could fall into the mindless and shitty lives of heroes? I’m glad I passed,” Dabi swallowed thickly before a wicked smile spread over his features. “Tell Shoto to kick you in the dick for me.”

Endeavors eyes widened as Dabi outstretched his arms and fell backward without a second thought. Dabi saw his father’s large hand reach out to grab him, to stop him, and, by everyone else’s definition, save him. Yet Endeavor was too late. Dabi was free falling to his death.

A broken laugh sounded through the air as Dabi relaxed, watching the blood from his wounds fall with him through the air. Smoke was surrounding him as he quickly grew closer to the ground, blurring his vision slightly. 

Someone yelled incoherent words below him, followed by demands of where to stand. Yet Dabi didn’t pay enough attention to understand. The sweet embrace of death he wanted was so close he could almost taste it. His eyes shut gently and he smiled wider than he has before in his short life.

Dabi gasped sharply, bolting upright as his eyes shot open, his fingers twisting in the blanket. He was hyperventilating, body shaking as he failed to get his bearings. The tired grumble next to him slowly brought him back to reality.

“Touya?” It was Keigo, and concern was blending with the fatigue in his voice. “Hey, c’mere… It was just a nightmare. Let me hold you, Staples. Calm down for me, yeah?. I’m right here.”

Dabi swallowed thickly, running a quivering hand through his hair as he slowed his breathing. “Okay,” He whispered, earning a gentle hum from his lover. “Okay,” He repeated, this time more to himself than to the person next to him.

As he laid back down on his side, Keigo threw a protective arm over his waist, and he gazed blankly at the wall. His boyfriend started humming sleepily, making a good attempt at lulling Dabi back to sleep.

Dull eyes started to blur as he laid there limply, the humming failing to distract his mind as he thought. 

What have I done to deserve any of this? The good or the bad, why me?

Typically

This makes many references to No Regrets (an insight on Levi before he enrolled in the Scouts.) I also tried a new writing style, so please, give me feedback!

includes: Erwin, Levi

warnings: alcoholic themes, depression, PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder), mentions of suicidal thoughts/actions

length: 2,028 words

•°•°•°•

Erwin Smith was typically content in his mattress by 10:30, praying to whatever gods that may (or may not) be out there that his slumber would be blissful and refreshing. He typically knew of his subordinates' locations and their relative mental states this late into any given night. He typically had most of his paperwork signed and stacked into a neat, organized pile.

Though tonight, as trepidation rolled over him in slow, progressing waves, Erwin Smith was neither content nor situated in a well-put-together office. He did not know where the Captain was or when the elusive man would return. He did not know beforehand that multiple contracts would need the Captain's signature. Hell, Erwin did not know if Levi could even write in cursive. At the moment, he did not know a lot of things.

Erwin wasn't exactly enthusiastic about experiencing these feelings of troubling uncertainty.

The dense thud of staggering boots on the half-rotted wooden flooring impeded Erwin's vexing thoughts. Moving from his spot by the window that overlooked the training grounds, he hastily stalked towards his office door. Yet as his fingertips were mere inches from the handle, the door slammed open, catching the Commander off guard.

Erwin back-stepped as no one other than Levi himself lost his footing from kicking the door open. The door frame was the only thing that aided Levi's attempt at steadying his balance; Erwin was far too focused on darting his bewildered eyes over Levi's condition.

Was the blunt and foul-mouthed Levi Ackerman. . . Drunk?

No, that couldn't be right. The man despised everything about alcohol: the lasting effects, the heavy smell, the noxious health problems. Every time the Corps tried to get Levi to drink, he had remarked about booze being nothing more than poison marketed as a miracle tonic. But, what else could explain the unfocused eyes that were typically sharp and observant or the swaying small frame that was typically nimble and composed?

"Have you been drinking, Levi? You look terrible."

The vicious scowl Erwin received told him that the way he worded his concern was extremely misinterpreted.

"Oh, fuck you, jackass. Not everyone can look like a shining star, Smith." Levi's words were unnaturally slurred, further proving what Erwin refused to accept. "Get outta my way and let me in."

Erwin cautiously stepped to the side- as he'd rather keep this peculiar sight to himself and spare the Captain's dignity. Levi's shoulder shoved against Erwin's bicep as he stumbled into the Commander's office. A snarl remarking Erwin's height was woven into the tense atmosphere of the room.

"Where have you been?" Erwin asked as he gently shut the door, keeping an apprehensive gaze on Levi.

He simply received a distracted scoff. Erwin took a deep breath before he huffed out of his nose. He watched as Levi fumbled through various unlocked drawers in search of who-knows-what.

"Levi-"

"Where's your Devil's water, Smith?" Erwin narrowed his eyes in confusion before Levi, belligerently, elaborated. "Your liquor, dip-shit. Where have you stashed it?"

Erwin pressed his lips into a thin line before he offered a calculated answer, "I don't hide alcohol in my office." A spiteful string of obscenities left Levi's swollen lips, the drunk balling his fist tight by his sides. "Liar! You're a filthy deceiver, you know that? You're worth less than the shit in the stables! A sleaze bag from the Underground would be more helpful than you!"

Erwin paused, studying Levi like Hange would study a Titan. "Are you okay, Levi?" He knew the question was redundant the moment the words left his lips.

“Fuck!” Levi yelled, tugging on his already loose cravat. “Am I okay? What kind of bullshit question is that? Hell, my uncle used to tell me that life’s like a toilet paper roll; you’re either on a roll or taking shit from some asshole- and you know what? You’re that asshole, Smith!”

"Be careful of the open window, Levi," Erwin warned, as polished and unwavering as ever. His indifference to the slew of insults and profanities made Levi's blood boil.

Erwin only moved closer when the Captain disregarded his warning and continued to near the dangerously open casement. Erwin tuned out the vulgarities that were continuously hurled at him with an intense enmity, the gears clicking together in his head.

There was a chance Levi's destination was through the window- a chance Erwin was not willing to take.

"What are you doing? You're going to fall out," Erwin said more forcefully.

The change in the Commander's tone didn't seem to phase Levi, who was resting his forearms on the window sill. As Levi's weight shifted to his unstable upper body, Erwin could feel his heartbeat pounding in his throat, temples, fingertips- everywhere except his chest.

Levi went quiet, his drunken tantrum utterly forgotten as childlike wonder filled his eyes. In the moment of calm after the storm, Erwin couldn't fail to notice that Levi looked so much younger when he wasn't so pent up. The Captain was significantly more demonstrative when he was intoxicated; and may it be good or bad, Erwin was content with Levi seeming mortal.

"He used to hate heights, and she smoked him for it," Levi broke the moment of silence with hardly a whisper. "It was all a game to her."

Erwin's features, which were glazed over with faux insouciant, didn't match the curious gaze he studied Levi with. He stood inert, fearful of scaring Levi into a diligent silence or another aggressive episode. Erwin didn't ask for extensive details, nor did he implore Levi to move away from the window again. He simply waited, having an idea of what was plaguing his inebriated soldier's mind.

"You know, when you found me, we were heading to get a job done," Levi spoke so softly that Erwin felt the need to hold his breath to hear him properly.

The Commander took Levi's brief pause as an opening to speak, despite having nothing to say. "Is that so?"

Levi exhaled something grim; something that nearly sounded like an empty chuckle. "Yeah, Smith, it is."

Levi ignored how Erwin wearily moved closer as he adjusted himself further out of the window. The Captain relished in a twisted feeling of pride knowing that he could make his superior jump to aid him, that he could make the man twitch with such a deep sense of uneasiness- so much so that it shone in his perceptive blue eyes.

"Levi, get away from-"

"He was so nervous for the mission, despite it being so. . . " Levi swayed his hand through the night air, searching for the right word after cutting Erwin, and his concerns, off. "So pointless," is what he settled for.

"It was just a run-through," he huffed out a sigh, "check the brothel for any kids, start trouble if there were. Then, haul ass to the surface to get the brats to somewhere safer. Simple, right?"

Erwin swallowed, his gaze settling on Levi's reflection in the mirror.

"But, something always has to fuck me over," Levi spat with a clenched jaw, capturing the window sill in an iron grip. "Isn't that right?! You simply adore dancing all of your puppets around until they can't take it anymore- but you don't stop, do you?!" Levi screamed at the full moon in the sky.

Erwin sharply exhaled through his nose, Levi swaying side to side like empty ODM gear in the breeze. Levi swore and stretched his fingers out to relieve the tension in them.

"I bumped into a guy whose ego was as big as his body. The bastard was huge and wouldn't let it go." Levi hung his head, the stars bringing back memories he'd rather forget. "I think you were there when we had settled the issue and took off."

Erwin remembers like it happened yesterday. He could never forget the first time he saw Levi fly on the Wings of Revolution; it was enchanting.

Levi outstretched his arm, one foot leaving the floor as he reached to the giant moon glowing against the night sky.

"Levi, you need to stop being heedless, or you'll fall and end up dead!" Erwin finally snapped, his hand darting to grab Levi's. He missed his target, the shorter one moving unexpectedly and making Erwin snatch his pale forearm.

The wind from the chill night ruffled the forgotten paperwork on Erwin's desk, Levi's eerily hollow chuckle overlaying the white noise. Empty steel-gray finally looked into Erwin's ocean blues, heavy-lidded and worn thin.

"Don't you know I'm stupid? The hell does 'heedless' mean, blondie?" Levi wore a painful grin.

Erwin furrowed his brow in worry, loosening his grip but not letting go. "Careless," he said gently, thumbing fondly at Levi's flushed skin. "It means. . . Careless."

Levi's bottom lip trembled, and Erwin swore he saw his small body twitch with a hiccup. "Maybe that's what I want, Commander- to end up dead," Levi breathed, sending a cold surge through Erwin.

"Hey, don't say that," Erwin said quickly in a hushed tone. His free hand gently cupped Levi's shoulder.

"Why not?" Levi's voice was so small. It scared Erwin. "Every time I shut my eyes at night, all I see is their faces, hear them call my name." Erwin could feel Levi trembling.

"I know, Levi. By the walls, I know how it feels to begin to go numb. How it is to lose everything close to you, and still need to press onwards," Erwin murmured.

"Oh, sure. You see the face of every comrade that you've sent to death in your dreams. I'm sure you remember each and every soldier." The sarcastic bite in Levi's tone made Erwin unhand the man's arm.

"Excuse me. . ?" Erwin breathed, stupidly hoping he had misheard Levi.

"You don't know how it feels to be looked at like a human shit stain for simply trying to survive! You're just Mr. Fucking Perfect, right?" Levi's fruitless attempt to push Erwin away by his chest only agitated the blonde.

"Another pompous asshole that wouldn't hesitate to judge me from getting on all fours back then just to be able to eat twice a week!" Levi's (false) accusations were making Erwin increasingly angry.

"You're no different than everyone in the Capital-"

"You'd better watch your mouth, Ackerman."

Levi sucked in a short breath so quickly, it made his throat dry up; though, that might've been caused by the snarl of his surname. He didn't get another chance to speak as Erwin loomed over his frame.

"Who gave you an escape route when you had nowhere else to turn? Was it the Capital? Who was it that believed in you when everyone else wanted you to hang? The Capital, perhaps? Apologies, my memory is hazy."

Levi had seen Erwin agitated, seen him berate cadets and superiors alike with no backlash. But the man was always so poised and assured. Sure, the unsettlingly strong fire behind his crystal eyes was never smothered, but it was not once openly expressed.

Until now.

It had Levi- the nephew of Kenny the Ripper, the Captain of the 104th Cadet Corp, Humanity's Strongest Soldier- intimidated enough to shrink in on himself.

"I don't mean to scare you, Levi. I truly don't. But when you have the audacity to lump me into the crowd of discriminatory pedophiles and rapists? After everything I have done for you?" Erwin scoffed, ending his rant.

"I-I... I'm-"

"I don't want you to apologize. It's difficult to believe that you would. It's just not like you," Erwin swallowed thickly as Levi sniffled.

"Levi, I-" Erwin cut himself off, clenching his jaw.

Want you. Need you.

I think I'm in love with you. What a dream it would be to say. But he shouldn't. And he won't.

"You should sober up here while I get work done. How does that sound?" Erwin felt the urge to vomit after those words burned off his tongue.

"Thank you," Levi hardly whispered. "Thank you, Erwin."

Closing his eyes tightly, Erwin nodded, leading Levi to the couch the was sitting against the sidewall.

"Of course, Levi. I would do anything for you."

angst prompt list

"Would you just look at me?"

"I'm not ready to say goodbye."

"I want to hate you, but I can't."

"I wanted to believe you thought about me."

"You don't mean that... Right?"

"I pushed you away because you deserved better."

"Karma's a bitch, isn't she?"

"I'm sick of missing you when you're right here."

"How can you just stand there and pretend this isn't your fault?"

"Tell me I'm wrong. Please, say it."

"You're hurting me."

"Don't you see that I'm trying?"

"Were you ever going to tell me?"

"Don't call me again."

"Pack your stuff and leave."

"Why weren't you there?"

"You're scaring me."

"Where did all these bruises come from?"

"How much of that did you hear?"

"What keeps you up at night?"

"But you promised."

"I don't want your apology."

"You can't leave me- not now."

"You'd better put that down."

"You have to believe me!"

"You mean everything to me."

"You meant nothing to me."

"It wasn't supposed to end like this."

"Admit that you're wrong!"

"Do you ever stop talking?"

"What are you doing?"

"I couldn't save them."

"Why did you even bother?"

"Don't you care?"

"You aren't worth it."

"Are you really that stupid?"

"I thought I could trust you."

"Just stay with me."

"Who are you again?"

"I miss you."

"Are you listening?"

"You're not safe here."

"I didn't think it would hurt this bad."

"You said we'd grow old together."

"It's suffocating, isn't it?"

"It's... cold."

"Is it lonely?"

"I'm scared of losing you."

"Don't touch me."

"You've changed."

blood stains and butterflies

includes: Soap, Ghost warnings: PTSD, panic attack, vomiting, gore length: 4,000 some words summary: Ghost isn't all too happy that Christmas showed up months early. A/N: uh... Boo. I'm alive! Anyways, new obsession time. Also, ik tumblr goes crazy with bots but where did they all swarm me from?? Enjoy though, and please give me feedback.

Ghost stumbles, nearly slipping in the pummeling rain. His gloved hand hardly catches traction on the slick side of their stupid fucking safe house that's spat up 30 miles past bum fuck nowhere.

The sky is as dark as the field that surrounds him, clouds hiding the moon away like it's something shameful.

I'm shameful, Ghost's brain spits as he gasps as quietly as he can. He can feel his throat closing up tight- too tight- tighter than anything he can handle.

Oh sure, because waterboarding and gasoline is nothing compared to stupid, god awful-

"Creepin' Jesus, L.t.-"

Ghost hardly has the wherewithal to yank his mask just over the bridge of his crooked, fucked up nose before he's spilling what little bit of lunch he ate before they were sent on this lousy mission.

"Ghost, what's goin' oan? Ye alright?"

Shut up. Shut the hell up. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

He's dry heaving so much that something is stinging somewhere deep behind his eyes.

A hand, steady yet uncertain, touches his shoulder and Ghost feels flames licking at his skin, even through the ever persistent rain storm.

"Don't fucking touch me," he seethes, baring his teeth like a rabid animal, feet clumsily scrambling further away, leaving his arms to weakly try to compensate. The last thing he needs is to bust his ass on his own throw up.

Soap jerks his hand away like he is the one being burned. The rain is so loud, but not even shelling could drown out the sound of Soap's breath catching in his throat.

"I'm fine," Ghost rasps, sounding impossibly fragile even to his own ringing ears. "Go back inside before you get yourself sick, Soap."

"Sick like ye?"

Ghost is gagging on bile before he can spit fire back. Instead, he spits up the last of his pathetic lunch.

"I said I'm fine. They're just-" Christ, he's shaking so hard he might slip again- "fucking Christmas lights. Nothing's wrong with me."

If Ghost would stop being a little bitch for a second, he'd see the way Soap's eyebrows furrow in genuine confusion with a single blink.

"This is aboot th' holiday decor?" Soap asks desperately. Ghost can hear a puddle splash as Soap inches closer.

Ghost would rather be buried alive again than admit that he is having a breakdown over some lights speckled with blood. Hell, he'd rather gulp down gasoline than speak anything ever again.

Ghost screws his eyes shut in hopes of- of what? Hiding? He's such a shameless coward.

"L.t. please. What's goin' oan? I don't understand- what's wrong with th' lights?"

The door was kicked open, windows smashed in, and they were dead long before he jerked his car in park.

He wanted- needed- them to be alive so badly, so desperately, he skimmed over the fact that more of Joseph's brains were on the wall than in his skull for fuck's sake-

He's retching again, but tears are making his vision too blurry to see what he's hurling onto the muddied clump of grass beneath his feet. Rain, actually. The rain is making his vision blurry.

"Come back inside 'fore ye hurt yerself more. Please, Ghost." There is a noticeable hesitation and Ghost hopes Soap will just go back inside and leave him in shambles.

Soap doesn't go anywhere, but Ghost crumbles anyway from what he says.

"Ye're scarin' me…"

"You're scaring me! Tommy, stop it! Please- please stop!"

Tommy sneered behind the cracked skull mask, and Simon felt his lower bunk dip with his brother's weight. The pillow under his head was snatched from him.

"Don't ever beg anyone for anything, Simon. Hasn't dad taught you that?" The sneer bled into a sickening grin. "Here, let's practice."

His pillow was shoved over his face before he could even choke out the word 'no'.

Ghost loses his footing and falls to his knees, hands weakly grasping for any leverage on the side of the safe house. There isn't any. His left knee digs into the mud as he stumbles.

Soap, the persistent, heaven-sent bastard, is by his side before Ghost slips any further.

"I don't-" Soap hovers by Ghost like a lost dog, buzzing with confusion and concern. "A'll take it doon, Lt. A'll get rid of it all."

Ghost vaguely hears Soap's footsteps trailing off, the pummeling of the rain and the rushing in his ears nearly drowning it out. But then Soap stops and the footsteps rush back his way. Ghost shudders in the rain, in his thoughts, fingers weakly dragging against the dirt as he presses his back against the side of the shelter. Soap is so quiet that Ghost can almost pretend he isn't there.

But, fuck, he is. Standing right there, thinking God knows what, and Ghost's mask is still above his scarred, vomit-laced mouth-

Ghost drags his soaked sleeve over his mouth and chin so rough he feels a strap jerk against a scar. He grits his teeth and bares it and yanks his mask back over the rest of his face.

"Give me yer knives."

Ghost startles- fucking jumps out of his skin. He thought Soap was gone. Scratch that- he hoped Soap was gone.

Ghost slaps together the meanest glare he can muster. He's pathetic like this; a mess in the mud, his own vomit washing away in the rain next to him, being waterboarded by his mask.

Soap doesn't even flinch. Hell, he reaches his hand out, expectant.

"Ye might…" Soap takes a breath, his fingers curling into his palm just a little. "I don't want to come back oot 'ere to find that ye did something stupid to yerself."

"You think-" Ghost has to take a short breath, his voice shredded and raw and so god damn fragile. "You think that I'm-"

"I don't know what t' think," Soap rushes, sounding as desperate as Ghost hates to feel. "Just promise me ye won't."

Ghost screws his eyes shut, wondering if a promise like this only counts for the moment, or if he has to keep it for the rest of his miserable life.

"Am beggin' ye, Ghost."

"Did you beg them, Tommy? Did you?" Simon heard himself say as he stared at his brother's limp body dangling in a bloody mess of Christmas lights from the rafters. Fitting it was, that he suffocated. "Or did not have the chance to?"

"Simon-"

"Don't you- Don't fucking call me that," Ghost rasps.

Soap opens his mouth, desperate as a drowned man gasping for air, but Ghost beats him to it.

"I won't, fuck. I'm not bloody insane." Although he sure as hell felt that way.

Soap's jaw tightens, teeth clenching against each other as he draws his hand back. He is still hesitant to leave Ghost alone; alone with his thoughts and feelings. And knives.

"I won't," Ghost breathes quietly, Adam's apple bobbing as he gathers what little pieces of him were left. "I wouldn't, Soap."

Soap nods, gaze lingering as he turns his body away towards the shelter. "A'll kill ye, if ye do."

Ghost chuckles, heartless and hurt and so pitifully wrapped in his head. What a perfect way to go, that would be. That's the only way he can see himself dying, being taken out by Soap. Ghost wonders how he would do it.

Soap hasn't moved.

"I promise, Johnny."

That seems to do the trick because seconds later, Soap is taking off through the rain and heading inside the house.

Ghost is, blessedly, devastatingly, alone. But he's left with his thoughts. And they begin to wander before he beats them down.

The whole fucking shelter is done up with Christmas decorations, and it makes him wonder how many layers of dust are on every light and ornament. It makes him wonder what happened to the people who strung them up.

He doesn't wonder, however, how the blood splatters got there.

It's not even near the holiday season, either, which really pisses him off because it's just his luck. He thought he'd be safe from his holiday horrors, months away from Christmas. Of course the world slams a curveball right in his face and spits on him while he's down.

He doesn't notice that his hands are gripping at the top of his mask. They would be tugging on his hair, but he's a spineless, faceless coward. No wonder everyone thought Tom was the better brother. They were fucking right to, weren't they?

Christ, they're all he can see. Tom, hanging from the rafters by the Christmas tree lights, his throat a mangled mess. Beth, a crumpled mop of blinding white ribs and heavy dark blood, her Santa hat mostly red and somewhere underneath what was left of her. His mom, stabbed in the neck, blood soaking into her newest ugly sweater she was so proud of. Joseph's head and reindeer antlers headband was blown off with a bullet, his blood and brains and matter covering the various paint splotches on the wall where Tom and Beth couldn't decide on a new color.

Joseph's toy airplane kicked to the side, forgotten white wings stained with pieces of the boy.

He wanted to be a pilot when he grew up, Joseph did. He used to make Simon hold him above his head so he could stick his little arms out real far like they were wings on a plane. Simon would carry him all around the house; pretended to be the panicked control tower, telling pilot Joseph that he couldn't use the runway- the hallway- because there were fallen trees- a broom and a mop- blocking his path. Pilot Joseph was always a quick thinker, and he would land his plane further down the way, on an empty back road- the couch. And Simon would toss his beaming nephew on the ratty old brown couch and listen to his giggles as he shouted, "Again, Uncle Simon! Again!"

God, the pure joy on the kids face whenever Simon bought him that little toy plane for Christmas one year was burning at the back of his brain. Fucks sake, all Simon could afford at the time was a little figurine. It wasn't remote controlled, no doors could open- hell, the propeller couldn't even spin. But Joseph loved it more than anything in the world.

The sound of glass shattering behind the shelter has Ghost choking on his breath.

Simon would've killed to have been deaf when he took Tom down from the rafters. Glass shattered, body thumped, glass shattered, glass shattered, glass-

Bile scorches the back of his throat as his memory supplies the imagine of blood splattered Christmas ornaments. He tumbles forwards onto his hands and knees, frantically tugging his mask above his lips again. One hand claws at the dirt, the other, supported by his elbow in the mud, holding the bottom part of his mask out of the way as he retches and dry heaves until he swears he could be spitting up blood.

Ghost curls in on himself and falls to his side, a deflated, crumpled heap of shame.

It's all his fault. It is. If he had gotten there sooner, if he had seen it all coming, if he had never gotten compromised, if he had never joined the fucking military- none of it would have happend. It's his fault, all his fault.

"My fault," he heaves, blurry eyes boring into where the dark, starless sky seamlessly bleeds into the black, rocky mud. He's drowning in the stifling nothingness.

Tom could be coming home from work, kissing Beth hello, playing 'pilot' with Joseph. But he's not. He's a rotted corpse six-feet under the dirt. That's how Simon should be. It's his fault that it didn't turn out that way. His fault, all his fault.

"I'm sorry," he breaks, shaking his head, bringing his muddy glove to his face, pressing the heel of his palm into his forehead. The other half hides, burying into the ground, like he could dig his own grave like this.

Joseph would've been in high school by now, driving and going to meet friends. But he's not. He's stuck in a wooden box next to his parents. That's how Simon should be. It's his fault-

"Please-"

"Ghost?"

Ghost's eye snap open, body tense and frozen. He vaguely notices that he's hyperventilating. Christ alive, he's breathing so fast but he can't get any air. He can't breathe, no matter how hard he tries. He might as well be buried alive again-

"…-ost, look at me. I need ye to look at me Lt."

Ghost's blood shot eyes snap in Soap's direction- when was he sat up against the shack's wall?- and his breath hitches somewhere deep in his throat before he feels his heart pitter faster. It's trying to break out of his ribcage, slamming into his cracking bones, threatening to bleed openly into Soap's hands. Soap has such nice hands. He'd hate to soil them.

"Where are we reit now?' Soap asks, carefully crouching in front of him, both hands resting open palm facing up on his knees.

Ghost feels his eyebrows furrow at that one. Has Soap forgotten? Your location seems like an awfully important thing to know.

"Ghost, I need ye to tell me where we are," Soap insists, the tendons in his neck pulled so taunt. Ghost worries. He worries that Soap will hurt his neck, straining how he is.

"Manchester?" he murmurs so low that he can feel how his vocal cords vibrate with it. Soap's neck pulls over his Adam's apple as it bobs rough. Ghost wonders what it would take to snap the stretched tendons there. Ghost thinks he'll kill anything that dares to graze them.

"Nae. Nae, Ghost. Look around. Look around ye an' then tell me where we are."

Ghost's eyes carefully draw away from Soap's vulnerable, tense throat, and move to meet his gaze. Soap is scared, he realizes slowly, the thought dawning on him as slow as the sun rises. Ghost furrows his eyebrows, a frown tugs his lips down at the side. Hesitantly, his eyes drift to the trees surrounding him. He can hardly pick up anything distinctive through the rain, but he feels his eyes widen.

"We're at a safe house. But- but then I-"

"That's reit, Ghost. We're on a mission waitin' for exfil. Do ye remember what our mission was?" Soap speaks like a kindergarten teacher. One who wears long, gray skirts and a yellow button-up blouse, has the thinnest heels on her black shoes, and always has her hair done up in a relaxed bun. Ghost vaguely remembers hating his kindergarten classes; he could never focus. Ghost thinks he would hang on every word if Soap was his teacher. "Stay with me, Ghost," Mr. Soap snaps his fingers once or twice, the sound dancing away through the rain.

"Gather intel on the terrorists' bio-weapons… Destroy the sample. Get out with no one the wiser." Ghost holds his breath for praise, for Soap to tell him he's right. Tell him thats he's not a fuck up, not weak or stupid or not masculine enough. To tell him that maybe, he deserved everything that happened to him

"Yeah, that's right. There ye go, Ghost." Soap's lips twist into a pitiful, beautiful thin-lipped smile. "Thought I lost ye for good there, L.T."

"Never," Ghost rasps before he can shut his big fat mouth.

Soaps lips quirk up more at that, and Ghost has half the mind to get on his knees and ask for repentance. Acceptance, even.

"Are ye alright to come inside?" Soap asks carefully, words treading carefully like Ghost was a minefield.

Sometimes he feels that way, if he were ever honest with himself. He feels like a wired ticking time bomb, bound to explode at the smallest of missteps.

Well, Soap just happens to be a demolition expert, doesn't he?

"Ghost? Did ye hear me?"

Ghost feels himself blink, and when he opens his eyes, he can only look at Soap's lips.

It's unfair, really, how it all slams into him at once, after everything.

He thinks about it. He thinks about it so vividly that he can almost feeling his rough lips against Soap's, feel his clean shaven jaw rub against Soap's stubble.

He takes a shuddering breath when the thought of betrayal and blood and Christmas lights flood his mind.

He doesn't deserve that. He doesn't deserve Soap's lips or stubble or- hell- his being. He isn't good enough.

Besides, it'll only get Soap killed faster. More brutal. They'd make Ghost watch, too. He couldn't shoulder that.

Ghost startles slightly when Soap's gloved hand waves in front of his eyes once or twice.

"Don't get in yer heid. Stay with me, L.T."

Ghost feels his lips tremble. Soap always knows his tells.

" 'm sorry, Johnny," Simon murmurs, blinking against the shine in Soap's eyes.

Soap softens at that, concerned frown morphing into a lopsided grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"No need to apologize, Ghost. Ain't yer fault," Soap hums.

Ghost grunts at that, and if it was in acceptance or disagreement, Soap could only hope to flip a coin.

Soap takes off one of his gloves, his pale skin free from the inky, filthy glove. He holds this hand out like an offering, palm up and fingers outstretched, inches away from Ghost's chest.

"Ready to dry off, L.T? I mean, we could keep showerin' out here if ye want to, but…" Soap trails off, eyes following the dark, angry clouds moving in from the west.

Soap has the bluest eyes. Like Scorpion grasses. Those invasive beautiful bastards spread like wildfire in his mother's dingy little garden one year and she could never get rid of them. Hell, she made the whole damn garden full of Scorpion grass.

Ghost leans his head closer- ever so minutely- to get a closer look at Soap's eyes.

Yeah. Soap's exactly like Scorpion grass.

He's certainly invasive. Ghost didn't want him at first, but he kept coming back. Over and over and over again. And, well, Ghost certainly can't stand to get rid of him now. Soap calms his jumpy fucking nerves too, just like the flowers. He smoothes out Ghost's worries like it's as easy as spreading melted butter on toast.

Forget-me-nots.

That's right- they're also called forget-me-nots.

Ghost couldn't forget Soap for anything. He'd know him anywhere, anywhere at all. On earth, in hell, somewhere in the gray in between. Ghost could be blind and deaf, yet still know Soap if the man was near him.

Scorpion grass might just be his favorite flower if he allows himself that much.

"…Ghost? Ye alright?"

Ghost blinks, ripping his gaze away from the vast ocean he almost drowned in. With another, deliberate, blink, he realizes Soap is blushing. Pink dusts over his cheeks, his eyes struggling to hold their place on Ghost.

"Somethin' on my face?" Soap chuckles, the sound high and tense.

Ghost swallows, breath catching in his throat so suddenly his mouth dries up. He tugs his mask all the way down again, and fixes it firmly in place.

None of it matters anyway. Not a single bit of it. Not the way Soap looks at him like he's the most important thing in the room, not the way his face heats up when Soap punches his shoulder before they load out on a mission, and definitely not the way his heart pitter-patters oh-so quickly when Soap smiles at him when he says a stupid, corny joke.

None of that matters because the Scorpion grass in his dead mother's garden flopped over and went to hell when Ghost tried to care for them after she was gone, and so will Soap.

"Get out of yer head, Ghost."

Ghost flinches his head back, the sternness in Soap's tone sending him reeling.

"I'm was not-"

"Ye were. Ye had that 1,000-yard-stare glossed over yer eyes," Soap squints at him.

"I always have that stare, Soap. It's part of the fucking job," Ghost bites back.

"Sure, but when ye're out of it, it looks different."

"It does not-"

"Yes, it bloody does!" Soap sneers, the genuine anger in his face catching Ghost off guard. Ghost watches Soap as he sucks in a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his jaw, before swallowing behind the perfect columns in his neck. "It does. And I am sick and tired of losin' ye to yerself."

Ghost looks at him, really looks at him for any sign of- hell, he doesn't fucking know anymore. Resentment, maybe? Soap has every right to hate him.

Soap sighs, running his ungloved hand through his hair. His shoulders seem so weighted. Ghost wants to hold it all for him; carry everything even if the weight of it all breaks his bones twice over.

"Let's get inside, L.T." Soap reaches out his hand again, stronger this time and no longer shaking. "Before the rain makes ye more sick. We're both soaked to the bone and the fuckin' shack doesn't have any heating. Nothing 'sides a little fireplace. Hope ye don't mind strippin' down to yer tighty-whities near me."

It kills Ghost. It kills him that Soap doesn't speak a word of Ghost's several outbursts and breakdowns that have happened in the span of… of- Christ above, what time is it? How long has he been smothered in his head over Christmas lights?

Ghost takes a weary breath before he fully gets 'lost in his head' again.

The look of relief that breaks across Soap's face when Ghost strongly grasps his hand is enough to make the man's knees weak.

"Can't wait to see your Hello Kitty briefs again, Johnny," Ghost deadpans as Soap pulls them both to their feet. He knows Soap sees the way he sways with the rain, the way he uses the wall for support- Ghost can see it in his eyes. He's thankful, graciously thankful, when Soap doesn't mention it.

"That was one bloody time. Was Gaz's fault anyway," Soap grumbles, still holding Ghost's hand in his as he leads them inside.

As Ghost tentatively steps into the safehouse again, he realizes that Soap is a saint. Even though he's technically a mass murder, his sins are washed away with the simple act of rearranging a small shack.

Everything remotely Christmas themed is out of sight. No ornaments, no tree, no stockings, no snowmen, no Santas, no paper snowflakes- and not one single Christmas light. Ghost feels his face warm up a stupid amount as he tracks his eyes over the firepit.

The blood is gone.

Soap cleaned the fucking blood.

Ghost whips his head around, and in a rare moment- one of many so far tonight- his mouth is open without a sound coming out.

He wants to say something, really he does, but what can he say when Soap is busying himself with acting as if nothing has changed. As if this is the first time they've walked into the dump.

As if he isn't making a vile, almost forgotten feeling crescendo up in the empty void behind Ghost's sternum.

"Let's raid the place, yeah?" Soap says, looking over the layout. "There's the kitchen, living room, and bedroom. Though, that's fucking generous to call it that, eh?"

Soap is right; the living room and kitchen combined couldn't be more than 12 feet across and 10 feet wide. The bedroom is more of a closet with a pile of blankets against the wall. But, still, the kitchen has cabinets and the living room has a fireplace… that hopefully works.

"You search the kitchen, I'll see if the pit is functional," Ghost murmurs, ignoring how the words grate against his raw throat. Away from the rain, the chill of his soaked clothes is settling on his skin. He's ready to get warm and sleep away the pounding in his head.

"Copy that, L.T." Soap beams, sparing one brief glance before turning on his heels to ramble through the cabinets.

"And Johnny?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

Johnny gives a lopsided smile that makes his eyes shine. "Of course, Simon."

dreams and daiquiris

includes: Ghost, Soap, Price

warnings: nightmares, PTSD, graphic gore, mention and brief depiction of suicide

length: 6,008

summary: Ghost can't stop dreaming, always. They're getting bad. He's loosing pieces of himself and he can't take it anymore. Luckily, Soap is there, ready and waiting with two fancy glasses.

A/N: Make sure to look over the warnings! Anyways, this may or may jot be a vent post... Of you squint... A lot. Also, don't "take care" of yourself like Simon jfc

"Hell's bells, it's bloody boilin' oot there," Johnny whines, stretching himself out on the scratched up wooden floor with a groan. He's long since forgone his shirt, the top tossed carelessly somewhere over the couch. "Th' floor ain't even braw nae more."

"English, MacTavish."

Soap gives him a rather crude look. 

"It's really fuckin' hot. Floor isn't cold," he spits, the anger more directed at the sun rather than Ghost. "Ah just ken yer aboot to burn, L.T," Soap stresses, ruling onto his stomach.

"Can it, Johnny."

Although in all fairness, Soap is right. Ghost's mask is a sopping puddle at the base of his neck, under his jaw, and around his hairline. The desert isn't exactly accepting of black cloth wrapped around his face.

He doesn't know why they're here, doesn't know their mission and the details and whatnot, but he does know Johnny is with him. 

That's all he cares about.

He busies himself with cleaning his rifle, back to Soap as he keeps his eyes on the void-like horizon out of the window.

"Ghost…" Johnny whines, and Ghost rolls his eyes, ignoring him.

The heat is unbearable as is, he doesn't need bitching along with it.

"L.t." Johnny says again, voice high and tight. "'t's hot…"

Ghost huffs obnoxiously to get his point across for Johnny to shut the hell up.

"It hurts, Simon."

And, fuck, that pinched and ragged tone, the way Johnny's fighting for every word, makes Ghost whip around so fast he might have whiplash.

"Johnny-"

The words get caught in his throat, and he can't breathe anymore. 

Soap's burning. 

Johnny is on fire.

"Johnny!" The name tears from him before he can help it, and he's scrambling from the window to save him and-

Christ, Soap is screaming. Screaming bloody murder as the smell of charred flesh and thick smoke fill up the safe house. He's screaming and screaming and burning and Simon can't stop him, can't put him out-

Johnny is going to die.

He rushes to the sink, stumbling over himself on the way there, but the faucet is busted and dry as the desert they're in.

The screaming isn't stopping, not even letting up, and he's going to go deaf with the sound of Johnny fucking burning alive.

All of a sudden, Ghost is screaming too. He is in agony, his shoulder flaring up with the heat of the sun. He forces himself to turn around, to find why it hurts so much.

Soap is grabbing at him, at his shoulders, scrambling for a hold but… He isn't Soap anymore. He's not Johnny. 

But Ghost knows him.

It's a civilian, one from years ago. A young boy, barely twelve. And he's still fucking on fire.

"Why didn't you save me?!" the boy screams, reaching for Ghost, reaching to set him ablaze, reaching for help.

"I-" and Ghost is gagging on the smell of burned flesh. His throat burns with it, eyes water, and he blinks through it to look around.

I tried.

"Why didn't you save us?!" 

And Ghost screws his eyes shut, trying not to breathe.

I wasn't strong enough. I'm sorry.

He hears the boy choke on his last breath, hears him crumble into the dust. He makes the mistake of forcing his eyes open, to see where they are, to find Johnny again. 

There are people all around him, each one of them lit up like a bonfire.

He's with Roba again. 

Simon can feel the way his heart drops.

Please, not again. I can't go through this again.

Simon starts to run- run as fast as his legs will let him.

He doesn't get far.

He screams when a metal hook tears through his back and out in front of his ribs. Caught, like a fish on a line.

His fingers claw at the dirt, the screams now choking in his throat as he dragged backwards, back towards the burning, towards him.

Roba pulls him closer, like he were nothing more than a tug-of-war rope. And no matter how hard Simon claws into the dirt, how hard he forces himself to breath through the agony, how hard he begs-

He can't escape.

Simom wakes up screaming so loudly that he can feel it tearing the inside of his throat raw. With the tail end of a plea on his lips, he crashes to the floor, his legs tangled up all kinds of ways in his thin sheets.

Christ alive, he can't breathe. He can't even move and fuck-

One of his hands clutch at his pounding heart while the other claws against the floor in hopes of escaping him.

He needs to get away, needs to get out of here as fast as possible- but his legs won't move right and he can only crawl so far with one lousy hand and he just can't get any traction-

The door slams open, rattling on its hinges, and the room floods with blinding light. Someone's yelling, and he barely makes out, "Get down!"

Simon can't see. He can't see. Can't move or breathe and some is yelling, and he's fucking terrified, so he buries his head in his hands and curls up into a ball the best he can.

He feels like he needs to vomit out whatever is caught in his throat so he can catch a breath, to rip his heart out of his chest just so it'll slow down, to carve out his brain so the screaming will stop.

"Ghost?! Creepin' Jesus, what's-" 

"Ghost? Ghost where-" the yelling pauses, catches itself in the air before settling into a low, hurried, murmur. "Ah, hell- Simon…" The door cracks almost shut, and the voice orders, "Go on back to your barracks! False alarm, everything's fine." 

But it's not. It's not fucking fine because he knows he knows that voice, but he can't place it, can't stop hyperventilating to put a face to it-

The voice doesn't speak up again, and there's footsteps, a few, that shuffle away and down the hall. 

And, eventually, somewhere in the midst of the calming chaos, his ears stop ringing. The high pitched whining fades away, and after a moment, his vision slowly clears. The black fuzz in his peripherals let up and nothing is blurry. He blinks, and notices the lights in the room aren't as assaulting. 

"You with me, soldier?" Price murmurs from where he's crouched down across the room. 

Simon opens his mouth to say he's fine, but all he can do is choke on his breath.

"Hey there, easy, Simon. You're alright," Price soothes, a sad look in his eyes. "Just breathe, kid. No rush."

¤¤¤¤¤

When he does calm down and he's no longer in his head, he speaks. His voice is gravelly and raw and it hurts just a bit, but Ghost speaks.

"What was with the bloody search party? Everyone wakes up yellin' now and then. Comes with the fuckin' territory."

Price presses his lips into a thin line as he hands Ghost his mask.

"Yeah, but not everyone begs for their life. Certainly not you, Simon." The name earns him a harsh, tired glare.

"I wasn't…" he feels his lips curl down more without his permission, the nightmare still whispering its giggles in the back of his mind. "I wasn't begging for anything. I don't beg."

Price gives him an odd look, one he's seen before but can't quite place. 

He's fucking sick of that, not being able to place what he's experienced before.

"What were you dreaming about?"

Ghost clenches his jaw instantly, trapping his confession far behind his teeth. He beats the words down until they are nothing but a speck deep inside. Buries them together into the ground, in an unmarked grave, in the middle of nowhere.

Price runs a slightly shaking hand through his tousled hair and sighs, "Don't do this to yourself anymore. Just one word, that's all I need." 

Ghost closes his eyes, and the image of Johnny and the boy and flames and the hook flash in the darkness. He shoots them open and feels his breath stutter in his throat. 

Ghost can't. He won't. He's not that god damn pathetic.

"It's alright, son."

Fuck it all. 

What else is he supposed to do but talk? How can he say nothing when Price talks to him like that? Like he's worth waking up for?

"Roba," he whispers like a curse.

And Price understands, because of course he does. 

¤¤¤¤¤

He has another terrible one within the next week.

It's his fault this time. He should know better- he does know better.

It's all because tries to sleep with a weighted blanket. 

Ghost figures he needs a tiny, controllable change. Besides, he read somewhere that the weight would help him sleep soundly.

God knows he needs a good night's rest.

So he wills himself to go out into the world off base and brave his local 24 hour convenience store for the stupid thing. He buys the first one he sees that isn't psychedelic and bleeding with color. It weighs a good 20 pounds through the whole blanket, but Ghost figures he's a lot to cover.

After an odd look from the short man at the register, Ghost goes back to the base to call it a day, a bit bitter from the silent interaction.

So what if he buys blankets an hour after midnight? Piss off.

He just… Wants to sleep everything away.

And so he tucks in for the night, hopeful, swapping the military grade sheet for his new weighted blanket that, actually, is quite nice. Eventually, after forcing every muscle to relax one by one, he falls blissfully asleep.

Soap's stupid mohawk was a mess of blood as he was dragged, kicking and begging, through the mud. Ghost was murdering men left and right to get to him, killing without a thought to save him, the blood soaking into his hands, leaving nothing but thin scars behind. 

And then he sees it; the all too familiar grave. Unmarked and hardly four feet, just like he remembers.

And the Sergeant- Soap, MacTavish, John, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny- is carelessly tossed like a rag doll right into that grave.

And Ghost dives after him.

He has to save him because he couldn't save everyone else.

He has to.

But he can't.

Now that they're here, he can't get them out.

The dirt is piling on top of them too quickly, and he can't dig them free fast enough and Johnny is screaming and crying and fighting and-

And then he's silent. Quiet as the earth.

Ghost searches for him, wide-eyed despite the dirt all around him. And he sees. He sees his Johnny.

Sees that he's a corpse. 

Rotted, at that. Old- days old, at least. There's no grin on his melted face anymore, no glint of mischief in his rolling eyes.

Ghost is too late. None of his sacrifices matter. 

Still, he tries. 

He tries to get out, scrapes and digs and hopes to get free, get on top, look down at the grass.

But he's only getting deeper- so, so much deeper- into the ground and he doesn't know why, he doesn't understand how-

It's Soap. It's Johnny. He's digging the wrong way, rotted flesh and tiny bones scraping in the wrong direction.

"Other way!" Simon shouts past the dirt in his mouth. 

And John stops, skin sliding off of his face as he rattles his bones at Simon, unable to talk with his lips a puddle in the hole they're in. But he sees it, Johnny's wicked smile of teeth and a touch of gums. 

Hears it, when he speaks into his brain: Oh? But, Simon, hell is this way.

¤¤¤¤¤

He's going to personally hunt down the author of the book that told him weighted blankets were a good idea.

Hell, maybe they are a good idea. At least, for anyone who doesn't dream of being buried alive.

The clock tells him it's been hardly two hours, but his body says it's been a lifetime. 

Everything aches, more than normal, but he can't manage to sit still with these nerves eating at his skin. It feels like he's clutching a live wire instead of his pillow that's planted in front of his stomach and held up by his arms and knees.

It's going to be a long fucking day.

¤¤¤¤¤

He was right.

The day drags on forever.

By the end of it, Ghost considers killing everyone in the building, and then himself.

He feels too big for his skin, like he has to shed it like a snake, grow another one that's a better fit. Every breath he takes, he forces it to be slow and deliberate, focusing on filling his lungs completely. 

Ghost spends most of the day in the gym. He tried working on what little paper work he's yet to do, but the words kept blending together and dancing from the page. And even if he wrangled them back, they weren't sticking. He had to read the same line four or five times in a row because his brain decided that English wasn't going to work today.

So he stays his ass in the gym.

Can't think if everything hurts, can you?

He starts with the treadmill and sprints for a mile, until his knees threaten to give way and he nearly slips. He moves, shaking, to the bench press, and makes the choice to work on lighter weights so he doesn't need a spotter. When that isn't clearing his mind, he makes his final destination the punching bag.

Maybe he gets lost in his head regardless. Maybe he loses himself. Maybe he bends a finger.

He only stops when Price practically drags him into the kitchen, still sweaty and gross and dead on his feet.

It wouldn't have been all too bad, if Price had kept the silence going.

"Therapy is a normal thing, Ghost, especially in this line of work. Everyone on the task force goes, even Kate."

And Ghost knows this. He knows how much it has helped Soap through the aftermath of Las Almas and Hassan and everything before, in between, and after. 

Ghost knows therapy worked for them. 

And he knows he's too damaged for therapy to fix. 

Ghost moves his jaw just enough to pass as a nod, just to appease Price.

He can't find the honey for his tea and he's just a breath away from giving up on it and heading to the sniper range with a raw throat and trembling hands.

He doesn't understand where the honey went. It was right here. He left it right here yesterday morning. It's always right here. Always. 

So where the fuck is it?

Price makes a noise, something between clearing his throat and huffing.

Ghost faces him at it, and snags the small container of honey before Price can question him. 

Fucks sake, he almost spiralled because of honey.

He's pathetic.

"Where was it?" he murmurs, because it'll drive him up the wall for the rest of the day if he doesn't know.

"On the counter, Ghost. Near the fridge. No need to get ansty over it," Price answers easily before adding just as quick, "you know, I could enforce that therapy be mandatory."

"You wouldn't." 

Price wouldn't.

Right?

"But I could."

"You could do anything, sir."

"Except help you, apparently."

"I don't need any help."

"You did with Roba."

The tea scalds his hand when he spills it all over the counter. Seeps into his glove and threatens to burn him alive, and he grits his teeth hard enough to feel his jaw creak. He pulls the glove off with his other shaking hand, and gives a once over to his pale hand that's now quickly turning an irritated shade of pink.

"Simon, at least think about it," Price sighs with the weight of the world. He's already carefully cleaning the hot tea from the counter.

"I have," Ghost bites, moving to the sink.

Price goes quiet as the cool water from the tap runs lightly over Ghost's hand, over his oddly bent finger. Ghost hopes that the conversation is over. He knows it's not.

"New orders, soldier."

Ghost takes a breath, stiffening and resisting the muscle memory of moving at attention, or at least parade rest.

"Sir?"

"You're drinking with the 141 at the end of this month."

Ghost lets himself whip his head around, and he can feel the fire in his eyes, the protest on his tongue.

"Don't cut me off."

And Ghost clenches his jaw to shut himself up. 

Price hardly ever pulls rank on his team; he doesn't need to, with the respect the 141 has for him regardless. This? This right here is the closest he ever gets.

Price quietly huffs, looking over Ghost's hand that's still under running cool water. 

Price holds the tone he always has when he's discussing the workings of a mission. "You'll drink with us, here on base in Soap's office. You'll try to enjoy yourself. Then, after two hours, you can peel off. Fuck about for all I care, but stay involved for two hours, at lease. Understood?" 

Ghost thinks the old man has gone fucking senile.

"Understood."

"Involved, Ghost. Offer your two cents here. Say a shitty joke there. Have a drink or two."

"Sir."

Price huffs again, his mustache twitching with the force of it. He carefully cradles Ghost's burned hand. He's got a rag, wets it with the cool water, and lays it gingerly over Ghost's hand. 

"Just… Consider it, Simon. Really, this time." Price murmurs, patting Ghost's shoulder with his dry hand. "And get your ass to medical before you terrorize the gym again."

Ghost doesn't know if he wants to strangle the man or hug him. 

¤¤¤¤¤

They're standing on Ghost's favorite watch tower, Soap and Ghost, overlooking the quiet woods behind the base. 

Johnny had wanted to see his knife collection, and for some godforsaken reason, Ghost shows him.

And as Ghost hands Johnny his favorite one, perfectly balanced and sharper than the devil's tongue, Johnny speaks something dangerous.

"I love you, Simon."

And Simon startles, gasps quietly as his heart beats faster and faster.

Is that just how it is? Effortlessly said, as if those words haven't been plaguing him for months? As if it's really just that easy? 

Simon hopes so. Hopes that it comes naturally to him like it does to Johnny.

But he knows better than to hope.

There's not love in the world for people like him.

"Let me show you how much I love you," Johnny beams, switching his grip on Ghost's knife.

"Johnny…?"

Johnny stabs himself just above his navel with Ghost's knife, the slick shhk of the blade echoing in the abyss as Simon can do nothing but watch. 

Blood pools over John's hips, down his strong legs, puddles at his feet, but the man is standing there, smiling and looking at Simon like he just hung the moon. 

"John- Johnny," Simon forces, rising from his spot on the ground, trembling hands refusing to move from his sides.

"I have a gift for you," John smiles, like he isn't forcing the blade up his torso, carving himself open like a fish. He flexes what's left of his abs, and his small intestines tumble out of him like a massive snake. They fall on the floor at first, but a section somewhere in the middle tips over the side, and gravity sends the organ free falling from the edge of the watchtower, and his large intestines peek out from behind John's flesh. "Ready for it?"

Simon doesn't speak. He can't, mesmerized by how Johnny's free hand pulls the rest of his intestines free like they were as normal as rope.

Johnny then holds the bloodied blade between his teeth, taints those perfectly pearly whites, and uses both hands to dig inside himself.

His left kidney, maybe his pancreas, and his liver are carelessly tossed onto the floor. And Johnny is still smiling at him from beyond that knife. Standing there playing Operation on himself with hearts in his fucking eyes. 

With a handful of yanks, his lungs are pulled free, dropped to the floor like the others. They're still functioning, too; expanding and relaxing, providing oxygen for a body a yard away. 

And then finally, finally, he tugs his heart out of place with a fond chuckle from behind the blade.

He passes Ghost his heart tenderly, both of John's hands cradling it like it was the most precious thing in the world. And, fuck, it is. Of course it is. Simon tenderly takes the still-beating heart into one of his hands. The rhythmic beating of it sings to Simon, lulls him into a trace.

It's not bloody, Simon notices numbly. It almost seems to be glowing, even. Perfect and radiant and lively, all beautifully John Mactavish. 

And Ghost crushes it. 

Closes his hand in a fist so suddenly, so violently, that Soap's heart practically explodes. 

He doesn't feel a thing when he does so. Blanky watches as Soap's face pales impossibly further, and his lungs, that are still on the floor, stop filling up. 

Soap's dying.

He's murdered Johnny without a second thought.

Funny, how that works.

He really is a monster.

Simon wakes up with wet cheeks and blurry eyes. He gasps, shaking and silent. Tears slip down his face again when he blinks away the teasing remnants of the dream.

He gets his bearings together relatively quickly, but not even honeyed tea could stop the shaking in his hands.

He avoids Mactavish for the entire day.

It comes with a little bit of trouble, as the man sticks to him like glue, but Ghost manages. It's his job to disappear, to be a ghost, to be dead.

But fucking hell, maybe Mactavish is a medium.

Ghost will catch glimpses of him, in the mess, in the bath, in the gym, the range, the track, the gym again, the barracks hallway, near Price's office- everywhere.

He eventually gets cornered when he has to take a fucking piss.

Ghost hears Soap coming from miles away, but it doesn't matter. The determination in the man's steps alone make him huff as he tucks himself away. 

Hell, Ghost is already running from his past. Adding MacTavish to that list isn't helping him.

He starts washing his hands the best he can with the small splint medical gave him when he feel eyes on his back.

"Sergeant," he murmurs.

There's a scoff, full of bravado and vinegar. "Lieutenant."

Ghost feels his jaw shift as he cuts the water to dry his hands. The bitterness in his chest at the title, foreign coming from Johnny, processes. 

He's being hypocritical. This is how Johnny must feel.

"Can I help you?" Ghost says anyway.

"Can I help ye, he says," Soap grin to himself but it doesn't reach his eyes, doesn't sit right with his snarky tone. "Aye, ye can bother t' explain why ye've been dodgin' me like th' bloody plague."

Because I don't want to hurt you.

Because you're important. 

Because I'm scared.

Ghost sniffs once, tossing the paper towels into the trash.

"Need some time to myself. Ain't nothin' personal, Johnny."

At that, Soap loses some of that tension in his shoulders, stops looking like a caged dog. He lets out the smallest of breaths.

"Aye…" he murmurs, hesitating. He licks over his bottom lip- Johnny often does that when he isn't sure what to say, tries to taste the words before deciding to serving them out or not- and takes a glance at the suddenly interesting floor. "Just… ah'm here, ye know? If… Ah don't know… If ye don't want time to yerself for too long."

"Yeah…" Simon lets out, accidentally. He recovers quickly, or tries to, anyway. "We'll see."

And Johnny licks his lips again, after a quiet nod. But he doesn't say anything. Maybe he didn't like the taste of his words this time.

¤¤¤¤¤

He dreams again and again. Always, he dreams. 

Most recently, he dreams of Johnny.

Simon can't stand it. 

It's affecting his waking moments now. It's making him affect Soap's waking moments.

After dreaming of that night in Chicago, of missing that shot on Hassan, of watching, hearing Johnny fall just about 50 stories to his death, Ghost spent a week straight making sure Soap stayed away from the high watch towers. He went as far as swapping patrols or having something 'suddenly come up' that 'needs the Sergeant right fucking now'.

After dreaming of missing Hassan, and shooting Johnny, he trained for hours and hours straight at the sniper range, foregoing meals and drinks and piss breaks just to make sure that his aim was perfect every time. Soap was forced to waste his evening by slowly convincing Simon that enough was enough, that he needed to eat, drink water, and get some fucking rest. 

After dreaming that Johnny blew up into dozens of pieces of meat chunks protecting him, Simon had a panic attack when Soap was at the demo-range and an explosion went off. Despite not even a cut on him, Ghost forced Soap to medical (once his own breathing was stable enough). He banned an outraged Soap from the range for two days.

Once, he dreamed that Johnny killed himself. Put a barrel in his mouth and looked at Simon. Pulled the trigger without hesitating. Simon knew, just knew, it was his fault.

After every dream of Johnny dying in front of him, or worse, by his hands, Simon crumbles. Loses another piece of himself.

He doesn't know how many pieces of himself he has left to lose.

¤¤¤¤¤

When the night comes to drink, Ghost considers going AWOL. 

Thinks about staying true to his call sign and vanishing into thin air, never seen again. He plans it out, even, knows what little to bring, what time to leave, where to walk to.

He stares at the mask he wears on base, just the balaclava with the infamous skull print. His gloved thumb runs over where a piece of the jaw design is cracking. He shifts his own jaw in time with his thumb.

Maybe there's no Simon left, he thinks, delusional. 

Maybe it's just Ghost, after everything.

Now would be the time to slip away, Ghost reminds himself, and his grip on the mask tightens, threateningly pulling at the jaw bone design.

Now.

He slips the mask over his head, and slowly breathes. He considers.

The faint smell of cigar smoke worms its way under his door and into his room. He hears Gaz laugh somewhere down the hallway, hears Soap's soft footsteps padding towards his room.

No. 

He stands wearily, takes another deliberate breath, and stalks to the door.

There's a knock, just as his hand reaches for the knob. A familiar pattern, one that makes him force a feeling that could possibly be described as giddiness down into the abyss behind his ribcage. 

Knock, knock, knock-knock, knock.

He could still run. Now's the very last chance he'll get. Johnny won't let him out of his sights when this night starts. Ghost should vanish- it's now or never.

He swallows past the sting of bile in his throat and returns with a quiet knock of his own.

Knock, knock.

He hears Soap laugh quietly on the other side.

Never, he choses. Never.

Ghost opens his door, and there is Soap, leaning against the wall with a grin so wide that it could crack his face. His eyes brighten when he sees Ghost. His grin drops a little when he sees what look Simon has in his eyes.

Johnny furrows his brows slightly, darts his eyes up and down in a quick one-two. 

Ye alreit?

Ghost shifts his jaw before steps into Johnny's space, just a little.

I'll be fine.

Johnny squints at him before dropping the silent conversation. He pushes himself off the wall and starts talking about a new project he's working on at the demolitions range. 

Ghost follows him to his office, and hangs on every word.

¤¤¤¤¤

Soap's 'office' is more of a play room than anything, all regulation thrown to the wind.

Spotless, but filled with personal trinkets and such. Soap reminds Ghost of a crow, collecting little shiny things to bring home to show others. It would be almost cute if Ghost would allow himself to think that way. 

Gaz isn't here, though. Neither is Price or Laswell, or anyone else.

Just him and Johnny. 

He doesn't think about it too much, because if he does, he knows it's the old man's fault.

Johnny doesn't pay any mind to the lack of the other three, and instead buries his head around his thousand-and-some shelves to find 'the right glasses'. 

"What are we drinkin'?" Ghost asks when the sound of rummaging starts to grate on his nerves.

"Oh, he does speak. Bless th' Saints, ah thought ye went mute,'' Johnny grins at him. Ghost narrows his eyes. Maybe he should have ran. The hum Johnny gives while pretending to think on it, possibly, changes his mind again. "Daiquiris," he settles on.

"What?"

"Ye know, those fruity, fancy cocktails."

Ghost could walk out the door right now. He should. 

"Fuckin' hell, Johnny," Ghost drawls, casting his gaze to the draw that seemed to be the one Johnny was looking for, if his air fist bump was anything to go by. He pulls out two daiquiris glasses, one of them clear around the middle up and with the base a cool blue. The other- "What the fuck."

Johnny laughs at that and holds the other glass up proudly. It's hot pink with a little touch of purple at the rim and with a mini pink boa scarf at the base.

"Don't like it?" Johnny grins so bright it feels like Ghost is getting flashbanged.

"You would have that," he murmured instead.

"Yeah, yeah. Yer lucky 'm givin' ye the blue one. Gotta keep up yer masculine image, eh?" 

"Whatever you say, Johnny," Ghost huffs, settling into the plush spare seat across from the desk. "Make it strong, yeah?"

Johnny hums quietly, his eyes lingering on Ghost's face.

Two hours. That's all he needs before he's calling it a night and fucking off. 

¤¤¤¤¤

He doesn't know exactly when he got drunk, but he does know that he ended up with the pink glass two drinks ago. Maybe four. 

Johnny isn't wasted like him; the fucker's been nursing his second drink for about an hour. 

Right, fuck, he was supposed to leave…

He forces his eyes to drag up to the oddly silent clock on the wall. Ghost remembers Johnny telling him all about how he managed to rig the clock in a way the ticking sound doesn't happen. He said it drove him bat shit crazy, having to hear it over and over again. It was adorable.

Fuck, no, he needs to focus. The clock, the time. 

Ghost tries again, squinting at it for extra measure. 

Jesus, he was supposed to be out of here three hours ago. 

"Ye alreit?" Johnny asks from his spot next to Ghost on the floor. Ghost hums at him in question. "I asked if ye're alreit, Ghost."

Ghost blinks at him, considering the question for an awfully long time, long enough for Johnny to sit up and gain that adorable furrow between his eyebrows.

"L.t? Seriously, are ye okay?"

He takes a small breath.

"Nah," he offers simply, running his hand through his tousled hair. 

Simon dropped the mask all of thirty minutes ago. He finally got pissed off about having it bunched up on his nose and abandoned the thing.

Johnny blinked at him a time or two, the gears turning in his head at Ghost actually being honest.

"No?"

"Yeah, no."

Johnny blinks again and that furrow grows.

"Yes?"

"Nah."

"No?"

"Yeah," Simon grins at the stupidness of the conversation. 

Johnny shakes his head with an exasperated sigh. 

"Alreit, what th' fuck," Johnny tosses his hands up.

And Simon laughs.

He doesn't know that he is laughing until his sides ache with it. Johnny's laughing too, at first in disbelief and then with Simon at the situation. And when Simon comes down from a high he hasn't felt in decades, Johnny is staring at him- through him, deep into what's left of his soul. 

"Wha'," Simon slurs, lips morphing into an odd, lazy grin.

"Nothin'."

"Nothin'?"

"Aye." Johnny's eyes linger lightly at his mouth before they harden and he sits up a bit. "Hell, Si, ye've got me all side tracked. This is important."

"Wha's important?"

"Ye are. Ye not bein' alreit," Johnny insists.

"Ah, sure," he murmurs, laying his head back on the side of Soap's desk.

"Ah'm serious," Johnny shifts closer, and Simon's eyes open lazily. "Why aren't ye alreit, Simon?"

Simon.

The abomination almost sounds pretty coming out of Johnny's mouth. 

Ghost gets his shit together.

"You wanna know?" Ghost rasps, drinking the rest of his too-sweet daiquiri in his too-frilly glass. 

"Aye. If ye'd tell me."

And Ghost gathers his drifting thoughts, pieces them together as he breathes slowly.

"I have killed you… Countless times." Ghost waves his hand simply, almost like he were shooing a fly. "Shot you, stabbed you, lit you on fuckin' fire, made you-" he forces a sharp breath. "Made you off yourself, just like that." His throat is getting tight, and he lifts the glass to his scarred lips again, knowing damn well it was empty. 

"Simon," Johnny breathes, slow and steady hands taking the glass from him to set it aside. His hands return quickly, and it's placed on top of Simon's.

"I don't- I won't take it anymore." A sob desperately tries punches through Simon, and he covers his face like the coward he is. "I want to hold you, want to have you, Johnny."

And the fucking gleam in Johnny's eyes could fly Simon to the moon and makes him bring back arm fulls of stars for him. 

"But- but everything I touch dies. And I can't… can't lose you to myself." The sob tries Simon again, and this time, it wins. He's crying, and he doesn't know how to stop, and it scares him. Scares him so badly that he can't do anything but press the heels of his palms into his eyes. He doesn't care that Johnny's hand falls away.

Really. He doesn't. Not… Not at all.

Christ, he is absolutely shameless.

Seriously, has he no pride? Breaking down over a couple of dreams? Crying in front of his Sergeant?

He feels his teeth grind together, feels his skull build up with the pressure of a thousand words, and by God and the devil, he has to let at least some out before they kill him.

"They felt so fuckin' real," he seethes past his locked jaw. "Woke up sometimes, 'n' I didn't bloody know if you were really dead or not. Felt like seein' a ghost everytime we passed."

Johnny's hand comes back, steady and tender, and guides Simon to lessen the pressure on his eyes. 

Past the blur left over from the tears and the force, he catches Johnny licking his bottom lip.

"Ah'm not dead. Ye've touched me and ah'm still breathin' jus' fine, Simon. Promise- Swear I am," Johnny carefully caresses Ghost's forearm. "Ah'm not goin' anywhere." He grins a little. "Yer not that lucky to get rid'a me."

Simon takes a deep breath, one that shakes his rib cage and stretches his lungs. With Johnny's encouragement, he breathes slowly. 

"Yeah," he murmurs, leaning his shoulder on Johnny's.

"Aye," Johnny agrees, leaning in time with him.

They sit there for some time, taking each other in, feeling each other's warmth. Simon nearly doses off to the feeling of Johnny's chest rising and falling. 

"Yer gonna have a hell of a hangover tomorrow," Johnny chuckles, combing through Simon's hair.

And, honestly, Simon is powerless against the chuckle that breaks through. 

@tmnt-oc-comp

@l0ul0uland

Extras:

No colour

Day!:

October 10

Both canonical pictures of Donatello that belong to the creators of Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

Name of the creator of template used in video above was lost.