Pattern Breaker

And So the Pattern of Behavior Continues

Soap's jaw flexed as he dropped his gaze from Ghost's face to the neckline of his shirt, a hint of burning tears beginning to prick in the corners of his eyes. He couldn't look at him that closely right now. He wanted to run, and hide. From the truth. From Ghost. From whatever ramifications Ghost fucking finding those tapes were going to have. From the excitement in his entire body when he thought about the way Ghost's lips felt on his neck yesterday. The deepness in Ghost's shockingly blue eyes, complemented erotically by the dark grease he almost always wore around them– the closest form of anonymity he could grasp– was almost too gut-wrenching to experience. Especially when it was pointed towards him.

Yes, he wanted to run. From everything. Because he was tumbling down a deep hole, scratching at the walls for purchase he would never find. And he would be buried alive in that hole, with Ghost himself holding the shovel.

"Get out. Please, Ghost. Just leave." He whispered, begging. "I can't."

"Can't what, Johnny?" Ghost began shouting, both of his hands balled into tight fists beside him.

"I can't.. With you. I can't do this with you. Not right now."

"If not now, then when?"

"I don't know!" His own voice came to a yell. "I don't know if I'll ever want to."

"This isn't something you can ignore." Sure, it was. If he dragged it down in to his grave with him and didn't let go.

But in classic Ghost fashion, he would never let that happen.

'What, like you've ignored me?"

"Like you have any fucking room to talk!" He didn't, and he knew that.

"Stop. Just fucking go. I'm not doing this with you. Not now. Not ever."

"You can't just fucking pretend nothing happened, Soap." Why not? Why couldn't he? It would be easier that way, right? To just go back to staring at Ghost from across rooms like it was the last time he'd ever see him? To study the impressive gracefulness in the way he moved, the strangely sensual way that made Johnny's mouth water when Ghost's hand clamped over an enemies mouth from behind before he drew his knife across their neck? To long, hopelessly from a distance– keeping all of his emotions to himself?

To forget the intense, mind blowing jealousy of accidentally catching Ghost being intimate with someone else just feet away from him? Wishing it were him there instead, being left whimpering and begging for release at his touch?

To pretend like there was nothing more that he wanted in his life than to hear Simon tell him that he loved him?

"Oh, steamin' bloody Jesus," Soap groaned dejectedly, running one hand through his hair. There was no way to ignore this, there was no way for them to just go back to being simply brothers in arms.

Soap blamed himself, of course. Because from the second he saw Ghost with his own eyes for the first time, he fell. And he fell hard. Like he had been pushed off of a cliff with no regard for anything or anyone. And he fell... For everything. How ridiculously tall he was, how pretty his guarded eyes were, how deep his voice was– sparkling flames deep inside Johnny every time it came over his comms directly in his ear.

The jokes that he had told Soap in Las Almas, so obviously the only way Ghost knew to help keep him calm from the distance that separated the two of them. The way Ghost shouted his name in fear when he had been shot.

The way he could feel Ghost watching over him constantly, without wavering, no matter where they were. As if he had made it his own personal mission to keep him safe.

There was no hope for his feelings for Ghost to be solely platonic, ever . He knew that now. Far too late, and far too helpless and stupid to do anything about it other than push Ghost away as far and hard as he possibly could.