soap who regularly brings ghost tea just because he can walking into his room and only blinking once when he finds ghost maskless
ghost takes the mug with a gentle “thanks johnny” like always. unlike always, soap unthinkingly responds, “thank you, gorgeous.”
a stunning pink nips the apples of ghost’s cheeks and he huffs, shoving soap away with a muttered “piss off, i’m working.” he does, always does, but the thought of that flush, rising to the very tips of ghost’s ears haunts him (the irony is not lost on him). he realizes he’d do anything to see it again.
the names become a part of the routine, nearly as important as the tea itself.
“thanks, johnny.” ghost will say. “no problem, sweetheart” “anytime, darling” “my pleasure, beautiful” soap will return.
its on one of these days that karma decides to strike him down. ghost has just taken the still steaming mug from his fingers, cradling it. soap prepares himself for the usual, an easygoing smile on his lips and his heart beating ever so slightly faster in his chest. the usual doesn’t come.
“thank you, love.” ghost murmurs, voice rumbling in the small room and casting an avalanche of emotion over soap’s steadily heating frame.
love? LOVE?? that wasn’t part of this, ghost was supposed to be the one fighting down nauseous butterflies not soap. that rat bastard, soap thinks, stupefied, he thinks he can outplay me? i’ll fucking show him.
he takes two confident strides forward, places a steadying hand on the back of ghost’s chair and the other on a stubble laden cheek, and leans down to press a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. ghost goes rigid, soap can feel the blush against his nose.
when ghost pulls him in for a real kiss, messy and hurried but full of longing and want, soap only thinks he could get used to the taste of tea if it was off the man’s lips
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