#aro!ghost

It started in Las Almas, jokes and teasing traded back and forth over comms to cover up fear, to keep both of them sane. Simon can't remember the last time he'd been able to joke like that with someone, but he's heard the rumours about MacTavish. Insatiable in the bed, and quick to drop someone for a new toy, John is a player. Maybe that's why Simon had the confidence to flirt, throw out quiet remarks that edged too close to flirting for either of them to ignore.

It doesn't happen instantly, but instead a gradual build up. More missions together, more flirting, fleeting touches that Ghost doesn't push away. It builds and builds and builds until the two of them are crashing together in a safe house after some shit-show of a mission. Bodies colide and spit is swapped as Simon lets himself fall into something he craves. While Simon is the one splitting John open, thick cock stretching out a hole that welcomes him, he has no control over the situation. John whispers and growls up at him, orders him around as if their ranks and roles were reversed.

Faster.

Harder.

Roll over.

Good boy.

Good dog.

Simon gives himself completely, rolling over on his back and scrambling to hold John's thighs as the man rides him with renewed vigour. It's bliss, a blanket washing over his mind as John pushes and smacks him, mean words floating in through one ear and out of the other. Everything fades until they're done, until John is panting next Simon, arm slung over his waist. Simon manages to wriggle out from the bed, stumbling over to his pack as blood rushes to his head. Clean up is like a routine to him, wiping John's body with gentle hands and a soft rag, using some of their water supply to clean him as best as possible.

It doesn't stop after that, bursting into something new and amazing instead. Closets, the armory, each other's rooms, the gym after hours. Simon feels like they've christened nearly every surface on base. He and John work better together than ever before, though Gaz loves to complain about it when paired with them, and it's the best Simon has ever felt. John doesn't ask for dates, he doesn't ask for promises or rings, doesn't ask Simon to meet his family during a shared leave. All John does is ask Simon to go out to bars together, sometimes with the rest of the team as well.

After three months of bliss, Simon should've known the other shoe would drop.

"How are things going with Ghost?"

He shouldn't eavesdrop, but Simon steps back from the door to the rec room, letting the evening lights of the hall cast shadows over him, not a sound in the hall except for the hum of the air conditioning. Gaz's voice is low, the slightest slur in his words making evident where he and John had gone, though probably the more sober of the two.

"Och! The bastart is thick in the skull, I'll tell ya. Ah've never met someone so oblivious!"

There's a fondness in Soap's voice that makes Simon tense. A touch too soft, the hint of laughter between slurred words that are thick with an accent. Simon's heart stutters, taking a step forward as neither man notices him. They're both hunched by the fridge, looking for food to fill their empty stomachs.

"He wouldn't know a date if it slapped him!"

"Are you sure that those are instended to be dates? He invites me along almost every time."

Simon's heart sinks with heavy realisation, stomach turning over into knots as he leaves. Dates. The idea makes something nauseous rise in his throat, and Simon makes a quick detour to the washrooms, barely managing to lock the door behind himself as he falls to his knees in front of a toilet. His meager dinner comes back up, stains his mouth and his throat. But the disgusting taste doesn't compare to the rot in his lungs, the way air escapes him and doesn't return. It hurts.

It hurts more than anything. He'd though Soap was happy with what they had, thought maybe Soap understood Simon's soul. But looking back at everything, every kiss shared, every late night dinner together at the diner just off base, sharing a fag outside of the barracks well past curfew, it's all been staring him in the face.