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ghosti-the-gremlin · 11 months ago

Text

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SESSIONS.

[18+ MDNI]

AO3

Pairings: John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley Kyle "Gaz" Garrick & John "Soap" MacTavish Ensemble: John "Soap" MacTavish, Simon "Ghost" Riley, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, John Price, Kate Laswell, Nikolai

Warnings: Heavy BDSM ⛓️ BDSM ⛓️ Dom/sub ⛓️ Size Difference ⛓️ Rough Sex ⛓️ Rough Oral Sex ⛓️ Oral Sex ⛓️ Anal Sex ⛓️ Anal Fingering ⛓️ Rimming ⛓️ Hand Jobs ⛓️ Size Kink ⛓️ Kink Negotiation ⛓️ Orgasm Delay/Denial ⛓️ Collars/Leashes ⛓️ Minimum Effort Aftercare ⛓️ Porn With Plot ⛓️ Bottom John "Soap" MacTavish ⛓️ Top Simon "Ghost" Riley ⛓️ Simon "Ghost" Riley is Bad At Feelings ⛓️ Bisexuality ⛓️ Touch-Starved ⛓️ Denial of Feelings > Other Additional Tags to Be Added <

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Chapter 2: muse

Words: 8,111 Summary: In which he finds inspiration…

Johnny couldn’t sleep. Tossing and turning on his mattress, sheets tangled around his legs. Flipping his pillow to the cool side and back again until both sides were warmed. It wasn’t a new experience for him, insomnia. It was like a bedside companion, a nightly occurrence at this point. Wide awake, lying supine in bed for hours and staring at his ceiling until dawn came. If he was lucky, Johnny could get a few hours in just before the morning. And if he was fortunate, he could eventually fall asleep before inevitably waking up again and so on, repeating throughout the night.

But tonight Johnny was neither lucky or fortunate.

Condemned instead to something worse than just sleeplessness. Thinking. Constant, incessant thinking. By a restless mind that refused to quiet down, whirring nonstop; all mind power, all cerebration consumed by one thing. One man. No matter how hard he tried to steer his mind away and divert it to anything else other than him, like the pull of a planet, he was hurled back, caught in the masked man’s orbit. Caged his mind like purgatory. Plagued his thoughts, occupied his headspace – involuntarily.

That night, their encounter. It all replayed in his head like a damaged record, reliving each moment as if anew. That fear, the thrill. The overwhelmingness he induced in Johnny. Even days later, Johnny could still feel the intensity of his gaze. The bitter aftertaste of the smoke on his tongue. Body heat diffused into his own until he sweltered in his jacket. The way Johnny’s fingers brushed against the roughness of a gloved hand. The way the man stood over him, cornering him like an easy quarry. The way the smoke filled his mouth, the man’s lips wrapped around the end of Johnny’s cigarette…

He flipped onto his side, shifting about in bed uncomfortably, as goosebumps rose along the skin. He bunched his pillow under his bicep only to revert it back flat under his head. Johnny rubbed a hand against his face. Fingers twitched, an ache within the muscle – an eagerness to express. With those same fingers, Johnny pressed against his temples, trying to evict that specific moment from his head. But it was of no use, powerless at the moment against his mind’s will. He laid there for a while, fidgety. Staring up at the ceiling, stuck in his own head. Johnny blew air harshly through his nose before his body sprung up. Grown sick of not being able to stop thinking about the man or that night of their meeting. It was an energy that needed to be exhibited, expelled. Something to tire out him and his brain.

His fingers instinctively flexed, itching again. Johnny got up and flicked the lamp on his writing desk, frantically scouring the top for his materials. Brushing ripped, crumpled pages of unfinished and half-assed abandoned sketches and drawings in his search. Uncaring as they flew down onto his carpet in a flurry of tattered paper. He opened the top drawer then another, descending down until a sigh of relief. Among the last drawer’s clutter was his leather-bound journal tucked away, collecting dust. Johnny grabbed it and the metal tin pencil case underneath it. With a now cleared desk, he laid it open. Flipping through the used cartridge paper pages full of old drawings and forced attempts until he found a blank canvas.

The freshly sharpened graphite pencil in hand, cradled in his fingertips, felt foreign in his hands. His eyes stared at the empty page. Hesitant; months and months of a creative slump lingered, a doubt given strength. Self-loathing, unworthiness there. He peered down at his wrist where the gray tyvek band still remained. It was worn thin now, the material bent like string and the color had faded away. With little effort, Johnny could easily tear it off but he found himself not wanting to do so. Seeing it as a memento of sorts. Despite its lightweight, it felt heavy on his wrist like a shackle; bound to him.

Underneath the skin, he felt it – that underlying urge to draw. To draw him. Johnny could visualize him easily: a shapeless figure between the shadows of the tenfoot. Etiolated bone against the moonless night. Eyes that swallowed all light and life like dark mirrors, for which Johnny could see a reflection of himself. Pierced through him and disturbed the still waters of his soul; stirring the depths. Sent ripples across the surface.

A soft breath as Johnny lightly pressed against the thick paper and drew a circle. A scant lopsided and oblong from a rusty hand that made his unsurety emboldened. After a moment of hesitation, he grabbed his eraser block nevertheless and gently erased it away. Continuing to draw the circle over and over until satisfied. With a shaky exhale, Johnny drew a single horizontal line that he crossed with a vertical strike, cutting the circle into even fourths. Then finally, sketched a square inside the divided circle.

Johnny stared at his journal in front of him, feeling adequate at his beginning of the Reilly Method, a renown formation of shapes on paper. A sudden burst of energy coursed through him, tingling through the tips of fingers, shaking away his diffidence. Johnny’s hand was frenzied as he suddenly began to draw. His mind was overloaded with key moments of his encounter. Hyperfocused on every movement, every moment. Drawing, sketching, erasing mistakes… again and again to get it right. To get him right.

Before he knew it, time passed quickly. The night eased into the onset of morning. The color of dawn began to unfurl, blooming on the horizon. Peering through his blinds onto the wood of his desk. Johnny leaned back all the way into his chair, puffed cheeks slowly expiring air from his mouth as he relaxed. Slowly coming down from the high of his afflatus. As he basked in it, reveled in the triumphant feeling, the after effects of his illustrative toil only became more noticeable. Johnny’s dominant hand was cramped. Fingers ached at the joints, smears of graphite stained his palm and fingertips. The stiffness of his neck, shoulders and spine ached from him slouching over his desk for hours on end. Too focused as he drew. Drained both mentally and physically, but most importantly, Johnny was relieved. A strange sensation after all this time. To finally be satisfied with his artist's impression.

The paper page, once blank and daunting. Now rendered by his hand in meticulous detail, in monochrome, was as Johnny remembered him that night. Emerging from the dark like he was made of it, skull stark against the thick paper and the dark shading from graphite smudging. A composition that even still had his blood pumping, his mouth dry. But Johnny didn’t have time to admire his work as a single ray of the early morning sun slipped through the slats in the blinds and illuminated his room.

And he knew he was going to be late for the metro…

Johnny jumped up from his desk. Rushing around his room for clean clothes, throwing stuff from his hamper all onto his bed and carpet floor. With a quick brush of his teeth and a splash of cold water onto his face, he grabbed a protein shake from his fridge, his phone on his desk. And with one last look at the drawing, Johnny shouldered his bag and hurried out the door.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

It was another sleepless night.

Still not surprising and still unwelcome. Sleep deprivation had started to weigh down on Johnny now, clouding his clarity and judgment. And his mind only became more restive, his thoughts more intrusive. The only remedy he could come up with was a visit to the pub for some drinks; a night out was desperately needed but Gaz was busy working the night shift the rest of the week. Catching the drunks instead of becoming one – the bloody peeler. The option of going out and drinking alone wasn't ideal either. There was no fun getting sloshed all by yourself.

So here Johnny was. At home and in bed on a weekend night like an old man. Too tired to watch a movie or show to make his night worthwhile, but not tired enough to fall asleep apparently. Still unlucky and unfortunate was Johnny. He turned, plopping onto his back with a hefty sigh, eyes to the ceiling where faint strips of moonlight streaked across the plaster. He watched above as it wavered, bending in shape as the moonbeams stretched and compressed with the rise of the crescent moon peeking through the slits of his blinds.

He reached down, blindly feeling around the carpet for his jacket thrown somewhere by his bed. The edge of it was just out of reach. Johnny leaned over, partially falling out of bed, until he was near enough to grab the hem. With a groan, Johnny pulled himself back onto his mattress with his jacket in hand, fishing around its side pocket as he settled back in his covers. From it, Johnny pulled out the zippo and tossed his jacket away on his desk chair. Cool metal against his skin. Johnny ran a thumb across the smooth surface, his palm warming the dark steel casing as he held it.

He stopped at a rough edge along the curvature. There, he thumbed over the deep jagged grooves of a carving. A small skull carefully etched into the metal casing. It served as a signature of sorts, a brand of ownership. Johnny realized when he first discovered it the night of. Over and over, he absentmindedly followed along it. Memorizing its profile: the turns, angles, corners and ends. Mind raced away as he did so. The action was strangely comforting to him.

The moonlight drained away with passing clouds and his room grew dark. Johnny squeezed the lighter in his hand until it pressed deep into his palm. Holding it above his chest, Johnny flicked the hood open and rolled the sparkwheel until it clicked, producing a little flame. It burned like a candlelight, a soft glow that ate away at the edges of the dark in his room. Johnny watched the flame burn, intrigued by the fire in the cusp of his hand. An uneven breath and the flame flickered, licking at his right thumb tip pressed down on the button behind it, burning the skin. With a hiss, Johnny quickly let go and the flame extinguished instantly, the zippo falling from his hand. He shot up in bed and popped his thumb in his mouth, easing the searing pain with his tongue. Hoping it wouldn’t blister. But the skin still stung and the nerves felt aflame.

Johnny rolled out of bed, flicking his wrist loosely at the joint, as if to shake off the burning pain. He went across the hall to his bathroom, immediately turning on the sink and running cold water onto the afflicted thumb. The coolness soothed away the sting but the pad of his thumb stayed reddened, tender and inflamed. Throbbing with a dull pain and still hot as if an ember burned underneath the skin. More peeved than anything, he walked back to his room with a huff. Chastising himself for his injury like his mother would when he was being petulant as a child.

His desk lamp was flicked on, the light making him blink a couple times as his eyes adjusted to its brightness. A glint caught the lamplight in his peripheral and Johnny looked down at the foot of his chair where the cause of his injury was laid. Tucked slightly underneath the leg. He reached down for the lighter, settling it gently in his palm even though he just burned himself with it only seconds ago. Turning it this way and that, he admired it thoroughly underneath the lighting as he leaned over his desk.

The lighter was expensive, he could tell. Personally customized, not like the cheap plastic ones from a petrol station or a store. Even than the more expensive ones they sell. The ones with cheap, thin metal casings were nothing in comparison. This lighter was fully made of a dark stainless steel and was heavier in his hand. And significant to its owner by the carved skull on its surface. His eyes flicked to his desk, to his journal laid open in front of him. The past few restless and sleepless nights were documented there. Evidence presented to him and clear on its insides.

Pages upon pages that were once empty and bare, were now chock-full of his musings. Gibberish penned on paper, portraits and sketches of a ghost with the shape of a man. Small drawings and doodles of the same man in the corner of the pages, in the center of his nonsense writing that warped around it. The drawings of dark hollow eyes over and over, trying to get the shape of them right. Johnny flipped to his most recent drawing from the night before. One of the man smoking. Head tilted up as the man leaned back, clean-shaven jaw exposed from underneath the pulled up mask. Lips pursed from a pulled away cigarette, smoke filling his mouth from his intake. While strands of it escaped into the air.

A sudden wave of shame overcame him. Taken back by the realization as it dawned on him. Johnny was appalled at himself, growing scandalized at his work. Of a stranger that he met briefly all those nights ago no less! He didn't even know his name. Johnny rubbed a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose and blew out a harsh sigh.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, MacTavish?”

It was a self-aimed rhetorical question. But Johnny couldn’t help but think about it, moving his hand to his head. Fingers threaded through his mohawk before tugging at the strands until it stung as if in self-flagellation. A curse of a muse, he concluded. Or was it just the workings of sleep deprivation catching up to him? Or had he simply grown too passionate, clinging to what.. who inspired him like a lifeline? He couldn’t really tell. But either way, he was out of his bloody mind.

Mortified, Johnny closed his journal to hide away his shamefulness. He traced the lighter’s engraving with his injured thumb again, feeling the lingering sting grow against the press of the grooves. And stood up straight, craving a smoke to clear his mind. From his jacket pocket he grabbed his carton, taking out the last cigarette from inside. Surprised at its emptiness and the fact that he was already finished with his carton for the week. He would have to wait for his paycheck for a re-up unless he could scrounge up some change for another. But for now, Johnny would have to savor this last one for the time being.

Holding it between his lips, Johnny took the lighter that wasn’t his with him to the living room. With no balcony to smoke off of and too lazy to walk out his flat to smoke, Johnny opted instead to a large window overlooking the backstreet near his laundry room. An old fancy tea cup saucer sat in the far corner of the dusted windowsill. Its matching cup had broken years ago and now it served as his makeshift ashtray. Evident of its new purpose by the remnant cigarette butts, old tar marks, and plys of ash littering inside.

Johnny leaned against the window’s ledge and with a quick motion, he lit the tip of his cigarette over the conjured flame. An inhale, and the taste of tobacco filled his senses. It was calmative throughout his body, letting a hazy mind finally think clearly. The repetitive motions of inhaling and exhaling the cigarette grounded him. Letting his weight settle on his forearms, Johnny’s body began to ease up and he leaned himself fully onto the windowsill. Staring out at the alleyway on a surprisingly mellow night. Balmy, a soft breeze with it. Not strong enough to blow the exhaled smoke back in his face but it was enough to waft it – and the faint musty smell of dumpsters and sewage from the alley – away into the night air.

As he smoked, Johnny finally felt his mind hush. More keen on getting his fix and on the repetitions of him respiring the residual smoke. In his other palm Johnny still held the lighter, a burned thumb slightly raised away from the surface to not irritate the inflammation. An exhale of smoke, a tingling thought at the back of his mind, and he looked down at the zippo in his hand. Loosening his grip on it as he moved his thumb away to open up his palm. He tilted his palm up more, squinting his eyes, and using the glow from his lit cigarette to see better. Only to see the ball of his thumb was indented with a mark. Tingling in the open air. The etched skull now etched onto him. An intrusive thought at the back of his mind, a traitious feeling that made nausea settle in his gut. A strange fascination mixed with revulsion.

His thenar stung with a burning emboss of it; a brand set deep into the skin. And all he could do was stare. Flakes of ashes from the cigarette falling onto the windowsill, the ember flickering until it began to dim. And his cigarette went out.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

It wasn't until the following night that Johnny decided to do something about it. More so, the idea of being a Good Samaritan and returning the lost lighter to its rightful owner. Rather he was pursuing the path of penance. For what, Johnny didn’t really know. But he knew that either way, its safe return was dire. If almost two weeks of insomnia and his overwrought journal were anything to go by. From what Johnny could reason, the bloody thing was accursed. And those who wrongfully had it were anathematized with the haunting of its skull-faced proprietor.

Johnny rubbed at his heavy eyebags and couldn't help but laugh at himself; he was completely off his rocker. And his nicotine withdrawal wasn’t helping in the slightest. With Gaz still busy with work, Johnny had no one to help ground him or better yet knock some sense into him. Johnny would have to deal with this himself the only way he knew how to: to take it head-on. Like taking a bull by the horns. Even if the idea of going back to the 141 with Gaz felt odd, going without him felt even worse.

Johnny sat on his desk chair, tugging his trainers on. Something more comfortable and fitting for the walk ahead. Having learned his lesson from before, the memory of blisters and feet aches from trekking in his boots at the back of his mind. His bucket car wouldn’t last the drive across the city let alone down the next neighborhood over. Not wanting to recreate the mode of transportation last time of him and Gaz walking all the way there, his next best option was the coaches. It would cover most of the distance, but there was still a bit of walking needed. A more manageable amount though like a nice stroll. Checking his phone screen for the time, it wouldn’t arrive for another twenty minutes, giving him eleven minutes to spare. More like thirteen but he was a slow walker. The extra minutes were needed to get to the bus stop on time.

The rest of last night’s cigarette was tucked in the corner of his mouth, smoking it out of desperation. It was unhygienic, sure, but it did slightly take the edge off and help alleviate the shakiness of his hands. Yet it still wasn't enough to fully satiate his nicotine cravings. From what he could see from the opened window, tonight was like any other night. Mellow still, a few degrees warmer from unsettled weather but it was nothing too drastic. He was staring up at the moon before Johnny checked the time on his watch. He shrugged his jacket on, snubbing the cigarette out into the windowsill saucer. With a reassured pat on his right jacket pocket, feeling the weight there, Johnny grabbed his phone from his charger and left.

The ride on the coach wasn’t as pleasant as he hoped. Overcrowded and loud in the evening even with music playing through his earbuds. Reminded him of the bustling crowds of people flocking the streets that he and Gaz had to push through that night ago. But as the coach followed its route and passed through downtown and residential areas, it became less claustrophobic as people got off. Less bodies pressed against each other to squeeze into a seat or blocked the aisles as people stood and clung to the hanging hand grips on the painted railing above.

Eventually he was able to get a seat, a window seat at that, and enjoyed the ride better. There were still passengers along with him, scattered across the seating rows. But they were less rowdy. most were like him. Minding their own business and either listening to their music, scrolling on their phones or even reading as they laid back in the faded upholstery seats.

It wasn’t too long of a ride. The honking and idleness in the packed lanes of going through the downtown traffic made the ride seem more terrible than it actually was. Not to mention the overcrowdedness of other passengers. Before long, his stop was near. Only a couple of stops away. And his destination was only less than a mile away. As he stepped off the bus and watched it disappear into the night, he took out an earbud and with an exhale, got to walking. Following the directions on his phone’s map app.

His surroundings soon became familiar as he made headway to the club. Making Johnny’s underlying anxiety begin to creep beneath his composure, spreading like morning glories. His music didn't help waver it or distract him from it. Overwhelmed, Johnny had no choice but to stop and take out his remaining earbud and put both away into their case. As he tucked it away into his right pocket, his fingers brushed against the zippo in comfort.

Johnny stood in front of the alleyway now. Stared down the long span of it. A cold darkness that looked back at him waiting for Johnny to step forward into its bowels. Johnny couldn’t force himself to go any farther past its threshold. He knew the bouncers were somewhere near the door. Another deterrent that Johnny didn’t feel like dealing with alone, especially without Gaz there to prevent Johnny from butting heads with them. The fee to get in the 141 was another now that he didn’t have the graciousness of an invitation to get in. But he wasn’t actually there to enter the 141 club and socialize. Only to do the right thing and return a lost item like his mother had taught him to do.

How he was supposed to get to the tenfoot where he had encountered the masked man without going through the 141? Well… that was in the works. His occupation was evident that he was never a planner to begin with. Johnny played with the wristband underneath his sleeve, rubbing at the split tear he had taped together when it had eventually ripped.

Looking around his surroundings, the only options Johnny could come up with was to bite the bullet and pay the fee to get inside or go around the back. Of these two options, the former was presumably to break the bank (or what few pounds he had in his account), but less risky. While the other was free and pretty risky. Johnny turned on his heel, opting for the latter. He was careful with his movements, staying along the wall as he headed slowly around the building’s side. The place being supposedly empty made him feel more daring.

But as Johnny turned the corner and continued down, he was met with a problem. A chain link gate faced him. Locked close with a thick chain and padlock and a few inches taller than he was. It had a privacy mesh screen on the other side, preventing any outsiders from looking through. Johnny let out a frustrated huff, glaring at the gate in front of him as if doing so would melt it down by his look alone. But he knew what had to be done. Johnny stretched, bouncing on his heels to prepare himself to jump the gate. He knew it could be done. It was just like pulling himself up on the pull-up bar. All he really needed was a strong jump up and he could haul himself over.

Johnny wiped his hands on the front of his jeans, taking a deep breath, feeling his weight shift on his heels. He crouched and with a swing of his arms, he jumped up. Only jumping over a fence gate was nothing like using a pull-up bar or as easy as it was when he was a teen. The gate rattled harshly from the sudden rush, the weight of him making the metal press into his body. Although he was able to pull himself up, Johnny struggled to keep his balance, arms shaking in his effort to not fall over on the other side.

He pulled his other leg over as he heaved his body with it. The motion swung him down onto his feet. Gracious as an alley cat. An audible sound of something ripping and Johnny stumbled backwards into a large dumpster, thankful that it was there to catch him and stop him from hitting the ground. Johnny pushed himself off of it, sweating and body heated up from the strain. Well almost as gracious as an alley cat. He looked down to see his jacket – his favorite jacket at that – torn at the right side, having been caught on the edge of raised fencing above the gate.

Upset and breathless, Johnny clicked his tongue, accessing the damage. Relieved that it didn't cut through the pocket. Mainly that it wasn't his jeans that got torn. Hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath, Johnny shook his head at himself. A whispered ‘What the fuck I am doing’ caught underneath the intakes of air.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and stood straight, looking around to where he ended up at. Another alleyway, a bit narrower than the tenfoot he remembered. Johnny only hoped it would lead to it. After catching his breath, he walked down it and sure enough it intersected with others. One at either side – the one at his right he knew led to the other side of the building. Standing in the middle of the intersection, he glanced behind himself. Realizing that it was where the masked man eventually disappeared down towards. Johnny locked that small realization away in his head as he turned and walked down the right path.

The dim flood lamp ahead, one that still hadn't had its batteries replaced, glowed in the distance. He knew now what sailors felt like when they saw a lighthouse in the far distance. It was a familiar sight that made him walk faster. But only to tread slowly as the side exit began to near.

“Tryin’ to sneak in?”

That gruff voice from the shadows again.

And Johnny immediately stopped walking. Limbs like lead as he stood stock still, heart thumping in the confines of rib bone. Beating like a drum in an empty room. He couldn’t tell from where he spoke from but Johnny could feel him near. Just outside his peripheral. A shiver shot down his spine, hair at his nape raised, as the burn of eyes focused on him. Flight-or-fight instinct returning just like before. He didn’t know what to say or do, afraid that any sudden movement or reaction could encourage the man to lunge. Teeth against his jugular. When Johnny didn’t say anything, he heard the ruffle of clothing within earshot. Of someone large moving away from the wall.

“I advise not to.”

There was a commination there beneath his words. Hard to be mistaken for anything else by the lowness of it and the way they were spoken like a snarl. Meaner than any junkyard dog from his experience and just as hostile. Johnny swallowed hard, the lump in his throat there. Preventing him from trying to speak and defend himself from the allegation. The man was patient this time, letting Johnny gather himself to respond. Thankful that the speechlessness and stillness were mistaken for being caught red-handed than anything else.

“Not here to sneak inside.” Johnny had the inclination to add a polite sir at the end. But stopped himself from doing so. There was a lump in his throat, heavy like a stone caught in a drainpipe. Acting as a barrier to the quickness of his breathing. The reply was quiet, his voice hoarse. But it was all Johnny could get himself to say.

There was a moment of tense silence. One that made Johnny shift uncomfortably on his feet. A figure moved in the dark.

“Then why’re you here?”

Suspicion now. An edge of a threat that made Johnny more careful with what he was going to say next. Johnny licked his chapped lips and steeled himself. Not wanting himself to seem as daunt as he felt. His hand slowly went to his right pocket, pulling out the zippo.

“You dropped this.” Johnny swallowed, holding it out as if in appeasement. Like a treat shown to a guard dog. “Thought you might want it back.” Another moment of silence before he felt a looming presence in front of him. An immense shadow enfolded over Johnny as the masked man stepped from the dark into the soft moonlight. Stood over him, just inches from his face. Johnny went rigid, the sudden proximity throwing him off balance. Into the orbit of his world, eclipsing all else. Even after all this time, the all-consuming and all-encompassing nature of his very presence was dizzying.

“Hm, tha’ so?”

White baleen lines filled his central vision as Johnny stared forward, eyes pointed straight ahead. A minuscule detail that he wouldn't have noticed beforehand. Only by being this close could he notice it and truly fathom the masked man’s full height and how small he was in comparison. A whole head taller than Johnny was, where the Scotsman couldn’t look over the man’s shoulder without going on his toes. If he was brave enough to do so, he would have to crane his neck up just to meet his eyes. But his gaze stuck to the bottom of his chin where it met his neck. Johnny couldn’t bring himself to look up.

All usual bravado and cockiness that Johnny usually had with others trying to size him up was completely gone. Even his usual smart mouth was failing him now. As if knowing deep down that he didn’t stand any fighting chance against him.

Fawning, appeasing for survival. Johnny finally nodded at him. Agreeance with his statement.

The mountain-esque man before him expelled a deep chuff; a prusten sound like something a big cat would vocalize. A brush against Johnny's hand, rough material scratching his skin and the lighter was taken from his open palm. Too quick for the Scotsman register. The skull-faced man stepped back suddenly, throwing him off balance in the absence of his gravity. But graciously giving Johnny the room to breathe, to think properly and get his footing back. Johnny blinked, eyes unfocused and bleakly. A tightness in his chest began to wane. At a safe distance now, Johnny looked ahead and met his eyes this time. Taking in the full sight of him. The man was just as he remembered him to be. Still masked of course, and dressed in dark clothing.

Just like in the dreamscapes of his troubled, broken sleep. Just as he was depicted in his drawings. Shame overcame Johnny then, remembering the renditions of the man in his journal. The inspiration he caused him unknowingly like wildfire. An urge to confess hit him. As if doing so could assuage the guilt and weirdness of it all – of his obsessive behavior, of the haunting he endured over the past few weeks. Conscience-stricken and probably red-faced now, Johnny moved his gaze away.

“Sorry…” The apology was there, the confession on his tongue. He licked his lips again, biting the confessional down before it could be said. Let it dissolve on his tongue before Johnny continued. “Didn’t mean to return it so late.”

The man only watched him. Standing tall and skeptical, assessing Johnny from the shadows.

“Better late than never.”

Johnny nodded, agreeing. “Yeah.”

More silence as Johnny watched him lean against the wall again. Back in the position he was in before Johnny stumbled into his territory and disturbed him. Feeling the action as dismissal and a sign for him to leave, Johnny turned around. He walked a couple steps before the man spoke up suddenly.

“Wan’ a smoke?”

It was spoken a bit softer, not like before. But it still made Johnny jump at its unexpectedness. The drawl of it betrayed his roots. Johnny soon recognized it as a Mancunian lilt. Albeit throaty and sonorous.

The man held out an open carton for him to see, a showcase so it wouldn't be mistaken as a trap or a lie. Johnny still eyed him carefully, feeling on edge. A mistrust that made him hesitate at the stranger’s offer as vacillation swelled though the masked man seemed more relaxed and less hostile than initially. His question sunk in the Scotsman’s head. Weighed it against his reasoning. That urge to smoke, the anticipation of a burst of nicotine in his mouth was too overwhelming. It was him at an advantage now. Held the carton out to Johnny like a dog treat like he'd done to him, coaxing him forward like he was a stray. If he didn’t know any better, Johnny would see it as a nice reward for being a good samaritan. Or simply a friendly invitation. But something in him couldn’t help but interpret it as a test.

Despite it all, Johnny took a step forward. The need to smoke overpowering his second thoughts and hesitation. Slowly he walked to him, skin prickling underneath his watchful gaze. Even as Johnny plucked a cigarette from the box, those eyes of his didn't waver. It was Johnny’s turn to take a few steps away, cigarette held between the middle and forefinger. Leaning nearer to the exit doorway, a respectful distance kept between the two of them. The masked man grabbed a cigarette for himself as well but he didn’t lift his mask up like last time. Instead he pressed the end against his covered mouth, his lips holding it at a scant angle against the black fabric. Johnny mimicked him and put the cigarette in his mouth. From the flash of the carton’s laminated label, as the man tucked it away into a back pocket, it was quite an expensive brand. Definitely a step above his usual pick.

The man held out the zippo to him, the sight was almost comical from how small it looked in his huge gloved hands. The gesture made Johnny lift a brow at him. Eyes squinted as they went to meet the man’s look. Trying to gauge any sign or recognize any emotion but he failed to discern anything from them. Unsure of the symbolism or the intention behind the offer.

A benefit of the doubt was given and Johnny grabbed it, firmly grasping it. His eyes flicked down the carved skull before it was hidden by his palm curling around as he held it. The similar engraving on his thenar had faded away. But the sharp, prickly pain on his thumb from his burn didn’t. Though the inflammation had gone. He ran the thumb along its top before flicking it open. The rough coglike texture bit into his afflicted thumb, irritating his injury as he rolled the sparkwheel down. The flame danced in the reflection of the man’s eyes, distracting Johnny as it burned on. The flame didn’t last long before sputtering out even when there was no breeze.

Johnny was quick to try to relight it. Despite the dull pain, he thumbed the flint wheel until it struck again. But no flame was made. Confused, he tried again and then once more to no avail. A realization hit him then. The butane was empty. He felt bad, knowing its emptiness was his fault. Wasted away from lighting his own cigarette and even just flicking it on and off just to watch the burning flame like a moth. The man only hummed, a low noise that buzzed in Johnny’s head and made him shudder. His gaze was heavy, weighing down on him.

The man reached into his pocket, pulling out another lighter and held it for Johnny to take. Johnny stared at it surprised. Yet took it wordlessly, exchanging it with the empty one. Realizing the other was a replacement while he had the first, the man’s old faithful, in his own possession. The only difference was the lack of a skull carved into its casing. He used the new lighter and its flame burned bright. Johnny was about to light his own first but stopped the attempt as he looked at the ember, wavering above the open spout.

In the corner of his eye, the man watched Johnny yet again. Curious, interested. Intrigued by his sudden hesitancy. Johnny’s thoughts rattled in his headspace as the flame burned and flickered. Wasting fuel away just like he did the other. Johnny blinked, pressing his lips tight as he took a small breath and turned slowly, carefully to not put out the small flame by his movement. He lifted it up toward the man’s mouth whose eyes narrowed at him in response. Something flickered beneath those dark, dead eyes of his, in those hollow sockets as Johnny lit his cigarette first. Then his own unceremoniously after. Johnny thought it polite. The right thing to do given that not only did he pocket the lighter but burned all the lighter fuel as if it belonged to him. It was a deserved repentance in his mind.

A thought at the back of Johnny’s mind as the man took drags of his cigarette. Though he couldn’t discern any facial expression given the mask, the man seemed pleased at his gesture.

He handed the lighter back. They stood there quietly in the tenfoot. Leisurely smoking as the moon waxed above them like poetry. It silhouetted the man aside him perfectly, making the regret of not bringing his journal with him sit sourly within him. The cigarette was much needed though and helped with his withdrawal symptoms, Johnny still felt uneasy. Eyes glanced at the man next to him every so often. Expectantly. Hoping he would say something to break the quiet. But he only smoked quietly in the silent night as if Johnny wasn’t there, right in the tenfoot with him. Johnny took a puff, mind rampant. Slighted minutely that his presence wasn’t being acknowledged.

‘A Manchester boy, eh?’ He wanted to joke but thought it too inappropriate as an ice breaker. That idea was quickly tossed aside. Another puff of his cigarette, letting the bitter taste of it savor on his tongue. Then Johnny asked. “What’s your name?”

If the masked man was surprised by his sudden question, he didn’t show it. Smoking contently still a few feet away.

“Why do you want to know?” He replied with his own inquiry a moment later.

There was a bite with that question. Harsh in nature like there was an accusative undertone to it, wariness as well. Johnny was unsure if he was pushing his luck by asking. Even talking to him at all. Disrupting whatever leisure they had.

“Just curious.”

The man was quiet again.

“Ghost.” He exhaled it with his smoke.

Ghost.

Johnny couldn’t help but feel giddy. Thought it was a fitting name for him, given the haunting he experienced of the man. But Johnny knew it was more of a nickname than anything. Like Soap was to him. He let the name seep into his brain like a stone sunk into water. Categorizing it in his memory like it was only for him to know. Johnny expected the man to ask him the same question. But as silence befell them, he realized that he wouldn’t be granted the same courtesy.

It was evident that quiet wasn’t awkward to Ghost. It was a preference.

“Call me Soap.” Johnny said after a long beat, catching the man’s sidelong glance flick to him before it left just as quickly. Ghost only hummed in response. An acknowledgment that made Johnny less tense. Set his heart aflutter. Johnny pressed his back into the wall, letting himself relax. Trying to conjure a cool facade to stay behind as his heart quickened. Wanting to know more about the man next to him.

“You… usually do this?”

That caught Ghost’s attention. “Do wha’?”

“Hang around alleyways at night.”

Ghost exhaled a cloud of smoke, “Hm, sometimes.”

Johnny shifted, standing a bit away from the wall. Inched a little closer. “You don’t think it's a bit weird, mate?”

As if the Scotsman had any room to speak about being weird. Given the past few weeks.

“No.”

Ghost seemed inattentive once again. Small talk obviously wasn't his forte. Johnny began to understand that for a man like him to undertake such fruitlessness was wholly beneath him.

Johnny scoffed at him anyways. “Not much of a talker are ye?”

Ironically, Ghost didn’t reply. But the lack of response didn’t fully thwart Johnny. Instead, he was more amused than anything and couldn’t help the twitch of his mouth as quietude started to settle again.

“So, you hang around alleys at night and don’t talk much. You really live up to your name. Wouldn’t be surprised if you can go through walls, too.” Johnny pressed his cigarette to his lips and took a small inhale, thinking. Perhaps overthinking.

“Ye really don’t like it in there?” Johnny nudged his head towards the exit door, “You can probably find a nice dark corner to haunt. Beats the smell of piss and rubbish.”

“Can’t smoke inside.”

“That's really why you stay out here?”

Ghost hummed. “And I prefer the quiet.”

It was a dig at Johnny’s unnecessary talking that much was clear. His need for having a little chat wasn’t as welcomed as he hoped. Johnny scowled at that but didn’t say anything more, heeding the hint with grace. It wasn’t like his word bank wasn’t rendered any dryer.

Johnny was a quarter through his cigarette by now. Smoked through it more quickly compared to the man beside him. He watched Ghost puff his cigarette for a bit. Staring at the white skeletal designs of his gloves that completed his look. When Ghost lifted his cigarette to his mouth again, Johnny took notice that the man had on a wristband. A black band from what he could tell underneath the cigarette’s amber glow. Johnny wondered what the color stood for, what it meant. Compared to his own. Given the setting, it was evident that it stood for some type of unsavory vice.

“Why aren’t you in there?”

Johnny lifted his head. Taken aback by the question. By Ghost’s sudden participation. He was aghast for a moment. Unable to formulate a reply.

“Besides wanting to give you your lighter back,” Johnny let out a huff as he thought. “Not sure. Dinnae really have a reason to.”

Ghost seemed lost in thought, picking apart Johnny’s words and analyzing them. Deliberating something within his own head. Johnny thought that was that. The end of the conversation as Ghost pushed himself from the wall and stood straighter. He blew out one last cloud of smoke, snubbed the rest of his cigarette against the wall and flicked it away somewhere on the ground.

“Want one?”

Johnny’s head snapped to Ghost. Eyed his mask that hid his face, wishing he could read whatever expression was there. Johnny turned away, letting ashes fall onto the ground when he let the cigarette burn between his fingertips. Mouth dry and heart quickening. Something in him stirred again, that ache from before.

“Wha…” He swallowed, the roof of his mouth dry. “What do you mean?” It came out more breathless than Johnny intended.

But Ghost didn’t elaborate on it. Letting his question hang between them. Wanting Johnny to find the underlying meaning of it himself. He racked his brain for that meaning, trying to come up with some understanding of it. Some type of context.

“Do I need one? A reason?” Is all Johnny could come up with on the spot. Ruined whatever moment was there.

Black tourmaline eyes stared at Johnny nonetheless. Studied intently at the way his body tensed up. How his face pinched with both confusion and fascination. Johnny wondered what the man was searching for with his stare.

“Not particularly.”

But his words seemed more directed to himself than to Johnny. In a way that was similar to answering your own question or repeating a mantra. But before Johnny could say anything more, Ghost turned and began to walk away.

“Your wristband.” Johnny exclaimed, more out of panic than anything. Ghost stopped in his tracks then but didn’t turn around. “What does the color mean?”

The man was quiet as he stood there. His body was just barely distinguishable from the dark. Right on the edge of being consumed within the night.

“Why?”

The word was drawn out. Rough-sounding like it came from deep within Ghost’s chest. Johnny couldn't help but recoil from it.

Johnny licked his lips, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. Hoping it was enough to hide the way he trembled. “Still curious.”

“Still nosy.” Ghost corrected over his shoulder. Harsher than Johnny anticipated.

Johnny took a long huff from his cigarette, exhaled the smoke and dropped it to the ground. Crushing it with his heel then walked forward. His heart thumped and his pulse raced as he got closer. He could see Ghost began to tense, those senses heightened at the sound of Johnny’s footsteps getting closer. Johnny’s knees were shaking as he stood in front of Ghost. Craning his neck, Johnny forced himself to meet those dark eyes.

“Well, you know what they say. Curiosity killed the cat… but satisfaction brought it back.” He smirked, trying to seem casual and calm as it was said.

He knew Ghost could easily push him aside if he wanted to but didn’t. Only stared down at Johnny. Cracks were beginning to show in Johnny’s facade, feeling himself starting to waver underneath the intensity of Ghost’s gaze. Despite the urge to shrink away, he instead returned his stare wordlessly. Something inside him wanted to challenge, to be stubborn for no reason other than to obstruct. He hoped by doing so it would make a man like Ghost falter. But such a man didn't react the way he wished, only stood silently, motionlessly and unwavering. Unaffected by the peacocking. Wholly unintimidated.

“That so?” Ghost finally said.

Despite himself, Johnny took a few steps back and gave him a small smile. Stuffing his clammy hands into his jacket’s pockets. “Yeah. Care to indulge me?”

Ghost’s eyes glinted like a cat’s. Narrowing at him. “Careful.”

A warning; a threat even. Johnny blushed as if he’s been scolded. But nonetheless continues poking the bear.

“Always am.”

Ghost took a step forward, closing the distance that Johnny put between them in a single step. He was chest-to-chest and toe-to-toe with Johnny. And now it was his turn to challenge, one that Johnny knew he wouldn’t win. Tongue-tied and breathless, he only stared up wide-eyed at Ghost. All his posturing was gone. And Johnny was the first to break eye contact.

Ghost shouldered past him.

“Watch yourself.” He snarled low and growly. “That curiosity of yours will get you into trouble.”

Johnny wanted to retort. To continue the conversation and to end it on his own terms. But he could only stay in place, quietly and unmoving as his courage failed him. He could only watch as Ghost walked away and disappeared into the night, leaving him alone in the tenfoot.

He slumped against the wall, hitting the back of his head against it gently.

“What is wrong with you, MacTavish?”

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