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Johnny!! :3

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It Only Takes A Reason To Kill

Dallas stubbed out the last bit of his cig. “You know I went to jail when I was ten, yeah?” He waited for a nod before continuing. “You ever think about why?” Johnny thought for a second. “Always though you got in a fight or stole something. Guess they woulda just put you in juvie though. What happened?” Dally grinned bitterly. “Long story short? Blew my pa’s brains out.”

Or- why did Dally go to jail at the age of ten?

Dallas was sitting on the porch of the church, three cigarettes into a pack of Kools. He glanced towards the gentle patter of footsteps on the rotting wood of the church floor. “Why you still up, Johnnycakes?”

Johnny didn’t meet his eyes. “Mind if I join ya?”

He shook his head, offering him a cig, which Johnny took with a shaky hand. “What’s eatin ya, kid?”

Johnny laughed. What wasn’t? “...I don’t know what I’m gonna do, Dal. I just. I can’t stop thinking about how killin him felt, I guess. The way his blood felt on my hands.”

He took a shaky drag of his cigarette, letting the silence linger.

Dally sighed heavily. “I’m gonna tell you something. And you gotta swear, on your honor as a Greaser, that you ain’t gonna tell nobody.”

Johnny nodded solemnly. “Yeah, I swear it. What’s going on, Dal?”

Dallas stubbed out the last bit of his cig.

“You know I went to jail when I was ten, yeah?” He waited for a nod before continuing. “You ever think about why?”

Johnny thought for a second. “Always though you got in a fight or stole something. Guess they woulda just put you in juvie though. What happened?”

Dally grinned bitterly. “Long story short? Blew my pa’s brains out.”

The younger boy choked on the smoke. “You- you what?! Dal- ain't your dad alive? I've seen him, don't joke around, man.” When he didn’t answer, he nudged him. “C’mon Dal, you can’t just drop that on me and not tell me!”

He gave him a sharp grin, clearly enjoying this more than he should be. “Alright, I’ll tell you the story, but you can’t interrupt me, got it? When I start, I ain’t gonna be able to stop.”

Johnny nodded, his cigarette forgotten.

The blonde chuckled quietly. “My ma ran away when she got knocked up. Met a guy, slept with him, and said I was his. Looked exactly like her coming out, so he didn't suspect nothing. Bastard never lived to find out the truth.

So, my pops was like yours. Awful, drunk, liked using his fists on anybody he could. My mom though… she was good. That much I know. She used to take me to church every Sunday, and mass when we could- she was Catholic- and a good one at that. Didn’t touch a drop of alcohol outside of communion wine.”

He sighed. “My pa, he beat on her too. Eventually drove her to get hooked on pain killers. She became absent after that, stopped going to church after a while. We got poorer cuz all the money went to alcohol and pills. She never laid a hand on me, though.”

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A young Dallas Winston walked into the apartment, gently shutting the door behind him, as to not disturb his likely hungover father. If he was lucky, he was currently sleeping off that hangover.

He sets his school bag down on the floor, neatly against the wall, to be out of the way.

Just as he’s about to call out for his mother, a glass shatters against the wall.

He rushes into the room when he hears his mom cry out.

“Mama!” He exclaims, attempting to tug his father, who was dragging his mother by her hair, off of her.

He whipped towards Dally, backhanding him and sending him to the floor. His head was spinning and it hurt to keep his eyes open.

He pulled himself off the floor, opening the dresser drawer in his parents’ room and taking his father’s pistol. Without having a moment to react, he aimed at his father, flipped the safety off, and pulled the trigger.

The resounding bang of the gunshot left his ears ringing, and his vision swimming.

He was only aware of the sudden vivid red that colored the walls and floor of the small room.

The feeling of warm, sticky wetness on his small face was foreign.

The stench of copper overpowered that of the alcohol, and his mother was screaming, but now at him.

“What have you done? Oh God child, what have you done?” She sobbed hysterically, hovering over her husband’s corpse.

“...Mama?” He asked quietly, shaking. She looked at him, but her gaze was absent, like she was looking through him. She gently took the gun from his soft hands, and he grasped at her skirt, starting to weep.

“Mama, I-I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry- but he was hurting you! Mama, mama what are you-”

She held the gun to her temple and pulled the trigger, the spray of brain matter and blood aimed away from her son.

When he tried to remember her face, all he could see was her white-blonde hair in a tangled mess, her once beautiful face twisted in agony as her icy blue eyes were rimmed with red.

He was his mother’s child.

______________________

Somebody called the police. He screamed for a very, very long time before they got there.

_______________________

Dally picked at his jeans anxiously. “I don’t actually remember too much of what happened next. I remember that my lawyer sucked. Told me to plead guilty, so I did. Dunno how many years in jail I got.”

He sighed heavily. “Was in the slammer for two years before some upstart lawyer heard about my story. Wanted ‘justice’ or whatever. Went real hard on the whole ‘he was just a kid and it was self-defense’ argument. Worked on the jury well enough.”

“Anyway, I got off easy. Hung around a few gangs in New York for a while, but I had to go to court again after one of the guys got caught up in a murder rap.”

________________________

He defiantly glared at the prosecutor from the stand, his small body practically vibrating with anger.

This man was trying to get him to go against everything he’d learned in the gang. You never rat on a brother.

The jury was watching him with pity, and he felt himself bristling, his hackles raising, ready to bite first-

“Mr. Winston. Did you hear me?” The man was saying. His attention snapped back to the greasy lawyer.

“What?” He said eloquently.

The man’s eye twitched. “Did you see the defendant on the night of the murder?” Dallas blinked.

“Sure. See ‘im everyday.”

The man grinned, and suddenly, he felt he’d said the wrong thing. “You mean, you aren’t staying in the boy’s home the court assigned you to after the murder of your father?”

The court erupted after that.

Dallas gripped the stand, his knuckles turning white as the defense attorney shouted. “Objection! Leading the witness, your honor!”

The wooden hammer banged once, twice, three times, before the court finally quieted down.

The judge sighed heavily. “Sustained. Prosecution, a word.”

The judge was clearly angry, but she was holding it together fairly well. Dallas liked her guts, if anything.

As they talked, Dally stared down at his lap, picking at his jeans.

How was he supposed to answer that? He technically slept at the boy’s home. Mostly. But he wasn’t supposed to leave without permission.

The man ran his fingers through his thin hair, nodding before returning to stand before the court. “Mr. Winston.” Dally's name coming out of his mouth sounded like spat venom. “How do you see the defendant everyday, as you say?”

Dally bit his lip hard. “I…sneak out sometimes. It isn’t really everyday. But that day, I saw him.”

“And you claim that you saw him during the exact time of death of Mr. Collins?”

Dallas nodded. “Yeah. Wasn’t him.”

“Did you see who shot Mr. Collins?”

He shook his head.

The prosecutor sighed heavily. “No further questions, your honor.”

Despite the gang's best efforts, the defendant was found (rightfully) guilty. Dallas lived in the boy's home under lock and key for a couple weeks more before the discovery of his biological father.

He almost couldn't believe it. However, meeting the man, he had a similar face shape and the same nose.

Moving to Tulsa, Oklahoma wasn't the worst thing that happened to him. Better than the boy's home, at least.

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Dally sighed. “You know the rest.”

There was a long silence after he finished speaking. Johnny was looking at him, but not with pity. Something closer to understanding.

“Y’know… that makes sense in a weird way.” He said after a long while.

Dallas raised an eyebrow, scoffing. “The hell’s that supposed to mean, punk?”

Johnny waved his hands in front of him. “Not in a rude way or anything. Just that… you knew exactly how to help us after I…y’know. And you always loved Mrs. Curtis.”

Dallas scoffed. “If you say so, kid.” He ignored how his chest ached at the mention of the Curtis boys’ mother.

Johnny picked at his jeans. “...what happened in jail?”

The older hood went stiff. “...I don’t remember.” He said a beat too slow.

“C’mon Dal, I’m goin to jail for this so you might as well tell me-” Dallas cut him off angrily.

“You are not going to jail, Johnny Cade. You hear me? No chance in hell.” He snarled.

Johnny went quiet. “You do remember. It… you were hurt real bad, weren’t ya?”

When Dally didn’t respond, Johnny continued. “You ain’t gotta tell me if it’s painful. Thanks. For telling me bout your dad. And your mom. Makes me feel a bit better knowing you understand.”

He stood up, leaving Dallas to his thoughts. “G’night Dal. See you in the morning.”

Dallas stopped him gently, wrapping a hand around his ankle.

“You aren't going to jail, kid. I promise. I won't let them take you. I won't let them hurt you.”

Johnny stared at him for a few seconds before smiling gently. “Thanks, Dal. Means a lot.”

Dally’s grip was weaker than normal, and Johnny swore he felt him trembling.

After a beat, he let him go. “Go get some sleep kid. You'll need it.”

Johnny lingered for a moment. “Thanks, Dal.” Dallas grunted in response, reaching for the pack of cigarettes.

He took a deep breath, cursing when his hand was shaking too hard to get the cancer stick to light.

He threw the unlit cig into the dew damp grass, pocketing the rest. “Fuck this.” He grumbled, curling into a ball and leaning against the splintering wall of the church. He pulled his jacket around him tightly, shivering in the night air.

He wasn't going to sleep that night.

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[rando-does-art]

HEY feel free to ask me questions about this too (like certain frame choices *cough cough*)

WIP

The Outsiders AMV - Monster by Jorge Rivera-Herran (?)

Music and visuals do not belong to me ^^

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My Dallas Winston design (book accurate)

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My Ponyboy Curtis design (book description)

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truly

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New Chapter Up!!!

FOR THOSE OF YOU THAT FOLLOWED ME FOR DOPE AND DIAMONDS-

It is not abandoned :) in fact, the sixth chapter is almost done, and the fic!! Thanks for sticking around <3

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FOR THOSE OF YOU THAT FOLLOWED ME FOR DOPE AND DIAMONDS-

It is not abandoned :) in fact, the sixth chapter is almost done, and the fic!! Thanks for sticking around <3

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Here's Johnny! They're so marketable :3

Them together under the cut <3

Drew Ghost! I'm experimenting with my artstyle a bit :3 his accompanying Soap will come tomorrow!!

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Drew Ghost! I'm experimenting with my artstyle a bit :3 his accompanying Soap will come tomorrow!!

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If anyone wanted to ask me questions about any of my fics in any fandom.... I will answer it :)

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Roach didn't know much about his captain other than his last name and callsign. He didn't take too kindly to questions, and most were too intimidated to even try asking. He couldn’t help but be curious, though, when he saw a picture sitting on his captain’s desk. The others had already left after the debrief, going to the tarmac to get ready, but he lingered, staring at the unfamiliar face among his COs.

His captain noticed him still standing there and looked up from the paperwork in his hand. “Something the matter, Sanderson?” Roach furrowed his brow. “Who is that?” He signed, watching his captain turn his head to try and see what he was looking at.

When he saw the picture that he usually hid before debriefings, he sighed heavily, picking it up and staring at it…almost longingly. “You already know Gaz and Price, yeah?” He nodded. Captain Price had retired a few years back, entering a cushy and well deserved civilian life, and Captain Garrick was the one who had recommended him to join TF 141.

The silence dragged on for a bit, Roach shifting uncomfortably as he waited for a response. The captain set the photo back down. “You would’ve liked him. Everyone did, even if he didn’t know it himself most of the time.”

His breathing stuttered over another sigh, and Roach was almost alarmed by how much emotion his usually stoic captain was showing. “You were friends?” He asked.

Captain Riley hesitated, chewing his lip. “You could say that.” He said roughly. “His name is- was Soap MacTavish. My sergeant. Johnny.” He stared at the picture for a bit longer. “Roach- you’re a smart kid. You’re skilled, one of the best soldiers the SAS has, you know that?”

Roach found himself becoming a bit shy at that. “Not better than any other soldier.” Riley shook his head. “You are. Don’t doubt your abilities, kid. He was too. Better than me, even if he didn’t believe it.”

Ghost crossed his arms, leaning forward in his chair.

“Listen, Gary.. live without regrets. That’s all I can tell you. The thing I regret the most was not telling him everything I wanted to. Don’t do that to yourself. Rejection hurts a hell of a lot less than not knowing if something- if-”

He cut himself off, rubbing his temples. “Fuckin hell. You didn't ask to listen to me ramble. The people you trust can hurt you the most. By betraying you…or by leaving you. But love- friendships- those are worth being hurt for.” Roach just stared at him, trying to take in all this new information.

“It’s alright, sir. I understand.” He hesitated before continuing. “Johnny sounds like a good man. Especially if you liked him.” Captain Riley laughed softly. “He was more suited to be captain than I am. Would’ve kicked your ass for calling him Johnny, though. Go get ready for the mission, kid.” He saluted and left the office.

Ghost picked up the picture again when Roach left the office, tracing his face through the glass of the frame. “You would’ve liked him, Johnny. He's a good kid. Miss you.”

He kissed his fingers and pressed it to the glass before tucking it back in a drawer of his desk. He didn’t need someone else asking questions.

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Day 18: Secret

Original image:

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Kaleidoscope

Ghost x Soap

2.5k words (may make a second part)

Ghost was fine. Completely fine. Today was no different than the day before, or the day before that. Same breakfast, same coffee, same rookies, same…everything. Routine was what he was used to, part of the reason he joined the military, but it made it easy to go on auto-pilot most of the time.

Everything was normal. Everything was fine. The only break in his schedule would be a mission here and there. Lately all of them were low risk, Price still being overly cautious after their last one. Though to be fair, Makarov was dead. There wasn’t any big terrorist to go after, so of course their missions were slow.

It was making Ghost go crazy.

Luckily their latest mission was a bit more exciting, however, there was a downside. He had to go to Mexico. It was nice to see Rodolfo and Alejandro again, but it felt stiff, more formal than it was last time. He knew why. They knew why. None of them brought it up.

After a successful mission, they went out for drinks. He could do bars pretty well. He could bury himself in some dark corner and the others felt bad enough for him to leave him to his bourbon. Or scotch, depended on how drunk he was.

It seemed he would get no such mercy tonight. When he went for an abandoned corner, Alejandro caught him. “Hermano, where are you going? We’re buying drinks for everyone tonight.” He had no choice but to nod and take a seat on the farthest end of the bar.

It felt wrong, seeing everyone laughing without hearing the laugh he loved the most. He sighed. He was too sober for this.

After his third bourbon, he felt muddled enough to not care anymore. His first scotch burned his throat. He didn’t really hate scotch, but the taste was so much better now. He took another sip, frowning. No, maybe not. He was just drunk and sappy.

He flinched when somebody suddenly threw an arm over his shoulder, relaxing by a fraction when he saw it was just a very drunk Alejandro. “Ghost, you look so sad over here…” He whined, his breath reeking of tequila. Ghost casually shrugged the arm off. “I’m fine.”

Alejandro slunk into the seat next to him. “Y’know, Los Vaqueros were very sad when we heard about Soap. I still am very sad. You are too, I see it in your eyes. You two were close, no? Like- like Rudy and I.”

Ghost felt like crawling out of his skin. “No. Not like that.” He said carefully, hating the words. Were they ever like that? Were they ever close to it? It felt like they were, but that could be his own damn feelings twisting their innocent interactions into something more to keep his own perversions satisfied. He didn’t want to tarnish Johnny’s memory like that.

Oh god. Johnny. That was what he called him, wasn’t it? Not Soap, not Sergeant MacTavish, not him, Johnny. His Johnny.

“Only Ghost can pull that off.”

He stumbled to his feet, breathing harder than he should be. “I- have to go. Bathroom.” Alejandro nodded solemnly, slumping over the bar.

Ghost practically rushed to the shitty bathroom, slamming the door a little too hard for someone who was supposed to be in control. His mask felt like it was choking him, so he ripped it off, turning the sink on and splashing the lukewarm water over his face in an attempt to calm himself down.

Nobody had said his name since he died. He hadn’t called him by his name since he died.

“Y’know, Lt?” He’d said one night after one too many drinks. “I think I’m afraid of being forgotten. It’s stupid, but…I don’t want to be just another dead soldier, killed and forgotten, I want to be remembered. I want to know that even if I die, there’s proof I existed.”

Ghost understood. There was nothing left of him when he died, considering he was dead on paper, but he understood the fear. He wanted there to be proof of Johnny’s existence too. He was too good to be forgotten.

“I’ll remember you, Johnny.” He’d said, which had earned him a blindingly bright smile and a warm head on his shoulder.

Oh god. He was going to puke. He went over to the toilet, the alcohol burning his throat on the way back up. He gripped his hair, his eyes watering from the bile. His breath was catching on sobs, his chest hurting with every ragged inhale. Was this the first time he’d cried?

Someone was in the bathroom with him, falling to their knees next to him and saying something. Was the bathroom always this small? Whoever was there started taking deep, exaggerated breaths until Ghost instinctively started matching their breaths. Finally, he calmed down. He blinked his eyes open to see Rodolfo looking at him, concerned.

His gaze softened. “There you are, fantasma. I saw Alej say something to you, and then you kinda…fled. What did he…?” Ghost winced, grabbing his mask. “...He…we never… he thought we were like you two. But I never-” He sighed, rubbing his hand over his face, taking a shuddering breath. Rodolfo just looked sad.

“You’re allowed to grieve, Ghost. Even if it wasn’t like that.”

They didn’t say anything else, just sat there on the probably filthy floor. Ghost couldn’t bring himself to care.

They eventually had to move when a drunk stumbled in and hurled in the toilet. Ghost grimaced and pulled his mask back on, standing up. “...I’m leaving. Can you tell Price?” Rodolfo nodded, smiling gently. “...you can call us whenever, Ghost. We’re friends, no?” Ghost nodded, despite being sure he probably wouldn’t call.

He didn’t sleep at all that night. He honestly hadn’t slept except for when his body shut down and forced him to. In a few days, it would be half a year since he’d hit the floor in that godforsaken tunnel. He’d saved Price’s life. Ghost doesn’t know if he’d have reacted like this if Price had died instead, but he knew that wasn’t fair to either of them.

His Johnny would never be able to live with himself if he could have saved Price and didn't. So he died instead.

He knew Price felt horrible about it, remembering how the captain had occasionally shared the dark corners in bars with him, apologizing to him for not being dead. He remembered comforting him, even when he selfishly agreed.

It seemed he was doing better lately, even if he was still keeping his remaining boys as close as possible. Gaz had been wrecked, taking a week of leave after Makarov was dead, but he was healing. Ghost was once again left as a spirit, alive but not living.

The sun rose on another day with a routine, another day of Ghost being completely and totally fine, mentally stable, and definitely not having panic attacks in bar bathrooms.

That’s what he told the psych evals anyway.

He just nodded at Alejandro’s panicked apology the next day, quietly reassuring him that it really wasn’t a big deal. After all, they hadn’t been anything but friends. He was nursing one hell of a hangover, but the headache may have been from sleep deprivation. Didn’t matter.

He was slowly destroying himself, even if he couldn’t admit it to anyone else, the lack of sleep slowly creeping into his subconscious as he started to hear a Scottish brogue just around corners, started seeing a mohawk and pretty blue eyes just in his peripheral. During the first few days he’d turn around and nothing would be there, but the hallucinations grew stronger the longer he stayed awake.

A few times, he’d catch himself trying to talk to it, but he never got past a small sound before it went away. He learned to listen, just to hear the voice a little longer.

The night before the 141 left, some of the Vaqueros insisted on taking them for drinks again. Ghost had a feeling they just looked for any excuse to drink, but he went anyway, taking care to avoid any and all drunk people. He watched the blurry body that wasn’t there sit in the seat in front of him, staring right back.

“Scotch, Lt? This early? You really do need to sleep, don’t you?” He sighed, nodding along to it’s words without really realizing. It could be sweet at times. At others, it tormented him. He didn’t know whether he craved it’s attention or wished he never had to see it again.

Laswell appeared later into the evening. He hadn’t even been aware she was there in Mexico.

He saw Price look at her, his face as confused as he felt. “Laswell? What the bloody hell are you doing here?” …okay. Maybe she hadn’t been in Mexico. She made a pained face, looking guilty. “...there’s someone I want you to talk to. We were going to wait until you got back to base, but he wanted to talk to the Colonel and Sergeant Major too.” Price sat up. “Another mission?”

Laswell glanced behind her. “Not exactly.” The bar had gone quiet. She sighed. “Look, just- don’t blame me. I didn’t even know about this until a few weeks ago, and then you boys went on a mission…” She shook her head. “I’m going to grab him. Give me a second.”

She walked out of the bar, people murmuring. Ghost downed the rest of his drink, walking over to Price. “What the hell was that about?” He asked softly, eyeing the door wearily. Price tapped his fingers on the bar counter. “Not a clue. We’ll have to see, won’t we?” Gaz hummed from next to Price.

Laswell walked back into the bar, crossing her arms and stepping to the side for the man behind her. He was on crutches, his brown hair falling into his bright blue eyes slightly. Ghost stared at the man, sighing. Of all the times for him to hallucinate, he was projecting his image onto this new member of the team, most likely. He heard Gaz gasp painfully, and saw Price tighten his hold on his glass in a white-knuckled grip.

“What the fuck?” He heard Alejandro say behind him. Price stood up, pulling the man into a tight hug. “You scared the shit out of us, John.” Ghost exhaled, feeling his chest constrict. “You can see him too?” He heard himself question. He saw the man’s blue eyes grow concerned and Price give him an alarmed look.

“Ghost, have you been hallucinating?” The man ignored Price and hobbled closer to Ghost.

“Hey, Lt. Did you miss me?” He made a pained noise. There was no mistaking that voice. People, hardened military men, were crying. Ghost made a wounded noise, stumbling out of his chair, nearly eating shit on the bar floor. “I- I have to go.” He wheezed, pushing past the man that couldn’t be there and running out the bar doors, ignoring the shouts of his name. His footsteps pounded against the concrete, his legs giving out on him. He scrambled into a side alley, curling into a ball because it was wrong. Everything was wrong.

It was pathetic, really. The big, bad, unshakable Simon “Ghost” Riley, who could withstand the most disgusting and gruesome bits of torture this world had to offfer, trembling in an alley because he couldn’t handle the fact that the person he cared the most about in the world might still be alive. He felt his phone buzzing insistently in his pocket, but his vision was growing black and he couldn’t bring himself to move and pick it up.

He had no idea how long he sat there before somebody found him. Logically, he knew he wouldn’t be able to hide forever, with Price having the location on his phone at all times, but he hadn't been expecting them to go after him so quickly. Or maybe it hadn’t been quick.

He heard the clacking of crutches against a brick wall and a soft grunt of pain as the man lowered himself to sit next to him. He shut his eyes like a child, hiding like it would keep him from having to face the truth.

“Simon.” He said gently, and Ghost couldn’t help but gasp quietly and flinch.

They sat in silence for a bit, before the man sighed. “I’m so fucking sorry, Ghost. The doctors- they told me I really shouldn’t be alive. I died, but…they brought me back. Didn’t really understand any of it. They told me you held a funeral for me. I…actually don’t know how you did that. But…christ, Ghost, I never meant to die in front of you like that. Always thought I wasn’t going to make it, but… I guess I never really accepted the reality of it.”

Ghost dared to open his eyes, looking at him for the first time. He could see the scar from the bullet, but it was unmistakably Johnny, even if his signature mohawk was gone and his beard was fluffier, even if he had hearing aids.

He caught his eye and smiled. “There you are.” Ghost swallowed around the lump in his throat. “You…you really are alive, aren’t you?” He said hoarsely. Soap shook his head slightly, huffing fondly, and the familiarity of it made Simon’s heart ache. “Aye. Just could nae stay away, Lt. Grown too fond of ye, ya bastard.”

Ghost’s shoulders shook with relieved laughter despite himself, leaning his head against the wall. “You fucking asshole. I really thought you died.” He couldn’t help the way his voice cracked on the words. Soap hummed, grinning lopsidedly at him. “Can’t get rid of me that easy.” Ghost worried his lip between his teeth, frowning.

“I…I can’t- I don’t want to get rid of you.” He said quietly. The grin on Soap’s face slipped into something more understanding. “I know, Lt.” Ghost shook his head, feeling almost desperate to get his point across in case he disappeared again. “No, I- you can stay. Forever, if you want.” His throat felt tight all over again. “Johnny, I- I love you.”

He heard him inhale sharply, and he rushed to fix what he felt like he ruined. “It doesn’t matter if you feel the same, I just want to be by your side. I wanted that bomb to go off, fuck, I wanted to die by you.” He put his face in his hands.

“...I can’t live without you.”

The silence was deafening, but it was broken by Soap’s wet laugh. Ghost looked at him, confused at the tears on Johnny’s face. He wiped them off, a wide smile on his face. “You daft bastard. I love you too. God, we’re so bad at this.” He leaned against Ghost.

“...I want to die with you too. But I can’t rejoin the 141. I lost all my strength, and my hearing has gone to shit. I can’t die on the field with you, but…maybe we- maybe you could live. Would you live for me?” Simon’s mouth went dry.

“For you, Johnny?” He took a deep breath, tucking his face in the crook of his neck, shutting his eyes. He was home.

“...For you, I think I could try.”

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Ghost!!