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Laid out on his stomach, Johnny has claimed the center of Ghost’s mattress like he owns it, legs stretched behind him and cocked at an odd angle as if he’s trying to cover as much space as possible. If his hands weren’t busy, his arms would probably be doing the same thing, but one steadies his worn, leatherbound journal while the other holds an ink pen to the rough-edged paper.
Ghost, with no other choice, has made himself comfortable in the small space between him and the wall, legs criss-crossed as he stitches up the tears in his mask.
He could move him if he wanted to.
He doesn’t.
They’re so close together that one of his thighs presses down the length of Johnny’s side, so close that the heat radiating from the human furnace next to him seeps through the layers of clothing between them and into his skin.
And, as much as he tries to keep it out of his mind, he can’t stop focusing on it.
His eyes won’t listen to him either, continually drifting away from the sewing he’s trying to do to watch Johnny draw.
He can’t see what he’s working on from his angle, but he can watch the sure and skilled movement of his pen against the paper and take in the careful concentration in his eyes. Johnny’s drawings are always a labor of love, gaining his fully devoted attention until he’s deemed them done to the point where he doesn’t even speak.
Ghost is the only one who gets this privilege, who gets to see his journal laid out and being drawn in instead of hidden close to his chest or tucked in his pocket. He could reach over, pluck the journal out of his hands, and flick through it, and Johnny would let him.
It’s just one of the thousands of ways they trust each other more than anyone else.
A wave of fondness crashes over him, so sudden and all-encompassing that he nearly drowns in it.
He can’t do this.
The thought makes him jerk, and instead of passing through the cloth in his hands, the next pass the needle makes sinks it right into his finger.
“Fuck,” he grunts out, not even bothering to examine the welling up dot of red before he sinks his bleeding finger into his mouth. Nothing new, he stabs himself at least a dozen times every time he tries sewing, but he keeps on trying anyways because he needs his masks mostly in one piece.
What is new is the way Johnny responds.
Eyes glancing up from his journal, he puts together what happened quickly.
“Lemme see,” he says, dropping his pen and tugging the finger from his mouth. Swiping a thumb across it, he inspects the damage. He reaches down to dig through his pocket before pulling out a bandaid and wrapping it around his finger.
Then, he goes back to drawing, like everything is normal.
Like Simon isn’t falling apart next to him at the sight of the bandaid on his finger.
He packed him bandaids.
Because he knows he pokes himself so often.
Went out of his way to grab them before coming to his room because he knew that Ghost would be fixing his masks, and he knew that he’d poke himself at least once, and he knew Ghost wouldn’t bother to bandage it up himself, just letting the blood get on his mask only to grunt about it later.
Fuck, Ghost can’t do this- can’t handle that choking fondness settling like a stone over his chest and bleeding through his veins like poison. Suddenly, he can’t handle the sight of Johnny on his bed, entirely aware of and unbothered by the knife under the pillow half a foot from his head- and the weapon of a man next to him- maybe even feels safer because of it, because of him -
He can’t handle the hot, branding press of Johnny’s body against his or the sight of Johnny’s journal or the bandaid.
Even worse, his face is bare. Johnny can see his face- can see him - and he might be sketching him in that journal of his, and Simon knows it’s not the first drawing of him in that little book he takes everywhere with him.
It’s too much- too familiar and too fond and too many things Simon Riley isn’t-
He just needs him to-
“Leave.”
The word comes out ugly.
Garbled, twisted, and scarred, everything Ghost is and nothing like Johnny.
A pair of too-blue eyes blink back at him, thick brows furrowed. His mouth drops open undoubtedly about to say his name in that disgustingly sweet and affectionate way- this time, drizzled in syrupy concern. Just the thought of it has his heart thumping so hard it hurts and his lungs shrinking like deflating balloons.
Before Johnny can call his name- his real name, not just Ghost - Ghost forces his vocal cords into action once more.
“Out.”
It’s half-growled, half-wheezed, and, as it doesn’t even serve its purpose, useless.
“Simon,” Johnny whispers in response, and there’s pain in his eyes- but not hurt. At least, not the same kind of hurt he usually pushes other people into; no, this is something more empathetic, like Johnny’s got a hand on his heart and can feel it tearing itself in two as it races beneath his palm.
That, coupled with the gentle and concerned whisper of his name, reduces Ghost to the barest bones, strips him of everything but the studs.
It makes him feel wild and animalistic and all too human all at the same time- makes him want to bare his teeth and growl and curl into the safety that is John MacTavish, neck and belly bared in submission.
Johnny shifts, and he loses the weight of his side pressed against his thigh. He’s suddenly free-falling, the world around him crashing down as he loses his last grounding point.
His lungs collapse, breaths coming short and howling like stormy winds whipping through the hollowed-out canyon that results.
Blindly, he shoves his trembling hands forward.
He doesn’t know what he wants- what he needs- if he’s reaching out to shove Johnny away, to push him towards the door and make him leave, or cling to him, to hold on tight and never let go of this man that he’s become so atrociously fond of.
But Johnny knows.
Ghost jerks away from the sudden warmth cradling his bare face, baring his teeth and huffing hot air, but the touch only returns, this time in the form of little taps that patter themselves against his cheeks slowly like rain drizzling against a window. Each one lasts longer than the one it follows until they aren’t taps at all but brushing strokes across his skin.
Those calloused, deft fingers paint lines across his cheeks first and then follow the wrinkles of his crumpled brow before tracing a line across his clenched jaw.
There’s a low rumbling sitting at the edges of his consciousness, and the more he comes back to himself, the clearer it gets. “-breathe for me, m’eudail. In for five, four, three, two, one; hold for five, four three, two one. Good job, doin’ so good for me. Again-”
“Johnny,” he grunts hoarsely.
His hands move of their own accord, finding purchase somewhere. He thinks of pushing back with all his strength, pushing away this man that’s wormed his way so deeply into his heart that he’s shaking the very foundations of the walls he’s built.
He tugs, instead, and Johnny’s hands slip down from his face, disappearing for only a moment before reappearing around his waist.
It’s too close and not close enough and sickeningly comforting as he’s gathered up by gentle hands and settled against a broad chest, held tight like something worthy of being held.
It’s too much; it throws him headfirst back into skittishness.
A little voice deep inside wails that he’s too vulnerable- too known- that Johnny might take the knife from beneath his pillow and carve his heart out, take what’s his since it belongs to him anyways- that Simon might let him-
Another wave of adrenaline shoots through his veins, making blood rush in his ears and his body shake. His mind tells him, tucked into a warm chest by a sturdy pair of arms and soothed by soft words, that he’s in more danger than he ever has been before. That he needs to escape if he wants to live.
“Leave,” he hisses and squirms, trying to break free of his grip.
“No’ goin’ anywhere,” Johnny says resolutely and only holds him tighter. His hand finds the back of Ghost’s head and guides his face to bury into the crook of his neck.
Ghost goes unwilling, but he goes all the same. He bares his teeth, needing to protect himself- needing to sink them into Johnny’s skin until he jerks back and realizes Ghost is nothing more than a wild animal and leaves.
“Ahm here, ah’ve got ye, and yer safe. Yer arrighte.”
His world shifts as he’s pulled down, and his hands cling to Johnny once more, this time grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, like he might fall, like there isn’t a strong pair of arms easing him down gently.
In spite of his face buried in his neck and in spite of his hands clenched around his shirt, he growls out, “Go away.”
“No’ gonnae do that.”
Johnny shifts- and Ghost clings so tightly to him that his muscles protest, terrified that he might break his promise- only for him to lay back down, closer this time. A weight settles over their entangled bodies, a blanket that Johnny tucked over both of them, and the last dredges of his panic start to slip away.
Johnny rests his chin on his head.
Ghost can feel each warm exhale he puffs out into his hair and each deep inhale he pulls in, trying to catch the scent of his shampoo.
It’s the thought of Johnny knowing what kind of shampoo he has, something so horribly mundane and intimate, that he bites out one last ditch attempt that dies the moment the syllables leave his lips. “Fuck off.”
Then, his body gives in to the comfort offered to him.
He melts into the arms cradling him, tucks his face closer to the warm skin of Johnny’s neck, and lets his fist relinquish the tight grip of his shirt. He worms his arms around Johnny’s waist, mirroring the arms around his own, and holds onto him like he’s the only thing keeping him alive. He is.
“Ah’d do anything tae keep ye safe,” Johnny promises.
The worst part is he knows it’s true. He can tell when Johnny is lying, and he knows he hasn’t told him a single lie all night.
At his silence, Johnny’s hands find his head and carefully pull him from his hiding spot. Cupping his face, his thumbs brush lazy but even swipes across his cheeks, careful of the more scarred areas.
“Ah love ye, Simon. So much.”
Simon’s breath catches in his throat. There’s a lump there that wasn’t there a moment before that presses on his vocal cords and makes it impossible to respond.
His bottom lip starts to wobble, but Johnny just soothes that over with his thumb, too.
Johnny’s eyes search his face, tracing everything from his jawline to his hairline before settling on his eyes. He tilts his hands up to guide Simon into meeting his gaze, and when Simon does, his eyes are just as glossy as his.
“There ye are,” Johnny whispers.
Simon sobs.
The noise is ugly, just as ugly as every other noise that’s left his throat tonight, but Johnny doesn’t seem to mind it one bit as he pulls him closer to his chest once more, close enough to hear his heart beating, letting him bury the sobs wracking his body into his chest.
It isn’t until his cries have quieted to sniffles that he finally manages to say something.
“Johnny..?” he croaks, so pitifully and pathetically weak that his cheeks burn. Feeling all too exposed, he burrows closer to Johnny. He wedges his head under Johnny’s and shoves his face into his neck, close enough to feel the vibrations of his vocal cords as he hums inquisitively in response, not wanting to break whatever spell that has Simon clinging so tightly to him with words.
Simon tries to force his mouth open to admit the weak thought clawing at his heart, begging to be spoken, but his jaw has locked itself shut.
Then, there’s a hand in his hair and nails scratching gently against his scalp, and another hand cupping the nape of his neck, the arm it’s connected to laying in a steady weight across his back.
“Don’t leave.”
The admission tumbles out of his lips before he could even hope to stop it.
The arm across his back squeezes him closer.
Soft, warm lips press to his forehead.
“Would never.”