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There’s something rotten and gutted within him, he’s sure. It boils in his stomach, curdling along with any remains; any sliver of good left in his soul.
He supposed it’s no surprise he was born that way. He’s always had rage in his heart, a deadly sin slithered its way under his skin, embalmed itself on his soul. His shame comes so easy, it follows him the way a shadow does, and every time the skin of his knuckles gives away; the warm trickle of blood down his fingers, it engulfs him once again; that shame.
His lust is second to his wrath, though barely. Every night spent with a man is another day spent on his knees, but instead of looking in a lover's eyes, it’s Mary’s. She doesn’t look disappointed, but the eyes on stained glass glare at him through the light rays.
In the morning, he mourns the man he was the night before, before he felt his touch, his lips, felt that need in his core.
It has always been this way.
Johnny knows he’s rotten, knows he’ll pay for it when he meets his end, but he’s damned either way.
When the flames of hell rise to meet his skin, when his ribs give away and become charred black, he’ll suffer knowing how sweet Eve's apple really was. Through smoke and sulfur, through screams from soldiers who’ve fallen with him, while his body gives way and his soul is left barren, he’ll remember the taste.
He’ll remember his eyes.
Soap’s sure he’ll go first, ghosts never die twice. Though Johnny doesn’t know if they’ll meet again after, when Simon’s time does come, he hopes Simon won’t regret it either, hopes their sin would be their only salvation while their souls suffer.
He’s not dead yet, though.
Simon says he doesn’t believe, even while they lay there, in their own version of what could be paradise, the only heaven soaps sure to make it to.
He’d look at him, then. Simon’s bare hands gripping the cross hung across his neck. Sweaty bodies flushed together, and his grip tightened; Soap doesn’t move.
“I don’t know why you still wear this,”
It’s not mean, it’s a question more than anything. One Soap doesn’t know how to answer.
His mouth feels dry when he tries to.
“I—I dinnea’,” he says simply, “V’always worn it, no reason to stop now, I s’pose,” His voice hoarse, hands reaching up to cup Simon’s. “Grounds me, a’ think.”
“Weighs you down.”
Soap looks into his eyes then, he can’t help but smile, snaggletoothed and real. “Aye, but s’okay.”
“You think you’re going to hell,”
“Aye.”
“So why do you wear it.”
“Still love 'em, he loves me, just not nuff’ to keep me ‘round,” Johnny’s chuckle is dry, his smile isn’t sad.
Ghost huffs, a quiet sound, Soaps cheeks hurt.
“Sounds like a toxic ex,”
“He loves me when ‘m guilty, I know tha’. I jus’ don’t have the strength to stop,” Soaps gaze wonders up, his hand moving from Simon’s onto his shoulder, up his neck. He cups it, thumb caressing the underside of Simon’s jawline. “I won’t stop.”
It’s a whisper.
“I love ye’.”
Simon's eyes soften, only slightly.
“I know,” He whispers back.
And somehow, that’s heaven enough.