#alles tut weh

[rosenstichexinsxherz]

Es wird einfach nicht leichter…

Während ich mich durch jeden Tag kämpfe, scheint dein Leben normal weiter zu gehen

[mistofstars]

KdE fühlt sich einfach die ganze Zeit an wie der Ehestreit der eigenen Eltern. Furchtbar 😪

[x-snowstorm-x]

Der Schmerz in mir drinnen bringt mich langsam, aber sicher um.

[imregengetanzt]

Mich kann man nicht vermissen weil es an mir nichts zu vermissen gibt. Ich kann durch jeden anderen ersetzt werden. Alles was ich hab haben andere auch.

[noname130107]

Wann komm ich endlich an, wann prall ich endlich auf. Ich falle schon so lang.

[wortedergefuehle]

Und ich weiß, das nächste Wort, wird ein Vorwand, für einen Streit

[carnivorousmossbeast]

Layover

no content warnings. but this is long. Sorry!

Summary: Ghost and Soap are waiting for a flight to take them home.

There's a delicious ache crawling through his thighs, his veins, settling into his biceps and shoulders in that very delightfully restricting way that reminds him of the exhaustion after a good workout. His arms are leaden and tired, straining against the knowledge that he will have to lift them again, he will have to shoulder his gun and pack and march on with his head held high once they clear customs and get their shit returned, because somewhere higher up someone messed up and forgot to bring them back home. When they had arrived at the airfield, all that was left was a bedraggled looking civilian charter that brought them to the closest long-distance hub, and the only available flight had been fucking Paris. Soap's personal hell in the making. He's sure there are blisters on his heels and under his toes, there's concrete dust and plant detritus everywhere from his armpits to his arse-crack, it's wearing down his teeth and tickling inside his ear where he can't quite reach. And now he's sitting in the gate lounge under artificially white light, waiting for a plane that should have dropped them off four hours ago and instead hadn't shown turbines nor wings. It's enough to make a civilian rstless, but Soap feels a little off-kilter, a little unstable and he's ready to claw the concrete walls apart until he finds a high-voltage cable to chew on – or strangle one of the more annoying flight guests with. There are about five too many that fit that category for his taste, and he knows the odds are stacked against him while their flight gets delayed and delayed again, and they remain stuck on these plastic seats like brittle, dry gum and rubber sole stains.

"You know..." Ghost wiggles his knee gently, touching it against Soap's own sore ones. The heavy duty straps of his thigh holster creak and the thick fabric of his uniform creases and protests the movement. Sand and plant bits fall from his legs, creating a halo of debris at his feet. A distinct trail of destruction, in the realm of violence where Ghost is the embodiment of lust and insanity. It's a temple where Soap has learned to worship, a voice he's grown to trust for guidance in a twisted perversion of their own blood-soaked spirituality. There is no arguing with Catholic priests on the rights of gay men, and it hasn't proven particularly effective once Ghost confirms he has the target locked.

His eyes perceive the world in shades of blue-ish grey and with black and red crosshair markers overlaying the view. Soap has watched Ghost's trigger finger caress cold metal with a deranged sort of care, like he's chasing the sensation of the warmth he's about to terminate. Soap has watched Ghost watch bodies cool from orange-red to green-blue in the limited, grainy viewfinder of thermal tactical goggles. As if Ghost waits for those forgotten, listless souls to be consumed into his domain, never quite remembered after a nameless, faceless terror pierced their cerebrum and left their lives shattered across the field.

"I know a lot of things, Lt," Soap answers Ghost's question dutifully, like any good sergeant would his lieutenant, and lays his head back against the stiff collar of his coat. The plate carrier pushes it up awkwardly, and normally he hates the way it bunches on his nape, the way it feels all thick and restricts his movement, but right now it's like a more comfortable cervical spine collar, a pillow to rest his weary soul. "Mainly chemistry and gun maintenance." He turns slightly to look at Ghost, breathing through the ache that shoots down his neck and past his shoulder.

"Smart boy, aren't you?"

"Yeah well, army didn't put me through college for nothin'," Soap drawls and puts on his best and broadest smile for his Lt. Puppy love, they call it, hero worship. They call Soap a dumbass for attaching himself to Lieutenant Riley like a feckin' barnacle, but Soap likes that he got to burrow into the hard shell that makes Ghost bullet proof, that he gets these moments where Ghost knocks their knees together and strikes up a conversation.

Well. He throws Soap the promise of a kibble and Soap hunts it like a particularly stupid blood hound, tripping all over himself while chasing for whisps of conversation that he can uphold.

"Army put ye through college too, sir? Ye one of 'em rare smart boys from Manchester?"

"Careful, sergeant," Ghost says, easy and gentle. It's not really a reprimand as much as it is a reply, a request for Soap to continue this conversation in the hell that is the Charles de Gaulle airport, where they rest their tired, weary bones on the shitty plastic seats and keep themselves alert with full bladders and shitty airport coffee cart coffee. Ratty old dishwater that tastes like the watered down dirt of plates left to sit in the sink for far too long – at least it doesn't upset their stomachs the way sucking on an old dishrag would.

"Always careful, sir," Soap falls into their banter, imagines the smirk distorting the lines on his lieutenant's scarred face. "So, what about ye, then?"

"What about me?" Ghost asks. He sounds amused, knocks his knee into Soap's again. "Got any more of that coffee, sergeant?"

"Ye want more?" Soap asks.

"Not really. Could go for some grub but..."

"The French have a thing about their sauces. Hollandaise, béarnaise," Soap trails off, uncertain about any other French cuisine that isn't escargot and grenouille – and he has feelings about those. Multiple, and all solidly on the negative spectrum. It reminds him a little too much of staring at rats and geckos and wondering when the gnawing pains in his abdomen turned despair into reason.

"Can't name the four staple sauces of the French cuisine?" Ghost clicks his tongue, mock annoyance colouring the air like a joke. It still tastes like heavy-duty cleaning agents and old sweat, typical airport manure coating their lungs like tar and diesel, the civilian version of military vehicle exhaust and cigarettes. It's sweeter somehow, more pure, more peaceful – everything they can't have and that they chase regardless. The promise of peace coating the wisps of used-up civilian space air, hot and humid and covered in the exhales of fried chicken, chips and cheap booze. There's a thrill in how mundane they are here, in this liminal space, where they can be just as all the others. Waiting, tired, caught in overlays and transits and with overpriced food that barely takes the edge off.

"Mirepoix and rouge," Soap says.

"Close." Ghost's eyes crinkle when he leans his head back, legs splayed open. One knee knocks into the dividing wall partition, the other into Soap's. Despite everything that is said about Ghost, he is as human as the rest of them, and he craves human contact just like any social creature. Even if his way is considerably more stilted, and littered with landmines of dark sarcasm and bone-grinding cynicism. Ghost is a bit of an arsehole like that, but Soap is reasonably certain that it's just a wall to protect Ghost from heartache. "But no. Béchamel, Espagnol, Tomate, Velouté and Hollandaise."

"How do you know so much about French cuisine? And what is Béarnaise?"

"Mum used to uh. She used to cook. Taught me a bit."

"She teach you the difference on Hollandaise and Béarnaise?" Soap tries tapping his heel, but the sharp pains and aches from the long mission have him stop with a pained hiss. Ghost pauses before digging in his chest pocket to reveal what looks like a single use packet of sugar, but ends up being aspirin.

"Take this. It's mostly the wine and Béarnaise is just Hollandaise made with shallots and tarragon."

"And here I thought they were entirely different things," Soap hums.

"They're not." Ghost hands Soap the small bottle of water to chase the aspirin, and Soap nods, grateful to be able to wash the taste of stale powder and citrus from his tongue. "They're both oil in water emulsions. One just tastes better."

"Oh ye are a rocket," Soap scoffs and knocks his knee back against Ghost's. "First thing to do back on home soil?"

"Steak and Stout pie. Maybe some Scotch Eggs, nothing fancy." Ghost works his jaw beneath the mask. "A pint, maybe. Sleeping Giant has a new cook that's halfway decent."

It's not an invitation.

"That right, Lt?"

"Could join me. Pay fer your own drinks, though. They don't pay me enough to make a Scottish liver swim."

This, on the other hand, is.

And Soap pretends not to see the crinkle under Ghost's eyes, but cherishes it anyway as he turns away, hiding the mirth playing over his face from the world and the airline passengers that sit with them on the god-awful plastic chairs in the gate lounge, while their flight is gallivanting off somewhere.

[computervampir]

Schattenwelt hatte so viele fruity Szenen im Hörspiel ich konnte das nicht so stehen lassen…

[kalt-blut]

Mal dir bitte

Keine Bilder mit jem1anden aus, wenn euch die Wand zum aufhängen fehlt

[x-snowstorm-x]

Ich frag mich wieviele Tabletten ich brauche bis es aufhört weh zutun

[never7enough]

Jede Narbe die verblasst ist wie ein Messerstich ins Herz

[ge-trennt]

Weiß nicht, ob ich jemals etwas so sehr bereut habe, wie gegangen zu sein.

[noname130107]

Ich hasse es so zu sein, ich hasse es so zu fühlen, ich hasse es nichts dagegen tun zu können, ich hasse all diesen Hass.

[you-are-not-alone-2019]

Es ist alles gut, rede ich mir ein seit Jahren, tja, in Wirklichkeit ist gar nichts gut, ich zerbreche an Mir selbst.

[nilufersworld]

Es ist schon hart wenn du etwas vermisst, aber so tust als würdest du es nicht vermissen. Nur damit dein herz nicht noch mehr zerbricht.

[darthlenaplant]

Das gibt's ja nicht, ich bestell Mitte August was um 150€ bei Weltbild, kriege erst Anfang September mit, dass die (schon wieder) in Konkurs gegangen sind. Angeblich würden ja alle Bestellungen bis 31. August abgearbeitet, aber mein Paket ist immer noch nicht da... und angeblich sind die Daten die man bei Weltbild hinterlassen hat, an Thalia übertragen worden? Okay, mir eigentlich wurscht, hauptsache, ich bekomme die Ware, für die ich ja BEZAHLT hatte...

Und als wär der Ärger nicht genug, gibt JETZT einer meiner liebsten Youtube Channels so mir nichts dir nichts bekannt, dass die AUFHÖREN? EINFACH SO? AUS DEM NICHTS!

Ich mein, Ich wünsche TwoSet Violin nur das beste, aber bruder, lasst doch wenigstens den Apparelshop offen? Und die Videos gefälligst ONLINE? Ich mein...

#Enshittification galore, huh?

Ich will mich doch bloß darauf konzentrieren, einen neuen Job anzufangen, ein besserer Elektrotechniker zu werden und das Leben, soweit möglich, zu genießen? Selbst unter diesen Umständen.