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inkformyblood · 2 years ago

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Soap and König go for a drink (Established Soap x Ghost, Pre-Relationship König x Soap x Ghost, main focus of the fic is mutual pining König x Soap)

“A-and another one.”

König stretches up to steady Soap as he picks his way back to their table. His gloves blunt the sensation of the sharp jut of his hip bones, the curve of his stomach where his shirt had ridden up, and König swallows beneath his mask, drawing his hands back before Soap could notice them shake. It likely wouldn’t matter either way as Soap raises one of the shot glasses, the liquid shot through with pale flecks of glitter and already to separate in the middle, and presses the other into König’s hand.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers,” König echoes, tapping his glass against Soap’s. The other’s grin is immediate, slightly lopsided and made more severe by the tilt of his head. Something twists in the pit of König’s stomach, his breath catching on the awkward line of ribs broken and healed one too many times. He can’t look away as Soap tips his head back to take the shot, his tongue pressing against the rim of the glass, pink and wet.

Soap’s gaze lingers on König’s hand, sliding up to the faded line of his tattoo. His frown always reminds König of a puppy, dark eyes made pitiful beneath drawn brows, the genuine sense of bewilderment at why the universe hadn’t fallen into place because he’d like it to.

(It would if it could, König knows.)

“You’re not joining me?”

He could say no. Just next to them, the table is a huddle of drinks, most still full as König had swapped his full glass for an empty one whenever Soap’s attention turned away from him. It had felt easier than to try to explain the nerves that twist through his stomach and the wire that curls around his tongue and renders him shaking and speechless and disgusted with himself. His tolerance is still high, higher than it should be after chasing confidence hidden at the bottom of a bottle for most of his teenage years and he could have kept pace with Soap. Somehow, that feels even worse.

“I will. I am.”

König’s hand doesn’t shake as he untucks his mask from his shirt, but he almost wishes it would. The bar Soap had chosen, had directed König to like he was laying out a battle plan, is still on base so his mask only attracts the usual curious glances that drift away soon enough. The air is cool, a little sticky to match the floor, and he focuses on the scent of Soap’s cologne, undercutting the normally neutral body wash and shampoo he uses. It smells nice, smoky in a way that suits Soap in the same way explosions suit him, a bright flash to distract from the slow sinking slide of the building beneath their feet.

König takes the shot.

“It’s good.”

“See?”

Soap leans closer, the stool creaking and shifting as he braces his boots against a frame that he’s already had to kick back into place once. König is used to this, the deliberate knock of a hand against his shoulder, an elbow against his hip, an invitation he has not yet dared to answer. Steadying is one thing, sharing a seat during a mission is another (and he has barely recovered from that, the easy heft of Soap’s thigh against his own as the other man braced himself to wriggle further up the seat, utterly and completely comfortable in his slightly-under-half of the narrow plastic chair), and this entire situation is something else entirely.

“D’you want another for the road or are you good?”

It’s a torment crafted especially for König, some exquisitely handcrafted punishment for one spiteful deity or another. He shakes his head as he tugs his mask down, breathing in the stale scent of his own worry that has steeped into the fabric. It isn’t as sour as he remembers it to be, small fragments of stability beginning to creep through.

“Aye, I’ll follow suit. Be a good boy and– and all tha’.”

(König doesn’t think about it. It’s the start of a road he has already stepped onto before and it ends at Ghost’s door, just as imposing as the man behind it, and yet König is entranced like a moth to a flame, uncaring of whatever charred and desiccated husk he’ll be left with at the end. Some part of him knows that rejection wouldn’t be the end of everything, it would just feel like it, but the not-knowing is familiar enough that König can’t step out of it. Not yet.)

“You’re just down the corridor from me, yeah?” Soap stands before König can answer with the same easy roll of confidence that he throws himself from a building, all in the shoulders and the too-wide grin he flashes. “I’ll walk you home.”

König doesn’t say it’d be him walking Soap home as he moves next to the other, every step measured and quiet. The argument wouldn’t be one he’d win even as he carefully starts to herd Soap towards the door, blocking the instinctive turn towards the bar and then again, when they pass another door marked ‘Staff Only’. He expects the arm Soap slings around his shoulders at the first breath of cold and rainy air, König’s lungs feeling damp enough to grow mushrooms in despite the relatively short distance between the base and his homeland, but the tremor that runs through him is a surprise. He catches it, still struggling, somewhere in the middle of his spine and masks it as nothing more than being careful of the seams of his jacket as he tugs on the cuffs.

“You’re a sweet lad, König,” Soap mumbles. He’s too close once more, a jumble of whiskey-soaked limbs, the honey shade bleeding into the dark brown of his eyes as they pass beneath a streetlight.

König doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how.

(He’ll think about it later, later in the quiet of his room, later in the hush of blankets pulled over his head and his mask peeled off to feel the warmth of his breath condense against his skin.)

The walk itself isn’t long, the gravel crunching beneath their boots as they walk in uneven stumbling unison towards the long huddled row of barracks. It’s an ending, of a sort and König’s stomach twists as his nerves set their traps and ready themselves. His palms grow cold, a sweat breaking out beneath his mask as his breath only grows shallower, the whistle of an incoming bomb growing louder in his ears. The room Soap stops in front of isn’t, officially, his. On paper, the only occupant of the room is OCCUPIED, See Cpt. John Price, and König had heard the housing department complain more than once at the paperwork needed to shuffle that around whenever it came time for renewals. Off of paper, the room is Ghost’s. And what is Ghost’s is also Soap’s.

“This is me,” Soap says, hiccups, setting himself to swaying so haphazardly that König grabs at his elbows to keep him upright, crouching slightly due to Soap’s arm still slung across his shoulder. He’ll feel that touch for days.

Soap grins up at him, only needing to rise slightly onto his toes to be level with König’s gaze. “Thanks.”

König breathes out slowly, the final release of breath as he looks down a scope and picks out his target from the teeming mass. But there is no target, no objective, just a grin as bright as the sun and the gentle pressure of a kiss pressed to his cheek.

Soap steps away from him towards the now-open door and König looks up at Ghost.

Ghost isn’t looking at him, the dark shimmer of his eyes turned definitively towards Soap. He’s at ease here, the edges of him tending towards blurred comfort with his top riding up over one hip. There’s a bruise there, the deep purple beginning to bleed into a sickening mottled green, and König’s hip twinges in silent furious sympathy. Cuts heal, broken bones mend, bruises linger.

“He behave himself?”

König straightens, feels his spine click into place before he stops himself, settling into his habitual curve. Is it a joke? He chances a second glance at Ghost, tracking the hidden upward slant of his mouth, the spark in his eyes. His current mask is a thin cotton and it hides far less than his tactical mask.

“Mostly.”

“Hear that, Johnny,” Ghost mumbles, turning his face to the upturned riot of Soap’s hair. He drags his chin over the freshly shaved section and his mask rasps against it in the facsimile of a kiss. “Mostly well-behaved, atta lad.”

Soap mumbles something König can’t make out, slumped against Ghost’s shoulder. His grin is easy enough to see, however, the same lopsided one König had been blessed with throughout their time together.

“You’re in better shape than most.” It’s a gentle sort of noticing, a gleam of approval colouring Ghost’s voice in a way that reminds König of a hand pressed against his forehead, a balm against whatever torments him. “Manage okay?”

König straightens, settles, and feels his face flush beneath his mask. He doesn’t know how far the colour carries over his face, but he manages to nod, a little shakily. “It was nice. I liked spending the evening with him.”

He doesn’t say ‘I would have liked to spend the evening with you both,’ but it is a neat enough miss that he begins his retreat.

“Goodnight, sir.”

“Night, König.”

König doesn’t look back as he makes his way down the corridor towards his own door, even as the skin on his back of his neck prickles beneath the weight of Ghost’s unseen gaze. His hands still hold the warmth of Soap pressed against him and he curls his fingers into it as he hears the door creak and the sound of stumbling footsteps. He doesn’t hear the door click shut; instead he hears a gentle thump like something heavy being dropped a short distance onto a mattress, and then the quiet creak of the door being pushed open again.

As he turns the corner, he catches a glimpse of Ghost’s door, still open, still occupied as the man keeps watch over him alone.

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