Work Text:
Many people smoke. Usually to release stress and to calm down after a particularly draining event. Or to have something in your hand while talking to a group of people; smoking because they do.
Soap and Ghost fit the first type, smoking before and after missions to ease their shaken nerves with the nicotine hidden in the dried brown leaves. Standing in the cold of the night or the heat of the day and blowing out grey puffs of smoke is therapeutic, calming. The smell and taste could be better, but those are the least of their worries when they stump out the butts under their heavy boots, entering the plane to a new location or the base to a nightmare-fueled rest.
But, they still differ from one another.
Ghost likes to roll his cigarettes with practiced efficiency, holding the thin paper between his thick gloved fingers, putting the tobacco and the filter in before wetting the stripe with the tip of his tongue and finalizing his creation, his mask sitting on top of his nose to do so. Rolling them himself distracts him and soothes the light tremble in his body when he is exceptionally tense. It counts as meditation. Doing the same motion over and over again eases the new-formed knot of anxiety in his ribcage; the repetition and the familiarity fill him with a sense of tranquility. It's cheaper that way, too.
Soap on the other hand isn't patient enough for that – to be honest, he actually doesn't want to learn it – instead buying pack after pack of produced cigarettes with the orange ends pointing towards the bottom of the package. John wants to be prepared at all times. Also, he imagines they taste better.
Sometimes, when his cigarettes are empty – or he wants to watch Ghost's hands work – he asks Ghost for one of his, and the latter complies after an annoyed sigh, slowly getting tired of Soap's lazy ass. He will teach him at some point. For his own sake.
Today is such a day.
Soap and Ghost are celebrating another successful mission in one of their favorite bars, drinking beer and liquor together with the rest of the 1-4-1. They were drinking for hours, Price and Gaz the first to get up and leave. Alejandro and Rudy followed suit, both men getting a little handsy under the table, and Soap laughed when they scrambled to their feet and excused themselves.
John takes another swig of his almost-empty beer. His brows furrow slightly at the taste, he will never actually enjoy it. It's too bitter. He is more of a sweet and fruity kind of guy.
Ghost has finished his last drink a few minutes prior and he won't order a new one. He doesn't like feeling intoxicated because then he isn't on high alert. He fancies a bourbon here and there and doesn't say no to his comrades asking him out to celebrate, but he knows his limits. His brain is clear, and his mouth doesn't feel dry or unpleasant from the alcohol, he's just a little more adventurous and daring.
"Let's go," Soap decides, getting up from his seat opposite Ghost, who stands up, too. Soap drank a little more than Simon, and he stumbles a bit, his vision blurry and his head spinning.
"Easy there, Sergeant," Ghost says and steadies Soap with a hand on his shoulder. Soap blushes at the warm contact, looking at the hand longer than strictly necessary, pouting when Ghost pulls it away again.
Both men leave the bar, the cold air surrounding them as they open the wooden door. Soap takes a deep breath in, the fresh oxygen driving the alcoholic haze out of his system.
Ghost begins to roll a cigarette, and John watches closely. How he snatches the see-through paper out of the little blue cardboard box. How he holds it steady between two fingers while grabbing a pinch of the brown tobacco and sprinkling it onto the wrapper. How he adds the still-white filter to the mix before licking and tightly rolling everything together. Finished.
Soap's eyes never leave Ghost's hands. He is in awe, unable to process how such large and long fingers can be so skilled, so careful. It is mesmerizing to look at, the work of his hands erotic in John's eyes. Would Ghost be careful with him, too? How would his fingers feel around him?
Ghost looks up at him.
"You want one, Johnny?" he asks, oblivious to John's actual thoughts, and holds the finished product out to him. Huh, that's new. No protest?
"Thanks." Soap puts it between his chapped lips before petting the pockets of his jacket and jeans for a lighter.
Ghost makes another one, even quicker than before. He puts his mask just over his lips and takes the end of the cigarette into his mouth. Then, he pulls his own lighter out of a pocket – a clipper decorated with skulls - rolling the little wheel with his thumb and pressing the button to ignite the gas with a spark. The orange flame flickers in the dark, windy night, and Ghost cups his hand around the lighter to successfully burn the tip.
He takes a deep breath before blowing the smoke through his nose.
"Simon, give me something to light," John says, expecting the lighter.
"Okay, come." Ghost puts the cigarette back between his lips, pulling at it, the tip glowing a dark red. John steps closer, their shoes touching, and he looks down at the contact.
Ghost doesn't hesitate before he cups the back of Soap's neck with a strong hand, scratching over the freshly buzzed hair, and pulls him in. The ends touch, and he ignites Johnny's cigarette with his own, the two burning bright between them and reflecting in the dark pupils of their eyes.
The intimate scene messes with John's head. The cold palm circling his neck feels heavy and grounding. They stand so close to one another, the scent of Simon's aftershave fills his nose. Ghost towers over him, looking deeply into his eyes as they both take a drag. John flushes under his intense gaze, but he puts it off as an effect of the alcohol still thrumming in his veins and behind his heavy eyelids.
The atmosphere around them shifts, the lighter not the only one creating sparks.
Suddenly, Ghost grabs his delicate hand, engulfing it, and pulls it away from John's face, the cigarette hanging loosely between his two fingers.
"Wait Sim-" John starts but is interrupted by Ghost's lips pressing onto his, their tongues meeting messily. John lets out a heavy breath through his nose, sinking into the unexpected but heavenly kiss. The fabric of Simon's mask scratches John's nose. His free hand tangles in Ghost's grey hoodie, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss.
Ghost devours John's lips, putting every ounce of passion and pent-up frustration into the kiss, panting hard against him. He cradles Soap's smaller face in his hand, holding his jaw and scruffy chin in his gloved palm, the cigarette burning lazily in his grasp.
Ghost's tongue licks past Soap's lips, and John moans at the soft and warm feeling, pushing them impossibly closer together, hoping to be absorbed into the man. Ghost shudders at the low sound and bites into John's lower lip. He tugs at it slightly before soothing the ache with his tongue. The fresh taste of cigarettes fills their mouths.
"Steamin' hell," Soap mumbles under his breath, standing flushed in front of the taller man after both parted for much-needed air. Their eyes meet.
"If I have to pay you like that for a cig, I'd never buy my own ever again," Soap teases, taking a drag from his cigarette and leaning forward to blow the smoke into Ghost's face before catching his lips in another kiss.
Soap cuts the kiss short and turns around.
"Come on, it's fucking cold out here." And Ghost follows him through the chill night, smoking with a satisfied smile.