many-melancholies

[many-melancholies]

If Love is the Answer - SoapGhost

♡

part: 5/5

♡

“Soap!” Simon yelled, realising what his father meant. “Get out of the house!” The hologram raised his brow in confusion, simultaneous with the loud sound of kaboom! Not from a firework though.

After all, why would his house be covered in searing, orange, burning flames if that was the case?

Simon coughed and coughed from the explosion, head down and gloves and bare feet covered in ash. “John!”

Soap emerged from the fire the most glitchy Simon had seen him. His orb was almost falling, and the hologram scurried at his inventor’s side.

“You are in a state of shock,” Soap mentioned. “Your pupils are dilating, your heart is pumping immensely, your sight is off and you are ringing in the ears.”

“No crap, Sherlock,” Simon laughed humourlessly. “You’re broken,” he observed. “You need some fixing.”

Soap looked at him tersely. “Do you not see yourself?! You’re sacrificing your life for someone who isn't even real! I know I’m going to ‘die’ anyways! Your dad did this right? Because the real, human, dead John MacTavish changed you for the better?” His words were bitter and heartbroken. “Even with every lie your brilliant mind creates, I’m not real! Not human! What part of that do you not understand?”

They could hear the sounds of boots on the gravel road.

“You weren’t John to me!” Simon shouted. “You’re Soap! A hologram who kept me living for a year! Who became my light and my joy when I was crumbling back to what I was before John went into my life! You made me do something John didn’t do! He was a partner, but you’re a…I said it before, you’re mein freund! You're the one thing I needed the most in my life. I'm absolutely nothing without you. How much more do I have to say for you to understand?!”

“Simon Riley!” Mr. Riley called from the door. “If you don’t unlock this door this instant I will not hesitate to bust it open!”

“And I’m so sorry if I treated you like you were someone else.”

The hologram was in tears. “It’s the opposite, really,” he said. “I’m so happy you treated me like your friend. Like I wasn’t a hologram. I’m glad to be of service but not of a tool. It was enchanting to meet you. But we both know that I’ll be gone in a few minutes.”

Simon caught his breath. The near-city crowd was in the final countdown for the new year. “Zehn!” the cheers shouted. Ten.

“Riley, no-, Simon, you genius, oblivious, and kind human being, thank you. You’ve given me too much to feel,” the hologram said, barely audible. “Remember when I asked you before what it meant to be human?”

“Neun!”

The hologram looked up at him. “Of course,” Simon said in an equally hushed tone. “I didn’t even know the answer to that question.”

“Acht!”

Soap smiled, holding his orb. “You saw yourself as a monster, I know,” he traced Simon’s cheek.

“Sieben!”

“But everything you have ever done, the kind and the cruel, you did it for love. You raised yourself to the standards of your father for love. You became a better person with the help of John MacTavish for love. You created me for love. Love is who you are. Love is what it means to be human.”

“Sechs!”

“Knowing you has changed me more than you would ever know. Because when you cared, I cared. I cared about Mrs. Riley, about Price, about John MacTavish, about you. I cared about the whole world because of you. You changed me.”

“Fünf !”

“Why does this sound like goodbye?” Simon asked, tears rolling down.

“Vier!”

“Because it is. It’s love. Love is the answer,”

“Drei!”

A silent beat passed.

“Zwei!”

“You almost convinced me I’m real.”

“Eins! Frohes neues Jahr!”

Before Simon was able to do anything, the hologram smashed it to the ground. The ray of blue light flickered and Soap blew away from existence, only lasting in the memories of those who saw him. Simon shook his head, over and over, crushing the hologram’s weightless, fading form against him.

He laughed, sounding distant and far away until there was nothing left, just air, a fading wisp of blue smoke disappearing into the eternal night as bright fireworks lit up the sky.

“You’re real to me.”

* * *

Bump

Ba-bump

Ba-bump

Cl-ba-bump

Click

Click

nothing more

nothing more

They remembered touch.

He was a boy who wanted to save lives and serve kindness.

He was a boy with a dream; to create something world-changing and be nothing but perfect.

Both boys used to be an enemy, a rival, a friend, and a partner.

They were useless, helpless, all alone.

He was pride and ego, while he was laughter and smiles.

But what did it mean? What was the point? They didn't know.

There were wooden tables. Passing test papers. Studying in the library. Suits and ties. Gracious movements. Beating hearts.

And there were cardboard boxes. German dictionaries. Talking plants. Cheesy songs. Specialised gloves. Marble cake. Chocolate gelatos. Melodic violins. Burning hearts.

It never considered touch before. It had one thing to worry about: results.

Progress. Results. Success.

At first it thought why its creator was treating it like that. As if it was human, like him. As a hologram, it assumed that it was just a replacement for someone he’d lost. It would be a reasonable explanation of why anyone ordinary would make a copy of his deceased partner.

But Simon was not anyone.

Simon was not ordinary.

It started with something small, just a flicker, something they didn't understand. A brief touch, a shimmer of heat, a tremor in the fingertips. Buzzing anger. Fluttering happiness. Tingling sorrow. It didn't know what it was, but it knew it needed it, more than anything else. Simon smiling, Simon furrowing his brows, Simon sighing in relief, Simon examining his homework.

Simon, Simon, Simon.

It had thought its purpose was to guide its creator to perfection and success.

But if its creator was happy, then failure of service didn't matter. Success didn't matter. Only him. Only touch. But something was still missing.

What was it?

It had remembered the sound of quaking walls and roofs. The exact grooves of the hard cement floor he laid on. The vermillion blood splattered on his body. The hot tears he had tried to keep at bay while he smiled.

What was missing? What went missing? None of these memories belonged to it, but they were there regardless, and when Simon pulled away or couldn't be touched, the emptiness there threatened to tear its existence apart.

The work had to continue. It needed to keep feeling. It didn’t need to keep him more brilliant than he already was. It needed to keep him happy.

It realised its mistake too late.

It was one thing to exist, to speak, to guide him. It was another thing entirely to desire things of their own. It wanted, it desired. It was too late to stop. It couldn't stop.

Cardboard boxes and German dictionaries.

Its programming wasn't made for this. It wasn't built for this.

Talking plants and cheesy songs.

It couldn't feel like this.

Specialised gloves and marble cake.

Destiny had to pull it and its creator apart someday.

Chocolate gelatos and melodic violins.

Whatever was missing, it couldn’t last long inside a hologram.

Burning hearts.

I ҉lo̸ve͟ y͘o͞u.̷

Oh.

l ov e…

It was love.

l ov e

That's what was missing.

love love love

Love would kill him.

“Fünf! Vier!”

It’d come too far to go back now.

“Drei! Zwei!”

Maybe in another life.

“Eins!”

Simon couldn't smile if he was dead.

“You're real to me.”

It didn't want to go. It was afraid. The nothingness was vast and daunting. But if Simon would continue to smile…

…it would be enough.

At least the hologram had found its answer before it died.

* * *

So many things happened, and so quickly too. When Mr. Riley and his men in charge opened the door, they sent in firefighters. Mr. Riley was under the disguise of a caring father, pretentious that he wasn’t the one who risked his child’s life to destroy something that meant so much to him.

A blanket was draped over Simon’s head while he sat on his father’s car, and he kept his hand in his pocket to hide two things now purposeless but valuable to him that he was able to save in the fire; Soap’s crumpled piece of sheet music for his song and the hologram’s hard drive. It was impossible to make a new orb for Soap; all his blueprints were ingested by the fire and some parts he used were the last in the world.

Mr. Riley, fine sight he had, had stolen the hard drive away and stepped on it. Simon didn’t dare speak a word to the man throughout the ride.

The man dropped him off at the family house. Before Simon closed the car door, he said the last thing he’d probably say as his son.

“It’s never worth it,” he told him as he slammed the car door with an open window. “When you’re always perfect.”

* * *

Two years later…

Glossy marble floors and strings of ivy that hung from the walls accompanied the newly married couple of John and Nikolai Price both in a sharp suit.

And he couldn’t deny he was quaking when he discovered he would play a song for the two newly-weds. Price wanted him to sing and play the same song his hologram friend spent so much time writing and singing. The one Soap sang in the abandoned building and before New Year.

New Year…

“I’m sorry, I know it’s a bit insensitive,” Price had said. “You don’t have to do it, but I just really love the song!”

“No, it’s fine,” Simon replied. “I’ll sing it. I still have his music sheets hidden somewhere. And I’ve moved on, anyways.”

And now here he was, sitting on a tall chair with a music stand, holding a yellowed music score.

Soap and the human John MacTavish have always been a constant in Simon’s heart: a consistent tremor of music underlining every song Simon has composed, every orchestra he has created. In every single memory of the last six years, both versions of his friend are there, either sitting in the background or smiling in the foreground. Even the moments he was absent from are filled with some distinct piece of him, like the cactus the hologram loved to talk to or the stray med school books on a cardboard box the human used to read.

Simon had played the song every Christmas to himself, and he performed well on his violin. His vocals weren’t the best, but it wasn’t bad either. The song went on smoothly, Price and Nik moving sideways to the tune of the song.

There was silence, and then…

“Wise men say,” It was unexpected, yet a most pleasant surprise when the boy with that sweetly stupid haircut and equally stupid iridescent blue eyes began to sing gently to the melody of the piece's second movement inside his head. “Only fools rush in.”

It was a song Simon knew very well and secretly held great liking to. “But I can't help falling in love with you.”

“Shall I stay?” His voice was like home. It felt safe, familiar. “Would it be a sin,” It reminded him of brighter days when the darkness faded into oblivion.

Cardboard boxes and German dictionaries.

“If I can't help falling in love with you?”

Talking plants and cheesy songs.

“Like a river flows,”

It reminded him of specialised gloves and marble cake.

“Surely to the sea,”

Chocolate gelatos and melodic violins.

“Darling, so it goes,”

Burning hearts.

“Some things aren’t meant to be…”

“Take my hand.” It reminded him of a smiling hologram and glitching hands. "Take my whole life too," Pale skin and awkward laughs. “because I,” Muttered words and warm embraces.

His voice put him in a trance, and that was all it took for him to realise.

Maybe he had misjudged his own feelings. “can't help,”

Ah, that must be it. “falling in,”

His heart skipped a beat. “love,”

It all makes sense now. “with you.”

He stopped singing. He stopped breathing. He just played the violin until the end and heard the claps and cheers as Price and Nik shared intimacy as the newlyweds.

Simon heard, but he didn’t listen.

He was too focused on a little scribble below the final notes, but it was something nonetheless. The hologram’s answer to his own question finally made sense. How ‘love is the answer.’

As the line read:

“For I can’t help falling in love with you,”

- your freund

♡

thank you for those who stuck around this short, 15k word journey! every little notif is treasured dearly; thank you, thank you, thank you.

#cod mwii #cod mwiii #drabble #fanfic #fic #ghoap #ghostsoap #soapghost #cod modern warfare

[many-melancholies]

If Love is the Answer - SoapGhost

♡

part: 4/5 [part one] [part two] [part three] [part five]

♡

“The stars looked so bright tonight,” commented Soap, stretching his legs at the comfort of the sofa, finally free from the pain of sitting on the floor. “And the marble cake was amazing,” he said while patting his stomach, full.

Simon agreed. The dark night sky accompanied by the half-moon was indeed a treasure, and the marmorkuchen he had bought for the two of them was great.

The two of them, Simon thought. It wasn’t just himself anymore, like all those decades ago. He needed time to get used to that.

Although the starry night was comforting, it didn’t stop Simon from worrying if anyone had seen the hologram. He had let potential risks today, and he’d make sure to keep Soap safe from any more trouble. Especially when he had lost Johnny already once.

Simon let his tiredness get the better of him and rolled to the left side of the bed, away from the right which was the new spot the inventor insisted the hologram slept on.

It was graduation day. Simon and John were one step away from earning a job. Crowds of parents watched their sons and daughters dressed in graduation togas receive their medals and honours, dabbing their wet eyes of proud tears.

Well, except for Simon’s dad. His father’s company experienced a sudden decrease in sales, so apparently for the man, business was more important than family.

“Naturally,” Herr Riley said once. Before, Simon had looked up to the man. Looking back, now he just scoffed at it. Arrogance was not a desirable trait, and he knew that now.

Like always, Simon and John headed to their shared dorm-room, exhausted from keeping up conversations with other students.

And then terror struck.

An ear-splitting earthquake reigned on them, the ground quaking and breaking. They didn’t have time to go under the tables; the two were paralysed with fright.

Crumbling pieces of cement fell on the ground, books, pencils, and papers were scattered everywhere, and the soft rumbling of the ground shaking didn’t fade out.

But even the academic genius couldn’t bring himself to move. So John pushed him under a table, his encouraging and scared yelling was enough to let Simon snap out of it. Both boys made their way to any desk or table, and the inventor was secure under the table.

He remembered those unforgettable eyes.

They were mostly ocean blue, but now they were tinged with darker green in some areas, greyer blue in others, dots of brown, and spots of bright gold flecked throughout. The irises seemed to have changed every time he looked at them, like something in a dream that can’t be held by memory; something fluid and shifting. It was frustrating. They were kaleidoscopic. Flawed and beautiful.

And they were crying.

Then he looked back with a sharp inhale.

That was when John had first called him his partner.

There he was, frozen in place again, unable to move.

Not when his friend, his enemy, his rival, his equal…, and his so-called partner was a bloodied mess and without a pulse, laying on his lap.

Dead.

It was the first time he cried in sixteen years.

Simon awoke from his dream with a choke. He was used to the 24/7 nightmares enough to not make him jolt up, but no matter how many times it was replayed, he would never stop being so terrified of the dream.

Slowly but surely, a soft embrace enveloped the young man. He tiredly checked what it was and saw the gloved hologram with a small smile.

“Simon,” the hologram said drowsily, using his first name. “You don’t have to be alone. I’m always here for you and always will be, even at your worst,” he hummed, eyes still closed. Normal Johnny would be embarrassed by his posture, but at times like this Simon didn’t mind. “That’s my purpose. If you’re having nightmares about the late MacTavish, then talk to me about it.”

“But all I ask you,” Soap said, wrapping his hands around him more tightly. “Is to remember I’m not him. I’m not human.”

Soap pouted as he went back to recharge. “I just cause problems for you…”

Simon sighed at the hologram’s overdramatic response.

Do you think I’d let a problem hug me like this?

The inventor didn’t voice his thoughts out, but he was sure to very clearly, very mockingly tell Soap about his demeanour when sleepy tomorrow. Simon could even remember the very first nightmare he encountered in regards to Johnny…

* * *

Of all the items in the world that Roba Riley loathed the most, it was bottles. Bottles containing alcohol-inducing beverages, specifically. It made one lousy and vulnerable, and it usually did more harm than good.

The CEO’s son couldn’t agree more. As a Riley, Simon had to set an example of an independent, wealthy and successful man. If friendships were useless to Mr. Riley’s sight, then his look to a glass of liquor would be a sight to behold from any rival company.

So when a five-year-old Simon solemnly swore he wouldn’t intake any drinks that could cause heart diseases, he would be depended on to be a boy of his word.

But he broke his promise not to take pleasure in human relationships more than necessary. There was a high chance that he’d disobey his father too.

It had all started when Simon was sitting on a cushy, velvet couch with his therapist. He couldn’t cope with his closest friend’s death alone, and his parents were busy like always. A flinch in the mention of said friend’s name here, a quick seeth of breath there, and the occasional eyes that held such painful shards of a broken boy bleeding behind the curtain of ocean blue.

Wooden tables. Passing test papers. Studying in the library.

“Simon Riley?”

Suits and ties. Gracious movements. Beating hearts.

“Riley?”

All of these words stuck in his brain like a mantra.

“Simon.”

“O-oh,” Simon finally replied to his therapist, getting impatient by the second. “Deepest apologies on the silence,” he gave a slight bow. “My mind palace was slightly in array.”

“Mind palace?” the therapist inquired. “Never mind. Back to my question at hand,” she concluded. “You were severely affected by the death of your dear friend, John MacTavish. He had shown you the life and road of happiness, and that ‘not everything that glitters is gold’ to put it simply. You became a better person in the definition of kindness, although worse in the understanding of your father.”

“Do you feel guilty?” she asked.

“What?”

“Do you feel guilty,” was repeated.

Guilty

Guilt

Bump

Ba-bump

Ba-bump

Cl-ba-bump

Click

Click

As if on cue, darkness shrouded Simon’s sight, and every word ever spoken to him was on repeat.

His mind palace, as he called it, was a dainty mansion. Beige walls filled with gold-framed portraits of world-famous inventions and Germany's presidents, empty hallways with shelves neatly stacked with sights and scents and smells from the people he assumed irreplaceable, rooms dedicated for purposes such as academics, physicals, and statuses were the ‘palace’s’ appearance. Stairs led up and up in an endless journey, letting Simon travel through different events stored in his memory.

But there was one, large basement underneath the regal royalty of it all. It was dim, dark, and bolted shut. A door made of tungsten metal made sure none of whatever horror was inside was kept. Absolutely no one was allowed in such a place, even the beholder himself. It was chained for a reason, after all.

And then there was John MacTavish. When Simon meant that Johnny broke his airs and walls of pride, it meant the slow cracking of the only thing preventing his confusing feelings like joy, love, and friendship to spill; the steel door. It was dangerous keeping the boy close to him, and just his tears might bring him to a downfall when empathy enters the rest of his mind palace, and yet despite knowing it he still stayed as his friend.

But John is dead. And when Simon closed his emerald eyes and went back to his mind-palace, it was ruined. Everything tumbled to discord. The unstable emotions literally flooded his mental paradise, resulting in the chaotic mess it was.

Simon sat cross-legged on top of a bookcase in the library of his mind palace. He looked down dismally at the water flowing past the top shelf. The books in his library that contained information on Science were mostly waterproof; they had experienced ‘feelings flooding’ before, but never to this extent. He didn't know there wouldn’t be any lasting damage.

He raked his hand through his hair. What went wrong? What could I have done to stop it? A million “what if’s” circulated in his mind. What could I have done to save him?

Suddenly, the therapist spoke, voice echoing in the flooded halls of the library. “Do you feel guilty?”

There was the question again.

“What’s quite common in your situation is for the patient to feel some kind of…guilt,” the therapist explained. It wasn’t the same voice he heard outside his mind-palace. It was almost distorted in some way, glitching and broken.

“What situation?” Simon responded blank-faced. His game of pretending was highly above average, considering his way of respect to those of authority while giving his classmates the cold shoulder at the same time before he met John. Unfortunately for him, his act wouldn’t last forever.

“The accident.”

The mind-palace instantly teleported Simon to a secluded place of emptiness. The only thing he could see was bright, flashing, red and blue lights, remains of earthquake debris, crumbling pieces of cement, and MacTavish.

Dead.

The voice continued. “It’s very usual for people to invent blame or create a causality when in reality-”

“It was completely out of your control,” the therapist said in a comforting voice. Simon’s consciousness was back in real life. He noticed it started to rain a bit, droplets falling from the rain clouds of the evening.

“Now, I believe our time has ended,” the woman checked her watch with a huff while standing up. “Wait outside and I’ll prepare your assignment for you to give me at our next meeting, okay?”

Simon nodded silently, gathered his composure, and left the room with his trademark cold-stare.

It was approximately thirteen years, seven months, two days, and one hour since his swear that he’d never take even a sip of one alcoholic beverage. Some of his past acquaintances he was only forced to ‘play buddies’ with by his teachers had told him it was okay for just a little when they grow into legal adults. Even his mum said it was alright.

So when he stepped into a restaurant recommended by his mum, he did not expect to consume the bubbly taste of sparkling water. Instantly, he exited the place while slamming a few euros on the counter.

After the bus ride home, he fiddled with his keys in hopes of just laying down in his bed. A lot of people thought Simon would have a low alcohol tolerance, and when they thought it was low, they were right. He only took one sip of sparkling water, not even beer or wine, and he already started to feel dizzy.

The nostalgic feeling of his flat didn’t help either. He could remember the moments he shared with John. Sitting down on the couch while studying, cooking up John’s favourite potato pancakes, playing the violin, or just binge-watching random documentaries — these were all memories he shared with John.

John, John, John.

And it didn’t help either, that when Simon spent multiple seconds pacing through the room so much the friction would start a fire, he saw someone that turned his skin into a ghostly pale white.

He’d expect it to be John, or his father, or some spirit of the past. But he didn’t expect to see himself. It wasn’t an exact reflection. However, the other him looked different. Among other things, the Other Him’s hair was longer, looked more mature and taller, and his viridescent eyes shone brightly as if John didn’t bloody die. The Other Him smirked as if he knew his interaction with the real, present Simon would happen.

Simon blinked, and his surroundings turned pitch black.

“Simon Riley,” the Other Him said with a snide smile. “I suppose my entrance to your subconscious in this,” he shook his hand while checking his surroundings, “lovely, plain black space of nothingness means your mind-palace has erupted in a flood.”

“Wh-Who are you?” Simon stuttered, taken aback by the Other Him’s amount of knowledge on the new graduate.

The Other Him only tried — and failed — to stifle a giggle. After a bit of heavy wheezing, he looked at Simon’s confused and concerned eyes. “I’m you,” he pointed with a grin. “But in a few years from now. A lot of things will happen, among those are psychopathic men and talking holograms, but that’s for you to discover. You could say I’m your soul perhaps.”

A wing-wang sound began from the left side of the void. The Other Him and Simon gave a glare at the noise. No surprise was found on the boys’ faces for it was the same old scene; earthquake, ambulance, dead friend, flatline.

“‘Talking holograms,’ huh?” Simon tried to avoid the topic on hand. “How did that happen?”

The Other Him didn’t look at him. “Because of this,” he stared at John’s lifeless body. “I’m not real, you know. Only here to help you cope.”

The student laughed humorlessly. “So I’m so lonely that the only one who could comfort me is myself? Sod off.”

“Don’t talk like that,” the Other Him said, hands in his pockets. “You know your dear friend wouldn’t like your behaviour. After all, you don’t know what it means to be human yet, don’t you?”

Simon’s head shot up like a cannonball. “How did you figure it out?”

The engineer didn’t say anything, looking away from the younger boy’s Pricee. It only increased Simon’s fury. “I said, how did you figure it out, huh?” he spit, slowly walking towards the man’s direction. “Did I grow up to be such a brat who became some high-functioning sociopath that isn’t affected by someone’s death? Did I not mourn the anniversary of one of the few people who I considered important to me — the few people I treasured in my heart?”

The Other Him didn’t reply again, so Simon continued, voice beginning to shake and crack. His tears were going to soon burst like a dam being cracked open; a door being broken. “Did I not pray every night for the comfort and warmth of the Holy Family? Did I not look at Tangerine’s room and think, what else could I have done to change how this came to be? Did I not try to find an opportunity to somehow not wait, but make a miracle come true?”

Simon pushed the Other Him to see the expression on his face. “Did I not think if I wasn’t such a selfish, egotistic machine that Johnny would…w-would…” he trailed off as he met the Other Him’s eyes.

The Other Him looked as broken as he was. Several tears split from his eyes, his hands shuddered, and his brows furrowed in an attempt to stop crying.

“Of course,” the Other Him said, at last, calming himself as Simon could not. “Of course I did. We were his best friends, weren’t we? I created something in huge amounts of time and effort just to pretend that everything was alright and it was a normal day with him. But instead, the thing I’ve created taught me we shouldn’t dwell on these things irreversible.”

“You will do so much as I did to bring him back somehow, but all our trials will be fruitless. We will only inflict more danger to ourselves by longing for such impossible things to come true. The only thing I want you to keep on doing is to maintain the lessons you’ve learned about family, friendship, and love when you were with MacTavish, okay?” he asked. “A few rivalries fade away. Some friendships are mended. But in the end, all hearts are broken. So promise me you’ll never love someone as much as MacTavish loved you and me.”

Simon removed the engineer’s hand from his shoulder. “What do you mean?” Unhurriedly and steadily, the Other Him disappeared on sight. “Wait, don’t leave! Answer me!”

What replaced him was a bloodstained John MacTavish.

“He left because it hurt him to know you would never look at me the same way I looked at you,” he explained ever so softly with a beaming and knowing smile, but unlike the gentle tone of his voice, his words told a melancholic, crestfallen ballad.

Simon had so many things to say to John, even if he was aware it was all just a dream. But before he woke up and forgot it even happened, he decided to say the things he wanted to say the most.

“I was so alone,” he admitted, tears spreading like waterfalls. “And I owe you so much. You were the most human being I’ve ever known. One more miracle, John, just for me,” he said, wanting to get the most of his time with him. “What does it mean to be human?”

But John refused to answer.

“Sometimes the words left unsaid are the words that could’ve meant the most,” Simon’s deceased friend said to himself, before vanishing.

Simon Riley swore he’d seen a bluish, glitchy version of John smiling fondly at him before leaving…

“Soap?”

But that wasn’t the first time he’d seen that figure. That oddly familiar object, however not the “we’ve met before” kind of familiar. It was like “I’ll see you in the future.”

This sparkling water incident wasn’t the first time he was in close proximity with alcohol. It was after the school finals with a very much alive John MacTavish.

Alone with a very much alive John MacTavish.

Bars were a very weird place for a guy like Simon. Sometimes they were noisy, chattering and wild with a bunch of drunk people who cussed too much. Other times, they were quiet, with sober citizens who wanted to drink away their worries in silence. The one that Simon and MacTavish entered wasn’t loud nor hushed; it was completely soundless.

The two students sat at the oak-wood chairs of The Silver Hours Bar. It wasn’t buzzing with talk as usual, with customers sipping their drinks. The bar was so quiet the sound of a pin falling could be heard. The only thing that made any noise was the soft clanking of the glasses being cleaned by the bartender. It was one of the rare places where the drinks were good and the price didn’t equal Mount Everest.

The boys talked calmly, and only advanced their volume when Simon got annoyed or John laughed gleefully. The kinder man had already drunk several mugs of beer, evidenced by the considerable number of empty glasses set on the table before him. Simon, however, didn’t even touch a glass. All went well, until some lady the same age as them walked in the bar with questionably flirty eyes set on her next prey; Simon.

“Hi, the name’s Philipa,” the stranger said with a smile, taking the seat next to Simon at the bar. John leaned and took a peek at the woman; blonde, sharply-cut hair, fine skin, and hungry blue-grey American eyes. Johnny looked at her with a try-hard polite expression, while Simon was the exact latter; impertinent.

“Lovely name, I’m Johnny!” he greeted. When Philipa didn’t say anything back, busy batting her eyes at Simon, he sighed and knew it was his cue to engage in social interaction.

“That's nice,” Simon said without moving his Pricee from the entrance door. He felt his entire body tense up and received the nerve to just tell the bloody woman to piss off, but John is here and John wouldn’t want that, the selfless git.

“You have really nice hair,” Philipa continued, ghosting her fingers over Simon’s long, straight hair in a way that made him entirely uncomfortable, “and you smell like heaven.”

‘Thank you’ would probably be the appropriate response, but he didn't care for the way this woman kept touching him and smiling at him, as if she knew Simon and had any right to be in his personal space. Only a select few were allowed this close to him and this Philipa character was certainly not one of them. So with a dark look, he pointedly scooted away and retorted, “You, on the other hand, smell like discount cologne and beer.”

Philipa raised her eyebrows in surprise but was not deterred. “Feisty, huh? I like that. So can I get a name?”

“I was under the impression that you already had one, Philipa.”

“Clever,” she grinned, “but I actually meant yours.”

It was more of a reflex than anything, but he replied, “Simon Riley.”

“That's a lovely name,” Philipa purred, “would you-”

“Not interested,” Simon interrupted. The angle of the woman's hips and the darkness of her pupils clearly indicated that she had the intention of propositioning Simon, and that was something the boy had absolutely no interest in.

“Right, sorry,” the woman apologised, ducking her head. “You're gay aren't you?” Then, more to herself, she mumbled, “The good ones always are.”

Although Simon was well aware that the woman's question doesn't truly require an articulate, well thought out answer, he mulled over the inquiry anyway. He'd never identified as any particular sexuality since he didn't care for either gender. People in general were tedious, time-consuming leeches whose complex social rituals were far beyond his realm of understanding. It never seemed worthwhile to pursue anyone.

Johnny's entrance into his life had been an awakening of sorts, but not in a romantic sense. He could think all the funny novel phrases like the light of my life, or the sun to the moon, and it would all be true; just not in the way society would always think it was. John had changed him for the better, as a partner and a rivarish friend, but in no way as a lover.

It had only been a few seconds of silence but Simon recognized that social norms required far shorter pauses in conversation. “I am aromantic and I am also not interested,” Simon said firmly. “Kindly leave me alone. That man in the corner looks willing enough, I suggest you go chat him up instead.”

Philipa exhaled and got off her stool while taking a drink she previously ordered when Simon went on thinking like that, leaving the bar, apparently uninterested with the bloke in the corner.

It took a few moments before anyone spoke again, and when Simon started to wonder why in the world John isn’t bombarding him with musings, twelve empty shots were there on the table and Simon didn’t notice.

“Jeez, MacTavish!” Simon snapped. “Can’t you be at least more responsible? I’m going to have to be your cane the rest of our way to our flat!”

John only sloppily traced the rim of his drink with a drunken giggle. “I never told ya that you’d have to help me, ye know!” he said. He wasn’t wrong. Simon sighed.

“That’s it, I’m footing the bill and we’re leaving.” Even though he never actually touched his glass, Simon stood up and started to walk to the counter.

“No, hold it,” John said abruptly, pausing in his tracks.

Simon sat back down and folded his arms. “What is it?”

“Just a personal experiment,” he started to ramble. “It wouldn’t take too long. Science, you know? I was just wondering if I would be able to keep someone awake at night simply by saying three statements.”

“Oh?” Simon shut his eyes while tapping his fingers impatiently. He didn’t like backing down from challenges. “I accept, let’s hear it. What’s the first line?”

“The first sentence is that I'd like to emphasise the second line is entirely false.”

“Hm, alright. And the second?” asked Simon, almost curious, eyes still closed. He’d wish he’d opened them, for he couldn’t see what was coming next. Without warning, John had whispered his next line right next to his ear.

“I’ve always liked you more than a friend.”

Johnny’s warm breath tickled lightly against his eardrums when he spoke the words, and Simon felt his hairs on the back of his neck stand up as if he was electrocuted.

Keep a straight face, Simon. Remember, it’s entirely false. He said it was.

Noting a lack of response, Johnny continued speaking, normally once more, as if nothing out of the ordinary happened. “And the third is I retract my first line, and whatever I may have just told you on the second may be true, may it not.”

Simon stood up once more and opened his eyes. “You’re drunk,” he asserted. “Stay where you are and wait for me. I’ll go pay. Everything you’re going to say is untrue.”

Johnny grabbed the lapel of Simon’s coat, standing up while pulling him close. “And if I kissed you right now?” he said, appearing unflinchingly and unfailingly true to his words. “How ‘untrue’ would that be?”

Simon found the strength to pull away his friend’s stare, taking his wallet out and putting a number of euros on the table. He supported John’s weight out of the bar without another word, unable to react to John’s words.

“Maybe in the future, you’d see how I feel,” John said when they were back in their flat. “Maybe you could return my feelings, even if I know you never will.”

And his last words before he went into a seemingly eternal slumber.

“Maybe then you’d understand what I mean when I say I can’t help falling in love with you.”

* * *

The sun was so bright and hot that even Soap decided not to use the gloves to avoid sweltering in the heat. And anyways, Soap was hot enough from Simon’s humiliating teasing earlier.

“We need to take shade,” Simon mournfully said, sweating as if he was wet. “I can’t bear to be under the sun any longer.”

After a trip to an ice cream parlour to cool off and Soap’s regret on not bringing the gloves, they rested under the shade of an abandoned building.

Simon had finished his chocolate gelato and they sat on the ground in silence. The sun’s heat shifted into the cool air, and before they knew it, it was drizzling.

Good thing I made Soap’s orb waterproof, Simon thought. Otherwise, he’d break down and his emotions would go unstable.

“We should get going,” Simon said, just in time when he heard thunder strike. “Or maybe not.” He checked his phone to thankfully see that school had been temporarily cancelled because of the sudden thunderstorm.

He eyed the hologram. Soap hummed a tune of a song he wasn’t familiar with, gleefully taking in the drops of rain as melody.

“What are you singing?” Simon asked, genuinely curious. Soap bit his upper lip.

“Weeell,” Soap started, rubbing the back of his head. “Remember the gift I was too late to give? It was supposed to be a song and I only thought of its music and lyrics last night...”

“Can I hear it?”

“You want to?”

“Would I be asking if I didn’t?”

“Good point,” the hologram laughed. “My singing ability isn’t the best, so take care of your eardrums if it’s bad, I guess.”

“Gladly,” the human said ironically. Soap kept his eyes shut and opened his mouth to sing.

Wise men say

Only fools rush in

But I can't help falling in love with you

Shall I stay?

Would it be a sin

If I can't help falling in love with you?

Soap got the strong impression that everything he would do for the rest of his life will be coloured with Simon’s emerald green eyes and caramel brown hair. Every action will carry some discreet, subtle stride towards Simon. His every word, a hidden love ballad. A secret message. A slow note of longing.

“What’s that piece called?” Simon asked.

“I haven’t decided yet,” the hologram said. He quietly relished the soft, sleepy smile on Simon’s face.

“It’s beautiful,” the brunet admitted. “It sounds like…”

“A lullaby?” he guessed.

“No,” Simon replied, voice like a plucked string. “Judging from its rhythm and its lyrics, it sounds like a love song. It’s obvious, isn't it?”

“I suppose so,” Soap laughed heartily.

“But why does it sound so sad? If it’s a love song, why does it sound so terribly broken?” Simon asked as if it was the most important question in the entirety of the universe.

Perhaps it is.

Before the hologram could respond, Soap’s voice trailed off as the two boys heard a thud, thud, thud.

Loud footsteps echoed in the empty building. Simon covered Soap’s mouth to avoid his rambling - despite his hand going through the hologram - and they scurried to a piece of furniture that they could hide to. They quietly closed the doors of a closet of poor condition after Simon wiped off its fingerprints with his napkin and the inventor peeked at the approaching people.

“I swear, boss, I saw them here!” a timid man said, looking so panicked he looked like he peed on his pants. Simon knew who the voice belonged to, however. He knew someday he would come to hunt him. If Informant Horangi is here…

“I am finished here,” Mr. Riley said. “Scout the area. I will leave at once.”

This was going to be a long day.

* * *

Finally, after several gruelling minutes of back pain and stiffness, Simon, Soap, and his orb landed out of the closet as they heard the footsteps fade away.

“Who were those?!” Soap mumbled, brows furrowed. “They interrupted my song!” he said, clearly unaware of the bigger threats that came in their way.

“My father and his little minions,” Simon gritted his teeth while brushing the dust off his shirt. “He wants to take you. I just know it. We shouldn’t have gone out today.” Soap gave him a stare that said ‘obviously.’

They proceeded to the building’s exit with caution, opening it only to find two armed men with their handguns aimed at them.

“Tch, you think we would let you out that easily?” said the younger man with a Spanish accent, clucking his pistol.

“We saw a light coming from the closet,” the older one revealed, tapping his night goggles. “It wasn’t so bright, but enough to confirm our suspicions. I have to admit, it took us a long time to find you, even with our fingerprint scanner,” he said, holding the scanner in his other hand. “Come quietly and we’ll hold fire.”

Soap stood in front of Simon. “Hey! Put your weapons down! That’s so disrespectful!”

The two men were confused with the hologram’s ‘naivety.’ Even Simon raised one of his eyebrows.

“If you wanna ask someone to come with them, you gotta have some respect,” the invention tutted. “There’s this thing called magic words you know, like ‘please!’”

“Sure thing we don’t,” the younger man said, more irritated than ever with Soap’s banter. “That’s why we’re working for Herr Riley. Now hands where I can see them and kneel!”

Simon started making ‘tsk’ noises, a smirk emerging from his lips. Soap’s lament proved useful as he had the time to remove something extra from his pocket.

“Sirs, are you not aware that I know you will not pull fire on me? Or the hologram, too. I’m your boss’ son, he said so. Any physical damage wouldn’t be done at me that could cause severe injuries; even my father wouldn’t go so low. As for the hologram, how would you copy its model if its orb is shot down?” Simon explained cunningly. “Not only that, aren’t you afraid that you may have a witness? I could’ve created several holograms, all spewed across this place, witnesses to your crime. They could alert the law, if anything. You’d be going down with Mr. Riley. Father would be arrested even if he had his best lawyer to defend him because I’d have solid proof. CER Model, pal.”

“You’re lying,” the older man – Alejandro, if Simon can remember the name of his previous staff – tried to convince himself.

“Am I? Or am I not?” The engineer bluffed.

Out of nowhere, a little cube dropped to the floor. Soap saw it once; in Simon’s basement.

It was a flash-bomb.

Simon smirked. “You decide.”

Suddenly, a red smoke arose from the cube, and the sight of the two men started to get blurry and slow. Simon had put on his goggles to be unaffected by this state, as he tried to get away from the assassins.

The men started shooting in random directions.

“Soap!” Simon shouted as he and the hologram ran to the door’s exit and beyond. “Hold my hand!”

Soap obeyed, panting and forgetting he didn’t have his gloves on, but to his shock, he felt Simon. Without his gloves. Like a human.

“Simon, I-”

“No time to talk!” the inventor yelled as they ran on the open road, heatwaves getting to him as the rain left only a drizzle. He could still hear the gunshots on the linoleum floor back in the abandoned building, but he was sure the effects of the gas wore off.

Slowly but surely, the four males were caught up in a chase.

Soap and Simon made brisk and sharp turns around the neighbourhood, and the two men followed them. They were soon on a two-way path, and the hologram and inventor stopped in their tracks.

“Let’s split up,” Simon said, huffing. The assassins were catching up, looking deadly.

“According to my Maps, the next road leads to a dead-end! No matter where we’ll go we'll get stuck!”

“Trust me.”

And that’s exactly what Soap did, even if they found themselves in a dead-end, just like what the hologram predicted. Simon speedily pulled up his jumpsuit’s cuffs and showed an odd, periwinkle coloured long piece of cloth wrapped on his leg. He removed it and put it over himself and Simon, and suddenly the cloth went invisible, together with the duo. Soap still went through the cloth, so Simon held it up for him.

The two men appeared on the ends of the road, guns fully loaded. They were enraged, face burning red from the heat. But even as they scanned the entire area with cusses and curses, they couldn’t find Simon and Soap.

Resigning, Rodolfo called Mr. Riley with his phone. “We lost them,” he said disappointingly as he and Alejandro left.

Simon and Soap removed the cloth on them while they laughed, imagining the heaps of name-calling Simon’s father would do, especially his signature ‘fool.’

They walked home tired.

Hands still intertwined.

* * *

Gloved Soap and Simon stretched on the sofa, in relief that they (or at least just Simon) could finally relax from the run.

Soap looked at his gloves peculiarly. “Riley…”

“How was I able to touch you?”

Simon shrugged. He honestly didn’t know either. He had forgotten the hologram didn’t have gloves when he grabbed his hand. “I don’t know. I didn’t program anything to make you like that.”

He removed Soap’s gloves then tried to touch him, but went through. Simon put the gloves on the hologram again.

“Perhaps it depends on the emotional situation and circumstances,” Simon thought out loud. “However, back to more imperative talking, we need to cancel our walks. As much as you and I enjoy them, it’d be safer for the both of us if you don’t appear in public.”

Soap nodded in understanding, frowning a bit in dismay.

“Make sure to not leave open windows unattended and always keep the door locked, okay?”

“Yes, Simon,” he replied nonchalantly.

He’s like a schoolboy, Simon thought, sighing. He put both of his hands on the hologram’s shoulders.

“You’re more important to me than my career or work, got it? May you like it or not, your safety is always my top priority. So keep that in check, okay?” the inventor confessed. Soap removed Simon’s hands.

“I’m not a human,” the hologram pointed out. “Do not risk your life for mine. I am not ‘him.’”

Soap didn’t even need to mention who ‘him’ was.

* * *

Despite the awkward conversation, it didn’t give a pause to their strange friendship. They still talked like normal, Soap didn’t stop sharing his thoughts with plants, and every holiday was made special.

For Good Friday and Easter Sunday, Simon made a nice meat-free meal after watching online Mass so the hologram could accompany him. Ostermontag or Easter Sunday wasn’t spent with his family like German traditions, but at least Simon could have a karaoke night with his friend who’d stayed.

Mother’s Day came along and Soap helped Simon decorate pink cards for his mother. Simon had made a very long speech in his letter with a swirly handwriting and sent it along with a bouquet of daisies and gardenias.

Oktoberfest that took place in September was one of the only exceptions that Simon let Soap out. They spent time on carnivals, most especially the carousel where the hologram awed at the beautiful pink-red-orange sunset while chomping on candy apples.

All Saints’ Day went on and Simon stood on the grave of the real Johnny. He left a single yellow rose on the foot of the grave to symbolise their undying friendship. (Simon was always such an inner poetic romantic.)

Finally, Weihnachtstag came with Soap’s birthday on the 25th of December. Except for the two of them, Simon had invited a school acquaintance to dine with on roasted goose and duck. It was no surprise that the man – John Price, was positively screeching when he saw a real-life hologram, but he and Soap had formed a good sturdy bond. Soap did not miss Simon’s obvious signs of jealousy at Price, however.

And then New Year’s came. A special day to celebrate the coming of a fresh new start. It would be Soap’s second new year and Simon’s twenty-fourth.

Simon had played the violin, using its bow on its strings, accompanied with Soap’s singing and lyrics for his small audience; Price and Simon’s mother.

“Like a river flows,” the hologram sang. He found himself unable to sing a Christmas carol and so he made a continuation to the love song he sang to Simon before on the abandoned building. It was corny to Simon’s ears, but sob-worthy to everyone else’s. “Surely to the sea, darling, so it goes. Some things aren’t meant to be.”

A hearty amount of applause erupted from the listeners. At least how much you could get from one student and a mom.

“That was beautiful, Soap, Simon!” Price said, sneezing on a tissue. He had related a deep level of it with his fiance. The woman checked Soap’s music sheet. She saw that the hologram didn’t sing the whole song, and Simon didn’t know there was more to it.

“Soap, dearie,” Simon’s mother said. “Who’s the special someone this song is dedicated to?” Soap flushed a shade of dark blue, insisting it was just some song he made up one night. He wanted to say something. That wrote this for Simon, that he wrote everything for him. Simon alone had a thousand symphonies pounding through his veins; his every heartbeat provided the first note to a hundred ballads; the light in his eyes was enough to inspire sonnets and serenades and beautiful concertos to last a lifetime. But all these words had to be unspoken. Soon, the hologram would know that the words unsaid could’ve been the ones that meant the most.

After the song, they had indulged in a dainty feast consisting of lavish German food Simon had cooked. They soon bid their goodbyes and left the house, leaving Simon and Soap alone.

Ding! A text message popped up from Simon’s phone. He checked it.

From Roba Riley huh, Simon thought. Is Father finally going to greet me with a Happy New Year for once?

Mr. Riley continued to follow and stalk Simon when he left his flat, but the boy knew that reporting it to authorities wasn’t the right move. Especially if the people were under the command of the wealthy CEO.

He checked the man’s message.

I promise, I will burn the heart out of you.

Was it a threat? Simon wasn’t sure. It couldn’t be an error on his father’s part since Mr. Riley never texted Simon often, so he wouldn’t mistake his contact for someone else.

Instead of wondering what it meant, Simon replied like what a true Riley would do in his father’s definition.

I was often told by my peers that I don’t have one.

He paused, then opted to text another message when Mr. Riley didn’t reply.

The only one who could represent such a thing died long ago.

A speech bubble appeared. Simon started to smell something odd; something burning. Smoke. It wasn’t the fireworks, no. It was almost like…

We both know that’s not so true.

Another message.

Not anymore.

Simon was well aware of that glow – of that smell and wreck.

It was fire.

#cod mwii #cod mwiii #drabble #fanfic #fic #ghoap #ghostsoap #soapghost #cod modern warfare #soapghost angst #angst

[many-melancholies]

If Love is the Answer – SoapGhost fic

♡

part: 3/5 [part one] [part two] [part four] [part five]

♡

“Roach, what am I going to do?” complained Soap to the small cactus in a pot near the windowsill as the radio played some loud rock song. It was a bright and sunny day, and Christmas vacations didn’t last forever. Soap started to talk to the brownish plant he dubbed ‘Roach’ when he couldn’t talk to Simon when he attended his education.

“Simon's birthday is coming up and I haven’t thought of anything for his gift!” he vented to the cactus, obviously not moving or doing anything in reply. “Master Riley treats me like a normal human being ever since I appeared in his life; when he opens doors for me, when he asks me if the food he cooked tastes good, when he tries shaking my hand, or when he just smiles at me! He opens up to me too; that’s a good sign, right? And he’s so smart and dedicated to his work! I always see him diligently studying for his future job!”

The cactus’ prickly state almost looked offensive, as if it was saying “You’re overreacting, it’s just that you look like Mr. MacTavish.”

“True,” Soap said sadly, his posture sunken. “But I want to believe he thinks of me as a friend because of who I am, not who I’m based on.”

The radio owner’s energetic voice boomed across the room. “Next week has a day to remember! Valentine’s Day is coming soon, so this month will be dedicated to songs relating to romance and love! This is Farah, signing out!”

The radio changed to advertisements and Soap started planning the perfect gift for his creator. The radio owner had popped an idea in his head, but to master the sound of music, he first had to think of a good melody…

Little did he know the inventor was keenly watching his hologram brainstorm lyrics with a wrapped present behind his back, stifling the urge to burst into fond laughter.

* * *

February 14. Not only was it a day of love, but it was also Simon’s birthday. For such a romantic day, the citizens of Berlin wondered why the weather had to be so rainy.

“Happy birthday, Simon!” Soap cheered. Simon was friendless in his college; the only thing he looked forward to when he went home these days was the sunny grin of his hologram friend. “I couldn’t finish my gift for you on time, unfortunately, so I’ll try to make up for it by being less talkative,” he said guiltily.

“Don’t,” Simon told him. “Your blabbering can be comforting at times. But since it’s Valentine’s Day, I have a little gift for you,” he said while opening his messenger bag to reveal a thin present with white wrap and a fuchsia ribbon. Simon unwrapped it for Soap and put his gift on him; dark grey gloves with a small, glowing circle, alike with his upgraded black gloves.

Suddenly, Soap stopped glitching. He was still tinted blue and slightly see-through, but as he slowly reached out to touch Simon’s hand, he was shocked to feel a texture.

“I made us specialised gloves so that you can touch me and any non-living being,” Simon explained. “I already finished this project in late January, but I decided to wait a little longer for a ‘special day’ like this,” he teased while doing finger quotations.

“Simon, I…”

The inventor felt unease and uncertainty. Did Soap not like the gift? I’ve spent a lot of time working on this…

Stunned, Soap jumped at Simon into a warm hug. He was bursting into transparent tears and he sniffed. “T-Thank ye so much, Simon. It's absolutely amazing what ye do, even though I might not really say it ‘at much ta save your insufferable ego,” he prodded. “But I'm really glad yer helpin’ me and all, despite me being yer hologram.”

Soap gently held both of Simon’s hands and the hologram’s cheeks flushed a happy dark blue. “Thank you for everything. Genuinely.”

Simon’s eyes widened at the hologram’s display of affection. It had been a long time since he was called a friend, and an even longer time since he was even loved. But here he was, making bonds and smiling like an idiot with a hologram. How things have changed.

(But some things really remain the same.)

“Holo, how would you like to take another walk later tonight?” Simon asked as he went to the kitchen to cook his speciality dish, Kartoffelpuffer, or potato pancakes. It would be the first dish Soap would eat, and the best dish Simon would ever make. The hologram gave a thumbs-up in confirmation.

“Oh, and Holo?” Simon put on his apron. “You’re not a tool to me, got it? You’re mein freund.”

Okay, maybe he should have clarified the variation of the two words because Soap started to grow a deep shade of cerulean. Who knew a hologram could blush?

* * *

Der Flieder Schule was one of the most prestigious schools in the country. Crimson bricks stood tall with white outlines, green ivy hung down from the walls, and lush bushes of chrysanthemum accompanied the stone pathway towards its entrance. The school crest of lilac and a swan hung proudly beside the large clock on the school wall. But aside from the smart students in the school, Der Flieder prided itself in the humongous school gym they have.

So it was no question why the Senior High School Dance took place there.

“May I have this dance?” Johnny asked with a polite bow, wearing his usual charming smile. The aroma of good food arose in the gym, and when students weren’t eating like it was the last day on Earth, they danced along with the classical music of the choir, with their posh dresses and tuxedos.

“It depends,” Simon rolled his eyes. “Are you talking to my heart, head, or gut?”

“Well, what do they all say?”

Simon leered. “My heart is telling me to ‘accidentally’ push you into the beak of the Swan ice statue behind you, my gut is telling me to step on your left foot with my heel and saunter out of the room, but my head is telling me that making a scene would be counterproductive to my possible future academic careers.”

“In that case, I’m speaking to your head,” John responded.

“And in that case, I would say I’d very much like to dance with you,” the brunet said. “Soap.”

“Splendid,” John reached for Simon’s hand. “Your hand, if I may?”

“What a gentleman,” Simon’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “I hope the clock will work in our favour.”

“Mr. Riley, the clock is a very cruel decoration; its taunting will not cease for ‘hope.’”

“What a cynical way of thinking, Johnny, quite unappealing to most.”

“Thankfully, I’m not trying to appease you in any way,” John reassured, putting his left hand on his hip and the right on his dancing partner’s hand.

“And thankfully, I’m in no need of your appeasement,” Simon said, his hand on John’s shoulder.

“I believe we’ve found something we can agree on, sir, a shocking revelation.”

“I believe we have, MacTavish.”

The two could feel the vibrations of the orchestra's music swimming in the air. Other dancers cleared away and stopped to watch the duo’s perfectly synchronised movements. The crowd formed a circle, allowing the two rivals to savour the runway.

Soap is light on his feet, I’ll give him that, Simon thought. He’s not so bad of a dancer.

Johnny then spun Simon around gracefully yet suddenly that it made him trip over. He then caught Simon in his arms before he could fall to the ground, soaking all the attention in the process.

I take it back, Simon was going to get a headache. I take it all back.

Both could hear the whispers in the crowd.

“They dance so flawlessly!” The girls were in awe. “I think I’m going to have a nosebleed! They’re so handsome, I don’t know who to choose!”

“I bet on Simon!” some of the boys declared. “Nah, John's way too arrogant for that!” others cajoled.

Children these days have no sign of respect for real rivalry!” the teachers shook their heads disapprovingly. “We used to hold Kampf der Gehirne for true competitions!” They reminisce about the ‘Battle of the Brain’ games they used to hold.

The music from strings of the violin slowly faded, and the keys of the piano stopped playing. John and Simon were finally finished with their heated dance (‘angry waltzing,’ their batchmates called it) with satisfied smirks and beads of sweat. Claps and hoots could be heard from the crowd, and both boys bowed.

Even with John’s extensive knowledge of the human body, nothing could mentally prepare them from the overload of questions from their mothers.

* * *

“Herr Riley,” the informant said. A tall, black man with a chestnut-coloured beard dressed in a tuxedo raised his eyebrows. “I have some information about your son’s little hologram.”

Roba Riley stopped typing on his computer. “Entertain me.”

“By observing their routine of taking morning walks, the young master seems to be avoiding any contact with other bystanders to keep his hologram’s existence secret,” the informant said together with the door guards. “Asides from every five-thirty AM, he and the hologram bought some marmorkuchen to celebrate his birthday today.”

Mr. Riley winced. “I can’t believe that foolish fool of a son commemorates something as foolish as their date of birth,” he muttered. “I had raised him better than such foolishness.”

The informant and the guards sighed. Sometimes I think boss doesn’t know any synonyms for ‘fool,’ they thought simultaneously.

���The hologram spawns from a steel orb with a hard drive that Simon keeps in his bag,” the informant continued. “We can copy its model and destroy the original hologram tomorrow in their morning jog. It seems like your son is very smart; his work on holograms is nothing we could see coming. We could sell it in the market when we recreate it.”

“Get it done quickly. I will join your charade,” Mr. Riley snapped. “Does the hologram itself have a name or someone he looks like?”

“Simon did not refer to him by any name. It must be purposely for him to be careful. He avoided CCTVs, but we were able to catch photos of the two and his appearance matched a deceased boy named ‘John MacTavish,’ who died of earthquake debris.”

The informant showed him pictures of them walking every day; sometimes Simon ate something while chatting with the hologram, other times they watched together on the inventor’s phone on a chess contest and squabbling about who would win. Most times the hologram whined how it wanted to eat Simon’s breakfast; the taste of delicious crispy bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs, and the sweet maple syrup on his pancakes that was on a styrofoam container that Simon held.

Mr. Riley massaged his forehead and sent off the informant. He looked at a framed portrait of his family, with his normal strictness, his wife’s doe eyes, and his eight-year-old son’s adoration towards his father for his talent at engineering. Then he looked at his gold nameplate with the logo of his company of the latest technology.

He still remembered the first time he taught his son to light a bulb.

Eight-year-old Simon put the wires near the ends of the battery and the bulb shone a blinking light. He wanted to jump in the air with joy, but it was improper and his father didn’t like that.

“Thank you for the advice, Father,” he said respectfully. Mr. Riley grabbed his son’s shoulder to make him stand upright.

“Stand up properly, boy,” he sneered. “If you want to be successful like me, you shouldn’t let your perfect scorestreaks in your school tumble down,” he said, giving Simon’s experiment paper.

“Yes, Father!” Simon bowed.

The first time he failed a test, Simon was forced to be locked up in his room for days, his food and drink only slipped through the door. After a single screwup, his father started to train him harder, finding every practice material for him to answer, every book for him to read, and every fact for him to memorise. Through the influence of his father, Simon slowly isolated himself from things his biological predecessor deemed trivial and pointless to submerge him in the world of academics. Even when Simon grew to be heartless and prideful, his father only prioritised what he would be when he was older; successful.

“To be a successful inventor you need three things: intelligence, perseverance, and time,” Simon’s father once said. “To have intelligence you must study. To have perseverance you must have a goal. To have time you must not be bothered by useless and rubbish things such as love.”

Of course, that all stopped when John MacTavish stepped into Simon’s life.

Mr. Riley didn’t mind him at first as the student was brilliant and his reputation was high. The lad was dutiful and knew his place in the company of the Rileys.

Until Simon started to show such unnecessary feelings like friendship. He began to open up to Johnny and showed his soft, vulnerable side of him. He helped his classmates with homework they couldn’t answer. He gave away things he didn’t need anymore to those who needed them. He started to be less fierce. He became kinder and more pious.

And he smiled. Not the haughty, disdainful smirk of a winner, but the understanding, considerate grin of a human.

The list went on, and it drove Mr. Riley to madness.

All those years he raised his son to be nothing but perfect, but vollkommenheit, then some kid tumbled all Simon’s beliefs of perfection to nothing.

And so Simon’s very own blood would show him the prices to pay for being a loving fool.

He’d take away the only thing keeping him hanging as an Engineering major; his invention.

#soapghost #cod mwii #cod mwiii #drabble #fanfic #fic #ghoap #ghostsoap #cod modern warfare #fanfiction #soapghost fic

[many-melancholies]

If Love is The Answer – SoapGhost

♡

part: 2/5 [part one] [part three] [part four] [part five]

♡

A grumpy student glared at his test paper with so much fueling frustration that the paper would've burned if looks could kill. This was all because of a simple, friendly written note by his teacher using a ballpen that said “Great job! You did second best in class!” with a smiley face on the side of the score 99/100.

The high school student leaned his chair with a tweak, eyeing anyone who could’ve gotten first best. He always was at the top of his class; he couldn’t understand who could surpass him so helplessly.

It must be that new student, he thought as he frowned, standing up and searching for the said student in the classroom with pairs of scared eyes avoiding his line of sight. Stupid guy with that stupid mohawk.

The student pounded on the wooden desk of the rather soap-smelling guy with his almost-crumpled Science test paper shoved at John’s – the new transfer’s – face that said the words “Eh?”

“No one in the entire batch has ever made me lose to get only second-best, Soap,” the student – Simon – had mocked all those years ago. “You’re telling me what cheap trick you used to ace this exam, and you’re telling me now,” he demanded.

“Ah…” Johnny mumbled, thinking of his response. It seemed like the other students checking the fuzz knew exactly what the popular transfer student would do; they were fretting and shaking their heads as if John was up to some mischief.

“What, you need a tutor?” Johnny asked with a cheeky smirk, oblivious to Simon’s reputation and unafriad of his rage and the slapping of the foreheads of the other students. “If that’s so, it’d be my pleasure to-”

A sudden jerk by Simon at John’s collar made him realise that wasn’t what the hothead was asking for. “I’ve spent sleepless nights working on every quiz or anything graded for it to be the best score in the batch,” Simon seethed. “And then you showed up out of the blue as a new student with a perfect score on the final exam for Physiology and Human Anatomy! You must have something hidden up your sleeve, don’t you? Spit it!”

John grabbed Simon’s hand that pulled his sleeve with intense force. He still wore his friendly smile and spoke kindly, but his cold Pricee told another story. “I only study to the best of my abilities, like you and all of our honest classmates,” he replied. “If you’re trying to imply that I’m cheating, then please get solid evidence before making that claim.”

John wore an impish grin. “That’s the first thing I’ve learned in Science after all,” he rambled, happy to share his expertise. “The CER Model! For a good explanation, you must have a claim that answers the question, evidence from gathered data and research, and reasoning that involves a scientific principle that showcases how the evidence supports its claim!” (Really, it's basic Grade 6; he really just was bluffing.)

Simon’s left eye started to twitch at Johnny's delight when sharing his love for science. He slowly let Johnny down to the ground, earning him gasps in the crowd. He flashed them a dirty look. It wasn’t always that he backed down from a fight.

“Whatever, Soap, you prove your point,” Simon barked, a gravelly grumble, then smirked as he checked the other test papers in John’s desk in other subjects; they were only a few correct answers away from being equal to Simon’s grades, and the Science ones were all perfect like his. “You seem like a good competitor,” then, a bit more quietly – “it'd make him proud.”

“Ye wanna get a win, eh?” Johnny's eyebrows rose, shrugging and smiling, frightfully genuine. “And I’ll make sure that I’ll be steps ahead of you soon. Just ye wait,” – he checked the boy’s ID swiftly – “Simon Riley, just ye wait.”

“Oh, it’s John MacTavish, by the way. No need to make names out of how absolutely amazing I smell like.”

“I-I knew that!”

“Did you?”

(He didn't quite answer that question as well as his Math periodic exam.)

* * *

“Sweetie, I promise you, it’ll be fun!” a petite woman cooed Simon, combing his hair with a brush. The high school student grimaced at his reflection; suits did not fit him. “You never attended any of the prom dances, and you don’t go to your classmates’ birthday parties either! This is your last chance to shine in the spotlight!”

“Mummy, is this necessary? Simon murmured. “I can spend my night working on a project due next week, but now I’m set up on a date with your friend’s child.”

“You’re just like your dad, such the workaholic. You can’t believe that I was the one who asked him for a dance! Not to mention I did most of the courting! Sometimes I regret marrying that pesky CEO,” joked Simon’s mum. “Plus, it’s not a date; the kid’s a boy! I bet you’ll like him! He’s dedicated to his craft, an aspiring doctor if I remember correctly.”

“An aspiring doctor, huh,” Simon said to himself. I know a student who fits in that category, except I’m pretty sure he’ll be rotting away under a tree waiting for an apple to fall on his head rather than participating in a prom dance. The wonders of gravity indeed, he thought sarcastically.

His ‘friendly rivalry’ with Johnny was going well, however well a rivalry could go. They eagerly competed from quiz scores to games of ‘first to raise your hand when the teacher asks a question and gets it right wins some morale boost I guess.’ The teachers didn’t appreciate the entire batch placing bets on the two smartest students of the school, though.

Simon and his mum walked out of the family’s luxurious mansion, spotting a flashy orange pickup. A tan, plump woman boarded off the car and greeted his mother. The son that his mum mentioned jumped off the car too, and the boys were locked in a staring contest.

“Soap?!” Simon yelled accusingly. “What are you doing here!”

John laughed awkwardly. “I suspected you’d be the person my mum was talking about,” he muttered. “Not everyone can fit the criteria of ‘grumpy to the point its almost cute.’”

“It seems ye two are already acquainted,” Mrs. MacTavish giggled with a mischievous glint in her eyes, Scottish accent even heavier than his son's. “Now we’re free ta share baby pictures too! Do ye wanna see the first time our wee Johnny had his bonnie mohawk-”

Johnny quickly grabbed Simon's arm with his sweaty palms. “Well, would you look at the time!” He checked his imaginary watch. “Simon and I should get going!”

The two boys bid their farewells and their mothers gave away their final remarks.

“No drinking, Simon!” Simon’s mummy said while waving. “The farthest you can go is punch only!”

“Oi, Ghost!” John’s mum called out with her new nickname for Simon due to his pale skin. “Report to me if any lass tries ta do something funny with mah Johnny! I’ll put them in their place!”

Simon saluted her in John’s embarrassment. “Will do, Mrs. MacTavish!”

* * *

Attempt 86 on touching material things, Soap noted. Despite how much he tried, his hand always phased through the cuppa tea. The hologram scrunched his nose.

It had already been five days since Christmas, and since Soap successfully spawned. Even if Simon’s companion was technically just a hologram, it was nice to have some company.

While Simon spent his time absorbed in his textbooks and wondering what he could do in his new spare time now he wasn’t working on Soap, the invention scanned and searched every new thing he saw. Soap developed hobbies that the human Johnny never had. He had grown fascinated with plants, he took note of his creator’s daily routine (wake up, take a bath, study, eat, sleep), and listened to whatever played on the radio station that Simon set up for him. Not only that, Soap was much more quiet and bashful than Johnny – he could never quite match up Simon's banter.

But Simon had also noticed Soap had desperately struggled to get accustomed to the life of a hologram in a world dominated by humans. He went out every early morning with Simon when there weren't many people, admiring the sunrise and the chirping of birds. In some way, Simon started to think that Soap wanted to be a human.

And now it strikes the question of what should he install in Soap’s orb to even make him somehow ‘human.’

Touch, Simon decided. I’ll make him something that’ll let him touch.

He looked away from the light of the television while munching on his popcorn, catching the hologram sitting on the floor looking at the popcorn with a newfound desire to eat.

Simon went in the front of an oak-wood door and opened the way to the basement to let Soap in. “Holo, let me borrow you for a while. I’ll need to know your exact hand measurements.”

“You do know I can phase through doors and walls, right?”

“O-Of course I do!”

“Do ye?”

Simon spent a sleepless night trying to visualise a pair of gloves that granted Soap the sense of touch and perhaps thinking why his previous conversation with him sounded so familiar.

♡

#soapghost #ghoap #ghostsoap #cod mwiii #cod modern warfare #cod mwii #mwii #fic #fanfic #drabble

[many-melancholies]

If Love is the Answer – SoapGhost

♡

tags: fluff and angst, engineer!ghost, hologram!soap, character death

part: 1/5 [part two] [part three] [part four] [part five]

♡

What does it mean to be human? Don’t ask Simon Riley. As far as he was concerned, he had lived his life surrounded by machines and technology invented through decades of research; he didn’t have time, or he simply didn’t know the mysterious answer to the famous question.

Perhaps one day, he’d know, if it’s the ability to see or touch, if it’s the blood that courses through veins, or if it’s the many mistakes and lies that mankind has made.

The only thing is that Simon didn’t expect that day to be so close.

* * *

If you lived in the city parts of Germany, it’s no question that it wasn’t often snowflakes would fall on the ground during Christmas. And yet here it was, Berlin having a winter with white pounds of snow on land. Joyful, red-faced children played around and built snowmen, couples enjoyed warm cups of coffee and raclette as they snuggled below mistletoes, and workers drank away to celebrate the birthday of their Saviour. Christmas was only one day in a year; almost everybody spent their day merry-making, laughing, and smiling as presents in the holiday.

All except a young man with brown hair, whiskey-brown eyes, wearing a turtleneck with a nameplate of ‘Simon Riley’ and leather goggles resting on his shoulders that sat at his desk, scribbling his answers on his college textbook as he soaked the heat of the sun while it lasted. He was oddly eager to finish when he usually did his schoolwork like it was his hobby, sipping some hibiscus tea while doing so.

(His peers always did think he was a Brit.)

Ding dong!

Closing his textbook and pulling the curtains shut, he walked to the door to check the person who rang the doorbell. He opened the birch-wood door to see a dishevelled and freezing delivery man carrying a box.

“Good morning and Merry Christmas,” the delivery man greeted tiringly. “Here’s your delivery, that’d be around-”

The sound of euros interrupted the delivery man as Simon put a bill in the man’s hand in exchange for the package. As the delivery man computed the change, Simon felt the urge to help the poor shivering worker. He entered his flat without a word and gave him a spare jacket.

“What’s this, sir?” he asked.

“Keep it,” Simon said. “You’ll get sick of hypothermia at this rate,” he answered as he left without giving another glance or word at the confused but thankful delivery man wanting to get away from the sheer cold.

The college student, still carrying the taped box, headed downstairs to his dim basement. Blueprints and graphs of the male human body were scattered to the floor, progress diagrams on mental and physical proficiency were pinned on a corkboard, long USB cables, and red, yellow, black, and green wires were plugged in an electrical socket, and the cold and quiet expression that Simon often had shifted to something more determined.

He also had tons of inventions he made stacked in a mountain-like pile. Amongst those were fingerprint scanners, a device to create fire and ice depending on its settings, invisibility cloaks, a small cube that let out a chemical that slowed people’s sight speed (a flash-bomb, he called it), and many other machines.

Simon opened the plastic box to reveal a small, circular glass to frame his latest invention. With the help of a pair of black gloves, a screwdriver, and a wrench, his creation was complete.

A metal orb floated up from its wireless-charging holder. The orb projected a hologram; it would’ve looked like an actual human aside from its glitchiness and its bluish tint.

A man seemingly a few years younger than Simon appeared in front of him. He had a strange glow emitting on him, sporting a ridiculously charming mohawk and rich, ocean-blue eyes that was staring intently at his creator. The hologram wore a modest yellow dress with lace sleeves, barefoot, and slowly took a step towards Simon.

First, a brief attempt to touch. The hologram phased through Simon’s chest, glitching in its effects. Then, a scan. A ray of blue light shone at Simon, making a hologram sign appear, showing Simon’s name, age, past, and other fragments of his life. Lastly, the inventor plugged a hard drive at the one data cord the orb had. The orb whirred and the hologram’s stoic and lifeless expression was no more.

What replaced his face was a look of fondness and kindness, a beaming grin spreading wide across him.

“Yer Simon Riley, right master?” the hologram asked, dropping his formalities the moment the hard drive was entered. For some reason, he sounded Scottish. “Age 23, oxygen level 98, heart rate 79, occupation, college student on the degree of Engineering,” he answered automatically and emotionlessly, before becoming casual again.

“Thank ye fer creating me,” the hologram said, having the polite manners of the person its appearance and behaviour was based on. “I’ve noticed that I don’t quite have the skill ta…touch.”

The hologram looked at Simon and was surprised to see him on the verge of tears, his eyes glossy and his lips quivering. The invention squeaked and carefully tried to comfort him.

“A-Are ye alright, sir?” the hologram worriedly asked, patting him on the back, nudging his shoulder. “I'm here fer ye, don’t cry, ya numpty; ye haven't consumed any liquid since yesterday morning. Ye should hydrate yerself.”

“No,” Simon replied, voice stern, yet noticeably holding back. (He hides it absolutely terribly, the try-hard sociopath.) “It’s nothing at all. You were designed to contain the same capabilities of a…good friend of mine.”

“Of course,” the hologram smiled in thought. “Johnny. Er, he’s yer friend. A pretty healthy, wee lad. Unfortunately, I don’t have enough information about that person.”

Simon nodded silently. “I invented you not to know anything about him.”

“Indeed, my academic stats are noticeably higher in the medical field. I suppose that must be Mr. MacTavish’s talent?”

“Refrain from talking about him,” Simon gritted through his teeth. It was getting too personal. He averted his gaze, his eyes trailing to the floor. "Please," he added carefully.

“Now, about touching objects, I might be able to create gloves to let you materialise enough and give you an indefinite shape. But that will be coming shortly; I’ve worked on you for months and believe me when I say humans get tired.” He sighed.

“We’ll have to establish rules in this household,” Simon said as he paced through the basement, nearly slipped on the flash-bomb, then dramatically stopped as he held his fingers up for the two rules. “Don’t go out unless I allow and accompany you, and don't talk about MacTavish. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir Riley!”

“Please drop the ‘sirs’ and ‘masters,’” the inventor wagged his hand. “‘Riley’ is fine.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t know my…purpose,” the hologram said. “Yer father is very strict about perfectionism, so should I be providing ye with information on how to gather success and results in your fields? N-Not that you aren’t intelligent enough or anything…kinda…” he wheezed. "Eh..."

“No,” Simon said bluntly, rolling his eyes and putting his tools back into his toolbox.

“Then what is the reason for my existence if I have no goal?”

“Nothing,” Simon retorted. He started to recall his old friend’s endless thirst for curiosity and mindless chattering.

“Riley, sir,” the hologram intervened again.

“Aren’t you the smarter one-?”

“What does it mean to be human?” he inquired.

The question left Simon breathless.

“Si, swear ta me you'll continue yer inventions and machines. You’ve got real talent – don’t give up on it.”

Hot tears spilled down on both of the men’s bloodied graduation togas. Fragments of glass had stabbed him; scars filled one of the boy’s face while a huge shard thrust at the other’s stomach.

“The ambulance is on their way. They’ll make it in time, I promise. And now is not the time to talk about my career ambitions.”

A forced smile etched through Johnny's lips. “They won’t make it. The nearest hospital is kilometres away. It’s best if I say my goodbyes now.” The boy groaned in pain as he tried to sit properly. “The glass hit a crucial organ of my body; removing it will cause me to die of blood loss while letting it stay will make me unable to breathe.”

“You Scots and your big-brained med course and your bloody smile,” Simon shook his head, crying more intensely than he ever did before. “You used to be the positive one,” he laughed humorlessly. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened. I’m not being negative; I’ll move to a better place when I’m gone anyway, no? I’ve left all my progress in med school in my apartment. You’re working on a hologram project, right? You can use my research on the human body if you’d like. Just don't check my notebook; it's hell of an embarrassment.”

“Please,” Simon spoke gently. “Don’t spend your breath on me. Do you want me to pass a message to anyone?” he asked, voice sore. “Johnny?”

“Screw that,” his breath hitched. “Ye promise me that even with all this machinery the world has given you, you won't bloody dare forget what makes you a human. You barely spared a glance at anyone before. I'm hoping just because I'm KIA and whatnot, ye won't turn into some ghost again.” Johnny tugged his shirt. “And with that, I trust you won’t forget me-”

Enemy? No, they were mature enough to avoid using such childish terms. Rivals? Perhaps, but they were long past their reign of competition. Friends? Maybe. (Can we be more? Let's be more than that – than what we really only are.)

But most importantly…

“-partner.”

And that was when John MacTavish last parted his lips, still with a beaming smile and a faded heartbeat. Simon was so distraught, his thumb tersely gripping Johnny's pulse, that he almost didn’t hear the deafening blaring of the ambulance’s siren or see the eye-blinding blinking colours of its headlights as he sobbed in the debris the earthquake had caused.

“Riley?"

"You spaced out a while back,” Soap noted. He expressed alarm and apologised when he noticed the inventor’s heart rate spiked up. “I'm a bampot – I won’t ask any questions like that anymore-, sorry.” He scrunches his nose in annoyance at his own attitude.

“You just…” Simon muttered with an irritated frown. “It’s nothing.”

Soap brought up a holographic chart on Simon’s daily routines.

“Here,” he mumbled. “It seems you’re often inactive around December. I suggest you should exercise more to make up for your habits,” he glanced at Simon. “Only if ye'd like, of course. Lest ya wanna stay here and rot like a corpse.”

Simon sighed. He should’ve known Johnny’s obnoxious personality would cross with his creation. “I am well aware of that,” he said impatiently, then rubbed his eyes in the room’s poor lighting. “No matter how hard I try to fix the lighting here, nothing works in this basement. I should head upstairs.”

“Ah, you mean ‘we’?” Soap corrected with a small nudge. It made him phase through Simon, making him drop to the ground before standing upright with a laugh. “You’re not alone anymore.” (Emphasis on anymore.)

The college student should have normally been angry when someone attempted to correct him. He was short-tempered; furiousness was all he had been before the real Johnny entered his life. He had isolated himself inside his walls of pride and ego, back in high school.

But Simon gave the tiniest hint of a smile (the first of so many years after what had happened) as he climbed up the stairs.

(It's still quite the same damn smile so easy to fall for.)

“Yes. ‘We,’” he responded before looking away.

A cardboard box had been put aside beside the stairway with the words “Highschool.” Soap peculiarly checked what the box had stored. Aside from some articles of school uniforms, old school books, and broken pens and pencils, the hologram didn’t miss the singular picture Simon kept.

He saw a picture of two male students fresh out of high school with their graduation togas. Simon in the photo looked begrudged and annoyed while the boy with the odd haircut looked cheerful as he side hugged the other man.

Soap tried grabbing a Scottish dictionary that he found in the box as Simon went down the stairs to pick it up for him, ignoring the picture the hologram saw. When they went up after a little fuzz about how Soap would read without turning the pages, Simon sat on his couch and set the book on the table on a random page, fiddling with the TV’s remote unsure of how to feel with the new company, while the invention sat on the floor reading. The hologram couldn’t help but feel a sense of wanting to feel, while the human wanted nothing else but to stop feeling the conflicting emotions of his past.

Soap wordlessly read the first thing he saw in the dictionary, a bit confused on why Simon would own a Scottish dictionary out of anything.

(He does his best not to feel the odd wave of nostalgia coursing through his veins.)

♡

a/n: something to ponder about – who's the guy speaking in the parenthesises? :/

#soapghost #ghostsoap #fic #fanfic #cod mwii #cod mwiii #drabble #modern warfare ii #ghoap #mm i love me some sad gays #wrote this in 2020 and predicted soap's lil boo-boo #cod modern warfare #soap x ghost #johnny soap mactavish #simon ghost riley