Hair
They say that hair holds stories, that the style is what makes a man.
They say long locks make you a pansy and a real man should have it short lest they be mistaken for a girl.
Where I grew up, every man buzzed their hair down.
It was a shame for it to be long and shaggy, and mothers would fuss over you, insisting upon a haircut.
For girls, it was fine.
They could have hair as long as they wanted or as short as they needed, so long as it wasnt buzzed as short as a man’s.
Being anything else just wasn’t a thing round these parts where churches chimed every sunday, pastors clammoring around resturants and filling their quotas in a single lunch.
So I buzzed mine.
I tried as hard as I could to seem as manly as possible
To appear as bull of a brute as any cowboy should.
I wore all the boy things and had all the short boy hair.
My scalp was sensitive anyways, so I thought it didn’t bother me.
It was better shorter.
Wasnt it?
I still gazed and clammored about the anime boys I saw on screen or in Otome games though.
I gushed about how pretty they were with hair down their backs like a silken curtain, or whipping wild through the air like the mane of a lion.
Legolas was never deemed as not manly enough
Beither was Zen or inuyasha or the undertaker.
A crush, I supposed.
Because of course thats all it was.
I was a gay little boy with gay little crushes and my type was men with long, Beautiful hair.
Right?
My hair was a dull, discolored brown from the shimmering blonde it used to be, the blonde I remember from kindergarten.
I tried to return to that blonde with bleach.
My school didnt allow unnatural colors, so anything was better than that matted, oily brown.
Shaved short and as platinum as a ken doll, I should have been as man as ever.
4 years, I stayed like that, and while the short hair was easy to take care of, I felt as hideous as a pile of sludge.
It didnt matter if I was loved for my looks, I supposed.
Wouldn’t that be too vain of me?
Boys weren’t supposed to care about what they looked like, they werent supposed to coo and admire Beautiful hair or seethe in jealousy that their sister looked so much better and has such long, goregous hair.
It wasn’t until after high school that I began to explore.
Covid let me grow my hair out more, though I still trimmed the sides.
I let my bangs grow long and shaggy over my face, like a veil to hide me from the world.
Eventually I dyed it again, this time going with that green I had always wanted to try, the one I had seen on my favorite youtuber growing up, fluffy and emerald.
Still, for years more, I kept it short. Only allowing that fringe to hover over me as some sort of style.
Recently though, I’ve realized I want that hair that those anime men had.
I want that soft curtain rolling down my back like waves of an ebony river, flecks of mossy green dotting it like a miasma of toxin flowing through the oily black stream.
I want the hair like the ring girl
The people around me are foolish and prudent to think the length of ones hair makes you more or less of a man.
I know that now, and I’m glad I do.
I want to stop pretending not to like things
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CW - Character Injury | Descriptions of Wounds | Minor operation in the middle of no where on said bullet wound | Blood | The usual CoD violence to be expected
So, looking at Soap during 'Alone', i'm fairly certain that the bullet wound in his arm is a through and through.
HOWEVER. It's a good thing I don't care and will bend the narrative to explore little things. So strap in.
I really, really love the idea of Soap fighting his way through Las Almas with a bullet lodged in his arm and a graze on his ribs (someone dug up his Alone model and found he had a wound on his flank).
By the time he makes it out, the wounds are throbbing. He is in agony, and he knows infection will set in if he doesn't get them cared for soon. But they have to escape first, so he bites his tongue and sweats through the pain while still shaking with the frigid cold of rain-soaked clothing in a truck with no heater.
Finally, between blood loss, frantic shivering, and general fucking exhaustion, he starts to pass out, and Ghost finds a secluded place to pull off as he realizes just how bad his Sergeant is.
He's surprisingly gentle as he maneuvers him around until he can stand between his legs in the passenger door, stripping his shirt off and slapping his med kit down in his lap. All the while he's cussing him up, down, and sideways for not saying something sooner as he shoves a small, cracked, and ruined piece of leather into his hand.
He takes off his gloves, soaks his hands in alcohol, and gets to work. Soap will blame it on the heat of the moment, but as Ghost works on his flank, he falls into him, pressing his head into his shoulder as he bites down on that piece of leather and tries not to scream aloud, hot tears of shame burning down his cheeks.
He nearly passes out when Ghost has to dig the bullet from the edge of his bicep, fisting his hand into the side of his rain-soaked hoodie.
Soap's too out of it to see Ghost slip the malformed lump of lead into his tac vest when he pulls it out, dripping crimson.
Ghost sews him up, shoves meds down his throat, and lets him catch as much rest as possible while he drives, heading for Alejandro's safe house.
--
Ghost forgets about the bullet he kept until they return to England following the shitshow in Chicago.
He finds it on accident when cleaning out his tac vest before sending it off to be properly cleaned up and the armor plate replaced. For a long moment, he contemplates throwing it away, because why should he keep it?
Why did he keep it in the first place?
For some reason, he dumps it out of the pouch and into his hand, noting the dark stains around where it'd settled. He tries not to think about how red Johnny's blood had been on his hands when he'd dug the damn thinged loose.
He takes it back to his room and leaves it in his bedside drawer.
Every once and a while he sees it, remembers it exists, and contemplates throwing it away again. The memories it holds aren't good ones, lumpy metal covered in rusty stains.
But it's a piece of Johnny, in a fucked up and morbid way, and he can't bring himself to get rid of it.
--
It's a long time, before Johhny finds it.
Ghost had forgotten about it again, lost it in the limbo of his thoughts between missions and protecting him.
He asks where something else, and Ghost, not really paying attention, answers on autopilot from where he sits at his desk, filling out paperwork from their last mission.
"Bed side table."
He hears it open, hears some shifting. He'd never really kept that damn thing clean, one of his few bad habits. The sounds stop, and Ghost, pays it no mind for a moment.
But then it drags, and drags.
When he turns around to ask if he'd found it, he sees him cupping his hands, staring down at a small, malformed lump of lead with confusion. He's pretty sure his heart tries to leap from his ribs, climbing halfway up his throat in a matter of moments.
Soap lifts his head, and it must be the expression on Ghost's face that gives him away.
"You kept it...?"
"Honestly, kinda forgot about it."
"But why?" And wasn't that a fucking question? It wasn't big enough to be a paperweight, it was covered in long-dried blood, and useless.
Why had he kept it?
"I, don't know. Just, felt important." They'd been together for years now, he'd figured this wouldn't make so many nerves dance.
"Can't believe you had a piece of me that entire time and I never knew about it." Ghost blinks, remembering when he'd thought of it like that, how he still thought of it. A smile curls across his face under his mask.
"Yeah, suppose I did Sergeant. Suppose I did."
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