soapghost circus au
ghost’s an extreme motorcycle stunt performer - globe of death, riding on his back wheel along tightropes, that sort of thing
soap’s a fire breather/dancer. he’s a roaming performer; he just finds empty spaces or bored people and starts twirling
he pretends not to notice the way he always wanders towards a certain tent every night to watch a certain masked daredevil defy gravity. he thinks he's slick and that ghost won't notice him in the crowd, completely forgetting that he's carrying something that happens to be on fire
ghost couldn't miss him if he tried
one day off, soap's trialing fire whips; he loves the loud crack and the way the flame licks through the air and maybe he's a little too impatient to practice with non flaming whips first, even though he's never used one before
he's covered in soot and fine welts where the tip of the whip keeps flicking back up at him, cutting through his shirt and stinging his skin but he doesn't let that stop him. it starts to stick to him, damp with sweat and blood and he's quick to strip it off; throwing it to the side to keep practicing
when soap finally gets a few good cracks in a row and breaks to celebrate, he almost jumps out of his skin when he sees the masked rider leaning against a trailer watching him
of all the times he's wanted ghost to talk to him, this is not one of them
he wanted to impress him, dance for him with his flaming batons and be mesmerised by his fluidity and skill
not catch him filthy and struggling with something as basic as a whip
he's ready for ghost to ream him out for not having control over the whip - he's known throughout the circuit for expecting utter perfection in his routines - but when ghost finally does speak, it's only to ask if he's done for the day
soap falters for a moment. he wanted to get some consistency with the whip before he stopped, but he's starting to feel the hours of practice; muscles aching and skin blistered with minor burns
he says he is and ghost pushes off the trailer, nodding his head to make soap follow. he brings him back to his trailer and tells him to clean up then takes out his personal med kit to treat the grazes on soap's skin
soap's shocked; for all that he loves to watch ghost perform, they've never really talked before
part of why he joined the circus was so he wouldn't be a burden on anyone, the oldest in a family with too many mouths to feed and not even time to nurture, and here he is taking up ghost's valuable practice time be he wasn't good enough to handle his own discipline. he tries to brush him off, downplaying the burns and tries to leave before half them can be treated but ghost just glares and orders him to sit back down
ghost does expect perfection from himself but it isn’t out of any malice or ego; it's bc he knows if he isn't perfect, he could very easily die. he’s picked a dangerous profession and he gives it the respect it deserves. there isn't any shame in being a novice or failing at something; he thinks there's a lot of beauty in having the courage to get back up again and again
so every day he watches soap practice and bullies him into his trailer to put him back together bc he knows he won't do it by himself
and every night soap wanders over to ghost's section of the fair grounds, in awe of his skill and wishing he could be worthy of the care he gives him
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imagine going somewhere that you know you might not come back from. imagine leaving behind half-formed friendships and the facimile of your old ones, hand in hand with ppl who want you dead, because its the right thing to do. imagine you don't come back, just like you anticipated, except thats not entirely true. you dont survive, but some force stops you from leaving in peace; it leaves your body lifeless because it has no use for you besides the terror your mind can inflict on others, but it just won't let you die. imagine one day, you're free from the mental prison you've been trapped in. you wake up, but you're still not alive. you're cold and empty and no one looks at you the same because they can't stand to look at you. it hurts because you can't do anything but hurt people anymore. imagine you had no choice in this, except you did, didn't you? its all your fault because you were too curious, too naive, too prideful, too stupid. its all your fault, just like you always thought, and now everyone agrees with you. imagine they wish you hadn't woken up, and you can't help but agree with them. and yet, you do everything in your power to save them all, while you still have people left to save. because you're still you, even if your friends see an animated corpse in your place. you hold onto your humanity with white knuckles and gritted teeth because its all you have left of yourself. and you still lose by the end because you were set up to fail since the beginning. because you are jonathan sims, and the world has no sympathy for you
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it’s the sound that tips him off.
it’s late, half-past hell by his last count, and mactavish knows there shouldn’t be a single soul in the showers this time of night. though he’s sure if he asked, he’d be told a soul isn’t in there.
just a ghost.
he almost chokes on the thick steam filling the locker room; humid and hazy and the perfect cover. or it would be, if the man collapsed in the far stall cared about hiding.
mactavish hates himself a little for the low sigh that falls from his lips. he wishes he wasn't so disappointed; that the promises he's heard over and over and watched be broken as many times hadn't wedged their way into his heart and convinced him that maybe, maybe this could be the time it sticks.
he doesn't know what's worse; the disappointment or the lack of surprise.
he holds his breath through the steam and leans over the limp body; stinging hot water hitting his back, instantly soaking through his clothes and already starting to burn. he flicks the tap enough to take the bulk of the heat out and straightens; a groan startling out of the man beneath him at the sudden lash of tepid water.
mactavish crouches, knees clicking and hooks a hand under his bicep to pull him up straight against the wall. if there was any vomit on his skin, it's been washed away by the pelting stream and he supposes he can count himself lucky for that. he tilts his limp head back and slips his fingers into his mouth; holding down his tongue and ignores the way it lazily jolts under his fingers to check his airway.
clear.
another small victory.
mactavish pulls his fingers out and cups his chin, keeping him tilted up and moves in the way of the water again so he can pull at his eyelid.
the eye he's met with is cloudy, so dilated there's hardly a ring of blue left.
he sighs again; hand falling away and letting his eye fall shut. "god damnit, riley."
riley moans, all his weight resting on the hand holding his jaw.
"aye, 'm talking ‘bout you," he grunts tiredly.
he lets riley's head fall forward to grab his arm, pulling him away from the wall to sit behind him; propping his body up against his chest. he leans his head back over his shoulder, keeping his face out of the water and his airway open just in case he hasn't actually finished throwing up.
he takes the rag riley'd half-managed to soap up and mechanically runs it over him; cataloguing new bruises and cuts and checking if the old ones are healing. sickly yellow fingerprints ring his hips, red splotches paint his ribs; too new to have settled into the deep purple he knows they’ll become.
riley slowly makes more noise as he rubs life into his body; still lying limp against his front but his head's starting to roll restlessly on his shoulder. he swipes between his legs and carefully doesn't think a single thing about what he finds.
"sean?" he rasps and mactavish's hand stills; eyes falling shut. he bites his check, hand clenching around the rag tight enough to shake and breathes hard out his nose.
he doesn't say a word, just forces himself to go back to cleaning.
he's not sure what would come out of his mouth if he did.
riley isn't conscious enough to hear him anyway.
he runs his fingers over his inner elbows for tracks and manages to muster some relief when he doesn't find any. seems to be a pill and booze night; far from the worst condition he's found him in.
he rinses him off, running a curtesy hand over his shaved head only for it to fall back to his jaw; his thumb stroking over the thick scar carved into his cheek.
"you gotta stop doin' this," he whispers.
he isn’t sure if he’s talking to riley or himself.
mactavish gathers up riley's too-light body into his arms and turns off the shower. his head lolls into his throat and he throws a towel over his dripping body and another over his shoulder. it doesn't stop him from tracking water all the way to his quarters but he'd like to see someone try to put in a complaint about it.
he lays out the other towel on the bed and sets riley down; moving his body into the recovery position in an all-too familiar routine. he dries him enough that he won't soak the covers as he pulls them up to his chest and kicks the waste bin within grabbing distance of the bed.
he goes to pull off his sodden clothes when a different noise makes him freeze.
a low sniffle.
mactavish slowly turns back to the bed to find riley's eyes squinting open; glazed with tears as he kneads at the covers.
he stares at him for a moment as he looks around the room and those hazy eyes lock on him for the first time. "cap'n?"
he swallows. "aye; s'just me, riley."
his hand pokes out from under the covers and for all the promises he's made himself - all the “never again”s and “this is the last time”s - at the end of the day, he's weak.
he sits on the side of the bed and takes riley's hand in his; already so cold after nearly boiling himself alive.
"y' mad a' me?" he sniffs.
mactavish runs his tongue over his lip and slowly shakes his head. "no, i'm not mad at you."
"prom'se?" he pushes.
he reaches out and caresses his temple with his thumb. his hand almost covers his head and it cuts like a knife to remember just how small riley is. "aye," he says, hushed. "i promise."
riley's eyes fall shut, voicelessly murmuring 'promise’ to himself over and over.
"I’ll ge’ bett'r," he slurs and between one breath and the next, he's out.
mactavish sighs, running his hand in a final pass over his head and stares at a face that looks so much younger in sleep; bruised and sallow skin hidden in the shadows. "i know you will."
he presses a slow kiss to his forehead, shutting his eyes against the grief that wells in his heart and gets up to pull a chair over to the bed; settling in for another long night's vigil of watching his broken lieutenant sleep, ready to tilt him over if he throws up, eyes locked on the slow rise and fall of his chest fearing tonight may finally be the time it stops.
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Urgh
I'm debating posting The Fic, the fixit for the Teal Mask arc of Pokémon Scarlet/Violet. I've already written a sort of self insert slash fix it for the main game, and I was working on the second part, the Kitakami first part.
See, the problem is the fact that me and the guy who edited/helped/has a main character in the story are... no longer friends, to put it plainly. Ended badly, too, which I regret, but not like there's much I can do about it.
So do I rename the character? Leave it to rot in my docs? Keep everything and finish and post it? I don't know. And I can't exactly ask him. Like I said. We ended it very badly, and I regret it some, but the damage is done with no way to fix it, so we shrug and move on with our lives.
But anyways, my main deal is I don't want to leave my lovely labor of love to stagnate in my Google docs. I want to finish and post it. I want to make the story mine again, since it was my idea in the first place. Regardless of dead rotting friendships still freshly murdered and cooling, burned bridges and all that.
I'm gonna leave a poll then, yall decide what I should do. But I do plan to finish that fic and post it to my AO3 account. Peace.
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