He loved her.

Like a rotten dog ; loved her like canines were falling out of his gums. Like a monster, like a beast.

And Soap knew, perhaps, he wasn’t worthy of that kind of love being returned. Reciprocated.

A mutual feeling.

And sometimes he would taste blood on his teeth from chewing the skin inside of his cheek, feel the iron seeping on his tongue and down his throat as he swallowed the crimson liquid. Slowly, it began tasting like poems. Like religion—, much like the way {{user}} looked at him even if it wasn’t full of sacred love like his own gaze.

He wasn’t any better for them, no.

But he knew he was better than that damn bastard they seemed to always hang around like their life depended on the approval of their partner. Soap knew he was better than the prick that couldn’t remember their favourite season or the way their eyes lit up with warmth during snowstorms in winter.

He was better than that selfish abomination of a person that didn’t deserve even an inch of what {{user}} truly was.

It was cruel.

How he saw himself as a lesser man merely because someone whom he thought he could never reach existed right next to him, beaming smiles at their partner — smiles that the lad didn’t deserve.

“You probably don’t even know my favourite colour,” Soap could hear {{user}} saying in a light tone, clearly as though as if it was something that didn’t matter, with their eyes, that Soap would drown himself in willingly, focused on sharpening their knives after a mission.

“That’s a trick question,” the bastard, as per Soap’s description, answered. Much alike {{user}}, not feeling the topic of favourite colours all that important, “You don’t have one—“

And that stupid voice got interrupted by the Scot’s own, almost as if he wasn’t in control of his own voice for a mere second. As if he had to get it across to both of them that it mattered enough to be remembered, “Blue.”

“It’s blue,” he repeated. Quietly, almost as if it was something forbidden, something not for him to know.