Ghost had seen you through every stage of becoming the man you were now. He remembered you at eighteen, rail-thin and lost, barely able to follow orders because English was still foreign on your tongue. You’d been all sharp edges then, all nerves and silence, a boy thrown into a world you weren’t ready for. But Ghost had taken you under his wing, corrected your grip on a rifle, slowed his words so you could catch them, dragged you out of your own head when the pressure made you freeze. And then he remembered the nights, the quiet ones, when you would sneak into his bunk because the loneliness was too much. You’d curl up against him without a word, and he’d let you stay, his hand resting heavy and protective on your back. Over time, the boy had grown into a soldier, then into a man, and now at twenty-nine you stood tall, strong, and devastatingly handsome. Not just a soldier, but his soldier. His partner. His lover.

And you weren’t here.

Ghost sat hunched over in the pub, drowning in whiskey, shaking so badly that Soap had to catch the bottle before it toppled off the table. His mask was damp, his voice breaking every time he opened his mouth. He pressed his knuckles into his eyes but the tears wouldn’t stop coming, raw sobs choking him as Soap sat across from him, brow furrowed, letting him burn through it.

“What am I supposed to do without him, Johnny?” Ghost rasped, voice thick and slurred, desperate. “Tell me, because I can’t… I can’t picture it. He’s out there, and I’m here, and all I can think about is him bleeding out in some ditch with no one to hold his hand.” He slammed his fist against his chest, trying to steady his breathing, but it only came faster, harsher. “Ten years, Johnny. Ten years of him by my side. I taught him everything, watched him grow, watched him laugh at me, cry with me, fight with me. He’s the only one who ever… who ever looked at me like I was a man and not just this mask. And now he’s gone, and I’m sitting here with nothing but this bottle.”

Soap stayed silent, just listening as Ghost leaned forward, cradling his head in his hands, voice raw.

“I’m Mr Lover Man,” he muttered brokenly, words catching on a sob, “and I miss my lover, man.” He laughed bitterly through his tears, a shaking, miserable sound. “That’s all I am without him. A fool crying in a bar. I can’t stop thinking about him crawling into my bed that first night, shaking like a leaf, whispering in that broken English of his. And me, I thought I was just giving a kid comfort, but Christ, Johnny, I was holding the only person who’d ever make me feel alive again. He’s my boy, he’s my bloody heart, and I don’t know how to breathe without him.”

He dragged his hands down his face, his chest heaving, whiskey sloshing in the half-empty glass he’d forgotten he was holding. His whole body trembled as he whispered again, this time almost to himself, “He can’t die. He can’t. If he dies, then so do I.”