Pattern Breaker

Epilogue

There was something special about 7:15am on a Sunday morning. Was it the way the morning light shines through the window blinds, warming the bare skin across their chests and arms? Was it because it was the one day Simon didn't busy himself with reorganizing a random closet or drawer, or communicating with Price when their joint leave would be over? Or was it because it was the only day he allowed himself to sleep in— not getting up at ass o'clock in the morning and going for a ridiculously long run, most of the time dragging Johnny with him?

"It's good for you," He'd say. "Keeps you sharp."

But these Sunday mornings were Johnny's favorite.

He'd eventually stir awake, just barely, his bare chest pressing against Simon's bare back. He'd usually find his cheek tucked against Simon's shoulder blades and one arm thrown over the larger man, their legs bent and flush together. They both preferred to sleep shirtless, but Johnny liked stripping down to just his boxers while Simon always had on a pair of soft sweatpants that would brush across the tops of Johnny's thighs any time he shifted in his sleep. It was a surprising revelation, honestly, Simon allowing himself to be as exposed as he did. Perhaps he felt the same way Johnny did— taking advantage of being able to sleep without heavy gear strapped all over his body and preventing any comfortable position.

Simon didn't wear his mask anymore. Not inside their flat, at least. His nightmares, as frequent as they used to be, were now few and far between, easily soothed by Johnny brushing his mouth against his ear and comforting him back to sleep with It's okay. I'm here. You're okay. You're safe, love.

Those times he would roll over, somehow managing to tuck his large frame into Johnny's torso with his head buried in his chest. He'd hook a leg around Johnny's waist, tugging him as close as possible, and Johnny would rest his chin on top of his head and scratch his back gently until his pounding heart returned to a reasonable pace.

Johnny's nightmares weren't so easily soothed. He dreamt often of Simon's bleeding body, dying in his arms again. Of Las Almas. Being kidnapped by AQ soldiers.

Of Roach's last breath, exhaled with a sickening gurgle.

He would wake up thrashing— kicking, screaming. Not fully aware of where he was. Whereas Simon was soothed with gentle touch, Johnny had to be restrained most of the time. Elbows locked tight against his side with Simon arms wrapping in a vice grip around him. He wouldn't say anything, just trap him against his body until he focused on the even rise and fall of Simon's chest against his back.

One of the first times it happened, he had accidentally punched Simon in the face out of instinctual defense and gave him a bloody nose. It had taken Simon close to thirty minutes to calm Johnny down after that. He had felt so guilty and ashamed for his reaction and for hurting him.

Simon had later admitted that despite the circumstances, it was kind of funny Johnny had managed to catch him off guard enough to land such a heavy blow to his face without him blocking it first.

When you're two equally broken halves of a whole, you have to learn to navigate the jagged edges to keep from slicing yourself against them. They had each rebuilt walls around themselves, but instead of using them to protect themselves from each other— they were forged around both of them, willingly trapped inside together. Clear as day, invisible blockades made of glass.

Simon and Ghost were, at one point, two completely separate entities resulting from his personal shattered half.

Both of which Johnny loved equally.

Ghost was cold, calculating– he was demanding. Relentless. Rough hands with a bruising grasp, teeth that left marks and drops of blood in their wake. Ghost left Johnny gasping for air, pleading for mercy but also begging please don't stop, please don't stop. When he wasn't busy edging and practically torturing Johnny with pleasure to the point of tears, he would be grinding his hips while he thrusted with no regard— chasing a high that would peak when Johnny started squirming under him with breathy pants and whimpering.