For the prompt: your otp from Venturiantale if you have one, “sharing” hoodies, and comfort in one another that you don’t have in any other person(s)
Three Times Ghost Stole His Teammates’ Clothing and One Time They Stole His Heart
Rating: PG, SFW
Ship: Poly P.I.E. (Ghost/Toast/Spooker/Colon)
Warnings: Light angst, self-deprecating thoughts, mentions of feelings of isolation and loneliness (Tell me if I missed anything!)
Summary: Ghost ‘accidentally’ forgets to return Colon’s hoodie after he leaves it at his apartment - things escalate from there.
Word Count: 3,058
This is mostly fluff, but does have a little angst thrown in at the end for flavor >:3
1.
It all starts, as most things do, innocuous as can be. A hoodie left at an apartment by accident.
Ghost sighs, picking up the offending garb, much too large to possibly belong to him. Pinching the soft fabric between his fingers, he glances around his room cautiously - though, this was quite unnecessary; he’s the only one in his small, cramped apartment at the moment, let alone his bedroom - and unsurreptitiously brings the article to his face, breathing in the familiar smell of his friend. He allows himself one, just one, moment of vulnerability, in which he imagines a warm embrace, surrounded by this scent.
As soon as the moment is over though, he tosses it over his shoulder, onto his bed, where it forms a small navy lump at the foot. He promises himself he’ll return it the next time he sees Colon, but a small voice in the back of his mind tells him he already knows he won’t. He tells the voice to mind its own business, and to fuck off.
It sits there for about a week or so when the opportunity to return it arises. He tells himself he’ll return it another time - Now would be inconvenient, we’re going on a hunt; what would he do with it until after the investigation? - and ignores the voice, which sounds just a bit too smug for his taste, when it says, ‘You know he could just put it on, right? It’s a hoodie, it’s meant to be worn.’
Nonetheless, when he meets up with the rest of P.I.E. for their mission, the hoodie is still sitting in a lump on his bed, and he conveniently forgets to mention its presence in his apartment. The voice mocks him relentlessly the entire investigation and all the way home.
It sits there for so long that eventually he actually folds it and puts it in his shirt drawer - “For safekeeping,” he mutters to no one, because the nagging voice only replies casually, ‘Of course, of course.’ - and a month has passed when, without looking, he grabs the hoodie (“Jeez why is this so baggy,” he’d wondered at the time, but didn’t think too much of it.), shrugs it on and is already out the door, down the street, and has his normal jacket pulled over it by the time he realizes.
But he’s already late and can’t afford to go back and change, so he just zips up his own jacket a little further than normal and keeps moving - pretends there aren’t a good few inches of navy fabric peeking out from the bottom.
Nobody mentions the garment beneath his jacket, that is, until he miscalculates how much it affects his walking, and ends up sprawled lamely across the ground, having tumbled down a flight of stairs. Grumbling, unharmed save for his pride, he hops up - and nearly falls again doing so, thank god for Toast’s quick reflexes. Damn hoodie. Toast’s eyes carefully scan their surroundings, and when he doesn’t find the source of his tumble, they turn to him, scrutinizing. In an effort to save himself from the mortification he probably deserves, Ghost fumbles for something to distract the three concerned pairs of eyes watching him. “J-Jesus Toast, did you just jump down that flight of stairs?!”
Somehow, by the will of God himself, Ghost can only assume, this actually works. “Yeah wait,” Spooker interjects, “That was super dangerous! What would we have done if you’d both ended up incapacitated! Be more careful - and I’m talking to both of you here!” Colon nods in agreement, and Ghost only feels a little guilty at shifting the blame when he glances at him and imagines what might’ve happened if he hadn’t.
Ghost doesn’t make that mistake twice - mostly because he never puts it back in the drawer again, partially in fear and partially because, well, that doesn’t mean that he stopped wearing it. To be clear, he only wears it in the privacy of his room - and yes, maybe he’s slept in it once or twice, imagining being tucked safely into one or more of his friends’ arms, but that’s normal, and everyone does it, shut up.
It doesn’t even really smell like Colon anymore - and now he sounds like a stalker, Jesus Christ - but it’s more about the idea of it at this point anyway, so whatever.
Gradually, very gradually, Ghost finds himself wondering what type of clothes Toast and Spooker wear: Are they soft and worn like Colon’s? He’s felt Toast’s before, having brushed against him quite a bit during their long friendship - but how would it feel to wear? Would it feel crisp and silky, ironed meticulously until not a crinkle was seen? What about Spooker? He’s seen him in everything from his work attire to oversized, comfy-looking sweaters of various shades - all of which he’s not completely sure how he walks in, due to his own experience with Colon’s. He wants to try them on nonetheless.
2.
He’s walking with Spooker one day when thunder rumbles overhead, a belated warning, because just as it does the sky unleashes sheet after sheet of rain. They’re both soaked within seconds and are already bolting back the way they came - towards Spooker’s home. Stumbling up the steps, they practically break down the door getting in and slam it soundly shut behind them once inside. The resounding click of the door’s lock seal’s his fate, though he doesn’t know it quite yet. After Spooker catches his breath, he runs to grab a couple towels and throws one at Ghost, who catches it and starts drying his hair.
“Stay right there, I’m gonna go grab us a change of clothes,” Spooker says with a genuine smile lighting up his face, blissfully unaware of Ghost’s mind shortcircuiting. Ghost nods dumbly and tries to let neither his excitement nor his dread show. Though, all hopes of nonchalance fly out the window when a freshly changed Spooker walks out with an extremely soft-looking oversized grey sweater. And while he might not admit it out loud, Ghost is very aware that he’s several inches shorter than Spooker, and fear tinges his thoughts knowing that the sweater he’s holding is already purposefully large on him, let alone Ghost. While he’s busy warring with himself over whether he’d be completely swamped in the thing, and if he’d actually mind it, Spooker chirps, “I’ve seen you staring at my sweaters when I wear them, so I thought you might like to try one on, is this one alright?”
Heat rises to his cheeks, and Ghost thinks that maybe this is God’s revenge for sparing him the other time, because Spooker doesn’t even need an answer, just hands over the sweater - and damn, it is as soft as it looks - and Ghost feels his whole face burning now; he must be as red as a tomato. Spooker points him towards the bathroom, and he doesn’t even bother arguing, just takes the heap of cloth to the restroom and changes in silence.
His cheeks are still very warm when he walks out, arms crossed, and Spooker’s poorly concealed laughter might just be the death of him. Or Spooker, depending on how long he plans to stare at him like he’s something on display.
“I-” Spooker starts, but has to pause to collect himself before continuing, “I tried to find one that’s smaller on me so it would fit you better, but this-” and before Ghost can even so much as blink, a bright flash lights up the room and Ghost flinches, before realizing what just transpired.
“Hey, wait–! Delete that now!” he shouts, panic edging its way into his tone, “Please don’t show Toast that, I’ll never hear the end of it-” and now Spooker’s holding his phone out of his reach, which is so unfair, like honestly, using his height against him? Rude. Oh and now he’s put it on a high shelf, and Ghost doesn’t know where any step ladders are because this isn’t his house, and shit, his face is going red again - God, he’s not tearing up over this, he isn’t.
He’s overwhelmed, and Spooker must see it - and Goddamnit why can’t he just keep all this shit inside, like a normal person - because he reaches for his hands, grounding him. “Ghost? Johnny? Hey, c’mon take a deep breath, match my breathing, okay?” Once he’s got his attention, he says, “Alright, there you go, good job.” He doesn’t let go of Ghost’s hands, even after the black at edges of his vision recedes completely, even when his breathing steadies, even though Ghost is objectively fine now. He just asks, “Are you alright?” in probably the softest voice that’s been directed at him, ever. He almost breaks down from it. Spooker offers to delete the photo if it really bothers him that much, but Ghost just shrugs, unable to look him in the eye as he mumbles, “It’s whatever.”
In the end, Spooker told him to keep the sweater - “It’s too small for me anyways,” he’d said, though it clearly wasn’t - and if Ghost’s being honest, he didn’t put much of a fight about it. He stays a couple hours until the rain passes, then heads home, soggy clothes in his arms.
Ghost’s hands won’t stop tingling where Spooker held them.
3.
Toast has always been openly caring, especially towards Ghost, so he’s honestly so used to Toast’s kindness that he almost doesn’t even realize what’s happening when Toast just hands him one of his white button-ups one day at the base. He just says - and looking back, what a humiliating thing to say - “Oh, thanks.” and unbuckles his satchel, but freezes before putting it in, finally looking at what he’s been handed. “…Toast?” he mutters after a few seconds, “Why have you just handed me a shirt?”
Silence rings between the two of them, until Toast chimes, “Well, specifically, it’s my shirt,” like that answers any questions Ghost might have.
“Okay then.” He has to pause to convince himself that, no, neither seppuku nor murder are in these days. “Why have you handed me ‘specifically, your shirt’?”
Toast only sighs as if the answer is obvious and Ghost can only stare back incredulously, until finally Toast shakes his head exasperatedly - though Ghost can’t fathom what he’s so exasperated at - and walks away.
“W-wait, Toast you didn’t answer me! What am I supposed to do with this?!”
“Keep it!” He calls back, sounding truly and utterly ‘over-it’, but Ghost can hear the smile in his tone.
Glancing down at the shirt, he smoothes it between his thumb and index finger, and thinks about how this hole he’s dug himself is looking about the right depth to be a grave.
Whatever the case is, he adds it to his growing collection of Garments-That-Are-Not-His sat upon his dresser, the ones he only wears at home, in the privacy of his room, where nobody but himself and the nagging voice in the back of his mind can judge him for thinking it would be nice to do be able to walk around like this all the time: absolutely drenched in three different types of clothing, completely clashing and maybe a little too warm, but with a glowing feeling somewhere near his heart.
He doesn’t entertain the idea of actually getting what he really wants - the comfort of the people he loves the most swaddling him in something like affection, or the feeling of knowing they feel the same way, home in a person - in people, to be accurate. He’s not selfish enough to think he deserves that from one person, let alone three.
He finally has to wash them all when he cries himself to sleep wrapped up in them, and ends up crying again on the cold tile floor the next day when they all smell like lavender soap instead of the faint scents of fresh cotton, citrus, and something floral like roses.
+1
He probably comes in just a little too downcast to be normal - usually, there’s the implication of aggression when he walks, an unsaid threat, but today, he just doesn’t have the energy - his shoulders sag, and the circles under his eyes are darker than normal too; at least, that’s what his mirror told him when he looked into it that morning. That is, before he turned around and left without even trying to fix his bedhead. Not that you can actually tell what’s bedhead and what isn’t with him, ha.
Spooker spots him and, most literally - Seriously, was that valuable? He hopes not, what with the loud shattering sound - drops what he’s doing and rushes over. It hurts, being coddled, cared for like this, and somewhere deep in his chest, deeper than should be possible really, something broken aches and lurches. A loneliness he’s always felt settles deeper into his bones, even as Spooker asks him question after question - “Are you okay?” “What happened?” “Guys? Hey guys?! He’s not answering me!”
“Sorry…” he mumbles, placing his head on the thin shoulder in front of him, “Didn’t sleep well. Just–just tired.”
It’s an obvious lie (for many reasons really; he’s always tired for one, and misses entire nights of sleep often, and has never let his guard down like this before) but Spooker doesn’t call him out on it, though Ghost thinks he probably should.
Nevertheless, the other two come in a few seconds later, and are already checking him over to see where he’s hurt. Ghost is still too tired to protest, which seems to worry them even more. He ponders how he got so lucky, yet not, to have such good friends. He picks up his head finally, taking in the sight of his teammates; Toast’s brow is furrowed, and Spooker and Colon are looking at him with heavy concern weighing on their faces - along with something else, something warmer and deeper, that he can’t quite name. It hurts to look any longer, so he doesn’t, casts his eyes downward and studies the crocheted lines of warm grey yarn making up Spooker’s oversized sweater. He fiddles anxiously with the sleeves’ cuffs, which have fallen over his hands, engulfing them completely. They’re still all standing in the entrance of the base, and there are a lot of very big, very unobstructed windows making up the front of the building - seemingly noticing this, the other three pull him further inside, into the kitchenette they have stocked for all-nighters. Pulling a chair out, they sit him at the small round table crammed half-successfully into the already tiny space, loud squeaking and clacking following suit as they pull over seats for themselves as well, all huddled up to him. He feels a bit trapped, truth be told, but it’s not exactly unpleasant, somehow - like a barrier or shield between him and the outside world, if he had to describe it.
Spooker scoops up his hands and cradles them in his own, and the other two each lay a hand atop one of his. Ghost doesn’t really understand what’s happening, honestly, but doesn’t ask - not because he’s scared that his voice will come out rough with emotion or anything, he’s just being strategic here - simply waits for one of them to explain as his eyes dart from face to face with unspoken questions.
It takes a moment, but finally Colon says softly, “You know you can tell us if something’s happening, right?” Wrong, Ghost thinks, but doesn’t dare say, Not this time.
Because, really, how do you tell your closest confidants that you can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss them goodnight? That you want to stay wrapped up in their arms forever? That you wish you could spend the rest of your lives together, because, fuck, you’re in love with them okay? He’s been in love with his best friends for as far back as he can think, and he’ll never be able to truly deserve them.
And shit, he has a terrible poker face, because they’re all frowning now, damn it. Spooker glances at the other two, and they make eye contact before, without warning, he surges forward and pulls Ghost into a tight embrace (distantly, he notes that the smell of citrus is stronger than it was on the sweater) quickly followed by two more pairs of arms on either side, until he’s sat squarely in between three bear hugs, like a human cacoon, and maybe he’s just a little too warm, but he feels quite safe.
And if his eyes start to water, well, no one can see him past the canopy of bodies anyway, so you can’t prove anything.
“You know we love you, right Sir?”
“H-huh?” Ghost finally croaks.
“I mean,” Colon snorts good-naturedly, “I know you’re a bit oblivious sometimes, but really, we’ve handed over our clothes because you wanted them.”
Spooker shushes him, “Don’t be mean,” he giggles, “Look, we want you to know that we feel the same, but we didn’t want to say it until you we’re ready to hear it, okay?”
“But now seemed like the right time.”
His face is on fire, and he’s not sure if it’s from being caught red-handed, or if it has to do with the tears pricking at his eyes.
“…But, why?” It’s vague and choked, but they seem to get what he’s really asking.
“Because Sir, we like you just the way you are.”
“Yeah!” Spooker adds, “We wouldn’t have you any other way!” He can hear the smile in his voice, unusually gentle.
“Cliche much?” Ghost says, followed by a watery chuckle.
“Maybe,” Colon says, and Ghost feels him shrug, “but it’s true.”
He feels a very light kiss planted on the crown of his head, then another, then another, until he’s being peppered with kisses from all angles and at least Ghost knows why his face is beet red this time, and he giggles wetly because he’s wanted this for so long, and now it’s here and he can hardly believe it.
“So,” Ghost mumbles after the kisses have mostly subsided, “does this mean I get to steal your stuff all the time?”
There’s a collective sigh between the three of them, but before he can worry too much, Toast assures him, “Anytime sir, anytime.” and plants another kiss on his cheek.
