A short fanfic sketch featuring the Ghost/Roach pairing. Just under 1.3k words.
death of main characters, hints of suicide, loss of a loved one, grief
Simon had a vague memory of his funeral. He had a vague memory of the people who had gathered, and a vague memory of how he’d got there and how he’d left. They had a tradition at 141: when one of them died, the others didn’t attend the funeral, so as not to remind the bereaved family yet again of the reason their loved one had died. Simon remembered very well why he’d broken with tradition that time.
The weather was dreadful. His jacket was soaked through by the cold winter rain. He hadn’t put on a uniform or a beret to see Gary off on his final journey. He stood a little way away from his mother, who simply couldn’t stop crying and was muttering something as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Expensive varnished wood. The lid was closed. They hadn’t opened it at the wake either. Simon never got to see his face again.
Some people say the dead look peaceful or as if they’re sleeping. Simon knew better than anyone that this wasn’t true. The dead look dead. Gary looked like a dead man with four bullets in the back of his head.
Simon remembered that evening before the operation. He remembered the small room they’d been given at that tiny, shabby base. He remembered how they’d pushed their beds together and checked that the door was locked before going to bed. Simon’d had that premonition even that evening.
Gary got angry with him then. He didn’t like it when Simon tried to look after him too eagerly, and he didn’t like it when Simon tried to protect him. Because Gary thought he could handle everything on his own. They had a row that evening over this rubbish. Gary was angry that Simon was ‘writing him off before his time’. Simon was angry because Gary wouldn’t listen. They turned off the light and lay down on their creaky beds. Simon couldn’t sleep for a long time; he just stared at the wall opposite, wrestling with himself. And then the bunk creaked, and Gary slid up against him from behind. In his sleep, he reached for his belt with his hands, and Simon pulled him closer, resting his head on his chest. He still remembered how supple and warm he’d been. He’d always snuggle closer, burying his nose in his neck. Simon had memorised every mole. Two above his eyebrow, one under his lip, another under his eye. His hands remembered where to find the scars. He remembered so much. He remembered how he’d fallen asleep back then, temporarily lulled by a sense of closeness and calm.
He remembered how, that morning before take-off, already fully kitted out, he’d walked up to him, not daring to touch his shoulder. Gary looked at him from under his brows with those big, evergreen eyes of his. He was still sulking. Simon hesitated and, instead of asking something important, asked if he’d forgotten the batteries for the night vision goggles.
He hated himself for those words. He hated himself for not talking him out of it, for not being able to stop him. He thought about those bloody batteries so often. Of course, Gary had taken them. He never forgot.
Simon wouldn’t be able to forget either.
He’ll never be able to forget that first night when he returned to the empty flat. He’ll never be able to erase from his memory that smell, that mess, that cosiness they’d created together.
Mugs left on the table. There were only two of them in the whole flat. One with a shamrock and a leprechaun, the other with a photograph of Antrim. Meat had given him the first one as a housewarming present. It came with a towel as well. Simon remembered that too, for some reason. There were two toothbrushes in the bathroom. His pills were still in the first-aid kit, along with his razor. Socks under the bed, his favourite jacket on the coat hook in the hallway. His fucking scent was still there. Orange soap and fabric conditioner. His bloody music player and headphones were still there. On the first night, Simon listened to his entire playlist and cried for a long time. After that, he didn’t cry at all.
The bed seemed too big for just one man.
Of course, none of the 141 knew about their relationship. It was a scandal, a disgrace. Once they’d crossed that line, Simon’d made up his mind. He’d see it through to the end. He hoped Gary’d made the same decision for himself. Deep down, he wanted Gary to attach as much meaning and weight to it as Simon did.
Simon rarely said ‘I love you’. It seemed to him that those were too heavy, too frightening words. Everyone Simon had loved before had died. He didn’t want Gary to die either.
But Simon wanted to look after him. He wanted to hold his hand during their private walks in the park; he wanted to see Gary in the kitchen in the mornings, cooking. He wanted to wake up with him by his side and wasn’t even afraid of that anymore. For a long time, he hadn’t even been able to come to terms with the idea of sharing a bedroom with someone, let alone sleeping in each other’s arms. But Gary was Gary. Somehow, time and again, he managed to get under Simon’s skin, causing him both pain and pleasure. Gary never washed up after himself. He took up too much space on the bed and in the flat, took Simon’s things and was constantly rolling his eyes. He ate a lot and hated it when Simon tried to get some rest and withdrew into himself. Gary loved to rest Simon’s head on his lap whilst they watched films. Gary loved eating in bed.
No. That bed is far too big just for him.
Simon remembered that conversation with Price. He sat down next to him on the wet bench. He was in civilian clothes and without his hat. 141 doesn’t attend funerals. But for some reason, they were obliged to attend his. The captain told Simon he was counting on him. He said he needed to pull himself together, because Gary wouldn’t have been pleased to see him like that. Simon then stood up and blurted out, ‘It doesn’t matter to Gary anymore.’ Price didn’t understand a thing. Soap was crying. Simon remembered that because he’d never seen John cry before.
Simon remembered what brand of cigarettes Gary used to smoke. He found a whole carton in the flat. He couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. He couldn’t bring himself to throw away a single thing from their home. Never ‘his’. Always ‘theirs’.
They say time heals all wounds. But Simon doubted he’d ever be able to get over it.
Doubted… No, he knew he wouldn’t be able to just pick himself up and carry on. He’d been stuck in the muck for far too long. Manchester, the army, Mexico, the army again. He had no home and nothing but the tenacity and willpower to carry on. And when Gary came along, when Simon first felt that twinge in his chest, he knew straight away that it was all over. He’d spent a long time wondering whether he was ready to take that step, though deep down he wasn’t just deciding – he’d already taken it. Simon knew that one of them would die. Either Gary wouldn’t live to see thirty, or Simon wouldn’t make it to forty. They were no exceptions to the rule.
But Simon hoped it would be him. He knew Gary was stronger. There was so much strength in his little bug, so much unyielding will. He’d be able to cope. At least better than Simon. He’d stand up, square his shoulders and walk on, just as he always did. And Simon still remembered the sound of his footsteps. He remembered the silly gap between his teeth.
Yes. Gary would have coped better than he had. Simon had lasted six months. Longer than he’d expected, mind you, but still a pitifully short time.
He’d been saving up his pay for a long time. The pay wasn’t much, but he’d already built up a tidy sum in his savings account. He withdrew almost all of it in a single evening. He opened a bottle of good—very good—whisky that they’d bought for Christmas. Simon liked it, so he bought a few more bottles. He drank them all whilst sorting through his paperwork. He took two weeks’ holiday and went to Camden. He shut himself away in their flat and got things in order. He sorted through the paperwork and paid off old bills: for the subscription to the website where Gary used to download music, for the TV licence, and for the roof repairs. He methodically packed up old belongings, as if he were about to move house. A snow globe with a broken music mechanism and a clover keyring went into a labelled box. Simon sealed everything with sticky tape and began gathering all the CDs into another box.
After he’d been away for two weeks, Price tried to ring him. Simon didn’t answer, and then simply switched his phone off.
He repaired the sink. It had been leaking constantly, and Gary had asked him to sort it out. Now it’s not leaking. Simon shaved and had a shower. The orange-scented soap brought him to tears again.
He smoked for a long time. It was cool outside; the summer air brought a sense of freshness. All the windows were wide open, and a draught was sweeping through the corridors.
The only thing he hadn’t packed away in a box was a photograph. Simon now regretted refusing to have his photograph taken. The only picture of the two of them together had turned out to be utterly blurry and overexposed. Simon liked that photograph. He could make out Gary’s gap-toothed smile in it.
He sank heavily onto the sofa, sighing. The flat felt fresh and clean. His belongings were packed away in boxes; everything had been sorted out.
Yes. Time heals. But scars never stop hurting. Sometimes you have to help yourself.
Simon knew some methods better than others.
Знаете, я просто не могу писать истории, где все счастливы. Что-то меня сдерживает — одному Богу известно.
версия на русском : https://ficbook.net/readfic/019ee880-1352-7c30-9854-08900b8a42a1
